The idea for dejaded has been kicking around in my head for about 6 years, but it didn’t follow a linear path along the way. It started out with me writing about my personal club-land experiences (from the euphoric to the just plain fucked up) as a means of self-therapy. I knew that one day I’d turn these experiences into something to inspire other people, something tangible that I’d have to show for the struggle. I just didn’t know what form it would take.
I thought I could turn these stories into a novel, and then realized I’m way too ADD to take on such a huge one-dimensional project. I hardly got past writing out a few dialogues, and felt discouraged because I thought no one would care about an unimportant (read: non-famous) person’s life, anyway.
Then I wanted to write a screenplay, so I got a book on how to do it and got to about page 5. All those rules about margin sizes and font types weren’t exactly stimulating when I just wanted to pour my guts out on paper.
These ideas sat on the shelf for a few years, but thanks to my Seattle Rehab phase, meeting my creative Jedi collaborator m.0 (who’s giving this blog’s back-end the smack-down), and the almighty Interwebs 2.0, I’m now able to express myself in an ADD-friendly fashion. Plus, I’m trying to get this all out before the partying takes its long-term toll on my brain and my memory’s shot forever.
So I guess I should start at the beginning…
I’m gonna do a lot of chronological bouncing around in “Confessions”, but let’s start with a couple disclaimers and introduction-type things. Admittedly, this project feels intimidating to start off because I’m publishing my diary for the whole world to see… but at least it’s way more legible and not after I’m dead and unable to defend myself against incriminating stuff or people stealing my (hypothetical) millions.
So consider this post a little getting-to-know-me session. Plus, I can stall for a bit before I unbury my most disturbing thoughts and feelings that might leave me friendless and jobless. Though in that case I’ll have more time to spend on this blog. Depression always makes for better art…
First off, the idea behind “Confessions” is to capture my experiences throughout the years I was immersed in (but alienated by) the dance music scene. Over time, I’ve gotten disillusioned with the skewed portrayals of this subculture. It’s either glamorized by cheesy-ass DJs with frosted highlights and bikini-clad bitches on each arm, or demonized by the media as this disgusting, decadent wasteland.
There’s a human element– a realness– that’s often missing, so I hope these stories can lend a voice to that. Preferably with a vocoder and a little ping-pong delay on it…oh, and I guess I should warn you about my nerdiness now, too.
I’m gonna keep it as real as I can, but will have to fictionalize a couple names and facts so I don’t get my broke ass sued. And if that does happen, I promise to milk the shit outta that story and give you a play-by-play account of what’s going down from prison. Hope they got some studio space up in there.
All right, deep breath…ready?
Let’s do this.
The inspiration for “Confessions” came from the hundreds of diary entries I wrote while living and DJing in New York. I never felt that anyone got where I was coming from or shared my attitudes on the scene, so my journals quickly filled up. I was told I was overanalytical and too sensitive, idealistic, naïve…
I felt like I was in some parallel universe where it was easier to live in denial of everything. I could pretend that the drug-induced euphoria would last past the morning, that my afterhours friends would stand by me through a life crisis, and others would truly nurture my creativity and not try and tear me down. Okay, so they were right about me being idealistic…
It was a crazy roller coaster of a ride, and most of the time I had no idea where it was going. I’d get glimpses of hope and optimism, experience moments of feeling like the struggle was finally paying off…only to get violently crushed by the ugly realities of it all.
Trying to detach myself from that cycle, I moved to Seattle. After a few months of focusing on writing music and doing healthy West Coast-ish type stuff (yes, I even own a bike rack now), I got sucked into the dance music world out here. I soon realized that there’s the same shit everywhere– drama, gossip, competition, fakeness, egos… I felt defeated, and became even more bitter than I was before.
I was trapped. I could either put up with the immature, petty bullshit in order to be involved with the scene, or focus on the music in solitude– but sacrifice feeling like part of a community.
