Starting from Scratch
A dance music fan enjoys new york city nightlife from a new perspective: behind the turntables.
SPIN CONTROL The writer makes her debut as a DJ
© MICHAEL ALEXANDER
APPARENTLY, I WAS BORN TO DJ. I haven’t even passed the front desk at the Scratch DJ Academy in New York City, and I’ve already tackled what some mix masters con- sider the trickiest part of their trade: picking a stage name.
“That’s your last name, for real?!” exclaims one of the two admin- istrators when I sign in for my first day of class, his head bobbing to a low-end rumble emanating from a massive speaker nearby. He says it out loud, separating the two syl- lables, pronouncing it “get low.” “That’s your DJ name!” Who am I to argue?
“Here’s your equipment,” the other says, handing me two records, two needles and head- phones. Nervously, I choose my station from 30 pairs of glistening turntables arranged in a square and somehow manage to get everything into place just as the instructor takes to the decks at the center of the room.
SOME PEOPLE FANTASIZE about becoming Hollywood stars. Others go to culinary school in hopes of becoming America’s next top chef. I’ve always dreamed of being a DJ. Growing up in Miami, I was weaned on the city’s homegrown bass music, which blasted from car stereos and was a staple of tween boy-girl dances. In high school, I attended parties in warehouses, rollerskating rinks and on beaches, and quickly grew fond of electronic music genres like drum ‘n’ bass and UK garage. In the process, I developed an impres- sive mental database of DJs, producers, promoters and other nightlife celebrities. I had truly, madly, deeply fallen in love with DJ culture. Hoping to find a bigger, more varied scene to explore, I hightailed it to New York City for college, where I’ve been immersed in its multifac- eted nightlife scene ever since.
The Big Apple is truly a dance music fan’s paradise, having either spawned or embraced subcultures like disco in the ’70s, the house scene of the ’80s and raves in the ’90s. But perhaps most notably, New York is considered the birthplace of hip-hop, which blasted out of South Bronx boom boxes in the late ’70s, when pioneering DJs like Kool Herc, GrandWizzard Theodore, Grandmaster Flash and Afrika Bambaataa introduced the world to the art of scratching, cutting and mixing together instrumental sections of songs on vinyl records for MCs to rap over and breakers to dance to.
Today, the beats go on. I can spend late nights listening to the freshest bass-heavy tracks coming out of London at Love in Greenwich Village; shakin’ it to a cumbia/dancehall set at Que Bajo?! night at Santos Party House in Chinatown; boogying at Play It Loud, a disco night at Public Assembly or checking out a hip-hop set by The Roots’ DJ ?uestlove at Brooklyn Bowl, both in Williamsburg. In New York, there seem to be as many dance parties as there are restaurants—and no shortage of aspiring DJs to keep the clubs packed.
“So many DJs want to play in New York,” says my friend Thristian, a promoter and DJ who goes by “the bPm.” “From Larry Levan to Wu-Tang, the history of New York dance and hip-hop culture is so rich and inspiring that you feel like it’s necessary to be a part of it.”
So, after years of excuses, it was finally time to throw my headphones into the ring.
RECOGNIZING THE EXPLOSION in the popularity of hip-hop and dance music and that there was no place aspiring DJs could get formal training, the Scratch DJ Academy earned its stripes in 2002 by becoming the first school in the world to train wannabe turnta- blists. It was founded by former dot-commer Rob Principe, poet/ playwright/actor (author of Bring in da Noise/Bring in da Funk) Reg E. Gaines and the late Jam Master Jay, who DJed with seminal hip- hop group Run DMC.
“Traditionally, DJing was a self-taught art form. There was no place to learn it before Scratch,” says Will Corbett, the academy’s national director. “You had to teach yourself, find friends that knew how and be apprenticed, or watch fuzzy VHS tapes.”
I’ve done none of these things, so, like many of the academy’s stu- dents, I’m starting from the beginning. At my lesson, DJ Noumenon, one of the head instructors, tells me that this means learning how to “beat match”: getting one record to play in sync with another by adjusting its speed in order to transition from one song to the next without, well, missing a beat. As simple as it sounds, it’s not—but I’m told that once this essential skill is learned, like a bartender who only knows how to mix a handful of cocktails, I’ll be armed with just enough ability to perform in front of people.
