Silenced on the Airwaves: How Jamaica’s Own Music Fought to Be Heard

For much of the 1960s and into the 1970s, the soundtrack of Jamaica’s streets and dancehalls was curiously absent from its radios. While sound systems rattled zinc fences and drew crowds deep into the night, the island’s official airwaves remained tuned to foreign voices—British ballads, American crooners, orchestral jazz. Local music, born in the ghettos and steeped in struggle, was still considered too raw, too rebellious, and too reflective of the nation’s underbelly.

In a country known for its musical power, the most Jamaican of sounds had to fight for the right to be heard at home.

Colonial Echoes: The Early Radio Landscape

Before independence, Jamaica’s primary station—RJR (Radio Jamaica and Rediffusion)—was deeply tied to British colonial influence. It relayed BBC content, played European and American records, and largely ignored the cultural explosion happening in its own backyard. Even after independence in 1962, this pattern didn’t immediately change. Ska and mento might sneak into fringe programs, but the mainstream airwaves remained hostile to the voices of the working class.

The issue wasn’t just musical—it was social. Many broadcasters and programmers saw local genres as “slum music.” Reggae’s patois-heavy lyrics, Rastafarian themes, and street sensibilities were treated as uncouth or even subversive. Jamaican music was heard in dances and sound clashes, but not in respectable living rooms. Radio became yet another border drawn between uptown and downtown, elite and ordinary.

JBC and the Crack in the Wall

In 1959, the Jamaican government launched the Jamaica Broadcasting Corporation (JBC) as a step toward cultural self-reliance. Unlike RJR, JBC aimed to reflect Jamaican life—not just relay outside voices. Over time, it became more open to local content, especially as the 1970s approached. JBC began hiring producers and announcers from working-class backgrounds, many of whom were passionate about the sounds coming out of Trenchtown, Spanish Town, and beyond.

Yet the shift was slow and uneven. While some DJs pushed to include ska, reggae, and dub, others resisted. Censorship was common. Songs deemed too militant, too Rasta, or too politically charged were cut or banned. At a time when reggae was becoming Jamaica’s most powerful cultural export, it was still struggling to find space at home.

Selectors Without a Mic

For most of the 60s and 70s, the real tastemakers weren’t on the radio—they were behind sound system turntables. Selectors controlled what people heard, how they heard it, and how a community moved in response. If a tune could survive a dance, it didn’t need a radio hit. This created a strange disconnect: Jamaica’s most influential music lived in the streets, while its airwaves told a different story.

Some producers tried to bridge the gap, cutting “radio-friendly” versions or watering down lyrics. Others didn’t bother. The sound system remained the real platform, and as political unrest grew, it also became the safer one. On radio, a song might be silenced. In the dance, it could be rewound and celebrated.

Mikey Dread and the Breaking Point

By the late 1970s, one voice would finally blast open the gates. Michael “Mikey Dread” Campbell, a trained engineer and passionate sound system devotee, began working at JBC. Frustrated by the lack of reggae on air, he launched his own show—Dread at the Controls—and revolutionized Jamaican broadcasting.

He spoke in patois, used dub effects live on air, and played the same heavy roots and dub tracks that selectors spun in the streets. His show wasn’t just a playlist—it was a sound system on the radio, complete with reverb, riddims, and resistance. Audiences loved it. The establishment didn’t.

Eventually, JBC pushed back. Mikey left the station but continued to record, tour, and produce—becoming a cultural bridge between Jamaica and the world. But his brief moment on air proved something undeniable: Jamaican music didn’t need to change to be heard. The radio had to catch up.

The Peace Concert and the Turning Tide

In April 1978, Kingston’s National Stadium hosted the One Love Peace Concert, a moment charged with political urgency and musical power. Jamaica had been torn by years of violence, much of it inflamed by party rivalry and economic despair. On that night, sound system veterans, reggae pioneers, and political leaders shared the same stage. Most famously, Bob Marley brought Prime Minister Michael Manley and Opposition Leader Edward Seaga together in an onstage handshake—brief, symbolic, and unforgettable.

But beyond the photo op, the concert signaled something deeper: Jamaican music had become the conscience of the country. What had once been ignored or dismissed by the media was now the nation’s soundtrack. Radio stations could no longer deny its reach. Even the elites who once scoffed at reggae had to admit—this was Jamaica’s voice.

From Silence to Signal

By the close of the 1970s, the tide had turned. Reggae was played not just in dances but on daytime radio. The voices that once echoed only from speaker boxes now entered homes, taxis, and workplaces across the island. It didn’t happen easily, and it didn’t happen all at once. But thanks to the relentless pressure of sound system culture—and the artists, selectors, and producers who refused to stay silent—Jamaican music finally claimed its place on its own airwaves.

Not as background noise. But as truth. As power. As the sound of the people.