I've got my eye on 2011.

Though I don't exactly typically have much to complain about -- I have a great job, an apartment I love in a great location, a family to be thankful for, and music that elevates me -- I'm particularly positive about the upcoming year. I'm also painfully aware of how much my outlook on life is largely tied into the rewards (emotional, not fiscal) that music provides me.

Many of you know that as well as the periodic club appearances, I also have been involved in at least two weekly nights here in Portland, OR. It seems that the competition for downtempo music is much less than the club scene, so I've found myself playing this particular genre of music more consistently. Not long ago, shortly after returning from Europe, I lost my longest-standing residency, a weekly Monday night at Vault Martini in downtown.

To be perfectly honest, this was neither a surprise nor much of a disappointment. Though I greatly respect the employees and owner of the venue, I had been there every Monday night for about three-and-a-half years. And, though they haven't replaced me with another DJ on that night (they quoted financial reasons as why they'd be letting me go), I'm willing to hazard a guess that they had become just a little sick of my music. I certainly did my best to keep things as fresh as I could each week, but when you're filling five hours with music, it's hard to consistently have enough new tunes to keep changing it up. And, I have to admit, I may have been a little tired of the same old scenery. And the problem begins with the fact that I am being paid to play music that I love, so even though playing the same location year after year may have become hugely monotonous, how could I leave that?

I missed the paycheck more than I'd like to admit. DJing is a definite part of my income, and what I make doing it can quickly add up (especially with those weekly gigs). I had no hurt feelings about no longer being a part of Vault, but I did in fact have a hurt wallet. I felt that pain.

But I had faith that something would come along. Something always seems to, and I largely credit a positive attitude, dedication to professionalism, and, if you'll permit me to humbly suggest it, my capabilities in what I do. My name was recently suggested by word-of-mouth to a venue that was looking for a DJ who does exactly what I do, and was offered a new weekly, beginning in January. Voila! I'm back on track.

This isn't the only reason that I'm feeling good about the next year, however. I have recently become a part of the family of Portland's premier production group, Red Cube Productions. I've been involved in some of their shows in the past (both bookings with Paul Van Dyk and shows with MSTRKRFT and Christopher Lawrence), so we're well acquainted with each other and how we work. But having officially becoming a part of the team has brought other rewards, and not just further bookings.

I love being involved in various aspects of the music, from putting together guest radio spots on local stations, to writing music reviews for 365mag.com, or even just simply writing this blog. I've started working with Red Cube in making them more visible on the virtual stage (not to suggest that they haven't already achieved great notoriety), and am happily penning away all of their blog posts, to help in making their voice better heard. They're things that I enjoy doing, am arguably decent at, and am thankful for a chance to get more experience in. So it seemed a natural pairing.

I'm looking forward to the next year and what it may bring. And to give you an idea of what's ahead, I'm looking at gigs with Mark Knight in January, Morgan Page in February, Mark Farina in Seattle, and an as-yet un-announced gig at the Roseland Theater in March (I'll update this page with that info when I can).

Maybe I'll see you around in '11.

Lagos: Portugal's Cancun.

By the time that we made it into Lagos, I was starting to get over both my jet lag and initial culture shock. We'd spent a couple of days in Lisbon, enough that I wasn't a complete wreck from waking up at crazy hours and staring at the ceiling, and to have picked up a few choice words in Portuguese. Just the basics, really, but I think that, armed with a few key words, as well as a smattering of other essentials, I learned that you can make your way about with much pointing (at things you needed and wanted, not at people) and smiling.

Lagos, in comparison to Lisbon, is an easy town to visit. Everybody here speaks English. In fact, the chances of having a Portuguese bartender vs. an Australian one are about as likely as having a Portuguese bartender vs. an Australian one in Sydney. Everyone in Lagos is likely from somewhere else. Whether it be Europe, Latin America, Australia, Asia, or North America, they all have to communicate with one another, so they all do it in English. It very well may be one of the easiest places to visit in a non-English speaking country. I've had a harder time understanding southerners than I did people in Lagos. I was ashamed to discover how much more at ease I felt in these circumstances.

About 5 months before, I had been making schemes to do my first bit of traveling outside of the country. I had always felt a tug towards the Mediterranean region, but wasn't yet convinced that should be my first excursion outside of the Americas. At a rooftop party in Portland, I mentioned these thoughts to a good friend and seasoned traveler, Adam (yes this is his real last name) Nicewonger. He'd been around a good portion of the world, so I knew his easy-going style of experienced input would be valuable. Among his various travels, he'd spent a number of summer seasons (five, I believe) living in Lagos, DJing and working at the local hostel, and just living the beach life-style. During our discussions, he mentioned that he was planning a trip back to Lagos in September, but this time for only two weeks, and suggested that I make that my trip. Knowing that this kid would be one of the better travel companions you could ask for (easy-going, experienced over-seas, and entirely comfortable in Portugal), I figured it'd be a great option, and agreed.

Two weeks later, our friend Eric Leisy was on board as well.

Walking into Lagos with Adam is like walking into Jerusalem with Jesus. Not only does everybody love the guy, but boy are they excited that he's returned. Everyone seemed to not only know the kid, but to absolutely love him. I understood why he spent so many summer seasons there -- who wouldn't want that sort of ego boost? Adam's own words, after yet another adoring fan stopped him in the street ("You're the DJ from the Grand Cafe! I remember you!"), "It's easy to be a big fish in a small town." I've come to the conclusion that I could use a small town for a while...

