DJ TARA

Marv shares his memories, from hanging out at WKCR to opening for artists like Prince and Erykah Badu at iconic venues. He also critiques the shift toward profit-maximizing practices like bottle service, and its impact on club culture and community.

Watch/ read our interview with Marv below!




Lucas:

Thanks Marv for doing this interview, we're super excited. Want to introduce yourself? Maybe name, where you're from, anything else that's important to you. Let's start it off.

Qool DJ Marv:

So, my name is Marvin Coleman, and my DJ name is Qool DJ Marv, spelled with a Q. I did that because I'm a big fan of Quincy Jones. And I figured I'd like to call myself a “quality” DJ, right?

I'm also part of a Black fraternity called Omega Psi Phi, and the nickname for that group is the “Qs.” Qool, I chose that because I feel like it's an easy name to live up to. And I thought about how that name would go over time, and I figured “Qool” was pretty good.

My DJ name prior to Qool DJ Marv was Mad Mixer Marv. And that was like a joke; I was DJing in Philadelphia for a radio station. And the station had this boombox-shaped, big huge radio that they would put on a flatbed. And it was actually a DJ booth on wheels. So I was lucky enough to get the job to go out on this boombox, and different community groups would ask the station for the boombox to show up at like a block party or a community event at a rec center, playground. We had an option to either just play the radio station and just be there as a group. There was a gentleman named Dave who was kind of like, he had seniority, he had been at the station for a few years, and I was his assistant. And one day I just said, “hey, can I DJ?, I can do it.” And he was like, “okay, but if you're no good you gotta stop.” So I started to play, and at the time, about 1990 or '91, I was just so happy to be DJing that I would get caught smiling a lot. So this guy Dave, Dave Warren, he said “you know what, man, you're always smiling, I'm gonna call you Mad Mixer Marv.” So it was a joke. But I went with that name for a couple of years. I just thought, Mad Mixer Marv might not have a good shelf life. It might not resonate when I'm 30 or something like that. Suddenly Qool Marv came along with the Q too.

Also, Qool DJ Marv is a nod to Kool DJ Red Alert — that's an iconic New York DJ, and he spelled it with a K. The whole Cool, then DJ, then your name, that was inspired by Kool DJ Red Alert. So there were a lot of things I was trying to convey with the name.




Aida:

Can you tell us more about what brought you into the music scene in New York? And if there were any cool people, mentors or anything?

Qool DJ Marv:

Oh yes. So let's go back to 1988. I am in my summer of 88. It was after my freshman year of college. So I started college in the fall of 87. Spring of 88, and then home for the summer. I met a young man named Clinton Ingram. He was from Brooklyn. We went to school together at Emory University in Atlanta.

So he lived in Brooklyn. I was in Philly. At the time my mom worked for a railroad company called Conrail, and how that matters is she had this great perk: Conrail was a freight train company, but apparently all the train companies had this deal where if you worked for any railroad company then you could ride Amtrak at this super discounted price. I mean like super discounted. Nowadays, a Philly to New York round trip is like a ninety dollar trip, the cheap ticket. I could get on the Amtrak train in Philly, and I had this little card with Shirley, the guy that collects tickets, and he'd just be like, “all right,” so it was literally free. And I'm like “Clinton, I'll come see you, I'll come check you out.” So a couple of things happened on this very first trip.

I'm on the train, and we get close to New York, get to Newark, and then you pass Newark, you start to see the skyline. So I had a Walkman that had a cassette but also AM/FM radio. And I just knew, okay I'm close to New York, let's listen to the radio.

I remember hearing this song called Hot Music. And it's this song with crazy drums with the piano. And I'm just like, oh my God, I haven't heard this in Philly. And Philly has great DJs, great radio stations. I'm like, what is this? I'm like, yes! This is New York. I'm in New York, this is crazy. So I remember whatever the DJ is saying, “Hot Music by S.O.H.O,” or Pau Joey, or something, and that's imprinted on my brain, like I've got to find that record.

Anyway, I got to New York and my friend Clinton actually lived in Midwood. So on my very first trip to New York I'm off Amtrak and onto the subway system, I think I had to get to the J train. And I don't know, but I must have had a note like “take the A to whatever station, get on the J.” I remember catching the J train, getting off, I think it was the Midwood stop, and he lived in the projects. So it was like the truest New York experience that anyone visiting could get.

