Born on the Dancefloor

Music and club culture saved Kerry O’Brien’s life. And she formed the Young Urban Arts Foundation to do the same for others

Words KRISTAN CARYL

It's 1995. Club Labrynth's dance floor is full of happy, smiling people from all colours and cultures. Jaws are askew, clothes are baggy and hair is drenched. Whistles hang around necks, jungle beats rattle the walls and pupils are as big as the glaring eyes emoji. For 15-year-old Kerry O'Brien, this dank basement in Dalston has become a safe haven. As often as possible, she's here, gazing up in awe at the visiting MCs, her troubles left at the door.

She races home after every party. Songs flow out of her. Writing, Kerry only realised years after establishing herself as Lady MC, is a cure to the trauma she experienced at home every day. Perversely, it was her music-loving father who taught her how to write, but it was also he who metered out the physical and mental abuse that programmed her to believe she was worthless. "He gave me the poison and the cure," she says. 

One night back then, Kerry asked an MC and close family friend to use some of her bars. He refused. "You do it," he said, thrusting her on stage. It was the start of a career that took her to shows all over the world, to winning Best Female MC at the National DNB Awards, a Lifetime Achievement Award in 2020 and working with drum & bass's most pioneering DJs.

But it might not have been that way. Kerry was still involved in and being exploited by gangs, working as a getaway driver and at one point almost facing jail time. She escaped with community service and was looked after by a mentor who saw her musical potential. To really cut ties with her South London cohorts, Kerry headed off to 2001's Winter Music Conference in Miami. She hustled to get on as many mics as possible and caught the eye of TC Izlam, son of hip hop pioneer Africa Baambaata, who invited her to live in a ‘compound’ with a crew of other creatives in New Jersey. There, she would make music, learn about the history of rap, hang out and eat with creative peers and tour the US for the next year. It allowed her to pick up the confidence she had always lacked. 

"They knew I was on a dodgy path," says Kerry. "That experience of being mentored, picked up and cared for was a pivotal moment in my life. I would probably be in prison, or worse, if that hadn't happened, so they played a big part in showing me the power of community, mentorship and support." The importance of that community fully manifested itself in 2009 when Kerry set up what is now called Young Urban Arts Foundation. 

Initially, she hosted DJ and MC workshops in London youth centres in order to engage at-risk young people. Then she bought a now-iconic London bus and turned it into a mobile multimedia studio which 13 years later is still - just about - going. "TfL, give us a new bus please!" Kerry pleads before explaining that YUAF aims to work with the hardest to reach 13-21-year-olds, most of whom slip through the net of formal education, often suffer with mental health conditions whether diagnosed or not, and are from underrepresented black, mixed and ethnic backgrounds. 

The team goes directly to where young people live, their estates, streets and schools. They identify needs, support young people's mental wellbeing and match them to relevant opportunities within the YUAF network as well as acting as positive role models. The team includes DJs, producers, MCs, rappers, lyricists and industry experts who all give young people belief in themselves.  

"It's just so beautiful to see a young person who would be sitting at the back of the bus, not saying much, then come back after six weeks of engagement and they're right at the front spitting their lyrics," beams Kerry. "If they can do that in front of their peers, they can speak up at home, at school or in the workplace."

YUAF Futures is a specific program for 16-19 year olds and disabled teenagers from lower socio-economic, BAME and LGBTQIA communities. These groups are at a disadvantage when it comes to entry into the creative industries so Futures provides them with the space to "explore their passions, upskill in those areas, gain work experience placements and meet aspiring role models in their chosen fields," says Kerry. Essentially, the program affords these people a deeper understanding to make more informed career choices.

"Music speaks no language," says Kerry, who has now seen more than 20000 people pass through YUAF. "It’s a magical portal that gives everyone access to the world. A big percentage of young people do not pursue music after they work with us, but the transferable skills they learn, the emotional intelligence they build, and creative skills they access transfer into their everyday life."

Music will always engage young people if done right, and that depends on the people who work with and volunteer for YUAF. Community Activity Manager Wayne George aka DJ Dlux is one of them. Like Kerry, he experienced childhood struggles similar to those who now attend YUAF. He didn't suit mainstream school, didn't even bother turning up for exams, but he did love playing vinyl. He got a job in the late eighties doing data input for Tower Hamlets Council as part of a Youth Training Scheme. The £35 a week it paid was enough to keep him in records so he was happy. In the background, he was part of a crew who set up pirate radio station Dejavu FM and saw the likes of Ghetts, Dizzie Rascal, Big Narstie and Kano all pass through before they were famous. 

Fortunately, the council recognised Wayne's talent with music and got him hosting workshops for disadvantaged youths. "Instead of seeing me as a suit, as a council man, I was just Wayne, the cool guy who did music," he says from his home studio next to a towering shelf of vinyl and surrounded by decks, speakers and mixers. On the wall is his music report from school. "Wayne has no interest in music," it says, ironically. 

For 30 years with the council, Wayne was the man on the ground, a vital, trusted link between those in authority and the community at large. Often wearing stab vests and laden with CCTV cameras and radios, he could go into troubled estates and act as a go-between who could diffuse gang disputes, spot at-risk kids and engage them with music. Last year, despite the unique services it provided, his department was shuttered by the government "for political reasons" so Wayne joined YUAF to do a similar job. As it has expanded and overcome 80% cuts to government funding in the last six years,YUAF has deepened its ties with local communities and now reaches ever-more off-limit estates. Wayne is the man to implement safeguarding of both staff and students out on the road. 

Both his and Kerry's music careers have had to take a back seat because of their day jobs. While Kerry is making new music again and heading out on tour, Wayne is happy in the knowledge that the work he does will always have more impact than any record he could make, no matter how good it was. But that impact works both ways: not only at-risk young people are benefiting from YUAF, so is the music industry at large. "I think we've sparked inspiration," says Kerry. "We have created a space for people who want to give back. They can come to YUAF, whether its labels like Sony or artists like Joy Crookes, and share their skills and their stories."

After so much growth, 2022 is a year of consolidation and reflection for YUAF. Kerry says her work has never felt like a job. Instead, it is a mission with music as the message.