The ‘80s were an interesting time to grow up.  Sure, fashion was a mess – leg warmers?  Acid washed jeans?  30 bracelets on each wrist?  Coming out of the ‘70s, arguably the best decade for music, music in the ‘80s was immensely popular.  By my Senior year in high school, albums like Michael Jackson’s Thriller, Springsteen’s Born in the U.S.A. and Prince’s Purple Rain were massive hits, selling more than records had ever sold before.  MTV was seemingly creating new artists daily, and image mattered more than ever.  The music was fun and reflected a post-Watergate confident Reagan era that was reflected in pop music.  There were, however, artists who were socially conscious.  Bob Geldof inspired the Live Aid concerts, which led to several Amnesty International tours.  Songs that were political, such as Born in the U.S.A. and Do They Know It’s Christmas were chart-topping singles despite, or perhaps because of, their message:  There’s a dark under belly beneath all that glitters.
 
As an early 20-year-old, music was my world education.  Geldof taught me about famine in Africa.  Sting sang about Pinochet’s abuses in Chilé.  Peter Gabriel revealed apartheid.  U2 sang strident songs about Ireland’s conflicts.  These artists were important and the songs they wrote mattered.  For the first time in my life, I felt dialed in to the bigger worldwide picture, and my eyes were opening to the realization that everyone didn’t share in the bountiful excesses enjoyed by a minority of people.  As we say now, for most people, the “struggle was real,” even in America.  
 
I used to babysit for a couple in Oakland, the Rittermans.  The husband was a medical doctor, and the mom was a therapist and author with a PhD.  If you wanted a picture of the quintessential Berkeley couple, they looked the part.  They were idealists.  They questioned authority.  They worked for human rights causes, and were active members of Amnesty International.  They embodied the ethos of the artists I admired.  They were all too familiar with the causes I was suddenly aware of.  I wanted to impress them, so, when they mentioned that a movie was being released about the life of Steven Biko called Cry Freedom, I immediately began dropping (what little) knowledge that occupied my brain on the subject.  Biko was the subject of a classic Peter Gabriel song cleverly called Biko.  In fact, even though the song was on Gabriel’s third solo album that had been released in 1980, there was a new video on MTV with a remix of the song that featured scenes from the movie.  I’d like to think that the Rittermans were impressed with my Biko knowledge; they suggested we go see the movie opening night at the Grand Lake theater in Oakland.  I was in!
 
We all sat together in the theater.  Denzel Washington’s depiction of Biko was mesmerizing, and although Biko is killed halfway through the movie, he still appeared in flashbacks for the rest of the film.  I glanced over at Dr. Ritterman, and tears were lining her face throughout what seemed like the entire movie.  I found that to be… unnerving.  “It’s just a movie,” I thought.  “What’s the big deal?”  Dr. Ritterman asked me why I hadn’t been moved as she was by the intense drama.  Revealing my immaturity, I didn’t have a satisfactory answer.  Her disappointment was obvious.  
 
I wondered why the movie had no effect on me.  I liked the movie; even though the movie was told through the eyes of Kevin Kline’s character (as the newspaper man who  escaped South Africa with his family and eventually wrote the book on which the movie was based) instead of Biko’s.  Perhaps because I knew how the movie was going to end, it didn’t move me.  But… others in the audience were clearly touched.  Maybe it was me?
 
Around the same time, Dr. Ritterman had shirts made making fun of Chilé’s unpopular dictator, Augusto Pinochet.  Known for “disappearing” those who spoke out against him, the back of the shirt read “Remove Bullets Before Washing,” and had streaks of fluorescent blood by what looked like bullet holes in the cloth.  Ah!  My chance to win back some favor with Dr. Ritterman.  I asked what the shirts were for, and she said she and others were going to wear them when they presented the Mayor of Oakland a letter to sign, addressed to Pinochet, denouncing his rule.  I casually mentioned that Sting had a great song about Pinochet’s treatment of his people on his latest album, called They Dance Alone.  That failed to impress.  I also mentioned that Sting was on tour.  Nothing.  Then, I came with the big guns; this had to work:  Sting would be in Oakland in a few days to give a concert at the Oakland Coliseum arena.  “You should get him to show up at Mayor Wilson’s office and sign the letter too!”  Bam!  Success!  (Mind you, that was the extent of my knowledge.  I had NO idea how to get in touch with Sting; I didn’t have his phone number, and I’m not sure he would have taken my call if he had mine)  
 
Not a day or two later, Dr. Ritterman gave me a shirt and said, “you’re coming with me!”  Ok.  “Um… where?”  She explained that Sting was going to come to Wilson’s office and sign the letter, and she wanted me to come and take pictures.  I tried to play it off as no big deal, since, you know, Sting and I at one point had each other’s phone numbers and all.  Inside, my head was exploding.  Sting?  Seriously?  What do I say?  What do I do?  I don’t own a camera!
 
Dr. Ritterman and I made our way to Mayor Lionel Wilson’s office.  I was dressed for the occasion in my brand-new t-shirt, borrowed camera in hand.  I was eventually in a room with lots of, well… older people, many of whom probably had no idea who Sting was, including the Mayor, who looked pretty old in person, I must say.  Of course, I had just turned 22; everyone looked pretty old in person.
 
We waited, and waited… Sting was apparently coming straight from the airport, having done a concert the night before in San Diego.  There was a buzz of anticipation; clearly everyone in the room was used to being around the Mayor.  That was no big deal.  When someone finally said, “he’s here!”, there was a hush in the room.  In walked Sting, looking like we all do when we get off a plane, only exponentially more handsome.  He walked in and looked around… and no one said anything.  It grew more awkward as the seconds ticked away, until I cheekily said, “welcome to Oakland.”  “Is that where I am?” said Sting, and suddenly the tension was broken. 
 
He sat down on a couch, with Dr. Ritterman to his right and Mayor Wilson to his left.  As she prepared to explain the contents in the letter for all in attendance, I quickly maneuvered to a spot on the floor directly in front of the couch.  I had one job – take pictures.  I was too inexperienced to realize there was a protocol to these kind of proceedings, much to the chagrin of the Press behind me.  
 
