Tag: DJing

How We Mourn on the Dance Floor

In Audiofemme’s monthly column, The Beat Goes On, DJ Liz O. takes readers inside the booths of the dance clubs, bars and assorted L.A. events where she has been DJing for over 20 years. 

Depeche Mode circa 1987

The crowd inside the club thins as the last song for that Friday night, “Sorted for E’s & Wizz” by Pulp, fades. Yet, a handful of people remain on the dance floor, even in the seconds after the music stops. One guy shouts for another song. “Play one more for Andy!” 

Less than 48 hours earlier, word spread across social media that founding member of Depeche Mode Andy Fletcher had died. It was news that would have sounded like a hoax had it not come from the band’s official social media accounts. And it was heartbreaking. 

I have no personal connection to Depeche Mode. I’m just someone who claimed them as one of my all-time favorite bands back in elementary school and managed to stick with that proclamation for however many decades that have passed since then. And in Los Angeles, the city where I was born and still reside, that’s not unusual. Depeche Mode has been massive here since my 1980s childhood. In the L.A. that exists now, you could get away with playing the band in virtually any type of club. At the indie, alternative and goth nights, DJs can easily pack the floor with album deep cuts and B-sides. 

Needless to say, my very L.A. social media feeds were instantly flooded with tributes. I watched the photos, song clips and personal comments flash by in Instagram stories, and pop up one after the next on the main feed. Twitter and Facebook weren’t that different. 

There has been plenty written by both journalists and academics about online responses to celebrity deaths. But, the outpouring of grief from fans upon the death of someone famous long precedes social media. In 1977, Elvis Presley’s death brought tens of thousands of fans from across the country to Memphis for his funeral. The New York Times reported that close to 1000 fans turned up outside of The Dakota on the night that news of John Lennon’s murder broke. In the last few weeks of 1980 that followed, fan-led memorials popped up everywhere from Los Angeles to Moscow. Following Kurt Cobain’s death in 1994, about 10,000 fans attended a vigil in Seattle. 

When a musician dies, it often seems fitting that we should memorialize them through the songs that remain on Earth. If you’re old enough to remember a time when death announcements came via radio stations, then you can probably also recall hearing the deceased’s music after the DJ shared the news. If the musician had an impact on a specific scene, you might hear DJs dropping songs into their sets or bands covering personal favorites that weekend. And, if the musician was local, there might very well be some kind of gathering in your town. It’s part of how listeners show their appreciation for the gift of music.

Even in the social media age, that hasn’t changed. 

It didn’t take long for impromptu tributes to the band to pop up at venues across Los Angeles. And these weren’t limited to music events. At a Dodgers game on May 30, organist Dieter Ruehle paid homage by playing several Depeche Mode songs. 

Over the course of that final weekend of May, I ended up playing two Depeche Mode-heavy sets. On Saturday, I added a handful of Depeche Mode records to my crate and joined my friend, Malvada, who also brought her Depeche Mode stash, for an all-vinyl early evening gig. I ultimately lost track of how many Depeche Mode tunes I played altogether. It was as many as people needed to hear, or I needed to hear, at that moment. 

Part of DJing is saying what’s on your mind without actually talking. The songs do that for you. Sometimes, we do this in an obvious way. We might select a tune with lyrics that, on some level, reflect current events. Other times, it’s much more personal. We might pick out a song because it’s particularly meaningful to us, or it sends a message to someone we know is in that room. We might play something for someone who isn’t in that room— like a friend who recently died — because that person is in our thoughts. And we might play a song because a musician that we admire is now gone. 

I check the time on my laptop. We’re edging pretty close to the moment when everyone needs to get out, but the house lights were only beginning to brighten and no one at the bar has motioned for me to kill the sound quite yet. I really can’t say no, despite having played more than ten Depeche Mode songs that night. I quickly scroll through Rekordbox taking note of what I’ve already played— a handful of the hits and some fan favorites, like a request for “Puppets” — and realize that I hadn’t played “Enjoy the Silence.” That was truly the best choice for tonight’s closer. One more. For Andy.

For ongoing updates on gigs, sign up for Liz’s newsletter. This month, catch her at the following spots:
7/23/22 — Nitzer Ebb vs. Front 242 @ Akbar w/ Tommy Rocker, Manuelito, Damascus Knives (EBM set)
7/26/22 — La Dolce Vita @ The Mermaid (disco set)
7/29/22 — Club Underground @ Grand Star Jazz Club w/ Larry G. (indie, Britpop, alt ‘80s, post-punk)
8/05/22 — ‘90s House Party @ The Lash (throwback house) 

DJing Means Rolling with Whatever the Night Brings, Even Tech Failures

In Audiofemme’s monthly column, The Beat Goes On, DJ Liz O. takes readers inside the booths of the dance clubs, bars and assorted L.A. events where she has been DJing for over 20 years. 