Either way, it was too big of a compromise to make. So fuck it, maybe I am an idealist.
It would be impossible (and boring) for me to trace a chronological, linear path to how I got here. Believe me, I’d love to get the autobiographical stuff outta the way so I can get to the juicy details on the present tense (yes, Mr. Promoter X who thinks he’s God’s fucking gift to man because he can book a shitty bar on a Sunday night and not pay his artists or have any creative vision at all– I’m talking to you, bitch!)… but that being said, I’d like to go back to where it all starts.
How do we let ourselves become jaded?
Think back to when you were a kid. You didn’t have to fill in all the blanks with a logical response. Your intuition and action could co-exist without interference or questioning. Grown-ups would ask, “What do you wanna be when you grow up?”, and most likely your answer didn’t have to do with money, power, or success.
My imagination was bursting at the seams throughout my childhood. I wanted to be an actress, singer, musician, writer– anything that would let me connect with people on the non-surface tip. Then somehow during my 20′s, I found myself in shitty 9-5 jobs that I hated, abandoning my creative hobbies, and losing touch with all those mental impulses.
How do our dreams get beaten out of us?
It took me years to figure it all out. I couldn’t have been born shy, insecure, and self-destructive. So where did it all begin?
I was born in the East Village of New York Muthafuckin’ City, September 14, 1979. Virgo Sun, Gemini Rising, Cancer Moon (the nutshell version: neurotic, eccentric, intuitive). My parents (young, poor Vietnamese refugees with big dreams and empty pockets) were living in the slums of Brooklyn, working their asses off while adjusting to a new life here. After years of struggling, they moved out to the quiet suburbs of New Jersey, which is where I grew up.
I know what you’re thinking. You’re about to ask, “Which exit?” (tired fucking joke, come up with a new one) or call it the Garbage State, right? That’s cool. I’m fine with that.
Most people who say that have only seen and smelled the smokestack-filled Turnpike, which is indeed skanky as hell. But seriously, there’s more to it than that, so it’s not like I fucking grew up inside a toxic waste plant. I never thought I’d defend the suburbs, but after touring the country and seeing what Small Town U.S.A. is really like (as in, Wal-Mart represents the most exciting development of humanity), I no longer feel ashamed. Suburbs are like Thai food– lots of stuff in different shapes and combinations, but a lot of the same basic ingredients.
Now that I’ve gotten that out of the way, let’s talk about that small town thing, shall we?
There are different types of people that can come from small towns. There are the ones that marry the football quarterback, move down the street from mom and dad, work at some lame job a few steps up from the one they had in high school, pop out some inevitably-doomed babies, and then live and die in Small Town X.
Then there are ones that leave to go to a bigger city. It might not be a BIG big city, but it’s still bigger than what they’re used to. They believe that they’re now proving something to the world, and go at it with this false and naïve fervor. But they still hold onto that small town mentality. The judgmental, gossipy, incestuous ways of life are all too familiar to them, so they repeat these patterns.
The problem comes in where they are not aware of this, because they’re living under the guise of “I’m now living in the big city and I’m such a fucking badass, even though I act like I’m a freshman in college trying to hit all the best frat parties.” More on this in the coming chapters…
Then there are ones that realize they’re stuck in a small town growing up and feel alienated by it. They have this nagging feeling that there’s something bigger out there, but don’t quite have a concept of what that is. So they fill the monotony with an internal world that’s way more interesting than the one around them…
I consider myself to be one of these people, but it’s a double-edged sword. I was practically destined for life as a loner, constantly floating through groups of people– but ultimately feeling alone. The real danger comes in when two loners team up… and we will get to that very soon, my friend.
When you think of the Virgin Islands, what do you think of? White sand beaches, pristine waters, and picture-perfect weather everyday, right?
