The Sonic Decay of the Ballpark
Experience has its advantages, and in four years of covering baseball, I’ve learned to tune out the music that blares from the speakers of Citi Field and Yankee Stadium. It’s better this way. Considering the glut of “fan engagement activities,” shoehorned patriotism, and radio edits of already-censored pop songs that fill the inning intermissions, the sonic atmosphere at ballparks across the country is depressing, almost dead. It could be due to the ever-rising cost of admission pricing out a more culturally adept crowd, or the fact that good music may have been banned league-wide by an ordinance from the commissioner to get people to focus on the game. But I am going to lay the corpse at the doorstep of the players.
Art by Deliria Vision
The walk-up song is partly an exercise in patience, partly a signifier of taste, and almost completely depends on the player’s understanding of what sounds good out in public. Let me be clear: almost any genre can produce a quality walk-up song. But the allure of trying to hype yourself up at all costs, or getting caught up with trying to display an air of toughness or intimidation, switches off a lot of players’ ability to discern between trash and treasure. The walk-up songs that hit exist in the same section of the Venn diagram as tracks that grab your attention when they’re blaring out of car windows on street corners—an excuse to ask Who the hell is playing that? and then a push to discover how you can listen to this for the rest of your life.
The Anatomy of a Missed Opportunity
A non-exhaustive list of triggers that make or break a walk-up song includes a groove or bassline that burrows into your chest, earnest vocals that excite in the fewest syllables possible, and a well-mixed balance between production and vocals. Today, however, the best ballplayers in the world hold their fans captive with increasingly insipid versions of this ritual. The sport’s titans have turned their colosseums into dingy fraternity basements that reek of beer, letting artists like Travis Scott and Morgan Wallen pulse from a #mood-driven, crappy Spotify playlist through a frayed aux cord of the mind.
Fractures in the malaise seem like happy accidents. I recall the vivid experience of hearing the horns from Celia Cruz’s “La Vida Es Un Carnaval” as Melvin Mora stepped to the plate, or the inspiration of hearing “California Love” when Adam Jones strode to the box. These were brief reminders that players didn’t have to act one way on the field, standing in defiance of the unwritten rules of respectability.
Finding the Exceptions
My rose-colored glasses for the past don’t preclude me from seeing the infrequent good today. Francisco Lindor’s leadoff conductorship, which rouses 41,800 Mets fans through the first 30 seconds of the Temptations’ “My Girl,” is a spectacular blip of romantic swaying in the stands. A long, arduous scroll through “WalkupDB” can produce other, brief moments of wonder and joy: imagining how Byron Buxton landed on a Lisa Stansfield hit, or where exactly Carlos Correa decides to start 50 Cent’s “Hate It or Love It” to echo through a sold-out stadium. But these are exceptions to the rule, leaving one to wonder why the rest of the roster seemingly can’t figure it out.
Diagnosing the issue of taste almost feels foolish. With a league that is still roughly 60 percent white, the treasure chest of classic rock and aggressive country has its place on a team playlist, rubbing shoulders with the Latin trap and reggaeton that swells with gusto from the Caribbean. It all exists to construct the stereotypical melting pot that neoliberals claim to cling to. Yet, athletes are just like us; their tastes are put on display for full stadiums to consume, often resulting in them returning to base musical desires for a moment of comfort during a lonely walk to the mound or the plate.
In college, it took me far too long to settle on a good walk-up song. I stumbled out the gate with Drake’s “Over,” forgetting that our Division 3 stadium speakers weren’t up to snuff. It wasn’t until I gave myself up to “Russian Cream” by Key Glock, with its hypnotic whirring and the way he coolly slides along the beat, that I began to really love my walk to the batter’s box. I never had to wonder if it was hitting for anyone else. Sometimes you just know.
There’s no real remedy. A bad song is not enough of a boogeyman to try and legislate better music into MLB clubhouses. A mild stretch of annoyance is the evolutionary adjustment for somebody who wants better, more soulful ambience at their favorite live sporting event. Pray for respites, and file away that moment of bliss with a nod and small smile as it trails away.