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EARLY THIS SEMESTER I had a cushy job at Max's Upstairs, spinning Madonna and Taylor Dayne 45s for the Abercrombie and visor crowd. This lasted until Max got fed up with my escalating bar tabs and insistence on Big Daddy Kane records, and unceremoniously fired my ass. Thus I found myself unemployed and broke, spinning at friends' parties and unenthusiastically contemplating the prospect of getting a real job. Luckily, at one such party I was a approached by a 6'5" gangster-looking dude named Creep who was rocking dreads, gold teeth and camouflage bandanna tied around his ankle. He was impressed by my selection of old KRS-One and De La Soul LPs, and asked me if I had a residency anywhere. Lying through my teeth, I told him I was mad busy spinning gigs all over Providence, but if he was interested he should give me a holler. I gave him one of the 1000 business cards that I had gotten made for $10 bucks at Kinkos and which I ordinarily reserve for frequent attempts to impress women. Unlike most of them, Creep actually called me, and told me that some friends of his who promoted Thursday nights at a place called Breakpoint were looking for a DJ with a good collection of hip hop who was willing to work for cheap. "I'll be dat," I said. And so it came to pass that I became the resident DJ on Thursday nights at the Breakpoint Café, a small club where the clientele consists mainly of thugs, fake thugs, Johnson & Wales freshman girls in tubetops and dangerously low cut jeans, men with tattoos on their necks, white kids with silver chains, and girls who know all the words to "Me So Horny." I felt like the entertainment value of this sociological mishmash was just too good to pass up, and so last Thursday night I kept notes on the evening's activities, to offer College Hill residents a look at how Providence gets down. 8:30 I'm sitting in my crib, drinking wine and bitching because my roommate Gretchen is making me watch Friends. I find Ross' baby to be hideously ugly. As the credits roll and I settle in to watch Scrubs, my cellphone rings. It's Creep-he wants to know if I bought the new Jay-Z album. "I looked for it everywhere," I tell him, "but it's not out on vinyl yet." This is actually true, since I did spend half the day going to various record stores in the Provy area searching for it. Since I couldn't find it, I bought the Beatnuts' new album instead, plus a white label version of the new Eminem anthem "Lose Yourself." No sooner do I put down the phone and settle back on my couch, then it rings again. This time its Jeremiah, the promoter, who reminds me that the sooner I get there, the sooner he can start charging people at the door, and could I please get off my ass and get motivated. Sighing wearily, I proceed to transport all my shit (turntables, mixer, headphones, mic, and two crates of records) into the trunk of my Honda and head off to "work." 8:50 It takes about 10 minutes to drive to Breakpoint, which is located on Chalkstone Avenue in the Smith Hill/Mt. Pleasant area. Or, as Creep told me the first time I went there: "Go to the Foxy and take a left." 9:20 Having gotten all my shit set up, I get myself a beer and proceed to ease into some slower instrumental joints. I figure it's early in the night, nobody's drunk yet, they're sitting around playing pool and sipping brews and seem ready for some old Jazz Crusaders records. Boy am I wrong. At 9:37 a buxom blonde chick who is close to spilling out of her black leotard-type thing requests Akinyele's classic "Put it in Your Mouth." I was planning on saving this joint until about 12:30, but she is adamant, and so I play it. Everybody in the rapidly filling place sings along. There's something about a room full of people singing "you can eaaaaaat me ouuuuuuuut" that I find profound in some weird way. 9:50 Disregarding leotard girl's request for Christina Aguilera, I play a bunch of Mobb Deep, Raekwon and 50 Cent thug anthems for all kids in Avirex jackets and fake medallions. 10:15 As I spin Peter Gunnz and Lord Tarik's "Déjà Vu (Uptown Baby)," two white girls who look to be in their mid-twenties come up to the DJ booth to request "Jenny from the Block." I tell them that sadly, I don't have it. Luckily my man Reuben is there to flirt with them and deflect the criticism. "J. Lo's wack," he says. "Yeah!" says one of the girls. "I don't know why she's with that corny Ben Affleck dude anyway. I know he ain't fuckin' her right." "She need to be back with Puffy," agrees the other one. "You know Puffy got that good dick." Reuben shoots me a look but I'm trying to block out as much of this conversation as possible. 