THE BAD GIG
(C) Copyright 2000 by Michael S. Shum
(aka DJ Snuggles)
The bad gig is an event that makes a DJ question whether all the time and hassle is worthwhile. There are several factors that contribute to making a gig horrible. The most frequently mentioned ones, from my own personal experience and from talking to other DJs, are, in no specific order:
- Abandonment (no one picks you up, no ride to airport, etc.)
- Inhumane conditions (intense heat, no water, no bathrooms, etc.)
- Incomplete payment or no payment at all
- Lack of people, appreciation for music
- Busted Party
- Dealing with idiots (promoters, rides, staff, etc.)
- Malfunctioning equipment
Personally, I always felt abandonment was the worst thing that could happen, because you just don’t want to be stranded in some strange city. This is also probably the factor that is most under the control of the promoter, so I find it incredible how many times no one has been at the airport to pick me up, or, even worse, no one comes to the hotel to take me back to the airport.
The following qualifies as the worst gig of Casper’s and my DJ career. This particular gig combines several of the factors mentioned above, including abandonment, non-payment, and lack of people (to a ridiculous degree).
August, 1996 – Denver, Colorado
Somehow Slak just knew. This particular gig was originally scheduled to be a Snuggles and Slak tag-team, but Paul backed out at the last minute so that he could finish his move from Chicago to Philadelphia. I contacted the “promoter” Pepper who agreed that Casper should come in Paul’s place. The gig was on a Tuesday, for an all-jungle club night in the Denver area called DENJA (short for Denver Jungle Authority). We were a bit wary as to how good such a club night would be (at that time, even an all-jungle club night in Chicago would have bombed), but Pepper assured us that he had passed out many flyers and that there would definitely be an enthusiastic crowd. In fact, he continued, our services were so in demand that he guaranteed us a Wednesday night gig as well. So we left Chicago with our bags packed for a two-night stay in Denver, albeit not without a certain amount of trepidation and sense of foreboding.
The first problem we encountered was not a minor one. Because Paul’s plane ticket was still in his name, Julian would have to impersonate Paul to get on the plane. Paul left with Julian several non picture IDs including a little-used library card. We just hoped the counter person was not Asian or the deal would be over, as Paul’s last name (Rhee) was obviously Korean. To our relief, we got a white person who wouldn’t know Rhee from Reed. Julian made up some bullshit story about not having a picture ID and we got on the plane, although not before the counter person confirmed with Julian that he was at least 16 and thus old enough to sit in the emergency exit row (this last fact is only worth mentioning because Julian was 21 at the time). As the plane took off, we felt relieved that we had managed to pass this first step, although if we had known at that moment what would transpire in the next 24 hours, we would have opted for engine trouble and a flight cancellation.
Pepper met us at the Colorado Springs airport (we didn’t fly into Denver because flights to Colorado Springs were much cheaper, although Colorado Springs was a good hour away from where we had to be). In the rave scene, there are good promoters and there are bad promoters. We could instantly tell Pepper fell into the “nice guy, good intentions, absolutely no organizational skills” category of promoter. He was about 21 and seemed a bit on the hyperactive side, which usually means little attention to the details.
First, we went to a record shop the name of which I forget, but it was (and perhaps still is) the biggest “rave” record shop in Denver. I noticed that among the flyers littered on a counter near the door, there was none for Denja. I pointed this out to Pepper and he said that he had left a bunch and that they all must have been taken. Moreover, he had only about three Denja flyers left, which he showed us. Now to call it a “flyer” was a misnomer, as it was actually a color business card. Emblazoned on the front was simply the word DENJA and on the back were the first 3 nights of the club: we were sandwiched between Dieselboy and Phantom 45. Pepper said the first night (Dieselboy) hadn’t gone as well as he had hoped but he was sure tonight would be better.
After we left the store, we went to Pepper’s tiny studio apartment. Calling his place a pigsty would have been a compliment. There was no furniture, but the moldy carpet was covered by a layer of flyers, unsleeved records and week-old trash. There was a distinct odor that recalled rotting food mixed with smoke and sweat. In short, the apartment looked exactly as one would imagine a place in which an individual like Pepper lived. His manner of living completely fit his personality.
The reason we ventured to his dive is that Pepper had not yet booked us a hotel room. In addition, he informed us that no gig had been lined up for the next night (Wednesday), but that a few phone calls and dropping our “big dj names” would remedy that situation. We were more than a bit skeptical but kept our mouths shut at that point, as we were primarily concerned with getting out of his nasty apartment without having to use the bathroom.
