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.

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.