This week CollegeTimes brings you a brand new feature, a friend of the College Times has hit the big time and is currently on his way across Europe playing gigs, selling out venues, and bedding some of the most amazing women on the planet. This is the story of what happens on tour, an inside, in depth look at life on the road as one of the most exciting and promising young DJs in the world.
My agent Harvey contacted me to let me know that a booking request had come through for a gig in Paris, which was pretty exciting given that I've never played there. The offer was a little less than usual, but I was willing to look past this as, over the course of the last 12 months I’d been lucky enough to play, snort, and decadently fuck my way around Europe; Paris being the unchartered, elusive Madame for me. The other DJs in my world have always said that Paris was pretty banging, so I was eager to touch down and see what it had to offer. I might even get a bit more extravagant on the rider since they were cutting back on the performance fee. Nothing too absurd, just some champagne and a little something to powder my nose with; it can get a touch dry in the sunny climates.
Harvey confirmed the gig for a Friday in Paris (I might name my next track that), and I was going to be playing in Ibiza the night before. At the start of my career, I struggled badly with the one-city-to-the-next bookings: everything was new and purgative and on more than one occasion I found myself late for a flight in a foreign city, fully engaged in actor mode: that is to say, I was practicing my lines. Josh wink wink. This behaviour, coupled with a flight deadline and a bare-naked lady lying there beside me, was always going to draw attention to my seemingly ‘’perennial tardiness’’. These were Harvey’s words, not mine.
Playing in Ibiza was also going to present a whole host of problems for me as I’d seen the line-up and I knew that some of those guys burned the candles at whatever ends they could find; something I was not too adverse to myself. In general, Ibiza is a different, more depraved beast altogether. The last time I stayed there I ended up feeling like Bill Murray in Groundhog Day except my days were a lot less laborious, the women far hotter than Andie MacDowell, and it’s a contingent repetition that comes highly recommended.
That said, I landed in Ibiza on Thursday to the usual heat that smacks your face like an offended stripper as the plane door opened. The promoter was there to meet me, and we went through the obligatory bullshit that comes from most promoters, though not all. Some are fans, so it’s understandable, but a decent conversation about something other than what software I used to produce my last 10 tracks would be nice. The 20 minutes in his oddly scented car seemed like an age, but we finally got to the accommodation. Lately, I’ve been doing my best to prepare as thoroughly as possible for my gigs. That’s not to say that my sets are pre-prepared, but I’m dealing with a lot more programming than I did previously as my status means the stakes are higher than ever, and let’s face it: the market is saturated with good DJs. After a nice sleep and some time spent looking blankly at the ceiling, the promoter-whose name escapes me- came by to pick me up for dinner. This lifestyle does become tremendously addictive, and I wonder what will fill the void once I’m finished. Luckily for me right now I’m about as deep as the shallow-end of the pool, so I immediately push that to the back of my mind: I’ll have a date with later, at a later date.
The meal was fantastic, as was the company, which is sometimes not the case with an entourage such as this. The waiter dissuaded me from my initial food choice to go with what he said was a young bull of some sort. I’m not a Hipstagram, hence the lack of a picture, but it tasted better Jäger and pussy, which I can confirm, is a delectable combination. As usual, we washed the meal down with some vodka limons and shot the shit for a little bit longer before leaving for the venue.
I could feel the nervous energy inside of me building. It’s hard to explain because it’s different for some people. Some completely hate the anticipation and just want to be out there. For me, I love the tingle, the drama, the build-up. I long for the smell of smoke machines and the sound of a modulated synth or an acid line as the filters open. I can’t get enough of a muffled bass drum tied in perfectly with the bass line as I wait backstage, taking an occasional sneak-peek at the crowd. In no time, all eyes will be on me, and the crowd will be eating from my hand like I’m a Messiah in a wife-beater. It’s vindication for the time I’ve put in to get here, and it usually ends up with me going home with the hottest woman in the place. It’s Mötley Crüe but without the shit music, bad hair, and Hepatitis C. For now!
