Tag: The First

  • DJ Stepz

    DJ Stepz

    I was only vaguely aware of the rave scene in the late 90’s.

    I knew it involved secret parties in abandoned or unused warehouse spaces, basements, and condemned buildings. Invitations were spread via word of mouth on the day of the event, and by that evening a crowd converged to rig lights, steal electricity, and cart in amps and consoles for DJs who would play electronic dance/trance music into the morning hours, so long as the cops didn’t find them.

    These clandestine events were heavily associated with club drugs like ecstasy, dancers wearing and using pacifiers (to assuage the need to bite, often experienced by ecstasy users), and lots of black lights and glow sticks. Raves got a fair amount of bad press for good reasons.

    The music seemed to have arisen out of the disco, new wave, and punk rock roots of the 80s — Depeche Mode, Kraftwerk, and The Human League, for example. But the sounds were evolving toward pure electronic mixes — think Daft Punk now — designed exclusively for dancing, rather than singing.

    And while all of that may have helped give rise to the electronic dance music trends and DJ stars (like Moby) of this decade, raves have most definitely changed.

    EDM has fractured into a wealth of interesting styles: Techno, House, Trance, Electro, Hardstyle, and Dubstep, just to name a few. The electronic technology has exploded, and sometimes the draw is just to be able to watch the DJ stitch together a dance mix on the fly in the club.

    There are of course monster concerts, with artists like Deadmaus (video below) who rule the arena circuit, playing from behind tables filled with mixers, computer monitors, and hundreds of cables.

    But EDM parties and raves have also become smaller, more intimate, and frequently connected to a favorite local DJ who is creating custom mixes both in advance and on the fly during parties. There are lots of venues that cater to the under-21 crowd, and are both drug- and alcohol-free.

    Here in NC, I’ve been increasingly aware of the EDM movement because my oldest son — whom I call The First — is making his name known as DJ Stepz.

    DJ Stepz getting ready for his gig at the Brewery

    He’s 16 years old, and he’s a dubstep DJ. He spends lots money from his summer job on tech, and hours up in his room building mixes and posting them to Soundcloud or Beatport, and linking them to his Facebook page for others to enjoy and remix.

    He’s had several gigs now, and has started putting together shows with other bands and DJs.

    It started because he naturally gravitated toward the job of creating the playlists and running sound for the Friday night youth group events at our church, but he quickly realized he could do more than just build playlists for parties.

    He downloaded some free remixing software, and taught himself to create mixes even before he had a controller. After some careful research, he invested in a Numark Mixtrack and posted his first mixes online. He started hitting up his dad and other musician friends (techhounds, all) for cables, amps, lights, speakers, and other equipment, and pretty soon he had a basic setup.

    He played the International Festival at his school, then played a set at The Brewery with some other DJ friends. Most recently he helped create and run a six-band/artist event (he had a set, of course) called Project Noize, which was probably the best-attended show he’s done so far.

    Stepz working the crowd at the Brewery

    Each time he agonizes over the mistakes and relentlessly makes plans for a bigger, better show next time. During his set at Project Noize, his power went out twice, not because of a breaker overload, but because of the configuration of his equipment (a not infrequent issue with EDM in general). He tracked down the problems, fixed them, and finished his set. I doubt he’ll have a similar problem next time.

    When I asked him what the most annoying thing about performing was, he was quick to tell me about carting gear, arranging power, and configuring the sound system. But his friends and fans build him up, he says. He likes it when they enjoy his sets. He also loves meeting other local and semi-local DJs at places like Southland Ballroom and Lincoln Theatre. (That’s me, btw, on the bottom right of the front page of the Lincoln Theatre website — weird seeing it every time I click over.)

    But more than anything, he likes it when someone hears his mixes and comes up to him to tell him that they would like to DJ, too. “And I try to tell them some of the things I wish I had known,” he says.

    Give it up for DJ Stepz! Go give him a “like” on his Facebook page. He’s an incredible guy.

    I could probably get you his autograph.

    Stepz at Project Noize
  • Mosh Pits and Group Hugs: The Ichthus 2011 Report

    Mosh Pits and Group Hugs: The Ichthus 2011 Report

    The First, age 16, just returned from the Ichthus Music Festival in Wilmore, KY.

