Every year, as Carnival in Jamaica reaches its peak and the Road March takes over Kingston, one debate resurfaces with familiar intensity: What should we be hearing on the road? Should it be soca, pure and undiluted? Or should it be a fusion of soca and dancehall?

It is a conversation that has divided opinions across generations, across audiences, and even within the Carnival community itself. But perhaps the real question is not what should be played rather, it is what Carnival in Jamaica has been, what it became, and what it can be. Because the answer lies in our history.

Carnival in Jamaica did not begin as an imported experience. Its roots can be traced back to the 1950s at The University of the West Indies, Mona Campus, where students from across the Caribbean sought to recreate the traditions of home based on nostalgia. What emerged was Ring Road — a celebration that, even in its earliest form, was shaped by a uniquely Jamaican sensibility.

By the late 1980s that energy was undeniable. Bands like Fab 5 provided the soundtrack, with hits such as
All Night Party and Ring Road Jam becoming synonymous with the season. At the same time, cultural icons like Byron Lee and the Byron Lee & the Dragonaires were already shaping a Caribbean sound that Jamaicans could claim as their own. This was not a debate then. The music was Jamaican, the energy was Jamaican, and the people embraced it as such.

The 1990s: When Carnival belonged to everyone

In 1990 Byron Lee took a decisive step in launching Jamaica’s first Carnival. What followed throughout the decade was a period many still regard as the height of Carnival in Jamaica. It was inclusive. It was expansive. And, most importantly, Jamaica Carnival was owned by the people.

Thousands filled the streets. Road March became a true citywide experience, drawing not just masqueraders, but spectators who became participants simply by being present. Crucially, this era also saw the emergence of a Jamaican interpretation of soca. Songs like Tiny Winey, Nani Wine, and Soca Butterfly were anthems that connected directly with local audiences. At this point Carnival was not being borrowed, it was being translated.

THE SHIFT

By the early 2000s the landscape began to change. The emergence of Bacchanal Jamaica signalled a new phase; one that successfully sustained Carnival, but also reoriented it. For nearly two decades the experience leaned heavily toward a replication of Trinidad’s model. Trinidadian soca dominated play lists. Costume aesthetics followed similar patterns. The structure of fêtes mirrored what existed elsewhere in the region.

There is no denying the success of this period. It kept Carnival alive. It introduced a new generation to the experience. It built loyalty among audiences who came to associate Carnival with a particular sound. But it also created a subtle shift in perception: For many, Carnival in Jamaica began to feel less like something of us, and more like something we hosted.

A new era, a new opportunity

Over the last decade there has been a resurgence driven by brands and bands that have expanded the reach of Carnival in Jamaica, attracting international audiences while re-engaging younger local participants.

The growth is undeniable. The visibility is global. The product is premium. But growth alone does not guarantee cultural ownership. And this is where the current debate — Soca versus Dancehall — misses the point.

The most successful festivals in the world are not defined solely by scale or tourism appeal. They are sustained by the people who claim them as their own. For Carnival in Jamaica to truly reach its full potential it must deepen its connection with the wider society. And that connection is built through familiarity, through sound, through culture, through identity.

In the 1990s, that connection was strengthened by the presence of Jamaican soca, music that reflected both the Carnival spirit and the Jamaican experience. It gave people something to identify with, something to anticipate, something to celebrate as their own. Today, that space remains underdeveloped.

Why the fusion matters

Until Jamaica fully establishes its own catalogue of Carnival-specific music, the inclusion of dancehall and reggae is not just appropriate; it is essential. It is what differentiates Carnival in Jamaica from every other Carnival in the region. Visitors do not come to Jamaica for replication, they come for distinction. They are here for the food, the culture, the hospitality, and critically, the music. The energy of dancehall on the road is not a disruption to Carnival, it is a reflection of who we are.

Soca and dancehall are not opposites. They are relatives; born of similar histories, shaped by similar rhythms, and carried by the same Caribbean pulse. The question, then, is not which one should dominate, the question is how we use both to build something that is unmistakably Jamaican.

Looking forward

Carnival in Jamaica is still evolving. Its next phase will not be defined by imitation, but by innovation. It will come from producers who see the opportunity to create a new sound; from DJs who understand the importance of balance; from brands that invest in cultural alignment, not just visibility; and from a public that demands an experience that feels like home.

Perhaps one day we will arrive at a sound uniquely our own, whether it is called soca, dancehall, or something entirely new. Until then, the path forward is not division. It is fusion. Because Carnival in Jamaica, at its best, has never been about choosing one identity over another. It has always been about bringing them together and letting the road decide.

Andrew Bellamy is a strategic curator of entertainment and event experiences. He serves as managing director of Yard Mas Carnival, I Love Soca Jamaica Ltd, and Sleek Radio 93FM. Known for his sharp business acumen, he has successfully aligned premium brands with high-impact lifestyle experiences, consistently bridging culture, commerce, and creativity to elevate Jamaican entertainment globally.

Disclaimer: The views expressed above are not necessarily those of the Jamaica Observer.