What sparked your passion for DJing, and how did you first get involved in the rave and jungle scene?
I come from a background with no DJ influence at all, no black music influence, nothing. I grew up in Dagenham, a predominantly white and racist area. I’m 49 now, so I grew up in the late 70s, through the 80s, and into the 90s. Even though it wasn’t me directly, I was around it and saw a lot of it. I was a football kid; I played football for Leyton Orient until I was 16. I thought football would be my life. I loved music, my dad was a singer, and my mum was into music, but it was just regular chart music, a bit of rock and roll, and that sort of thing.
Then, I went to a rave in March 1991, took an E for the first time, and completely dropped football that week. I literally never went back to Orient and wanted to be a DJ from that night. I didn’t know anything about it. It sounds so naive now, but I didn’t even know what a mix was. My cousin had to explain to me what DJs were doing and how it worked. We had a tape in the car, and he explained how one record goes in, which sounds mad now because mixing is so normal. But I came from a world where DJs just faded one tune down and faded the next tune in.
I went to a rave called “Raindance” out of curiosity, not even out of love for the music. I didn’t know a single tune or any of the DJs. I went just because I was curious, and it was the best decision I ever made in my life. That night changed everything; I met my wife through music, and all my friends have come into my life in some way through music. My whole life has been transformed since then. I met the DJs who are now my mates that night, and I didn’t even know who they were. I just looked up and thought, “I want to do that.” And that was it—I was off and running.
Growing up, who were some of your key musical influences, and how did they shape your sound?
I’d say my main musical influence above everything would be Kool FM as a radio station. Oddly enough, I never really followed DJs closely. I admire them, of course, and I’ve listened to them all my life, but I never really had a favourite DJ. I was always more fascinated by MCs. I couldn’t do it myself, otherwise, I probably would have given that a try.
In the very early days, people like Slipmatt really stood out to me. I guess that was the beginning of their journey into becoming superstar DJs, and I kind of caught that wave as their careers grew. But Pirate Radio, for me, was where my real passion lay. I loved going to raves and wanted to DJ at raves when I started out. More than anything, though, I wanted to be involved with Pirate Radio. It fascinated me from the moment I heard it.
Years ago, there was Radio Luxembourg, Radio Caroline, and the original Pirates on the ships. My mum and dad would have listened to them, so I knew what a pirate station was. But this new era of tower blocks and rave music that nobody else would play was so exciting and mesmerising. It was like a spell, the Pirate Radio thing. So, I really checked more for pirate DJs.
In the early days, there was a guy called DSL, Deck Smasher on Innocence FM, which was a station that only lasted a short time, but it was a huge influence on me. Even Nicky Black Market was on a station called Pulse FM 90.6 when he was very young. Back then, Nicky Black Market wasn’t the superstar we know now—he was just starting out.
That early fascination with pirate radio drew me in more than the rave scene, oddly enough. My journey through it has been quite unusual. Years later, I got to play on Pirate Radio at the start of ’95. Luckily, my career took off later on, and I got to do raves, festivals, and travel around the world. But radio is like the heartbeat of what I do. It showed me love even when no one else did. Even if I didn’t have listeners, I bought my records and played them for a reason.
To this day, if I had to choose between being on the radio for the rest of my life or playing in clubs and raves, it wouldn’t even be a question for me. I’d choose radio without a second thought. Pirate Radio has been everything to me. I aspired to be like them and was inspired by them. Once I found it, I did every job within it—putting up aerials, running radio stuff. I managed Rinse FM for six years through the garage, grime, and dubstep era.
When I got to that management level, I always wanted to be a DJ. The opportunity arose for me to get back to just DJing, and I was offered a show on Kool FM in 2006. That’s when the whole Uncle Dugs thing took off. I’ve always DJ’d and like to think I’ve been fairly decent, but I did a million other jobs in the meantime while DJing. I was so caught up in the whole thing, wanting to do it all. I’ve worked for distribution companies, run radio stations, and handed out flyers outside clubs at all hours. I’ve done everything you can think of, often for nothing when I was young, because I just wanted to be involved. The money was secondary for me.
