Let’s Have an Unfiltered Dialogue About Black Music Award Shows

BET Awards aired last night for nearly five hours, and while it was one of the better shows the company had in a while, it also owes its community respect for time and attention.

What the 2025 BET Awards Got Right, What Dragged, and Why It Matters

The annual gathering that bills itself as the premier celebration of Black popular culture ran almost five consecutive hours this year, a sweep that was equal parts triumphal procession and stress test for even the most committed viewer. From the opening wide shot inside Los Angeles’s Peacock Theater, the broadcast signaled maximal ambition: four separate lifetime honors, a reunion built around a beloved countdown show, more than twenty performances, and enough trophy presentations to crowd a full-season awards calendar. On paper, that sprawl promised a panoramic snapshot of contemporary music and its elders; in practice, the night kept toggling between moments that felt indispensable and stretches that played like a rehearsal reel left in the final cut. Every year, the same question hovers over Black music award shows. Can they balance celebration, critique, industry agenda, and pure entertainment without exhausting their core audience? The 2025 ceremony put that question under floodlights, offering a real-time case study in how intentions collide with logistics when producers insist on doing everything at once.

That collision was evident in the show’s rhythm, which shifted between brisk montages and extended digressions. One segment would rocket through a pair of trophy hand-offs, only for the next to stretch into a twelve-minute production number capped by a slow-rolling commercial break. The longer itinerary reflected genuine enthusiasm—Black music is vast, and fans deserve a seat in every era’s arena—but television thrives on pacing cues, and this broadcast often surrendered them. Viewers who settled in for a reliable arc instead encountered something closer to an all-night block party, the kind where the playlist never stops yet no one quite knows who is supposed to talk next. Online timelines captured the energy swing: applause clips spiked during high-stakes performances, then nosedived while the house band vamped through stage resets that felt endless on-screen. By the third hour, even social chatter drifted into jokes about “award-show jet lag,” undercutting the intention that this night would stand as a cohesive cultural snapshot rather than a buffet line in motion.

Central to that pacing dilemma was Kevin Hart, returning as host with the confidence that only a decade of global touring can confer. His early monologue landed where it needed to—light ribbing of high-profile attendees, a wink at viral memes, a brisk freestyle as his well-known alter ego—yet he leaned too hard on a single Diddy joke that stopped feeling fresh once the cameras moved past the front row. Hart has long preached economy in stand-up, but the looseness of a live television room seemed to tempt him into callback repetition rather than threaded narrative. Even so, flashes of in-the-moment charm reminded viewers why he was hired: an off-script exchange with Zendaya about her Lakers game-night fits drew genuine laughter, and his quick pivot to congratulate Kendrick Lamar on a surprise trophy haul provided the night’s rare instance of spontaneous warmth. Still, charisma alone cannot clock-manage a marathon, and by hour four, Hart was visibly negotiating the teleprompter in search of shorter lead-ins that never materialized, a symptom of a show unwilling to delete any planned beat.

The longest unbroken block belonged to a twenty-minute “106 & Park” homage, a piece of nostalgia that arrived with enthusiastic audience buy-in the moment host Free materialized beside AJ wearing the same grin she once flashed every weekday after school. Ashanti’s glide across “Rock Wit U” proved undiminished, Jim Jones punctuated “We Fly High” with ease, Amerie turned her one-song slot into a miniature cardio class (despite the heavy pushback on her NPR Tiny Desk performance last Friday), and B2K coaxed shrieks that felt lifted straight from an early-2000s studio floor. T.I. performed “Bring ‘Em Out” and the hook of “What You Know,” Mýa came through with “Case of the Ex,” Bow Wow joked about retiring the durag yet still bounded through “Like You” and “Fresh Azimiz” like the teenager fans first memorized, while Keyshia Cole split her time between singing “I Should Have Created,” and prepping for a later duet. Nothing about the segment demanded trimming for content; the problem was placement. Wedging a full-scale throwback between two commercial pods fractured the timeline so sharply that the broadcast never quite regained the steady voltage it carried in the preceding half hour. On a shorter night, the bit would have soared, but inside a five-hour container, it risked playing as indulgence rather than communal memory lane.

If patience flagged for that nostalgia detour, Kendrick Lamar’s unannounced appearance jolted the room awake. Walking out to accept multiple competitive awards, he kept his remarks brief, thanking collaborators and nodding to fans who propelled his current tour. Lamar chose not to perform, a decision that doubled as commentary on the broadcast’s sprawl: one of contemporary rap’s defining live draws declined the spotlight so the show could inch closer to its finish. That restraint contrasted with an environment where run time already bordered on unwieldy, subtly emphasizing that efficient storytelling sometimes carries more power than any pyrotechnic blitz. Viewers who had begun speculating about encore segments instead received a tight speech that mirrored Lamar’s album craft (minimal fluff, maximum focal point), then watched him exit as quickly as he arrived. The gesture signaled an awareness that cultural moments do not need to be loud to be ingrained; they must simply respect attention spans already stretched to capacity.

