Standing on top of a black 1987 Buick GNX at the recent Super Bowl halftime show, rapper Kendrick Lamar announced to a crowd of over 100,000 people, “The revolution about to be televised. You picked the right time but the wrong guy,” before delivering one of the most culturally poignant halftime
performances in the history of the Super Bowl. In addition to 133.5 million at-home viewers (beating Michael Jackson’s record for most-watched Super Bowl halftime show), Lamar’s live audience included President Donald Trump, marking the first time a sitting president has attended the Super Bowl.
Though separated by centuries of social, political, and cultural context, the image of Lamar performing in front of Trump brings to mind Shakespeare’s productions, often staged for the Queen and other elites of his time. What does it mean to perform art in front of immense power, and what responsibility does the artist have to use their position to amplify the voices of the masses? The answer to this question has shifted throughout time and space, and yet a certain continuity remains when we consider the implications of such enormous pressure and visibility. Let’s take a look at how Shakespeare navigated political commentary in front of a powerful audience, and how Kendrick Lamar has continued this legacy by answering the Civil Rights era call to “speak truth to power.”
Shakespeare on Tyranny
Stephen Greenblatt’s book Tyrant: Shakespeare on Politics examines Shakespeare’s observations about the patterns of political power-grabbers. Greenblatt points out that Shakespeare did not enjoy the luxury of being blatantly critical of power, explaining “it would have been suicidal” to do so on an Elizabethan stage. However, Greenblatt explains that, much like modern totalitarian regimes, “people developed techniques for speaking in code, addressing at one or more removes what most mattered to them” (7). By writing about Scottish rulers of legend and long dead British kings, Shakespeare could freely comment on the tragic effects of tyrannical rule and the social conditions that make people susceptible to the sway of a charismatic leader. Greenblatt argues that Shakespeare was deeply interested in how history’s tyrants managed to rise to power, and like every other aspect of the human condition, he sought to explore these questions through his plays. “Why, in some circumstances, does evidence of mendacity, crudeness or cruelty serve not as fatal disadvantage but as allure, attracting ardent followers?,” Greenblatt imagines Shakespeare asking. “Why do otherwise proud and self-respecting people submit to the sheer effrontery of the tyrant, his sense that he can get away with saying and doing anything he likes, his spectacular indecency?” (6).
Shakespeare engages with this phenomenon in his early work on the Henry VI trilogy, where, wishing to usurp the throne, we see the Duke of York manipulate the suffering of the masses. “The unscrupulous leader has no actual interest in bettering the lot of the poor,” Greenblatt explains. “Surrounded from birth with great wealth, his tastes run to extravagant luxuries, and he finds nothing remotely appealing in the lives of underclasses…But he sees that they can be made to further his ambitions,” (45). To accomplish this exploitation, York enlists a charismatic commoner named Jack Cade, who inspires an uprising with a combination of grandiose promises and anti-elitist rhetoric. “[The poor] have been left out of an economy that increasingly demands possession of a once-esoteric technology: literacy,” Greenblatt writes. “They do not imagine that they can master this new skill, nor does their leader propose that they undertake any education. It would hardly suit his purposes if they did so. What he does instead is manipulate their resentment of the educated,” (51). Shakespeare keenly observes how an oppressed, undereducated, and disenfranchised populace serves as kindling for an opportunist leader who is willing to light the match.
While Henry VI operates as a universal warning about tyrannical power, Richard II was famously used as a direct statement to the throne, whether or not Shakespeare intended it that way. A 1595 production of Richard II was financially backed by supporters of Robert Devereux, the recently disgraced Earl of Essex who many believed to have a claim to the throne should Queen Elizabeth fail to name a successor (2018). Greenblatt writes, “It would certainly appear that the performance of Richard II at the Globe was treading on very dangerous ground. After all, Shakespeare’s play staged for a mass audience the spectacle of the toppling and murder of a crowned king, together with the summary execution of the king’s principal advisers.” The message was not lost on its most powerful audience member. Following Essex’s execution for high treason, the Queen infamously told a court archivist, “I am Richard II; know ye not that?” (2018). It is unlikely that Shakespeare sought to criticize or threaten the power of the Queen, but his work is so often steeped in social and political commentary, that even now it continues to lend itself to narratives of resistance. It is for this reason that Shakespeare has often shown up in the culture and artistry of hip hop music.
