I was at Dawn Clubhouse in Texas, and this was my fifth week there as a contracted DJ. To say that the turnout at the club had increased would be an understatement – it had accelerated was more like it.
It was 10.30 pm, and a lady in a flimsy bum short was shaking her ass in the face of a cackling man nearby while the remix of Sia’s Cheap Thrills was blasting through the gaudy clubhouse. The lyrics of the song was just the best thing at the moment. It was Friday night, and a lot of young people were hitting the dance floor and shaking their bodies to the beat. Some men hung around chatting with girls.
Seeing that the people were getting more in the groove, I played Justin Bieber’s Sorry and the crowd went even wilder, twisting, turning, stamping, jumping and every other kind of dance steps that you would only see at a clubhouse. I was quite up to date with the new tunes, and I knew exactly what the people wanted and how they wanted it.
The conditions that came with my job was that I had the tendency to be employed as the main DJ at the clubhouse with a whopping sum as salary if I was able to double the club’s patrons in just two months. Still shaking my head from the beat, I looked around and smiled at myself. The crowd has already been doubled in just five weeks.
Clubbing was serious business, and when I had assumed my position, I knew that the only way to get more people coming was to give the few patrons the best time ever and it worked. The crowd at the club was getting heavier by the passing minute as several people kept trooping in.
One of the characteristics of an efficient DJ was the ability to read the pulse of the crowd correctly all through the night and spinning out tracks accordingly. The only point of business for clubhouses was through its bar sales, and I realized that about 90% of the patrons were on the dance floor, shaking their bodies to the rhythm. This means that they were too busy dancing to the good music to drink. To remedy the situation, I played a much slower tune, and Wiz Khalifa’s I’m on.
Being slower than the other mixes that I had been dropping for a while, some of the dancers soon started heading for the bar to get a few drinks. By the time I played another song, less than twenty percent of the people were still on the dance floor. During this time, sales raked in at the bar. The bartender, a handsome Spaniard gave me a thumbs up which I also returned. I loved working as a team with everyone. This way, my job would be easier.
Having studied the patron of the club over a period and noticed that their taste in music is diversified, I played Wizkid ft. Drake and Skepta’s Ojuelegba and in that instant, people returned to the dance floor while others that stayed at the bar swayed to the music. Playing the right tracks at the clubhouse was a very important thing, and it was the one thing that would endear the crowd more to myself and the clubhouse as a whole. This meant that the success of the clubhouse rested on me more than anyone else.
As usual, I picked up my phone and made a minute recording of the crowd getting wild on the dance floor, the lighting effect was great, and it looked good on my phone. I uploaded it on my Instagram and Twitter page and told my followers just how much fun we were having at the club. I had long realized that as a DJ, I was not only a DJ but also a PR.
Having a reasonable amount of followers, they started commenting, and about a dozen of them said that they would be at the club in a jiffy. There were hundreds of clubhouses in Texas, and my work was to make sure that the one where I worked had a competitive edge over the other clubs.
“Hi, handsome,” I managed to hear over the noise, and I looked glanced up.
Right in front of my booth was a sexy young lady dressed in a black leather mini skirt and jacket. She was batting her lashes flirtatiously at me while twisting and turning to the music.
“The music is really dope!” she shouted again so I could hear.
I nodded and smiled at her. I didn’t like dealing with people or being interrupted while I was spinning as it sometimes hinders or stops the flow.
“You can talk, right?” she shouted again, peeling the jacket off to reveal a piece of clothing that was even flimsier than a bra. She winked at me and pointed at the cleavage.
This time, I decided to put her in her place.
“You can see, right? Because if you can, you will see that I’m at work!”
That seemed to do it as she gave me a scolding look and went off. That didn’t surprise me, I got at least five advances every night at the club from both men and women, but I had long since had the policy of not mixing business with pleasure.
“I want to make a request,” a gruff voice said, and I looked up to see an overgrown kid dressed in big tracksuit bottoms and jacket.
“Sorry! I don’t take requests,” I replied as politely as I could.
“But, this is a club, isn’t it?” he shrugged, trying to look cool.
“Seems like a church to me,” I said, seriously.
“Whatever, man! I have the right to demand whatever song I want to hear,” he said.
“Let me break it down for you if you don’t understand, and I can’t take your request because I can’t satisfy you at the expense of hundreds of other people. Now, sod off, will you?”
He showed me the finger and walked off grudgingly.