Crazy, Scary, Spooky, Hilarious: When the butterfly becomes the pimp

Feb 22

Yashua's new weapon's call to action

Leave it to Kendrick to put America in a daze, sparking conversations about the truths we’ve been avoiding for far too long with an iconic Super Bowl performance—and to have me out here actually writing an essay about it. But that’s what great art does at its core: it gives people something to think about, to inspire discourse and action, to provoke, to be interpreted, and ultimately, to help us understand ourselves through the lens of others, the world we live in, and the roles we all play within it.

Since Kendrick’s performance, not only has it become the most-watched Super Bowl halftime show of all time, but he’s also made history as the first artist to have three albums simultaneously on the Billboard Top 10 and the first rap artist to surpass 100 million monthly listeners on Spotify. Now that is impact.

And while I envy those who get to experience Good Kid, M.A.A.D City for the first time, I’m even more proud and inspired. As a longtime fan, Kendrick’s music has always pushed me to dream bigger, to be unapologetically authentic, and to pay attention. Now, he’s made the world do the same—whether they like it or not.

I’m ecstatic to geek out over an artist I deeply respect and to share my interpretation of his message in each act of his performance in which he challenges us to look at the game we’re in, the roles we’ve played in it, and how the very systems that have long exploited us continue to do so. In true Kendrick fashion, he’s found a way to pimp the system itself—turning the very machine that’s used us, against itself—offering us a blueprint for how to break free.

SALUTATIONS

We’re greeted by Uncle Sam—Kendrick’s recurring character, most notably from To Pimp a Butterfly—this time played by none other than Samuel L. Jackson. Can I just say how brilliant that is? Using Jackson—a longtime activist, cultural icon, and a beloved figure in Black households—adds another layer of meaning. In his own way, he has long served as a double entendre: an actor who has portrayed the very oppression he’s fought against in real life. He’s played the house n*gger on TV, yet he’s also a fierce advocate for justice irl. His face, familiar and safe to much of America, is now being used to deliver a message designed to disrupt the very systems that allowed him to thrive. Chef’s kiss.

He introduces us to The Great American Game—on the surface, the game of football, but on a deeper level, the game we’ve all been playing, whether we realize it or not: capitalism, consumerism, racism, exploitation. A game where, much like in the NFL, the power remains concentrated at the top. Out of 32 NFL teams, 30 are owned by billionaires, while over 50% of the players—whose bodies fuel the industry—are Black men, earning an average salary of $886,000... The rabbit hole can go further, so let’s get into it.

ACT 1: The Messenger & The Trojan Horse

Kendrick’s affinity for Greek mythology and layered symbolism is no secret. As a master of double, triple, and even quadruple entendres, he plays with allegory like few others. And here, in Act 1, he does it to perfection.

The show opens with Kendrick on top of his GNX, a car that has long been associated with change, rebellion, and transformation. As he kneels—a charged symbol of resistance—wearing a familiar set of black gloves, a leather jacket (a nod to LA and his pen, Gloria), and a hat. But it’s not just a hat. This hat, adorned with an angel wing resembling Hermes', marks Kendrick as the divine messenger—the one who delivers messages from the gods to the mortals. Throughout his career, Kendrick has painted himself as a vessel for a higher calling, a conduit between the ancestors, the present, and the future. We’ve seen this in:

"Mortal Man"—his conversation with Pac, where Pac tells him, “We ain’t even really rappin’, we just letting our dead homies tell stories for us.”
"Mr. Morale"—his reflections on spiritual alignment and breaking generational curses.
"Reincarnated"—where he leans into the idea of his soul's mission.
"The Heart Part 5"—one of his most brilliant executions of spiritual and historical storytelling, where he embodies fallen Black men to share their final thoughts.

At this moment, he knows his purpose. He knows he’s here to awaken the ones who resonate. To disrupt. To reimagine what the world could be if love, authenticity, and connection were centered over capitalism, exploitation, and personal gain.

