Springsteen’s Protest Performance and the Grammy Country Shakeup Rock Music World

Mia Reynolds, 1/31/2026Springsteen electrifies Minneapolis with a powerful protest performance, blending urgency with humor. Meanwhile, the Grammys prepare for a seismic shift in country music categories, reflecting the genre's evolving landscape. Two cities, two purposes—one shared moment of connection through music.

Perhaps it was the crowd—half diehards, half newer faces, all wrapped up in lessons from bruised headlines and the sharp bite of protest pins. There’s always a peculiar charge in venues like this, as if the ghosts of legendary gigs are still rattling around in the rafters, whispering encouragement. Hard to think of a better place for Springsteen—the perennial patron saint of the working class—to level with his people.

He wasted no time; “Streets of Minneapolis” ripped open the set, but the marrow of the moment was “The Ghost of Tom Joad.” This wasn’t the wistful ballad folks might remember. No, with Tom Morello (Rage Against the Machine, never one to settle for quiet) at his elbow, the song was all muscle and urgency—a firebrand hymn that left little room for indifference. Springsteen, never the type to mince words when the world’s hurting, was clear: “This is for the people of Minneapolis, the people of Minnesota.” The message didn’t so much hang in the air as hammer into it.

And yet, amid the necessity and edge, there was room for levity—maybe a necessary balm on a day loaded with such gravity. The Boss, half-embarrassed, half-amused, confessed his jitters over the new protest anthem sounding “kind of soapbox-y.” Morello, unperturbed, apparently responded with the bluntness only a seasoned revolutionary can summon: “Nuance is nice, but sometimes you just gotta kick them in the teeth.” You could almost hear the collective whoop, more than a few beer cups hoisted in what might pass for benediction in rock circles.

That sort of spark wasn’t just for show. Every note funneled towards a cause, with the proceeds directed to the families of Renee Good and Alex Pretti—both lost in a harrowing ICE raid that shook the community just weeks earlier. Stepping outside, folks looked a little stunned, their breath puffing in the winter haze, as if uncertain whether they’d witnessed a concert or been part of some larger, more solemn rite. One fan, Josh Madden, likened it to religion, which in certain circles amounts to the highest praise imaginable.

While Minneapolis echoed with calls for justice and collective healing, a very different energy was settling over Los Angeles. It hovered, half anticipation, half nerves—every corner of the city seemed to buzz with that peculiar electricity that always creeps in before the Grammy Awards. Spotify’s Best New Artist bash traced the city’s contours in anticipation, doing its best to bottle that restless, hopeful feeling.

Olivia Dean, often tagged as Britain’s newest soul prodigy, met the moment head-on with “Man I Need” and, by all accounts, wore her vulnerable joy like a badge. Perhaps it’s her genuine nerves—so at odds with the thick veneer of polish often coating LA this time of year—that make her stand out. Lola Young, meanwhile, made an understated comeback, candidly sharing her nerves and gratitude for support after time away from the stage. No smoke and mirrors, no pretense—just an earnest, slightly trembling step back into the spotlight.

Odd thing, awards season. If you blink, you miss these pockets of quiet, intimate emotion amid all the swirling sequins and press lines. Dean and Young, both in the running for Best New Artist, are jostling to join a string of Brits—Dua Lipa, Adele, Amy Winehouse, Sam Smith—whose win turned fleeting moments into decades-long careers. Of course, the nerves aren’t just for show; both artists keep one eye on the upcoming benefit gig at Manchester’s Albert Hall, playing for War Child. Awards come and go, but sometimes the music lands somewhere more substantial.

Zooming out, this year’s Grammys aren’t just about showbiz dazzle or rumors about who’ll take home the hardware. There’s been a subtle, if not entirely seismic, shift: the country categories now split cleanly into “traditional” and “contemporary.” On the surface it sounds like paperwork—another filing cabinet in the vast Grammy bureaucracy—but to artists swerving between banjo-laced balladry and slick, glossy pop-country, it’s a win. No more awkward pile-ups where, say, Margo Price and Kelsea Ballerini elbow for the same nod.