After doing his best Ayrton Senna impression, the lunatic drivers pulled up outside the club, and we slip quietly in the side door. It’s a lot easier this way, though I don’t mind signing some autographs, posing for funny photos, or leaving voicemail messages for someone’s comatose friend. I’m like the Tom Cruise of the DJ world, although I’m taller and not obsessed with Scientology. We’re a little earlier than usual, so the place isn’t heaving, but the warm-up guy is playing some rich, mellifluous Terry Lee Brown Junior: exquisite. I plan on taking it up a notch but all in good time. I’m no Gordon Summer, but I do know a thing or three about pacing things out.
In what seems like no time at all the entire club starts to fill up, which gives me the opportunity to use one of my favourite woman pulling techniques. I look around for one of those absolute 10’s: the type that Penthouse would cry over for not putting in their magazines: fortunately I can see just the one. She looks like Apollonia from Godfather One, only she’s taller and infinitely more attractive. I approach her, though I know there’s not a huge window of opportunity as she’ll grow quickly bored of me, so I need to strike fast. I’ve already informed a male member of the crew on what he needs to do. He knows that within five minutes, he has to come over and interrupt me with a loudly audible shout stating: ‘’It’s time to go on now’’. This never fails to change her whole demeanour as she realises she could be fucking the superstar DJ later in the night. I follow up on my wingman’s lead to her with something along the lines of: ‘’I’m headlining tonight, fancy a better view from up there?’’. Usually, it’s unequivocally ‘’yes’’. On some occasions, I’ll tell her that I might catch her later just to seem aloof, but either way, we will meet again at some point in the night.
In this instance, ‘’Gabriella’’, let’s call her, decides that she wants to come along for the ride. We maneuver our way through the club, kicking the dropped jaws aside of the guys who catch a glimpse of her olive skin as we shuffle towards the man-mountains that keep the riff-raff away from the back area. The stage is quite elevated in this club, so there are some stairs that require our attention. Being the chivalrous gentleman that I am, I motion to the security guards that she’s with me, and I let her go up first: all to do with good manners; nothing to do with the view from behind. My mother would be proud of me for letting the lady go first. I look back at the security guys, who smile a knowing smile as they shake their heads laughing, slapping hands and almost wincing at the view of the Mediterranean woman I’ve given them by stepping to the side to expose her shapely assets.
As we reach the top of the stairs, I fully grasp the magnitude of the crowd in front of me as Gabriella excitedly squeezes my hand in a dual understanding of how cool this is. Never in my wildest dreams could I have imagined this: the music, the flights, the shivers running down my back as the beat from the song drops out in anticipation of a crescendo of emotional ecstasy. Deep down, I’m a computer nerd who got lucky; and I was about to get a whole host luckier in a few minutes. I let her know that I need to go do my thing but to stay around. She kisses me suggestively on the cheek, simultaneously running her hand up the back of my neck and into my hair, in a way that makes a Rihanna dance routine look introverted.
As I appear to let the other DJ know that I’m ready to go, the crowd lets out a knowing whoop of approval. They are here to see me, and I’m ready to give them what they want; God knows they paid enough to get in here. The booth itself is quite cool, decorated at the front with exposed stone and stretched out like a giant’s arms in diameter. The main area for laptops and decks is about 20 feet in length, peppered equidistantly with futuristic lights that give off enough luminescence to work with, but not enough to illuminate the DJ and ruin the mystique. I mix in the first song of the night in, noticeably upping the tempo and signalling my arrival. The crowd cheer once again as I reach out to touch the writhing, outstretched hands as if I’m the Morrissey of the Balearic Islands. Once I’ve joked with and thanked the DJ before me, I look behind me to the crowd of backstagers enthusiastically egging me on, but I can’t see Gabriella. It would appear that this one may have gotten off the hook.
As I’m lining up the second track, a bootleg remix of Daft Punk’s track ‘’Get Lucky’’, I feel something below me touching my brand-new pair of navy Flossys. When I look down all I can see is Gabriella’s raised red skirt, riding up mid-way between her knee and hip, adorning the smoothened, bronzed legs of my stiletto-heeled Goddess. She eyes me with the most lascivious wink I’ve ever witnessed in my short life, forcing her tongue stud up and out of her mouth as she reaches for my belt aggressively with both hands.
To be continued.............................................