As Kendrick kneels, the beat intensifies. The message becomes clearer. Then we hear:

“The energy only circulates through us. Everybody must be judged. But this time, God only favoring us. 20 years in, still got that pen dedicated to bear her truth.”

This isn’t just a performance—this is a takeover. A coup. The deceivers have been deceived. The industry, the system, the NFL, corporate America—all of them invited Kendrick to this stage, expecting him to perform, to entertain. But what they got instead? A declaration of a revolution.

And then—the Trojan Horse reveals itself. From within the GNX, a cast of characters exits, ready for battle.

Kendrick steps forward, fully in his power, and delivers the line that shifts everything:

“The revolution about to be televised. You picked the right time, but the wrong guy.”

Let’s break this down:

It’s a direct homage to Gil Scott-Heron’s "The Revolution Will Not Be Televised." That poem spoke about how real revolution happens outside mainstream media’s control. But Kendrick flips it—this time, the revolution will be televised. This performance is the revolution. A pattern interrupt—the thing you thought was just a rap performance is actually a declaration of war.
The double entendre of "right time, wrong guy":
- America has picked the right time for change, but the wrong leaders to push it forward (a reference to the political climate).
- The NFL, corporate America, and the industry thought they picked the right guy to perform—but they actually picked the worst possible person for their agenda. Kendrick isn’t here to play along. He’s here to burn the whole system down.

Pimp, pimp hooray!

This isn’t a gift to the NFL. This is a coup. A warning to the people. An invitation and instruction on how to escape The Great American Game, exemplified on the field as a playstation controller. GENIUS.

From the GNX, we’re introduced to key symbolic figures, each representing different parts of Kendrick’s internal and external battle:

Women in red with half-red hair → Lucy/Lucifer, his shadow self. The devil on his shoulder, whispering in both ears—tempting him with vengeance and destruction. (Voices are a callback to voices used in TPAB)
Men in white tops & blue jeans → The dead homies. His ancestors, his angels, those who walk with him and protect him.
Men in red, white, and blue → The Americans. Not just the government but the entire structure of America—divided by colors (gangs, class, political affiliations), yet all still trapped in the same system.

As the beat drops, the Squabble Up begins.

“Somebody better squabble up.”

Translation? It’s time to fight.

We see Kendrick in the middle of it all—his shadow self (Lucy) on both sides, the voices of vengeance pushing him forward. But before he even begins to move, his dead homies (his angels) surround him. They’re anointing him for battle. Preparing him spiritually before he engages physically.

Squabble up begins. The performance is simply dope. Wild, yet precise. It’s almost sinister. Hungry for blood. And just as the troops begin to march and the battle is about to break out, we’re interrupted.

Uncle Sam reappears, critiquing Kendrick’s performance. He dismisses it—calling it too reckless, too loud, too ghetto.

This moment is powerful because it speaks to the way Black resistance is constantly policed and watered down. Kendrick isn’t just being silenced for his art and way of pushing against the powers that be—he’s being silenced because he’s too much for those who want to maintain control.

Uncle Sam delivers the question that sets up the next act:

"Mr. Lamar, do you really know how to play the game?"

This is the question that every revolutionary faces.

Do you fight within the system? Do you dismantle it from the inside? Do you burn it all to the ground? Or do you..

ACT 2: War or Peace?

Sit down and be humble?

We’re then cut to a shot of Kendrick and a group of Black men standing in formation, their bodies making up the American flag. (I shouldn’t even have to explain that, but if you’re new here—welcome to America, where the country was built on the backs and exploitation of Black people.) A striking and poignant representation of that message.

As HUMBLE. begins to play, the dancers’ movements are coordinated—muted, subdued, and precise. They don’t miss a beat. Kendrick, freely in the middle, is still leading the charge. But as his movements become looser and the song comes to an end, the dancers begin to march—back into formation. They’ve organized again, but this time in a more calculated, structured way. To me, this represents the many ways we have consistently asked for peace. We have protested peacefully. We have organized efficiently. We have followed our most palatable leaders. We have played the game. But even when we play by their rules, it’s still not enough.

Then, suddenly—gunshots.

