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At Roxy's, anytime before midnight is early.
Caught a few minutes before the start of a nine-hour Saturday-night-into-Sunday-morning shift, Don Barnett eyes the room, taking in the relatively sparse house. It's not too busy, but he's not worried. All good club DJs know their rooms, and this DJ knows his venue better than most. If anyone in Roxy's is constantly studying the clientele, checking the pulse, it's Barnett, who's worked as a DJ, de facto security man, needling emcee and all-around party master at the venerable East Side strip joint for a remarkable seventeen-year run.
In a little while, Craig -- one of "the younger jocks," Don says -- will relinquish control of the two compact-disc players, the light show and, most important, the microphone. With a smallish crowd to play off, Craig's winding down without much extra fanfare, suggesting that the gents slide on up to one of the three stages (the fourth opens later in the evening); maybe, he adds in the warm tones of a hit-radio jock, they should even come back for drink specials next Wednesday. (The steady, soft sell of a future event is one of the mainstays of any DJ's shift.) Craig mixes in some surefire fare associated with any strip club, including a last-second track by Poison.
But Barnett would bristle at the thought that his nine-hour shift is predictable. He's got a point: No radio station in the country would program a shift with so many whiplash-inducing twists.
He allows that "it's very mainstream music." But from there, things open up in a peculiar way: "These are songs that everyone knows, whether it's a 40-year-old guy or a 21-year-old guy. You're expected to play a wide variety of nonoffensive music, from classic rock to classic R&B. Fun music. Toe-tapping music."
The overall philosophy? "I want to take the party to them."
As he heads into his tiny booth for the start of another marathon shift, Barnett begins to put the philosophy into practice. Though strip clubs are actually some of the most desegregated rooms in town, on this night a mostly white clientele is gathered, many of them huddling near the small entryway bar and away from the tables. The crowd also shades older, with just a handful of young bloods in the room; typically the audience gets a bit wilder, a lot younger and more mixed -- racially and in gender -- as the clock ticks.
"To play music," Barnett offers, "you look at the people. The DJ's job is to read people. Maybe it's a night when the races have just let out, or there's a Rams game in town, or you've got a bunch of guys in suits. This group, it's guys in their forties. You look at them, and I'm sensing what's gonna work."
And what won't. "Some songs that're popular right now might never get played here," he admits. "You're not going to play music that's popular with the fifteen-year-old girls.
"I come in here with everything from Frank Sinatra to the Ramones. Now, I'm not going to always play those acts, unless I get a wild hair. But I will switch it up. High-energy music works, like C&C Music Factory, AC/DC, the Chili Peppers."
Because of the makeup of the room on this night, he delves into the rock & roll, liberally sprinkling '80s acts, from Bob Seger to the Vapors, atop more modern-rock fare. Acts you'd expect to be played -- Stone Temple Pilots, Nickelback -- slide alongside acts you wouldn't -- Barenaked Ladies and the Smithereens. Barnett will mix in a touch of hip-hop and soul, though he admits that the other, primary DJ at the club -- the hilarious, dulcet-toned Stan -- is more likely to pull out the Nelly CD. "He's the soul DJ," Barnett says, "and I'm the rock & roll DJ."
Barnett's also willing to play to a particular dancer, especially if she's got some seniority at the club and a talent for drawing customers. For Alexis, that means a three-song set of Social Distortion. For Kendall, it's an unlikely run of Dave Matthews Band.
A comely, curly-haired brunette, Kendall admits that getting a good vibe with a DJ is essential to making the night work and the dollars flowing. "They hold the power," Kendall says, noting that Don's usually happy to work with her. "He's the man. Don's awesome. If you're good friends with Don, he'll do anything for you."
Songs that she'd never like to hear again, especially while at work? "Anything by Ozzy Osbourne. That is not sexy music." To her dismay, Ozzy is played -- a lot.
Other dancers have their own picks and pans: Carmen likes hip-hop. Hunter doesn't like Alice in Chains. Tai is fine with just about anything.
Alexis, named Illinois Entertainer of the Year in 1999, prefers a harder-edged set, with tracks from White Zombie, Rage Against the Machine and Limp Bizkit. She realizes, though, that there's got to be a blend to hold the audience -- and, in the case of this club, an audience that's looking for something a little different than at other rooms on the East Side. Roxy's isn't a fancy room, with its dark walls, single TV and inevitable focal points of the stages and, sometimes, the well-known shower.
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