What Kendrick Lamar's Halftime Show Said

Yahoo

12-02-2025

The Super Bowl halftime show is an opportunity for big, dumb fun: explosions, laser shows, left sharks. But big, dumb fun isn't Kendrick Lamar's thing. The 37-year-old Los Angeles rapper and Pulitzer Prize winner prefers subtlety, smarts, and fun that's tinged with danger and unease. Amid tough, tense circumstances, he put on a tough, tense—and quite satisfying—show.
The event framed itself in self-conscious terms. 'This is the great American game,' Samuel L. Jackson, dressed as Uncle Sam, announced at the start. He probably wasn't just referring to football. Lamar himself was about to run a familiar artistic gantlet: the struggle to keep one's integrity intact while entertaining the masses. The stage was set up in a tic-tac-toe design, and Jackson popped up at various times to score the proceedings. Lamar rapped with intense focus, nailing every bit of elegantly herky-jerky choreography. But his face also conveyed anxiety, even fear. We knew that he knew he was being watched.
One of the people watching was Donald Trump, in attendance in New Orleans on a brief break from upending the federal government. Lamar is widely seen as the social conscience of his generation of rappers, and he knew he was expected to make a statement of some sort. 'The revolution's about to be televised,' Lamar announced early on. But he added, 'You picked the right time but the wrong guy.' One possible meaning: I'm not your revolutionary. It's the same message he's repeatedly conveyed on his albums over the years, replying to onlookers who want him to be more of a messiah than a musician.
Even so, he flirted with politics during the performance. Lamar rapped from the hood of a Buick GNX—the car that he, on his latest album, has held up as a symbolic trophy of his struggle to survive the violence and poverty he was raised amid in gangland Compton. His dancers' red, white, and blue outfits evoked Crips and Bloods, which made it a bit stunning when they lined up to form an American flag, and raised their fists in what looked like the Black Power salute. Here was a vision of American pride from a group often locked out of the American dream. But also, here was a rapper playing that 'great American game,' provoking while staying patriotic.
(A sharper bit of messaging was spelled out when one of Lamar's dancers unfurled a flag representing Gaza and Sudan. The performer was tackled by security; 'No one involved with the production was aware of the individual's intent,' the NFL said in a statement afterward.)
Arguably the bigger risk Lamar took was in egging on his feud with Drake, which has embroiled the hip-hop world for nearly a year. Lamar has been riding a wave of acclaim for his diss track 'Not Like Us,' which catchily claims that Drake is a pedophile. Drake has denied the song's allegations and sued Universal Music Group, the label that the two rappers share, for promoting defamatory material. Lamar's song won Song of the Year and Record of the Year at last week's Grammys, but even so, it seemed possible that his own lawyers would forbid him from playing the song on live TV.
[Read: The hip-hop halftime show was an overdue triumph]
Lamar made a meal out of this suspense. 'I want to perform their favorite song, but you know they love to sue,' he said midway through the set before a snippet of the track's beat played. When he finally launched into the full song, he scooted forward onstage as the camera moved backwards, as if he were stalking prey just behind the lens. When Lamar finally said Drake's name, he cocked his head and gave one of his only smiles of the night: a devious, cartoon-villain grin.
This was the moment that the halftime show went from studious art piece to hall-of-fame-worthy TV. The arena hooted for the song's nastiest punch line alleging underage predilections: 'Tryna strike a chord and it's probably A minor.' Serena Williams, the tennis legend who happens to be one of Drake's exes, made a surprise appearance, clearly having a blast. In this rap battle, Lamar has styled himself as a force for good, a protector of hip-hop's authenticity. But as the halftime show reached its full, delirious peak, the weight of righteousness seemed to melt away—leaving, simply, a great entertainer.
Article originally published at The Atlantic