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Interview by David Kane | Photography by James Pearson HowesIn Summer 2024, when Ashley Thomas also known as Bashy returned to making music with the release of Being Poor Is Expensive, many of those familiar with his face would have been forgiven for not knowing that he even made music in the first place. It was his first album in 15 years. Since then, his acting career has flourished with roles in Black Mirror and Top Boy, as well as US performances in HBO’s The Night Of and the lead in Them - a slow-burn, psychological horror set in the ’50s that exposes how racism seeps into the mind and the idea of the American home itself. The Guardian described his performance as “magnificent”.Yet the music itch persisted, and Being Poor Is Expensive proved a revelation in sound and narrative scope, earning its place in the evolving canon of UK rap. We spoke at a live Q&A at the Patta London store and again towards the end of 2025. Looking back at his cultural highlights, Bashy namechecks Adolescence and the “incredible” Sinners film, alongside albums by Clipse and Jim Legxacy, and — in the year where he turned 40 -  winning Album of the Year and Best Hip-Hop Act at the MOBOs, and being nominated for an Ivor Novello award for "How Black Men Lose Their Smile".Looking ahead, he is performing at the National Theatre alongside Letitia Wright in The Story, a play about “journalism, race, and gender politics”, sandwiched between recording TV shows for Netflix and FX. The following conversation has been condensed for clarity.Bashy is wearing the Patta Washed Canvas Jacket.A lot of people discovered you through the song “Black Boys”, which inspired a lot of people — and artists I spoke to for my book. I also saw Enny speak about it on The Reasoning. Were there specific songs in your formative years that made you think about the world differently?Reggae, definitely — Bob Marley, through my parents. And I listened to a lot of A Tribe Called Quest. The first album I ever bought was People’s Instinctive Travels and the Paths of Rhythm. They’re probably my favourite artists. “Stressed Out”, and Nas’ “If I Ruled The World” — I loved that blend of something melodic with proper bars.You came up in that late-garage, early-grime period, but many artists from that era can be quite tribal — UK hip-hop or grime. Your style feels less tied to one lane. How do you define your music?A hybrid. I don’t think it’s unique to me, I think it’s just when I was born — 1985. You grow up listening to jungle, garage, hip-hop, grime. That’s the palette I use. And it’s not just me; people from that time can tell their story over different tempos and styles. There’s a small window — maybe early ’80s to early ’90s — where a lot of MCs move between genres.Something else that’s quite unique about you: you don’t get many artists who admit they’ve had a day job while doing the music. Why is it important to acknowledge that?Just being honest. I think it matters that the stigma is tackled, because a lot of people pursuing creative things feel embarrassed. I was driving a bus and I kept it low, but it put money in my pocket so I could get to auditions. It was funding the dream, rather than sitting there depressed because I was broke.That’s a bad headspace for creativity — worrying about money all the time. You mentioned driving the bus. I remember D Double E talking about getting inspired by what he hears in markets or in bookies — everyday life. Did that kind of stuff inform your world-building?Not so much ad-libs, but it definitely informs my story. It gave me things I wanted to talk about — the feeling. On “Sticky”, when I say “Mill Hill and back” and repeat it, that’s what it felt like when I was driving.So in a way, it inspired you.It did. I lived a more traditional life before I transitioned into this. It gives you perspective. I know what it’s like to get up at 4 a.m. and have a job. I was a postman as well — I worked retail for a bit, too.You began working on Being Poor Is Expensive at the start of Covid, right? What was your headspace, and how did the album come together? And were you surprised by the impact?I started writing it in 2020 during lockdown. I was reflecting on my life, like a lot of people, because I didn’t know where the world was going. People were losing family members; people were dying around us.Very unsettled times.It was unsettled and unpredictable. I was in Los Angeles filming a TV series called Them. When Covid hit, production paused, and I had to stay in LA because