Portland Fashion Week

I stumbled into Portland Fashion Week about three years ago. A friend of mine, a talented DJ and a hell of a guy, was DJing the runway shows for the event's third year. He brought me on board to DJ after the runway shows, while people were still loitering about having drinks. I was a bit apprehensive, mainly because I can barely dress myself in the morning, but agreed to it nonetheless. In the least, there were free drinks and people prettier than myself (not much of a stretch, eh?) to look at. So I signed up, saw some free runway shows from a great vantage point, drooled a bit at the models, had a beer or three, and played some tunes for some fashionistas. Not a bad day's work.

One of the executive producers (does one add a caps to such titles? Editors, please weigh in) took a liking to my ragtag collection of tunes and took my card. I saw him around town a number of times after, usually at random places crazy enough to book me, did my normal shmoozing and ass kissing, and eventually formed a friendship. To be honest, I didn't even have any scheme in mind at the time. He just seemed like a cool, down to earth cat (especially for the work that he was involved with) and certainly not a bad person to know.

One year later I was DJing my first runway shows.

I have to be honest here. Even after over a decade behind the tables, this was still a daunting undertaking. Typically, if I screw up a set in one way or another, it's usually in a manner that nobody notices and, if they do, I make some smart-ass, self-deprecating remark that excuses it, or at least pokes fun at me, and then continue about my business without a care in the world. This, however, was a whole other creature.

The runway show is not about the music -- though it is an important ingredient. The runway show is the chance for the designer to preview their collection for the upcoming season or year to magazines, buyers, and other fashion-minded individuals. The runway show is their moment, not mine. So I knew that if I screwed it up, it wasn't just a "ha ha, oops!" moment, but something bigger than myself. This time I was being depended upon to be professional, talented, quick-thinking, fast moving, confident, and capable. Normally, this would be no issue. But being out of my comfort zone, in a world entirely out of my experience, I was thrown off my game just a bit.

Tack on to this the fact that I was playing music entirely different than that in my more-than-a-decade of experience and you've got yourself a recipe for an ulcer. In fact, the day of the first show, I woke up with a crick in my neck entirely due to stress. I called into work that day and spent the afternoon on my couch relaxing and massaging myself (as well as praying for mercy) and was miraculously fine by show time that evening.

Each designer is different. Each clothing line is different. The music for each show is different. Basically, the designers either request specific songs (fine by me) or give me general descriptions of how they see their clothing, hoping that I'll be able to match music to that. This isn't the easiest thing to accomplish, largely because of the dynamic nature of communication. Words carry different meanings for different people. Music is much the same. People interpret the meaning of music differently. Every experience is unique. So finding music that fits in these scenarios leads to long chains of emails that later become hard to follow, leading to more miscommunication and possibly the wrong songs being played.

Last year things went well, for the most part. The only hitch in the road occurred on the very first night, with two designers that had very, very specific music requests. One designer's line can only be described as vaudevillian. Her music that accompanied it was exceptionally fitting and sounded like Tom Waits had taken a bad hit of acid and joined the circus. Not something I normally would have a) owned, or b) known how to even find. Fortunately, she was able to send me the tracks that she wanted.

The other designer was a little older, in her mid-fifties I'd guess. Her line was sophisticated and chic. She described it as being "50's era London." And, understandably, she felt that the Beatles and some older Rolling Stones would be a great fit. After seeing her line, I was forced to agree.

The error came when the schedule of designers that I had before me was incorrect. One designer got another's music, and vice versa. Certainly, given the contrast of these two images, you can imagine exactly how big of an issue this might have been. And if you take a moment to consider the personality of these designers, based upon these designs and music choices, you might get an idea of the reaction that each designer gave. The more whimsical, theatrical designer had a good laugh at my expense after I bought her a drink, and that was the end of it. The other, I spent the rest of the evening, as well as the after party, liquoring up before she'd forgive me.

Regardless, this occurrence on my very first night of DJing a scenario entirely foreign to me made me more than a little insecure about my performance. But, I rose to the challenge and made certain not to make the same mistake twice. This year I took those lessons and made good use of them, even making spread sheets for each night with a list of designers, their music preferences, and their line-up. This certainly lubricated the process and helped me to feel more prepared (especially with one year under my belt) and confident. The largest lessons I've learned from DJing these shows is that you can never be too prepared and that you really have to move quickly. And the best preparation you can have is to make certain, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that you have plenty of music. It's hard to judge how long a runway show for a particular designer will last. And if they've made very specific song selections, you can't just choose anything from your music library if you realize that you don't have enough to fill their show. You need to have at least two back ups. It's either that, or the vibe of the show changes entirely if you don't already have something lined up. Or (and I hope this never happens to me or anyone else out there) white noise on the runway. Talk about awkward silences...

I've made it through another year unscathed. I've had another year to confirm my own lack of style and awkward bearing, while watching those who've always glided through life, glide before my DJ booth and at the after parties. I'm given flashbacks to every middle-through-high school dance I've ever attended. As I once stood uncomfortably in the corner, I at least now stand awkwardly in the midst of things, finally comfortable with the fact I'll never fit in. You'd think the "master of ceremonies," the runway DJ, the music director for this world-renowned fashion event would be more in the thick of things. In reality, I find myself more of a contrast to that world -- charismatic and outgoing, it's true, but not exactly a part of this glitzy, glamorous lifestyle.

I am, and will continue to be honored to be a part of such an event. I will continue to give it my utmost attention and focus, while bringing all of my considerable talent in this field to my responsibilities of this show. But I imagine that I will continue to find humor and irony in the image of a Target-clad DJ of Portland Fashion Week.

For more info on the show, go here: www.PortlandFashionWeek.net

The worst night of my life -- and hers...

"It's only grass!" And then she took a running step, a stumble, an audible gasp, and disappeared into the darkness.