I sat on the floor, nervously prepping the camera.  It was a nice, 35mm job, not the Instamatic I was used to.  I screwed around with the lens, lost in the task at hand.  “Man, his fingers are short and stubby,” I thought.  He was a professional musician, a bass player, and their fingers are usually long and skinny.  Oh, great… rugged good looks and the hands of a guy who works for a living!  Snapping out of it, I began taking pictures.  Back then, cameras didn’t wind automatically; one had to manually advance the film.  It was noisy.  Between the whir of the picture and the winding of the film, I was making quite a racket.  A lady in the back of the room noticed Sting’s perplexed expression, and said loud enough for all to hear:  “That camera is annoying!”  The woman, I later realized, was his eventual wife, Trudie Styler.  I was making no friends.  

Sting signed the letter, as did Mayor Wilson and Dr. Ritterman.  Sting answered a few questions from the press.  Clearly, he wasn’t some uneducated pop star; he was the real deal, and spoke eloquently about the cause he was there to support.  After too short a time, he was off.  He made quite an impression. 

​It’s a fun memory to reflect on, yet another example of how music is such a constant part of who I am. However, for the longest time, thinking about that period has always been bittersweet.  Why wasn’t I moved by that damn movie?  What was the matter with me?  I’ve never been able to erase the Ritterman’s disappointment in my seeming lack of empathy from an otherwise really cool memory.  
 
I failed to realize that what I lacked wasn’t empathy; it was experience.  I hadn’t really lived life yet.  I hadn’t lost anything.  I hadn’t really dealt with pain, which seems crazy because my parents divorced when I was seven.  I think I understood even then that my parents, despite their no longer loving each other, still loved me.  I didn’t have anything to lose yet; I couldn’t envision how bad loss would feel.
 
Becoming a father changed all that.  Almost overnight, things that never scared me before were risky.  I had to psyche myself to ride rollercoasters.  I stopped drinking.  I began to think about… the future.  Me.  The future.  It had never been a worry before.  Now, suddenly, everything mattered.  Life had weight.  Loss was palpable.  Emotions became more extreme; the cliché about not really knowing love until you have kids is completely legit.  Prior to fatherhood, my empathetic side was undeveloped.  Now, the second I see George Bailey’s face for the first time in It’s a Wonderful Life, I’m a sobbing mess.  I know he’s going to say, “you’re hurting my sore ear” and I’ll lose it.  I had nothing at stake; in your 20s, you’re invincible.  Once you have kids, you see dangers and pratfalls you never knew existed.  You begin to understand the finality of things; Steven Biko wasn’t just a character in a movie.  He was a heroic man who died because he spoke out against injustice.  He left a wife and children, and he died alone in police room 619.  I watched the movie recently, and cried like a baby.  I hoped the Rittermans would be proud.  

I’ve always loved to sing along when music’s on.  This can be fairly amusing to those who tend to dance near the DJ set-up; I’m often as loud as the song itself.  You’ll note I didn’t say whether I sang well; any DJ will tell you, when your equipment doesn’t sound that good, turn it up!
 
Not long after I started my business, I learned about karaoke.  In the early ‘90s, karaoke was becoming a popular niche in entertainment, but there were only a few places to do it.  Karaoke, if you’re not familiar, is when the music is played without the main vocal; it’s up to the singer or singers to do the singing.  It’s not a cheesy as it sounds.  Back then, the main company that put money into karaoke was Pioneer, a respectable stereo label.  They had invested heavily in laser discs, and they put out volumes of the discs with 10-20 songs on each one.  The music often sounded as well produced as the original songs, and, instead of the blank background we see now, there were really lame videos of people riding motorcycles and rainy nights and green pastures and… the point is, these videos had nothing to do with the songs.  The lyrics would appear on the screen and light up when it was time to sing them.  For a guy like me who enjoyed singing and was just okay enough not to be embarrassed, it was a perfect match.  
 
I honestly don’t remember how I heard about the place.  Perhaps a client mentioned it to me, or a friend of a friend told me about it.  Apparently, there was a spot in the East Bay that had a karaoke show one night a week.  It was called the Christie Bar and Grill, located on Christie Street in Emeryville.  I was not a bar person back then; I didn’t just wander in, yet I was drawn to the place.  It was a nice place, but very dark, except for one corner.  That area was lit by a single spotlight, and one microphone stood on a stand, lonely, waiting to be held and sang to.  I had to see this for myself, so I stuck around.  Eventually, the “show” started.  The show consisted of one guy furiously shuffling laser discs in and out of a player, while trying to convince others to sing.  There were few takers, so the host had to get up again and again to sing.  “The show must go on!”  Gradually, as the liquid courage began to sink in, others started to join in.  
 
The catalog of songs wasn’t that expansive back then; there were only a few hundred of the most popular songs you could think of available to sing.  I eventually gave it a shot, and I was hooked from the jump.  I found myself going there every karaoke night; these kinds of people are lovingly referred to as “karaoke nerds.”  (If a karaoke host has gigs in more than one spot, those who follow the host to different locations on different nights are known as “karaoke groupies,” and hosts are eternally grateful for their loyalty)
 
It was long before I was offered a job as karaoke DJ; a “KJ,” as they’re known.  The bar was looking to expand their karaoke presence, and, since I was there every karaoke night anyway, and because I also owned a fledgling DJ business, I got the gig.  I don’t remember what it paid – I’m sure it was awful.  Karaoke gigs often are.  But I didn’t care.  When I’m DJing, I enjoy watching other people appreciate what I’m playing.  They show their appreciation by dancing, sure, but there are plenty of events without a dance floor.  I scan the faces of the people in the room; are their heads bobbing?  Are their eyes closed slightly as they try to remember who performed the song they’re hearing?  Are they nodding their approval, ever so subtly, when just the right song comes on?  But there’s something really rewarding in helping someone get up and sing for the first time.  Seeing the joy come across their face as the song progresses, growing more confident with every phrase.  You can see the ones that are hooked right away; there’s no hiding that smile.  
 
