Two men walking to a club on a hot, wet summer night in the city. “I can’t believe people still stand around in the rain like this - just for a night out.” “This is the place to be though, boss. You wait till you see it in there – it’s mental.” Boss, thought Rob, who am I, Bruce bloody Springsteen? Rob (the boss) and Dave (the assistant) passed the front of the queue of waiting clubbers. It was four people deep and so excited and alive that it sparkled and crackled like a big fat electric shock waiting to happen. The two men squeezed their way through criss-crossed bodies and arrived at the club’s entrance. They weren’t going to wait outside, rain or no rain, because tonight Rob Mitchell (36, white, balding, pass-him-in-the-street ordinary-looking) was one of the main attractions at this oversubscribed event. He was on a flyer, he had a box of records, he was tonight’s big name DJ. Big name berk more like, thought Rob as he cursed himself over and over for getting into this mess. He and Dave negotiated the bouncers, the walking guest list and all the other people hanging about at the door of the God-forsaken place. “This brings back a few memories,” he said through gritted teeth. “Wicked, isn’t it?” I can’t believe people still say wicked either, thought the big draw as he shook the raindrops off his clothes and closely shaven head. The star DJ and his younger, keener assistant each carried a box of records. Dave gripped a spanking new shiny purple box that matched his shiny shirt, shiny shoes and shiny street talk. This box held some current dance-floor favourites and a handful of new tracks that the club’s resident DJs probably wouldn’t have (promos, blah, special editions, blah, limited number white labels, blah, blah, blah). There were at least three of these that were sure floor-fillers (blah) and crowd-pleasers (blah) and a couple more that were absolute, complete and total duds (unavoidable truth). Rob carried a dirty silver record box that looked more widely travelled. It had the stickers, the airline tags and the bumps and scratches that made it the real thing - a box of experience, a box to be desired. Inside it Rob had put a selection of older tracks - things he used to like and used to play back in the day, as they say. It made him feel better to have some old friends around. As Rob and Dave crossed the threshold to disco madness the intense heat hit them first. They needn’t have worried about the summer shower outside – this furnace would dry them in seconds. They stopped, put the boxes down and surveyed the steaming scene. The boxes made a barrier and separated them from the dancers and all the people walking about quickly (looking for Rachel, getting a beer, must go to the toilet, must go to the toilet again, who was I looking for, get a light for this cig). The punters were mostly in current club uniforms that glittered and exposed. Most of the flesh on show was pink or fake-tanned but there was a small group of smart Asian guys stood by one bar and a pretty black girl in a tight white dress on the dancefloor. Dave looked at girls (any girls) and quickly lit a cigarette to join in with the crowd’s favourite legal activity. Rob looked at everything and tried to find a bit of air to breathe that wasn’t seeped in Silk Cut or Marlboro Light. The club was certainly busy. It wasn’t on full mental alert yet but the raw materials were in place. It was loud, hot and full of people on a mission. Out of practice at squashing into small, hot spaces with such large numbers of people, Rob had to take some long deep breaths. He’d thought a long sleeved t-shirt and combats would be fine. Now he was wishing he’d gone for Bermuda shorts and brought a towel. What did looks matter at his stage of life? Dave had been to Wild more recently and found the heat more exciting than overpowering. He’d been to check the club out for Rob a couple of weeks ago and that had been one of the best perks of his job so far. He’d taken a gang of mates, none of them had paid and he’d got off with some bird in a bikini. Wicked, wicked and more wicked. It was worth the three years studying media relations and the loan bill. Absolutely, boss. Dave had no idea why Rob hadn’t wanted to come on the recky trip too. He was a decent bloke, old Mr. Mitchell, but he was a bit weird. He was hardly interested in going out at all and he didn’t use and abuse his position half as much as the rest of the lads at work. Dave dragged hard on the soft tobacco. DJs on Citybeat FM weren’t exactly pop stars but they could do quite well locally if they played the game right. They could have girls when they wanted them, lord it about all over town every weekend. Dave, with his eye on a job presenting, not just helping someone else, thank-you very much, was crystal clear about one thing – when he had his own show he would not be wasting such golden opportunities. He would grab everything going with both shiny, eager hands. Rob tried to get his bearings. He’d been in this place years ago but it had changed a lot since the old summers and winters of love. In fact it seemed to have done the full circle and gone back to its early 1980s glory days. He’d last known it around ’92 as a dark, serious place for fucked-up underground music but now it was bright, flashy and so inundated with glitter-balls that the ceiling looked ready to collapse at any minute. The DJ box, once a tiny corridor at the side of the main room, was now literally up on a pedestal. Rob could see the current occupant, busy with headphones and sleeves, surrounded by smoking, head-nodding mates and hangers-on, all trying to look cool. Jesus, thought Rob, hard to keep a low profile up there. He looks like a very popular vicar. It’s creepy. Breathing deeply again, Rob speculated whether there was any oxygen left in this air at all. Conscious of the sweat already filling all his folds, he remembered that one of the reasons he could bear radio work was its anonymity. He’d been a club DJ years ago (obligatory drug-induced silly name Rob Da Bass) but he’d never really got off on people watching him even then – especially once the obligatory drug-induced