We were at the rented house on the coast, celebrating the wedding of two good friends, the groom being her brother. The house was situated at the top of a hill above the coast, offering a terrific view of the ocean and surrounding beaches. Visiting from NJ for the wedding, she'd never yet set foot onto the Oregon beach at night. Before going to bed -- or likely passing out after a day of celebration -- she asked that I follow up on an earlier suggestion, that we step out to the beach at some point in the night.

We were following what appeared to be a graveled, tiered path between the house and it's neighbor, heading to what looked like a way down towards the beach. I was providing a muted light from my cell phone to the lip of the hill. As we neared, I saw that we were higher than first supposed, and that the apparent path came to an end. I mentioned this, thinking we were thwarted. But the soft, tall grass in front of us gave her confidence, apparently leading her to believe that is was an easy grade down. Then the darkness swallowed her. And the nightmare began.

I called into the darkness, yelling her name, hoping to hear her reply -- a reply I fully expected to be filled with pain, but it'd be a reply nonetheless.

"Kelli!! KELLI!!!" The only reply was the sound of the waves and the wind whipping my calls back into my face.

Should I go back and get help? Or should I follow her, possibly injuring myself and being no help to either one of us? I settled for the latter, hoping that perhaps the drop wasn't as bad as I feared, that she was merely stunned, that I'd find her with a twisted ankle and help her hobble back up. So with the light from my phone before me, I thrusted myself through the grass and almost immediately discovered the truth of matters.

I had taken a couple of steps, finding that the grass was misleading and that it was almost an immediate drop-off. My foot finding only air, it was merely the tough coastal grass that I was clutching in my other hand that held me back. I held the light down and my stomach dropped. Below me lay a sharp descent of nothing but boulders, at least 30 feet to the beach. And nowhere could I see her, hear her, or find any sign of the person that had just disappeared.

As quick as I possibly could, without killing myself, I dropped from boulder to boulder, always with the light before me, frantically searching, fearing more than anything finding the twisted form of the person I had only met hours before. And then I saw her -- the bottom of her foot, that is. She lay where she had fallen, face down, her head and upper body wedged down a crevasse, impossibly upside down, inert, immobile, and showing no signs of life. She had fallen, face first, 25 feet into these rocks and had incredibly landed in this unnatural position, completely head down into this crack between boulders that became narrower the deeper it went.

I was certain from her stillness and awkward position that she couldn't be alive.

I finally made it to her. Praying with every ounce of my breathing I knelt next to her and gently layed a hand onto her back. She was breathing! She wouldn't respond, but I could hear her breath, consistently becoming more labored, and sounding like someone blowing bubbles in their soda with a straw.

I knew there was no way anybody would have heard my cries for help. I also knew I couldn't leave her -- not like this. Calling 911 was the obvious option, but I didn't know where in the hell I was. But then I remembered having put the name of the street we were on into the maps on my phone earlier that evening, after the reception. "Just look for the cars," they had told me. So I had no address, but at least someplace to start.

I placed the call. "YES, THIS IS AN EMERGENCY!" was all I could say to the posed question. I immediately rushed into it -- I didn't know exactly where I was but for the street name. I was on this rocky slope by the beach, she had fallen, she wasn't responding.

"No, I know I shouldn't move her, but there's fluid in her breath and she's upside down!"

Her breathing was becoming worse. Each breath was accompanied with what only could be described as a growl, each one more pronounced than the one before. I began to realize that this was a sign of her coming into consciousness, the sounds of the intense pain that she must be in. Soon after she began to respond to me, but not in any intelligible manner. All I could tell her was that they were coming, they'd be hear, to stay calm, and most importantly, do not move!

I was on hold with the 911 operator as they made the dispatch, accompanied by the whimpers and cries of this poor girl, oddly accentuated by the sounds of the waves behind me. The beauty of the night was breathtaking, the wind was strong and crisp, and the stars -- so many stars! --were blinking above us in their silent home in the heavens. It seemed so unreal, so unfair that this testimony to a higher power, this portrait of His creation, was all that played witness to what was transpiring below. I can't tell you how long we waited; she fading in and out of consciousness and me with a constant prayer, apologies, and futile attempts at comfort on my lips.

My battery was dying on my phone, so the operator disconnected with me to save it's battery. He told me that they were at the top of the bluff, to look for their light, and to call him back if I didn't see them. A beam penetrated the darkness, I frantically began yelling, waving my arms, willing them to see me. The light stuck me, we were seen, and they slowly started to pick their way to us.

During the eternity that I felt like we had waited for them to arrive, she had been doing her best to extricate herself from her position -- an impossible task. She ignored my supplications to stay still, that it might make things worse, all the while pleading for me to help, to get her out. It tore at my heart being unable to help her, to only try and comfort her, and clearly, understandably failing. She wanted so badly to be moved and there was nothing that I could do but sit there helplessly, knowing that if I touched her, if her neck or back were broken, I might paralyze her. But she kept trying, and I kept begging her to stop. Her efforts had only made to worsen her situation and to wedge her more tightly. And still she begged me to help.

When finally the paramedics arrived they had to call for more help. The Fire Department was needed. There was no way of moving her out of that crack, and they could only see to remove the boulders. What transpired next was a horrible time of waiting for more help, of watching them chip away at the basalt, to realize that if they moved one boulder, the next larger boulder would come loose and fall on top of her. They had no choice but to maneuver her out of there, all the while praying that there were no spinal injuries that might be exacerbated by the process.

Her shirt was ripped and part of one breast was revealed. I overheard one of the cops ask another, "Dude, did you see her boob?"

I looked at him. "WHAT did you say??!!"

He looked back at me, full in the face, paused, and holding my gaze in a manner that made it clear that I had no right to question him, that I couldn't begin to be a consideration, simply said "nothing," and turned away.

One of the paramedics was assessing her as best he could from her upside-down, pretzel like position. He placed a hand on her back and asked if she could feel it. She didn't respond and I froze in fear. Then he pinched her at the top of her thigh and asked if she could feel it. She could and relief immediately washed over me.

