DJ Evan Alexander - Watch where you step, I might have blogged there.

Expressions Sessions, Summer Jams 2011

evanalexander@gmail.com (Evan Alexander) — Fri, 12 Aug 2011 17:16:00 +0000

Expressions Sessions, Summer Jams 2011

DJing: A labor of love. But let's get paid too!

evanalexander@gmail.com (Evan Alexander) — Sat, 21 May 2011 05:56:00 +0000

I've been doing this for a little while, this DJ thing. Since the summer after my senior year of high school, I've been dedicating a significant portion of my life to a genre of music, pouring my money, hours, tears, laughter, joy, and heartache into it, making myself the best DJ that I can be. I've practiced, I've created demos, I've networked, I've kissed ass, and, at times, I've played for nothing -- basically, I've paid my dues. Or, at least, I've paid one or two.

Today, after talking to a venue owner interested in having a DJ on hand for semi-regular events, I came to a gratifying conclusion: I'm at a point where I'm perfectly unconcerned with having a quote that I provide turned down.

Honestly, I'm typically fairly easy-going about the money I make playing music that I really enjoy. And I approach each booking on a case-by-case basis. It's not unheard of that I'll take a gig without pay, but that's usually a calculated move. I generally expect that I'll create other prospects from that gig, and feel like, overall, it's good for my name (note: these circumstances are generally for a non-profit event, or something of the like). Otherwise, I get paid what I feel like is worth my time and the energy I've spent into developing the expertise I have. But fairly often, because one of the forms of music that I play is so perfectly catered to corporate events, wine tastings, and lounge-styled gigs, I find myself approached by prospects who would like the added touch of a live DJ, but who, because they are not a regulare "venue", do not possess equipment. This is when I become fairly obstinate about that fee.

The added time that it takes to pack up equipment, load it up into my vehicle, unload it at the venue, set it up, sound-check it, pack it back up after the gig, load it back into my vehicle, and unpack it back home makes what would otherwise be a fairly easy process, a whole new project. Not to mention the wear and tear on fairly expensive equipment. But what these venue owners or corporate accountants don't realize is that they're not just paying for a DJ to come and play music that they've spent hours and hours finding, buying, and creating playlists out of, but that they're paying for a fair amount of work as well. They see the process as a fairly painless thing, because we're good at making it look that way. So when I have these conversations, and they're pretty cognizant that I'm a perfect fit for the event that they're doing, it's always a bit of a downer when I have to draw a line and say, "Yes, I would be perfect for this event, but what you're offering me just isn't enough."

I suppose that my willingness to draw that line when I know full well that there are others who won't, and who will probably end up being booked in my place, is because I'm just too damned busy to not have it be worth my time. I work a full time job that is fairly fulfilling. I also am in a very lucky position to be playing music regularly enough that my time is already valuable. But that should also tell the prospective client that, when I make a certain quote, it's not because I'm looking for money, but purely because I know the value of my time -- and others who are paying me what I'm worth clearly do as well.

I'm a firm believer that DJs need to put in their time, pay their dues, and take whatever gigs are offered them when they're doing what they can to create their name, their brand. But, despite the competitive nature of what we do (the mere fact that so many are willing to play for next to nothing), there does need to be a point where we recognize the labor that has been put in to this love, because I don't think that any of us do what we do without an intense, burning desire to do it. It's just too expensive, too time consuming, too much of who we are to be anything less than an actual passion. There's just a part of us, a voice that first spoke when we heard of the concept of "the DJ", that knew that this was something we had to do.

I don't suppose that I'll ever quit being in love with what I do, but I will continue to balance this love with the other love I have: Life.

I've got my eye on 2011.

evanalexander@gmail.com (Evan Alexander) — Mon, 06 Dec 2010 19:02:00 +0000

Though I don't exactly typically have much to complain about -- I have a great job, an apartment I love in a great location, a family to be thankful for, and music that elevates me -- I'm particularly positive about the upcoming year. I'm also painfully aware of how much my outlook on life is largely tied into the rewards (emotional, not fiscal) that music provides me.

Many of you know that as well as the periodic club appearances, I also have been involved in at least two weekly nights here in Portland, OR. It seems that the competition for downtempo music is much less than the club scene, so I've found myself playing this particular genre of music more consistently. Not long ago, shortly after returning from Europe, I lost my longest-standing residency, a weekly Monday night at Vault Martini in downtown.

To be perfectly honest, this was neither a surprise nor much of a disappointment. Though I greatly respect the employees and owner of the venue, I had been there every Monday night for about three-and-a-half years. And, though they haven't replaced me with another DJ on that night (they quoted financial reasons as why they'd be letting me go), I'm willing to hazard a guess that they had become just a little sick of my music. I certainly did my best to keep things as fresh as I could each week, but when you're filling five hours with music, it's hard to consistently have enough new tunes to keep changing it up. And, I have to admit, I may have been a little tired of the same old scenery. And the problem begins with the fact that I am being paid to play music that I love, so even though playing the same location year after year may have become hugely monotonous, how could I leave that?

I missed the paycheck more than I'd like to admit. DJing is a definite part of my income, and what I make doing it can quickly add up (especially with those weekly gigs). I had no hurt feelings about no longer being a part of Vault, but I did in fact have a hurt wallet. I felt that pain.

But I had faith that something would come along. Something always seems to, and I largely credit a positive attitude, dedication to professionalism, and, if you'll permit me to humbly suggest it, my capabilities in what I do. My name was recently suggested by word-of-mouth to a venue that was looking for a DJ who does exactly what I do, and was offered a new weekly, beginning in January. Voila! I'm back on track.

This isn't the only reason that I'm feeling good about the next year, however. I have recently become a part of the family of Portland's premier production group, Red Cube Productions. I've been involved in some of their shows in the past (both bookings with Paul Van Dyk and shows with MSTRKRFT and Christopher Lawrence), so we're well acquainted with each other and how we work. But having officially becoming a part of the team has brought other rewards, and not just further bookings.

I love being involved in various aspects of the music, from putting together guest radio spots on local stations, to writing music reviews for 365mag.com, or even just simply writing this blog. I've started working with Red Cube in making them more visible on the virtual stage (not to suggest that they haven't already achieved great notoriety), and am happily penning away all of their blog posts, to help in making their voice better heard. They're things that I enjoy doing, am arguably decent at, and am thankful for a chance to get more experience in. So it seemed a natural pairing.

I'm looking forward to the next year and what it may bring. And to give you an idea of what's ahead, I'm looking at gigs with Mark Knight in January, Morgan Page in February, Mark Farina in Seattle, and an as-yet un-announced gig at the Roseland Theater in March (I'll update this page with that info when I can).

Maybe I'll see you around in '11.

Lagos: Portugal's Cancun.

evanalexander@gmail.com (Evan Alexander) — Wed, 20 Oct 2010 03:03:00 +0000

By the time that we made it into Lagos, I was starting to get over both my jet lag and initial culture shock. We'd spent a couple of days in Lisbon, enough that I wasn't a complete wreck from waking up at crazy hours and staring at the ceiling, and to have picked up a few choice words in Portuguese. Just the basics, really, but I think that, armed with a few key words, as well as a smattering of other essentials, I learned that you can make your way about with much pointing (at things you needed and wanted, not at people) and smiling.

Lagos, in comparison to Lisbon, is an easy town to visit. Everybody here speaks English. In fact, the chances of having a Portuguese bartender vs. an Australian one are about as likely as having a Portuguese bartender vs. an Australian one in Sydney. Everyone in Lagos is likely from somewhere else. Whether it be Europe, Latin America, Australia, Asia, or North America, they all have to communicate with one another, so they all do it in English. It very well may be one of the easiest places to visit in a non-English speaking country. I've had a harder time understanding southerners than I did people in Lagos. I was ashamed to discover how much more at ease I felt in these circumstances.

About 5 months before, I had been making schemes to do my first bit of traveling outside of the country. I had always felt a tug towards the Mediterranean region, but wasn't yet convinced that should be my first excursion outside of the Americas. At a rooftop party in Portland, I mentioned these thoughts to a good friend and seasoned traveler, Adam (yes this is his real last name) Nicewonger. He'd been around a good portion of the world, so I knew his easy-going style of experienced input would be valuable. Among his various travels, he'd spent a number of summer seasons (five, I believe) living in Lagos, DJing and working at the local hostel, and just living the beach life-style. During our discussions, he mentioned that he was planning a trip back to Lagos in September, but this time for only two weeks, and suggested that I make that my trip. Knowing that this kid would be one of the better travel companions you could ask for (easy-going, experienced over-seas, and entirely comfortable in Portugal), I figured it'd be a great option, and agreed.

Two weeks later, our friend Eric Leisy was on board as well.

Walking into Lagos with Adam is like walking into Jerusalem with Jesus. Not only does everybody love the guy, but boy are they excited that he's returned. Everyone seemed to not only know the kid, but to absolutely love him. I understood why he spent so many summer seasons there -- who wouldn't want that sort of ego boost? Adam's own words, after yet another adoring fan stopped him in the street ("You're the DJ from the Grand Cafe! I remember you!"), "It's easy to be a big fish in a small town." I've come to the conclusion that I could use a small town for a while...

Eric and I were welcomed into the fold like a pair of Adam's apostles (not the Judas-type, mind you), and quickly started making friends. We headed first to the local hostel, not to get a room there, but because the family that owned the hostel was putting us up in our own apartment that they also owned (and for ridiculously cheap because, yes, they love Adam). It ended up being in a three story building, using the top two floors. The second floor was still hostel-styled, with a number of bunk beds and the bathroom. The top floor, however, was the real winner. This is where we found our large kitchen and massive roof-top veranda with a good 300-degree view of Lagos. Centrally located and boasting a righteous view, it was absolutely ideal.

The majority of our 10 days in this little beach town were spent as thus: wake up sometime late morning; meander to the Odeon, a tiny little diner a few blocks from our apartment that's owned by an old American expat named Tom; wolf down some bacon, eggs and coffee; head to the beach where we often went for a 20- to 30-minute swim; pass out in the sand for a number of hours until it was time to leave (this was determined by how red I was, leading to the nickname, Evan "the litmus" Alexander); trudge back to the apartment for an hour-long nap; wake up and head to the hostel to use some wi-fi and possibly watch a flick with our fellow travelers; dinner at one local spot or another (details on the best of these to come); back to the apartment for a quick change or refreshment; then off to one or many of the local bars to reward ourselves for another hard day.

It was a stressful time.

Despite being heavily visited by younger tourists seeking the beautiful beaches and the plentiful bars, Lagos is a city rich in history. Having a southern location on the Portuguese coast, Lagos was perfectly situated in proximity to both Africa and the open seas to become Europe's first slave market. For some time occupied by the Moors, the architecture has a heavy Moorish influence, though a great portion of it was destroyed in an earthquake and tsunami in the mid-1700s. The majority of the streets are cobblestone, and I quickly became quite addicted to the sound of my flip flops on these. It was a sound that perfectly summed up Lagos in it's unhurried, patient cadence. It was clear that I wasn't the only one of this opinion, as, during a phone conversation with his girlfriend, Adam later told me that she made a comment about being able to hear it from the other end, and how much she missed the sound (they had spent a summer there together a year or two before).

We walked the great majority of the town-center, avoiding most of the more expensive tourist spots, and spent most of our time visiting only the places that one such as Adam could know about, after repeated summer months living there. Cashina de Petisco, a local favorite restaurant, made a mark on all of our taste buds. Owned and operated by Luis De Rosa, Cashina is a tiny little place that packs out quickly, and then boasts a line of patiently waiting diners that stretches down the street. The plates are substantial enough for easily two people, possibly three, and are of a quality that one might expect in one of the finer restaurants in Portland. And what do you pay for a plate large enough for three, of fine-dining-quality food? About 8 or 9 euro. Needless to say, we were there four times in our ten-day stay in Lagos, and always took home leftovers for the next night's meal. It was glorious.

The bars in Lagos are mostly of the dive sort, with the exception of those on the main tourist drag that were a little more upscale for the older tourist demographic. It was interesting being out at these places, as it seemed that most of the younger tourists were younger tourists -- kids in their late teens and early twenties that were on holiday or traveling with friends. They were a rowdy, bawdy bunch with a capacity for drinking that far out-did us geezers and, though we were out as late as all of them, we found ourselves often being by far the most sober in the bars.

