The Word – Murder on the dancefloor

Although I like to think of myself as being of reasonable intelligence, I’m happy to admit that I’m not the quickest on the uptake when it comes to acquiring new skills. This borderline autism has bitten me on the backside on various occasions down the years. I was denied my rightful role as leader of the Auchtermuchty scout pack due to my inability to grasp the nuances of knot-tying, a string of catastrophic failed experiments caused me to ditch chemistry at the earliest possible juncture, while the ghost of abortive learning experiences past has followed me all the way from Scotland to Vietnam, manifesting itself in my thus far pathetic attempts to pick up the local lingo.

Perhaps I should have guessed then that my three lesson taster at one of Saigon’s top DJ schools would leave me no closer to being a master of the decks than I was when I made mincemeat out of my old man’s expensive stylus by subjecting it to a strenuous workout from the bargain bin of my local vinyl emporium. Nevertheless, I approached the headquarters of DMA (Digital Music Agency) in District 3 with a certain degree of misplaced confidence. I used to be a DJ myself you see. The gigs didn’t involve much more than me alternating between obscure funk, soul and rock and roll (with the odd extended dub reggae track when I needed to smoke a fag) but I got paid and people seemed to dig it.

Surely it wouldn’t be beyond my capabilities to master the art of mixing?

Word - DJ

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