Eric and I were welcomed into the fold like a pair of Adam's apostles (not the Judas-type, mind you), and quickly started making friends. We headed first to the local hostel, not to get a room there, but because the family that owned the hostel was putting us up in our own apartment that they also owned (and for ridiculously cheap because, yes, they love Adam). It ended up being in a three story building, using the top two floors. The second floor was still hostel-styled, with a number of bunk beds and the bathroom. The top floor, however, was the real winner. This is where we found our large kitchen and massive roof-top veranda with a good 300-degree view of Lagos. Centrally located and boasting a righteous view, it was absolutely ideal.

The majority of our 10 days in this little beach town were spent as thus: wake up sometime late morning; meander to the Odeon, a tiny little diner a few blocks from our apartment that's owned by an old American expat named Tom; wolf down some bacon, eggs and coffee; head to the beach where we often went for a 20- to 30-minute swim; pass out in the sand for a number of hours until it was time to leave (this was determined by how red I was, leading to the nickname, Evan "the litmus" Alexander); trudge back to the apartment for an hour-long nap; wake up and head to the hostel to use some wi-fi and possibly watch a flick with our fellow travelers; dinner at one local spot or another (details on the best of these to come); back to the apartment for a quick change or refreshment; then off to one or many of the local bars to reward ourselves for another hard day.

It was a stressful time.

Despite being heavily visited by younger tourists seeking the beautiful beaches and the plentiful bars, Lagos is a city rich in history. Having a southern location on the Portuguese coast, Lagos was perfectly situated in proximity to both Africa and the open seas to become Europe's first slave market. For some time occupied by the Moors, the architecture has a heavy Moorish influence, though a great portion of it was destroyed in an earthquake and tsunami in the mid-1700s. The majority of the streets are cobblestone, and I quickly became quite addicted to the sound of my flip flops on these. It was a sound that perfectly summed up Lagos in it's unhurried, patient cadence. It was clear that I wasn't the only one of this opinion, as, during a phone conversation with his girlfriend, Adam later told me that she made a comment about being able to hear it from the other end, and how much she missed the sound (they had spent a summer there together a year or two before).

We walked the great majority of the town-center, avoiding most of the more expensive tourist spots, and spent most of our time visiting only the places that one such as Adam could know about, after repeated summer months living there. Cashina de Petisco, a local favorite restaurant, made a mark on all of our taste buds. Owned and operated by Luis De Rosa, Cashina is a tiny little place that packs out quickly, and then boasts a line of patiently waiting diners that stretches down the street. The plates are substantial enough for easily two people, possibly three, and are of a quality that one might expect in one of the finer restaurants in Portland. And what do you pay for a plate large enough for three, of fine-dining-quality food? About 8 or 9 euro. Needless to say, we were there four times in our ten-day stay in Lagos, and always took home leftovers for the next night's meal. It was glorious.

The bars in Lagos are mostly of the dive sort, with the exception of those on the main tourist drag that were a little more upscale for the older tourist demographic. It was interesting being out at these places, as it seemed that most of the younger tourists were younger tourists -- kids in their late teens and early twenties that were on holiday or traveling with friends. They were a rowdy, bawdy bunch with a capacity for drinking that far out-did us geezers and, though we were out as late as all of them, we found ourselves often being by far the most sober in the bars.

Except, of course, for that one night... We'd been out to a few places and Eric was in rare form, buying drinks for Adam and myself, as well as some of our new friends. We were out fairly late and had ended the evening at a local club, the Grand Cafe, where Adam had DJed previous summers. I don't remember the exact time, but it was well after 2, and Eric decided it was time for him to go home, so he took off before Adam and I left. On a previous day Eric had lost his key to the apartment, a fact that none of us remembered at the time when Eric decided to walk back, and a fact that he quickly remembered when he got to the front door. It was one of the few times that it actually rained while we were in town, and Eric apparently decided that he wasn't going to sit out in the rain waiting an unknown amount of time for us to let him in, so he decided that the best available option was to climb to the second floor balcony. He never made it.

There are two things that you should know about Eric: He's not much of a drinker and he's not the biggest guy. Though he didn't break his neck attempting what he'd later call his "epic attempt to climb the balcony," he did find himself spending his first night with a bucket by his bed -- a bucket that saw a lot of action. And what often happens to someone when they're confronted with their first night being brilliantly sick from too much drink? They get emotional. And, like the good, experienced alcoholic friend I am, I did my best to talk Eric down, to console him, and let him know that'd all be ok. Adam apparently got sick of us acting like college freshmen girls and went and slept in the other room.

Eric didn't get that drunk again.