So summer of 1988 I spent like a week or so in New York City. And I didn't graduate undergrad until '92, but I graduated with intentions on pursuing journalism. So I applied to two journalism schools, both in New York, NYU and Columbia. I heard from NYU first and I didn't get accepted. And I just thought “so much for grad school in New York” because I just knew I wasn't going to get into Columbia. And then two weeks later that letter came and they're like, “you're in.” And I'm like, I'm in, okay, cool, yeah.

I was just out of undergrad, right into grad school, so I still had a very young mindset, it wasn't super professional. It was more like okay, I want to go to school, take my classes, but also I'm in New York. I was going out like a couple of times a week.

One of my favorite stories to tell about getting to New York for graduate school was three days into the semester I went by the radio station WKCR. And it was like in the afternoon because I knew about KCR because I'd heard the Stretch and Bobbito show, but I didn't know that that's what I was listening to.

I had come to New York with friends. We were in a car. We're driving back, and we turn on the radio and we're like, whoa, what's this station? Like they're playing hip hop uncensored. It was like curses, everything. It was late at night, like one o'clock in the morning, and I just remembered WKCR.

So I got to Columbia. Three days in, I go to the station and I'm just looking for anybody to speak to because I wanted to find out about the show, and I knock on this door. A young guy answers the door and I explain, “you know, there’s a hip hop show that comes on Thursday nights and I just want to know if I could come by and check it out.” And the guy just started smiling, he was like, “what's up, I'm Bobbito.” So it's like three days in, and I meet Bobbito. He's like, “yeah, come on by, it's all good.”

So every Thursday night I was up at WKCR, 1 a.m. ‘til 5, hanging out with Stretch and Bobbito. And I had this sort of fly on the wall mentality, like I wasn't there to be like, “oh, can I DJ, can I get down?” you know? I had that in me, but I just wanted to observe and just be present. I remember being there when Souls of Mischief came by and the show was all about freestyle. So whoever was in New York promo-ing their record, they would come by Stretch and Bobbito’s show to do a freestyle.




I was there one night when Nas came by, and he had not released his album. So he comes in and he's wearing fatigues and looking real like, wow, this is a real New York dude right here. Like I don't want him to see me looking at him and take it the wrong way because I feel like he'll start throwing hands. He just looked really like street and like for real from the streets, not like, rhetorically from the streets, like oh my God, this guy's aura is like, rough. But he got up there, he did a freestyle.

So I saw a lot of people sort of come by and hang out. Some were like local Jersey, New York rappers, they didn't get famous. But I think over the course of that show, they did have people like Jay-Z, Biggie, Wu-Tang. These are literally my first sort of like, music-related friends in New York.

So the second person who's super important is a guy, a gentleman, his name is Glenn Holt. He had a nickname, Glenn “G-Man” Holt. And G-Man lived in Harlem, lived in like 133rd and St. Nick, lived in a project building. We met because he was working for a label called Flavor Unit Records, Queen Latifah's record label. It was based out in Jersey City. So he was doing promotional work.

I had, at the time, sent a bunch of letters, printed and stamped, to all these labels, like “hey I'm a DJ, I would love to give you a promo list,” I would put a card in. This is when I hadn't changed my name to Qool DJ Marv, I was still Mad Mixer Marv. I had this card, and the card had a bulldog on it. So this guy Glenn calls me, and he's like, “hey I'm Glenn, I'm Flavor Unit.” He said, “I want to put you on my list, but I got a question: what's this dog on your card about? What's it all about? And it's all about our sort of fraternal connection, right?” So he was a member of the same fraternity, and we used the dog imagery a lot.




So he was like, “what's up dog, you're one of us, you know what's going on, we should meet, we should get together.” It turns out this man was a portal to a couple of major connections and opportunities for me. He's no longer with us, rest in peace. But he introduced me to DJ Spinna. So this is like 1994. He also introduced me to a gentleman who goes by the name of Jay Smooth. Jay Smooth does like vlogs and speaks about society and politics, and back in '94 hosted a radio show called the Underground Railroad on WBAI. So I would actually take my turntables and mixer from home to WBAI. DJ Spinna and I were the first DJs for this radio show. It was all kinds of music, jazz, hip hop, and we did this show weekly for a couple of years.

