Nothing beats hearing a DJ and MC in perfect, telepathic synergy. My memories of Chunky getting the whole Outlook Festival crowd to bend down and jump as the tune dropped, or Ms. Dynamite lighting up a Digital Soundboy carnival party with a live PA, have stuck with me more than any particular DJ sets. The emotions that the DJ conveys through music are translated in real time by the MC, using the most direct medium of them all: the voice. The dance floor experience is humanised in a way that you could never get from spinning records alone. Certain rhymes, soundbites or ways of bigging up the DJ have become legendary slogans that will be repeated for years. In the words of dubstep originator SGT. Pokes, "it's the MC that lifts the dance to the next level. The MC can make the DJ live forever."

It's not just about what you hear on the mic. MCs add a sense of unity and cultural identity to the party. Just by putting their hands in the air when instructed, or by replying to oggy oggy oggy with oi oi oi, a crowd forges a deeper, more interactive connection with the show. MC-led electronic music has also passed down hallmark Jamaican traditions such as gunfingers, patois slang or hailing for a rewind. They distinguish a lineage of dance music that runs from rave, early UK techno, hardcore, jungle, drum & bass, garage, bassline, dubstep, funky and certain styles of house up until the genres that flipped the script to put MCs on top: first came grime, then drill.

The roots of MCing originate from Jamaican reggae soundsystems, when deejays developed a signature style of toasting on top of their records. They borrowed their vocals from the improvised jiving or scatting of Black radio hosts in 1950s America and also from a long history of chanting in African music. Through waves of migration and cultural exchange, toasting techniques were fed back into the US and became a key influence for hip-hop; meanwhile, Jamaicans brought soundsystem culture to the UK. Here, their hosting traditions inspired both UK rap and electronic music MCs, as Jamaican "yard" slang, UK accents and stories of Black Britain fused into a fresh new style.

In the 1980s, toasters like Peter King and Tippa Irie of London's Saxon Studio soundsystem, as well as the "fast-chat" cadence of iconic reggae and dancehall singer Smiley Culture, paved the way for a new generation of MCs to find their space on top of the rave era's searing breaks and high BPMs. Then, in the '90s, MC pioneers like Everson Allen (of rave duo RatPack), or jungle heroes Navigator, Stevie Hyper D, GQ, Shabba D, Chickaboo and the recently passed Skibadee, established an art which, with the help of pirate radio, would soon characterise UK dance music's ecstatic, dubwise sounds across the board. Together, MCs kicked down doors for future stars like grime legends Dizzee Rascal and Wiley or, more recently, vocal sensation PinkPantheress and bassline collective Bad Boy Chiller Crew. "As the years progressed, the crowds wanted more from an MC," explains Carl Thomas, AKA jungle and techno MC Flux. "The art of MCing became more skilled. It went from saying 'everybody make some noise' to a more lyrical thing."

Cleveland Watkiss By Eddie Otchere

MCs operate on a broad spectrum of styles that runs from rapping over beats to hosting like a master of ceremonies, incorporating comedy into their wordplay and utilising their formidable on-stage presence to bridge the DJ and the dance. While recording artists tend to perform their own tracks at solo shows, MCs aim to elevate what a DJ is already doing. They set the energy through a medley of boxing ring-worthy intros, freestyle chatter and call-and-response hype tactics. You can't listen to gifted MCs spitting crystal-clear, lightning-speed bars and not be in awe of the sheer stamina and technical skill they possess. Equally impressive to behold is hearing an infectious host-style MC acting like a community leader, shouting out regulars on the dance floor or airwaves.

But even the most technical MCs don't always get their flowers in a club scene that's obsessed with its DJs and producers. Whether at raves or on the radio, I've always been captivated by the MCs and sometimes left feeling uneasy about how much focus is on the DJ. It's true the DJ chooses what to play, and likely that the majority of people on the dance floor have come for the DJ, but the hierarchical dynamic feels exaggerated. It fuels a system where the end goal for some club MCs is, ironically, to not be perceived as an MC anymore, but as an actual artist. Some of the people I interviewed for this piece have dedicated decades to perfecting their work alongside DJs; others see hosting a DJ set as practice for a future solo career. "The art of MCing is beautiful," says Phoebs, known for her MC work with Congo Natty as well as her solo hip-hop releases, "but it has to go further."

