The Spin are not exactly what you would call sentimental. We value a ribald rip on our fellow man more than say, actually talking to them. We live in a constant state of Year Zero, burning bridges before we get to them, choosing enemies with our eyes closed and judging music based solely on a persons taste in flip-flops. We are culture vultures that feast on the emotional carrion of others, the scorpions on the backs of musical frogs, surfing your corpses to the bottom of the Cumberland river. The Spin does not live to make the masses happy, but to find truth in the cloudy morass of popular music and if that means sacrificing a small bit of our humanity, so be it. We don't give a fuck, just put us on the list already.
Thus, it was exceedingly weird that The Spin actually did feel a little tug on our heart strings over the course of Friday night. Maybe it was the net result of round the clock Dead Kennedys on tee-vee or the fact that the Spin started drinking at the Red Door West around five in the afternoon, but there was a small shadow of sadness cast upon all our affairs that evening. We made our way around the West side, saying our goodbyes to various scenesters that were using the end of summer as an excuse to skedaddle, dodging the dipshit college kids swarming the sidewalks like cockroaches after a hard rain, and thinking about the good times we'd usually have suppressed out of professional obligation.
We started at a party for two Music Row worker bees who were leaving the hive, so to speak--one off to the French countryside to teach the cheese-eaters how to speak good English and the other, uh, off to an accounting firm in Murfreesboro. Regardless of the inherent glamor in either's relocation, it is hard not to celebrate when a person is able to escape The Office Park of Broken Dreams, that strip of innocent looking buildings that has crushed the souls of so many. And even though we felt joy that these two innocents were making their getaway, that joy was tempered by the walking dead among us who would return on Monday to keep the gears of commerce turning. Each time we caught the vacant look of database zombies, a little bit of our soul died.
Luckily, DJ Coolout was playing around the corner at Blue Bar, and that dude has soul to spare. Of course he's taking all of that excess soul the City of Brotherly Love, but we figured we'd make like Pete Rock and reminisce while we could. See, even though we can't remember the first time we saw Coolout, he has provided the soundtracks to some of our most amazing evenings over the last few years. His constant stream of recorded music has kept our iPod bumpin' and his DJ sets have kept our asses moving for the better part of the Naughty Aughties, and even though we've had eight months notice of his imminent departure (see his stellar CD, The Long Goodbye) it's still a little shocking, a little saddening that he's going through with it. The man sees no boundaries between musical genres and can wreck the floor with just about anything--house, pop, hip-hop, you name it--which is a skill and a style that will be sorely missed. As The Spin sat in the back of the bar, sippin' our vodka-crans, we couldn't help but think that there was a huge void opening up in the heart of the city's music scene, not likely filled again anytime soon.
On the upside, we met Mama Coolout, who--unsurpisingly--is one cool lady. We're partial to anybody that will request Whodini's hip-hop masterpiece "5 Minutes of Funk," but when that person invokes maternal authority to make sure it gets played, well, that means we've met our new hero. Maybe we can talk her into taking up the reins, we already now she's got taste and we bet her platter-pushing son has left a couple of turntables in the attic. As Coolout ceded the sound system to Jay Spade (a.k.a. Boom Bap/Funky Good Time co-conspirator DJ Rate), we got a text that the evening's other ex-pats-in-progress, German Castro, were about to go on at Springwater. So we downed our drinks and bid adieu to our one of our favorite local DJs and the end of an era in local dance culture. Good luck and Godspeed, Mr. Coolout. Good luck and godspeed.