paranoia took hold. He’d never understood why people liked watching DJs anyway. Couldn’t they just listen? Rob had jacked it all in first time round for lots of reasons (some he could remember now and some he couldn’t). He’d made a reasonable name for himself and had spent a good few years doing the rounds of underground clubs, later than late parties and a few better-paid jobs at bigger nights. He’d even worked down south where they liked such different music and you never knew whether you’d be playing to tourists or poseurs or hardcore fanatics. He’d really done OK. Then he remembered it all going weird. He’d rowed with a lot of people and had lost a girlfriend and about a hundred friends. Did he really ever have that many friends, he’d sometimes wondered since. And if he didn’t know the answer to that who the hell would? Rob did remember losing too many brain cells and he just about remembered being aware that you couldn’t get them back or swap them for records at vinyl exchange. These days everyone thought it was so clever to be a never-sleeping DJ but in the end Rob had been quite glad to give it a rest and watch the rest of the country learn late to have it and large it and go shagging bonkers in Ibiza. He’d watched some former friends sink without trace whilst others made it hooj and became famous DJs, producers, presenters, liggers. There were always a few people around with some of the original spirit but mostly it was more and more about money, careers and hanging on to what you had. Rob had so little by the mid 90s – it was clearly time to retreat and recuperate. He had just enough brain cells left to make out the bloody obvious. Once retired he had had to find something to fill all those long, unfamiliar daylight hours. He couldn’t go back to his former occupation – working in insurance telesales. It had been such a joy to just up and leave that one afternoon way back when, high on a cloud of ecstasy and hopes for one world, one love. Going back to that hell on earth wasn’t an option so instead Rob had gone and worked quietly in a dusty, noisy record store in a neighbouring town. He’d minded his own business and avoided his confused suburban family as much as possible. He had slowly repaired much of the damage done by spending nights in watching Channel 4 and eating healthy meals. Then last year one of the few old friends he hadn’t rowed with had persuaded Rob to come back and work in a mainstream commercial radio station in his home town. Dance music was pure pop now, Mike said, and everyone wanted a piece of it. He’d be silly not to cash in, Mike said, and finally make some money out of his old profession. He had the experience, the knowledge and a warm clear speaking voice, Mike was very persuasive. Like so many things in life, it had seemed like a good idea at the time. And now, thought the man formerly known as Da Bass, surveying the jerking bodies on the dance floor in front of him, what the hell am I doing back here? The station wanted its DJs to be seen out and about, to have ‘cooler’ profiles. They were obsessed with ‘cool’ – the other DJs said ‘how cool is that?’ so often you might think it was the station’s name not some inane buzz phrase. How cool is that FM. What a load of old bollocks. So here he was - paid to be cool. And at the same time feeling so bloody hot. “Dave, mate, great to see you.” “Jez, excellent. Thought we might have to search the place for you.” “No, no I’ve been keeping a look out. Everyone’s looking forward to Rob’s set. Means a lot to us that you’re here tonight.” This person spoke fast, very fast. In the noisy club Rob could barely make out what he was saying even though this Jez was looking him right in the face and eyeballing him with a very large pair of straining-at-the-lids eyeballs. “Anything to drink gents? Bottle of bubbly? Crate of beer?” Jez motioned towards the back bar using his eyes as signposts. They said everything for him. They did directions, intonation, interrogation – the works. “Beer, maybe, and some water, cold.” Rob tried not to stare at the huge orbs as he made his order and looked over to the bar instead. He couldn’t work out whether to smile or go for aloof and important so he settled on a strange mixture of all three. Dave was disappointed. Last time they’d not even been on proper business and he’d still got a bottle of Moet out of it. Moet was the way to get better girls. Who was he going to impress with a lukewarm bottle of Becks and some Volvic? “Yeh, beer, great,” he said. Jez’s slender body zipped off to the bar. “He’s one of the partners, one of the promoters,” yelled Dave in the nightclub version of a whisper. “How many are there?” “Not sure. I met three last time but I think there’s a couple more. There’s one guy who’s the famous one, in the magazines and stuff. Mark, he’s called, Mark McGuire. There’s a couple of girls too. Not sure what they do.” “So who do we deal with? Who pays us?” “Er, I’ve dealt with this Jez and a guy called Jimmy.” Gerald, thought Rob, A guy called Gerald. Dave took Rob’s pause to mean displeasure. He felt embarrassed and a bit pissed off. He lit another cigarette. Maybe he should have been more on business and less on a promise when he’d come to the club before but how was he to know Rob wanted a bloody structural survey and full list of personnel? He just thought he was going to see what kind of music people went for, the general vibe and he hadn’t really talked details to the promoters. They’d bought him drinks and one guy had sorted them for drugs and that was it - they hadn’t swapped business cards or anything. Jez reappeared with a small male helper carrying several beers and a couple of bottles of water. The helper was sweaty and wearing the tightest t-shirt this side of surgical stockings. It was a strange garment, with a pattern like fresh vomit. “Dave, hi mate, how you doing? This the boss then?” Rob struggled not to grimace. What is this, my nickname now? “Yeh, this is the big man. Rob, this is…Damian...part of Wild.” Damian held out drinks and a huge smile. Rob did his stiff best to look relaxed and friendly. Was he a big man? He was only