‘Touch mic and shell it!’ How British freestyle rap videos became a global phenomenon
A bright afternoon has turned a foreboding shade of grey. The rain picked up a few moments ago, just as cameraman Barry Edmunds was negotiating an awkward set of steps, backwards, trying to squeeze Kairo Keyz and eight of his gesticulating friends into the frame. “Welcome to the glamorous world of freestyles!” Edmunds’ long-time creative partner Tim Chave had joked when this shoot had been postponed for a third time, and in the drizzle his words feel prescient.
We’re on a postwar housing estate in Norwood, south London, just a short walk from where Keyz, a rising independent rapper, went to school. “This is mad,” he says, fiddling with the earbud piping a beat into his ear. “I look like a federal agent.” Keyz hasn’t shot a video like this before: he’s used to being able to take his time, lip-syncing to a backing track, and breaking the song into sections until he’s got each bit right. Today’s task is to nail it in a single take, and