It’s after 1 a.m. on what is now, technically, Saturday morning, but the Friday night vibes are still swelling inside the club. We’re less than ten seconds into “These Boots Are Made for Walking.” The crowd has just caught the groove of the song’s iconic bassline. They are almost ready to lip-sync alongside Nancy Sinatra; in fact, I can see a face or two preparing to do just that. If the scene transpires as it normally does, at least a few people will begin to shimmy when the tambourine kicks in about a fraction of a second from now. 

But, right at the moment when all the anticipation built by the bass is set to release into a flurry of groovy moves, Rekordbox crashes. The music stops and so does the dancing. Now all eyes are on the very confused DJ in front of the dance floor. That DJ, dear reader, is me. 

People have a lot of opinions about what makes a good DJ. Some say that it’s all about mixing skills. Others will argue that song selection is most important. Most will add that it has something to do with reading the room, even though they aren’t exactly sure what that means. While those are all excellent skills to have at your disposal, what truly makes a DJ good is an ability to roll with whatever the night may bring. 

There will be times, probably a lot of them, when you botch a mix or drop a track that clears the floor. There will be nights when you’re exhausted or sore or otherwise feeling like crap. And there will be many times when the gear fails you. But, as Sonny and Cher once sang, the beat goes on. Or, at least it will once you can get the music playing again. 

Okay, maybe all eyes aren’t on me when the music stops. Maybe it’s just one or two people glancing in my direction, while everyone else goes back to ordering drinks or talking about whatever it is that people gab about between midnight and last call. But, in that split second when I realize that I’m listening to chatter and not a 1960s dance jam, I fear that I just killed the party. 

The thing about DJing is that it’s never just about the music. There are a lot of components involved in getting that music out through the speakers and each one of them is a potential point of failure. A significant part of your job, particularly in the bars and small clubs where the DJ is also, by default, the sound tech, is making sure that all of the components function properly.

Along your DJ journey, you’ll pick up a few tricks to help get you through any situation. If you play vinyl, at some point, you’ll learn how to turn a cocktail napkin into a slipmat  when there are none in the booth or tape a penny to the shell of a needle cartridge to add more weight to a wonky tone arm. You’ll build up a kit of everything that you’ve ever noticed was missing at the venue: extra slipmats and needles, dust rags, flashlights, extra cables. Digital technology only slightly lightens that load. I still often walk into gigs with an assortment of cables, because you never know if the person who told you to bring an RCA meant for you to bring an RCA to XLR. 

As a DJ, you learn to be prepared for anything. But, at the same time, you learn that, despite all this preparation, some new malfunction will hit when you’re least expecting it, like when the dance floor is at its peak and you’ve just dropped what is ordinarily one of the proven club hits. You’ll be embarrassed, mortified even, but, if experience has taught you anything, it’s that you have to let go of that feeling immediately. Clear your head, tell yourself that you are not DJ Vibe Killer— not tonight, anyway— and bring back the beat. 

The dead air lasts for either a minute or an eternity—I’m not exactly keeping track of time—before Rekordbox relaunches and I drop “Boots” back into the queue as quickly as possible. The crowd fills the floor again for Nancy Sinatra and stays there for 1977 Plastic Bertrand number “Ça Plane Pour Moi.” A few songs later, I drop Wet Leg’s hit “Chaise Longue” and see my friend, who must have just finished her shift working door, run out to dance. After the Pixies, Arctic Monkeys, Gorillaz and M.I.A., I wind things down with “Bad Cover Version” and someone approaches the booth, gushing about how it’s one of the best Pulp songs. I agree.

During the closer, a remix of Jeanette’s classic “Por Que Te Vas,” one person starts singing along right in front of the booth and two others come up and ask who did the remix. The night ends on a high, as if that tech failure never happened.

In the end, it’s not the flaws that people remember. When the night becomes a blur, what will stand out are brief clips of dancing with our friends to favorite songs, of hearing something that we now need to find for our own collections, all of which replay in our mind like Instagram stories. If you can provide enough moments like that, you’ve done your job, whether or not your gear behaves.

Catch Liz O. on June 10 and June 17 at L.A.’s long-running indie night Club Underground, located at Chinatown’s Grand Star Jazz Club and on June 20 at Little Tokyo bar The Mermaid for Mermaider Mayhem. For ongoing updates on gigs, sign up for Liz’s newsletter.

ONLY NOISE: DJing is My Meditation

The author blisses out on the decks: Dolce Vita at The Lash in Los Angeles, 2018. Photo courtesy Liz Ohanesian

ONLY NOISE explores music fandom with poignant personal essays that examine the ways we’re shaped by our chosen soundtrack. This week, Liz Ohanesian struggles to focus and live in the moment – until she realizes that’s exactly what she does when she’s spinning records. 