How did the name “Uncle Dugs” come about, and what does it mean to you?
Originally, I thought coming up with a DJ name—or any kind of name that’s not your own—was impossible. Everything seemed stupid and unoriginal. My first DJ name was DJ Dug.E, with a D-U-G, full stop, and a capital E, because everyone was using “E” at the time. It seemed like a good idea then. Later, I went with Duggs, which is a nickname from my last name, Duggins. Everyone at school called me Duggs, so I thought it made sense. But it didn’t mean anything beyond that.
What I realised from changing my name to Uncle Dugs, I’ll explain how that happened, was that nobody ever remembered the name Dugs. When I said “Dugs,” people would ask, “Dogs? Digs?” and I’d have to spell it out for them. No one ever remembered it.
When I was managing Rinse FM from 1999 to early 2006, I was around all the grime and early dubstep artists—Wiley, Hatcher, Skream, and others. I wasn’t much older than them, but I had a bit more experience from the earlier rave scene. I was always that bit of experience they looked up to or respected. They’d read about the early days, and I had lived them.
I was around before these artists became famous. They were just kids on pirate stations trying to make a name for themselves. They’d ask me for advice, and being me, I’d give them my honest opinion. One DJ in particular, Frenzie, who was on before Slimzee on Sundays, started calling me “Uncle” as a nickname. It stuck, and soon others started using it too.
When I left Rinse FM in January 2006, I decided to focus on being a DJ rather than managing radio. Dealing with the young, high-energy artists was wearing me down. So, when I got my show on Kool FM in 2006, I embraced the Uncle name. It felt right for the image I wanted to project and the music I wanted to play. The name “Uncle” just fit.
What I noticed was that, unlike with my previous names, no one ever forgot my name now. Adding “Uncle” in front made a huge difference. Even before people cared much about me as a DJ, when I started getting small gigs, I found that my name stuck in people’s heads. It was like a magic trick.
Your weekly Rinse FM show has been one of the most popular for over a decade. What’s the secret to keeping it fresh and engaging week after week?
I think if you enjoy what you do, it will find its audience. Luckily, I don’t… you know, I just go up there and have a bit of fun. I play my music, I sing badly, I shout too much, and I mess up a lot of things. Everything I do probably shouldn’t work, but I think because I do it with such enthusiasm and love, that’s what resonates with people.
When I’m out and about, people often tell me that during their work week, which they don’t particularly enjoy, and when life isn’t always great, for those three hours on a Friday, either work flies by or they don’t think about it. They get lost in it for a moment. This is what listeners often say to me. They appreciate that I bring a feel-good vibe in an old-school way.
I think of myself as doing feel-good radio in the classic pirate style. While other DJs might play techno, do a quick intro, and then stay silent for most of the show, I’m more energetic and engaging. I think I might be a bit of a dying breed in that sense. But that approach resonates with people of all ages.
Initially, my show attracted an older audience, people from my generation and before. But being on Rinse FM has exposed me to a younger crowd. Playing at events with people like Caspa and Scream has helped me connect with a younger audience. Over time, I’ve noticed this shift and adapted. I used to just play old-school tracks because that was expected of me, but I’ve learned that you can’t force new stuff onto people.
Even though I still play classics, I try to adapt to the crowd. I’ll include the biggest tunes from the last 30 years in my sets. I might play the latest hits alongside classic tracks, mixing old music in a new style. I’ve gotten good at blending these elements, and it’s become my signature. I don’t just play old-school music anymore; I mix it up with contemporary tracks to keep it fresh.
As Rinse FM’s Head of Heritage, how do you balance preserving rave culture while staying relevant in today’s evolving music scene?
It’s funny because I remember having a row with DJ Hype about ten years ago at Munich Airport. He was puzzled as to why I only played old school and didn’t champion new music. We had a big argument about it. After the argument, we ended up in the same car for three hours on the way to Austria. During that time, I explained my perspective to him.
