Skinhead Isn’t a Slur

Proper tunes, Lava La Rue, and the enduring chemistry between dreads and skinheads.

Photograph Lava La Rue

I started getting into punk, reggae, ska, and Northern Soul when I was about fourteen. I’d wear my Dr. Martens with bright yellow laces, a red Harrington jacket, and try to mould my hair into a Chelsea girl cut—except mine was curly. For some reason, I thought I needed to be white to pull it off, so I dyed my hair and eyebrows blonde. It sounds ridiculous now, but at the time, it felt like the only way to look even remotely like I belonged in the subcultures I idolised.

People joked that I looked like a skinhead. I didn’t fully understand why I was drawn to those styles, but I felt a smiling, fist-raising, head-banging flame dancing within me. Then I watched This Is England and, in seeing the fractured relationship between black and white skinheads, felt like I’d crossed some unspoken line. Was I in the wrong? Did dressing this way make me a racist? Was this going to change my ideology—or attract the wrong crowd? I shoved all my modded-up hand-me-downs and charity shop finds to the back of my wardrobe, and that’s where they stayed.

Since then, I’ve done my research—but still, it just felt easier not to wear my Harrington jacket.

In 2022, I came across a TikTok by musician, poet, and artist Lava La Rue, responding to accusations of 'dressing like a racist'. I recognised this experience as a reflection of my own. At first glance, the criticisms seemed absurd. But what struck me most was the irony: people accusing Lava of appropriation were reacting to a style born of Black, Caribbean, and working‑class British culture. Without that history, none of it would exist.

Lava La Rue represents something vital: a Black, queer, working‑class artist rising up from West London’s Ladbroke Grove. They co-founded the NINE8 collective out of a council flat and have built a world that feels honest, self‑made, and rooted in community. Lava’s visual identity pulls from a distinctly British wardrobe: Fred Perry polos, mohair knits, Lambretta jackets, Dr. Martens, flat caps, parkas, and tailored slacks. For some, that look still conjures images of ’80s far‑right skinheads or football hooligans, unaware of the true origins of these styles—and the deep, intertwined history between Caribbean migrants and working‑class white Britain.

Rudeboy culture emerged in 1960s Kingston: sharp suits, skinny ties, pork‑pie or Trilby hats—clothes that signalled aspiration as much as style. When Jamaican migrants brought ska and rocksteady to Britain during the Windrush era, their approach informed working‑class British youth styles, too. The rudeboy look became a quiet resistance to racial prejudice and economic hardship. When Caribbean communities settled in places like West London, Birmingham, Liverpool, or Leicester, they lived alongside working‑class white youth. There was tension, yes—but also exchange: shared struggles. Shared streets. And the result was cultural cross‑pollination that shaped music, fashion, and attitude.

From this fusion emerged the original skinhead subculture, built on a shared appreciation of music, values, and lifestyle. The look: Ben Sherman shirts, Sta‑Prest trousers, braces, Dr. Martens. The sound: Trojan Records’ catalogue of ska, reggae, and dub—Desmond Dekker, Jimmy Cliff, The Maytals. The context: working‑class solidarity. Before the far right co‑opted it, skinhead culture was multicultural, anti‑establishment, and rooted in Caribbean influence.

Photography Gavin Watson

In the late 1970s came the second wave: punk and reggae collided via the 2 Tone movement, led by multiracial bands like The Specials, The Selecter, and The Beat. Jerry Dammers, founder of 2 Tone Records, built the label around unity: Black and white musicians on the same stage, checkered logos symbolising togetherness, songs about unity, freedom, and class divides. Meanwhile, Don Letts—Londoner, filmmaker, and Roxy Club DJ—literally plugged punk audiences into reggae and dub, helping The Clash, the Sex Pistols, and other iconic bands absorb Caribbean sound and style. During Bob Marley’s 1977 London stay, Letts introduced the musician to the punk scene. Marley's Punky Reggae Party celebrated the interchangeability of these cultures, underscoring their shared ethos.

Johnny Rotten and Don Letts, late 1970's.

Come the early ’80s, that spirit was hijacked. The energy of multicultural, working‑class skinhead culture began to fracture. Far‑right organisations—the National Front, British Movement—saw an opportunity. They recruited young skinheads at football matches and punk gigs, weaponising class resentment into racist hatred. Bands like Skrewdriver rebranded from apolitical Oi! pioneers into full‑blown white‑power acts, and the media quickly congealed the image: skinhead = fascism.

That aggressive change warped how the public interpreted the symbols. Fred Perry polos—once markers of mod culture or Trojan Records allegiance—became the uniform of racists. With hordes of skinheads arriving by train, Dr. Martens became emblematic of gang clashes between skinheads, punks, and Teddy Boys at Southend-on-Sea—covered promptly by local news. The media focused on the extremists and ignored the real roots beneath the Docs.

SHARP (Skinheads Against Racial Prejudice), founded in New York in 1987, crossed the Atlantic quickly. They reclaimed the original codes: braces, boots, and badges—and wore them with pride, pushing back against the new, distorted image of 'skinhead'. Still, the damage stuck. What began as a movement grounded in cultural exchange and resistance became widely misunderstood. Today, a glance at a Fred Perry polo or a pair of DMs still carries that tension, whilst we forget who wore them first—and why. That style came out of community: Black Caribbean and white working‑class kids, sharing music, clothes, and space long before all the drama.

When people see Lava La Rue and call it appropriation, they’re not seeing the living thread of resistance, passed down through generations and shaped by a lineage of Jamaican rudeboy style to UK ska, punk, and the original skinhead movement. For those of us from mixed and diasporic backgrounds, this defiance moves with us—stitched into what we wear, laced into our rhythm, how we act, speak, love, and mourn.

My great-grandad c.1950

Researching the roots—listening to Trojan Records, asking questions my grandparents hadn’t been asked in years—helped me understand. I wasn’t in the wrong in any of this. My great-grandad’s suits and fedoras told the same story as the rudeboys’. The music, the clothing, the codes—they were all continuity. This culture was never something I had to earn or replicate. It’s always been part of my identity. And now, in 2025, I can wear it with intention.

So, for once, thank you TikTok. But more importantly, thank you Lava La Rue and all the incredible artists who continue to educate and advocate for authenticity, conversation, and culture. May we forever dance to the same beat.