I quickly discovered that the concept of cutting someone off when they've had too much to drink doesn't exist in Lagos. Like much of Europe, I imagine, people are held responsible for their own actions and, if they drink too much, they're the ones to pay the consequences; not the bar. This was made painfully obvious one evening when Eric and I were walking to a particular bar to pay a visit to one of our new Aussie friends who was bartending. We were approached by a girl in the street who was already well past the point of being cut off in the states, who was "flyering" for the bar, or attempting to pull in people off the streets. Those doing the flyering are paid by the number of people they bring into the venue. Even though Eric and I were headed there anyway, we took pity on this drunken fool and told her she could get credit for us and order our first drinks. We moseyed up to the bar, led by the stumbling girl, and placed our orders, through her, for our drinks. The girl was so inebriated that she immediately forgot that she ordered my drink, so after the bartender brought me mine, she ordered another. The result was a second, unpaid for drink that the bartender literally forced this already saturated girl to guzzle. We turned away in shocked confusion and disgust at the point that he had his hand underneath the drink, pushing it against her mouth, literally forcing her to gulp it down.

They do things different in Lagos. I was told that if the bartenders don't drink with the patrons, they lose their job. Try pulling that off in America.

You never quite realize how small of a place the world is until you're standing in a bar in a little beach town in Portugal, and someone from home calls your name. It's a little surreal "bumping" into someone you know halfway around the world.

Kristen is someone who I met briefly one night at a show I was playing in Portland. We became friends on Facebook, but never had seen each other in person since that night. She was in a study abroad program in Seville, Spain, and the group that she was with had come into Lagos for the weekend, on a guided tour. Adam, Eric, and I were DJing downtempo at a restaurant/lounge called NaNaBah (I later found out the that the NaNa portion of the name was inspired by the classy nickname for a woman's genitalia, "poonani." Look, don't judge me, I didn't come up with the name, I'm just reporting it) and the tour group had come to the same restaurant for dinner. I suppose it doesn't seem like that great of a coincidence, but it was still one of those singular moments that you can never expect, and definitely adds perspective of the world that we live in.

There was a group of about 50 Americans, including Kristen, in the town that weekend, and they happened to be going to the club that we were playing at later that night, The Grand Cafe. Though the three of us play mainly various forms of house and electronic music, we were fully aware of the American taste for Top 40 tunes, so went prepared to play quite a bit of that (something I would have never done back in Portland, but I figured that I was just along for the ride). Though we were astonished about the positive reaction that some dub-step received as the last three tracks at the end of the night, our preparations to play Rihanna and the like were unfortunately well made. And the irony of playing such a set to an American crowd on our vacation in Europe was not at all lost on us. But it has to be said that Adam knows how to make a Top 40 crowd dance. Eric and I, for the most part, played what he told us to, when he told us to.

After the club closed at four, we loitered around a bit with the staff, some choice patrons, and the owner, Luis. More drinks were had, some jokes were made, and Eric got into a fight with the Duchess of Ireland. She was a bit intoxicated and had taken a liking to his hat. She was also fiesty.

After separating the two (it was more dangerous than separating fighting dogs), Eric, Adam, and I made our way back to the apartment, grabbed a couple of bottles of vino verde, and headed down to the beach to watch the sun rise. It was the most amazing thing I've seen and the hour or so wait on the beach was well worth it, though Eric was terribly disappointed to learn the next day that the little shrine of candles he had set up during that time was washed away by the tide. We never discovered why he had set up the shrine, and he had even forgotten the matches to light them, but at least the project kept him happily occupied for a time and took his mind off of the previous beating he received from a certain Duchess.

After leaving the beach, our stomachs demanded food, and luckily the Odeon was already open and Tom already had the grills going. Inside we discovered two of the bartenders from the Grand Cafe fabulously drunk, dueling with a mop and a pepper grinder. Tom never even batted an eye.

A few days later, we decided to make the best of our new-found friend in Seville, Kristen, and get out of town for a while. We rented a black little Peugot and headed east out of Portugal. Kristen met us in town at a beautiful cathedral and proceeded to give us the grand tour: the first stop, margaritas, followed quickly by tapas, and then dinner.

We later went into one of the bar districts along the Guadalquivir River to meet up with some of Adam's friends. As we walked, Kristen lamented at the fact that she had chosen to study abroad to spread her wings a bit, get out of her comfort zone, and experience a new culture but that she was surrounded by Americans, a great number of which had gone to her high school. As we walked, this point was made painfully clear by every group of people we passed all saying "hi" to Kristen, and at least one in the group having been from her high school. The bar we went to? Full of Americans. The Spanish, it seems, can't get away from us.

The remainder of our days in Lagos were spent enjoying the relaxing routine in which we had fallen, consisting mostly of the beach, food, drinks, more food, and relaxation. I started to come to the realization that, though I loved the style of life for a vacation, the idea of living in a town like Lagos, where, despite a constant influx of new people coming for holiday, nothing ever really changed. Though you have the opportunity to meet new people every single day, the experience is tempered with the knowledge that they'll just be leaving again within the next day or two. Any opportunity at making real connections is limited to the people who live in the town, and though the ones I met were wonderful people, there just wasn't large enough of a population to sate my desires for variety.

I learned a few things on the trip, the greatest of which not being Adam's ability to take a "no-wipe-er." No, the biggest, and probably most important lesson that I took from my trip was the knowledge that I'm just not nearly as comfortable in my own skin as I thought. I live in a town where, though there is the aforementioned variety that I crave, I still know that I can go to certain places and see people I know. This is my town -- I belong here, in Portland. I'm confident here, have a grasp of all the local customs and nuances, can find my way around in a pinch, and know that no matter how much of an outsider I sometimes feel, I'm still welcome here. What I discovered being in another country is that, in reality, I need that assurance. I need to know that I can make a joke and the subtleties of sarcasm won't be lost. I need to know that I won't say the wrong, stupid thing that just doesn't fit the culture. I need to know that the people around me, even if they aren't my friends, still in a strange way get me.

