Slumberland Page 3

  DJing was so much easier. Too easy, really. Play “Knee Deep” at the wedding reception and even the groom’s grandmother would ease out onto the dance floor to shake her brittle hips and swing her pendulous tits.

  Look, I’ll be the first to admit it, I’m not the most technically gifted disc jockey ever to put needle to wax. Acute left-handedness, a fear of crowds, and what I consider to be my healthy hatred of self make for a catchy stage name, DJ Darky—That Right-Brained, Self-Absorbed Agoraphobic Boy, and not your prototypical beat-juggling, speed-mixing, whirling dervish yelling, “Art form! Art form!” after every body contortion and scratch. Much of what little scratching I do is accidental, so I compensate for a lack of skills and Negritude with a surfeit of good taste and a record collection that I like to think is to DJing what the Louvre is to painting.

  I envy the Louvre’s curator. Whoever it is, they have it better than I do. No beating the bushes for the next impressionistic phenom. There’s this kid Monet you have to see. His brushwork is impeccable. No flipping through portfolios, listening to mix tapes, hoping your heavy sigh conveys intrigue, not exasperation. No one ever asks what you think about Jeff Koons. Twice a year the curator takes a slow, temperature-controlled elevator ride to the basement, greets the armed Algerian guard in the burgundy polyester blazer with a patronizing wave, and asks him to pick a letter, any letter, and blows the dust off the Degas and the Delacroix. We’ll show theez onez, no?

  All the important decisions were made for him back in 1793 when the Louvre opened its gilded doors and said, Enculez le chic, fuck cool. At the end of the eighteenth century, neoclassicism was pop culture. Goya was a graffiti artist. Lithography was computer graphics. Mozart rocked the house sporting a Suzy-Q hair perm that’d make any time-traveling L.A. gangster rapper worth his curling iron and shower cap ask where he could cop one of them wigs, sans the powder? When Zerezo transformed the bolero, a Spanish folk dance, into French ballet, he might as well have been Crazy Legs or Rock Steady teaching break dancing to the urban doyennes, their hair in buns and their other buns in the air.

  ... and roller-skate, roller-skate . . . and demi-plié, demi-plié.

  I’ve never seen the Mona Lisa, and from what I hear it’s over-rated. But what isn’t? Da Vinci got lucky. Every genius does, especially the prolific ones. I feel the same way about Leonardo as I do about Tupac and Edgar Allan Poe. Two composers whose baggy-eyed, drug-induced prolificacy, in much the same way the millionth monkey on the millionth typewriter types Shakespeare, resulted in a few random pieces of brilliance among reams of rhyming, repetitious, woe-is-me claptrap. “The Raven,” “How Do U Want It?,” “The Tell-Tale Heart,” “Dear Mama,” “California Love,”—each is a masterpiece, but when’s the last time a prep school taskmaster called upon a cardigan sweater for a recitation of “Tamerlane,” “To F——s S. O––––d” or “The Conqueror Worm”? And on that most sacred of holidays, Tupac’s birthday, every urban-contemporary radio station in the world knows not to play “Honk If U Luv Honkies,” “Thugs, Slugs and Butt Plugs,” and “Real Niggaz Get Manicures.” To me the Mona Lisa is little more than a Renaissance Playboy centerfold. Blemishes and Mediterranean hirsuteness airbrushed out, she has been retouched to the point of meaningless perfection. However, I understand the painting’s value: the allure of a piece of art that not everyone adores, but that no one hates. My record collection lacked a Mona Lisa, an apolitical, simple yet subtly complex piece of music that no one could dismiss. A beat that when you hear it at a party makes you think you’re special even though you’re dressed, speaking, drinking, dancing, and thinking exactly like everyone else. This beat that spoke directly to you and no one else. Telling you in no uncertain terms that you’re alive.

  I didn’t know it then, but I was starting out on the quest for quintessential dopeness that would eventually lead me to Berlin.

  Buddha had his first revelation under the bodhi tree. I had mine under the influence of Vicodin, Seconal, and what a cat named Twitchy told me were the last two quaaludes south of San Luis Obispo. Here in this DJ booth my body may shrivel up; my skin, my bones, my flesh may dissolve; but my body will not move from this booth until I have attained Enlightenment, so difficult to obtain over the course ofmany caipirinhas.

