Straight Outta Dundee

The daytime crowd was an odd mix: a battalion of suited record-company representatives, a handful of apparently unemployed music fans and a throng of hopeful artists all crammed into the dark basement of London nightclub Madame Jojo’s. One after another, amateur musicians drawn by the opportunity to perform in front of talent scouts were granted the few minutes they hoped would launch their respective careers. Most were lucky to receive polite applause when they finished.

Waiting in the shadows were two 21-year-olds from California who introduced themselves as Silibil n’ Brains. Despite their age, they were already veterans of the U.S. battle-rap scene who could cite Eminem and D12 as both influences and friends. When they took to the stage they erupted into confident, witty rapping, paired with an outrageous stage act that culminated in them stripping to reveal women’s underwear.

The jaded Madame Jojo’s crowd rose to its feet. The record company reps stirred and nodded in appreciation. Silibil n’ Brains had arrived, and within weeks much of the music industry on both sides of the Atlantic would know their story. Or at least a story.

Silibil n’ Brains weren’t actually from California. They weren’t even American. They were two college dropouts from Scotland with a love of American street culture, a gift for mimicry and some big, big plans.

Before Silibil n’ Brains, there was Gavin and Billy. Gavin Bain met Billy Boyd at art school in the Scottish city of Dundee in 1998. They shared an interest in American TV, movies and music, and soon the boys were inseparable. When Eminem’s Slim Shady LP hit the British charts the next year, legitimizing the field of white rap, they found a new outlet for their creativity.

“We started rapping, writing songs and performing them at college,” Bain says. He speaks quietly, in a Scottish accent tinged with the cadences of his South African roots. “Everyone loved it.” Bain’s family had arrived in Scotland almost destitute after his father’s South African business had failed. During college, Bain bartended in a Dundee strip club, earning enough money to buy a sequencer. In late ’99, When he and Gavin saw an advertisement on a music website for a hip-hop audition in London, they jumped on the overnight bus south from Dundee.

Bain and Boyd took the stage dressed in tribute to Eminem. Shortly after launching into their first track, the Scots became aware that a significant portion of the audience was laughing, and not in a good way. The problem was their accents. The working-class Scottish voices of Trainspotting, a movie that had required redubbing for American markets, were sourced from Edinburgh. Dundee is another leap north, where local dialect can become almost impenetrable. “You sound,” an audience member sneered, “like the rapping Proclaimers.” Bain almost manages a smile at the memory. “It was a long bus journey home.”

The flop ended Bain and Boyd’s career as Dundee’s finest battle rappers. They dropped out of college, worked in a skate shop and ran up loan- and credit-card debt. But their dream wouldn’t die.

“I had this idea that we should try again, rapping in American and just letting people believe that’s where we were from,” Bain says. “Billy recorded some demos with me in American accents. He admitted that they sounded better, he knew they did, but it took a long time for him to agree to the rest.”

Boyd didn’t share Bain’s conviction that they could pass as an American act. He held out for three years, only coming around after their debts escalated to a level where they seriously considered robbing an armored car.

In 2003, Bain and Boyd got back on the overnight bus to London. They slept on Bain’s sister’s floor and spent their days touring music stores, where they saw the flyer for the Madame Jojo’s gig. They talked their way onto the bill, introducing themselves as American rappers Silibil n’ Brains.

“The guy in charge said we were on in five minutes and left us to it,” Bain recalls. The two stood backstage, gazing out at the room filled with major-label scouts. “We hadn’t worked out anything about where we were from,” Bain says, “just that we were going to rap in American. We looked at each other as if to say, ‘Are we really going to fucking do this?’”

Billy Boyd pulls out chairs in the office of his urban clothing store in Dundee’s smart city centre. He apologizes for being a little distracted between store renovations and the demands of his two-year-old son, domestic normality that clashes with the tattoos encircling his arms. Boyd was—and still is—the one with the pop-star looks. He speaks with an easy confidence, unlike Bain, who is careful and often on edge. Boyd’s memory rewinds to the afternoon at Madame Jojo’s when he became Silibil.

“It was amazing,” he says. “They went mad. We were using the accents and it just felt normal. We got about 10 yards off the stage when the first label guy came up.”

The man was a promoter contracted by the London outpost of Island Records. “He asked us where in the States we were from,” says Boyd, who’d often told Bain about his cousins in Hemet, a quiet Southern California town that prides itself on its national shuffleboard champions. “Hemet, California, man, good to meet you,” Bain said in his approximation of SoCal dudespeak. And with those seven words, the ruse officially began.

The duo visited Island’s offices and freestyled for an appreciative A&R staff, who suggested they get some representation. That led them to London-based agent Jonathan Shalit, a pre-eminent talent spotter who handed Silibil n’ Brains a £70,000 signing bonus and development advance.

