There’s something deeply symbolic about the music that echoes through the arena as a wrestler storms down the ramp. It’s not just a soundtrack—it’s a narrative device, a psychological trigger, and often a reflection of the performer’s identity. When WWE’s Je’Von Evans and Chad Gable recently shared their dream entrance music choices, it wasn’t just about picking a favorite song. It was a window into their personalities, their influences, and the stories they want to tell. Personally, I think this reveals a fascinating tension between artistry and branding in professional wrestling. Why choose a song that feels personal when the entire industry thrives on curated personas? What does it say about a wrestler’s confidence in their own voice versus the need to conform to a scripted universe?
Let’s start with Evans’ choice of Kendrick Lamar’s Alright. To me, this isn’t just a song—it’s a cultural landmark. Lamar’s work has always been about resilience, identity, and the struggle for self-determination. Evans, a man who’s carved out a niche as a gritty, underdog-type competitor, pairing his persona with a track that speaks to overcoming adversity feels almost poetic. But here’s what’s interesting: Alright isn’t just a protest anthem. It’s a celebration of survival, a mantra for people who’ve been told they don’t belong. What does that imply about Evans’ self-perception? Does he see himself as a fighter against systemic odds, or is this a calculated move to tap into a broader movement? I’d argue it’s both. Wrestling is a business of storytelling, and Lamar’s lyrics give Evans a ready-made narrative without needing to write it himself. It’s a shortcut, but also a masterstroke. The emotional weight of the song—its ability to make people tear up—adds layers to his character that a generic WWE track never could.
Now, contrast that with Chad Gable’s pick: Billy Squire’s The Stroke. This is where things get wild. Squire’s 1980s rock anthem, with its cocky swagger and unapologetic bravado, is the antithesis of Lamar’s introspective power. Gable, known for his technical prowess and calm demeanor, opting for a song that screams ‘I’m the best at everything’ is a masterclass in irony. What makes this particularly fascinating is the generational gap. The Stroke is a relic of a time when wrestling music leaned into hard rock and hair metal, a world that feels almost alien to today’s hip-hop-dominated landscape. Is Gable nostalgia-tinged, or is he making a deliberate statement about his own identity? I think it’s the latter. By choosing a song that doesn’t align with modern trends, he’s asserting that his character isn’t defined by current fads. It’s a subtle rebellion against the idea that wrestlers must constantly evolve to stay relevant. Plus, there’s a certain cheekiness to it. Gable isn’t the type to strut around with a mullet and leather pants, yet he’s embracing a track that would make a 1980s heel blush. It’s a reminder that entrance music isn’t just about fitting a mold—it’s about defying expectations.
This raises a deeper question: Why do wrestlers even care about entrance music anymore? In an era where social media and streaming dominate, the 60-second ramp walk feels almost quaint. But here’s the thing—entrance music still holds power. It’s the only moment where a wrestler can control the narrative before the match begins. When Evans plays Alright, he’s not just announcing his arrival; he’s inviting the crowd to feel his pain, his triumph, his humanity. When Gable plays The Stroke, he’s saying, ‘I don’t need to explain myself—I’ve got the swagger.’ In a business that thrives on spectacle, these choices are microcosms of larger trends. Wrestlers are no longer just performers; they’re cultural commentators, brand ambassadors, and sometimes, accidental philosophers. Their music choices are as much about who they are as they are about what they want the audience to see.
What this really suggests is that entrance music has evolved beyond entertainment. It’s a form of self-expression that transcends the ring. For Evans, it’s a bridge between his personal history and his professional persona. For Gable, it’s a rejection of the idea that he must fit into a specific archetype. And for the audience? It’s a chance to connect with something real, something that feels less like a script and more like a confession. As I see it, the future of wrestling music will hinge on this balance between authenticity and artifice. Will wrestlers continue to use songs that reflect their true selves, even if it means diverging from the company’s brand? Or will the pressure to conform to a homogenized aesthetic eventually stifle this creative freedom? One thing is certain: The next time a wrestler hits the ramp, the music they choose might just tell us more about them than any promo ever could.