Well, what the travel brochures don’t tell you is that living there can be just as boring and claustrophobic as in any small town (but slightly more scenic than Jersey). Just ask m.0, who was born and raised on St. Thomas, USVI…
Surrounded by ignorant tourists and developers who blindly pillaged his native digs, growing up in the Islands wasn’t exactly the paradise you’d imagine. Yep, people often asked if he spoke English and one fucker called him the N-word when he was just 8 years old. He’d never even heard it before. At 18, he left for Riverside, CA to study Music Education, and later bounced to San Francisco.
Why am I bringing all of this small town stuff up?
Because the dance music world feels like a small town. No, even smaller– it’s like a high school in a small town. In the great scheme of things (as in, the music industry), it’s just a little blip on the radar. A huge record sells maybe in the thousands (certainly not in the millions, anyway), and those that many of us consider celebrity DJs walk down the street anonymously and eat at restaurants in peace.
And just as in small towns, there are those that desperately want to be that big fish in a little pond. They’ll do everything in their power to intimidate, belittle, and degrade you if it means they’ll get ahead somehow. Before I started realizing this, it messed with my head, distracted me from what was really important– the music– and often made me question if it was all worth it. Let’s go through a few examples of this in action…
When I first moved to Seattle, I got booked to play this decently sized Halloween party. Having heard me drop beats before, the promoter asked me to open up for a well-known DJ I had mad respect for…so I said yes.
I got to the club (we’ll just call it Cunt Whore) and there was nobody there. I threw my record bag behind the booth and the DJ who was spinning looked like he was tripping balls and about to puke. “Yo, can you start? I don’t feel so good.”
No problem. I threw down for an hour, and then the promoter (who was supposed to go on) says to me, “Hey, can you play a little longer? I’ve gotta pick up the DJ.”
Another hour went by, then another. Where the fuck was he?
He finally showed up after I’d gone through every record in my bag, didn’t even play, and then the headliner went on. I’d built up the crowd by now and shit was crackin’. Actually, it was one of my favorite sets to date… and yes, I bought Serato after this gig (B-sides can only go so far).
So what was the problem? Well, when it came time to pay me, he threw me 50 bucks. This was less than the cover that my friends had all paid to get in. THEN he gives me this whole story of “The owner’s gonna pay me in a couple weeks, so I’ll call you.”
Knowing that he’s completely full of shit, I followed up with him. There were at least 250 people there who all paid 10 bucks a head. So what was his response when I called about the money?
“You think you can just move here from New York and demand to get paid? You gotta pay your dues, you know.”
What the fuck? Seriously, I don’t do this for money– that’s a surefire way to become broke & bitter. I’ve been more than happy to throw down a set for nothing more than a couple drink tickets. But when people in the scene use their power and status to make you feel degraded and inferior, it’s beyond lame. Especially when their “status” is self-assigned and based on nothing but their own ego. This guy made a bunch of cash and pocketed it, giving a HUGE fuck you to the artists who actually made the party happen. The fact that he went on a little power trip about it earns him the glorious status of Master Douche Face.
I’m not bitter, though. I’ve gotta get my material from SOMEWHERE, right?
It doesn’t always have to do with money. People can fuck you over just by messing with your mind or emotions, ’cause for some reason it makes them feel better about themselves. There have been times that I was psyched to work with someone, things would seem promising, but somehow it would end up in bitter disappointment. Repeat as necessary for extra jaded flavor.
I don’t expect things to work out all the time—as an artist and a dreamer, you BETTER be ready for rejection when you put yourself out there. But in the past, I’ve been naïve about people’s intentions. I’d think that they wanted a true collaboration when it was really just a “What can you do for me?” type of thing. So I had to choose between kissing ass to get ahead, or be real and DI-fucking-Y.
It was New Year’s Eve. After hibernating in the studio for a couple months and not knowing anyone in town, I decided to check out this party. I struck up a friendly conversation with a local promoter, mentioning that I was a writer. I’d been doing dance music reviews back in NYC and really missed it, so I was itching for a way to get back into it again…
We exchanged info and met over drinks one night. He had a couple of people from his DJ Mafia there, and laid out a warm welcome into the family.
