Kendrick Lamar and Drake: From the Sandbox to the Skyline
The beef between Kendrick Lamar and Drake was never about music and only on the edge about egos. Now, it turns out that we are dealing with a phenomenon of the platform economy.
The importance of hip-hop to the identity of Western pop culture is evident today. Its decades-long dominance appears to be waning for the first time, with pop, country, and even rock music reclaiming top positions on the charts. Last summer, the genre seemed to reach a kind of endpoint. You can see this in how its biggest stars have grown restless, bickering among themselves and vying for the spotlight once again.
The conflict began last year when rapper J. Cole appeared on “First Person Shooter,” a joint track with Drake. In it, Cole implied that he and Lamar were among rap’s “big three.” Lamar disagreed; in his view, he alone was the greatest. With that, nothing stopped the destruction of an old musical friendship or prevented the tension from escalating sky-high. For months, Lamar and Drake launched musical attacks on one another, spanning California to Canada.
The peak of the feud came last May with Lamar’s diss track “Not Like Us,” in which he labeled Drake a “certified pedophile,” essentially accusing him of child abuse. This track amassed nearly a billion streams, becoming Lamar’s most successful song. Notably, his lyrical potency also resonates strongly among thirtysomethings in Germany.
Drake’s counterattacks now involve potentially heavier artillery. It’s no longer just about reputation and music; money and core principles are on the line. Drake’s lawyers have approached New York and Texas courts with documents alleging fraud and defamation. These are not formal lawsuits but preliminary petitions. Whether they will lead to formal charges remains uncertain.
Is it shocking that the music industry might employ unfair tactics in competition between its top earners? What’s even stranger is the legal maneuvering and public outcry, given that Lamar’s and Drake’s labels operate under the same corporate umbrella: Universal Music Group, by far the largest in the business. Is the entire affair an elaborate charade, replacing petty squabbles with private jets full of gold?
There is ample reason to suspect that the whole affair may be staged. One could imagine these stars as characters in a highly popular novel that would never win a literary prize. Kendrick Lamar is seen as a Californian rapper who appeals to connoisseurs and intellectuals yet still retains a street-level authenticity. This means he remains easily offended despite having millions in the bank.
Suppose we were to find cultural analogies in German literature. In that case, Lamar might be likened to writer Clemens Meyer—someone who carries street credibility among intellectuals and who hovers ambiguously between grandiosity and self-doubt. Drake, by contrast, might be compared to Juli Zeh: lesser lyrical finesse, yet even greater success.
However, the analogy has its limits, not least because Meyer and Zeh publish with different houses. The longstanding traditions of battles, beefs, and diss tracks have always carried the risk of spilling into actual violence. Nothing is purely playful; every barb can end in bloodshed. The murders of Tupac
Shakur and The Notorious B.I.G. are not distant anomalies. And was it a coincidence that a security guard was shot at Drake’s Toronto estate after the cover of “Not Like Us” featured an aerial view of that exact property?
What stands out about Drake’s new accusations—none yet substantiated in court—is their moral righteousness. They assume a sort of innocence in the upper tiers of the music industry and its distribution networks. This reflects a certain utopian notion bolstered by digitization, where empowered fans supposedly choose winners and losers independently as if forming a wise, self-determined collective.
No one has told this story more frequently than the music industry itself, pushing the idea that traditional gatekeepers have vanished. Gone are the days of paying for magazine ads and enduring scathing reviews; now the consumer supposedly decides everything. Revolution!
In reality, the digital shift is primarily orchestrated from above. Chart triumphs rarely happen organically, even in the streaming era. Advertising budgets have moved away from traditional media and into the hands of influencers. Longstanding relationships that once might have entailed tolerating criticism are conveniently disappearing. Direct payments, bots, or shady deals can boost streaming numbers. Access to prime playlists can be bought. If Drake’s claims against his own record company are accurate, industry insiders would hardly be astonished.
Payola scandals have existed throughout pop history. In the United States, payola—bribing stations and DJs—has been illegal for nearly a century. Yet each decade brings new stories. In the ’90s, radio executives were allegedly offered luxury vacations if they played Céline Dion’s “I Drove All Night.” Some obliged, others played it only late at night, and advertisers who were not directly employed by record labels sometimes maintained connections to organized crime.
In the jukebox era of the ‘50s, there were no success metrics at all. Money changed hands, so certain records stayed in circulation. The principle remains unchanged in the digital age: behind every attention-grabbing push lies capital. Today, it’s easier to mask or rename these transactions—cooperation, sponsorship, and product placement. No hit comes purely from influence or bribery, but even abundant capital achieves little without public interest and engagement.
Repeated payola scandals have at least influenced U.S. case law. Now, many eyes look to the EU, whose regulations aim to enforce transparency on the internet and over artificial intelligence. How many songs are AI-generated, thus cutting out authors’ royalties entirely? Estimates vary widely. It’s also unclear whether streaming services offer different deals to different labels. One rumor suggests that Universal was willing to forfeit 30% of its usual revenue from “Not Like Us,” potentially inspiring streaming platforms to give it favored placement.
The positive side of the Drake-Lamar feud’s latest twist is that it might heighten awareness that this clash is not solely about hip-hop but about the nature of platform-driven economies. The next chapter in this unfolding story hinges on a key question: Did Universal also offer Drake’s songs at a discount, doing exactly what Drake’s lawyers now claim it did for Lamar?
If that were proven, it would settle the debate over who is truly the greatest. Not Drake, not Lamar, and not even hip-hop—just capitalism, bitch.