The Perfect DJ Bio
As many of you may well know I do some ghost writing for artists to assist them with their brand identity. As a result this means that I see a lot of pithy bios that are extremely painful to read and edit.
As an homage to this ridiculously overblown method of salesmanship and in an effort to cheer a friend up after a particularly challenging part of his life, I thought I would share with you what NOT to write.
PS The names have been changed to protect the innocent.
DJ Tony ‘O’ Gonzales
Tony ‘Mendes’ Gonzales is the ‘Original House Gangster’ known in rough trade as Tony ‘O’ Gonzales or the G Spot, his work is unparalleled in the parallel parking space. He grew up on the rough streets of outer Sydney and learnt the thug life from rolling year three kids for their lunch money. He does not talk in the third person choosing to write his Bio hisself. ‘He’ becomes an ‘I’ and the rest they say is history or a footnote in Stalkers Weekly.
I was born in Western Sydney, the son of South American revolutionary Pancho Villa. My musical journey began at the nearest bus stop and ended at the Fung Wey local Chinese when I ran out of money to pay for my takeaway after I spent it all on a train timetable from 1955 at a car boot sale.
Gravitating towards my first love of pots and pans, I was thrust into the limelight as a dish pig and battered said pans in a cacophony of unbroken beats. Soon I inherited the title of AP (Annoying Pest) and Papa Bruce Lee, my culinary mentor, promoted me to Karaoke Programmer. This allowed me to clear the restaurant of punters at the end of the night with lounge lizard offerings that would break hearts and souls in equal measure. My go-to artists were Celine Dion and Whitney, capable of destroying any night in a single warble.
Having reached the pinnacle of my career by emptying the restaurant of a bus load of drunk nature ramblers in 1998, I managed to be allowed in to day clubs even though the combat gear I borrowed from Don Quixote didn’t quite cut the mustard. The local kindergarten got quite offended when I invaded the music area and took off the Wiggles and replaced it with a more upbeat version of Hi-Five.
So after staring down the judge, it was in to more age appropriate clubs I went and I blagged a residency at the Wings Aged Care Facility. I rocked the joint with remixes of the Andrew Sisters and even though there were some premature deaths due to excessive hand movements, I maintained that position until some meds went missing and some inmates started having psychotic episodes when I laid down some Harry Belafonte.
Never looking back, the local kebab shop then took pity on me and let me set up a DJ booth in the corner where the mozzie zapper sat. The buzz was relentless as I dropped Nutbush City Limits and Abba all night long back to back. This was where I learnt my trade and the art of dodging unwanted tomato slices.
Eventually I managed to buy a digital controller third hand from the Salvos and re-invented myself as a bedroom banger. Ripping all my tunes off YouTube, I managed to get a back catalogue of music that cost me nothing and sounded like a buzz saw running through an echo chamber but it’s about quantity, right?
Fortuitously my best mate Greg knew the local bouncer at Flamingos nightclub and he let me in to play in the DJ booth when the cleaners were in. One afternoon the owner came in and heard me playing Captain and Tenniel and there and then offered me a job.
I now DJ naked on a Thursday night for hens’ parties. Living the dream. A product of my guerrilla genes, I wait in ambush behind the decks. Ready to spray drunken 30 year-olds in wedding veils with my beautiful love potion.
To book me, look for my name on the back wall of cubicle three furthest from the urinals at Kings Park nature reserve. If my mum answers, please stress you are not from Telstra.
DJ Rider
Two lemon popsicles and a barcardi breezer, a Traktor S2 cos I can’t mix and a place for my girlfriend to sit while she fends off all the hens. (No I don’t need a puncture repair kit for said girlfriend)