Once a karaoke show has established itself, regulars like me start showing up.  A sort of mini community begins to grow.  You all have a common passion – music – from which endless conversations commence.  You’re all revealing a vulnerability by singing in public, yet everyone is supportive and appreciative.  You’re all there to have fun, and rare is the night when you don’t.  As you get to know each other, you get a feel for songs a person can handle, songs in their “wheelhouse.”  One person’s a huge Sinatra fan, while another devours every Beatles song imaginable.  What started as a glorified living room set-up now has a massive laser disc carousel player (very rare back then) and every song title available.  The Christie Bar and Grill had fast become the spot to head to if you wanted some karaoke.  I was proud to be a small part of it.
 
Of course, karaoke, like DJing, has its drawbacks.  You have to learn to tune certain things out.  I still suffer from “APSD,” better known as “American Pie Stress Disorder.”  Someone had to sing Don McLean’s American Pie at least once every evening.  Don’t get me wrong:  It’s a classic song.  But, it’s eight minutes long.  Over and over again.  And, it’s the kind of song that invariably gets the person singing it to be the “get everyone to sing” guy.  This can be fun, but it gets really awkward when you’re four minutes in and no one else is feeling it.  That’s when the regulars can make or break you; if they’re nice (and they almost always are) they’ll sense the awkward and sing along.  But, if you lose that group, you might as well take your air guitar and go home.  DJing has ruined certain songs for me, many of which I’d bet you could guess without any prompts from me.  They’re the kind of songs I just won’t play anymore unless someone specifically requests them:  Y.M.C.A., Love Shack, Baby Got Back, Old Time Rock ‘n’ Roll,… I can’t do it.  I’m done.  
 
Karaoke is no different.  I can’t hear Billy Joel’s Piano Man anymore.  Back then, the big song was Just Once by James Ingram.  Nice song, but every.  single.  man.  had.  to.  sing.  it.  It was if there was some unwritten test dudes had to take on karaoke night, and the only question wasn’t true/false, it was Just Once.  (Nowadays, it seems women have a similar assessment on karaoke night; they have to sing Carrie Underwood’s Before He Cheats or their woman card privileges are revoked)  Every guy has to do at least one Sinatra song; it’s not written anywhere, but it’s known.  Too many men (and women) have Friends In Low Places, and want to sing about Summer Lovin’, because, you know, they had themselves a blast (‘cause it happened so fast).  
 
Sometimes, though, one person sings a song, and it just becomes theirs.  Others can do it, sure, but no one does it quite as well.  There was one regular who came in and he had a sweet falsetto voice.  He particularly enjoyed showing it off while singing the Stylistics.  It was perfect for him; no other guy would go near those high notes.  When everyone else would be talking about their favorite songs to sing, we always knew his answer:  Stylistics.  When we talked about trying some new tunes, he was content with his Stylistics jams.  You have to respect consistency.  
 
The Christie Bar and Grill was situated right near what is now the Emery Bay shopping center.  It is a well-traveled area, right off one of the busiest freeway interchanges in the state of California.  Freeways merge to head west into San Francisco or south to Oakland or east to Berkeley and Sacramento.  Near the Bar and Grill in the City was a spot called “Fillmore West” which was run by rock impresario Bill Graham.  Different artists would come and go, and we’d often get a spillover of patrons at the bar once the shows were over.  One night, we’d heard that the Stylistics were at the Fillmore, which was especially cool for our Stylistics regular.  His heroes were in the Bay!  Of course, we prodded him to get up and sing his jams; it seemed only appropriate.  It was late in the evening when in walked a well-dressed older gentleman.  He had a few friends with him, and he seemed intent on taking a spot as far away from the karaoke as possible.  But, after a few songs, he seemed to inch closer, intrigued by what he was seeing and hearing.  When the Stylistics fan got up to sing Betcha By Golly Wow, the gentleman quietly asked if he could sing with the man at the mic.  He calmly grabbed a stool and sat next to our singer, who suddenly couldn’t breathe.  The older man was Russell Thompkins, the very man whose soulful tenor provided the lead vocal on that very same Stylistics song.  For a brief few minutes, I got to watch my friend sing his favorite song with his favorite singer.  And, he held his own!  He could hang; we knew he could.  Now, Mr. Thompkins did too.  
 
Music can be a very personal thing.  Whether we’re alone in our cars or isolated in the shower or off on a long run, we can hear a song we love and belt out the vocals without a care in the world.  It takes a special kind of person to be comfortable and brave enough to do the same thing in front of others.  Singing a song that others enjoy, seeing those same bobbing heads and slightly closed eyes, you create a momentary bond, and it’s addictive.  I have no intention of seeking a cure.
 

​I happen to live across the street from a Catholic Church.  This presents some advantages:  I happen to be Catholic, so it makes attending mass (that is, when I attend mass) rather convenient.  I taught at the school that is part of the parish, so it was nice to walk home, eat lunch, and head back to work.  It made the morning commute pretty easy to manage.
 
Having a church so close presents some disadvantages as well.  Do loud bells bother you?  Do you like being able to park near your house?  Does having well-dressed people stare at you while you’re grabbing the morning paper in your underwear make you uncomfortable?  If your answer to these questions is yes, you should probably avoid living close to a church. 
 
The biggest perk for me was befriending a priest who was ministering at the church for a while.  I moved into the house while I was in the process of getting divorced; it’s safe to say I wasn’t in the best head space. Father Lanny, as he’s known, was experiencing frustrations with his job; something we all go through from time to time.  I happened to mention my close proximity during a casual chat with him, and he said he’d drop by some time with a 6-pack.  I wasn’t born into the Catholic faith; I converted as an adult.  I have and still have a reverent impression of those who dedicate their lives to their faith.  I certainly didn’t expect them to be lugging around 6-packs.  I shrugged off the gesture as a joke, and forgot about it.
 
But, since Lanny lived right across the street, he soon dropped by.  I had my DJ equipment set up in the back patio room, so we went back there.  I didn’t entertain Lanny in my decently furnished living room.  We went back to the room with the most hideous carpet you’ve ever seen.  It had a kind of technicolor pattern that was upsetting to look at, which explains why I seldom went in there during the day.  I did have a couple of older, comfortable chairs, which seemed perfect at the time.  Lanny has a disarming quality about him; he’s real, and he puts those around him at ease.  We started talking, and sharing where we were emotionally at the time.  It wasn’t a priest-parishioner conversation.  It was just two men at mid-life, trying to sort things out.  The six pack(s) helped.  
 
