| Hang the DJ |
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George Orwell once famously wrote that, "If you want a vision of the future, imagine a boot stamping on a human face - forever." Had he, however, been forced to suffer what passes for entertainment - and unsolicited entertainment at that - in your average city centre bar, then we're sure his pronouncements would have ended something like this:
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First of all, we don't subscribe to the tedious Luddite notion that dance music is all theft and that anything that's not whiteboy whining over guitar, bass and drums is somehow invalid. Fuck knows we've endured far too many terrible bands in our time to support that laughable notion. Plus, any so-called muso who thinks their noodling is superior just because they've spent half a lifetime learning their craft is an arsehole. We all know that for a fact.
Secondly, we're not so bloody miserable that we want to rid the world of DJs full stop; we fully comprehend that people are so stressed by even the thought of getting on the bus in the morning - never mind doing a day's graft in some India-bound call centre - that they have an obvious human need to unwind. We understand that there is a place for clubbing. And while we'll never quite grasp how folk can escape from the nightmarish cacophony of endlessly ringing phones by listening to what sounds like a million of those same phones set to a thumping four-to-the-floor with some ickle gurl panting on about positiviteee, that's probably just down to our age, our hearing loss and our general resentment at our lost youth. We'd never be so churlish as to deny the benefits of chucking yourself about and getting a few endorphins pumping through the system. Of course we wouldn't.
No, for us the culture of the DJ is fine in clubs, catering for people who've actively sought it out and who've paid for the (dubious) privilege. We really don't mind what goes on behind closed doors, as long as it doesn't involve children, livestock or poetry, but please, for the love of Jesus and all his little disciples, will someone please listen to us as we ask:
WHY THE FUCK DO WE HAVE TO SUFFER IT IN THE PUB TOO?
Why, though? Obviously the promises of untold riches and endless flap have left the market so crowded they're effectively trying to piss a pint into a pen top, plus the downturn in the popularity of clubs has left DJs seeking asylum in any place that'll have 'em. But why do we always get stuck with the really, really shit ones? Why should we be swamped by the bandwagon jumping scrotes? And why should we subsidise their poor investment in Technics separates?
Is their presence in the bar supposed to be a taster, a little dimebag intended to whet the appetite and make you want to schmoove on down to the nearest superclub queue to boost their flagging profits? Sod that. Being subjected to that incessant bollocks is no more likely to get us to move on to a club than an inbox full of Viagra spam is going to make us reach for the Visa when we've got the droop. If we want something, we'll pester them, not the other way round.
It's really quite simple: music in the pub should be background noise, pitched just above the air conditioning. Why can't these idiots not hear what's happening? How man, fucko: take off your cans and listen for once. You are not the most important sound in the building: if people are making more noise than your tunes, it's because they want to hear what is being said. It's because talking whilst drinking is what pubs are for. The fact that they are trying hear each other is not a valid reason for you to turn your shite up even further to compensate. The joint is not jumping, you prick; it's just plain fucking angry.
As we said earlier, we have no overbearing hatred of dance music; in the right hands, that is. What we find so abhorrent is the yawning chasm between the bar DJ's claims of "cutting edge" and the beige, formulaic slop that gets pumped in our ears when we're trying to have a pint and a natter. The sheer ineptitude of the average headphoned twat in the corner astounds us. If music is played at an inescapable volume, then surely it should emphasise the highs and lows, the dynamics and emotions? We're pretty certain that those qualities are something the original artist had in mind, at any rate. So how, then, can some tool be allowed to get away with half an evening's worth of musical murder, bludgeoning innocent "choons" to death with impunity?
We wouldn't mind so much if there weren't so many outright lies printed on the promo materials. Maybe if these idiots put as much effort into ideas for their acts as they do into their litany of mendacious adjectives, we'd feel a bit more appreciative. Uplifting, you're saying? Sexy? Joyous? Funny, 'cos all we can hear is the usual bland shite, with every tune at the same tempo to cover up a complete lack of mixing skill.
We really fail to see how these self-serving dicks can still consider themselves to be some kind of radical underground scene. After all, isn't there a maxim that states, if you can spot a movement, it's already dead? So where's the glory for these gravytrain-chasing chumps who actively queue up to fuck its decaying corpse? If DJing got anymore mainstream you could sail a fucking yacht down it, man. Wasn't it Frosties who did that "junior DJ kit" giveaway a few years back? How can something be rebellious and "street" when it's been co-opted by The Man, tidied up, repackaged and sold back to you with your fucking breakfast cereal? When you've had the piss taken out of you to that extent then no amount of glossy flyers is going to give you back your credibility.
On top of that, the arrogance of these chumps is really shocking: "featuring DJ sets from...", say the posters. DJ set? A fucking SET? How pretentious can you get? How much of a "performance" can there be - and it won't hurt to repeat this for the billionth time - in playing some other fucker's records in a pub? It's like a station announcer laying claim to a "timetable recital" for crying out loud. And get a load of the witless "star" pseudonyms of the ones who think they've tried, and the sheer lack of imagination of the ones who haven't bothered. "Excuse me, is there already a DJ Decks? There is? Oh, I suppose I'd better stick with Dave Smith, then." Christ those aliases boil our piss. In the 70s they'd have been Donnie Spangle; in the 80s, Bolshoi Beneath; Snoozer in the 90s. That's about the stamp of your typical bar DJ. And why? Because they're all fucking cunts, that's why.
Where's the honesty with these arseholes? Why can't they spin some stuff they might actually LIKE instead of either studied cool or ironic cheesiness. For all their claims of musical freedom and barrier smashing, with their self-imposed boundaries and rigid format fitting they end up as evil as daytime radio. And where's the sense of joy? Why do we see them moping in, night after night, sullenly dragging their discs and equipment behind them? Cheer up, you knacker. Give us a fucking grin. Nobody forced you to pay £300 for that deleted 12" on eBay.
You know us, we hate to be negative. But we also hate anything that hints at the emperor's new clothes. We hate the hideous grasping of otherwise-decent bars, with their blind allegiance to this shite. "Ooh, THAT bar's got a DJ, so we have to have one or we might lose a few quid." Fuck off, will you? Ever thought you might actually get more punters if it wasn't for the nipple behind the decks? Christ knows, we'd certainly pay a bit extra if we could avoid feeling so beaten and depressed at the end of the night. "Well, you could always drink elsewhere", goes the tired argument. Yeah? Why should people who like to talk be forced to do so in shitty bars surrounded by shoplifters and heed-the-baals? Why does the ability to string a sentence together preclude a bit of decent decor? Why does the smell of fresh paint have to be accompanied by the din of utter cretins?
Look, we understand that everyone needs a hobby. We know that, to hit the heights in any sphere you care to name, you've got to practice, but is there just an inkling of a chance you could you do it elsewhere, eh? Look at us: we're on our creaking knees in desperation. We are literally at the end of out ropes. Please, could you do it in your bedrooms, do it in a rehearsal space, do it on the bloody moon if you must but, we're begging you, keep it the fuck out of the pub.
We'll buy you a pint if you do.
Hang The DJ © The Burglar's Dog 2005. Number 14 in a series of poorly informed, badly articulated rants on quasi-topical themes. Next month, the Dog asks:
Two straws in our cocktail?! And one of them's bent?! For fuck's sake, WHY?!