On a typical overcast Thursday morning in Bow, East London, photographer Simon Wheatley revisits a landscape that once throbbed with the raw pulse of grime music and youth culture. For those unfamiliar, grime was more than just a musical genre; it was a socio-cultural phenomenon deeply rooted in the working-class estates of London, particularly around Roman Road. Once described by the artist Wiley as “the nurturer” of local talents such as himself and Dizzee Rascal, this street was the chaotic heart of the scene. In the early 2000s, Wheatley, then a struggling photographer in his twenties, spontaneously began documenting this vibrant world just outside his Limehouse doorstep. His intimate and unfiltered portrayal of grime’s players and their environs culminated in his photo-book Don’t Call Me Urban, which was released in 2011 and has since become a cult classic, often hailed as “grime’s Old Testament.”

Wheatley’s photographic journey started amid suspicion. Early on, some of his subjects viewed him warily, suspecting he might be an undercover policeman. However, by gaining the trust of key figures, including Roll Deep’s DJ Target, he was able to embed himself within the scene—capturing pivotal moments like impromptu street ciphers, pirate radio broadcast sessions, and the quieter, domestic facets of young grime artists’ lives. These images went far beyond glamorised clichés; he photographed fights, drug deals, and everyday moments of lyric writing, camaraderie, and reflection, providing a raw social document of youthful energy, boredom, and resilience. Wheatley explains that grime was both a “coarse expression of a kind of individualism” and a tight-knit community reaction to social neglect, reflective of post-Thatcherite social breakdown.

His unique access and approach stemmed from being a self-styled outsider—someone who described himself as “a bit of a weirdo,” which helped him navigate and connect with this community. Wheatley’s dynamic style was influenced by his physicality and his background in sports and martial arts, which allowed him to keep pace with the restless energy of youth. Beyond simply chronicling grime’s underground, Wheatley considered the cultural significance of the era: it was a form of expression for a generation often dismissed by the media and politicians as “hoodies” or “chavs,” a moral scapegoat for deeper systemic issues. The book’s title itself was a deliberate challenge to the glamorisation of urban life, aiming instead to present grime as it was—raw and real.

The social backdrop Wheatley captured was on the cusp of dramatic change. His documentation of East London predated the transformative 2012 Olympics, an event that accelerated gentrification and altered the cultural landscape. He stresses that while some see the changes as positive, bringing refurbished housing and a cleaner environment, the raw textures and atmosphere of the earlier era—its sense of abandonment turned into a playground for hopeful, frustrated youth—are irreplaceable. Through Wheatley’s lens, the familiar streets and estates are shown as living canvases of hope and despair, capturing a moment of creative explosion before the mainstream arrival of grime changed public perception. Today, grime stars like Stormzy are global icons, but Wheatley reminds us that the first wave of artists faced marginalisation and hostility, making their achievements all the more remarkable.

The original Don’t Call Me Urban quickly went out of print and grew into a sought-after collector’s item, its photographs serving as an important visual archive of British Black music heritage and youth culture. Thanks to the support of fans within the creative community, including streetwear designer Clint Ogbenna of Corteiz, the book is being rereleased in a significantly expanded format that offers even deeper insight into the era. Wheatley’s work not only celebrates grime’s sound and style but also preserves the socio-political context from which it arose, reflecting both the struggles and the vitality of the communities that birthed it.

Wheatley’s story and approach offer a potent reminder that grime was much more than a musical trend. It was a complex sociological phenomenon and a vivid cultural resistance. His visual legacy affords us a nuanced understanding of an overlooked youth movement, documenting both the artist’s ascent to fame and the grinding realities of everyday life in East London’s council estates during the early 2000s.

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Source: Noah Wire Services