they didn’t know if I’d be able to get back into the country if filming restarted. So I stayed. I was in my apartment, and I had to build a routine, because I can go inside my head and end up in a negative space.To counteract that, I made an itinerary I’d follow every day: work out, read a book, watch a film, watch a TV series, meditate, sit in the sun, write lyrics, and cook food. I did it religiously, ticking it off, and it gave me a sense of purpose.Writing lyrics became the key thing. It was the first time in a long time I’d had room to be creative because I’d been focused on acting. I thought: if I don’t write this now, I don’t know when I’ll get another chance. So I promised myself I’d write 100% the truth.In hip-hop, people lie or embellish. You might have had an argument with two people, and twenty years later it’s a war with twenty men. It makes a good story, but it’s not the truth. So I told myself: if anything felt exaggerated, I’d scrap the lyric and start again. That was the foundation — always checking, “Is it the truth?”Toddla T and my friend, the producer Casa, were encouraging me to make music again. That sparked it. I’m telling it backwards, but that’s how it started: “Okay, let me try.” And then, as I was writing, everything started coming up.I’d associated music with a traumatic time in my life — growing up in the ends. I had to unpack a lot of trauma, just being a young Black brother from London trying to navigate that. It was hard writing it, but it was therapeutic. It helped me unpack feelings I’d never addressed and had bottled up while moving through life.One of the lines is, “Keeping it real, I spent most of my teens shook.” And I was. When I was 17, 18, I was outside putting on this armor, but really it was because I was scared.Those are the stories I wanted to tell — my life, my parents’ lives, my friends’ lives, my community. I wanted to be specific. That’s why I made it about Brent, northwest London, and what I saw there. I think that specificity is what’s connected with people.Bashy is wearing the Patta Whole Lotta Labels Denim Jacket.Something else I really enjoyed were the references — MJ Cole, Wookie, Dizzee. It felt intentional, like you wanted to recognise this period in British music. It almost feels like you, Toddla, and your producer were like kids in a candy store, sampling all these sounds.Some of it was like that. I’m heavily inspired by US hip-hop. And the ingredients of the production — the soundscape — in a lot of the hip-hop I listened to, and still listen to, come from the music those rappers grew up on. The lyrics are one layer, but if the music supports it, it can transport you to the time, the place, the people I’m talking about. That’s what we wanted to achieve. As for how I feel about the album: it’s exceeded my expectations. The way it’s been received, the awards, the critical acclaim — it feels good.And we’re not going to wait as long for the next one?We’ll see. I’m between acting and music, so when it lands, it lands.There are many themes on the album, but one is in the title. There’s a line: “There were many times when I never had a grand… now when I buy something nice, I feel bad.” How do you reconcile your success now with the struggle it took to get here?A lot of people from where I’m from suffer from what me and my friends call “post-traumatic poor syndrome.” You grow up without things, and even when you have money, because you know [how hard it is] being broke, you almost don’t want to spend anything. You’re like, “I’m not putting my money on that.”That’s what that line is about. My friends still tell me, “What’s wrong with you? Just buy it.”I just never want to go broke again. Being broke is rough. It can be a dark place. That’s why on the opening track, “London Borough of Brent”, I say:When you’re broke, you would do mad thingsWhen you’re broke, you would do bad thingsWhen you’re broke, you would do sad things.When you’re broke, you’re desperate to escape that place. I don’t want to be back there. I want to be in a place of abundance where I can help people, take my time on decisions, and make the right choices. Because when you’re doing things purely for money, your judgment’s clouded, and the choice can be a bad one.You’ve spoken about therapy before, and the album is very vulnerable. I get the impression that even though it’s painful at times, it was cathartic to make — that the process of creating is catharsis for you.It’s very cathartic. It helped me understand myself. Music and writing are my medium for release. With acting, I