At Kingston’s legendary Harry J Studios, the Jamaican singer and producer reflects on the making of his latest album, the changing fortunes of dancehall and why he has little interest in the Reggae Revival label.
It is Tuesday night and World Music Views braved the evening traffic to meet with Runkus on Herb McKinley Drive in St Andrew, Jamaica, a day after it was officially revealed that he submitted his album to the Grammy.
He is already recording new music but we talked about the past, the future and the peculiar business of being a reggae artist in 2026.
Behind him sits an old gramophone, an appropriate piece of furniture in a studio whose history is inseparable from the development of Jamaican popular music. It is where Bob Marley & The Wailers recorded their first five Island Recorda sets in 1973. The contrast is difficult to miss. Here is a young musician preoccupied with pushing reggae into new territory, sitting in a room that serves as a reminder of how far the music has already travelled.
Runkus is a laid-back character. There is little of the manufactured intensity that often accompanies artists promoting a new record. He speaks casually, sometimes humorously, but his eloquence becomes apparent as the conversation develops. His answers are thoughtful, occasionally philosophical and frequently more expansive than the questions require. He is particularly animated when discussing the cultural responsibilities of musicians, the economics of the recording industry and the meaning of success.
His latest album, Supernova, released on May 1, has given him plenty to consider.
“It’s been an overwhelming joy, to say the least,” he says of the reception. “I think people fully can understand the world that me and my team, my producers, my friends, that we’re creating.”
He pauses on the question of longevity, something that will recur throughout our conversation.
“The music stands. That’s what I can say. The music stands. It stand the test, it will stand the test of time.”
He is pleased, too, by the broader output of Jamaican musicians this year and the recognition reggae has been receiving internationally.
“Jamaica release enough great music that year,” he says, pointing to last year’s all-Jamaican lineup of nominees in the Grammy reggae category. “There’s a lot of Caribbean awards that have been honoring the right people, in my opinion, and that’s the right leverage for our Caribbean people.”
The question of where reggae is heading inevitably brings us to the Reggae Revival, the term used to describe the generation of artists including Protoje, Chronixx and Kabaka Pyramid who helped bring renewed international attention to roots-oriented Jamaican music.
With several of its most prominent figures releasing albums this year, I ask whether the movement is still pursuing the same mission.
Runkus is unimpressed by the premise.
“I can’t comment on the Reggae Revival because I was never a part of it,” he says. “Reggae never died to be revived.”
He argues that the term was largely imposed on a generation of musicians by listeners and commentators rather than necessarily adopted by the artists themselves.
“I think people did put that title on the thing based on the youth now doing reggae,” he explains. “Whether people exclude themselves from a title or not, what happened is that people, meaning the listeners, will bestow sometimes something on the people dem, something weh you don’t even want.”
He is less interested in whether the movement continues to exist than in whether the music retains its cultural identity.
“All I know is the music is going forward, and the only way for the music to go forward is for us to also maintain the cultural aspects of the music.”
So he does not subscribe to the Reggae Revival?
“We’re not subscribed to nothing,” he replies. “Not Netflix, not Amazon Prime. We’re not subscribed.”
The humour is characteristic, but the underlying point is serious.
That independence extends to how he makes records.
For Supernova, he estimates that he created more than 170 songs and riddims before settling on the final selection. It was an unusually prolific process, punctuated by late-night telephone calls to collaborators whenever inspiration struck.
“I called people at 2 a.m., 3 a.m., just ready with ideas, always having ideas,” he says.
“I made like 170-odd songs for this record, 170-odd riddims, and that’s including music before and also excluding some other music before, because if I’m supposed to add up everything, it’s way more than that.”
The approach represents a change in his creative philosophy. Previously, he would spend a year attempting to make 14 exceptional songs. Now, he prefers to produce as much music as possible and allow the strongest material to emerge.
“Before, my process was making the best 14 songs I could all year, but now, me a make the best music and pick the best 14.”
There is a practical logic to this abundance. A song that seems unremarkable today may reveal itself differently months later.
