American Grandstand: It's Got a Good Beat, and You Can Fight About It

When I was growing up, American Bandstand was always on in our house. I don’t remember most of the songs or the performances. But I remember this phrase:

It’s got a good beat, and you can dance to it.

Simple criteria, no?

I love music, and I'm not terribly loyal to any one genre. I just love that moment when you get to the chorus and your brain goes It’s showtime. I love it when it makes the hairs on your arms stand up; that’s the good stuff.

Not every song has to be profound; sometimes you just want to feel cooler than you are when you’re driving an SUV home from Costco.

I'll pull up with the bass bumping like I’m at Coachella. Might be Metallica, Eminem, or Sia.

It might be Weird Al, I don't even care.

Spotify has yet to get a good read on me.

Music is one of the oldest ways human beings connect. Get enough strangers together with a song they know, and they'll sing together without knowing a thing about one another.

Concerts and sporting events do that.

The Super Bowl used to struggle with that.

In the early years, the halftime show was marching bands, drill teams, and an occasional production that was usually absolute ass.

(Like that weird kaleidoscope fever dream of 1983 or the ice skating show in1992.

Halftime was ‘bathroom and more beer' time.

But in 1993, Michael Jackson held the country in visual chokehold when he took the stage, and didn’t let go until he closed with Heal the World, with the entire stadium as part of the show.

It was the first time that the ratings went up at halftime, and the NFL figured out that halftime could be the event within the event.

There’s a difference between come share this moment with me and stand there while I show you what this moment means.

This year, both halftime shows felt like the latter.

Like a lot of families, we treat the Super Bowl as an event.

We plan the menu a week ahead because we are absolute ragers.

The Balkan Storm made his legendary barbecue ribs. I made my cheeseburger sliders on King’s Hawaiian rolls, so you know it’s fancy times.

Four of us sat in the living room, tearing into ribs like Vikings, and within minutes, my daughter and I were arguing about whether the Patriots suck.

Neither of us watches professional football.

The most football I see is my boy’s high school games, where my incredibly patient husband explains the rules while other parents try to outcoach the actual coach.

My daughter and I were there for the commercials and halftime show. Still, we argued like Collinsworth and Tirico despite being unable to name three players on either team.

(I know Stefon Diggs, but only because of Cardi B.)

I watched both halftime shows because I believe in proper due diligence before submitting a written opinion.