Parasocial Bonds and Political Attacks: Why It’s Never Been Harder for Artists to Protest

In 1983, Nina Simone reached a dead end. “Nothing is happening,” the iconic soul singer said at the time. “There’s no Civil Rights Movement. Everybody’s gone.” She no longer saw the purpose in performing records like her 1963 classic “Mississippi Goddam,” or other protest songs she believed the music industry punished her for releasing. “I wouldn’t change being part of the Civil Rights Movement, but some of the songs that I sang I would have changed because they’ve hurt my career,” she continued. “It’s hard to incorporate those songs because they are not relevant to the times.” When the journalist interviewing her, a young Black woman named Deborah Crable, asked where that leaves us, Simone responded, “It leaves you in a particularly sad state, my darling. I’m sorry about that.”

In January, just two weeks before Donald Trump was sworn in for his second term as president, Simone’s estate shared a clip from this interview on Instagram. It was a curious choice. The musician has no shortage of more inspiring, hopeful moments. “An artist’s duty, as far as I’m concerned, is to reflect the times,” she said in 1969. “And at this crucial time in our lives, when everything is so desperate, when everyday is a matter of survival, I don’t think you can help but be involved.” In 2025, Simone’s assessment of our despondent state of being is just as resonant, and the role of the artist is no less urgent. They’re still called on to reflect the times, with the underlying expectation that they might even rescue us, too. Only in our current cultural moment, the stakes and outcomes are distorted in ways an artist of Simone’s era could never recognize.  

For the past decade, and more significantly in the second half, popular artists have been caught in a paradox. Many bear the responsibility of standing for something, while also knowing their message — and the format in which they choose to communicate it — will be subjected to the fickle criteria of an ever-demanding audience. They’re relied upon to provide hedonistic escape through their music, but also positioned as imperfect civil saviors operating under the structure of capitalism and the inherent parasocial power dynamics at play. And while fans are calling on artists to use their voice, and debating what that’s allowed to look like, politicians and conservative news pundits are engaging with pop stars in the same way they would a political opponent.

When Kendrick Lamar delivered his historic Super Bowl LIX halftime show performance on Feb. 9, his own foremost protest record “Alright” was absent from the set list. But he did have Samuel L. Jackson in character as Uncle Sam, wearing a stars-and-stripes suit and top hat combo. “Too loud, too reckless, too ghetto,” Jackson scolded. “Mr. Lamar, do you really know how to play the game?” He might have at one point, but the rules are always changing. The red, white, and blue color scheme that informed costuming and set designs for the performance — watched by 133.5 million viewers, per Apple Music and the NFL — became a point of contention for casual and diehard fans alike. Was it powerful or propaganda? Revolutionary or regressive? Something else entirely? 

When the American flag appeared on the cover of Beyoncé’s country opus, Cowboy Carter, similar interrogations followed. Was it an attempt at reclaiming a symbol historically bound to racial violence and imperialism? Or just a nod to rodeo culture? It could be both, or neither. It depends on who you ask and what they need it to mean — whether they align more closely with Crable, still semi-hopeful that a path forward might exist, or Simone in ‘83, resigned to disenchantment. Whether they’re looking for guidance at all. Protest is innately intertwined with projection and reflection. When Beyoncé released Lemonade in 2016, the Lamar-assisted “Freedom” found its strength in that dynamic. Its music video featured the mothers of Trayvon Martin, Michael Brown, and Eric Garner. And because little has changed since, the reflection endures.

One week before the Super Bowl, Beyoncé was awarded Album of the Year for the first time at the 2025 Grammy Awards for Cowboy Carter. The album opens with “Ameriican Requiem,” which asks: “Can you hear me or do you fear me?” Co-writer Jon Batiste compared the reading of those words to that of a proclamation. But there seems to be a hesitancy toward extending the same cultural significance of songs like “Freedom,” or even “Formation,” to the messaging of Cowboy Carter. Lemonade, a visual album, has served as the basis of entire college courses and theses informed by race, power, and feminism. The notably visual-less Cowboy Carter is no less rooted in Blackness. Without an explicit showing and telling of the underlying why and how, is it any less reflective?

