Charlie Puth and the Sexy Anthem That Stole the Super Bowl Spotlight

Mia Reynolds, 2/9/2026Charlie Puth delivered a sultry rendition of the national anthem at the Super Bowl, blending pop with Motown soul. His performance redefined tradition, intertwining personal excitement with a fresh take on a familiar tune, reminding us that even established rituals can surprise and breathe.

Amidst this swirling pageantry, Charlie Puth climbed onto a stark white platform that stood out like a lone skylight in a crowded attic. Not one to shy away from a little sartorial panache, he’d picked a brown bomber, slim jeans, tie tucked almost sheepishly under a crisp white shirt—a little old-school, a little GQ, and all Puth, really. His keyboard glimmered under the stadium lights, hinting at something less expected.

And then—well, it was the anthem, but not quite the one everyone’s trained to brace for. Where others have bellowed straight into the marrow of the thing, Puth found a quieter register, coaxing the melody along edges it rarely visits. His voice—warm, unhurried, roughened at the edges just enough—threaded itself through the familiar tune with a confidence that was all invitation, no bravado. For a few moments, the anthem sounded...sultry? That’s not your average Super Bowl fare.

Maybe it was the saxophone’s sly entrance, weaving its own private shimmer through the arrangement. Or perhaps the choir in white, assembled like a gospel dream, lending the whole thing a touch of Motown soul. No matter how many times you’ve heard “The Star-Spangled Banner,” there was a sense—fleeting, but sharp—that you might be hearing it for the first time. (It almost makes you wonder if anyone ever tried to coax the anthem into jazz-club territory before.)

As the orchestrated buildup reached “the rockets’ red glare, the bombs bursting in air,” the stadium’s screen jumped in, flashing to pyrotechnics that seemed determined to upstage even Puth’s steely focus. Not that it worked. For one beat, the flag unfurled against the glow, the bridge beyond caught flickering in gold—a too-perfect tableau, but there it was. And then, when most singers go high and thunderous, Puth slipped in a final, unexpected note. A wink, maybe, or a gentle reminder that tradition’s not always set in concrete.

The Super Bowl anthem is an unforgiving pressure cooker. Just ask any singer who’s had to follow in the wake of Lady Gaga, Reba, or last year’s gravel-voiced Chris Stapleton. Puth—four Grammy nominations in, with a string of shimmering pop hits—might have seemed an odd fit in this lineup (pop crooners, especially those known for lyric heartbreak, aren’t usually first picks for patriotic thunder). But the thing is, from the instant his fingers brushed the keys, he made the stage seem smaller. More human, somehow.

And then there’s the way life wove its own subplot. With his fourth album, “Whatever’s Clever!,” gathering momentum (and retro-dipped singles cropping up on every other playlist), Puth has been busy in more ways than one. His music video for “Changes”—laced with synth nostalgia and that signature ache—quietly announced he and Brooke Sansone have a baby on the way. Blink, you’ll miss it, but the excitement felt woven right into his performance, a bit of tenderness sneaking through the stadium grandeur.

This year’s Super Bowl felt anchored by a thread of soulfulness, if such a word applies to national rituals. Green Day went full adolescent nostalgia at the opener, while Brandi Carlile laced “America the Beautiful” with folk resolve that felt more 2025 than 1975. Bad Bunny stole the halftime thunder, tossing genres overboard and reminding anyone still keeping score that the borders of pop don’t hold up much these days—neither do its languages.

But the anthem is different. It’s the moment when the collective hush descends, when the stakes are highest and nerves sit just below the skin. And Puth did not so much reinvent as gently unlock something in the familiar, wrapping velvet around the ritual and letting us hear it with fresh ears. For once, stadium and living room alike seemed drawn a little closer, the bombast traded for something that resembled conversation—a promise that reinvention and respect aren’t at odds.

Maybe that’s what lingers. Not just a performance that “does America proud” (though that’s the easy headline), but a subtle, resonant reminder: tradition isn’t brittle. It bends. It breathes, when given enough room to do so.

As the final note disappeared into the cold California night, fireworks just behind and a very modern, slightly nervous pop star at the center of it all, it was impossible not to feel—if only for that brief shimmer—that a well-trod anthem still held the power to surprise.

