Midnight request line: the Secret DJ shares tales of 'booth wankers'

Settled in? Sometimes it takes an hour, but once you’re comfortably at the controls it’s time to look up (you’d be surprised, but some DJs never once look up from their work to read the room). It’s time to make the connection. Now you are in the moment. Time stops. A record that is clearly marked as nearly 10 minutes long appears to pass in moments. Your five senses each reduce to a tunnelled version. The pressure of 2,000 eyes demands your own focus. Like reading a score, you are simultaneously in the moment and also two or three bars ahead.

Have you ever tried too hard at something physical – a sport or game – only to find you’re never better at it than when you’re not thinking at all? It’s that thing. The lights are too much, and close down your vision. You barely focus on anything visually apart from the tunes themselves, and even then it’s fairly intuitive. You know exactly where the one you want is. You break the surface now and then to focus on individuals and they lock eyes with you. You know you’re doing it right. Now and then the connection breaks, and you make a change to compensate. But not tonight.

In my darker moments I curse myself for not being more ‘professional’ about it all, but even when I try it all falls apart, melts away in the heat. This is a thing I do, and do well. The subconscious plays a big part. If you’re ever at a loss to know what it is you’re good at, ask your dreams. I dream of being up there, and there’s a fault with the equipment: a simple, everyday, technical fuck-up. But the crowd doesn’t know. They think it’s me. Everyone has an anxiety dream some time. This is mine. It’s also how I know I am a DJ before anything else.

There is a flow. Of that there is no doubt. It’s a by-product of the whole. The party is everyone and everyone pitches in – yourself included. These big gigs are a breeze when every soul in there sincerely wants it to be. When it’s working it’s a real high. Hyperbole aside, it just happens, and you are part of something special.

But just as you are lost in it all there’s a tap on your shoulder. Pro booths are allegedly inaccessible, but again, it depends on who you are. You feel them before you see them in your peripheral vision: Booth Wankers. They aren’t happy unless they’re in there next to the DJ, soaking up adulation by association, like a deluded lizard basking under a sun lamp in a basement. It happens top to bottom. They might be crackheads or billionaires. My own view is it’s an occupational hazard and part of being a professional is to deal with it with a measure of grace. Give me enough room to turn around to reach my tunes and move my elbows and you’ll hear no complaints. Don’t talk to me, please. Don’t talk to me. I am at work. I’m also in a state of reverie. Break my vibe and you break the vibe for everyone. Doesn’t matter what I want, though, it won’t stop it happening.

“HEY! HEY DUDE, GREAT SOUNDS! Have you got that one that goes UMPHT UMPHTT, WAKKA-WIK. HRFT HRFT. DANK-DANK?”

Does anyone really say “sounds”? Is he kidding? No he’s not kidding. Thing is, I know exactly which tune he means. DJs understand this gibberish, just as a dentist can understand what you’re trying to say even when they have both hands shoved wrist-deep in your numb mouth. Over the years we develop a weird ability to decipher the ridiculous noises people make when requesting. I nod and smile. Engage. Sometimes that’s all they want: for the crowd to see them talking to you. The request is just something to say to get them into the booth. So be a pro and deal with it.

That doesn’t mean nightmares don’t happen. One girl used to get up in my face every time I played in my home town. When I was there visiting my folks I happened to spot her while out shopping and saw she worked in a high-end ladies clothes boutique. Every cell in my body wanted to kick the doors of the shop in, jump the counter and shout at the top of my lungs, right in her ear:

“EXCUSE ME – DO YOU HAVE ANY 1980s MILITARY UNIFORMS? I NEED A LIEUTENANT’S BLUES WITH AIGUILLETTES IN GOLD. NO? WHAT ABOUT FLIPPERS? GOT ANY FLIPPERS? NO!? SERIOUSLY!? WHAT ABOUT SNORKELS? I MEAN IF YOU DON’T HAVE FLIPPERS YOU MUST HAVE SNORKELS!? NO? ARE YOU FUCKING CRAZY? IF YOU DON’T, THEN I’LL LEAVE AND SO WILL ALL THE OTHER CUSTOMERS. NO ONE HERE LIKES YOUR SHIT DRESSES. HEY, TELL YOU WHAT, LET ME LOOK IN YOUR STOCKROOM AND SEE IF THERE’S SOMETHING I LIKE! WHAT DO YOU MEAN ‘NO’? YOU’RE SHIT AT YOUR JOB, THEN. I’M LEAVING!”

That guy in the booth was a saint compared to most. I even played the tune for him. Yeah, even did the job I am paid for. Some days it all comes together. Even the intruders are easy. And anyway, without the party you’re just an unplugged flesh jukebox shouting into an empty room.