As her head finally emerged an hour after the respondents had first arrived, I breathed my third thanks to the heavens. She was covered in blood and it was impossible to tell from where it all came. I couldn't see through it to discover if she had any head injuries, but she was answering their questions despite being obviously dazed. They got her in the collar to protect her cervical spine and strapped her into the back board. Then they began the ascent.

I was walking with the officers up the slope and met her younger brother. They had all been totally unaware of what had been going on. They could see the emergency response vehicles, but they were parked a few houses over, so had no suspicions that they were there for anyone in our party. Her brother had come out to investigate, had seen the orange of her shirt as she disappeared into the ambulance, and rushed over to find out what was going on. As I told him that his sister had fallen down this cliff, that she was badly hurt, I finally broke down.

The cops were asking me if we had fought previously that evening. Their intentions were clear. I assured them that, no, we had not fought. They then confirmed that she had said that I had not pushed her. It seemed absurd, but I knew that they had to ask.

They took her first to Lincoln City Hospital and then transferred her to Emmanuel in Portland. Her injuries included two broken wrists, a broken jaw, three broken ribs, a lacerated liver, and three lost front teeth. Amazingly, these were the worst of her injuries. I can't imagine how she'll feel, waking up to the reality of what had happened. But I can only thank God that things weren't worse, that her head and spine were intact, that her pelvis wasn't broken in half as I had feared, and that amazingly, she had her life.

And now I need the sleep that I didn't get last night.

Evan Alexander - The Expressions Sessions - Winter 09 Demo by evanalexander

Evan Alexander - The Expressions Sessions - Winter 09 Demo  by  evanalexander

The Reblog gets an identity. And the demo gets worked over.

For some time now I have pondered over something. I’ve mulled it over, cogitated on it, and have done my damnedest to rationalize it. But there’s really no getting around it: Blogging, it occurs to me, is really about as self-indulgent an undertaking that you could ask for. Really, think about it. Here I sit on my balcony, a glass of wine in front of me, a cigar protruding from the corner of my mouth (and surely sickening the inhabitants of the apartment of above me), unprepared to call it a night, and forcing you poor people to read yet another rant of mine. And here’s the really egomaniacal part: I’m fully assuming that you are doing just that. I have the audacity to believe – to be convinced of the fact – that you find my silly ramblings entertaining enough to follow. Egotistical, isn’t it?

And the worse part about it is that I’m going to re-Blog. Yup, you read me: re-Blog. I’ve hereby coined the term. And if I’m remembered for nothing else (likely nothing at all), then at least I’ll claim this.

So, a number of weeks back (a page-and-a-half, in “blog years”) I wrote about the importance – or lack thereof – of DJs creating demos. And, in being consistent with my nature, I used a lot of words to say a lot that amounted to nothing. Basically, the message was this: Do what makes you happy. Make a damned demo if you want. I don’t know that it’ll get you anywhere – because, sadly it’s all about who you know these days – but it sure as hell doesn’t hurt. And at the end of the day, you’ll at least have an hour and a half of tunes that you want to hear. And I guess that was really the point I wanted to make: Do it for you, if for no one else.
But I’m revisiting this previous musing for other reasons. I decided to come back to this because these days, in the Digital Age, you have the world at your fingertips. The idea of the Global Village – the idea of Marshall McLuhan’s that the Internet has created a culture that crosses all physical and geographical bounds – has been increasingly realized through social networking. Such sites as Myspace, Facebook, and Twitter have put us in touch with individuals in other countries, cultures, and hemispheres of whose influence we may never have had the privilege to encounter.

And this is really important!

The world is growing smaller, and for the better.

Here’s where this all ties in to the demo. It really isn’t just a demo. What it is, this thing you create, is a hallmark to what you love. What this recording can be is a voice, an identity, to you, the unnamed, unknown, unrecognized maestro of techno. And sure, it may just be an artfully mixed collection of other peoples’ music. But what are we, if not glorified, walking, beat-matching jukeboxes? Your voice comes from the fact that you obviously love what you’re doing. You took the time to sift through the countless tunes out there. You took the time to find the few that you found amazing. You then took the time to figure out how to best meld those pieces together to create a story line. Your story line! And tell me what this story line is, if not the most romantic, twisted, tormented, and yet joyful story line ever told? Because, have you not spent countless hours, closeted and sequestered in your bedroom, fighting the desperation, the discouragement, and the disappointment to figure out just how those damned beats are supposed to match up? This then, my friends, is truly a labor of love. This then, puts Pygmalion and all of his labors to shame. Because what he sought, his fruitless toil, was a love that would never speak back.

Yours does.

I was struck with the need to make another demo, another recording, a pooling of musics this evening when, on my Facebook, of all things, I realized that there were “friends” of mine there, friends in Panama that I had never, would have never met, unless they shared the same love. I realized that certain friend requests that I had received were because they had somehow, through the web of this Global Village, followed the threads and found their way to me. And, because we share nothing else in common, I can only believe that the music – always the music! – brought us together.

It speaks across national, ethnic, and religious boundaries. It is a language that is comprehensible to all. It’s universal, this electronic music, because no matter what country you find yourself in, no matter the native tongue, you can find yourself in a club dancing to the exact same tunes that you might be dancing around in your bedroom to back home. Clubs in China are playing it. Clubs in Argentina are playing it. Clubs in Germany, Damascus, Israel, Egypt, London, Russia, and Australia – they’re all playing it. What else do these people share in common, besides the basic building blocks of which we’re made? We’re children of the music, brought together to dance, gyrate, celebrate, and rejoice in this thing of ours. We find a family, our global family, in this electronic parent. It’s always teaching us, showing us that things can be better, helping us through the sick times, the sad times, the poor times, and the alone times. It’s what we turn to when things aren’t going well, and to celebrate when they are. It’s reliable, this music, because though it’s always changing and evolving, it’s always there for us.

