Grant Kirkhope on the DK Rap, missing credits in The Super Mario Bros. Movie, and why it still matters

10 October 2025
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9 min.
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Grant Kirkhope on the DK Rap, missing credits in The Super Mario Bros. Movie, and why it still matters

Summary:

Grant Kirkhope—composer of the iconic DK Rap from Donkey Kong 64 and the in-game voice of Donkey Kong—recently revisited the decision to omit his name from The Super Mario Bros. Movie credits, even as the film features the track. After reaching out through a prior Nintendo contact, he received an explanation outlining a three-part policy: music owned by Nintendo wouldn’t list composers (except Koji Kondo); vocal pieces would credit composers; and if Nintendo owned that vocal work, composers still wouldn’t be credited. That combination effectively excluded him. The result wasn’t just administrative—Kirkhope says he still hasn’t watched the full movie, having only seen the DK Rap scene. Beyond one individual’s experience, the situation spotlights how crediting practices, ownership, and legacy intersect when game music crosses into film. As the DK Rap continues to resurface in modern releases, questions of recognition follow, prompting a broader conversation about how we honor authorship, communicate policies, and protect goodwill across games and cinema.

Some More Context: DK Rap’s legacy and the Mario movie moment

The DK Rap is one of those tracks you can hum without thinking, a playful, brassy introduction that set the tone for Donkey Kong 64 and stuck around in gaming culture for decades. It’s catchy in a way that almost dares you not to grin, and it helped define a specific flavor of late-’90s Rare charm. When The Super Mario Bros. Movie rolled out with a lavish celebration of Nintendo history, hearing that unmistakable chorus felt like a wink to anyone who grew up with a purple translucent controller. That moment matters because it folds gaming nostalgia into mainstream cinema, introducing a new audience to a tune that was once an inside joke and is now part of pop culture canon. You can see why the person who wrote and performed it would hope to see a small nod in the credits—just a name, a heartbeat of recognition, and a quiet point of pride for family in the theater seats.

The interview that reopened the conversation

In a new conversation, Kirkhope retraced how he sought clarity after noticing the omission. He had worked with Nintendo before, which gave him a route to ask what happened rather than just vent on social media and move on. The answer he received wasn’t a blunt “no,” but a policy outline that, taken together, explained the result while also feeling oddly clinical given the human side. That interview has reignited discussion because it adds detail: not speculation, but specific criteria that break down how a composer might be credited or not based on ownership and vocals. It’s the difference between guessing and knowing—and that shift invites a more grounded debate. People can agree or disagree with the policy, but at least now they understand the structure that led to a very public snub of a very recognizable piece of music. And yes, that makes it easier to talk about solutions rather than just frustration.

The three-rule credit policy Kirkhope was told about

The policy, as relayed by Kirkhope, was a three-step filter. First, if the music used in the film was owned by Nintendo, the composer would not be credited—with one notable exception. Second, if the music included vocals, the composer would be credited. Third, if Nintendo also owned that vocal track, the composer would not be credited after all. Layer those rules together, and you can see how they snagged the DK Rap like a net designed for precisely this kind of catch: an owned track with vocals that, due to ownership, trips the final clause that removes the credit anyway. It is tidy from a legal perspective and maddening from a human one. Policies like this are meant to reduce ambiguity; in practice they can also erase the person behind a melody everyone recognizes. That disconnect between the administrative neatness and the emotional reality is the heart of this story.

Why Koji Kondo was the exception

Koji Kondo’s name is synonymous with Nintendo music, from the Super Mario Bros. theme to Zelda’s timeless motifs. According to the explanation Kirkhope received, Kondo was the one composer explicitly exempted from the “owned music” clause. On paper, that might be framed as honoring a foundational figure whose work is woven into the fabric of Nintendo’s identity. In practice, it also creates a bright line that can feel arbitrary to everyone else, especially when their own compositions are part of the celebration. No one begrudges Kondo his credit—he’s a legend. The issue is the message it sends about a hierarchy of recognition when the audience perceives the whole soundtrack mosaic as a communal party. If the goal is to celebrate history, credit can be part of that celebration, extending goodwill beyond the handful of names that corporate policy elevates.

Vocal tracks, ownership, and the DK Rap loophole

The middle rule—credit the composer if a track has vocals—sounds fair until you reach the final clause about ownership. The DK Rap is vocal, memorable, and unmistakably authored; yet because Nintendo owns it, the rule loops back and cancels the credit. That’s the sort of logic that makes sense in a spreadsheet and breaks hearts in a theater. Consider the audience experience: the song pops, the scene lands, and the credits sprint by as families start gathering popcorn tubs and jackets. A one-line credit isn’t going to derail a billing hierarchy or extend the film by minutes—it’s a moment of acknowledgment. When rules invert that moment, they communicate that recognition is optional when paperwork says so. Creators hear that loud and clear, and fans pick up on it too, even if they don’t parse the legalese behind the scenes.

Emotional fallout: choosing not to watch the film

Kirkhope has said he still hasn’t watched the full movie. He’s seen the scene with the rap—of course he has—but sitting through the rest feels like rubbing salt in the wound. It’s not about bitterness for its own sake; it’s about protecting a bit of personal dignity. Imagine telling your kids to wait for your name, then realizing it won’t appear, even as the song they know you for bounces through the speakers. That mismatch between contribution and credit creates a small, stubborn ache. Skipping the movie becomes a boundary rather than a tantrum, a way to say, “This mattered to me, and it should have mattered to you.” People can debate contracts all day; feelings don’t care about footnotes. In creative work, that emotional ledger lingers longer than any box-office total.

