My mother knew all the deep cuts of the ‘quiet storm’ era. With her original pressing of Rapture, I’d hear Anita Baker’s “You Bring Me Joy” softly bellowing from the speakers. But for all the Smokey Robinson and Rick James deep cuts, it was my mum’s love for British soul that carved and moulded my interest that would develop into a life-long, fruitful relationship. I say fruitful because, without music, I wouldn’t be here writing this. And whenever I stumble upon a personal essay, I often wonder where and how that particular writer first fell in love with music. Writing about hip-hop and grime comes very easily to me, but soul and R&B I previously had difficulty articulating my love for.

Each family has its own musical identity, a particular sound or genre that brings the unit together through music passed down through generations. Parents communicate with their children in many ways. One of the subtle and less conspicuous ways in which they do so is through music and the collections we cherish and hoard. To some, certain records are throwaways but to others, they’re the ways in which families understand their own history and culture. There’s a reason that “Candy” is the ubiquitous black party song—it’s a marker of black celebration.

Crate digging is one of those experiences that brings me to a calm state; finding a gem among throwaways is always a good feeling. A couple of years ago, I received one of the most precious gifts from my parents: their vinyl collection. As other children wait to inherit their family’s wealth, I found mine in music. An original pressing of Soul II Soul’s Club Classics Vol. One has added weight and meaning when you’ve heard the story of how the original owner first came into its possession. Then I thought about the black British soul artists who no longer exist in our immediate memories, particularly those that served as inspiration for much more successful and popular artists.

Des’ree, whose voice once beguiled ears and lifted spirits with smile-inducing cuts such as “Feel So High”, left her mark so faint but so firmly that many have forgotten—but her influence still remains. Jimmy Jam and Terry Lewis (Q-Tip and Ali Shaheed Muhammad, really) lifted a sample of Des’ree’s melody notably found on Janet Jackson’s neo-soul classic, “Got Til It’s Gone”. In 2007, Des’ree allegedly sued Beyoncé for covering “I’m Kissing You” without permission, but while it should have been sought after, it highlighted the influence of the British soul star on the world’s most recognisable pop artist. In some respects, it highlights the erasure of British soul and R&B artists from even our periphery. I’m sure that, had Des’ree still been as pervasive in 2007 as she was in the ‘90s, we may have likely seen a collaboration between her and Beyoncé instead of a cover.

Every now and then, I lament the death of Lynden David Hall in 2006 through listening to his debut album, Medicine 4 My Pain. British soul and R&B existed long before neo-soul was born, so to hear Hall constantly compared to D’Angelo feels like the opposite of honouring his memory and music. Besides similarities in melodies, that’s where the comparisons fall short. But eleven years on from his untimely passing, and in the age of streaming where the forgotten are pushed even further beyond our instant recall, Hall’s legacy remains firmly etched in black British music history and culture.

These days, conversations surrounding British R&B and soul tend to be retrospective, especially as new black talent emerges in the likes of NAO, Ray BLK and Jorja Smith. It reminded me of one of the greatest nights in black British music in October 2000: the night of the MOBO Awards that year. How I still remember this, I can’t tell you, but to a 10-year-old seeing the likes of Jamelia, Craig David, Gabrielle, Damage, Sade and Heather Small achieve recognition on stage when the other kids in school were listening to Westlife and Atomic Kitten left its mark on me. The Sade inclusion, in particular, was of special importance: at the time, she hadn’t performed or recorded in a decade, therefore it would be the first time I would see her in all her beautifully enigmatic mysticism up on stage. After years of hearing her in my mother’s car, yet rarely seeing a performance or video, I wondered whether she was real; to me, Sade is representative of the attitude towards British soul.

It wasn’t until writing this that I fully appreciated the presence of music within families and how it can often shape and form the identities of its youngest members. It was the music played in my house that formed the foundation of my intense relationship with it. After my parents handed their vinyls to me, I realised the enormity of the task now placed upon me. When I have a children, who will I listen to that’ll shape who they become? Parents give their children all kinds of gifts and lessons that reveal their importance much later in life. My parents and I rarely see eye to eye these days, and among all of the sacrifices they’ve made, something I’m always grateful for is the music they steered me towards. If not for them, I wouldn’t be the writer that I am today.