I have a complicated relationship with perceiving the art of DJ’ing. Like many slavs of my generation, my first encounter with a DJ was at a Polish wedding as a kid. I wrote them off immediately lol. I grew up wanting to play music on electric guitar and the musicians I grew up around typically looked down on DJ’ing and electronic music.
I did not encounter DJ’s again until my early 20’s. I had just moved to Philly and was desperate to find any work. I ended up cobbling together a living from a roster of completely different jobs: managing a boutique pet supply store, mailing scientific data for the linguistics department of UPenn, and by night - DJ’ing the lighting at a few different electronic nightclubs in Philly & Atlantic City, NJ.
I have no idea how or why I had any of those jobs - but I distinctly remember the events leading up to the last one. I was scouring craigslist ads for most of 2010-2011, looking for any gig that paid as much money as possible per hour. I saw a listing seeking a “female lighting operator” at an undisclosed nightclub in Cesar’s casino in Atlantic City, NJ. It paid $300 per night, in cash. That was nearly my entire monthly rent - so you know I had to jump at it. At this time in life, my main priority was having band practice at any available time with the garage-punk band I played drums in.
I had been a lighting operator in high school, as a hardcore member of our school’s theatre program. I was such a nerd about it too, and ended up being the co-head of the lighting crew my senior year. I was only in it to be part of the tech theatre crew because that was where all the freaks and weirdos could be found. I had no idea that this random experience would lead me to pursue a bachelor’s degree in filmmaking and qualify me for life-saving jobs in my adult future.
While seeking work as a college student at emerson in Boston, I was employed by their blackbox theatre doing sound and lighting work. This helped me out a lot because it paid fairly well at the time for on-campus jobs (and my only qualification for it was my experience with my high school tech theatre crew). After I graduated, I worked full time as a digital content creator for a regional labor union while performing whatever side work I could to save up as much money as possible (in order to move to Philly and pick up the drums). One of these side jobs was picking up shifts at the Middle East Downstairs in Cambridge, MA doing lighting work. I still remember one of the members of Youth Brigade encouraging me to use the green lighting gels for their set, when briefly discussing their lighting needs before the show. Green gels were always a hard sell, but being a huge fan of this lighting, I always pushed for it lol. Bless Youth Brigade forever for that validating opportunity!
I went for an “interview” in Atlantic City after hearing back about that craigslist post seeking a “female lighting operator” in 2010 or 2011. The first thing I asked was “why are you seeking a ‘female’ lighting operator, specifically?” My boss told me bluntly: “because women won’t threaten my job.” IM SURE YOU CAN IMAGINE HOW *FUN* IT WAS WORKING FOR THIS MAN. Probably a sociopath - he seemed to have a monopoly on outfitting local area clubs with their tech needs. He set up all the lighting fixtures/moving lights, LED mood lighting throughout the club, fog and haze machines, confetti canons, and even dictated the “motion graphics” needs of the spaces through any TV monitors. Everything was controlled by the “lighting DJ” from the DJ booth on a series of boards and monitors. He made sure to use proprietary systems every step of the way to weed out any people seeking to put him out of work as a result of mastering his rig. The man had no artistic taste to speak of and any dealing with him was a massive struggle. But the job paid what I needed, so I bit my tongue and showed up on time. Some random photos I found on my computer from work then:
The club in Atlantic City mainly played “top 40 hits” (usually for bachelor/bachelorette parties) and the DJ’s were typically an hour late for their shift (during which we would just play an iPod mix until they got there and patrons typically couldn’t tell the difference). Because the lighting DJ (me) stood next to the real DJ, people would often mistake me for the audio DJ. “PLAY THAT LADY GAGA SONG I LUV” some drunk bro would yell at me, before crumpling up a $5 bill and throwing it over the plexiglass at my head. (I picked it up afterward and threw it back at his head.) “I’m NOT the DJ!!!” I would yell back with some misguided pride.
My friends and I would laugh at club-goers and their chosen music. See ancient screenshots from facebook circa 2011:
I’m not sure when this started happening, but I eventually found myself looking forward to certain parts of the night when I knew my “favorites” would come on. The closer we got to midnight, I knew there was a good chance that Steve Aoki’s remix of Kid Cudi’s “Pursuit of Happniess” featuring MGMT/Ratatat would be coming on. A catchy tune about addiction, mental health, and night terrors, though I suspect it is about a lot more than that. As the track culminated towards the inevitable beat drop, I would hit the blackout button causing all the moving lights to turn off. When the sweet relief of the drop finally arrived (the one just after the 5-minute mark on the track), I hit the sparkling strobes. They were programmed to “twinkle” above the dance floor, mimicking a thunder/lightning storm occurring somewhere in a void. The energy I felt from everyone in the club seemed to permeate every single body, and over time it seeped into mine as well. I didn’t get it before, but I suddenly understood the role of the DJ as the LITERAL HEARTBEAT of a DANCE FLOOR of living, breathing humans. What a fucking privilege and honor.