five foot nine. “This your first time here?” Rob didn’t fancy explaining about visits years previously and knew this lot wouldn’t care about that anyway. Everyone in clubland always thought they were the first and only people to do everything. He just nodded. He hoped he didn’t look too much like one of their Dads. “What have you got in store for us tonight then?” Some records, thought Rob, records played one after the other. The pause made Dave’s discomfort worse. Where was Rob’s sense of enthusiasm and self-promotion? Was he dead from the neck up? Was he dead from the neck down? “He’s got some killer tracks, some excellent tunes, he’s gonna rock the house”. Rob cringed inside but tried to keep his face flat and unaffected by daft Dave’s string of horrendous clichés. The others didn’t seem to mind anyway, just look at them. Jez was grinning, Damian was grinning, Dave was grinning - obviously. Were they off their heads already? And did they all have to smoke all the bloody time? “Wicked”, said Damian. Rob couldn’t manage a grin – not by a long shot. Gone were his days of standing in dance clubs grinning for four, five, six, twelve hours at a time. You’re gonna miss me when I’m gone, his memory sang somewhere, very, very quietly. “This guy DJing is my brother”, said Jez. “He’s not just a warm-up, he’s playing at Dino’s later”. Rob knew from Dave’s briefing on the ‘local vibe’ that Dino’s was an all-night club that started at about 2 am. It would’ve been illegal in his day, in an old house somewhere or a field or something but now all-night clubs were legit. They were still full of people frying their brains on hot plates but now they did it with the required number of fire escapes and it cost a lot more to get in. “He was great when I came the other week,” said Dave, searching to think of something enthusiastic to say. “Surprised you can remember anything,” nudged Damian with a Carry On wink,” you were bolloxed”. Dave grinned, pleased that he’d made the correct party animal impression. How cool was that? “Working tonight though”, he smiled. “Boss keeping me out of trouble.” “Yeh, right. The DJs are always the worst.” “Not this one,” said Dave, realizing too late he was speaking out of turn, “he’s squeaky clean.” Rob raised his eyebrows at shiny uncontrollable Dave. “That’s really cool,” little Damian drooled, ” we’ve had guests like that before. Some guys really just are into the music. They resist all temptation for their cause.” Grins all round. How could anyone resist temptation? Unheard of. Rob was more embarrassed by this theory of him as DJ Po-faced Saint than anything previous. He tried to focus on the music that was being played, the sound system, the way the club worked. As usual the sound wasn’t great – too bassy, distorted – the deafening combination of over-excited young DJ and knackered old speakers. “I’m off for a walk round to check out the sound, can I stash this somewhere?” “Sure,” said Jez quick to take the precious box, “I’ll put it in the booth. It’ll be fine with Phil.” Rob didn’t hesitate because he knew the box would be safe. It was one of the few unwritten rules that no doubt did still apply - never nick another guy’s records, not in a club anyway. Maybe at a party, maybe out of a car or a cab – but never, ever nick them in the club itself. Rob left the grinners to their smoking and wandered round the edge of the dance floor. He looked at his watch - it was 11.30 and he was on at 12. He would play for 2 hours precisely and hoped to ‘rock the house’ sufficiently in that time. He didn’t expect to have a life-changing experience or provoke one in anyone else but he did hope to entertain the ‘punters’ sufficiently and get out of the place alive. What a cool, calm, business-like guy you are, he smirked to himself, knowing he hadn’t always felt as disinterested as this. There were times when he would have been off with Dave sampling the local delicacies, listening to the patter, smiling the collective smile. Tonight he was honestly looking forward to going home and drinking Ovaltine and leaving the youngsters to their sinning and rubbing up against each other and their hours into days of talking nonsense. He thought of his comfy living room, its welcoming sofa and new DVD player. He looked at the half-dressed females stomping lethal heels on the dance floor and shuddered. Girl, I’ll house you? Do I have to? He felt he was being pathetic. How lame am I, he thought, oddly resigned to his state of mind. Rob really wasn’t sure he would make it through this ordeal. He considered whether he should just own up to his bosses, listeners, colleagues – the lot of them. Should he admit the inadmissible and say out loud ‘I hate clubbing, it’s naff, it’s a cheesy Hitman and Her version of what it used to be, clubs are full of sheep and dickheads, all trying to be something they’re not’? Could he say that without sounding bitter? Probably not. He looked at the hard contorted faces of some of the dancers. They weren’t bad people. He was just a sad old man who’d had his fun and now wanted to ruin everyone else’s, wasn’t that right? He should just leave them to enjoy themselves and go and get a job selling wardrobes or something. No one else looked like they were unnerved by the crowds or the heat or the distant rumbling possibility of a national news-worthy disaster when the ceiling collapsed. They loved the crush and the sweat and the unknown outcomes. It was just him, the big name DJ, who was the has-been, the fish in the wrong tank. The DJ in the pulpit was bobbing up and down with one fist raised in the air. Evidently he liked the track he was bringing in so much that he was oblivious to the sounds clanging out their displeasure at being put together so badly. Rob told himself not to be bitchy - no one else was objecting. Quite the opposite - arms were going up here and there, feet were stamping harder. Rob tried to work out what the new sound was – he really should know it – but new music was just his job, not his love, not in the slightest. If it hadn’t been for Dave and his industry magazines and press releases Rob would probably have made more than a