Retirement of the Dj

His heart was racing. Nauseous, his stomach was turning wave after wave. After ending his ritualistic phone call with his Mum, he felt a hint of comfort. He tried telling himself that being nervous is part of the show. It’s what makes him strive for perfection and keeps him searching for the track that the crowd doesn’t even know they want to hear. It’s what keeps the energy flowing and what keeps his focus.

A voice briefly cut his rapid anxiety, ‘five minutes.’

The panic was turning to excitement. Feverishly he recapped the tentative playlist in his head. It doesn’t matter too much, it would all change anyway. The best performances come from improvisation. This was his first big show. This was his first time headlining and the first time he filled the house with people wanting to see him and no other perform. He could not be happier or more stressed. This was the one. This was the one that would make his career. He’d soon be traveling the world to the hottest clubs, to the most beautiful vacation spots, stay in the most exotic resorts and hotels. The fame, the glory, the women and the money wouldn’t be bad either. This was it, he was at the roller coaster’s peak. He was staring down the fun-filled track with all its twists and turns just begging to be ridden.

He walked down the dark hallway to the stage. Bright lights were flashing back and forth displaying still-frame glimpses of the fully packed dance-floor. People were shoulder to shoulder bouncing all over the place. The energy was blindingly intense.

‘What’s up people?!’ The MC shouted over the last few measures of the previous dj’s set. ‘You all ready for what’s next?’ The crowd began screaming throughout the venue. ‘Let’s get loud, y’all! Some of you know him, some of you don’t, but none of you...none of you are ready for this!’

The crowd rivaled the brilliant sound system drowning the MC out. They began chanting his name. He decided to let the last song play out and begin his set with as much silence as the crowd would lend. He selected his song, a mashup he did, something to hint at the vibrant, high-energy randomness that had been recently lending his name to word of mouth. He queued it up and took a deep breath. He looked over his crowd. He likened the back and forth motion over the first down-beat to rough seas as a storm made its way through. He imagined how his subtle movements would transpire into exciting waves over the floor taking the crowd on a voyage unlike any other. The pads of his fingers were gripping the record’s vinyl surface just slightly enough to allow the deck’s platter to ride beneath like a major undertow. It was a silent power begging to be unleashed like a tidal wave rolling over an unsuspecting beach. He looked up, took in the atmosphere, smirked and let it go.

The next few hours were powerful. He played no games. No song rotation set for thirsty dancers. No requests were made. No rambunctious crowd hyping or drink specials being shouted out. Just the thumping bass, intricate synths, phenomenal drops, crowd shattering breaks, old-school samples, new-age styles, seamless blends, genre jumping and throwing down mixes never even thought possible. He was digging deep, pulling hints and samples in the realm of nostalgic media from as far back as his childhood and even sometimes before. Cutting, scratching and blending sounds creating an energetic overture for a night that would not be soon forgotten. He was lacing buried chart-toppers with classic loops and dropping current radio plays in styles never before heard on major broadcasts. He was transitioning so quickly that the crowd had little opportunity to analyze the sounds waves coming at them and they were left with nothing but movement. They were his puppets, he was the puppet-master, the music was the strings and the turntables were merely control arms. Everyone was a slave to the music.

He kept playing and bouncing behind the decks so into it that it was long after most grew too tired to keep going when he finally looked up. No one was there. There were never any dancers. He never had that gig. Matter of fact, he was playing an empty venue in a place that no longer existed. The concrete was cracked with sprouting greens. The lawn seats had become a newborn forest. There was not even any electricity. He stood there in shock, weeping and lost. His dream became rubble like the stage he stood on.

He wasn’t that person. Creative enough, sure. Talented enough, maybe. Driven enough, of course. There is nothing to blame. Not confidence or lack of networking. Not even chance should be named as a dream killer. Although that life seemed amazing, he thought maybe he was meant for something different; maybe it was something more. Maybe a headlining Dj wouldn’t make the kind of impact he was meant to make or, maybe, we wasn’t meant to make an impact at all; he was just to be swept away with the wind.

Anyway you cut it, making a dream a hobby, killing that hope like an innocent child, it hurts. It also took me about a year (see: a realization). I now see why the “hobby conversation” with my folks and some friends throughout the years had been uttered so delicately. There has been times where I feel that it is blessed to never dream at all. Yet, the truth is, I should be happy I was able to try and for so long. I had some good times and some great opportunities. I met some very awesome people and a few of those dirtbags I was warned about. All in all, I can say that I had at least had enough evidence to catch a subtle taste. I no longer had to pretend, I had enough experience to vividly imagine it in full glory.

Out of that dream’s demise bred another. Actually, it was the first realistic career path I had ever wanted to take. In third grade, I wanted to be a writer. I wrote this as a test. Could I make someone feel the way I did from that dream regardless if their passion for it was lacking? If one doesn’t get even a little excited about this post’s beginning than maybe I shouldn’t look too seriously at this path for as painful it is to kill a dream, making a hobby into a career is equally as frightening. However, I can say with little effort I have been able to capture peoples’ attention. I have a way with words. I can confidently say that and fear little about loosening my grasp on modesty. I’ve been told that I don’t give myself enough credit, on many things but, when it comes to this, I can stand tall. Without really trying, I have met benchmarks that rival my pursuit in djing. After some grammar coaching, I have had a simple, freshmen-level essay chosen to be read in a sermon and it had absolutely nothing to do with religion but everything to do with spirituality. I once gave a friend an extra story to save him from getting a zero that lent him a visit to the counsellor's office due to the topic of suicide and how vivid it was expressed. That was elementary school and he found plagiarism more intimidating than the alternative. I have well-read friends beg me to write more for I have a style unlike anything they had previously experienced. I have always been talented at thinking abstractly, letting my imagination run to the most ridiculous places, taking on different perspectives and I have a drive to explain it all.

One day I had just looked back to realize that my ability to write has been welcomed much like how I always wanted my ability behind the turntables to be. My thoughts pressurize my head and they need a way out. I’m very verbal but I have realized that very few people listen. Even less seem to listen to me or at least not very easily. However, people read and people seem to enjoy reading what I write. Only time and effort will tell if it is enough to make a living at it. I am definitely in need of more practice, experience and education. I am not saying that I am going to wake up tomorrow and be a novelist or quit my job to pursue this. I’m not saying that I’ll never touch a pair of turntables again, just that I am no longer pursuing it professionally. I am merely stating that I shifted my energy. I have new hopes and goals to what this may become. I’d love to write novels and short stories. Though I do not see myself as a screenwriter, I would love to write something that becomes a film and break up this monotony of recycled crap they keep rewrapping to make look pretty and regifting like we’re too stupid to realize. I’m merely moving to a new medium, to a place where my imagination has more room to express itself. So, here’s to the pursuit of a new path.

If you're curious, here's what I'm walking away from: