Britt Wetherald

I’ve spent an extraordinary amount of time out late, sometimes in places I have no business in, other times just clocking out from the job but I seem to be attracted to the deepest part of the night. I don’t know if it’s by design or just the habitus of myself in its ever perpetual state, nevertheless I am somehow always there, I think in some strange way that’s part of the noir of the deejay, a late night ceremonial priest or godless heathen, it makes little difference, he is the narrator to the night. A place of refuge for the outcast. Without him in his honest, pure, context he becomes merely an employee with technical knowledge, the reason why every one knows top 40 is because it is top 40. the game is done before you get one song off. Things happen and we forget how important that filter is in the wider context of the night. The night isn’t really a top 40 space, Disney, the Cubs, a meal at the illustrious Michael Jordan Steakhouse. These experiences are not for children of the night or club demons or whatever other slutty but cool thing you call yourselves now, they are for dudes who buy houses in the burbs and do missionary exclusively. Not banging it, and again not banging it. The night demands authorship. After all doing coke in a bathroom stall needs a storyline to sink into to make it interesting and not an act of pedestrian delinquency for middle class young adults. Otherwise defiance itself is under business daddy’s watchful eye and you and me have no culture anymore, as the night ceases to harbor any possibility or fantasy. We need authors to the night, so we can stay up all night.

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