don’t go into a character to find release or live something out through a role. Writing lets me exercise whatever demons I’m dealing with, or speak about an issue or a feeling — about myself.This album is very internal: how I see myself and my community. I don’t know what the next album will be — maybe it’ll be how I see the world differently — but this one helped me get outside my mind and put my thoughts and feelings down.Bashy is wearing the Patta Whole Lotta Labels Denim Jacket.What do you look for in an acting role?I'm interested in roles that are a challenge; I aim for roles that push me to grow as an actor and creative. [The Amazon Prime show] Them is a good example. To get into character, I look at a person's core essence and principles, and try to find similarities or differences with myself. Or I'll look for clues in the script, and observe people from the time period through reading, watching documentaries, and viewing photographs and memoirs. Ultimately, I'm interested in original works with original ideas.It sounds like two distinct headspaces — actor vs musician/writer. Do you ever see yourself combining them? Directing, writing a screenplay?I write. I’ve got scripts — a few short films.Anything that’s been made, or anything in the works we can talk about?Not yet. Just getting the ideas out, which I think is important. People always say, “That film is dead,” or “I could do better than that guy.”Maybe you could.Maybe — but then you should do it. I try not to criticise film or TV. If I want to tell a story, I should try and write one. So that’s what I’ve been doing. There are TV scripts there. Even if they never come out, at least I got them out of my mind. I didn’t die with the idea.As an independent musician who self-releases while also working as an actor, how do you feel about the compensation from the streaming industry? Streaming’s a catch-22. It gives access, but it doesn’t always value the work. I was lucky — acting gave me the space to release the album on my terms. When it landed, people realised what I was saying mattered. That was the point.Touring has helped too — you’ve done shows, a UK run?I’ve done two headline dates at Bush Hall, and they sold out straight away. That was another way to enter the music industry — another element of the career. Then there were festivals: Glastonbury, We Out Here, Across The Tracks, Colours — and brand situations.So there are ways to navigate it as an independent artist, and it’s been good for me. It shows there’s a blueprint — that you can navigate music and come out in a good position.Something sustainable.Yes. There’s an audience out there. And cultural impact — cultural currency — can be as valuable as the financial side.That’s what you want, right? Artists creating work that has cultural currency rather than just being part of the noise.Exactly. Because cultural impact lasts longer than a number-one hit or an award. If you ask who won what award in 2003, nobody knows. But if you ask someone their favourite album, they’ll tell you: Boy in da Corner, Kano’s Home Sweet Home — those things last.That era was all mixtapes. No social media. Everything was in the moment. How do you feel about the promotion side now — the relatively newer part of being an artist?I like to create and release. I’m not with the extra antics.Patta Magazine Volume 6 is available now at Patta chapter stores in Amsterdam, London, Milan and Lagos.

Words by David KaneWhat Do You Call It? From Grassroots to the Golden Era of UK Rap took me over three years to write. It wasn’t supposed to. Deadlines came and went, and nine months before it was finally finished, I decided to rip it up and start again. Or at least start the start again. Part of that was driven by a change of start date, at first the book begins at the turn of the century a time fraught with tension (remember the ‘millennium bug’?), political machinations, and creative possibilities, where technology and culture were changing faster than it had for decades. But as I dug deeper, I realised I had to go further back, extending the scope to the start of the 1980s, when rap music landed on our odd little island, imported through the electro-driven hip-hop of Afrika Bambaataa, shaped by sound system culture, inspired by punk and accelerated by rave. And one name kept coming up. Thirty years ago, Tricky released Maxinquaye, and that album changed everything.By the early 90s, the excitement and promise of the UK hip-hop 1.0 had almost fizzled out. Dismissed by the media, denied by music industry gatekeepers, and