First, let me say this plainly: I am a Kendrick Lamar fan.
Not the surface kind.
Not the playlist kind.
The kind who listens to the whole album, in order,
Who waits for the videos.
Who digs through lyrics like scripture, pausing, rewinding, sitting with bars like they were written for my memory alone.
His music has never been just music to me.
It’s been diagnosis.
It’s been a protest.
It’s been a mirror, cracked and shaking, but still reflecting something I needed to see.
So when the Great Rap War of 2024 came like thunder,
I stayed close.
Not just for the spectacle, but for the weight.
Because when Kendrick Lamar enters a war of words, it’s never just a diss.
It’s a dissection.
One night, long after the storm passed and the silence settled, I chased ghosts on YouTube.
The way one does when sleep won’t come, and the truth is still humming in the walls.
And there I stumbled across something unexpected:
A page by Anthony Aiken Jr. (youtube.com/@AnthonyAikenJr).
What he offered wasn’t commentary—it was archaeology.
He unearthed not just Kendrick’s lyrics but their architecture, the cultural echoes, and one thing I never saw coming:
Taylor Swift.
Let me confess: I had never made that connection.
In my world, Taylor Swift lived somewhere else.
Somewhere, polished, pink, and distant from the cracked pavement where Kendrick built his kingdom.
But Aiken pulled threads I hadn’t noticed.
Lebron. Kendrick. Taylor.
At first, it felt strange.
Then it started to feel inevitable.
So I did what I always do when I’m unsure,
I listened.
I started with a song Aiken mentioned: “Lavender Haze.”
And I’ll be honest, I did not expect what I heard.
What I expected was gloss.
What I got was atmosphere.
What I expected was pop.
What I got was texture.
Buried in the haze was a name I recognized, Sounwave.
The sonic architect behind so much of Kendrick’s world.
And there, floating above the fog of synth and softness, was Sam Dew,
his voice cutting through like a whisper you didn’t know you needed until it arrived.
In that moment, Taylor Swift wasn’t just Taylor Swift.
She was something else.
She was connected.
It’s easy to draw lines between artists when the culture insists on fences.
When the industry tells us who belongs to which genre, who speaks for what struggle, and who owns which sound.
But music doesn’t obey boundaries.
It bleeds.
And if Kendrick taught me anything, it’s to listen deeper.
Not just for bars.
But for buried intention.
So I kept listening.
And I will keep listening.
Not because I’m suddenly a Swiftie,
but because I now know she is a lyricist.
And if I missed this, what else have I missed?
There’s a lesson in all this: something about staying open,
about not letting genre, fame, or image keep you from recognizing truth when it sings.
Because somewhere between Mr. Morale and Midnights,
between “Not Like Us” and “Lavender Haze,”
It is a space I didn’t know I needed,
a space where craft speaks louder than category.
So I’ll start again.
Just like I do with every Kendrick album.
Because meaning isn’t always found on the first listen.
Sometimes it waits for you in the haze.
By Kyle J. Hayes
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