The ceremony’s emotional backbone rested on four Ultimate Icon presentations, each personalized rather than formulaic. Jamie Foxx, still recovering from his widely reported 2023 stroke, listened first as Stevie Wonder cited him as proof that versatility remains the birthright of Black artists. Babyface and Ludacris let loose on “Unpredictable,” then followed Tank’s gospel-soaked run through “Night Time Is the Right Time,” inspired by Jamie’s role in the 2004 movie Ray. Jennifer Hudson took control along with him and for “I’ve Got a Woman,” and to finish off with a crisp Doug E. Fresh, Teddy Riley, and T-Pain stitched “Blame It” that felt lived-in rather than dutiful. When Foxx finally spoke, he refused teleprompter polish, framing his survival as an open debt to the community that raised him.

A standing ovation followed, and then moments later, we got into “Club Mariah,” where D-Nice blended house drums into five hook-heavy classics. Afterward, Mariah’s voice, slightly lower than in its crystalline heyday yet still agile, bounced off a choreography of dancers with her boo on the drums and Rakim as the suprise guest on “Type Dangerous,” which we’re mixed on song (plus the crowd sucked when the God MC showed up), reminding everyone that her catalog has always belonged in dance-floor rotation and was honored by Busta Rhymes for her first-ever award (ain’t that crazy) later in the show. From there, Dr. Dre ushered in Snoop Dogg, who brought Charlie Wilson, Warren G, and Kurupt for a thrumming West Coast sweep that fused veteran ease with crowd karaoke. Finally, Kirk Franklin redirected the pulse to a sanctuary call-and-response, leading a choir through his classics (with Salt making an appearance) while Tamar Braxton and Muni Long stacked harmonies. Together, the four vignettes sketched a lineage across R&B, pop, hip-hop, and gospel without forcing them into hierarchy, yet they also lengthened the clock by nearly an hour, proof that even worthy tributes can tax endurance if stacked without intermission.

Elsewhere, the main-show performance slate oscillated from laser-focused to puzzling. Leon Thomas, newly anointed as a breakout talent, stepped onto a stripped-down stage backed by guitar and sub-bass, allowing “Mutt” to unfold with unshowy confidence and earning front-row cheers. GloRilla’s kitchen-themed choreography for “Let Her Cook” showcased athletic footwork, then segued into a duet on “Typa,” which sampled “Love” that let Keyshia Cole revive a signature ballad without feeling like karaoke. Lil Wayne landed late-night energy by importing a choir in scarlet robes for a genre-splicing run that linked “Welcome to Tha Carter” with “A Milli,” balancing church organ stabs against rattling hi-hats.

Teyana Taylor, back from a brief hiatus, unveiled two unreleased tracks alongside the Twitter favorite “Long Time”; the staging was fiery, but the songs existed on different sonic islands, so the overall arc felt more like a fashion show than a narrative set. Ledisi required no scaffolding, standing immobile to deliver “BLKWMN” with phrasing that made the telecast’s flashier sets feel ornamental. Then came Playboi Carti, whose dark-stage, heavy-back-track approach magnifies in a festival pit but can collapse under arena acoustics; here it sputtered, prompting mixed social chatter and visible confusion among casual viewers. The inconsistency pointed to a deeper programming tension: a single camera language rarely serves such divergent stage philosophies, yet the broadcast applied one size to all, rewarding artists comfortable with TV-centric polish while leaving others exposed.

One segment that did not suffer from overproduction was the evening’s pocket-sized homage sequence. Lucky Daye, Luke James, and Miles Caton wrapped velvety harmonies around Quincy Jones’s “The Secret Garden,” trimming the arrangement to its essential groove and letting each falsetto flourish breathe. Deep down, we were disheartened that even though it’s the better tribute we’ve gotten, Quincy deserved better, despite our expectations being zero. Moments later, Andra Day entered a circle of soft-white spotlights to interpret “Killing Me Softly With His Song,” her vocal line cresting above a small string section in a reading that honored Roberta Flack without slipping into museum audio guide. Country-soul singer Brittney Spencer followed with “No More Rain (In This Cloud),” sliding pedal-steel color into Angie Stone’s neo-soul heartbeat and in the process underscoring how the contemporary palette for Black performance now embraces roots textures once considered peripheral. None of these tributes ran longer than four minutes, yet together they left an imprint deeper than several full-scale medleys, hinting that intimacy, not length, often cements memory.

This brings the conversation back to the structural hurdle that no digital clip can disguise: a ceremony that refuses to shed its material ends up competing with itself. Technical flubs compounded that heaviness—camera cuts that missed choreographed beats, audio boards that couldn’t balance live vocals against backing tracks. These seat-fill delays turned crowd shots into awkward silences. These glitches were minor in isolation, yet they accumulated across the marathon and reminded viewers that even premier platforms need editors brave enough to say no. An award show dedicated to the full spectrum of Black music deserves enough runway to honor gospel legends and avant-garde rap disrupters in the same breath, but it also owes its community respect for its time and attention. Future ceremonies will have to decide whether they want to feel like curated cinema or an unending mixtape; either path can work, but toggling between the two in real time tends to undermine both. The 2025 BET Awards demonstrated that ambition without restraint risks blurring the very achievements it sets out to spotlight.

