With his hat low over his eyes, and the sharpness in his voice sheathed, Eminem seemed slightly less than amped to be at the Kamala Harris campaign rally last Tuesday in Michigan. In a minute-and-15-second speech with nary a punch line or pun, the 52-year-old rapper saluted Detroit, voting, and freedom, and closed with all the passion of an HR professional giving a benefits update: “Here to tell you much more about that, President Barack Obama.”

Obama took it upon himself to play the part of the showman. Summoning his goofiest dad energy, he hooted the words of Eminem’s “Lose Yourself,” claiming he was so nervous that he had “vomit on my sweater already / mom’s spaghetti.” This line shook me to my Millennial core. It echoed the time at a North Carolina rally in 2008 when Obama cited Jay-Z lyrics by brushing some metaphorical dirt off his shoulder—a moment that christened an era in which Democratic politics and pop culture were brazenly intermingled. Partisanship and hipness seemed, ever so briefly, compatible. But as Eminem’s anti-performance had just indicated, we are now so far from then.

With veteran public idealists such as Bruce Springsteen and the West Wing cast on the trail for Harris lately—and with Donald Trump touting old allies such as Kid Rock alongside recent converts from hip-hop—it can be easy to overlook just how much celebrity culture’s relationship to political culture has shifted over the past few cycles. Mainstream entertainers have, as is typical, lined up for the Democrats—but they have, as is less typical, not tried to make much fuss about their participation. They seem to understand that the nature of celebrity itself has changed, and that praise from the glitzy class can be a liability.

Revisit, if you dare, the 2008 Will.I.Am music video “Yes We Can,” which featured a motley cast of stars—Scarlett Johansson, Kareem Abdul-Jabbar, Herbie Hancock—speaking, singing, and piano-playing along to Obama’s soaring rhetoric. The video’s earnestness, so cringeworthy today, gives the lie to the summer hype about Harris recapturing Obama-mania. Moreover, it embraces an obsolete—and always shaky—cultural vision: “the arts” as represented by one unified team of dreamers whom voters tend to admire rather than despise.

The 2016 Hillary Clinton campaign, leaning on star-studded concerts and a sitcom cameo, learned the hard way that this vision had started to die out in the 2010s, because of both technological and political shifts. Chopping the prime-time-viewing masses into factions, social-media and streaming platforms turned out to be resentment-making machines; it is, simply, annoying to be told that an actor is important and popular when you, in your own media consumption, never encounter his or her work. Trump was a perfect champion for the resulting and widespread sense of cultural dislocation. He was an entertainer, sure, but an entertainer who humiliated other entertainers on his TV show. When Hollywood began pumping out resistance-themed entertainment early in his presidency, it produced little art of lasting significance, but it did bolster Trump’s claims to be aligned with the people rather than the elites.

Eight years later, after the pandemic spread yet more disunity and QAnon spread conspiracy theories about what goes on inside Hollywood’s private corridors, mistrust of celebrities seems to be at a high. On talk radio and TikTok, one of the hottest cultural topics of the moment is the sexual-abuse accusations against Sean “Diddy” Combs. The stories articulated in the federal indictment and dozens of civil suits against him are chilling (Combs denies them), but the chatter they’ve inspired on social media tends not to be focused on sympathy for the victims. Rather, many commenters seem gleeful with hope that the investigation into Combs will take down the many stars who attended his White Parties—events that, for years, symbolized the height of aspirational excess in pop culture. Trump used to brag about his closeness with Combs, but that hasn’t stopped him and his surrogates from continuing to tag Democrats as the party of celebrity decadence. Trump shared a fake image of Harris with the rapper; Elon Musk recently posted on X, in response to Eminem’s presence at Harris’s rally, “Yet another Diddy party participant.”

Mass antipathy toward celebrities does not mean, however, that stars don’t matter anymore. Quite the opposite. This is the age of stans—a word partially coined by Eminem, which now refers to internet-enabled superfandom. Stans are not just loyal to particular entertainers; in many cases, they’re monomaniacal and tribalist, rooting against rivals just as much as they root for their faves. At the same time, the rise of influencers—a term that can refer equally to a TikTok goofball and a philosophy podcaster—is helping further break down the border between entertainment and media. An influencer’s job isn’t merely to amuse; it’s to spread ideas and opinions. We’ve evolved into a polytheistic celebrity culture, worshipping countless mini-idols that command a different form of adulation in each household.

