The Pop Culture Ramble

Welcome to The Pop Culture Ramble.

[thepopcultureramble]

What The Fuck Is Justin Bieber Doing With His Career Right Now??

Justin, Baby, What Are We Doing: On Star Power, Bad Management, and the Hallelujah of It All

Ok so, let me ramble a little bit.

So I'm watching the World Cup halftime show, buzzing because Justin Bieber is finally, finally performing on a stage that size again, and the set is doing exactly what a halftime set is supposed to do. Hype songs. Big lights. The kind of energy that makes strangers in a stadium jump in unison without being told to. And then, right in the middle of all that momentum, the show grinds to a stop for "Everything Hallelujah."

Not the Bieber song "Everything Hallelujah" as a peak. As a pause button.

I get the instinct. It's a song he owns outright, full stop, no label fine print attached, which for an artist who's spent his entire adult life fighting for ownership over his own name and catalogue is genuinely a big deal. I understand why he'd want the world watching him perform the one thing that's fully, unambiguously his. But here's the thing about instincts: they still have to survive contact with an audience, and a World Cup halftime crowd is not a room full of Beliebers who know every deep cut off Swag. It's casual viewers. It's people who came for a show, not a moment of quiet reflection sandwiched between bangers. Most of them didn't know the song. A lot of them still don't. So instead of landing as a statement, it landed as a mood killer, a record scratch in the middle of a set that had built real momentum, and then everyone had to claw their way back to the energy he'd already lost.

It went viral, sure. But going viral and going well are not the same thing, and I think somewhere in Justin's camp, someone mistook one for the other.

That's the whole problem in miniature, honestly. Not the song choice by itself. The instinct behind it. The idea that meaning something to Justin is the same as it working for an audience. That's not artistry, that's a scheduling error dressed up as a statement, and it's been happening over and over again since Swag dropped, if you've been paying attention.

Let's back up.

Swag was supposed to be the reset. It ended up being the wake-up call.

I've been a fan since I was nine years old. I am now in my twenties. I have sat through the entire arc, the "Baby" era, the "Sorry" era, the beard, the church small group phase, the Hailey era, the Justice tour, all of it, and I say this as someone who loves him, not someone circling for blood: Swag being his first album in about sixteen years to not hit number one is not a fluke. It's not "the algorithm" or "the industry being unfair to legacy artists." It's a data point. And when it's the first data point in a career that has otherwise been an unbroken commercial streak since he was a literal child, you don't get to wave it off. You have to actually look at it.

Because here's what's wild. The album itself wasn't the problem. Swag, sonically, is one of the more interesting things he's put out in years. It's loose, it's clearly personal, you can hear him actually enjoying making music again instead of performing a version of himself built for radio. That's a good thing. That's growth. The problem was never what he made. The problem is what happened to it after he made it, which is where his team comes in, and where I have to ask: does he even have a functioning team right now?

Swag II dropped significantly later than it was originally supposed to, and when your rollout timeline is that loose for an artist operating at his level, that's not an artistic choice, that's a logistics failure. Delays happen. Every artist deals with them. But delays compound. A late rollout on a comeback album doesn't just push a date on a calendar, it drains the exact momentum you need to actually launch a new era. You cannot build hype, let it go cold, and expect it to reignite itself on command. Hype has a shelf life. His team let it expire.

Will Bracey managed Fifth Harmony. Let that sit for a second.

If Will Bracey is genuinely running point on Justin Bieber's career right now, someone needs to explain the logic to me, because on paper it does not track. Fifth Harmony, as a commercial entity, did not come anywhere close to Bieber's tier. Not in chart performance, not in longevity, not in global reach, not in cultural footprint. I'm not dragging Fifth Harmony as artists, that's not the point. The point is management scale. You do not hand the wheel of a Ferrari to someone whose entire prior experience is parking sedans, and then act surprised when the car stalls out in traffic.

Scooter Braun, whatever else people want to say about him, and there is plenty to say, understood scale. He understood how to build Justin from a kid with a haircut and a YouTube channel into one of the most bankable pop stars alive. That doesn't mean the Scooter era was flawless, it very much was not, but there was a machine behind it that knew how to move at Bieber's level. What's happening now doesn't look like that. It looks like a team that's still operating with a mid-size playbook trying to steer an artist who needs a completely different one. And when the strategy doesn't match the scale of the star, you get exactly what we've watched happen over the last year: a late album, a broken streak, and a halftime show that couldn't read its own room.

I need Justin to actually look at who's around him right now and ask if they're built for where he's trying to go, or if they're just the people who happened to be available.

Here's the part that actually makes me want to shake him a little.

Justin doesn't want to do the theatrics anymore. He doesn't want the elaborate choreography, the tour spectacle, the performance of Justin Bieber the product. Fine. I get it. He grew up on a stage from the time he was thirteen, and I understand not wanting to keep giving pieces of yourself to a machine that already took most of your childhood. That's a completely reasonable thing to want to walk away from.

