Bad Bunny Faces ICE Backlash in Super Bowl Halftime Show Shock

Mia Reynolds, 1/19/2026This year's Super Bowl halftime show, headlined by Bad Bunny, ignites controversy over cultural representation, with voices like Danica Patrick calling for English-only performances. Amidst the celebration, deeper discussions on immigration and national identity emerge, revealing the complex pulse of America during these challenging times.

Picture Levi’s Stadium on a brisk February night, tucked just close enough to Oakland for the ghosts of dive bar gigs and garage band dreams to linger. Green Day, local legends with grins that say, “We can’t believe they let us in here either,” will kick off Super Bowl 60, injecting a dose of Bay Area nostalgia into the heart of America’s prime-time spectacle. Billie Joe Armstrong, who never quite seems to lose his edge—or his playful defiance—gave it straight: “We are super hyped to open Super Bowl 60 right in our backyard! We are honored to welcome the MVPs who’ve shaped the game and open the night for fans all over the world. Let’s have fun! Let’s get loud!” For a band whose sound has always thrived on a brush of chaos, it’s practically a victory lap. Or maybe just a welcome home after all these years.

On the surface, it’s the perfect kickoff: beloved hometown band, the glow of nostalgia, the NFL rolling out its best artifacts. Tim Tubito, the league’s senior director, put it in his own polished terms—celebrating 60 years with Green Day as part of the fabric. But underneath that pageantry, there’s a different current pulling at the night.

Here’s where it gets complicated.

Headlining halftime this year: Bad Bunny. Puerto Rican superstar, true, but also an artist who’s managed to make Spanish-language reggaeton the sound of global summers and late-night drives alike. The booking has set off a minor earthquake across social media feeds and group chats miles away from Miami or San Juan. Not everyone’s thrilled, and some voices are loud about it. Danica Patrick, who probably never expected her racing career would segue into policing playlists, summed up a certain corner of sentiment: “No songs in English should not be allowed at one of America’s highest-rated television events of the year.” Never mind that plenty of Americans can sing along to Bad Bunny, word for word, and with more heart than half the pop chart.

The artist himself hasn’t exactly ducked the backlash. Just the other week, he cracked the U.S. off his tour itinerary—a safety decision, but also a bruise and a mirror held up to the moment. “The issue of—like, f---ing ICE could be outside [my concert]. And it’s something that we were talking about and very concerned about,” he admitted, sounding less like a global superstar and more like any first-generation kid, wary and world-weary at the same time.

As February ticked closer, this year’s Super Bowl—the comfort event, the party everyone joins even if their heart’s not in the game—morphed under the weight of the country’s anxieties. Some things crept in that no one invited. In another city, under very different spotlights, Bruce Springsteen stood at the Light of Day Winterfest in New Jersey and let his words hang heavy for a moment too long. “I wrote this song as an ode to American possibility,” he started, then—never one to blur the lines between stage and street these days, not really—he added, “Right now we are living through incredibly critical times. The United States, the ideals and the value for which it stood for the past 250 years, is being tested like it has never been in modern times... If you believe you don’t deserve to be murdered for exercising your American right to protest, then send a message to this president, as the mayor of the city said: ICE should get the f--- out of Minneapolis. This song is for you and the memory of the mother of three and an American citizen, Renee Good.”

Renee Good—her name still lingers in Minneapolis. Watching the news, it’s hard to shake the rawness of it. Footage rose up online; familiar scripts of heartbreak, protest, and calls for accountability followed. The city’s mayor demanded answers, made his own plea: Federal agents needed to leave. Grief never lands cleanly, and neither did the anger or art that followed. Billie Eilish, Dave Matthews—a cluster of voices joined in, the music suddenly less about melody and more about a wound.

Somewhere between the stadium anthems and the quietly lit vigil in Minneapolis, the NFL’s big night feels like it’s teetering. The league must balance an impossible act—celebratory spectacle, star-studded nostalgia, and an unwelcome glance at the harsher headlines surrounding immigration enforcement. Homeland Security advisor Corey Lewandowski made his position crystal clear: “There is nowhere you can provide safe haven to people who are in this country illegally.” Depending on where you read it, that’s either a warning or a headline designed to rattle half the audience.

Maybe that’s why the idea of the Super Bowl as pure escapism doesn’t quite hold up this year. There’s too much electricity in the air, and not all of it is coming from the stage lights. Green Day gets to be the triumphant hometown heroes (for one set, at least), with Charlie Puth, Brandi Carlile, and Coco Jones adding harmony—a fleeting hope for unity before halftime fractures it all over again. The halftime show, though, practically dares viewers to choose a side: celebration or confrontation, inclusivity or resentment.

Some years, the big game is just a comfort—background noise, honestly, with the real drama reserved for chicken wings or which commercial got the best laughs. This year, nothing fades so easily into the background. Bad Bunny’s set is destined to be analyzed, parsed, maybe even weaponized in the cultural tug-of-war playing out beyond the field. Green Day’s chords will ring out, not only as a callback to a different era, but as proof that the familiar is never as simple as it looks.

Looking back a few years from now, odds are folks will remember more than just the scoreboard—maybe the riot of fireworks and legends lining up on the turf, but just as likely, the tension that crackled beneath each note. Maybe it’s a mother’s name in the headlines, music caught between protest and performance, or the simple fact that sometimes, even the safest bets in entertainment bring only more questions.

Entertainment, in the end, doesn’t just soundtrack victory parades or heartbreaks. It stirs things up, echoes the questions we’re already afraid to ask, and, every now and then, refuses to offer an easy way out. If the Super Bowl teaches anything this year, perhaps it’s that the dividing line between party and protest isn’t a line at all—it’s just the pulse of America, not quite settled, still writing its story.