    Over a hundred bands on more than seven stages, four days running. Approximately one bajillion crazy spectators, mostly unwashed (they do have cold showers there, and there was a trailer where you could pay $3 for a hot shower, but the First did not elect to spend his cash this way, preferring instead to tough it out and get hosed down regularly in the mosh pit; more on that later).

    Having decided to drive home in the middle of the night in order to beat thunderstorms (which relegated all festival-goers to their vans as a result of concert-wide ruling) and the end-of-Ichthus crush to leave, he and his group of friends arrived back at our church near-zombified, but happy.

    He grabbed his gear and slid into the backseat of my car with one of his brothers and sighed happily. “There’s so much room in here,” he commented, stretching out in my little compact. He made the trip up to KY in the back of a 15-passenger van loaded with 15 passengers and their luggage, and rode back in the cab of a small pick-up truck with three passengers (luggage piled in the flatbed).

    They all became quite close.

    I waited interestedly to see if the urgent need for sleep would win out over the desire to give the first festival report.

    “There were some incredible bands,” he summarized, reeling off the names of a dozen or more. “And the mosh action was phenomenal.”

    Ahh, the mosh pits.

    Two years ago I introduced the First and the Ice to mosh pits at Crüefest, their first major concert festival, telling them well in advance to keep away from the front of the stage, and carefully and repeatedly explaining what they should do if they found themselves caught up in a spontanteous mosh.

    I had worried about it so much, and then I was the one who got caught in one up at the Rev Theory stage. Fortunately, only my sunglasses got broken before I could get out.

    I was pleased to learn that moshing may have been somewhat institutionalized since then. Apparently at Ichthus, there are not only rules — you have to have pit hair to get in the pit (clever! disgusting!) — there were also clearly designated areas for moshing. There were also people keeping the area and the moshers hosed down. The First said that was because the lots were gravel, and the hoses were to keep down the dust. But it also cooled off the moshers quite nicely. Probably washed off any blood as well, hah.

    But most notably, the mosh pits had lifeguards! Burly dudes in orange bandannas, who were the first to snatch up people who fell and who also stood as a living barrier between the crown and the moshers.

    This I found truly heartening, no joke.

    I grew up in the era when moshing was invented, and you could get seriously injured in a mosh pit at at Bad Brains or Black Flag concert.

    By the way, I highly recommend the documentary American Hardcore for footage of the early punk rock scene — you can watch the entire film online for free at this link and here’s the trailer, also embedded below, which will give you a good idea of what I mean. The footage that starts about 57 seconds in is forever etched on my brain, and I have always been exceedingly cautious at concerts because of this sort of thing happening during my early concert-going years.

    So while my son related his various experiences in the mosh pits at the hardcore stage, I was incredibly grateful to hear him casually mentioning how well-monitored the pits were, and how, err, safe. Even when the bands themselves screamed for a Wall of Death (here’s a link where you can see the Wall of Death) the kids seemed to all take care of each other.

    I mean, as much as you can “take care” in a mad rush to slam yourself bodily against an oncoming tide of humanity.

    But here’s the interesting thing.

    He mentioned something I’d never heard of before: pre-moshing group hugs. Apparently there was a guy who regularly helped initiate the moshing, and the First said that sometimes, when the pits were full but not yet moving, this guy would gesture wildly to get everyone’s attention, and then throw himself madly at his fellow moshers in a ferocious hug.

    And as if by some predetermined agreement, an all-out, near violent (but nonetheless well-meant!) mass-moshpit hug would occur. In my mind it looks something like the exuberant dogpile you sometimes see in football and other sports, immediately after the team has pulled off an incredible win.

    And after the hug, full-scale moshing.

    I have no idea whether this was something unique to Ichthus (which is technically a Christian music festival) and/or this particular dude, or whether it’s a trend in hardcore mosh pits these days.

    Either way, I kind of like the idea, don’t you?

    Image by Rich Copley, posted on Copius Notes.

  • A Pose for the New Generation

    A Pose for the New Generation

    This is how they look, isn’t it? This is the Ubiquitous Suburban Teen Pose.

    I mean, not all USTs are quite so gorgeous as the ones I particularly have given birth to, but still. This is how they walk from place to place, clean their rooms, dispense reports on their day, and feed the cats. It is their natural posture, evolutionarily adapted over the 14 minutes it took for the texting phenomenon to grab each child by the scruff and shove a wireless device into their deft hands.

    Amazingly, you don’t see many contusions on these USTs. Are they developing virtual rubber bumper car pads, as has been postulated by certain scientific parenting organizations?