So while we waited (I sat on my flight case as it seemed the only suitable place), Pepper made a series of ever more disheartening calls. Apparently, it never occurred to him that clubs in Denver booked DJ’s more than 1 day in advance. Eventually, though, even he got the message and, switching tactics, started phoning hotels.
“Well,” I told Julian, “so we don’t have a gig for tomorrow night. At the very least we’ll spend a couple nice days in Denver. Just consider it a free vacation, airfare and hotel included.”
After about a half-hour’s worth of calls, Pepper did indeed find us a place to stay. And what a place it was. If you are ever in Denver, please look up the “Heaven on Earth Motel” and, just for amusement’s sake, drive down the street on which it is located. To find that street, you just have to look for the whores loitering on the corner. The aptly-initialed H.O.E. motel was an old Holiday Inn that hadn’t been renovated since the ’70s. We didn’t ask, but the place probably had hourly rates. Pepper couldn’t have plunked down more than 50 bucks for the two nights.
Pepper left us immediately at that point to “take care of some things” for his big night. He probably also wanted to get away from our glares. So, left to our own devices in a dingy and musty room that hadn’t seen maid service in a good week, Julian and I weighed our options. It was obvious we couldn’t stay at H.O.E. for two nights and, since we had no DJ work the following night, we decided to call the airlines and change our flights to the next morning. Having done so (and paid an exorbitant change fee in the process), we resigned ourselves to waiting out the evening until our ride came to take us to our gig. As a DJ, you always try to hold out hope that the gig will be a good one, no matter what the other circumstances are.
At around 10pm, Pepper came back to pick us up. We told him we were flying back the next day and asked that he pay the change fee: “No problem.” We then inquired about how the night was going and received that universal response: “It’s still early.” When we got to the venue, there was a group of about seven ravers loitering outside. When we went in, there were about four more people inside… counting the staff. Pepper told us to relax for a bit while he talked to the owner of the club. Out of the corner of our eye, we could see them getting into quite a heated exchange of words. They were arguing about who was supposed to pay for the motel room, which, like I said, couldn’t have been more than $50 for the two nights we were originally meant to stay.
So we waited. I was supposed to go on at about 11:30 or so. Between the time we got to the club and the time I went on, at the very most 1 or 2 more people showed up. Julian and I had already realized the magnitude of this disaster and wanted to get the evening over with. I ran through my set as quickly as possible, playing to a room of literally three or four ravers and the club staff. Then Julian went on at about 12:30 or so. I sat down behind the DJ booth to have a cig and when I emerged about 10 minutes later, Julian and I were the only individuals in the entire venue with the exception of the owner. Even Pepper was nowhere to be found.
I tapped Julian on the shoulder, and said “Ummmm, there’s nobody here.”
“I know,” he replied.
As there was no point in continuing, he stopped the record. The silence in the empty club was deafening and broken only by the clinking glasses as the owner cleaned up behind the bar.
“Man,” said Julian. “We rock the party that rocks NOBODY.”
We were embarrassed but at an “event” as bad as this, we realized that 99% of the blame had to fall on the promoters. You put nobodies on a bill and promote it properly and you are guaranteed to get at least some hardcore party people out on a Tuesday night. It seemed pointless for Pepper to have flown us out to play to literally three people. So we picked up our stuff and went outside where the same 4 ravers were loitering. Again, no Pepper.
Usually at a terrible party, at least someone will come up to you and apologize on behalf of their city (i.e. “I’m sorry guys, Denver is wack, they don’t appreciate good music blah blah blah”) but we were avoided like pariahs. I think they were as embarassed as we were. There was nothing to do but stand outside and smoke cigs waiting for someone to show up and take us back to our dingy room at HOE.
Eventually, Pepper re-appeared. Apparently, he had been at another club “promoting.”
“What happened to the music?” he asked, seeing us outside. “A whole bunch of people are coming. We got to get the music back on!”
Recall that this was a Tuesday night and the time was getting on to 2 a.m. From this fact alone, one can infer the kind of dream world in which Pepper was living.
