Like many fans of Black British music, I am always excited to see intimate explorations of the history behind this country’s vital scenes and subcultures. Whether through exhibitions, films, documentaries, radio segments or ‘Best Of’ lists, the Black community’s relationship with music in the UK—as well as deep dives into the sounds that have shaped us—serves as a crucial record of our history and cultural contributions to Britain at large. From jungle and garage to lover’s rock and grime, many celebrations of our genres have stirred emotion and education in equal measure… Well, almost every genre.

Because for all of these recent homages, UK drill has been largely missing from the conversation—an imbalance that is worth talking about. There has been much commentary, from the likes of LO-WU and others, about the fact that there hasn’t been a new genre established in the UK for over a decade—an observation that itself triggers conversations about the direction of Black British music more widely and how creativity is being harnessed in the modern day. Yet, the last fully authentic sound birthed is seemingly being shunted from the spotlight. Sure, UK drill was inspired by Chicago drill, but in reshaping it through a uniquely British lens, we created something entirely our own.

As recently as a couple of years ago, artists and commentators were officially crowning drill ‘dead’, statements that bring with them their own issues. “Drill is coming to the end of its day soon,” Millionz told Complex UK in 2023. “Drill is overpopulated now. Everyone’s starting to sound the same. I just think there’s too many people in one little pocket right now.” In isolation, these comments might tell half the story. As artists with creative license, it is perfectly fine to explore; one should not feel hamstrung by the sounds they came up in and feel emboldened to expand their palettes as musicians. But when you start to openly disrespect the genre, that’s when a public perception can be created and hardened. That’s not to say drill is still the UK’s premier sound—far from it. Seemingly in a creative malaise, many who came from it are distancing themselves from it. I couldn’t tell you the last time a drill record made a big splash in the scene, for example. Not because of a lack of talent; the tectonics of UK rap has just shifted.

It’s less about subgenres—as it has been over the last decade—and more about individual artists doing their thing. From Dave and Central Cee to Lancey Foux and Ceebo, less and less of these gamechangers are being categorised by way of scene or sound. Therefore, many genres are thriving and seeing the light of day. Not to mention pop music, where Olivia Dean, Lola Young and RAYE are taking up a considerable amount of breathing room with their respective talents. Shout-out to the jazz scene too; forever expansive, expressive and bending soundscapes for new and imaginative interpretations.

As we still grapple with what to call whatever the underground is cooking up, there’s a gap in the market for a new sound to become number one. UK rap is plodding along as it always does, and grime is too. UK funky is slowly creeping back into the conversation, while artists dip in and out of UK garage whenever they feel like it.

And listen, drill has had a rough lifespan: from being a genuinely revolutionary echo chamber that birthed generational artists like 67, Headie One, Digga D, Harlem Spartans, K-Trap, Unknown T and others, to becoming the centre of a national moral panic, singled out by police, the government and other establishment forces who linked its rise to violent crime in the capital, even going as far as outright censoring many of the scene’s forebearers. There were the Met Police’s YouTube takedown requests for drill videos, the gang injunctions placed on artists like Skengdo x AM that stopped them from making music or performing live. Many of these pioneers, like Loski, faced real jail time, stalling their creative runs and as a result, stifling the genre and how far it could go. Then came the genre’s softening: the version of drill that traded for dance moves and viral bars to push itself to commercial number one status (“Gun Lean”, anyone? I know I wasn’t the only one enjoying that).

Meanwhile, its physical representation is often limited to but a few artefacts. Masks, for example, are crucial elements of many drill artists’ personas (think LD, AM and V9, to name a few), but certainly due to the increasingly digital confines of our existence, drill is almost a victim of the times in that these physical capsules are few and far between. Where UK garage had parties like Pure Silk and grime flourished in shops like Rhythm Division, drill lacks those monuments, those signals of community that make a movement last way beyond its peak. This can only help contribute to its erasure. Even TRENCH—this very publication—can hold some of the responsibility because, as much as we have covered drill, we could be doing more to place its artists front and centre; more covers on our physical magazines and more slots performing at our parties, for example.

What critics fail to understand, though, is that, even if some of these artists don’t make drill or engage with the sound as much anymore, their success is still inextricably linked to the genre. Name any drill artist and any critically acclaimed project, song or cultural moment, and drill is somewhere in the foundation of it. Russ Millions and Tion Wayne’s “Body” reached No. 1 on the UK Singles Chart in 2021—the first drill song to do so, and still one of only a handful of rap-tastic UK songs to hit that milestone. That alone deserves to be celebrated by music heads and institutions across the country. The same can be said for Headie One’s 2020 album, EDNA—the first drill album to reach No. 1. These were seismic wins that should be properly lauded, moments that extended the lifespan not just of drill, but of UK Black music more broadly.

Even outside of arbitrary indicators of success like charts and sales, think about the cultural moments that pushed the digital age forward for so many music fans: Headie’s Street Heat freestyle for Link Up TV; Digga and 1011’s Next Up? over at Mixtape Madness; Unknown T’s “Homerton B”; 67’s “Let’s Lurk”, one of the tunes that helped start it all. Or when a certain Canadian rap titan linked up with Headie for 2020’s “Only You Freestyle”, or when American artists like Pop Smoke and Ice Spice jumped on UK drill beats and scored big through them. Then there’s the way genuine drill scenes were built in places like Australia, Italy and Ireland, creating a transatlantic conversation between cultures in the process. You can liken these happenings to Skepta’s Shoreditch Shutdown, So Solid Crew’s “21 Seconds”, or any other cultural reset you care to name.

To ignore these contributions is to ignore Black British music history and our salient presence in UK pop culture. This is less about calling out people for the erasure, but more about putting into perspective what the sound has given us. To remind people of the potency drill wielded at its peak, altering what it meant to be a Black British music success. While exhibitions, documentaries and other forms of media shouldn’t be the beacon of recognition, that’s often how erasure starts. UK drill’s story is just as fascinating as those that came before it, and it has excelled too much to be considered dead in the water. Like most genres before it, drill is bound to re-emerge. It’s only natural it will find its footing again—all it takes is a spark. Until then, chuck on some Zone 2 and zone out.