[Read: The truth about celebrities and politics]

The structure of this new fame ecosystem doesn’t fit neatly with national politics. Authenticity, the feeling that a celebrity is showing their real self, is what attracts fans, and nothing is less authentic than being a partisan hack—especially given the disillusionment spread by the pandemic, inflation, and the war in Gaza. Celebrities who want to talk about the election are probably smart to cultivate an air of reluctance. Take, for example, Call Her Daddy’s Alex Cooper, who gave a lengthy, apologetic explanation to listeners before interviewing Harris on her podcast: “As you know, I do not usually discuss politics, or have politicians on this show, because I want Call Her Daddy to be a place where everyone feels comfortable tuning in.”

One of the most haunting pieces of media from this election season is The Daily Show’s recent dispatch from the Gathering of the Juggalos, the music festival thrown by the face-painted rap-metal group Insane Clown Posse. The fans (called juggalos) who are interviewed profess all sorts of liberal leanings—about abortion, the economy, trans rights—but also say they’re nonvoters; seemingly as a matter of identity, of pride, they feel outside the system. Violent J, one of ICP’s two members, told The Daily Show that he supports Harris. But really, he didn’t seem to care very much about the election either way; he didn’t even know who Tim Walz is.

Even the most plugged-in stars seem a bit detached. Chappell Roan, the breakout singing sensation of the year, has rejected calls for her to endorse a candidate. After backlash, she clarified in a TikTok video that she would be voting for Harris, but that because of various issues—primarily America’s support for Israel’s war—she couldn’t rightly call that vote an “endorsement.” In September, Taylor Swift gave Harris a much clearer boost, but her Instagram post on the matter was strikingly muted in tone, especially given Trump’s efforts to troll her. She hasn’t weighed in on the campaign since then. (Don’t bet against some crucial, last-minute activism—Swift is, among many other things, a master of timing.)

Then there’s Eminem. The rapper is a pretty prize for any political campaign; more than two decades after his first hit, he still commands a huge following among young men, a demographic that may well decide this election. The news that he’s voting blue isn’t much of a surprise, but he seems to be refining his methods with each election. During the 2016 campaign, he released an anti-Trump diss track; its opening line lives on as a meme-able example of how clunky protest art can be. During 2020, a campaign waged mostly online and in ads, he lent “Lose Yourself”—the ultimate inspirational anthem—to a Biden-Harris commercial. This time, he gave that short, halting speech, and it was, in its way, perfect for this cycle. The video is likely to pop up in the TikTok or Instagram Reel feeds of fans, many of whom might find Eminem’s palpable sense of burnout relatable and his words, therefore, more credible.

This past Friday brought to the campaign trail one of America’s highest-wattage figures: Beyoncé, who spoke at a Harris rally in Houston along with her mother, Tina, and her Destiny’s Child bandmate Kelly Rowland. Beyoncé’s potential involvement in this election has been speculated about for months. Her track “Freedom” became Harris’s rallying song, and fans theorized feverishly—and incorrectly—that she’d perform it at the Democratic National Convention. But when Beyoncé finally joined Harris onstage on Friday, it wasn’t to sing or dance. In a calmly uplifting speech, she focused on the historical nature of electing the first Black, female president. And she added this crucial stipulation: “I’m not here as a celebrity.”

To understand modern politics, including the Kamala Harris and Donald Trump campaigns, distinguishing between two qualities—charisma and charm—is vital. They are different kinds of political magnetism. And thanks to the sociologist Julia Sonnevend, I’ll never conflate them again.

In her book Charm: How Magnetic Personalities Shape Global Politics, she defines charisma as the German sociologist Max Weber did––a quality by which an individual “is set apart from ordinary men.” Possessing it does not make a leader morally better or worse. Think of Charles de Gaulle, Adolf Hitler, Winston Churchill—larger-than-life figures who communicated through exceptional rhetorical performances. Their charisma required distance from the audience.

Charm requires proximity. It is the “everyday magic spell politicians cast,” Sonnevend writes. To succeed in today’s media environment, “political leaders must appear as accessible, authentic, and relatable,” she argues, catering to a desire for familiarity—not a faraway figure embodying the nation but a person with whom we’d like to grab a beer.

That doesn’t mean charisma is a relic of the past. When Barack Obama gave formal orations in large stadiums where he stood in front of staged classical pillars, he was aiming for charismatic performances. But Obama was trying to charm us when he filled out NCAA brackets and shot hoops. Trump renting out Madison Square Garden this weekend appears to be an attempt at a charismatic event. But his preparation of fries at McDonald’s was intended to charm.   