I learned this about myself in just under two weeks. And learning this doesn't mean to me that I need to stay home. What I actually learned is that I need to get out more, put myself in uncomfortable situations more, find myself feeling more awkward than is normal (I generally feel awkward enough), and need to realize that I'm not as comfortable with who I thought I was. Without this knowledge and the desire to seek these situations out, I'll only be a fraud, pretending to be comfortable with who I am, but knowing full well the truth.

A few images from the trip...

The beaches

Making a mess at Cashina de Petisco

Adam giving me pointers on Top 40's at Grand Cafe

A Spanish dinner w/ Kristen in Seville

Surrounded by Americans (and one token Aussie) in a bar in Seville

10 Hours in Amsterdam

I got off of the plane at midnight and started looking for the unknown individual who was escorting me into town. I had just flown in from Lisbon, and was a little fuzzy from having only had three hours of sleep after my gig the night before (more to come on that). But my lack of sleep was quickly falling into the background as excitement for what was to come gradually took hold. It was my first gig (and first time) in Amsterdam.

It was actually just an overnight lay-over, between Portugal and Portland, OR. I had about 10 hours to spare, hours that I certainly didn't want to waste sitting in Schiphol Airport for my last night of my two weeks in Europe. So I had contacted my good friend, Paul Sparkes, a very talented British DJ/Producer living in Amsterdam, a few weeks before to let him know I'd be in town and to inform him that I was a) appointing him my tour guide, and b) going to make sure that he didn't get a wink of sleep until I got on my plane. His response? That it happened to not only be his birthday, but that it was also the very same night that he hosted his monthly event, Floorplay, at the very hip Club NL in Amsterdam, and would I like to DJ?

I said I guessed, you know, supposed I would. I also squealed like a little girl in excitement. Thankfully, the exchange took place over email, so Paul was saved the pain of my high-pitched falsetto.

I was eventually collected by Paul's intern, after we both realized that we were the only two looking around in confusion for someone we didn't know. We boarded the train into town, and I was welcomed to the Netherlands by a train car full of singing Dutch beauties. Seriously. They piled on right before the train pulled out, filled the car with their un-Americanly tall selves, and immediately began singing at the top of their lungs for the entire 20-minute trip into downtown. It was like summer camp, but drunker and a whole hell of a lot hotter. It was surreal, and undoubtedly the best way I could have asked to start off my one night in this beautiful city.

We made it into the club at roughly 12:45 a.m, and I awkwardly jostled myself and my luggage up to the DJ booth where I was immediately taken up in a tight hug by the brit, dropped my bags, and was handed a glass of champagne. We toasted his old age (and I snickered at the evident grey hairs), in between his mixes, and then I started to take stock of the club.

It's an intimate place, Club NL. Initially opened some years ago as a swanky lounge that has served drinks to a number of international celebrities, including Madonna, it was then turned into a dance club. Paul explained to me that many of the venues in Amsterdam are of the smaller sort, so this was pretty typical. When you first walk in, the red lighting illuminates the way down the bar. This is the slimmest part of the club, with the bar on your left, running lengthwise until you reach the dancefloor, where it opens up to your right about 30 feet, with the DJ booth immediately on your left at the end of the bar, and the dance floor continuing to the back about another 30 feet. The whole place is decorated and illuminated in the red theme, including the plush seating that makes for a place to rest your feet or sip champagne in the right and left corners.

Paul was playing some deep, techy brilliance that possessed a great, moving vibe that clearly the dance floor enjoyed. He played until about 1:30, allowing me time to get situated (ie, drink more champagne), dig through my tunes, and get a feel for the place. My evaluations led me to the conclusions that the Dutch were a beautiful people who clearly loved good, underground music. I was definitely looking forward to playing.

In Portland, I mostly find myself playing a mixture of downtempo in lounge venues, or big-room styled music as the opening DJ for larger named acts. I viewed my upcoming hours behind the decks in Amsterdam as an opportunity to play a sort of music that I don't often get to play in Portland, but that I nonetheless love to hear, dance to, and be a part of. I was armed with an arsenal of deep, reverberating, tribal tech-house that I knew would leave skid marks in the underpants. I don't think I disappointed.

What followed was two-plus-hours of some of my best times behind the turntables. I've been known as a DJ that is in constant motion in the booth, always moving to the music. But this night I danced as much as they danced, smiled as much as they smiled, and enjoyed as much as they enjoyed. I was having one of those moments when it makes sense. Everything that I've ever done, every track that I've ever bought, every lame and totally not-lame gig that I've ever played, they all led up to that one perfect moment. And it's not that I was surrounded by 1,000 or more dancing bodies -- that's happened on a number of occasions -- but just that it all fit so well, and the perfect synchronicity between DJ, music, and dancer, where the communication and understanding is almost infallible, made for one of those experiences where nobody could deny the electricity in the room.

I made fast friends after my set with a stunning Dutch model, named Jamila, who had been dancing the entire night, and was a vortex for energy on the dance floor. After my set, we danced the remainder of the night away to Paul's closing tracks. Then Paul, Jamila, and I, as well as a few others, stuck around for some after-closing drinks and over-all enjoyment of a night gone well.