And it was expanding my social circle because of the craft of DJing and mutual interest in music. So yeah, DJ Spinna and I are now connected. We're friends and he's already making beats, he's already traveling the world, he's already going to Japan regularly, he's going to England as early as ‘94. On rare occasion where he didn't DJ one of his own gigs, he called me up to do it. And that put me in front of a lot of people in Brooklyn that would have never heard of me and never experienced me at all. So I'm grateful for that.

The radio show was a strong signal. You could hear that station if you're in Jersey, even as far as Connecticut. And then the Jay Smooth Underground Railroad, another show that had special guests showing up: I was there one night when Jay-Z showed up. I was there when Lauryn Hill and the Fugees came by. I actually have cassettes of Lauryn Hill and the Fugees visiting WBA. I have that recorded.

Glenn also introduced me to people who threw parties. And these people who threw parties were working in the music industry. So there's two women, and they had an organization called Strange Phruit. And they would throw these events at lofts where they would have vendors, food vendors, clothing, jewelry, like a bazaar, basically, and I would DJ at these events. And then they took it up a notch. This was around ‘95 or so, and they had a club night one night. And I was one of the DJs that night. I remember playing, and there was, it was a who's who kind of thing. There were underground rappers who were all over the room. I think Busta Rhymes was in the house. I'm playing, and then I just kind of sense somebody in the DJ booth, and I turn around, and it's Kool DJ Red Alert. So one of my idols is like checking me out, looking over my shoulder, and I'm just like, oh God, let's keep it zen, and I think I did okay. It was solidifying my sort of presence in the New York City world as a legit DJ that could work the crowd or keep it interesting. So yeah, Stretch and Bobbito, Glenn Holt, and the women of Strange Phruit: Karen Taylor and LaTanya White.

I bring them up because Karen Taylor worked at EMI as a publicist, and at the time, EMI had Digable Planets. They also had D'Angelo. So once again, just because I'm sort of in the orbit of these people, here I am at a Digable Planets show. I think this was their second album, Blowout Comb. Then here I am at D'Angelo's first ever show in New York, I remember Stretch DJ'd that. I met D'Angelo because of Karen, and then LaTanya White, she worked at Elektra Records, so she had a network of music industry people who she would mention my name to when they asked about DJs.

I remember getting the call to do a few mixtapes for Universal Records or Universal Music Group, which included Elektra, I think EMI. I have this November 19th, Universal Records presents: Organic Soul Series. So there are a bunch of artists that came out and they were considered different or not in the R&B template, and they would reach out to me like, yeah, you play all this different stuff, we want you to do a mixtape for their release party. So they would play my tape at these parties and the artists would perform.




In '95, I got this incredible opportunity: I got a job at a label called Perspective Records. Perspective Records was owned by Jimmy Jam and Terry Lewis, and they were distributed by A&M Records, Janet Jackson's label (I think she moved to Virgin at some point. But in 1995, that was, she was like their crown jewel). Perspective at the time had Sounds of Blackness. They had Angie Stone when she was in the group called Vertical Hold. Mint Condition, a group called Low Key.

And then they had Barry White, who had been on A&M, but I guess because of a merger or whatever, his music ended up being promoted and released by Perspective. Every now and then I would have to take artists to their interviews, so if they were doing Good Morning America or something, I would call their car and go get them and go to whatever studio they do the interview. It was a cool gig, but unfortunately it was only one year. I tell that story because it provided a pivotal moment in my DJ career.

While working at Perspective, Mint Condition was coming to New York to do a show to promote their new album, and it was at a place called Tramps, on 21st Street between 5th and 6th. Just a big room, not a lot to it: a bar, all this space, and then a stage. Tramps at the time was known for live music performances, blues, rock and roll, jazz, hip hop, anything. It was the venue to go see a live show if you didn't want to be at a stadium or arena. So, I asked my boss if I could DJ before Mint Condition performed, and she's like, “do you know how to do that?” I was like, “yeah, I can do it,” and I said, “you know, if you don't like what I'm doing, I'll stop and we can just put on one of the other artists' music until Mint starts to play.” She's like, “don't make me look bad,” and I was like, “I won't.” The night happens and I'm playing and I'm doing okay. Everybody's grooving and chatting and it's all good. At some point, this white man comes over to me and he kind of looks me up and down. He's like, “so you know these people?” I was like, “yeah, I work at this label and I'm just opening up for the band tonight.” He's like, “what's your name? Give me your number.” He was like, quote unquote, “they're going to have a Black show, I'm going to call you.” And I'd seen their lineups; it wasn't like, “what do you mean Black show?” I knew exactly what he meant. It was going to be like Cameo or like Chic or like Morris Day and the Time or like P-Funk or something, so I was like, “cool, yeah, please do.”

