W

e’re always told that this is 
the prime of our life, this 
college thing. I believe the 

elusive, omnipotent “they” who dic-
tate generalizations similar to the one 
above — They always say ignorance is 
bliss! — are right. This is a prime.

OK, thanks for reading. Goodbye.
Kidding, of course, because what in 

the name of Jim Harbaugh’s dad bod is 
a “prime?” A sexual prime may differ 
from, say, an artistic prime in a themat-
ic sense, but at their core the “eras” are 
the same: periods of heightened suc-
cess and gusto and freedom to flourish. 
And the flourishing happens, without 
abandon.

Currently, I am a sponge — a con-

fident albeit quasi-existential junior 
in college who loves music and talk-
ing to other humans, who realizes she 
still has a lot to soak in, interpret and 
squeeze out in practice. A sexy sponge.

This absorbent female feels she is 

ready to begin living with abandon, 
as one would in their prime — but she 
hasn’t been lately. The combo platter 
of a brand new year, a new apartment, 
new impending classes, etc. is thrill-
ing, yet my already messy mind has 
been on overdrive, swimming in self-
doubt. I have been forgetting to let go 
and breathe, to stop and smell my sur-
roundings, to kick out the jams. I am 
having fun, as the kids say, but I don’t 
think I am in my prime right now.

So to feel sponge-ier I like to think 

about cool people in their prime. 
When I wrote “kick out the jams” a 
few precious words ago, my unathlet-
ic self was referring to the 1969 song 
by Detroit punk-rockers MC5 (whom 
I’ve blabbered about before). These 
five hungry gentlemen would smash a 
Detroit venue called the Grande Ball-
room every week in the late ‘60s. The 
concert hall’s ornate Art Deco interior 
and sweeping wooden dance floor — 
now derelict — housed hundreds of 
countercultural young guns back in 
the day. They swayed, sweated, loved 
and drugged as MC5 wailed, rambled 
and rocked. And then the next Friday 
night would roll around, and they’d 
do it all over again. I pine for ’69 and a 
Grande prime.

The rest of MC5’s discography, 

post-debut album (recorded live at the 
Grande), is underwhelming for a band 
with such a ferocious start. In this case, 
“prime” is synonymous with “peak” — 
and that duo’s very nature insinuates 
an artistic high point can only be hit 
once. And though the zenith is sweet 
and gnarly and sonic, it is deafeningly 
singular.

But can prime be plural? Can we 

have more than one Grande Ballroom 
in this life? The problem is I’ve had a 
few primes already, and I know I want 
more. I hit a prime at the end of fresh-
man year, when everything about Ann 
Arbor became familiar. My adoration 
for this city transitioned from a fresh 
crush to a candle-lit love — my writ-
ing seemed to pour out of me, and my 
fellow students felt like fellow con-
cert-goers. The noises of these streets 
sounded like an MC5 song.

Nowadays, it’s a little harder to 

write, for whatever reason. I fell out 
of the Ballroom a few months ago and 
became a bit of a realist. College ends 
in a little less than two years — what 
will I do? Who will I be? Where will 
I be?

I’ll be moving away from my home-

town of Detroit, in the hopes of broad-
ening my horizons and finding work in 
journalism: This much I know. I’ll be 
away from the actual location of the 
Grande Ballroom. And I’ll be moving 
away from Ann Arbor, inevitably — the 
location of my second Grande Ball-
room. Where the next Ballroom is, I’m 
not quite sure.

It could be in New York, where inspi-

ration pops out of skyscrapers by the 
droves, or Los Angeles, where Charles 
Bukowski changed the definition of 
prime living (read: sloppy booze and 
sleazy women and delicious poems). 
Location has the power to inspire such 
eras, obviously.

Yet, that’s just the thing: What is 

Ann Arbor to my own mind, location-
wise? Maybe I am the person, place 
and thing who ignites my primes, and 
has all along. Maybe I have the power 
to build a Grande Ballroom whenever 
and wherever I want — construct my 
own wooden dance floor and sum-
mon a band of characters to fill it with 
lovely dissonance. Maybe I’m the lead 
singer of MC5, and maybe it’s time for 
me to stop worrying and start giving 
myself the freedom to flourish, with-
out abandon. Maybe I will right now.

I recognize that sometimes the latter 

choice will give me a full-on Ballroom, 
and sometimes it will not. But as I sit 
steps away from The Ark at dusk, with 
these words coming out a little easi-
er than before, my heart is bubbling 
— this I can’t deny. Whether that’s a 
fabulous prime coming, or a fabulous 
nothing on its way, I’ll be here, allow-
ing myself many great songs to play on 
my own steady, steady stage.

Wednesday, September 7, 2016 // The Statement
6B

Allowing Myself Grande Ballrooms

PHOTO COURTESY OF NATALIE GADBOIS

By Melina Glusac, 
Senior Arts Editor

EMILIE FARRUGIA / Daily