While we’d be talking, I’d play music.  The playlist was almost entirely comprised of 70s tunes.  Now, when one says “70s tunes,” the mind tends to think of songs from the disco era.  But the 70s was full of so much more.  Being Bay Area natives, Lanny and I had grown up exposed to all kinds of genres of music.  Lanny was well schooled in the R&B / Soul / Funk sound, and I could go on and on about Rock and Pop.  While we had initially bonded over what was troubling us, ultimately our friendship deepened because of what united us:  Our love of music.  Many a night was spent enjoying adult beverages and singing along to whatever song came up next.  We’d nerd out over certain bits; a drum sound here, a unique vocal there.  They were the kind of blissful times you can have with a friend when all that’s troubling you disappears for a bit, and you’re solely focused on being in the moment.  Those special moments are rare, and impossible to orchestrate.  They have to happen naturally, when your guard is down, and you trust the person you’re with enough to admit just how passionate you are about what you love.  Lanny is a faithful man, and he is an excellent servant of the Lord.  He cares deeply for those he preaches to.  But his passion, like mine, is music.  
 
One afternoon after work, I was pulling into the driveway.  Lanny saw me from his window, and yelled down:  “Maas, you thirsty?”  I tend to be thirsty after work, so naturally I said “yes”.  He said he’d be right down.  As I went inside, I absentmindedly left the front door open, so naturally my idiot dog ran off.  She’s a little 6 lb. Maltese named Daisy, who has no sense of direction and will walk for hours and hours if she’s not tracked down.  Once I realized she was gone, I went back outside, where found me in a panic. 
 
“Hey man, can we put a hold on hanging out?  I need to find my damn dog.”  Lanny, still in his priest’s collar, said “sure”, dropped the beers on the porch, and hopped in my van.  I had as of yet not purchased a car for personal use; I only had my DJ van.  It’s a typical, white Ford van, just like the millions of other vans you see driving around.  Lanny got in the passenger seat and buckled in.  I quickly fired up the van and off we went, anxious to find my lost dog.  
 
We weren’t far from my house when I saw a group of kids playing in the street.  “Hey… maybe they saw her!”  I pulled up to the kids slowly, rolled down my window, and politely but nervously asked them:  “Hey, I’ve lost my dog.  Have you seen her?”  
 
At first, I didn’t understand the puzzled looks they all had on their faces.  Was English a problem?  Did they not know what a dog was?  Should I be offering a reward?  I turned to look at Father Lanny, when I noticed a sly smile slowing coming across his face.  Then, it hit me.  Here we were, in a white van.  The driver was looking for a lost dog, with a priest in the passenger seat to boot.  I went from panic to denial.  “No no no no no… it’s not what it looks like.  I really am looking for my dog.”  The kids stopped looking at me, and glanced at Lanny, who by this point was beginning to laugh out loud.  “Dude…” he said.  “Move on, before one of their parents calls the cops!”  You could not have created a more creepy scenario for those kids, and I quickly imagined the conversations they’d be having with their parents when they got home.  I was never less proud of having my business logo on the side of my car.  Off we drove, and within minutes we found the dog.
 
Lanny and I had many fun times together.  Admittedly, several of them involved drinking.  There was the Monday night when Lanny had to watch the NCAA Championship Bowl Game on my big TV because Notre Dame was playing.  Lanny introduced me to tequila that evening, and, since the fighting Irish got killed that night, we drank a substantially unhealthy amount of it.  Being the good Catholic I can on occasion be, I actually wobbled to 7am mass the next morning, only to find Lanny presenting the liturgy.  Standing side by side, as sick as we felt, we must have looked like two puffy green beans.  He made it through mass, and I made it through school, and we both vowed to keep the drinking for the weekends.
 
Lanny eventually moved on to another church.  I moved on to a different school.  Sometimes I look across the street up at what used to be Lanny’s window, and I long for those times when I could hang with my friend and talk about music and life and politics and faith all night long.  Sometimes, we have friendships that last a lifetime.  Other times, people cross paths at a time when they need someone else’s companionship even if they don’t know it at the time.  But, at a time when I needed someone and something to pick me up, music was there for me.  Just as it always has been.

​I’m sure that many a DJ, if he or she has been in the business long enough, has had the opportunity to work at an event where a celebrity was in attendance.  I’ve personally worked parties where many different Bay Area athletes were there.  I’ve DJed a couple of Bar Mitzvahs where Jon Favreau was a guest.  I know a DJ-K DJ played music at a wedding when Michael J. Fox got up and made a toast; no, he did not arrive in a Delorean from Back to the Future.  I once had the privilege of DJing for the Governor of California, in his backyard, no less.  However, with a couple of exceptions, I’ve never made a point of introducing myself to the personality at the party.  I’ve always figured they’d prefer to just be a the party, a guest like everyone else. 
 
One event I worked years ago is a typical example.  I honestly can’t remember who the client was specifically; I want to believe the gentleman owned a stereo store or dealership of some kind.  He was hosting a cocktail party of sorts in a local restaurant, and wanted some background music.  It seemed like a fairly straightforward kind of party.  I found myself wondering who would come to this kind of party; sure, there would be some free food and drinks, but… what else?  (Don’t get me wrong:  free food and drinks sounds like a sweet deal!) 
 
When I arrived, my client told me there would be a surprise guest.  The guest was a local athlete with a few Super Bowl rings.  My client told me under his breath that the athlete didn’t come for free; money had to be donated to a local charity in order to secure his appearance, but it would be “… money well spent.”  The free food and drinks would get people to come, but this local star would get people to stay, and they’d remember my client’s business. 
 
I started wondering who it could be.  He obviously was a football player, which meant I should cue up some football-themed music.  Monday Night Football Theme… check!  I assumed he was a Raider or a 49er, but I didn’t know which.  Cool… I’d cue up some old NFL Films tunes; that’d be perfect.  
 
