The Essential Disc Jockey

By Stephen C. Hill

The Essential Disc Jockey is a valuable guide to understanding what it is like to work as a Disc Jockey in a club or for parties.
The Author explains to the reader the "Do's and Don't's" of working as a Disc jockey and gives pointers on becoming a popular Disc Jockey.
The Essential Disc Jockey will supply insight, wisdom and knowledge to the beginner DJ and even a seasoned professional.
Becoming a successful DJ is a craft and being a jock is more than just spinning tunes.
The Author,Stephen C Hill has more than 40 years as a professional Disc Jockey.
The Author has also written, "Keep Em Dancin", Secrets of the Dance Floor.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Stephen C. Hill
• Release date: Dec 12, 2012
• ISBN: 9781301245963

Stephen C. Hill

Born in Atlanta, Georgia. Graduate of Georgia State University. Divorced. Lives in Sarasota, Florida.

Book preview

Prologue

My name is William Bill Hendricks.

My stage name is Wild Bill!

I am a professional disc jockey, who has traveled throughout the Eastern United States performing for school dances, night clubs, weddings, conventions and large scale events.

I have more than 30 years of experience mixing music for dancing.

Between Disc Jockey engagements, I often take a side job, such as driving deliveries.

My life has been a series of ‘ups and downs’ and currently my life is in a down cycle.

I am aging out of the music scene and needed a good paying Disc Jockey job.

I have accepted a job in a night club to work full time, in Metairie, Louisiana.

I have rented room by the week and have settled into a daily routine.

I need an extra job and have gotten a phone call from an ad I placed on Craigslist.

Chapter One

I’m looking for a driver, the woman on the other end of the line said.

Thinking I can do this, I said I’d meet, for an appointment.

We set the time for 3:00 pm the next day and my mind started racing.

I’ve got a job interview.

What do I wear?

I know I need to shave and, oh, what shoes do I wear?

The reason for the frenzy is my lack of work.

My bank account crashed along with the market during the economic downturn of the early 2000’s.

I had invested heavily in real estate with my music earnings.

I literally lost everything I owned.

I used to own all the clothes, the suits, the dress shirts, shoes and the accoutrements.

I always possessed good manners, but now, I had to scramble to look professional.

I sold whatever possessions I had in order to eat.

So I threw together my get-a job upscale look sharp wardrobe.

I had a plaid yellow shirt, a stained white shirt, and grey shirt, two pairs of pants, which were given to me by a fellow, who wanted me to work in the insurance business.

The clothes I was given included some navy blue pants that fit, my pasta enlarged beltline.

Pasta works for those who have very little money.

So I had a shirt and a pair of pants.

The man I worked for as his helper in the insurance business was quite generous.

Those clothes which didn’t fit, I sold to a consignment shop.

I got $3 for the extra shirts and $4.00 for the pants.

When you need money to eat, any object or bodily fluid can be sold.

Prostitution crossed my mind but, a balding 50 year old is not considered HOT in any circles.

Thinking of being a gigolo to women, I asked myself, who am I kidding?

Or I could make money, if I allowed gay men to give me blow jobs or the reverse.

And that was a no brainer.

I thought of other options but, I wasn’t interested in facing jail time.

I need this job, if only, as a part time gig.

Parsing together my interview outfit, the sound of my new job employer‘s voice began to ring in my head.

I had heard music in the background, when she paused to give me my appointment time.

She has a sweet southern drawl.

For some reason, I felt she needed a driver to take her shopping and to the grocery.

Not a difficult job.

I wonder if she might want me to do some chores?

Ah, there are my dress shoes.

Better try them on.

Oh good, I have a pair of slick silk socks.

Whenever I wear these socks, I remember my days in college playing in bands with black musicians.

Those good old days were long gone but, I still held on to the socks.

Those Black entertainers were always well dressed on stage but, such a mess when the show was over.

And they had these silk socks that matched the color of their outfits.

Every color and pattern you can imagine.

For some reason, I liked silk socks.

I learned quite a lot working with Black musicians.

I also learned how to play bass guitar chord changes for soul music (funk).

I learned about drinking during a performance and was introduced to herb(marijuana).

They taught me about the Black culture and about women.

