In spite of the limitations placed upon him, he has risen to become UK drill’s biggest star. It’s impossible to shake the feeling that he is being censored.Īnd yet, Digga is winning. She also joins us on our Zoom to ensure the conversation doesn’t stray into unsafe territory. A pre-interview phone call with his lawyer Cecilia Goodwin is necessary to fully understand the Kafkaesque web of restrictions he navigates. The CBO’s oppressive remit runs deeper than limiting his freedom of movement and artistic expression anything he says publicly is scrutinised, too. Interviewing Digga is not straightforward. Breaching any of the constraints set in place will trigger an instant recall to jail. If Digga releases any music publicly, he must notify the Metropolitan Police within 24 hours for screening. It means that he and his legal representatives must ensure any music he releases doesn’t violate the CBO. Then, in 2020, he was convicted for another offence and the CBO was extended until 2025. He was also served with a Criminal Behaviour Order – or, a CBO – which places restrictions on where he can go and who he can be seen with in public. That’s what got everybody tapped into what was going on.”ĭigga was subsequently convicted for conspiracy to commit violent disorder in 2018, for which he served a year in prison. And it’s my name that they’re bringing up – it’s my group, it’s us. “I’m talking about drill being on the news, bro. “This might be a bit strong, but I do feel like without me, drill wouldn’t be where it is,” Digga reflects, offering a different perspective. The incident made headlines, a grim watershed moment which cemented drill’s demonisation in the mainstream media. A moral panic was stirred up as the police and politicians used UK drill as a scapegoat a cause, they decided, rather than a reflection or symptom of the violence.ĭigga and members of 1011 found themselves at the heart of the issue when, in 2017, a stop-and-search revealed they were carrying weapons (they claimed they were props for a music video) and were subsequently arrested. Then, in 2018, 135 people were murdered, the highest total in a decade 45 of them were young males aged between 15 and 24.
Funding for the frontline services supporting young people had been decimated.
Between 2012-18, there was a 71 percent rise in violent incidents, driven by intersecting factors like poor mental health and school exclusions, and underpinned by years of austerity. Soon after, though, he became a symbol of the authoritarian clampdown on the genre, as serious youth violence surged across London.
“The first drill freestyle to hit ten million views,” he reminds me, grinning. There’s an openness about him, serenity even.īy 2017, Digga D was the hottest prospect in UK’s emergent drill scene, courtesy of a standout verse on 1011’s Next Up freestyle, his choppy flow brimming with authority and menace. “And bro… it’s crazy to think about,” he says, smiling and shaking his head as he reminisces, kicking back on the bed of his hotel room. “I was young, young,” the 21-year-old tells me over Zoom, theatrically emphasising the word the second time around. Barely out of primary school, Digga and crew mates M’Skum and Sav’O sprayed bars over Political Peak and Sneakbo’s bashment-leaning Wave Like Us instrumental. While Chief Keef was spearheading Chicago’s drill movement in 2011, Digga and his friends – the same friends he’d go on to form the Ladbroke Grove drill collective 1011 with (later reformed as CGM) – were laying down their first track at the Harrow Club. Or they’d chill in the old recording studio. He’d play football with his friends in the main hall, beneath the famous period window. This is where Rhys Herbert, known to millions as Digga D, found sanctuary as a child on icy winter nights. Just a three-minute walk from Latimer Road tube station, the club is housed in the shell of an imposing Grade II-listed church on Freston Road. The Harrow Club has been supporting disadvantaged young people from west London since 1883.
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