But here's what he's missing, and what his team should absolutely be telling him if they were doing their jobs: not wanting to perform like a teenager anymore doesn't mean the answer is to stop performing. It means the performance has to grow up with you. Michael Jackson didn't stop dancing as he aged, he refined it. Every tour got more precise, more controlled, more him. Beyoncé, who is a grown woman with kids and a business empire and every reason in the world to phone it in if she wanted to, still gives full, exhausting, career-defining performances, because she understands that the show is part of the art, not separate from it. Growth isn't subtraction. It's not "I used to give everything, now I give less." It's "I used to give a version built for a teenager, now I give a version built for a man." Those are different things, and right now Justin is treating them like the same thing.

And I won't pretend the double standard isn't sitting right there in plain sight either. Female artists who are Justin's age or older, at his level of fame, do not get to coast into a lower-effort era and call it authenticity. Beyoncé doesn't get that grace. Rihanna didn't get that grace during her own hiatus, and she got dragged for years for stepping back from music entirely, never mind a scaled-down version of it. If Justin Bieber quietly decides he's just going to perform less and expect the same career results, the industry and the fans will largely let him have that, because he's a man, and the assumption is that his talent alone should be enough to carry it. It shouldn't have to be that way for anyone, honestly, male or female. But since it clearly still is, he's benefiting from a leniency that a woman doing the exact same thing right now would never be given, and coasting on that leniency instead of pushing past it is its own kind of waste.

None of this is about him owing anyone a show.

I want to be really clear about something, because I don't want this read as me demanding he go back to being a product. He doesn't owe the industry a spectacle. He doesn't owe Instagram a comeback narrative. What I'm saying is different. I'm saying the raw material for a genuinely great next chapter of his career, one people will actually still be talking about in five years, is sitting right there, and it's being managed like an afterthought. That's the tragedy of it. It's not that Justin lost his talent or his relevance. It's that the machine around him doesn't know how to package a star who no longer wants to be handled like a product but still needs the packaging of one professional enough to match his level.

He has the voice. He has the songwriting instincts, Swag proved that. He has decades of built-in cultural equity that most artists would kill for. What he doesn't have right now is a team that knows how to take all of that and build a coherent, adult, still-electric version of Justin Bieber for the public to actually meet. Instead we get a song that means something to him personally, performed to a crowd that had never heard it, at exactly the wrong moment, on the biggest stage of the year. We get an album that slipped its own release date. We get a management structure that, from the outside, looks like it was built for a career a third the size of his.

Okay, let me put my degree to use for a second.

I have an honours degree in PR and marketing communications sitting in a drawer somewhere, mostly unused, but every so often a situation comes along that makes me feel like I owe the universe some actual application of it, and this is one of those situations. So indulge me.

If I were in the room, here's what I'd be telling that team. First, you do not build a comeback narrative around a delayed rollout. If Swag II wasn't ready, it wasn't ready, but you communicate that shift proactively, you control the story before the story controls you. Silence and slippage read as disorganization, and disorganization is the one thing an artist trying to prove he's matured cannot afford to project. Second, know your stage. A World Cup halftime show is not a listening party. It is not the venue for your most personal, ownership-driven deep cut. Save "Hallelujah" for a stripped-down performance, an awards show acoustic moment, something built for intimacy, and use the biggest stage of the year for the songs that will actually make the room detonate. Reading the room isn't a betrayal of the art. It's the job.

Third, and this is the big one: stop treating "mature era" and "low effort era" like they're interchangeable. A smart team builds him a performance identity that still delivers spectacle but on his terms, stripped of the theatrics he's outgrown but not stripped of ambition. Think what Bruno Mars does, full band energy, all charisma, zero teenage choreography leftover. Think what The Weeknd built, an entire visual mythology around restraint and mood that still reads as a massive show. There is a version of "grown Justin" that is still a can't-look-away performer. Nobody on his team seems to be building toward it. They seem to be building toward less, full stop, and calling it evolution.

That's the gap. Not talent. Strategy.

So here's the gut check.

Over sixteen years of number ones is not nothing, and losing that streak isn't a moral failing, but it is a signal, and signals exist to be read, not explained away. If the pattern continues, if the rollouts stay sloppy and the big stage moments keep missing the room and the team stays mismatched to the artist, this isn't going to correct itself. Career momentum doesn't just come back because you deserve it to. It comes back because someone builds the conditions for it to. Right now nobody around him seems to be doing that work, and eventually the audience stops waiting around for an era to click into place. That's not a threat, it's just how this industry has always worked, for every artist, no exceptions.

But. And this is the part I actually believe, not just the part I'm saying to be nice.

I've watched this man get written off before, during the Purpose era backlash, during the hiatus, during every single moment the internet decided he was done, and every time, the talent was still there underneath it, just waiting for someone smart enough to point it somewhere. Swag is proof it's still there. Messy rollout and all, that album is the sound of him actually enjoying himself again, and you cannot fake that.

So no, I don't think he's lost. I think he's surrounded by people who haven't caught up to who he's trying to become. Fix that, and this fixes itself fast.

Wake up, Justin. Look at your team. And somebody, please, save "Everything Hallelujah" for a smaller room or your own tour next time.

This has been a ramble by the PCR.

[thepopcultureramble]

The Punchline in the Punchline: Why Rap and Comedy Have Always Been Cousins

Let me ramble a little bit.

Okay, so walk with me. It was the asscrack of dawn, and I was out for a run listening to a rap song when I caught myself laughing out loud.