  It was a fundraiser, a marathon rave where I played sixteen hours straight, spinning a depressant electronic-dance-music sutra comprising two hundred records so similar in melody and bpm they might as well have been issued on one manhole-sized platter. I was still unenlightened and I was down to my last record, a techno single that had somehow snuck into my crate the way a crop-devouring beetle slips into the country in a sack of coffee beans. Techno is the only musical genre I find completely incomprehensible. I won’t say it’s noise. Noise at least has a source. I played the record; the incessant drumbeat tomtommed throughout the club. My raga turned into a powwow. Hordes of shirtless strobe-lit frat boys bejeweled in glowing necklaces and bracelets zigzagged from medicine man to medicine man, war-whooping their cares away, while sweaty coeds danced in tiny Ojibwa circles.

  Enlightened by the realization that playing records at weddings and raves wasn’t the way to enlightenment, I’d reached the end of my meditative period. When DJ Blaze, my best friend and fellow member of the Beard Scratcher record collective, arrived with the crate of records I needed, he was two hours late. His eyes were glazed and reddened from indica bud. My indica bud.

  “You sure you wanted this crate?” I nodded and motioned for him to hand me a record, any record. “These white boys going to lynch your ass. Not for reckless eyeballing, but for reckless rap.” He handed me the next record in the crate, one that, despite our collective’s vow to share all resources, was one I didn’t want him to know I had. I placed it on the deck and cued it up. Back then playing New York hip-hop in an Inland Empire dance club jam-packed with white kids expecting industrial and synthpop was akin to Hernán Cortés landing on the beaches of Hispaniola. Each booming bass note was a starboard cannon blast fired over the heads of primitives and into the rain forest. “I hereby claim your heathen souls in the name of the South Bronx, the South South Bronx!” A shrapnel shower of tree bark, scratching, and slant rhyme rained down on the natives. No one danced. No one told me to stop, either.

  Blaze craned his neck to look at the spinning record. The label had been peeled off but he thought maybe he could glean some information from the serial number scratched into the run-off or the width of the grooved portion. I can say what it was now, Stezo’s “It’s My Turn.”

  Funk not only moves, it can remove ...it’ll clear your chakras; I’ll give it that. But it isn’t enlightenment. None of it is. Jazz, classical, blues, dancehall, bhangra—it’s all scattered chapters of the sonic Bhagavad Gita.

  Blaze and I drove home windows down, cool air and cool FM jazz blasting in our faces. Clifford Brown swung through “Cherokee” and I thought of all things Indian: Buddha’s pilgrimage, Jim Thorpe, Satyajit Ray, peyote, Tonto, lamb korma, extinction, overpopulation, cricket, Bob “Rapid Robert” Feller, and antique 350cc motorcycles.

  Once back in my bedroom, I sought to dampen the techno echoes still reverberating in my head. To do this I consulted my Buddhas, both the oxidized green brass figurine that sat serenely inside my gohonzon and the moist, spinach-green buddha-bless sealed inside a sandwich baggie and buried at the bottom of my underwear drawer. That wasn’t the night I decided to come to Germany, but the longest journey starts with a single toke.

  The weed was good. A kind blend of medicinal from the alternative clinic and the remnants of the hydroponic I mooched off Alice in Chains. I sparked the joint and made the mandatory pothead vow: “From now on, man, everything’s going to be different. Soon as I graduate from SMCC with an associate degree in library science, shit’s going to be on. The world will be my card index.”

  The pot kicked in harder. Marijuana doesn’t erase my auditory flashbacks but mitigates them in much the same manner that Fats Waller’s left hand and in
fectious asides keep one from paying attention to the inane lyrics of those Tin Pan Alley ditties he was forced to sing.