Fast forward, I don't know, '96 or so, Erykah Badu's first show in New York ever, I get the call. So I'm opening up for Erykah Badu, opening up for The Roots, opening up for De La Soul. [Actually, I have all these tapes because I would take my old school tape decks up there to these gigs and plug them into the recording. So I've been recording live for a really long time. I recently put out like Erykah, De La Soul, The Roots, Wyclef, Busta Rhymes. I had all these tapes, I sat on them for like 30 years. And it was when it was the 50th anniversary of hip-hop, which I think was two years ago, I digitized them and I just put them out. And I just put a note like, any artists who want me to take these down, I'll take them down. To this day, they're still up.




Back to Tramps: so one evening, I'm just at home, I'm just chilling out, about to watch some TV, take it easy, I get the call, it's the guy from Tramps. He's like, “hey, what you doing?” And I'm like, “I don't know, did I miss something? Like, is there something happening?” And he's like, “no, no, no, no, no, no, it's last minute.” He’s like, “Prince is at Madison Square Garden. But when he leaves the garden, he's coming over to Tramps. I need you there to DJ. Open up until he gets there.” And I'm like, “say less.” I hang up, just start packing records. I call my buddy up, Glenn, I'm like, hey man, we've got to go. My boy Glenn would do a lot of MCing, like, “ladies, raise your hands.” I never really had the voice for that. So I picked him up and we zoomed to Tramps.

I don't know, I think I got there at like eight o'clock. There's already people there waiting in line because they heard through the grapevine that Prince was coming. So I get in there, get set up, and I'm playing for at least three hours.

And you know at some point I look over and there's Chaka Khan, there's Larry Graham from Graham Central Station, there's Dougie Fresh, you know, and I'm just like ooh. And I'm just playing, playing, and playing like it's a party because at first people were just kind of standing around. Then it just got busier and busier and packed and packed and packed. I'm like, well, it's time to rock this, you know, and make people have a good time.
Somewhere, maybe two hours into it, two and a half hours into it, I get this tap on the shoulder and someone's like, “my boss wants your card.” And I'm like, “okay, cool.” I'm like, “yeah, he's going to give you a call, got some cool gigs for you to do.” Prince finally shows, does the show, night's over. The mext day, the phone rings, and it's like, “hi, I'm Steven, I work at Viacom, MTV, VH1. I want to know, do you travel?” I'm like, “yeah.” He's like, “so we want to book you for like, Video Music Awards,” the VMAs in 1998. I have my pass up there for the VMAs of ‘98.

Tramps just had this like, every person is okay. Every person is invited. There wasn't a velvet rope energy whatsoever. It was all about how many people can we get in the air and be under the fire code. Come on in, let's have a good time. I think there was food available. Drinks were very reasonable, like two beers for $6 or something like that, or three for $10. You could go to Tramps for a reasonable price. You could see Erykah Badu for $30, but there wasn't anywhere in Tramps that was a bad place to be. It was standing room only, so you could be in the back, but it looked like it was still a good seat. Yeah, and they were just very casual, very for the people. I felt really lucky to kind of be on that short list of DJs to do gigs, because I got to see bands that I only heard about, or when they did do shows, they did bigger arenas or stadiums and stuff.

To see Nile Rodgers and Chic in a thousand capacity space. Rick James was another one that performed at Tramps. I have somewhere documented all of my live gigs from the ‘90s, I actually typed them up.

Aida:

Okay, so these places that you're talking about are live music venues that also booked DJs, yeah?

Qool DJ Marv:

Yes.

Aida:

At the time, were there any more DJ-oriented nightclubs that you were playing frequently also, or were you more so playing at live shows?

Qool DJ Marv:

Let's see. My first gig ever was at a restaurant bar called Bar Six. Bar Six is still around. There are a few venues in New York that just endure. Bar Six is on 6th Avenue between 12th and 13th. And I was out in the city one night and I lived in Jersey City at the time, so I was walking to the PATH train station at 14th, and I walked by this place, Bar Six, and they had these doors that sort of opened up so you could hear what was happening. And I walked by and there's a white guy with dreads playing drum and bass. And I was like, what? Here? Like, whoa, what is this? But I knew about drum and bass and I thought, well, if they're okay with that, then they might like what I do, because I mix it up. I won't play drum and bass, but it sounds like they like different music here. So I remember going back there with the cassette, and this gentleman named Jimmy Drago was the manager who chose the DJs. I gave him a tape and I said, “I'd love to DJ here if possible.” He takes the tape and he's like, “alright, I'll check it out. If I like it, I'll be in touch.” Two weeks later, we got in touch.