“We’re looking for someone to write for our blog, help out with marketing, PR, promotions… you’d be great for it. You can be part of our crew and use our name for yourself. You know, to make some connections.”
I was ecstatic—I now had a steady outlet for my writing, and he seemed super excited to have me on board. But weeks went by and I didn’t hear anything back. Then months. I’d see him out at parties and he’d pretend not to recognize me. I felt like such a fucking dumbass.
Finally, I dragged it out of him. They were looking for someone who could do web stuff and build their blog from scratch, so I was silently kicked to the curb. I wouldn’t have been pissed if he was straight up and cool about it, but what’s with the whole stringing-me-along-and-then-not-having-the-balls-to-be-real-with-me shit? On top of it, he STILL acts like he’s too cool to say hi to me, further proving the fact that if you serve no purpose towards his promotional machine, you’re not worth his time.
Luckily, I don’t need a middle man to get my writing fix any more. Oh, and by the way, Mr. Promoter…I think I’ve got that blog thing figured out. How ya like me now, bitch?
Fuck-overs can happen in an instant, and then they’re over with. Back in ’05, I had one that lasted about 6 agonizing months. I was working at a record distributor in New York and it was the WORST. JOB. EVER. When panic attacks become a part of your daily lunch routine, you know something’s wrong.
At first, I was working in the online record shop division. It was a mindless $8/hour job I found off Craigslist, but it was the perfect low-maintenance gig. I’d show up hung over and/or cracked out, encode some vinyl snippets for the 6 DJ’s who actually visited the website, snag some promos, and be on my way. The guy that ran this department (let’s call him Non-Asshole) was really chill and low-key, too.
One day, the owner (who was in charge of both the distributor side & this web offshoot) approached me with a full-time job offer. He said someone had left to go on tour and there was an invoicing position open. He also told me that he spoke with Non-Asshole about it, and that he’d gotten the go-ahead to hire me. I figured it would be cool to get some industry experience, so I took the job.
So you’re wondering about the “worst job ever” part. Let me break it down for ya…
In the warehouse, we had a bunch of braindead zombies whose job was to look at the orders, go to the shelves, pick out records, and put ‘em into a box. Tape up. Ship. Repeat. The high concentration of testosterone stirred up a lot of chauvinistic banter, a few fist fights, and nauseatingly visual descriptions of genitalia.
In the office (where my prison cell was), I sat in a room with a few guys in their mid 30′s-40′s. Two of them were on a mission to make my life a living hell. One of them was a co-owner (who was bitter about life and about to be unhappily married), and the other was a washed up, crater-faced rave DJ (named Ghey Trants). These guys unleashed a storm of sexist and racist insults towards me on a daily basis. Ghey Trants always asked if I was eating a cat or a dog for lunch (and the lovely “all gooks are the same” type comments), and they’d both gripe about how much easier it was for a female DJ to get ahead. Ah, with such positive and supportive guys like these around, of course it was!
There was one girl who worked there (named Dick-Hole Blow Terro) and she had it in for me from the start. She’d intimidate me in front of all the guys and they would, of course, back her up. The girl even had the nerve to make fun of my dog when she was diagnosed with cancer. Topic of bitch-ass bitches to be continued at a later date!
The super shadiness of it all was revealed months later, when I found out that the person I replaced had never even left the company. He was told he’d still have his job when he got back from tour, and there I was in his seat. Even better, the owner actually DIDN’T talk to Non-Asshole about hiring me, so it looked like I was screwing him over too. Nothing like having enemies that someone else created for ya!
Last year, I was deliriously happy (and unsurprised) to hear that the company had gone under. Mad props to the universe for serving justice! And I don’t mean the duo, though they SHOULD get served for faking their live sets…
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