And so I reblog. I say what I’ve said before, with some stress on some different ideas of what the demo means in the Digital Age. Because of the extensive reach of the internet, you never quite know who will hear your music – or what it’ll mean to them. Your audience could be a network that reaches across the oceans, is picked up by some kid needing something to listen to while doing homework, is downloaded by a woman at work needing a way to break the monotony, or is streamed by some unknown fan in the coffee shop that they’re working at in another continent, forcing all of the customers to enjoy what you have done, alone, in your bedroom.

The possibilities are endless; full of potential and unexplored applications. The internet is just there, waiting for some lucky, creative individual, such as yourself, to put it to use in ways that nobody has yet used it. Go forth, mix your music, and share it with the masses!

This year's Fire line-up just keeps getting more massive...

For more information and downloadable DJ mixes, head to http://pdxfireproductions.com/

Don't kill your radio...

Often, the necessity of a certain type of music in the clubs causes others to be overlooked, sidestepped, and left along the way. There is such a great deal of music out there that is of excellent quality, thoughtfully produced, forward-thinking, boundary-pushing, and wholly unique. So why is all of this quality stuff going unplayed? Sadly, much of it is of the deeper persuasion; introspective and too sophisticated to qualify as a dead-on dance floor tool. I've noticed -- sometimes discovered the hard way -- that sometimes the music that gets people dancing, at least "the masses," is often very simply of the "in-your-face" variety. The tracks that people often dance to most are the ones that they know, that they recognize from the radio, and that they can sing along too (the girls, at least). They just need a moving rhythm, and bassline that shakes the spaces between their bones, and some melody to raise their hands in the air to.

And the other stuff just sits in your record box, unplayed, unheard, and unappreciated.

So what's the solution? Protonradio.com. Friskyradio.com. Internet radio, in general, is the salvation for the music that might not otherwise see the light of day; the music too good to be played in the clubs, too smart to grow outside of a small niche, too damned intelligent for most of the Mcdonald's-consuming American population. We are, after all, a country that wants to only consume what others are consuming, to conform, and to follow the accepted template of what's "good." Why else could Starbucks intentionally burn their beans, to create a flavor that would be recognizable across the board, and have it be considered the model of what coffee should be? Ever wonder why the music eschewing from your radio all sounds strangely similar? There's a damned good reason.

So turn to the internet, my friends! Turn to a broadcast that is not commercially supported, that is able to make available a form of music that isn't massly consumed. Your friendly internet radio broadcast can save your work day, a relaxed gathering of friends, or an evening at home. It can save the producers smart enough, creative enough, and brave enough to step out of the commercial bonds and flex their underground muscle.

Tune in and enjoy.

Reading me is like banging your head against the wall.

- Written on my flight back to Portland yesterday (6/29/09) -

I did it. At the time, I don’t know what else I could have done. I said goodbye to my dad this morning (for the last time?) and boarded a flight back to Portland. I left the man lying there, his future uncertain, and walked away, leaving a larger piece of my heart behind me with every step. I could feel the evidence of this as it almost got easier, the farther away from him that I got, like there was progressively, exponentially, less of it there to feel that raw, tearing pain. And now? Now it’s a vacuum. there is a dull ache that exists there in that space, but its an ache that’s akin to that “phantom” pain of which you hear amputees so often speak.

It’s ridiculous. I feel like a 12 year-old girl, pining over her lost “lover” – that popular kid who ditched her for her best friend because she was an easier lay. People lose loved ones all of the time – and I haven’t even yet lost anyone – but here I am, forcing you poor people to read my “woe-as-me” writings, wallowing like there’s no hope in the world.

I don’t really feel that way, like some poor sap, wallowing in his misery. But like I stated in a previous post, when I hurt, I hurt. I embrace the pain, talk about it, share it, and write about it. And I might drink a lot. Because that’s how I best deal with it. And what is a blog, if not a journal of sorts – albeit a publicly accessible one? So here it is, people, my whining, pining, and crying, shamelessly (shamefully?) displayed here for you to either peruse and possibly even get something out of, or to just be skipped over to see what the stalker-feeds are saying on Facebook.

It’s funny, though, what acute pain can do for my appreciation of all that is good in life. For instance, no matter what the outcome with my father, to be completely honest, I am thankful – giddy even – to have had this man a part of my life. Certainly, we’ve had some troubles (like two stubborn rams, repeatedly butting each other in the head, as rams are wont to do). But that’s what happens when parents do their job. They aren’t always the good guy. They aren’t always fun. And if they are either, then they’re likely to one day inform you – in front of a live studio audience – that they’ve been sleeping with your lover. Ain’t daytime television grand?

At the times of the worst pain in my life, the little things come into focus. Usually, these are the obvious (but not any less important for being so) things, like a roof over my head, a meal in my belly, or even the heat running on a cold winter night. I pass enough bodies huddled in a doorway on my walk to work in the morning to appreciate the validity of this. And quite often, at the forefront of such thoughts, are my parents. How else would I have made the steps in my life that have allowed me to afford such amenities on my own? Who else would have supported the decisions that I’ve made that haven’t been obvious and glaring fuck-ups? And, who else would have, at times, allowed me to make those more knuckleheaded decisions in hopes that this notoriously hard head of mine might actually absorb some sort of lesson – and then be there for me to help me to put the pieces back together.

When I tell you, any of you that continue to read my self-indulgent rantings (likely, you have nothing better to do, or you’re punishing yourself for some unnamed crime), that I am thankful – grateful to the depths of my core – of the options that have been made available to me, of the small comforts that I enjoy, and of those in my life that I call family and friends, you bet yer ass that I mean it.

The Old Guy and I

We like wine and cigars...

Should I Stay, or Should I Go?

6/28/09 - 2:00 a.m.

I said that I was lost once. I seem to have found my way deeper into the woods, no compass at hand, and the light of day dying quickly. Strangely, though things aren’t necessarily worse for my dad, his continuing, non-changing state has brought me to a crossroads. The old man has forced a decision upon me. And it very well may be the hardest, most weighted, and potentially scarring decision of my life.