So my first gig was at Bar Six, which is a restaurant by day until like 10 p.m. They were still serving food until midnight, but at 10 they would have DJs set turntables up on their bar and then DJs would play from like 10 to 1, I believe seven days a week. So my first gig was a Wednesday night at Bar Six. Bar Six at the time had a little bit of buzz about it. In the 90s, what was considered cool or like, authentically New York, wasn't a popular place that everybody knew about. It was these other places where, let's say if you're a celebrity or a musician, you may not get noticed. You might just blend in and people may be like, “who's that?” you know, when you're leaving. So Bar Six was one of those places.




I remember playing there and the jazz musician Chick Corea would just come chill out. I was like, oh man, Chick Corea! That freaked me out more than other DJs because I'm like, that guy's a musician. So he's hearing keys and stuff, and I'm like, oh my God, I hope he doesn't think I don't know anything about music. I remember thinking that, but he would just sit there for a couple of hours, having whatever drink, whatever snack. Meshell Ndegeocello would come through sometimes and just kind of blend in. It wasn't like, entourage or a whole crew of people, just them by themselves. D'Angelo showed up once.

So what I was doing by then (this is like ‘96), I would always have a few cassette tapes on me anytime I DJed. I wouldn't be aggressive about promoting myself. I would wait for someone to be like, “nice music,” you know, and then like, “oh, you like that? Well, take that home.”

I bring up Bar Six because it was really my first gig ever, and first recurring gig. I think I was there for like three years straight on a Wednesday, and then I was playing there twice a week, so I was playing on a Wednesday and a Sunday.

One night (and these are important stories) these two guys come and hang out and they're just at the end of the bar. It's like I'm DJing here, they're there at the end. And they just kind of keep looking over, keep looking over, grooving, looking over, looking over, talking to themselves. And before they leave, they're like, “we like what you do. We've got a bar called Ludlow Bar on Ludlow Street. We'd love it if you'd come over there and DJ for us.” “Like, L.E.S.?” I said. L.E.S. was the neighborhood in New York City. In the ‘90s, it was still pre-gentrification. It was, you know, bars that had like, you know, two for $5 beers or whatever, right? Dollar waters. Bars that didn't mind like people who just came in to like just dance and not even buy a drink. Very, what I would picture “New York cool” as being where you had maybe some guys in Timberlands, you know, sagging, but you also would have had like somebody's on a magazine like modeling. And then you also have like, somebody who's on TV, but like they're all just like, we're under the cover of darkness in this cool spot.

Ludlow Bar was very dark. I didn't know at the time, but it was a crown jewel in nightlife. It was a special place. Every night there, the DJs all were kind of non-commercial, had different angles. It might have been house, it might have been electronica, it might have been drum and bass. It was just like a different vibe every night. I think their whole directive was just like, don't play commercial music. I don't know what the buzz was about that place, but it was wall to wall. The speakers were okay. They would get sucked up and drowned out by the people, but that didn't matter to people. Like Ludlow was probably this room times four. So not a lot of space, you know, like if you got 50 people in there, it was packed.

I did that place many, many times where we had that many people in there, starting at 10 and by like 11:30, the room was full. There were people outside and, you know, smoking, just hanging out, just talking. There were no high rise luxury apartments, nothing like that. No nice restaurants, just like, you know, dollar pizza spots or just diner type places, rock and roll, punk type places. It was a very eclectic street and you didn't have to be part of the in-crowd to hang out on Ludlow Street. So I was really fortunate because Bar Six was a little bit closer to the Soho vibe, West Village, but it was totally eclectic in its musical approach.

Ludlow was a place without food. So it was just like a dark room, music, drinks. And they didn't mind if like 60% of the room didn't drink, you know.




Ludlow Bar, you may have heard about a place called APT. APT, Rich Medina was there, Spinna, Bobbito. There, I actually learned a hard lesson about loyalty. When APT opened, the DJ booker came to see me at Ludlow Bar, LES, and he's like, “I love what you're doing here. We're opening up a spot, APT. I'd love to have you.”