“Sometimes a different time would reveal that that other song that I didn’t like, it revealed that it’s better now. Sometimes you hear things differently.”
He is careful not to present the album as a solitary accomplishment. His brother Prodigy DJ, along with KLX, Riddim Boss and Dre Day, contributed to the project.
“Everybody put dem building blocks,” he says. “I was a big part of the foundation, but there’s a lot of people that help build.”
For all this collaborative activity, Runkus remains independent of a record label. It is a position that affords creative control, though it also places responsibility for the commercial side of the business on the artist and his team.
“Oh, I’m independent,” he says. “But right now, we’re independent.”
Would he consider signing with a major label?
“We’re not fool inna music, so we know what a record deal can entail,” he replies. “But also, that being said, we’re not fool inna music. We know how to make the record deal work for us.”
His position is pragmatic rather than ideological. He does not regard a recording contract as inherently exploitative, but believes artists must understand the terms they accept.
“I feel like a lot of people who have bad record deals is because they made a bad deal. Now, if I make a bad deal, that’s on me.”
It is an unusually unsentimental view of an industry in which complaints about unfair contracts have become almost as familiar as the music itself.
Yet when the conversation turns to the Grammy Awards, his commercial pragmatism gives way to something more personal.
A nomination or victory would undoubtedly provide international exposure, but Runkus insists that the hardest part of the process is already behind him.
“As much as it would mean the world to me in the sense of accolades, the biggest accolade was finishing the record and putting it out,” he says.
“Anybody who’s creative knows that to finish something and put it out is the hardest thing.”
He offers congratulations to everyone who has managed to release an album this year, irrespective of whether the Recording Academy acknowledges it.
“Congratulations to all of the people who put out a record this year, whether they get considered or not, whether they get nominated or not, and whether they win or not.”
Then he begins listing the people for whom a Grammy would carry a significance beyond professional recognition.
“I have a little brother who is 19. Imagine my little brother win a Grammy. You see what I’m saying?”
There is also his uncle, who is incarcerated in Canada, and his father, the reggae musician Determined, who died last year.
“Imagine my uncle who is incarcerated in Canada, who would never win a Grammy, win a Grammy. Imagine my father who passed last year, who I sampled him on the record heavily, never win a Grammy before. Imagine him win a Grammy.”
The prospect of recognition for his late father appears to carry particular weight.
“I’m not really thinking about how it could affect me,” he says. “It definitely would affect me in positive ways, but it would also help a lot of people around me, which I think that’s the reason for artists to serve.”
Determined’s influence on his son extends far beyond the samples on Supernova. He was Runkus’ first musical reference point and the person responsible for introducing him to much of the reggae tradition.
“Determined is my first inspiration for sure,” he says.
Through his father, he encountered Bob Marley, Burning Spear and the earlier generations of Jamaican musicians whose recordings helped establish reggae internationally.
But his tastes were never confined to the genre.
As a schoolboy, he listened to American hip-hop and the dancehall music circulating through Jamaica’s buses and sound systems. He recalls searching for songs he heard in public, transferring them to MP3 players and attempting to reproduce the sounds himself.
His musical education later expanded to Damian Marley, John Mayer, Nina Simone and Erykah Badu.
“Me a start going on the quest of the roots,” he says. “Me a start expanding my mind.”
As he developed an interest in production, Kanye West, Timbaland and Pharrell Williams became important influences.
“As a producer, me a find Kanye West music, Timbaland music and Pharrell music. It really changed my life.”
He also singles out two producers, Jalanzo and Dre Day, who worked with his father and exposed him to contrasting approaches to music-making.
“Imagine you have Dre Day, who is a youth, a do some crazy futuristic thing. You have Jalanzo, who is like him in a reggae dub, roots reggae my deal with. So I had the best of both worlds.”
It is perhaps this combination of tradition and experimentation that explains his resistance to labels. Runkus appears to regard musical inheritance as something to build upon rather than preserve unchanged.
Does he feel pressure to live up to his father’s reputation?
