Absent Queen, Savage Jokes: Nicki Minaj and Trevor Noah Stir Grammy Drama

Mia Reynolds, 2/2/2026Trevor Noah's hosting of the 2025 Grammys blended humor and commentary, highlighting both attendance absences—especially Nicki Minaj's—and the evolving landscape of celebrity rivalries. The night's moments, from playful jabs to cultural affirmations, underscored the ceremony's dual role in celebrating music and addressing broader social themes.

All eyes fixed on Trevor Noah as he took the stage—again. The higher-ups had promised it was his last lap, which, frankly, always sounds more like a dare than a decision. Noah’s blend of sly warmth and perfectly timed irreverence makes him difficult to replace. He’s not just a host; he’s a ringmaster who can read a room faster than most people can read a smartphone notification. There aren’t many with his touch—Andy Williams comes to mind, if you look back far enough, maybe a sprinkle of Whoopi Goldberg in the delivery.

But the 2025 Grammys weren’t content to celebrate music alone. Of course, no one said as much outright—a slew of carefully scrawled note cards and PR briefings generally try to steer clear of anything too political, but everyone in the building could feel it. These days, power and celebrity curdle together into a kind of performance art all their own, and this year the show seemed to lean in, just a bit. Noah, for his part, was nimble as ever, slipping between tables, doling out handshakes and winks, dispensing barbs with a kind of polished mischievousness that makes even the boldest A-listers briefly forget which PR manager is watching them giggle.

Then came the year’s most charged moment—oddly enough, starring an absence. “Nicki Minaj is not here,” Noah announced, letting the crowd buzz before delivering a punchline about a fictional sit-down with Donald Trump at the White House. The laughter was immediate, if a tad relieved. What else do you do when a reference to Minaj and MAGA pops up during prime time? Try not to choke on the free champagne, apparently.

And for anyone keeping score at home, Noah’s next bit—complete with a cheeky, over-the-top Trump impression—ratcheted up the audacity. “I have the biggest ass! Everybody’s saying it. I know they say it’s you, but it’s me. WAP, WAP, WAP.” There are lines, and then there are detours—Noah chose the latter, steering the show into the kind of meta-commentary that awards ceremonies only occasionally dare to attempt. For a star with more than a dozen Grammy nominations and not a single win, Minaj’s no-show just added volume to the moment. In a delightful twist, she answered with a wink of her own online: “Hey wyd.” In 2025, that’s about as direct a riposte as you’re likely to find.

The evening offered up lighter moments, too. Noah managed a quick riff with Jelly Roll and Teddy Swims about swapping phones—let’s say, the kind of gag that feels especially tailored for a generation obsessed with thumbprints and face IDs. Olivia Dean, meanwhile, earned a pointed nod for tackling Ticketmaster’s notorious ticket fiascos. Noah joked about the threat of concerts disappearing if fans can’t afford tickets, reminding everyone that live music may be one of the last common denominators—plus, how else would anyone catch which CEO gets caught canoodling on the big screen?

But perhaps the stickiest exchange of the night came from Noah’s nod to hip-hop’s simmering rivalries. Sidling up to Kendrick Lamar, Noah addressed the elephant in the room: recent beefs, some of which have veered from the recording booth into the realm of digital sleuthing. “It was so much simpler when all you had to worry about was being shot,” he quipped, the laugh that followed only partially covering the nervous undertone. Such is the nature of the genre these days—every bar and every diss is an invitation for deeper cuts (and not always just on the tracklist).

A little while later—between award handoffs and hurried cocktails—Bad Bunny carried the conversation away from discord and back to pride. Reminding Noah, with an infectious grin, that Puerto Rico is, and always has been, part of America. In years like this, it’s a necessary assertion—belonging, onstage and off, is a slippery concept.

Of course, there were the trophies themselves, too. Steven Spielberg joined the EGOT pantheon, a club so exclusive you could fit all the members—including the newcomers—into a single luxury suite. The spectacle, by now, almost felt beside the point. Because underneath all that gloss, the show was pulling double duty: balancing the noise and the nuance, the meaning of laughter, who’s present, and—maybe more importantly—who isn’t.

Trevor Noah, it’s worth noting, brought up his own Grammy loss—yes, to the Dalai Lama—reminding everyone that even the host can wind up on the “better luck next year” bench. Minaj, still trophy-less after more than a decade of nominations, might know the feeling. There’s a vulnerable heart beneath the polished exterior; sometimes a joke pokes, sometimes it soothes.

One can only guess what next year’s telecast will pull from the cultural churn. Until then, the memory lingers: of an arena locked in applause, a few thrown elbows between celebrities and satire, and just maybe, a bit of hope that music—awkward, irreverent, jubilant—can make sense of more than just itself.