Except, of course, for that one night... We'd been out to a few places and Eric was in rare form, buying drinks for Adam and myself, as well as some of our new friends. We were out fairly late and had ended the evening at a local club, the Grand Cafe, where Adam had DJed previous summers. I don't remember the exact time, but it was well after 2, and Eric decided it was time for him to go home, so he took off before Adam and I left. On a previous day Eric had lost his key to the apartment, a fact that none of us remembered at the time when Eric decided to walk back, and a fact that he quickly remembered when he got to the front door. It was one of the few times that it actually rained while we were in town, and Eric apparently decided that he wasn't going to sit out in the rain waiting an unknown amount of time for us to let him in, so he decided that the best available option was to climb to the second floor balcony. He never made it.

There are two things that you should know about Eric: He's not much of a drinker and he's not the biggest guy. Though he didn't break his neck attempting what he'd later call his "epic attempt to climb the balcony," he did find himself spending his first night with a bucket by his bed -- a bucket that saw a lot of action. And what often happens to someone when they're confronted with their first night being brilliantly sick from too much drink? They get emotional. And, like the good, experienced alcoholic friend I am, I did my best to talk Eric down, to console him, and let him know that'd all be ok. Adam apparently got sick of us acting like college freshmen girls and went and slept in the other room.

Eric didn't get that drunk again.

I quickly discovered that the concept of cutting someone off when they've had too much to drink doesn't exist in Lagos. Like much of Europe, I imagine, people are held responsible for their own actions and, if they drink too much, they're the ones to pay the consequences; not the bar. This was made painfully obvious one evening when Eric and I were walking to a particular bar to pay a visit to one of our new Aussie friends who was bartending. We were approached by a girl in the street who was already well past the point of being cut off in the states, who was "flyering" for the bar, or attempting to pull in people off the streets. Those doing the flyering are paid by the number of people they bring into the venue. Even though Eric and I were headed there anyway, we took pity on this drunken fool and told her she could get credit for us and order our first drinks. We moseyed up to the bar, led by the stumbling girl, and placed our orders, through her, for our drinks. The girl was so inebriated that she immediately forgot that she ordered my drink, so after the bartender brought me mine, she ordered another. The result was a second, unpaid for drink that the bartender literally forced this already saturated girl to guzzle. We turned away in shocked confusion and disgust at the point that he had his hand underneath the drink, pushing it against her mouth, literally forcing her to gulp it down.

They do things different in Lagos. I was told that if the bartenders don't drink with the patrons, they lose their job. Try pulling that off in America.

You never quite realize how small of a place the world is until you're standing in a bar in a little beach town in Portugal, and someone from home calls your name. It's a little surreal "bumping" into someone you know halfway around the world.

Kristen is someone who I met briefly one night at a show I was playing in Portland. We became friends on Facebook, but never had seen each other in person since that night. She was in a study abroad program in Seville, Spain, and the group that she was with had come into Lagos for the weekend, on a guided tour. Adam, Eric, and I were DJing downtempo at a restaurant/lounge called NaNaBah (I later found out the that the NaNa portion of the name was inspired by the classy nickname for a woman's genitalia, "poonani." Look, don't judge me, I didn't come up with the name, I'm just reporting it) and the tour group had come to the same restaurant for dinner. I suppose it doesn't seem like that great of a coincidence, but it was still one of those singular moments that you can never expect, and definitely adds perspective of the world that we live in.

There was a group of about 50 Americans, including Kristen, in the town that weekend, and they happened to be going to the club that we were playing at later that night, The Grand Cafe. Though the three of us play mainly various forms of house and electronic music, we were fully aware of the American taste for Top 40 tunes, so went prepared to play quite a bit of that (something I would have never done back in Portland, but I figured that I was just along for the ride). Though we were astonished about the positive reaction that some dub-step received as the last three tracks at the end of the night, our preparations to play Rihanna and the like were unfortunately well made. And the irony of playing such a set to an American crowd on our vacation in Europe was not at all lost on us. But it has to be said that Adam knows how to make a Top 40 crowd dance. Eric and I, for the most part, played what he told us to, when he told us to.

After the club closed at four, we loitered around a bit with the staff, some choice patrons, and the owner, Luis. More drinks were had, some jokes were made, and Eric got into a fight with the Duchess of Ireland. She was a bit intoxicated and had taken a liking to his hat. She was also fiesty.

After separating the two (it was more dangerous than separating fighting dogs), Eric, Adam, and I made our way back to the apartment, grabbed a couple of bottles of vino verde, and headed down to the beach to watch the sun rise. It was the most amazing thing I've seen and the hour or so wait on the beach was well worth it, though Eric was terribly disappointed to learn the next day that the little shrine of candles he had set up during that time was washed away by the tide. We never discovered why he had set up the shrine, and he had even forgotten the matches to light them, but at least the project kept him happily occupied for a time and took his mind off of the previous beating he received from a certain Duchess.

After leaving the beach, our stomachs demanded food, and luckily the Odeon was already open and Tom already had the grills going. Inside we discovered two of the bartenders from the Grand Cafe fabulously drunk, dueling with a mop and a pepper grinder. Tom never even batted an eye.

A few days later, we decided to make the best of our new-found friend in Seville, Kristen, and get out of town for a while. We rented a black little Peugot and headed east out of Portugal. Kristen met us in town at a beautiful cathedral and proceeded to give us the grand tour: the first stop, margaritas, followed quickly by tapas, and then dinner.

We later went into one of the bar districts along the Guadalquivir River to meet up with some of Adam's friends. As we walked, Kristen lamented at the fact that she had chosen to study abroad to spread her wings a bit, get out of her comfort zone, and experience a new culture but that she was surrounded by Americans, a great number of which had gone to her high school. As we walked, this point was made painfully clear by every group of people we passed all saying "hi" to Kristen, and at least one in the group having been from her high school. The bar we went to? Full of Americans. The Spanish, it seems, can't get away from us.

The remainder of our days in Lagos were spent enjoying the relaxing routine in which we had fallen, consisting mostly of the beach, food, drinks, more food, and relaxation. I started to come to the realization that, though I loved the style of life for a vacation, the idea of living in a town like Lagos, where, despite a constant influx of new people coming for holiday, nothing ever really changed. Though you have the opportunity to meet new people every single day, the experience is tempered with the knowledge that they'll just be leaving again within the next day or two. Any opportunity at making real connections is limited to the people who live in the town, and though the ones I met were wonderful people, there just wasn't large enough of a population to sate my desires for variety.

I learned a few things on the trip, the greatest of which not being Adam's ability to take a "no-wipe-er." No, the biggest, and probably most important lesson that I took from my trip was the knowledge that I'm just not nearly as comfortable in my own skin as I thought. I live in a town where, though there is the aforementioned variety that I crave, I still know that I can go to certain places and see people I know. This is my town -- I belong here, in Portland. I'm confident here, have a grasp of all the local customs and nuances, can find my way around in a pinch, and know that no matter how much of an outsider I sometimes feel, I'm still welcome here. What I discovered being in another country is that, in reality, I need that assurance. I need to know that I can make a joke and the subtleties of sarcasm won't be lost. I need to know that I won't say the wrong, stupid thing that just doesn't fit the culture. I need to know that the people around me, even if they aren't my friends, still in a strange way get me.

I learned this about myself in just under two weeks. And learning this doesn't mean to me that I need to stay home. What I actually learned is that I need to get out more, put myself in uncomfortable situations more, find myself feeling more awkward than is normal (I generally feel awkward enough), and need to realize that I'm not as comfortable with who I thought I was. Without this knowledge and the desire to seek these situations out, I'll only be a fraud, pretending to be comfortable with who I am, but knowing full well the truth.

A few images from the trip...

The beaches

Making a mess at Cashina de Petisco

Adam giving me pointers on Top 40's at Grand Cafe

A Spanish dinner w/ Kristen in Seville

Surrounded by Americans (and one token Aussie) in a bar in Seville

10 Hours in Amsterdam

evanalexander@gmail.com (Evan Alexander) — Tue, 19 Oct 2010 04:23:00 +0000

I got off of the plane at midnight and started looking for the unknown individual who was escorting me into town. I had just flown in from Lisbon, and was a little fuzzy from having only had three hours of sleep after my gig the night before (more to come on that). But my lack of sleep was quickly falling into the background as excitement for what was to come gradually took hold. It was my first gig (and first time) in Amsterdam.

It was actually just an overnight lay-over, between Portugal and Portland, OR. I had about 10 hours to spare, hours that I certainly didn't want to waste sitting in Schiphol Airport for my last night of my two weeks in Europe. So I had contacted my good friend, Paul Sparkes, a very talented British DJ/Producer living in Amsterdam, a few weeks before to let him know I'd be in town and to inform him that I was a) appointing him my tour guide, and b) going to make sure that he didn't get a wink of sleep until I got on my plane. His response? That it happened to not only be his birthday, but that it was also the very same night that he hosted his monthly event, Floorplay, at the very hip Club NL in Amsterdam, and would I like to DJ?

I said I guessed, you know, supposed I would. I also squealed like a little girl in excitement. Thankfully, the exchange took place over email, so Paul was saved the pain of my high-pitched falsetto.

I was eventually collected by Paul's intern, after we both realized that we were the only two looking around in confusion for someone we didn't know. We boarded the train into town, and I was welcomed to the Netherlands by a train car full of singing Dutch beauties. Seriously. They piled on right before the train pulled out, filled the car with their un-Americanly tall selves, and immediately began singing at the top of their lungs for the entire 20-minute trip into downtown. It was like summer camp, but drunker and a whole hell of a lot hotter. It was surreal, and undoubtedly the best way I could have asked to start off my one night in this beautiful city.

We made it into the club at roughly 12:45 a.m, and I awkwardly jostled myself and my luggage up to the DJ booth where I was immediately taken up in a tight hug by the brit, dropped my bags, and was handed a glass of champagne. We toasted his old age (and I snickered at the evident grey hairs), in between his mixes, and then I started to take stock of the club.

It's an intimate place, Club NL. Initially opened some years ago as a swanky lounge that has served drinks to a number of international celebrities, including Madonna, it was then turned into a dance club. Paul explained to me that many of the venues in Amsterdam are of the smaller sort, so this was pretty typical. When you first walk in, the red lighting illuminates the way down the bar. This is the slimmest part of the club, with the bar on your left, running lengthwise until you reach the dancefloor, where it opens up to your right about 30 feet, with the DJ booth immediately on your left at the end of the bar, and the dance floor continuing to the back about another 30 feet. The whole place is decorated and illuminated in the red theme, including the plush seating that makes for a place to rest your feet or sip champagne in the right and left corners.

Paul was playing some deep, techy brilliance that possessed a great, moving vibe that clearly the dance floor enjoyed. He played until about 1:30, allowing me time to get situated (ie, drink more champagne), dig through my tunes, and get a feel for the place. My evaluations led me to the conclusions that the Dutch were a beautiful people who clearly loved good, underground music. I was definitely looking forward to playing.

In Portland, I mostly find myself playing a mixture of downtempo in lounge venues, or big-room styled music as the opening DJ for larger named acts. I viewed my upcoming hours behind the decks in Amsterdam as an opportunity to play a sort of music that I don't often get to play in Portland, but that I nonetheless love to hear, dance to, and be a part of. I was armed with an arsenal of deep, reverberating, tribal tech-house that I knew would leave skid marks in the underpants. I don't think I disappointed.

What followed was two-plus-hours of some of my best times behind the turntables. I've been known as a DJ that is in constant motion in the booth, always moving to the music. But this night I danced as much as they danced, smiled as much as they smiled, and enjoyed as much as they enjoyed. I was having one of those moments when it makes sense. Everything that I've ever done, every track that I've ever bought, every lame and totally not-lame gig that I've ever played, they all led up to that one perfect moment. And it's not that I was surrounded by 1,000 or more dancing bodies -- that's happened on a number of occasions -- but just that it all fit so well, and the perfect synchronicity between DJ, music, and dancer, where the communication and understanding is almost infallible, made for one of those experiences where nobody could deny the electricity in the room.