The dancers scatter. The formation breaks. A leader has been killed, or perhaps it’s one of our own in the street, gunned down despite following all the rules. And when that happens, what do we do? We go back out to the streets—angry, protesting, marching, demanding change. Yet through it all, Kendrick is still here, reminding us what’s in our DNA: Royalty. Loyalty. War and peace. His choice to place this song here is poetic—it reinforces the duality within us, the tension between resistance and resilience.

As the dancers move, a divide emerges. Half run to one side of the field, while the others follow Kendrick, still trying to work together, still striving for change. But when Kendrick reaches the other side, those who had scattered are now fighting amongst themselves. It isn’t until he steps in front of them—reminding them of their DNA—that they begin to realign. Formation. Unity. Kendrick serves as the messenger, reminding us that rather than fighting one another, we have bigger battles to win.

The song ends. Euphoria begins to play. (Yes, this is the greatest diss track to ever exist, and yes, that includes Ice Cube’s No Vaseline.)

In the crowd, we see the words flash: “WARNING: WRONG WAY.” I interpreted this in a few ways:

Fighting with pure, unfiltered hate—the very hate expressed in the song—cannot be our only path forward.
As a country, we are heading in the wrong direction, electing regressive officials who are actively reversing the progress we have fought so hard for.
Perhaps we aren’t playing this game well at all. And maybe that’s okay. Maybe to truly progress, we have to bend the rules, break the mold, and rewrite the script entirely.

As Euphoria plays, we hear and breathing and chants. The dancers—the Americans—are preparing. Forget peace. They are reaping what has been sown, and it’s time for war.

Kendrick charges forward, his assembly behind him—coordinated, arms linked across colors, unified in purpose. Precision. Righteous fury. No longer asking, no longer waiting. They are taking back what is theirs. No questions asked. But as they march on, Euphoria fades..

**ACT 3: Meditate, Then Off Your F*ckin Head**

I Deserve It All. In this scene, it seems as if Kendrick is consulting with his dead homies through the song Man at the Garden—a track meant to remind us that despite everything we've endured, we deserve it all. As a viewer, I want you to ask yourself: is he in a garden or a cemetery, speaking to his loved ones? You might think it's a garden, but as the song takes on a somber yet reflective tone, with rain softly falling in the background, the deeper meaning suggests something else: Kendrick is meditating amongst his ancestors, his angels - not in a garden of daisies, but in a garden of wisdom as they remind him of who he is, his birthright, and what he deserves.

This is the perfect moment for him to sit with his ancestors, to let their voices pour into him. He has been obedient in using his gifts to change the world, and now, they remind him of his purpose as he continues to lead the culture forward. The energy is communal, sacred. And just like before—just as we begin to unite and empower ourselves in our sovereignty—here comes Uncle Sam, who has been watching closely the entire time.

And what does Uncle Sam tell us? That bringing the homies, collaborating, and organizing is the "culture cheat code." They know the way to escape the game. And the more we become enlightened, and work together, the more the system wants to shut us down. And what happens every time we make progress?

"Scorekeeper: Deduct one life."

Cut to the X.

Probably my absolute favorite part of this entire performance.

Peekaboo begins to play. The angels in the X are riled up. I interpreted this moment in a few ways.

Connection to the Spirit Realm – Everyone dressed in white represents those who have passed. They are ready for war, ready to protect Kendrick as he returns to the world with newfound knowledge. In video games, an X usually signifies death, and here, those dressed in white symbolize the ancestors who have already transitioned. Meanwhile, on the outside of the X, figures dressed in red peer through the glass, curious, paranoid, whispering, "What they talking about? They ain't talking about nothing." But the truth is, Kendrick’s dead homies and ancestors, and even possibly our passed leaders are giving him the codes—the understanding and enlightenment needed to beat the enemy, to beat the game.
A Deeper Interpretation – This moment ties into a broader, darker theme that could go even further, but for the sake of staying on track, I'll let you sit with this thought and if you want to dig deeper, start here and tell me what you think.

