I Went to the UK Beatbox Championships and Found a Subculture That Refuses to Die

Photos by the author

This article originally appeared on Noisey UK.

Whether you spent the noughties nodding at MTV Base or chaining your wallet to a pair of JNCO jeans and doing shit kickflips in the street, you were probably at least aware of the artform known as beatboxing. Maybe it was Justin Timberlake philandering your subconsciousness in "Rock Your Body", or the slurps and moans of Korn's Jonathan Davis in "Freak on a Leash" but by 2003, the thing you once did for a laugh in the shower had become a cornerstone of pop culture.

For the next few years there was a conveyer belt of viral videos starring Beardyman, Shlomo, and that weird guy who could do "Billie Jean"—those were some beatboxy days. But all hot streaks come to an end, and the mainstream popularity of beatboxing evaporated quicker than you can say "chish, chish, ts, ts, ts, psh, pf." You stopped buying weed and watching YouTube with the guy from college who wore brown cords and had scotch tape on his glasses, dubstep became very on trend, and everybody was too busy taking, or justifying at great length why they were not taking, internet-sourced buckets of mephedrone. The drum of pop culture marched on and the ashes of everyman beatboxing were scattered across the graveyards of forgotten Bebo pages, never to be spoken of again, right? Well, wrong. Because beatboxing is more alive than ever, baby…in Clapham.

South London's Clapham Junction has become a cauldron for social outcasts and branches of Aussie-themed chain bar Walkabout in recent years. And it is here that nearly ten years since they were last seen, I find Britain's die hard b-boxing fanbase on the Clapham Grand's November schedule, listed alongside The Fall, The Selector, and a bingo night. Fascinated by what kind of loyal human has clutched their spittoon and held on for the past decade, or who—if anybody—actually goes along to these things for entertainment, I decided to head to the tenth annual UK Beatbox Championships.

I'm a man of sweeping generalized assumptions, and before I've even arrived I've made peace with the fact that I'm going to be spending the next 12 hours with a room of pasty guys in their early 20s dressed in brand new pairs of high tops, comic book snapbacks, and Lonsdale tracksuit bottoms. Queuing up outside in a haze of taurine/caffeine/sugar under the banners of the day's sponsors, Relentless energy drink, I feel I could be right. So—compliments of the house on entry—I take my first can of the stuff in years and start slurping. Within no time, I'm inside.

"Hello mother-bleepers!" the first MC shouts (he actually says bleep). "Here's one that will annoy your parents!"

Well, I personally wouldn't piss off the parents, mate, because they're the ones sipping beer, spending money and keeping quiet in the corner, while their kids watch the b-boxers get to work. The day starts with an under-18s competition, which I find surprising as it implies actual adults will be doing this later.

The format goes like this: Two guys are pitted against each other in one-on-one, two-round knockouts, and give their best beats in each other's faces. Whoever gets the most votes from the judges at the end goes through. Serving your opponent seems a big part of the game and something that gets the crowd on your side. But for all their bravado, this doesn't exactly seem like a breeding ground for guys actually looking for a fight, so I ask the gentleman in the toilet whether he's had any trouble today.

"No!" he laughs, passing me a lollipop.
"So what is this crowd like in comparison to what you'd usually expect?"
"It's very tame and nice after having the rugby lot in over the past few weeks. I like seeing a lot of children here."

He's right. I don't know whether it's the blend of families and fraternities yelling along to a giant countdown, or the biting of fingernails as they await the judges' decisions, but there's a kind of Robot Wars meets The One Show atmosphere, all smiles and artificial suspense. I'm not sure what I'm booing about, but I know I don't like the way this guy is calling this guy Red Beard a "dickhead." I've become quite invested in Red Beard. Nobody brings the mouth bass like Red Beard.

I take a step outside into the smoking area. Everybody outside is below the legal smoking age and also is a drum machine, moistening their lips and chalking themselves up, trying to catch one another's attention. At the back I see my man Red Beard, speeding through rollies with the rest of the crème de la crème of the under 18 category, blowing beats. With the raise of an eyebrow and the nod of the head, they take turns for a spot on the street corner. You can't help but sense unspoken hierarchical order: Those outside of the clique are shut out of the circle. The leaders of the gang all wear a bandana to warrant their presence. Once again, let me remind you that we are in Clapham.

