Struggle, But Make It Marketable: Inauthenticity in Music

Nobody likes being lied to, especially in music. We want to believe that the artists we connect with understand our experiences, or at least speak from a place of truth. And because of that, nothing feels worse than discovering an artist is faking it. Rick Ross rapping about being a drug kingpin while actually working as a correctional officer is a classic example. But the real question is: who feels betrayed when these lies surface?

There are two types of listeners: the ingroup and the outgroup. The ingroup consists of people who feel they share something meaningful with the artist, often culturally, racially, or socially. When that bond turns out to be artificial, they feel deceived. The outgroup never had that emotional stake, so the music remains just as listenable. Sometimes it even becomes more appealing. Someone else’s struggle becomes polished and palatable, a sort of safe authenticity. The edge is blunted, but the aesthetic remains intact. Struggle becomes romanticised. Struggle becomes cool. Suddenly, it doesn’t matter if a posh private-school kid is talking about cheffing someone up, as long as it sounds just believable enough. So how do inauthentic artists maintain this delicate balancing act?

Two methods: stereotypes and vagueness.

A recent offender is an electronic industrial musician who goes by African Imperial Wizard. Yes, ‘imperial wizard’, like the high-ranking KKK title. He performs in a robe and pointy hat ‘tastefully’ decorated with generic African patterns, and claims Angolan heritage while posting AAVE-laden captions that read like a white grandmother fiddling with a slang generator. His work fixates on colonialism, yet he never explores the term in depth. Colonialism becomes an ominous backdrop, a vague cloud hanging over the music with no history, no specifics, no accountability. Voodoo, spirits, and Africa-as-mystique drift through his lyrics like thematic baubles dangling from an artificial Christmas tree.

His music doesn’t challenge stereotypes; it recycles them, reinforcing the outgroup’s exotic image of Africa while letting listeners nod along to ‘racism is bad’ without confronting their fetishised ideals.

Oh, by the way, African Imperial Wizard is a white guy from France. Needless to say, Daft Punk did the whole masked Frenchman thing a lot better.

This is why the ingroup feels betrayed. Inauthenticity isn’t just about lying, it’s about slowly pushing real voices out of their own cultural spaces. Grifters enter, offering watered-down, market-friendly versions of lived experiences, and real artists get crowded out. The space becomes hostile. The revolving door spins.

Enter Drake.

Everyone knows ‘Not Like Us’. Everyone agrees that Kendrick won the feud. What gets overlooked, maybe overshadowed by the disturbing allegations involving “A Minor,” is the claim that Drake is a culture vulture. Kendrick highlights this repeatedly:

“You run to Atlanta when you need a check balance.”

“Lil Baby helped you get your lingo up.”

“Thug made you feel like a slime in your head.”

All of these lines point to the same criticism. Drake adopts the slang, accents, and styles of groups he has no meaningful connection to. He treats culture like a wardrobe, choosing whatever outfit fits the moment. This pattern is not new for him. Even ‘Started From the Bottom’ tries to position him as someone who clawed his way out of hardship, despite the fact that he grew up in a comfortable middle-class neighbourhood in Toronto and found early success as a child actor. Kendrick and others see this tendency as exploitative, and they accuse him of acting like a coloniser within rap, participating in various ingroups only when it benefits him rather than because he relates to their lives. The irony is that Drake’s status remains largely intact (and let us not speak of his wallet). Despite the contradictions and constant shapeshifting, Drake remains the most famous rapper in the world.

This raises the question of what happens when an artist’s inauthentic persona is finally exposed. Often, the answer is surprisingly little. Instead of facing consequences, the artist simply sheds one costume and slips into another, trusting that audiences will accept the next reinvention as easily as the last. The illusion is never fully shattered, because the outgroup is not seeking truth; they are seeking a performance that feels exotic enough to be interesting and relatable enough to be comfortable. As a result, the cycle repeats. The moment one persona begins to crack, a new one is assembled, and the audience moves along with it almost unquestioningly.

This isn’t to say artists can never tell stories beyond their own lives; concept albums have existed for decades. But audiences can feel the difference between storytelling and self-mythologising. The line isn’t hard to draw: be honest about what’s art and what’s real. Is that really so hard?

Words by Lucy Abbott, she/her