To demo, or not to demo?

I've been DJing for over a decade now, and as such, have had the pleasure and the confusion of witnessing the technological changes of the art. A profession that once was entirely reliant upon vinyl moved on to CDs, opening up the world of digital downloads to DJs, and thereby inspiring the computer programs that many of us are using to mix our mp3's today. The world of the DJ has changed in a very short time and those that once said that they would never leave the old ways are being left with no choice but to play catch-up. The ability to acquire music for one-tenth - if not for free - of what it cost in its vinyl form has essentially removed many of the barriers of finding music, expanding on genres, and experimenting with new and has allowed a freedom to the DJ that once was not previously present. All of this at the expense to the record companies and to the producers.

Any of us involved in the industry know how important a demo can be to kicking off ones career. As an unknown DJ, the demo is the one thing that can represent you to a promoter or another DJ. Its hour-or-so-long contents are the only way for those that you want to impress to have any idea of what you are capable of - assuming that they take the time to listen to it. In essence, it is the only hope that you have of ever getting booked, of breaking that initial meniscus into the industry that you so long to be a part of. What I'm trying to say here is that it's damned important.

I remember a time when one of my biggest concerns when making my demos was how best to break up the 45 minutes on either side of the tape. It was always a question of whether or not to make two mini 45-minute sets - possibly boasting of two different styles of music - or if to prove that I could make a full, cohesive set from beginning to end. Did I want chance the first side of the tape running out of space while I was in the middle of mixing? Should I fade out at the end of the first side and fade it back in at the beginning of the second? Or should I let it go full blast, get cut off at the end of a side, and have the second side immediately pick up from where it stopped? These all carried the inherent worry of not paying attention and missing that the tape had stopped recording and needed to be flipped a long time ago. This happened to me on a number of occasions, but I'm probably a bit more absent-minded than most.

Making the transition from a mix-tape to CD was not an easy one for me, mainly because I never owned the technology, nor could I afford it, to do so. The best option that I had for many years was to impose myself on friends who did, and make them listen to me record, re-record, scream in frustration, and go home empty-handed (I'm a bit of a perfectionist).

Nowadays I obviously own a laptop, and even rely upon it for my DJing needs. Making a demo has become an easy undertaking, one that I can do in the time that it takes to record. There are no do-overs any longer. I decide what tracks I want to include, in what order I want them, mix them together, and presto! I have a demo. The only consideration now is whether or not it is even necessary to make one.

Gone are the days that an aspiring DJ could hand over their mix-tape to John Digweed and hope that he'd find your arrangements inspired. In these times one must produce music if you want to have the hope to mix music. Nobody is famous for being an amazing DJ anymore. There are just too many of them. To get noticed on the international market an artist must not only release music, but release a lot of it. The market is saturated with disc-jockeys. It's overrun with vinyl/mp3 junkies. It's a well established fact that turntables have long been selling faster in Europe than the guitar, so it's no wonder why it's so hard to break into this business. And the demo, my friends, no longer cuts it.

So why make a demo? Well, for one simple reason: It doesn't hurt! Because it is so competitive out there one must work all that harder, do what other DJs may not be doing, and be willing to go that cliche "extra mile." But there are other reasons as well. Do it for yourself. Do it for your love of music. Do it because at the end of the recording you'll have a good hour-and-twenty minutes of some of your favorite tunes to put in your ipod and listen to while you're at work. Do it because you just bought a bunch of tracks that you're dying to hear. Do it, for the love of Pete, because you don't have anything else to do.

Electronic music, the masses, and you.

I continue to be faced with the truth that no matter where I find myself resting my head and calling home, that everywhere else seems to be a whole heck of a lot cooler. Now, there's no doubt that Portland, OR is miles ahead of Columbia, SC (my hometown) when it comes to liberal thought, green living, and it's musicians-in-residence. And I'm very thankful to be in a place that boasts many of these things. But you know what they say, and it's true that the grass is always greener on the other side. I've found myself recently bombarded with all of the publicity of this season's music festivals -- in particular, Miami's Winter Music Conference, SXSW, and the fast approaching Coachella in Palm Springs, CA -- and wondering why it isn't that I can either be closer to one of these events, or even just be able to simply afford making the trip.

Winter Music Conference is the electronic music industry's shout-out to the world. It's the annual shenanigans of every important DJ and producer, record label, club-goer, and celebrity. If their were terrorists targeting electronic music, WMC would be their chance to strike. Where else could you find gathered the most important names in the industry, followed by every one of their fans with the money and the time to descend upon Miami for a week's worth of $20 mixed-drinks and two-hours (if any) of sleep? For years I've gazed longingly in a south-easterly direction (Oregon is in the NW and Miami, the SW. I hope that clarification wasn't necessary) across the continental U.S., sadly contemplating the mere pennies that remained in my bank account, contrasted with the exorbitant air fare. For years I've voiced just the right amount of appreciation of friends' pictures and stories of their time at the conference, all the while mentally throwing a tantrum: "Why can't I go??? Jamie got to go!! Why can't I???" Sadly, I remain in Portland with my umbrella, still ignorant to the first-hand joys of Winter Music Conference.