Where Black Music Award Shows Go From Here?

The morning after the broadcast, timelines resembled group-chat transcripts posted publicly. Some viewers laughed about switching to NBA highlights somewhere around the four-hour mark, while others insisted they watched every minute out of loyalty to the culture. Early recaps noted that the telecast, which aimed to crown winners, salute legends, debut singles, and incorporate a historic countdown show, ultimately tested attention spans on a weeknight work schedule. Observers praised individual highs—Leon Thomas hitting the long note that sent Taraji P. Henson into a full-body lean, Jamie Foxx turning a survival story into testimony, Doechii halting her acceptance speech to address militarized police in Los Angeles—but they circled back to the same refrain. The show felt endless, the cumulative weight of earnest intentions unchecked by firm timekeeping. That tension is hardly new, yet the 2025 edition magnified it by staging four career-honor tributes and more than twenty separate performances without carving out breathing room in between. Viewers celebrated the abundance, then asked why abundance had to mean excess. In a media landscape where second-screen commentary runs parallel to the live feed, real-time fatigue undercuts even the brightest moments, leaving social threads dotted with “still on?” jokes that invite casual audiences to tap out rather than tune in.

Format tweaks could relieve the runtime bloat that magnifies every slip. The Tony Awards drew their largest audience in six years with a broadcast that clocked under three hours, while the American Music Awards rebounded in viewership by offloading genre-specific wins to a pre-show stream, then treating the prime-time block as a curated concert with interludes that actually breathe. Those events target different demographics, yet their structural choices offer lessons. Imagine a BET celebration split across two consecutive evenings: Night One as a concert-style revue anchored by new music and collaborations, streamed free on digital platforms; Night Two as a trophy-centered gala trimmed to three hours for linear television. Such a model would allow producers to double performance slots without penalizing East Coast viewers, provide hosts with a fresh cue sheet between nights, and carve out ample space for emerging acts while still honoring icons before a broad audience. Ancillary content—podcast sit-downs with lifetime honorees, TikTok-first backstage tours, and VR rehearsal cams—could be produced during the same week, deepening engagement without cramming everything into a single broadcast window. A festival mindset that values curation over packing density would transform the telecast from an endurance test to a destination.

The anniversary banners did their job—forty-five years of the network, twenty-five of the flagship awards, a matching quarter-century since 106 & Park first gave the after-school crowd a home—but the stage picture told a different story of a different generation. Main-show run time leaned hard on legacy muscle: Mariah Carey, Snoop Dogg, Jamie Foxx, Kirk Franklin, Ashanti, Bow Wow, B2K, Jim Jones, Mýa, and T.I. handled sizable blocks, with Kendrick Lamar carrying the night’s competitive sweep. Younger voices existed, yet they hovered at the margins. Leon Thomas claimed Best New Artist and earned one of the tightest live sets, GloRilla brought fresh energy with a kitchen-turned-stage routine, and Carti’s late-slot sprint represented the lone attempt at current-era rap maximalism on the televised card. Pre-show and red-carpet livestreams showcased rising names—Jordan Adetunji, Trillian, Laila!, Rob49, and Honey Bxby among them—but those performances aired while most viewers were still juggling dinner or their commute (and it doesn’t help that most of the performances were underwhelming).

All of these points point toward a larger consideration. Black award shows carry the dual mandate of celebration and stewardship. They are archival records as much as entertainment vehicles, mapping the story of how a people negotiate sound, image, politics, and community in public. That is precisely why the details of pacing, staging, and hosting matter so much. When the machinery runs smoothly, the show becomes living history, a place where Kirk Franklin’s choir can exalt moments after Playboi Carti’s distortion, and no one feels out of place. When logistics falter, the narrative fractures into highlight reels that trend for a day, then evaporate. The 2025 broadcast proved the appetite for these gatherings is still strong; ticket demand overflowed, social chatter peaked, and the Ultimate Icon tributes drew near-universal applause. Also, if we want our new generation of stars to thrive, they need to focus on their craft, rehearse more times than not, and act like they give a fuck, and take performing seriously. But we also need to stop giving them bail and grade them on a curve. Call them out when they’re lacking.

What it also proved is that appetite comes with expectations shaped by shorter attention cycles and boundless digital choice. Meeting those expectations will require producers willing to prune, segment, and experiment, even if that means abandoning traditions that once guaranteed ratings. The promise is worth the risk, where a streamlined, forward-facing awards ecosystem abandons neither reverence for the elders nor excitement for tomorrow’s headliners, and that treats the audience’s time as the scarce, precious resource it is. Until then, viewers will continue to set personal bedtime alarms, cheer through bleary eyes, and log onto their feeds the next day to debate whether love for the culture excuses an overlong night. The culture deserves better than an either-or. It deserves a show confident enough to edit itself.