only the most hardcore fans continued to show interest while the US was going through its golden into the gangsta era, attracting a broader—read, white suburban—rap music fan. There was friction within UK hip-hop, as Trevor Jackson, a.k.a Underdog and head of Bite It! Recordings, one of the few labels releasing consistently challenging hip-hop at the time, put it; “Everyone wanted to get a piece of a very small pie. Some UK foundational figures felt they owned everything and were entitled to success.” The energy in the UK had to come from somewhere and sound like something else.Adrian Nicholas Matthews Thaws grew up in Knowle West, a tough, predominantly white working-class area in South Bristol. Thaws was born to a Jamaican father and a Ghanaian-English mother, a poet named Maxine Quaye, who committed suicide when he was just four years old. His grandmother and various aunties brought him up. It was a happy, if unconventional, childhood despite being surrounded by violence;  “Where I come from, a lot of people are either on drugs, in prison or dead,” he later recalled. Fortunately, Thaws found solace in music. First, he was known as Tricky Kid, a rapper and sometime member of The Wild Bunch, a loose collective of musicians and artists who were so hip it hurt. They formed in the early 1980s and played at warehouse parties and Bristol institutions like St Paul’s Carnival, Special K’s cafe and the dingy Dug Out club. The influence of reggae sound system culture, punk, jazz, soul, and hip-hop were all present, but there was an unhurried melancholy to the music that was unique to a notoriously laid-back and diverse city.The Bristol music scene is a storied one, but The Wild Bunch — including Miles Johnson (a.k.a. DJ Milo), producer Nelle Hooper, Robert Del Naja (a.k.a. 3D), Grant Marshall (a.k.a. Daddy G), and Andrew Vowles (Mushroom) — were arguably the inception point and ruled the roost. Confident aesthetes, rolling around town on hi-tech mountain bikes decked out in Stüssy jeans and Vivienne Westwood shirts with an uncanny knack for sound. Milo introduced Tricky to the crew. He was a shy and sensitive teenager, but he had a supernatural talent for lyrics–sounding like a troubadour of darkness who had toked his way through a maze of marijuana. The collective dissolved in 1987, with Hooper joining Soul II Soul and Milo moving to New York, which left 3D, Daddy G, and Mushroom to form Massive Attack. Tricky appeared in three singles — “Daydreaming”, “Five Man Army” and “Blue Lines” — from the group's seminal debut album, Blue Lines (1991). A broody, epic sounding and insular feeling masterpiece, it helped redefine dance music and coin a new subgenre, trip-hop–a name almost every artist associated with it utterly detests, particularly Tricky. Both Tricky and, to a lesser extent, 3D rap with regional British accents, which was unheard of at the time, but the intention behind Blue Lines was to “Create dance music for the head, rather than the feet”, explained Daddy G. Yet Tricky was more interested in hip-hop. Tensions within Massive Attack (and The Wild Bunch before that) always seemed to be brimming close to the surface. While working on Blue Lines, Tricky produced the demo for “Aftermath”, a bluesy, smoky single with esoteric wood pipe samples featuring the dulcet tones of Martina Topley-Bird and Tricky’s haunting vocals. Tricky offered the track to Massive Attack as they were finalising their debut album, but 3D dismissed it, telling Tricky he’s “Never going to make it as a producer”. The single remained moored to tape, unreleased for a further three years. Shortly after the release of Blue Lines, Tricky departed the group and began working on solo material at a stoned snail's pace. Although ‘Aftermath’ laid the blueprint for what would eventually become his 1995 masterpiece, Maxinquaye (named after Thaws’ mother), a strikingly original body of work “Which acknowledged and accelerated what was new in the 90s, technology, cultural pluralism, and genre innovations.” As adroitly proposed by author Mark Fisher, a stark counter to the “reactionary pantomime of Britpop,” with its refuge in the past.That Tricky was even prepared to take centre stage was partly thanks to the mentorship of Mark Stewart, ex-frontman of legendary new-wave outfit The Pop Group and Bristol sound linchpin, who met Tricky via The Wild Bunch. Stewart is credited as ‘executive producer’ for Maxinquaye. If Stewart were the mentor, Martina Topley-Bird would often be framed as the muse (Tricky went on to have a romantic relationship