KENDRICK LAMAR AND THE LAST BASTION OF AMERICAN ARTISTRY

It was never going to be a fair fight. The moment Kendrick Lamar was announced as the Super Bowl halftime act, the battlefield was already soaked in gasoline, waiting for a single spark. And oh, what a glorious, roaring blaze it was.

Even the most curmudgeonly grandmothers—those shriveled old warhorses who spit venom at anything made after 1979—had to concede: this was pure, uncut artistry. No gimmicks. No bloated, commercialized nostalgia bait. Just a man standing before the behemoth of American excess and shoving art directly down its gullet.

I was three shots deep into the game, half-invested in a bet with my boyfriend, who—ever the foolhardy optimist—had put his faith in the Eagles. He was winning that bet (for now), but I had my money on something much larger. Would Kendrick deliver? Would he transcend? Would he, in the eyes of history, be granted entry into that elusive pantheon where music, performance, and raw human energy fuse into something resembling a religious experience?

By the time he hit Not Like Us, it wasn’t even a question. I watched my boyfriend pour another shot without a word, knowing he had lost.

Kendrick doesn’t just win. He eradicates.

There was a time when the music industry functioned like an unholy kingdom, ruled not by the most talented but by the most connected. Untouchable monarchs strode through the halls of power, insulated from the consequences of their own mediocrity.

But dynasties fall.

Puff Daddy—once the de facto Teflon Don of hip-hop—is watching his empire crumble in real-time, besieged by lawsuits and a reckoning long overdue.

And then there’s Drake.

Oh, the 6 God. The man who spent a decade at the top, singing about strippers and sadness, selling dreams to the masses while whispering just a little too often about underage women. A country divided on every issue imaginable seems to agree on at least one thing:

We hear he likes 'em young.

Now, his former throne sits under a shadow, and Kendrick has just firebombed the whole damn castle.

But Not Like Us is no longer just about Drake. It has morphed into something much bigger.

It’s the anthem of every person who played by the rules and got nothing for it.

We did what they told us. We went to college. We got the degree. We landed the “good” job—the one that promised stability, maybe even a house someday. But what did it get us? A lifelong subscription to debt, jobs that don’t pay enough to live, and the growing realization that we were lied to.

We see billionaires hoard wealth like dragons while entire generations drown in financial quicksand. We see politicians, industry titans, and media darlings shielded from accountability while the rest of us are told to grind harder for scraps.

So when Kendrick chants Not Like Us, it’s not just about one fallen rap god.

It’s about all of them.

The old guard. The ones who built the system and told us to trust it. The untouchables who rigged the game and still want us to believe that if we just work hard enough, we might get a seat at the table.

We won’t. Because they’re not like us.

So here’s to you, Kendrick.

A true genius, a musical artist, and a historically epic performer.

We are witnessing the rise of a GOAT in real-time—and for once, it feels like the right man is getting the spotlight.

Now somebody pour me another shot.