  That night, in addition to the techno, I was being tormented by my worst sonic memory. The sound of a brutal injury my endorphins prevented me from feeling but not from hearing. I’m eight. Playing Nerf hoop. Going one-on-one against the dog. I have a lane for the dunk but never get airborne. There’s only the crack of my tibia snapping in half like a giant pair of takeout chopsticks, followed by the Velcro rip of one side of the broken bone tearing away from the muscle and shooting up my leg, knocking off my kneecap with a sixty-decibel pop that sounded like a schoolboy stepping on a empty milk carton. The dog. The dog is whining, yelping, and frantically scrambling, trying to get out from under my broken body.

  I used to be a loudness maniac. I’d try to drown out my sound memories by standing next to jackhammer operators, cupping my ear when the fire engines roared by, or sticking my sand-covered head into the deafening, numbing sting of the board-walk showers at Venice Beach. Apart from two weeks of blissful tinnitus brought on by an eighty-thousand-watt Blue Öyster Cult concert at the Fabulous Forum, these noisy escapisms always proved to be short-lived. The ringing in my ears eventually subsided, a piece of boulevard sidewalk would catch me in the face or a pushy elderly couple would bogart my shower, then proceed to flap water from my stream onto their distended, sea-salt-caked pubes. Still, I’m one of the few who relish the wailing baby on a crowded plane.

  The higher I got that night, the softer and mellower my fugue. In time, the more fragile and subtle sounds from my past began to dominate my thoughts: the cuteness of every puppy sneeze I ever heard, the freedom in the whir of a Tour de France peloton coasting downhill, the unlimited artistic possibility in the click of a four-color pen, the anticipation in a firecracker fuse’s sizzle. I sifted through these sounds and tried to come up with the most comforting sound from my childhood, one that if I were on my deathbed would actually be the last thing I’d want to hear.

  I remembered how I used to sit in the den with Moms just so I could listen to her read the New Yorker. In those days the literary and paper quality of that magazine was much better than it is now. Those pages had an intellectual and textual heft to them. They felt like parchment, a parchment that no family ever had the temerity to throw away. Ma would turn through the Bellow and the pages rustled as though the story had been printed on numbered autumn leaves. I decided that if I could collapse all my memories into one sound, it would be the sound of those pages turning. Crisp. Mordant. Pipe-smoke urbane. I went to my turntables and tried to replicate it. That was when I first started mining the favorite sounds in my memory bank in the hope that one day I’d compose a soundtrack that’d loop inside my head over and over again. I, like many a mixmaster who’s come before me—Count Basie, the biathlete’s heart, and the inimitable Afrika Bambaataa—was looking for the perfect beat, the confluence of melody and groove that transcends mood and time. A beat that can be whistled, pounded on lunch-room tabletops, or blasted from shitty undermodulated car-stereo speakers and not lose its toe-tapping gravitas. A beat that would make all the ladies in the house say Hey! without prompting from a concert rapper in dire need of some stage presence. A beat that couldn’t be commercialized and trivialized by Madison Avenue, reduced to thirty hard-sell/soft-sell seconds. A timeless beat, never to become an “oldie but a goodie” but always destined to be as fresh as French bread. The sonic Mona Lisa.

  Above my decks hung an eight-by-ten color photo from a house party I had done a while back. In it I was positioned in some nondescript Mar Vista garage exactly as I was then, bent over a set of turntables, face barely visible, left shoulder awkwardly raised to my ear to hold the headphone in place. Fingertips freshly licked and resting lightly on the vinyl as if I were testing a hot iron’s readiness. My Piru-red XXXL T-shirt with the words TRADER JOE’S/PRONTO MARKET silk-screened just above the breast pocket, billowing away from my scrawny body. Blaze in the background, in profile, Locs sunglasses, black wool beanie pulled down past his ears, frozen in mid–pop lock, a contorted Toltec testimonial to post-Hispanic Mesoamericana. Behind him, leaning against the garage wall among the gardening tools and surfboards, a multidysfunctional lineup of West-side hoods, homies, and honeys of all races, intellects, and loyalties to Laker basketball. I looked at the photograph and knew then that all I knew was sound, and that sound would be all that I’d ever know.

  “That was incredible, dude.”