I told him that there’s a place for everyone in this industry. While new music and innovation are important, my role is to celebrate and keep alive the old school for both younger and older generations. It’s about making the history exciting again, even if it’s not at the forefront of current trends.
I believe as long as you present things in a way that’s understandable and engaging for all generations, there’s no reason why young people can’t appreciate the past. Even if they are younger, like you, they can still find value in what came before because it’s there for them to discover.
I think it’s crucial to preserve and share what I love about the music through various means. I’ve done hundreds of interviews on my show, from Dizzee Rascal to Goldie and beyond. For me, it’s important not just for myself but for the culture and the younger generation. Many young people are genuinely interested in the history and want to learn more about it.
I met a young guy recently at a festival who was about 18 or 19. He told me he plays acid house music from 88 and 89 and mixes it on vinyl. It’s amazing that he’s into music that’s almost 40 years old. It shows there’s still a place for the past in today’s music scene.
I’m fortunate and work hard to maintain my passion for this music. I never get bored talking about it or playing it. It reminds me of great times, and I’m lucky to have a platform to share that passion with others.
What first drew you to jungle and drum and bass, and what continues to inspire you about these genres today?
My journey has taken me through various genres, which some people might view as almost blasphemous, leaving one scene for another. When Jungle turned into Drum & Bass around late ’96 to ’97, the sound became very industrial and hard, and I found myself not enjoying it as much. So, I started working for a garage record label called Ice Cream Records, which ended up being a huge label.
This experience opened my eyes to garage music, which I’d previously viewed as the enemy. Being around it changed my perspective, and I began to appreciate some of the tunes. As my music evolved, so did garage, incorporating flavours from the music I came from.
As for how it’s evolved, every person’s journey is different. I was involved in the ’90s as a raver, and as the decade progressed, I became more involved in the industry. I’ve been part of pivotal moments and movements, but I believe no single person is responsible for creating a sound or scene. It’s always a collective effort.
One of the biggest changes I’ve witnessed is moving from the analogue era to the digital era—from black and white to colour. Looking back, I think people will recognize the importance of this ecstasy generation and the transition from records and dub plates to MP3s and CDJs. The fashion and everything surrounding it have also evolved.
The only thing I dislike about the evolution is how the business side has overshadowed the music. We created something so great and successful that it attracted businessmen, and now the business aspect sometimes seems more important than the music itself. It’s frustrating to see that the look can be valued more than the actual sound, and the focus has shifted from the music to the image.
Despite this, it’s been amazing to watch and be part of the growth. The industry has become a worldwide phenomenon, supporting millions of families and creating countless job opportunities. It’s impressive to see how it has expanded, though sometimes it feels like the beast has gotten too big.
I notice a significant difference between my experience and that of younger people entering the scene today. They come into it with a career mindset, already knowing business and having managers, whereas we started with a pure love for the music and learned the business side along the way.
In the past, we dedicated everything to pirate radio—time, love, and money—for no immediate return. There was a sense of climbing the ladder gradually, which gave us a strong foundation and appreciation for what we achieved. Nowadays, there’s a tendency for instant gratification, where people expect quick results and don’t always appreciate the journey.
It’s not about being a bitter old DJ; it’s about seeing the value in working for something and the satisfaction that comes from building a career from scratch. I’ve lived this life every day, and I’m comfortable discussing it with anyone. However, I worry that young people who are pushed into positions they aren’t ready for might find it difficult and embarrassing when the spotlight shifts away from them.
How do you feel about the recent Hyper D Movie and its impact on DnB culture?
I’ve been really fortunate to be involved from the very start of this project. About 11 years ago, I met Darrel through an initial connection with either Jamie or Matthew. One of these three approached me with a radio documentary project. Matthew, who was just a young enthusiast with a deep love for Stevie Hyper, wanted to create an audio documentary. He didn’t have any connections in the scene; he just had a passion for Stevie and decided to go for it.