In the midst of a perfect night inside a downtown Los Angeles club, time faded. It didn’t stop or disappear. Seconds counted down toward the end of tracks spinning on the CDJs. Night hours flashed on the cell phone that I sporadically checked. Eventually, the bar lights flickered as last call approached. I was conscious of all that, but none of it mattered. I wasn’t thinking about what happened five songs ago or where I wanted to be in three songs’ time. In fact, I wasn’t really thinking about anything beyond the moment.

This happens a lot when I DJ, although I’m not sure how or why. Maybe it’s a song that pulls me deeper into the mix. Maybe it’s the sight of people vibing with the music. Regardless, I lock into a groove and go with it. The songs will change, the tempos will rise and fall. On this particular night, the genres changed. It was the rare gig with no stylistic restrictions, meaning that I could (and did) play everything from Missy Elliott to Hercules and Love Affair to Dolly Parton. By the end of the night, I couldn’t tell you much about what happened, just that it did happen. Over a year later, this still stands out as one of my favorite gigs. The details are fuzzy, but I remember a blissfulness that was overwhelming. And, mostly, I remember this as the night where I understood what it meant to be present.

By day, I’m a freelance journalist and my work hours – really, most hours that I’m awake – are a constant exercise in juggling multiple stories, in trying to finish assignments while finding new work, in managing an incessant onslaught of emails, multiple social media accounts and monthly/weekly/daily schedules. It’s a lot of work for what is, essentially, a one-person operation, and it often feels overwhelming when you’re the sort of person who is as easily distracted as I am.

I wasn’t always like that. I used to slide so deeply into books that I could finish reading thick ones in just a matter of days. I loved long, subtitled movies. I listened to albums until I had the lyrics memorized. Over the course of the past decade or so, my attention span has gradually shrunk to the point where I can barely get through a book chapter, half-hour television episode or a song without checking my phone. I catch myself thinking, “tl;dr” while reading newspapers. Unless I snapped pics or posted a status update, my memories of the previous day will be far more vague than those of events that went down 20 years ago. I wake up too many times in the middle of the night thinking about too many things that I have to do the next day.

I’ve slipped into this 21st century mind suck, giving away my brain power to platforms that will hold my memories, my time to tech that always wants more of it. On top of that, I’ve become this person who performs productivity, trying to show that I’m always alert, always aware and always working because #Ilovemyjob and want you to #hireme. All of this has come at the expense of my physical and mental well-being and, likely, my personal relationships. That has to stop. I’ve taken steps to do that in various ways from time management apps to yoga. To an extent, this has helped me regain some concentration skills on the daily. Still, nothing seems to push me towards mindfulness like DJing does.

I started DJing back in college and I still step into the DJ role at Los Angeles venues a few times a month. Music and clubs have been a constant throughout the bulk of my adulthood. Even though everything from technology to my own career and personal life have changed over the years, the way I work in the DJ booth hasn’t.

Whether you’re the DJ at a large dance club or an intimate bar, you have certain responsibilities for the night. Your main task is to keep the crowd engaged, which you do by reading the room and making snap decisions on what to play next. If the energy has been building for a few songs, it might be time to drop a big hit. If the crowd has been going hard for a while, you might want to ease up on them for a bit.

Next, and equally important, is that you have make sure everything sounds good. While your eyes are fixed on the floor, your ears are tuned into all the sonic nuances. You may have one ear directed at the monitor to hear the song that’s currently playing while your headphones are cupped to the other ear as you cue the next song. Meanwhile, your hands will be in action as you mix tracks together seamlessly and/or adjust the levels.

As you’re doing all this, you will probably be approached by friends. You may have to field a few requests, sometimes from people who are flat-out obnoxious. If your booth is set up near the dance floor, you’ll most likely have to deal with klutzes knocking into the gear. It takes a lot of focus to get through a DJ set. If someone annoys you, you have to let it go. If you mess up – and everyone does – you can’t dwell on it. If there’s a technical problem, you have to fix it fast and keep moving. You need to stay in the groove until your set ends.

In a way, everything I have been trying to learn from yoga videos and guided meditation recordings was stuff I already knew from my DJ life. I just didn’t have a word to describe the transformation that happens when I’m in the midst of a set. I couldn’t understand why I usually feel so elated when I’m finished or why my gig nights are the only ones followed by uninterrupted sleep. This practice of playing music for people had become a form of meditation. It just took a while to realize that.

It makes perfect sense. Dance music is designed not just to keep you moving, but to make you let go of the stresses and distractions that surround us during the day. Beat-matching is a standard DJ skill because you can keep the music going without people noticing that the songs have changed. Extended remixes of short pop songs exist to heighten the excitement of a tune you already love. There are so many songs about the joy of dancing that it could be its own genre. But, to be the person charged with bringing everyone into the moment is a little different.

Technically, I’m working and doing that in a space that’s surrounded by technology, with both digital and physical distractions – yet, they don’t have the same power over me that they do anywhere else. Maybe it’s not the tech that’s the problem, but the way I’ve trained myself to interact with it that’s become an issue I have to handle. I’m still not sure how to do that, but the answer might be in the club.