The Secret DJ: Shift change

I always dread the DJ booth shift-change. One ego handing over to another. It’s a higher state of awkwardness. It works both ways for incumbent or arriviste. Amateurs make an entrance, pros keep the vibe. Wankers hog the booth, pros make a smooth transition. Nice people say hello, nasty people frown and mumble. Have I made my point yet? Yeah. Don’t be a dick.

This bunch are not happy to see me. Which is par for the course, but tends to get out of hand when there’s an entourage involved. I’d arrived 15 minutes before I was due on. For me, this is late, but to many – especially those on tight schedules with several gigs over a weekend – it’s normal. If the incoming DJ shows signs of being late, the incumbent often gets a little thrill, a sense that they might be able to perform for longer. Then there’s crushing disappointment when the next DJ appears just in time. It’s the only explanation I have for the wall of animosity that sometimes greets you. It may just be plain envy. It may be the hangers-on ‘supporting’ their hero by hating the next DJ. Maybe they met me before. Who the fuck knows? I spent decades as the warm-up. It requires superior skill. It will eat your ego alive if you are ambitious. The trouble with the mega-clubs is the DJ on before often isn’t a regular hard-working resident, they’re a star in their own right. “Star”. Yeah, I know.

So I sheepishly navigate the glaring hostility. I meekly squeeze past those who are not meant to be in my working space. I make myself as small as possible. It’s bad form to make a fuss and cast a shadow over someone else’s limelight. At this point some help would be useful, but the last I saw of my tour manager he was scouring the venue for women with a 360-degree lechery beam. I wrestle my kit through the phalanx of derision and turn to find the usual heap of bags, coats, purses, computers, cloaks, hats, furs, phones and general detritus clogging every space available. The correct form is to make a working space for an arriving DJ. But this is a sit-in. Occupied territory. It clearly isn’t going to happen without a fight.

DJs know when their time is up. We count it down, we pace our work to match the time-frame. Come 10 or 15 minutes to the end of your set you start looking out for the next one up. You start tidying your bits and packing up. Five to and you’re unplugging your headphones. If the next DJ is stressed or needs to breathe, you might politely offer to “play one more”. It’s a courtesy. He or she may ask it of you first. There’s usually some sort of exchange, ‘the old booth shuffle’ I call it, like getting changed on the beach under a too-small towel.

So I wrestle the bags in past the aggro. I look for a space. None. I bend down and pull back some coats to make a space and HOLY SHIT! A face is revealed amid the baggage. I jump in the air in cartoon shock. Seriously? You made a little fort amid the coats so you can do drugs? Unreal. At least offer me some.

On the surface, I’m calm. I feel calm. I exude calm. I do need a shit, though. I always need to, just before. My conscious mind tells me I have been doing this for decades. There is no fear. My guts know different. Things are accelerating. The pace is quickening. The dude wants to play longer? Fine. I need the toilet.

The one thing any DJ will tell you is they wish they had their own bathroom. For some reason the toilets and the booth are always at opposite ends of a venue. So: back into the fray. Senses stretched taut. I must appear to the throng like a lunatic, pushing my way through like an angry King Canute. Something in the eyes tells them I’m all business, and the Red Sea parts. I get to the gents and of course, it looks like New Orleans after Katrina. Wrecked, flooded, chaotic. It doesn’t matter, though, because as usual I sit down and can’t go. It’s all in the mind. I try, fail, then need to go again by the time I get to the door. I catch myself in the mirror. Shake my head in bemusement. Splash cold water on the face. What a ridiculous pantomime.

With grim determination I move back into the throng. It’s my place now. No time for egos or boundary waltzes. I stride into the booth and bark at the hangers-on to make way. Ignore the evil glares. I tap the DJ – who’s studiously ignoring me – on the shoulder and gesture at my watch. Time to go, son. He knows he’s had his fun. Some people, unbelievably, have even paid to see me in particular. Still can’t get my head around that.

Bags open. Tunes out. Reset the system – he’s set the monitors to ear-bleeding levels in his excitement. Lower the gain to normal. Catch the sound guy’s eye. He’s happier now. I’ve been working subconsciously all through the tail-end of the previous DJ’s set. What would dovetail nicely with it? The temptation is to slam on the brakes and switch off all the lights to announce yourself. Sound the dickhead’s fanfare. Sometimes you have to. Not tonight. He was hard work, but his music wasn’t. Maybe it was all your stress? It’s easy to find a couple of openers to match his vibe. It’s not about you, or him. It’s about the crowd out there, on the floor. And they’re happy right now. It’s your job to continue that.