an open letter

Dear DJ worshipper,

It’s a cliché but it’s true, clubbing is an escape from our often boring everyday lives, and the last thing we should be doing is going from staring at a computer screen in the office all day to going out and staring at a DJ all night (I mean, are they really that good looking?). Is popping that extra modafinil to stop you blinking worth it just to make sure you don’t miss the DJ slightly twitching the EQ knobs? Aren’t you going to regret missing the hilarious sight of your best friend cracking out the worm during a minimalist techno set because you’re too busy making sure your incredibly original snapchat story of DJ Nobodyhasevenheardofme is broadcast to the ten people who’ll bother to watch it?

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One would think the cult of the DJ was avoided in the dark, dingy, visually devoid warehouses we’ve grown to love. We all know what a mixer looks like, and unless there’s some incredibly impressive lighting and visuals behind the booth or the DJ’s wearing a neon morph suit surely there’s more interesting alternatives to staring in the same direction all night. We’ve been wired to get irritated if somebody tall stands in front of us and blocks our connection with the DJ, programmed to give the guy a shove and an “oi mate do you mind?”, but our connection should be with the crowd around us instead, sharing the joy of the music together and getting so lost in it that we almost forget that the music doesn’t mix by itself. By all means give the DJ your respects, or ask what the name is of the banger they’ve just dropped, but don’t be that fan girl/ boy staring in awe like you’re at a One Direction concert.

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It may not be in our human nature to make eye contact with people when busting shapes, and I for one easily get embarrassed by my general lack of coordination and sweatiness, but if we can’t all share in releasing our most ridiculous moves in a club, where can we? Can’t we return to a time where our funniest and most vivid memory of a night out is when Sarah/ John/ Paul lost their shit when DJ Bitchface randomly dropped

in the middle of an acid house set rather than coming home with only a vague memory that the DJ may or may not have smiled at us?

By Laura Hely Hutchinson