It was Saturday, December 12, 1987. It was a cold, sloppy Saturday night. I had gotten a call from the spiky-haired guy at the DJ service – be at the bar by 7:30 to learn how to get the equipment started up, and start playing. My training would be on the job. The bar was “City Limits” (a bar I’d never heard of) in Rosemount (a town in the southeast suburbs that, in fact, I’d also never heard of in two years in the Twin Cities).
I got into my car around 6PM and started driving. It was a good thing. One of the “quirks” I’d discovered in my first couple of years in the Twin Cities was that it always took me a minimum of two tries to find anything in the suburbs. Every single time.
And City Limits was no exception. I drove to Minneapolis, then down 35W and then Cedar all the way to County Road 42, and hung a left. And drove.
And drove.
And drove.
The townhouses of Burnsville faded away into the background. I drove through farm fields, fallow for the winter, and the occasional warehouse or small business, until I got to “South Robert Trail”, a wan little intersection with “downtown” Rosemount just off to the left. I hung a right, and drove past a farm equipment dealership with a natty-looking beige outbuilding, through more fields. And more. And more.
Finally, in Farmington (I think), I stopped and asked directions at a gas station. The guy knew City Limits (he said, with an “Oy, do I know City Limits!” kind of gusto), and pointed me back to the north.
Sure enough, the natty gray outbuilding was the bar.
I walked in. The bar smelled like burned cooking oil and dry popcorn; it rumbled with the sounds of the bowling alley through the door to the back of the restaurant. A guy – early-twentysomething, blond, tall, looking a bit like a Hitler Youth but with wry smile – sat on one of the stools by the little counterette wrapped around the DJ booth, which sat at the edge of a small, tiled dance floor.
“Scott?”
“Hey!”, he said, with a voice that sounded like it’d been on the air.
———-
He showed me how to “power up”;
- Turn the volumes down on all the mixers.
- Power on the amps
- Turn on the mixers
- Turn on the lighting switchers
- Turn on the power to the lighting rig – the various lights, flashers, and the all-important fog machine over the dance floor.
“This bar is pretty dead, so it’ll be a great place to learn how to do this stuff”, Scott said, sipping a vodka kamikaze.
———-
And so I did. The basics were nothing I hadn’t learned at my first radio job, eight years and change earlier; cue the records on the two turntables, fade between them, make announcements during the ramps and fades. I did that vastly better than most club jocks – Scott commented on it.
The harder part was “beat-mixing” – mixing the fade from one song into the ramp for the next one so their rhythms merge, making the transition seamless and giving the impression that the music never really stops. To help out, all the music in the vinyl bins was organized by speed, in beats per minute – from George Michael’s “I Want Your Sex” (90BPM) through “Walking on Sunshine” (200 and change). In theory, you could start with a slower song, and – using the turntables’ variable speed controls, keep a continuous (if slowly speeding-up) beat going for the entire night.
But that was way in the future, as I fumbled at trying to get simple beats to match up in my headphones.
I needed some work, there.
———-
But at least I had the basics down pretty quickly. Scott and I talked for a couple of hours; briefly about work; mostly about radio. He remembered my character from the Vogel show. He’d worked at a bunch of small stations in Wisconsin. He was starting to think about making another try at it.
The bar had customers. Bowlers mingled with rednecks, sprinkled with a couple of Apple Valley party girls, who occasionally staggered about the floor, dancing with each other (since none of the guys felt like it). The place pretty much emptied out at 10.
Scott showed me how to shut everything off at the end of the night, and wished me luck, leaving around 11.
And so I finished out the night, taking the odd request, playing to maybe three barstool-polishing people by the end of the evening.
And I made the long drive back to Saint Paul.
I had a pleasant feeling, knowing I’d earned $50 for the evening.
Like most of the times one walks off life’s metaphorical cliffs, I had no sense that I was falling.
Yet.
The townhouses of Burnsville faded away into the background. I drove through farm fields….
I’d be willing to bet those farm fields are now also chock full of townhomes, retail stores, etc.
We’re gonna get to that, youbetcha!
The harder part was “beat-mixing”
Huh, you learn something new every day. I’ve never heard of that before. Interesting. I always thought the DJ booth was a cool place, but only because of the zillions of switches, dials and electronic doodads. I am to blinky lights like a moth is to a bug zapper..
