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The Braids, The Bars, and the Blackness: Ruminations on Hip Hop’s World War III – Drake versus Kendrick (Part One) 

A Conversation by Todd Craig and LeBrandon Smith

By now, it’s safe to say very few people have not caught wind of the biggest Hip-Hop battle of the 21st century: the clash between Kendrick Lamar and Drake. Whether you’ve seen the videos, the memes or even smacked a bunch of owls around playing the video game, this battle grew beyond Hip Hop, with various facets of global popular culture tapped in, counting down minutes for responses and getting whiplash with the speed of song drops. There are multiple ways to approach this event. We’ve seen inciteful arguments about how these two young Black males at the pinnacle of success are tearing one another down. We also acknowledge Hip Hop’s long legacy of battling; the culture has always been a “competitive sport” that includes “lyrical sparring.”

This three-part article for Sounding Out!’s Hip Hop History Month edition stems from a longer conversation with two co-authors and friends, Hip Hop listeners and aficionados, trying to make sense of all the songs and various aspects of the visuals. This intergenerational conversation involving two different sets of Hip Hop listening ears, both heavily steeped in Hip Hop’s sonic culture, is important. Our goal here is to think through this battle by highlighting quotes from songs that resonated with us as we chronicled this moment. We hope this article serves as a responsible sonic assessment of this monumental Hip Hop episode.

First things first: what’s so intergenerational about our viewpoints? This information provides some perspective on how this most recent battle resonated with two avid Hip Hop listeners and cultural participants.

LeBrandon is a 33 year old Black male raised in Brooklyn and Queens, New York. He is an innovative curator and social impact leader. When asked about the first Hip Hop beef that impacted him, LeBrandon said:

The first Hip-Hop battle I remember is Jay x Nas and mainly because Jay was my favorite rapper at the time. I was young but mature enough to feel the burn of “Ether.” It’s embarrassing to say now, but truthfully I was hurt—as if “Ether” had been pointed at me. “Ether” is a masterclass in Hip Hop disrespect but the stanza that I remember feeling terrible about was “I’ll still whip your ass/ you 36 in a karate class?/ you Tae-bo hoe/ tryna work it out/ you tryna get brolic/ Ask me if I’m tryna kick knowledge/ Nah I’m tryna kick the shit you need to learn though/ that ether, that shit that make your soul burn slow.” MAN. I remember thinking, is Jay old?! Is 36 old?! Is my favorite rapper old?! Why did Nas say that about him? I should reiterate I am older now and don’t think 36 is old, related or unrelated to Hip Hop. Nas’s gloves off approach shocked me and genuinely concerned me. But I’m thankful for the exposure “Ether” gave me to the understanding that anything goes in a Hip-Hop battle.

Todd is a Black male who grew up in Ravenswood and Queensbridge Houses in Long Island City, New York. Todd is about 15 years older than LeBrandon, and is an associate professor of African American Studies and English. Todd stated:

The first battle that engaged my Hip Hop senses was the BDP vs. Juice Crew battle –specifically “The Bridge” and “The Bridge is Over.” The stakes were high, the messages were clear-cut, and the battle lines were drawn. I lived in Ravenswood but I had family and friends in QB. And “The Bridge” was like a borough anthem. Even though MC Shan was repping the Bridge, that song motivated and galvanized our whole area in Long Island City. This was the first time in Hip Hop that I recall needing to choose a side. And because I had seen Shan and Marley and Shante in real life in QB, the choice was a no-brainer. That battle led me to start recording Mr. Magic and Marley Marl’s show on 107.5 WBLS, before even checking out what Chuck Chillout or Red Alert was doing. As I got older, it would sting when I heard “The Bridge is Over” at a club or a party. And when I would DJ, I’d always play “The Bridge is Over” first, and follow it up with either “The Bridge” or another QB anthem, like a “Shook Ones Pt. 2” or something.

We both enter this conversation agreeing this battle has been brewing for about ten years, however it really came to a head in the Drake and J. Cole song, “First Person Shooter.” Evident in the song is J. Cole’s consistent references to the “Big Three” (meaning Kendrick Lamar, Drake and J. Cole atop Hip-Hop’s food chain), while Drake was very much focused on himself and Cole. It is rumored that Kendrick was asked to be on the song; his absence without some lyrical revision by Cole and Drake, seems to have led to Kendrick feeling snubbed or slighted in some way. This song gets Hip Hop listeners to Kendrick’s verse on the Future and Metro Boomin’ song “Like That” where Kendrick sets Hip Hop ablaze with the simple response: “Muthafuck the Big Three, nigguh, it’s just Big Me” – a moment where he “takes flight” and avoids the “sneak dissing” that he asserts Drake has consistently done. 

