Photography by Keycreationz.

At its core, a sound system is a stack of speakers, effects units and a mixing desk – a spacecraft-like assortment of knobs, dials and blinking lights. Speaker boxes, often hand-built and counted by the dozen, are divided by frequency: smaller drivers handle mids and tops, the largest push out the bass. 

Bass is the heart of a sound system. It’s the vibration you feel in your chest at a dance, and that rattles club walls. But more than that, bass is a cultural transmitter, delivering rhythms, styles and messages from the Caribbean to the UK, and shifting how people move, think and relate to one another.

Sound system culture has shaped Bristol since the 1970s. Rooted in the Caribbean communities of St Paul’s and Easton, it fostered belonging and resistance during times of economic struggle and over-policing. These social frictions exploded during the St Paul’s uprising of 1980, when local young people fought battles with the police following a raid on a cafe on Grosvenor Road.  

Creativity thrived amid the tension. By the late 80s and 90s, Jamaican sound system culture had fused dub and reggae with hip hop, punk and other genres, giving rise to a distinct, vibrant citywide sonic culture. 

Sound systems have become emblematic of Bristol. It’s partly what drew me here when I moved from London in 2014, fascinated by its underground music scene and the city’s strong multicultural core.

Over the years, I’ve been to countless dub and sound system events, which almost always feel healing and grounding. But there are jarring moments: I wondered why this culture was often consumed by primarily white audiences. 

I started thinking about writing a piece that explored the perspectives of different generations of sound system operators in Bristol – how they view the scene’s evolution, and their relationships to each other. I also want it to serve as a piece of social history, a lens through which to examine cultural shifts, race, and gentrification in a city that is both deeply creative and profoundly divided.

The sound system story is also one of generational tension: the desire to preserve a legacy versus the drive to push it forward. Today, sound systems still pulse through the city, but their context is shifting. Who is carrying the culture now, and how will it endure in this increasingly precarious landscape?

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The pioneers – ‘We were the sound’ 

I’m in the back room of the Black Swan on Stapleton Road, sitting with three pioneers of Bristol’s sound system culture. The room is dimly lit, with an old pool table in the corner amid piles of discarded pub furniture. 

Three cousins, two of whom are in their sixties and one of whom is 70, sit across from me at a table. Snoopy, the legendary reggae MC, eyes me warily. To his left is his cousin Dion, known as Jah Lokko, and to his right is Apollo.

All three, who grew up around Easton and St Paul’s, were steeped in Jamaican music from a young age. They formed Jah Lokko Soundsystem in the late 1970s, while still in their teens, and quickly became known for their heavy sound. As their story unfolds, they soon warm up, demonstrating their deep familiarity by finishing each other’s sentences.

Growing up in Caribbean households in Bristol in the 70s, music was omnipresent. “Bluebeat, country and western, rock and roll, gospel. You name it. It was everything,” says Lokko. It wasn’t long before the teenagers started experimenting with sound themselves. 

Apollo was the first to build his own sound system. “My dad bought me a 100-watt amp, and my uncle made me the speaker boxes. That’s how we started.”

“One day, one of our crew members took his father’s amp from out the house,” recalls Lokko, laughing. “Got the amp, a couple of boxes, and we just got together. The place was ram.”

The cousins’ DIY approach to building and maintaining speaker boxes was typical of how sound systems began – small, resourceful, and born out of necessity. After-hours parties, or ‘blues’, which were held in people’s houses, became the testing grounds for their sound. “It started as family parties,” Apollo explains. “But it ended up as a communal thing. The local community wanted more, they wanted to join in.”

In a social context of widespread racism, they stayed in their own areas. “We weren’t really accepted,” says Lokko. Getting turned away from clubs and pubs in central Bristol was a regular occurrence. “That’s why we kept our own thing in Easton and St Paul’s.” Snoopy bluntly adds, “There was nowhere else.”

Music does a lot of things for people, mentally and physically. And the type of music being played, it always had a message.

Ranking Snoopy

Local youth clubs, like the Docklands Settlement and Mill Youth Centre, provided a sense of sanctuary. These spaces were more than just places to hang out – they offered a chance to try out their sound systems. Initially, Lokko and Snoopy ran a sound system called Merrytone before teaming up with Apollo in 1977 to form Jah Lokko. “I used to play there every Sunday, six till 10, 11 o’clock if you were lucky,” says Apollo of their early days at the Mill.

The socially conscious roots reggae they listened to – music that spoke of everyday struggles, Black political consciousness, and was imbued with the spirituality of Rastafari – resonated strongly. “Don’t do wrong, do right,” says Snoopy, summarising the central message of the music. 

“Music kept me out of trouble,” Snoopy continues. “Music does a lot of things for people, mentally and physically. And the type of music being played, it always had a message.”