As the song ends, enter Kendrick’s angels—women dressed in white, embodying the angel on his shoulder, urging him to play wisely now that he holds the knowledge to truly win. But temptation lingers. The beat to Not Like Us stirs, signaling that he’s still considering delivering the final blow. Yet, instead of unleashing fury, he calls on the angels to do him a favor—to slow it down. And in their trance-like voices, they guide him toward SZA, who stands atop the upside-down triangle.

Then, Luther begins to play.

Kendrick leads in an orderly, snake-like fashion, almost hypnotically drawn toward SZA. Her presence, her aura, puts the audience into a collective trance. She is the divine feminine energy balancing his fire, his ferocity. The upside-down triangle she stands upon is no accident—it symbolizes feminine power, a counterbalance to the masculine force Kendrick embodies. Together, they create equilibrium. Because who are we, if not powerful when black women and black men unite? That union, that synthesis of strength, is what the system fears most. And Kendrick understands this, so he wields it to his advantage.

As the performance continues, Kendrick and SZA move onto the circle. He begins rapping, while in the background, we witness people organizing in the streets—coordinating, marching, preparing. The moment is powerful. All the Stars plays—a song that holds deep cultural significance, evoking the unity and pride we felt during Black Panther’s release. It’s a reminder of our beauty, our strength, our collective power.

Just as we’re vibing—just as we think we’re playing by Uncle Sam’s rules, lulling him into a false sense of control—Not Like Us cuts in, disrupting the illusion. Uncle Sam might have thought he won, thought Kendrick had submitted to the game. But Kendrick lets us know: he’s playing by his own rules now. And his angels? Are here for it.

This decisive moment encapsulates Kendrick’s ongoing battle—the struggle between choosing peace over rest in peace, between wielding his light or fighting for what he knows is right. He stands at a crossroads: to be the bearer of grace, or the wielder of the sword. And in this final act, he makes his stance clear: sometimes, blood must be shed for true change to happen.

ACT 4: This Is Bigger Than the Music

OH NO! As Dot stands surrounded by his angels, supporting his next move, he delivers the final blow—the real message:

“40 Acres and a Mule. This is bigger than the music.”

For those unaware, "40 acres and a mule" was the promise made to formerly enslaved African Americans as reparations for centuries of oppression. Of course, as with many promises made to the Black community, this was never fulfilled—leading to systemic disadvantages that have widened the racial wealth gap and perpetuated poverty, violence, and racism. That unkept promise laid the foundation for the ongoing exploitation of Black people—their labor, their art, their culture, and their lives.

So, is he really going to sing the song? Yes. But this "beef" doesn’t even begin to compare to what’s really at stake—for us, for our culture, for our progress. Have you noticed throughout this entire piece that I haven’t mentioned Drake once? That’s because Drake is merely an example, a representation of everything Kendrick stands against. He is a voyager, an exploiter of Black culture and Black talent for personal gain.

I’ve always said that after Nothing Was the Same dropped, well… nothing was the same. I could never quite put my finger on it. I thought maybe I had just outgrown his music. Sure, he had the occasional hit—Hotline Bling, Passionfruit—but something was missing. That raw, authentic storytelling that once drew me into October’s Very Own had faded. The self-proclaimed "Man of the Year" lost his way, morphing into a persona that wasn’t truly his—rapping about violence, gang life, and anything else he could use to connect with the Black community. He was using our pain for his gain.

And I, too, hate when Drake acts tough. I truly miss Drake with the melodies!!

The fake tough act, the clout-chasing circles, the cultural leeching—it’s all perfectly encapsulated in Not Like Us. Drake has latched onto our community for personal gain, telling stories of struggles he’s never lived, exploiting Blackness for fame.

In other words: He doesn’t even go here. And his real name is Clarence.

(Pop culture babes, I hope you caught those references.)

Drake represents everything Kendrick has been rapping against for his entire career. He is the system—the same system that pledges allegiance to Blackness when it’s convenient. A system that rewards mediocrity while allowing those who truly do the work to be minimized or erased. A system that wears Blackness as a costume to make it more palatable for the masses. A system that exploits Black people— of their labor, their art, their culture, and their lives.