Around 5 a.m., it was time to leave the club. I said my farewells to those that I had just met, and piled into an "illegal" cab (individuals who aren't licensed to operate, but charge less than a regular taxi. You have to know someone to get their contact info), and made off to the airport with Paul and company. Paul was in possession of a magnum bottle of champagne (a birthday gift to Paul from an illusive and enigmatic individual named Rachel), so upon arrival at the airport, his roommate, Lidemarie (a smart ass if I've ever met one), he, and I continued the celebration in true Amsterdam style, drinking directly from the bottle in the middle of the airport. After finally being told by one of the security -- quite politely, I might add -- that we couldn't drink that there, we deposited the rest of the bottle in the trash and made our way quite noisily to the airport bar where I made damn sure that I was going to be cross-eyed while going through security -- possibly not one of my smarter choices.

I finally boarded the plane after semi-successfully making it through security (I had to repeatedly and confusedly search my carry-on before I discovered the bottle of liquids, my shaving cream, that they kept telling me they were seeing on the x-ray), and in a properly beffudled fashion, found my seat. There, the three hours of sleep in two days caught hold, and I woke up ten hours later in Portland.

Paul has recently been tickled by the idea of sending me emails claiming that the Dutch authorities are charging him a 300 dollar fine for drinking champagne in the airport and leaving me voicemails in Dutch, pretending to be said authorities (while Lidemarie sniggers in the background). But, as I recently told him, no matter what language he's speaking, he still sounds like a limey.

Overall, the night, I'd say, was a roaring success. Thanks, Paul.

In honor of that ever-so-sweet set, I made a stream-able and downloadable version:

10 Hours in Amsterdam by evanalexander

And a few choice photos from the night:

Me and Paul

Me and Paul

Moi

View of the bar from the DJ booth, looking toward the front door.

My new friend, Jamila

Champagne breakfast at Schiphol Airport

Another futile attempt.

I've always been a little wary of anywhere with "Ultralounge" in the name. It's like it's waving a flag for those who're trying too hard that this is their spot. Apparently I'm wrong, but when I try to imagine lounging in an "ultra" fashion, my mental image is that of me passed out, and passed out HARD. Why does the idea of the lounge need to be taken to another level?

I got a call a couple of months ago from Gabe Driscoll, a fellow DJ here in town. He had been approached by one of the newer venues to do an electronic music-dedicated night on Thursdays and he wanted to bring me on board. When the venue had first opened, I had made a few inquiries about what kind of music they'd be going for, seeing if I might be a good fit. Based on the stylings of the place and the location in town, I had a feeling that they'd end up being just another place trying to be the newest Vegas or L.A-styled hot spot, with all the usual suspects in attendance. But I figured that maybe a weeknight might be conducive to some good house music or downtempo, so when Gabe called me, I was all in.

I'm well aware that the music that I play isn't by any means mainstream here in the States. I am fully comfortable knowing that there are many that would rather here the latest Rhianna, Jay-Z, or Soulja Boy. And though this is by no means the type of music I will ever play, I don't necessarily begrudge those who play it or those who want to hear it. Sure, I may down in my core feel that it's all a bit unimaginative, and that most who listen to it do so because that's all they've been spoon-fed. But I'm fully conscious that music is a wholly subjective experience, and there really is no right or wrong.

Simply put, Couture Ultralounge is that kind of venue.

I knew it in my bones when I first started doing the night. I knew that though Gabe and I would pull a good number of those wanting to hear some great dance music, most of the regulars would be against it. It's unfamiliar, you see. The girls can't sing along to it. And when the girls are unhappy, everyone is unhappy.

But that's not the real issue. A part of me is a bit suspicious that the "hosts," the promoters, weren't too sure about me. I didn't necessarily fit into their vision. Gabe has had some time playing in some of the more mainstream clubs, whereas I've been content in the spaces that I know welcome the music I play. So I was an unknown to them. I haven't shown up on any "All-Club VIP" photo pages, with sunglasses on in a dark nightclub, holding a bottle of Cristal in one hand and a barely dressed, spray-tanned blonde in the other, while my shiny shirt reflects the flash of the camera. No, I've been too busy playing quality music to those who wanted nothing more than to get filthy sweaty from dancing, and weren't there to be a part of any "scene."

I lasted two weeks at Couture Ultralounge.

There were three of us: Gabe, myself, and ComputerFam (Huy Pham). Huy is a hell of a nice guy, and a talented, versatile DJ that can not only play some great house tunes, but can also lay down some mainstream tracks that'll get those spray-tanned blondes "dropping it like it's hot" (though I'm not too sure what "it" is...). Simply put, Huy is the perfect guy for Couture. The first week of our night saw Gabe and Huy behind the turntables because the promoters were unsure of just jumping head-first with a full-on electronic extravaganza with me and Gabe. So the promoters promoted and the DJs DJ'ed -- Gabe playing all electronic stuff and Huy meeting in the middle with some more mainstream sounds. The second week, Gabe, Huy, and I were all on board, with a fair dance floor and some positive feed-back. The third week was just Gabe and I, with things a little less busy and not too many tails on the floor. Here's where the trouble starts. And ends.