In the 1980s, Jah Lokko gained a reputation as one of Bristol’s top sounds, regularly playing across the UK. “Promoters would be calling us,” says Lokko, recalling sound clashes where two sound systems would compete to see who could get the best reaction from a crowd. “You want to come play one of the best sounds in Bristol? At that time, I would say: we were the sound.”

However, by the end of the decade, Jamaican music began to shift toward dancehall, which had a less socially driven ethos. “By ’89 we changed our name to Unique Star,” says Lokko, explaining that their previous sound was seen as too ‘rootical’.

This marked a transitional period, as the crew began collaborating in the emerging acid house and rave scene, regularly renting their system to events. During this period, they rubbed shoulders with figures like Daddy G from the Wild Bunch (later Massive Attack) and emerging Bristol jungle producers.  

In 2007, Lokko founded Bristol Dub Club, which became one of the city’s key dub events, cementing Bristol’s reputation as a hub for bass music. But after the closure of the Black Swan’s club space for refurbishment in May 2023, the trio felt the loss keenly. “Bristol had a load of venues. But when you think about it, they’re all closing down, just like the pubs,” says Lokko. “There’s only a couple of places left now that we can actually bring the system out and play.”

Gentrification, too, has played a part in creating a more challenging environment. Noise complaints from residents have become an ongoing threat to venues. “A woman came to us and said, ‘Could you turn it down?’” says Snoopy, recalling an incident at St Paul’s carnival. “I said, ‘You know what’s the best thing you can do? When carnival comes back around, book a holiday.’” 

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Carrying the torch

I meet 35-year-old Kai Dub in the Plough in Easton, where, fittingly, a dub playlist is booming over the pub’s speakers. Kai sips a rum and coke, sporting a grey hoodie bearing the logo of his sound system – Concrete Lion. He’s fresh from work, but dives enthusiastically into his story. 

“My first dance was when I went with my parents to Stratford Rex in London,” he recalls. “There was a sound called King Earthquake. He had three stacks. And it was heavy! That’s all I remember,” he adds, his voice tinged with the nostalgia of a captivated teenager. 

Kai Dub, who grew up in east Bristol to parents of Dominican and Jamaican heritage, is one of the founders of Concrete Lion, a fresh name in Bristol’s scene determined to carry forward the city’s sound system traditions.

He didn’t attend his first dub session here until 2007, when he saw the legendary Aba-Shanti-I perform at Lakota, a night that made him realise he needed to be part of that world. He gravitated toward Maasai Warrior, a prominent Bristol sound system run by Paul Ayton, whom Kai refers to as a “father figure”. He spent almost a decade with Maasai Warrior before striking out on his own.

The idea for Concrete Lion began to take shape in 2019, after chats with his friend Dubtronics (nephew of King Earthquake founder Errol Arawak), but it wasn’t until 2023 that the sound system officially launched. With their heavyweight “warrior steppa” style, Concrete Lion quickly gained a following and began hosting their own nights. 

Kai Dub describes a scene that is thriving but not without contradictions. Though his dances tend to have a mixed crowd, he notes that older Black Bristolians are sometimes put off by the prices of events. “Back in the seventies and eighties, you’d see entry fees of £1 or £2. Now, you can find tickets for £25 or £30,” he says. 

He also points to a divide between the older, predominantly Jamaican sound system operators and the newer, often white, generation of dub enthusiasts. The shift, he argues, lies in the evolving sound itself. “By the 2010s, the sound changed. It became more 4/4 steppas – harder, techno-based dub,” he says. “That’s off-putting for the older generation who grew up with a more traditional sound.”

Kai Dub notes a further complexity: of younger Black Bristolians put off by what they see as “grandad’s music” and feeling more drawn to newer styles like Afrobeats, drill and trap. “When I was 17 and came into the scene, there weren’t many Black people my age,” he says, mentioning that there are still “only a handful” of younger Black sound system operators in the UK. 

But it’s precisely because of these shifts that Kai remains committed to his mission of continuing the legacy of sound system pioneers. “I feel like we have a responsibility,” he says, his conviction unwavering. “People say to me, ‘You’ve got to carry on – you’ve got to blaze the fire.’” 

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Innovators

“Walking into those dances then, I felt like a guest. I found that if you behaved yourself and acted accordingly, the vibes were all nice,” says Stryda. “I was very much a guest in a Black music culture because reggae and sound systems are part of Caribbean culture.”

I’m speaking with Stryda, a key figure in Bristol’s sound system scene, just after he’s finished the school run on a spring afternoon. We’re in the studio at the bottom of his garden, surrounded by a giant mixing desk and shelves of vinyl as he describes his early forays into reggae and dub. 

I feel like we have a responsibility. People say to me, ‘You’ve got to carry on – you’ve got to blaze the fire.’

Kai Dub

Now in his mid-forties, Stryda is one half of the influential Bristol dub act Dubkasm, a former member of the Negus Melody sound system, and the founder and promoter of Teachings in Dub, a major club night held regularly at the Trinity Centre. Over the years, Teachings in Dub has become one of the UK’s largest celebrations of sound system culture.

