In the middle of Taylor Swift's Eras Tour, her then-boyfriend, Travis Kelce, materialized onstage wearing a top hat and grinning ear-to-ear. He clicked his heels, cradled Swift in his arms, and mimed putting makeup on her face during a well-rehearsed skit, hitting all his marks as a member of her supporting cast.

While tens of thousands of fans in London's Wembley Stadium screamed their approval, none had shelled out money for tickets to see Kelce. His cameo was the mere cherry on top of Swift's monumental career achievement: She'd set an attendance record for the venue and generated an estimated $1 billion for the UK economy.

Not that Kelce seemed to mind playing second fiddle. In fact, he said it was "an honor" to dip his toe into Swift's world, casting himself as a superfan who got luckier than most.

"You can do no wrong when Taylor's onstage," Kelce said on his podcast. "She's the best to do it."

Kelce is a star in his own right, an athlete on track for the NFL Hall of Fame. Yet Kelce's reported net worth is dwarfed by Swift's multibillion-dollar fortune, and this summer's headlines about his return to football can't resist shoehorning in a mention of his and Swift's recent wedding.

Off the field, Kelce's prestige is not threatened by Swift's success but is perhaps even bolstered by it. He belongs to a new wave of secure Hollywood husbands: male celebrities whose enthusiastic endorsement of their high-earning wives makes them more endearing and, crucially, more bankable.

Think: Tom Holland, Spider-Man himself, interrupting his own interview at a "Spider-Man" premiere to admire the glamorous arrival of his wife, Zendaya. (This has happened not just once, but many times.) Holland also told Men's Health that he doesn't join Zendaya on non-Marvel-related red carpets because "it's not my moment, it's her moment."

Or consider the musician Benny Blanco, who said he's so afraid of flying that he literally took a boat across the Atlantic Ocean to lay eyes on his billionaire wife, Selena Gomez, who's currently in London filming her Emmy-winning TV show. "The things we do for love," he wrote on TikTok.

This pattern offers a refreshing contrast to the more common reality, which is that divorce rates in heterosexual couples rise significantly when a woman is more professionally successful than her male partner.

It may also offer an escapist balm for the women in question. Celebrity culture thrives by reflecting our own desires like a gilded mirror — and husbands like Kelce, Holland, and Blanco represent an alluring ideal for women at a time when many are outpacing their male counterparts in the labor market. Women outnumber men in medical school and law school; they earn more bachelor's degrees; and they hold more jobs in the US as of March, according to a survey conducted by the Indeed Hiring Lab.

"That concept of a supportive husband is really appealing to women in 2026," Mike Fahey, the founder and CEO of the PR agency Fahey Communications, told Business Insider. Plus, famous hype husbands who are loving and supportive enjoy the added bonus of being "more marketable," Fahey said.

A female breadwinner isn't exactly a new phenomenon, but as women accumulate more cultural and economic clout — and as prominent men publicly celebrate that trend — the strict "alpha male" archetype loses its luster.

"We're reimagining what masculinity looks like," Fahey said. "As more of those couples take A-plus-list status, others follow suit. You just need one trailblazer to really change the game for the rest of Hollywood."

'They're more than just the alpha male. They're the modern male.'

The social media era has transformed celebrity branding, turning descriptors like "real" and "relatable" into high praise. Now more than ever, it pays for celebrities to put their dimensions on display, be it via Instagram posts, red carpet appearances, or paparazzi shots. One of the best ways to do so is by giving fans a glimpse into their relationships.

"This is a really important place for men to show that they're more than just the roles they play," Fahey said. "They're more than just the alpha male. They're the modern male."

Take someone like the rapper A$AP Rocky, who rose to fame with songs like "Peso" and "F**kin' Problems," which feature lyrics in which he brags about his groupies and his own pretty face. Rocky still releases popular, braggadocious music — and his latest album, "Don't Be Dumb," debuted at No. 1 on the Billboard 200 in January — but now, he also spends a lot of time gushing about Rihanna, his longtime partner and the mother of his children, not to mention a beloved hitmaker and Fenty Beauty billionaire.

"So much better when you got 'the one,'" Rocky told GQ when he confirmed their relationship. "She amounts to probably, like, a million of the other ones."

Unlike the trite "wife guy" archetype — the kind of man who builds and sustains his entire image on his marriage, to the point that it can read as performative — Hollywood's hype husbands have plenty going for them on their own. Kelce has Super Bowl rings, and Holland has record-breaking box-office achievements. Blanco made hit songs like Rihanna's "Diamonds" and Katy Perry's "California Gurls" long before he teamed up with his pop-star wife for a collaborative album, 2025's "I Said I Love You First."