Ownership is clear: companies buy rights to secure predictability, protect investments, and streamline licensing. Moral credit is murkier but no less important. The audience’s relationship with music—especially music that defined their childhood—centers on the people who wrote and performed it. When legal ownership overrides naming those people, it reads as a values choice. No one is asking for backend points or a banner in the opening crawl—just a line near the tail lights of the credits parade. Goodwill is cheap to earn and expensive to replace. In an era where games and films court nostalgia with meticulous care, that last beat of recognition can mean the difference between a feel-good victory lap and a PR headache that keeps resurfacing every time the track shows up somewhere new.

Industry norms for music credits and how films differ

Game credits and film credits are cousins, not twins. Games often list sprawling teams and legacy acknowledgments because development itself is iterative and communal. Films, especially big studio projects, prioritize contracted billing and rights language that crystalizes months in advance. When game music enters a film, those cultures collide. A studio might say, “We followed policy,” while the community hears silence where a name should be. There are precedents for handling legacy tracks gracefully: clearly label “additional music,” credit original composers for sampled themes, and treat iconic cues as heritage artifacts worth honoring. None of that undermines legal ownership; it complements it by mapping the creative lineage. And when the track in question is as recognizable as the DK Rap, skipping that lineage feels less like an oversight and more like a decision.

Reuse of DK Rap in newer Donkey Kong releases

The DK Rap has kept finding new life, popping up again in modern Donkey Kong releases and keeping its meme-turned-classic status alive. That recurrence is proof of cultural stickiness; it’s also a reminder that recognition questions don’t vanish after opening weekend. Each reuse is an opportunity to model better practices, whether in game credits, soundtrack notes, or marketing beats that casually spotlight the creative origins. Fans notice when companies go the extra inch, and it costs almost nothing to do it. When the track is deployed as a hype moment, paying the original author a visible nod is both classy and strategically smart. It primes the audience to celebrate the past without picking sides, and it tells other creators, “We remember who made the magic.”

What this means for future collaborations

Long relationships in this industry run on trust. If a composer feels that rules were stacked in a way that erases their name at the very moment of celebration, they’ll think twice about engaging in cross-media projects—or at least they’ll ask for tighter language next time. That doesn’t mean burned bridges; it means everyone gets clearer. Studios can pre-brief contributors about how legacy pieces will be handled. Composers can request “courtesy credits” in non-contractual contexts. Publicists can plan messaging that honors the original creators, even when ownership is straightforward. Do that consistently, and you turn a sore spot into a case study in how to balance law, logistics, and respect. The upside is real: smoother collaborations, happier talent, and fans who feel like the people behind their favorite sounds aren’t invisible.

Fan perception and preservation of authorship

Fans are archivists now. They screencap credit scrolls, compare patches, and maintain wikis that outlive platforms. When authorship is muddied, communities step in with receipts. That’s not adversarial by default; it’s a natural extension of caring about the work. For companies, the smarter play is to meet that energy halfway—affirm authorship, provide clear liner notes, and use official channels to spotlight the heritage of reused tracks. When the audience sees that level of care, it reframes policies as guardrails rather than gatekeeping. And for creators like Kirkhope, it signals that even if a particular decision stung, the culture at large still values the names behind the nostalgia. That cultural reinforcement matters more than a single frame of text—it shapes how history gets told.

Takeaways for creators navigating contracts today

If you make music for games, assume your work may travel—into trailers, films, and future titles you won’t touch. Ask for clarity on credit in “downstream uses,” even if ownership is fully assigned. Push for language that allows a good-faith acknowledgment where feasible, and seek a courtesy mention when your authored material is used as a recognizable motif. Keep your own archive: stems, dates, and documentation that verify authorship. None of this guarantees your name appears where you want it to, but it sets the baseline for respectful treatment. And if you find yourself in Kirkhope’s position, remember: the audience often knows who made the thing they love. That recognition lives beyond any single policy, and it’s worth protecting—on paper and in practice.

Conclusion

The DK Rap’s cameo should have been a small, joyful loop closed: a beloved track reintroduced to millions with its author’s name attached. Instead, the policy that filtered credits turned recognition into a debate about ownership and exceptions. Kirkhope’s choice not to watch the movie underlines how credit is more than a legal checkbox—it’s a human gesture. The lesson is simple: when legacy music carries a scene, acknowledge the legacy. It costs a second; it buys goodwill that lasts far longer than the credits crawl.

FAQs
  • Why wasn’t Grant Kirkhope credited for the DK Rap in the film?
    • Nintendo’s stated criteria, as relayed to Kirkhope, filtered out composer credits for music the company owns, with an exception for Koji Kondo. Because the DK Rap is owned by Nintendo and includes vocals, the final ownership clause removed the credit.
  • Did Kirkhope try to resolve the issue privately?
    • Yes. He contacted a prior Nintendo point of contact and received an official explanation describing the three-rule approach to credits, which clarified the decision even if it didn’t change it.
  • Has he watched The Super Mario Bros. Movie?
    • He says he has only watched the DK Rap scene. He hasn’t viewed the entire film, citing frustration over the missing credit as the reason.
  • Is Nintendo legally required to credit him?
    • Generally, no. If Nintendo owns the track outright, it can use the music without crediting the original composer. The question here is less about legal obligation and more about recognition.
  • Has the DK Rap appeared elsewhere recently?
    • Yes. The track has resurfaced in newer Donkey Kong releases, which keeps the conversation about authorship and recognition active whenever the song is reused.
Sources
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