I am sorry to admit that the following is a true story.
I left my parents house three whole hours early to be sure to make it to my gig in the city on time. There is a lot of press riding on this thing and I hate being late. The drive is only an hour and ten minutes usually, but I wanted to be able to have ample time to set up my equipment and change into my borrowed lingerie. It’s a lingerie themed party and I am the only female DJ on the bill, therefor I must really make an impression. I know the little mesh leopard print bra, black panties, and latex thigh-highs will really make a statement on the stage. The other DJs are big deal names that I had only ever come across on soundcloud, or while reading their praise on music blogs. This is a big chance for me. I don’t want to fuck it up.
I end up hitting the worst traffic jam, perhaps of all time, trying to make my way through the Holland Tunnel. I’m fighting an anxiety attack as the clock reads nearer and nearer to 8pm which is the time I was told to arrive. Luckily I find a parking spot and make it into the door of the place a 7:59. I had never been to the venue before and when I walk in there is simply an elevator. I rush into the elevator car and explain the the man running it, that I was one of the DJs for the night. He took me up to the rooftop and ushered me over to the DJ both. I breathe a sigh of relief.
It’s the middle of summer, and the sky is still quite bright at this time. I notice a couple of groups of people lounging around, mainly in business casual attire, which I think is strange, due to the highly promoted nature of this lingerie party. I don’t really have time to think too much about it as I hook up the turntables and through on a laid-back Notorious BIG mix to start up. A woman even brings me over a glass of water and then I realize that I hadn’t yet changed into my lingerie. Since I grew up working in fashion, I am quite skilled at getting changed in public. I survey the DJ booth situation and come to the conclusion that I could easily change right where I stand without too much notice. I throw on an XXYYXX track and pull on my thigh-highs, step into my bra and pull it up underneath my dress, which I then promptly remove. Success! I finish changing in time to gracefully mix in the next track.
Now that I am officially all ready I have a moment to look around and read the crowd. The women are glaring at me and I swear the men are laughing and trying not to look.I’m quite used to a shady reactions but something feels a bit off. I start to wonder where the rest of the people involved in the party are. My phone rings. It’s the guy who got me the gig, he’s asking where I am. I explain to him not to worry I am already all set up and DJing at the terrace. He replies “no your not” and then up walks a sound guy, explaining to me “I think your in the wrong place”. I ask him if this is the Hudson Terrace and he says that it is in fact but he believes I belong a floor down from where I stand.
At this point I don’t really have time to entertain the ideas of embarrassment and these people are already laughing at me, so I unhook all my gear, pack it up, and walk it through the party, in my underwear. At this point I am just thankful that I decided against putting the ball gag around my neck that I had packed in my bag as an element of humor. I make it downstairs to find out my set actually doesn’t start for another hour, I ask for a whiskey, and tell people the story which they all respond to with great laughter. Later on in the night, after my set was finished and I was having a celebratory drink outside the same sound guy from earlier, walks up to me. He’s laughing and say’s “I had to tell you, that party upstairs was somebody’s wedding rehearsal.”
Photo by Ryan Slack.