I was a white bass guitar player, during the sixties.

I made some good friends with those Black musicians.

Those men as a group would all say, All women are the same.

It's just some are more crazy than others.

Those musicians taught me a different perspective about women, which was dissimilar to my white upbringing.

Their advice was more direct in dealing with spoiled or fancy women, as they called them.

My band buddies told me, if she becomes too bossy, rude, and disrespectful or embarrasses you in public; just walk away.

There are plenty of women on the planet and you don’t have to endure misery.

Or, if she repeatedly loses her head, mistreats you or constantly nags you over things that are of little consequence, pack your things.

They also said, Let a woman be herself.

If she wants children, then share the responsibility of taking care of the kids and picking out the furniture.

Let her pick out the place where you live and support whatever she wants to do, to make life good for the both of you.

Cherish her and don’t embarrass her,

Treat her like Queen and you’ll be her King, for a very long time, they added!

Everyone got a laugh, for some reason, from the last statement.

But, they warned, don’t allow her to cross the line and think, she is the final decision maker.

Of course, that was how it used to be, I said to myself.

I think women feel more empowered and aggressive, in today’s world

Man-oh-man, times have really changed, shaking my head.

I clicked back from daydreaming and focused on my task at hand.

If you don’t have something and you don’t have any money to buy something, then the choice is simple.

Make what you have work for you.

Trying to be something you are not, will soon be exposed.

I have learned that you make your first and lasting impression in the first 30 seconds of meeting someone new.

I felt good, about getting this job and I can use the money.

I hope she'll see through my indigent looking clothes and shoes and give me a job.

Chapter Two

Getting into gear and making an appointment on time can be a difficult task.

Moving into a new situation and not knowing all the stipulations or requirements is difficult.

The simplest misinterpretation or interruption can throw off my entire plan.

I really want to make a good impression!

‘Do it right the first time’ is a quote, I have always remembered.

In my case, being on time is the best way to start off on the right foot.

My obsessive compulsive personality drives me to be on time.

I do my job and expect for you to be responsible in meeting your agreements.

Not always the way work gets done but, I like to make an effort.

Inwardly, I laugh at myself for gettin' dreamy again.

Her voice and the phone call about the job, made me wonder.

Who is this person, who needs someone to drive for her?

It was a Craigslist ad and I'm not certain, whether it's a personal driver or a company driver?

Ok, let’s play Sherlock Holmes!

I’ve got the address, so I’ll crank up my iPad and check the map.

That’s not good! The address is on the other side of town in a commercial area.

Not a residential neighborhood.

Will my old beat up, always breaking down, Buick make the trip?

The condition of my car always bothers me.

However, I refuse to pay an outrageous interest rate (28%) in order to buy a better car.

My financial hardships opened my eyes to the division between the classes.

If you are poor, expect to have to pay more to exist.

And people wonder, why we have crime?

Yet, you have to make do with what you have to do, to carry on.

The address is in a commercial area?

The address says The Chicken Kitchen is on the main artery named Metairie Ave., next to a Walgreens drugstore.

Oh good, a restaurant that serves chicken.

I love good fried chicken.

They need a delivery driver, oh this is good!

Nothing I haven’t done before, doing deliveries, nothing special!

I can do this!

Chapter Three

I eased my car into a parking lot space, across the street from the address.

I can easily see the front door.

The Chicken Kitchen, looks like a normal everyday business.

It property could be on any main street, of any small city in America.

It has an internet café and they take Visa, Master Charge and American Express.

There are about thirty parking spaces in a lot, next to the building.

Someone with a brown package is coming out of the side door.

Must be a delivery order!

Maybe business is so good, they need a second driver.

I can make tips off the deliveries and be able to eat every day.

This could be the job to get me back into the swing of things.

Living in a rented room for $100 a week, on the road, is as inexpensive as it gets.

I did my share of sleeping on friends' couches and in their spare bedrooms.

I recalled my stays in the finest Hotels and resorts in the country, as a traveling Disc Jockey.

From the High Life to the NO Life!

Maybe my run of bad luck has ended?

And I am tired of eating pasta day after day.

It’s cheap but, better than nothing to eat

My unemployment check helps when I don't have a music gig and the driving business is slow.