    Dunno.

    But I can tell you that if you want their attention you’ll need to text them, even if you’re standing smack in front of their faces in the kitchen, taking their photograph.

  • What Time do Boys Eat Breakfast?

    What Time do Boys Eat Breakfast?

    This is a photo of the First (left, still asleep) and his friend Jake, who has just spent the night at our house.

    Because I am such an incredible mom (and because Jake is one of my all-time favorites), I often cook a big family breakfast on Saturday mornings for all my guys to enjoy. Pancakes, fresh fruit from the roadside stand, bacon or sausage, the works. I generally count on my three early birds at breakfast time, then the First and his friends much, much, much later.

    Here’s how the conversation went this time:

    Me (upon seeing the First finally descending the stairs for the first time at 1 pm): The dead do walk! I thought you would never get out of bed. I made breakfast for you!

    The First (all grouchy): I know. The smell of bacon woke me up at like, 9 am.

    Me (cheerfully): Sorry!

    The First: Is there anything left?

    Me: Now you know I always make enough and save some for you. I wouldn’t let your brothers eat your breakfast! Although they did want to dig into it around lunchtime. But I threatened to give them a taste of my left hook and they showed me the respect I naturally command.

    The First: (grunts)

    I made him hold the clock up so I could prove just how late he has his breakfast. As you can see he was quite cheerful about it, morning person that he is.

    He can’t fool me, though. I happen to know for a fact that he loves it when I make him a big breakfast, ’cause he eats every last bit. And he thinks I’m the greatest mom ever in the history of greatest moms. And he’s right.

  • Olive (again)

    Olive (again)

    I know I just posted about her, but I got a chuckle out of this picture of Olive in her accustomed seat at the counter.

    The main reason she sits here is not, in fact, because she might secure a tasty tidbit. She has been known to hook things off the counter with her sneaky little paw, but she’s doesn’t necessarily go for something you would consider a kitty treat (a giant hock of ham, etc.). Instead, she likes anything shiny (fork!), and sometimes she swipes things off just because they are within her reach.

    But what she really loves is when someone wipes down the counter. Her ears get all swiveled forward and every hair is on high alert. Her eyes are glued to the slow-moving hand and water-slopping washcloth. Oh, now that is heaven to one little messed-up Olive kitteh.

    So she’ll sit there through an entire session of food prep in hopes of getting to watch the clean-up. What a weirdo, huh?

    PS: That’s the rarely-seen First in the background, glancing up from his texting to take in the scene. His feet are huge, aren’t they?

  • Snow Day

    Snow Day

    It started coming down in earnest about 7 pm on Friday night, and by then the Ice was over his misery at being forbidden to go to a skating party that was due to run until 11 pm in a town 30 miles away. The First, however, had already made good his escape and was blissfully seated next to his girlfriend at a play. He’d promised to be home by 9 pm, so I sat up worrying until 10:40 pm when I finally heard him crunch up to the front door.

    “But we went really really slow on the road, Mom,” he said, as I ranted. Sometimes I despair of ever managing this parenting thing gracefully.

    After sending him on to bed I sat up in the darkened kitchen, watching the snow hurtle past the streetlights, and by midnight the peace of the thing had worked its magic and I turned in. For a bit.

    Because at 2 am I heard the thump-thump-thump of my nine-year-old thundering down the stairs, followed by a delighted gasp, some scrambling, and the open and slam of the front door. No, no, no, I groaned, and elbowed Lance awake. “He’s locked himself out,” I whispered, just as the knocking began.

    Lance shuffled out to the front door, let the Maker in, and growled at him to go back to bed. Which he did. For three hours.

    By 5 am the Maker and the Ice had turned on all the lights, gone in and out of the house a half dozen times, and engaged in several arguments before I dragged myself out of bed to insist that they go upstairs to read and allow me to sleep for at least another 2 hours. “But it’s five,” the Ice insisted. I squinted balefully at him.

    “Two hours,” I intoned, pointing up the stairs like the Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come pointing into the grave. “Goooo.”

    Uno  BoysBy the time I got up the boys had made a lavish breakfast of biscuits, sausage, eggs, and orange juice, which went a fair distance toward diverting my lecture, and besides, a five-inch snow in North Carolina is a rare and magic thing; it’s hard to sustain a really hefty grouchiness in the face of such beauty.

