Mix Master Mike

I have been jobless for about three months now, the result of the struggling "Los Angeles Music Business." Therefore, I surf the Internet constantly in search of a job. When the hunt gets boring, I tend to delve into other sites consisting of more exciting content. One such site is www.grandroyal.com, home to Grand Royal Records, as well as Chico alum Marty James and his band, Scapegoat Wax. While on the site, I noticed that Mix Master Mike, Beastie Boy DJ extraordinaire, would be playing an intimate set at Club Lush, a small, yet effective joint down near the beach: Visa card out, numbers punched in, tickets bought.

Thursday night came fast and brought tons of excitement with it. My girlfriend and I arrived at the venue nice and early, only to find a line outside of the club. Good thing I bought my tickets online, as they were sold out by the time the show came around. The venue was something else. We walked in and received our bracelets, insuring us ‘ins and outs’ in case we needed a little puff break. The club is about the size of Riley’s Bar, but obviously packed with much hotter women than the sorority alcoholics most of you are used to.

Drinks are expensive in Los Angeles bars and it’s not easy to get drunk when money is weighing so heavily upon your shoulders. I kept the beer intake to a minimum while I listened to Mix Master Mike’s so-called "Special Guests" spin. I did not recognize any of them, and I would go so far as to say they had to be the worst turntablists I had ever seen. In fact, they weren’t even turntablists. One guy was trying to fade in and mix some reggae cuts that just weren’t happening. He might as well have been playing CDs — it would have sounded better. Up next was a female DJ (none of them were introduced by name) who, despite her boring-as-a-box-of-rocks nature was all right.

Finally, it was time to see what I had been waiting for since 8 PM. Mike took the stage and was greeted with roaring applause. The ritual was on: he took off his T-shirt, exposing his Jason Williams Sacramento Kings jersey and phat gold chain; needles were put into place and tables started turning. We weaseled our way up to the front, two feet away from the tables, the way it should be.

Mike went off, while the crowd, made up of mostly twenty-something white kids, participated with a bunch of synchronized "ooohs" and "aaaaaahhhs" as Mike cut through a crate of about 150 records in a 45-minute set. I was able to see every piece of wax he pulled out, from New Edition to some Beastie Boys shit I had never heard.

Now, I am no turntable wizard and I wouldn’t be able to tell a "crab-scratch" from another, but fuck, I was blown away. I think I stood in the same exact position with my mouth dropped open for a good five minutes straight before I finally snapped out of it. When it was all said and done, everyone seemed pleased. Even Mike’s girlfriend, who doubled as his tour manager — fetching him towels, water and a flashlight to illuminate his tables — seemed intrigued. If Mike is ever in town again, and I know he’s played Chico before, do yourself a favor and go. Just make sure it’s a small venue so you can watch his hands work.

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