I don't know whether it comes from deep issues with affirmation or because I'm wired from free Relentless but I need to be a part of that. That's why, an hour later back inside, I'm dealt a hand and I can't ignore it. "There's some bad news here, but we've had a drop out in the under 18s," the MC announces. "So if any young beatboxers out there would like to put their name forward, tell one of our officials." Despite being neither young nor a beatboxer, I find myself making his way over to the judges.

"Hi, I'd like to put my name forward for a spot in the under 18s."
"Oh, ok. Well, what's your name?" The judge replies.
"Oobah."
"Ok, well if you just wait for a minute until they ask for the step-in and then head to side stage that should be cool. Good luck."

I immediately go bright red in the face. I head for the toilet to perform the Hakka in the mirror but am greeted by my friend from earlier. He looks confused by my unease as I shut the cubicle door and start flushing the toilet repeatedly to cover up my bass drum. It sounds like shit. Set for two minutes of humiliation, I follow a wave of anxiety toward side stage. I feel my heart gurgling as they hurriedly set up the next round.

"Excuse me," the MC speaks into the microphone. Ready for my deepening crow's feet to create caverns across my face as I'm demeaned by a boy half my age, I dip my head. "But we're running way over time. So, thanks to all those young talents who put their name forward, but we're going to skip that battle and go onto the next round." For the second time tonight, I'm dealt a hand better than I deserve.

I head out into Battersea for a breather. Little over an hour later, I return to find the queue is now winding around the building, the air thick with the now-familiar miasma of energy drinks garnished with a smattering of weed. Most people just show up for headline acts, and tonight is an absolute sell out. I start asking the crowd what they're here to see and what they're into, which presents me with a clear division. The majority are still dressed like characters from the Fifth Element and beatboxing to themselves without looking me in the eye as I ask questions, but there are also some genuine music fans who have come purely to spectate.

This offers an interesting clash of cultures for the show. There are still gasps and hollas when somebody makes a new noise, but now people seem to be waiting for drops; dancing and chopping with their arms aloft. For these adult head-to-heads there are lots of "shit," "bollocks," and "fucker"s being dropped, but it stops there. There's not really that edge of one-on-one freestyles that can explode into a brawl at any minute.

It's surprising that fans of hip-hop or drum and bass are into this stuff because there's no slow-burning development. It's just a spaghetti of 8-beat medleys. Styles and tempos come jacked-up, thick and fast, with little regard for threads. It's like prescription music for generation Z. But when you're too busy screaming at the judges about Bigg Tajj being cheated (fucking cheated) in the semis to intellectualize the situation, it's hard to argue with the electricity of the entertainment.

As the hours go on, I'm expecting a darkening in the mood. It's a club night, isn't it? So when are people going to start frequenting toilets regularly, elbowing you in the ribs at the bar or flocking home? It simply doesn't happen. It's around 1 AM when we enter the final and eyes are glued to the front. Before you know it, people are losing it as Onetrix starts combining some sort of Mongolian-throat style drone with a predator-type noise. One thing that the crowd all have in common is that they love bass and this pro knows it, storming home to retain the title. Relentless hand him £3,500 in cold, hard cash. That's real, attainable, "Dad look at this", above your average Deal or No Deal win, more than a FluCamp trial, money. It's real sustenance for those who are part of a movement which is otherwise so notional and bizarre. And in this, an era where we're hemorrhaging subcultures and clubs, casting them aside or giving them no choice but to fuck off to Berlin, it is great to see something passé thriving among the backdrop of London's financial terrace, even if it's only for the good grace of Britain's fifth most popular energy drink.

Hours later, the crowd are going their separate ways home, but I can't leave. I find myself stood over the road, spellbound by the street corner where they're freestyling and trading beats into the night. Red Beard and his pals have long gone home (yeah, I hate homework on a Sunday too), but it seems fitting for the night to end back on turf that is so important to the b-boxing fraternity. Soon enough, I'm called over by a beat maker I spoke to earlier on.

"Hey man, you look like you want to step up?" He asks, as the whole group looks at me inquisitively.
"Yeah, man!" Without thinking, I take the mic and bounce to get in time with my hype man and a guy on an acoustic guitar. I start kicking a fat beat.

After one or two bars, I'm on fire, but I look up to see confused faces; some fighting back laughter and others taking pictures on their phones. I'm soon clapped off-stage and, despite this shit sandwich of humiliation making my face tomato red, I think I am satisfied. Why? Because I've become 20 seconds of beatboxing entertainment. I am part of the movement.