There’s something about the Super Bowl that manages to feel less like a sporting event and more like an annual, slightly chaotic national potluck—one where everyone brings their own secrets, hang-ups, and history, but still crowds around the same overburdened table. Normally, it’s a familiar recipe: fans bickering good-naturedly over stats, the halftime show sparking debate, and someone inevitably burning the dip. This year, though? The stakes feel different, the conversation a little sharper around the edges.Picture Levi’s Stadium on a brisk February night, tucked just close enough to Oakland for the ghosts of dive bar gigs and garage band dreams to linger. Green Day, local legends with grins that say, “We can’t believe they let us in here either,” will kick off Super Bowl 60, injecting a dose of Bay Area nostalgia into the heart of America’s prime-time spectacle. Billie Joe Armstrong, who never quite seems to lose his edge—or his playful defiance—gave it straight: “We are super hyped to open Super Bowl 60 right in our backyard! We are honored to welcome the MVPs who’ve shaped the game and open the night for fans all over the world. Let’s have fun! Let’s get loud!” For a band whose sound has always thrived on a brush of chaos, it’s practically a victory lap. Or maybe just a welcome home after all these years.On the surface, it’s the perfect kickoff: beloved hometown band, the glow of nostalgia, the NFL rolling out its best artifacts. Tim Tubito, the league’s senior director, put it in his own polished terms—celebrating 60 years with Green Day as part of the fabric. But underneath that pageantry, there’s a different current pulling at the night.Here’s where it gets complicated.Headlining halftime this year: Bad Bunny. Puerto Rican superstar, true, but also an artist who’s managed to make Spanish-language reggaeton the sound of global summers and late-night drives alike. The booking has set off a minor earthquake across social media feeds and group chats miles away from Miami or San Juan. Not everyone’s thrilled, and some voices are loud about it. Danica Patrick, who probably never expected her racing career would segue into policing playlists, summed up a certain corner of sentiment: “No songs in English should not be allowed at one of America’s highest-rated television events of the year.” Never mind that plenty of Americans can sing along to Bad Bunny, word for word, and with more heart than half the pop chart.The artist himself hasn’t exactly ducked the backlash. Just the other week, he cracked the U.S. off his tour itinerary—a safety decision, but also a bruise and a mirror held up to the moment. “The issue of—like, f---ing ICE could be outside [my concert]. And it’s something that we were talking about and very concerned about,” he admitted, sounding less like a global superstar and more like any first-generation kid, wary and world-weary at the same time.As February ticked closer, this year’s Super Bowl—the comfort event, the party everyone joins even if their heart’s not in the game—morphed under the weight of the country’s anxieties. Some things crept in that no one invited. In another city, under very different spotlights, Bruce Springsteen stood at the Light of Day Winterfest in New Jersey and let his words hang heavy for a moment too long. “I wrote this song as an ode to American possibility,” he started, then—never one to blur the lines between stage and street these days, not really—he added, “Right now we are living through incredibly critical times. The United States, the ideals and the value for which it stood for the past 250 years, is being tested like it has never been in modern times... If you believe you don’t deserve to be murdered for exercising your American right to protest, then send a message to this president, as the mayor of the city said: ICE should get the f--- out of Minneapolis. This song is for you and the memory of the mother of three and an American citizen, Renee Good.”Renee Good—her name still lingers in Minneapolis. Watching the news, it’s hard to shake the rawness of it. Footage rose up online; familiar scripts of heartbreak, protest, and calls for accountability followed. The city’s mayor demanded answers, made his own plea: Federal agents needed to leave. Grief never lands cleanly, and neither did the anger or art that followed. Billie Eilish, Dave Matthews—a cluster of voices joined in, the music suddenly less about melody and more about a wound.Somewhere between the stadium anthems and the quietly lit vigil in Minneapolis, the NFL’s big night feels like it’s teetering. The league must balance an impossible act—celebratory spectacle, star-studded nostalgia, and an unwelcome glance at the harsher headlines surrounding immigration enforcement. Homeland Security advisor Corey Lewandowski made his position crystal clear: “There is nowhere you can provide safe haven to people who are in this country illegally.” Depending on where you read it, that’s either a warning or a headline designed to rattle half the audience.Maybe that’s why the idea of the Super Bowl as pure escapism doesn’t quite hold up this year. There’s too much electricity in the air, and not all of it is coming from the stage lights. Green Day gets to be the triumphant hometown heroes (for one set, at least), with Charlie Puth, Brandi Carlile, and Coco Jones adding harmony—a fleeting hope for unity before halftime fractures it all over again. The halftime show, though, practically dares viewers to choose a side: celebration or confrontation, inclusivity or resentment.Some years, the big game is just a comfort—background noise, honestly, with the real drama reserved for chicken wings or which commercial got the best laughs. This year, nothing fades so easily into the background. Bad Bunny’s set is destined to be analyzed, parsed, maybe even weaponized in the cultural tug-of-war playing out beyond the field. Green Day’s chords will ring out, not only as a callback to a different era, but as proof that the familiar is never as simple as it looks.Looking back a few years from now, odds are folks will remember more than just the scoreboard—maybe the riot of fireworks and legends lining up on the turf, but just as likely, the tension that crackled beneath each note. Maybe it’s a mother’s name in the headlines, music caught between protest and performance, or the simple fact that sometimes, even the safest bets in entertainment bring only more questions.Entertainment, in the end, doesn’t just soundtrack victory parades or heartbreaks. It stirs things up, echoes the questions we’re already afraid to ask, and, every now and then, refuses to offer an easy way out. If the Super Bowl teaches anything this year, perhaps it’s that the dividing line between party and protest isn’t a line at all—it’s just the pulse of America, not quite settled, still writing its story.