Everyone’s a Critic and Most People Are Douche Bags
I know we usually talk writing and literature around these parts, about the erosion/evolution of pages to pixels, and so on. I’m gonna go ahead and not talk about any of that at all and instead discuss Monday iPod night at Spokane’s Baby Bar, and how ridiculous the battle of wills can get between people who want to play their music.
At iPod night (or I think it’s called iDJ night, or something), customers sign their name on a sheet attached to a clipboard and are allotted 20 minutes to play their jams when their names are called. I just happened to drop in last night; I hadn’t ever heard of this event, which, judging by the two people sitting in the entire bar, isn’t extraordinarily popular. Nonetheless, after reading the rules on the powered-down jukebox, I compiled 20 minutes worth of songs and signed up. Manning the clickwheels of steel was a man who looked to be in his 50s, playing Chromeo, singing along with a frown on his face, as though he had sung the tune so many times he could no longer control it. He played a few other songs, which I didn’t recognize (though I didn’t dare ask him who the performers were – asking the DJ the name of an artist not only inflates his/her ego, it’s a gesture of submission). He had definitely gone longer than 20 minutes, so I added a few more songs to my playlist, if he was gonna do us like that. After three more songs, it looked as though this man had no intention of desisting unless one were to say something. I walked over to where he sat and asked if I could get in after the next song. He sort of muttered and looked around, confused, as though he’d never been asked such an outlandish question. Yet, he conceded.
“Thanks, bro,” I said.
I do not identify myself as a “bro,” nor to I use the word in daily conduct, except to make fun of those who constantly refer to others as such, but my use of the word in last night’s instance was a sheer assertion of the will, intended to establish the power I would have over the room for the next 30 minutes. I plugged in my iPod and returned to my seat, pleased with how much better Les Savy Fav sounded than whatever the guy had been playing before. The man grabbed the clip board, wrote his name, and dropped it on the bar with a rather loud slap, which I took to be intentional. He didn’t look happy. Perhaps Monday’s iDJ night at the Baby Bar is sacred to him, that nobody had ever questioned his dominion, until this snarky young brat sauntered in and planted his seed. Les Savy Fav turned into Eddie Current Suppression Ring, an Australian outfit who owe their existence to The Fall (the band, not the Camus monologue). Someone who was, according to eavesdropped conversation, travelling on business asked me who was playing, I told him, and my ego inflated accordingly. After a few more songs played, the man answered my ‘bro’ from earlier by his own exercise of the will – he yanked the cord from my iPod, plugged it into his, and after an old punk band thrashed for 4 minutes, Fear’s “Let’s Start a War” kicked on. I should have been pissed, but I was beginning to feel sort of bad for the guy, so rather than starting or continuing this war between us, I attempted diplomacy.
“Good call on the Fear track,” I said. The man looked at me and slowly nodded, as though he had never heard anything more obvious in his entire life. Of course it was a good call. Of course he has the best taste in music. We all have the best taste in music, better than everyone else’s. I grabbed the sign-up sheet, signed my name, dropped it on the bar with a slap, and began compiling another playlist.
At first I ignored what the man had chosen to play this round and instead talked to a Math teacher who works at Eastern about how much Cheney sucks. Then I heard a major faux pas – the guy replayed a song from earlier. I’m not sure who it was, because, as I said before, it’s a sign of weakness to do ask for such information, but I knew he was powering down. In a few more songs’ time, I would regain control.
The man eventually got up to leave, turning up the Ty Segall song I opened with, which I took as a gesture of good sportsmanship. I told him I appreciated the Cure song he closed with, and that I had never heard it, so in the end, we made peace. I think. Or maybe he took a picture of my face last night, printed it off this morning, hung it on his bulletin board, and has been spending all afternoon throwing darts at it.
At the end of the day, though, there’s a certain pathos in fighting over plays the music in any social capacity. Simply playing music is not really DJing, though that argument is a whole other bucket of spiders. While it does feel as though one is in control of all interactions between people of the bar, party, what have you, when one is controlling the music, it all comes down to power and hierarchy.
Um, I have a wicked hangover, and this Mazzy Star song is putting me to sleep, so I’m going to wrap things up here. There’s much more to be discussed here, which may or may not happen, but in the meantime, like Craig Finn said, “Everyone’s a critic and most people are DJs.”
Tags: Baby Bar, Craig Finn, iPod DJing, The Hold Steady
That bar is so tiny and dark. I think I will be there Monday with my all Rush mix tape.
C’mon, “Phillip” – you’re the new Poet Laureate of Spokane; shouldn’t you be cranking out work, not listening to bands that sing about elves and dragons? Or maybe that’s Led Zeppelin that does that. Classic rock sort of kills my soul. It’s not the music’s fault, though. It’s the businesses that are required to play classic rock at all times, to provide a metronome of familiarity to 9-5er worker bees. There are few things more uncomfortable to watch than a 50 year-old man in a business suit playing air guitar to “Hot Blooded” by Foreigner, while waiting in line for a sandwich at Jimmy John’s, for example.
But I dunno. I’m just talking. Making noise.
And I will drop in with my all Rush Limbaugh mix.
Seriously, though, there’s no end to the parallels you can make (or force) between music and writing. That guy who wanted everybody to listen to his music, time be damned, is the guy who hogs open-mic poetry night. He doesn’t care that playing music off his iPod doesn’t actually make him a DJ (like having a few copies of your book printed doesn’t actually make you an author; agree or disagree, the similarity’s there). And he doesn’t care about feedback or reception (hence his dirty looks & confusion at you), he just wants to be the one making the noise.
Don’t we all just want to be the one making the noise? That’s why I’m replying to your post, after all. I’m not saying anything profound, but I’m making noise.
So there.
I always appreciate your noise, Marcus; at least there are songs beneath it, sort of like the Jesus and Mary Chain’s first album. So feel free to shoot me dirty, confused looks all you want!
Good call on the guy who hogs open mic. I fear I’m going to turn into that guy if I keep reading every Wednesday at Coffee Social, 7:30, 113 W. Indiana. How’s that for a shameless plug?
But yeah – noise. It’s like the person who has to cry the most at funerals, the shitty customer who snaps the loudest at the poor waitress during lunch rush, the guy in philosophy class who argues, often contradicting his own views, just for the sake of arguing. We all love the sound of our own voice, in varying capacities.