@Rian Koerte

Lesser-known gems and crucial album tracks. Our editors regularly update this playlist—if you hear something you like, add it to your library.

By now, you hear Jamaican music even if you don't listen to it—in reggaetón, in Afroswing, in dancehall-derived strains of American rap. But the country remains a scene unto itself, a literal island with its own thriving musical language, from the pep of ska through the psychedelic textures of dub and the sweat-drenched thump of ragga. Consider this mix a postcard—the new, next, and crucial best of Jamaica, right now. We regularly update these tunes, so if you find yourself pulling a rewind, add that track to your library.

Lovers rock flourished from around 1975 to 1985, when Britain's Jamaican immigrants, the so-called "Windrush" generation, embraced a more romantic and less militantly political type of reggae. In the vein of smooth Jamaican crooners like Ken Boothe and John Holt, who'd been successful with reggae versions of romantic American pop material, lovers rock combined the smooth and melodic soul sounds of Philadelphia and Motown with heavy, sinuous basslines. Singers such as Winston Reedy and Honey Boy were among the subgenre's biggest stars, but lovers rock notably gave an even larger voice to young, black, British women: Carroll Thompson, Sandra Cross, and groups like Brown Sugar topped the charts with the help of producers including Dennis Bovell and Neil "Mad Professor" Fraser. After lovers rock made its mark in Britain, it subsequently caught the ears of listeners, dancers, and performers in Jamaica as well, and reggae stars like Dennis Brown and Gregory Isaacs began cutting their own lovers-rock tracks and completing the sound's island-to-isles circuit.

Dancehall took reggae’s formula—bass, recorded drums, four-beat rhythms—and pushed it to its sonic extreme, creating a drum-machine-driven sound that was still pop-friendly enough to cross over. Through artists like the socially conscious singer Buju Banton and provocateur Shabba Ranks—whose brash “toasting” rap style incensed traditionalists—dancehall exploded globally in the ‘90s. Shaggy and Sean Paul crafted radio-ready melodic hooks (both would later author huge international hit singles), while female deejays like Lady Saw and Tanya Stephens countered the genre's penchant for female objectification and glorifying violence.

Dub takes its name from the practice of “dubbing” reggae music. Starting in the late ‘60s, innovators like Osbourne “King Tubby” Ruddock and Lee “Scratch” Perry utilized the recording studio as its own instrument, adding new textures to well-known songs, subtracting the vocals, and dialing up the bass and kick drum to create hypnotic, heavy-hitting reggae edits. This collection captures dub at its peak through the lens of the aforementioned genre goliaths and peers like Joe Gibbs and Burning Spear. Approaches to dub can vary: The Soul Syndicate home in on hard grooves and get straight to the point, while Mad Professor’s warped productions unfurl much more slowly. But Augustus Pablo’s epochal “King Tubby Meets the Rockers Uptown” exemplifies the evolution of dub’s sonic signatures, with more melodic refrains and hints of pop hooks that highlight the increasing use of melodica in dub throughout the ‘70s.

While rocksteady’s moment of preeminence in late-‘60s Jamaica was brief, its many musical marvels are just as irresistible and infectiously joyful as anything that emerged from the ska scene that preceded it or the reggae revolution it helped spark. By slowing down the herky-jerky tempo of ska while retaining the staccato one-drop rhythm, rocksteady musicians developed a mellower means of keeping dancers moving while showcasing the more easygoing styles of singers like Alton Ellis, Ken Boothe, and Phyllis Dillon. The harmonies of vocal groups like The Melodians, The Paragons, and The Maytals were even sweeter. Rocksteady was also a launchpad for Bob Marley, Lee “Scratch” Perry, and many more future reggae stars who took advantage of the room to roam in this warm and spacious sound.

Roots reggae names a sound: upbeat guitar chords, deep bass, inventive drumming, maybe some organ to boot. But more than that, it describes a feeling that's at once urgent and relaxed, spiritual and earthy. Emerging in the early ‘70s as a reaction to the suffering of poor communities in Jamaica, roots reggae preached the ideals of Rastafarianism, with artists like Bob Marley advocating for peace on lilting tracks like "One Love." Third World made the genre's political roots explicit on "1865 (96° In the Shade)," the band recounting the story of a Jamaican slave rebellion over a melancholy rhythm.

As Jamaican music ripples through global culture via dancehall, rap, and reggaetón, a new generation has taken up the mantle, reaching back to the styles and themes that first sparked the roots movement in the mid-'60s. Not that these tracks look backwards; if anything, they stand as proof that the music’s values—family, uplift, perseverance, spirit—endure no matter what the era. Our editors are always switching up these selections, so if you hear something you like, add it to your library.

Like a mood board come to life, Major Lazer flaunt their inspirations, including reggae, rave, and superheroes. Their elaborate zombie-commando backstory takes after Gorillaz, another band ostensibly made of cartoon characters; their digital dancehall traces back to Wayne Smith's pioneering “Under Me Sleng Teng.” And their no-holds-barred cultural fusion has precedent in crunk-Latin mashups like “Culo Miami Mix,” from Pitbull, Mr. Vegas, & Lil Jon.