few mistakes on air. He’d once called Geri Halliwell Jerry Springer by mistake but managed to turn it into a joke. Well, they shouldn’t have to play that stuff anyway. Still he couldn’t place the tune. For a minute he debated with himself whether dance music all sounded the same these days but then he stopped and laughed at himself for being such an old fart. But it did sound terrible, didn’t it? Soulless drums, screeching synths, stupid vocals trying to be spiritual even when the only spirit on people’s minds was the Absolut vodka and whatever they put in all those breezer things. This music was nothing like the heart-warming house that had stolen his heart. Where were the haunted tunes, the round bass sounds, the passion for a better world? The promised land – where the hell had that gone? He was full of nostalgic crap, he knew that, but inside Rob felt he was still right. The music he’d loved was different to this shite. It was. It was. He couldn’t feel differently, it was just the truth. God I’m as bad as one of those Northern Soul bores, he concluded. Then he decided his conclusion was unfair. Not that bad, he decided. That lot take the biscuit, the packet, the whole bloody factory when it comes to ‘nothing’s as good as the old tunes’. It’s German, this track, he finally remembered. It’s some producer from Bavaria, mid twenties, odd choice of baseball caps. Rob had seen him on TV, MTV or one of those, being interviewed about the dance scene. “I zink ze dance zene is neffer going to die”, he’d said alongside such other pearls as “in Ibizza we are all reborn” and “German music is vaking up ze vurld”. Can it really go on for ever? Rob moved away from the dance floor and headed for the stairs. God, what a nightmare. “Da Bass. Bass in your face. It is you. Can’t believe it. Thought we’d lost you.” Rob looked at the haggard old boot of a face that was presented to him now. His memory dug deep but couldn’t make the connection. Should he know this person? “Hi”, he said. Just in case. “Don’t you remember me? Back in the day, chilling out at Guy and Debbie’s, Sunday afternoons?” That rung more than a bell. Rob did remember mad Guy and even madder Deb. They had got through more drugs than a local health authority and for about six months their house had been open all hours. Then she’d gone to London with some friends for a weekend and never come back. She worked for breakfast TV now - he’d heard that through some friend of a friend. Guy had been lost once he had no one to clear up all the bottles and ashtrays and the parties had moved on elsewhere. This bloke though, who the hell was he? Rob looked closer, making out he was straining to hear something. Jesus. It was Speedy Jake. Jake-a-nory, as was, the man with the best ability to bullshit in the western world. How on earth was he still living? “Jake. It’s been a while. How you doing?” “Wicked. Excellent.” Rob smiled for lack of any other suitable response. It was his mission for the evening to find someone who did not say ‘wicked’ all the bloody time. “Come through to my office, we can have a drink in there.” Jake grabbed Rob’s arm and steered him behind the stairway to a disabled toilet. He pushed the door and led Rob in. On the floor of the large empty cubicle was a generous cool bag. Jake opened it, took out some beers, cracked one open and offered it to Rob. Rob shook his head and held up the selection of drinks he’d already collected. He didn’t really want to talk to this blast from his past but it was nice and cool and spacious in here. He could breathe, despite the once familiar smell of blocked and criminally neglected plumbing. “You’re on the radio then?” Jake didn’t need to shout now but he still did. Rob spoke more softly. “Yeh, that’s right. Till they realise they got the wrong guy.” “No, you’re the man, always were a great DJ.” Rob knew he’d been no better, no worse than most of the many people who’d put a few records on back then. He’d enjoyed it, loved the feeling of needle to vinyl and all that, but it was the feeling that had been great, not him, not any of them. Just a feeling. It felt weird being in here with some guy he once knew. Jake started fiddling with his pockets, getting out fags and lighter and pills and bits of paper. He offered the fags. Rob shook his head. “I’m working here at the moment.” Who isn’t? “In charge of publicity.” Well, that figures. Jake always could sell well. “Saw your old lady a while back.” “Which one would that be?” Rob was buying a little time with this question. He was pretty sure Jake didn’t even know his current girlfriend, Janie. She really was squeaky clean – she worked in gardening and didn’t know anyone from back in the day. She didn’t even like him working at the station and said he should do something more rewarding, something that made him move forwards, not stay stuck in a past he wasn’t even interested in any more. No, Jake didn’t know Janie. More likely he meant someone else. “Liz, of course. Still looking gorgeous.” “I haven’t seen her for ages. What’s she up to?” Rob didn’t really want to ask. He didn’t want to know. Liz and he had got on great for a while. Then they’d become mad Rob and even madder Liz and things had got a little out of hand. One night they’d had a fight about whose turn it was to drive and he’d gone off with someone else and she’d never forgiven him. He could hardly remember the face of the someone else now. There had been a few of those, then a long lonely few years when he’d kept away from girls altogether. “She’s with some guy, having a baby. All Mrs. regular suburbia. Hasn’t really got a job, I don’t think. The guy’s some banker or something.” Babies, thought Rob, everyone’s doing it. He and Janie would do it too, before too long. He was quite looking forward to having someone to worry about besides himself. Jake was laying out lines of something on top of the toilet. Coke probably, these days. It seemed to be the thing. Like the décor, thought Rob, all so 80s, all so look-at-me-aren’t-I-gorgeous. “So what have you been up to? Haven’t seen you out for ages?” “I’ve been taking it easy, you know, living quietly. Not really going