
Hey guys, I know I’ve been absent for a little bit - things have been nuts (pray you never have to rehab a condo), especially with the impending details of my label coming up…man I want to spill the beans. In any case, I promise I will be posting some music later today. In the meantime, let’s hear some of your woeful DJ tales. TimeOut Chicago, one of the publications I write for, is doing a feature on your worst gigs ever:
“Remember the time when the promoter ran off with the money, the opening DJ broke both turntables and some crazy person kept stalking you all night?
Doing a little story on worst DJ gigs ever—either on tour or in our fair Chicago—but local stories are probably better. I’d love to quote you on your worst night behind the decks—when either the promoter, the club, the crowd, the mixer, another DJ, or just all around bad mojo caught up with you. The more colorful and freaky, the better.”
Submit them in the comments below and I will forward the best ones on to TimeOut! Here is my story that will be included:
“My first gig in Mexico was at an amazing club in Cancun right on the strip - very high profile with clientele to match. Needless to say, I was thrilled and flew in a couple days early with friends to relax and take in the sights. The day of the gig I requested that we get a ride to see the Tulum ruins and the promoter provided us with two friends who would be at our disposal for the afternoon. We headed out, loving the scenery and the weather when all of a sudden, we heard sirens behind us. The Federalis pulled us over, made us all get out of the car and had the promoter unlock the trunk. It was a thinly veiled shakedown since they didn’t ask for ID from anyone and the promoter’s friend buckled under the pressure, asking for us to be let go while showing the officers the flyer with my event on it! They took one look, then asked to search through our belongings, going through our backpacks and then the car itself, emerging with a bag of drugs that obviously didn’t belong to us. I thought the promoter’s friend was about to faint. What was the price of letting us go now? One thousand dollars cash per person. Of course we didn’t have that kind of money on us, so we were driven back to the police station and guarded while the promoter negotiated with the Feds. We were eventually let go, but at a price. The officers were given $500 cash and promised half the money at the door of the club that night.”
Top that bitches!