Lamar’s set might not have seemed particularly radical to anyone familiar with his previous use of politics in music. Save for the rogue dancer who seized the moment to wave Palestinian and Sudanese flags on the field, though off-camera, it didn’t platform any one specific issue. But like protest songs, resistance no longer looks the way it once did. When Lamar played “DNA,” he didn’t include the part where a Fox News anchor proclaims: “Hip-hop has done more damage to young African Americans than racism in recent years.” He didn’t have to. The reflection endured in its absence: Within hours, there were others similarly using their own ignorance as a basis to condemn his performance. It’s unsurprising at a time when Trump is blaming “diversity” for planes dropping out of the sky and using social media to target musicians who oppose his administration. 

In January, a tearful Selena Gomez took to Instagram Stories to share an emotional video reacting to mass deportations happening across the country. In response, the White House uploaded interviews with three mothers whose children were allegedly killed by undocumented people. Their grief was weaponized to tear into Gomez — but also into anyone who saw their own concerns reflected in hers. “All my people are getting attacked, the children,” the singer said in the video. “I’m so sorry, I wish I could do something but I can’t. I don’t know what to do. I’ll try everything.” Minutes later, Gomez deleted the post. “Apparently it’s not OK to show empathy for people,” she said. 

This is business-as-usual behavior for Trump and his henchmen, who regularly spar with popular artists who refuse to fall at his feet or allow him to use their music during his rallies. He’s slammed Beyoncé and regularly extends an obsessive amount of hate toward Taylor Swift. But there were also echoes of resentment from pop fans who criticized Gomez for feigning helplessness instead of taking action, despite her promising to do so in the clip. It’s likely lingering animosity from nearly a decade ago, when she encouraged people to “use their voice for something that fucking matters” in defense of Swift and was in turn urged to speak out about police brutality and Black Lives Matter. “So that means if I hashtag something I save lives?” Gomez tweeted in 2016. “No, I could give two fucks about ‘sides.’ You don’t know what I do.” 

The post was similarly deleted shortly after, but it occasionally resurfaces through screenshots when stan accounts are engaged in battle with other fandoms. Fans have spent years demanding bare-minimum, performative activism online. For a while, an infographic reposted as a soon-to-expire Instagram Story was enough to justify their continued support, or provide their fandom with armor during arguments. But over time, many have raised their standards and grown more critical, while others have become experts at explaining away silence to secure 30 more minutes of guilt-free listening to a new release from their favorite artist.

In January, Swift fans reflected on the evolution — or lack of evolution — in the musician’s activism as her documentary Miss Americana marked its fifth anniversary. In a pivotal scene, Swift discusses her decision to endorse the Democratic candidate in Tennessee’s 2018 Senate election. “It’s not that I want to step into this,” Swift said. “It’s just, I can’t not at this point.” Some fans of Swift have come to resent that, despite all of the ground the film covered, its prevailing legacy has been primarily rooted in her admitted regret about her own political silence, drawing her into what they perceive as undeserved criticism in the years since. “The docu was her story through a period of her life, she felt safe & strong enough to talk about certain issues and so she did, but that was it,” one Swiftie wrote on X (formerly Twitter). “It was never for you to use against her every chance you get, to force her to give her opinion on every single horrible thing happening.”

Recently, fans involved in the #SwiftiesForPalestine movement have found a middle ground — maintaining their allegiance to Swift while also questioning whether she really meant what she said about getting involved. “Just a reminder that the Weeknd has publicly voiced support for Palestine and donated millions and he’s still consistently one of the top two most streamed artists on Spotify, more often #1, dethroning Taylor herself,” another wrote. “Neither his career nor his safety has been jeopardized.” 

That some artists appear to be more accustomed to sharing statements of protest online, rather than in their music, would be generally inconsequential (or even acceptable) if not for the rapidly changing natures of the online world itself. The efficacy of these statements and the response they engender has been seriously diminished by the collapse of the social platforms people want these conversations to exist on: There’s the rise of hate speech on Elon Musk’s X, crucial terminology being diluted to prevent censorship on TikTok, and an alarming media literacy crisis across the board. 