[Read: The power of oddball charm]

“Charm is a defining feature of contemporary politics, not just in the United States but internationally,” Sonnevend told me recently at an event in New York City hosted by the intellectual community Interintellect. “If you analyze politics without considering it, you are missing a core component,” she insisted. “There’s a stronger focus on personality than before. We have to understand how it operates.”

To clarify how her ideas can help us understand the United States—and the distinct relationships that Trump, Harris, J. D. Vance, and Tim Walz have with charisma and charm—I visited Sonnevend at the New School, where she is an associate professor. What follows is a condensed, edited version of our conversation, where I learned that charm works partly because almost all of us want to be seduced.

Conor Friedersdorf: Trump always wears a suit and tie. He rose to fame as a billionaire CEO behind a boardroom table. He loves hosting huge rallies. Kamala Harris isn’t as good at big arena speeches. She has tried to avoid traditional interviews. But people in small groups and more informal settings seem to find her likable and relatable.

Is Election 2024 charisma versus charm?

Julia Sonnevend: Harris in many ways is a great example for the charm category if you think of the dancing videos, the cooking videos. There was a viral tweet where someone suggested that instead of formal interviews, she should go on the Food [Network] and cook—all the people urging her: “Maybe you actually shouldn’t do that traditional appearance.” “Maybe these intimate settings offer a better chance for success.” “Show the power of charm and the value of everyday interactions.” Still, in debates, wearing formal dress and a flag pin, she is attempting charisma.

Trump is a more complex case. He has a strong charismatic component. If I think of the assassination attempt––how he realized, This is the moment in which I’m going to generate that iconic photograph with the raised fist. He had the composure to create that kind of moment, which is a more charismatic situation. You don’t feel like you would do it. It is not ordinary.

Some of my students argue that Trump has no charming component. But when he is telling personal stories or saying “You guys are the same as me” in a Bronx barber shop or wearing the red baseball cap––you know, that’s not a regular kind of accessory with the super-formal business suits––then there are elements that are forms of charm. Most politicians try a mix of charisma and charm, even if they lean closer to one or the other.

Friedersdorf: Why do voters care about charm more than they once did?

Sonnevend: One reason is the changing media environment. It has become increasingly possible to give almost continuous access to politicians—or that’s the illusion. Think of our phones, these totemic objects we all carry—the intimacy of sitting in bed with the screen close to your face, watching a politician record a video or a livestream of themselves with their own phone. That’s different from sitting in the living room, watching a TV set where a leader is on a stage.

In everyday life, there are so many moments when we are not fully ourselves, when we feel awkward during a meeting or an interview or a date. Yet in our politics, we want a steady performance of authenticity from leaders, without it being too polished or fine-tuned a performance. We know that attempts at charm are highly constructed. But if it works, you don’t feel like it’s a performance. Everyday settings become normal sites of politics, like Jacinda Ardern, then–prime minister of New Zealand, at home in a gray hoodie, recording a video announcing, I just had a conversation with President-elect Joe Biden.
Friedersdorf: What about when attempts at charm fail?

Sonnevend: The chance of failure rises with every attempt. And the feeling the audience has when it fails is often cringe. The fine line between successful performances of charm and cringe is interesting. These attempts at proximity aim to make you feel, Okay, that’s actually him; he’s authentic; I’ve gotten to know him. But in some cases you feel that there’s an attempt to deceive or manipulate, or that the person shares too much. Charming people excel at making you feel you’ve gotten to know them while maintaining boundaries and avoiding cringe.

[Read: Trump is speaking like Hitler, Stalin, and Mussolini ]

Friedersdorf: So an example of cringe would be that J. D. Vance trip to the doughnut shop, where his interactions with staff seemed awkward and stilted rather than natural?

Sonnevend: Yes. Vance is not charming. He is better in the charismatic setting of the formal debate. Tim Walz is the opposite. He is better at charm.

Friedersdorf: As a young woman, my grandmother would go to movie premieres in Hollywood to see 1950s movie stars on the red carpet. In her older years, she would scoff dismissively at shows like Access Hollywood and tell me, “I feel sorry for your generation. The stars don’t shine anymore.” She felt, to borrow Us Weekly’s tagline, that the stars were “just like us,” and that was a bad thing. In catering to our desire for exposure, do politicians lose something, and that fuels our contempt for them?