And now? This system has gone beyond just our community. Across class, politics, and colors—everyone is trapped within its cycle.

We’re at a pivotal moment in this country. The system that has already taken so much from us still demands more. Billionaire figureheads, who care nothing for the people they profit from, run this country. The same system that enslaved Black people to build this nation for free is still at play today—whether in the music industry (UMG, Sony), the NFL, or the corporations that spend millions on advertisements just to keep us feeding into it. If this so-called "beef" was what we needed to open our eyes, so be it and if Kendrick is the superhero fighting to dismantle these systems, Drake is his arch-nemesis, ensuring they thrive.

By using the very platform that brought him here—the stage, the spectacle, the entertainment— Kendrick has pimped the system brilliantly.

He turned it against itself. He delivered a final, devastating blow, not just to his opponent but to the entire system that enables him.

"They tried to rig the game, but you can’t fake influence."

Kendrick stands with his angels, proud, knowing the final strike is about to land.

This game—this capitalist, exploitative, systemic game—isn’t won by pandering or playing along. Real power doesn’t come from quick pop hits or momentary radio fame and lies. Real power comes from authenticity. From truth. From leadership.

Drake and others significantly underestimated Kendrick—not because of his skill, but because they weren’t paying attention.

Kendrick is showing us, just as he’s done his entire career to those that have followed him— just what happens when you own yourself—your light, your darkness, your power. He is showing us the importance of understanding the systems we are trapped in and the ways in which we can liberate ourselves. He is showing us that faith, obedience, togetherness, and truth will always disrupt the corrupt.

That is where the revolution lies.

If we want to change the world, we must first change ourselves. Kendrick’s ability to evolve, to endure, to rise through his struggles, and to return with a message for the next generation aligns him with the greatest leaders our community has ever known. This was the ignition of the torch that had already been passed to him.

Talk about being more like Nelson.

As Not Like Us plays, we see a field of the Americans in alignment—precise, militant, unified as Kendrick delivers this message directly to the system.

One of my favorite moments? When everyone drops down as if they’ve died, and you see "the dead homies" rejoicing in a circle—still protecting, and proud. When everyone re-gathers around him, he looks straight into the camera, locking eyes with his enemy and everything he represents.

"Say Drake!”

And the Americans on the field? No longer divided. As the dance progresses, they are now coordinating each other, shaking hands, and tagging each other in, recognizing that this fight isn’t about petty differences but about something far greater. And on each part of the game controller, you see people dressed in all black—dancing, excited, and watching. I believe this represents the people he’s bringing into a new consciousness. Whether American or not, everyone is unified in black, with nothing separating them but their position on the field—symbolizing that we are not so different from one another. We are all part of this system, and if we pay attention and work together, we can find our way out.

And the Serena cameo? Beautiful.

Yes, she’s an ex of Drake and an LA native, but more importantly, she crip walks—just as she did after winning Wimbledon. Back then, she was heavily scrutinized for it. Her authenticity wasn’t "approved" by a system that only celebrated her talents when it suited them. She was “Too Loud. Too reckless. Too ghetto”. A perfect addition to Kendrick’s message.

As the final words of Not Like Us ring out—

The camera pans out, showing everyone in unity, showing power, showing readiness. Everyone is marching. Ready. Militant. The revolution is here.

So, what is Kendrick’s final message? And how do we win this game? It’s simple: "MUSTERRRRRRRRR!”

Because if you thought he was just shouting his producer’s name, my dear, I’m afraid you haven’t been paying attention. To Muster is to assemble (the troops) for inspection or battle, and in this performance, he’s done just that.

As the beat for TV off drops, we see the troops—assembled, marching, prepared. pgLang flags are flying in the background. The Trojan horse has been emptied. The soldiers are ready. The message has been sent, and the revolution has begun.

And his final instruction?

Turn the TV off. Because this revolution will not be televised.

CultureMusicKendrick Lamar

N'Deyah Belle