One particularly terrifying night at the club in Atlantic City, I saw firsthand what the DJ meant to everyone. It was either 2011 or 2012, and all the wealthy investors of the club were visiting for one night only to see how we were doing. Of course this was the one night we had technical difficulties - the sound kept cutting out! Me, having plenty lighting experience but VERY LITTLE practical audio experience - could not figure out why the sound kept cutting out this night. At one crucial point - the sound cut out for long enough to drop the beat of the song for UNCOMFORTABLY LONG. It was close to midnight - so the floor was packed and the drunken crowd was PISSED. The longer the sound was out - the angrier they got. Until one blessed moment - where someone in the crowd started singing. “You- you got what I NEED” he yelled. “CUZ U SAY IM JUST A FRIEND, CUZ U SAY IM JUST A FRIEND”. Suddenly, the whole dance floor started chanting the words with him, rendering Biz Markie’s song “Just a Friend”. My manager was flailing around me (a suit-and-tie guy that absolutely wanted to murder me on most days, but especially in that moment) as I scrambled to find out why the speakers kept cutting out. I later found out that the power plug for the speakers was hanging out of its socket due to the rocking vibrations from the bass output. (Whenever I am troubleshooting sound problems at a live show these days, I now instinctually always check the power connections first out of this learned experience lol). I couldn’t work that location for this job for the next few months because that is how pissed the managers were at me (the owners were there that night, observing us from the VIP table, after all, and all our asses were on the line). I stuck to shifts only at the other two clubs which were both in Philly. It was fine after I dyed my hair - “Don’t worry, they won’t remember you’re the same girl” my shitty boss reassured me at my first gig back in Atlantic City.
When I moved back to Boston after getting sick, I started going to any show I could find. My musical taste was no longer loyal to any one genre and it never would be again. If it was local and I had the time to go, I would absolutely check out that improvisational experimental show or the techno night in some basement, I truly did not give a fck. For the first time in my life - I actually went out dancing.
Over time, I was exposed to incredible DJ’s/producers that continue to inspire me daily. DJ Haram, Dee Diggs, DJ Cobra B, just to name a few.
My life partner of the past 5 years also happens to be a DJ and I express gratitude for my luck every day. Whenever I am hopelessly sad, all I have to do is hang outside his bedroom door or window long enough to catch some sounds. Instant healing. If you also struggle with your mental health on a daily basis, I highly recommend finding a DJ and some room to dance in.
Wish everyone knew how REAL this song is/was lol
6/25/24 Today I was walking one of my dogwalking clients in the arboretum. It’s been very buggy in the woods lately because its so damp there, so we were trying to escape it. My sweetie was with me and pointed out a feather on the ground along our path. It was a feather from a blue jay and I picked it up. It felt like a gift just to see it, let alone hold it or dare to walk away with it. My sweetie looked up on his phone what a blue jay feather might indicate. I found one particular potential meaning significant to me: “a message of hope from a deceased loved one”.
There is a particular family member I have been thinking a lot about lately - my maternal grandfather. I have been feeling his presence, I’ve encountered him in dreams, and sometimes I feel like we are having a conversation together. This is all very strange to me because: I usually am not sensitive to the presence of deceased people and also - I barely even knew this man.
I don’t know much about Witold. I remember him as a tall, lanky man with dark brown hair and big bushy eyebrows. I remember he was always smoking cigarettes and having a drink. I know animals loved him and would practically flock to him. When mine and my sister’s markers dried out one time when we were trying to draw, I remember he told us to dip them into his vodka to bring them to life again (but I can’t remember if this actually worked or not). Sugar cubes were a luxury item in Poland back then, but he would always sneak one for me. I remember his calm and collected nature, the complete antithesis of the stereotypical Polish man of his times. I asked my mom to tell me a little about him today. She couldn’t remember his birthday, but said it may have been in October, 1934. If I had to guess based on his vibe, I suspect he would be a Libra rather than a Scorpio (but who knows what I don’t know!). Back in my 20’s, I found out that he wrote lots of poetry. Today I found out that he also drew pictures a lot. I don’t have access to these documents, but would give anything to see his drawings. I did read his poems one time. We were trying to compile a handmade book of his poetry as a Christmas gift for my grandma one time, sometime before 2010. There was a question of whether or not we should give her the book because they were all love poems about other women from his youth lol. It sounded like he loved a lot, and with much precious passion.