And at the time, I had this affection for Ludlow Bar. I was like, this place kind of gave me a shot. I really got to do some cool things because of Ludlow, and I'm just kind of like, “I want to stay.” And they're like, “really?” And I was like, “yeah.” Because my personal ethics were really about keeping that connection and respecting the platform that they gave me. Little did I know, APT would open up, and like, everyone at Ludlow just went to APT.

Ludlow Bar died this very agonizing slow death, and APT took off. I eventually got into APT, I think, two years later. But I wouldn't change a thing. I would go through that painful, you know, like, wow, APT. And now I have like, 10 people when I used to have like 100 people in this room. And yeah, sometimes your ethics get called into question. But ultimately, I got into APT because they understood why I stayed at Ludlow. They understood that it wasn't any disrespect toward them. And saying no to them, it was just like, I like it here, and I want to stay.

APT was another place that was a launching pad. And it was a mix, it was sort of like Ludlow, but now we're over in the Meatpacking District. There's a little bit more flyness going on where people are showing up, but it was still like you could come in there in jeans and sneakers. You could come in there very comfortable. They had a balcony that was sort of an alleyway, and people could go out there and smoke whatever they wanted to smoke. So it had this rep of being this place where you could be really free, but it had a little bit of style to it. And it was two levels, so the basement level was like the club room, function one sound system, and upstairs was a little bit more couches. But it was never a bottle service place and never really had that energy of like, you can't come in if you don't look a certain way.




Aida:

I have a question. When you were talking about Ludlow Bar, you had mentioned that the drinks were super cheap, and also that they didn't really pay attention to whether or not people were buying anything. And it was really about the dancing and how that led to the community there being really diverse.

So what do you think is the importance of having places like that? And do you think those spaces still exist now?

Qool DJ Marv:

A sense of idealism that may have been equal or more than making money from it. I feel like openness and making your space available to whoever was something that was really prevalent in the ‘90s. But also the ‘90s had seeds of what would become like the bottle service thing or what would become the sort of parties with rules like no sneakers, because the promoters or the venues didn't want a certain type of person to come in.

I think then, I don't know if people just had better business plans, had better backing, had more money to work with. But there wasn't this stress on like, okay, the bar needs to make this amount of money for this to be successful for us. That seemed to get legs in the 2000s.

The ‘90s had maybe your last group of people who really embraced the idea that their space was for anybody and everybody. And that because it was for anybody and everybody, that made the space desirable. It gave the space a buzz.

It gave people who might be, I don't know, the higher classes, the upper echelon of New York City society, that place to point to, to go, oh, if you want to really go be around actual cool people. Which meant, in their speak, like working class people who were like, getting it in. If you want to be in a room with the working class, go to this place, go to Ludlow.

But when [they came in] and it wasn't like, I'm here now, spotlight, wave to the crowd. I just feel like a lot more places existed that relished being a bit off center, being a bit underground, being the type of place where, okay, I get booked as a DJ and have a conversation with the owners and the owners are like, “we like what you do. You can promote if you want. We're going to still pay you. It's all good.” So those are the people who I feel like either had more money to work with, or just had this romantic view of what a cool New York, and cool meaning, all are welcome. The music's not necessarily popular or top 40, something else is happening with the music. If you have those elements, then the Upper East Sider, the Upper West Sider, the Brooklyn Heights person would hear about it and then they would come and they would be a face in the crowd versus the focal point.

So Bottle Service came along. It was like, okay, the transition from, I'm just glad to be here with all these cool folks that I probably wouldn't really mingle with and mix with, but this is a vibe, to I'm so great, I've paid $300 to be here. I need the music to reflect my sensibility and vibe and energy, and that is mainstream. That is what I've seen in an MTV video of what the high life looks like. Champagne bar. What does that mean? That means top 40, EDM, hip hop. It almost became an accessory to their vision of what going out was. I got my bottle. I got some bottle girl coming over dressed in whatever. I'm going to now dance on the table to Jay-Z or to a mashup of whatever. And it wasn't about, I'm going to walk into this room and whatever they got for me, I'm going to take it all in. It was like, I'm here now, change the vibe to what I like.