We ended up meeting through this project, and Matthew’s documentary aired on my show. We dedicated an entire show to Stevie Hyper D, and it was trending on Twitter that day, even surpassing the new Apple iPhone. That was peak Twitter era, and getting up to number two or three on UK trending during the show was a significant moment.
This was the beginning of my involvement in the project. Over the years, there were discussions about a potential documentary film, but at that time, no one really knew what they were getting into. The project evolved gradually over the past decade. Sometimes it seemed like it was on the verge of happening, and other times it felt uncertain.
The team, including Jamie and others, probably didn’t fully grasp the scale of what they were taking on, especially when it came to editing, filming, and turning casual conversations into a coherent documentary film. It’s been a long journey from those early days of having fun and reminiscing in a caravan to the comprehensive documentary we’re working on now.
Sometimes it felt uncertain, and I’m sure they’d agree, that they didn’t fully grasp what they were taking on—especially with the editing and all the complexities of turning conversations and memories into a documentary film. Unless you do this kind of work every day, it’s a massive undertaking.
In my role, I watch all the documentaries, read all the books, and try to absorb as much as I can. So I’d say I have a fairly good understanding of what different films are aiming to achieve. I’ve been involved in and around various documentaries, some of which have been incredible. I wouldn’t say that some are rubbish because completing any project is a significant achievement, but, like anything, some films and TV shows stand out more than others.
The benchmark for documentaries in this genre was set back in 1994 with a documentary that Channel 4 did called All Junglists – A London Someting Dis. It was part of a series on black identity called Black Christmas and was an important representation of our music. At that time, I was a raver and didn’t realise they had been filming throughout 1994. When it aired, it was the first time our music was represented on television in a positive and honest light, which was incredibly impactful for us as junglists.
That year, 1994, was pivotal for Jungle music. We had major hits like General Levy’s “Incredible” and Leviticus’s “Burial,” and the Notting Hill Carnival was taken over by Jungle. Everywhere you went, every sound system was playing Jungle. That documentary was a major moment for us and really captured the essence of the time.
They were all frowned upon and shunned, and now this was their time. What it did was give our scene a voice on television and inspire us to do more and more. So, going back to your question about Darrell and Jamie’s film, I’d say, I’ve been honest throughout the whole process. If I thought it was rubbish, I’d say it was rubbish; if I thought it needed improvement, I’d say that. I’ve seen different cuts and versions of it, and while the story has evolved, what they’ve eventually come up with is on par with, and in some ways, better than, the earlier benchmark set by ‘a london someting dis’.
That documentary had a broad scope, featuring many of the key figures we looked up to at the time. In contrast, Stevie’s story is focused on one person, but the impact it had on me was similar to what I felt watching ‘a london someting dis’. I’ve been privy to bits of the project along the way, helped with radio shows, and promoted it. But watching the finished piece blew my mind. I cried, laughed, and had all the emotional reactions you should get from someone’s life story.
Forget about my personal connection; the actual product they’ve created is something that will resonate with people who know Stevie, those who love the scene, and even those who are new to it. If you just put it on for a Saturday night with friends or family, you’d end up thinking, “Wow, that was really something.” It’s very hard to achieve, but they’ve nailed it. It’s definitely one of the best things this scene has ever produced.
Having seen the film, How do you think this helps document the Jungle DnB scene?
Yeah, definitely. Stevie’s story is especially significant because he was the first superstar MC to come out of the rave scene. You had people like the Ragga Twins and Navigator who made a huge impact in sound system culture and had big moments in rave music, mostly through their records. But Stevie was the first to own the whole scene without relying on records. He just showed up at raves and had us all in the palm of his hand, it seemed effortless. Over time, we realized it wasn’t as effortless as it appeared—his early passing was due to the immense stress he was under, trying to be everyone’s hero.
