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.

----------------------------------

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.

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