'Can you play something betterer?'

Loca was the busiest it's ever been on Thursday. From 8pm, it was standing room only, and every nook and cranny was filled with people. Which ordinarily, would have been perfect. In the year I've been there, Loca has always had a great vibe, and quickly built up a reputation as one of the best bars and restaurants in the city, and I love my Thursday nights there.

Sadly, it was so busy that a group of 30 teachers were press-ganged into the DJ corner, and for 5 exceedingly painful hours, constantly let me know about it.

It began when one of the Arabic teachers in the party told me - not asked, told me - I should be playing Arabic music. When you're in a Mexican restaurant. And I'm a white guy currently playing New Orleans funk and soul which is going down very-nicely-indeed-thank-you-very-much. That didn't stop the muppet asking a further 3 times however, each one accompanied by an imploring arm swung round to presumably imply that no one was enjoying my music when people where actually quite happily getting down.

That was nothing compared to the agony inflicted by the drunk, cackling, middle-aged pack of teacher hyenas who pounced on every track I played. I can't replay the whole night (more for fear that I might end up curled up naked in the shower rocking myself from side to side as I re-live the memory) so here are a few excerpts...

Woman: 'Can you play something betterer' - that's not better, but betterer.

Woman: 'Can you play something we can dance to/Can you play something I know/Can you play something faster' - all of which were met with a confused/disdainful/please-god-let-this-end-soon look from me. 

Woman: 'I was born in the 70s (that's a lie, but moving on) - can you play something I know.' So I drop some Fleetwood Mac and some Rolling Stones.
Woman: 'I did ask you for some 70s music, are you going to play any or what?'
Erm...

Woman: 'Is this what the venue have told you to play - why don't you play something we can dance to and that we know.'
Me: 'We don't really play commercial, radio music.'
Woman: 'Why not, it's better than this shite.'
Me: 'That's quite rude.'
Woman: 'Play some Usher or some Pitbull.'
Me: 'No.'
Woman: 'You're the worst DJ in the world, I've never met anyone so rude. I don't understand why you won't play what all the other bars are playing.'
Me: (While turning the music up) 'Well fuck off to one of those bars then.'

Woman: 'Why were you laughing and talking to that person who just made a request.'
Me: 'Erm, what?'
Woman: 'You've been nothing but rude to me, why won't you take my request?'
Me: 'Well, that was one of my friends who I haven't seen for a few months. She's nice, friendly and doesn't bust my balls about the rather excellent choice of music I've been playing. You however are a pissed twat who's had one margarita too many, and are now being a bolshy, musical moron trying to push your weight around.' Except you can't say that to people, so I just put my headphones on and dropped some more 'shite.' 

What total twats like that fail to appreciate is that a) I have the other 300 people to cater to (of which a lot of people regularly come up and say how much they liked the music) b) I have to be consistent with what we've been doing at the venue for the last year (and that's playing funk, soul, disco and rock and roll, and judging by how busy we are, are doing it rather well) and c) when else would you be so down-right rude, condescending and petulant to another human being and think that it's perfectly normal behaviour?

You're a punter, a consumer. We play different music, it's our niche, our calling card and judging by how busy it is and how many repeat customers we get, a very succesful one. Vote with your feet and go to Chi/Rock Bottom/anywherefuckingelse instead of giving me a hard time for 5 long hours.

But they didn't. They stayed in my DJ corner from 8pm until a very drunk 1.15am. When the music was so bad that they presumably went home and ripped off their ears so they could never endure the pain again. A whole 5 hours and 15 minutes of hell, or 315 minutes of unadulterated musical perjury for both them and me.

So this blog post is dedicated to them. As is the this song that I played when they were walking out, accompanied by a few backward looks over their shoulders, before they plummeted over an unseen step and ended up on a drunken heap on the ground.