Thank GOD I paid those taxes through the years.

My life has been extremely difficult.

I was well known in the radio/DJ business and had traveled throughout the US.

I also created a Musical booking agency for talent that did very well.

Four things happened to change my life!

I began to age out of doing live DJ shows for schools, which was my bread and butter.

A competitor, who had twenty agents to my three, outspent me and eventually took over my market area and stole my best talent, so I closed my talent agency,

I entered the Real Estate game and the real estate market crashed.

And the Coup de Gras was my second wife.

A folksy radio commercial comes on the radio and the announcer says;

At the "Chicken Kitchen, we can't be beat for our burgers.

We grill over real charcoal and use high quality meat!"

We also serve delicious, seafood sandwiches, Catfish, Crab cakes and Shrimp!

Nothing tastes better than their good ‘ol hot chili cheese fries.

The barbecue sauce is divine. We are open late and have an ATM!

We accept all major credit cards...Come party hardy at the Chicken Kitchen 550 Main Street next door to Walgreens.

We’re open late, seven days a week. If you can’t stop by, we deliver!"

And some crazy little theme song is playing underneath the announcer’s voice singing;

You’ll love Lickin’ our chicken, Lickin’ our chicken at the Chicken Kitchen!

I turned down the radio, just as a really hot young woman walked past my car.

She looked right at me with an expression on her face that said, how would you like to F^^k me?

She wasn’t extremely tall, except for the high heels, with a well proportioned body.

She had long dark hair to her shoulders.

Her look profiled a secretary or a professional woman, except her black skirt was a bit too tight.

Her purple blouse exposed her ample breasts.

Nice looking woman!

She continued walking and crossed the street, right to the front door of the Chicken Kitchen.

She stood at the door for a moment, looked at me again and all I could do was wave.

She turned and walked into the restaurant.

Must have been a local girl picking up lunch.

I would like to be able to deliver her chicken, personally.

I may be 50 years old, but I’m not dead!

I cranked the old Buick up and decided to check out the surrounding neighborhood.

I'm killing time, until my appointment tomorrow and talking out loud to myself.

It looks like the restaurant backs up to an industrial park and there are signs for a school nearby.

Good!

Plenty of little chicken eaters to deliver food to, when Mama doesn’t want to cook!

Got to be some apartments very close, I presume.

Real estate developers know about the location of schools, shopping centers and amenities, before most folks.

I continue driving and discover a shopping mall about three miles away from my new driving job.

I only came to this town to work as a DJ in a club.

When I got arrived and talked with the owner, the club owner had decided to remodel.

He said it would be 3-4 weeks before we could start work.

Chapter Four

So how do you kill time in a small town in Louisiana?

You get a part time job and become a tourist to pass the time.

You watch TV, listen to Talk radio or play video games.

You visit the local library.

You read, listen to music or go for walks or fishing.

To keep your mind busy, you visit the local historical sites or museums.

Drinking in bars gets old and sometimes dangerous!

I've always worked a second job to keep boredom from setting in.

I’ve worked in factories, driven school buses, herded cattle, and trained horses.

Cut wood, hammered nails, pruned trees, cleaned a machine shop, and a tire warehouse worker.

I had driven all kinds of big delivery vehicles.

Pretty much, I am a Jack-of-all-trades.

I'll work for whoever will hire me and pay me.

It's the life of a moderately talented, older, traveling Disc Jockey.

When you are in a small town, you might as well have a target painted on your face and your car.

The police, in this case, the local sheriff, will know every car in town.

I once had a police lieutenant tell me his officers knew every car in a resident population of 50,000.

I asked how?

He said, They cruise the local taverns and restaurants and run tag checks on every car they do not recognize.

I thought they just looked for speeders, thieves, drug users, drunks, or arrested people, who get emotionally get out-of-hand.

Wrong! He said, our job is to catch you, before you do something wrong!

Guess that is why the well known crooks always seem to be found in the bigger towns.

Lost in the crowd, Safety in numbers, so to speak, I said to myself.

I suppose the bad guys believe, if they don’t bother anybody, no one will care.

With all the new technology, why do people continue to commit crimes?

