(Quote from Shaye to Mac as I madly type away on my
computer)
On my last two trips to Las Vegas I’ve been lucky (!?)
enough to experience an odd pop culture experience: the Live overpaid DJ. A couple of years ago we saw Dillon Francis
and more recently, I didn’t make it to see Diplo, even though I waited
impatiently for almost two hours for him to start his “concert”.
I have been to many concerts: hard rock, pop, acoustic, and
jazz. I don’t mind paying for tickets to
these events, standing in line to get in, putting up with the opening acts
which can be great, or mediocre. When
the lead musicians get on stage, there is an exciting, well-planned,
musically sound, choreographed production that takes place. There are lights, video, smoke, and sometimes
fire. I am excited to see the talents of
many people come together to create a memorable and culturally impactful performance.
In a hastily planned trip to Vegas, there were no other
concerts around with the exception of someone named Diplo who would be the
featured DJ at a nightclub at the Wynn called Surrender. Even though I was less than impressed with my
earlier experience with Dillon Francis a couple of years earlier, I decided to
see what all the hype was about.
The best part of the story is that I am now mature (read: OLD) and
slightly smarter, and have enough money to dine at the restaurant next to the
club, which allows for VIP and free entry into the nightclub. I didn’t have to wait in line in my 4” heels
for over an hour to watch the amazing Diplo perform his show. Because I didn’t have to pay or wait, my
expectations were pretty low, but apparently
not low enough.
We all clamber around a small stage with what appears to be
a long podium of sorts with a series of computers and synthesizers with
multifarious buttons. There is a screen
behind the podium, and another screen about 50 Ft in front for those of us who
can’t get close to the stage. The
opening “act” stands there and pushes buttons, flips the volume dials with his
two first fingers and bounces around a bit behind the podium, alternately removing
and putting on his headphones.
Purpose? IDK. Occasionally he licks his fingers before
touching the buttons/dials. Better traction? On the big screens, random photos of dancing animated
pineapples and a strange cartoon mouse flit across. Interspersed with these bizarre and unrelated
images is the head of the infamous Diplo.
This goes on all night. The same
video over and over. Every 5-10 minutes
the opening DJ requests that we put our hands up and scream for Diplo. “Great,” I think to myself, “the show is
about to start!” These requests to
salute Diplo begin at about 11:45 pm. We
go to the bar and try to get some water because we don’t want to drink alcohol
this late in the evening. As it turns
out, in Vegas where there are virtually no rules for anything else, you aren’t
allowed to order “just” water. As we hold our extraneous drinks, we do a lap
and survey the crowd while waiting for Diplo to arrive. We try to talk over the thumping noises
created by the computer. Occasionally,
the DJ would actually play a song that had lyrics – for example from “The
Weekend” and I would get excited, but in less than 10 seconds they would mix it
with another digital sound. No more
weekend.
Why does this all seem so pointless? I look around for some clues as to my
increasing intolerance and distress.
Several things reveal themselves to me.
First, I am the only one NOT wearing a sausage dress or high-wasted
sausage skirt (I think the fashion term for this is a body-con dress). Second, my husband and I are exotic creatures
in this zoo. Not only because we are
fair skinned and haired, we are also twice the age of 99% of the people in da
club. Hmmm.
Again I am asked to raise my hands in the air and cheer for
Dicklo. WTF? Where is this douche bag Diplo anyway. What does he need so much time to prepare
for; he is going to push buttons and move volume dials. My daughter was adept at doing this at 2
years old. It’s not like he is Mick
Jagger who will be jumping around the stage and singing duets with the
talented and oddly healthy Keith Richards.
But all of these young millenials with too much foreign
money in their bank accounts, enjoying absurdly overpriced bottle service, are
still waiting patiently for this Dipstick to appear and perform his digital
symphonies. Have I mentioned that this
guy makes upwards of $400K per performance?
I don’t get it. These kids are
dancing to digitized noise; there is no singing, no instruments, and no
lyrics. There isn’t even a rhythm to
dance to, just a computerized cacophony with monotonous weird cartoon figures
and heads running across a screen. I
truly fear for this generation of over digitized twenty-somethings.
Finally, it is 1:30 AM.
Again, put your hands together
and scream for Diplo, Dipfuck, Dipshit!!!
He doesn’t appear.
I now understand the aptly named club. I SURRENDER. I wave the white flag of age and ignorance as
I part the crowd to exit this anti-climatic phenomenon and head to the high
thread count linens of my hotel boudoir.
This is what I missed: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1LNhHExuaIc
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