The Lost Art of DJing

The foundation of our ever-pervasive hip-hop culture is eroding as we speak. By and large breaking and grafitti are fossils of the past. Soon we will have hip-hop archealogists will unearth historical documents like "Planet Rock" to serve as evidence.

Djing is a lost art, similiar to the mid-range jump shot in the NBA. Don't be fooled there are many imitators out there. Even worse, they can be found at a club, bar or lounge near you. Even more absurd they are getting paid to irrate you, to tease the part of you that has waited all week to party to be grossly dissappointed. You see their names on fliers, names mentioned on the radio leading you to believe they are professional, sufficient or qualified. A large collection and some equipment isn't enough. Last nights music selection's almost reached an all-time low. He should be ashamed.

Warning: if you are playing, Mary J. Blige - Just Fine,Webbie's I-N-D-E-P-E-N-D-E-N-T, Duffle Bag Boy, Alicia Keys - No Way, and the ulimate slap the DJ in the face number Upgrade You by Beyonce, duck for flying objects. Ashtrays, chairs, glasses, bottle openers, table decorations, mushy tomatoes (thats for you ?myk) etc. will be thrown at you. I hope you have a good insurance plan. Angry and disgruntled I will make you pay in blood. Well known DJs are not exempt. I mean are not exempt. Some of you are slack, living of your early '90s fame(insert name here). I'm paying 2008 money for you to spin records with no passion or energy. Even worse to play 45 second snippets of your entire record collection.

Don't get me started on the Serato. For those who don't know a Serato, is a trickery device. Now DJs dont even have to carry their horrible collections in crates, its all on the computer. In the past one might have to think twice before loading another crate of Bullshit on vinyl like the Mississippi Cha-Cha slide behind your obligatory Biggie-Junior Mafia set,(ps. i have no problem with the set its just been over used, lets do something new and provocative) and the most horrid of all Fat Man Scoop's "Engine, Engine Number 9."


I search and I see few glimpses of hope and them I do support. But to the rest, I hope I stepped on your toes, be prepared for more.

Some of these fools can't even read the crowd, you know when the crowd is always either fleeing or running to the floor for a song, not even a set of songs.

This is the first edition of many to follow, be on the lookout for "The Lost Art of Stripping," coming soon to a computer screen near you.