I made fast friends after my set with a stunning Dutch model, named Jamila, who had been dancing the entire night, and was a vortex for energy on the dance floor. After my set, we danced the remainder of the night away to Paul's closing tracks. Then Paul, Jamila, and I, as well as a few others, stuck around for some after-closing drinks and over-all enjoyment of a night gone well.

Around 5 a.m., it was time to leave the club. I said my farewells to those that I had just met, and piled into an "illegal" cab (individuals who aren't licensed to operate, but charge less than a regular taxi. You have to know someone to get their contact info), and made off to the airport with Paul and company. Paul was in possession of a magnum bottle of champagne (a birthday gift to Paul from an illusive and enigmatic individual named Rachel), so upon arrival at the airport, his roommate, Lidemarie (a smart ass if I've ever met one), he, and I continued the celebration in true Amsterdam style, drinking directly from the bottle in the middle of the airport. After finally being told by one of the security -- quite politely, I might add -- that we couldn't drink that there, we deposited the rest of the bottle in the trash and made our way quite noisily to the airport bar where I made damn sure that I was going to be cross-eyed while going through security -- possibly not one of my smarter choices.

I finally boarded the plane after semi-successfully making it through security (I had to repeatedly and confusedly search my carry-on before I discovered the bottle of liquids, my shaving cream, that they kept telling me they were seeing on the x-ray), and in a properly beffudled fashion, found my seat. There, the three hours of sleep in two days caught hold, and I woke up ten hours later in Portland.

Paul has recently been tickled by the idea of sending me emails claiming that the Dutch authorities are charging him a 300 dollar fine for drinking champagne in the airport and leaving me voicemails in Dutch, pretending to be said authorities (while Lidemarie sniggers in the background). But, as I recently told him, no matter what language he's speaking, he still sounds like a limey.

Overall, the night, I'd say, was a roaring success. Thanks, Paul.

In honor of that ever-so-sweet set, I made a stream-able and downloadable version:

10 Hours in Amsterdam by evanalexander

And a few choice photos from the night:

Me and Paul

Moi

View of the bar from the DJ booth, looking toward the front door.

My new friend, Jamila

Champagne breakfast at Schiphol Airport

Another futile attempt.

evanalexander@gmail.com (Evan Alexander) — Mon, 19 Jul 2010 23:25:00 +0000

I've always been a little wary of anywhere with "Ultralounge" in the name. It's like it's waving a flag for those who're trying too hard that this is their spot. Apparently I'm wrong, but when I try to imagine lounging in an "ultra" fashion, my mental image is that of me passed out, and passed out HARD. Why does the idea of the lounge need to be taken to another level?

I got a call a couple of months ago from Gabe Driscoll, a fellow DJ here in town. He had been approached by one of the newer venues to do an electronic music-dedicated night on Thursdays and he wanted to bring me on board. When the venue had first opened, I had made a few inquiries about what kind of music they'd be going for, seeing if I might be a good fit. Based on the stylings of the place and the location in town, I had a feeling that they'd end up being just another place trying to be the newest Vegas or L.A-styled hot spot, with all the usual suspects in attendance. But I figured that maybe a weeknight might be conducive to some good house music or downtempo, so when Gabe called me, I was all in.

I'm well aware that the music that I play isn't by any means mainstream here in the States. I am fully comfortable knowing that there are many that would rather here the latest Rhianna, Jay-Z, or Soulja Boy. And though this is by no means the type of music I will ever play, I don't necessarily begrudge those who play it or those who want to hear it. Sure, I may down in my core feel that it's all a bit unimaginative, and that most who listen to it do so because that's all they've been spoon-fed. But I'm fully conscious that music is a wholly subjective experience, and there really is no right or wrong.

Simply put, Couture Ultralounge is that kind of venue.

I knew it in my bones when I first started doing the night. I knew that though Gabe and I would pull a good number of those wanting to hear some great dance music, most of the regulars would be against it. It's unfamiliar, you see. The girls can't sing along to it. And when the girls are unhappy, everyone is unhappy.

But that's not the real issue. A part of me is a bit suspicious that the "hosts," the promoters, weren't too sure about me. I didn't necessarily fit into their vision. Gabe has had some time playing in some of the more mainstream clubs, whereas I've been content in the spaces that I know welcome the music I play. So I was an unknown to them. I haven't shown up on any "All-Club VIP" photo pages, with sunglasses on in a dark nightclub, holding a bottle of Cristal in one hand and a barely dressed, spray-tanned blonde in the other, while my shiny shirt reflects the flash of the camera. No, I've been too busy playing quality music to those who wanted nothing more than to get filthy sweaty from dancing, and weren't there to be a part of any "scene."

I lasted two weeks at Couture Ultralounge.

There were three of us: Gabe, myself, and ComputerFam (Huy Pham). Huy is a hell of a nice guy, and a talented, versatile DJ that can not only play some great house tunes, but can also lay down some mainstream tracks that'll get those spray-tanned blondes "dropping it like it's hot" (though I'm not too sure what "it" is...). Simply put, Huy is the perfect guy for Couture. The first week of our night saw Gabe and Huy behind the turntables because the promoters were unsure of just jumping head-first with a full-on electronic extravaganza with me and Gabe. So the promoters promoted and the DJs DJ'ed -- Gabe playing all electronic stuff and Huy meeting in the middle with some more mainstream sounds. The second week, Gabe, Huy, and I were all on board, with a fair dance floor and some positive feed-back. The third week was just Gabe and I, with things a little less busy and not too many tails on the floor. Here's where the trouble starts. And ends.

The first week that I was officially a part of the night was First Thursday (the first Thursday of the month) in Portland -- a night where all the art galleries open up, venues host events, and everyone is out and about on the town. It's a great night for any bar or club in the area because the foot traffic is so thick. So we had a decent little crowd in Couture, despite the fact that the promoters were hosting another event in a different venue. Yup, that's right, you got it: The guys that the club pay to promote their night were throwing a different event just seven blocks away.

The second night I was involved, the night that was just Gabe and I behind the decks, the promoters did... nothing. Typically, all week long, before Thursday rolls around, my social networks are clogged with posts from these guys about Thursday night, house music, DJs, etc. That week? Nothing. Nada. Not a peep. I wondered if they'd been in the same car that had been involved in a wreck that had them both hospitalized. The online event invite had only five invitees: myself, Gabe, Huy, the club owner, and one other.

Aren't the promoters supposed to, well... promote? Did I get this wrong? I mean, sure, I may not speak English all good, but I thought I had a grasp of the meaning of this word.

Let's see what dictionary.com has to say.

"to help to encourage to exist or flourish"

"to aid in organizing"

"to contribute to the progress and growth of"

etc, etc.

Damn, I guess I'm not entirely illiterate then!

Oddly, the very next week saw just Gabe and Huy on the tables. And what were the promoters doing? Well, just what dictionary.com says that they should have been doing, in fact. Hallelujah! I thought that maybe the previous two weeks had been a fluke and that we were over it, ready to move on, to make the night grow, and to get some spray-tanned blondes liking some good electronic music.

Then Gabe calls me today with the news. The owner can't help but notice how, when it was just Gabe and I, the night was slower. He thinks that maybe I'm not the best fit, that perhaps I and my music were to blame. The promoters? They agree -- of course they agree! The night they were supposed to be promoting was slow because they weren't promoting, doing their job, what they've been paid to do. I'd been thrown under the bus, either in a pre-meditated fashion, or just as an afterthought after they'd realized that, holy smokes!, if you don't promote, nobody shows.

To be honest, the old man in me isn't terribly disappointed. I never was too sure about forcing myself to work on 3 1/2 hours of sleep once a week, and I wasn't ever fully convinced that the clientele would be accepting, or even embracing of that type of music. I was never fully sold on the idea, but saw absolutely no reason not to give it a shot. Because if it had worked, if the Couture regulars had wow'ed me with their insatiable desire for some forward-thinking tunes, I'd have stayed up that late, worked on that little sleep, and gladly have DJed for free. As it is, I prefer to walk away from the situation and the money (not that there was a lot of it), and enjoy a relaxed Thursday evening at home or with friends.

And I should submit that the owners and staff are perfectly nice people, though perhaps they may not have the best judgment. And the venue itself is a beautiful one which will likely do well, if they can ever decide what they actually want to do with it. Regardless, it seems we're not meant for each other. And that's ok.

----------------------------------

Update:

With the knowledge that I'm sometimes an idiot and make my own mistakes (hard to believe, I know), I just had a conversation with one of the promoters, caught his side of things, and now have a better understanding of the circumstances they are dealing with. However, despite my desire to be transparent, it was requested that I leave things here as they are so as to avoid any other misunderstandings.

What I get from all this? Affirmation that when I play the music that I love, I always want it to be somewhere that fits that sound. As I said earlier, there's no "right" or "wrong" music to be played, but there is the right and wrong places to play it.

It's All Gone Paul Van Dyk

evanalexander@gmail.com (Evan Alexander) — Tue, 06 Jul 2010 16:54:00 +0000

"Whatever you do, don't play too hard!"

The problem was, I wasn't exactly sure what "too hard" meant.

This was back in 2007, when I first had the opportunity of opening for Paul Van Dyk at the Crystal Ballroom. Paul and his management made it exceptionally clear, via the promoters, that the opening DJ should not be playing music that was too high energy. As one of the world's top DJs, this isn't terribly surprising. I can't begin to imagine the slew of all-too eager DJs that opened up for the man and wanted to possibly impress him or just enjoy their moment in the spot-light. The problem is, "too hard" and "high energy" mean different things to different people. And I had no means of knowing what these ideas meant to either Paul or his management. I knew what I thought these concepts meant, and what music I thought might be fit to play. But still, when this point is being so clearly stressed, you can't help but second-guess yourself. I mean, you want to do a good job, right?

The result? A nerve-wracked DJ, paranoid about pissing off one of the biggest names in the industry, and terrified of putting over 1,000 people to sleep.

That night back in 2007 I went to dinner with some friends before the show. One of them pointed out how nervous I clearly was by how quiet I was being. It seems that my incessant chatter is directly proportionate to how relaxed I am.

The end result was that I went with my gut and played what I felt was right, considering the context. The promoter popped up on stage towards the end of my set to let me know that the current track was a bit more energy than they liked, and then again during my next track to let me know that it was now perfect. The show went great, I had an amazing time, and then promptly flew off to San Francisco the very next morning to play my second year of LoveFest. It was probably one of those weekends that I'll be regaling my grandchildren about (with a few omissions) in years to come.

This past weekend, I again had the honor of setting the stage for Paul with the very same cautions from the promoter. We discussed the energy level of the music on and off before the show, and then again the night of. He told me that not only Paul, but both of his managers had inquired about the opening DJ, what I'd be playing, and stressed the importance of the lower energy level. I think that the promoter was more stressed out about it than I was at this point. When I jokingly offered to play some downtempo in the last thirty minutes of my set, he almost looked relieved.

But this time around, I was prepared. I knew what I wanted, what Paul wanted, and what the crowd wanted. I played marginally harder the first forty-five minutes or so, and then kept it bouncy and light the latter half of my set -- the half that Paul would be in the building for. The result of this show? I had an amazing time with an incredible crowd, a ton of hugely flattering feedback, and nobody asking me to bring it down a notch. I'm calling this one a success.

Next time, though, I just might give the old geezer a run for his money.

I've made a download-able and stream-able representation of the latest set, for an idea of where I went with the music:
Opening Set for Paul Van Dyk 7/2/2010 by evanalexander

A Fool's Diatribe -- an assignment for school that became much more personal.

evanalexander@gmail.com (Evan Alexander) — Mon, 26 Apr 2010 06:42:00 +0000

A Fool’s Diatribe

Take not what I write as metaphor, allegory, or meaning, lost and veiled beyond pretty words. What I write, I do so as to be presentable at face value. I do not seek to needlessly complicate my words, your understanding of them, or the message I create. I am here to say a few things, to put these words to paper, and to possibly paint a picture.

I come to you as a cautiously open book. The person that I am, though complicated needlessly at times; possibly confusing, I’d wager, quiet when there’s nothing necessary to be said, gregarious for no apparent reason, and pointlessly logical when logic isn’t a welcome guest, is also a simple one, with no needs beyond the food on my plate, the ceiling over my head, and the bed to which I retire. But, despite the recognition of my few base needs from which I gain great appreciation, there is more.

