Can You Separate the Art from the Artist? The Kendrick Lamar vs. Drake Feud as a Cultural Moment
6 min read
The Kendrick Lamar and Drake feud reignites the age-old debate – can we separate art from the artist? At its core, this rivalry reflects a deeper clash between artistic integrity and commercial success, with Kendrick positioning himself as hip-hop’s purist while Drake thrives as an industry-backed, genre-blending powerhouse. Once collaborators, their tension has escalated into a cultural display, culminating in Kendrick’s pointed Super Bowl performance. As the feud unfolds, it exposes how the music industry manufactures and profits from controversy, raising bigger questions – not just about authenticity in hip-hop, but about how much we’re willing to tolerate in the art we consume.
I’m not a hip-hop expert. I’m not here to break down the nuances of flow, rhyme schemes, or battle rap strategy. But for those like me – outsiders looking in – this isn’t just about hip-hop. It’s a reflection of something bigger: authenticity vs. marketability, credibility vs. influence, the blurred line between personal grievances and public performance. And, of course, it raises that age-old question – can we separate the art from the artist?
The Mixtape of Morality
Answers to the latter question usually split into two camps. On one side, you have purists who insist that art can be judged independently of the personal lives of its creators. On the other, those who argue that art is inseparable from its creator as it’s an extension of their worldview, values, and (sometimes) their transgressions.
Hip-hop, like all genres to some degree, thrives on authenticity – or at least the perception of it – making it a useful focus point. What happens when an artist’s "realness" includes things that make you want to stop dancing and start two-stepping out the door? Can we nod along to the beat while cringing at the biography? Can we separate a classic album from the person who made it, even when their actions are at odds with our ethics?
Hip-hop, like most genres and art forms, has blurred the line between art and reality for decades. But for the past few years, a consecutive number of hip-hop – or hip-hop-adjacent – artists have found their realities sitting at the intersection of music, industry politics, and public opinion:
Kanye West – Once a universally lauded artist, Ye has tested the patience of even his most devoted fans with a litany of jaw-dropping statements and actions.
R. Kelly – Unlike Kanye, whose offences lie more in inflammatory rhetoric, Kelly’s crimes make it nearly impossible to hear anything he’s written without wanting to take a scalding shower.
P. Diddy – Once a larger-than-life mogul, now facing allegations that threaten his legacy. His reality isn’t just about music – it’s about power, accountability, and what happens when public perception turns against an industry giant.
Which brings us to Kendrick Lamar vs. Drake – a rivalry that started as competition but has now evolved into a cultural flash mob. Fans can pretend to be “just here for the music,” but the reality of these feuds is you’re forced to pick a side, to dissect lyrics for hidden meanings, and debate who deserves to “win.”
Because if we listen to and enjoy Not Like Us, are we endorsing its allegations? And if we keep Take Care on repeat, are we saying we don’t care about credibility and authenticity? And if an artist falls from grace, do we erase their work, or do we let the art live separately from them?
From Collaboration to Conflagration
Once upon a time, Kendrick Lamar and Drake weren’t enemies. They collaborated on songs and their careers seemed to exist in a space of mutual respect. But over the years, something shifted. Kendrick, known for his lyrical depth and artistic integrity, seemingly lost respect for Drake, whose commercial success has been accompanied by persistent accusations of ghost-writing and industry favouritism.
Fast forward to 2024, a reignition of tensions; questions over competition; some diss-track tennis and a major hit laced with serious allegations that went beyond rap beef into personal attack territory resulting in a lawsuit against their shared music label Universal Music Group (UMG); an attack on a private home; and finally – we arrive at the 2025 Super Bowl.
Kendrick’s performance didn’t just put their feud on display – it cemented it as a cultural moment. The halftime stage, usually reserved for pop legends and nostalgia acts, became a battleground where Kendrick made sure the world knew exactly where he stood. By throwing a big ol’ Super Bowl spotlight on Drake, Kendrick ensured it wasn’t just a song anymore; it was a statement.