It wasn't a chuckle either but a real, head-turning laugh that made me rewind the line just to hear it land again. I think it was a bar from 2 Chainz. But anyway, the bar itself was not structured like a traditional joke. There was no deliberate setup followed by a tidy punchline. Yet something about the rhythm, the exaggeration and hilariously enough, the self-assured delivery made it hit with the precision of a stand-up routine. It did not announce itself as comedy, but it kind of behaved like it.

That moment lingered with me. A lot of us, in some way or form, are used to sorting art into categories that feel tidy and manageable. Music over here. Stand-up over there. Film, poetry, drama all in their own separate lanes. But hip-hop has always resisted that kind of neat shelving. Some of the sharpest lyricists in rap are working with instincts that would make seasoned comedians nod in quiet respect. Timing matters. Misdirection matters. Voice matters. The ability to observe the world and condense it into a line that makes people react on cue matters. Those are not exclusively musical skills. They are comedic ones too.

For Black History Month, that overlap feels especially worth sitting with. Black humor has never operated in isolation from storytelling. It has moved alongside critique, alongside cultural commentary, alongside resistance. Laughter has often arrived in spaces where conditions were anything but light. Rap inherits that tradition. It carries within it the same impulse to expose, to exaggerate, to reflect society back at itself with just enough twist to make people lean in closer.

You can see the connection most clearly in timing. Delivery is everything in both rap and stand-up. A simple sentence can fall flat or explode depending on how it is handled. A pause half a beat longer than expected can create anticipation. A sudden drop in tone can sharpen a line. A raised eyebrow on a stage or a shift in vocal cadence in a verse can transform language into something electric.

Think about how certain rappers stretch a syllable until it becomes playful, turning a boast into something knowingly theatrical. Or how a voice might shift mid-verse into a different character to underline absurdity. There are artists who lean into awkward self-awareness, who build entire moments around irony, who use their facial expressions in live performances to amplify a joke embedded in the lyric. The words alone might look straightforward on paper. The performance reshapes them.

That reshaping is where comedy has lived for decades and decades.

Exaggeration is another shared language. Comedy thrives on pushing reality just far enough that it becomes ridiculous while still recognizable. Rap has long relied on exaggeration as part of its DNA. Grand claims of success, power, desirability and dominance are staples of the genre. When done well, those claims become theatrical. Larger than life. Occasionally so audacious that the audience understands the wink built into them.

Braggadocio in hip-hop has often carried a playful edge. It is competitive, yes, but also clever. Wit can dismantle an opponent as effectively as aggression. A sharp bar can deflate someone in a way that feels both ruthless and funny. The audience responds to that dual impact. They admire the craft while reacting to the humor.

In today’s digital landscape, that dynamic accelerates. A funny line can move through the internet faster than a serious diss. No seriously, look at the Kendrick-Drake battle of '24 for references of both being true. It becomes a meme. It becomes a caption. It travels beyond the song itself. People replay it to catch the turn of phrase, to appreciate how the line folded in on itself. Humor builds replay value. It encourages participation. The listener becomes part of the joke by recognizing how it works.

This does not reduce rap to a series of gags. It highlights the intelligence embedded within its wit. The most memorable punchlines are rarely random. They are calculated, structured and delivered with intention.

Observation is another bridge between rap and comedy. Stand-up at its strongest pulls from the mundane details of everyday life. Social habits. Cultural contradictions. That awkward moment at a family gathering. The strange etiquette of public spaces. Comedians build entire careers on noticing what others overlook.

Many rappers are engaged in that same observational practice. They write about family group chats and side-eye at events. They dissect dating culture. They comment on performative activism and industry hypocrisy. They sketch vivid scenes from neighborhoods, parties, boardrooms and backseats. The beat may be heavy, but the impulse is similar. Notice something specific. Frame it just slightly off-center. Let the audience recognize themselves in it.

Often, the humor in these moments makes the commentary easier to digest. A listener might laugh at a line before realizing that it contains something sharper underneath. Black artists have long used this strategy. Humor creates an opening. It softens the doorframe just enough to let a critique slide through without immediate defensiveness. In periods where direct confrontation carried risk, wit provided another path forward. Hip-hop absorbed that instinct naturally.

Persona also ties these worlds together. Stand-up comics frequently perform heightened versions of themselves. The exaggerated skeptic. The loud storyteller. The hyper-observant critic. The absurdist who leans fully into chaos. The performance depends on the audience recognizing that what they are seeing is stylized.

Rappers do this constantly. The overconfident mogul. The calculated villain. The chaotic narrator. The blunt truth-teller. The humor often hinges on how convincingly that persona is embodied. A dry one-liner lands differently when delivered from within a character that the audience understands. A deliberately outrageous metaphor works because listeners know it is part of a crafted identity.

When the audience is in on that performance, the humor deepens. There is a shared awareness between artist and listener. The exaggeration is understood. The irony is felt. The line becomes a collaborative moment rather than a one-sided declaration.

Beyond performance technique, there is a cultural throughline worth acknowledging. Black creative traditions have long held space for laughter alongside hardship. Blues musicians laced sorrow with wit. Church culture balances solemnity with humor. Contemporary meme culture continues that pattern in digital form. Laughter has served as release, as resistance, as quiet defiance.