The first week that I was officially a part of the night was First Thursday (the first Thursday of the month) in Portland -- a night where all the art galleries open up, venues host events, and everyone is out and about on the town. It's a great night for any bar or club in the area because the foot traffic is so thick. So we had a decent little crowd in Couture, despite the fact that the promoters were hosting another event in a different venue. Yup, that's right, you got it: The guys that the club pay to promote their night were throwing a different event just seven blocks away.

The second night I was involved, the night that was just Gabe and I behind the decks, the promoters did... nothing. Typically, all week long, before Thursday rolls around, my social networks are clogged with posts from these guys about Thursday night, house music, DJs, etc. That week? Nothing. Nada. Not a peep. I wondered if they'd been in the same car that had been involved in a wreck that had them both hospitalized. The online event invite had only five invitees: myself, Gabe, Huy, the club owner, and one other.

Aren't the promoters supposed to, well... promote? Did I get this wrong? I mean, sure, I may not speak English all good, but I thought I had a grasp of the meaning of this word.

Let's see what dictionary.com has to say.

"to help to encourage to exist or flourish"

"to aid in organizing"

"to contribute to the progress and growth of"

etc, etc.

Damn, I guess I'm not entirely illiterate then!

Oddly, the very next week saw just Gabe and Huy on the tables. And what were the promoters doing? Well, just what dictionary.com says that they should have been doing, in fact. Hallelujah! I thought that maybe the previous two weeks had been a fluke and that we were over it, ready to move on, to make the night grow, and to get some spray-tanned blondes liking some good electronic music.

Then Gabe calls me today with the news. The owner can't help but notice how, when it was just Gabe and I, the night was slower. He thinks that maybe I'm not the best fit, that perhaps I and my music were to blame. The promoters? They agree -- of course they agree! The night they were supposed to be promoting was slow because they weren't promoting, doing their job, what they've been paid to do. I'd been thrown under the bus, either in a pre-meditated fashion, or just as an afterthought after they'd realized that, holy smokes!, if you don't promote, nobody shows.

To be honest, the old man in me isn't terribly disappointed. I never was too sure about forcing myself to work on 3 1/2 hours of sleep once a week, and I wasn't ever fully convinced that the clientele would be accepting, or even embracing of that type of music. I was never fully sold on the idea, but saw absolutely no reason not to give it a shot. Because if it had worked, if the Couture regulars had wow'ed me with their insatiable desire for some forward-thinking tunes, I'd have stayed up that late, worked on that little sleep, and gladly have DJed for free. As it is, I prefer to walk away from the situation and the money (not that there was a lot of it), and enjoy a relaxed Thursday evening at home or with friends.

And I should submit that the owners and staff are perfectly nice people, though perhaps they may not have the best judgment. And the venue itself is a beautiful one which will likely do well, if they can ever decide what they actually want to do with it. Regardless, it seems we're not meant for each other. And that's ok.

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Update:

With the knowledge that I'm sometimes an idiot and make my own mistakes (hard to believe, I know), I just had a conversation with one of the promoters, caught his side of things, and now have a better understanding of the circumstances they are dealing with. However, despite my desire to be transparent, it was requested that I leave things here as they are so as to avoid any other misunderstandings.

What I get from all this? Affirmation that when I play the music that I love, I always want it to be somewhere that fits that sound. As I said earlier, there's no "right" or "wrong" music to be played, but there is the right and wrong places to play it.

It's All Gone Paul Van Dyk

"Whatever you do, don't play too hard!"

The problem was, I wasn't exactly sure what "too hard" meant.

This was back in 2007, when I first had the opportunity of opening for Paul Van Dyk at the Crystal Ballroom. Paul and his management made it exceptionally clear, via the promoters, that the opening DJ should not be playing music that was too high energy. As one of the world's top DJs, this isn't terribly surprising. I can't begin to imagine the slew of all-too eager DJs that opened up for the man and wanted to possibly impress him or just enjoy their moment in the spot-light. The problem is, "too hard" and "high energy" mean different things to different people. And I had no means of knowing what these ideas meant to either Paul or his management. I knew what I thought these concepts meant, and what music I thought might be fit to play. But still, when this point is being so clearly stressed, you can't help but second-guess yourself. I mean, you want to do a good job, right?

The result? A nerve-wracked DJ, paranoid about pissing off one of the biggest names in the industry, and terrified of putting over 1,000 people to sleep.

That night back in 2007 I went to dinner with some friends before the show. One of them pointed out how nervous I clearly was by how quiet I was being. It seems that my incessant chatter is directly proportionate to how relaxed I am.

The end result was that I went with my gut and played what I felt was right, considering the context. The promoter popped up on stage towards the end of my set to let me know that the current track was a bit more energy than they liked, and then again during my next track to let me know that it was now perfect. The show went great, I had an amazing time, and then promptly flew off to San Francisco the very next morning to play my second year of LoveFest. It was probably one of those weekends that I'll be regaling my grandchildren about (with a few omissions) in years to come.

This past weekend, I again had the honor of setting the stage for Paul with the very same cautions from the promoter. We discussed the energy level of the music on and off before the show, and then again the night of. He told me that not only Paul, but both of his managers had inquired about the opening DJ, what I'd be playing, and stressed the importance of the lower energy level. I think that the promoter was more stressed out about it than I was at this point. When I jokingly offered to play some downtempo in the last thirty minutes of my set, he almost looked relieved.