There’s something unmistakable about Grammy night in Los Angeles. It’s not just the sparkle of sequins catching the light or the surge of nerves thickening the air around Crypto.com Arena—though you’d have to be made of stone not to feel both. No, there’s a distinctive electricity at these awards. It hangs somewhere between a red carpet wink and that anxious laughter you hear before the first celebrity roast lands a little too close for comfort.All eyes fixed on Trevor Noah as he took the stage—again. The higher-ups had promised it was his last lap, which, frankly, always sounds more like a dare than a decision. Noah’s blend of sly warmth and perfectly timed irreverence makes him difficult to replace. He’s not just a host; he’s a ringmaster who can read a room faster than most people can read a smartphone notification. There aren’t many with his touch—Andy Williams comes to mind, if you look back far enough, maybe a sprinkle of Whoopi Goldberg in the delivery.But the 2025 Grammys weren’t content to celebrate music alone. Of course, no one said as much outright—a slew of carefully scrawled note cards and PR briefings generally try to steer clear of anything too political, but everyone in the building could feel it. These days, power and celebrity curdle together into a kind of performance art all their own, and this year the show seemed to lean in, just a bit. Noah, for his part, was nimble as ever, slipping between tables, doling out handshakes and winks, dispensing barbs with a kind of polished mischievousness that makes even the boldest A-listers briefly forget which PR manager is watching them giggle.Then came the year’s most charged moment—oddly enough, starring an absence. “Nicki Minaj is not here,” Noah announced, letting the crowd buzz before delivering a punchline about a fictional sit-down with Donald Trump at the White House. The laughter was immediate, if a tad relieved. What else do you do when a reference to Minaj and MAGA pops up during prime time? Try not to choke on the free champagne, apparently.And for anyone keeping score at home, Noah’s next bit—complete with a cheeky, over-the-top Trump impression—ratcheted up the audacity. “I have the biggest ass! Everybody’s saying it. I know they say it’s you, but it’s me. WAP, WAP, WAP.” There are lines, and then there are detours—Noah chose the latter, steering the show into the kind of meta-commentary that awards ceremonies only occasionally dare to attempt. For a star with more than a dozen Grammy nominations and not a single win, Minaj’s no-show just added volume to the moment. In a delightful twist, she answered with a wink of her own online: “Hey wyd.” In 2025, that’s about as direct a riposte as you’re likely to find.The evening offered up lighter moments, too. Noah managed a quick riff with Jelly Roll and Teddy Swims about swapping phones—let’s say, the kind of gag that feels especially tailored for a generation obsessed with thumbprints and face IDs. Olivia Dean, meanwhile, earned a pointed nod for tackling Ticketmaster’s notorious ticket fiascos. Noah joked about the threat of concerts disappearing if fans can’t afford tickets, reminding everyone that live music may be one of the last common denominators—plus, how else would anyone catch which CEO gets caught canoodling on the big screen?But perhaps the stickiest exchange of the night came from Noah’s nod to hip-hop’s simmering rivalries. Sidling up to Kendrick Lamar, Noah addressed the elephant in the room: recent beefs, some of which have veered from the recording booth into the realm of digital sleuthing. “It was so much simpler when all you had to worry about was being shot,” he quipped, the laugh that followed only partially covering the nervous undertone. Such is the nature of the genre these days—every bar and every diss is an invitation for deeper cuts (and not always just on the tracklist).A little while later—between award handoffs and hurried cocktails—Bad Bunny carried the conversation away from discord and back to pride. Reminding Noah, with an infectious grin, that Puerto Rico is, and always has been, part of America. In years like this, it’s a necessary assertion—belonging, onstage and off, is a slippery concept.Of course, there were the trophies themselves, too. Steven Spielberg joined the EGOT pantheon, a club so exclusive you could fit all the members—including the newcomers—into a single luxury suite. The spectacle, by now, almost felt beside the point. Because underneath all that gloss, the show was pulling double duty: balancing the noise and the nuance, the meaning of laughter, who’s present, and—maybe more importantly—who isn’t.Trevor Noah, it’s worth noting, brought up his own Grammy loss—yes, to the Dalai Lama—reminding everyone that even the host can wind up on the “better luck next year” bench. Minaj, still trophy-less after more than a decade of nominations, might know the feeling. There’s a vulnerable heart beneath the polished exterior; sometimes a joke pokes, sometimes it soothes.One can only guess what next year’s telecast will pull from the cultural churn. Until then, the memory lingers: of an arena locked in applause, a few thrown elbows between celebrities and satire, and just maybe, a bit of hope that music—awkward, irreverent, jubilant—can make sense of more than just itself.