Hip-hop emerged from communities facing structural neglect and hostility. Comedy was already embedded in those spaces. I assume that that is also why comedians like Dave Chappelle love hip-hop and why hip-hop loves him right back. It surfaces naturally in the music. Sometimes the funniest bar on an album sits directly next to the bleakest. The contrast is intentional. Humor does not erase struggle. It provides oxygen within it.

Live shows make this especially visible. When a witty lyric hits, the crowd reacts instantly. Heads turn. People grin at strangers. There is a shared recognition in the room. That collective laugh builds connection. It transforms the performance into something communal.

In a culture where Black expression has frequently been surveilled and misinterpreted, humor can become a way to control tone and narrative. An artist decides how serious or playful a moment will be. The audience either understands the nuance or does not. That choice carries power.

The internet has only intensified these overlaps. Rappers now drop funny freestyles that circulate as widely as official singles. Comedians reference rap lyrics in sketches. Memes remix bars into punchlines that detach from their original context and take on new life. A sharp caption can resemble a one-liner as tightly structured as any stand-up joke.

Humor functions as currency in digital spaces. A funny bar moves fast. It gets clipped, quoted and reshaped. Sometimes it outlives the track itself. That does not mean rap is morphing into stand-up. It reflects an understanding that humor builds immediate connection in crowded spaces.

During Black History Month, it feels important to recognize this dimension of Black artistry. Conversations often center on struggle, achievement, statistics and milestones. Those narratives matter deeply. Yet Black creative legacy also includes joy, satire and playful brilliance. Rap and comedy have shaped language, fashion, politics and global culture in ways that extend far beyond entertainment.

Acknowledging the humor in rap means acknowledging its fullness. The genre holds protest and celebration at once. It holds tension and absurdity in the same breath. It can critique power structures while joking about everyday inconveniences. That range is part of its strength.

Sometimes a punchline inside a verse does more than entertain. It signals that the artist sees the absurdity of a situation and refuses to let it pass without commentary. It invites the listener into that recognition. The laugh becomes more than reaction at that point (at least for me it was). Then by some beautiful and small way, it also becomes participation one art while inviting the thought of another.

You hear the line. You smile. You replay it to understand how it was built. Or hell, even just to laugh again.

And then maybe you realize that what made you laugh was not random at all.

This has been a ramble by the PCR.

[thepopcultureramble]

Why Does America Keep Selling the Fantasy of a Black Woman President?

Another ramble by The Pop Culture Ramble

So I just watched Mission Impossible: The Final Reckoning. Great stunts, cool explosions, Tom Cruise sprinting like he’s trying to outrun time itself — you know, the usual. But what caught my attention this time wasn’t Ethan Hunt or the IMF. It was Angela Bassett.

Angela. Damn. Bassett.

As the President of the United States. And she was convincing, commanding, and absolutely radiating that “leader of the free world” energy like she was born for it.

But it made me pause. Because it’s not the first time we’ve seen this fictional America — the one where a Black woman can hold the highest office in the land. Viola Davis did it in G20. Regina King has played roles commanding armies and justice. Even in Shonda Rhimes's TV empire, Black women are everything from fixers to presidents. Hollywood keeps pitching this dream of a future we never seem to arrive at in real life.

And it made me think of Kamala Harris.

She was right there. First Black Vice President. First woman Vice President. And for a moment, it felt like history was going to repeat itself — in the best way. First Black president? Check. Now the first Black woman president? The timeline almost made sense.

Until it didn’t.

Until America did what it does best: get scared of a mirror and break it.

Because let’s be honest — Kamala should’ve been the next logical step. She had the credentials. The momentum. The backing. But instead, we got the rerun nobody asked for: Donald Trump, again. TWICE. A man who’s currently on trial more than he’s on television. And yet, he gets re-elected while a capable Black woman gets sidelined like she’s asking for too much just by existing?

Make it make sense.

Actually, don’t. Because I know exactly what it is.

It’s misogynoir. That special brand of hatred reserved just for Black women — not just misogyny, not just racism, but the cursed cocktail of both. It’s why Kamala’s laugh became a talking point, why her confidence was called arrogance, why her every move was hyper-analyzed while white mediocrity is given chance after chance to burn the house down.

And yet, in movies, we keep seeing Black women as presidents, commanders, superheroes, warriors, gods. It’s like Hollywood knows something the electorate doesn’t — or refuses to admit. They create a fantasy where a Black woman can hold power because, deep down, they know the country will never let it happen for real. So they do it in fiction. Where it’s safe. Where it’s controlled.

But here’s my problem with that:

If the people consuming these stories don’t get the point — if they think it’s just “cool casting” or a diversity checkbox — then what’s the point of the fantasy?

The people voting for Trump don’t walk out of Mission Impossible thinking “Wow, maybe we should elect a woman like Angela Bassett’s character.” They either ignore it, mock it, or worse, see it as a threat to “their” America. They live in the same broken system as everyone else, but as long as their guy is in power, even if it burns down around them, they’ll roast marshmallows in the flames before they vote for someone like Kamala.

That’s not just fear. That’s willful destruction.

And yet, American cinema keeps pretending like we’re progressing. Like if we show it enough, it’ll manifest. But the truth? America doesn’t want to see itself for what it is. So it projects who it wants to be — even when the evidence says otherwise.

You can’t keep casting Black women as the leader of the free world when your real world would rather watch it crumble than let one actually lead.

