12 February 2009

The DJ vinyl junkie bastard fix.

Here in the Cauldron - a jockey slut lisps.....

(Loud voice with wide open mouth) Aaart ann abaart on the last night of the year was a bit of a larf. "Earning" on the DJ circuit, whilst getting into overpriced, overpacked, over the top, overhot clubs for naada is not the joyous celebration of guilt free ligging it appears. Walking past crowds of shivery, laughing clubbers as they queue patiently in the crispy air and swanning straight in the door requires a certain arrogant je ne sais quois, distant air to ignore the 'oi's hurled like snowballs through the strata (eh?). Getting paid for something you fucking love doing always provokes feelings of guilt. It just doesn't seem right does it? Getting paid to rent fast (who you kidding?) cars? (Which break down and leave you stranded, shivering by the side of the road). Getting paid to take shit loads of expensive accoutrements (you wish!!). Getting paid to play your favourite tunes to a captive, eager, appreciative, fun crowd of people, all dying for a piece of you (well, your music anyway). How many jobs do you know where a state of mind boarding on the frazzled junkie overkill levels Burroughs would be proud of is a pre-requisite for membership of this particular wax laden elite. We're not talking professional here, we're talking underground DJ-land (underground in that no-one knows who the fuck you are?) A land as transient and as fantasy ridden......as.......the male psyche. Kool quotients approaching obscene levels. The only job where trainspotters are tolerated. Drunkenness tolerated. Sleeplessness and the state of mind it induces, worshipped. A land of shorn hair cuts, staring eyes, big boots, records, tunes, 12", vinyl, wax, house, more and more house. And more records. It's loud, hot, sweaty overkill so shout, please shout. Deafness for DJ's, a must. Plus paper, lots of pieces of paper. Lots of contacts. No contacts. Now what the fuck was that tune called? Oi. Mate. Giz a look at that! Fuckin' blindin' . What? It's on what? It's a promo? Who is it? Why won't you tell me? Won't tell because you want to know. (What a twat). DJ on a power trip? Naw! It's all part of the FUN, maan. Why? Why do you want to know what the tune is? Who gives a fuck? Now where was I supposed to be playing next month? Shit, lost the bit of paper. High vitriol. Off yer heed. Sharp as a fuckin' brick. It's all fast blur. Literally hundreds of half caught conversations and statements. A month of experience compressed into a few hours. Here in the cauldron. Fuck it. Agree with everyone. Everyone's right anyway. It's all POV aint it? Blur. Zoom in. Fade to black. But not before picking up the f(r)ee money from the promoter. What a blinding night! And it's only 2am. Jump in the car. Arf. Am I driving? I can't. OK you then. But I drive home. Stereo on. Louder. Louder. Louder. Skin up. Drive fast. Faster. Faster. Don't drive so fast. Slow down. You're scaring me. Nearly there. Where's a fucking parking place? There. There. There!! You passed it. Reverse. Can't there's a car behind. Oh dear. Park up anyway. Out now on the street. Where's the club? Carry my records. Carry them yourself you lazy twat! God I hate carrying records. They're sooo heavy. On the door our people, in turn, do a thumb over the shoulder, as they file in, indicating to the bouncer that they are with the person behind. We're with him they say and they're in. Into the dark. Into the depths. Into the heat. The music. Sweet music. Our life. The rush. The heat. The club. We're in. Dump the fuckin' record box. Get a drink. Have a smoke. Find the promoter. He's shit-faced and splattered on a chair. Where and when? Upstairs at 4. One hour to chill. Stop my heart beating soo fast. Have another smoke. God it's hot. Suddenly, behind the decks. Sweat dripping onto records, into my eyes. Blinding, literally. I can't see at all. It's so fucking hot!The place is packed. Everyone is seriously mentally going for it. It's 200? See what you think of this, wham, they love it. I love it. The intense, joyous urgency. We dance and groove frantically together. Now this is fun, is it not? Concentrate you bastard. Get the next one lined up, and then you can talk and skin up or whatever. People talk, I don't hear. Sweaty. Sorted. It's set. Ready to go. Where's my skins? I need some water! 16 bars to end. Only ever get one chance to drop it in spot on. It goes in. Crowd whoop. I hear a clap in the dark. It's fucking hot in. Joy. God, I'm hot. Blink. Blink again. Wipe eyes with shirt but it's soaking wet. I hear my name being shouted. I look up. It's my DJ chum, who throws a bar towel and smiles. It's soaking but I use it anyway. Two and a half hours later I'm finished. Literally. It lasted 10 seconds DJ brain time.The next DJ, fresh, eager, edging into the cramped space behind the decks, hands me a smoke. I know he's there but don't want to acknowledge his presence but have to if I want toke. Clever. Not yet. One or two more. Then it's "Thanks". All yours mate. Handshakes. He's off. And he's fucking good. The crowd carry on dancing with a new urgency in that pumping, seamless, shit-faced way. The buzz of a new DJ. I'm out from behind the decks. A few handshakes. A few 'cheers mate'. Some more water. I'm as high as I'll ever be. Elation. A kiss. The peak. The feeling is perfect. The best. It's the place I always long to be. It is pure. It is selfish. It is pleasure. It is what it is to be a player of 12"s. It's a DJ thang. It lasts 2 minutes max. Then I'm down. Fast. Like a sack of shite. I'm shaky and tired. I need to sit down. Smoke. Drink. Deep breathing. Dazed almost, I can talk a little more now, out in the cool passage. The feeling wears off fast, but I want it again. I want it bad. I want it big. And I want it better than I've just experienced. It is all I'll live for and look forward to. I'm a sad vinyl junkie bastard, and my next fix can't come soon enough. Still, I do the next best thing. Talk to my old and new chums. Have a smoke, another drink. And dance. At the end of the night (morning) £60 is shoved in my hand. You're paying me? I should pay you! But listen DJ's, never, never, never tell a promoter that. It's our secret. The DJ vinyl junkie bastard fix. OK?