Despite the moments of excitement – the moments of spiked heart rate, blood pressure, irregular breathing, etc. – the old fart hasn't really had much of a change. Two weeks the guy has been laying there, pneumonia using his lungs as a time-share getaway, keeping him in a place of uncertainty. It seems the longer that he is there, the more complications that arise simply from his being there. The nurses have to turn him every two hours just to keep his lungs from being too stagnant and allowing that infection to fester – though it’s already spread from his left lung into his right, and even become worse in that right lung. He’s seen complications from needing to receive fluids and meds, causing fluid that his liver hasn’t been able to process to collect in his tissue and lungs. Now his heart is having a harder time working, because that very same fluid is causing it stress – the cause of Friday morning’s A-phib and V-tach episodes.

Yet, overall, the old guy maintains a stability that I am thankful for.

No news is good news…?

Meanwhile, here I am, short on money, essentially living off of my brother and sister-in-law (God bless them), missing work and gigs (I’m not worried about the DJing so much as I am about the paycheck from doing so), neglecting my diva of a cat, and just not keeping up with my overall responsibilities. And I know what you’re going to say: “These things aren’t nearly as important as your father.”

Believe me, I know this.

But the reality of the situation that I’m in, that my father is in, is that this could be something that carries on for weeks. I flew out here, to South Carolina, as quickly as I did because at the moment the reports from the physicians were more dire. At the time there was talk of removing part of his lung. At the time, surgery was more than likely, and it wasn’t going to be a surgery that they felt confident that he would make it through. At the time, I was prepared to have him not make it until I got here.

I can’t tell you how thankful that I am for this ‘holding pattern.’ It means that things haven’t changed for the worse. It means that my dad is fighting. It means that, for the moment, I’m not attending a funeral. But it also means that while my dad is off in tralala-land, doing a dance with his morphine, the rest of us are developing ulcers. It means that now I’m forced to decide whether or not I should return to Portland.

And my greatest fear right now must be obvious: I return to Portland, my dad dies.

There it is, the plain and skinny of it. The practical thing to do is to go home. There’s nothing that I can do here. And to be honest, one thing that I can say for certain is that I know my dad would want me to go home. That’s just the kind of guy he his. And that’s why he’s such a good dad. And that’s why it’s even harder to think about leaving. But all I want to do is sit by his bed and hold his hand. I want to stroke that bald head (he says his hair has fallen off of his head and onto his back). I want feel his warmth and know that he is still alive. Because now that I’ve felt his warmth, held his hand, and kissed his head, I'm addicted. He's become my crack. And, like any respectable crack-addict, the fear that I might not be able to get my fix again is too much to bear.

But you see? This is all about me. This isn’t now about any good that I’m doing for my dad. I’ve told you, he’d want me to go home. I know that he knows that I’ve been here. I’ve seen proof of him responding to me. I know that he knows that I love him, am proud of him, look up to him, count on him, respect him, and thank God for him. And I know that he’s proud of me, loves me, and thanks God for me. I don’t need any reconciliation with that. I just need my dad back.

So, at this time I don’t know what I’m going to do, outside of, at least, starting to look at the availability of airline tickets. I suppose that if I turn up in Portland, looking somewhat relaxed, then you know things are looking up. But if you find me in a gutter there, missing a shoe, and slightly amnesiac, then you might not need to check this blog for what the outcome may have been.

Please keep us in your prayers.

His Hand

6/27/09

It’s strange holding his hand. Strange, yet comforting. He’s a strong guy and has always been like a rock; unmovable and sturdy, comforting, steady, and constant. He’s always been there. No matter what I’ve been going through, how hard of a moment in my life I’ve been having, I’ve always been able to stop and thank God that when it came down to it, I had nothing to worry about – that my dad was there if I truly needed anything. This knowledge, coupled with any hardships that I was facing, has honed a constant state of gratitude in my life. I’ve known that if I couldn’t handle something, that there was this boulder to lean on, to rest my back against, and gather the strength to go back out there and give it another go.

But now, when I hold that strong hand, it doesn’t hold me back. Its strength is dormant and quiet. I can feel it lying beneath that swollen skin, unused and inaccessible. But it doesn’t reassure me. If it weren’t for its warmth (and how reassuring that warmth!) it would be entirely lifeless, this hand. So it’s strange, still comforting somehow, knowing that it’s my strong, constant, reliable dad, feeling his warmth and the familiarity of his touch. But I’ve never had that hand not touch me back.

Take Two Steps Forward, Two Steps Back...

6/26/09

We had a setback this morning. Sometime in the early hours, my dad went from being stable to not-so-stable. I’m told that he had ventricular tachycardia (V-tach) and atrial fibrillation (A-Fib), as well as pulmonary edema (fluid in his lungs). The a-fib is apparently less worrisome; a flutter in the upper ventricals of his heart. Short-lived, it wasn’t life threatening – though if it were to continue, it would be more of a worry. The V-tach, however, can be something else entirely. As stated by wikipedia:

“Ventricular tachycardia (V-tach or VT) is a tachycardia, or fast heart rhythm, that originates in one of the ventricles of the heart. This is a potentially life-threatening arrhythmia because it may lead to ventricular fibrillation and sudden death.”

“Life-threatening.” These words weigh on me. The cardiologist says that V-tach and A-fib aren’t abnormal in someone as sick as my dad, and therefore not as worrisome, and may be expected to occur again – still… “life-threatening.” The V-tach may have been a result of the pulmonary edema, I’m told. The edema itself appears to be the result of all of the fluids that he’s on. His liver isn’t processing these fluids fast enough, and so it’s going to other parts of his body: his tissue spaces (resulting in his puffy, bloated appearance) and now his lungs. He’s on meds to help counter these effects, but nonetheless, the effects remain.