Maybe that’s harsh. Maybe it’s too much.

But I’ve lived through Trump getting elected twice. I’ve watched how people flinched at the idea of President Hillary Clinton, and how they smirk at the mention of Kamala. I’ve seen how quickly America forgets the hope it once bought into with Obama, and how bitter it became when that dream proved too "disruptive" for the comfort of whiteness and patriarchy.

So I ask again: why does Hollywood keep selling a lie?

Or maybe — just maybe — they’re telling the truth through fiction. Maybe it’s the only place they can show an America that’s brave enough, evolved enough, just enough to let a Black woman lead. Maybe they’re not selling a lie — they’re showing the ghost of a possibility that died before it had a real shot.

But it still feels cruel.

Because some of us are sitting here, watching Angela Bassett be president, while knowing that Kamala Harris was right there… and the country looked at her and said, “Nah. We’ll take the chaos again instead.”

It’s not just disappointing.

It’s exhausting.

Anyway. That’s been another ramble from the PCR.

I’ll go back to watching movies where we pretend to do better.

[thepopcultureramble]

Thank You, Pope Francis

There was something about him—something disarming and deeply human. Maybe it was the way he leaned into compassion when the world leaned into judgment. Or how he spoke plainly, not with the lofty tone we expect from people in power, but like someone who had lived a long life and still chose kindness over cynicism.

He was, to many, “the people’s pope.” And not just in theory. He ditched the Papal palace for a modest guesthouse. He washed the feet of prisoners. He spoke out against climate change, income inequality, and the hollowing out of dignity in our modern world. And maybe most controversially—he wasn’t afraid to stand for a free Palestine, even when it put him at odds with powerful voices. That courage? That matters. That’s legacy.

I won’t pretend he was perfect. No one is. But he was trying—genuinely, persistently trying—to bring the Church a little closer to what it was supposed to be about in the first place: grace, mercy, and love. He leaned left in a world that often wanted him to stay center or swing right. He asked us to love before we lecture. To care before we categorize.

He also reminded us, sometimes with a twinkle in his eye, that joy and faith don’t have to be at odds. That you can be holy and human. Soft-spoken and strong. That you can believe in the power of tradition without weaponizing it against the vulnerable.

So no, I’m not Catholic. But I’m a Christian. And I know a Christlike spirit when I see one. Pope Francis had that. All the way to the end.

Rest well, Francis. Thank you for choosing compassion in a world that often forgets how. You were, in the truest sense, a shepherd.

And the flock was better for it.

This has been a ramble by the PCR.

[thepopcultureramble]

Black Women in Fashion: Trendsetters & Trailblazers

Alright, let’s talk about Black women in fashion.

If we’re being real, Black women ARE fashion. The blueprint. The moment. The trendsetters. The ones who push the industry forward, even when it refuses to give them their credit. We see it everywhere—from the runways to the streets to the red carpets. And yet, Black women still have to fight for a seat at the table in an industry that wouldn’t even be half as innovative without them.

So, let’s ramble a little about the impact, the influence, and the undeniable legacy of Black women in fashion.

The Pioneers Who Set the Stage

Before there was a Rihanna or a Zendaya effortlessly shutting down red carpets, there were the trailblazers, the OGs who fought to be seen.

Donyale Luna – The First Black Supermodel

Let’s start with Donyale Luna—one of the most overlooked yet influential Black models of all time. In 1966, she became the first Black woman to grace the cover of Vogue. This was a big deal because, at the time, magazines were almost exclusively white. But Luna? She broke the mold with her statuesque beauty, her otherworldly presence, and her refusal to conform to industry standards.

Luna’s career was cut short, but her legacy? Undeniable. Without her, there’s no Naomi, no Tyra, no Adut Akech.

Naomi Sims – The First Black Model Mogul

Another OG? Naomi Sims. She was the first Black model to break into mainstream fashion in the 1960s, at a time when agencies straight-up refused to sign Black girls. She didn’t just let the industry’s racism stop her—she built her own legacy, starting a multimillion-dollar beauty brand that paved the way for Black-owned beauty companies today.

The Supermodels Who Took Over

Now, you can’t talk about fashion’s golden era without mentioning Naomi Campbell.

Naomi Campbell – The Blueprint

Naomi Campbell IS fashion. She wasn’t just walking the runway—she was owning it. The attitude, the confidence, the walk—nobody does it like Naomi.

But let’s not forget—she had to fight for those spots. Despite being one of the most talented and in-demand models of her era, she was often paid less and booked less than her white counterparts. It took Gianni Versace, who made sure she earned the same paycheck as her peers, to truly highlight the industry’s racism.

Tyra Banks – Breaking Barriers

Tyra wasn’t just a model—she was a game-changer. In 1997, she became the first Black woman to land the cover of Sports Illustrated Swimsuit Edition, an issue that was historically all about white women with blonde hair and blue eyes.

But Tyra wasn’t just breaking barriers in front of the camera. She went on to create America’s Next Top Model, giving Black girls a platform in an industry that constantly tried to shut them out.

The Designers Who Changed the Game

Black women haven’t just been wearing the clothes. They’ve been making them.