But this time around, I was prepared. I knew what I wanted, what Paul wanted, and what the crowd wanted. I played marginally harder the first forty-five minutes or so, and then kept it bouncy and light the latter half of my set -- the half that Paul would be in the building for. The result of this show? I had an amazing time with an incredible crowd, a ton of hugely flattering feedback, and nobody asking me to bring it down a notch. I'm calling this one a success.

Next time, though, I just might give the old geezer a run for his money.

I've made a download-able and stream-able representation of the latest set, for an idea of where I went with the music:
Opening Set for Paul Van Dyk 7/2/2010 by evanalexander

A Fool's Diatribe -- an assignment for school that became much more personal.

A Fool’s Diatribe

Take not what I write as metaphor, allegory, or meaning, lost and veiled beyond pretty words. What I write, I do so as to be presentable at face value. I do not seek to needlessly complicate my words, your understanding of them, or the message I create. I am here to say a few things, to put these words to paper, and to possibly paint a picture.

I come to you as a cautiously open book. The person that I am, though complicated needlessly at times; possibly confusing, I’d wager, quiet when there’s nothing necessary to be said, gregarious for no apparent reason, and pointlessly logical when logic isn’t a welcome guest, is also a simple one, with no needs beyond the food on my plate, the ceiling over my head, and the bed to which I retire. But, despite the recognition of my few base needs from which I gain great appreciation, there is more.

How does one convey who they might be when who they might be is confronted with one of the age-old mysteries, created by that own pursuit of that exact question: Who am I? It seems a task doomed from the point of its undertaking. From the moment that the first word was put to the virtual paper on which I type, it seems almost pointless.

Are we not an amalgamation of parts that are at once in harmony, and contradictory in their existence? How do we make sense of these parts when the parts themselves have no clear cohesion and often only turn in on themselves? We struggle with this problem the most in our teens, unsure of ourselves, unable to stand confidently, presenting ourselves to the world. We think, as we get older, that we have a clearer picture, that perhaps we’ve figured it out. We claim in our loud, mature voices that we are adults! We know who we are! We’ve been through the worst of it and have come out a whole person, we’ve fought for identities, stood our ground, made declarations, and have given the proverbial finger to those who would not have us as we are.

But does this truly mean that it has been figured out? Or is it, perhaps, that we are just better at pretending? Sure, we may have, through trial and error, gained a clearer picture of what we want, what our most base needs are, who the people we can and can’t stand are, and whether or not we truly like our parents. We may have decided that, no matter how hard we try, we just don’t like sushi. The movies being made, the songs playing on the radio, the style of clothes that it seems everyone is wearing may in fact, just not be to our liking. But do we not spend a lifetime in the search of answers to a few questions that haunt us collectively? Have we not created, fought over, and died for belief systems that helped us to feel that we had some answers to these questions?

So, this is the crux of it. I just don’t know who I am, as a whole. The pieces are identifiable, sometimes laudable, and at other times unfortunate. They are there, and I could tell you about these. A few I will keep to myself and some I am too afraid to even consider their existence.

Bear with me as I bare my bones:

I am a son who doesn’t call enough. I am a student. I am an employee of a kick-ass company. I am a neighbor who once asked to borrow a cup of sugar. I am a consumer. I am a producer. I am a reader, a writer, and a plagiarist. I am forward, up-front, and a liar. I believe in the good in all people, yet often times see only the bad. I am impatient with weakness, but beg for acceptance of my failures. I am competitive, but often lose. I am a humble man who loves to look at himself in the mirror. I fool myself into thinking that I am narcissistic. I work hard at looking like I don’t work hard to look like how I look. I am grammatically incorrect more often than I would like, and hate it when others don’t properly conjugate. I have been known to unabashedly split the occasional infinitive. I use too many commas. I have a cat that I talk to entirely too much and who, I am convinced, talks back. I am a runner with high cholesterol. I am a walking, glorified jukebox that calls himself a DJ. I believe, quite genuinely, that I have better taste in music than you. I love to cook, but find myself cooking the same damn things over and over and over. I am a Southerner who doesn’t want to be pegged as a Southerner because I am afraid of the stereotypes that are associated with that. I love grits, but don’t really know what a grit is. I am insecure about being skinny, even though I’m not nearly as skinny as I was when I was younger. I joke about being old at 30, but feel like I am 17. I am a mediocre talent. I am a pragmatic romantic, deeply seated in reality. I cry at movies. I seem to constantly have writer’s block. I believe that you might actually want to read all of this.

I get swept away in the beauty of the world around me, lost in its story, and in creating my own. I’m convinced that this world is here for me, yet I refuse to take some of the steps necessary to make it mine, to seat me on the throne of the happiness I seek, and I look on in forlorn jealousy at those who have found theirs. I’m tossed about by the rides of opportunity – one moment enjoying great success in the passions that torment me, the next, I’m fighting to stay adrift. Music compels me, torments me, inspires me, causes me pain, brings me joy, comforts me, brings hope for the salvation of this wreck of a world, and gives voice to all the pain, beauty, strife, struggle, sacrifice, and success. It’s my untrustworthy friend: there for me when I need it, but sweeping the rug out from underneath me when I’m confident in our relationship. I’ve given so much, tried so hard to make this work, yet enjoy only a few moments of success, with the spotlight shining brightly, validating the toil.