As a white kid from east Bristol, he found himself drawn to sound system culture at an early age. “Growing up in Bristol’s inner city, you can’t help but feel the reggae vibration,” he says. “I remember going to St Paul’s Carnival as a child, seeing my friends on the floats, and hearing sound systems with my parents.”

Immersed in pirate radio, Stryda formed Dubkasm with his friend Ben Glass, otherwise known as Digistep, while still in school. Though Jamaican sound system culture had been a constant presence, the dub scene was beginning to fade. “In the 90s, the scene became so dancehall-dominated that roots and dub music got sidelined. Only a small group of people were keeping it going,” he says.

The turning point came when Stryda started visiting London to check out the city’s thriving dub scene. He beams, recalling his trips to the University of Dub at Brixton Recreation Centre where he saw legends like Aba Shanti-I, Jah Shaka, and Iration Steppas.

The experience of Rastafarian spirituality at these dances left a lasting impression on him. “The picture of Haile Selassie on the wall, with the energy directed towards His Imperial Majesty, and the herb being smoked for spiritual upliftment – it was amazing. Jah Shaka’s glass valve amps warming up through the night… it just resonated with me,” he says. 

Inspired by the energy of these events, Stryda founded Teachings in Dub in 2007, during Bristol’s dubstep boom. Initially in collaboration with students from the Bristol Reggae Society, the event was held in the downstairs room of Subloaded, the legendary dubstep night run by Pinch at Clockwork in Stokes Croft. “You had people coming for dubstep, then they’d come downstairs and hear roots and dub sound systems for the first time,” he says.

This was a pivotal moment, as a younger generation energised by rave culture discovered the roots of the electronic music they were listening to. But this collision – between a more hedonistic younger generation and a more roots-oriented older generation – occasionally led to grumblings from the elders. “There’s a lot of reminiscing in the roots scene,” he says. “I get it – people reminisce about the 90s, and those who came before me reminisce about the 70s and 80s, with all the amazing blues parties and incredible reggae sessions from those times.”

“But time moves on,” he adds, reflecting on these cultural changes. Arguably, Teachings in Dub acts as a bridge between various camps and traditions within Bristol’s scene, allowing an eager audience to keep immersing itself in bass. Stryda reasserts his mission statement: “The important thing is that the sound system continues. What I hope Teachings in Dub does is keep offering the teachings through the acts and sound systems we book, giving people the chance to hear reggae and dub in the most authentic way possible.”

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Protecting sound system culture

Despite their different paths into sound system culture, the members of Jah Lokko, Concrete Lion, and Stryda share an unshakeable belief in its survival. It’s a cause they’ve dedicated themselves to, driven by a deep love for the music and the community it brings together.

Kai Dub, ever optimistic about the scene, points to Bristol’s vibrancy. “Bristol is a hotspot compared to other cities,” he says, noting the abundance of sound system events pulsing through the city every weekend. Yet, beneath his optimism lies a sharp awareness of potential threats to Bristol’s venues, particularly in the form of new housing developments.

What I hope Teachings in Dub does is keep offering the teachings through the acts and sound systems we book, giving people the chance to hear reggae and dub in the most authentic way possible.

Stryda

This concern isn’t limited to Easton, where the closure of the Black Swan has left a void. Venues like Kuumba in St Paul’s face similar pressures from surrounding developments, and he worries that the proposed Frome Gateway development in St Jude’s may endanger nearby venues like Trinity and Lost Horizon.

But overall, he remains hopeful. “In other cities, if you try to put a sound system on the street, it’ll get shut down quick. But in Bristol, there’s a revolutionary side,” he says, adding that Bristol’s dub acolytes will defend the culture at all costs. 

For Stryda, sound systems represent much more than just music – they are vital spaces for connection. “How much of your life do you want to spend watching Netflix and ordering food?” he reflects. “We all do it, but going out, meeting people, being in community spaces – it’s what makes us human.” He believes Bristol City Council could play a role in safeguarding venues like Trinity, proposing a law to protect spaces from noise complaints by newcomers unaware of the venue’s cultural significance.

The members of Jah Lokko echo these sentiments, voicing a simple desire for a space where the music can flow freely. “We just want a nice venue where you can come and play,” says Snoopy. Apollo adds, “Somewhere you can thump it without anybody arguing.”

When I ask the trio what keeps them going after so many years of dedication to sound systems, their passion shines through. “Our enjoyment is seeing people enjoy themselves,” says Lokko, his face lighting up. Apollo, ever the showman, sums it up: “It’s not playing for yourself. The audience has to have a good time. You get a lot of pleasure from that, just playing music. That’s why I still do it.”

In the face of rising costs, changing demographics, and shifting cultural attitudes, and in the context of a complex, stratified and unequal city, Bristol’s sound system culture endures. It remains a beacon for bass disciples across the UK, a culture driven by an unyielding commitment to community, music, and keeping the sound alive for the next generation.