They’ve stabilized him, yet again. He’s here, in front of me, handsome as ever – if still bloated – sick, and still very much in danger of losing this battle. I can’t get past the words of the cardiologist: “I can’t say he’ll come back.” Come back? He hasn’t left yet, but I understand the insinuation. His unconscious state is a result of the medication that they have him on, to keep him sedated. So, it’s not like he’s in a coma. He’s not in a comatose state, unresponsive, and possibly never coming out of it. We could easily wake him if we so chose. Just start pulling back the medication and he’d be bound to come around. But we can’t do that. He can’t breathe on his own properly. He needs that plastic tube snaking down his throat and helping him to get all of the oxygen that his body needs. And in a wakened state, he’d fight that tube – as would anyone.

So we’re back in this state of waiting. We’re in this ‘holding pattern,’ unable to move forward, and praying that we don’t again move back. It’s up to him now; him and the antibiotics that haven’t yet made their presence apparent in his system and in his progress (or lack of one). He lays there unconscious, but not comatose, the battle raging within invisible to those who love him, standing on the sidelines silently cheering through our tears.

I Saw My Dad

6/24/09

I saw my Dad today. It was the hardest thing that I think I’ve ever done. The man lay there, three chest tubes no longer draining fluid (though they gathered 10 liters on the first day), endotracheal tube helping him breathe, central line providing him with the necessary fluids and meds, and a catheter giving him a place to do what he’d normally do standing up. This was my father; a healthy man in his early sixties – not that old, really – vibrant, intelligent, sharp, strong-willed, and possessed with an overwhelmingly positive outlook on life. But here he was: unconscious, breathing with the help of a machine, taking nutrition through a tube, and heaven only knows whether he was aware of my presence or not, despite the assurance from the nurse that he did.

The last time that I saw this guy he was laughing heartily, full of mirth and a zest for life. He normally has a twinkle in his eye – be it humor, mischief, or even tenderness – that speaks of so much of his vitality and youth, despite his age. A shorter man in stature, his physical strength and presence of character (read absolute sweetness) make him a definite warmth in any room. He’s a man that is quick of reflex – so strong and fast that he’d have me flat on my back and screaming uncle if such were his inclination. But this man, my dad, may be the gentlest of beings you ever met. His heart, the one whose beats are being measured by the machines to which he is hooked, is enormous, warm, deep and strong. The man’s a damned teddy bear. And it kills me seeing his strength being tried like this.

The first time I approach him, see him in this state, I do the obvious: I break down crying, sobbing, snot hanging from my nose, and tears streaming down my face. I’m standing there, looking down on this person who has been a source of immeasurable support and comfort for me, now relying on something with a plug to keep him alive, and a hole opens up inside of me. My chest caves in with grief and hopelessness. What the hell am I going to do without him? What if he doesn’t make it? I’m lost. Like never before, I’m lost.

I’m holding his head, stroking his arm, and my brother is in the background describing his medicine, what it means, what the pumps are doing, and why he’s swollen in appearance (edema, or fluid underneath his skin). My brother is a Certified Registered Nurse Anesthetist (CRNA) – essentially a step, two years away from being a doctor (too much liability and not enough money for him to have gone that route, he says). So he sees the diagnosis, prognosis, and prescribed treatment in this situation. He understands these things from a clinical standpoint; a place that I’m not at. More importantly, I think that this is how he best copes with the enormity of the situation. Logic. It gives him something quantifiable, measurable, and reliable to judge the situation by. Science doesn’t leave room for the unknown, for the “what if,” for providence, for God.

Medicine: it’s predictable.

To be honest, I’m jealous. I wish I had the understanding of these things that he does. I wish that I could submerge my emotion under a professional understanding. And I need to submit that I don’t believe that my brother is running from his emotions, just dealing with them in a manner that makes the most sense, one that is most relevant to his working life. And man, is that an attractive way of coping. Because, the thing is, there’s no right, or wrong, in how you deal with your emotions, as long as you really are dealing with them. My brother is definitely dealing with his in his own way; meanwhile I’m dripping snot onto my dad’s blood pressure cuff.

It’s sad, really. I’ve never really had a lock-down on the faucet. I need a plumber, and a good one at that. Put me in front of a sappy movie, TV show, or even commercial, and you’re likely to see some hydration. I can’t hide it, and nor do I want to, but I’m a feeler. I’m good with that. When I hurt, dammit, I hurt. And though I know I’m using italics a lot in this particular piece, it’s important, so important, to convey what’s happening – the internal insanity and all – without having it all necessarily needing to drip onto my dad’s blood pressure cuff. But with the assertion from the nurse that the old man can indeed hear what I’m saying – or sobbing – I want him to make no mistake exactly what his presence in my life means. I want to take no chances that he has an internal dialogue saying, “Just let go.” If the time were right, I’d tell him to just let go, that it would be ok, that I would be ok, and the time was right to move along to a place that he and I both know that he would find himself: in the presence of God. But for the time being, I need him here. So I’ll drip onto his blood pressure cuff all I damn well like and use itlalics when they’re really, really, necessary.

I’m not ready for my dad to leave. And though I know that nobody is ever really ready for the loved one to pass on, this is just too damned silly of a situation for his life to be in question. I mean, the guy has pneumonia. Pneumonia! People get pneumonia all of the time without the necessity of chest tubes and sedation. Give them some antibiotics and presto! A week later they’re better. My brother had pneumonia once. He stayed home from school. Nobody tried to stick a tube in his chest, much less three. But my dad’s a different story. He went into the E.R. exactly two weeks ago because he couldn’t breathe, and was admitted to the hospital from there. And this was ok – he wasn’t in any real danger at the time, just sick. It was hard for me, being on the opposite coast and unable to be there, and never having had any of my parents really sick. I was struck with the reality that they are getting older, their mortality, and my distance. But it was only pneumonia. Big whoop.