Now, Drum & Bass is at its peak; it’s in the best place it’s ever been at the top end. The underground scene is struggling, but that’s another story. What’s important is that Stevie’s story transcends our Drum & Bass scene. Look at Glastonbury, for instance—Stormzy headlining the pyramid stage. That moment comes from the legacy of Stevie and artists like him. I don’t know Stormzy personally, but I’d imagine that growing up, he would have aspired to be like Stevie or Shabba—those pioneering MCs who weren’t just part of reggae or sound system culture.
For someone like me, a white kid without that background, seeing them perform in raves was transformative. It led me to explore sound systems, reggae culture, and Black culture. Stevie was the first MC I saw where the crowd sang along with him. It wasn’t just fans who knew the lyrics—it was the entire crowd, 5,000 people singing back louder than the MC.
The timing for this documentary is perfect. There’s a huge new surge of interest in the scene. For every 100 kids who get into it, 90 might drift away into other music or life paths, but out of those 100, 10 will get deeply involved. And maybe one of those 10 will look back at the history and become the next big producer, MC, or filmmaker.
I was so blinkered, like I said earlier, in my own world of what I loved. But Stevie literally changed how we listened to MCs, how MCs performed. You know what, we probably wouldn’t even be here talking now if he hadn’t passed away. It’s a funny old thing—life. What would he have gone on to achieve? None of us know. But honestly, I think that even in death, his passing inspired and changed the scene.
It’s mad how much influence you can still have after death. Stevie never even released music, but his legacy is still strong 30 years later. All the guys who are MCing now still talk about him. That’s powerful.
The timing of this documentary feels right. It’s funny, we had a screening the other day at Brick Lane, and a young MC named Azza came along. He’s part of a duo called Azza and Grima (TNA), and they’re probably the last big impact MCs to come along. There are millions of MCs, but when I say Premier League, Champions League level, they’re up there.
Azza’s only young, and I was so happy to see him there. You know, one of my gripes about this current generation is that they’re so focused on the present and often don’t look back or care about what came before. But Azza came to the screening, and when he left, he had a little tear in his eye. He told me how much it inspired him to get back into the studio and make music because Stevie did that, even though his music never got to where it should’ve gone. His album didn’t do what it was meant to because he passed away, and at that time, MCs were mainly focused on the raves. It was just go out, rave, get your money, and go, without really cementing their place musically.
Talking from Darrells perspective, they made such a clever choice. He’s got the insight and love that goes beyond what any fan could have. We’re all fans, we’re all nerds, we know our bits, but Darrel, he’s in the film, in Stevie’s bedroom, like a little kid. And once Jamie convinced him to front it, it gave the film soul and emotion far beyond what anyone else could have done as a narrator. It’s coming from his heart. Stevie was his hero, you know what I mean? A little kid looking up to his uncle Stevie Hyper D. You couldn’t have found anyone better to tell the story. I think it’s amazing.
How do you feel about the recognition you’ve received, and what has been your proudest achievement throughout your career?
The recognition’s great. It’s everything I ever wanted and more. All I ever wanted to be was a pirate radio DJ, to play at some raves, and to be friends with a couple of people I looked up to so I could say, ‘I know him.’ That would have been enough when I was a kid. And then, obviously, I’ve gone on to do all the things I’ve done. I’ve hosted stages at Glastonbury, played all over the world—in Japan, America, Thailand… Yeah, whatever. It’s been fucking great.
But my proudest, biggest achievement? I’d probably say… what would you say, sar? My wife’s here, we run our business together. She knows as much as me. I would think it’s doing the first Ribena. We do a little event, and we’ve done it for 10 years. It’s never grown into more than 300 people, but when I put it out, the tickets sell out in less than 60 seconds, with no lineup, no nothing. So, we’ve grown it into this thing.
But when we did the very, very first one, everything I’d done before then was like, if I put a rave on, you needed a lineup to go with it. And if I do something else, I’d need other people around me. I was never confident that people would give a shit about me or care enough to show up. But I wanted to do this. I kept saying to my missus, ‘I want to put on an event where I can just play what I play on the radio—whatever the fuck I want—and there’s no expectancy.’ And she was like, ‘Why don’t you do it then? Why don’t you do it?’ I was like, ‘Who’s going to come and see me play on my own?’ But to my wife’s credit, she was like, ‘You’re mad. People love your fucking show. They love you. They’re going to come and see you.’
