Snoop Dogg, Martha Stewart, and Bocelli Deliver Wild NFL Christmas Halftime Bash

Mia Reynolds, 12/26/2025Snoop Dogg, Martha Stewart, and Andrea Bocelli turned the NFL's Christmas halftime show into an unforgettable blend of culture and music, merging hip-hop, country, and K-pop with surprising style. This festive spectacle reminded viewers that holidays are about joy, chaos, and unexpected traditions.

Picture this: The broadcast swings to the fifty-yard line, and there’s Snoop, draped in a red coat bold enough for any catalogue’s “festive favorites” spread. The Santa role fits, but only if Santa rolled with gin-and-juice-hued sunglasses and a notorious knack for outfoxing the expected. Of course, before Snoop could unleash a single verse, Martha Stewart materialized, as she does, reading a tongue-in-cheek, Snoop-inspired Christmas tale to a choir of Dobermanns. The moment hovered somewhere between fever dream and cozy family-room oddity—utterly delightful, completely unnecessary, and pivotal in setting the tone.

Snoop, never shy of a wry wink, announced the itinerary: Christmas songs, but make them Snoop’s way. There was an orchestra swelling in the background—not the standard bop of hip-hop beats but full-bodied brass, solemn strings, even a choir. When “The Next Episode” started up, decked out in a symphonic coat, the field turned into something between a 90s house party and a Victorian concert hall. Unlikely, but it worked.

Momentum grew stranger and better. Ballerinas twirled, somehow unbothered by the sudden switch into the G-funk classic “Nuthin’ but a G Thang.” Half the crowd seemed caught between laughing and pulling out their phones. A more cynical pundit might have said nothing could top that level of chaos—but then out strode the voices behind Netflix’s wildest animated export, KPop Demon Hunters. Audrey Nuna, EJA, and Rei Ami tackled “The Twelve Days of Christmas,” swerving mid-number to rewire the lyrics with a taste from their viral Netflix hit “Golden.” That five golden rings stanza? It shimmered with K-pop gloss, and just like that, decades and continents collapsed into a chorus that ricocheted through Twitter feeds nationwide.

Somewhere between the orchestral riffs and the laser-bright K-pop interlude, Snoop let loose with “Drop It Like It’s Hot.” The synth lines felt familiar enough to draw a knowing look from anyone who survived the early-2000s (whether from a club at 2 a.m. or the backseat of Mom’s Camry). It wasn’t long before a sleigh—yes, with actual snow clinging to its flanks—breezed across the stage. Lainey Wilson, country music’s latest darling, beamed under a hat with a brim so wide it might’ve caught stray snowflakes. Her take on “Santa Claus Is Coming to Town” twanged merrily, pressing old Nashville up against Snoop’s California cool; no one seemed remotely bothered by the clash. In fact, the collision—country riffs, West Coast beats, and a sparkle of Vegas—became the main event.

But, as halftime shows go, there’s always one final gear shift—the kind that draws out even the most stubborn skeptic. Cue Andrea and Matteo Bocelli. Father and son, both seasoned in the subtle art of spectacle, settled into “White Christmas” as a faux snowstorm drifted from the rafters. Andrea’s voice, oh, it filled the stadium in a way that reminded everyone—maybe especially those who forgot their troubles for a moment—that football isn’t always the center of the story. Snoop, Wilson, and the K-pop ensemble joined in, rising on a stage that seemed to float somewhere between Broadway and a child’s imaginary North Pole.

When the last note lingered in the air, Snoop looked straight at the camera. “From our family to your family, merry Christmas!” It came off less like a PR soundbite and more like a friend closing out a raucous house party with one final toast. Sometimes, the music and pageantry eclipse the box score; this was one of those times.

Predictably, the internet paid attention—praise poured in, hashtags flared, social media channels trilled with “holiday to remember” and the like. Folks marveled at how styles and generations got tossed into the same mixing bowl, yet the whole messy concoction tasted just right. Snoop had said, ahead of the show, something like “We’re servin’ up music, love, and good vibes for the whole world to enjoy.” Lots of hype, but on this occasion, the marketing bluster was justified.

Halftime sets aren’t new ground for Snoop; the run at Super Bowl LVI—surrounded by Dre, Lamar, and Mary J. Blige—already inked his place among halftime royalty. And yet, this Christmas show, with Netflix’s fingerprints all over it and a roster lifted from every corner of pop culture, rang a different sort of bell. It was broader, perhaps riskier in its blend: a fearless curatorial approach, sewing country and hip hop and K-pop together with threads of old holiday warmth and a steady hand on the turntable.

Reflecting on those fifteen minutes, it’s striking how an NFL game—the sort so many watch as half-background to their own Christmas rituals—could fade to a sort of hush, eclipsed by music and the unlikely joy of snow in a dome. It wasn’t just a halftime; it was a jigsaw of culture, tradition, and properly weird, magnetic entertainment.

Come to think of it, maybe that’s what holidays are meant to be—a little bit chaotic, overflowing with traditions both old and invented, stitched together by the people and moments that surprise us. If there’s a lesson at the end—well, maybe it’s that football occasionally takes a backseat. And every now and then, in the oddest places, a halftime show feels a whole lot like coming home.