A myriad of factors tells MCs that there's more out there. No matter how good they get at hosting DJ sets in clubs, far more opportunities are afforded to both DJs and recording artists. In 2012, drum & bass MC-turned-soloist DRS named his debut album I Don't Usually Like MC's, But…, highlighting the negative perception of MCs that has long plagued electronic music. A year later, the MCs In The Mix collective launched with DJ sets from vocalists like Jenna G, Jonny Banger and Buggsy, in "a demonstration that the guys you see with microphones in a club often have musical ability and knowledge beyond just rhyming." Too often, ravers disregard the rich and diverse range of MC styles out there, reducing the artform to the over-hyped shit-talking which—let's face it—we all hear from time to time. But MCs are so intrinsic to UK electronic music culture that not liking MCs as a blanket rule is, to me, a big red flag.

Built off a few crossover moments for '90s rave MCs—think General Levy's full tilt masterpiece "Incredible"—a breakthrough shift occurred around the turn of the millennium. UK garage started to spotlight MCs, leading to the chart success of So Solid Crew, The Streets, DJ Luck & MC Neat and many more. It became commonplace to see MCs on Top Of The Pops, spraying catchy hooks over relatively accessible beats. The darker, sparser side of garage ushered in a more competitive kind of MC showmanship, with raves like Sidewinder and memorable clashes like Heartless Crew v Pay As U Go Cartel laying the foundations for grime to follow. Even up against prejudicial policing and media attention, grime has evolved from MCs passing around a mic and barsing over white labels into a lucrative stage show, famously reaching the pinnacle of UK live music when Stormzy headlined Glastonbury in 2019. Now, in grime and drill, the MCs are celebrated as artists and it's the DJs who have to keep up.

Phoebs & Congo Natty

In spite of this, how much the MC should centre themselves in dance music and club scenes remains hotly debated. "I pride myself on keeping my mouth shut," the versatile MC Kwasi told me after a set with Mr. Scruff last summer. "Don't be an interruption, it's an ego ting. You're only the salt and pepper on the meal." Kwasi's approach to MCing is old school, faithful to the soundsystems of post-Windrush Britain, when crews like Wassifa would inspire him with their spiritual toasting. Knowing when to keep your mouth shut was a common theme among all the MCs I spoke to, but where Kwasi believes it to be a core part of the trade, others, like fellow Manchester MC Chunky, find the idea frustrating. "Sometimes people say 'you're a really good MC because you know when not to speak,'" Chunky told me. "It's a backhanded compliment. Those people see what we do as an add on, but the MC is such a crucial part of rave culture and electronic music." There's no excuse for the negative framing of MCs that Chunky refers to. Nobody, for instance, would specifically compliment a DJ for not playing bad records.

The most tangible manifestation of MCs as an "add on" is on lineups. MCs are generally billed in a smaller font or in a separate section at the bottom of the flyer, regardless of their standing compared to the DJs. "Sometimes a 22-year-old DJ who has just come up will have his name in a bigger font on a poster than mine," explains Cleveland Watkiss, resident host for Metalheadz and an accomplished jazz musician, "even though I've been doing this for over 40 years." MCs can host a six hour-long night from start to finish and still be billed below the warm-up DJ who is done playing before most of the crowd arrives. Promoters will reasonably contest that it comes down to marketing and money—the DJs are selling the most tickets, so their names get prioritised—but surely there are more equitable solutions.

Promoting MCs and DJs equally would also necessitate paying them equally, which feels a long way off. It's likely that the best MCs in drum & bass, a scene known for its long legacy of revered, larger-than-life voices, are closest to reaching pay equity, but generally MCs are taking the smaller portion of a fee and are sometimes excluded entirely. Max Lee, a booker at the United Talent Agency, told me that "booking an MC or a host is a lot more of a hard sell than a DJ. MCs have to have a DJ playing for them. When margins are tight, promoters may see MCs as surplus to requirements." Again, you can sympathise with the promoters, but it's another example of the fundamental imbalance in the relationship between DJs and MCs. It means most MCs can't afford to be picky about which DJs they work with, yet the idea of a DJ going back-to-back with multiple other DJs they've never even met every weekend would be unheard of.

The live performance element plays into this imbalance. DJs and producers have the option of bringing a live show into the club scene, whereas MCs can spit their lyrics double-time on endless curveball selections and they're still not promoted as a serious live act until they've released their own music and transition to concert-style performances. "It comes down to the branding of MCs," says writer and DJ Kwame Safo, AKA Funk Butcher, who edited Mixmag's Blackout last year. "MCs are branded as only existing in the rave capacity. It's going to take a lot of strong messaging to platform and bill them properly."