out.” “Oh, man you’ve missed some right times. It’s not like the old days but it’s still wicked. The drugs still work, if you know what I mean…” Jake smiled a full-mouthed leer. His teeth were as terrible as they had every right to be - grey with black lines and great gaps in between. No one could put speed in their tea like sugar for years and get away with it. Jake’s skin was thick and sweaty too. He dragged so hard on his cigarette Rob thought he might swallow it. Jake held out a rolled up note. Rob shook his head again. “And the girls keep getting younger which is kind of enjoyable…” Rob wondered how old Jake was. He’d always seemed older than the rest of them so he must be over forty now. Or was it just the speed – sending him through life faster? “You’ll have to join us all for some afters when the club shuts, mate. That’s when the best gear comes out.” Rob knew from the flyer that the club shut at 4am. He hadn’t been up that late since he’d had a recurrence of insomnia about eight months ago. He’d eaten a takeaway too late and watched “Question Time” and then a horror film on afterwards. It had just all been too much. He had a very delicate system these days. “I probably won’t. I’m pretty boring now.” “A man in your position? Don’t believe you. All the girls love that Citybeat thing. That Chris Rogers comes in here sometimes – he’s not exactly living the quiet life.” Jake took all the lines he’d laid out. Quickly, methodically, they all disappeared up his well-worn nostrils. Just the sound of that name made Rob feel thoroughly sick. Chris Rogers. Yuck. Yeugh. Pass the fucking bucket. Rogers did the show before Rob’s and was the “housewives choice”, the “something hot for your elevenses” and it was strange that considering he was a deeply unattractive, irritating little prick with a voice like an electric toothbrush. Rogers kept track of his ‘conquests’ on the studio calendar (but Rob was sure he made half of them up). He drove a stupid great jeep thing round town with his name on the windscreen. He really was a moron of the highest order. “I don’t know Chris that well…” “He’s a top bloke. Wicked. Really funny.” The news that even old hands like Jake found Chris Rogers amusing made Rob feel let down. If a guy like ‘Rog’ had tried to hang out with them in the old days no one would have gone for it - he was too lairy, too high street, too stupid for words. But now everything seemed to have gone backwards and a pillock like Rogers was actually the epitome of cool – just because he had a bit of pull at some cheesy mainstream radio station. Frankie Knuckles would turn in his grave, thought Rob, if he was dead. As it was he was probably DJing at some cheesy club in Romford playing pop trance like everyone else. We’ve all got to earn a living, you know. Bill collectors at my door and all that. “I’ve heard your show, you’re on after him aren’t you?” “Yeh, that’s right.” Rob knew no one could ever think of anything to say about his show. There wasn’t anything to say about it – it was pretty dull. He played the required tracks and the computer did most of the work. He’d tried to play more of his old records but the message had got through – “not in the week and not in the daytime”. There were special “golden oldie” slots in the day and they were nothing to do with him. They played things like Snap and Dr Alban and the DJs said “how old is that?” Rob preferred not to chat much on air. He just did the competitions and time checks and waited to get the sack or to get moved to a night time slot where he would fall asleep on the job and so get the sack anyway. Unlike most of his colleagues Rob did not long to climb to the heights of national radio or TV. The rest of them all wet themselves every time the BBC was rumoured to be scouting for new regional ‘talent’. Talent, thought Rob, if ever a word had lost its meaning. “I’ve been meaning to call in as a matter of fact. I’ve got an idea for a show myself. Bit of a special about, like, the history of the local club scene, you know. Thought they might go for it now it’s such big business. Just get some interviews with people like you and Mark from here and Maisie B and Ted Stephens.” Rob knew all the names. Maisie was a DJ who’d been around for years, never made the big time but done alright in town. Ted was a promoter whose Dad had bought him a club about five years ago. Ted had made plenty of money and was always in the local papers and stuff. “Yeh, they might be into it. You should call them”. “So who would I talk to? Do you think they’d really go for it? It’s a brilliant idea, don’t you think?” Jake was talking really fast now, firing off questions. Rob was a bit thrown until he remembered the amount of narcotics that was making its way into Jake’s system. It had been a long time since he’d spoken to anyone off their head in a club toilet. It was a very special kind of conversation. Lots of brilliant ideas. Sometimes the same ones for months. He felt it was time to get back to the main club. He didn’t want to leave this quiet corner but he knew hiding out was not the answer. He wanted to check the place out a bit more before show time. He looked at his watch: 11.45 already. Time flies when you’re reliving your terrible past. “Yeh, great idea. Well, it’s been nice seeing you again but I’d better get myself ready. I’m on at 12.” “Of course, yeh, wicked.” Jake stuffed things in his pockets. He put a fresh fag behind his ear. “Let’s get in there”. Back in the club, full mentaldom was on its way. The dance floor was a lot busier, the bars crowded, the volume seemed to be going up and up and up. Rob decided against going upstairs. He didn’t really have time now and it was probably just a packed-out, smoke-filled, sweatbox chill-out room like many others he’d visited before now. There’d be some DJ playing ‘White Lines’ or ‘Last Night a DJ saved my life’ or ‘Ring my sodding bell’. There’d be lots of people thinking they had the funk and shaking their arses ferociously. And it was upstairs – he never liked going upstairs in busy places. There was even more of a crowd in the pulpit now. Rob made his way towards it, studying