it’s sunday, a sweltering sunday as a matter of fact. this is the fourth day in a row for me. and by that i mean it’s the fourth day playing music out and about. and there will be no rest until wednesday. this isn’t a complaint. i’m not ungrateful for the gift of playing music as a fundamental cornerstone of my life and waking days (nights). but i haven’t slept is what i’m saying. and there’s still many miles to travel.

the first time i experienced a dancefloor come to life, i must have been 17. it was this high school trip to california. a journalism conference, presumably. though you’d be wise to ask exactly how much any of these kids were contributing to the advancement of journalism. i’m speaking only of myself, i now realize. i’m sure all my peers were steadfast in their committment and vested interest in the fourth estate. anyways, the first night they had a dance. and i suppose i had been to school dances before, but they had always struck me as something i didn’t understand. because up until that point in my life, i hadn’t experienced music in that way. music was something that you listened to in your room, with the volume at 4. music was something savored through headphones, like a shield against the jagged noise of the world.

but this was different, this was no late night on the floor wearing headphones. i don’t know what led me there, i don’t remember the dj or if there even was one, and to be perfectly honest i don’t even remember the music. but this was the first time i felt a dancefloor form, and coalesce, and breathe. i feel like any written description would only do the moment injustice, other than to say that if you’ve ever felt the magic of a dancefloor stir to life then you know what i’m talking about. that blink of an eye that turns a jumbled crowd of people into something unified, electric. alive.

here’s the heartbreaking part. the next night there was an identical “dance,” the same pile of teenagers, the same maelstrom of hormones… but it paled in comparison. it just wasn’t the same, some part of the recipe was different and the result tasted cheesy. but it didn’t matter. i’d had that first taste of something transcendant. something both primal and ethereal. something that caused you to raise your hands in the air, and in fact, wave them like you just don’t care.

“How do you make a statue of an elephant? Get the biggest granite block you can find and chip away everything that doesn’t look like an elephant.”

a dancefloor is never created. trust me, i’ve spent a lot of my life chasing and studying that moment. and i can assure you a dancefloor was already there, waiting to be found and awoken, like a stormfront.

there’s a point during an event where things stop going according to plan. you’re running late. you’ve arrived at apparently the wrong venue. false alarm, correct venue but the loading zone is hundreds of yards from your setup space. it starts raining, or pouring to the point where you’re soaked through to your socks. you have two avenues available, adapt or perish. your night, and the event itself can pivot from this moment. any number of things can and will go wrong during an event, always. what matters is how you react. “this is what makes me a professional,” was the thought that distracted me from my wet socks. and while it was half-joking, it seemed true enough.

there are so many things that can go wrong, so many turns and twists that can prevent a gathering from becoming a party, something unified as opposed to merely coexisting. so when the radiant bride accompanied by sharp-looking groom comes up to you and says, “best wedding ever,” it carries special meaning. that in the face of so many things possibly going wrong, something else happens. for however briefly, disaster is averted and glimmering moments are created that will become memories of a landmark in these people’s lives.

during the wedding, several people made reference to lost arts, in reference to using actual physical records to dj. i appreciate the sentiment and certainly the validation, but it always sort of amuses me because it seems like such a natural thing to me. or rather the natural fundamental baseline for dj’ing. that at it’s core, it can be done by two turntables and a microphone, er mixer. and i’m not an anti-digital music person. it’s not snobbery for me, at least i don’t think it is. there’s just something there, in that form of the craft of being a hiphop dj. two analog sources and whatever you can make happen with a crossfader. an entire genre was created from just that. an entire industry, an entire subculture that now spans the globe as pervasive as any religion or political ideology. from some kids in new york city throwing parties with their parents’ record collections.

carrying equipment and records is my least favorite part of dj life. that’s a confession. and certainly one of the strongest arguments for going digital. when it’s all over, and the tables and chairs are being folded, there’s this moment where i realize how disorganized my mind is, as evidenced by the assorted vinyl carnage after hours of attemping to navigate the currents of a dancefloor. rational human beings can return objects into their assigned sleeves. but i apparently lack this capacity over time. and then you realize that all the chaos and glory aftermath, all of it needs to be broken down, packed, and loaded into the car. and then unloaded at home. there’s a weary exhalation at that moment: this is the balance, or the counterbalance to seeing someone’s uncle do the splits, watching generations come together with arms raised in joy or goofiness, feeling a dancefloor rise from a room full of strangers after chipping away at the giant block of granite one song at a time. the weight of all those moments… needs to be carried to the car.

in the attempt to make a swift, professional exit, you can often overlook important details. it wasn’t until the next day that i realized i was missing an umbrella. i had set it aside very early in the process of loading in, when it was clear i’d already lost the battle against the rain. to be honest, i was distracted by one of the bartenders who was breaking down. she was the last one to make reference to lost arts, and sort of ribbed me about my performance in a way that i couldn’t tell was complimentary or not. some of the most honest feedback you’ll ever get is from people who have to work an event or a club night. because they don’t have the luxury of leaving, and they have no reason to lie to you at the end of the night after the party has gone. so when she jokingly(?) told me my performace was “alright, considering it was all records. it’s a lost art, i guess,” i didn’t know how to take it other than with a smile and a quizzical look before i returned to breaking my equipment down. and it made me forget about the umbrella, along with her name and any possibility of continuing the conversation. for the record, i’m more upset at myself that i didn’t ask for her number than i am about forgetting the umbrella.

practicing the craft of a lost art comes at a cost… of energy, and attention, and pivotal human interactions that can lead to what people refer to as normal lives. and i honestly don’t know if it’s worth it, except every once in a while i’ll look out at a swirl of smiling faces, letting out oooh’s at the next song they hear just starting like a wave about to crash into their dancing feet, and i feel like maybe i’m exactly where i’m supposed to be. now if only i could master the aftermath, because it’s all the details following those magic moments that actually build a life.

[final edit 01072017]