How does one convey who they might be when who they might be is confronted with one of the age-old mysteries, created by that own pursuit of that exact question: Who am I? It seems a task doomed from the point of its undertaking. From the moment that the first word was put to the virtual paper on which I type, it seems almost pointless.

Are we not an amalgamation of parts that are at once in harmony, and contradictory in their existence? How do we make sense of these parts when the parts themselves have no clear cohesion and often only turn in on themselves? We struggle with this problem the most in our teens, unsure of ourselves, unable to stand confidently, presenting ourselves to the world. We think, as we get older, that we have a clearer picture, that perhaps we’ve figured it out. We claim in our loud, mature voices that we are adults! We know who we are! We’ve been through the worst of it and have come out a whole person, we’ve fought for identities, stood our ground, made declarations, and have given the proverbial finger to those who would not have us as we are.

But does this truly mean that it has been figured out? Or is it, perhaps, that we are just better at pretending? Sure, we may have, through trial and error, gained a clearer picture of what we want, what our most base needs are, who the people we can and can’t stand are, and whether or not we truly like our parents. We may have decided that, no matter how hard we try, we just don’t like sushi. The movies being made, the songs playing on the radio, the style of clothes that it seems everyone is wearing may in fact, just not be to our liking. But do we not spend a lifetime in the search of answers to a few questions that haunt us collectively? Have we not created, fought over, and died for belief systems that helped us to feel that we had some answers to these questions?

So, this is the crux of it. I just don’t know who I am, as a whole. The pieces are identifiable, sometimes laudable, and at other times unfortunate. They are there, and I could tell you about these. A few I will keep to myself and some I am too afraid to even consider their existence.

Bear with me as I bare my bones:

I am a son who doesn’t call enough. I am a student. I am an employee of a kick-ass company. I am a neighbor who once asked to borrow a cup of sugar. I am a consumer. I am a producer. I am a reader, a writer, and a plagiarist. I am forward, up-front, and a liar. I believe in the good in all people, yet often times see only the bad. I am impatient with weakness, but beg for acceptance of my failures. I am competitive, but often lose. I am a humble man who loves to look at himself in the mirror. I fool myself into thinking that I am narcissistic. I work hard at looking like I don’t work hard to look like how I look. I am grammatically incorrect more often than I would like, and hate it when others don’t properly conjugate. I have been known to unabashedly split the occasional infinitive. I use too many commas. I have a cat that I talk to entirely too much and who, I am convinced, talks back. I am a runner with high cholesterol. I am a walking, glorified jukebox that calls himself a DJ. I believe, quite genuinely, that I have better taste in music than you. I love to cook, but find myself cooking the same damn things over and over and over. I am a Southerner who doesn’t want to be pegged as a Southerner because I am afraid of the stereotypes that are associated with that. I love grits, but don’t really know what a grit is. I am insecure about being skinny, even though I’m not nearly as skinny as I was when I was younger. I joke about being old at 30, but feel like I am 17. I am a mediocre talent. I am a pragmatic romantic, deeply seated in reality. I cry at movies. I seem to constantly have writer’s block. I believe that you might actually want to read all of this.

I get swept away in the beauty of the world around me, lost in its story, and in creating my own. I’m convinced that this world is here for me, yet I refuse to take some of the steps necessary to make it mine, to seat me on the throne of the happiness I seek, and I look on in forlorn jealousy at those who have found theirs. I’m tossed about by the rides of opportunity – one moment enjoying great success in the passions that torment me, the next, I’m fighting to stay adrift. Music compels me, torments me, inspires me, causes me pain, brings me joy, comforts me, brings hope for the salvation of this wreck of a world, and gives voice to all the pain, beauty, strife, struggle, sacrifice, and success. It’s my untrustworthy friend: there for me when I need it, but sweeping the rug out from underneath me when I’m confident in our relationship. I’ve given so much, tried so hard to make this work, yet enjoy only a few moments of success, with the spotlight shining brightly, validating the toil.

This, then, I’m forced to face as who I am, the most prominent of my many personalities, the name tags that I wear, the costumes I don. I am a multitude, a clamor, a din, a cacophony. I am the sounds of the waves, not lapping against the shore – surely nothing quite so poetic – but the personification of those hapless grains of sand, pummeled relentlessly by the insistence of the sea. I try to grab one of those grains, call it “Me,” and pray that it is hardy enough to withstand the waves. I attempt, for a short time, to ignore the obvious rest and hold on to this one identifiable kernel in a camouflage of monotony, hoping that it will not get swept away before I can get to know it, identify with it, and make it my own. I am everything above this line in this rant: I am a confused fool, bearing a passion for music and a fear of pursuit of it that is caused, tempered, created by, or exacerbated from the humanity we all face and all of its uncertainties.

This existence is placed here for no reason we can begin to conceive, providing us with a brief taste of something wonderful, full of pain, laughter, love, regret, envy, anger, tears, and joy, allowing us to grow, to experience, filling us with wisdom and knowledge, only to pour out all of those contents at the very last, at the final hour. We try so hard to find something to give us purpose, that sometimes that search in itself becomes our purpose, a surrogate that consumes our attention and the light of our lives. We have such a flame, a burning drive to keep going, to keep doing, without a real understanding of what it is that we are doing and why we keep going. In doing so, we fly by the beauty, the calm, the serenity that exists all around us. We surround ourselves with baubles and toys that sparkle and shine, blinding us from anything else of a subtler, more natural glow.

Me? I am confused. I am confusing. I am as unknown to myself, possibly more so, as is the night to the day – those long-known acquaintances that meet regularly enough, but exchange hardly more than a brief nod, “hello” and “goodbye.” I know the thoughts that are in my head, but sometimes wonder at whom their speaker is. I question his motives and reasons, and am afraid to find these answers.

I fear what I might find when reading this piece. I fear what you might find, you stranger mine. You peer into my words, searching for a meaning that I warned you may not be there, second-guessing my honesty, my intentions, the need to say what I’ve said. Find in this then whatever meaning is best reflected by your own experiences, hurts, heart-aches, victories, and successes. And, perhaps, in the midst of doing so, find as well my small voice, adding to your own, together creating our own meaning and message. Find this, my new friend: a fool’s diatribe.

Two legs x iPod = Dead DJ and a Bar Tab

evanalexander@gmail.com (Evan Alexander) — Sat, 09 Jan 2010 08:03:00 +0000

Once upon a time I commented on a local DJ's blog regarding competitors taking gigs for less money than he felt they should. His frustration, being a well established local DJ playing in the "hottest" mainstream clubs, was that he was being undercut by newer DJ's seeking to make a name for themselves and willing to take gigs at a much smaller price tag than he was, in order to do so. At the time my reaction was, "Tough luck. It's the nature of the capitalistic beast." You know, you have about as much chance of stepping on a DJ as you do stepping in a puddle here in the rainy Pacific Northwest. Of course there's going to be competition!

My comment to his blog, however, was that, though he may have a valid point in the market that he operates in, the electronic music scene is an entirely different thing. DJs in Portland, OR that are wanting to play any form of underground music are lucky to see money at the end of the night. Why? Because, unless you're bringing a Big Name DJ to town, this isn't a genre of music that is a money-maker. Despite the progressive, forward-thinking nature of this city, it just isn't large enough to offer enough of a market for that kind of music. So if you're a DJ wishing to play any form of underground electronic dance music, be prepared to be payed little to nothing.

I'm not saying that it's not possible to make some money at this. I'm not saying that I run around town taking gigs for free. Far from it. I am fortunate enough to be among the few that play anything but the mainstream, on a regular basis, and get paid to do so. Now, if I were in a much larger city, I'd probably be getting paid more than I am. And that's fine; I'm not here for the money. But after 11 years of blood (I may have bled on a record once), sweat, and tears (ok, I do cry often), I damn well deserve some return on my investment. Besides, I'm good at what I do.

Tonight I have experienced the frustrations of that DJ who blogged his frustrations of being undercut. But my experience was his, multiplied by... well, the money I would have made tonight. Now, you may be saying to yourself, "Tough luck. It's the nature of the capitalistic beast." Familiar words, right? But here's the thing: he was playing for free.

How does one compete against that?

The DJ who wrote his blog made the valid point of "you get what you pay for." True enough. The DJs that are charging more are (hopefully) doing so for a valid reason. And, granted, you can probably find some decent talent for less than what the upper echelon may be asking. But you have to ask yourself, what kind of quality are you getting for free? This guy, the one who took my night from under my nose, that's what he was charging: nothing. And to make it worse, he's not even bothering to mix his music. He's playing directly from his laptop (something that I normally would take no issue with), but he's not bothering to do more than to hit play on the next track at the end of the proceeding track.

He's an iPod with two legs and the ability to drink your booze.

If he were charging less, that'd be fine. He would then just be competition, and competition I'm used to. I know my value, and those that book me tend to know this too. But a man with a laptop full of decent music who is charging nothing is hard for me to compete against. I could toot my own horn in front of the owners of the place until my horn was blue in its...face? But, for a business, it always comes down to one thing: the bottom line.

That damned bottom line has got me sitting on my ass tonight.

Portland Fashion Week

evanalexander@gmail.com (Evan Alexander) — Mon, 12 Oct 2009 21:04:00 +0000

I stumbled into Portland Fashion Week about three years ago. A friend of mine, a talented DJ and a hell of a guy, was DJing the runway shows for the event's third year. He brought me on board to DJ after the runway shows, while people were still loitering about having drinks. I was a bit apprehensive, mainly because I can barely dress myself in the morning, but agreed to it nonetheless. In the least, there were free drinks and people prettier than myself (not much of a stretch, eh?) to look at. So I signed up, saw some free runway shows from a great vantage point, drooled a bit at the models, had a beer or three, and played some tunes for some fashionistas. Not a bad day's work.

One of the executive producers (does one add a caps to such titles? Editors, please weigh in) took a liking to my ragtag collection of tunes and took my card. I saw him around town a number of times after, usually at random places crazy enough to book me, did my normal shmoozing and ass kissing, and eventually formed a friendship. To be honest, I didn't even have any scheme in mind at the time. He just seemed like a cool, down to earth cat (especially for the work that he was involved with) and certainly not a bad person to know.

One year later I was DJing my first runway shows.

I have to be honest here. Even after over a decade behind the tables, this was still a daunting undertaking. Typically, if I screw up a set in one way or another, it's usually in a manner that nobody notices and, if they do, I make some smart-ass, self-deprecating remark that excuses it, or at least pokes fun at me, and then continue about my business without a care in the world. This, however, was a whole other creature.

The runway show is not about the music -- though it is an important ingredient. The runway show is the chance for the designer to preview their collection for the upcoming season or year to magazines, buyers, and other fashion-minded individuals. The runway show is their moment, not mine. So I knew that if I screwed it up, it wasn't just a "ha ha, oops!" moment, but something bigger than myself. This time I was being depended upon to be professional, talented, quick-thinking, fast moving, confident, and capable. Normally, this would be no issue. But being out of my comfort zone, in a world entirely out of my experience, I was thrown off my game just a bit.

Tack on to this the fact that I was playing music entirely different than that in my more-than-a-decade of experience and you've got yourself a recipe for an ulcer. In fact, the day of the first show, I woke up with a crick in my neck entirely due to stress. I called into work that day and spent the afternoon on my couch relaxing and massaging myself (as well as praying for mercy) and was miraculously fine by show time that evening.

Each designer is different. Each clothing line is different. The music for each show is different. Basically, the designers either request specific songs (fine by me) or give me general descriptions of how they see their clothing, hoping that I'll be able to match music to that. This isn't the easiest thing to accomplish, largely because of the dynamic nature of communication. Words carry different meanings for different people. Music is much the same. People interpret the meaning of music differently. Every experience is unique. So finding music that fits in these scenarios leads to long chains of emails that later become hard to follow, leading to more miscommunication and possibly the wrong songs being played.

