2 weeks ago
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It’s late Thursday morning, and Tony Kelly is already on his first call of the day with World Music Views. He speaks the way seasoned studio men often do—quietly, efficiently, and with a calm that suggests the work is already happening in his head. He isn’t the kind of producer who needs to announce himself. His résumé does that: a catalogue stacked with dancehall classics, reggae staples, and crossover moments that travelled much farther than he ever expected.
“I had no idea what I was doing,” he says, looking back on the start of his career.
At first, I assume the conversation will revolve around his latest protégé, J’Calm. But this call isn’t really about J’Calm—it’s about Tony Kelly. We talk new music and old rooms, about how the Jamaican sound is built, and about the ways it’s being diluted.
A new chapter: J’Calm’s Emotions
Kelly’s new project landed on Friday January 9, 2025, and he begins there.
“On Friday, January 9, we’re releasing Emotions, by J’Calm,” he says. “It’s a full body-of-work album—reggae-driven, dancehall-reggae driven.”
He explains the choice to work with the newest kid on the block.
J’Calm“I proposed the idea to him after following his journey for a while,” Kelly continues. “People see him as an R&B or pop artist, but I wanted to show that his voice and writing really work on reggae.”
The point isn’t that reggae needs validation from pop. It’s that Kelly hears an emotional range that he wants expressed as an album, not a scatter of singles.
“We crafted it like a cohesive project,” he says.
J’Calm’s Emotions arrives through Dubshot Records and Kelly notes, the young singer isn’t arriving clueless. “Jay produces a lot of his own music, sometimes mixes too,” Kelly says. “We worked as a real team.”
In Jamaica, talent is common. What’s rare is talent that reads as “from everywhere” while still being rooted at home. That’s how Kelly describes J’Calm’s effect on listeners.
“He keeps his music PG-13 and clean,” he says. “That’s important.”
The comparison people love to throw around—Michael Jackson—comes up. Kelly doesn’t lean into it, doesn’t exploit it, just observes how audiences respond.
“The response to him is global,” he says. “People think he’s from everywhere except Jamaica. Somalia, Nigeria, New York—you name it. What’s crazy is he’s never even left Jamaica.”
Early results, Kelly adds, back up the intuition. “His first song Tempted did really well. His first album Niche did extremely well financially—better than 99.9% of artists coming out of Jamaica.”
From Tuff Gong to timeless classics
Ask Kelly whether he entered the industry as producer or engineer and the answer comes without drama.
“As an engineer. I started at Tuff Gong Studios in 1985–86, when it was still by the museum. I was there for the whole transition when we moved it to Bell Road.”
It’s the kind of detail that instantly places him in the story of Jamaican recording rooms, moves and eras.
“My first number-one was Trash and Ready by Tristan Palmer,” he says. No. 1 in Jamaica back then meant your song was hot on the radio but Kelly also worked on early Billboard charting albums like Ziggy Marley’s Conscious Party (1988) which peaked at No. 23 on the 200 Albums Chart and won the Grammy for Best Reggae Album in 1989.
Kelly’s engineer brain lights up when the conversation turns to sound.
“Engineering is crucial,” he says, “but so is the human element. Technology now makes people think shortcuts work—but reggae and dancehall are about vibe.”
He talks about the era when drum machines arrived by way of Sly and Robbie and still somehow carried life.
“Even when drum machines came in,” he says, “how Steely or Clevie played them still had soul. Now people buy beats online that aren’t Jamaican-driven,” he says. “The foundation shifts, and when the foundation shifts, the music loses its identity.”
It’s not an argument against progress. It’s an argument against replacing the cultural centre of gravity.
What makes music truly Jamaican
Try to pin down what defines Jamaican music and Kelly keeps returning to one word.
“The vibe,” he says. “Jamaican music cuts deep. Whether it’s love, reality, or even gun songs, it’s usually defensive or emotional—not empty aggression. That’s why our music travels. It’s universal, not generic.”
Charts, success, and “music with visa”
Kelly has credits that reached Billboard, but he doesn’t talk like a man who checks the scoreboard.
“I don’t know my first Billboard hit,” he says. “I don’t track that.”
After 40 years of musical success Kelly sums it up to thinking bigger that the small island he came from.
“My philosophy has always been ‘make music with visa’—music that can travel. I just stay in the studio and work. God and the universe handle the rest.”
“King of the Dancehall”: the untold story
Kelly remembers the first time “King of the Dancehall” was declared in a song—not as an industry label, but as a line that landed in the Beenie Man song he produced.
“The beat was called Tyrell,” he says, “named in tribute to Beenie Man’s manager who was killed. When Beenie started voicing it, he kept saying ‘King of the Dancehall.’” That was the first time anyone really declared it like that in a song.
For years Beenie Man has worn the crown of Dancehall King but last year Reggae Sumfest crowned Vybz Kartel as the new King. Kelly has no appetite for the narrative that one artist steals another’s place.
“No one takes anyone’s spot,” he says. “Every era has space.”
Women in dancehall, and stepping back
Kelly spent several years working closely with Khalia before they eventually went their separate ways. “The industry is male-dominated,” he says. Kelly agrees that when women break, they break big—like Rihanna—but admits that it is a hard road. He notes that stepping back and giving Khalia full control of her music came down to personal reasons.
“2023 was devastating,” he says. “I lost both my parents. I had to step back and take care of myself. I gave artists their projects and wished them the best.”
What’s next
Kelly is back in project mode, drawn to work that feels purposeful rather than noisy.
“I’m finishing a dancehall EP with Wayne Marshall,” he says. “We’ve come from far. I’d still love to do a reggae album with him after.”
He’s clear about the lane he wants now.
“I’m focused on project-based work—new youth, meaningful music.”
English (US) ·