[What follows is a new column from Donovan Scribes, a writer, producer, former VP of the Portland chapter of the NAACP, and the editor of the Mercury's print issue BlackOut: a 5 Year Retrospective of Portland’s Racial Justice Protests.—eds.]
“No matter what these people say about me, my music doesn’t glorify any image. My music is spiritual when you listen to it. It’s all about emotion, I tell my innermost, darkest secrets.” —Tupac Shakur
Another verdict was handed down earlier this month in the Black Greek tragedy that was the Kendrick Lamar v. Drake showdown. While hip-hop fans already made their ruling more than a year ago—that Compton’s “good kid” was decidedly the clear victor of the musical tug-of-war—the Canadian rhymesayer decided to litigate the beef in a place never before attempted in the genre’s 50-year history: the court of law.
Judge Jeannette Vargas dismissed Drake’s defamation case against the label both he and Lamar share—Universal Music Group—noting in her opinion that the seven-track battle was “replete with profanity, trash-talking, threats of violence, and figurative and hyperbolic language, all of which are indicia of opinion.”
Basically, “nah.”
While most of the attention garnered by the beef centered on Kendrick’s scathing West Coast-dissecting banger “Not Like Us”—a track that hasn’t quieted since it fixed a nail into the proverbial coffin of Drake last March—it’s another record that truly encapsulates the heart of what this battle was about: soul.
When the self-proclaimed “6 God” dropped "Taylor Made Freestyle," I wasn’t just briefly worried for my side of the aisle (yes, I had a side in this); I was unsettled. The track was full of jabs and jeers from the former Degrassi star, prodding Kendrick to engage in the long-awaited duel full throttle. But the insults didn’t come from Drake alone. Over a brooding Dr. Dre-style beat, sprinkled with twinkling piano plinks, an AI-generated version of 2Pac’s voice comes in to admonish Kendrick for seemingly not living up to the moment he himself had instigated earlier that year. Then enters The Doggfather himself, Snoop Dogg, piling on to his Death Row brethren’s disappointment. The angle: Kendrick should hang his head in shame before his forefathers and the entire West Coast that raised him.
The problem is, all of the voices were actually Drake.
2pac, in fact, had been dead for almost 30 years.
But the moment also opened a bigger question: What does AI mean for the future of hip-hop?
Perhaps more than any other genre, the emcee element of rap music has always been predicated, not only on the ability to write a nice tune, but by the authenticity of the person performing the song. To be one of the greatest in hip-hop, that pen, that story, has to be yours.
In the first of his many rap fisticuffs a decade ago, it was revealed by Meek Mill that Drake did not write all of his music. Drake came out on top of that particular war, but not unscathed. The shadow of doubt continued to follow his pen and artistry from thereon. Despite this, Drake would continue to ascend to the top of the charts with catchy songs (many I’ve liked in the past) across varying genres that helped him secure one of the biggest deals in music history in 2021, propelling him to become the most streamed artist on Spotify in 2024.
At its core, hip-hop has always been counterculture. The party has always been central to the genre, but so too have Black radical politics—and with them, an inherent foil to America’s corporate monopolistic mainstream.
At its core, AI has been about increasing both productivity and content under capitalism.
In recent years, AI-generated content has exploded across algorithms around the globe. A study by the International Confederation of Societies of Authors and Composers, representing over 5 million creators, found that the market for generative AI in music and audiovisual content will rise from $3 billion to $64 billion by 2028. Those gains, the group says, signal about a 20 percent cut in profits for human creators in these mediums.
Kendrick’s central premise in the conflict was that Drake ran counter to the traditions of hip-hop. Kendrick was The Culture, and Drake was The Product.
And what becomes of the culture if it becomes just another product for sale? In a world of AI, this idea is fraught with new urgency as questions of ethics of art, life, and death have yet to be answered in a music industry infamously ripe with inequity.
Since his death in 1996, 2Pac has become the de facto face of hip-hop. Ask anyone who knows even a little about the genre, and they’ll know the name—and probably a song or two—of Tupac Shakur.
The child of Black Panther Afeni Shakur, 2Pac was almost as old as hip-hop itself, meaning he literally grew up with the art form. He came from a family of radical Black thinkers, counting among his relatives the lauded revolutionary activist Assata Shakur—who passed away this past September—as his step-aunt and godmother.
The chart-topping rapper famously feuded with The Notorious B.I.G., a war of words often reduced to an East Coast v. West Coast beef. But 2Pac, who was raised in both Baltimore and New York City before settling in California in his late teens, always maintained their conflict was personal, not coastal.
The former friends’ lives were cut short by gun violence in the mid-'90s within six months of each other, well before their 30th birthdays.
Immortalized as a 25-year-old, the artist's impact remains central to The Culture he was raised in and helped architect. You’d be hard-pressed to find a fan who doesn’t place 2Pac in their top five. He’s released more albums posthumously than he did while alive—only adding fuel to the comically longstanding lore that he might be alive somewhere, namely in Cuba.
While “Taylor Made Freestyle” is largely regarded as a misstep for Drake, who repurposed the legendary artist’s voice for a quick “W” over Kendrick, it’s important to note that imitation of 2Pac in hip-hop is nothing new. His DNA runs through the cadences, subject matter, and aesthetics of countless rappers who’ve followed him, from 50 Cent, Rapsody, Nipsey Hussle, and to my brethren Talilo. But there’s a difference between emulation and exploitation.
Remember that 2Pac hologram?
Back in 2012, my friends and I gathered around a laptop in our dorm to watch the Immortal Outlaw resurrected at Coachella. For two songs, Pac was reunited with Snoop and Dr. Dre on one of music’s biggest stages. Aside from his obviously altered “What the f*ck is up, Coachella!” statement at the start, everything—his stage presence, his clothes, his mannerisms—seemed almost real. Almost.
At the time, Dr. Dre worked with 2Pac’s estate, then helmed by his mother (who has since passed), to bring the moment to life.
Conversely, when “Taylor Made Freestyle” dropped, the estate swiftly sent Drake a cease-and-desist, calling it “unauthorized,” adding that the “dismaying use of Tupac’s voice against Kendrick Lamar, a good friend to the Estate who has given nothing but respect to Tupac and his legacy publicly and privately, compounds the insult.”
Outside of the unnecessary inclusion of Pac shouting out a festival that didn’t even exist in his lifetime, the hologram performance was still anchored in truth—in words, feelings, and rhythms he actually recorded.
Rap music remains one of the most consumed genres in the world. For something once dismissed by the mainstream as a fad in its infancy, half-a-century doesn’t look bad on it.
Consumerism, however, is categorically bad.
Hip-hop is not all “fight the power,” nor is it all “turn up.” But the essence of the genre remains a gumbo of Black music traditions, stirred in New York’s melting pot, that came overflowing over beat-breaks and unsanctioned poetry in the Carter and Reagan eras. In that sense, the heart of the music has always been about the other “We” that wasn’t in mind as “The People” during the penning of the Declaration of Independence. A counter to the establishment.
Kendrick v. Drake wasn’t about who made better music or who ruled the charts. Both topics will likely be debated in many people’s GOAT conversations for years to come, regardless of the battle. But in a world that crowns speed and production—where rapidly developing technology increasingly allows “product” to exist without “culture”—this lawsuit ruling stands as a small victory for counterculture and free speech.
The soul of hip-hop might be under threat — but for now, it ain’t dead yet.
Meanwhile, Drake’s legal team has announced they plan to appeal Judge Vargas’ ruling.
Who would’ve thought that hip-hop would take it this far?