Apparently, the rumors were starting to buzz around the room.  In order to amp up anticipation, my client told a few people about the future Hall of Famer and that’d be showing up soon.  A room full of men seemed to light up.  Instantly, they began to share stories and compare notes about all of their football triumphs.  With all the bragging going on, you’d have thought we were at some All-Pro alumni dinner or something.  To me, they all looked like soon-to-be middle age dudes who played a little in high school.  But hey, that’s one of the perks of playing sports in high school:  Remembering the glory days for the rest of your life, and talking about them to anyone who’ll listen.  
 
I’ll admit it… I was getting a little excited too.  Not knowing who’d eventually show up made it that much more tantalizing.  Could it be Joe Montana?  I figured, no way… Joe wasn’t just an “athlete”… Joe Montana was royalty.  He actually used to live close by me when I lived in Redwood City and he lived in Atherton.  I once went to a Wherehouse (that’s a record store for you younger readers… what’s a record store?  Never mind!)  I walked into the store, and immediately noticed that, despite there being lots of people in there, it was eerily quiet.  It was the week before Christmas, and the store was crowded.  Yet, no one was saying a word.  I looked around, puzzled by the lack of conversation.  One guy was just standing, his mouth wide open, staring at the line of customers.  I followed his gaze, and then I froze too:  There, in line, almost like a normal human being, was Joe Cool himself.  Buying music.  In public.  A million thoughts flew through my head:  “What does he listen to?”  “Why isn’t he at practice?”  “Is Jerry Rice with him?”  “Maybe he’d be really cool and buy everybody a CD!”  I’d love to tell you that I played it cool, and went about my shopping, but, like everyone else, I just stood there, mesmerized in my tracks, nervous to breathe too loud.  (This guy gets chased by 300 lb. linemen for a living; my CD-purchasing trembling personage is gonna bother him?)  Eventually, we all watched him make his purchase and walk out the door.  We all exhaled, and went back to our Christmas shopping.
 
So, I wondered, who would be making the visit that day?  Finally, he showed up.  He walked in with my client, and I thought:  “Well, that can’t be the guy.  Maybe that’s the guy’s agent?!”  He was, quite simply, no bigger than me.  I played my share of football, but I’m no giant.  I barely make 6’, and back then I wasn’t particularly large.  Neither was Ronnie Lott.  I was struck by how… normal he looked.  He shook hands with guys, posed for pictures, and couldn’t have been nicer.  But, I couldn’t get over how… average… he looked.  Even Joe Montana, as scrawny as he was, was 6’ 3” or 6’ 4”.  Ronnie Lott was essentially my height, and probably didn’t weigh any more than I did.  Of course, we won’t get into the fact that he probably had negative-percent body fat, as compared to me, who was probably one-third potato chip by then.  
 
That didn’t mean that I could have been a Hall of Fame defensive back/safety, as Ronnie Lott was.  His being the same relative size as many of the guys in the room really brought home the point of just how superior an athlete he was.  The heart, the will, the guts it took to play the game how he played at his size just amazed me.  Clearly, other guys in the room were thinking the same thing.  Five minutes prior, they were all puffing out their chests and singing their own praises.  Once Mr. Lott entered the room, they were all little boys, awestruck by the football legend that stood in front of them.  So was I. 
 
You could feel the energy of the room shift when he walked in.  Everyone quieted down, nervous to speak.  Ronnie put everyone at ease.  He calmly introduced himself to people, which seemed completely unnecessary yet was universally appreciated.  It quickly became evident why he was so respected by his peers and teammates; why he had at that point led his team to four Super Bowl victories.  Teammates loved him because he gave his all on the field.  This was the guy, after all, who, after damaging a finger in a game, opted to have the tip of his finger amputated so he could play the next week instead of missing games to have surgery.  Even more impressive than his athletic talent was his passion, his heart.  You could hear it in his voice.  When someone fakes that kind of thing, you can sniff it out.  Ronnie was genuine.  If he asked someone a question, he wanted to hear the answer.  Whether he talked about a play from the past, or visiting my client’s store, you wanted to line up behind him and follow him wherever he was going.  
 
Seeing him in person was a real treat.  Observing all those macho men reduced to young boys in his presence was both amusing and charming.  I didn’t need to bug Ronnie for a selfie that day; I was touched by his being there just the same.  DJing can be a blast!

​A colleague of mine had an extended family member pass away, and, in my feeble attempt to say something appropriate, I offered help if it was needed: “If there’s anything I can do, let me know.”  It’s the kind of offer you make without expecting someone to take you up on it.  However, this time, my DJ services would be needed.
 
So, the next question you’re probably asking is: “In what capacity?”  I was asked to provide the music for the funeral service.  Now, that isn’t as uncommon as you might think.  I’d provided music in a similar circumstance before; an older man had passed away, and he was a huge Sinatra fan, so I played Sinatra songs for a few hours while friends and family reminisced.  However, the circumstances for this particular job would be a bit different.
 
You see, my colleague’s family member had died in a tragically unique kind of way.  He was an avid parachutist, and as you might imagine, he died when his parachute failed to open.  What would make this particular funeral service interesting was the fact that it would be held at the very airfield where he’d fallen to his death. 
 
Now, DJing in an open field is no big deal, provided there’s electricity available, which there was.  However, I failed to consider that the airfield would still be “open”, which meant that other skydiving enthusiasts would be jumping that day.  If you’ve never actually heard a parachute coming down to earth, it is surprisingly loud. The wind buffeting against the material of the parachute makes a loud, billowing sound, similar to the sound you could achieve as a kid when you taped baseball cards to your bike so they’d hit the spokes as you pedaled.  
 
While there, you couldn’t help but think about how this poor, nice man had died.  He’d left a loving family behind.  Sure, he’d passed away doing what he loved, but the thought of plummeting to his death… it was difficult.  Of course, it was impossible not to think about it, because there were skydivers landing all over the place the entire time.
 
Equally interesting was the choice of music.  It turns out the man whose life we were honoring was a big fan of the movie Top Gun.  I was asked to play songs from the soundtrack.  So, try to picture this scene from the afternoon:  We’re there, celebrating the life of a man who’d died while skydiving, at the very place where he’d passed away while skydiving, while hearing parachutes zooming toward earth at a constant pace, during which we’re hearing “…Highway to the Danger Zone!”  It was surreal.
 
