Whenever I’m asked to opine about the state of the reggae industry my initial reaction is, generally, a quick dismissal. My natural instinct is to prioritise measurable action over pontification. In this ego-driven world of entertainment, there already exists a cacophony of self-congratulatory noise at the endless multitude of conferences and award shows that are seemingly produced to do nothing more than promote the organisers, rather than the artistes or music they represent. While I’m grateful that anyone would value my opinion enough to ask, I don’t claim to speak from a place of authority. Rather, in an appropriate medium like this, I approach the endeavour with a genuine desire to pass along any accrued wisdom to those who will read, and a humble respect for the many artistes, executives, creatives, media, and foot soldiers who have contributed before me. All I can do is offer insight as to what I’ve witnessed. So, let’s talk reggae.

In my estimation, the crucial components are preserving the legacy of our icons accurately, affectionately, and profitably; and creating a landscape that makes it possible to foster a new generation of artistes we may one day call icons.

With 25 plus years of experience in the business, I still find it necessary to qualify myself, as a non-Jamaican working in a traditionally Jamaican market that has been kind enough to grant me access. My company Spoonfed Entertainment is a boutique marketing agency that manages campaigns in the areas of streaming service (digital service provider) promotion, publicity, radio promotion, social media coordination, event production, creative direction, and general project management. Some of Spoonfed’s past and current clients include Skip Marley, Etana, Conkarah, Maxi Priest, Tessellated, Nuh Rush Records, and the Trojan Jamaica label, who released the final studio albums from U-Roy with the acclaimed Solid Gold, and Toots and the Maytals’ Got To Be Tough, which took home the Grammy Award for Best Reggae Album last year.

New York City radio and mid-80s dancehall mixtapes instilled in me a deep-rooted passion for the genre and culture from a young age, but a large part of my early professional career was spent at major label Elektra Records, where I was an international product manager for hip hop and hard rock acts like Busta Rhymes, Missy Elliott, Fabolous, Mark Ronson, AC/DC, and Pantera. I had missed the era of Elektra’s success with Action by Terror Fabulous and Nadine Sutherland by a few years and, while some artistes like Busta Rhymes would pay homage to the dancehall greats in their music, reggae was no longer on the label’s radar.

During this time I developed relationships in the reggae world by playing guitar on stage shows with acts like Half Pint and General Smiley, managing some local New York reggae acts, trading promo CDs with my contacts at Artists Only and VP Records, and coordinating interviews with Jamaican media for my roster of artistes from Elektra. It likely would have cost me my job if the higher-ups knew I was using company time and resources to arrange interviews in a territory where we didn’t account for record sales, but it seemed to me that an artiste like Busta Rhymes, who fully embraced his Jamaican heritage, should be relaying his story back home from the diaspora to help solidify the foundation. And I was determined to establish my own footing in the Jamaican music industry, so any time I could be of service to help forward the narrative, I jumped at the chance.

My experience with major labels was that we were expected to remain in our well-defined silos. As a result, the system mostly developed personnel who were experts at the highest level in their chosen disciplines, but less adept at understanding the intricacies of other departments’ functions or how the spokes worked in harmony to keep the wheel rolling. I was most impressed by savvy artiste managers who had walked a mile in all of our shoes and were able to effectively connect the dots in a manner that served the artistes’ overall needs. This inspired me to take a hands-on approach at mastering the various elements. Like those managers, I wanted to add value in any situation.

In 2004, when Warner Music made the decision to fold Elektra into Atlantic Records, I luckily escaped unemployment and was offered an opportunity to make the leap over to VP Records and start life anew. I began as a product manager and eventually went on to head up the marketing and promotions departments, spearheading campaigns for acts like Beres Hammond, Morgan Heritage, Tanya Stephens, Capleton, Bunji Garlin, Etana, Sizzla, Gyptian, I-Wayne, Luciano, and many others along the way.

Consolidation was something I had experienced since my earliest days in the business. I began my career as a summer intern at Island Records in 1994 during a transitional period at the label. Polygram UK Group had recently struck a deal with Chris Blackwell to purchase the independent powerhouse, and Island would soon be trading its cool downtown New York digs on Lafayette Street for office space in Polygram’s ultra-corporate midtown headquarters at Worldwide Plaza — but not before I had a chance to ransack the product drawers and properly educate myself via deep dives into the catalogues of Bob Marley, Burning Spear, Black Uhuru, Sly & Robbie, Toots and the Maytals, Steel Pulse, Aswad and others as I tore through stacks of classic albums and compilations.

Blackwell was given a spot on the Polygram board of directors but, as his presence at Island dwindled, morale among the old guard was low while the company restructured. When I arrived at the new office in Worldwide Plaza for my first day of interning the following summer, it was a culture shock. After meeting impassioned documentarians like Neville Garrick at the downtown offices the previous summer, I wondered if the historic legacies of these important artistes could be maintained within this stiff new atmosphere. But as Island — through its various imprints like Loose Cannon, Def Jamaica, and Island Jamaica — began releasing seminal albums from next generation stars like Buju Banton, Beenie Man, Capleton, and Luciano, all within a relatively short time period, it felt like the label was striving to reignite the independent spirit that had supported the careers of the aforementioned elders.

In fact, that relentless drive to preserve the legacy of the artistes and music has been the one constant throughout all of these experiences. The reggae business is loaded with people who are concerned about keeping it authentic and getting it right.

Never losing the sight of the power of physical connection, VP Records has taken their roving Reggae Music Journey pop-up exhibition, which features the work of noted photographers like Jonathan Mannion and Martei Korley, and developed it into a book about the remarkable life of co-founder Patricia Chin — essentially the story of reggae. The VP Records saga has also been brilliantly chronicled in Studio 17: The Lost Reggae Tapes by film-maker Reshma B. The label produces memorable anniversary concerts that feature acts from various eras of their 40 plus years existence and their retail outlets and offices serve as living tributes. I’ll never forget the first time one of my major label buddies set foot in VP’s Jamaica Avenue warehouse and commented, “This is the real record business.”

As time marches on, we are losing our beloved icons at an alarming rate. Giants of the genre like Toots Hibbert, Daddy U-Roy, Robbie Shakespeare, and Bob Andy have passed on in recent times and the questions we need to answer are where will their legacies live on, and who will be the protectors? What foundation is being laid to establish the next generation of icons? What will reggae look like in the metaverse? Are we approaching the NFT (non-fungible token) marketplace progressively, or are we following the leads of others who don’t necessarily represent the culture? Are we nimble enough to adapt our business models during a pandemic that shuts down the touring industry and, if so, which live streaming platforms are offering the most dynamic options to entertain audiences and earn artistes’ revenue? Has there been a bigger catalyst than Verzuz to spark new interest in dancehall hero’s catalogues?

As I was looking for some poignant way to conclude, I came across this quote from my friend Maxi Priest that sums it up: “For success in the music business, first there’s gotta be a special love, a spiritual connection, hard work, and dedication.”