This week, Kendrick Lamar took the Super Bowl stage and did what he always does—he made a statement. And like all pieces of art, some people got it, some didn’t, and some will be unpacking it for years. But make no mistake: this was a deliberate act of
defiance wrapped in a halftime show. A moment of subversion disguised as entertainment. A public rebuke camouflaged in a cultural spectacle.
Lamar has never been just an artist. He’s a storyteller, a prophet, and a master of layering meaning into his work. And if you weren’t paying attention, you might have missed what he was really saying. But for those who saw it? Whew. There was a lot going on!
The Hidden Transcript: What Kendrick Was Really Saying
James C. Scott, in Domination and the Arts of Resistance, describes something called the “hidden transcript”—the coded ways in which oppressed people speak truth to power when outright rebellion isn’t an option. Lamar is fluent in this language.
He knows the Super Bowl is not a protest stage—it’s corporate America’s halftime spectacle. He knows he’s playing within a system that has historically shut down explicit Black resistance. So instead, he does what generations of Black artists before him have done: he embeds the message beneath the surface, forces you to engage with it, to dissect it, to feel it even if you don’t fully understand it.
This isn’t new for him. Lamar has spent his entire career weaving hidden transcripts into his work. His Pulitzer Prize-winning album DAMN. was a meditation on power, race, and faith, wrestling with the contradictions of Black success in America. To Pimp a Butterfly was a manifesto on identity and exploitation, a love letter to Blackness wrapped in a critique of the machine that profits from it. It foreshadows Lamar’s Super Bowl Performance and the reaction it received— the audience wanted a song and a dance, but the artist resisted the exploitation of the art.
Hidden transcripts are not a new phenomenon—they are deeply embedded in biblical literature, particularly in the texts that liberation theologians have long used to articulate their belief in God’s preference for the oppressed. The Bible, especially in times of empire and occupation, is full of coded resistance language, stories, and apocalyptic visions that speak against domination without inviting immediate persecution.
Take the Book of Revelation, for instance. To the untrained eye, it reads like a cryptic fever dream—beasts, dragons, cosmic battles. But for those who understand the historical moment, it’s clear: John of Patmos wasn’t writing about some far-off, end-of-time scenario. He was writing about Rome. The empire. The beast that crushed those under its rule. The coded language of Revelation allowed early Christians to express defiance against a violent imperial system without putting their lives on the line. It was a survival mechanism, a theological cheat code.
Jesus himself spoke in hidden transcripts. His parables weren’t just quaint moral stories—they were radical, subversive critiques of the ruling elite. When he talked about the Kingdom of God, he wasn’t just talking about heaven; he was talking about a new order, one where the last would be first and the first would be last. That kind of rhetoric wasn’t just spiritual—it was deeply political, a direct challenge to the Roman occupation and the religious leaders who upheld the status quo.
Liberation theologians have long argued that the Bible is, at its core, a resistance document. From the Exodus story of enslaved people demanding their freedom to Jesus’ ministry among the poor and marginalized, scripture is full of moments where the oppressed speak truth to power—often in ways that their oppressors cannot immediately decipher. Like Kendrick Lamar’s performance, these texts operate on multiple levels. Some will see only the surface. Others will recognize the revolution just beneath.
Deciphering the Iconography and Symbolism
While I cannot speak for Lamar, there were some images that jumped off the screen at me. The first thing that stood out was the choreography during “Humble.” The fractured American flag imagery wasn’t accidental. That flag—carried by Black performers of all shades—was a redefinition of patriotism, a statement about who belongs in America and who historically hasn’t. It was a reminder that to be Black in America is to live in the tension between citizenship and exclusion. Between the promise of the flag and the reality of it. And yet, there was Lamar, standing in the center of it all, fully aware of the weight of that symbolism.
Then there was the giant game controller stage. Not just a cool set piece—this was a direct statement on control. As he rapped, “You can’t control us,” he stood inside a literal representation of the system that seeks to manipulate Black culture while exploiting it for profit. And this wasn’t just about the music industry. This was bigger than that. This was about the political system, the economic system, sports, the media—all of it. The ways in which Black creativity, labor, and bodies have been historically “played” like a game, used for entertainment but denied real agency. And right there, on the biggest stage in American pop culture, Lamar took back the controls.
And then there was Uncle Sam.
Samuel L. Jackson’s role as the living embodiment of America’s favorite propaganda icon was both hilarious and deeply unsettling. Uncle Sam—now reimagined as a cultural gatekeeper, questioning Lamar’s place in the “Great American Game”—wasn’t just a mascot. He was the voice of the establishment, the system itself speaking through an icon.
“Do you really know how to play the game?” Jackson sneered, mocking the way America sets impossible standards for Black success. “That’s what America wants. Nice, calm. You’re almost there, don’t mess this up.”
Sound familiar? It should. This is the same coded messaging Black athletes, entertainers, and professionals have been hearing for decades. Be talented, but not too bold. Be successful, but not too outspoken. Play the game, but never think you can change the rules.
And then came the most loaded line of all: “The old culture cheat code…scorekeeper, deduct one life.”
If you didn’t catch that one, let’s break it down. In gaming, a cheat code gives the player an advantage, an extra chance at survival. But here, in Lamar’s world, the “cheat code” wasn’t an unfair edge—it was community. It was the idea that Black people, through collectivism and cultural resilience, have always found ways to survive and thrive despite the odds. And yet, in the eyes of the system, even that is unacceptable. The moment Black people support each other? The moment they build something of their own? Deduct one life.
And Kendrick Lamar knows it well.
The Super Bowl as a Battlefield for Cultural Resistance
Lamar’s performance joins a long history of Black artists using the Super Bowl stage to make a statement—whether the audience realized it or not.
Beyoncé did it with Formation, invoking the Black Panthers. Prince did it with Purple Rain, refusing to water down his artistry. Lamar followed in their footsteps, using every tool at his disposal—symbolism, iconography, theatricality—to craft something that was more than a halftime show. It was resistance art in real-time.
And yet, there will always be people who miss the message. That’s the beauty of this kind of art. To some, it was just a cool show with great production. To others, it was a masterpiece of subversion.
Lamar knew this. He always does.
Because resistance isn’t just about what’s said—it’s about who has ears to hear.
And Kendrick Lamar? He made sure that for those who were really listening, the message came through loud and clear.
