Before Culture by People, There Was a Boy Growing Up in 1970s Kingston, Jamaica
Memory illustration inspired by Friday evenings with my mother, brothers,—waiting for the JOS bus and carrying the week's groceries home through Kingston in the late 1970s.
I grew up in Kingston, Jamaica, around the time when Rocksteady was fading out, Roots Reggae was on the rise, and DJs were transitioning from chanting on a rhythm to a more structured, hardcore lyrical delivery.
You could buy ski-juice, Kisko pop, Wrigley's chewing gum, peanuts—and while moving through the streets I always had my eye out for a patty shop, because the smell alone could pull you in.
And then something amazing always caught my attention: a Natty Dread weaving through midday traffic on a motorcycle, flashing his locks.
And if you look up at the right moment, you might catch the roller-skate youths holding on to passing vehicles, speeding through city traffic—moving with a mix of bravery, rhythm, and raw skill. I loved that.
Me as a schoolboy growing up in Kingston, Jamaica. Long before Culture by People, these streets, sounds, and experiences were already shaping my story.
Memory illustration inspired by the roller-skate youths of Kingston, Jamaica, whose daring flights through city traffic became part of the rhythm, folklore, and fearless spirit of the 1970s.
Kingston had its own rhythm. You didn't just hear it—you moved through it.
One Love Jamdown: The Soundtrack of My Youth
Artist's illustration inspired by memories of community life and music culture in Kingston during the early 1970s.
By then, the experiment with American R&B that gave birth to Ska had already run its course. Rocksteady had passed. And Roots Reggae was now picking up steam—rising out of the streets and into the soul of the people.
This was somewhere around 1979. I was about 9 years old when I first remembered Jamaican music catching my attention—coming from a sound system playing up the street on Woodpecker Avenue at a rum bar called English where my father was a regular and everybody knew his name.
I remember standing at the gate of our Grass Quilt Glade yard with other youths. The bar was buzzing with locals—it must have been a usual Friday evening dance. The music was carrying through the air, reaching us down our yard.
Then it happened.
A hard, cutting keyboard—like nothing we had ever heard before— burst through the air.
Sudden. Sharp. Unmistakable.
It was "One Love Jamdown" by Michigan & Smiley.
The moment that opening hit, the crowd erupted. Cheers, shouts—pure energy.
And they wouldn't let it go.
That intro played over and over again... five times, maybe more—because nobody wanted it to move forward.
As a youth, that was the first time I felt truly connected to the music of my culture.
That was the moment I started noticing DJs.
And it didn't end there.
In the years that followed, "One Love Jamdown" became one of those songs that seemed to be everywhere.
Walking home from school along Waltham Park Road, I often heard it playing from bars, sound systems, and corner shops. In Kingston, the music wasn't always blasting directly at you. Sometimes it came from half a block away, around a corner, from a rum bar or a yard dance. The sound seemed to float through the evening air long before you reached the source.
That was just part of everyday life.
Before long, the song had become part of the soundtrack of my youth.
That is Culture by People.
For many Jamaicans, Friday evenings and sound systems at the local bar were the true beginning of the weekend.
A release.
A break from the struggles and pressures of daily life—if only for a moment.
Because come Monday morning, it was back on the bus... back to work... back to reality.
Waiting for the JOS bus
Memory illustration inspired by Friday evenings with my mother, brothers,—waiting for the JOS bus and carrying the week's groceries home through Kingston in the late 1970s.
On Friday evenings, my brothers and I walked to the bus stop on Waltham Park Road to wait for our mother and help carry the groceries home.
The JOS buses served that route from downtown Kingston. By the time we were waiting, it would already be late in the evening. The car lights had come on, and we were still standing there.
Every time a bus approached, we became alert.
Would this be the one?
Sometimes people would get off, the doors would close, and the bus would pull away.
It wasn't her.
Then another JOS bus would appear in the distance, and our heads would start turning again.
And if one of us spotted her first, we would shout out:
"See har deh!"
The moment she stepped off the bus, we rushed to help with the grocery bags. Some Fridays there were only a few things to carry. Other times the bags seemed almost too heavy for us. But we didn't mind.
We were just happy she was home.
That was just part of family life in Kingston.