I’ve been reading the book Health Communism for several months now and I just finished chapter 2. I have to take this book slowly, because it brings up a lot of fear, trauma, and rage inside of me. I’ve been through the ringer of American healthcare for the past decade of my life and this book essentially sums up why. After I finished the first chapter, I had to write a song in order to process what I had just read, not only to aid in its digestion but also to aid with the trauma rage. I assumed I would just write another song when I was done with the next chapter, but instead I felt the need to write it out. That is because it made me think of Witold.
Chapter two is called WASTE. It has some history about attempts for socialized medicine/healthcare in America and the suppression of these movements. It describes in detail how the “eugenic and debt burden framework” is an inextricable aspect of capitalism and how this is rooted in this country’s long history of racism, classism, and ableism. In simple terms: if some rich guy can’t profit off of your body and the labor that it is “supposed to” produce - you are worthless. You are an expendable body, a “malingerer”, a burden to society. Basically, you don’t deserve to live. This is the foundation of eugenics. American eugenics are still in practice today, as seen in the recent face mask bans sweeping the country or this country’s complete lack of any regard for mitigating the spread of COVID during the ongoing pandemic. (I still remember, back in 2020, when the CDC specifically told us *not* to wear face masks. They already knew that COVID was airborne, but they didn’t want the American public to “panic”, so they told us to wear plastic disposable gloves and wash our groceries with alcohol instead.)
As my health significantly deteriorated over the past year, I had to confront (yet again) what it means to be an artist/musician given what is left of my abilities. My hands don’t work so great anymore, so I no longer make a partial living off of tattooing. I rarely draw anymore either, but sometimes I can still paint. It hurts to write in my notebook, so I don’t do it for very long at a time, but I still do it despite the pain. I can’t play bass much anymore, but I can still play drums and guitar as long as I don’t go too hard or too long. Every day is now all about conservation of energy and ability: if I do this, will I be able to do that later? I try not to dwell on what I miss. I make daily attempts to refocus my energy on what I can still do with the time I have left.
My grandpa was very sick when I knew him. My mother told me recently that he tried to get medical help but Polish healthcare in 1992 was a complete shitshow (see: American healthcare today). She said a dismissive doctor told him that his symptoms can only be attributed to “laziness”. He told him to get off his ass, and “get back to work”.
Witold Nadstawny passed away on June 9, 1992 from cancer of the larynx and the stomach. He was 58 years old. Later that same year, my mom, my sister and I moved to the United States to join my father. My dad was already in the states and had just secured us a small apartment in Montclair, New Jersey, with the help of one of his carpentry clients. (He was a new immigrant after all, and no one would rent him an apartment. This wealthy client of his offered to be the co-signer on the lease and it became our home for about 10 years.)
I think about Witold all the time now, and I see warnings from him all over my body and every time symptoms flare. He keeps reminding me to take care of myself and my health as best as I can, because this is one of the most radical acts one could ever commit to. He also keeps reminding me to write poems and make art. I’m not sure which comes first: being a sensitive soul or a delicate body (maybe they always go hand in hand? maybe only sometimes?). No one is immune to circumstance, obviously. Fascist governments will always try to destroy the beautiful, the vulnerable, the truth. But art will always win, because it lives far away from all that nonsense.
It is mid-June, 2024, 7:17pm. I am sitting outside the house, listening to my sweetie DJ'ing records out his bedroom window. We are experiencing a heat wave this week, but the temperature finally dropped enough to sit outside for longer than 5 minutes.
"Slip Away" by Clarence Carter started spinning on the record and I just sat there enjoying it, not realizing until the song's end that I had started crying. It wasn't anguish though, it was more like that sweet cry you have sometimes when you remember a bittersweet memory? (I don't really have words for this feeling but I know you know what I'm talking about.)
One of my favorite music documentaries came to mind, 2013's Muscle Shoals. I knew that Clarence Carter song was recorded in Muscle Shoals because it was featured in that film. The film gives the history of the "Muscle Shoals sound", a magical and hard-to-describe quality that many hit records from the area possessed. The beginning of the documentary briefly describes how that geographic region is along the Tennessee River, where Indigenous people described the river as "singing". Here's some interesting info I found on the internet. Each passage is linked to its source website!