Sonnevend: There is a sort of magic that we are losing. If you introduce viewers to your private life, you lose the magic of distance that is core to charisma, this stardust you can never touch. There is a difference between being a godlike character and the illusion of a guy you can have a beer with. The sheer amount of access makes it less exciting. Think about the Royal Family and how difficult it becomes to have all these fans who start to know too much, then the inevitable controversy about what people think of those particular details.

Still, you get another form of magic with charm.

Friedersdorf: What’s an example of someone who lost a bit of the magic that comes from distance while gaining a bit of the personal magnetism that comes from familiarity?

Sonnevend: I saw Princess Diana as a kind of icon when I was growing up in Communist Hungary, with barely any commercial products available. She was, to me, the first example … of this distant character who was magical, a princess.

But what I remember discussing with my mother for hours and hours were Princess Diana’s marital troubles and how to solve them. I had access to this very mundane form of unhappiness that she displayed in maybe a performative way. We felt we knew her deep-rooted unhappiness and her marriage despite living in circumstances so different from hers.

Friedersdorf: Perhaps there is no stable sweet spot. As humans, do we always crave more intimacy when confronted with mystery, and more mystery when confronted with intimacy?

Sonnevend: We may see cyclical processes in politics where a country has a charming, charismatic leader for a while until they get fed up, want change, and choose a more bureaucratic process for a while.

Sometimes we are deceived by charming people––abusers, fraudsters, charming psychopaths, sociopaths. A long list of people have this quality, and authoritarian leaders can have it. So I’m not saying celebrate every aspect of it. There is a dark side to charm.

At the same time, I think we all want to be seduced. Charm is enormously important in everyday life, whether we accept it or not. It matters very much whether your kid has a charming teacher. It matters to the New School that we have a charming president. It matters in fundraising but also in the everyday mood and feel of the university, because charming people shape organizations. Charm is not in itself good or bad. And I really try to go against what I see as the hypocrisy of saying I don’t want to have anything to do with seduction.

[Read: Trump has turned over a new leaf]

Friedersdorf: So you would say that, even in politics, charm’s importance is less a choice than a fact to deal with?

Sonnevend: I think we are trained, particularly on the left, to be critical of performance. And I feel we should be more honest in acknowledging that performance is crucial to politics. It doesn’t mean it’s the only factor––that policy or other factors don’t matter. But it is a defining feature.

You have fragmented, disillusioned audiences that are bored by politics and often don’t even follow it, because we think it’s too much. If you have a charming character who can bring a bit of seduction and magic to our lives, that can reinvigorate and energize politics. And there is a risk and that dark side to charm. I don’t think we should adopt an easy answer, that charm is a magical process we all need or a disaster to fear. We should recognize its presence in social life and reflect on it as it arises, trying our best to understand it.

Barack Obama was barely three minutes into his speech inside a Madison, Wisconsin, arena on Tuesday when he delivered his call to action—“I am asking you to vote”—a plea so eagerly anticipated by the thousands in attendance that they erupted in cheers before he could finish the line.

Kamala Harris’s campaign had dispatched its most valuable surrogate to Wisconsin’s heavily Democratic capital on the swing state’s first day of early voting, with just two weeks to go until the election. Before this crowd in Dane County, though, Obama’s exhortation—maybe even his entire appearance—seemed superfluous.

As Michael Wagner, a political scientist at the University of Wisconsin’s flagship Madison campus, put it: “A lot of people live here, and everybody votes.” He was exaggerating, but only slightly.

Within the battleground states that will determine the presidency, no city turns out its voters more reliably than Madison, and no county turns out more reliably than Dane. Four years ago, a whopping 89 percent of Dane’s registered voters cast ballots in the presidential election—well above the national average—and more than three-quarters of them went for Joe Biden. He received 42,000 more votes in the county than Hillary Clinton had in 2016—and twice his statewide margin of victory. Harris might need even more. In the scramble for every last vote in a deadlocked campaign, the vice president is betting that she can beat Biden’s margins among the white, college-educated suburbanites who have swung hardest toward the Democrats in recent years.

[Read: The swing states are in good hands]

Along with Pennsylvania and Michigan, Wisconsin is one of three “Blue Wall” states that offer Harris’s simplest path to 270 electoral votes, and recent polls have it essentially tied. That is not unusual: Only twice this century has a presidential candidate of either party carried Wisconsin by more than a single percentage point.

