Pop Queens Strike Back: SZA, Carpenter, Rodrigo Call Out White House Over ICE Videos

Mia Reynolds, 12/11/2025Pop icons SZA, Carpenter, and Rodrigo fiercely oppose the White House's use of their songs in controversial ICE videos, calling it a misuse of their art and a violation of emotional trust. This clash reveals deeper issues of ownership and meaning within the intertwined realms of art and politics in 2025.

Even those who swore off Twitter (sorry, "X", in its current phase) couldn’t miss the commotion. Scrolling felt like tiptoeing across a minefield; one minute, lingering heartbreak is all that's promised, and the next, that same song is underscoring footage that nobody asked for at breakfast.

SZA’s reaction hit like a storm siren—direct, unvarnished, and with just the right note of exasperation: “White House rage baiting artists for free promo is PEAK DARK… inhumanity +shock and aw tactics… Evil n Boring.” Hard to misinterpret, really, and yet her words—dropped into the digital ocean—made waves across fan circles and industry insiders alike.

One could say the script is familiar: snatch up the hottest Top 40 hook, slap it onto a visually jarring political PR clip, then wait for the outrage to light up faster than summer lightning. But there’s something especially raw about 2025’s version of the culture wars. The stakes? No longer just about intellectual property, but the co-opting of one of humanity’s sharpest tools—emotion.

Just ask Sabrina Carpenter. Her “Juno,” a confection meant for love-drunk nights and earnest sing-alongs, woke up one morning cemented onto an ICE post—punctuated by a winking emoji, as if state power could ever be whimsical. Carpenter called it “evil and disgusting," flatly refusing to let her work cast a shadow over others. The backlash was, if anything, louder and more lasting than the official post ever intended.

Olivia Rodrigo didn’t escape either. Not long ago, “All-American Bitch” (a title meant to sting and comfort, depending on your mood) resurfaced in ICE promo content. Rodrigo pushed back—vehement at first, then quieter, but still heard in the corridors of fandom: “Don’t ever use my songs to promote your racist, hateful propaganda.” The message vanished online, but lingered in group chats and TikTok duets—nobody forgets an artist defending her turf.

Of course, officialdom didn’t slink away quietly. The rejoinder from the White House? Curt, defensive, and uncomfortably personal: “We won’t apologize for deporting dangerous criminal illegal murderers, rapists, and pedophiles from our country,” came the statement, wrapping the issue in Carpenter’s own lyrics: “Anyone who would defend these sick monsters must be stupid, or is it slow?” The battle lines weren’t just drawn—they were painted fluorescent.

It’s tempting to treat all this as just internet noise, but look beneath the surface and the mechanics become clear. “Rage baiting” isn’t just a phrase tossed around in group chats; it’s cold strategy—a tug on the emotional fabric binding artists, fans, and, whether admitted or not, the broader public looking for a little authenticity in the algorithm’s churn. When SZA—or Rodrigo, or Carpenter—refuse to stay silent, what’s really at play is a fight for meaning.

Because making music, at its best, is an act of trust. You write, and record, and hope somebody somewhere sees their own heartbreak or euphoria reflected. There’s an implicit pact that those three-and-a-half minutes belong to the listener and the artist—not to campaign operatives, and not to whoever runs social copy for a government agency.

When those boundaries get bulldozed—when a song about longing gets tacked to a clip of ICE agents at a dawn raid—the wound lands personal. It’s no theoretical infringement. For artists, it’s a violation of the space where vulnerability and safety meet. For listeners, who use music to escape or find communion, it feels like a favorite room has been invaded and rearranged without their permission.

It’s easy, maybe, to miss the broader question in the noise: Who gets to decide what a song means? Ownership is legal, sure, but meaning—real, lived meaning—is communal, sometimes messy, and rarely handed down from on high. This year—take a step back—art and politics are tangled together in ways that feel both new and heartbreakingly familiar, and each dust-up over a chorus or a drop is a reminder of just how much is being negotiated.

Yet there’s a glimmer in the way these artists are fighting back. Perhaps, in the middle of all the algorithmic noise, what’s actually being demanded isn’t just credit or control, but a return to sincerity. Maybe the radical act in 2025 is insisting that beauty, honesty, and a measure of kindness can still cut through the cynicism. To see artists draw that line—reminding everyone that no, not everything can be reduced to a tool in the latest political skirmish—feels bracing, almost hopeful.

It’s not likely this tug-of-war over narratives will settle anytime soon. If the past year—or three—has proven anything, it’s that art retains the power to rattle, heal, and remind us where we’re most alive. And perhaps the lesson, if there’s one to be found amid the noise, is that the most lasting voices aren’t always the loudest, but the most unwilling to be misused.

