DJ Rxmr Spins Out His Last, image by Daniel Y. Harris
FADER
Here’s
the process:
The
collected shit of the previous week’s nights on his heels and laces receives a
firehose blast while he waits, fading as urban as he can in his friend Marv’s
office. He has Martell to hand usually, but on occasion he sips his mother’s
Bombay, consensually somehow. They have a vent that doubles up as an industrial
strength hand-dryer, however in his case it dries off his sopping Nikes. By
this point he’s usually sweating because his mind has dipped into cruel, static
waves; the bash of the hose paired with the hacking wind of the vent receives a
delayed response from him. It’s around about when he’s reached the high street,
drenched in nail bar signs and suits gone underground, that his eyes are
spooned out and replaced with harsh bulbs, rendering his progress supposedly
futile.
But
he makes it.
His demeanour treks through the
baited rabble, never hinting at an inner fleck of hurt or worry. His shirt
rages like a loosely planned forest fire, causing any eye that darts
indifferently at its tropical charm to tap out, bleeding in the ring; left with
no other choice than to admire like a bitch at it. His flask sweats and so does
he but all is ripe. He walks past Jenny. Her hand cups his shoulder. She knows
she’s done wrong but hasn’t reached that conclusion from his reaction, for he
merely nods in limbo. Jenny had forgotten it was one of his stride nights and only realized when her
hand got wet. However jolting this realisation was to Jenny on the surface, the
manner with which she tingled under wraps, unbeknownst to the DJs and her two
sisters, merged seas and lights within her. Her solution was a trip, strip and come
hither in the ladies’ restroom; she hadn’t brought a spare set of clothes. All
she wished to give was something soft and motel-bound. No, she’d give it at the
back of Buffett’s place. Either there or under a rusted bleacher in Lexington.
That specific
because she reckoned, with confidence, that he’d acknowledge such an attention.
Martin Raoul DJ’d as ‘Rxmr’ to the
crowd at The Fader that night (it was
his peak, in the most sudden form of that word - $600 of equipment burnt with
him watching, tied up and unavailable for any more Christmases with his girl
Martha; they had oversized Suge Knight t-shirts on that night, Raoul had 3
teeth and not enough beat to keep him up). Ironically all said about his death
was essentially rumour; to be frank his moniker’s meaning was too. He said that
he fancied having a gimmick in his shows, like everyone flexing out an X with their palms, wavering slow as a
weathervane in July (if that seems Southern to you, congrats; you found my
intertextual tribute to the Houston in him). I miss him.
That
tangent’s not completely necessary but I put dedications into my work instead of as a vague preface.
Marv’s friend has his legs lifted
over his crown twice in a row. It’s not Suge’s Knights, it’s those who’ve
chosen him as their muse for the night; surfing the violet-lit crowd. None of
them notice he doesn’t speak more than three times throughout the night. Rxmr
spins out his last with a slow Isaac Hayes. I’m snowed in, my will’s imported
and not natural, rape in my lungs, heart stuffed in my gaps; you’re mistaken if
you think it’s misplaced. He lands near me and his bulbs aren’t as nuclear. I
cringe at myself for rushing into his face, but it drenched me, he tongued like
dribbled in Tanqueray. Hayes changed to Tribe, small blood to rife, his poached
egg eye split outward; there then, a beat life.
Rxmr addressed the scene as best he
could, pointing out the cavalry with his headphone-stuffed hand, aiming to coax
the crowd into ramming the gang onto the daisy-chain spittle floor. A lot of
people came here the weekend after Coachella. The crowd flailed limbs vaguely
in their direction. Most freaked at the man I kissed. Clean shaven brown now
red velvet and slippy, he was dying and the Tribe song had finished. Rxmr fell
back into the solid curtain, halfway there turning to Martin Raoul and then out
for hours. I have Marv’s friend’s address and I’m thinking of going to visit
his mother. I think she’s called Renée. I hope she’s coping and alive. It’s
been ten years.
—Charlie
Onions
