If you were either viewing or attending the second day of the Democratic National Convention Tuesday night, and decided to skip out on the traditional hour-long state-by-state roll call to grab some dinner between the speeches of private pension bailout advocate Kenneth Stribling and professional anti-Trump Republican Ana Navarro, you missed one entertaining and potentially even meaningful spectacle.
Roll calls are, in the best and worst case, the county fairs of national nominating conventions, with thematically dressed state delegations (cheese-heads for Wisconsinites, star-spangled cowboy hats for the Texans, etc.) flanking a local pol or two on the mic as they cite fun facts and political trivia about theirs, the greatest state in the union, before announcing the already-known vote totals for the next American president. And yes, the Libertarians do it too (minus the known vote totals), though sometimes they sacrifice the cheesy recitations to save time.
But last night's ritual was different enough to make you almost hopeful about the future of American civic life. Not because of the political content, at all, but because of something closer to the opposite of politics: music.
On stage, parallel to the podium, wearing shades, a white boater hat, and a shiny blue satin suit, was a ridiculous-looking creature named DJ Cassidy. He promptly transformed the liturgical drudgery into a 76-minute dance party and a celebratory reminder of why, like the Violet Femmes, we like American music.
Cassidy (given name Cassidy Durango Milton Willy Podell), a celebrity DJ whose most meaningful contribution to the culture was a pandemic-era YouTube series called Pass the Mic, tailored many of the selections to a connection with the state, starting with the obvious (if dully controversial among journalistic scolds) "Sweet Home Alabama." There were literal choices (the B52s' "My Own Private Idaho," "Carry on My Wayward Son" for Kansas), artists tethered to states (Bruce Springsteen for New Jersey, Prince for Minnesota), campaign callbacks (Bill Clinton fave "Don't Stop" by Fleetwood Mac for Arkansas), deep metaphorical cuts ("Ain't No Mountain High Enough" by Marvin Gaye and Tammi Terrell for the vulnerable-to-sea-level-rise Northern Mariana Islands), and also some head-scratchers. The connection between New Hampshire and Journey's "Don't Stop Believin'" is unclear, as is Sabrina Carpenter's 2024 smash hit "Espresso" to Guam.
Most of all, though, it was just an all-American arena-bop, with cuts dropping like walk-on music for baseball closers—Eminem's "Lose Yourself" for Michigan, or for Illinois the literal court walk-on music for the Chicago Bulls. And yeah, Lil Jon was hype.
The dreary, partisan interpretation of such a winning jam is as a chest-puffing exercise in whataboutism: Suck it, Kid Rock! The Dems have better celebrities, man!
But in an election being campaigned on vibes, Democrats and Republicans may be missing out on a key vibe shift. There is a through line between last night, the also-rollicking Republican National Convention (which had an excellent house band, plus Hulk Hogan and Amber Rose), and even the Paris Olympics, where Snoop Dogg was the runaway star ambassador. Could it be that Americans, bone-weary of political strife and the residual traumas of 2020, are just in the mood…to party?
Olympic gold medal basketball coach and former Chicago Bulls champion Steve Kerr received more rapturous applause in the United Center this week than most any politician without the last name "Obama." And it wasn't for the Golden State Warriors coach's rote recitations about "the future of our middle class, the future of reproductive rights, the future of our climate, our security, our schools," but rather about how "when we won, the American flag raised to the rafters the national anthem, playing gold medals draped around the necks of our players, whose hands were held over their hearts….It was the proudest moment of my life." (To which the crowd gave a lusty chant of "U-S-A!")
All-time leading U.S. Olympics basketball scorer Kevin Durant might have had the summer's most on-point patriotic quote in Paris. "A lot of bullsh*t happens in our country," Durant told reporters. "But a lot of great things happen, too."
Politics is the ur-source for a lot of that bullsh*t, producing not just an unending supply of catastrophic rhetoric but real-world policies that make our lives worse than they should be. As if to illustrate that yawning chasm between the stuff Americans celebrate and the crap we endure, Democrats had the hilariously idiotic idea last night to follow up DJ Cassidy's exuberant dance party with two lifelong politicians who between them share 156 years on planet Earth: Sens. Chuck Schumer (D–N.Y.) and Bernie Sanders (I–Vt.).
The good news—heartwarming, even—is that the two senators bombed. Schumer, who I regret to inform you tried to dance, included such dead-on-arrival applause lines as "We're poised to pick up seats!" occasionally punctuated by thrusting his little arms in the air.
Bernie's dud was the bigger surprise. Eight years ago, he was the electric if somewhat neutered crowd favorite at the DNC; now, having successfully yanked the Democratic Party to the economic left, Sanders is facing the fate that eventually catches up to all apocalyptic populists: An audience bored with the same old cherry-picked stats and hyperbolic rhetoric, who have maybe also noticed that his comrades have actually been in charge.
Could it be that after all this political anxiety and post-pandemic rupture, Americans are finally ready to touch grass? I have been prematurely optimistic about such things before. But we're a lovable if arrogant lot, who rightly adore the incredible stuff we create far outside the political arena.
"You know what kind of culture wins the Cold War?" an admittedly stoned listener to the Fifth Column podcast recently wrote in. "The new Beyonce album. Hot chicks in cowboy boots and American flag clothes. That's the America I believe in." Amen.
