Not everyone can be Steve Aoki or Deadmau5. Someone has to DJ the weddings of strangers. From Vice:
Not every DJ has the luxury of a club residency. Not every DJ’s slept in every 4* hotel in the Western world. Not every DJ’s met at Heathrow by a sullen European holding a flimsy laminated bit of A4 with their name on it. For some, it’s a life of miles on the Mondeo, unheated Ginsters stuffed down in the driver’s seat and trying to get sullen teenagers to dance with soft-hipped elders. These are the unsung heroes who our nation’s small functions depend on. These are the quiet men of dance music. These are our mobile DJs.
The innate sadness of the mobile DJ, the man prepared to turn up to any function you ask him to with a crate of grandparent friendly floorfillers and his own mini light show, is enough to bring a man skidding to his knees to the sound of “Dancing Queen” echoing round a musty community centre in the Midlands.
What is it though, that makes them seem like such untouchably lonely figures? Is it the distanced role they play in the day/night’s proceedings that make us weep tears of sadness upon seeing them cue up “I’m in the Mood for Dancing” for the thirtieth time that week? Is it the on-mic exhortations to have a good time, bellowed in the clubhouses of small town football clubs that make us want to quietly pull the plug on their dry ice machine, buy them a few pints and let them get all the bitterness and regret out of their system? Perhaps it stems from the essential Zelig-like quality the profession lends its practitioner. They’re there in the back of the photos your mum gets out at Christmas of her wedding, your christening and your cousin’s 18th. But you don’t know them, probably didn’t communicate with them, didn’t acknowledge them as anything more than the bloke pumping smoke over pissed dads and swaying uncles.