When Vybz Kartel sold out two back-to-back concerts at Brooklyn’s Barclays Center earlier this month it wasn’t just a win for a single artiste — it was a resounding testament to dancehall’s global economic force.

Within minutes, nearly 20,000 fans secured tickets to witness Kartel’s first US performances in over two decades. The moment was electric, historic, and painfully ironic. Because, while Jamaica exports the raw, pulsating heartbeat of dancehall to the world, she remains without a single, world-class concert venue capable of hosting an event of similar magnitude on her own shores.

If you ask me what I listen to when I’m psyching myself up for major debates or writing deadlines, you’ll hear dancehall pulsating through my AirPods. I grew up in the dancehall, feeling the bass rhythms reverberate through my chest, moving me in ways that even now I find hard to explain. That’s not the case for every Jamaican, but it is for me, and, as Vybz Kartel’s Barclays Center shows confirm, it is for millions around the world.

Dancehall is not simply background music; it’s motivation, defiance, expression, and freedom. It’s a global force, shaping culture far beyond Jamaica’s shores.

Spotify’s 2024 Wrapped report revealed that reggae and dancehall streams topped 10 billion plays worldwide last year, with massive listenership spikes in non-traditional markets like Germany, Nigeria, and Japan. TikTok’s internal trend reports cite dancehall beats among the top five, non-English music categories influencing viral dances and challenges. On YouTube, Jamaican artistes consistently generate view counts that rival, and often surpass, those from much larger markets.

Artists like Spice, Sean Paul, Shenseea, and Buju Banton command global audiences, selling out international tours, collaborating with major pop stars, and influencing everything from fashion trends to television placements. The international appetite for dancehall is not theoretical; it is quantifiable, growing, and extremely lucrative.

Despite this, Jamaica finds itself watching much of the economic benefit slip away. International promoters, festival organisers, and entertainment conglomerates recognise the value of our sound and seize it, while at home we struggle with ageing infrastructure that cannot accommodate the scale of modern entertainment.

If you want the full experience of Jamaican music today, you don’t head to a stadium or a concert hall. You go where the real magic happens: Weddy Weddy Wednesdays with Stone Love, Boom Sundays with Boom Boom, or Boasy Tuesdays. In the past, it was Top Line and Front Line blazing down Red Hills Road, Rae Town Sundays, Super D sessions, and the legendary Passa Passa that transformed Tivoli Gardens into an open-air dancehall.

These street dances and sound system sessions weren’t just events, they have been, and still are, the heartbeat of Jamaican music. They keep the culture alive, vibrant, and evolving. They gave rise to our greatest selectors, deejays, dancers, and styles that now echo across continents. But they also exist out of necessity, because Jamaica has never invested in the kind of formal concert venues that could elevate these cultural expressions to their full global potential.

Even now, while grass roots spaces continue to pulse with life, the absence of modern, world-class entertainment infrastructure means that much of dancehall’s enormous economic value leaks overseas. The passion is there. The energy is there. The global demand is there. But the big stages, the major concerts, the million-dollar experiences happen elsewhere.

Jamaica has no arena remotely comparable to the Barclays Center in Brooklyn, the O2 Arena in London, or even smaller venues like the Coca-Cola Roxy in Atlanta. Our largest spaces, like the National Stadium and Catherine Hall in Montego Bay, were never designed for the sonic, technical, and experiential demands of 21st-century concerts. The National Stadium, built in 1962, has seen more athletic records broken than musical ones, and Catherine Hall, while beloved, lacks the capacity and modern amenities needed to consistently attract world-class acts.

The result is clear: Jamaican artistes must leave Jamaica to achieve the fullest expressions of their commercial and artistic potential. Vybz Kartel’s sold-out shows generated millions of US dollars in direct ticket sales, merchandise, and surrounding economic activity; dollars that flowed through Brooklyn’s economy, not Kingston’s.

Globally, the live music industry is booming. In 2024 it was valued at over US$35 billion, according to PwC’s Global Entertainment and Media Outlook. The Caribbean, despite its rich musical heritage, accounts for less than 0.5 per cent of this market — a damning statistic given how often our sounds headline the biggest global stages. A world-class concert facility in Jamaica could change that equation almost overnight.

Let me repeat, the benefits would not end at music alone. Major sporting events, conventions, exhibitions, and cultural festivals could be drawn to the island, creating thousands of jobs and invigorating local economies. Hotels, restaurants, taxis, tech services, security firms, and countless small businesses stand to benefit. It’s not just about hosting one-off concerts; it’s about building an entertainment ecosystem that can sustain itself year-round.

Other small nations have recognized this opportunity. Trinidad and Tobago invested heavily in developing Queen’s Park Savannah into a prime venue for events beyond Carnival. Barbados transformed Kensington Oval into a multi-purpose facility capable of hosting concerts and international sporting events. St Lucia leverages its jazz festival to draw visitors from around the world, supported by venues equipped for high-end productions.

Meanwhile, Jamaica, the undisputed cultural superpower of the Caribbean, remains hamstrung by outdated infrastructure. We produce the vibe, the talent, the music that moves the world, but we lack the physical space to monetise it at home.

Every time a Jamaican artiste headlines Coachella, AfroNation, or SummerJam, we celebrate, but we should also ask: Why isn’t Jamaica itself the destination for these major cultural pilgrimages?

Building a world-class arena is not beyond us. It would require bold leadership, creative public-private partnerships, and a clear vision of the cultural and economic dividends. Diaspora investors, local entrepreneurs, and even multinational corporations eager to align their brands with Jamaican cool would line up to be part of such a project, if the groundwork were laid with seriousness and professionalism.

If we fail to act, others will continue to profit from what we create. The global hunger for dancehall is real and growing. But without the infrastructure to bring the world to our shores we are forced to keep exporting our greatest assets without reaping the full rewards.

When the world shows up for dancehall, as it did for Vybz Kartel, Spice, Shenseea, and Buju Banton, Jamaica should be ready to host it. Our culture, our creativity, our music deserve to be celebrated on our own soil, in venues that reflect their global stature.

If we can produce the soundtracks that move the world, surely we can also build the stages that match their energy. The future of Jamaica’s economy and the rightful place of dancehall as a dominant global force depend on it. The world is already dancing to our beat. Build the stage. Own the rhythm. Lead the world.

Lisa Hanna is Member of Parliament for St Ann South Eastern, People’s National Party spokesperson on foreign affairs and foreign trade, and a former Cabinet member.

Lisa Hanna