I experienced this. I got a gig at a really popular bottle service place, probably the first one, called Lotus, a block away from APT. Lotus had a lot to do with APT actually closing. Lotus would report APT for different violations to get the city nightlife police to show up at APT, turn on the lights, stop the music and investigate. Because Lotus wanted all those people. They were dirty. They were so dirty. But I got a gig there on a Wednesday.



I'm like, I knew that they wanted to hear Jay-Z and they wanted to hear more commercial radio hip hop. So I'm in there and I'm playing like De La Soul, I'm playing like, Tribe Called Quest, and there are people in the crowd that are like, okay, yeah, okay, okay, we haven't heard of this. The guy that ran Lotus comes up to me in the DJ booth.

He's like, “what are you doing?” And I'll never forget this. He's like, “who recommended you?” And I said, “oh, you got Jared who plays here on Sundays.” And he says, “so play like Jared.” And I said, “it's not Sunday. I'm not Jared. I don't know what you want.” He was like, “I want it to be the best party in your life every night of the week.” And I was like, “but the same songs, different DJs, same music?” And he was like, “yeah.”

Now Jeffrey Jodd, that was the guy's name. And I don't mind disparaging this person because it was just like, you're like the last person I want to meet in my life. So you're really, you're narrow minded, you have a narrow minded view. And this is all very stereotypical. It's very icky to me. I'm like, I don't know, this room is like 90% white, but you want to hear Jadakiss and you want to hear Jay-Z, the dirty versions. And I'm like, and I'm supposed to play that for this crew?

This is what's happening in New York. This is what we're doing. And in every sentence that he said, he had a sniff. So I'm like, oh, this is what this is about. This is this world. I wasn't into that world at all. Because it was totally like, I look at TV, and TV taught me what cool is. So now I want what I see on TV happening here.

From there, you had the Vegas explosion, the Atlantic City, all the bottle service, the whole thing, the bottles turning DJ, just all of it. All of that was like the early 2000s.

Music literally being made for that scene. Anybody want to talk about the Black Eyed Peas transformation, from their first two albums to I Got a Feeling? I mean, come on. It was music made for that world. All of the music that came out then was just made for that world. And I can say that because I existed in the world before that became the thing, the main thing. And then you would have like your little 40 person capacity bar with like one table in the corner talking about reserved. And you're like, “are you serious?” Like, “yeah, we do this for our bottles.” Like, who's going to come into this bar on Bowery next to Projects and drop $300 on a $40 bottle of vodka to be like, I'm him, I'm her? You know, like, I'm like, get me out of here. I don't need to be part of these places.

I was super fortunate to have begun traveling a lot at the same time. So I kind of kept my sanity because it was like a disease. It was like a virus. Everybody wanted this exclusive club thing, the bottle service, the glitz, the glamour, little bars with velvet ropes.

You're like, what is this? And I'm like, my concern was like, you're pricing out the middle and the working class. That's where all the flavor is. That's the seasoning, the middle and the working class. And they're not coming here to drop $200 of their hard-earned cash on five drinks. They're coming to dance their troubles away for a few hours. They're here to dance it out. They're here to like, you know, connect with people, laugh, smile, but like with people.

Not like, I'm in this room, therefore I must now drink five drinks and come out $200 short. Like who has that? There's only so many people that could spend that kind of money.

Your Wall Street, your investment bankers, whatever, whatever. And then they come into a room, and I hate to say it, they had the credit card pool, but they didn't have actual authenticity. They were the ones that, oh, go to that cool place. So they come in, swipe, swipe, swipe, swipe, you know, all of this. And you're just like, this is corny. You're corny. Get me out of here. Get me out of here.

I was really lucky because I got a chance to start to go overseas. I was going to England a lot, going to Manchester. So you know there's a song, I think New York, New York Sinatra is like, make it here, make it anywhere. Manchester, UK is the DJ’s, “make it here, make it anywhere” place. Because if you did well in Manchester, then you could go to London, and London people would be like, oh, they like you in Manchester. Like that was the place.




I was able to sort of stay sane and stay motivated. But movements like Frontyard just really dissipated because every venue wanted a payoff, and they wanted it right away. Like they didn't want a build to a payoff. They didn't want to give you two months. They didn't want to give you a season. They wanted, okay, we got you booked for Friday. Friday comes, your room's half full, you're not coming back. You're not getting another chance. That was the norm in the early 2000s, probably maybe even up through COVID.