Last year things went well, for the most part. The only hitch in the road occurred on the very first night, with two designers that had very, very specific music requests. One designer's line can only be described as vaudevillian. Her music that accompanied it was exceptionally fitting and sounded like Tom Waits had taken a bad hit of acid and joined the circus. Not something I normally would have a) owned, or b) known how to even find. Fortunately, she was able to send me the tracks that she wanted.

The other designer was a little older, in her mid-fifties I'd guess. Her line was sophisticated and chic. She described it as being "50's era London." And, understandably, she felt that the Beatles and some older Rolling Stones would be a great fit. After seeing her line, I was forced to agree.

The error came when the schedule of designers that I had before me was incorrect. One designer got another's music, and vice versa. Certainly, given the contrast of these two images, you can imagine exactly how big of an issue this might have been. And if you take a moment to consider the personality of these designers, based upon these designs and music choices, you might get an idea of the reaction that each designer gave. The more whimsical, theatrical designer had a good laugh at my expense after I bought her a drink, and that was the end of it. The other, I spent the rest of the evening, as well as the after party, liquoring up before she'd forgive me.

Regardless, this occurrence on my very first night of DJing a scenario entirely foreign to me made me more than a little insecure about my performance. But, I rose to the challenge and made certain not to make the same mistake twice. This year I took those lessons and made good use of them, even making spread sheets for each night with a list of designers, their music preferences, and their line-up. This certainly lubricated the process and helped me to feel more prepared (especially with one year under my belt) and confident. The largest lessons I've learned from DJing these shows is that you can never be too prepared and that you really have to move quickly. And the best preparation you can have is to make certain, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that you have plenty of music. It's hard to judge how long a runway show for a particular designer will last. And if they've made very specific song selections, you can't just choose anything from your music library if you realize that you don't have enough to fill their show. You need to have at least two back ups. It's either that, or the vibe of the show changes entirely if you don't already have something lined up. Or (and I hope this never happens to me or anyone else out there) white noise on the runway. Talk about awkward silences...

I've made it through another year unscathed. I've had another year to confirm my own lack of style and awkward bearing, while watching those who've always glided through life, glide before my DJ booth and at the after parties. I'm given flashbacks to every middle-through-high school dance I've ever attended. As I once stood uncomfortably in the corner, I at least now stand awkwardly in the midst of things, finally comfortable with the fact I'll never fit in. You'd think the "master of ceremonies," the runway DJ, the music director for this world-renowned fashion event would be more in the thick of things. In reality, I find myself more of a contrast to that world -- charismatic and outgoing, it's true, but not exactly a part of this glitzy, glamorous lifestyle.

I am, and will continue to be honored to be a part of such an event. I will continue to give it my utmost attention and focus, while bringing all of my considerable talent in this field to my responsibilities of this show. But I imagine that I will continue to find humor and irony in the image of a Target-clad DJ of Portland Fashion Week.

For more info on the show, go here: www.PortlandFashionWeek.net

The worst night of my life -- and hers...

evanalexander@gmail.com (Evan Alexander) — Sun, 20 Sep 2009 21:20:00 +0000

"It's only grass!" And then she took a running step, a stumble, an audible gasp, and disappeared into the darkness.

We were at the rented house on the coast, celebrating the wedding of two good friends, the groom being her brother. The house was situated at the top of a hill above the coast, offering a terrific view of the ocean and surrounding beaches. Visiting from NJ for the wedding, she'd never yet set foot onto the Oregon beach at night. Before going to bed -- or likely passing out after a day of celebration -- she asked that I follow up on an earlier suggestion, that we step out to the beach at some point in the night.

We were following what appeared to be a graveled, tiered path between the house and it's neighbor, heading to what looked like a way down towards the beach. I was providing a muted light from my cell phone to the lip of the hill. As we neared, I saw that we were higher than first supposed, and that the apparent path came to an end. I mentioned this, thinking we were thwarted. But the soft, tall grass in front of us gave her confidence, apparently leading her to believe that is was an easy grade down. Then the darkness swallowed her. And the nightmare began.

I called into the darkness, yelling her name, hoping to hear her reply -- a reply I fully expected to be filled with pain, but it'd be a reply nonetheless.

"Kelli!! KELLI!!!" The only reply was the sound of the waves and the wind whipping my calls back into my face.

Should I go back and get help? Or should I follow her, possibly injuring myself and being no help to either one of us? I settled for the latter, hoping that perhaps the drop wasn't as bad as I feared, that she was merely stunned, that I'd find her with a twisted ankle and help her hobble back up. So with the light from my phone before me, I thrusted myself through the grass and almost immediately discovered the truth of matters.

I had taken a couple of steps, finding that the grass was misleading and that it was almost an immediate drop-off. My foot finding only air, it was merely the tough coastal grass that I was clutching in my other hand that held me back. I held the light down and my stomach dropped. Below me lay a sharp descent of nothing but boulders, at least 30 feet to the beach. And nowhere could I see her, hear her, or find any sign of the person that had just disappeared.

As quick as I possibly could, without killing myself, I dropped from boulder to boulder, always with the light before me, frantically searching, fearing more than anything finding the twisted form of the person I had only met hours before. And then I saw her -- the bottom of her foot, that is. She lay where she had fallen, face down, her head and upper body wedged down a crevasse, impossibly upside down, inert, immobile, and showing no signs of life. She had fallen, face first, 25 feet into these rocks and had incredibly landed in this unnatural position, completely head down into this crack between boulders that became narrower the deeper it went.

I was certain from her stillness and awkward position that she couldn't be alive.

I finally made it to her. Praying with every ounce of my breathing I knelt next to her and gently layed a hand onto her back. She was breathing! She wouldn't respond, but I could hear her breath, consistently becoming more labored, and sounding like someone blowing bubbles in their soda with a straw.

I knew there was no way anybody would have heard my cries for help. I also knew I couldn't leave her -- not like this. Calling 911 was the obvious option, but I didn't know where in the hell I was. But then I remembered having put the name of the street we were on into the maps on my phone earlier that evening, after the reception. "Just look for the cars," they had told me. So I had no address, but at least someplace to start.

I placed the call. "YES, THIS IS AN EMERGENCY!" was all I could say to the posed question. I immediately rushed into it -- I didn't know exactly where I was but for the street name. I was on this rocky slope by the beach, she had fallen, she wasn't responding.

"No, I know I shouldn't move her, but there's fluid in her breath and she's upside down!"

Her breathing was becoming worse. Each breath was accompanied with what only could be described as a growl, each one more pronounced than the one before. I began to realize that this was a sign of her coming into consciousness, the sounds of the intense pain that she must be in. Soon after she began to respond to me, but not in any intelligible manner. All I could tell her was that they were coming, they'd be hear, to stay calm, and most importantly, do not move!

I was on hold with the 911 operator as they made the dispatch, accompanied by the whimpers and cries of this poor girl, oddly accentuated by the sounds of the waves behind me. The beauty of the night was breathtaking, the wind was strong and crisp, and the stars -- so many stars! --were blinking above us in their silent home in the heavens. It seemed so unreal, so unfair that this testimony to a higher power, this portrait of His creation, was all that played witness to what was transpiring below. I can't tell you how long we waited; she fading in and out of consciousness and me with a constant prayer, apologies, and futile attempts at comfort on my lips.

My battery was dying on my phone, so the operator disconnected with me to save it's battery. He told me that they were at the top of the bluff, to look for their light, and to call him back if I didn't see them. A beam penetrated the darkness, I frantically began yelling, waving my arms, willing them to see me. The light stuck me, we were seen, and they slowly started to pick their way to us.

During the eternity that I felt like we had waited for them to arrive, she had been doing her best to extricate herself from her position -- an impossible task. She ignored my supplications to stay still, that it might make things worse, all the while pleading for me to help, to get her out. It tore at my heart being unable to help her, to only try and comfort her, and clearly, understandably failing. She wanted so badly to be moved and there was nothing that I could do but sit there helplessly, knowing that if I touched her, if her neck or back were broken, I might paralyze her. But she kept trying, and I kept begging her to stop. Her efforts had only made to worsen her situation and to wedge her more tightly. And still she begged me to help.

When finally the paramedics arrived they had to call for more help. The Fire Department was needed. There was no way of moving her out of that crack, and they could only see to remove the boulders. What transpired next was a horrible time of waiting for more help, of watching them chip away at the basalt, to realize that if they moved one boulder, the next larger boulder would come loose and fall on top of her. They had no choice but to maneuver her out of there, all the while praying that there were no spinal injuries that might be exacerbated by the process.

Her shirt was ripped and part of one breast was revealed. I overheard one of the cops ask another, "Dude, did you see her boob?"

I looked at him. "WHAT did you say??!!"

He looked back at me, full in the face, paused, and holding my gaze in a manner that made it clear that I had no right to question him, that I couldn't begin to be a consideration, simply said "nothing," and turned away.

One of the paramedics was assessing her as best he could from her upside-down, pretzel like position. He placed a hand on her back and asked if she could feel it. She didn't respond and I froze in fear. Then he pinched her at the top of her thigh and asked if she could feel it. She could and relief immediately washed over me.

As her head finally emerged an hour after the respondents had first arrived, I breathed my third thanks to the heavens. She was covered in blood and it was impossible to tell from where it all came. I couldn't see through it to discover if she had any head injuries, but she was answering their questions despite being obviously dazed. They got her in the collar to protect her cervical spine and strapped her into the back board. Then they began the ascent.

I was walking with the officers up the slope and met her younger brother. They had all been totally unaware of what had been going on. They could see the emergency response vehicles, but they were parked a few houses over, so had no suspicions that they were there for anyone in our party. Her brother had come out to investigate, had seen the orange of her shirt as she disappeared into the ambulance, and rushed over to find out what was going on. As I told him that his sister had fallen down this cliff, that she was badly hurt, I finally broke down.

The cops were asking me if we had fought previously that evening. Their intentions were clear. I assured them that, no, we had not fought. They then confirmed that she had said that I had not pushed her. It seemed absurd, but I knew that they had to ask.

They took her first to Lincoln City Hospital and then transferred her to Emmanuel in Portland. Her injuries included two broken wrists, a broken jaw, three broken ribs, a lacerated liver, and three lost front teeth. Amazingly, these were the worst of her injuries. I can't imagine how she'll feel, waking up to the reality of what had happened. But I can only thank God that things weren't worse, that her head and spine were intact, that her pelvis wasn't broken in half as I had feared, and that amazingly, she had her life.

And now I need the sleep that I didn't get last night.

Evan Alexander - The Expressions Sessions - Winter 09 Demo by evanalexander

evanalexander@gmail.com (Evan Alexander) — Tue, 18 Aug 2009 14:55:00 +0000

Evan Alexander - The Expressions Sessions - Winter 09 Demo by evanalexander

The Reblog gets an identity. And the demo gets worked over.

evanalexander@gmail.com (Evan Alexander) — Tue, 21 Jul 2009 21:34:00 +0000

For some time now I have pondered over something. I’ve mulled it over, cogitated on it, and have done my damnedest to rationalize it. But there’s really no getting around it: Blogging, it occurs to me, is really about as self-indulgent an undertaking that you could ask for. Really, think about it. Here I sit on my balcony, a glass of wine in front of me, a cigar protruding from the corner of my mouth (and surely sickening the inhabitants of the apartment of above me), unprepared to call it a night, and forcing you poor people to read yet another rant of mine. And here’s the really egomaniacal part: I’m fully assuming that you are doing just that. I have the audacity to believe – to be convinced of the fact – that you find my silly ramblings entertaining enough to follow. Egotistical, isn’t it?

And the worse part about it is that I’m going to re-Blog. Yup, you read me: re-Blog. I’ve hereby coined the term. And if I’m remembered for nothing else (likely nothing at all), then at least I’ll claim this.

So, a number of weeks back (a page-and-a-half, in “blog years”) I wrote about the importance – or lack thereof – of DJs creating demos. And, in being consistent with my nature, I used a lot of words to say a lot that amounted to nothing. Basically, the message was this: Do what makes you happy. Make a damned demo if you want. I don’t know that it’ll get you anywhere – because, sadly it’s all about who you know these days – but it sure as hell doesn’t hurt. And at the end of the day, you’ll at least have an hour and a half of tunes that you want to hear. And I guess that was really the point I wanted to make: Do it for you, if for no one else.
But I’m revisiting this previous musing for other reasons. I decided to come back to this because these days, in the Digital Age, you have the world at your fingertips. The idea of the Global Village – the idea of Marshall McLuhan’s that the Internet has created a culture that crosses all physical and geographical bounds – has been increasingly realized through social networking. Such sites as Myspace, Facebook, and Twitter have put us in touch with individuals in other countries, cultures, and hemispheres of whose influence we may never have had the privilege to encounter.