Ann Lowe – The Designer Behind Jackie Kennedy’s Wedding Dress

Ever heard of Ann Lowe? Maybe not, but you definitely know her work. She designed Jackie Kennedy’s wedding dress in 1953, but guess what? She never got credit for it. That’s right—one of the most famous wedding dresses of all time was made by a Black woman, and history tried to erase her.

Ann was a couture-level designer who dressed America’s wealthiest families, yet she was often underpaid and uncredited because of her race.

Tracy Reese – The Queen of Chic

If you don’t know Tracy Reese, let me put you on. She’s been in the game since the ‘90s, creating colorful, feminine, and elegant designs worn by women like Michelle Obama, Sarah Jessica Parker, and Beyoncé.

Her influence? Immeasurable. She made high fashion wearable, elegant, and fun—proving that Black women don’t just follow trends, they create them.

The Celebrities Who Make Every Moment a Fashion Moment

It’s one thing to wear the clothes. It’s another thing to make the clothes legendary.

Rihanna – The Fashion Mogul

Rihanna doesn’t just wear fashion—she defines it. From her early days as a pop princess to becoming the first Black woman to lead a luxury brand under LVMH, Rihanna’s impact is unmatched.

Fenty isn’t just a brand—it’s a movement. She made sure every shade was included in beauty. She made luxury streetwear a thing. And don’t even get me started on her red carpet moments.

Beyoncé – The Standard

Beyoncé doesn’t just show up to fashion—she commands it. She’s the moment every time she steps out. Whether she’s in custom Balmain at Coachella, dripping in jewels for the MET Gala, or turning airport paparazzi shots into style inspo, Beyoncé is the standard.

Her influence is global. Designers race to dress her, and when she wears something, it’s instantly iconic. But it’s not just about the looks—it’s the intention. From her “Black Is King” visuals to her Renaissance tour wardrobe, Beyoncé uses fashion as a form of storytelling, honoring Black history, culture, and futurism all at once.

Let’s not forget: she launched House of Deréon before celebrity fashion lines were a thing. Now, with IVY PARK, she’s merging athleisure with high fashion, creating inclusive pieces that celebrate all body types and all shades of Blackness.

Beyoncé doesn’t just walk into a room—she redefines the room. And fashion? It moves when she says move.

The Legacy Lives On

So. Fashion has always tried to gatekeep Black women from getting the credit they deserve. But the truth is, Black women are fashion’s biggest inspiration. From streetwear to haute couture, from vintage to futuristic—Black women set the trends that everyone else follows.

So, the next time you see a viral fashion moment, just know: A Black woman probably did it first.

This was a post by the PCR.

[thepopcultureramble]

K.Dot Reigns Supreme

Alright, so let’s talk about the boogeyman.

Kendrick Lamar's responses were paramount to the 2024 rap feud that practically had the entire internet hitting replay on his Like That verse. This wasn’t just a typical rap beef; it became a statement on artistry, authenticity, and the distinct paths these two rap giants have taken in their careers. Here’s a breakdown of how this beef escalated into a full-blown saga and why Kendrick ended up with the final victory lap, Grammy nominations included.

Round 1: The “Like That” Shockwave

This all started when Kendrick appeared on Like That, a track on Future and Metro Boomin’s album We Don’t Trust You. Kendrick’s verse was classic, chest-out Kendrick, calling out the “pop” sensibilities of Drake and even taking a jab at J. Cole. He didn’t mince words, throwing lines that questioned Drake’s authenticity and his pursuit of superstardom over artistry. This set the internet on fire, with fans picking apart every line, speculating about Kendrick’s intentions, and unanimously agreeing he delivered one of the year’s hardest-hitting verses​

Drake’s First Response: “Push Ups”

Drake, never one to let a diss slide, fired back with Push Ups, which leaked online. The track was loud, catchy, and aimed directly at Kendrick’s commitment to “keeping it real.” But where Kendrick’s verse felt raw, Drake’s response, filled with energy but short on substance, felt like it was leaning too heavily on production. He even brought out AI-generated vocals of Tupac in a follow-up track, Taylor Made Freestyle, which drew backlash and left some questioning Drake’s creativity. AI Tupac was a bold, if somewhat desperate, move​

Kendrick Strikes Back: “6:16 in LA” and “Euphoria”

Kendrick returned fire with 6:16 in LA and Euphoria, each song dropping a fresh layer of introspection mixed with his signature critiques of modern hip-hop. On 6:16 in LA, Kendrick dug into the LA scene and his struggles, contrasting his life journey with Drake’s commercial path. In Euphoria, he softened the tone, showcasing his artistic side and reaffirming that for him, this was more than just a back-and-forth; it was a reminder that hip-hop at its core was art, not just business.

Drake’s response? Not as strong. While Taylor Made Freestyle created waves, it didn’t make the kind of impact Kendrick’s tracks did. By this point, fans were calling it: Kendrick wasn’t just competing—he was setting a new standard.

“Meet The Grahams” and “Not Like Us” – Kendrick’s Grand Finale

Kendrick released Meet The Grahams, directly addressing Drake’s family ties and hinting at the disconnect between public persona and personal reality. It was a move that hit hard, showing Kendrick wasn’t afraid to get personal but did so with finesse. Then, in Not Like Us, he laid down his final argument, emphasizing the differences in their artistry, where Kendrick’s work was meant to be dissected and remembered, and Drake’s, he argued, was made to be consumed and forgotten.