10:30 At this point the place is packed. There is puke in the bathroom, a mob around the bar, and a seething mass of people getting down on the dance floor. I see one girl bent over with her hands on the bar while some dude is grinding with her. Another one tries to climb up on the bar to dance but can't squeeze through the crowd. It's chaos everywhere! And it's only 10:30! I love Providence! At this point, my roommate Spencer shows up with an amp I had asked him to bring in case the one at Breakpoint had problems. He's a quiet kid from Connecticut who goes to URI. He plays violin and he goes to bed early. He knows that every Thursday I go to work and come home drunk, but I don't think he really understands what it is that I do for a living. In any case, he's utterly unprepared for the scene that confronts him. By the time he fights his way to the back of the club where the DJ booth is, he has a stunned, kind of shell-shocked look on his face. After dropping off the amp, he stands by the DJ booth for a while, shaking his head with a half smile that's somewhere in between bewilderment and fascination. "This place is ridiculous," he says, before leaving through the back door. 11:15 I decide it's time to play "Rapper's Delight." At a length of about nine minutes, I figure this will give me ample time to guzzle a Long Island and smoke a cigarette. 11:30 Realizing that I need more time to drink another Long Island and smoke another cigarette, I put Murph in charge of the music for a hot one and stumble off through the crowd in search of the VIP section, which is located next to the bar. VIP consists of three couches cordoned off from the rest of the club by a rope. Once there I find Creep, his boy Nate, and a couple of random girls with remarkable cleavage. Soon some shots arrive. We drink them. I smoke more cigarettes, try unsuccessfully to foist my business card off on some uninterested ladies, order another Long Island, and suddenly realize it's 12 and Reuben's music selection is becoming increasingly inconsistent. 12:10 Back in the DJ booth, now certifiably drunk, I decide its time to pull out my big guns. Digging through my crates, I find "Lose Yourself," put it on, and watch the crowd erupt in a mosh-pit-like frenzy. Next comes MOP's "Ante Up," then Juvenile's "Back that Ass Up." Outside the booth it's wall-to-wall chaos. Girls shaking. Dudes grabbing their asses. Everyone drunk as shit, singing along. "Girl you look good won't cha back that ass up!" I sit back and admire the ruckus that I've caused with my musical selection. 12:30 The lights go on, and things start to wind down. Everyone gets a good look at the person they were dancing with. Usually this causes people to clear out pretty quickly, and I slow the music down accordingly. 50 Cent's "Get Out the Club Bitch" is followed by Mobb Deep's "Party Over." The barbacks and bussers start to fan out over the club, sweeping the floor and wiping down the tables. The bartenders start to close down people's tabs and count their tips. I'm feeling something in between relief and melancholy. Yeah, it's good that I'm done with work, and I get to go home to the comfort of the East Side and find a party where I know everyone. But I can't help imagining all the grimy speakeasies and strip clubs and other types of fun activities that all the people from Breakpoint are probably getting into, and I can't help but feel a little jealous. Though its de rigeur for us to make fun of the Provy nightlife, there's something about it that's appealing and refreshing. Even if all the medallions are fake and everyone likes J. Lo. 12:50 By now there are only a few people left in the club, still grinding away despite the lights and slow jams. I'm faded. Jeremiah comes over and presses a crumpled stack of twenties into my hand. $100 bucks-they must have done well at the door tonight. One of the bouncers comes by and tells me that I'm down to my last song. This is always a dilemma-what to end with, how to capture the spirit of the evening, to sum it up in one song. It takes me only a minute to come to a decision. With a smile, I dig through the crates for "Put it in Your Mouth." Sam Slaughter B'03 really likes rap music and Dale Earnhardt Jr. |
copyright © 2002, The College
Hill Independent
last updated 11 22 02
Lindsay Ryan sinks deep into Providence's own