Of course, social media was always going to be a less-than-ideal space for actual, real-world activism. For a time, it was a valuable tool for organizing. But as it has eroded, its limitations were soon revealed. This became particularly apparent as early as the Black Lives Matter protests of 2020. While thousands risked contracting a deadly virus to march in the streets against injustice — including artists like Halsey, Ariana Grande, and Harry Styles — others on social media attempted to frame the posting of a black square on Instagram as a legitimate form of advocacy. Fans online did what they could to show support virtually through awareness-raising trends, but some others shared statements like, “Are we still trending BLM or can we talk about BTS again without censoring?” Around the same time, the 1975 frontman Matty Healy shared a link to their song “Love It If We Made It” on Twitter in lieu of a social media statement. Their own version of a protest record, it was entirely relevant to what was happening in its comments on Trump, BLM, and the failure of modernity. Still, Healy ended up deleting his account after a flurry of backlash accused him of using George Floyd’s death to promote his band. 

The albums created during or about pandemic lockdowns were often eerily reflective, like Paramore’s This Is Why, or hedonistic dreamscapes, like Beyoncé’s Renaissance. Not necessarily protest songs, but snapshots of a certain time, nevertheless. Since then, the same things we were reflecting on and seeking escape from in that period — doom-scrolling, rapid declines in empathy, social isolation — have only become more deeply ingrained. The artist’s duty has never weighed more heavily. 

Even so, animosity and distrust have still swelled around socially engaged pop stars — even those who couldn’t be less ambiguous about where they stand. In September 2024, Chappell Roan’s refusal to explicitly endorse Kamala Harris, citing “problems on both sides,” sparked accusations about how she would be voting in the election. One X account called her statement “the most cowardly, uneducated and down right embarrassing thing you could possibly say about this election.” On TikTok, the musician clarified her stance across a number of videos. “Honestly, fuck the policies of the right — but also fuck some of the policies on the left. That’s why I can’t endorse,” she said. “There is no way I can stand behind some of the left’s completely transphobic and completely genocidal views.” In February, another account posted: “Chappell Roan wasn’t at the hearing today for the 7 anti trans bills in Missouri, but her Republican uncle was … I’m a huge fan and earnestly want her to show up to hearings for and actually talk about specific legislation trans women in MO are being faced with.”

Roan, a lesbian who has consistently advocated for trans rights and spoken against injustices toward Palestinian people, is one of the most unapologetically outspoken stars pop has seen in years. At the 2025 Grammys, she performed “Pink Pony Club” while pink, blue, and white flags waved in the background of her set, a nod to trans rights. She previously advocated against “cis people making decisions for trans people,” too. That same night, Lady Gaga used her own acceptance speech to declare: “Trans people are not invisible. Trans people deserve love. The queer community deserves to be lifted up. Music is love.” And just days before, Lucy Dacus pledged $10,000 to GoFundMe campaigns for trans surgeries and encouraged her followers on X to donate, too. “The government will never be the source of our validation or protection,” she wrote. “We have to do it ourselves.” 

At a time when trans people are being relentlessly targeted by Trump’s administration-wide crackdown on LGBTQ+ rights, all three of these instances — performing a queer anthem on a public stage, voicing support for a marginalized community, posting action items on social media — are valid forms of protest. And when “everything is so desperate, when everyday is a matter of survival,” as Simone said, an expansive album evoking Black country history can be eye-opening for someone who needs it to be, as can the subversive use of color and characters in a halftime show. 

This doesn’t mean these artists are here to rescue us — our elected representatives barely seem capable of doing so. Organization that doesn’t extend beyond the limited structure and active suppression of social media won’t either. After all, what are protest songs without protests to chant them at? But when we look back on this time years from now, it won’t be devoid of the mark of music, regardless of what that might look like. “We will shape and mold this country or it will not be molded and shaped at all anymore,” Simone said in ‘69. “So I don’t think you have a choice. How can you be an artist and not reflect the times? That to me is the definition of an artist.”