the inhabitants and deciding if it was time to make his way up there yet. Inter DJ politics was a strange business - sometimes resident DJs were friendly, he remembered, but other times they were hostile, bitter, tried to sabotage you even (or had that just been paranoia?). No, they really did stuff - they’d shift the weights so the needles would jump all over your first tune. They’d play the club’s all time favourite track as their last record so you couldn’t do anything but kill the mood. It could be the beginning of a very long sad two hours fiddling up there alone. Better not put it off anymore. He knew he was starting to get out and out nervous and he had a feeling he should have used that secluded toilet before heading straight off to the dance floor. Too late now, he decided, may as well just get on with it. Rob looked around for Dave. Dave was the one who knew all those new tracks best so he’d better be here on time, ready to hand them over, right side up, quick as you like. He looked again - no sign of his glamorous assistant - oh, well, time to get the headphones out and check the mixer and monitor and stuff. He broke the seal on the bottle of water and gulped some down. It was warm after being gripped in his sweaty hand for quarter of an hour. Still, better that than the beer. Who knew where that had been? Rob tackled the steps that led up to the DJ stand. He managed to avoid the girls’ legs and hands and bottoms that seemed to be everywhere. One girl who looked about fourteen smiled up at him, showing a mouth full of braces. It was the Britney look, he reckoned, but really adolescent, not just pretending. His eyes blurred over a little – there were just so many people here. So many to see him lose what nerve he ever had. Onwards and upwards. Rob made his way through the gaggle of DJ mates, trying not to push or stand on any expensive club-footwear or get burned by any casually-held cigarettes. No one knew him, one guy looked at him with a ‘who the fuck are you’ face but he managed to ignore it. Rob checked over the resident Phil now he was near enough to see his features. He looked about twenty – skinny, a bit spotty, stooped and sweaty. Rob tapped him on the driest bit of shoulder he could find. It was very loud so the whisper had to be a real yell. “Hi, I’m Rob.” “Wicked, wicked. Great to meet you, mate.” This didn’t necessarily mean no sabotage. They always pretended to be friendly even if they weren’t. “You too. It’s great in here.” “Glad you like it. Just a minute mate, got to bring this in.” Rob watched Phil’s next manoeuvre to see what the set-up was. Usual easy mixer, cross fader seemed to work, headphone volume on the left. The monitor was easy to spot – at least there was one. All in all, considering it was his first time for five years Rob found he didn’t feel too bad about the prospect of being back behind some decks. He was hardly here by public demand but the crowd were lively and up for it, whatever it was. His stomach settled a little and he started to think about the set he and Dave had semi-planned. One thing Rob definitely wasn’t worrying about was mixing. He’d DJed in all kinds of states in the past so he knew he could find a way of making Beethoven and Betty Boo sound good together in about five seconds if he had to. It was a talent with limited use but it was something he could do - not like some of the guys and girls these days who seemed to lose all sense of taste and rhythm once in possession of a set of headphones and a few dodgy 12”s. Rob listened to the current tune. To be fair this Phil wasn’t bad – he’d heard much worse and from guys who were supposed to be crowd-pulling professionals. If Rob’d been seventeen, or twenty-one or even twenty-seven, he’d probably have been out there having a great time too – dancing like a gibbon, hoping the lights didn’t make his spots stand out too much, thinking Saturday night was the peak of all human existence. As it was, past thirty seven and virtually spot-free, Rob Mitchell took his old DJ box from the stash on the floor and put it up next to Phil’s. The current DJ’s cigarette lay burning by his box, the smoke somehow managing to get straight into Rob’s face and wind its way into his nose, eyes and throat. His hands were shaking as he got ready but that wasn’t really a problem - who would notice in this gibbering madhouse? More worryingly his mind was starting to wobble too so he concentrated on trying to rein it in and focus on the job in hand. How many times had he opened this box, flicked through tunes, pulled some out halfway, changed his mind, flicked through them again? It felt like a million times and it probably wasn’t far off that number. The noise, the crush, the flickering lights – it all felt frighteningly like home. Some people had never stopped doing this week in week out - they were still DJing after years of the same routine, the same talk, the same excitement in the air. Why did he give it up anyway? Could he just not take the pace or the competition? Was it his spirit that was lacking? “Boss, been looking for you. Didn’t know you were already in here.” Rob was more pleased than usual to see his work mate. Dave looked a bit wired and his shoulders were shaking but it could have been worse. “Have you had a good look round? What do you think? Is it like places you used to play?” “It’s fine. Good atmosphere.” Fine, thought Rob, what a strange word to use. He’ll think I’m a right stiff. More than he already does. Fine, thought Dave, is he mad? Fine is a day out with your Mum shopping, a haircut you don’t really like. This place is kicking, wicked, totally pukka. He sometimes wondered if Rob had just made up his nightclub past to get the job at Citybeat. He just couldn’t imagine this Rob ever going crazy on a dance floor or shouting “choon” at the top of his voice like clubbers used to do, back in the day, so he’d heard. Dave had grown up in a sleepy southern commuter town and his club-as-myth ideals had been formed from bits of ‘early days of acid house’ videos and the various drug novels written by style magazine journalists in their small but fashionable London