Peter Mancusi, a PR professional and communications professor at Northeastern University, said the distinction comes down to self-sufficiency and confidence: It's not "I need you," but "I want you."

"It's not like these men are drafting their wives to become famous themselves. They're already, in their own realms, famous," Mancusi explained.

"Confidence is really about doing what these men are doing, which is supporting their partners," he continued. "It's to say, 'I'm confident enough in who I am to be very supportive of her spectacular career.'"

Want to win over female audiences? Supporting your wife is a good place to start.

In Rob Sheffield's book, "Heartbreak Is the National Anthem: How Taylor Swift Reinvented Pop Music," about Swift's impact on the music industry, he quotes Smokey Robinson: "Women make show business," the singer-songwriter and producer told Rolling Stone in 1979. "Men contribute to the thing, but women actually make show business happen."

Sheffield argues that Swift knows this all too well, but I would argue that her husband Kelce does, too. When he proudly declares that his favorite Taylor Swift song is "Blank Space," or he's caught filming the Eras Tour on his phone, Swifties are eager to rally behind him. He becomes one of them.

"Being this famous football player and having this supportive, softer side to him — he's into the music, into what his wife is about — is very appealing, especially to women," Mancusi said. "He's got unlimited possibilities because of his relationship."

Women and girls are the driving force behind fan culture — often as early champions of male celebrities they find charming and non-threatening, from The Beatles to Harry Styles to the stars of "Heated Rivalry." History shows that winning over female audiences can be a fast track to stardom.

"I think that women are more likely to click 'Follow,' they're more likely to click 'Like,' they're more likely to visit your TikTok shop," Fahey said. "Getting women on your side makes your brand much stronger. It makes your longevity much stronger. It makes your marketability much stronger and your prospects limitless."

Melvin L. Williams, a communications and media studies professor at Pace University, agreed that famous men like Kelce, Blanco, and Callum Turner, who recently wed pop juggernaut Dua Lipa, are "keenly aware of the economic benefits" of wooing the crowds who flock to their famous wives.

"Each man's next business venture or media appearance has the possibility of a highly profitable endorsement from a notable figure like Selena Gomez, Dua Lipa, or Taylor Swift," Williams said.

Indeed, after Kelce began dating Swift, NFL viewership spiked — particularly among teenage girls — and sales of Kelce's jersey surged nearly 400% when Swift made her first game-day appearance. Kelce's brother, former NFL player Jason Kelce, has credited Swift with introducing their family to a whole new demographic.

Meanwhile, Blanco's joint album with Gomez sold more in its first week than any other album in his discography, and rumors are swirling that Turner — who was previously best known for starring in the embattled "Harry Potter" spinoff series, "Fantastic Beasts" — is being eyed as the next James Bond.

So whatever you want to call it — modern masculinity, savvy branding, or simply being a good husband — being in love with a commercial juggernaut has its perks. For Hollywood's hype husbands, a happy wife makes for a lucrative life.

• Drake dominated the Billboard 200 this week, debuting three new albums in the chart's top three.
• Drake has long been criticized for his more-is-more strategy, yet he continues to double down.
• The rapper has built a career that no longer requires fan approval or critical acclaim.

Three new albums, two and a half hours of music: Drake's latest strategy for chart dominance definitely paid off, even if his method for doing so feels less like a creative leap and more like a cheat code.

This week, Drake became the first artist in history to claim the top three spots on the Billboard 200 simultaneously: "Iceman," "Habibti," and "Maid of Honour" arrived at No. 1, No. 2, and No. 3, respectively, racking up the equivalent of 687,000 album sales in one week.

Drake had been expected to release the long-awaited "Iceman" — his first solo album since his explosive feud with Kendrick Lamar, which earned the latter multiple Grammy Awards and an opportunity to taunt Drake at the Super Bowl halftime show — on May 15. Instead, Drake did what Drake does best, and gave us far more music than we asked for. Alongside "Iceman," he surprise-dropped two additional albums with their own distinct moods. For those keeping score, that's 43 new songs released in a single day.

If anyone is keeping score, it's Drake. In the "Iceman" opener, "Make Them Cry," Drake admits that a "big piece" of him died in 2024, the year Lamar seared the scathing insult,"Tryna strike a chord, and it's probably A-minor" into the public lexicon. Now, it seems the piece of Drake that survived is living and breathing for one thing: cold, hard numbers.