Shakespeare, Hip Hop, and Kendrick Lamar
The road from Shakespeare to Kendrick Lamar is paved with much more than the act of performing for power. Hip hop has long been put in conversation with Shakespeare as an art form that relies heavily on poetic prowess, rhetorical mastery, and a nuanced understanding of the human condition. As a Folger article by Ronan Hatfull notes, “Shakespeare’s plots and characters have been harnessed by rappers such as Nas, Saul Williams, Stormzy, and Tupac to produce new interpretations of his work, draw parallels between past and present conflicts, and create a cultural shorthand which succinctly communicates the meaning of their work to listeners.” English teachers may be familiar with the popular classroom activity, “Shakespeare or Kendrick Lamar?”, during which students are tasked with attributing short lines of poetry to the correct artist.
The immense linguistic talent of an artist like Kendrick Lamar is only heightened by his propensity for shrewd social commentary — another commonality he shares with history’s most famous playwright. At the 2016 Grammy awards, Lamar performed his song “The Blacker the Berry”, wearing shackles and delivering lines like,
“You hate me, don’t you?
You hate my people, your plan is to terminate my culture”
and
“Cursed me till I’m dead
Church me with your fake prophesizing
that I’ma be just another slave in my head
Institutionalized manipulation and lies
Reciprocation of freedom only live in your eyes,
you hate me, don’t you?”
In his book Promise That You Will Sing About Me: The Power and Poetry of Kendrick Lamar, cultural critic Miles Marshall Lewis recalls the 2016 performance, saying, “He’s under no illusions about the fake niceties of micro-aggressive racists and he lets it be known…He’s aware of white supremacist plans for his community, their hatred for his culture. On the world’s biggest stage for celebrating music, Kendrick indicts everyone with ill intentions toward his people in prime time, unapologetically,” (57). This unapologetic resistance is not an isolated moment of Lamar’s career. His music consistently responds to the times, commenting on gun violence, police brutality, and what it means to be Black in America. In 2017, he released a track titled “The Heart Part 4” with the lyrics “Donald Trump is a chump” before going on to comment on Russian interference in the 2016 election.
And yet, February 9th, 2025 found Kendrick Lamar in front of an audience that far exceeded the Grammys—and in front of Trump himself. The halftime show was rife with political commentary and complex symbolism. Poet and creative writing professor Tiana Clark’s essay in The New York Times calls the performance, “13 minutes of profound protest art that compelled me to shout gleefully at my TV in response to the audacity I was witnessing.” Samuel L. Jackson plays the role of a score-keeping Uncle Sam in the “The Great American Game”, criticizing and penalizing Lamar throughout the performance, and delivering a loaded command to “Deduct one life!” in response to a choreographed moment of Black community solidarity. Clark comments on Jackson’s role as “striving to placate, subdue and dilute Mr. Lamar’s message,” adding, “At one point Mr. Jackson reprimanded Mr. Lamar, declaring his performance ‘too loud, too reckless, too ghetto.’” Jackson also points out that Lamar employs a literary device popularized by Shakespeare, calling Samuel L. Jackson’s performance a “play-within-a-play.” At one point, a group of Lamar’s dancers, consisting entirely of Black artists dressed in red, white, and blue, assembled to form the American flag with their bodies, symbolizing the fact that America was built on the backs of Black people. Lamar ended the set with a searing look to camera and the lyrics “Turn this TV off”. Jackson argues that he was asking viewers to do just that, saying, “I realized that, although I might not be able to stop the current onslaught of dispiriting news, I do have agency. I can turn off the TV.”