flats. None of the material he’d come across contained quiet guys like Rob who said ‘fine’ and had girlfriends who entered tomato growing competitions. Skunk growing – now, that would have been more like it. Dave had taken a good slice of coke with Damian and half a pill. His mind was wobbling a bit too. He lit a cigarette and tried to focus. “So are we sticking to the plan? Starting off with one of your classics and then going for the new stuff?” Rob found it hard to think straight. Was that really the best thing to do? It was so long since he’d been in this position – the first track could affect the whole set. “Er, I think so.” Trying to gather confidence he flicked through the silver box. Familiar faces passed by, familiar sleeves, familiar feelings. He had so many tracks he’d once loved in there – Nightmares on Wax, C & C, Todd Terry - so many things from so many different times. His hand rested on Nightwriters “Let the music use you”. It wasn’t very well-known anymore and it hadn’t been remixed and reissued since the early 90s. Would it do the trick or be the worst decision he’d made in a long time? “Is that the one?” Dave was getting more jittery. The drugs were having an effect on his nerves, his speech and his bowels. He’d just farted and it stank – would everyone in the booth know it was him? Why were there so many people still in there anyway? It was time for him and Rob to do their stuff. His shaky, sweaty hands got the purple box from the stash of many boxes. He looked around for a space to set it up next to Phil’s and Rob’s. “Are we on after this one?” Rob looked at his clammy assistant and considered starting on that beer, whatever its history. He looked around and shivered. He couldn’t stand all these drugged up people and the very real possibility that he had ever looked just like them. He couldn’t believe he’d been such a waster for so long and he’d never worked out why he hadn’t quit the whole business once it had all stopped being a laugh. He tried to remember - when exactly did it all stop being a laugh? See, he disgusted himself, you still don’t bloody know. Phil’s hangers-on showed no sign of moving out of the way. If anything the booth was fuller and smokier than ever. A tall guy in especially expensive clothes had managed to squash in now too. He seemed to be the only person not sweating in the crush. “You must be Rob, hi. I’m Mark.” A firm hand gripped Rob’s. It was like a bizarre blind date. Rob looked to Dave briefly for a hint but saw only dithering with white labels. “Hi, pleased to meet you.” Rob felt more like a visiting relative than ever. He knew he was out of touch with clubspeak but even he was pretty sure ‘pleased to meet you’ wasn’t on the list of acceptable conversational starters. And didn’t Dave say the main promoter was a Mark? “You used to know my brother,” said tall Mark, leaning close to Rob and not even showing embarrassment when his lips brushed Rob’s ear. “John, John Maguire.” So this was the promoter. In days gone by Rob might’ve wanted to be this guy’s mate (the best way to get booked back) but now he just wanted to be ignored. Let me do these two hours and escape. Please. Rob couldn’t recall any John Maguire either. John, John…no one who looked like this male model creature anyway. “You maybe called him his DJ name – he was a bit old skool nutter, my brother. Called himself Trips.” A bit of a nutter? Rob felt physically shocked as he remembered the bloke who used to call himself Trips. He was a real crazy who worshipped acid (the drug and the sound) and he thought nothing of spiking drinks all night if he was in that kind of a mood. They’d not been friends but they’d played a lot of the same places. Where Rob had been low and groovy, Trips and been high and hard and lots of squiggly noises. Headache on 45, Rob had liked to call him (privately). Publicly, like everyone else, he called him Trips you mad bastard. “Yeh, I knew Trips. What’s he up to now?” Rob couldn’t care less about Trips (John…arsehole… whatever he was called) but was feeling more unsettled and out of place by the second. He wanted to field questions away and avoid any more discussion of how friendly he and Trips had or had not been. He vaguely knew that the babbling lunatic had gone off travelling the world rave circuit - Thailand, Australia, Prague - all those poor places that attracted British casualties like some kind of party-on plague. Rob looked nervously around for his beer but someone seemed to have removed it from the spot by his box. It was probably just as well. He looked back at Mark and did see a slightly familiar crazed look in the glinting blue eyes. More than anything Rob hoped that Trips was not here tonight to see his reluctant reincarnation as a club DJ. Please, God, no. It was uncomfortable enough without that piece of history making an appearance. “Ibiza. He’s got an all day bar out there with his missus. Making a packet.” Thank-you, God, yes, thought Rob, trying to image what insane female could put up with Mr. John Maguire. “He’s here tonight though. Over for a couple of weeks, thought he’d catch up with an old friend whilst he’s here.” Rob felt pale. Wasn’t there enough to deal with? Wasn’t he coping so well with the crowds and the crush and the heat? Hadn’t he managed to get through questions about Liz, questions about the old days, questions about why he was so boring now? Couldn’t he just do the job, play the frigging records and get off home? “Wicked,” said Rob, his voice pale too. He started to think he might be sick and possibly all over Mark Maguire’s expensive trousers. The music seemed quieter and he could hear the other sounds around him more clearly. He could hear feet, voices, bottles and glasses. He could hear tills banging shut and his own brain ticking loudly. “You’re on mate.” Rob turned from Mark to see Skinny Phil grinning at him, reaching for his cig and then straightening up his box of records. The old guys always get the most nervous, Phil reckoned, this one looks like he’s going to have a bleeding heart attack. All of a sudden Rob experienced a very familiar and very unpleasant sensation. His heart