The Secret DJ: Shift change

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.