So Julian and I stood outside the club with Pepper and his co-promoter, an enormous guy sporting “Predator” dreads who was understandably in an extremely foul mood. They were arguing with each other and, despite what Howard Jones said, things weren’t getting any better: No one else bothered to show up in the time we stood outside. So as the clock struck 2 a.m., the club owner decided to call it quits. There ensued still more yelling between Pepper and the club owner over the topic of money, namely, there was no money to pay us. This last fact did not surprise Julian and I in the least.
As the doors to the club were closed and locked, a highly agitated Pepper apologized to us profusely and told us to follow him to an ATM so that he could give us everything in his checking account. As it turned out, that account contained approximately eighteen dollars. On the point of tears, he promised us that he would find a job and pay us back everything he owed (about $400 total). Exasperated, Julian and I told him to forget the money for now and to just take us back to the motel. At this point, we just wanted to get back home to Chicago.
This being our priority, I pulled Pepper aside and said in the most serious of tones:
“Pepper, you can’t do anything about what has happened already. But remember that we need to get back to the Colorado Springs airport tomorrow by 11 a.m. Please do not forget.”
“Don’t worry,” Pepper replied confidently. “You guys have my pager number. I’ll be at your door at 9:00 a.m.”
“Are you absolutely sure?”
“I will definitely be there, no problem.”
Famous last words.
Completely demoralized, we headed back to the club, and Pepper asked his co-promoter to take us back to the motel. Just when you thought things couldn’t get worse, Julian and I ended up crammed in the back seat of what was essentially a two-seater sports car (can’t remember the model) tearing through downtown Denver at over 100MPH (this is not an exaggeration – Julian and I kept exchanging glances between the odometer and ourselves). This guy also had the radio blasting gangsta rap at maximum volume, terrible stuff like Snoop and 2Pac. All in all, it was the perfect capper to a great evening. He dropped us off without saying a word and peeled out of the parking lot.
The next morning we woke up bright and early because of the long drive from Denver to the Colorado Springs airport. Our flight was around 11 and at 9:30 we started getting antsy as Pepper hadn’t shown up or called us yet. We bombarded his pager and got nothing but his voice mail. As the clock crept on, we debated what to do. At 10, we decided to see about a taxi or shuttle to Colorado Springs (we were aware we had already missed our intended flight, but we could just get on the next plane). The desk said a taxi would cost in the neighborhood of $100 to get us to Colorado Springs. But the motel did have a shuttle to the Denver airport for around $10.
We decided on the second option, knowing full well that our flight was at a different airport. We just wanted to get out of that motel, and out of that city. We’d deal with the logistics problem (wrong airport) later.
When we got to the Denver airport at around noon, Julian and I walked to the United Airlines counter and explained our predicament. Yes, we knew we were at the wrong airport. Yes, we were aware that our intended flight had left an hour ago. Basically, we were at the mercy of the airline, could you please help us? Miracle of miracles, the gentleman at the counter felt sorry for us and agreed to change our flights to Denver rather than Colorado Springs. This was the only break that happened for us on the entire trip, but it was a huge one. You cannot imagine the gratitude we felt for him and for United. I’ve been a loyal United flyer since. In fact, it is in my contract as my preferred airline.
While waiting for our flight, I finally was able to get in contact with Pepper. Again, he sounded as if he were crying. “I’m so sorry guys, I fell asleep and I didn’t hear the pager. I promise I’ll pay you guys everything – I’ll get a job etc…” We were so relieved that we were going back to Chicago that Pepper’s blabbering was more amusing than infuriating.
We got on the plane without incident (with Julian again impersonating Paul Rhee) and were on our way to Chicago, via Cincinnati. We were sitting next to a kid who, attempting to strike up conversation, asked us “what grade” we were in.
“He’s in graduate school,” Julian replied icily, “and I’m a junior in college.”
There was no more conversation the rest of the flight.
Due to bad weather, we ended up stuck in Cincinnati for another four hours. It was an appropriate end to the worst gig of our lives.
Aftermath: True to his word, Pepper did indeed pay us back everything we were owed, although it took him a couple tries. His first attempt was a personal check that (unsurprisingly) bounced. In all, it took him about three months to fully compensate us, but inasmuch as one can respect an individual like Pepper, I appreciate the fact that he got a job and was responsible enough to actually follow through on his promises.
In addition, I did see him again almost two years later, at a party in Topeka, Kansas, called Playskool. Pepper had moved to the Midwest and was DJ’ing in the jungle room along with 3D and me.
I introduced him to Dave as “the guy who abandoned us in Denver.”
Michael Shou-Yung Shum 