“They were confident, musically talented and reminded me of Linkin Park to a certain degree,” Shalit says today. “My positive feelings about them were borne out by the interest we had in them.”

Silibil n’ Brains were among the hottest unsigned acts in London, and the buzz quickly got back to the States. Sony made contact directly from New York to inquire about the two Californians. The news cut through Bain and Boyd’s delirium: An American record deal would mean airports, and airports would mean bringing their British passports out for all to see. “We were shitting ourselves,” Boyd says. The two began a desperate search for dubious U.S. passports that culminated in a meeting in a seedy London pub with an anonymous document forger, but soon they received the welcome news that Shalit had fallen out with their New York suitors. Silibil n’ Brains signed with Sony UK in January 2004. They had slipped onto one of the biggest record labels in the world.

“I remember walking out of Sony and looking at Gavin,” Boyd says, “and we just laughed until we couldn’t speak.”

The two moved into a South London apartment and launched themselves into the lifestyle of rookie rap stars. By day they caused havoc in the studio, splitting recording time with violent practical jokes. In the evenings they relentlessly hunted down industry parties. “Free bar,” Bain shrugs, “celebrities, that kind of thing.”

Boyd reminisces about buttonholing Madonna at her own afterparty, chatting about “the industry” and being an American in London. Backstage at an awards show, he drank with Green Day. Silibil n’ Brains played in a celebrity soccer tournament with Rod Stewart, where they made a show of asking the rules before scoring goals with ease. When they appeared on a TV show as guests alongside skateboarder Tony Hawk, their natural screen presence didn’t go unnoticed: A U.K. network approached with a TV development proposal.

“A lot of people were very interested in them,” Shalit says. “MTV loved them. And of course there was the music.” Shalit’s then creative director, Jay Dee Springbett, who now works for Sony BMG in Australia, says that, while he had occasional doubts about Boyd’s fungible accent, he never questioned the duo’s talent. “I loved them,” he says. “To be honest, I’d sign them again now.”

“Everyone kept telling us we were going to be one of the biggest acts in the world,” says Boyd. “We’d be in the studio, and people would be there just to look after us, and then we’d head out at night to these parties. We had money in the bank, but everything seemed to be free.”

There was, however, one unresolved issue. Once they released a single with Sony’s marketing might behind it, someone somewhere would recognize the boys from Dundee and reveal their true identities. In response, the duo employed delay tactics, pushing songs with titles like “Cunt.” Bain particularly liked a tune called “Play With Myself,” with its memorable lyric, “I got a woody in my pants like Geppetto.”

With Sony busy trying to dilute its new act’s lyrics, Silibil n’ Brains partied their way through a tour of college shows. Their stage routine featured violence, fake blood and Bain ending the show by downing an entire pint of beer. It was rarely his first—or last—of the evening.

As the pair’s infamy spread and demand for their company grew, they couldn’t resist pushing the boundaries of their ruse. They entertained everyone they met with their impressive range of British regional accents. The biggest hit was Bain’s Sean Connery impression, which left people agog at his convincing Scottish brogue. “The problem was,” says Boyd, with a shake of the head, “that [Gavin would] have a few beers and go overboard. That’s what caused us all the problems with D12.”

D12, the Detroit collective including Eminem, came dangerously close to outing the imposters. Bain and Boyd had repeatedly told their representatives that they knew D12 from “back in the day;” during one dinner with their management, Bain regaled the table with stories of escapades with D12 members that left Boyd choking on his food. A few weeks later, the duo was picked up at home by a team of excited handlers, who filled them in on a surprising development.

“They said that we were going to be supporting D12,” says Bain. “Not only that, we were on the way to meet them. Billy and I looked at each other. He went a bit white, I probably did too.”

They were taken to a London venue where D12 was soundchecking for a show that night. Proof, the late iconic rapper, was at center stage. Cornered, the usually subdued Boyd decided to take a gamble.

“Gavin stood there like he’d seen a ghost. So I just thought ‘Fuck it’ and walked over and said, ‘Fuck, Proof, how long’s it been man?’ and gave him a hug.”

For a few torturous seconds, Proof hesitated before electing for politeness. “He said, ‘Yeah too long man, too long.’” 

Del Conboy, Silibil n’ Brains’ handler at the time, witnessed the exchange. “It certainly looked like they knew each other,” he says now. “I thought they were in their natural environment, back with fellow Americans.”

Supporting D12 for a half-dozen shows, rapping to thousands of fans each night and sharing beers with their illustrious colleagues afterward—this was the pinnacle of Silibil n’ Brains’ exposure. “Unbelievable,” Bain says with obvious envy of his former alter ego. “Just walking out there and seeing 5,000 faces all looking back at you.”

