At first glance, the performer list at Donald Trump’s second inauguration baffled almost everyone. Supporters were confused. Critics were outraged. And insiders quietly nodded, recognizing something deeply familiar about Trump’s instincts.
These weren’t random bookings. They were messages.
And each artist told a different story about power, memory, and control.
First: Carrie Underwood — The Unexpected Opening Note
Carrie Underwood was the first artist confirmed to perform on January 20, a choice that stunned both fans and political commentators. Back in 2017, Underwood had publicly distanced herself from Trump, mocking politics on social media and insisting she wanted nothing to do with political spectacle. She famously said she wouldn’t sing “silly songs” and preferred to stay far away from Washington drama.
So when she accepted the invitation, backlash erupted instantly. Accusations of hypocrisy flew. Why would Trump invite someone who once openly dismissed him?
That was precisely the point.
Trump didn’t invite Underwood despite her past comments—he invited her because of them. Her presence sent a sharp signal to artists who had refused him for years: distance doesn’t last forever. Power changes the conversation. When the stage is big enough, even critics show up.
It wasn’t reconciliation.
It was dominance dressed as generosity.
Second: Village People — Turning Opposition Into Spectacle
If Underwood surprised people, the Village People confused them.
The band had publicly criticized Trump for using “YMCA” during his rallies. At one point, legal action was even discussed. They mocked him openly. And yet—there they were—front and center during inauguration week, their music becoming the unofficial anthem of celebration.
Why invite them instead of loyal supporters like Kanye West, who had repeatedly praised Trump?
Because Trump wasn’t rewarding loyalty.
He was rewriting history.
By inviting the Village People, Trump neutralized years of criticism in a single visual. The song that once symbolized resistance now echoed through official celebrations. In politics, images matter more than explanations—and Trump understood that better than anyone.
The message was unmistakable: even your critics end up playing my music.
Third: Lee Greenwood — The One Invitation That Was Personal
Unlike the first two, this choice wasn’t strategic. It was emotional.
Lee Greenwood has long been Trump’s favorite singer. “God Bless the USA” wasn’t just a campaign song—it was Trump’s soundtrack. Greenwood reportedly postponed retirement plans to support Trump during the campaign, showing up when others stayed silent.
This was loyalty returned, not leveraged.
Trump made sure Greenwood had a place of honor, not as a statement to the industry, but as repayment. In Trump’s world, loyalty is never forgotten—especially when it’s public, unwavering, and useful.
What the Lineup Really Meant
Together, these three performers revealed Trump’s core political instinct:
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Invite a critic to show power
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Invite an opponent to control the narrative
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Invite a loyalist to reward allegiance
It wasn’t about music.
It was about memory, hierarchy, and spectacle.
And once you see it that way, the inauguration stops looking chaotic—and starts looking calculated.
Trump didn’t just host performers.
He staged a lesson.
And almost no one noticed.