It was amusing when several guests, throughout the afternoon, approached me to suggest that perhaps I should play some different music.  There are certainly a few mellow songs on the soundtrack, but I couldn’t play Berlin’s Take My Breath Away over and over again.  That’s when, as a DJ, you calmly explain that the hosts have made the musical choices.  
 
Every once in a while, we DJs are put in an awkward position when it comes to certain music or announcement requests.  I’m reminded of the wedding I’d done a long time ago.  It seems that the groom was intent on taking the bride’s last name, instead of the bride taking his, or each keeping their own last name.  The cute thing was, they hadn’t told their family, so the first time they’d hear this was when I announced them for the first time.  You can imagine the looks shot my way; they ranged from “dude, you totally screwed that up” to “what in God’s name is happening?”  Equally amusing was the request I’d received once from a bride and groom regarding their processional music.  In the past, a standard song for a bride and groom’s exit from the ceremony after their big kiss would be something from the Classical genre, like Bach’s Jesu, Joy of Man’s Desiring or Debussy’s Claire de Lune.  This couple thought it’d be awesome to kick things off with a little Kool & the Gang.  Picture it:  Grandmas and Grandpas, struggling to get a picture of the newlyweds as they walk back down the aisle, and they’re serenaded by the crash of the cymbal, followed by “Get down, get down” from Jungle Boogie.  No, the young couple did not head straight for their honeymoon; they stayed for the reception!  Again, the heads of every guest turned in unison, as if to say: “What is that idiot DJ doing?!”
 
It’s never lost on me that being asked to provide my services at an event is a privilege.  I’ve had the pleasure of playing music for kids when they were Bar and Bat Mitzvah’ed, then at their weddings, and again at the Mitzvahs of their kids.  I’ve been blessed to be a part of the special days of so many people, and the constant thread that runs through each party is simple:  Love.  I get to be a part of an event where love is expressed between people, whether it’s a wedding, a Mitzvah, an anniversary or birthday party, or even a funeral service.  That day that seeing people who love each other come together to celebrate that love fails to touch me is the day I pack up my equipment for good.  I’ll never take the privilege for granted.  

​(This story starts out having nothing at all to do with DJing, but does involve DJing tangentially, so it’s included in this series of “interesting memories”.  Many have heard this story, but it bears retelling)
 
The year was 1995.  My daughter, Sophia was about a year old, and, like many new dads, I was looking for new and fun ways to hang out with my baby girl.  I learned about Kindergym, which was basically a place to have organized play time with your young child.  It was in the basement of a church, I believe, just a stone’s throw from the Claremont hotel.  It had little play structures, and circle games, and your kid could interact with kids their same age.  Predictably, I was the only dad in there.  We’d meet once a week:  Me, my daughter, and a bunch of other moms and their kids.
 
One day, this young guy comes in with his little boy, and he’s a stark contrast to all the upscale moms in the room.  He’s got eyeliner on, he’s rocking torn jeans and an inside-out concert tee.  He looks like he hasn’t slept.  The eye-rolling going on was nearly audible.  But, I know something these moms don’t know.  As a DJ, I have to keep up on new music, and a local band had recently released what had been their breakout smash album.  They were in heavy rotation on MTV, which amazingly used to play these things called “music videos.”  I recognized Billie Joe Armstrong from Green Day right away; the other moms did not.  
 
I was instantly struck by how “normal” he was.  He was just a young guy with his young son… just like everyone else in the room.  He was looking for some bonding time, which probably wasn’t easy back then given his touring schedule.  I knew right away that I wasn’t go to tell anyone who he was; it wasn’t my business, and I figured if he wanted others to know, he’d tell them.  I did find it amusing that all those snobby moms were looking down their noses at him, although he was probably earning more than all of them and their husbands combined.  
 
Some years later, I received a call from a friend.  She was planning a party for a buddy of hers whose sister was about to graduate from college.  The event was going to be interesting, in that I’d be splitting time with several bands that would be performing.  Her buddy was “in music” and he wanted to possibly produce some new bands, so they’d be performing that night.  Obviously being a fan of music, I asked if I’d know any of her buddy’s music.  She swore me to secrecy, and told me… it was Billie Joe Armstrong!  After boring her with my now-worn-out Kindergym story, we nailed down the details. 
 
The party couldn’t have been more fascinating.  First, I was told to not play any Green Day.  Aside from that, I was given no real music requests, which I’m fine with – it’s fun to play it by ear, if you will.  Second, in a room full of people excited to hear live music, I was a little nervous that no one would even bother to get into whatever I’d be doing.  As it turns out, the bands were cool, but no one danced to their music.  Instead, they waited for the DJ to crank it up.  Given the clientele, I was thinking I’d need to play some alternative stuff; the last thing they’d want to hear was the standard party favorites.  I could not have been more wrong.  One highlight of the evening was watching Billie Joe cut loose during Y.M.C.A.  This applies to lesson learned repeatedly over the years… pre-judging a group of people before the dancing starts is an often inaccurate method of figuring out what to play.  There was no way I would have predicted party staples like Shout would have been requested, but there you go.
 
Ah, but the story doesn’t end there, unfortunately.  Although we wouldn’t cross paths again for some time, I did hear through the grapevine that Billie Joe’s son, that same son that had once done Kindergym with my daughter, was attending the same high school I went to.  I had the opportunity to attend one of their football games with my daughter and some friends, and, wouldn’t you know it, Billie Joe’s son was on the team, so he was there.  He sat sort of separate from the other parents; perhaps they were respecting his privacy as I had done nearly 20 years before.  
 
For some unknown reason, I had enjoyed a couple of adult beverages prior to game time, so I was feeling free and easy.  After spotting Billie Joe, I grabbed my daughter and said we should go say “hi.”  “We’ll tell him the Kindergym story – he’ll think it’s cute!”  My daughter, wise beyond her years, thought it was a horrible idea.  I waited for a break in the action, and then I dragged her over to him anyway.  I saddled up next to him and began my tale.  My daughter immediately backtracked away, leaving me to die alone. 
 
