UB40: ‘We should be as big as Oasis – we’ve sold twice as many records’

Last week the 1980s reggae icons, known for blending political dissent with easy-going pop grooves, played a sold-out show at Wembley Arena. But they haven’t always had the recognition they think they deserve. They talk to Annabel Nugent about cultural appropriation and selling out, being bugged by MI5, and why they believe they’ve never been awarded a Grammy

Robin Campbell: ‘They always talk about Oasis and how big they are, but they can’t catch a cold outside of England, really’ (Press)

The platinum-selling reggae band UB40 are all about having a good time. “When we play a gig, it’s about music and dancing; it’s about singing along and enjoying yourself,” says founding drummer Jimmy Brown, a big grin spread across his face. “We’re about having a party.”

It might sound odd to anyone familiar with reggae’s deep political roots or even UB40’s back catalogue. The Birmingham-born band’s first single “King” (1980) was a sulphurous censure of American racism written a decade or so after the assassination of Martin Luther King; it went to No 4 in the UK charts, becoming the first ever single to broach the Top 10 without the support of a major record label. Theirs was a sound driven by a powerful alchemy of protest and groove – voices of dissent set to the rolling, mid-tempo lope of 1970s reggae. Even their moniker, a reference to the unemployment benefit form each had signed on leaving school without a job, was an indictment of Margaret Thatcher’s government.

They’ve mellowed since. The fact that they’re now best known for their reggae-lite covers of “Red Red Wine” (1983) and “Can’t Help Falling in Love” (1993) is fitting for their legacy, which skews, as Brown says, to the “feelgood” side of their genre. Chalk it up to age. “We used to think we could change the world,” says guitarist Robin Campbell. “Forty years on, it dawns on you that it makes no difference whatsoever. All we’re doing is preaching to the choir.”

Their values have remained the same, if not their ambitions. “We are still committed to being anti-racist,” says Brown, taking the first of several strolls down memory lane, this time recalling an anti-National Front demonstration they attended as youths in Handsworth. “A police car came at us, and suddenly, 40,000 bricks hit the police car at the same time,” adds Campbell, a little wistfully. “Brilliant.”

But the good times aren’t behind them. There’s plenty to smile about today, such as the fact that UB40 have scored their first Top 10 album since 1998 with UB45. I meet the band in the green room of Wembley Arena on the same day they’ll play to a sold-out crowd. In truth, I’m only meeting six of the 11 members of the current lineup, which has shuffled somewhat in the last two decades thanks to fall-outs, illness, and also death.

UB40’s resurgent popularity is unexpected to everyone but them. “It’s what should have been happening for the last 15 years,” shrugs Campbell. He blames past management, who he argues failed to get the band radio play. “Somebody else was in charge, and they weren’t doing a brilliant job.”

Robin Campbell: ‘You don’t have to be Jamaican to play reggae’ (Richard Purvis)

Certainly, they’ve been at the coal face for some time. The founding eight members met at school in Birmingham and formed the band in 1978. Their first album, Signing Off, was recorded in a bedsit; percussionist Norman Hassan recorded his parts in the garden, his kit too large to fit through the door. Released in 1980, the record spent 72 weeks in the album chart and remains a stellar debut.

It was thanks to Chrissie Hynde that they got their big break. After seeing them perform at a pub that spring, she invited them on tour as a support act for The Pretenders. UB40 returned the favour when, at one gig, a particularly burly security guard picked a fight with Pretenders bassist Pete Farndon. “We went out there, 20 of us, crew and all, with our mic stands, and said, ‘Listen, guys, if you’re gonna do him, you’ve got to go through us first,’” says Campbell.

As a band, they had a gang mentality. “It was us against the world. If someone wronged us, a promoter or something, we’d march mob-handed into their office and go, ‘We’ve come for the money.’” It was likely the combination of this aggression and their political lyrics that landed them on an MI5 watch list during the 1980s alongside fellow subversive acts like John Lennon, Crass, and the Sex Pistols. “The Pistols? That’s ridiculous,” scoffs Campbell. “They were about as establishment as you could get.” That said, the band were equally baffled by their own place on the list. “All we did was sit around, play music, smoke pot, and moan about politics,” says Brown. “The idea we were mobilising was ludicrous.”

It’s funny to think of MI5 agents devoting their precious time to tracking the movements of these eight stoners. “There were MI5 agents parked outside the studio taking pictures of everyone who was coming and going, noting down the registration plates,” says Brown. “They tapped our phones, too.” Campbell’s son Matt was only a young boy at the time. “I could hear the ticking through the receiver,” he says. “There was a BT box outside of Ali’s house, and the ‘guy’ was always there.”

