Some informative
Web sites on turntablism include: wicked-styles.com;
turntablism.com;
and scratchdj.com.
Aspiring ladies curious about sister DJs can start at djdazy.com,
the site of house-music DJ (and former Portlander) Dazy.
Failure sucks.
But when you get paid to know your way through the pop-culture
maze--deluding yourself (as all music journalists do) about
your own instrumental skills--being shown your limitations
sucks doubly. Yes, I think that's my hat on the table in
front of me, and I'm gonna have to eat it.
Let me rewind a bit.
During my weekly calendar editing duties, I'd observed
that DJs were proliferating like Catholics on Viagra. When
I pointed this out to my wily editrix, Caryn Brooks, she
decided it would be fun if I learned how to spin and wrote
about the experience.
I quickly--too quickly, perhaps--agreed. Of course, thanks
to an inherent rock-star-wannabe personality, I wouldn't
settle for becoming some wack record jockey who just slapped
down a few platters and let 'em rip. Nope, I had to be among
the DJ elite--turntablists. These def dogs not only juggle
beats, linking songs together seamlessly, they do it with
mucho style and a macho swagger. I'd seen a video of Q-Bert
from the Invisibl Skratch Picklz--the Jimi Hendrix of the
hip-hop world--and dreamed of the day I'd wow the ladies
with my deft scratch-scratch-scratchin' segues from Public
Enemy's Bomb Squad beats to DJ Shadow's ambient hip-hop
and P-Funk's party-starting groove.
Harsh Reality Check No. 1: I started my quest at
Portland's DJ Central: Platinum Records, the one-stop shop
for vinyl and equipment. Hiding quietly around the corner
from Saturday Market, bars in the window masking a few tastefully
displayed items, the store is so unassuming that one couldn't
guess exactly how much stuff is in there: The front room's
racks are crammed with records, ranging from the latest
European trance imports to used copies of the Pet Shop Boys,
circa 1985, while the larger space in the rear is a wall-to-wall
tech-head paradise of knobs, faders, buttons and lights.
Upon entering, I was instantly struck by a cold feeling
of dread: I have no idea what any of this is. Okay,
those are 12-inch techno singles, but who the hell are these
artists? The cavernous back room, with its selection of
mixers, disc players, samplers and turntables, made the
word "doohickey" come to mind. I thought I knew about musical
equipment from peering longingly through guitar-shop catalogs,
but this was an entirely different world. To say my feelings
of confidence sank is like describing The Titanic's
fate as a minor mishap.
Fortunately, the friendly Platinum staff metaphorically
took me by the hand and led me through the initial steps.
Since I was primarily interested in turntablism, they steered
me away from the "DJ in a box" kits, manufactured by old-school
companies such as Gemini and Numark, as well as new ones
like Next! These simple starter options, which include two
tables and a basic mixer for $300-$500, are fine for beat
matching, the most crucial of DJ abilities: If you can't
align the beats per minute (BPM) by using a pitch-adjust
dial or slowing the record down manually, you may as well
go home. Unfortunately, these beginner kits usually can't
handle intense scratching.
If you want to be the wicked scratch cat, the best plan
is to get a pair of Technics 1200 turntables, which are
to turntablists what Fender Strats are to Clapton addicts:
the original and still the best. Add a sturdy mixing board
from Gemini or Numark, and, for about $1,200 total, you've
got a solid combo that'll last for years and cost no more
than a decent six-string and Marshall half-stack. Once you've
mastered the basics and want to get really serious, then
you could opt for a pricy Vestax mixer with a smooth cross
fader specially designed for scratch champions.
Humbled by the schooling I'd just gotten, I stumbled into
the sunlight with a pad full of notes and some glossy catalogs.
Surfing the Net then led to instructions on the different
forms of scratching. (Silly me, I thought it was all improv,
like, "Yo, this is a dope rhythm. Check it out." Nope, these
moves have individual names, and each type is used for specific
tricks.) Downloading some selected examples also proved
that accurately describing a scratch in words is difficult,
if not impossible. However, some of the more popular ones
include:
The scribble: an easily recognized scratch that simply
involves a quick back-and-forth manual rotation of the record.
The chirp: uses the fader to make the recorded sound chirp
in and out of the mix.
The crab: a flashy scratch executed by snapping all four
fingers rapidly against the fader while providing opposition
with the thumb.
All right. Now I was surely ready to roll. I'd checked
the history. I was down with the lingo. I was set to get
the wheels of steel twisting under my command.
Harsh Reality Check No. 2: Since my home stereo
had a direct-drive turntable--a crucial distinction, since
the belt in belt-driven tables can slip during scratching--I
decided to fetch a few used records, get a slipmat and try
my hand at a few baby scratches (which don't require a fader).
First attempt: Needle skips. Recalibrate the tone arm so
there's more weight on the stylus.
Second attempt: Needle skips. Add a penny or two to the
cartridge.
Third attempt: Needle skips, and I'm outta rhythm with
the beat. After many tries, it became clear that turntabling
not only doesn't take less talent than playing a
"real instrument"--as many technophobic rock musicians would
have it--it almost takes more. Anyone can plunk a few notes
on a piano, or pick up a guitar and be strumming C chords
by the end of the day, but this turntablist thing takes
serious skills to even get started.
Being so pathetic, I was forced to do what many men dread
more than death by skinning--ask for help.
I called my friend DJ Mauby, who spins down at Tiger Bar
and actually started DJing by accident. After extended employ
at Everyday Music, he'd collected so many varied records
it would've been a crime not to let the public hear them.
(Contrary to popular opinion, an expert DJ can mix almost
anything together, not just hip-hop; Arizona's DJ Z-Trip,
for instance, is famous for his classic-rock sessions that
juggle PE with Zeppelin and Aerosmith.) Mauby sold his CDs,
bought some 1200s and started experimenting. At that time,
he wasn't even solid in beat matching--he just got the BPMs
close and faded one song into the next.
"It's like driving a stick shift," he told me. "The first
time you try, you think you'll never be able to get the
different limbs together. Then, after a while, you don't
even have to think about it anymore."
And, unlike me, he didn't give in to the egotistical desire
to be the maddest scratcher on block.
"Some guys think they gotta front and do all this crazy
acrobatic shit," he says. "That's fine, but the most important
thing is to just go out there and have fun."
And that's just it, I guess. Ignore any delusions of grandeur
and just let it flow. Start with the simple--take two of
the same record and practice mixing them together into a
simultaneous rhythm--and take it from there. Fronting's
for rock stars. And everyone knows that rock stars are the
wackest guys around.
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Willamette Week | originally
published April 21,
1999
|