By the time Kendrick’s songs started getting Grammy buzz (and eventual nominations), while Drake’s responses got snubbed, it was clear: Kendrick had won. This wasn’t just about who had the best verse; it was about who captured the soul of hip-hop​

The Character Difference: Why Kendrick Came Out on Top

Let’s face it, Drake’s no stranger to beef—he’s clashed with Meek Mill, Pusha T, and others. But this feud with Kendrick brought something new: a contrast between two artists with radically different goals. Kendrick has always been about the craft, pushing boundaries lyrically and stylistically. Drake, while talented, has often pursued mainstream appeal and pop success.

Kendrick’s approach is what makes him “the people’s champ.” He doesn’t do interviews about his every move, doesn’t drop a new product every week—he lets his music speak. Drake, on the other hand, came across as more concerned with maintaining his status and putting out hits. Kendrick’s ability to stay above the noise and focus on his message ended up resonating more deeply.

Grammy Nominations: The Icing on the Cake

Today’s Grammy nominations solidified Kendrick’s win. Like That and Not Like Us both received nods, showcasing that even the industry recognized Kendrick’s mastery. Meanwhile, Drake’s tracks were nowhere to be seen, a signal that his AI-assisted attempts and rapid-fire releases didn’t connect as intended. Kendrick’s Grammy nods aren’t just about one-upping Drake—they’re a testament to his artistic approach that values longevity, impact, and a sense of purpose that outshines the temporary appeal of chart-topping hits​

Final Thoughts?

This beef, in all its layers, wasn’t just about who could out-rap whom. It was about what each artist stands for. Kendrick reminded us of the essence of hip-hop, the kind of artistry that transcends trends and accolades. While Drake’s contributions to music are undeniable, Kendrick’s journey through this beef proved why he’s the GOAT or at the very least, top three, not just as a rapper but as a true artist who doesn’t need validation to solidify his place.

This has been a ramble by,

The Pop Culture Ramble

[thepopcultureramble]

Why does everybody hate Jennifer Lopez now?

I could take a few guesses, but let me ramble a little bit.

Okay, so I know Jennifer Lopez as an actress and music performer. In case you've noticed, I didn't call her a singer because that's not exactly her strong suit. However, I do know that she can dance and act. The singing, to me, just seems like more of a feature than the main event in her shows.

But anyway, she has been on the receiving end of a lot of bad press throughout her decades-long career. But it wasn't all bad in the beginning. She was an actress who was getting Golden Globe nominations and was in Oscar talks for her portrayal of Selena Quintanilla in the critically acclaimed musical biopic 'Selena' in the '90s, and she was becoming the queen of rom-coms with her box office hits back in the early 2000s. And during the height of all of that, she was releasing chart-topping singles and albums.

She was dating, then married, then divorced, then dating and married again. Had twins, got divorced, engaged, broke up, engaged again and is now married to an old flame (Ben Affleck) in 2022. But presently, there are rumors of our dear, dear Bennifer divorcing.

Just months ago, she's released films about her love life, her career growth, and new music that isn't exactly performing well. Sure, we can blame it on the fact that she's been at it for over 20 years, but there are other celebrities that have been here for decades too and are still peaking or peaking again and again in their careers (ahem, Beyoncé). Queen Bey has the respect, reverence, legend status, and career that many aspire to have.

Including Jennifer.

Which brings me to the main reason, at least in my view, of why people hate Jennifer Lopez as much as they do lately.

She tries too damn hard.

She wants to be a legend, and she wants, no demands, to be given her flowers now. Instead of letting it happen naturally over time, she wants to be celebrated and revered for her long career in immediate effect. And I suppose that's fair. She has been a staple in pop culture for decades. She'd constantly remind you that Google Images was invented because of a green dress she wore. She's performed at the Super Bowl (with Shakira). She has a net worth of over $400M.

But these documentaries and new releases she keeps giving us feel like she's trying to fast-track it and shove her need to be named a 'legend' down our throats.

But there's a certain level of authenticity that seems to be missing in her recent endeavors.

Perhaps it's the relentless pursuit of validation or the constant need to remind everyone of her past achievements. Whatever the case may be, it's clear that some people are growing tired of it. Moreover, there's another element that has contributed to the negative perception surrounding Lopez: her reputation for being rude to people.

Despite her talent and success, numerous reports and anecdotes have surfaced over the years, painting a picture of Lopez as someone who is difficult to work with and not always pleasant to those around her. One notable incident occurred at the 2024 Met Gala, where Lopez was captured on video being dismissive and rude to a reporter who approached her for an interview. The video quickly went viral, further tarnishing her public image and adding fuel to the criticism against her.

Whether it's stories of diva-like behavior on set or instances of dismissiveness towards fans and colleagues, these accounts have only served to exacerbate the dislike towards her.

Let's swing back to the mention of Beyoncé. It's hard not to draw comparisons between Jennifer Lopez and Queen Bey, especially considering their prominence in pop culture. Beyoncé's career trajectory has been nothing short of meteoric, and she's achieved a level of respect, admiration, and reverence that many in the industry aspire to attain.

Jennifer Lopez, with her own impressive career spanning decades, might find herself in the shadow of Beyoncé's shining star. It's not difficult to imagine that Jennifer could harbour feelings of envy or jealousy towards Beyoncé, seeing how effortlessly Queen Bey commands the attention and adoration of millions worldwide.