If you can't outrun the radio, how are you going to get lost, where no one can find you?

Now, I am living in a little town and I'll watch my P and Qs.

I have been known to enjoy a cocktail, so I need to be cautious.

Just hoping I can catch on at the, Chicken Kitchen.

I wonder if they serve beer or booze or both at the restaurant.

Ok, so much for the reconnaissance of my new temporary home, as I turn around and retrace my route.

I'm ready to crash for the night!

My appointment is tomorrow at three and I want to get this job.

Chapter Five

I love coffee!

Of all the worldly things I have to have, besides a shower, is coffee.

Gets me going every day and I love the smell and the taste.

I used to rent a room from a really sweet woman, during Bike Week in Daytona Beach, every February.

She would make the best coffee and the morning wood was always satisfied.

I met her in the bar where I was working and she liked me and I liked her, so we did the horizontal tango.

We were lovers during our yearly rendezvous for years.

She met someone and I haven’t spoken with her since our time together.

Funny to me, how the smell of something, like coffee, can trigger a pleasurable memory.

Chapter Six

Big day ahead!

Got all my clothes together, know where I have to be and I’m going to score this job.

Whenever you interview for a job, if possible, learn something about the company you are going to work for.

So I opened up my iPad tablet and went to the yellow pages and looked up the Chicken Kitchen again.

Within a couple of clicks, I was at their website and checked on their menu.

Plenty of red meat, chicken, fish, and chili cheese fries.

Catfish, clams, shrimp and that crazy little commercial came into my head again.

"You’ll love Lickin’ our chicken, Lickin’ our chicken at the Chicken Kitchen! Catchy but, so stupid!

Well, it is small town America.

Do they serve booze?

No, only beer!

Damn! I’ll have to find someplace that serves Southern Comfort!

The site had a few more tabs, so I clicked through.

Ok, started doing business in 1947 by a man named Bob Massey.

The restaurant was on Metairie Ave., the entire time but, had moved further up the main drag toward downtown.

The move pleased the local churches, according to a newspaper clip, I read.

Let’s see, open seven days a week, ATM Machine, Party rooms, and we deliver!

Place didn’t look that big.

When I get a chance I’ll explore the interior!

Maybe we could set up a mobile DJ show, until my other job starts?

Nothing like a party in a party room!

I closed the site and moved to read the news from my hometown Atlanta, Georgia.

I looked at the BILLBOARD music magazine site and a few others and the phone buzzed.

Hello, this is Bill!

I heard someone talking but, with mobile phones the audio quality can be treacherous at times.

Dropped calls are part of owning a mobile phone.

Can you speak up? I can’t hear you very well!

Oh, hey, how’s it going at the club?

Great, when do you think we will open, I ask the man who had hired me, over the phone?

Oh, about 5 weeks, glancing at my calendar.

Sounds good, I’m looking a working for the Chicken Kitchen, as a day time delivery driver for a few weeks.

Don’t know a thing about the place, I answered an ad!

I sat listening as the owner of the club, Victor Montenegro, told me some things that curled my ears.

Really, Video Poker for sex!

I’ve never ever heard of that before.

What, you get a full house and you get your rocks off?

Do you get anything extra, for a Royal Flush, I said jokingly?

He laughed and I joined him!

I listened in amazement, as he explained the operation of the Video Poker whore house.

"It’s not a whore house, he cautioned; it’s like a South of the border Bordello.

You can gamble the entire night, have sex and then, have breakfast in the morning.

You can have as many women as you want and no House money is involved.

The Bordello girls are available depending on how much money you pump into the machines!

The joint has a Federal gaming license, and he added you have to be vetted electronically to even enter the upstairs.

The Chicken Kitchen is a high class operation!"

The job and restaurant sounded interesting.

I'm not too certain about working for a whore house.

I remembered the words of the Black musicians.

Some women are crazier than others!

I said to him, well, I’m going to deliver chicken and dinners, I think?

I’m not really big enough or mean enough to be a pimp!

And I’m not going to jail for prostitution.

I could hear him laughing at my embarrassment.

No, I haven't met the owner.

No, I wouldn't know her, if she walked up and said Hello.

She sounded nice on the phone, I said.

Yes, her name was Belle Massey.