  It was Blaze. He was holding two cheap but intricate-looking pewter beer steins, two six-packs of beer, and singing the Löwenbräu commercial: “Here’s to good friends / Tonight is kind of special / The beer will pour, must say something more somehow/Tonight let it be Löwenbräu.”

  “Is that Löwenbräu?”

  “No, I’m just singing the song—my sister wouldn’t send me some shit we could steal from Trader Joe’s, this is the unpronounceable shit.”

  Apparently Blaze’s older sister, Mariela, a tank mechanic stationed in Germany, had sent him a case of that strong leathery beer we loved so much. Beer that, no matter how much we drank, never left us with a hangover, only an urge to obey orders.

  As the beer percolated in the steins, we clanked them together.

  “To the Reinheitsgebot.”

  “Reinheitsgebot!”

  “What was that radical stuff you were playing?”

  “I’m trying to find the perfect beat.”

  “That was damn close, bro. Remember that offshore storm senior year when we went up to Zuma? Set after perfectly timed set of glassy eight footers, steep-ass take-offs, big barrels, remember that?”

  “Yeah, even the sunset session was fucking excellent.”

  “If there had been five miles per hour less wind, it would have been absolutely perfect conditions.”

  “The wind made the shoulders just a tad too gnarly.”

  “Well, that’s what your mix sounds like. It’s easily the best beat I’ve ever heard and probably the best beat I’ll ever hear, but it’s five miles per hour too windy.”

  The beer and the weed complemented each other well. I was drunk and high at the same time. Close my left eye and I was high, shut my right and I was drunk.

  High.

  Drunk.

  High.

  Drunk.

  I squinted through the mental fog and looked at the detail on the stein. The castles, elks, and mustachioed Kaisers came to life. A beer maiden, her hair in thick sausage curls, whispered my name.

  Over the next few months I set about composing my perfect beat, whittling off a mile per hour of wind here and a couple of knots there. Eventually I succeeded in splicing together a two-minute-and-forty-seven-second amalgamation of samples, street recordings, and original phrases. It was with some trepidation that I played it for Blaze and the rest of the Beard Scratchers. The Beard Scratchers being the members of our record pool, and so named because of our capricious yet squandered intellectualism, the way we listened to jazz with our faces pinched in agony as if we were suffering from migraine headaches as much as from our scruffy and chronically itchy chins. Though the Beard Scratchers, like most DJs, were inveterate biters, incorrigible beat snatchers who would rip off any rhythm or melody not copyrighted in triplicate and claim it as their own, I wasn’t worried about anyone stealing it. The beat was impossible to replicate. Too many layers, obscure riffs from pop bands that never popped, folk music from countries without folksiness, sea chanteys from landlocked nations, all overlapped with my favorite idiosyncratic sounds and pressed into a musical ore as unidentifiable as a fragment of flying saucer metal in a 1950s sci-fi film. I was worried, though, that it was too long to be a beat or break. That what I had composed was an interlude or, even worse, a song.

  When the music ended, all the Beard Scratchers scratched their beards save for Elaine Dupree, aka DJ Uhuru, the only member of the collective for whom a beard was an impossibility. But Elaine wasn’t even rubbing her chin: She was dialing a num
ber on the phone.

  “Who you calling?”

  “Bitch Please.”

  Bitch Please was an aging, once-platinum-selling rapper who occasionally purchased beats from us whenever her latest career reinvention called for some sonic esotericism. She once said about me that when I spun, no matter how frenzied or attentive the crowd was, I always looked unsure of myself. Looked as if I smelled gas but didn’t have anyone to ask if they smelled it too, much less the nerve to strike a match.

  Elaine put the phone on speaker and held it up.

  “Hello, this Bitch Please, the world’s only rhinestone rock-star doll, baby baba. Please leave a message.”

  On the beep, Elaine motioned for me to hit the play button. The beat was only ten seconds in when Bitch Please answered the phone: “I don’t know who this is, but I’ll give you thirty thousand dollars cash for that track right now.”

  Elaine hung up.

  Thirty thousand dollars was an absurd amount of money to pay for a beat, and after the poor sales of her latest release, Bitch Please Raps the Cole Porter Songbook, I doubted that her bank account held half that amount. Still, it was a meaningful gesture.