We could already imagine what might be inside.
Bun and cheese.
Bullas.
Water Crackers.
Cream biscuit sandwiches—my favourite.
After the hustle and bustle—and hearing about everything that had happened during the trip—we would enjoy the quiet walk home.
We could smell the bags and almost guess what was inside.
But one thing you wouldn't find in those grocery bags was Corn Flakes.
My mother always had her bag over her shoulder.
That was her personal bag.
Nobody got to carry it.
Auntie Marie's kitchen, on Charlton Close, late 1970s.
I only ever saw Corn Flakes sitting on top of my Auntie Marie's refrigerator on Charlton Close.
I remember looking up at that big jumbo box.
It made me hungry.
At home, it was Foska Oats—the cereal with the white-haired man on the box.
I never even had it with Cremo milk—just condensed milk.
To me, that was a real treat.
Kingston Natty Dread: The Roots Man
Growing up in Kingston, Jamaica, there was a Natty Dread man living on Grass Quilt Glade. He sold homemade Roots drinks from the back of his motorcycle. Attached behind him was a makeshift wooden box, with bottles resting on ice as he made his way through the streets.
Kingston Natty Dread: The Roots Man — An illustration inspired by memories of a Rastafarian Roots Man who traveled the streets of Kingston on a Honda CB100 motorcycle, selling homemade Irish Moss Roots drinks and sharing conversation with neighborhood youths during the 1970s.
At the end of the day, neighborhood youths—including myself—would gather around him by the pipe side and watch him wash his empty bottles. Sometimes we would help. If there were any Roots drinks left unsold, he would share them with us. My favorite was Irish Moss with linseed.
He would talk with us while he worked. Watching him was simply part of growing up in Kingston.
People respected him. He kept a low profile, but everyone knew him as "Dread." Even today, my sister Audrey remembers him.
At the time, I had no idea those evenings were shaping me.
Years later, when I created the Culture by People brand badge, those memories found their way into the artwork. The motorcycle returned. The wooden cooler returned. The Roots drink bottles resting on ice returned. Hidden behind it all is the silhouette of the Natty Dread himself, his locks stretching through the design like memory carried by the wind.
The Culture by People badge. Inspired by memories of a Kingston Roots Man whose motorcycle, wooden cooler, Roots drink bottles on ice, and spirit became part of the design.
Inspired by ordinary people doing extraordinary things, what many people see as a logo, I see as home.
A Jamaican $20 Bill
Historical Jamaican $20 bill similar to the one I found under my bed as a child. At the time, it represented a significant amount of money for a working family.
One morning I pulled my school bag from under the bed and found a Jamaican $20 bill.
I took it up, put it in my pocket, and carried it to school.
I didn't show it to anyone—but every now and then I would pull it up and peek at it.
I loved the colour.
The design.
It felt important.
Walking home that afternoon, I decided I would try to spend it. Maybe buy a Pepsi.
I stopped at shops, bars, and even street vendors along the way.
Nobody could change it.
Then I walked into a bar.
I showed it to the lady behind the counter and asked her for a Pepsi.
She looked at me... looked at the money... and said:
"That is your madda money. Take it home and give it to her—she must be looking for it."
I walked out of that bar and headed home—faster than my usual slow, looking-around walk.
When I got home, my mother was searching.
"Merle lose har $20 dollar." that voice must have been my Aunt Mama Ol
I found my mother and told her, "I have it"
I handed it to her.
She was happy.
"How yuh carry such big money go school?" Aunt Mama Ol continued.
It was in that moment I realised the power of a Jamaican $20 bill.
Years later, I asked my mother about it.
She told me that $20 was for the supermarket and market—to feed us. At the time I asked her about it, $20 couldn't even take a taxi.
Man, how times had changed.
Because the real thing I learned wasn't just the value of the money.
It was the people.
In a volatile Jamaica of the 1970s—with struggle, violence, and uncertainty—not one person tried to take that money from me.
Every single one said the same thing:
"No... caan change dat."
And that one woman in the bar—
she didn't just refuse it...
She sent me home.
She knew that was money to feed a family.
That, too, is Culture by People.
Politics and the Helicopter Searchlight
Memory illustration inspired by childhood recollections of JDF helicopter searchlights sweeping across Kingston communities during the political unrest of the 1970s.