I don't know where we are now. Feels like a reset happened after COVID. But I will say that you all warm my heart so much because the grassroots feeling is back. The feeling of we want to present a vibe and energy that all can come. We are going to go a little deeper in our crates with the music. Hey, we're even going to showcase some musicianship. And everybody, anybody, tall, short, white, Black, young, old, come on in, come on in. I was so moved by that because I hadn't seen it in so long. I think there are conversations about doing that, I think they've never really stopped. But to see it executed, to see it actually happen, it's been a long time. It's been a long time.

I'm happy that you have this in your hearts. And I'm rooting for you all. And I'm rooting for you all to have good relationships and build bridges with like-minded people who can open up doors to venues and spaces that want what you all do, because you have a reputation. You solidify that reputation.

I'm hoping that there is a shift in the thinking. Here's another sort of ‘90s throwback thought: I know for sure that a lot of venues, Sunday through Thursday (Sunday, Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday), was their “we're going to be a cool spot.” Friday and Saturday, “okay, we're going to make our money.” So yeah, Friday, Saturday it’s a bit commercial, even if it's the cool spot, Sunday through Thursday. But at least they had that. They had that thought.

I think I’ve kind of given you my own history, and also just what I think about what was happening when I got started here [and] the evolution, or de-evolution. And now I'm hoping that there's this like, that there's just more of a mindset of like, you know, they say fashion comes around, like certain vibes come back around. I hope it doesn't take too long for more spaces to recognize that there's a value in investing in like, good energy, right? Good intentions, good people. Welcoming the working class, the middle class, the people that really can't drop $100 on drinks for two people, because that's your old business model.

I've probably seen over 25 years, dozens of places closed, dozens of places have a great three months, and everybody sees it. And it's like, I've seen this movie before, right? So here's the table service, right? And then there's nobody dancing, but then everybody dancing at their table. And oh, there's that same soundtrack. And what happens is that this crowd just wants to go to the next new place doing the same thing, right? So, they're not loyal, they're not going to stay, they're not going to help you build or sustain. They're just like, we're here because you just opened, we'll come back a couple of times, but oh, there's another place. And then they're off to the next place.




I really, really appreciate the unsung heroes, the venues that just are like, I don't know, I'm sure some money is made, bills get paid, sometimes they don't. We just saw what happened with the REP cafe, you know, like high intentions, but the cost to do that goodness is very high and it caught up to them. I don't know if realtors and whatever zoning in New York can allow for a place to just build over time and sustain itself. I hope that there are still places and spaces. Maybe we haven't seen them yet. Maybe they are further into Brooklyn. Maybe they're in Queens. Maybe they will be here in East Harlem.

Yeah, I do hope that, because we need to have that. And that's idealistically speaking. But I do think that in one way, there are organizations that are embracing culture and for example, Lincoln Center, you know, like I think if you all keep going, doing what you're doing, I would not be surprised if in a couple of years, Lincoln Center says, “hey, come curate an event for us. Bring in your people. Here's a budget,” right? Because I've actually participated in a couple of different Lincoln Center events. One was for an artist back in 23, a painter guy who just brought together a whole bunch of different artists to talk about their works and closed it with a DJ set for me. And I think he paid me like a thousand bucks for like a two hour DJ set. Because Lincoln Center said, “Well, we like the art that you're presenting. So we're going to underwrite it and give you the space.”

It seems like [this] is a new pathway for groups like Frontyard to get some recognition. Lincoln Center also has nights that are like hip hop nights where there's a DJ named Jay Period. Jay Period does a lot of like mixtapes where he does blends of like the roots, Black Thought over like a Nas beat or Nas over a Roots beat. Like, he's just got that whole thing locked. But I think he does two or three events a year now at Lincoln Center where it's like, a listening party or a live mixtape playback and a few artists show up. I've seen where they've had nights where it's spoken word, where it's a bunch of poets who come in. Sometimes they're two day events, Saturday and Sunday and a poet Saturday, a poet Sunday. So that's not a venue, like that's not a bar, that's not a restaurant, that's not a club saying, “OK, you know, we're here for you.” Because honestly, they're seemingly there for revenue, and if what your intentions are can bring them revenue, then you got a shot. But if you go to an arts organization, the Apollo even, Lincoln Center, that may be the developing pathway to do an annual or maybe twice a year event where you feel loved for your efforts versus, um, exploited.




 

 
music, love, and liberation from the frontyard to the world  ❤︎