Have you ever started a conversation with someone, and that someone seemed to be really trying to be polite… only you can tell that they’re in serious physical pain?  Pain that you, and your story, are causing?  I knew three seconds in that I’d made a horrible mistake, and yet, on and on I went, desperately trying to salvage some dignity.  It was not to be.  I hadn’t been some drunken fool, seeing a celebrity and gushing over him.  I thought we had this connection, that he’d appreciate the bond we had.  Perhaps, under different circumstances, he would have.  But, I’d forgotten.  He was just a dad with a son.  I apologized, and slinked away, embarrassed.  I’ve been embarrassed ever since.  While I take zero credit for contributing to his career in any way, I can’t help thinking that, after that interaction, American Idiot wasn’t in some small way a song about me!
 

​I had a DJ connection that used to work much more than I did.  So, when he ever tossed me a potential job, I seized on it.  I was young and hungry, eager to build up my experience and my client list.  However, when he suggested I give a hypnotist a call, I was a bit skeptical.  
 
“What the hell does a hypnotist need a DJ for?” I wondered.  I called the guy, and he tried to explain his act to me over the phone.  The whole thing sounded bizarre to me; the guy’s name was Alexander, and he went by the less than humble name of Alexander the Great.  From the outset, I thought the whole thing was a put on.  I didn’t believe that hypnotism was real, and he sounded like a new-age in-touch-with-his-feelings type of dude.  But, what the hell?  A gig’s a gig!
 
He asked that I pick him up, and we’d drive to the job together.  It was at Great America, where’d he’d be entertaining a whole company’s worth of employees.  We chatted for a bit on the way, and I basically told him I thought his act – even though I’d never seen it – was bullshit.  He brushed off my criticism, and asked me to reserve judgment until after I’d seen it.  When we got to the park, they asked us to park in some lot far from where we’d be setting up.  I shot him a quick, you-must-be-kidding look, and Alexander casually said “you know, we’d actually like to park right next to the stage.  Let us do that.”  And, just like that, the guard said, “you know… you should park right by the stage.”  I didn’t want to act as though I was already convinced that his talent was legit, but I was certainly impressed.  He said, “remember that scene in Star Wars?  The one where Obi-Won says to the Stormtrooper: ‘These aren’t the droids you’re looking for?’  I just did a Jedi mind trick on the security guard.”  Who was I to argue?
 
I had some musical cues to hit during the act.  He had an intro song that he’d walk in to – he’d choose between You Can Do Magic by America, or Danger Zone by Kenny Loggins.  Which song he chose depended on the clientele.  From that point, I’d keep things quiet for a while when he spoke to the audience.  He’d ask for volunteers, and up they’d come, like sheep.  The whole time, I’m rolling my eyes.  He’d take his time, slowly inducing his “subjects.”  For reasons I’ll explain later, I learned not to pay too much attention during this phase of the show. 
 
Once the subjects were “under”, he’d begin to ask them to pick from a list of songs, and each of the subjects would lip sync to the song they chose.  This is where I came in… I would play the songs they’d chosen.  You’d see these stuffed shirt, reserved souls suddenly get up and perform like they were on stage in front of 20,000 adoring fans.  It was, quite frankly, amazing.  
 
I had to give up to the man:  His act was for real.  I saw it again and again.  The gigs came pretty regular for a while.  He’d book these corporate clients for the then outlandish price of $2500 per evening!  Me?  I’d get maybe $150 or $200, plus I’d drive every time!  (I did have to bring my equipment, so of course I’d drive.)  Being young and impetuous, I’d ask why he paid so little.  He explained that he was “the talent.”  I couldn’t argue.  He was a rock star when he performed.  People that saw his show would line up to talk with him after the show, especially women.  
 
I remember one job in particular… actually, what’s funny is, I don’t remember the job at all.  I remember that it was quite a drive from our Peninsula homes, and we had to drive home late at night.  Never a coffee person, I relied on good tunes that I could sing along to.  So, we drove the whole way home, singing James Taylor’s greatest hits as loud as we could.  
 
I learned from him.  I learned that performers have to “own their space.”  My DJ area was mine… I had to control it.  I couldn’t let others, from sloppy drunks to young punks, feel like they could step in and do my job.  I learned to be direct when discussing professional matters, such as getting paid or what were fair expectations.  I also learned that, when you own a business, you’ll often get asked to provide your services at a discount.  He taught me that it’s best to come to terms with how you’ll feel about it if you accept the gig.  Will you be pissed if you offer a discount?  Are you willing to piss off a friend if you demand your full rate?  I had put on some serious weight when my wife was pregnant with my daughter, and knowing that Alexander often counseled people with hypnotic suggestion, I asked if he’d “hook me up,” with some weight loss hypnotism action since we were friends.  He flatly refused.  I didn’t like the answer, but I respected that it was the way he did business.  
 
We worked together for a couple of years, until he took his act to Las Vegas for a more steady income stream.  I had a blast doing the events, even if the pay wasn’t great.  I learned from him, and I enjoyed the gigs.  Once I had a feel for the show, it was pretty low maintenance.  I never grew tired of seeing him hypnotize people, but I never paid direct attention during the process – if anyone was prone to be hypnotized, it was my sleep-deprived ass.  
 
I lost track of him after a while.  I always admired the fact that he made a point of keeping the show classy… he wasn’t interested of getting people to act too crazily… they’d never take their clothes off or behave too inappropriately.  He often said that he wasn’t asking people to do something they didn’t already want to do; he was merely removing the conscious straightjackets people find themselves strapped in to.  It was fascinating to watch. 

​The year was 1997.  My fledgling DJ business had grown to a healthy degree, and the bulk of our jobs was kid-centered:  Bar and Bat Mitzvahs, birthday parties, and, of course, school dances.  Since we typically played to young teens, most of our school dances were for middle schools.  When thinking back to certain time periods, it’s important to put them in the proper context.  In ’97, Titanic was a massive hit in movie theaters, and it had overtaken the social consciousness.  My Heart Will Go On, Celine Dion’s theme song from the movie, was ubiquitous.  Like it or not, you were bound to hear it anywhere and everywhere.  School dances were no exception.
 