We both agreed that Drake’s initial full-length entry into this battle, “Push Ups,” was the typical diss record we’d expect from him. Whether in his battle with Meek Mill or Pusha T, Drake’s entry follows the typical guidelines for diss records: it comes with a series of jabs at an opponent, which starts the war of words. The goal in a battle is always to disrespect your opponent to the fullest extent, so we find Drake aiming to do just that. We both noticed those jabs, most memorably is “how you big steppin’ with some size 7 men’s on.” We also noticed Drake’s misstep by citing the wrong label for Kendrick when he says “you’re in the scope right now” – alluding to Kendrick Lamar being signed to Interscope – even though neither Top Dog Entertainment (TDE) nor PGLang are signed to Interscope Records. Drake’s lack of focus on just Kendrick would prove a mistake: he disses Metro Boomin, The Weeknd, Rick Ross, and basketball player Ja Morant in “Push Ups.”

While we agree that in a rap battle, the goal is to disrespect your opponent at the highest level, we had differing perspectives on Drake’s second diss track “Taylor Made Freestyle.” LeBrandon felt this song landed because it took a “no fucks” approach to the battle. Regardless of how one may feel about Drake’s method of disrespect (by using AI), the message was loud and inescapable. LeBrandon highlighted the moment when AI Tupac says “Kendrick we need ya!”; outside of how hilarious this line is, Drake dissing Kendrick by using Tupac’s voice – a person with a legacy that Kendrick holds in the highest esteem – further established that this would be no friendly sparring match. Not only did Drake disrespect a Hip Hop legend with this line and its delivery, but an entire coast. The track invokes the spirit of a deceased rapper, specifically one whose murder was so closely connected to Hip Hop and authentic street beef. This moment was a step too far for Todd, who lived through the moment when both 2Pac and Biggie were murdered over fabricated beef.

Furthermore, LeBrandon pointed to the ever controversial usage of AI in Hip Hop, something Drake’s boss, Sir Lucian Grainge, recently condemned (especially when Drake, himself, condemns the AI usage of his own voice). By blatantly ignoring the issues and respectability codes the Hip Hop community should and does have with these ideas, Drake’s method of poking fun at his opponent was glorious. It was uncomfortable, condescending and straight-up gangsta. It also showcased Drake’s everlasting creative ability and willingness to take a risk. Todd acknowledged a generationally tinged viewpoint: this might also be a misstep for Drake because he used Snoop Dogg’s voice as well. Not only is Snoop alive, but Snoop was instrumental in passing the West Coast torch and crown to Kendrick. So when Drake uses an AI Snoop voice to spit “right now it’s looking like you writin’ out the game plan on how to lose/ how to bark up the wrong tree and then get your head popped in a crowded room,” it strikes at the heart of the AI controversy in music. This was not Snoop’s commentary at all. We both agree, however, that the “bark up the wrong tree” and “Kendrick we need ya” lines came back to haunt Drake. We also agree that dropping “Push Ups” and “Taylor Made Freestyle” is Drake’s battle format, hoping that he can overwhelm an opponent with multiple songs in rapid fire.

Todd and LeBrandon’s Hip Hop History Month play-by-play continues on November 11th with the release of Part 2! Return for “Euphoria” and stay until “6:16 in LA.”

Our Icon for this series is a mash up of “Kendrick Lamar (Sziget Festival 2018)” taken by Flickr User Peter Ohnacker (CC BY-NC-SA 2.0) and “Drake, Telenor Arena 2017” taken by Flickr User Kim Erlandsen, NRK P3 (CC BY-NC-SA 2.0)

Todd Craig (he/him) is a writer, educator and DJ whose career meshes his love of writing, teaching and music. His research inhabits the intersection of writing and rhetoric, sound studies and Hip Hop studies. He is the author o“K for the Way”: DJ Rhetoric and Literacy for 21st Century Writing Studies (Utah State University Press) which examines the Hip Hop DJ as twenty-first century new media reader, writer, and creator of the discursive elements of DJ rhetoric and literacy. Craigs publications include the multimodal novel torcha (pronounced “torture”), and essays in various edited collections and scholarly journals including The Bloomsbury Handbook of Hip Hop Pedagogy, Amplifying Soundwriting, Methods and Methodologies for Research in Digital Writing and Rhetoric, Fiction International, Radical Teacher, Modern Language Studies, Changing English, Kairos, Composition Studies and Sounding Out! Dr. Craig teaches courses on writing, rhetoric, African American and Hip Hop Studies, and is the co-host of the podcast Stuck off the Realness with multi-platinum recording artist Havoc of Mobb Deep. Presently, Craig is an Associate Professor of African American Studies at New York City College of Technology and English at the CUNY Graduate Center.

