3B
Wednesday, October 4, 2017 // The Statement
Soundtracking: Tailgate season
I
woke up Saturday morning not to the sound
of birds chirping outside my window, not
to the smell of pancakes and eggs wafting
into my bedroom from the kitchen, but instead to
the muffled sound of a shotgun race and ’07 Yeezy
playing down the street.
“Good Morning” — Kanye West
Game Day: an autumn event at Michigan in which
we can all come together and choose to forget every
lesson we learned from Will Smith’s “Concussion”
(2015). A day when students get to the
Big House 30 minutes early, a stark
contrast to being 20 minutes late to
lecture. A day where fans can set aside
their differences and fight with out-of-
towners about the physical aptitude of
college students.
When I was woken up by the
mastermind behind the line “You left
your fridge open, somebody just took a
sandwich,” I wasn’t annoyed with the
frat house’s PA systems on full volume
at nine in the morning. I was overjoyed.
Even though I was never really into
football growing up, my cousin made
me play catch with him a lot. He used
to throw me perfect spirals, hurting
either my hands or my stomach as I
let the hard leather smack my body.
Because of this constant barrage of
football growing up, it’s probably the one
sport I can both understand and enjoy.
But before the game, the tails have to be
gated, or whatever that means.
I threw off my sheets, realizing it
was already 9 and the game started at
noon and ran to the bathroom, with
my toothbrush in one hand and paste in the other.
Playing music from my phone, I was more than ready
to get sunburned and vibe to early 2000s throwbacks
at some frat on Central Campus. But first, I couldn’t
head out completely sober. I wasn’t a madman.
Looking in my fridge, all I had was gin and some
Diet Coke from the week before. Welp. Life works in
mysterious ways sometimes. The shot went down
the hatch with the Diet Coke chase close behind.
My gut wrenched. Was that a rum and Coke chaser?
“Mistakes” — Lake Street Dive
“Look at what mistake I’m making now …”
With that mess behind me, I threw on every
yellow piece of clothing I owned. Yellow corduroy
shorts I bought pre-cut from Value World? Check.
Yellow checkered shirt that looks as if it belongs
in the rejects pile from the “Saved By The Bell”
costume room? Check. Yellow socks that cut off
circulation to my feet from shrinking in the wash?
Definitely check.
Walking gingerly to the kitchen because I could
feel my toes already going numb, I toasted a bagel
and chowed down as I headed toward the door.
As I laced up my sneakers, which are falling apart
at the seams just as I will be around the middle
of November, I remembered to grab a bucket hat
and sunglasses. The sun is your worst enemy on
Saturdays.
I stopped and looked at my outfit in the full-
body mirror. What I saw looking back at me was
the equivalent of a highlighter from the ’90s, and I
could not have felt classier. I left the house.
“Dapper” — Domo Genesis feat. Anderson .Paak
The bump and rhythm of Domo guided me down
the street. I couldn’t help but dance and bop on my
way to meet some friends. Who cares what you look
like? Sometimes you’ve just gotta dance. Everyone
was probably too drunk to care or judge by that
point.
Tailgates are like the radio edits of frat parties.
There’s less making out, less puking and more
bouncy houses. But the main elements stay the
same. Brothers spray beer everywhere, much to the
dismay of almost everyone around them. Elevated
surfaces and Solo Cups are strewn about on front
lawns. The sight was familiar.
As I looked ahead, I saw the biggest smiles on a
lawn packed full of guys and girls ready to seize the
day — and drink away their papers due Monday.
“Sea of Love” — Phil Phillips
While the blue tarp in front of the frat started to
collapse, exposing the sea of fans to the world, the cars
driving by got a glimpse into the microcosm that is a
tailgate. You have different types of tailgaters like you
have different species of fish.
As the Naked Brothers Band said, there’s “so many
fish in the sea.”
At any given party, you’ll most likely see brothers,
PGP sorority members, parents reliving the glory days,
slapping wine bags and chugging beers while the rest
egg them on.
Walking past the many frats while on my
gameday adventure, the music guided me. Every
house plays the same music, but when you keep
walking by, a playlist forms. As I walked, I heard
Soulja Boy followed by Fountains of Wayne and Lil
Boat with a few EDM tracks sprinkled in here and
there. Ann Arbor truly is a mixtape on Saturdays,
and we’re all here to dance along.
“Land of 1000 Dances” — Wilson Pickett
If I’m gonna move my feet, I’d rather be dancing
than going for a run.
Your body needs to move when a beat comes in.
You tap your foot. Your heart matches a tempo. The
only time I don’t feel in control
of my motions is when I want to
dance.
I saw the same thing at the
tailgates that day. Everyone was
screaming lyrics and jumping
and sweating every bit of alcohol
out of their bodies. It’s the dudes
who
weren’t
dancing
who
made me nervous. How were
they going to get sober without
working off the buzz?
That’s their secret. They’re
fixin’ to die at this point.
“Fixin’ To Die Blues” —
Bukka White
“I’m lookin’ funny in my eyes
and I believe I’m fixin’ to die ...”
Two-liters of orange pop in
their left hands. Half-gallons
of Kamchatka in their right
hands. I had never seen people
who symbolize and personify
the “Carrot or Stick” until that
moment. I couldn’t look away,
but I needed reprieve, like when
you peek out from behind your
hands at a horror movie. It hurt to watch. It made
me feel like how I did that morning right after the
infamous gin-and-rum incident. If the music is
what drives the entire tailgate, why put your body
in danger like that? There’s a line and I still don’t
think some have found it yet.
I found my friends, joined a crowd, and headed
down State toward the Big House. As we collectively
took a left down Division, I saw a man drumming
on a plastic bucket. As fans passed by, I saw their
heads bob and feet move with a little more pep and
rhythm than usual.
We were back in the midst of sound and we
walked to the beat.
“Dancing in the Street” — David Bowie and Mick
Jagger
Passing pizza stands and guys selling water out of
coolers and that preacher yelling at football fans about
the deadly dangers of homosexuality, we marched on to
the stadium. While most of us were probably starving
since we did not properly carb up for a morning, we
soldiered on, pulling ourselves up by our mud-soaked
bootstraps.
I looked out over the student section at Michigan
Stadium. One whole year at UMich already gone, I
knew where I was. I knew where we all were.
“Where You Belong” — Jay Prince
BY MATT HARMON, DAILY STAFF REPORTER
ILLUSTRATION BY HANNAH MYERS