Early in the 1979 documentary “Dread Beat an Blood,” the 27-year-old poet Linton Kwesi Johnson recites a verse that sketches the challenges facing Brother Buzza, a Jamaican-born character living in London: “De bredda say him broke, him say him nah work / him say his woman a breed, him say him don’t even have a stick of weed.”
Noting Johnson’s Jamaican roots, a British reporter asks him if he plans to remain in Brixton, the South London neighborhood where the poet has lived since 1963. “England is as much my country as Jamaica,” Johnson replies with a genteel tone that belies the intensity of his words. “Most Blacks who come here have a dream of returning home. But we have a very important struggle in this country at this time, and I want to be a part of that struggle.”
The documentary, directed by Franco Rosso, sees Johnson performing and recording verses from his poetry collection and album of the same title, with lyrics that vividly depict the racism and marginalization of Black Caribbean immigrants in Britain. His recitation is supported by intricately layered, dub-infused reggae grooves that established the subgenre he called “dub poetry,” a cousin of hip-hop that originated in collaboration with the bassist Dennis Bovell and his stellar Dub Band. The works presaged the violent clashes between Brixton’s Black immigrants and the police in 1981 and after.
Johnson’s work continues to connect with modern audiences. In 2002, he became only the second living poet, and the first Black poet, to have his work included in the Penguin Modern Classics series with the volume “Mi Revalueshanary Fren: Selected Poems.” And Johnson was asked to perform his “New Craas Massakah,” about the 13 Black youths who died in the New Cross fire in 1981, for the director Steve McQueen’s 2020 film series “Small Axe.”
Over two conversations, in Brooklyn last September and by phone from Brixton this month, Johnson, 73, discussed the documentary, his work now and what it’s been like to witness younger generations discover him. The interview was edited and condensed.
Having previously watched its original broadcasts on the BBC, have you had a chance to view the restored cut?
No, and I don’t have any intention of watching it, either. What is really fantastic about all of this is director Franco Rosso is getting some well-deserved attention. He didn’t make too many films but the two films he’s known for, “Babylon” and “Dread Beat an Blood,” are significant because they both offer snapshots of the Black experience in Britain after the Second World War, the perspective of the second generation of Caribbean immigrants to England. Franco deserves praise for taking the initiative to choose those subjects for his films.
How was Franco Rosso introduced to you and your work?
I was in the Black Panther movement, a young activist and one of the people picketing outside of the criminal court when nine activists were on trial for rioting, incitement, as a consequence of a demonstration against police brutality in Ladbroke Grove. Franco Rosso directed the original documentary about the “Mangrove Nine.” I’d released two collections of poetry, “Voices of the Living and the Dead” followed by “Dread Beat an Blood” in 1975. I was part of the campaign to free George Lindo [a Jamaican immigrant convicted of armed robbery based on a false confession obtained by police]. So Franco would have known me from those circles.
In “Dread Beat an Blood,” you explain that your poetic cadence is built around reggae bass lines. When writing, do you hear the bass line first or do the words dictate the musical flow?
I’ve always been interested in the language of music and the music in language. When I write my verse, I try to bring out the musicality within the language and I build everything around the bass lines. On my first three albums, “Dread Beat an Blood,” “Forces of Victory” and “Bass Culture,” my late school friend Vivian Weathers played bass and on a few tracks, it was Floyd Lawson. After that it was Dennis Bovell — Dennis was the producer, he did the mixing, and we worked out the songs’ arrangements together. People think Dennis’s bass lines are wonderful [laughs]. They’re my bass lines, but I couldn’t make them sound as good as he does.
What prompted your decision to stop performing live with Dennis and the Dub Band?
I have a serious problem with my lower lumbar region. I can’t stand up very long without being in an awkward position. When that music is happening you can’t stand around like a statue: You at least have to move your knees or shake your legs.
How did growing up in Chapelton, Jamaica, shape your early life?
I was raised in the hills of Clarendon until age 11 when I moved to England, and everyone there was involved in farming. We all had responsibilities, even if it was just feeding the chickens. It was the best time of my life. That’s where I absorbed elements of Jamaican folk culture that have stayed with me ever since. Folk songs, church songs, riddles, and at Christmas time, Jonkonnu [a traditional parade of costumed dancers accompanied by goatskin drums, shakers and bamboo fifes]. We had no radio, television or electricity so we had to entertain ourselves.
You’ve said that your father was illiterate, your mother was semiliterate. Was there anyone around you that fostered your interest in poetry and writing?
No. My grandmother was illiterate, and she’d ask me to read the Bible to her. I got to like the language of the Old Testament, Psalms in particular. The interest in poetry came about later. As a Young Panther, I discovered African American literature. My original inspiration to become a poet came from W.E.B. Du Bois’s book “The Souls of Black Folk,” the political poetry of Langston Hughes, Gwendolyn Brooks and Amiri Baraka and the Last Poets. Their discourse was African American everyday speech, accompanied by percussion. I used to recite my poems with percussion in a group called Rasta Love, young Rasta guys I went to school with.
Looking back at your work spanning the 1970s through the 1990s, how do the themes of political resistance and activism resonate in today’s world?
It offers a historical perspective because I’m of the past [laughs]. People might pick up some understanding of the struggles we fought in England, how it corresponds with the antiracist struggles that were being fought in the United States and the sense of solidarity on different sides of the Atlantic. My journey through poetry and music was really a learning process through which I was able to chronicle important moments, like the New Cross fire or the Brixton Riots.
When did you last sit down to write a poem?
Steve McQueen made a series of films called “Small Axe”; he asked me to write a poem for a piece about the New Cross fire. That was in 2021 and it was very short, about eight lines. Before that I wrote “Reggae Fi Mama,” an elegy for my mother who was dying. Seeing my mother in Jamaica in 2019 and realizing that would be the last time I would see her alive was the inspiration for that piece. Some poets have to write a couple of lines every day but I’ve only ever written when there’s something that moves me to write.
What are you currently working on?
Over the past 25 years I’ve had one ambition: to make an instrumental album of my own musical compositions and play the bass myself. I’ve completed that [an album titled “[Speechless]”]. Dennis Bovell helped me to arrange the music and he mixed it. I might release it as a limited edition next year, or maybe it will be released posthumously. That was my big thing, so I don’t have any artistic ambitions anymore. I’ve done quite a bit, so my greatest ambition in life right now is to arrive at a state of complete contentment, to be at peace with myself.
How does it feel to see a new generation discovering your work?
It’s great to have people bigging you up in your old age. It’s better they do that while you’re alive because when you are dead, who cares?
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