Out of nowhere, the pop soundscape of 2025 felt strange—spliced, appropriated, suddenly weaponized. It starts like this: a government video flickers onto social media, heavy with the tension of ICE agents moving through the frame, and then—snap—one of this summer’s feel-good anthems hijacks the soundtrack.Even those who swore off Twitter (sorry, "X", in its current phase) couldn’t miss the commotion. Scrolling felt like tiptoeing across a minefield; one minute, lingering heartbreak is all that's promised, and the next, that same song is underscoring footage that nobody asked for at breakfast.SZA’s reaction hit like a storm siren—direct, unvarnished, and with just the right note of exasperation: “White House rage baiting artists for free promo is PEAK DARK… inhumanity +shock and aw tactics… Evil n Boring.” Hard to misinterpret, really, and yet her words—dropped into the digital ocean—made waves across fan circles and industry insiders alike.One could say the script is familiar: snatch up the hottest Top 40 hook, slap it onto a visually jarring political PR clip, then wait for the outrage to light up faster than summer lightning. But there’s something especially raw about 2025’s version of the culture wars. The stakes? No longer just about intellectual property, but the co-opting of one of humanity’s sharpest tools—emotion.Just ask Sabrina Carpenter. Her “Juno,” a confection meant for love-drunk nights and earnest sing-alongs, woke up one morning cemented onto an ICE post—punctuated by a winking emoji, as if state power could ever be whimsical. Carpenter called it “evil and disgusting," flatly refusing to let her work cast a shadow over others. The backlash was, if anything, louder and more lasting than the official post ever intended.Olivia Rodrigo didn’t escape either. Not long ago, “All-American Bitch” (a title meant to sting and comfort, depending on your mood) resurfaced in ICE promo content. Rodrigo pushed back—vehement at first, then quieter, but still heard in the corridors of fandom: “Don’t ever use my songs to promote your racist, hateful propaganda.” The message vanished online, but lingered in group chats and TikTok duets—nobody forgets an artist defending her turf.Of course, officialdom didn’t slink away quietly. The rejoinder from the White House? Curt, defensive, and uncomfortably personal: “We won’t apologize for deporting dangerous criminal illegal murderers, rapists, and pedophiles from our country,” came the statement, wrapping the issue in Carpenter’s own lyrics: “Anyone who would defend these sick monsters must be stupid, or is it slow?” The battle lines weren’t just drawn—they were painted fluorescent.It’s tempting to treat all this as just internet noise, but look beneath the surface and the mechanics become clear. “Rage baiting” isn’t just a phrase tossed around in group chats; it’s cold strategy—a tug on the emotional fabric binding artists, fans, and, whether admitted or not, the broader public looking for a little authenticity in the algorithm’s churn. When SZA—or Rodrigo, or Carpenter—refuse to stay silent, what’s really at play is a fight for meaning.Because making music, at its best, is an act of trust. You write, and record, and hope somebody somewhere sees their own heartbreak or euphoria reflected. There’s an implicit pact that those three-and-a-half minutes belong to the listener and the artist—not to campaign operatives, and not to whoever runs social copy for a government agency.When those boundaries get bulldozed—when a song about longing gets tacked to a clip of ICE agents at a dawn raid—the wound lands personal. It’s no theoretical infringement. For artists, it’s a violation of the space where vulnerability and safety meet. For listeners, who use music to escape or find communion, it feels like a favorite room has been invaded and rearranged without their permission.It’s easy, maybe, to miss the broader question in the noise: Who gets to decide what a song means? Ownership is legal, sure, but meaning—real, lived meaning—is communal, sometimes messy, and rarely handed down from on high. This year—take a step back—art and politics are tangled together in ways that feel both new and heartbreakingly familiar, and each dust-up over a chorus or a drop is a reminder of just how much is being negotiated.Yet there’s a glimmer in the way these artists are fighting back. Perhaps, in the middle of all the algorithmic noise, what’s actually being demanded isn’t just credit or control, but a return to sincerity. Maybe the radical act in 2025 is insisting that beauty, honesty, and a measure of kindness can still cut through the cynicism. To see artists draw that line—reminding everyone that no, not everything can be reduced to a tool in the latest political skirmish—feels bracing, almost hopeful.It’s not likely this tug-of-war over narratives will settle anytime soon. If the past year—or three—has proven anything, it’s that art retains the power to rattle, heal, and remind us where we’re most alive. And perhaps the lesson, if there’s one to be found amid the noise, is that the most lasting voices aren’t always the loudest, but the most unwilling to be misused.