So, reluctantly, we did this night. It was in April 2014, and it sold out straight away. When I turned up there, the reason I say it’s my proudest moment is because I feel like, even though it was only a really fucking small thing, it was what I’d achieved up to that point that made those people come that night. From that, the 10 years since then until now, it’s been one of the biggest things in my life. I don’t want to say it’s the biggest thing I’ve done because it’s still tiny, but it’s become such a… How do I put it? We called it Ribena Jungle at the start, but I had to change it to Vibena because Ribena got wind of it.
The reason I called it Ribena was because the music I played there was undiluted and strong, like Ribena straight out of the bottle. I’ve stuck by what that is, and people have tried to buy into it, to take it to bigger arenas, because it’s been really fucking successful. Even though it’s so small, it’s a powerhouse. It’s jungle. Other people might do raves with 2,000 or 3,000 people, but they don’t have the same clout as our little thing. That’s why this thing is something I truly love and believe in. Even though at the start I didn’t think people would turn up, now it’s the most pure thing I’ve ever done in my life.
No matter how much money I’m offered—and I’ve had some great opportunities with festivals asking me to do stages—it’s our thing. My wife just poked her head around the door, basically reminding me, ‘It’s her rave.’ Let’s get that straight, it’s her event. I’m just the big mouth in the front of it. But it’s hers. She just poked her head around, giving me the old ‘don’t forget’ look.
To be honest, I’ve been involved with massive things, and things have changed over time, but this was our thing. Authentic. We didn’t have to listen to anyone. I did it exactly how I wanted. It taught me a huge lesson—that if you do something from the heart that you love, you might not fill up Wembley, but people will come because others feel the same. And when they realize how genuine it is, it becomes something they love too. That little event we do now? The people who come treat it like it’s their rave.”
What advice would you give to up-and-coming DJs looking to make their mark in today’s competitive music industry?
Run for the hills. Don’t look back. Just keep running … No, not really. I would say—and it sounds corny… but be original and be unique. You know, that’s the first thing. And don’t listen to criticism. It’s good when it’s positive criticism, but I have mates that, for years, when we started off together, we were all in this thing together, all wanting to be DJs or whatever. And as time goes on, you know, inevitably, not all careers take off because only one in a million fucking gets anywhere.
I always carried on as my mates sort of slowly fell by the wayside, started getting real jobs, families, whatever. I always did it. Even though I was a plumber and a postman, I left work and went and did music and radio. Then I would bump into them or family members, and they’d be like, ‘You’re still fucking doing that? When are you going to fucking grow up?’ All that bollocks. I got that for years.
Then in my thirties, my career took off. I’d always been around it, but I’d always been running the radio or helping someone or managing—it was never really about me. And when it took off for me, and people started seeing my name and coming to events, they’d be like, ‘Oh, that’s Dug!’ or see my name on a poster, or see me on a thing on Channel 4, a documentary. How they approach you afterwards is mad, because now they kiss my arse, not in a big-headed way, but the truth is, they were fucking horrible to me for years. Now, because they think I’m something worth knowing, they say, ‘Oh, Uncle Dug, mate, you’re fucking good. Bruv, we’re so proud of you,’ and all that.
It just goes back to this: don’t fucking listen to anyone. If it feels right, and you’re not hurting anyone, do it. And if you’re good at it, and you’ve got something about you, it will follow. You know what I mean? It might start small, it might start big—it depends on what you’re doing and how it goes. But as long as you’re doing it for the right reasons, then anything that comes… For me, I love DJing. I love the music and all that. Anything else that comes after the love of it is a bonus. Having a job, getting wages, doing what I do—it’s all been a bonus. I would still go out now, I would still listen to the music, I would still have the lovely memories that I’ve got! Even if I didn’t get a job in it. Be true to yourself. Be original. Be humble