Kendrick Lamar certainly exercises more artistic freedom than Shakespeare was allowed, but that is not to say that he is without implied constraints. The Super Bowl took place on a field recently scrubbed of the words “End Racism” which had been in place since the racial justice reckoning of 2020 following the police murder of George Floyd. The NFL claimed this choice was not a response to Trump’s decision to attend the game, but for many, the coincidence seemed too on par with Trump’s sweeping elimination of Diversity, Equity, and Inclusion initiatives. Since the announcement of this policy change, many corporations have taken steps to roll back their DEI initiatives, presumably to avoid falling out of favor with the president and suffering financial and political losses as a result. The NFL has begun to fall in line with this new precedent, making Lamar’s halftime performance all the more poignant when juxtaposed with everything Trump has come to represent.
What, to Kendrick Lamar, is the Super Bowl?
So, how should we read Kendrick Lamar’s performance? It was at once joyful, snarky, full of bravado, and deeply rooted in Lamar’s interpretation of American Blackness. It also happened to take place in the center of one the most commercialized events in American culture, made possible by highly skilled and highly commodified athletes who, as this 2022 article points out, are 75% men of color. All this, at a time when the word oligarchy is frequently being used to describe the trajectory of the American government.
In 1852, Frederick Douglass was invited to deliver a Fourth of July speech in his hometown of Rochester, New York. The formerly enslaved abolitionist and statesman stepped in front of a large crowd celebrating American independence and grappled with the question, “What, to a slave, is the Fourth of July?”. Well-versed in the works of Shakespeare, Douglass quotes Julius Caesar to challenge the perception of America’s founding fathers as “great men” despite their desire to uphold the institution of slavery. “‘The evil that men do, lives after them,’” he recites, “‘The good is oft’ interred with their bones.’” Douglass goes on to lean boldly into the irony of his place at the podium, urging his audience to see the hypocrisy of their request for his participation in a celebration of patriotism while Black people remained enslaved throughout the country.
“The blessings in which you, this day, rejoice, are not enjoyed in common,” Douglass asserts. “The rich inheritance of justice, liberty, prosperity and independence, bequeathed by your fathers, is shared by you, not by me…To drag a man in fetters into the grand illuminated temple of liberty, and call upon him to join you in joyous anthems, were inhuman mockery and sacrilegious irony. Do you mean, citizens, to mock me, by asking me to speak to-day?”
Kendrick Lamar’s titanic presence at the Super Bowl, an event that is typically dripping with patriotic motifs and an underlying expectation to fall in line with American exceptionalism, accomplished a parallel message to Frederick Douglass’ powerful speech. Lamar accepted the invite despite the irony and hypocrisy of centering someone like him at an event like the Super Bowl in a historical moment like the one in which we are living. Through rap lyrics, theater, and choreography, he took to the podium and delivered his speech, asking all of us, “What, to a Black man in America, is the Super Bowl halftime show?”
Perhaps most impressively of all, Kendrick Lamar managed to package his confrontation and criticism of America with catchy beats, entertaining jabs at his (now officially defeated) rap rival Drake, and a visually captivating set production. These additional elements thinly veiled his statement of resistance, should viewers choose not to see it. Like Shakespeare, Lamar knows what he can get away with. He understands what is expected of him, and how he can work within the confines of his role as an entertainer to deliver a message that we all need to hear.
Below is Frederick Douglass’ answer to the titular question of his famous speech, which speaks to many of the emotions Kendrick Lamar evoked at the Super Bowl:
What, to the American slave, is your Fourth of July? I answer: a day that reveals to him, more than all other days in the year, the gross injustice and cruelty to which he is the constant victim. To him, your celebration is a sham; your boasted liberty, an unholy license; your national greatness, swelling vanity; your sounds of rejoicing are empty and heartless; your denunciations of tyrants, brass fronted impudence; your shouts of liberty and equality, hollow mockery; your prayers and hymns, your sermons and thanksgivings, with all your religious parade, and solemnity, are, to him, mere bombast, fraud, deception, impiety, and hypocrisy—a thin veil to cover up crimes which would disgrace a nation of savages. There is not a nation on the earth guilty of practices, more shocking and bloody, than are the people of these United States, at this very hour.
Sources
Greenblatt, Stephen. Tyrant: Shakespeare on Politics. W. W. Norton & Company, 2018.
Lewis, Miles Marshall. Promise That You Will Sing About Me: The Power and Poetry of Kendrick Lamar. Atria Books, 2020.