    By noon our house was vibrating with the energy of six boys under the age of 12 playing Uno and Monopoly, four teens upstairs playing electric guitar, and the effort of our dryer to keep up with the constant load of cold, soggy gloves, hats, and jackets. The coat pile in our foyer was deep enough to lose a small animal in. Ooo. Sorry I even thought of that; no telling what may be loose in our house.

    Coat PileI felt domestic enough to make cookies, which inspired the hasty manufacture of a dozen peanut butter and jelly sandwiches (note to self: we’re now out of jelly), since lunch is a prerequisite for dessert. I watched the melee with a small measure of amazement and poured a finger of scotch into my coffee as the boys settled into a belching contest over PB & Js. I love having all boys, revolting though they may be.

    I called my parents, who live on the same block. “How many boys do you have in your house?” I inquired over the din.

    My father chuckled. “None,” he replied, “and all the doors are locked. But you know where the key is hidden.”

    He leaves it to me to use my powers for good or for evil.

  • The Amount of Fun You Can Fit In A Sock

    The Amount of Fun You Can Fit In A Sock

    Beanies fit nicely into a sock. Stockings are the best part of Christmas for this very reason.

    We’ve always been light on the gift-giving: each child receives two to four gifts under the tree, plus a stocking. The husband and I don’t exchange gifts at all (why on earth would we need to?). For some unknown reason I suddenly decided, while we were all having dinner together before the holiday, that our boys are ready to transition entirely to stockings.

    Our family has all we need and more. The gift-giving craziness is just not something we engage heavily in, although a little of it was fun when they were small. But the youngest is now 10, and they are ready to grow up a bit.

    So between bites of ham, my mouth decided to announce it before my brain had actually had a chance to consider it first. The amazing part is that everyone seemed pretty fine with the idea. Guess they like the stockings best too. Of course, I have pretty awesome kids.

    Here’s what the Ice (age 12) received in his stocking this year. Each one was a bit different (the Maker’s had a pocket knife and sharpener, the First had a pink LA Boxing beanie, etc.), but this gives you a pretty good idea of how much fun fits into a sock.

    • Justin’s Natural Almond Butter (squeeze pack)
    • Axe brand “Shock” shower gel
    • Jelly Belly 20 flavor box
    • Wrigleys “Elixir” gum, 3-pack
    • No Fear “Bloodshot” energy drink
    • Personalized business cards and holder (Cool idea, Gram!)
    • Crossword puzzle book
    • Tantrix puzzle
    • Colored erasers and paper clips
    • Glo Beez toy
    • Mentos
    • Magnetic bookmark
    • Hershey Kisses
    • Mini Twix Bars (I required a tithe of these)
    • Axe shampoo/conditioner and deodorant
    • Giant light-up color-changing bouncy ball
    • Turkey jerkey
    • Black LA Boxing beanie
  • The Plugged-In Prayer, with Food

    The Plugged-In Prayer, with Food

    During the Christmas holidays during the year the First was four, our electricity had been out for a good part of the week due to a freak NC snowstorm. Because of the timing, it made a pretty big impact on the First. Shortly after the drama had subsided, we once again made his favorite comfort food — using electricity — over which he said this prayer. He was elated to have things back to normal. (I can’t imagine why the Altoids made it into the prayer, though.)

    Thank you God for Altoids and the lights that are on, the electricity that came back on a few days ago, and for that red stuff. Also for mangos, and what’s that stuff? Macaroni and cheese. Amen.

    “Now,” he announced to the two of us, “Let’s sing ‘Kookaburra!’”

    Image by willapalens

  • The First as Gum

    The First as Gum

    Tis the season, I suppose.

    doublemintgumOur new girlfriend (er, the First’s girlfriend, technically) gave him this lovely and stylish hoodie for Christmas and I like it a lot. However, he was told at school today that he made people want a stick of gum.

    I kinda like that, as part of his personal brand. So long as there aren’t TWO of him.

  • Superlative Slang Slam

    The First: It’s the middle of December and it’s dead warm.
    Me: It’s mad dead warm.
    The Husband: It’s mad dead G* warm.
    Me: It’s mad dead G beast crazy sick warm.

    (prolonged stunned silence)

    Me: Go on with my bad self!
    The First: Don’t ever. Do that again.

    *for the uninitiated, “G” is short for gangsta, which sadly, means cool. Now you’re sorry you read this, aren’t you?