In Rap Feuds, Women Are The Collateral Damage & Drake Vs. Kendrick Is No Exception

In the current digital economy, it is increasingly rare for the world to come together over a single event. Despite the increasingly segmented nature of the internet, however, this past weekend it seemed like everyone was consumed by the hip-hop event of the moment – Drake and Kendrick Lamar, two seasoned artists at the top of their game, finally letting tensions bubble over into a clash of the titans after years of rumoured friction. Starting with a pointed guest verse from Kendrick on Future and Metro Boomin’s “Like That,” the long-simmering feud quickly escalated into a rapid-fire war of words, both artists releasing four diss tracks (two each) with each response more unrelenting than the last.

As thrilling as it is to participate in the shared experience of watching two titans of their industry challenge themselves to a gladiator-style conflict with impressive skill and turnaround, their tracks also expose a long-standing tradition in battle raps: using women as pawns and fodder for slinging insults. When the battle is arguing over who’s the bigger misogynist, does anyone really win? The women in these rappers’ lives sure don’t. 

The dispute started as a competition of skill, strategy, and cultural competency – Drake defending his years of dominance atop the charts while experimenting with a variety of trending sounds, and Kendrick asserting his supremacy as the cultural pace-setter and superior emcee. The brief reprieves between tracks were fertile ground for sparring between fans – each interlude was rife with speculation over the victors of each round, supported with lyrical analysis, archival references, and anticipation of tactical strategies. The positions were clear with every track: Drake was contending with the envy of his peers for his reign on top of the charts despite years of supporting them as collaborators and impugning Kendrick’s credibility as an arbiter of cultural purity and Black pride. Kendrick, in turn, indicted Drake’s authenticity, marking him as a cultural interloper in hip-hop who is insecure over his racial identity (Drake is biracial, his mother is white) and uses different regional trends for validation and revenue.

While the overarching themes were clear and consistent – it rarely gets more pointed from Kendrick than “you’re not a colleague, you’re a colonizer” – the arguments that undergirded their respective points played into unsavoury rumours and speculation surrounding each rapper’s treatment of women. Kendrick repeatedly insinuated that Drake and his entourage are a collective predator and groomers with a habit of association with young girls (something which Drake has vehemently denied), likening his movements to Harvey Weinstein; he furthered the attack on the Toronto artist by surfacing long-abandoned speculations over privately having another child (a daughter) that is not known to the public. On “Meet the Grahams” Kendrick addresses Drake’s son Adonis: “History do repeats itself, sometimes it don't need a reason/But I would like to say it's not your fault that he's hidin' another child/Give him grace, this the reason I made Mr. Morale,” Kendrick raps menacingly. Drake brutally responded in kind on “Family Matters”, accusing Kendrick of engaging in infidelity, colourism, and physically abusing longtime fiancé Whitney Alford. On both ends, the accusations are damning and concerning, marring their character beyond the confines of the short-lived duel.

In the world of battle rap, a certain level of mischievousness is expected – there is a tacit understanding that no holds are barred in the tactical game of competing over musicality, one-upmanship, and narrative building. Battles exist in the liminal space between fact and fiction – believability is largely negotiated by determining which artist is able to land sensationalist blows that lean into common understandings of the other's character. It is still jarring when those blows include serious allegations of abuse against women and girls.

Over the years, Drake has been plagued with allegations of inappropriate interactions with young women as well as transitioning his brand into incel rhetoric that consistently marginalises women and girls. Drake’s heel-turn into a villainous alter-ego plays into how he markets his show and what he makes go viral, like giving a fan 50K to flex on a girlfriend that left him with no context for their breakup included, or, apparently, necessary for Drake. “F*ck that young lady,” he said. These days, the rapper’s music is fodder for podcast mics and engagement-baiting, blue-checked accounts pushing relationship prompts on the app formerly known as Twitter. Drake also consistently defended fellow Toronto rapper Tory Lanez when he was on trial for shooting Megan Thee Stallion. When accused sex trafficker and red-pill universe champion Andrew Tate claimed that Drake had wanted to meet with him, what was most revealing was the fact that the claim, however far-fetched, did not feel entirely implausible given the megastar’s public actions over recent years – including helping pen a record for longtime entourage member and security detail Baka Not Nice after he served time in prison for assaulting a woman. The cascade of recent behaviour is troubling in light of Kendrick’s recent invectives on "Not Like Us" pointing to Drake’s alleged long-ignored behaviour.