He was very complimentary of the owner, Belle Massey.

He said she was a good business woman and that she ran a tight ship.

She expected loyal and tight-lipped employees.

I was thinking to myself...yeah…especially if you have prostitutes working for you.

Prostitution is against the state law, except in Nevada.

I thanked him for the information and said I was looking forward to working as soon as possible,

Then, he asked if I had any experience working with prostitutes?

I chuckled and said my only experience was as a college freshman, at a place called Effie’s in Athens, Georgia.

It cost $10 bucks to get laid, I said.

I heard his belly laugh fill his empty night club.

I continued to tell him my story.

Effie’s was the place that had the proverbial Red door.

All the locals knew about the place and directed the young, green and horny male college students to the place.

The house or as the locals called it, the house of ill repute, was on a cul-de-sac and looked like any ordinary house.

Effie’s was nothing special and wasn’t fancy.

They catered to the young men at the college.

I was waxing poetic about my only experience with a prostitute.

At the same time, I felt a little odd about telling a future employer, about my first adventure with a prostitute.

I paused for a moment and decided to continue.

The Madam points at me and said your next!

I get up from my bench seat, surrounded by several more, eager college boys and walk past her.

I open the designated door; down the stairs into the basement.

At the bottom of the stairs, I'm met by a smallish, scantily clad girl.

She grabbed my hand and asked me If I was horny?

Yeah, I said, in my most mannish voice, being barely seventeen.

She replied, Oh honey, I love a horny man!

She was a blondish little girl/woman about twenty, who led me down the hallway to her room.

I had had a few beers (spiritual encouragement, I suppose) and was careful to watch my step.

She walked into a tiny living room with the bedroom visible from the doorway.

Her place was setup with low lights, smelled of thick perfume and of a freshly smoked cigarette.

I could tell she was no rookie at this game.

She was nice to look at but, not, take you home to mama material.

The man on the other end of the phone was making wisecracks.

I laughed and I asked him, if I should continue?

Well, she got friendly really quick!

She shed the negligee and placed it on a chair next to the bed.

Then she reached for my cock and said are you ready yet?

I said well…no...But, I will be, if you keep that up!

As she instructed, I put the money on the table and she said I’ll be right back!

She asked if I would like to get more comfortable by taking off my shoes, my pants and shirt.

She returned and I was still standing with my pants on, when she asked, If this was the first time?

I said NO, I'm NOT a virgin!

She crinkled up her nose with little impish grin, and said, First time with a whore?

Then she grabbed my cock again and said, You’re ready aren’t you?

I nodded and as quickly as I agreed, she had my cock in her hand and was stroking me.

She expertly loosened my belt and the clasp on my pants with her left hand, while continuing to stroke me.

That Billy Squire song, Stroke me, floated into my brain.

My cock was now swollen to the extreme.

She grabbed my pants and my underwear and with one deft move, my pants and underwear hit the floor.

She asked if I wanted to have sex or did I just want a blow-job?

At this point, I didn't know there were pricing options and since I was only spending a ten spot, I said, I wanted to have sex.

She suggested I lay down on the bed.

She moved her hips so fast, that I came inside the condom in probably 3 minutes, with the grunts of a male bull.

I wanted to kiss her, but she said she DID not kiss her clients.

She brought a wash cloth from her tiny bathroom and gingerly wiped off the love juice from my cock.

Then she licked my cock and said, get dressed, honey!

Come see me again as she hurried me to dress, saying she had another client waiting.

WHAM BAM, Thank you-ma’am!!

I took a moment before I continued talking to my future boss...

You know, she was a professional.

She knew exactly what to do and how to get me to return.

I remember her saying, My name is Connie, and I love the size of your cock, Please come again.

She opened her door, and said, "Go right at the washing machine,

Make sure you close the outside door and Be Quiet!

Outside the basement door, there was a well worn, lighted, dirt path, back up to the street.

I heard her laughing and talking with someone, as I passed her window on my way to my car.

Hmmm...I thought to myself, another time, when a certain smell or a topic triggered a pleasant memory.

That’s the extent of my experience with prostitutes, I said to Montenegro.

I’ve know plenty, who worked in the clubs, were I played music.

No, not a