On Christmas Day, with the stadium lights cutting through an icy Minneapolis dusk, something happened at halftime that’ll probably stick with folks longer than the final scoreboard numbers. The NFL, a league stubbornly wedded to its rituals, tossed the keys to Snoop Dogg and quietly crossed its collective fingers. The ensuing spectacle sidestepped predictability and sidled right up to genuine surprise—rare as snow in Los Angeles.Picture this: The broadcast swings to the fifty-yard line, and there’s Snoop, draped in a red coat bold enough for any catalogue’s “festive favorites” spread. The Santa role fits, but only if Santa rolled with gin-and-juice-hued sunglasses and a notorious knack for outfoxing the expected. Of course, before Snoop could unleash a single verse, Martha Stewart materialized, as she does, reading a tongue-in-cheek, Snoop-inspired Christmas tale to a choir of Dobermanns. The moment hovered somewhere between fever dream and cozy family-room oddity—utterly delightful, completely unnecessary, and pivotal in setting the tone.Snoop, never shy of a wry wink, announced the itinerary: Christmas songs, but make them Snoop’s way. There was an orchestra swelling in the background—not the standard bop of hip-hop beats but full-bodied brass, solemn strings, even a choir. When “The Next Episode” started up, decked out in a symphonic coat, the field turned into something between a 90s house party and a Victorian concert hall. Unlikely, but it worked.Momentum grew stranger and better. Ballerinas twirled, somehow unbothered by the sudden switch into the G-funk classic “Nuthin’ but a G Thang.” Half the crowd seemed caught between laughing and pulling out their phones. A more cynical pundit might have said nothing could top that level of chaos—but then out strode the voices behind Netflix’s wildest animated export, KPop Demon Hunters. Audrey Nuna, EJA, and Rei Ami tackled “The Twelve Days of Christmas,” swerving mid-number to rewire the lyrics with a taste from their viral Netflix hit “Golden.” That five golden rings stanza? It shimmered with K-pop gloss, and just like that, decades and continents collapsed into a chorus that ricocheted through Twitter feeds nationwide.Somewhere between the orchestral riffs and the laser-bright K-pop interlude, Snoop let loose with “Drop It Like It’s Hot.” The synth lines felt familiar enough to draw a knowing look from anyone who survived the early-2000s (whether from a club at 2 a.m. or the backseat of Mom’s Camry). It wasn’t long before a sleigh—yes, with actual snow clinging to its flanks—breezed across the stage. Lainey Wilson, country music’s latest darling, beamed under a hat with a brim so wide it might’ve caught stray snowflakes. Her take on “Santa Claus Is Coming to Town” twanged merrily, pressing old Nashville up against Snoop’s California cool; no one seemed remotely bothered by the clash. In fact, the collision—country riffs, West Coast beats, and a sparkle of Vegas—became the main event.But, as halftime shows go, there’s always one final gear shift—the kind that draws out even the most stubborn skeptic. Cue Andrea and Matteo Bocelli. Father and son, both seasoned in the subtle art of spectacle, settled into “White Christmas” as a faux snowstorm drifted from the rafters. Andrea’s voice, oh, it filled the stadium in a way that reminded everyone—maybe especially those who forgot their troubles for a moment—that football isn’t always the center of the story. Snoop, Wilson, and the K-pop ensemble joined in, rising on a stage that seemed to float somewhere between Broadway and a child’s imaginary North Pole.When the last note lingered in the air, Snoop looked straight at the camera. “From our family to your family, merry Christmas!” It came off less like a PR soundbite and more like a friend closing out a raucous house party with one final toast. Sometimes, the music and pageantry eclipse the box score; this was one of those times.Predictably, the internet paid attention—praise poured in, hashtags flared, social media channels trilled with “holiday to remember” and the like. Folks marveled at how styles and generations got tossed into the same mixing bowl, yet the whole messy concoction tasted just right. Snoop had said, ahead of the show, something like “We’re servin’ up music, love, and good vibes for the whole world to enjoy.” Lots of hype, but on this occasion, the marketing bluster was justified.Halftime sets aren’t new ground for Snoop; the run at Super Bowl LVI—surrounded by Dre, Lamar, and Mary J. Blige—already inked his place among halftime royalty. And yet, this Christmas show, with Netflix’s fingerprints all over it and a roster lifted from every corner of pop culture, rang a different sort of bell. It was broader, perhaps riskier in its blend: a fearless curatorial approach, sewing country and hip hop and K-pop together with threads of old holiday warmth and a steady hand on the turntable.Reflecting on those fifteen minutes, it’s striking how an NFL game—the sort so many watch as half-background to their own Christmas rituals—could fade to a sort of hush, eclipsed by music and the unlikely joy of snow in a dome. It wasn’t just a halftime; it was a jigsaw of culture, tradition, and properly weird, magnetic entertainment.Come to think of it, maybe that’s what holidays are meant to be—a little bit chaotic, overflowing with traditions both old and invented, stitched together by the people and moments that surprise us. If there’s a lesson at the end—well, maybe it’s that football occasionally takes a backseat. And every now and then, in the oddest places, a halftime show feels a whole lot like coming home.