This time, Kendrick was on the East Coast, in the world-famous Madison Square Garden for the 60th Annual Grammy Awards, which had now become a second home for him. This time he opened the show as a massive, digitally imposed American flag wafted swiftly on a screen behind him. Soldiers marched in formation as the guitar chords of “LUST.” billowed throughout the arena. Given the time and tenor of America, the performance took not-so-subtle jabs at U.S. politics in an era still raw from Trump’s election and the racism that showed itself. The set transitioned to “DNA.” Three minutes in, the lights dropped out to the sound of a gunshot, and the camera cut to comedian Dave Chappelle, who could either have been the show’s host or a sign that something had gone terribly wrong with Kendrick’s set. As viewers, we didn’t know what the hell was going on.
“Hi,” Chappelle said in his usual nasal tone. “I’m Dave Chappelle, and I just wanted to remind the audience that the only thing more frightening than watching a black man be honest in America, is being an honest black man in America. Sorry for the interruption, please continue.” On cue, the camera cut back to the stage. Fire erupted from it. Kendrick was in his Kung Fu Kenny garb as he spit an unheard-before rap, and a stage companion beat a drum in the middle of the platform. There was another gunshot and the lights dropped out again. This time Dave Chappelle looked puzzled. “Is this on cable?” he asked. “This CBS? ’Cause it looks like he’s singing and dancing, but this brother is taking enormous chances. Rumble, young man, rumble!”
By this point, it was clear that Dave was part of the set, egging Kendrick on. For the last section of the rapper’s performance, he dropped out the beat as his dancers, clad in red, fell one by one by assassins’ bullets, sending yet another message to the powers that be that the United States was in peril by its own doing. Kendrick was simulating a mass shooting; with each verbal shot, his company all dropped down until he was the only one left standing. As the song ended, he paced in the middle of the stage, stone-faced and resolute. The crowd, which included Miley Cyrus, Bruno Mars, and Lorde, gave him a standing ovation.
These kinds of performances now had become commonplace for Kendrick Lamar, who went home with five Grammy awards that night—for Best Rap Performance, Best Rap/Sung Performance, Best Rap Song, Best Rap Album, and Best Music Video. Though winning awards had also become commonplace for him, he still looked like that grateful Compton kid on the stage. “Hip-hop, man,” he said through a huge smile, peering gleefully at his Best Rap Album Grammy. “This the thing that got me on the stage, this the thing that got me to tour all around the world, support my family and all that. Most importantly, it showed me a true definition of what being an artist was. From the jump, I thought it was about the accolades and the cars and the clothes, but it’s really about expressing yourself and putting that paint on a canvas for the world to evolve for the next listener and the next generation after that. This trophy for hip-hop.” Kendrick was half right. Yeah, it was a win for hip-hop, but there in that moment, he was no longer just creating and winning for himself. A win for DAMN. felt like a win for the very culture that was still climbing out of a dark place socially. His wins became our wins, they were wins for everything right and good in hip-hop and creativity, and for people approaching their lives with the same kind of positive intention. As it turns out, those Grammy wins were just the beginning, and pretty soon he’d have a more prestigious award on his shelf: the Pulitzer Prize for Music.
Rappers don’t win that award. There was still a large contingent of listeners and academics who didn’t think hip-hop was a viable art form. Forget the global impact, nevermind the way it shifted fashion, speech, and music overall, some in the older guard heard only the vulgarity and wrote it off as low-scale black music that didn’t deserve shine. Since the Pulitzer board first instituted an award for music in 1943, each winner has been a jazz or classical project. That all changed in 2018 when DAMN. broke the mold and was deemed the following by the Pulitzer board: “a virtuosic song collection unified by its vernacular authenticity and rhythmic dynamism that offers affecting vignettes capturing the complexity of modern African-American life.” That Kendrick was awarded such a prize spoke to his crossover ability and the depth of his music. His life and art had evolved greatly—from in a garage with Dave Free in Compton, to the now-legendary TDE studio, to now one of the most prestigious awards in history. Kendrick was selected unanimously for the Pulitzer Prize for Music, and that was after a group of jurors openly wondered why hip-hop wasn’t being considered for such a grand prize.
“At one point they said, ‘Look, we’re considering work that has hip-hop influences, why aren’t we considering hip-hop itself?’ ” Pulitzer Prize administrator Dana Canedy tells me. “And one of the jurors said we should think about Kendrick Lamar. They, right