A wave of low, buzzing excitement rolled under the California sky as Levi's Stadium filled—the familiar hum of anticipation before something big. Out past the end zones, the sun began its slow descent behind the Golden Gate, its gold bleeding into a blue horizon. Flags here don’t just ripple; they almost prance in the chill February wind, carrying with them all the weight of the occasion. So goes the opening act to America’s annual three-ring circus: the Super Bowl.Amidst this swirling pageantry, Charlie Puth climbed onto a stark white platform that stood out like a lone skylight in a crowded attic. Not one to shy away from a little sartorial panache, he’d picked a brown bomber, slim jeans, tie tucked almost sheepishly under a crisp white shirt—a little old-school, a little GQ, and all Puth, really. His keyboard glimmered under the stadium lights, hinting at something less expected.And then—well, it was the anthem, but not quite the one everyone’s trained to brace for. Where others have bellowed straight into the marrow of the thing, Puth found a quieter register, coaxing the melody along edges it rarely visits. His voice—warm, unhurried, roughened at the edges just enough—threaded itself through the familiar tune with a confidence that was all invitation, no bravado. For a few moments, the anthem sounded...sultry? That’s not your average Super Bowl fare.Maybe it was the saxophone’s sly entrance, weaving its own private shimmer through the arrangement. Or perhaps the choir in white, assembled like a gospel dream, lending the whole thing a touch of Motown soul. No matter how many times you’ve heard “The Star-Spangled Banner,” there was a sense—fleeting, but sharp—that you might be hearing it for the first time. (It almost makes you wonder if anyone ever tried to coax the anthem into jazz-club territory before.)As the orchestrated buildup reached “the rockets’ red glare, the bombs bursting in air,” the stadium’s screen jumped in, flashing to pyrotechnics that seemed determined to upstage even Puth’s steely focus. Not that it worked. For one beat, the flag unfurled against the glow, the bridge beyond caught flickering in gold—a too-perfect tableau, but there it was. And then, when most singers go high and thunderous, Puth slipped in a final, unexpected note. A wink, maybe, or a gentle reminder that tradition’s not always set in concrete.The Super Bowl anthem is an unforgiving pressure cooker. Just ask any singer who’s had to follow in the wake of Lady Gaga, Reba, or last year’s gravel-voiced Chris Stapleton. Puth—four Grammy nominations in, with a string of shimmering pop hits—might have seemed an odd fit in this lineup (pop crooners, especially those known for lyric heartbreak, aren’t usually first picks for patriotic thunder). But the thing is, from the instant his fingers brushed the keys, he made the stage seem smaller. More human, somehow.And then there’s the way life wove its own subplot. With his fourth album, “Whatever’s Clever!,” gathering momentum (and retro-dipped singles cropping up on every other playlist), Puth has been busy in more ways than one. His music video for “Changes”—laced with synth nostalgia and that signature ache—quietly announced he and Brooke Sansone have a baby on the way. Blink, you’ll miss it, but the excitement felt woven right into his performance, a bit of tenderness sneaking through the stadium grandeur.This year’s Super Bowl felt anchored by a thread of soulfulness, if such a word applies to national rituals. Green Day went full adolescent nostalgia at the opener, while Brandi Carlile laced “America the Beautiful” with folk resolve that felt more 2025 than 1975. Bad Bunny stole the halftime thunder, tossing genres overboard and reminding anyone still keeping score that the borders of pop don’t hold up much these days—neither do its languages.But the anthem is different. It’s the moment when the collective hush descends, when the stakes are highest and nerves sit just below the skin. And Puth did not so much reinvent as gently unlock something in the familiar, wrapping velvet around the ritual and letting us hear it with fresh ears. For once, stadium and living room alike seemed drawn a little closer, the bombast traded for something that resembled conversation—a promise that reinvention and respect aren’t at odds.Maybe that’s what lingers. Not just a performance that “does America proud” (though that’s the easy headline), but a subtle, resonant reminder: tradition isn’t brittle. It bends. It breathes, when given enough room to do so.As the final note disappeared into the cold California night, fireworks just behind and a very modern, slightly nervous pop star at the center of it all, it was impossible not to feel—if only for that brief shimmer—that a well-trod anthem still held the power to surprise.