It has long been an unwritten rule of mine, when it comes to middle school dances, to keep the girls dancing.  This may sound sexist, but truth be told, it’s the girls who do the bulk of the actual dancing at a middle school dance; most boys are simply too lame to see the value of dancing with a girl at that age.  Another unwritten rule of mine at school dances is to save the most requested song for the end of the dance.  This flies in the face of the strategy of some DJs.  They might argue that it’s smart to play the big hits first to get them excited early on and keep them hyped throughout the dance, a kind-of dessert-first attitude.  I employed the opposite strategy.  I’d rather build the suspense, and leave them as excited as possible at the end.  The drawback is that you end up fielding the “dude, when are you playing our song?!” requests about 100 times, but it’s worth it.  
 
This strategy makes sense when the song is an up-tempo party jam that’ll have the floor full and the kids jumping.  But, what happens when the huge song at the moment is a slow song?  And, what happens when there are tears involved?  Real, “oh my god, please play it” tears?  In the case of My Heart Will Go On, I found myself breaking a couple of my unwritten rules.  At first, I’d play the song early on in the evening.  It was clear that the boys were not fans, and this was understandable.  Girls wouldn’t dance with the boys.  They’d get in circles and sing… loudly… and cry.  Some girls (and this is before cell phones) would pull pictures of Leonardo DiCaprio out of their pockets, and sing to Leo.  And cry.  The teenage boys in the gym never had a chance.  
 
So, I’d play the song early on.  But, the demand for that one song was so great, I’d end up playing it as the last song of the night.  Imagine 100, or 200 13 year old girls screaming “You’re… here… there’s nothing I fear” at the top of their weeping lungs.  Parents, eager to pick their kids up, were lining the edge of the dimly lit gym, wondering what therapist they could take their daughters to.  Boys were shooting me the “you’re KILLING me!” face.  Chaperones merely shook their heads, while the girls clutched their tear-soaked pictures and pledged their undying love to Jack Dawson. 
 
It’s a DJs dream to play songs that get a universal positive response from the people on the dance floor.  Believe it or not, My Heart Will Go On drove many a kid nuts back in ’97, and I got to watch.  It was a blast.

As a confessed history geek and former literature teacher, I’ve come to the embarrassing conclusion that, when it comes to music, I’m not a “words” guy but a “sound” guy.  I’ve always been more fascinated by the sound of the music than the vocals in a song.  Sure, I can sing the words to hundreds of my favorite songs, but I’d be lying if I said I’d sat around and truly contemplated the author’s intent with each of them. 

Instead, I tend to concentrate on the rhythm of the songs, and the way the players use their instruments.  This is most likely an example of an occupational hazard; as a DJ, I’m far less concerned with whether the people on the dance floor are singing or rapping to the lyrics to what I’m playing and more concerned with them actually dancing.  (One obvious exception – if I’m feeling bold enough to break out Bohemian Rhapsody, I certainly want to see the dance floor filled with people busting out their best Freddie Mercury renditions) 

This got me thinking recently about how identifiable the sound of certain performers is.  For the purposes of this posting, I’m not going to discuss vocals – clearly, many performers have their own distinct voices, and in popular music the vocals are almost always front and center in the mix.  Instead, I’m going to reflect on a few of my favorite artists who possess that unique ability to create an instantly identifiable sound… when you hear it, you know it’s them.

At the risk of paraphrasing Dave Grohl when commenting on John Bonham, he once said that anyone could build a drum kit just like Bonham’s.  You could get the same exact drums, the same sticks, with the same set-up, and record in the same studio.  And yet, you wouldn’t sound like him.  Creating a signature sound isn’t just about the instrument itself; there are plenty of guitarists, for example, who play Fender Stratocasters.  There’s only one Eric Clapton.

John Bonham is fresh on my mind these days.  Jimmy Page is once again re-releasing the Zeppelin catalog, but he’s including never-before-heard versions of songs, with alternate takes, and some “new” songs as well.  I’ll admit I’m that much of a geek that I’ll notice a different guitar part or bass line in different versions of songs, but what’s really great about this additional music is hearing John Bonham play new and different songs in different ways.  Hearing his snare drum on Jennings Farm Blues (basically an instrumental, harder version of Bron-Y-Aur Stomp from Led Zeppelin III) reminded me that no other drummer sounds like him.  As a frustrated garage drummer myself, I’ve spent many an afternoon pounding away at Kashmir and, although I can play a crude version of the song, I’ll never sound like Bonham.  Take a listen to Whole Lotta Love, with the drums isolated:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Gtgxe_ientE#t=308

No blog by me about music would fail to recognize my passion for all things Genesis.  I’m a huge Phil Collins fan, and he certainly is an artist with a sound all his own.  Admittedly, he owes much of his sound to producer Hugh Padgham, but combined with his musical fills and his ability to play all styles, he’s crafted a sound all his own.  We’ve all heard the drum fill that highlights In The Air Tonight, but consider all the other artists he’s played with:  Clapton, Philip Bailey, Robert Plant, Peter Gabriel, Adam Ant, Frida… the list is long and impressive.  In each performance, he refused to lean on what he’d typically play, instead playing to fit the song. 

Guitar players can certainly have their own sound.  In addition to the aforementioned Eric Clapton, consider two other famous Fender players:  Carlos Santana and David Gilmour (Pink Floyd).  The sound of the instrument may be similar; however, combined with their own musical personalities, they too have created their own sounds.  No one sounds like Gilmour on Comfortably Numb, and Santana carves his own niche on performances like the one he gives on Smooth. 

It’s interesting to note that technology can sometimes get in the way of the individualism performers bring to recordings.  In the mid-‘80s, the new big thing was electronic drums.  They were supposed to offer a plethora of different sounds, thus eliminating the need for expansive drum kits.  Unfortunately, the early versions had but a few sounds, and instead of every drummer sounding different, they all began to sound very similar.  Listen to the big-time drummers of that era:  Neil Peart (Rush), Alex Van Halen (Van Halen), Stewart Copeland (Police), Phil Collins (Genesis)… they all started sounding the same.  Many drummers gave up the idea altogether, while others continued to be proponents of the new drums as the technology improved.  Neil Peart, another drummer with his own sound, still uses electric drums to great effect. 

I’d be curious to know if anyone who reads this has their own musician who they can spot from a mile away.  Do any artists have a sound that speaks to you?