“It’s Only A Disco” Advice From The Secret DJ

An excerpt from new book Tales From The Booth...

The life of a DJ is often smothered in hype, expectation, and the glare of the spotlight.

When the sound system powers down, however, most are pretty regular people, with flaws, fears, and insecurities just like anyone else.

The Secret DJ has helped shine a light on what life is actually like behind the scenes, with two acclaimed books lifting the lid on club culture. Switching it up, new tome Tales From The Booth uses a wide-ranging guest cast, to cover a deep variety of topics.

In this extract, the anonymous author muses on the theme of 'one big chance' – Turning Point is about the grind that leads to opportunities, and the disappointments along the way.

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I moved from West Michigan to Detroit in my late twenties, and I was really struggling. Not to find friends, not to find good music, not to be inspired, but to keep steady work.  

I'd had a track featured on a friend's compilation, and that was what inspired me to move and try to make a go of it, try to be around a bit more of the culture. But my bills went up when I went into Detroit because, believe it or not, at that time, Detroit was a more expensive place to live than where I was from. My parents were like, "why would you move to Detroit? What the hell's over there? This is the nicer side of the state."

I tried working construction and I couldn't take it. My dad had been really tough to work for, but he wasn't horrible to you. In Detroit, I ended up working for these freaks, these two brothers that were literally verbally abusing their current employee and each other and one of them was just huge, an enormous dude. I worked for two days and he kept it up for two days, so I quit.

I'd moved in with a girlfriend who had a car and the deal was like, "you keep your car, I'll get the place for us" then we broke up, and I was car-less. Detroit's not a walkable city, especially ten years ago; it was pretty desolate. You could hardly find groceries without a car. My ass wasn't downtown either. I was out off Jefferson in a slightly nicer neighbourhood, but it was right on the edge of the ghetto: lots of shootings and crazy shit. On the other hand, I'd met a few other DJs and promoters and I was going to a lot of great shows, and I felt like I most certainly wanted to stay there. I didn't want to have to go home with my tail between my legs.

Another positive was that I started going over to Berlin – and the very first time I went over there, a friend got me a gig at this club called VMF. It was a Wednesday night but it was not that quiet, actually a cool party. I came home super inspired and I started writing more music and going back to Berlin for longer stretches. I started meeting more people and got another couple of tracks released.

But things were really difficult in general. I was basically trying to piece together a career that made enough money. My rent in Detroit was only like $657. But then there were a pretty decent amount of bills on top of that too, because in Detroit, you have to pay a lot for heating and air conditioning because it gets hot and it gets cold. I was DJing quite a bit and even, travelling within the States, a few very small scale European 'tours', but I was a '$500 and a flight kind of DJ': no serious bookings. I think I played in New York, small parties in small clubs in Chicago. But really, nobody knew who I was.

I'd given myself an ultimatum: if I hadn't got my shit figured out by 30 and started making a career out of this then I was gonna consider trying to find some sort of normal employment again. And then, aged 29, I got an email from a friend, a more successful DJ who'd volunteered to act as a booking agent for me.

They wanted to book me at Fabric in London. They wanted to fly me over plus pay me £800. Not a lot, but that was back when the US dollar was half of a pound, so it was flight plus hotel and $1600 to go play at Fabric. And I was able to tell some of my close friends I'm booked at Fabric (I told my family too: they're like what's that? What's a fabric?). It was definitely a huge moment to be booked at one of dance music's meccas.

I was on cloud nine for the whole time leading up to that gig, and I worked tirelessly on my set because I was playing live. I worked day and night. I worked my ass off, and I was getting better. The set was getting better, despite not having a lot of money for great equipment to make music (a PC and the cheapest plugins) or travel with (just a pretty basic sound card and a cheap laptop) because I couldn't afford to buy anything. But I had everything set up and tested and rehearsed. I was ready.

Fabric felt like my big chance. I was playing room two, the biggest room I'd ever played. It was the most I'd ever been paid. And, obviously, I was super nervous. But I played well! I was in it and people were feeling it, and I had all my friends in the front row going crazy. The room was packed and the sound was awesome and it was going off without a hitch. I was somewhat crushing it, looking out at all these faces who were reacting to my music, my set. The work had paid off. Maybe this music thing was going to work out after all.

I played and I played and I played. And in the last five minutes of my set… 'splat'. The sound went out completely.

My cheap sound card had given out. I frantically tried to unplug and replug it. Back then, you had to reboot everything to get the computer to recognise the sound card, and it was horrendous. I couldn't get it back on in time. It felt like I was up there trying to get it turned back on for about an hour. Judy, the brilliant promotions manager from the club was over at the other booth (the DJ booth was about 30 feet from the live booth in room two) looking over at me, and I'm just looking at the computer, looking up at them and eventually I hold up my hands up in surrender. One of the legendary residents was already there too, getting ready to play after me, and thankfully with only five minutes left of my set he was ready to go. So he put a record on after that seemingly endless 'dead air', and that was it. The end.

 

I was just mortified. In Detroit, when something like that happens, people give you shit. I had played in Germany before, in small towns that aren't as like chill and artsy as Berlin and if your stuff fucks up on you during your set, the crowd and the promoter and everybody else will be like 'fucking amateur'. That's fucked, because it happens; it happens with live bands. It happens with everybody that plays music. Something can go wrong. I've seen it with some of the most expensive live acts from some of the most seasoned professionals on the planet. It's not like I'm a bass player in a band and the guitar tech could just throw me another bass. 

But I had been playing one of the better sets of my life. I'd built it up so much as a turning point in my career. I'd worked so hard to prepare. In my mind, I felt terror. Everybody was going to write me off as an artist. I just blew my chance of ever playing here ever again.

Five minutes afterwards, I was still drenched in sweat. It's a hot club, to begin with, but I was still bright red, adrenalin and shame coursing through me after that catastrophe. Mortified. Backstage, I'm packing up that bastard equipment, cursing it, feeling like the sky had fallen in, and Judy walks up to me. I start talking to her and I'm like, "You know, you flew me all the way from Detroit and I felt like everything was going so well. I'm just so sorry. I'm so sorry that I fucked it up and I'm sorry, I want to get a better sound card and a new computer. It's just this equipment is all I can afford."

But despite the fact I'm a sweaty mess, she puts her arm around my shoulder and tells me something I'll never forget.

"Darling," she says, "it's only a disco. There'll be another one."

It was the big turning point for me, that gig, but also that kindness. I felt like I was doing something right, which kicked me into high gear to stick it out. Less than a year later, everything had taken off. There were lots more gigs, at Fabric and everywhere else. It's not like I don't worry about money anymore because the music business is a bitch, but at least a year later, I could definitely tell people, you know, this is my fucking job. This is what I do, I make music and I DJ.

And also, I've seen the sound go out or the equipment fuck up at some of the world's biggest clubs and festivals. I've tried to remind younger artists that as long as they've prepared properly and they play their best, then not to worry about something that's not their fault. It's only a disco. There'll be another one.

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Tales From The Booth is out now – order it HERE.

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