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The Kingston Kid

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In early 2007, Epic Records took an interest in Rotem's protégé, signing Kingston to a joint contract with Rotem and advancing the youngster enough money that he felt like a star for the first time. Kingston was 16.

Then "Beautiful Girls" began to get radio play, starting with Los Angeles station Power 106, and it didn't stop.

"I never knew it could happen so fast," Kingston says now. "It was amazing to me how big that song got."

Epic saw its opening and pushed to quickly get an album's worth of material from Kingston. Rotem had a month to help him do it.

"The single was taking off so quick, like way quicker than we expected, and we had to play catchup," Rotem says. "Every day we were making music together from afternoon until morning. We changed songs, verses, and hooks."

Listening to Kingston's self-titled debut album is like a walk through the mind of a 17-year-old with a lot to prove. What makes it stand out, however, is Kingston's fluidity, the way, with Rotem's help, he moves smoothly in and out of genres, creating an overall stew of reggae, pop, hip-hop, and doo-wop that remains crisp enough to appeal to 7-year-olds and 27-year-olds alike.

Kingston writes all the lyrics and keeps them clean. There's no profanity, no bragging about girls he's bedded, no attempt to portray gritty street life. "People don't want to hear a kid cursing," he says. "It's unnecessary. And that's not the kind of entertainer I want to be."

The second single off the album, "Me Love," has a patois chorus, poppy production, and an energetic, feel-good appeal that outstrips others' efforts at making reggae-crossover hits. This isn't Sean Paul or Shaggy. It's more like it's custom-made for the judges of the Teen Choice Awards ("Beautiful Girls" snagged two, for Best R&B Track and Best Summer Track). The flipside is that this kind of thing can get old fast. The "suicidal, suicidal" refrain from "Beautiful Girls" might sound different and even cool once, but it can also become annoyingly insipid with repeated play, just as Kingston can leave hipsters complaining he's too damn sweet.

"A lot of kids look up to Sean Kingston," Kingston says. "To me, that feels like an honor. I don't feel like a role model yet ... almost."

Kingston says he's sleeping less than ever these days and "flying more than a pilot." He's already appeared as a guest on MTV's The Hills, which he hopes is just his first acting gig. Still 17, he could tick off Japan, London, and Australia as his favorite locales. But when it came time to plan his 18th-birthday bash, he chose Ocho Rios, in Jamaica, where MTV would record the celebration and foot the bill.

Driving into Ocho Rios — "Ochi" to the locals — from Montego Bay on a Friday evening is tricky. You approach the city on a long, winding road crowded with shantytowns and jerk chicken huts that periodically fall away to reveal sublime tropical landscapes. The view is as poverty-stricken to your right as it is scenic on the left. There are traffic laws, but no one seems to follow them. Accidents abound. You hang on for dear life, and as you do, you notice the pink, yellow, and green posters whizzing by, taped to telephone poles, that read "Sean Kingston."

People in Jamaica love him, says his mom, who could not attend his birthday party because of parole restrictions. But he played a show here Christmas Day and flopped, at least one person says. "Him lose his culture," a cabdriver says as he whizzes through traffic. "People aren't sure if he can really do a stage show 'cause he only has three hits. Jamaicans want to see a lot of hits, like a Beenie [Man] or a Movado.... He's not there yet."

Indeed, Kingston has just one album so far. But when a local woman in her early twenties mentions his name that evening, all the other women around her begin to giggle and talk about how cute he is. "He doesn't need to lose a pound for me," one says. "Me love his big size and sexy voice," and she trails off singing the chorus to "Beautiful Girls."

His birthday party the next night is the talk of Ochi. There are rumors that Movado, Munga, Shaggy, and Beenie Man will come. (In fact only Shaggy showed up.) Tickets are going for the equivalent of $60. And someone's making a killing: The party is not even open to the public.

Kingston spends the day with friends and family. Everywhere he goes, a crowd gathers. People call his name and whip out camera phones. Traffic slows. When he visits his grandfather's famous studio, the streets are blocked off. He stops to eat fried chicken and is flanked by photographers from the local paper.

By nightfall, everything is ready for him at the Sunset Jamaica Grande Resort. Dancers and DJs entertain the crowd. Dressed in dark jeans, a white tee, and a white sport coat, Kingston makes his entrance to the screams of 200 friends and family members. A birthday greeting from his mom plays on a big screen: She says she has a Bentley Continental GT waiting at home for him, just like the one he got her. Of course, she seems to have bought it with his own money.

Kingston spends much of his time at the party dancing, posing for pictures with cute girls, toasting on the mike, and just clowning around. At midnight, he disappears for several hours, out of view of the cameras. Rumors circulate of an afterparty, the real party, where MTV won't be filming.

Around 3:30 a.m., the birthday boy reappears at Ocean's Eleven, a nightclub where thick ganja smoke wafts through the air and girls wearing next to nothing grind on men. Outside, the parking lot is packed with people burning spliffs and grilling jerk chicken. They're Ochi's rudeboys and dancehall queens, a much rougher element, from the looks of them, than anyone in the United States associates with Sean Kingston. Yet he seems at home milling through this crowd.

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