Being a DJ is a bit of a mixed blessing. On the upside you can charge laughter-inducing amounts of money for playing your favourite records. On the downside you have to spend inordinate amounts of time in clubs, full of people you don’t really like, frittering your life away when you could be doing something infinitely more constructive (in the category of ‘more constructive than clubbing’ I’d include masturbating over internet pornography, or crying yourself to sleep.) The other main downside is that being a DJ slowly, inevitably turns you deaf. Yup, deaf.
Most Sunday mornings (and Friday and Saturday mornings for that matter) I wake up with a high-pitched buzzing in my ear. I’ve been told that this buzz is the last time you’ll ever hear the frequency in question, a bit like your inner-ear giving you a final kick in the face before a little bit of it dies. It’s a good story, but this aural swan-song story sounds a little too romantic to be real. What is definitely true is that waking up with buzzing ears means you’ve damaged your hearing. It’s one of the reasons why I’ve obsessively started wearing earplugs.
I’ve genuinely become fixated. I’ve started warning of the dangers of loud music like a boring uncle. For a while I used to carry spare pairs of ear-plugs, and would give them out to friends like a Jehovah Witness giving out free copies of The Watchtower. A pivotal moment in my ear obsession was when a DJ friend got Tinnitus. Tinnitus is when you hear a high-pitched buzzing in an ear, caused by exposure to loud noise. It’s a bit like that horrible morning after buzz, except 1) it’s incurable 2) you have it for the rest of your life, and 3) it can literally drive you insane. The noise is so infuriating that you can’t sleep. My friend was sent to a psychologist to learn Jedi-mind techniques to mentally disassociate himself from the sound. It was this tinnitus story that persuaded me to spend an obscene E170 on a pair of earplugs.
I know, I know: boasting about how much you spent on anything is about as dignified as public exposure, but bear with me – this detail has narrative relevance. The logic that led me to spend so much on a pair of plugs was admittedly a little flawed. I kept on loosing my E20 earplugs, and thought “maybe if I get a really expensive pair, I’d take better care of them.” It’s a bit like deciding to get married because you’re unable to sustain interest in a long-term relationship. Anyway, after having silicone injected into both ears in Germany, and waiting two weeks for them to be delivered, I now have the best pair of earplugs money can buy. The main advantage of this is that I shouldn’t go deaf by 30.
The big downside is that for the first time in my life, I can now actually hear what people are saying to me in clubs. Previously, I’d responded to every question with a moronic grin and nodded my hear like one of those dogs people put in the back of their car. Now I can actually hear people, and it’s terrible: I have to listen to the most inane barrage of drivel imaginable. I’ve actually started taking out my earplugs just to pretend to people that I can’t hear what they’re saying, so infuriated am I by all those laughably superficial conversations. Sod DJing – I think I’m going to give it up and become a professional connoisseur of internet porn. Expect a column next month on blindness.
Album of the Month: Hot Chip – Made in the Dark. If Hot Chip were a writer, they’d be Dave Eggers. Hot Chip are geeks, and proud of it. Made in the Dark is packed full of crunchy alt-dance anthems, though for me it’s their heartfelt balladry that really hits the spot.
Billy Bragg – Mr Love and Justice. If Billy Bragg were a writer, he’d be Noam Chomsky. He writes songs about the injustices of capitalism, the Iraq war and international socialism. Anyone who has actually lived under communism might find his politics a little grating, but if you’re a naïve and idealistic lefty who grew up in a rich capitalist country (i.e., me) then you’ll absolutely love his new album.
Duffy – Rockferry. If Duffy were a writer, she’d be Colin MacInnes. Her 60s-soul infused debut wins extra points for being produced by Suede guitarist Bernard Butler. Anyone writing about her in the press is contractually obliged to include the words ‘Amy’, ‘New’, ‘The’, and ‘Winehouse’.
Carl Craig – Sessions: If Carl Craig (or C2, as all the cool kids call him) were a writer, he’d be Philip K. Dick. For the first 20 years of my life I was convinced that dance music was for morons in fluffy bras and glow-sticks, and Carl Craig was one of the producers who convinced me otherwise. This collection of remixes and own productions showcase C2’s chrome-shiny paeans to the future.
Brahms: Violin Concerto/ Joachim: Violin Concerto No 2, Tetzlaff/ Danish National Symphony Orch/ Dausgaard: There’s only one thing worse than shamelessly peppering a music review section with literary references in a desperate bit to lend an air of intellectuality to your column, and that’s including a review of a classical LP that you’ve never even listened to. Tom Wilson, you are a worthless shit.