LeBrandon Smith (he/him) is a cultural curator and social impact leader born and raised in Brooklyn and Queens, respectively.  Coming from New York City, his efforts to bridge gaps, and build  community have been central to his work, but most notably his passion for music has fueled his career. His programming  has been seen throughout the Metropolitan area, including historical venues like Carnegie Hall, The Museum of the City of NY (MCNY) and Brooklyn Public Library.

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Caterpillars and Concrete Roses in a Mad City: Kendrick Lamar’s “Mortal Man” Interview with Tupac Shakur–Regina Bradley

Boom! Boom! Boom!: Banda, Dissident Vibrations, and Sonic Gentrification in Mazatlán

This series listens to the political, gendered, queer(ed), racial engagements and class entanglements involved in proclaiming out loud: La-TIN-x. ChI-ca-NA. La-TI-ne. ChI-ca-n-@.  Xi-can-x. Funded by an Andrew W. Mellon Foundation as part of the Crossing Latinidades Humanities Research Initiative, the Latinx Sound Cultures Studies Working Group critically considers the role of sound and listening in our formation as political subjects. Through both a comparative and cross-regional lens, we invite Latinx Sound Scholars to join us as we dialogue about our place within the larger fields of Chicanx/Latinx Studies and Sound Studies. We are delighted to publish our initial musings with Sounding Out!, a forum that has long prioritized sound from a queered, racial, working-class and  “always-from-below” epistemological standpoint. —Ed. Dolores Inés Casillas

Boom! Boom! Boom! Da-da-da-da-da— The unmistakable blast of the tuba and the resounding crash of cymbals, embedded in banda sinaloense, reverberate through the narrow streets of Mazatlán, Sinaloa. It’s a sound that shakes you to your core, quite literally—a sound that some may find overwhelming but for others, it’s the heartbeat of the city. Yet, this very heartbeat is increasingly at odds with a new rhythm, imposed by the influx of white American settlers (retirees, snow birds) and tourists who prefer quieter, more sanitized (less sucio) soundscapes. Public debates about sound – its volume, its rightful “place” – demonstrate how sonic gentrification displaces local, cultural identities and highlights the impact of globalization on indigenous soundscapes.. In a city where culture has always been expressed loudly and proudly, this clash is more than just about volume; it’s about identity, survival, and the right to exist audibly.

Banda is unapologetically brass-heavy with its tubas, trumpets, clarinets, and trombones–direct inheritances from the German brass bands brought to Mexico in the late 19th century by German immigrants and traders. Helena Simonett’s hallmark book, Banda: Mexican Musical Life Across Borders, details how the influence of polka is unmistakable in the rhythmic patterns of banda, with its characteristic 2/4 meter and the upbeat, driving rhythms that push the music forward. Both styles share repetitive rhythmic, danceable, lively tempos and showcase the tuba’s full, resonant sound. In polka, the tuba provides a consistent “oom-pah” bass line, while  in banda, the tuba drives the harmonic structure with deep, grounding tones that propel the music forward, often in a steady and rhythmic pulse that mirrors the polka bass line. The accompanying tambora, a large bass drum unique to the genre, adds an unmistakable Mexican flair, infusing banda music with rhythmic accents that tie it back to the Mexican dance traditions of sones and norteños. With the loud combination of brass and tambora blaring through the city, it’s understandable that white tourists and settlers would feel a dissonance between the soundscape and their Western settler notions of respectability.

The tambora leads Banda La Amistad in NYC, Image by Chris GoldNY, CC BY-NC 2.0

Sonic gentrification refers to the process in which local auditory cultures are marginalized or displaced by soundscapes that cater to the preferences of more affluent or dominant groups as Marie Thompson discusses in Beyond Unwanted Sound (2017). This concept aligns with Stoever’s  “listening ear,” which privileges certain auditory experiences—such as quiet and controlled soundscapes favored by Western tourists—while marginalizing others. This phenomenon in Mazatlán manifests through tensions surrounding the sounds of banda, increasingly heard as incompatible with the tranquil settings promoted by the tourist industrial complex. To Western ears unaccustomed to such instruments blaring through their environments, banda is heard as intrusive or abrasive. Yet, banda was never meant to be quiet or contained; it’s a celebratory proclamation of life itself.

