hang the dj

I avoided the shimmering psychedelic sounds of the Third World for a trip back into the music that for me is the equivalent of comfort and catharsis, waves of distortion and drums.



I think about what I want to hear that early in the morning as I'm getting on the highway and the city lights haven't even come on yet.



It's a strange sensation being up there, powering up the transmitter, sending these sounds out around the world, bouncing off radio receivers, static in your car radio, streamed across the Internet, yet at the same time I exist in isolation in a booth on the fourth floor of a building downtown surrounded by vacant lots and old storefronts, with a stack of CDs, a laptop, and occasional a pile of records, attempting to maintain a mood and flow.



The phone almost never rings, and I hardly talk on the air because I don't like the sound of my voice that much and the music does the talking. It's too early in the morning and I prefer the anonymity. I wonder if anyone's listening at all because the world outside the window is dark and cold.

By the end of the morning I've been getting my estrogen rock on... Sleater Kinney and Curve, Throwing Muses and Patti Smith. I didn't realize we have Jucifer's entire back catalog until I went to put everything away but that could've worked too.



Ended with My Bloody Valentine... six minutes of blissed-out noise. The DJ after me gave me some powdered vitamins and a bottled water because I must look like I'm not doing so good today. Got over my fear of parking garages because I don't want to fight another parking ticket. Caffeine has yet to kick in. I think I need more Ethiopian coffee.