To win Wisconsin, Harris likely has to turn out new voters from Madison and Dane to offset possibly steeper Democratic losses in the state’s rural areas, as well as a potential dropoff among Black and Latino voters in Milwaukee. Republicans are gunning for the area, too; Donald Trump held a rally near Madison earlier this month, and despite the Democrats’ dominance in Dane, the state’s second-most-populous county is also home to one of Wisconsin’s largest groups of GOP voters.

But Democrats still have a much higher ceiling in Dane. The county is the fastest-growing in the state, thanks to expanding local health and tech sectors. Dane’s population has grown by 50,000 since the 2020 census, the county’s Democratic Party chair, Alexia Sabor, told me. “The new growth is more likely to be younger, more likely to be college-educated, and more likely to be at least middle-class,” she said. “That all correlates with Democratic votership.”

Strong turnout in Madison and Dane helped progressives flip a pivotal state Supreme Court seat in a special election last year. In August, Madison set a 40-year voting record for a summer primary, and Dane County cast more ballots than Milwaukee County, which has nearly double Dane’s population. Enthusiasm has only increased in the months since. The state party asked the Dane Democrats to knock on 100,000 doors by November—a goal they achieved before the end of September. Sabor’s office received so many emailed requests for lawn signs that she had to set up an auto-reply message.

A couple of hours before the Obama rally, which also featured Harris’s running mate, Tim Walz, I met Sabor at a coffee shop across the street from an early-voting site in Madison. Neither of us could find parking, because so many people had showed up even before the polls opened. Sabor said she wouldn’t be going to the rally. Her time was better spent elsewhere, she told me: “There are more doors to knock.”

Chris Sinicki has a tougher job than Sabor. She’s the Democratic chair in Milwaukee County, whose eponymous city has been losing population and where enthusiasm for Harris is a much larger concern than in Dane. In 2008, turnout among Black voters in Milwaukee helped propel Obama to the biggest presidential landslide in half a century in Wisconsin—he won the state by 14 points. Black turnout stayed high for his reelection in 2012 but has fallen off since.

Still, Sinicki was upbeat when we spoke—at least at first. The excitement among Democrats was “off the charts,” she told me. “I am feeling really positive.” But when I asked her why the Harris campaign had sent Obama and Walz to Madison rather than Milwaukee, her tone changed. “Madison doesn’t need the GOTV stuff. They vote in high numbers,” Sinicki said. “We need that type of muscle here in Milwaukee. We need big rallies.”

She wasn’t alone in questioning the decision. A few Democrats I met at the rally, although they were excited to see Obama, wondered why he was there. “It was an interesting political move,” Dakota Hall, the Milwaukee-based executive director of the Alliance for Youth Action, a progressive political group, told me when we met in the city the next day. “I don’t think we need Obama to go rally Madison as much as we needed him to rally Milwaukee voters.”

The Harris campaign says it hasn’t ruled out sending Obama to Milwaukee in the closing days of the race. It pointed to less notable surrogates who have campaigned for Harris in the city, including the actors Kerry Washington and Wendell Pierce, as well as Doc Rivers, the head coach of the Milwaukee Bucks. On Friday, however, the campaign announced that Harris would return to Wisconsin next week—for a rally in Madison.

Wisconsin Democrats remain bitter about 2016. Hillary Clinton spent crucial time in the final weeks campaigning in states she would go on to lose by several points—including Arizona, Ohio, and Iowa—and did not step foot in Wisconsin, which she lost to Trump by 22,000 votes. But they have no such complaints about Harris. The vice president has campaigned heavily across Wisconsin; earlier this month she visited the small cities of La Crosse and Green Bay. The night before Obama’s Madison rally, she held a town hall with former Representative Liz Cheney in Waukesha, a GOP stronghold where Harris is hoping to win over Republicans who have turned away from Trump. Waukesha’s Republican mayor endorsed the vice president a few days later.

“In Wisconsin, you only win with an all-of-the-above strategy,” Ben Wikler, the state Democratic chair, told me in Madison. “We need every Democrat to turn out. We need nonvoters to vote for Harris-Walz, and we need to bring some Republicans.”

Top left: Milwaukee Mayor Cavalier Johnson encourages residents to vote. Top right: Wisconsin’s capitol building, in Madison. Bottom left: Signs at UW Madison direct students to an early-voting site. Bottom right: Barack Obama speaks in Madison on Tuesday. (Jim Vondruska for The Atlantic)

[Read: Is Ben Wikler the most important Democrat in America?]