Politics hung over everyday life in the Kingston ghettos. Even if you wanted no part of it, you could still get caught in it. Every youth defended the area, and violence could erupt without warning.
On any given night, a JDF helicopter would hover above—its bright searchlight sweeping across the community, locking onto groups of youths below. I was one. A constant reminder that tension was never far away.
Afterwards, youths would give you the rundown—stories of running into police search parties, bad men, and escaping the searchlight. These stories came from lived experience.
Some youths could tell these stories like a movie.
My brother Delroy Williams was very good at that. He later became Councillor for the area and would go on to become Mayor of Kingston and St. Andrew.
We were always told to stay away from the gullies.
But we still followed.
Unbeknown to my mother, I would sometimes slip away with my friend Iva.
Iva was one youth who carried me through the streets and gullies. He was tough. He protected me like a brother.
The gully channels were a mystery to me, and walking through them was like discovering new places.
No matter the communities we passed through, nobody bothered us.
We would burst open yellow cerasee pods and eat the red pulp from the seeds as a sweet treat, catching grasshoppers along the way.
Political supporters would come into the area from neighbouring communities, wanting control.
They terrorized the quiet streets of Grass Quilt Glade, driving fear into its residents and trying to rid the area of families accused of aligning with a certain political party.
For many of us growing up there, it marked the beginning of the destruction of families, friendships, and a beautiful working-class community.
Stone throwing in the streets was normal. Cricket and Dandy Shandy were too.
Threats of burning us out came on the whispering wind.
When the fires came, we were gone.
The Music
Illustration inspired by the music, sound systems, and street culture that shaped the early Kingston music scene.
And in the middle of all that tension, the sound system became more than music—it became escape.
There is one legendary DJ I later learned my brothers had once traded stones with. Today, we celebrate his music.
Songs coming out of Jamaica in the 1970s spoke to everyday living—demanding better conditions for the people and their children. You could only hope the higher-ups were listening.
Social issues, political tension, injustice, and police brutality were at the top of the DJs' message—and got pressed hardest into the music.
Songs like Junior Murvin's "Police and Thieves" spoke directly to the crime and violence in Kingston.
Delroy Wilson's "Better Must Come" spoke to struggle while becoming something bigger, even being used during the 1972 election campaign and giving hope to many.
Legendary artists like Culture's "Two Sevens Clash" and The Mighty Diamonds' "Right Time" carried warning and prophecy.
And I-Roy's "Welding"—that one had a vibe of its own, especially when you just there taking in the scene.
I didn't fully connect with many of these songs until my teenage years in the 1980s—but their message was already shaping the music and the environment I was growing up in.
Walking Home From School
A memory illustration inspired by my childhood walks home from school along Waltham Park Road to Grass Quilt Glade, Kingston, Jamaica, in the late 1970s.
Walking home from school, I would leave my basic school and wait for my brothers at St. Peter Cleaver Primary school. Together, we would head home to Grass Quilt Glade.
But when they stayed back for school activities, I never wanted to wait. I would make the journey alone.
But the streets were always lively—full of movement, full of life. And walking home alone there was always something to see. A fight could break out in a bar and spill out in the streets.
The music you heard along the way would often come from a rum bar jukebox. In those days, bars had a billboard stand out front, blocking the inside view—so you couldn't really see what was going on unless you stepped up and looked around it.
And if you did... you would see men deep in their drinks, women enjoying themselves, and the jukebox blasting.
If you were drinking Red Stripe, I would think you were just a regular man.
If you were drinking Dragon Stout, I would think you worked on a truck.
But if you had a Heineken... I would think you were rich.
"Youth man, what yuh want? Go home to yuh mother."
I can still hear that.
That is Culture by People.
Along the way, you pass men smoking cigarettes, eyes locked on their race paper.
And then there was always something that would catch my attention—a man with a stack of oranges, using a simple hand tool. He would pin the orange between two wheels, and as he turned it, the skin would peel off clean and smooth.
I thought that was genius.
These were ordinary days in Kingston.
Looking back, they shaped everything I would later call Culture by People.
Lots of great stories will never be told. I hope you will share in mine.
— Joel Williams