More recently, I was reviewing the lineup for this weekend's Coachella festivities and privately cursing my current state of economic affairs. Among this year's artists are Thievery Corporation, Gui Boratto, M.A.N.D.Y., Junior Boys, MSTRKRFT, The Crystal Method, Chemical Brothers, The Presets, The Orb, and Christopher Lawrence. And these are just a few of the electronic acts slated to play. Other artists include Paul McCartney, The Cure, Morrisey, The Killers, M.I.A., Crystal Castles, Public Enemy, The Ting Tings, and Band of Horses. This is merely a slice of the talent listed to cover the weekend, Friday through Sunday.

Seeing some of my favorite electronic music artists booked side by side with some of the world's most respected musicians does good for my pride in the electronic music world. It adds credibility to a music that, in the U.S., has typically been shoved off to the side and discounted largely as a passing fad. Music that much of the rest of the world has embraced as their most widely listened to genre has been mostly passed over here in the states. And as a DJ in a town like Portland, Oregon, this is a fact that I know well.

Not long ago I read a blog from a local 'Top-40' DJ railing against competing DJs that undercut their fellows by accepting half what their competition accepts as pay, to get the gigs that they might not have otherwise gotten. Now, besides the obvious fact that this is just the way a capitalist society operates, maintaining affordable prices for consumers, I was forced to comment on how this is largely unapplicable as it relates to the electronic music DJ in a town such as ours. Because of the sad fact that the various electronic genres are not in the mainstream and therefore do not, for the most part, pack out a large club, DJs in Portland are often giddy at the prospect of being paid anything. The idea of making the requesite $300 t0 $500 that a local mainstream DJ can expect -- and what this blogger demanded that any of them request, to maintain the status quo -- is laughable. People in Portland don't stand in line to hear local DJs playing underground house music. It doesn't happen. And the type of consumer that makes the big money for the large clubs -- the "high-rollers" -- don't want to be seen anywhere that they don't view as being the hottest spot in town. Because of the way these factors equate in to the laws of supply and demand, DJs wishing to play an underground form of music must do so with the understanding that if they want to play, they'll do so for peanuts.

This brings me back to Coachella's lineup. It's promising. It brings hope that the music that I so love will one day have its day in the spotlight. Though I continue to fight a battle for a broader recognition of this music within the town that I currently call home, with no resolution in sight, I have no choice but to stay the course. I do this not for the money, not for any sort of fame -- I'm definitely in the wrong business for that -- but for a true love of a music that has captured my imagination for the past 15 years of my life. I'll stay here on the frontlines, taking the occasional bullet, but dancing all the while to that infectious beat.

That big, blinding, yellow thing in the sky

It's back. Every year around this time it happens. That thing pokes it's giant yellow head from behind some clouds, emerging from its 6-month (or longer) hibernation, while us Portlanders peer bleary-eyed from our windows, wary of the reflective capacity of the current state of our skin. That piercingly bright disk of life, that harbinger of summer, that overall tease at this time of year; it changes things.

It never stays long this time of year, but makes the population of Portland into a proverbial Elmer Fudd, constantly in search of that elusive prize, chasing the rabbit down its hole, and in the end being made a fool of, yet again. Two days of sunshine and before you know it, the inhabits of this humble city are rushing off to buy bathing suits, shorts and skirts, beach towels, sun-block, frisbees, Bob Marley CD's, and a new, inconspicuous bowl/bong. Signs of spring in Portland: a) Hundreds of people crowding the waterfront promenade, b) most of which are shirtless (the guys) and blindingly pasty (everyone). How do I know these things? Dammit, I'm a Portlander. At the first sign of sunlight -- the real thing, mind you; not that filtered, partly-cloudy crap -- I'm there with the rest of them, at the waterfront on a jog, dodging around those pale bodies like some vitamin D-deprived version of Frogger.

For a time, everyone is all smiles and nods, possessing of a bounce in their step, and just all-around giddy. Moods are lifted, money is more likely to be spent, and the sidewalks are crowded with pedestrians -- usually wearing less than the temperature might actually call for. But this never lasts. Not this time of year. The sun plays a game of cat-and-mouse with Portland; elusive, incredibly tempting and desirable, but fleeting and constantly out of reach of any lasting relationship with it's consumers.

The upside of the whole ordeal, however, is that the trees are boasting some green, the dogwoods are blooming, and the air has that special smell to it that it can only possess this time of year. And most importantly, we Portlanders know that 3 to 4 months of pure, sunny bliss are laying just right around the corner, waiting to be basked within. If only that didn't have the effect of making us all that more impatient for that time to arrive...