Another Mid-Winter Storm

Nothing new. Just a little longer. And this time, in living color.

“You call that music?”

“I can’t understand a thing they’re saying!”

“What a bunch of racket!”

Some of the phrases uttered on a winter night, a February evening that found folks young and old gathered en masse in front of their television sets, acting out the very definition of the phrase “appointment viewing” witnessing a cultural spectacle.

February 9, 1964. The Beatles on “The Ed Sullivan Show.” I know those phrases—and worse—were said aloud at my house because my six year old butt was there, along with my family plus aunts, uncles and cousins. The adults were collectively appalled by the music and hair. My dad—a professional drummer in his early adult life and self-appointed expert on what “good music” was—dismissed them as a passing fad that wouldn’t last, the reason he’d later use for NOT teaching his son how to twirl the sticks, promising that my first class would come when rock ‘n roll went away.

It didn’t. Neither did the lesson.

Dad and others his age would keep watching Lawrence Welk each Saturday night, keep listening to “the GOOD music” they’d grown up with, watch the singers/actors/comedians that landed in their collective comfort zones, some of whom would go on the tube in the days that followed to mock the Fab Four. Dean Martin would host the “Hollywood Palace” variety show a few weeks later…

…and, in his opening monologue, would joke that his guests that evening would include Defense Secretary Robert McNamara to discuss our country’s missile defense and how it could be used “to protect ourselves from another invasion by the Beatles.”

He wasn’t done.

Dino said the group’s origins could be traced back many years “to the jungle” before presenting what he claimed was the band in it’s early incarnation.

The kids that night? We couldn’t get enough. The Beatles were all I and my first grade classmates talked about that following morning and for weeks thereafter. We craved less Dick and Jane—more Paul, John, George and Ringo. We’d listen after class to the Beatles albums our older siblings bought, as teenagers rose as one in creating a new consumer class. Smart marketers realized that though they weren’t old enough to buy cars and houses, kids with part-time jobs had disposable income. A demo with its own needs and tastes, one that started to emerge with Dick Clark’s “American Bandstand” would become an undeniable economic force that Madison Avenue would’ve been foolish to ignore.

Fast forward 62 years: February 8, 2026.

Bad Bunny at the Super Bowl LX halftime show. The mere NFL announcement that he’d be performing sparked roars of approval and cries of “It’s about time” in some circles, howls of protest and claims that he wasn’t American (or American enough) from others. The discussion continues well since the game’s final gun. In ‘64 we didn’t have the pushback machines we do today. Back then, Dino had to do the haters’ heavy lifting, cigarette in hand.

Maybe you loved Bad Bunny. Maybe you fled to YouTube to watch the offended’s alternative. His global success can’t be denied. His appeal is real. And his marketing chops are off the charts. That’s why the NFL went after him. Having conquered the U.S., The Shield now seeks global domination. That’s why it’s doing more and more games—ones that count, not just exhibitions—in different countries. Back in its earliest incarnations, the Super Bowl halftime show was purposely designed NOT to offend, to be as buzz-free and non-controversial as possible.

Trumpeter Al Hirt was an early and frequent guest. Carol Channing and a group called “Up With People” too.

In more enlightened times, the NFL realized that the Super Bowl is by far it’s largest marketing opportunity, one of the few bits of “appointment viewing” in legacy media, free for all to see (at least for now). That includes halftime: during the regular season, it’s a 12 minute potty/beer break, but for one Sunday a season it’s a 30 minute extravaganza. The acts got bigger and a little more hip over the years, the demographic bullseye always moving younger. Artists realize there’s no bigger stage, no larger place to display their wares. Bad Bunny’s climb to worldwide acclaim reached its zenith Sunday night. He mastered many means, many of them non-traditional, along the way to put himself in that position. That he ended up on something as old-school as the Super Bowl halftime show is a credit to his marketing savvy and the platform’s lingering power.

The Super Bowl isn’t “ours,” no more than pizza is unique to Italy. Pro football belongs to the planet—certainly, if Commissioner Roger Goddell and the owners he works for get their collective way. NFL football sells, but so does anger, rage and controversy some in media, both legacy and new age, as they strive to generate a buck. Change is constant. Resistance is futile. Youth will be served. The old—at least some of them—will be pissed. All of them buy products. The bottom line prevails.

So who’s next?

The buzz has already begun. Depending on your age, your tastes and your political point of view, the 2027 choice will generate more oohs and boos. That’s exactly what the NFL wants. The Shield isn’t after shrugs any more. Ignore halftime all you want in the weeks leading up to the Super Bowl. The league makes sure the intermission to its biggest annual moment can’t be ignored—or at least, debated to death before the first note sounds.

An eager opinion industry sometimes disguised as “news” will make sure of that.