Keeping it at home

Most musicians would fork over their firstborn to record songs with artists like the Neptunes, producer Scott Storch and Ashanti. Collaborating with such brand names practically guarantees major airplay.

But at this particular point in his career, dance-hall music superstar Sean Paul wanted none of it.

When Paul began recording the follow-up to his 6 million-selling album “Dutty Rock” – the CD most responsible for the recent explosion in modern Caribbean music – his record company encouraged him to work with the aforementioned commercial names. (The Neptunes he already knew from “Dutty.”)

But after cutting some demos with the stars, Paul shelved their work, electing instead to work only with young producers from his Jamaican home. That meant edgy guys like Don Corleon, Craig Parks and Rohan Fuller.

At first, Atlantic Records executives “were upset,” admits Paul.

But, he says, “it was very important to me to put the shine back on the kids from Jamaica who inspire me. I wanted to keep it all at home.”

You can hear the result on “The Trinity,” Paul’s third album, released Tuesday. It both extends the pop/dance-hall style that made him a star and mixes in a host of fresh, jittery beats.

Two years ago, Paul’s maddeningly catchy brand of island music, heard on smashes like “Get Busy” and “Gimme the Light,” helped change what constitutes pop.

While dance hall had been big with aficionados for years – and though Caribbean stars have enjoyed isolated U.S. hits – Paul’s clattering rhythms and raps seem to have altered mainstream radio in a more significant way.

After he opened the door, a host of island artists rushed through, including Kevin Lyttle, Rhianna and reggaeton’s Daddy Yankee. Soon, stars like Beyonce, Janet Jackson and the Black Eyed Peas were picking up island beats as they would the latest fashion accessory.

“For years, I would hear our music played in clubs alongside Jay Z and LL Cool J,” says Paul, “and I’d be upset for our genre.”

Paul’s breakthrough didn’t happen without some canny tinkering. Countering dance hall’s usual brusque cadences and brutal beats, Paul’s raps have a grace, while his beats have a loping flow.

“I try to use more melodies,” he explains. “And I use English with more clarity. People can hear what I’m saying.”

They can also gaze at his good looks, which can be a distraction.

“Some people say, ‘His looks have gotten him in that place,’ ” Paul admits. “But I’m coming from a place inside.”

Paul’s lyrics openly play to females, and he’s careful to avoid the sexism or homophobia of so many dance-hall stars. He also keeps his raps party-hearty – which he credits to his Jamaican heritage.

“We don’t have Ferris wheels and theme parks and zoos,” he says. “There’s so much sadness around. So people want to be happy and go to clubs.”

Paul did inject one wan song on the new CD, “Never Gonna Be the Same,” an ode to dead friends. But another, politically minded piece, “Time Rolls On,” was nixed by Atlantic for ruining the album’s mood.

He says he gave in on that small battle because he won the larger one to cut everything with young Jamaicans.

“Their grooves are faster,” Paul says. “I hope my records (with them) can again send music in a different direction.”