“Tucson Tales” : The DJ chronicles, part 2
So after about a month of working for Dunns Entertainment, mainly assisting Ryan (who, after doing a few shows with, turned out to be kind of a weird guy, a bit of a control freak and pretty dumb) I finally got to do my own show.
“It's right up your alley,” said Scott when we were having a pre-show meeting in the Dunns office. “It's a kid's birthday party.”
I had told Scott that I was an aspiring children's author and had worked in children's publishing aside from being a music journalist and heavy metal DJ, a didactic that most people didn't get. And still don't. So when the job of handling a kid's birthday party came up, Scott immediately thought of me. Which was cool.
“It's a big step,” Scott said from behind his desk. Ian, the tech guy and Scott's right hand man, was sitting at his desk across the office typing up playlists and making my job folder for me. “This is your first solo gig. Think you can handle it?”
“I hope so,” I said. “Did they order a fog machine?”
“They did.”
“Then I can handle it.”
The birthday was to be set at a country club somewhere deep in the wealthier refines of the Foothills. The Tucson Foothills is the land far far away from any of the real adventures that go on in the dirty southern Old Pueblo. It's scattered with million dollar estates, overtly upscale boutiques and bistros and filled with white Republican rage. To me one of the lone redeeming aspects of the Foothills is a gourmet market called AJ's which is a mercantile of the freshest fruits and vegetables, an incredible meat and fish counter, hard to find international fare and they have their own sommelier. Otherwise, I could care less about that far off land cluttered with folk that are too lazy to move up to Phoenix or Scottsdale.
The day of the birthday, after loading all that heavy equipment by myself seeing as I didn't even have an assistant DJ that day, I drove out to the country club and found the location where I would set up. It was going to be a luau themed party to be had right by one of the main swimming pools. There were Hawaiian looking decorations everywhere, leis strung on lights and posts and inflatable tiki heads bopping in the late afternoon breeze. After I met my contact, the mom, who was a harried looking middle aged lady, I was instructed to set up under a straw canopy and start playing background music.
“The kids will be here soon,” said the mom. “They're having a chef catered lunch in the grand ballroom.”
Jeeze, I thought. I think my most extravagant birthday was lunch at Disneyland and one of the three little pigs came up and shook his belly at me. These Foothill kids have it rough man...
Here's the gist of the gist: The birthday was for a girl who was turning 13. Which I was okay with. When Scott told me I'd be doing a “kids birthday” I thought like 7 or 10 years old. At least these kids might dance or get into trouble. Which I kind of hoped they would.
The background music was a melange of loungy tropical fare, one of which was a cover of “Over the Rainbow” by some dude named Israel Kamakawiwo`ole.
“Say, who is this?” some guy wearing an expensive looking faux Acapulco shirt said when he walked up to me. I told him the name and he said, “Oh yeah. That big fat Samoan guy.”
“Um,” I started. “Okay.”
“Yeah. He's like 500 pounds or something,” informed the guy.
“Wow.”
“I think he died,” he said.
“Huh.”
After that, the doors opened from the lobby area and in strewed 20 or 30 barely teen kids, all in bathing suits and trunks.
“Can you play any hardcore rap?” one scrawny boy asked me.
“I seriously doubt it,” I said. “Your parents would kill me.”
“Do you have that song 'Bin Laden Weed' by Three Six Mafia?” asked another.
“What?”
“You need to play 'Bump That Pussy',” said yet another.
“Bump the what?”
These 12 to 14 year old kids were asking me to play the most outlandish stuff, songs and bands I have never even heard of. Now I have no right to judge, seeing as I own records with song titles like “Force Fed Broken Glass”, “Angel of Death” and “Frozen Corpse Stuffed with Dope”, but these little ones were requesting some pretty X rated songs. Luckily the mom and Ian provided a CD mix with all sorts of “acceptable” new dance hits, so I stuck with that and got back to work.
The kids all started to jump in the pool and I found it quite odd that they would hire a DJ when all the kids wanted to do was swim and the adults stand around and get drunk. But, whatever. I was getting paid to play music so I mixed the stuff as best I could and kept my head down.
As it began to get dark, the kids all got out of the pool and started to rally around me and the makeshift dance area that I created in front of the DJ tower. I had some lights hooked up, which I switched on once it was dark enough, and clicked on the infamous fog machine.
“I think they're ready to dance now,” the mom whispered in my ear. She sounded and smelled pretty drunk. “So turn it up and let's get going.”
With that cue I hit the volume on high and put on some hot new tune...which totally eludes me at this point. Before I knew it, dozens of pre-teen and tween boys and girls, still in their bathing suits, were now grinding and bumping on the dance floor. This was a pedophile's wet dream. I started to feel kind of uncomfortable, like a dirty strange uncle giving the kids a sip from his bottle. To help aid the awkwardness, I pressed the button for the fog machine and before long, the writhing boys and girls were immersed in a sea of fog.
I don't get it, I thought. How am I not to feel like a pervert?
A check of the clock said I still had almost two hours left to DJ. So I sucked up all of my creepy crawlies and kept my head down.
About four or five songs in, the kids began to trickle away. Before long, the dance floor was empty and I was blasting dance pop tunes to absolutely no one. Fog stuck to the warm night air and the disco lights reflected an abandoned pool and party. It was kind of surreal.
Then there was a flutter of adults. They scrambled across the patio area and seemed hellbent on getting somewhere. I could hear them cry out, but for who or what I could not discern. The music was just so damn loud.
After a pause in the action, the parents all returned with the young lot of birthday pool party-ers, who all looked none too happy to be returning to the main area and dance floor.
“You better call it a night,” said an irate dad with heavy Scotch breath. “These kids found a place out back and were playing Truth or Dare. To say the least, they're all in a lot of trouble.”
With that the kids and their disappointed and disciplining parents in tow, all left the arena and were soon gone from sight. A few stragglers, probably friends of the parents, stuck around and asked me to play a few songs that they wanted to hear. Jimmy Buffet, The Beatles and such.
“Only if I can grab some food and a drink,” I said.
They heartily obliged and I threw on some “adult album rock” CD and left. They were thrilled, hooting and trying to dance through the vault door wail of free alcohol all day, while I pillaged the almost untouched buffet of sea bass, rice pilaf, fresh garden salad and a strong vodka soda. After eating and drinking, and the few baby boomers trying to keep it up, I eventually packed it up and packed it in.
As I drove away in that clunky white van, with the load of heavy equipment packed tightly in the back, all I could muster was “What the heck was that?”
The next day I get a call from my boss Scott and he informed me that the parents loved my job and performance and threw in a hefty tip. I was delighted yet at the same time wondering if they felt embarrassed for what their kids did; the whole 'not really dancing and climbing through the fence to get to the darkened out region of the golf course to confess and kiss' thing. I didn't really care.
That sea bass was awesome.
(the guy that played "Over the Rainbow")
