Whether it’s on wax or on platforms like Fire In The Booth, Wretch 32’s pedigree as a storyteller is peerless. His most recent album, Home?, treads a very thin line with grace and ease.
At its core, it’s the story of displacement, specifically the Windrush Generation who came to the UK in the late 1940s, ‘50s and ‘60s in search of what they were assured would be well-paid jobs, prosperity, and rolling countryside. Of course, what was actually waiting for them was a bleak, grey country battered by rain and still bearing the scars and (up until 1956) ration books left in the wake of World War II. In the decades that followed, that generation and their offspring faced an uphill battle against racism on institutional and individual levels, poverty, and a mixture of apathy and neglect from successive governments.
Impressively, it also manages to strike a more universal tone. The point of that quick and reductive history lesson is to try to explain the profound, cross-generational effects that have been left in the Caribbean communities in Britain. Their experiences are entirely unique to them. No one can take anything away from that, but on Home?, Wretch manages to find a way to speak very specifically and unflinchingly about these stories—informed by extensive conversations he had with various family members and community elders, and a lot of hours spent studying all the documents and records he could get his hands on—in a way that has proved relatable to people whose experiences might otherwise have very little in common with the British-Caribbean experience.
Wretch tells me that it was somewhat intentional. After all, who wouldn’t want their art to resonate with as many people as possible, but it was also just how his mind works. His experiences of growing up in the ‘90s in North London paint a picture of a much less divided Britain when friendship groups weren’t based on heritage or cultural backgrounds—they were dictated by what music you liked, what you found funny. He sounded wistful when he talked about those days, but he still firmly believes they aren’t completely lost.
So yes, Wretch 32 is a gifted rapper and he’s still just as hungry to create and be the best in the game. But, ultimately, what really makes him a great storyteller is his unwavering determination to relate to others.
COMPLEX: Your latest album, Home?, has been out for a couple of months now—how has the reception been?
Wretch 32: You know what? To be honest, really well. I think the most complementary phrase I’ve had is, “The record feels like home.” That is exactly what I was aiming to do, because if I’ve described it lyrically or sonically and it’s landed, that’s exactly what the intention was.
What did the creative process look like for this one? Were there a lot of conversations with family and talking about experiences and stuff like that?
Yeah, 100%. I just had to stay in it, to live in it. I watched a lot of documentaries, spoke to a lot of the older generation, people that came over in the Windrush era and just after that. So yeah, it was a lot of work merging and collating and putting everything together. Normally, when I’m making an album, there’s not much outsourcing or research, but with Home?, obviously, there were conversations I needed to have, documentaries and documents I needed to research. You don’t need to do that when your album is just about you, but I was trying to honour so many people’s stories and experiences, it was only right that I did my due diligence. I also wanted everyone to feel like everyone who listens to the album is stepping into my world, not just the Caribbean community. The story I’m telling is a Caribbean story, but it’s also the story of Britain. If you’re from Leeds or Brighton, I want you to identify with what I’m saying as well. Everyone has a home that they grow up in and everyone eventually has to leave it one day and make their own future. A lot of people from different backgrounds have been telling me that they were able to relate to it, and I love that.
Was it always a conscious decision from the start to make it relatable not just to the Caribbean community, but to the wider world as well?
That’s the thing about art and truth: we all find parts of our stories that merge. You and I were probably in school at the same time, for example. I’m a little older, but we’ve got common experiences. We probably listened to a lot of the music, like the same food. That’s what I like about life in the UK: even if we’re from different backgrounds or different parts of the country, there’s more that unites us than separates us. Sometimes it feels like we’re all trying to stand in our own corners, but that’s not how I remember things when I was at school. I had Turkish bredrens, I had Indian bredrens, Somali bredrens, Kurdish bredrens—everything. You’d go to different houses after school, try different foods, and hear different views, but we understood each other. For me, that is what makes Britain cold. We’re all accepting.
One thing I noticed is that there are some newer artists on this album, but a lot of the collaborators—like Kano, Ghetts and Mercston—are people you’ve known pretty much since the start. Was having that history with them important to showcase on this album?
Yeah, I think so. I wanted people to understand the story. Take Cashh and his whole story: I don’t think anybody could have added what he added. He’ll always be my lifelong sparring partner. Kano has a heavy Caribbean background as well. Then you’ve got WSTRN; I’ve known Haile, Akelle and Louis for a long time, and I love what they’ve brought to Caribbean culture in Britain. I don’t think there’s been a single year since they came out where there wasn’t a WSTRN record that was massive at Carnival. They’re embedded in the culture. I had to have them. Tiggs Da Author and Angel as well—I love all of them. Then there’s SLG, who’s a young kid coming through. [Little] Simz, obviously, is the Queen; just a great individual, and literally like family at this point. I'm really proud of her and I’m really, really, really honoured to have her on the record. Even the overseas artists like Protoje who’s from Jamaica and Teni who’s Nigerian, those features make sense and they understand the story I’m telling.
On the subject of Little Simz, I was really happy to see you guys on a track together. Talk to me a bit about your relationship with her. Do you remember how you guys first met?
I remember meeting Simz years ago, even though I remember her coming to… I don’t know if you remember Alwayz Recordings? They used to have a studio. [Boss] Baff was my lifelong friend who grew up in my estate and he used to manage Chip. His label was called Alwayz Recordings, and he had a studio. Me, Kano, everyone had been in that studio. I remember Simz coming in one time with her little backpack, all colourful, and you could just see that this girl was going to make it one day. You could see she was a creative person and an artist at her core. So I always remember her just being this hungry, passionate kid, and I made sure to keep in the loop, trying to play that big brother role. Any time she needs me for anything, I always make sure I’m there. So I think it was good that, within the same year, you get a verse from her on my album and you get a verse from me on her album. She’s also an incredible live performer.