Although Madison scored Obama, the Harris campaign is giving plenty of love to Milwaukee as well. The vice president held an 18,000-person rally in the city in August—at the same arena where Republicans had convened to nominate Trump a few weeks earlier—which until last week had been the largest of her campaign. She returned for a smaller event this month, and sent her husband, Doug Emhoff, to campaign in the city on Thursday.

“This is very different from 2016,” Gwen Moore, Milwaukee’s representative in Congress, told a small group of reporters near an early-voting site on Wednesday. “We’re very happy.”

Moore appeared alongside two other prominent Black Democrats—Milwaukee’s mayor, Cavalier Johnson, and its county executive, David Crowley—who tailored their messages to citizens who might be disinclined to vote. “While you might not be into politics, politics is into you,” Johnson said. “There are so many people who are counting Milwaukee out.”

Hall, the progressive activist, credited the Harris campaign for paying attention to Milwaukee. But he worried that the vice president’s truncated candidacy and the lack of a full Democratic primary campaign had left less engaged residents—especially younger Black and Latino men—unsure what she would do as president. “People need to hear more concrete details,” he told me. “You have a candidate who, for the most part, is unknown to younger voters.”

In Milwaukee, Harris’s challenge is not only mobilizing Black people to turn out, but persuading them to vote for her. Polls across the country have shown Trump winning a higher share of Black voters than in the past, a trend that’s concentrated among young men. With an eye on that constituency, Trump is planning a large rally in Milwaukee later this week. “I don’t know that we realistically expect her to get more of the male vote” than Biden did, Moore told me. “There are Black people who are Republican, and we accept that, period.” She said that the many negative ads Republicans are running against Harris have likely turned off a portion of Black men. “What’s more likely is that they won’t come out to vote at all,” Moore said.

Behind Moore, dozens of voters—most of them Black—stood in a line that snaked outside the polling place for the second day in a row. The turnout delighted Democratic officials, and the bulk of the voters I interviewed said they were voting for Harris. But not all. Michael and Mark Ferguson, 44-year-old twin brothers, told me they had backed Biden four years ago but were firmly behind Trump this time.

Michael, a correctional officer, said his top issues were immigration and the economy. “I don’t believe Kamala Harris is a strong leader,” he told me. “She got every appointment handed to her. She didn’t earn it.” A president who’s afraid to go on Fox News, Ferguson said, couldn’t be trusted to deal with tough foreign leaders. I pointed out that Harris had recently sat for a Fox interview. “Yeah,” he replied, “and she stunk it up.”

To try to compensate for the defections of onetime Democrats like the Fergusons, the Harris campaign is looking to Dane County. In addition to the thousands of largely Democratic voters who have recently moved in, there are the nearly 40,000 undergraduates at the University of Wisconsin at Madison, who lean left and vote at much higher rates than the national average for college-age citizens, and at higher rates than their Big Ten (and swing-state) rivals in Michigan and Pennsylvania.

[Read: ‘Stop counting votes, or we’re going to murder your children’]

Thanks to Wisconsin’s same-day voter registration, out-of-state students can easily cast ballots soon after they move to Madison. In a few small wards near campus in 2020, voter turnout exceeded 100 percent because more people voted than had previously been listed as registered. Many other precincts reported turnout exceeding 90 percent that year. (Officials in Madison and Dane report turnout as a percentage of registered voters, a smaller pool than the voting-age population used by political scientists; by either yardstick, turnout in the area greatly surpasses the national and state averages.)

A large contingent of UW Madison students attended the Obama rally. I met a group of three 20-year-olds who grew up in blue states but planned to cast their first votes—for Harris—in Wisconsin. Not all of their friends were doing the same. “Trump has a hold over our age group and demographic more than I expected,” Owen Kolbrenner of California told me. Trump’s unseriousness appealed to some guys they knew. “Some of our friends think the whole thing is a joke,” Kolbrenner said. “It’s kind of impossible to rationalize with them.”

During his speech, Obama told the crowd, “I won’t be offended if you just walk out right now. Go vote!” Nobody took him up on the offer, but after he left the stage, some attendees headed straight for an early-voting site on campus, where the line stretched through multiple rooms. Across Wisconsin that day, officials said high turnout strained the state’s election system and caused slowdowns in printing ballot envelopes. In Madison, even more people voted the next day, and by midweek, the city had nearly matched the totals in Milwaukee, its much larger neighbor. At the university’s student union, Khadija Sene, a lifelong Madison resident, was standing in line with her family, waiting to cast her first-ever ballot for Harris. She told me, “Everybody that I know is voting.”