MC Chunky / Skibadee

It's not only promoters who have a responsibility to uphold and celebrate the culture of MCing, electronic music media needs to centre this narrative, too. But it has historically underrepresented MCs, not to mention the press infamously demonising the Black, MC-led group So Solid Crew. "The DJ magazines don't talk to me," Watkiss says, "They probably just see me as some MC. 'What does he know?' Let's speak to Dillinja, or Goldie." This publication, Resident Advisor, has featured countless DJs from this lineage of UK dance music but the presence of MCs on the site, which includes an offensive (arguably racist) comment about jungle music and "annoying" MCs in a Gottwood festival review, is close to zero. The same is true for many of the main UK dance music outlets, especially pre-2020's seismic shift in racial awareness. Publications like Mixmag and DJ Mag take a similarly DJ-focused approach to RA, while the likes of Crack favour recording artists, leaving MCs to fall through the gap in between.

MCs are storytellers by nature. Plus, their work with multiple DJs and genres makes them uniquely well-positioned to document dance music's trends, yet they're rarely called on to do so. This erasure has a knock-on effect for those on a dance floor, who, having read more about the DJ than the MC, have disproportionate amounts of respect and intrigue for one profession over the other. Combined with the fact that there is far more visible Black representation among MCs than DJs, this absence of MCs in electronic music media, as well as an unsettling, yet prevalent dynamic of a white DJ playing Black music with a Black MC, points to the whitewashing that has occurred in dance music globally. For example, The Bug, a white artist who has long worked with Black grime MCs, is invited to experimental festivals which don't book Black DJs to play the same genres of music.

Politics and the police also play a part in demonising the culture, from the use of suspicion law to raid soundsystem events in the '70s up to the controversial risk assessment Form 696. Introduced in 2005 and scrapped in 2017, the form required promoters to submit personal details of all acts. It was criticised for unfairly targeting events with ethnic minority performers and crowds, most notably affecting genres which featured MCs, such as grime, garage and bashment. The form stifled the growth of certain MCs, limiting some to pirate radio performances, and influenced the booking policies of promoters, who may have favoured DJs playing without MCs to minimise the risk of unfair policing. Even after London Mayor Sadiq Khan revoked Form 696, MC-led events are still commonly programmed in spaces which specialise in urban music.

SGT. Pokes

Of course, DJs themselves have a major role to play in how MCs fit into club culture, largely determined by how deeply they welcome their MC into the collaboration. DJ-MC supergroups like RatPack, Heartless Crew, Problem Central or SaSaSaS levelled the playing field, but it still doesn't happen enough. "None of the DJs ever asked me, 'Do you like this beat?'", says D Double E about his days on the club circuit. "I would have to make it look like all their beats are sick, but sometimes I'd be just spitting and waiting for the right one. I'm not doing that no more." Even the wording around a DJ posting, "I am performing with" an MC, emphasising the joint partnership, rather than writing that the MC "is hosting my set" makes a difference to how the audience perceives the performance. "Previously, some of the DJs didn't do their part to big up the MCs as much as they should have," Pokes suggested. "It happened across all genres." Yet he continues to call the relationship "symbiotic," acknowledging the opportunities that have come through working with DJs.

When DJs consciously try to showcase their MC during a set—selecting records with enough space left for the voice, for example—the line between a standard DJ-MC tag team and a live performance becomes blurred. It can foster exciting fusions between styles, like the short-lived period when grime artists would jump on dubstep and funky sets, when House Of God's MC Zit brought punk energy to slamming Birmingham techno in the '90s or, more recently, with the Daytimers crew inviting Punjabi vocalists to freestyle over UK garage tracks. I've always loved the way jungle DJ Congo Natty gave space to numerous and wide-ranging MCs, having the likes of Tenor Fly, Daddy Freddy and Nãnci & Phoebe on-stage all at once. "Even in the middle of the steamiest, hottest rave, I will turn it into a production," explains Phoebs about those sets. "Stop! Acapella time. I'd be spitting and Rebs [Rebel MC AKA Congo Natty] would just know to fade it. Or, I can look back and put my hand up to say, 'It's my time.' At that point, you're not looked at like an MC." Tippa, the UK funky and deep house host best known for his work with Circle and Rinse FM, prefers to take space by flexing his inner DJ. "I love touching the mixer, taking the music down and back up," he says, "some DJs hate that but it's a part of the game."

Although DJs continue to take up more of the club scene's money and oxygen, they can't touch MCs when it comes to pure rave energy. Having an MC at your night, or on your set, is testament to the roots of the culture. The recent outpouring of tributes to MC Skibadee, one of the greatest to ever do it, has been a reminder of how much love certain parts of the club scene has for its best MCs, and a reminder to show that love on the daily. It's a blessing that we get to witness such genius lyricists in a communal, improvised environment. Their art needs to be talked about on a wider scale, celebrated and passed down to future generations, so that not every kid with a mic wants to be a star rapper, but some also dream of being club MCs, serving their DJs and their communities in a way that ravers remember.