And this is really important!

The world is growing smaller, and for the better.

Here’s where this all ties in to the demo. It really isn’t just a demo. What it is, this thing you create, is a hallmark to what you love. What this recording can be is a voice, an identity, to you, the unnamed, unknown, unrecognized maestro of techno. And sure, it may just be an artfully mixed collection of other peoples’ music. But what are we, if not glorified, walking, beat-matching jukeboxes? Your voice comes from the fact that you obviously love what you’re doing. You took the time to sift through the countless tunes out there. You took the time to find the few that you found amazing. You then took the time to figure out how to best meld those pieces together to create a story line. Your story line! And tell me what this story line is, if not the most romantic, twisted, tormented, and yet joyful story line ever told? Because, have you not spent countless hours, closeted and sequestered in your bedroom, fighting the desperation, the discouragement, and the disappointment to figure out just how those damned beats are supposed to match up? This then, my friends, is truly a labor of love. This then, puts Pygmalion and all of his labors to shame. Because what he sought, his fruitless toil, was a love that would never speak back.

Yours does.

I was struck with the need to make another demo, another recording, a pooling of musics this evening when, on my Facebook, of all things, I realized that there were “friends” of mine there, friends in Panama that I had never, would have never met, unless they shared the same love. I realized that certain friend requests that I had received were because they had somehow, through the web of this Global Village, followed the threads and found their way to me. And, because we share nothing else in common, I can only believe that the music – always the music! – brought us together.

It speaks across national, ethnic, and religious boundaries. It is a language that is comprehensible to all. It’s universal, this electronic music, because no matter what country you find yourself in, no matter the native tongue, you can find yourself in a club dancing to the exact same tunes that you might be dancing around in your bedroom to back home. Clubs in China are playing it. Clubs in Argentina are playing it. Clubs in Germany, Damascus, Israel, Egypt, London, Russia, and Australia – they’re all playing it. What else do these people share in common, besides the basic building blocks of which we’re made? We’re children of the music, brought together to dance, gyrate, celebrate, and rejoice in this thing of ours. We find a family, our global family, in this electronic parent. It’s always teaching us, showing us that things can be better, helping us through the sick times, the sad times, the poor times, and the alone times. It’s what we turn to when things aren’t going well, and to celebrate when they are. It’s reliable, this music, because though it’s always changing and evolving, it’s always there for us.

And so I reblog. I say what I’ve said before, with some stress on some different ideas of what the demo means in the Digital Age. Because of the extensive reach of the internet, you never quite know who will hear your music – or what it’ll mean to them. Your audience could be a network that reaches across the oceans, is picked up by some kid needing something to listen to while doing homework, is downloaded by a woman at work needing a way to break the monotony, or is streamed by some unknown fan in the coffee shop that they’re working at in another continent, forcing all of the customers to enjoy what you have done, alone, in your bedroom.

The possibilities are endless; full of potential and unexplored applications. The internet is just there, waiting for some lucky, creative individual, such as yourself, to put it to use in ways that nobody has yet used it. Go forth, mix your music, and share it with the masses!

This year's Fire line-up just keeps getting more massive...

evanalexander@gmail.com (Evan Alexander) — Mon, 13 Jul 2009 17:10:00 +0000

For more information and downloadable DJ mixes, head to http://pdxfireproductions.com/

Don't kill your radio...

evanalexander@gmail.com (Evan Alexander) — Mon, 06 Jul 2009 21:53:00 +0000

Often, the necessity of a certain type of music in the clubs causes others to be overlooked, sidestepped, and left along the way. There is such a great deal of music out there that is of excellent quality, thoughtfully produced, forward-thinking, boundary-pushing, and wholly unique. So why is all of this quality stuff going unplayed? Sadly, much of it is of the deeper persuasion; introspective and too sophisticated to qualify as a dead-on dance floor tool. I've noticed -- sometimes discovered the hard way -- that sometimes the music that gets people dancing, at least "the masses," is often very simply of the "in-your-face" variety. The tracks that people often dance to most are the ones that they know, that they recognize from the radio, and that they can sing along too (the girls, at least). They just need a moving rhythm, and bassline that shakes the spaces between their bones, and some melody to raise their hands in the air to.

And the other stuff just sits in your record box, unplayed, unheard, and unappreciated.

So what's the solution? Protonradio.com. Friskyradio.com. Internet radio, in general, is the salvation for the music that might not otherwise see the light of day; the music too good to be played in the clubs, too smart to grow outside of a small niche, too damned intelligent for most of the Mcdonald's-consuming American population. We are, after all, a country that wants to only consume what others are consuming, to conform, and to follow the accepted template of what's "good." Why else could Starbucks intentionally burn their beans, to create a flavor that would be recognizable across the board, and have it be considered the model of what coffee should be? Ever wonder why the music eschewing from your radio all sounds strangely similar? There's a damned good reason.

So turn to the internet, my friends! Turn to a broadcast that is not commercially supported, that is able to make available a form of music that isn't massly consumed. Your friendly internet radio broadcast can save your work day, a relaxed gathering of friends, or an evening at home. It can save the producers smart enough, creative enough, and brave enough to step out of the commercial bonds and flex their underground muscle.

Tune in and enjoy.

Reading me is like banging your head against the wall.

evanalexander@gmail.com (Evan Alexander) — Wed, 01 Jul 2009 04:52:00 +0000

- Written on my flight back to Portland yesterday (6/29/09) -

I did it. At the time, I don’t know what else I could have done. I said goodbye to my dad this morning (for the last time?) and boarded a flight back to Portland. I left the man lying there, his future uncertain, and walked away, leaving a larger piece of my heart behind me with every step. I could feel the evidence of this as it almost got easier, the farther away from him that I got, like there was progressively, exponentially, less of it there to feel that raw, tearing pain. And now? Now it’s a vacuum. there is a dull ache that exists there in that space, but its an ache that’s akin to that “phantom” pain of which you hear amputees so often speak.

It’s ridiculous. I feel like a 12 year-old girl, pining over her lost “lover” – that popular kid who ditched her for her best friend because she was an easier lay. People lose loved ones all of the time – and I haven’t even yet lost anyone – but here I am, forcing you poor people to read my “woe-as-me” writings, wallowing like there’s no hope in the world.

I don’t really feel that way, like some poor sap, wallowing in his misery. But like I stated in a previous post, when I hurt, I hurt. I embrace the pain, talk about it, share it, and write about it. And I might drink a lot. Because that’s how I best deal with it. And what is a blog, if not a journal of sorts – albeit a publicly accessible one? So here it is, people, my whining, pining, and crying, shamelessly (shamefully?) displayed here for you to either peruse and possibly even get something out of, or to just be skipped over to see what the stalker-feeds are saying on Facebook.

It’s funny, though, what acute pain can do for my appreciation of all that is good in life. For instance, no matter what the outcome with my father, to be completely honest, I am thankful – giddy even – to have had this man a part of my life. Certainly, we’ve had some troubles (like two stubborn rams, repeatedly butting each other in the head, as rams are wont to do). But that’s what happens when parents do their job. They aren’t always the good guy. They aren’t always fun. And if they are either, then they’re likely to one day inform you – in front of a live studio audience – that they’ve been sleeping with your lover. Ain’t daytime television grand?

At the times of the worst pain in my life, the little things come into focus. Usually, these are the obvious (but not any less important for being so) things, like a roof over my head, a meal in my belly, or even the heat running on a cold winter night. I pass enough bodies huddled in a doorway on my walk to work in the morning to appreciate the validity of this. And quite often, at the forefront of such thoughts, are my parents. How else would I have made the steps in my life that have allowed me to afford such amenities on my own? Who else would have supported the decisions that I’ve made that haven’t been obvious and glaring fuck-ups? And, who else would have, at times, allowed me to make those more knuckleheaded decisions in hopes that this notoriously hard head of mine might actually absorb some sort of lesson – and then be there for me to help me to put the pieces back together.

When I tell you, any of you that continue to read my self-indulgent rantings (likely, you have nothing better to do, or you’re punishing yourself for some unnamed crime), that I am thankful – grateful to the depths of my core – of the options that have been made available to me, of the small comforts that I enjoy, and of those in my life that I call family and friends, you bet yer ass that I mean it.

The Old Guy and I

evanalexander@gmail.com (Evan Alexander) — Sun, 28 Jun 2009 06:15:00 +0000

We like wine and cigars...

Should I Stay, or Should I Go?

evanalexander@gmail.com (Evan Alexander) — Sun, 28 Jun 2009 06:03:00 +0000

6/28/09 - 2:00 a.m.

I said that I was lost once. I seem to have found my way deeper into the woods, no compass at hand, and the light of day dying quickly. Strangely, though things aren’t necessarily worse for my dad, his continuing, non-changing state has brought me to a crossroads. The old man has forced a decision upon me. And it very well may be the hardest, most weighted, and potentially scarring decision of my life.

Despite the moments of excitement – the moments of spiked heart rate, blood pressure, irregular breathing, etc. – the old fart hasn't really had much of a change. Two weeks the guy has been laying there, pneumonia using his lungs as a time-share getaway, keeping him in a place of uncertainty. It seems the longer that he is there, the more complications that arise simply from his being there. The nurses have to turn him every two hours just to keep his lungs from being too stagnant and allowing that infection to fester – though it’s already spread from his left lung into his right, and even become worse in that right lung. He’s seen complications from needing to receive fluids and meds, causing fluid that his liver hasn’t been able to process to collect in his tissue and lungs. Now his heart is having a harder time working, because that very same fluid is causing it stress – the cause of Friday morning’s A-phib and V-tach episodes.

Yet, overall, the old guy maintains a stability that I am thankful for.

No news is good news…?

Meanwhile, here I am, short on money, essentially living off of my brother and sister-in-law (God bless them), missing work and gigs (I’m not worried about the DJing so much as I am about the paycheck from doing so), neglecting my diva of a cat, and just not keeping up with my overall responsibilities. And I know what you’re going to say: “These things aren’t nearly as important as your father.”

Believe me, I know this.

But the reality of the situation that I’m in, that my father is in, is that this could be something that carries on for weeks. I flew out here, to South Carolina, as quickly as I did because at the moment the reports from the physicians were more dire. At the time there was talk of removing part of his lung. At the time, surgery was more than likely, and it wasn’t going to be a surgery that they felt confident that he would make it through. At the time, I was prepared to have him not make it until I got here.

I can’t tell you how thankful that I am for this ‘holding pattern.’ It means that things haven’t changed for the worse. It means that my dad is fighting. It means that, for the moment, I’m not attending a funeral. But it also means that while my dad is off in tralala-land, doing a dance with his morphine, the rest of us are developing ulcers. It means that now I’m forced to decide whether or not I should return to Portland.

And my greatest fear right now must be obvious: I return to Portland, my dad dies.

There it is, the plain and skinny of it. The practical thing to do is to go home. There’s nothing that I can do here. And to be honest, one thing that I can say for certain is that I know my dad would want me to go home. That’s just the kind of guy he his. And that’s why he’s such a good dad. And that’s why it’s even harder to think about leaving. But all I want to do is sit by his bed and hold his hand. I want to stroke that bald head (he says his hair has fallen off of his head and onto his back). I want feel his warmth and know that he is still alive. Because now that I’ve felt his warmth, held his hand, and kissed his head, I'm addicted. He's become my crack. And, like any respectable crack-addict, the fear that I might not be able to get my fix again is too much to bear.

But you see? This is all about me. This isn’t now about any good that I’m doing for my dad. I’ve told you, he’d want me to go home. I know that he knows that I’ve been here. I’ve seen proof of him responding to me. I know that he knows that I love him, am proud of him, look up to him, count on him, respect him, and thank God for him. And I know that he’s proud of me, loves me, and thanks God for me. I don’t need any reconciliation with that. I just need my dad back.

