When Samuel L. Jackson stepped onto the field to introduce Kendrick Lamar's Super Bowl LIX halftime show, he took on the voice of an old, familiar figure: "Salutations, it's your Uncle Sam," he announced, donning a blue top hat adorned with white stars. "And this is the great American game." The moment was electrifying, instantly setting the stage for something bold, something meaningful.
For longtime fans of Lamar, this character needed no introduction. Uncle Sam had appeared before in To Pimp a Butterfly, where he symbolized the relentless pull of capitalism, tempting the rapper with material excess. "What you want, you? / A house or a car? / Forty acres and a mule, a piano, a guitar?" Lamar had rapped on "Wesley’s Theory," delivering the lines with a voice that slithered like a serpent in the Garden of Eden. This persona had always represented the tension between artistry and commerce, between creative expression and the demands of an industry built to consume.
On Sunday night, that theme was resurrected, but this time, Lamar took it a step further. The halftime show was sleek, controlled, and undeniably compelling—a masterclass in how to blend spectacle with meaning. For the first time in Super Bowl history, a solo rap artist headlined the event, and Lamar wasn’t about to waste the opportunity. With nearly two dozen Grammy Awards, a Pulitzer Prize, and a high-profile feud with Drake under his belt, he arrived at this moment with the weight of immense expectations. Would he use the biggest stage in American entertainment to highlight "Not Like Us," the diss track that had taken the music world by storm? Would he lean into his catalog of hits? And, most importantly, what did it mean for an artist with such a critical view of the industry to align himself with an organization that had once blacklisted Colin Kaepernick?
Rather than answering those questions outright, Lamar played with them, walking the tightrope between defiance and compliance. Uncle Sam, clad in a custom Bode suit, loomed over the performance like a gamemaster, measuring Lamar’s every move. His presence wasn’t just a nod to American football—it was a reflection on celebrity itself. Throughout the show, Lamar’s dancers moved in formations resembling the American flag, their red, white, and blue outfits evoking a sense of both patriotism and critique. Even the symbols from Squid Game—triangle, square, circle—appeared, reinforcing the idea that Lamar was navigating a dangerous, high-stakes competition where the rules were ever-changing.
The rapper opened with "Squabble Up," a track packed with raw energy, supported by an army of dancers cloaked in crimson. But just as the momentum built, Uncle Sam’s voice cut through the stadium: "Too loud, too reckless, too ghetto." The moment was jarring. Was Lamar playing into expectations, or challenging them? "Do you really know how to play the game?" Sam asked, a question that seemed to hover over the entire performance.
In a departure from typical Super Bowl sets, Lamar strategically avoided many of his biggest mainstream hits. Songs like "Alright," "Swimming Pools," and "Bitch Don’t Kill My Vibe"—tracks that defined his rise—were left off the setlist. Instead, he leaned into selections from GNX, including "Man at the Garden" and "Luther." The former felt like an intimate reflection, a meditative piece akin to morning affirmations, while the latter, featuring the smooth, honeyed vocals of SZA, provided a rare, tender moment in an otherwise intense performance. SZA’s surprise appearance was one of three unexpected guest spots, adding to the excitement of the night.
Even Uncle Sam seemed to approve—for a moment. "America wants nice and calm," he proclaimed after the duet. "Don't ruin the goodwill." The implication was clear: Lamar was welcome here, as long as he played by the rules. But could he ever truly abide by them?
Throughout the show, he toyed with the anticipation surrounding "Not Like Us," the track that had ignited his feud with Drake. Fans erupted when the opening chords teased the song, but Lamar held back. Instead, he turned to a dancer and quipped, "I'd love to play your favorite song, but you know ‘they’ like to sue." The jab was unmistakable—an allusion to Drake’s defamation lawsuit against UMG.
But Lamar wasn’t about to let a lawsuit silence him. As the performance neared its climax, he finally launched into "Not Like Us," and the crowd erupted. And then, just when it seemed like things couldn't get any more surreal, Serena Williams stepped onto the stage. The energy hit a fever pitch. This wasn’t just another performance; it was a moment.
Lamar reveled in it, slipping back into the nimble, playful energy that had defined his early work. He smirked directly at the camera as he called out his rival’s name, the moment dripping with both humor and menace. It was a show of defiance, a declaration that Lamar wouldn’t be boxed in. And yet, on this stage, in this year, it also felt like an act of compromise. The line between rebellion and participation blurred, and maybe that was the point all along.
Kendrick Lamar’s halftime show was more than just a performance—it was a statement. A negotiation. A game within a game. And, whether playing by the rules or breaking them, he made sure the world was watching.
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