Kendrick has negotiated his relationship with celebrity differently than Drake – the Los Angeles native has largely eschewed branding himself as a public celebrity outside of his music and promoting it. He uses his albums and visuals as a place to interrogate his flaws and experiences. Kendrick’s relatively private life for an artist of his stature minimises points of exposure, but his use of music as a canvas allows for speculation based on what he chooses to divulge. In his most recent album, Mr. Morale and the Big Steppers, the Compton rapper publicly reconciled numerous intimate details about his family life, disclosing dalliances with white women and affairs that threatened the stability of his partnership on tracks like “Mother I Sober” and “Worldwide Steppers.” That marked vulnerability created an opening for Drake to attempt to exploit – marking his neglect of the Black family in favour of his vices as a contradiction to his public image, and inviting speculation over what may have been intentionally unsaid about Kendrick’s household turmoil.

The structure of battles leaves fans and consumers trapped in the afterlife of the dispute when the dust settles: large fandoms take up arms, and a creative competition can evolve into taking up for their favourite artist as not just more skilled, but morally superior – transforming the battle into a righteous crusade for dominance. At best, the cruel barbs exchanged back and forth are accepted as speculative fiction, ratcheted up for sensation – however, the lingering accusations are often treated as fact, associated with actual names and faces. Since the diss tracks have come to a pause, fans have been frantically searching for corroborating evidence to absolve their preferred artist and indict the opposing competitor.

Kendrick fans have resurfaced interviews disavowing abuse and support from Alford’s brother; Drake’s supporters have been circulating quotes from young women rejecting claims that their relationship with the superstar was inappropriate. As the dust settles from the battle, you are left to contend with two realities. One, artists are engaging in a speculative exercise of bloodsport where the ultimate crime is violence against women and girls, a frame that is tragically not reflected in present-day society. And the other, these are sincerely held positions by each artist against their opponent, suggesting that both legends associated as colleagues for years despite being aware of purported harm that their respective crews were allegedly responsible for, and said nothing publicly. In either scenario, fans and consumers are left to reconcile a contradiction between the conviction in Drake’s and Kendrick’s lyrics and the artists’ present-day behaviours. The women, girls, and children affiliated with them are left to deal with the fallout in the public. Despite what their raps may claim, the safety of these alleged victims isn’t the priority: it’s ego. 

Objectively, both men are trading in moral inconsistency. Kendrick can barely purport to have a moral brightline around abuse and parental neglect when he has collaborated with serial deadbeat baby daddy Future, claimed alleged abuser Dr. Dre as a mentor, and heavily featured convicted sex offender Kodak Black on his most recent album. Drake’s accusations against Kendrick fall apart in kind; he declares Kendrick an abuser in the same track as he shouts out alleged chronic abuser Chris Brown. This inconsistency is not contained to this conflict, either: in a recent spat between Chris Brown and Quavo, both artists weaponised documented physical incidents with women against the other in a twisted race to the bottom. In Drake’s response to Kendrick’s accusations, he spent the bulk of his song “The Heart pt 6” denying any accusations of sexual misconduct – claiming he was too rich and famous to be culpable – as well as alleging that Kendrick’s focus on the topic was due to his own childhood experiences with sexual abuse.  It ultimately becomes irrelevant whether the artists committed the alleged acts of violence or not, because what is ultimately revealed is that the trauma the women around them have experienced is accepted until it’s time for a rap battle. These artists may be willing to weaponise cruelty against women as a critique but fall short of committing to rejecting abuse around them as a sustained principle.

This legacy of women being left in the crossfire of battle rap goes back to one of the first documented beefs in hip-hop history.  In 1984, hip hop group UTFO released the B-side “Roxanne, Roxanne” – a cocksure boom-bap record detailing the pursuit of a “stuck up” woman who rejected their repeated advances. Queensbridge’s Roxanne Shante penned a response from the perspective of the woman in the song – a seven-minute freestyle recorded with Marley Marl. Over time, the responses in what become known as the “Roxanne Wars” became increasingly volatile – from emcees telling her to “suck my dick and die” to KRS-One rapping “Roxanne Shanté is only good for steady fucking” on “The Bridge is Over.” At battle rap’s inception, women became disposable currency for sensation, with no consideration for fact or fiction, legend or myth – and young women were left to deal with the fallout.

In the ensuing weeks, the women around Kendrick Lamar and Drake are going to be thrust into an unprecedented level of scrutiny – their social media exhumed and pored over, every statement and response dissected – in service of a conflict they never signed up for. While the war of words may be over (for now), the effects against the women involved continue to linger with a level of invasiveness that they never consented to. Abuse and grooming are now spectacles for consumers to gossip about rather than structural problems that need dismantling. The care for all parties involved is not prioritised, instead, it’s about who “won” a rap beef. Regardless of whether or not the accusations are merely speculative, the sensationalism continues to harm everyone involved. It is an ongoing shortcoming that cannot continue to be maintained in hip-hop’s next 50 years; it is tragedy enough that it dominated the first 50.