Drake is one of the most dominant artists of the streaming era, rivaled only by Taylor Swift, and that reputation is reaffirmed again and again. Within 24 hours of his triple-album release, Drake broke the Spotify record for the most-streamed artist in a single day in 2026 (so far). Within minutes, he saw a 1100% increase in simultaneous listeners on Apple Music.

Drake wears these metrics like armor as he continues to clunk through the motions. When he won't stretch his artistic muscles or experiment beyond his predictable formula, they give him something to point to to protect himself from accusations of "falling off."

And Drake's quantity-over-quality strategy continues to work wonders in that department, at least on paper. But a closer look at the response from both critics and casual listeners reveals a hollow victory — and a man who's figured out that he doesn't need to be innovative or even particularly respected to enjoy the spoils of ubiquity.

Drake's new albums feel algorithmic, probably by design

After a decade of critically panned yet record-breaking albums, Drake himself seems bored by the routine: Nearly every song on "Iceman" features a mid-course beat switch, as if his producer is dangling a new toy in front of a distracted baby. Drake once boasted an unparalleled ear for hooks, earworms, and cheeky turns of phrase, making him a giant among hitmakers, a natural-born entertainer. Now, he sounds joyless, and his only trick is to keep our attention from wandering too far.

And why would he need to do anything more? Streaming numbers do not account for the listener's enjoyment, only their endurance — so in Drake's calculations, quality is incidental.

He admits as much in the "Iceman" track "B's On the Table," reciting listlessly, "I'm used to this, I'm numb to that / I know I just gotta adapt / Let's wait on your Spotify Wrapped." In "Make Them Cry," he brags about flooding the radio waves with "this new toxic shit I'm dropping."

Drake defaults to rapping about his radioactive commercial power, perhaps because it's the one version of success he respects.

In this way, Drake is the music industry's equivalent of a cynical tech founder. He flaunts the same ethos as an app developer who only cares about how much time the consumer spends on his product, not the quality of attention or whether it improves the consumer's life. In the words of former Google employee Tristan Harris, "The business model [is] to capture people's time."

Spending precious hours of my life listening to Drake's trio of new albums — half-listening, really, as I cleaned my apartment, went for a walk, and regularly paused to roll my eyes at clunky bars like "I'm doing my big one, you doing a little one / What kind of man are you? A middle one" — I was reminded of Netflix's long-suspected second-screen strategy, which supposedly encourages dumbed-down, repetitive dialogue so viewers who are multi-tasking or scrolling their phones can follow the plot.

Indeed, Drake has been rehashing the same two or three grievances for the bulk of his career, finding new ways to reiterate that he doesn't trust women, that he's got a lot of enemies, that fame is fabulously corruptive.

Still, Drake is savvy and talented enough to make a listenable album, or two, or three. "Iceman," "Habibti," and "Maid of Honour" aren't fresh or genius by any measure, but they're tolerable enough for most people to stream all the way through, whether they consider that time well spent or not. Mindless slop is addictive by design.

Only one metric matters in the Drake-verse

Several critics have argued that, especially at this pivotal moment in his post-feud career, Drake would have been wise to aim for one classic album — whittling down his demos and refining his vision into an airtight, unassailable tracklist that could stun his haters into submission. However, as Jayson Greene wrote for Pitchfork, "Drake has never been wise — or concise."

Critics have been complaining about Drake making too-long albums since at least 2016, when he released the polarizing 20-track opus "Views." Two years later, he doubled down with "Scorpion," a 25-track, 90-minute odyssey that caught a lot of flak for being overstuffed with filler.

So far, Drake has refused to take those critiques on board. His output has only become wider, not deeper. Compare that to someone like Swift, who chases capitalist glory but seems to equally value the evolution of her craft and her critical reception. When she was accused of "quality-control issues" after releasing a 31-track double album in 2024, Swift immediately channeled that feedback into its follow-up, 2025's slender 12-track beast, "The Life of a Showgirl." Whereas Swift openly cherishes her Grammy Awards as validation from her peers, Drake has dismissed the Grammys as irrelevant. He hasn't won a Grammy as a lead artist since 2019.

What does matter to Drake is that we're curious or skeptical enough to keep tuning in. Releasing three different albums as a kind of choose-your-own-streaming-adventure is just another way to court as many listeners as possible. In Drake's world, exasperated reviews and mean tweets are nothing compared to breaking another one of Michael Jackson's chart records.

Sure, social media may be loaded with podcasters calling Drake's vocal performance "lazy," YouTubers mocking the lyrics to "Shabang," and fellow rappers bemoaning that he "processes things like his frontal lobe [is] made out of jello," but in order to make those critiques, they all gave Drake more streams. It's all going according to plan.