So, at this time I don’t know what I’m going to do, outside of, at least, starting to look at the availability of airline tickets. I suppose that if I turn up in Portland, looking somewhat relaxed, then you know things are looking up. But if you find me in a gutter there, missing a shoe, and slightly amnesiac, then you might not need to check this blog for what the outcome may have been.

Please keep us in your prayers.

His Hand

evanalexander@gmail.com (Evan Alexander) — Sat, 27 Jun 2009 16:41:00 +0000

6/27/09

It’s strange holding his hand. Strange, yet comforting. He’s a strong guy and has always been like a rock; unmovable and sturdy, comforting, steady, and constant. He’s always been there. No matter what I’ve been going through, how hard of a moment in my life I’ve been having, I’ve always been able to stop and thank God that when it came down to it, I had nothing to worry about – that my dad was there if I truly needed anything. This knowledge, coupled with any hardships that I was facing, has honed a constant state of gratitude in my life. I’ve known that if I couldn’t handle something, that there was this boulder to lean on, to rest my back against, and gather the strength to go back out there and give it another go.

But now, when I hold that strong hand, it doesn’t hold me back. Its strength is dormant and quiet. I can feel it lying beneath that swollen skin, unused and inaccessible. But it doesn’t reassure me. If it weren’t for its warmth (and how reassuring that warmth!) it would be entirely lifeless, this hand. So it’s strange, still comforting somehow, knowing that it’s my strong, constant, reliable dad, feeling his warmth and the familiarity of his touch. But I’ve never had that hand not touch me back.

Take Two Steps Forward, Two Steps Back...

evanalexander@gmail.com (Evan Alexander) — Sat, 27 Jun 2009 16:34:00 +0000

6/26/09

We had a setback this morning. Sometime in the early hours, my dad went from being stable to not-so-stable. I’m told that he had ventricular tachycardia (V-tach) and atrial fibrillation (A-Fib), as well as pulmonary edema (fluid in his lungs). The a-fib is apparently less worrisome; a flutter in the upper ventricals of his heart. Short-lived, it wasn’t life threatening – though if it were to continue, it would be more of a worry. The V-tach, however, can be something else entirely. As stated by wikipedia:

“Ventricular tachycardia (V-tach or VT) is a tachycardia, or fast heart rhythm, that originates in one of the ventricles of the heart. This is a potentially life-threatening arrhythmia because it may lead to ventricular fibrillation and sudden death.”

“Life-threatening.” These words weigh on me. The cardiologist says that V-tach and A-fib aren’t abnormal in someone as sick as my dad, and therefore not as worrisome, and may be expected to occur again – still… “life-threatening.” The V-tach may have been a result of the pulmonary edema, I’m told. The edema itself appears to be the result of all of the fluids that he’s on. His liver isn’t processing these fluids fast enough, and so it’s going to other parts of his body: his tissue spaces (resulting in his puffy, bloated appearance) and now his lungs. He’s on meds to help counter these effects, but nonetheless, the effects remain.

They’ve stabilized him, yet again. He’s here, in front of me, handsome as ever – if still bloated – sick, and still very much in danger of losing this battle. I can’t get past the words of the cardiologist: “I can’t say he’ll come back.” Come back? He hasn’t left yet, but I understand the insinuation. His unconscious state is a result of the medication that they have him on, to keep him sedated. So, it’s not like he’s in a coma. He’s not in a comatose state, unresponsive, and possibly never coming out of it. We could easily wake him if we so chose. Just start pulling back the medication and he’d be bound to come around. But we can’t do that. He can’t breathe on his own properly. He needs that plastic tube snaking down his throat and helping him to get all of the oxygen that his body needs. And in a wakened state, he’d fight that tube – as would anyone.

So we’re back in this state of waiting. We’re in this ‘holding pattern,’ unable to move forward, and praying that we don’t again move back. It’s up to him now; him and the antibiotics that haven’t yet made their presence apparent in his system and in his progress (or lack of one). He lays there unconscious, but not comatose, the battle raging within invisible to those who love him, standing on the sidelines silently cheering through our tears.

I Saw My Dad

evanalexander@gmail.com (Evan Alexander) — Fri, 26 Jun 2009 16:16:00 +0000

6/24/09

I saw my Dad today. It was the hardest thing that I think I’ve ever done. The man lay there, three chest tubes no longer draining fluid (though they gathered 10 liters on the first day), endotracheal tube helping him breathe, central line providing him with the necessary fluids and meds, and a catheter giving him a place to do what he’d normally do standing up. This was my father; a healthy man in his early sixties – not that old, really – vibrant, intelligent, sharp, strong-willed, and possessed with an overwhelmingly positive outlook on life. But here he was: unconscious, breathing with the help of a machine, taking nutrition through a tube, and heaven only knows whether he was aware of my presence or not, despite the assurance from the nurse that he did.

The last time that I saw this guy he was laughing heartily, full of mirth and a zest for life. He normally has a twinkle in his eye – be it humor, mischief, or even tenderness – that speaks of so much of his vitality and youth, despite his age. A shorter man in stature, his physical strength and presence of character (read absolute sweetness) make him a definite warmth in any room. He’s a man that is quick of reflex – so strong and fast that he’d have me flat on my back and screaming uncle if such were his inclination. But this man, my dad, may be the gentlest of beings you ever met. His heart, the one whose beats are being measured by the machines to which he is hooked, is enormous, warm, deep and strong. The man’s a damned teddy bear. And it kills me seeing his strength being tried like this.

The first time I approach him, see him in this state, I do the obvious: I break down crying, sobbing, snot hanging from my nose, and tears streaming down my face. I’m standing there, looking down on this person who has been a source of immeasurable support and comfort for me, now relying on something with a plug to keep him alive, and a hole opens up inside of me. My chest caves in with grief and hopelessness. What the hell am I going to do without him? What if he doesn’t make it? I’m lost. Like never before, I’m lost.

I’m holding his head, stroking his arm, and my brother is in the background describing his medicine, what it means, what the pumps are doing, and why he’s swollen in appearance (edema, or fluid underneath his skin). My brother is a Certified Registered Nurse Anesthetist (CRNA) – essentially a step, two years away from being a doctor (too much liability and not enough money for him to have gone that route, he says). So he sees the diagnosis, prognosis, and prescribed treatment in this situation. He understands these things from a clinical standpoint; a place that I’m not at. More importantly, I think that this is how he best copes with the enormity of the situation. Logic. It gives him something quantifiable, measurable, and reliable to judge the situation by. Science doesn’t leave room for the unknown, for the “what if,” for providence, for God.

Medicine: it’s predictable.

To be honest, I’m jealous. I wish I had the understanding of these things that he does. I wish that I could submerge my emotion under a professional understanding. And I need to submit that I don’t believe that my brother is running from his emotions, just dealing with them in a manner that makes the most sense, one that is most relevant to his working life. And man, is that an attractive way of coping. Because, the thing is, there’s no right, or wrong, in how you deal with your emotions, as long as you really are dealing with them. My brother is definitely dealing with his in his own way; meanwhile I’m dripping snot onto my dad’s blood pressure cuff.

It’s sad, really. I’ve never really had a lock-down on the faucet. I need a plumber, and a good one at that. Put me in front of a sappy movie, TV show, or even commercial, and you’re likely to see some hydration. I can’t hide it, and nor do I want to, but I’m a feeler. I’m good with that. When I hurt, dammit, I hurt. And though I know I’m using italics a lot in this particular piece, it’s important, so important, to convey what’s happening – the internal insanity and all – without having it all necessarily needing to drip onto my dad’s blood pressure cuff. But with the assertion from the nurse that the old man can indeed hear what I’m saying – or sobbing – I want him to make no mistake exactly what his presence in my life means. I want to take no chances that he has an internal dialogue saying, “Just let go.” If the time were right, I’d tell him to just let go, that it would be ok, that I would be ok, and the time was right to move along to a place that he and I both know that he would find himself: in the presence of God. But for the time being, I need him here. So I’ll drip onto his blood pressure cuff all I damn well like and use itlalics when they’re really, really, necessary.

I’m not ready for my dad to leave. And though I know that nobody is ever really ready for the loved one to pass on, this is just too damned silly of a situation for his life to be in question. I mean, the guy has pneumonia. Pneumonia! People get pneumonia all of the time without the necessity of chest tubes and sedation. Give them some antibiotics and presto! A week later they’re better. My brother had pneumonia once. He stayed home from school. Nobody tried to stick a tube in his chest, much less three. But my dad’s a different story. He went into the E.R. exactly two weeks ago because he couldn’t breathe, and was admitted to the hospital from there. And this was ok – he wasn’t in any real danger at the time, just sick. It was hard for me, being on the opposite coast and unable to be there, and never having had any of my parents really sick. I was struck with the reality that they are getting older, their mortality, and my distance. But it was only pneumonia. Big whoop.

The next day I was told that he was moved to the ICU. His chest xray revealed a collapsed lung from all of the fluid that had built up in the cavity around his lung. So, they gave him the chest tubes to drain the fluid and were continuing to treat him with antibiotics. But he was awake, conscious, drugged, but still sharp, and still not appearing to be in any immediate danger. But things haven’t gotten better. His breathing has still been so labored that they decided to sedate him, to put him under, give him a machine to help him breathe and allow his body to rest, gather strength, and start to heal. Then they wanted to do surgery. They used a scope to remove more of the infection that mysteriously wasn’t being affected by the antibiotics and things should have gotten better from there. But here he is, still sick, still infected, still sedated, still unable to breathe on his own, and now we’re being told that his condition is worse than we appear to have realized. He might not make it, they say. My dad, this strong and healthy bear of a man – albeit, a teddy bear, but bear nonetheless – is lying here helpless and weak; fighting for his life.

Dude. Just Relax.

evanalexander@gmail.com (Evan Alexander) — Tue, 09 Jun 2009 04:39:00 +0000

It happened about 10 and a half years ago. Months of preparation, lurking in dark clubs, stalking a few key people, shoving tapes into hands, and keeping my parents up at all hours of the night with a repetitive "thumpa thumpa" had finally paid off. All the money that I had spent on 12 inches of black vinyl that housed the scratchings that, with the right needle and equipment, translated into soundwaves would finally see its validation in those sound-waves emanating from mediocre speakers in a room larger than the "room-above-the-garage." All of my daydreams and possible nightmares were about to come true.

I was 18 or 19 years old and worked the second shift in radiology at a local hospital. In retrospect, the fact that I wasn't getting off of work until 11:30 at night can only mean that I could only get to where I needed to be no earlier than midnight. In retrospect, this should have meant a hell of a lot more to me at the time. Then again, if I knew what this meant at the time, I might have been a hell of a lot more worse off than I was. You see, midnight is considered prime time for a DJ. And for your first gig, this means pressure.

Now before we go getting all impressed about the fact that I had been given the prime slot for my first time ever playing for anyone other than my mom, I should probably qualify this. For one, this was Columbia, South Carolina. And though there's nothing entirely inherently wrong with Columbia, South Carolina, it's not exactly the heart of the dance music community. Secondly, the venue was a battered old reggae club on the outskirts of town. And keep in mind that the outskirts of Columbia, South Carolina more or less equate to the tattered string hanging from the cut-off jean shorts gracing the ever-so-lovely -- but undeniably redneck -- form of Daisy Duke. Finally, I must submit that even though the electronic music community in Columbia, South Carolina is a dedicated one, at the time they numbered in the tens. However, none of this deterred me from having to deal with the persistent nausea and ever-present feeling that I was about to soil myself with the prospect of actually having to DJ in front of other people.

I had spent weeks in that room-above-the-garage with the volume full-blast, pre-planning my set, my cue points, what mixed with what, what speed to play each track at, and which breakdown I could cut in a sample. I think I may have even gone so far as to program my set, from beginning to end, with the pitch levels written down -- "Bad DJing 101"

I spent the entire day wiping away the sweat from my palms, taking deep breaths to calm my stomach, and running patients into walls as I took them down for their CT scans. What if I forgot which track was supposed to come next?? Wait! I've got the records in order in my egg crate! What if the DJ before me played one -- or more -- of the tracks that I planned on playing?? Shit! I've got nothing! Breathe... breathe, Evan. Breathe...

