DJ Eighties. (part one)

'DJ Qbert has won, like, all these awards everywhere, he's awesome.'

'Yeah, what awards?'
'Says Who?'
'Lemme guess, The Yarmouth DJ World Championships'
'Did he make them in his basement?'

'I'm serious in like 92 to 94 he won DJ of the year and shit.'

'So your paying 20 bucks to see some DJ from the eighties. Maybe he's a little past his prime. pass.'
'pass.'
'pass.'
'20 bucks. no way.'

It was a feeding frenzy. I didn't really know what I was talking about. All I did was read the poster. I didn't even read it well. I guess I should say I skimmed it. They could smell blood. They ate me alive. Mostly, my Hip-Hop-hipest friend Jamie told me it would be good and reminded me that he released a CD bundled with DJ Shadow's Preemptive Strike. Let me just say I would wet myself if I could see Shadow. During my utter defeat on the battlefield of musical credibility and subsequent razzing, I knew, now I HAD to go. No choice, it was a certainty. I only hope was that I'd be laughing last. Shit. Who is this joker anyway? I started to get nervous.

Not nervous enough not to lay out 40 bucks for a couple tickets the next day.

'Who'd you sucker into see DJ eighties? Ha Ha Ha.'
'Ulo... and hey, I didn't SUCKER him, he's into it.'

But I gotta say I was happy to have him on side. I didn't know a soul who was going. Except for Jamies' 'maybe... if I get off work in time,' which was a little unsettling. I haven't ever heard a damn thing he has done. And forking over 20 bucks to stand alone in a mostly empty bar, hollow with the sounds of 'DJ Eighties' echoing my defeat in my ears, inescapably. Well let's just say the idea of it was, well, disquieting. Hasty, ill-conceived, sucker-born every minute, load-mouth, idiot, acting the fool, looking the fool, feeling the fool, being the fool.

This may turn into a three-ring circus of failure, I really hope not. I really didn't really want to be a part of that, really. really. really. I feel so lame the only word I can say is 'really' about the whole thing. It was the answer to every question in my head for two days, it was the symbolic definition of my doubt, my fears.
he sucks. really?
he's good. really?
what if it sucks. I really hope it doesn't
what it's good. I really hope he is.
Is he good? I really think so.
Is he really crappie and eighties? I really don't think so, do you really think they'd say those things about him if he really didn't do them, really?

I hated the word, I was saying it obsessively it seemed to represent the very real possibility of failure. All I had was faith. I'm doomed.

I said it too much. The word lost all meaning. And what a Lame word, I mean really, does really, really mean anything really. Bland. Useless. To me, it utterly defined my weakness, my approaching failure, my foolish big mouthed boob-boobery.

(to be continued)


Today's Song of the Day is "Building Steam With A Grain Of Salt" by DJ Shadow off his 1996 debut album "Endtroducing ...."

Crazy Fact: In 1995 "What Does Your Soul Look Like," topped the British indie charts. The crazy thing is it's 40-minutes long.

njoy