by Rocco Capano
Freddie was a rough-faced Irish kid that talked black.His house was a neighborhood boy's club in which we'd continuously have jam-packed house parties back in the early nineties. He loved to be the center of attention and also drunk as humanly possible. I was the neighborhood mixtape king and would DJ in parties so packed it'd be impossible to cross the room.
My friendship with Freddie H was based on the following of people that would come from all over to get senselessly drunk with my music playing along in the background. One day we decided to be DJ partners and how embarrassing that was for me! When Freddie would mix one record into the next-it sounded about as smooth as a car crashing into somebody's living room and I'd always have an overwhelming urge to duck under the table.
Freddie and I were constantly at odds because all I cared about was upgrading the situation by getting us better gigs, and all he cared about was getting drunk and having sex with just about anything he ended up with. Somehow I managed to make the best of a bad situation. Eventually I'd gotten myself into a club called the Paradise.
Some could forget how unhappy they actually were. Most of the crowd would carry a quiet sadness about them that would slip out from time to time. This older extra black dood Ray would always come to the club all dressed up and saying hello to everyone with high spirits. As the night progressed the mood among the party goers would worsen in the usual drunkenly wild way. Ray knew it meant some drunken ruckus was soon to follow and would catch my eye to shake his head about it.
Ray knew what I knew and that was the party goers couldn't have a "good time" without fighting each other and becoming fall down drunk. It wasn't ever going to change. After that fact settled the whole thing became humorous in some twisted way. The morbid fascination with watching them through the glass grew into an obsession to play records that would really amplify the raw chaotic mood they were drunkenly dancing towards anyhow.
This was strangely thrilling, giving into a vibe I looked down upon to scrounge my bit of fun. When I'd see mini eruptions of violence begin to brake out on the dance floor or along the perimeter I'd know I was on the right track and received a healthy bit of sadistic satisfaction as well.
Meanwhile Freddie H would be doing his drunken DJ thing all over countless beat down apartments through out Lynn. The depressing grind had no effect on Freddie because his style was a lot like the dumpsters he played in. I was pleased to have him away from me. The only difference between Freddie's crowd and my crowd was that my crowd would have on better clothes when they to threw up on each other.
This was the first time I'd ever felt excited about DJing. My friend Big Chuck once said, "Rock, We're DJs,that means we gotta play a lot of music that sucks." I was always more of an Inspector gadget/mixtape-out to please myself type D.J. that never realized how close minded and rigidly specific people actually were.
It soon becomes evident when you have a mob of nostalgic alcoholics ready to smash your equipment and demand to go through your records. After that initial shock you'll either become a well polished mainstream DJ or go back to making mixtapes in your bedroom. The latter is probably the better choice unless you've got the stomach of an elephant.
I put myself through a lot of unnecessary aggravation by trying to sneak in records with actual quality. People don't care. They want the same old same and are only open to the new if the sounds like the old. I'd gotten used to sticking with a few generic formulas that were bulletproof.
There really was never any personal satisfaction until I not only gave them the lame shit they loved to hear but gave it to them like I was trying to kill them. I began to put together combinations of records that could effectively excite the monkey part of their brains into a frenzy. An airborne beer bottle would just miss somebody's face who'd be in mid conversation or a chair would occasionally go spinning by and into a wall.
Something about mocking the pathetic quality of the situation made me feel free. The owner was a cheap drug-dealing show off. He would always insist that I was provoking the vandalism and violence while barmaids would be sweeping broken glass off the dance floor at the end of the night. That was fun to deny as well.
The patrons and party people treated me like some hard to see celebrity. Everywhere I went somebody would be praising me for the "Good time" they thought they had. None of it meant anything to me. What I did enjoy was the game. Why go against nature ? I had the water, sun and soil to let these party people flower into the biggest drunken assholes ever imagined.
After more time had passed it was like I turned into a chaos junkie that needed a vicarious fix. I'd be locked in the D.J. booth high on the drunken ruckus. The bloody noses and tables turned over. The girls screaming in the parking lot. Somebody got stabbed. Somebody got shot. Somebody got robbed. It was all just one big sucker punch on a bouncer's face.
In the end the club decided I was just like the animals I was playing for and fired me. Imagine that. I sat with a coffee later and thought "that kinda sucks, I was really having a good time.
English Composition 1, Fall '07