The Caribbean music market fumbled the bag. We had our shot… okay, maybe I’m overreacting — but am I?
Our region and culture are powerful — rich in talent, influence, and potential. Few would argue otherwise. Rihanna and Bob Marley are living proof of what we’re capable of producing.
But when it comes to our music — and more importantly, the business of our music — we suffer from a painful lack of vision and virtually zero investment in one of our greatest cultural exports.
On top of that, we’re segmented, competitive when we should be collaborative, and stubbornly individualistic in our approach. Put all that together, and you’ve got the perfect recipe for stifling an entire creative economy.
Let me level set: the Caribbean has a population of over 44 million people — about 6 million English speakers and 25 million Spanish speakers, plus communities speaking French, Dutch, and other languages. In business terms, that’s a massive Total Addressable Market.
Add another 10 million Caribbean people in the United States, including first- and second-generation diaspora. And these numbers don’t even reflect the broader cultural influence we have on non-Caribbean audiences in key markets like Miami, New York, and Atlanta.
So, with all that in mind, why isn’t Caribbean music — and our artists — truly mainstream? How is it that we have only a handful of household names, while so many of our other talented acts remain niche, unable to penetrate the global market at the same level as their American and European counterparts?
To put it in perspective, the Caribbean population is larger than the top five U.S. media markets combined:
•NYC – 7.5M
•LA – 6M
•Chicago – 3.5M
•Philadelphia – 3M
•Dallas – 2.8M
So, what gives? Why are we only able to point to a handful of vanguards in our music history?
It’s been more than a decade since Shaggy (multi-platinum) and Sean Paul (multi-platinum) broke through, and nearly half a century since our legend Bob Marley (ICON and only RIAA Diamond selling Jamaican act) reached global prominence in the ’70s.
Call me a fool if I’m missing something, but how have we not been able to leverage our numbers — both in the region and across the diaspora — to create more superstars of our genres? And I’m not just talking Reggae, Dancehall, and Soca; we’ve got Bachata, Zouk, Salsa, Compas — sounds capable of capturing hearts and moving people far beyond our borders.
So again, I ask: what’s going on?
A few years ago, when Afrobeats began its ascent into the mainstream, I sensed bitterness creeping in among our people. Mostly the artists — fans were too busy catching the fever, celebrating a sound that felt both familiar and unapologetically African. The spirit, the energy — infectious. Just like… drumroll, please… yes: Reggae and Dancehall back in the day.
And yet, within Caribbean music circles, people were tight. They couldn’t understand how this genre seemed to appear out of nowhere and suddenly dominate — taking what little space we held. That tiny corner where maybe one or two of our songs made it to radio, or popped up on TV, at any given time. Instead of building our own infrastructure to grow and compete, we were too busy trying to assimilate into someone else’s system.
Here’s the thing: we already had our chance in “di music business.” We had a real run. We set radio and the airwaves ablaze. We dominated music video countdowns with electric dance moves and riddims that had America losing its mind.
Beyoncé calling Sean Paul. Elephant Man signaling planes. Bounty Killer bodying “No Doubt” on their own track. Wayne Wonder, Rupee, Kevin Lyttle, Beenie, Buju — all charting, all over radio. We were the wave. And then… it all fizzled.
Here’s my question: how does a region of 50+ million brilliant people not command a real seat in the global mainstream? How does a meteoric rise turn into such a deafening silence? And why, decades later, can we still not incubate another global superstar on the level of Sean Paul or Shaggy?
There are a few reasons. But the biggest? Us.
The creative community. Our shortsighted Caribbean governments. We’ve failed to recognize that our music is just as addictive as sugar exports, just as potent as Blue Mountain coffee, and packed with the same escapism that drives people to our beaches. We’ve failed to see that the music industry deserves — and will deliver — serious investment and serious returns.
Yep — our creative superheroes, music-business gurus, and the people we were counting on to build infrastructure? They royally fucked it up.
I’ve been in this industry for 30+ years, and I watched the collapse happen firsthand.
Dancehall was the shiny new toy of the ’90s. It exploded onto the mainstream, colliding with and fueling Hip-Hop’s rise. Hip-Hop fans loved the raw energy and cultural magnetism — and that love opened the door for Caribbean artists to infiltrate the mainstream.
We had acts that didn’t just make great music — they captured attention. They translated across mediums: TV, radio, live shows, fashion, film. Shaggy. Shabba. Patra. And later, in the 2000s, Sean Paul, Kevin Lyttle, Wayne Wonder, Beenie Man — they all buss, and the world spun on its axis with zero resistance.
From what I saw, artist development back then was largely homegrown — fueled by talent, managers, and pure hustle. There was little to no institutional support from Caribbean governments. No serious investment in making the industry sustainable.
But here’s the part that really mattered: major labels.
They were the ones architecting the marketing and promotion that pushed these artists global. In the early days, Shabba and others benefited from Sony — driven by people like Vivian Scott, who fought tooth and nail in the boardrooms to make our music impossible to ignore. Shaggy had Virgin and later MCA. Sean Paul, Wayne Wonder, and others were backed through Atlantic Records via a partnership with VP Records. Reggae enthusiasts and executives like Craig Kallman and Joi Davis had enough influence in the building to ensure our records weren’t just heard — they competed for prime spots on radio, MTV, BET, and every platform that mattered.
