What it's really like to be a Spotify DJ
At this point, I’ve finished my second beer, slipped on the other headphone with intentions of social withdrawal and gone about keeping my eyes open through the sounds of Pink Floyd. As soon as sobriety overrules any form of drunkenness, the glamour of the local pub quickly disappears. I sit there, beneath the dried palm leaves at the end of the bar, my presence flying well beneath the radar of most weekend pub dwellers. Around me, the air is stale and masked with an unpleasant mixture of body odour and cheap Balinese cigarettes while before me sits a mixer, two laptops and two premium accounts of Spotify.
Rewind to mid-2015, where the responsibility of resident DJ was handed over through the questioning of my 1990’s hip-hop knowledge. That night a friend and I teamed up, asked the pubs manager where each cord plugged in then went about creating an aura of nostalgia through the sounds of Tupac and Big Willy Smith for the entire evening. With no real ownership of any MP3 files, there was no other quick, legitimate and less humorous way to get the job done than with two laptops and two accounts of Spotify Premium. Suddenly, an entire years worth of Spotify became completely tax-deductible.
There we were, somehow asked back the following week and each ordering Baileys by the schooner in disbelief at how we managed to acquire such a gig. The wage was healthy, the beers were free and the choice to completely disregard any songs requested by overly enthusiastic pub occupants was almost always enforced. It became increasingly difficult to classify ourselves as disc-jockeys, particularly ones being paid for their services. Consequently, we needed a name and accompanying Facebook page whereby we know each of the less-than-one-hundred people who like it. Insert; CROSS FADERS, more of a confession than a name.
As weeks progressed the challenge as the pubs characteristically human iPod wasn’t to have the drunkest person dancing; for even Susan Boyle’s Christmas album would have them doing a disgraceful rendition of Elvis’ most iconic moves, but instead to provide music with enough rhythm to allow the under-buzzed and designated driving friend to throw a subconscious head nod and/or ankle tap in a way that exudes confidence and shows they’re having a good time. We see you over there, do not worry, we understand.
But, like all jobs, there come times where you, as the apparent party go-getter, want nothing more than to lie in your bed withdrawn from any social interaction and watching your final season of Cheers, because honestly, you’re just tired as fuck. Instead, you (at least slightly) hold the responsibility of, firstly, staying awake until 1:30am and, secondly, providing rhythmic tunes that haven’t already appeared on the ‘Greatest Beer Drinking Songs’ album.
The clock at the corner of the laptop reads only 11:44pm. The desire to join the crowds before you in the consumption and abuse of all things alcoholic has long withered away after that previous second beer and you’re left with nothing but a burning desire to simply sleep. The only thing worse than watching time pass on the face of a watch is watching time pass along the small slider of your laptop music player. The music becomes increasingly temperamental and mood-dependent. You have only a select number of banging songs that help elude the notion of sleep and keep the party people partying, but nothing endless; consequently, you’re likely to play something new, something unknown, and something so sombre you feel the only thing missing from those few minutes is your comfy fucking bed. Sadly, you begin to realise how obsolete your job could be if the people around you questioned the difference between you and a blue iPod nano; for us, the answer is in the cross fade.
Whilst a picture of mere tiredness and lack of enthusiasm has been painted, it must be understood that this isn’t always the case. When you receive a fist-bump or something of equivalent respect and admiration for being the only disc-jockeys dumb enough to play DaRude’s Sandstorm throughout the entire pub, you get this warm, fuzzy-like feeling inside knowing someone appreciates what you’re doing back there and agrees with you in saying the blue iPod nano just wouldn’t have the same ruthlessness when it comes to song choice.