The DJ booth is hell precisely because certain folks think its neat and want to get a look at it… blocking your view of the few really hot chicks in the joint.
Some also think any trained monkey can do it and instantly think you suck… and take it as a personal affront that you don’t immediately play their request. In spite of the fact that the dance floor is moving fairly well and folks (who actually buy drinks) are having a good time, apparently you as a DJ actually suck because you’re simply not stopping the momentum and causing a train wreck by playing some jackass request from a guy who isn’t actually having any fun in the first place and apparently really wants to hear something you simply can’t dance to (even if it is a fun tune)… like AC-DC or Led Zeppelin.
Ah… the good ol’ days. 😉
Oh, yeah. That’s coming up in future editions of this story.
It’s usually some greasy-looking half-in-the-bag redneck and his pal who stagger up and, ignoring the floor full of babes dancing and their guys drinking and tipping, slur out “when are you gonna stop playing this n***er sh*t and play some white people’s music?”
I once resopnded “You mean like Chuck Berry and Jimi Hendrix?”
“Yeah!”
Yeah. That post is coming up, sooner than later.
Badda, Here’s a nice warm mug of STFU. 😛
And for the record, I have never said a DJ sucks because he won’t play the song I want to hear.
lol
Bill, I don’t mean you… your comment just reminded me of (roughly) 101 jackasses. The phrase Mitch quoted, “When are you going to stop playing this n*gg*r sh*t?” sounds very familiar… however, I luckily never heard anyone say that I should play more “white people” music.
I’m not sure there’s another profession where the phrase, “I’ll see what I can do,” spills out as often as it does for a DJ. 😉
Good stuff. The only reason Rosemount was one of the minority of suburbs I had heard of in the mid-80s when I was going to school in Northfield was because it was between Northfield and the Cities going up the back way (Highway 3).
So it’s the mid-80’s & I’m hanging out with my buddy Hutch while he’s DJ’ing at a bowling alley somewhere in Shoreview. Greasy Haired Redneck wanders up to the booth:
GHR: Why don’t you play some Judas Priest?
Hutch: I don’t play Judas Priest.
GHR: Well howabout something _like_ Judas Priest?
Hutch: {smirking] Howabout some old Kiss?
GHR: Okay!
Hutch [Rolls eyes]
I love the guys who come out to bars with a good “dance floor” and then get bent out of shape when folks just abandon the dance floor at the first few beats of Kiss.
I mean… I love Iron Maiden, but I’d never expect to hear it at Shooters, Splashes, Kicks, or any other similarly named bars where the girls are not dangerously close to two-bills while unfortunately wearing too much spandex and tops that are nearly four sizes too small. Much less expect to dance to it.
😉
I worked two gigs very much like yours, Mitch – but without the beat mixing aided music organization and fog. The second one was in Oakdale, run by a country music fan who displayed his trophy kills around the restaurant/bar. No one danced to the Oak Ridge Boys, but did with Top-40. I got yelled at all the time about my playlist, but I got people up dancing and staying for more drinks. And he MADE me play “Goodnight Sweetheart” at the end of each shift. Ba dadda- ba dadda – ba dadda – ba DUMB.
On the upside: the short hours and high pay helped to get me through college.
A job where you leave each night having dealt with a bunch of drunks, smelling of stale cigarette smoke, and with ears ringing? I’m guess someone has to do it, but I’m glad it wasn’t me.
It is one of those jobs that is great to do at least once… plus, great shows were really great.
Badda: I mean… I love Iron Maiden, but I’d never expect to hear it at Shooters, Splashes, Kicks, or any other similarly named bars where the girls are not dangerously close to two-bills while unfortunately wearing too much spandex and tops that are nearly four sizes too small. Much less expect to dance to it.
ROTFL! Oh man does that bring back memories of conversations like that in HS and college!
I’m not sure there’s another profession where the phrase, “I’ll see what I can do,” spills out as often as it does for a DJ.
Been there, heard that! I remember the one time I went to the dueling pianos bar at the MoA, I can’t imagine how many requests for “Piano Man” those guys must have gotten every night. Hell, I heard it at least 2 times in the 3-4 hours I was there.
Lassie: The second one was in Oakdale, run by a country music fan who displayed his trophy kills around the restaurant/bar.
Blues Brothers: “We BOTH kinds of music here….Country AND Western!”