with Topley-Bird). But in reality, Topley-Bird, who came from a well-off family with experience in the music business, helped influence as well as inspire the music for Maxiquaye, conceiving the jingle jangle melody of “Ponderosa” and provided an unexpected new take on the lyrics from Public Enemy’s “Black Steel in the Hour of Chaos” in “Black Steel”. The legend goes that Tricky met 15-year-old schoolgirl Topley-Bird outside his house, waiting for a bus and invited her to make a song on an impulse. That impulse continued in the eventual studio sessions, where all the vocals were recorded in the first take. Alongside the expected hip-hop, dub and soul influences, there is an art-rock weirdness to the sound, a sludgy filter over the percussion and, of course, that famed dark atmosphere with cracks of piercing light courtesy of Topley-Bird’s soothing vocal. “Let me take you down the corridors of my life.” Tricky beckons on “Hell Is Round The Corner”. Tricky was still in his early twenties when he wrote and recorded Maxinquaye. Yet, he had a pool of life experience to draw from, with no shortage of trauma and complexity, having grown up around gangsters with limited familial affection and often went looking for fights in Bristol’s nightclubs, wearing makeup and a dress. Drugs, sex, dysfunctional relationships, and a broader pre-millennium tension are subjects broached in the record. Despite this heaviness, he appears sensitive as he is streetwise and raw. Two things stand out from Maxinquaye and much of the music Tricky has made since. The first is how quietly Tricky raps, a silently disciplined zig to everyone else's clamorous zag, which demands the listeners' attention. The second is his androgyny as a lyricist; in “Suffocated Love”, a seemingly straightforward track on the inner dialogue of a couple where the man gets the sex, and the woman gets the money, isn't quite what it seems with sexual violence and man's dread of intimacy playing the background; “I keep her warm, but we never kiss / She cuts my slender wrists”. “I think ahead of you, I think instead of you”, Topley-Bird’ teases in response. It’s worth remembering that Tricky is responsible for nearly all the lyrics on Maxinquaye, a morass of gender-bending adventure and sonic contortion. In an interview with Mark Fisher for The Wire, Tricky admits his “Lyrics are written from a female perspective a lot of the time.” This takes us to the fourth significant collaborator on the album—there were others, including The Cure producer Mark Stewart and DJ Howie B, who got burned by the experience, but that’s another story—in the voodoo homage to the mother he never knew, claiming that she channelled his lyrics through him and Martina Topley-Bird. The album prompted universal and hyperbolic critical acclaim, perhaps the most memorable of which was David Bowie's 2,000-word paean in Q magazine. In this, Bowie, in typically Bowie-esc glossolalia, acknowledged the arrival of an heir to his shape-shifting crown (or tiara?) and also recognised that his own game might be up. “Here come the horses to drag me to bed,” Bowie concluded. “Here comes Tricky to fuck up my head.”Despite the success of Maxinquaye—the record proved a completely unexpected commercial triumph, reaching number 3 in the UK album chart, selling over half a million copies since, and regularly appearing in ‘best of’ lists—Tricky’s life didn’t get any easier. There have been battles with mental health, problems with guns (his cleaner’s young son accidentally set off a Uzi in his New Jersey apartment), and a hedonistic lifestyle that almost left him in financial ruin. Most tragically, Mazy, his daughter with Topley-Bird, took her own life in 2019.  Like all great minds, Tricky reminds us how noble, tortured, and downright absurd a creature humans can be. And he writes raps as hard as hell. What Do You Call It? From Grassroots to the Golden Era of UK Rap is out now on Velocity Press. The book is available directly from the publisher, all good book and record stores. It’s a book about the evolution of rap music in the UK, when hip-hop landed on our odd little island in the early 1980s. Shaped by sound system culture, inspired by punk, and accelerated by rave, A sound that has evolved from Britcore, UK hip-hop, and trip-hop of the late twentieth century to garage, grime, and drill. What Do You Call It? is also a story about what it means to be seen and to belong to this country. Get familiar with David Kane or head to your local Patta store to get your copy of Patta Magazine Volume 4 now.