When Vybz Kartel was released from a Jamaican prison in August, I opened Spotify and started nostalgically playing dancehall classics. My enjoyment was short-lived after I stumbled on two violently homophobic songs by the reggae and dancehall artists Sizzla and Capleton. Didn’t we leave all this behind years ago? The songs were recorded in 2005 and 1993; both artists subsequently signed the Reggae Compassionate Act and renounced homophobia. So why are these songs on Spotify in 2024 – particularly when other infamously anti-gay songs are not? Buggering, by Capleton, is an abrasive condemnation of sex between two men that seemingly calls – in lyrics published on Spotify – for public beheading and shooting as punishment. Sizzla’s Nah Apologize was a response to the Stop Murder Music campaign, which called for dancehall artists to apologise for their anti-gay anthems and cease playing them. Sizzla’s lyrics are not just unrepentant, but advocate the fatal stoning of “biblical days”. Spotify’s hate content policy says: “We do not tolerate hate content that expressly or principally promotes, advocates, or incites hatred or violence against a group or individual based on characteristics, including race, religion, gender identity, sex, ethnicity, nationality, sexual orientation, veteran status or disability.” Yet these songs slipped through the net. Was Spotify aware they were on the platform? Returning to Spotify’s policy page, I noticed a caveat: “Cultural standards and sensitivities vary widely. There will always be content that is acceptable in some circumstances but is offensive in others.” At surface level this seemed fair: to censor rap, rock and any number of genres in between for problematic content would be the start of a slippery slope. Even some white supremacist acts managed to remain on the platform for a spell after others were removed. Is it problematic to censor Jamaican artists and not others? A Spotify spokesperson confirmed that the company is aware of the songs. “The tracks and artists in question have been reviewed, and the content does not violate platform policies,” it said in a statement. The songs were checked by humans, Spotify said, not just by AI scanning for trigger words. It said the tracks were also available on Amazon, Apple and YouTube, providing a context of wider advocacy. In reaching their decision, Spotify’s human reviewers – which include in-house and external consultants, and a panel of experts on its Safety Advisory Council – had taken account of Capleton and Sizzla being Rastafarians. This last point is interesting but controversial. Some claim that Rastafarians’ views on homosexuality derive from interpretations of the Old Testament: Sizzla’s Spotify bio describes him as “a member of the militant Bobo Ashanti sect [who] sometimes courted controversy with his strict adherence to their views, particularly his aggressive condemnations of homosexuals”. Spotify does not write all artist bios – some are written by artists or contributors – but I asked Spotify whether its reviewers had therefore deemed Sizzla’s lyrics an expression of cultural and religious beliefs. They did not respond. Some artists have self-censored: Buju Banton stopped performing his famed 1992 homophobic murder track Boom Bye Bye in 2007 and voluntarily removed it from streaming sites in 2019, sharing a statement that he recognised that “the song has caused much pain to listeners, as well as to my fans, my family and myself”. But there are many more still on the platform, such as Elephant Man’s 1999 track Nuh Like. “Some violative tracks have been removed in the past while others have been removed by the rights holders,” Spotify said. Glenroy Murray of J-Flag, Jamaica’s LGBTQ+ rights organisation, thinks educating audiences is the way forward, rather than simply removing the tracks from streaming platforms. “If a society or culture is fertile ground for hate music, censorship by itself solves nothing,” says Murray. “Spotify and other streaming services have a difficult task in determining hate content. A deeper understanding of dancehall shows that [just like rap] it requires the performance of toxic masculinity and is also very sexist.” He proposes that streaming platforms should add warnings and disclaimers, as Disney does regarding older, poorly dated content. “A similar approach can be attempted with music so younger audiences can understand the shifts in dancehall, rock and rap.” In recent years, new generations of dancehall artists have embraced LGBTQ+ rights. Shenseea and Spice have embraced the queer community and showcased same-sex relationships in their visuals; both performed at Toronto Pride. In Jamaica, while gay sex remains illegal, there are now Pride events on the island, and DJs at radio stations and live events have tacitly agreed not to play homophobic songs. At the same time, says Murray, some LGBTQ+ audiences in Jamaica have reclaimed some of this material as “a form of visibility and resistance in dancehall spaces, as in many ways they are the only songs that reference the community. Removal of them would act as a removal of that history of resistance. We would lose the opportunity for dialogue that these songs create for queer people with their friends and families.” Dr Aleema Gray, curator of the British Library’s Beyond the Bassline exhibition of Black British music, points to the existence of LGBTQ+ London club night Queer Bruk, aimed at queer POC, as an example of this reclamation: how it “fully embraces dancehall and sees the juxtaposition of two men kissing in a club listening to Buju Banton as part of their tradition of defiance and beauty”. Gray says that homophobic lyrics are just a small part of “dancehall music’s liberation theology of sex, gender identity and race as the creative expression of a people” and that the music and culture must not be misunderstood. “For those with histories of violence, erasure, subjugation and absence, like in the Caribbean, music is a cartography of the past and present, to understand who we are. Associating Rastafarianism with homophobia is an unhelpful narrative. The challenge,” she says, “is where you draw the line.” And how far you retrace this history: Trinidadian LGBTQ+ activist Jason Jones blames British colonial-era laws (such as the Buggery Act, in force from 1533 to 1828 in Britain and still in force in former British colonies including Jamaica) and American televangelism for spreading homophobia throughout the Caribbean. “People grow and learn at their own pace,” he says. “We need more nuance and empathy when addressing homophobic music in the Caribbean. A global north approach to human rights does not always work for the global south and can sometimes cause more harm. I would rather see resources and energy put into uplifting young queer dancehall and soca artists and getting their music out to the public. Let’s answer homophobic music with proudly joyous queer music.”