Dead Men Can't Smell Your Roses

In popular culture, there is a troubling pattern of delayed appreciation—of waiting until artists, thinkers, and visionaries are gone before truly recognizing their worth. While the tributes pour in and legacies are immortalized after a tragic loss, many of these same figures struggled for acknowledgment and respect during their lifetimes. It raises a difficult question: why does society so often fail to honour and value people when they are alive, choosing instead to glorify them only in death?

This phenomenon is strikingly evident when observing how musicians and cultural figures are often more fully acknowledged in death than they ever were in life. Smoke Dawg stands as a sobering example. Prior to his death in 2018, he was steadily emerging as a significant figure in Toronto’s hip-hop scene. As a member of Halal Gang and a collaborator with international artists such as Skepta, Smoke Dawg was more than just a promising rapper—he was a representative of Regent Park’s voice and energy. Yet despite his rising influence, mainstream recognition remained limited. It was only after he was tragically killed at the age of 21 that the city and industry at large began to fully reckon with his potential. Murals were painted, tributes poured in, and his debut album, Struggle Before Glory, was released posthumously to an audience finally ready to listen.

A similar story unfolded with Houdini, whose death in 2020 sent shockwaves through Toronto’s music community. At just 21 years old, Houdini had already cultivated a dedicated following and released a string of successful tracks that signaled his imminent rise. Still, he had yet to receive widespread institutional backing or critical acclaim beyond the city’s borders. Following his death, however, his music experienced a dramatic resurgence. Global artists paid tribute, his streaming numbers soared, and conversations about his unfulfilled promise became common across media platforms. In both cases, recognition arrived only after it could no longer be received.

This isn’t simply a matter of belated appreciation—it reflects a deeper structural reality in the music industry. The commodification of loss has become disturbingly normalized. While alive, many artists—particularly those from marginalized communities—struggle for support unless they align with commercially palatable narratives. Labels and platforms often remain silent in the face of escalating tensions or systemic neglect. And when tragedy strikes, they pivot quickly to capitalize on the moment.

In the aftermath of an artist’s death, their work is often rebranded, repackaged, and monetized with renewed intensity. For example, after the passing of Pop Smoke in 2020, his streams increased by almost four hundred percent in just three days, according to Nielsen Music. A 2019 Nielsen report also showed that posthumous music consumption surges are a consistent trend across genres and markets, with streaming contributing heavily to revenue increases following an artist’s death.

In the cases of Smoke Dawg and Houdini, posthumous music releases and video content received millions of additional views and streams—figures far exceeding those achieved during their lifetimes. Industry insiders have acknowledged this as a disturbing trend: a former Spotify executive admitted in an interview with Billboard that “the spike in streams after an artist’s death creates a unique but uncomfortable opportunity for platforms and labels to maximize revenue.” These patterns point to an unsettling truth: for many in the industry, an artist’s legacy may hold more economic value than their ongoing life and voice.

This same logic of corporate exploitation is playing out in real time with the recent public dispute between Drake and Kendrick Lamar. The feud has been portrayed in countless ways, but one aspect often overlooked is the role of corporate interests—specifically, how Spotify capitalized on the conflict for profit, all while ignoring the real-life consequences such a dispute might trigger. Spotify, a dominant force in the music streaming industry, stands to gain enormously from any buzz that drives streams, downloads, and subscriptions. Yet, the company remains safely detached from the fallout, content to sit behind office doors and count the money while two influential artists stir public tensions.

Spotify’s billboard campaign that declared “Hip-Hop is a competitive sport” epitomizes this corporate strategy. On the surface, the phrase might seem catchy, equating rap battles to athletic competition—a contest of skill and bravado. However, this analogy dangerously oversimplifies the nature of rap music and the lives intertwined with it. Hip-Hop is not a sport. It is an expression of raw emotions—anger, pain, joy, frustration—and emotions carry real consequences. Unlike sports, where the competition stays confined to a field or arena, rap’s influence seeps into communities, streets, and personal lives. Encouraging rivalries under the banner of “sport” ignores the very real stakes of these battles.

In the case of Drake and Kendrick, two of the biggest names in hip-hop, their public back-and-forth draws millions of eyes and ears. Fans dissect every lyric and every interview, and streams of their music spike dramatically during these moments of tension. For Spotify, this is a windfall. Increased streams mean more ad revenue and higher subscription engagement. But who really bears the burden of this so-called “sport”? Not the executives in glass towers who launch ad campaigns. Not the marketers who spin narratives to keep the audience hooked. Instead, it is the artists themselves and their communities—some of whom have histories intertwined with real street conflicts where words can escalate beyond music.

This business model hinges on a disturbing paradox: the more artists feud publicly, the more the platform profits. Yet the company’s leadership remains insulated from any fallout. Spotify’s role in stoking—or at the very least, exploiting—these rivalries exemplifies how corporate interests can commodify conflict, turning genuine artistic expression into entertainment fuel with no regard for the human cost. Because the truth is, in the music business, a dead man’s words carry more weight.

Framing rap as “just a sport” strips it of its deeper cultural and emotional significance. Rap is a language of lived experience, a way to articulate struggles and triumphs often overlooked by mainstream society. It’s a vehicle for social commentary and personal storytelling, not merely a contest to be won or lost. When corporations reduce it to a game, they undermine its power and the responsibility that comes with it.

The Drake-Kendrick spat may appear, to some, as harmless rivalry—a form of entertainment in the age of social media. But beneath the surface lies a complex dynamic where powerful companies leverage tension for profit while ignoring the ripple effects. The people behind the screens make money; the artists navigate the fallout; and communities bear the emotional and sometimes physical consequences.

Recognizing this cycle forces us to ask: what might change if we gave people their flowers while they were still here to receive them? If we saw potential and value not just in the aftermath of loss, but in the everyday moments of someone’s life and work? Honouring someone in death may be a natural expression of grief—or raw form of capitalism—but honouring them in life is a conscious act of recognition. It’s a commitment to seeing people clearly, listening to their message, and supporting their vision before it's too late.

Ultimately, shifting this culture requires more than words—it requires paying attention. It means rethinking the way we define success and impact. If we can learn to recognize greatness in real time, rather than only in retrospect, we might not only preserve more lives, but also enrich the culture we so often celebrate after the fact.

Dead men can't smell your roses, so present the flowers while they still breathe. If we don’t learn to honour artists while they’re living, we’re not just losing talent—we’re complicit in a cycle that turns human lives into hashtags and profit margins. Until platforms and labels care as much about artists' lives as they do their deaths, the applause will always come a beat too late.