Some in the industry have, naturally, raised an eyebrow. Did Beyoncé’s last big swing at country with “Cowboy Carter” push the Academy into action? Harvey Mason Jr., the Academy’s CEO, dismissed that idea, pointing instead to years of behind-the-scenes lobbying and, probably, more than a little soul-searching about what country even means in 2025. “Other genres have subgenres; I don’t know why we can’t,” Trannie Anderson mused. Jenee Fleenor echoed the relief—“so much country music to celebrate, I think there’s room for all.” In other words, the shuffle had less to do with headlines and more with something as basic as fairness, or at least an attempt at it.

Beneath all the posturing, there’s an admission that genres keep fracturing, borrowing flavors, mutating faster than committees can keep up. Last year alone, the range of “Best Country Album” nominees zigzagged from Post Malone to Kacey Musgraves—a lineup wide enough to give a genre purist the spins. The formalities of category-splitting haven’t tamped the anxiety either; Mason hinted as much, noting the Grammy process now “needs to be vigilant,” as if he fully expects next year to bring a whole new crop of genre-defying talent, demanding new lanes.

Ultimately, after the shuffling of categories and the velvet-rope afterparties, it still circles back to that same, near-mythic moment music is famous for—when something shared rings out over a crowd, whether in service of grief, protest, or wild hope. That tie, invisible but unbreakable, pulled tight between Minneapolis and Los Angeles this winter. Two cities, two purposes—a benefit show for lives lost, a gathering of hopeful newcomers lit up by the dream of a trophy—and somehow, in both rooms, the same electricity.

Nuance has its place, of course. But occasionally, a moment calls for something stronger—one voice amplified, a truth shouted in tune, the kind of experience that becomes less about the music and more about the revolution it briefly sparks. And if that slips a little out of bounds, stirs something up, well—maybe that’s the point.

