Democratization of the Beat

by L. Neyfakh

In the movie “24 Hour Party People,” Factory Records impresario Tony Wilson unveiled the Hacienda nightclub in Manchester with a momentous proclamation. “See?” he says to the audience, pointing out the teeming mass of dancing bodies behind him. “They're applauding the DJ. Not the music, not the musician, not the creator, but the medium.”

He was right, of course. It was a big moment—probably the most dramatic step in the formal evolution of music since record players were invented in the late 19th century. Still, Tony Wilson was getting a little ahead of himself—jumping the gun in his declaration by about 30 years. If the DJ was really the one getting applauded in the Hacienda, then it wasn’t just about the medium, but about the person manipulating the medium. That’s why some DJs got famous, developing unique styles, establishing their tastes, and experimenting with their equipment. Really, these guys were no different than any other musician with an instrument. They were still present, and they were still in control, and they were still people. Today, they’re gone. In their place all we have is the medium. We have iTunes shuffle, and downloading programs that let guests get any song they want in a matter of seconds. In one sense, the Party has been set free, but in another, it has been tragically enslaved by the forces of chance, computer automation, and the instant-gratification downloading culture

Whenever my friend Nigel and I went to dances at our middle school, we always bugged the DJs to play songs by Nirvana and Less Than Jake. Those were our favorite bands, and we wanted to hear them in front of everyone. Most of the time the DJs waved us away, either because they didn’t have what we wanted or they knew it wouldn’t make good dance music. But the few times they agreed, Nigel and I came alive, pouncing around the gymnasium singing the words, and thrashing in every direction while all the other kids waited. It was a triumph, every time, and I haven’t experienced a thrill to match it since I got to college.

Indeed, the DJ, that lifesaving, record-breaking, party pulse-taking prophet-- that don of disco, that shaman of shake—does not exist anymore. The beat has been democratized. Now, when you go to a party, there’s no driver at the wheel—no obstacle you have to go through before putting on your favorite song and forcing the whole room to dance to it. The nerve center is always right there, in plain view, and if you feel strongly enough about a certain song, you can walk right over to the laptop and put it on. No one would ever stop you.

The new freedom is a mixed blessing: although the power is dissolved and distributed, we inevitably forfeit something that is essential to the rave culture of Tony Wilson’s time. It takes mastery, after all, to keep a party going—not just the right collection of old favorites (sometimes people want to sing along) and fresh booty jams (sometimes people just want to jam booty) but the ability to gauge the mood on the floor, to choose the right songs at the right times, and to pace your crowd so they can go on all night. Losing that means losing your direction. The party is thrown to the dogs, handed over and mauled by a thousand different hands with competing visions and no coherent plan. Or, worse, somebody will just put the iPod on “random” and let it play whatever comes up.

In this scenario, the music starts and stops with no provocation, the automated engine of the stereo choosing the setlist arbitrarily. The DJ is a machine now, and it has no idea what it’s doing. Because a machine couldn’t possibly size up a crowd or play to the natural pace of a party. A machine can’t feel the vibe!

And so the burden to perform has been shifted onto the crowd, because we all know that the music will go on whether we like it or not. In fact, it will probably keep playing for a while after the party ends, because it’s happening completely by itself, separate from us and independent. The dance is no longer a collaboration, and the pathways of communication between DJ and dancer have sadly been cemented over with so much white plastic and shiny cables.. The iPod chooses and we follow its lead. We can hear it, of course, but we know it’s not playing for us. It’s just playing.

This is a troubling state of affairs indeed, and if we’re going to have any more parties, we should make sure to put a real person in charge. Just get a friend, that’s all, or a bunch of them, to pool their record collections and take control! They can make up names for themselves, and play songs no one has heard of but everyone would like. Every party would be different then. We could trade mixtapes every Sunday morning from the night before.

One thing though—the DJs have to be nice, and observant, and for all their creative authority, they have to believe in democracy.

And they should always play Nirvana and Less Than Jake if someone asks them to, because whoever it is probably has a pretty good reason.