As a symbol of the region’s cultural, namely working-class identity, banda’s shaky acceptance dates back to when nobility regarded banda as music of the commoners. It is often mariachi music, with its more melodic and string-dominated compositions, that is seen as “easier on the ear” and perceived as a more sophisticated representation of Mexico’s soundscape— incidentally hailing from a racially whiter region of Mexico. Reclaiming banda as a proud symbol of Northern Mexican culture is a direct challenge to both the casteism of Spanish settlers and the sonic imperialism imposed by white American settlers.

The response by local musicians to new ordinances aimed at limiting live banda performances on Mazatlán’s beaches are being met with “dissident vibrations.” Or, as I describe, when a musical collective effervescence can be harnessed to challenge dominant structures and create spaces for marginalized voices to assert their rights and identities. In Mazatlán, these dissident vibrations took on a visible and visceral form when a viral video showed tourists enjoying a classical guitar performance inside a hotel while the energetic sounds of banda blasted from the beach just outside.

This video sparked a heated online debate about noise levels, with some tourists and local authorities advocating for more restrictions on banda music. Soon after, the conversation escalated with a public notice at a condominium complex prohibiting the hiring of live bands in the beach area—a move that directly impacted local banda musicians who depend on beach performances for their livelihood. 

The tensions culminated in a nine-hour protest, during which hundreds of musicians marched through the streets of Mazatlán, playing their instruments in defiance of the regulations that aimed to control the noise. Their march, which eventually turned into a riot after clashes with police, was a sonic manifestation of resistance, challenging the regulations that limited not only the number of live banda performances but also attempted to regulate the very essence of Mazatlán’s cultural identity. These acts of dissident vibrations served as powerful counter-narratives to the dominant discourse that seeks to sanitize public spaces from their vibrant soundscapes. These musicians not only contested their economic marginalization but also championed the existential right of their culture to flourish in its native setting, resisting efforts to reduce their sound to mere noise in favor of tourist comforts. Their defiance highlights the complex interplay between cultural and economic survival, identity, and resistance within the broader context of globalization and cultural homogenization.

Critics who dismiss banda often fail to appreciate its rich harmonics and historical significance in the cultural landscape of Mazatlán. By reducing this music to mere noise, they overlook the deep-rooted connections it fosters within local communities and its role as a communal bond reflecting the spirit and resilience of the people. Such dismissals prioritize the comfort of tourists over the cultural rights of the local population, further entrenching inequalities between those who advocate for cultural integrity and those who perceive the city merely as a short-term, leisure destination.The role of banda in Mazatlán, an exemplary case of sonic gentrification, raises essential questions about who has the authority to define the cultural and sonic boundaries of public spaces.

Sonic gentrification in Mazatlán serves as a poignant example of global discussions on cultural identity, heritage, and the impacts of globalization on local communities. But this isn’t just a local issue; banda has followed the Mexican diaspora, becoming an audible assertion of identity in cities across the United States. The call to action is clear: to preserve banda not as a relic of the past, but as a living, breathing sound that defines working class public spaces of color far beyond Mexico’s borders. Whether in Los Angeles, Chicago, or Houston, these vibrant sounds demand to be heard, and more importantly, understood. The beat of the tuba and tambora still thunder on, daring us to listen.

Featured Image: “Todos dorados” by Flickr User Juanantibes CC BY-SA 2.0


Kristie Valdez-Guillen, PhD, is an interdisciplinary scholar whose work bridges the fields of musicology and decolonial studies. With a PhD in Musicology from UCLA and advanced training in American Studies and Ethnicity at USC, her research delves into the critical intersections of decoloniality, music, and politics across the Americas and the Caribbean. Currently, she brings her expertise to USC’s Writing Program, where she teaches first-year and first-generation students, with a focus on writing across disciplines. Dr. Valdéz-Guillén is dedicated to fostering critical thinking and empowering the next generation of scholars and writers.

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Echoes in Transit: Loudly Waiting at the Paso del Norte Border RegionJosé Manuel Flores & Dolores Inés Casillas

Listening to MAGA Politics within US/Mexico’s Lucha Libre –Esther Díaz Martín and Rebeca Rivas