Monday, February 1, 2010
There are certain feelings that make me feel icky and I'm sure I prefer to be without them. Anger, for instance, or envy or resentment. (Covetousness doesn't bother me; it's what really keeps me going.) So this is all to set up what I'm next about to write. It's time to air out my petty bitterness of the moment and use this blog as a form of therapy. (And consequently, you, the reader, as the therapist I won't have to pay; after all, you're likely to give me as much feedback as any therapist I've ever seen!)
So here's my beef: Do you know how hard it is going around to the bars in this city, passing out my promos and getting positive responses and promises of gigs, often ending up with nada? Despite the popularity of my cd-r promos around town, landing a live gig is tough.
Ok, so, this week, I open up a periodical (I hesitate to say "rag"), turn to the dance-music column written by that fairly-well-known dj and see featured, below his required number of words words words, the Top 10 List of an obscure dj who, thanks to this column, is now getting attention and, subsequently, the kind of free publicity I'd frankly kill for. And she's been on the scene for, like, three months.
The bar at which said dj residences is a dive which, I have to admit, I courted for quite some time, giving the manager scads of free promos which the bartenders played quite regularly. Said sleazy dive also made available to customers a custom-made promo that I mixed, bearing its name for a period. (At least it provided something for my resume.) I was strung along with the promise that, when the resident dj at that time went on vacation or called in ill, I would be invited to guest there. That never happened.
If I sound like a jilted lover, well, the feeling is vaguely along those lines. Now, a rather young, aloof dj has moved in, playing uninspired (no, I'm not just jealous; I have ears!) sets of by-the-numbers, current Billboard hits and some not-very-special, ho-hum-that-one-again "classics" soullessly on her Apple laptop. It's not that I have anything against djing on the computer; Brett Henriksen does it beautifully and I hope to be doing it myself at a point in the near future. But the dive's newest dj mixes efficiently and without any sense of involvement and absolutely no element of surprise. It's like iPod jukebox. Luckily, expectations at her venue are low. The dive's patrons aren't likely to dance; in fact, they're lucky if they can stand up. At least I can find solace in the cult status of my promos which have found a following.
Still, it ain't fair, I tell you! My immediate thoughts are: How does Miss Dive-Bar-DJ rate a Top-10 List in a widely circulated 'zine? Who is she fucking? Did she sign up with the William Morris Agency? How did she, seemingly so effortlessly, rise to the middle? Why, playing happy hour at that shame pit isn't even the middle, for crying out loud!
On another note (before I bust a blood vessel), a quick question about last night's Grammys: When Taylor Swift did her duet with Stevie Nicks, was she as off-key as she sounded to me? And was Stevie not looking at her as if to say, "What the fuck is that?" (When you sound off-key to Stevie, things can't be going your way.)