“After that tour, our website had 10,000 on the mailing list,” Bain says. “We were filling clubs in London easily.”

To their friends back in Scotland, though, they were still Gavin and Billy, who’d gone off to London on a vague musical odyssey. Only their immediate families and the girlfriends both had left in Dundee knew the truth about the record deal. “I think that was for our own sanity,” Bain says, “so at least someone else would know. They didn’t approve at all, but we were too caught up in everything to really care.”

With the rise in interest and the TV companies lurking, Sony started to pressure them to complete the album. “They wanted a release and so did we,” Bain says. “We’d gone through a lot of money”—the equivalent of more than $300,000 between what Shalit and Sony had paid them in pounds—“and there was another chunk that would come with the single release. We wanted it to happen because, to be honest, we were ready to be the stars that everyone said we would be.”

The two tried one last trick, becoming punks as a diversion before coming clean about their Scottish roots. “If it came out after a punk rock record then it wouldn’t be such a big deal,” says Boyd with a distinct lack of conviction in the plan that was swiftly dropped in the face of general confusion from Silibil n’ Brains management at Sony. Amidst the increasingly frantic moves, seeds were sown for the duo’s demise. Bain’s drinking was reaching the point of no return, and Boyd had slipped back to Scotland to marry his girlfriend. “It was hard enough to justify living away,” he says, “but when I was living away and pretending to be an American rapper that was a pretty tough sell”.

They were now suffering at the hands of their own creation—and it would only get worse.

After more than a year of Silibil n’ Brains dragging their feet on their first release, the tables turned: Sony began stalling. “We’d agreed on a single,” Boyd says, “but they kept putting it back. Something was up.”

Sony’s controversial merger with BMG was concluding at a torturously slow rate but the effects were starting to become clear. “The annoying thing with the merger was that, at first, they were dropping bands left, right and center. Big bands. But they wanted to keep us on,” Boyd says. Running out of money, the two entered a desperate endgame. They endured another few months of waiting, and this time without the comfort of ready cash. For Bain, “the drinking had become a problem,” and Boyd was fielding calls from an incredulous wife. The once-inseparable friends were being crushed by the pressure of purgatory. If the two of them cobbled together the funds for a night out, it would invariably end with them fighting in the street on the way home.

Soon, though, Silibil n’ Brains would soon be put out of their misery. After their representative at Sony became the latest casualty of the merger, they were called to meet new management who wasn’t buying the act.

“This guy sat there,” Bain says, “and announced he’d looked over all our stuff, the tracks and the TV appearances. And he just said, ‘I don’t find you guys believable, you’re not convincing enough.’ We were so into the story by that point that we were actually offended. It hit us pretty hard.”

Although their fate was already sealed by the mundane issue of business consolidation, Silibil n’ Brains had finally met someone who raised doubts about their validity. It was only in 2008, however, when Bain started hawking his story to the gleeful British press, that Sony would discover just how far the affectations of their Californian act extended. Sony U.K. has declined to officially comment on the hiring and firing of their once-prodigal rappers.

Bain reacted to the pair’s jettisoning from the label by drinking more and supplementing it with prescription drugs. Boyd slipped into depression, unable to leave his bed. One afternoon, in the summer of 2005, he waited until Bain left the apartment to visit the supermarket, then packed and left for a flight home to Dundee. He didn’t leave a note, but when Bain returned and saw Boyd’s empty room, he reached for his phone.

“We shouted at each other a bit,” Boyd says, “blamed each other for everything, and then I think I hung up.”

The pair didn’t speak for more than two years. Boyd bought a house in Dundee with his now-wife, had a son and opened his clothing store. He reacted to the anarchy by swiftly replacing it with order. Bain, meanwhile, did not. “For me, the comedown was horrific,” he says. Alcohol, sleeping pills, co-dydramol and pain killers to remove the headaches became a daily routine. Penniless, he moved in with his sister and, shortly after, attempted suicide. “It was negative thought after negative thought,” he recalls. “My sister came in and I was foaming at the mouth.”

Strangely, Bain continued to speak with an American accent until late 2007. Even after he managed to drag himself from depression into a series of uninspiring jobs and, finally, a new band, he remained resolutely in character as Brains. “It took a long time to let go,” he says.

Now 28, he suffers from anxiety and plays in an unsigned emo-punk band. He’s got bloodshot eyes, a beer belly and a lingering, self-confessed alcohol problem. But sitting in the corner of a London pub, he talks confidently about the future. Musical fame and fortune may have eluded him, but the story of his rise and fall remains an asset. “It’s been insane—film companies, a book deal. I’ve got a film agent in the States,” he says. “I’ve got a literary agent here. It’s going to be massive.”

And maybe this time, it will be.