It’s downright remarkable, the way a single afternoon in Minneapolis can tangle up the chill of January with something that borders on electricity. First Avenue was—there’s just no other word—buzzing. Normally, venues have a pulse, but that day, the room all but vibrated. Not many artists could whip up a crowd before the shadows of evening even hit the building, but Bruce Springsteen managed it, striding on stage at 1:55 p.m. with the air of a man who has absolutely nothing left to prove but still feels compelled to prove it anyway.Perhaps it was the crowd—half diehards, half newer faces, all wrapped up in lessons from bruised headlines and the sharp bite of protest pins. There’s always a peculiar charge in venues like this, as if the ghosts of legendary gigs are still rattling around in the rafters, whispering encouragement. Hard to think of a better place for Springsteen—the perennial patron saint of the working class—to level with his people.He wasted no time; “Streets of Minneapolis” ripped open the set, but the marrow of the moment was “The Ghost of Tom Joad.” This wasn’t the wistful ballad folks might remember. No, with Tom Morello (Rage Against the Machine, never one to settle for quiet) at his elbow, the song was all muscle and urgency—a firebrand hymn that left little room for indifference. Springsteen, never the type to mince words when the world’s hurting, was clear: “This is for the people of Minneapolis, the people of Minnesota.” The message didn’t so much hang in the air as hammer into it.And yet, amid the necessity and edge, there was room for levity—maybe a necessary balm on a day loaded with such gravity. The Boss, half-embarrassed, half-amused, confessed his jitters over the new protest anthem sounding “kind of soapbox-y.” Morello, unperturbed, apparently responded with the bluntness only a seasoned revolutionary can summon: “Nuance is nice, but sometimes you just gotta kick them in the teeth.” You could almost hear the collective whoop, more than a few beer cups hoisted in what might pass for benediction in rock circles.That sort of spark wasn’t just for show. Every note funneled towards a cause, with the proceeds directed to the families of Renee Good and Alex Pretti—both lost in a harrowing ICE raid that shook the community just weeks earlier. Stepping outside, folks looked a little stunned, their breath puffing in the winter haze, as if uncertain whether they’d witnessed a concert or been part of some larger, more solemn rite. One fan, Josh Madden, likened it to religion, which in certain circles amounts to the highest praise imaginable.While Minneapolis echoed with calls for justice and collective healing, a very different energy was settling over Los Angeles. It hovered, half anticipation, half nerves—every corner of the city seemed to buzz with that peculiar electricity that always creeps in before the Grammy Awards. Spotify’s Best New Artist bash traced the city’s contours in anticipation, doing its best to bottle that restless, hopeful feeling.Olivia Dean, often tagged as Britain’s newest soul prodigy, met the moment head-on with “Man I Need” and, by all accounts, wore her vulnerable joy like a badge. Perhaps it’s her genuine nerves—so at odds with the thick veneer of polish often coating LA this time of year—that make her stand out. Lola Young, meanwhile, made an understated comeback, candidly sharing her nerves and gratitude for support after time away from the stage. No smoke and mirrors, no pretense—just an earnest, slightly trembling step back into the spotlight.Odd thing, awards season. If you blink, you miss these pockets of quiet, intimate emotion amid all the swirling sequins and press lines. Dean and Young, both in the running for Best New Artist, are jostling to join a string of Brits—Dua Lipa, Adele, Amy Winehouse, Sam Smith—whose win turned fleeting moments into decades-long careers. Of course, the nerves aren’t just for show; both artists keep one eye on the upcoming benefit gig at Manchester’s Albert Hall, playing for War Child. Awards come and go, but sometimes the music lands somewhere more substantial.Zooming out, this year’s Grammys aren’t just about showbiz dazzle or rumors about who’ll take home the hardware. There’s been a subtle, if not entirely seismic, shift: the country categories now split cleanly into “traditional” and “contemporary.” On the surface it sounds like paperwork—another filing cabinet in the vast Grammy bureaucracy—but to artists swerving between banjo-laced balladry and slick, glossy pop-country, it’s a win. No more awkward pile-ups where, say, Margo Price and Kelsea Ballerini elbow for the same nod.Some in the industry have, naturally, raised an eyebrow. Did Beyoncé’s last big swing at country with “Cowboy Carter” push the Academy into action? Harvey Mason Jr., the Academy’s CEO, dismissed that idea, pointing instead to years of behind-the-scenes lobbying and, probably, more than a little soul-searching about what country even means in 2025. “Other genres have subgenres; I don’t know why we can’t,” Trannie Anderson mused. Jenee Fleenor echoed the relief—“so much country music to celebrate, I think there’s room for all.” In other words, the shuffle had less to do with headlines and more with something as basic as fairness, or at least an attempt at it.Beneath all the posturing, there’s an admission that genres keep fracturing, borrowing flavors, mutating faster than committees can keep up. Last year alone, the range of “Best Country Album” nominees zigzagged from Post Malone to Kacey Musgraves—a lineup wide enough to give a genre purist the spins. The formalities of category-splitting haven’t tamped the anxiety either; Mason hinted as much, noting the Grammy process now “needs to be vigilant,” as if he fully expects next year to bring a whole new crop of genre-defying talent, demanding new lanes.Ultimately, after the shuffling of categories and the velvet-rope afterparties, it still circles back to that same, near-mythic moment music is famous for—when something shared rings out over a crowd, whether in service of grief, protest, or wild hope. That tie, invisible but unbreakable, pulled tight between Minneapolis and Los Angeles this winter. Two cities, two purposes—a benefit show for lives lost, a gathering of hopeful newcomers lit up by the dream of a trophy—and somehow, in both rooms, the same electricity.Nuance has its place, of course. But occasionally, a moment calls for something stronger—one voice amplified, a truth shouted in tune, the kind of experience that becomes less about the music and more about the revolution it briefly sparks. And if that slips a little out of bounds, stirs something up, well—maybe that’s the point.