The next day I was told that he was moved to the ICU. His chest xray revealed a collapsed lung from all of the fluid that had built up in the cavity around his lung. So, they gave him the chest tubes to drain the fluid and were continuing to treat him with antibiotics. But he was awake, conscious, drugged, but still sharp, and still not appearing to be in any immediate danger. But things haven’t gotten better. His breathing has still been so labored that they decided to sedate him, to put him under, give him a machine to help him breathe and allow his body to rest, gather strength, and start to heal. Then they wanted to do surgery. They used a scope to remove more of the infection that mysteriously wasn’t being affected by the antibiotics and things should have gotten better from there. But here he is, still sick, still infected, still sedated, still unable to breathe on his own, and now we’re being told that his condition is worse than we appear to have realized. He might not make it, they say. My dad, this strong and healthy bear of a man – albeit, a teddy bear, but bear nonetheless – is lying here helpless and weak; fighting for his life.

Dude. Just Relax.

It happened about 10 and a half years ago. Months of preparation, lurking in dark clubs, stalking a few key people, shoving tapes into hands, and keeping my parents up at all hours of the night with a repetitive "thumpa thumpa" had finally paid off. All the money that I had spent on 12 inches of black vinyl that housed the scratchings that, with the right needle and equipment, translated into soundwaves would finally see its validation in those sound-waves emanating from mediocre speakers in a room larger than the "room-above-the-garage." All of my daydreams and possible nightmares were about to come true.

I was 18 or 19 years old and worked the second shift in radiology at a local hospital. In retrospect, the fact that I wasn't getting off of work until 11:30 at night can only mean that I could only get to where I needed to be no earlier than midnight. In retrospect, this should have meant a hell of a lot more to me at the time. Then again, if I knew what this meant at the time, I might have been a hell of a lot more worse off than I was. You see, midnight is considered prime time for a DJ. And for your first gig, this means pressure.

Now before we go getting all impressed about the fact that I had been given the prime slot for my first time ever playing for anyone other than my mom, I should probably qualify this. For one, this was Columbia, South Carolina. And though there's nothing entirely inherently wrong with Columbia, South Carolina, it's not exactly the heart of the dance music community. Secondly, the venue was a battered old reggae club on the outskirts of town. And keep in mind that the outskirts of Columbia, South Carolina more or less equate to the tattered string hanging from the cut-off jean shorts gracing the ever-so-lovely -- but undeniably redneck -- form of Daisy Duke. Finally, I must submit that even though the electronic music community in Columbia, South Carolina is a dedicated one, at the time they numbered in the tens. However, none of this deterred me from having to deal with the persistent nausea and ever-present feeling that I was about to soil myself with the prospect of actually having to DJ in front of other people.

I had spent weeks in that room-above-the-garage with the volume full-blast, pre-planning my set, my cue points, what mixed with what, what speed to play each track at, and which breakdown I could cut in a sample. I think I may have even gone so far as to program my set, from beginning to end, with the pitch levels written down -- "Bad DJing 101"

I spent the entire day wiping away the sweat from my palms, taking deep breaths to calm my stomach, and running patients into walls as I took them down for their CT scans. What if I forgot which track was supposed to come next?? Wait! I've got the records in order in my egg crate! What if the DJ before me played one -- or more -- of the tracks that I planned on playing?? Shit! I've got nothing! Breathe... breathe, Evan. Breathe...

The entire eight-and-a-half hours was a feverish nightmare. All I had ever wanted, all I had ever envisioned, was the pride I would feel walking into a club, records in hand, imagining all the whispers: "There's the DJ! That's him!" NEVER had I imagined the nerves I'd be feeling instead. Pride? Certainly. If you can call countless trips to the bathroom something to be proud about, then yes, I was proud.

Finally the time had come. At 11:23 I clocked the hell out of there, changed out of my scrubs into an outfit that I had thought was befitting a DJ, and spaghetti-legged, walked to my car. The drive over to the venue was a blur. All I remember is mentally rehearsing my set, drilling myself as to what I was going to play, and the pre-programmed speeds at which I was going to play it; never considering the fact that I would be mixing my first track into the DJ's before me, thereby having to match the speed of my first track to his and screwing my whole system to hell. Never did I consider that, even though I was playing at a reggae club on the "tattered string of Daisy Duke's shorts," that they would have Technic turntables that head a different pitch control than my Gemini's at home. Nope. None of this crossed my mind. And it's probably best that it didn't. Because that would have been the last straw, the one that broke the DJ's back and sent him scurrying on home, records between his legs.

I entered the club, record/egg crate in-hand, and a small sense of pride as I passed the 15 or so people in the joint. I ascended the DJ booth like a Roman emperor, ascending the steps of Apollo's temple -- apprehensive, yet assured in my "status." I patted my friend, the DJ before me, on the back and set down my records. I grabbed the first, plucked my headphones from the crate, and stepped up to the tables. The record was placed, the needle was at the genesis of the grooves on the vinyl, my headphones were in place, and I was ready to take control.

But, wait! I couldn't hear a thing from my headphones! I looked, I double-checked, I checked again, and everything was as it should be. My record was reading in the mixer, the headphones were set to the channel that my record would be playing from, and the headphone volume was up! By why wasn't I hearing anything?? All my fears were coming true, the sweat was returning to my hands, my stomach was beginning to churn, and I was beginning to panic. Frantically, I turned to the DJ before me and begged him to help. Surely I must be missing something!

He looked at all of the settings on the mixer, he quickly scanned the levels, and confidently peered at my record. A moment later, he calmly looked down, picked the headphone jack up off of the ground, and plugged it into the mixer.

He turned to me and said, quite simply, "Dude. Just relax. You'll be fine."

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...

Sequential 002, by Omid 16B

Sequential 002
Artist: Omid 16B
Label: SexOnWax
Rating: 8.5 out of 10
Released: 2009-03-23
Type: Single/Vinyl

Omid 16B, of SOS fame – and lets face it, Omid16B fame – comes packed with what you want. His DJ sets being legendary excursions into house and dub, his production also noted as being outstanding, and his dedication to great music have been the qualities that have not only pushed him to the forefront of the dance music world, but have made him a trend-setter, someone who’s record crate you’d sell your best mate for a chance to look through.