The Kendrick vs. Drake Conundrum
Kendrick Lamar is often hailed as the voice of realness, a lyricist deeply invested in social consciousness, storytelling, and the integrity of the art form. His critiques of the industry (and of Drake) suggest a frustration with what he sees as the commercialisation and dilution of the soul of his art.
Drake, on the other hand, is the king of accessibility – an artist who effortlessly blends hip-hop with pop, constantly shifting personas to stay on top of the charts. To Kendrick, Drake’s appeal might feel like an algorithmic manipulation, a strategic game rather than an expression of lived experience.
For Kendrick and others, this isn’t just about bars or beats – it’s about what hip-hop should be, who deserves to sit at the top of it, and whether an artist’s credibility affects how we consume the genre.
At the heart of this feud therefore is the question of authenticity. Kendrick has long seen Drake as an industry-backed pop star rather than a true MC. His critiques aren’t just about ghost-writing accusations (though those certainly play a role) – they’re about legacy. Kendrick, like many, believes the artform should be about skill, message, and credibility, while Drake not only embodies a more flexible, genre-blending approach but one that prioritises mass appeal.
This feud is still unfolding, and its impact – musical, cultural, and legal – remains to be seen. But if art history tells us anything, it’s that these moments are never just about the artists involved. They reveal something about the industry, about the culture, and about us as consumers because these moments are also about power.
The Industry’s Role: Who’s Really in Control?
Drake’s dominance in the industry is undeniable, but Kendrick’s ability to rally culture against him has exposed cracks. For years, Drake played the game and benefited from the machine. But now that the machine seems to be shifting its weight toward Kendrick, Drake is pushing back, claiming foul play. His lawsuits against UMG suggest he believes the label has turned against him, using its influence to elevate Kendrick – ironic, given that he himself benefited from industry backing for years and is now accusing it of manipulating the game in someone else’s favour.
But the music business thrives on manufactured spectacle, rivalries, and commercialised drama. Diss tracks drive streams, social media feuds keep artists trending, and the spectacle actually ensures both artists remain profitable. Even Kendrick, who prides himself on artistic integrity, is still part of this capitalist machine. His artistic success – like Drake’s – is tied to label backing, album sales, and corporate structures.
So, can we truly separate the art from the artist? Or is the question itself moot because we’re all just playing into a larger industry game designed to keep us engaged while they cash in on our indecision? And when a tune is a TUNE, the bigger question might be – do we actually want to decide?
Because here’s the uncomfortable truth: most of us not only want to but already do separate the art from the artist – just selectively. If we applied a strict moral litmus test to every artist in our library, our playlists would look depressingly sparse. The history of music (and art in general) is littered with figures whose lives were deeply problematic. Some of them operated in eras where scrutiny was lower; others have been conveniently granted a "pass" because their offences are less well-known or less sensationalised.
And then there’s the question of biases. Rock musicians, for example, have long been glorified for behaviour that would lead to immediate cancellation if a hip-hop artist did the same. The art and the artist are only marketable – until they’re not. The house always wins.
So, What Now?
Music is deeply personal, and the relationship between listener and artist is uniquely complex. Some people can compartmentalise, treating music as an entity separate from its creator. Others feel that supporting an artist’s work – whether by streaming, buying tickets, or even just keeping their songs in rotation – is an implicit endorsement of their actions. Neither perspective is entirely “wrong”.
The Kendrick vs. Drake feud forces us to consider what we value in an artist. Are we drawn to a purist vision of art, or do we appreciate adaptability and consistency? Can we enjoy music as entertainment – even while knowing diss tracks and others have real-world consequences? And at what point does an artist’s credibility (or lack thereof) affect our ability to enjoy their art?
At the end of the day, maybe the real question isn’t whether we can separate the art from the artist, but whether we should. And if we do, what does that say about what we’re willing to tolerate – not just in our icons, our artforms, and ourselves, but in the forces that shape those tolerances in the first place?