That marketing and promo infrastructure — the ability to dedicate real resources to push our music — was the engine that drove the careers of these artists.
While all of this was happening, you could say WE — the collective Caribbean music industry and our governments — were nothing more than passenger princesses. Just sitting there, happy to be on the ride. Not organizing. Not learning. Not building the systems we’d need to sustain growth. We were content walking red carpets, basking in proximity to the “popular kids,” instead of seizing the chance to launch companies that could nurture homegrown talent for generations.
As my Trini homies would say: “We thought we reach.” No more musical innovation. No commitment to growing audiences. No serious collaboration with new, global genres. And most importantly, no urgency to invest in and develop our labels, distribution pipelines, and marketing engines needed to continue developing our artists.
We were cruising — and then controversy hit.
Negative LGBTQ sentiments started emanating from our region, and just like that, the major labels turned off the pipes that had been feeding our industry. The flow of support slowed to a drip. By the time we looked up, twenty years had passed — and Afrobeats and Reggaeton were having their big-ass moment.
Once again, I ask: how did 50 million-plus people allow that to happen?
We got lost. The industry evolved, streaming became the future, and we missed the memo. There wasn’t a single government initiative or incubator program in the Caribbean focused on electronic distribution or streaming. If I’m wrong, I’ll apologize — but tell me: how many music business programs exist in the Caribbean compared to the 50+ universities offering them in the U.S.?
The global music industry will generate an estimated $18–19 billion this year. Yet Caribbean music still isn’t treated as a serious sector for investment.
While the rest of the world was shifting to Spotify, Pandora, and YouTube Music — dealing in analytics and data — we were still pressing CDs and fighting for U.S. visas to tour. Soca? Still making music only for carnival season (they’re still doing that — but that’s another conversation).
We were slow to pivot. Slow to embrace the DIY wave. Slow to grasp that major labels were no longer the gatekeepers. A new wave of independent businesspeople was reshaping the industry — and we weren’t even in the room.
We lacked a collective vision to build infrastructure and push our music forward. And while we stalled, Afrobeats — powered by 50+ African nations and a population of over 1 billion — stepped up. Their sound was joyful, expansive, and culturally rich — not weighed down by the toxicity Dancehall had slipped into. Most of their breakout acts came via the UK, bringing a multicultural sensibility that made them instantly relatable to global audiences. Major labels in the UK seized the moment. The new music business was prioritizing Africa as the next “emerging” market for growth.
Meanwhile, we were still making carnival music for ourselves — side-eyeing the familiarity of Afrobeats and Reggaeton, frustrated at the lack of acknowledgment or credit, but doing little to evolve. We weren’t putting out anything fresh or innovative that tapped into the shifting global sensibilities.
Dancehall? Still glorifying violence and degrading women.
Soca? Still seasonal and monotonous.
Meanwhile, Burna Boy was making you dance and connecting you to deep African musical history. Bad Bunny was building an empire, spreading Latin sounds across 659 million people in Latin America and bleeding into Europe.
The truth? Dancehall had become insular — speaking only to a fraction of us. Not global. Not collaborative. Unwilling to reimagine how we present our hearts to the world. Trini-bad and other Dancehall offshoots rooted themselves in gang culture, mimicking Drill from the U.S. and UK — but by then, the shock value had worn off.
And the global music fans with real spending power? They’d evolved. This new generation valued self-healing, sustainability, social justice, cultural sovereignty. They were tech-savvy, hyper-informed, and spoiled for choice. One quick Google search and they could discover music from anywhere in the world. Meanwhile, what were we giving them to discover? The same old, same old.
Major labels themselves were shifting — less about artist development, more about functioning like loan companies: investing in startup artists with proven potential, then amplifying them with their machine.
Mainstream acts in Hip-Hop, R&B, and Alt were building their own audiences, launching labels, and using independent distributors to drive their business. Meanwhile, we were still waiting on the good old days when record companies cut big checks just to sign you.
Dem day done, fam.
Every Caribbean artist today needs to see themselves as a small business — some, not so small. With the right strategy and effort, they can scale into global competitors in this new landscape.
So again, I ask: with 50+ million people across the Caribbean and another 10+ million in the diaspora, why can’t we be our own audience — our own springboard — to launch sustainable, homegrown music companies?
And to Caribbean governments: how is our music not seen as an investable asset class? Not just culture, but commerce — a commodity, a currency, a driver of soft power and global influence. Other nations invest hard dollars into recording, marketing, touring, and exporting their artists. Why are we still treating music like a throwaway instead of one of our most valuable exports?
That lack of vision I mentioned earlier? Still haunting us.
Look at Shenseea (24M monthly Spotify listeners), Skillibeng (22M), Vybz Kartel (6M) — all growth stocks. They just need proper investment and infrastructure to scale into the next wave of Caribbean superstars.
With 50M+ potential consumers and a rich, diverse soundscape, we’ve got the foundation for a Caribbean music renaissance — one that’s self-powered, not reliant on major labels like before.
Am I naïve? Maybe. But I refuse to believe that buried within this 50M+ is not the next generation of moguls, visionaries, and platinum-selling acts — just waiting for a shot to spread their wings closer to home.
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