"Some of the Indians believed that the spirit of a goddess lived in the loud, rushing waters of Muscle Shoals. This legend could have originated in the Cherokee, Creek, Chickasaw, or Koasatis Indian tribes. In another version of this myth, the Yuchi tribe said that the sound of the Shoals was the voice of a woman. The mysterious woman sang sweetly when the water was low and trickled calmly over the rocks and waterfalls, but roared in fury when the river rushed violently over the Shoals."
"The area of Muscle Shoals was a part of the historic Cherokee hunting grounds dating to at least the early eighteenth century, if not earlier. Many Cherokee fought against the rebels during the late American Revolutionary War, hoping to expel them from their territories.
After the Revolution, Cherokee attitudes toward the new U.S. republic were divided, as settlers increasingly encroached on their territory. An anti-American faction, dubbed the Chickamauga, separated from more conciliatory Cherokees, and moved into present-day south-central and southeastern Tennessee. Most of this band settled along the Chickamauga Creek, from which their name was derived. They claimed Muscle Shoals as part of their domain. When Anglo-Americans attempted to settle the region in the 1780s and 1790s, the Chickamaugas bitterly resisted them.
The Upper Creek, residing in what is now north and central Alabama, also resented any European or Euro-American presence in the region. A major incident occurred in 1790, when U.S. President George Washington sent an expedition under Major John Doughty in an attempt to establish a fort and trading post at Muscle Shoals. This expedition was nearly annihilated by a Chickamauga and Creek party sent to destroy it, and the administration abandoned the project."
"Indians first inhabited the lands bordered by the Tennessee River that we call the Shoals area today. No one knows when the name Muscle Shoals was first used for this area, however, there are many theories of where the name originated. One theory is that at one time there were piles of mussel shells found along the shoals in the Tennessee River. Another theory is that the shape of the river looks like the muscle in a man’s arm, therefore, Muscle Shoals. The last theory comes from several booklets that were published before Muscle Shoals incorporated. This theory states: “Muscle Shoals, the Niagara of the South, derives its name from the Indians, who, attempting to navigate upstream, found the task almost impossible because of the strong current.” Thus came the word muscle, symbolic of the strength required to “paddle a canoe up the rapids.”
That particular part of the Tennessee river is described as "treacherous", "an area of dangerous shallows and turbulent currents, impeding commerce and navigation".
This is why when the region became colonized, it was hard putting up a dam (but eventually they built the Wilson Dam in 1924).
"The difference between the white settlers’ reactions to the Muscle Shoals and the Indians’ reaction to it could not be more different. From the beginning, the white settlers saw the Shoals as a wild and dangerous beast that needed to be tamed. The Indians, while likely struggling with the dangers the Shoals posed as much as the white settlers did, saw them as a mysterious force of nature to be revered and respected."
I'm in awe of this powerful river and the powerful people who tried to protect it. It's like this river girl just wants to sing and these colonizers tried to silence her, when her natural power just needs to be acknowledged and respected! Thinking about the river's currents being so strong there and the history of the strong resistance of the Chickamauga people, I am not surprised at all that so many hit singles came out of FAME Studios and Muscle Shoals Sound Studio within the last century!
For me personally, music has always been most closely related to the act of resistance (when compared to other art forms), but I am unsure why. I use the word "resistance" with as much intention as I am capable of in this moment. I am specifically referring to the act of fighting back against opposing forces that are intent on your destruction. It is not a state of being that people *like* finding themselves in obviously, since it implies so much tragedy, injustice and death. Yet it is necessary to survival, so it is just as natural to engage in it as it is for a river to have an unusually strong current.
I don't know why these things feel so inextricably linked but it seems like many others feel the same. (WHO ELSE IS DOING BATTLE WITH THEIR EMOTIONS EVERY TIME THEY HEAR A GOOD SONG UNTIL YOU FINALLY GRANT YOURSELF THE SWEET RELEASE??) Why is music related to water related to resistance? It makes sense to me, but not in a verbal language that I could express in text.
Sincerely hoping I can visit that place one day, in real life or in a dream, I will literally take either!
"At Painted Bluff, in northeast Alabama, painted glyphs dating to ca. 1400 A.D. have been discovered among cliffs overlooking the river." (Totally wondering what they were singing then and why)