juddered and reminded his whole body in a second what panic really was. He remembered. Very quickly. It was unbearable. That’s what it was. He felt his will to live running out on him – just like old times. This had once been a regular occurrence and his heart had been an expert at terrifying him and making him think life was all over, kaput, see you later. In recent years it had got out of the habit and had gone about a plainer daily business, just beating and beating and pushing the blood round but as the panic rush came flooding back Rob felt time shrink, as if the past few years were nothing, just a few quiet moments. It felt, at this moment, as though very frightened and freaked-out Rob had never really gone away. Dave watched Rob’s face and began to panic a little too. Why did Rob look so terrible? Was the boss going to do anything tonight or just leave it all to him, his first time DJing in a proper venue? Should he have had that pill so soon? What was in it – laxatives? Would he know what he was doing? “OK, boss?” Rob was trying to breathe deeply to bring himself back to calm. He told himself as steadily as he could that he didn’t have to panic – nothing was happening, he was fine - but every deep breath told him the opposite. He became more and more conscious of the smells all around him – the sweat, the stinking smoke, the body gases, the years old beer stuck to the floor. He could smell the sulphate coming off skinny Phil too – like he was sweating it out as he moved. I really, really am going to be sick and it’s not going to be pretty, he thought weakly. The left hand deck was happily spinning round – empty of vinyl. The slip mat looked up at Rob and Dave and Phil. It said Wicked Records and the logo was a badly-drawn face with a winking eye. Rob looked at it for too long. It started to seem like an omen. Pull yourself together, dickhead, he told himself. You’re a middle-aged man, you hold down a job. You’re not a druggy fuck who can’t face people. That isn’t you any more. Dave looked through his records nervously. He found a big recent tune that he didn’t think Phil had played. And so what if he had – who’d notice? “Shall I just stick this on?” Rob was not listening. Take control of my mind, body and soul, he was thinking. Well, come on then, take control. Take control of yourself. Instead of this his memory regurgitated the gurning face of one DJ Trips circa 1993. The face was looking right at him, the mouth sneering. “Might have spiked you might not have. What’s your problem? Can’t take a bit of wild one?” No, thought Rob, no I can’t. I definitely, absolutely can’t cope with this shit. Rob had never known either way if he had been spiked with bucketloads of LSD that night with Trips or not. Now, years later, he knew that it hadn’t really mattered in the bigger scheme of things because he had been pouring so many chemicals into himself regularly that no one night could be blamed for his long, spooky downfall. Whatever, it had certainly been a major episode and he’d relived it enough times. He had spent the whole week after locked in his room, watching the light fitting, hoping for a sign. If it hadn’t been everything, it had certainly been the beginning of the end of the middle. That was for sure. Dave looked at Rob’s glazed eyes and got sick of waiting for an answer. He stuck his piece of trance-tastic white labelness onto the waiting deck and fumbled with his brand new headphones. Phil’s last record was nearly finished and was well past the best bit - an outro of some boring drums and flutes was all that was keeping the crowd going. Not that experienced with decks and mixers and hundreds of stomping people, Dave found everything slow and hard to find. Where was the bloody headphone volume? Where was the first bloody beat of this track? Rob’s heart gave him a moment’s respite. He had not passed out. He was not dead. He was however still in the hot hellhole nightmare of contemporary clubland. Did people still spike drinks with horrible hallucinogens like the good old days, he asked himself? Was that why he felt so weird now? Can’t be, he reminded himself, you didn’t touch the beer and the water was still sealed when you got it. He looked at the bottle of Volvic to his left – could someone have injected substances through its lid. Don’t be crazy, he told his paranoid mind. Stop thinking so bloody much. Rob looked back to his record box. Talking to Mark he had lost his place and now he couldn’t see the Nightwriters cover anymore. His eyes struggled to read the sleeve that had fallen face up in front of him. A homeboy and a hippie and a funky dread, he read. Why had he brought that anyway? No one ever danced to it much once its moment had passed and that had been years upon years ago. It was too much for ordinary happy clubbers. It would be like playing the Sex Pistols least harmonious moments at a party for retired primary school teachers. Total Confusion. It put Rob in the back of an overloaded Ford Fiesta in the midst of rave madness, long before rave was a dirty word. It pounded out of the straining car stereo that was never loud enough for the crowd of amiable mates on their early morning trips to find milk and beer and rizla papers. Total Confusion. Rob felt exhausted and elderly but much less ill. He looked down at the people on the dance floor and saw hardly a cultural melting pot but a gang of like-minded loonies never the less. They were waiting for something to happen, waiting for someone to take the pace back up where it belonged because it was Saturday night and this was not the chill-out room. Total Confusion. Rob turned away from his worn old box and watched Dave just about manage to get his record cued up and brought in in time. It wasn’t a classic track or a mix to be remembered but this was probably not going to be the best night of anyone’s life anyway. Rob knew he would get through it alive and then go home and forget it all - as much as he could. The pop trance was meaningless crap and not music as he remembered it. But it would have to do, you know. It would have to do for now.
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