Circa August, 2007: I had my first gig Saturday night. My friend DC was the headliner, and he had me out to help, get waters, cover on breaks, and make some PA-like cash. It was the kind of club where model-types and bottle service are the norm. The arrayed tables were 10″ off the ground, and walking anywhere, with purpose or not, proved dangerous. To make things worse, it was so packed inside that, quickly, I could feel the line lengthening around the block outside.
A few bars into the first song, some “Jason” strolled angrily into the futuristic dj booth. Distracted, he talked to himself with soft venom in mumbles, smoking and texting, and finally blurted exaggeratedly, “What is this.” Dude’s beard had to of come in a can.
DC said, “The Emulations on Emulate. Did you not know what music I was going to do?”
Jason was so displeased that he simply left our immediate space, only to linger nearby.
After some passive-aggressive hovering, up next with the dubious managerial staff was Anastasia, a girl trying to be so attractive she became unattractive. She promptly stomped in the little space about how we were going to be replaced. Really, she was just freaking out–”I can’t understand!”–that we were not playing early German techno with electro B-boy leanings, or some even more gross genre phrasing.
Sure enough, we were booted before we could finish the meager stack of drink tickets. Our replacement, a NY / CHI model of some party repute, had her well wishes: “Thanks for the dusty grooves!”
We got paid the full amount, and then had drinks in a Uke Village dive late into the night. I got lost on the 10-minute walk home. The check for services rendered eventually bounced.
Let it ride ride / COPYRIGHT 2011 JAMES WELLS
letitrideride 