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...