Omid definitely delivers with Same As You. Immediately catchy, this track is like a spacey disco extravaganza. The bassline essentially carries this tune, taking front seat as other elements only add to the goodness. Jazzy elements are definitely present, mostly in the form of a great sax riff that is terribly subtle – and even more effective, for this reason – as it mostly floats in the distance when it makes it’s irregular appearances. Though the Dub and Club Dub mixes are essentially the same for the most part, the Vocal Mix is given some definite extra spice by the vocal talents of Loui Smith, Luke Armstrong, and Omid himself, combining to provide a very Robert Smith-esque quality.

The Move is immediately reminiscent of a late-90’s house tune, from the “rave piano,” to the funky bassline. Taken as a whole, this track is definitely worthy of a nod in the direction of overall production and arrangement. The Vocal Mix – with Loui Smith again doing the honors – makes this a bit more aggressive and dance-floor friendly. But overall both the Vocal and Dub Mix are entirely too long for my tastes. Originally 30 minutes long (!?) this 12-and-a-half minute track doesn’t contain enough of a story to justify its length. I have no choice but to recognize the fact that Omid has stuck to his guns, saying, ““I don’t really care how long tracks end up, as long as they flow with a bassline… I wanted to include all my favorite elements in a solid club toon and build the track like a mini DJ mix.” However, though I foresee many a DJ throwing this in their sets, I’d be surprised if more than a few didn’t mix out of it early.

It’s no surprise that Mr. 16B showcases his abilities yet again. It truly seems that those that have been able to find themselves at the top of the industry have truly done so for a reason; whether it be consistency in music production, all around hard work, or a combination of the two (more likely the latter). But this release is yet another case-in-point on the subject, as Omid has undoubtedly delivered with Sequential 002.

Tracks:
1. Same As You – Vocal Mix
2. Same As You – Club Dub
3. Same As You – Dub Mix
4. The Move – Live Vocal Mix
5. The Move – Live Club Dub

The economy eats your TV

Has it really been so long since I've posted? Have I truly sunken to such lows as to leave my dedicated readers -- all 7 or so of them -- without my every word to hang upon for such an extended period of time? Shame on me!

A lot has happened to my humble little life since last I've written. For one, I've begun the process of writing my first printed, literary venture. That's right, I'm writing a book. What's this book, you query? Well, quite simply put, it's a small rub to my own ego. It's the assumption that some of the stories that I might share about my life, and most relevant, my experiences as a DJ, will be interesting enough to not only read, but to purchase. And, apropos to this post, it may have taken place of some of the creative -- or not so creative -- juices that would otherwise have dripped onto these virtual pages.

Secondly, I've taken a term away from school (blame the economy) and have thereby been presented with a small amount of extra free time. So what do I do? I fill up that free time, of course. I've picked up the thread of a previous project of writing music reviews for www.365mag.com, an international, internet-based music magazine. I wrote for these guys a couple of years ago, but had to put my contributions on hold as writing papers was exhausting my mental capacities -- the little of them that exist. But now that this vessel-of-bad-grammar-and-split-infinitives is no longer tethered to an academic master, I'm back at the task of ruining the careers of producers across the world. I'll attempt to upload some of these reviews on this site to prevent any of you the labor of having to copy and paste the link to the website into your browser. You lazy bunch of blog readers, you.

Finally, and more recently, I have accomplished an amazing feat in this economy: I've taken a new job. Indeed, I went from already having a job, with a fair amount of job security, and managed to better my situation by taking a new position at a new, more attractive company. Now I won't get into the exact location and details of my new digs as I don't want to tempt all of you out there that I've already had to take out restraining orders on, as well as the undiscovered stalkers that haven't yet made any attempts on my life. But I will say that the first day at the new job I partook in champagne and ice cream, followed by a meeting on the second day, complete with beer. Sounds good? It is.

But I'd like to make note of an observation or two that I had while taking some time off between jobs. It's been some time since I've had a few consecutive days to sit on my lazy bum and do nothing but watch TV if I so chose. Now, I didn't just watch TV, mind you. And, yes, I know I could have been using that time to either fill the pages of my book or to put more useless information on this site. But with the little TV that I did watch, that I was able to stomach watching, I was faced with the undeniable truth that daytime television plain sucks. I mean, really really sucks.

The hours between 10 a.m. and 4 p.m. are dominated by a series of mindless, classless programs running the gauntlet from Jerry Springer and the Steve Wilko Show, to Judge Judy and Divorce Court, as well as and endless stream of soap operas and crappy info-mmercials. And running alongside of these shows are nothing but commercial after commercial of how best to get your degree, fast; of how to get into court reporting, medical and dental assisting, and the culinary arts. And this is the theme of the day. This is what the jobless America is faced with, day after day.

The thought that occurs to me, however, is that during these economic times, during the "Great Repression" -- as it is now being called -- there are more highly educated, specialized, and sophisticated minds at home and jobless than there have been in decades. When my position at my previous place of employment became available, there were 35o (!) applications in a week. And as a semi-educated (I haven't finished school yet, remember?) individual, I'm bored stiff and mildly nauseated with what is presented to me as "entertainment" for daytime programming. What must these poor people be suffering? Because as I whiled away my time, alternating between sheer laziness and exercise before starting my new job, these educated individuals have been faced with the uncertainty and dread of having no income. All that they have to take their minds from the situation that's been presented to them is mothers who've been sleeping with their daughters' boyfriends or the character who's been in a coma for the past 7 years (5 days, in soap time), recovers, but is possessed by a demon. I think that at this point I'd be considering a healthy career in alcoholism.

So if any of you happen to be television executives, think on that population of bored, educated, unemployed out there, begging for some fodder for the brain. Maybe toss in some reruns of past seasons of The Office, or even bring back Saved by the Bell, for Pete's sake. But spare their livers the inevitable if they are left with no other options!

And for the rest of you, keep checking this space for more tedious reads. Hopefully I won't be leaving you all hanging for another 3-4 months.