Success followed quicker than anyone had thought possible for a band so outspokenly political. Was that shift from fringe to mainstream jarring? “Not at all,” says Campbell. “It felt totally natural because we were so full of ourselves.” Yet those political aspirations seemed to give way to more commercial ambitions. In 1983, UB40 released Labour of Love, a collection of covers of their favourite reggae artists. “People thought we’d sold out, whereas in fact we were paying tribute to our heroes,” says Brown.

The record was a colossal hit, though they’d been warned by their previous label against doing a covers album. It was Richard Branson at Virgin who gave them the go-ahead. “I asked him what he thought of us doing a covers album; he told us that he didn’t care – ‘You give it me, I’ll sell it,’” recalls Campbell. “I said, where do we sign?”

UB40 enjoyed chart-topping hits throughout the Eighties; their next album for Virgin, 1993’s Promises and Lies, sold 10 million copies. “It paid for the Spice Girls!” says Falconer, explaining that Branson was only able to sign the girl group thanks to the money he’d made off the back of UB40.

UB40 performing at the Commonwealth Games in Birmingham, 2022 (Getty)

In the years since, the band have become a touchstone of popular culture – popping up in often bizarre ways. Just the other day, Campbell got a kick out of watching a Big Brother contestant get whacked in the face with a pillow after declaring they hated UB40. Yet for all their clout in pop culture, rarely does it translate into respect from the industry.

“It’s annoying,” Campbell confesses. “They always talk about Oasis and how big they are, but they can’t catch a cold outside of England, really. We probably sold twice as many records as they’ve sold – and we don’t get that recognition. In documentaries about music of the Eighties, UB40 might get mentioned in passing at the end of Part Two – whereas Madness, The Specials, Adam and the Ants get more cover than we do.” It’d be nice to get some acknowledgement, is all he’s saying.

The same goes for the Grammys, for which UB40 have been nominated and passed over four times. “It seems to me, every time we get nominated, Ziggy Marley wins,” Brown chimes in. “God forbid I should cast aspersions or even hint at anything, but the Marleys seem to have the Grammys sewn up in the reggae category.”

The white press hated us because we loved each other and made music together

Ali Campbell

In recent years, UB40 have been accused of cultural appropriation. Where do they stand on this? “It’s bollocks!” spits Campbell. “It’s cultural exchange, always has been. You don’t have to be Jamaican to play reggae, just like you don’t have to be Black American to play jazz or R&B. It’s ludicrous.” Earl Falconer, the band’s sole Black member, is nodding emphatically. “The white press hated us because we loved each other and made music together,” he says. “It filled us with even more drive to carry on doing our own thing.”

More often than not, Campbell continues, the cultural appropriation argument is “spouted by failed musicians who haven’t got anywhere, and they blame us for stealing their music”. Never have any of the reggae artists whose work they’ve covered complained. “All of them have hugged us, shook our hands and said, thank you for what you did,” says Campbell.

UB40 before the feud: Ali Campbell (second from right) with his brother Robin (right) and the band at the German Radio Awards, 2005 (Getty)

In 2008, the band was rocked by a fall-out that reverberates to this day. Original singer Ali Campbell, Robin’s brother, exited the band to pursue a solo career. Five years later, trumpeter Astro left to join him. Following a bitter legal dispute over the UB40 name, Ali was forced to perform under the moniker “UB40 featuring Ali Campbell and Astro” until Astro’s death in 2021. Now he is simply “UB40 featuring Ali Campbell”.

Each faction recounts its version of events passionately and without room for any other interpretation. Campbell claims his brother left because the band’s records weren’t selling so well, and that Ali was motivated by money. Conversely, Ali has said he left because of an issue with the band’s management: “I was kind of betrayed by them,” he said in a 2020 interview. Regardless of who you believe, a reunion remains off the cards. Even if Ali came back tail between his legs? “No hope in hell, I’m afraid,” says Campbell. “If he apologised and wanted to be my brother again, I’d have to accept that, but really, when he decided he wasn’t my brother any more, it was a relief.”

The feud is a small, albeit persistent, thorn in their side, they all insist. “Like an irritating little gnat,” says Hassan, swotting at an imaginary fly in front of his face. As ever, UB40 are here predominantly for one thing, and that’s to have a good time.

UB40 are on tour in the UK and Europe through November and December