2006-06-21
everybody wants to be a DJ
We cruised down Washington Avenue--me in my old-school pink checkerboard Vans, Thayer on his longboard, surfing the concrete on wheels. It was a warm night with nothing to do...so we followed our ears to a hollow beat leaking from this bank-like building at the end of the block.
We peeked through the window, straining like weeds, nearly knocking it to the ground. The cavernous room was splattered with graffiti. Thayer said it had something to do with a car company.
"They're doing free shows," he said.
"Who? The cars?"
"Yo, that's DJ Swamp," said Thayer, pressing against the glass. "What a freak."
"What's he doing? Raising the dead?"
DJ Swamp wore a monk's robe and a permanent smirk. He slid his shifty eyes over the crowd before hitting the turntable. Beats spewed out in aneurysm-inducing volumes. His timing was perfect, juggling LPs and swinging his neglected hair. He scratched with one hand, then no hands, dragging his nose across the record.
I watched him scramble onto the table, hands outstretched as if he could fly. Then he leaped into the startled crowd of wannabe B-boys. After a few seconds of jittery moshing, he hit the floor with a cartoony thunk. No matter. He got back on the table and did it again.
"He's insane in the membrane," said Thayer.
Swamp got back to business. For his finale, he scratched multiple LPs, stacked pancake-style on top of each other. He tossed them like frisbees, exposing more layers beneath the pile.
This went on until he reached the last record and smashed it to bite-sized bits. When the power sizzled out, Swamp glanced up, looking hollow-eyed. He broke into a sly rap, mumbling about how everybody wants to be a DJ these days.
He was right.
f-i-n at 6:14 p.m.