“Pressure make diamond,” he says. “So I welcome the pressure.”
The conversation turns to dancehall, a genre whose present condition is frequently debated in Jamaica. Critics lament changes in lyrical content and production, while younger artists continue to attract large audiences at home and abroad.
Runkus is reluctant to join the pessimists.
“Dancehall has evolved. It’s at the highest peak that it can be in two different senses,” he says.
“Maybe musically, it’s not doing as great as the ’90s and 2000s, right? People would say. But in the ’90s and 2000s, people weren’t selling out the Barclays and all dem things, right?”
His argument is that the commercial achievements of contemporary dancehall cannot be separated from the decades of cultural work that preceded them.
“Because the music had to marinate and live, right? And expand.”
He also challenges the tendency to equate immediate commercial success with lasting cultural importance.
“When a rapper drop a tune, dem drop a tune and it go gold,” he says. “That’s because 500,000 people are readily listening to that song in like a week span. But ‘Til Shiloh will take 20 years or 12 years to do that.”
He is referring to Buju Banton’s influential 1995 album, using its long commercial life to illustrate the difference between a momentary hit and a recording that continues finding listeners across generations.
“For people that are listening to music 20 years from it dropping is a big deal, you know, as opposed to a song weh just hot for a week.”
It is a distinction he considers important when judging the current generation.
“The youth dem, the youth are the youth, and they will place the importance on the things that they think are important as a youth.”
He does not expect young dancehall artists to share the concerns of musicians who have reached a different stage of life.
“When you are a youth, a girl and ball game, you not think about work and house and land and car.”
Nevertheless, he hopes they will eventually recognise the opportunity to turn cultural influence into financial independence and greater international reach.
“Hopefully the youth eventually will say, ‘Oh, maybe we can become multimillionaires, or we can push this music further. Maybe we need a more positive message.’ Who knows?”
“But the youth have to, we have to champion that within ourselves first.”
It is a measured response to a debate often conducted in absolutes. Runkus neither romanticises the past nor dismisses the concerns about the present. Instead, he sees Jamaican music as something that develops according to the needs and ambitions of each generation.
His own ambitions, however, remain closely tied to Rastafarianism and the social function of music.
“Me is a Rastafari youth, see? And I’ve been Rastafari my whole life,” he says.
“My music is about the people. It’s about the people who don’t have a voice. It’s a voice of the voiceless.”
He describes songwriting as a way of telling personal stories that also reflect wider experiences.
“Majority of the things that I do is always for the people. It’s also telling my story that can also reflect in his story and his story.”
There is an almost old-fashioned seriousness to this conception of the artist’s role. In an industry increasingly organised around streaming numbers, viral moments and algorithmic visibility, Runkus speaks of truth, service and responsibility.
“What I love for my music is to continue to uplift the people and show the truth, the truth that are out there in the world.”
“Mankind is wicked, man. And the Almighty has blessed me with words, so I will take up that honor and continue to wave that banner.”
Before we finish, I ask him to imagine the moment he wins a Grammy. What would he feel?
“Gratitude, joy, triumphant, and to be honest, probably some sadness to come.”
The sadness, he explains, would come from the absence of his father.
“My father wouldn’t be here in a physical pursuit.”
He thinks of the people who have died, the people who have supported him and those who have not yet had the opportunity to achieve what they set out to do.
“The reason why we do it is for all of those who pass, for all of those who dare and actually want to win, and even those who don’t want to win.”
For those still trying to find their way, his message is straightforward.
“Don’t stop, don’t ever give up.”
Would he cry when his name is called for the Grammys?
“but I might, who knows?” he says. “Probably not for a camera though.”
Back at Harry J Studios, the old gramophone behind him offers a fitting image of the conversation. Runkus is making music for an industry transformed by technology, shifting tastes and new commercial realities. Yet his understanding of success remains rooted in something less easily measured: whether the work endures, whether it carries meaning and whether the people who helped make it possible share in its rewards.
For now, there is more music to record.
