When Pop Culture Becomes a Political Weapon—and Who Gets to Fight Back

When the Stage Becomes the Battleground

Ariana Grande didn’t sign up for this. Her song Bye—a defiant anthem about moving on—was repurposed by the Trump White House as the soundtrack to a video of ICE agents arresting migrants. The singer’s response was swift and unequivocal: she called the footage "barbaric" and demanded its removal. But the damage was done. The incident wasn’t just a copyright dispute; it was a stark reminder of how culture—music, art, even sport—is increasingly hijacked as a political tool. And in Britain, where the culture wars have already turned heritage, football, and even beer into ideological battlegrounds, the question isn’t whether this will happen here. It’s when.

Grande’s case is far from isolated. In the US, artists from Taylor Swift to Bruce Springsteen have seen their work co-opted by campaigns they oppose, while in the UK, the Conservative Party’s use of Land of Hope and Glory at rallies has sparked legal threats from the Last Night of the Proms. But the Trump administration’s move takes it further: it’s not just about borrowing a tune. It’s about weaponising the emotional resonance of art to legitimise state violence. And when the state does it, who gets to push back?

The Art of the Steal: When Governments Play DJ

The White House’s video wasn’t just tone-deaf—it was calculated. By pairing Grande’s song with images of ICE arrests, it sought to reframe a policy of mass deportations as something empowering, even triumphant. The message was clear: This is what moving on looks like. It’s a tactic straight out of the authoritarian playbook, where culture isn’t just a mirror of society but a megaphone for power.

In Britain, this isn’t hypothetical. The government’s own "culture war" rhetoric—from the Rwanda deportation scheme to the crackdown on protests—has already blurred the line between policy and propaganda. Last year, the Home Office used footage of "successful" deportation flights in social media campaigns, set to upbeat music. The subtext? This is progress. When artists and activists called it out, the response was telling: silence, followed by a shrug. As if culture were just another resource to be mined, like oil or data.

The problem isn’t just that governments are using art without permission. It’s that they’re using it against the very people who created it. Grande’s song Bye was written as a breakup anthem, not a deportation jingle. But in the hands of the Trump administration, it became something else entirely: a soundtrack for cruelty. And when artists protest, they’re often met with the same dismissive response: It’s just a song. Get over it.

The UK’s Quiet Complicity: When Culture Becomes a Class Divide

Britain likes to think of itself as a cultural powerhouse, but its relationship with art has always been transactional. The auction of Monet’s Nympheas for £30-40 million at Sotheby’s this week is a case in point. The painting, a masterpiece of Impressionism, will likely end up in a private collection, far from public view. Meanwhile, the UK’s public galleries are struggling—underfunded, understaffed, and increasingly reliant on corporate sponsorship. The message? Art is for the wealthy. Culture is a luxury.

This class divide extends to how Britain consumes—and weaponises—its own cultural output. The government’s "levelling up" agenda promised to spread opportunity, but in practice, it’s done the opposite. Local libraries, youth centres, and arts programmes have been gutted, while London’s auction houses and West End theatres thrive. The result? A cultural landscape where only the rich can afford to create, and only the powerful can afford to control the narrative.

And then there’s sport. The 2026 World Cup, co-hosted by the US, Canada, and Mexico, has already become a political football. Empty seats, "mandatory" water breaks (a thinly veiled cash grab by FIFA), and the US men’s team’s underwhelming performance have exposed the hypocrisy of a tournament sold as a celebration of unity. But in Britain, where football has long been a proxy for class and identity, the stakes are even higher. The Premier League’s billion-pound deals and the England team’s struggles with racism and fan abuse show how sport—like art—is both a reflection of society and a tool for those in power.

The Resistance: Who Gets to Fight Back?

Grande’s response to the Trump administration was a rare moment of clarity in a world where culture is increasingly politicised. She didn’t just demand the video be taken down; she called out the cruelty it represented. But not every artist has that platform—or that courage.

In the UK, resistance has taken different forms. Musicians like Stormzy and Little Simz have used their platforms to call out systemic racism and class inequality, while artists like Banksy have turned street art into a form of protest. But the backlash is real. When Stormzy criticised the government’s handling of the Grenfell Tower fire, he was accused of "playing politics." When Banksy’s work appears, it’s either celebrated as "edgy" or dismissed as "vandalism," depending on who’s doing the talking.

The question isn’t whether culture can be a force for change. It’s whether those in power will ever let it be. In a world where governments and corporations treat art as just another commodity, the fight isn’t just about who gets to use it. It’s about who gets to define it.

And right now, that fight is far from over.