She can STILL sell out stadiums instantly (Jennifer has never had a stadium tour, let alone a sold out one), top the charts with both albums and singles, go platinum and multi-platinum still. Break a record a day without doing so much as posting an Instagram link to a surprise project.

And the stark difference?

Beyoncé settles in her legendary status seamlessly. Because he work ethic, talent and results are proven. she keeps her private life private, remains graceful and humble and carries the fuck on with her life.

Indeed, the comparison between Jennifer Lopez and Beyoncé is inevitable, considering their parallel journeys in the spotlight. And this isn't me saying that they are on the same level in any way. But I only use Mrs. Knowles-Carter as an example because she too came up around the same time as J-Lo did.

Beyoncé, often hailed as a paragon of grace and professionalism, exudes a sense of authenticity and humility that resonates with audiences worldwide. Her meticulous work ethic and unwavering dedication to her craft have solidified her status as a cultural icon. Unlike Lopez, Beyoncé doesn't seek validation or demand recognition; she lets her artistry speak for itself.

On the other hand, Lopez's relentless pursuit of acclaim sometimes comes across as contrived and insincere. Her propensity for self-promotion and occasional displays of diva behavior have alienated some fans and industry insiders. While her accomplishments are undeniable, the manner in which she navigates her fame often leaves much to be desired.

The recent incident at the Met Gala serves as a microcosm of Lopez's divisive persona. While Beyoncé effortlessly commands the red carpet with her poise and elegance, Lopez's behavior towards a reporter underscores a disconnect between her public image and reality. Such moments only serve to reinforce existing perceptions of her as arrogant and out of touch.

And releasing films about her romance with Ben Affleck, one of which broadcasts his private love letters he sent her years before they finally got married, seems a little...yeah.

She's ambitious and wants to prove herself but forcing it is a huge reason why it's not working.

Age with grace in all things, damn.

In essence, the disdain towards Jennifer Lopez isn't solely rooted in jealousy or resentment but rather a culmination of her actions and public persona. While she undoubtedly possesses talent and charisma, her inability to strike a balance between ambition and authenticity has contributed to her polarizing reputation.

As the pop culture landscape continues to evolve, it remains to be seen whether Lopez will heed the criticisms and recalibrate her approach or double down on her quest for validation. In the world of celebrity, where perception is everything, the line between adoration and disdain can be perilously thin. For Jennifer Lopez, navigating this delicate balance may prove to be her greatest challenge yet.

I wonder what her next act will look like.

This has been another ramble by,

the pop culture ramble.

[thepopcultureramble]

Now, lemme ramble a little bit.

I wasn't born in the 1990s, but its cultural impact remains. I'm here to talk about the music and cultural impact, in particular, because many would argue that it was the golden era. I got my glimpse through TV shows and music videos. 'The Fresh Prince of Bel-Air' was on heavy rotation in my household, as were Michael Jackson and Whitney Houston.

That was my introduction: my mom singing 'I Will Always Love You' while MTV music videos replayed in the background.

But the impact it has on pop culture today, 34 years after its emergence, is what really gets me. You can see its fingerprints all over contemporary music, fashion, and even internet memes. It's as if the '90s created a blueprint for coolness that refuses to fade away.

I can't imagine what hearing TLC's 'Creep' live right when it dropped would have been like, or being in the crowd when Kurt Cobain was scream-singing 'Smells Like Teen Spirit.'

It's that era that birthed groups and acts like Flo and Olivia Rodrigo.

You know, there's something about the rawness of '90s music that just hits different. It was a time when artists weren't afraid to push boundaries and speak their truth. Take Tupac Shakur, for example. His lyrics were like poetry, tackling issues like racism, poverty, and social injustice head-on. And then you had the Notorious B.I.G., spinning tales of street life with unmatched skill and charisma.

These were more than just songs; they were snapshots of life in the '90s, capturing the struggles and triumphs of a generation.

But it wasn't all serious stuff. The '90s also gave us some of the catchiest pop hits of all time. From the infectious beats of Spice Girls to the smooth grooves of Boyz II Men, there was something for everyone on the airwaves. And let's not forget about the rise of boy bands like *NSYNC and Backstreet Boys.

Ballads ruled the charts, with artists like Mariah Carey, Celine Dion, and Brian McKnight belting out love songs that still give us all the feels today. Whether you were nursing a broken heart or falling head over heels, there was a '90s jam for every romantic occasion.

Adele was kind of a product of that too.

Now, let's switch gears and talk about fashion. The '90s were all about self-expression, and nowhere was that more evident than in the clothes we wore. Grunge was king, with flannel shirts, ripped jeans, and Doc Martens becoming the unofficial uniform of rebellious youth everywhere. And let's not forget about the rise of streetwear, with brands like Tommy Hilfiger, FUBU, and Supreme making a splash on the scene.

But perhaps the most iconic fashion statement of the '90s was the rise of the supermodel. From Cindy Crawford to Naomi Campbell, these runway goddesses epitomised glamour and sophistication, setting the bar high for fashionistas everywhere.

So yeah, the '90s may be a thing of the past, but its influence? It still lives here.

This was a ramble by,

The PCR.