The cultural clock struck 10 PM on a Saturday in late October. Inside Ministry of Sound, the real time felt closer to 2003, or perhaps a perpetual, glazy-eyed four in the morning.
Mak10, a rising tastemaker and DJ known for bridging the old guard and the new wave of Grime, orchestrated the night with a keen sense of historical pulse. After years of mainstream attention fading and nostalgia threatening to fossilise the sound, nights like this prove that grime’s pulse is still very much alive – and still evolving.
Over the past decade, grime has moved from underground pirate radio to global festival stages. This event was a reminder that the genre still carries raw, unsanitised energy. Mak10’s set captured that mood: the beautiful sloppiness, the kind of hedonism that looks like a permanent disregard for the day planner. far more essential than just a good rave: it was to rescue grime from the dead hand of nostalgia and force its contemporary moment into focus.
The central aesthetic tension, the engine of the night, was encapsulated by the mere presence of Wiley. His return was rare, slightly chaotic, and intentionally unpolished. Often dubbed the Godfather of Grime, Wiley was the architect who mapped out the genre’s DNA, merging rapid-fire MCing with icy, minimalist production long before it had commercial traction. His early tracks like “Eskimo” and “Wot Do U Call It?” defined the sound’s cold urgency and DIY ethos. When he took the stage, the monolithic sound system of Ministry amplified that raw, untamed spirit that birthed the scene, cutting through the sanitised London air like a siren.
With Roll Deep’s legacy woven through the night, it felt less like nostalgia and more like a reminder that grime’s roots still have teeth, a necessary flash of the raw energy that started it all.
Mak10’s genius lay in his curation, positioning these figures not as a retrospective, but as a living, breathing commentary on the UK underground. He understands that a scene is defined as much by its current cynics as its past visionaries.
Here, you had Chip – the “Grime Scene Saviour,” a title that carries the weary weight of self-awareness. His precision is brutal; his lyrical output cuts cleanly against the more atmospheric chaos of the pioneers. Then came Birmingham’s Lady Leshurr, making her Ministry debut, her flow a masterclass in controlled hostility and razor-sharp wit. The night moved between the UK Funky leanings of Donae’O and the deep, knowing selections of Sir Spyro and Slimzee, not a nostalgic rehash, but a declaration of evolution. Grime has fractured, adapted, and become self-aware, yet its core aesthetic, that defiant, hedonistic snarl, remains terrifyingly intact, absorbing the past without ever being trapped by it.
This wasn’t just a concert; it was a cultural moment defined by impeccable taste and a refusal to be easily consumed. Loud, sweaty, and unrepentant, it felt like the perfect antidote to the city’s polished veneer. Grime isn’t a museum piece, it’s a riot in progress.