This, then, I’m forced to face as who I am, the most prominent of my many personalities, the name tags that I wear, the costumes I don. I am a multitude, a clamor, a din, a cacophony. I am the sounds of the waves, not lapping against the shore – surely nothing quite so poetic – but the personification of those hapless grains of sand, pummeled relentlessly by the insistence of the sea. I try to grab one of those grains, call it “Me,” and pray that it is hardy enough to withstand the waves. I attempt, for a short time, to ignore the obvious rest and hold on to this one identifiable kernel in a camouflage of monotony, hoping that it will not get swept away before I can get to know it, identify with it, and make it my own. I am everything above this line in this rant: I am a confused fool, bearing a passion for music and a fear of pursuit of it that is caused, tempered, created by, or exacerbated from the humanity we all face and all of its uncertainties.

This existence is placed here for no reason we can begin to conceive, providing us with a brief taste of something wonderful, full of pain, laughter, love, regret, envy, anger, tears, and joy, allowing us to grow, to experience, filling us with wisdom and knowledge, only to pour out all of those contents at the very last, at the final hour. We try so hard to find something to give us purpose, that sometimes that search in itself becomes our purpose, a surrogate that consumes our attention and the light of our lives. We have such a flame, a burning drive to keep going, to keep doing, without a real understanding of what it is that we are doing and why we keep going. In doing so, we fly by the beauty, the calm, the serenity that exists all around us. We surround ourselves with baubles and toys that sparkle and shine, blinding us from anything else of a subtler, more natural glow.

Me? I am confused. I am confusing. I am as unknown to myself, possibly more so, as is the night to the day ­– those long-known acquaintances that meet regularly enough, but exchange hardly more than a brief nod, “hello” and “goodbye.” I know the thoughts that are in my head, but sometimes wonder at whom their speaker is. I question his motives and reasons, and am afraid to find these answers.

I fear what I might find when reading this piece. I fear what you might find, you stranger mine. You peer into my words, searching for a meaning that I warned you may not be there, second-guessing my honesty, my intentions, the need to say what I’ve said. Find in this then whatever meaning is best reflected by your own experiences, hurts, heart-aches, victories, and successes. And, perhaps, in the midst of doing so, find as well my small voice, adding to your own, together creating our own meaning and message. Find this, my new friend: a fool’s diatribe.

Two legs x iPod = Dead DJ and a Bar Tab

Once upon a time I commented on a local DJ's blog regarding competitors taking gigs for less money than he felt they should. His frustration, being a well established local DJ playing in the "hottest" mainstream clubs, was that he was being undercut by newer DJ's seeking to make a name for themselves and willing to take gigs at a much smaller price tag than he was, in order to do so. At the time my reaction was, "Tough luck. It's the nature of the capitalistic beast." You know, you have about as much chance of stepping on a DJ as you do stepping in a puddle here in the rainy Pacific Northwest. Of course there's going to be competition!

My comment to his blog, however, was that, though he may have a valid point in the market that he operates in, the electronic music scene is an entirely different thing. DJs in Portland, OR that are wanting to play any form of underground music are lucky to see money at the end of the night. Why? Because, unless you're bringing a Big Name DJ to town, this isn't a genre of music that is a money-maker. Despite the progressive, forward-thinking nature of this city, it just isn't large enough to offer enough of a market for that kind of music. So if you're a DJ wishing to play any form of underground electronic dance music, be prepared to be payed little to nothing.

I'm not saying that it's not possible to make some money at this. I'm not saying that I run around town taking gigs for free. Far from it. I am fortunate enough to be among the few that play anything but the mainstream, on a regular basis, and get paid to do so. Now, if I were in a much larger city, I'd probably be getting paid more than I am. And that's fine; I'm not here for the money. But after 11 years of blood (I may have bled on a record once), sweat, and tears (ok, I do cry often), I damn well deserve some return on my investment. Besides, I'm good at what I do.

Tonight I have experienced the frustrations of that DJ who blogged his frustrations of being undercut. But my experience was his, multiplied by... well, the money I would have made tonight. Now, you may be saying to yourself, "Tough luck. It's the nature of the capitalistic beast." Familiar words, right? But here's the thing: he was playing for free.

How does one compete against that?

The DJ who wrote his blog made the valid point of "you get what you pay for." True enough. The DJs that are charging more are (hopefully) doing so for a valid reason. And, granted, you can probably find some decent talent for less than what the upper echelon may be asking. But you have to ask yourself, what kind of quality are you getting for free? This guy, the one who took my night from under my nose, that's what he was charging: nothing. And to make it worse, he's not even bothering to mix his music. He's playing directly from his laptop (something that I normally would take no issue with), but he's not bothering to do more than to hit play on the next track at the end of the proceeding track.

He's an iPod with two legs and the ability to drink your booze.

If he were charging less, that'd be fine. He would then just be competition, and competition I'm used to. I know my value, and those that book me tend to know this too. But a man with a laptop full of decent music who is charging nothing is hard for me to compete against. I could toot my own horn in front of the owners of the place until my horn was blue in its...face? But, for a business, it always comes down to one thing: the bottom line.

That damned bottom line has got me sitting on my ass tonight.