Kendrick Lamar knows how to command a stage, and his Super Bowl performance was no exception. Super Bowl halftime shows rarely leave room for real protest: in an event designed to cater to a mass audience (and more importantly, corporate sponsors), even the most politically charged performances get filtered through a lens of acceptability. But Lamar has never been interested in acceptability. His work is rooted in the contradictions of American identity—what it means to be Black, successful, and conscious in a system built on exploitation. He doesn’t just make music; he makes art that interrogates, challenges, and demands attention.
Lamar’s setlist was carefully chosen to showcase both his lyrical prowess and his ability to captivate the audience. He performed a mix of hits, including “HUMBLE”, “DNA.,” “All The Stars,” and “tv off,” each track adding to the energy and intensity of the set. The performance stood out not only for its music but also for the choreography, which elevated it to another level. Throughout the songs, Lamar was surrounded by dancers dressed in all blue or red, which could be read as either patriotic symbolism or a reference to the colors of the Crips and Bloods. Every movement was intentional, every step precise, reinforcing Lamar’s ability to invoke artistry across a variety of mediums.
In between songs, Samuel L. Jackson’s portrayal of Uncle Sam loomed large. Traditionally a symbol of American nationalism, he became something more ominous here—a specter of broken promises and systemic persecution. His commanding presence in the musical breaks was not just a visual choice but a historical indictment. He made references to the 1865 promise of 40 acres and a mule made to formerly enslaved Black Americans, a fleeting illusion of reparations that was almost immediately revoked, which left Black communities to navigate a nation that built its wealth on their labor while denying them economic agency. At one point, he ironically nagged at Lamar and warned him not to be “too loud, too reckless, too ghetto,” a phrase that has long been weaponized against Black expression, used to police and suppress joy, culture, and resistance.
By invoking this version of Uncle Sam, Lamar drew a direct line between past and present, exposing the ways in which America’s failure to make good on its commitments to Black citizens continues to shape reality. From redlining to mass incarceration, the systemic barriers to Black wealth accumulation are modern echoes of that unfulfilled promise. Uncle Sam wasn’t just a symbol of patriotism at one of our country’s most popular events—he was a reminder that the same structures that once denied 40 acres now manifest in racial wealth gaps, predatory economic policies, and ongoing disenfranchisement.
Adding another layer to the performance was Serena Williams, shown Crip Walking during one of Lamar’s songs. Williams, an icon in her own right, has her own history of disrupting the expectations placed upon Black excellence. Her Crip Walk after her Wimbledon victory in 2023 drew criticism from mainstream media, which painted the moment as inappropriate rather than celebratory. Seeing her dance during Lamar’s set was more than just a callback—it was an assertion of cultural ownership, a reminder that joy, movement, and defiance can all coexist. Her presence added yet another layer to the performance’s many coded messages, nodding both to her personal history and the broader discourse around power, respectability, and Black cultural expression.
And then there were the flags—an act of defiance orchestrated not by Lamar but rather by one of his dancers, who smuggled Palestinian and Sudanese flags onto the stage. Although not televised on many public streaming services, videos are available online of the dancer, while dancing on top of the on-set car, unfurling two Palestinian and Sudanese flags sewn together, then being chased and ultimately detained by stadium security. It was a fleeting yet politically charged moment, one that the NFL swiftly punished. This unsanctioned intervention disrupted the carefully controlled spectacle, forcing the union between Black liberation and global struggles for justice. While Lamar’s performance was already steeped in political imagery, the flags introduced an anti-imperialist dimension that mainstream media worked quickly to erase. In an era where solidarity across movements is increasingly visible but rarely acknowledged on corporate-sponsored platforms, this brief moment underscored the risks of unapproved resistance and the limits of how much radical messaging is truly allowed on a stage as conventional and massive as that of the Super Bowl.
Lamar’s lyrics, as always, were loaded. “The revolution ‘bout to be televised. You picked the right time but the wrong guy,” he rapped, a line that felt like both a warning and a lament. It acknowledged the weight of expectation placed on him, the way artists—especially Black artists—are often asked to serve as spokespeople for movements far larger than themselves. He seemed to say, “The revolution is happening, but don’t expect me to be your leader.” This is a fascinating contradiction: Lamar, one of the most politically conscious artists of his generation, pushing back against the very idea that he should be the one leading the charge.
But that’s exactly where the performance falters—not in execution, but in impact. For all its striking imagery and layered meaning, it left a lingering question: Could he have done more? Lamar is arguably one of the most popular artists at the moment, riding the high of five shiny new Grammy wins for his track “Not Like Us.” The Super Bowl Halftime Show is undeniably one of the biggest performances in the world. It’s a space where subtlety often gets lost, where moments need to be seismic to break through the noise. Lamar’s performance was calculated, thoughtful, and subversive—but was it enough?
There is an argument to be made that within the constraints of the Super Bowl, Lamar did what he could. He injected radical imagery into a space that usually rejects it, forcing millions of viewers to engage with a message they might have otherwise never seen. He brought a conversation about Black power, resistance, and art into America’s living rooms, whether they wanted it there or not. And in that sense, it was a success.
But there is another argument, too—one that says Lamar, with all his influence and artistry, could have taken it further. Could he have made the message even more explicit? Could he have used the moment not just to suggest revolution, but to call for direct action? In a performance that so clearly understood its own power, was there a missed opportunity to demand more from the audience, from the NFL, from the attending President Trump, from the nation as a whole?
Nonetheless, for all the layered meaning Lamar embedded in his performance, much of the backlash followed a predictable script. Conservative commentators rushed to criticize the show, but their complaints rarely addressed the actual political messaging. Instead, it was the same tired refrain: rap isn’t real music, and the halftime show was too aggressive, too chaotic, too out of step with "traditional" Super Bowl entertainment. In a way, this knee-jerk response reflects the exact resistance Lamar was critiquing—the refusal to engage with Black art as serious, meaningful, and worthy of the same consideration granted to other genres. If the loudest critics refuse to acknowledge the substance of the performance, does that suggest a larger futility in infusing mainstream entertainment with radical messaging? If an artist goes out of their way to make a statement and the only response is willful ignorance, what does that say about the limitations of protest within pop culture?
What’s undeniable is that Lamar’s performance mattered, commanding attention and sparking conversation well beyond the stage. It was a striking, necessary intervention in a space that often prioritizes spectacle over substance. It was a reminder that Black art is inherently political, that history lingers in every performance, and that even within the confines of a corporate-controlled event, there’s room to disrupt. But it was also a challenge—a call to think about what comes next, about how these messages move beyond the stage, about what revolution really looks like when it’s not just being televised, but lived. Artists must continue pushing boundaries, using their platforms to challenge power structures, while audiences must engage critically, amplifying voices that disrupt the status quo.
Sasha Jayne is a sophomore in the College studying Psychology, and is one of the current Commentary editors. Their true loves and passions are metal music, The Rocky Horror Picture Show, and wearing excessive amounts of black clothing.
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