Having Ghetts and Mercston on the record is a nice throwback to The Movement era as well. On the subject of The Movement, you guys were quite ahead of your time the way you straddled rap and grime and didn’t box yourselves in to either. Did it feel controversial at the time or was there any pushback?
I think me, personally, when I came in, the first songs that I wrote were to rap and I also wrote over dancehall beats. Then I fell in love with pirate radio, just being able to write new lyrics every week and go and spit them. That was grime. I think by the time I met the grime purists like DJ Cameo or Logan [Sama], those kinds of players in the game, I knew that they understood what we were about. They listened to my CD and they were like, “Oh, you have half grime and half rap.” Obviously, some of the other lads were doing it as well, but I think everyone was aware that that’s what we were about and it was fine. When we made Tempo Specialists, our whole thing was trying to do different things and different genres, different tempos, different speeds. As a spitter in Britain at that time, we had the luxury of growing up on reggae, roots, rock music, R&B, rap music, drum & bass, jungle, grime, bassline. We’ve had a mesh of everything, so we could move into different things. You still see it with Stormzy and Chase & Status or Skepta with Sammy Virji, but that’s what we grew up with. We were able to flex and do anything.
That’s what was unique about your generation: you’d have one MC who was more inspired by garage, someone else more influenced by ragga or dancehall, another guy who’s drawing from jungle, and you’re all bringing different perspectives so none of you sound alike.
That was it exactly! We prided ourselves on that. We don’t need two Ghetts’ or two Wretches. We never needed that. When someone sends me an instrumental, I love the fact that it can be any genre. I love not knowing what you’re going to send me; it excites me.
I think we’re still reaping the rewards of that. When you listen to your albums, Ghetts’ albums, Kano’s albums, you can hear that you’re all listening to a lot of different stuff and because your tastes are specific to each of you, what comes out is completely unique to you and you can hear that unique sound changing as you grow older and your tastes evolve. You can hear that open-minded mindset approach filtering down the generations, through Simz, Kojey Radical, Jordy, and Jords.
It moves on. I think it’s sick, honestly. When you press play on my album, you get a re-sung version of classic “Inner City Life”, a classic record by Goldie, but then it goes into a rap beat. It’s got the drums and the bass, but it’s not drum & bass. That’s what we grew up in. It reminds me of walking from room to room in my house: D&B might be playing in one room, then my sisters might be playing R&B, then my dad might be playing reggae in another room, and then I might be playing So Solid in my room. If I walk from there to there, I’ve got all these genres just in my house. That’s what I wanted to recreate on the album. I love the idea of that.
We talked about your influence on artists like Kojey Radical, Jords and Jordy, and that whole side of British rap. How close are you with those guys? Do they reach out to you for guidance?
Sometimes. I’ve sat in on a few sessions for some of them. They always ask me to be critical, but honestly, I don’t hear any lines that I think could be better. I might have had an idea or two to offer here and there, like: “Could this be said differently?” or “What do you mean by this?” I like to push them and question them, but they’re on the right path, those guys. I’ve been in sessions for Stormzy and Jordy recently; I keep my line open to all them guys. There’s newer guys as well, like Nino, SLG, DC3. I was talking to Kasst recently, actually. I had a good conversation with him. He’s gonna be the next one that’s coming through. He’s already making some serious waves.
Are you tapped into the new wave of grime artists?
I’ve been logged in, man. 100%! Like I said, there’s Kasst—he reminds me of being on radio when I’d pass the mic to someone and he’s going to spray something cold. It inspires me. When I see him spit, I want to grab the mic and go back to back. It gives me that energy. I’ve got a lot of love for a lot of the ones coming through.
It seems the hype around UK rap has faded a bit over the past couple of years—a bit of an identity crisis in places, too. What do you think needs to change there?
I just feel like everyone’s got to keep putting their best foot forward. I think our thing works when people are trying to be the best.
As in more competitive?
Yeah, absolutely. I feel like if it gets to who’s going to chart the highest, that brings a different thing to the rap space. I wouldn’t necessarily say one’s better than the other when it comes to rap versus grime—it’s more about trying to prove you’re the best and I think you need to get that type of energy back into rap. People gravitate to that. Sometimes, when you’re trying to prove you’re the best, you make the best product and that becomes a hit, organically, because everyone felt it. When we’re in that space, we’re untouchable.
How do you tap into that competitive spirit yourself? Because I feel like there can’t be that many people who are trying to compete with you in that way. How do you keep that hunger?
That’s why me and Ghetts have 100 or more songs together that haven’t even come out. It’s the same with Jords and Jordy: I’ve got a song with both of them. They’ll tell you: “Wretch is coming to the studio. I want him to watch me write this in front of him with no pen, no pad, and just come up with it and dazzle everyone.” They come with that same aura I have when I’m in the studio with Ghetts. It’s where Young Fire, Old Flame came from; I had seen Avelino in the studio and we did a few songs or whatever, and I'm like, “This kid is cold!” And when we’re on a track together, in the politest way, he wants to kill me [laughs]. He wants to lyrically kill me! But that’s what rap is about, and that’s why we did 12 songs together. We decided to make a whole project and, in the friendliest way possible, it was like: let’s see who comes out on top. It’s the same reason everyone loves our Fire In The Booth freestyle, because I’m fighting for my life and he’s fighting for his life. That keeps me afloat. There should always be competition in rap and grime. Always.