The entire eight-and-a-half hours was a feverish nightmare. All I had ever wanted, all I had ever envisioned, was the pride I would feel walking into a club, records in hand, imagining all the whispers: "There's the DJ! That's him!" NEVER had I imagined the nerves I'd be feeling instead. Pride? Certainly. If you can call countless trips to the bathroom something to be proud about, then yes, I was proud.

Finally the time had come. At 11:23 I clocked the hell out of there, changed out of my scrubs into an outfit that I had thought was befitting a DJ, and spaghetti-legged, walked to my car. The drive over to the venue was a blur. All I remember is mentally rehearsing my set, drilling myself as to what I was going to play, and the pre-programmed speeds at which I was going to play it; never considering the fact that I would be mixing my first track into the DJ's before me, thereby having to match the speed of my first track to his and screwing my whole system to hell. Never did I consider that, even though I was playing at a reggae club on the "tattered string of Daisy Duke's shorts," that they would have Technic turntables that head a different pitch control than my Gemini's at home. Nope. None of this crossed my mind. And it's probably best that it didn't. Because that would have been the last straw, the one that broke the DJ's back and sent him scurrying on home, records between his legs.

I entered the club, record/egg crate in-hand, and a small sense of pride as I passed the 15 or so people in the joint. I ascended the DJ booth like a Roman emperor, ascending the steps of Apollo's temple -- apprehensive, yet assured in my "status." I patted my friend, the DJ before me, on the back and set down my records. I grabbed the first, plucked my headphones from the crate, and stepped up to the tables. The record was placed, the needle was at the genesis of the grooves on the vinyl, my headphones were in place, and I was ready to take control.

But, wait! I couldn't hear a thing from my headphones! I looked, I double-checked, I checked again, and everything was as it should be. My record was reading in the mixer, the headphones were set to the channel that my record would be playing from, and the headphone volume was up! By why wasn't I hearing anything?? All my fears were coming true, the sweat was returning to my hands, my stomach was beginning to churn, and I was beginning to panic. Frantically, I turned to the DJ before me and begged him to help. Surely I must be missing something!

He looked at all of the settings on the mixer, he quickly scanned the levels, and confidently peered at my record. A moment later, he calmly looked down, picked the headphone jack up off of the ground, and plugged it into the mixer.

He turned to me and said, quite simply, "Dude. Just relax. You'll be fine."

To demo, or not to demo?

evanalexander@gmail.com (Evan Alexander) — Mon, 27 Apr 2009 21:02:00 +0000

I've been DJing for over a decade now, and as such, have had the pleasure and the confusion of witnessing the technological changes of the art. A profession that once was entirely reliant upon vinyl moved on to CDs, opening up the world of digital downloads to DJs, and thereby inspiring the computer programs that many of us are using to mix our mp3's today. The world of the DJ has changed in a very short time and those that once said that they would never leave the old ways are being left with no choice but to play catch-up. The ability to acquire music for one-tenth - if not for free - of what it cost in its vinyl form has essentially removed many of the barriers of finding music, expanding on genres, and experimenting with new and has allowed a freedom to the DJ that once was not previously present. All of this at the expense to the record companies and to the producers.

Any of us involved in the industry know how important a demo can be to kicking off ones career. As an unknown DJ, the demo is the one thing that can represent you to a promoter or another DJ. Its hour-or-so-long contents are the only way for those that you want to impress to have any idea of what you are capable of - assuming that they take the time to listen to it. In essence, it is the only hope that you have of ever getting booked, of breaking that initial meniscus into the industry that you so long to be a part of. What I'm trying to say here is that it's damned important.

I remember a time when one of my biggest concerns when making my demos was how best to break up the 45 minutes on either side of the tape. It was always a question of whether or not to make two mini 45-minute sets - possibly boasting of two different styles of music - or if to prove that I could make a full, cohesive set from beginning to end. Did I want chance the first side of the tape running out of space while I was in the middle of mixing? Should I fade out at the end of the first side and fade it back in at the beginning of the second? Or should I let it go full blast, get cut off at the end of a side, and have the second side immediately pick up from where it stopped? These all carried the inherent worry of not paying attention and missing that the tape had stopped recording and needed to be flipped a long time ago. This happened to me on a number of occasions, but I'm probably a bit more absent-minded than most.

Making the transition from a mix-tape to CD was not an easy one for me, mainly because I never owned the technology, nor could I afford it, to do so. The best option that I had for many years was to impose myself on friends who did, and make them listen to me record, re-record, scream in frustration, and go home empty-handed (I'm a bit of a perfectionist).

Nowadays I obviously own a laptop, and even rely upon it for my DJing needs. Making a demo has become an easy undertaking, one that I can do in the time that it takes to record. There are no do-overs any longer. I decide what tracks I want to include, in what order I want them, mix them together, and presto! I have a demo. The only consideration now is whether or not it is even necessary to make one.

Gone are the days that an aspiring DJ could hand over their mix-tape to John Digweed and hope that he'd find your arrangements inspired. In these times one must produce music if you want to have the hope to mix music. Nobody is famous for being an amazing DJ anymore. There are just too many of them. To get noticed on the international market an artist must not only release music, but release a lot of it. The market is saturated with disc-jockeys. It's overrun with vinyl/mp3 junkies. It's a well established fact that turntables have long been selling faster in Europe than the guitar, so it's no wonder why it's so hard to break into this business. And the demo, my friends, no longer cuts it.

So why make a demo? Well, for one simple reason: It doesn't hurt! Because it is so competitive out there one must work all that harder, do what other DJs may not be doing, and be willing to go that cliche "extra mile." But there are other reasons as well. Do it for yourself. Do it for your love of music. Do it because at the end of the recording you'll have a good hour-and-twenty minutes of some of your favorite tunes to put in your ipod and listen to while you're at work. Do it because you just bought a bunch of tracks that you're dying to hear. Do it, for the love of Pete, because you don't have anything else to do.

Electronic music, the masses, and you.

evanalexander@gmail.com (Evan Alexander) — Fri, 17 Apr 2009 04:49:00 +0000

I continue to be faced with the truth that no matter where I find myself resting my head and calling home, that everywhere else seems to be a whole heck of a lot cooler. Now, there's no doubt that Portland, OR is miles ahead of Columbia, SC (my hometown) when it comes to liberal thought, green living, and it's musicians-in-residence. And I'm very thankful to be in a place that boasts many of these things. But you know what they say, and it's true that the grass is always greener on the other side. I've found myself recently bombarded with all of the publicity of this season's music festivals -- in particular, Miami's Winter Music Conference, SXSW, and the fast approaching Coachella in Palm Springs, CA -- and wondering why it isn't that I can either be closer to one of these events, or even just be able to simply afford making the trip.

Winter Music Conference is the electronic music industry's shout-out to the world. It's the annual shenanigans of every important DJ and producer, record label, club-goer, and celebrity. If their were terrorists targeting electronic music, WMC would be their chance to strike. Where else could you find gathered the most important names in the industry, followed by every one of their fans with the money and the time to descend upon Miami for a week's worth of $20 mixed-drinks and two-hours (if any) of sleep? For years I've gazed longingly in a south-easterly direction (Oregon is in the NW and Miami, the SW. I hope that clarification wasn't necessary) across the continental U.S., sadly contemplating the mere pennies that remained in my bank account, contrasted with the exorbitant air fare. For years I've voiced just the right amount of appreciation of friends' pictures and stories of their time at the conference, all the while mentally throwing a tantrum: "Why can't I go??? Jamie got to go!! Why can't I???" Sadly, I remain in Portland with my umbrella, still ignorant to the first-hand joys of Winter Music Conference.

More recently, I was reviewing the lineup for this weekend's Coachella festivities and privately cursing my current state of economic affairs. Among this year's artists are Thievery Corporation, Gui Boratto, M.A.N.D.Y., Junior Boys, MSTRKRFT, The Crystal Method, Chemical Brothers, The Presets, The Orb, and Christopher Lawrence. And these are just a few of the electronic acts slated to play. Other artists include Paul McCartney, The Cure, Morrisey, The Killers, M.I.A., Crystal Castles, Public Enemy, The Ting Tings, and Band of Horses. This is merely a slice of the talent listed to cover the weekend, Friday through Sunday.

Seeing some of my favorite electronic music artists booked side by side with some of the world's most respected musicians does good for my pride in the electronic music world. It adds credibility to a music that, in the U.S., has typically been shoved off to the side and discounted largely as a passing fad. Music that much of the rest of the world has embraced as their most widely listened to genre has been mostly passed over here in the states. And as a DJ in a town like Portland, Oregon, this is a fact that I know well.

Not long ago I read a blog from a local 'Top-40' DJ railing against competing DJs that undercut their fellows by accepting half what their competition accepts as pay, to get the gigs that they might not have otherwise gotten. Now, besides the obvious fact that this is just the way a capitalist society operates, maintaining affordable prices for consumers, I was forced to comment on how this is largely unapplicable as it relates to the electronic music DJ in a town such as ours. Because of the sad fact that the various electronic genres are not in the mainstream and therefore do not, for the most part, pack out a large club, DJs in Portland are often giddy at the prospect of being paid anything. The idea of making the requesite $300 t0 $500 that a local mainstream DJ can expect -- and what this blogger demanded that any of them request, to maintain the status quo -- is laughable. People in Portland don't stand in line to hear local DJs playing underground house music. It doesn't happen. And the type of consumer that makes the big money for the large clubs -- the "high-rollers" -- don't want to be seen anywhere that they don't view as being the hottest spot in town. Because of the way these factors equate in to the laws of supply and demand, DJs wishing to play an underground form of music must do so with the understanding that if they want to play, they'll do so for peanuts.

This brings me back to Coachella's lineup. It's promising. It brings hope that the music that I so love will one day have its day in the spotlight. Though I continue to fight a battle for a broader recognition of this music within the town that I currently call home, with no resolution in sight, I have no choice but to stay the course. I do this not for the money, not for any sort of fame -- I'm definitely in the wrong business for that -- but for a true love of a music that has captured my imagination for the past 15 years of my life. I'll stay here on the frontlines, taking the occasional bullet, but dancing all the while to that infectious beat.

That big, blinding, yellow thing in the sky

evanalexander@gmail.com (Evan Alexander) — Tue, 07 Apr 2009 17:20:00 +0000

It's back. Every year around this time it happens. That thing pokes it's giant yellow head from behind some clouds, emerging from its 6-month (or longer) hibernation, while us Portlanders peer bleary-eyed from our windows, wary of the reflective capacity of the current state of our skin. That piercingly bright disk of life, that harbinger of summer, that overall tease at this time of year; it changes things.

It never stays long this time of year, but makes the population of Portland into a proverbial Elmer Fudd, constantly in search of that elusive prize, chasing the rabbit down its hole, and in the end being made a fool of, yet again. Two days of sunshine and before you know it, the inhabits of this humble city are rushing off to buy bathing suits, shorts and skirts, beach towels, sun-block, frisbees, Bob Marley CD's, and a new, inconspicuous bowl/bong. Signs of spring in Portland: a) Hundreds of people crowding the waterfront promenade, b) most of which are shirtless (the guys) and blindingly pasty (everyone). How do I know these things? Dammit, I'm a Portlander. At the first sign of sunlight -- the real thing, mind you; not that filtered, partly-cloudy crap -- I'm there with the rest of them, at the waterfront on a jog, dodging around those pale bodies like some vitamin D-deprived version of Frogger.

For a time, everyone is all smiles and nods, possessing of a bounce in their step, and just all-around giddy. Moods are lifted, money is more likely to be spent, and the sidewalks are crowded with pedestrians -- usually wearing less than the temperature might actually call for. But this never lasts. Not this time of year. The sun plays a game of cat-and-mouse with Portland; elusive, incredibly tempting and desirable, but fleeting and constantly out of reach of any lasting relationship with it's consumers.

The upside of the whole ordeal, however, is that the trees are boasting some green, the dogwoods are blooming, and the air has that special smell to it that it can only possess this time of year. And most importantly, we Portlanders know that 3 to 4 months of pure, sunny bliss are laying just right around the corner, waiting to be basked within. If only that didn't have the effect of making us all that more impatient for that time to arrive...