I try, but can’t seem to get the songs to sync; I’m tapping the record erratically (to slow it down) and fumbling with the mixer. DJ Noumenon shows me how it’s done, seamlessly switching back and forth between the two records. “If you panic, you lose focus,” my sen- sei offers, and encourages me to keep practicing.
I think of my favorite DJ, the Philadelphia-based Diplo (I wonder if he’ll have a problem with my name?), who hops between disparate genres like it’s a breeze; the types of records he plays have wildly dif- ferent tempos. I already knew firsthand how his knack for picking the right tune can whip a dancefloor into a sweaty frenzy, but my appreciation for how effortlessly he seems to do it has grown.
AFTER MY LESS than stellar attempt at beatmatching, I seek advice from Nick Schiarizzi who, along with three friends, founded the cheekily named “CHERYL: the dance party that will ruin your life,” which takes place at The Bell House in Gowanus, a rapidly gentrify- ing industrial part of Brooklyn. As a DJ, Schiarizzi isn’t so concerned about mixing records flawlessly so much as making sure the dance- floor stays packed—which it inevitably does—by giving his audience what it wants to hear. He’ll go from Hot Chip (indie-dance) to the Pointer Sisters (disco) to OutKast (hip-hop) to keep a mob moving like maniacs. “My top prior- ity is to make the crowd dance as hard as pos- sible,” he says. “Sometimes that means playing a song with a different tempo than the song before it. There might be a little bit of a shock when I transition roughly between songs, but the crowd forgets about it and is dancing their faces off five seconds later.”
This is encouraging, but I’m not content to be a DJ that relies solely on record-selecting ability, so I return to the academy, where students can practice outside of class hours as much as they want. It’s then that I bump into legendary hip-hop DJ (and head instructor at the academy) GrandWizzard Theodore—the man who is credited with inventing the record scratch in the mid-’70s. (As the story goes, his mother told him his music was too loud so he put his hand on the record to stop it, moved it back and forth and liked what he heard.) As a relative latecomer to the scene, I’m curious to find out whether or not one of hip-hop’s elder statesmen thinks the culture has changed, and whether or not the world needs another DJ.
“Back then, when everything was starting, there weren’t as many DJs as there are now,” he says. “This culture—the DJs, break dancers, graffiti artists and MCs—gives people a chance to express themselves. For me, doing this for more than 30 years, it feels good that people are getting into it.”
A DJ ISN’T really a DJ, of course, until their skills have been put to the test in public. A few days later, Schiarizzi happily agrees to let me spin a few records at the next CHERYL.
Taking a cue from my teachers, I decide to begin with something subdued, so I can build energy over the course of the set: a remix of “Seven,” one of my favorite songs from the last few years, by a group called Fever Ray. There’s no time to match it with the record that’s currently playing, so I do a jarring cut from one to the other. I’ve been to this club countless time before, but now, standing in that booth, the music has never sounded louder.
I peer out over the crowd: Everyone is standing around looking, well… bored. Maybe playing a song by an icy Swedish crooner wasn’t the best idea for a dance party? For a second, I feel like I’ve failed them all. “What would DJ Noumenon do?” I ask myself. Stay focused.
Figuring they might be happier with something familiar, I pre- pare Michael Jackson’s supremely groovable “Remember the Time” by listening to the right channel in my headphones and adjusting the record’s speed. Beat matched, I drag the crossfader to the right, send- ing the new song out for all to hear. The transition isn’t perfect, but it’s easy enough on the ears. I hear shouts of approval and see that people are starting to move.
Three records later, I can’t stop smiling. Not because I’ve blown anyone away with my skills—it’ll be a long time before the names Git- low and Diplo appear on the same bill—but looking around, I see feet moving, hips shaking, mouths grinning and hands in the air. These people don’t seem to care that a newbie is behind the decks. They’re here to let loose and dance all night long, no matter what—because in this city, the nightlife can’t be beat, or even matched.
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