The Last DJ

Walking through the thick of the city, block after block on a chilly November morning, I blow hot air into my hands and watch steam escape through my fingers.

I walk up to a majestic theater and look up at the brightly lit billboard. “Grant Black” the billboard says. That is tonight’s performance and that is me. Grant Black. Grant Black, the DJ. Grant Black, the producer. Grant Black, the struggling artist. Grant Black, the computer scientist. Grant Black, tonight’s opening act for the biggest late-night show on Earth.

“Mr. Black,” I hear a voice and see two welcoming faces by the back entrance where I am told to go.

“Hi, guys,” I fumble nervously. “I have my ID here somewhere.”

“We got you on facial recognition, Mr. Black. You’re good. You know where you’re going?”

“All set, guys. Thanks again.”

“Good luck tonight. Big fan!” the security guard on the right calls out and I thank her politely.

I greet more staffers as I make my way down the hallways, past the sound and equipment rooms, until I come to a tall door and look up to see my name displayed on a bright white tag. I see my practice setup and the vase of flowers I requested. Everything appears in order and a feeling of satisfaction warms me from within. I walk inside the dressing room and shut the door. Taking a few steps toward the wardrobe hangers in the corner, I look beyond the practice equipment at the other end of the room to see a familiar face.

“Dang,” I say. “Who let you in?”

“I’m your sister, remember, goofball?” my sister Jenn says with a smile. “That means I can find you anytime and anyplace. Remember?” She eyes my practice gear and nods slowly. “You are a true professional now, Grant.”

“You know this means a lot, Jenn. That you’re here. I’m glad you’re here. I am, from the bottom of my heart. I’m so glad you’re here. Look, I didn’t even call security.”

“Very funny, goofball.”

“Come on, Jenn. Take a seat. Come watch my warm-up?” I plug in cables and push flashing buttons of various colors.

“Do I have a choice, goofball? Never had a choice when you practiced that saxophone all night. Just make me a drink, would ya please?”

I make Jenn her favorite drink, just how she likes it – a White Russian with extra vodka. Setting the drink down on the coffee table, I look at my sister’s face. It seems older now. How many years since I’ve seen her? I start the warmup routine. Music flows from my mind out through a pair of speakers as Jenn sits with her White Russian.

“Crazy that anyone still listens to this stuff,” she says and we both laugh. The warmup set lands nicely.

Just a few hours later I meditate in the greenroom, waiting to be called. Showtime is just seconds away. I’m the first act of the night and inhale the random quips of encouragement like a hungry animal.

“Our next guest is a progressive electronica producer and DJ who has broken innumerable records by becoming the first musician to fuse his brain directly to his instruments. Let’s welcome back to the show the one and only Grant Black. Come on out, Grant!” The voice of Jeff Brentt blasts through the monitors as I walk onstage.

Applause, cheers, bright lights, and my music plays throughout the theater. Faces. So many faces. A roar of clapping. I wave at my family in the front row like I practiced. There’s Jenn. I wink at her and she winks back. I’m so happy she’s here. Cameras pivot and the applause rolls on. All flavors of expression and sound hit me from every corner of the theater, at times all from the same face.

I sit across Jeff Brentt—late-night talk-show host extraordinaire. His thick silver hair is somehow shinier and wavier than it appears on live television.

“So, Grant, thanks for being here on the Late Show. Let’s get right to it. Sold-out arenas around the world and record album sales. But that’s not even the most interesting thing about you, is it, Mr. Black?”

I smile and thank him for the compliments.

“I suppose you could say that.”

“So why don’t we start there? I think the question on everyone’s mind is: how did you succeed at this when so many others have failed?”

“Well, you see, Mr. Brentt, when I fuse my mind with the instruments, the technology never creates the music, as it does for so many others who do what I do. My brain composes all my music and I do it live on stage. There is nothing pre-recorded. When I perform, I never know what the audience will hear. Sometimes I don’t have a clue until just a few seconds before I come out. Essentially, I improvise as a jazz musician might. The direct connection to my brain simply amplifies my ability to compose as I move through a live performance. The connection lives in my mind and amplifies the creativity of my musical brain. It enables me to form new sounds and harmonies directly in my mind, but it is ultimately I who composes and performs during a live set. I guess you could say that I am a master improviser of the modern era.” I smile at the audience.

“So, Mr. Black, it sounds to me like many try to use the technology and techniques that you created, but only you can do it as well as you do.” Jeff Brentt says. The perfect line, just as we practiced. There are no words to describe the overwhelming elation I feel in this moment. The lonely nights spent perfecting the systems. The long days spent practicing. The hours spent crying over a worn-out keyboard.

“That is true, Mr. Brentt,” I answer. “What can I say? My technology is beyond what anyone else is doing, and my music just tastes good.” I smack my lips at him.

“There you have it. There’s no substitute for talent,” Jeff Brentt concludes, bringing the interview to a close. Then he motions to me and a spotlight illuminates a mixer and keyboard on the main stage. “The stage is yours, Mr. Black.”

I take the stage and settle in front of my gear. The spotlight makes it hard to see faces, but this is welcome. It helps me focus. The lights dim and I begin with a slow accelerando of sounds and rhythms. The music flows freely from my mind and out onto the audience. Drums and bass kick in. Flashing lights and rhythmic patterns shake the theater. I can hear the audience clap rhythmically and feel their dancing. The final crescendo hits just the way I want, and the show concludes. Applause and cheers ring out. Feet stomp. The theater vibrates. Jeff joins the audience and claps at me with a wide grin. I killed it again.

Walking offstage, my heart races. It always races after a show, not during. People say beautiful things. I walk into my dressing room and close the door. I walk shakily to the couch and sit. My shirt is drenched.

Looking around the dressing room, I see that it’s empty now. Jeff Brentt’s muffled voice beyond the wall is audible as he winds down the last few comedy bits. I hear the audience laughing. Those are the new bits he told me that he would deploy after my act. Sounds like the bits are landing perfectly.

Then I look to my right and see Jenn in the corner of the room by the door. She looks at me with a big grin.

“That was probably your best set yet, goofball,” she says. “I loved it. And the audience loved it too.”

“Thanks, Jenn. Again, I’m so happy that you’re here. After all that's happened between us.” Walking up I lean in for hug, but stop. Never could hug her and can’t hug her now. Though I love her dearly. “You’re the best and I love you,” I say and walk toward the door.

Then I walk out of my dressing room and down the hall back toward the stage. Stagehands greet me as I walk past flashing smiles. Then, just before reaching the stage, I take a sharp right and walk up to a large electrical panel. I open the panel and carefully throw one switch. Jeff’s voice, still coming from the live theater, cuts at once. I throw another switch, and the audience instantly falls silent. I turn away from the panel and walk back out onstage. In the host’s seat, where Jeff Brentt sat just a few moments ago, sits a dark vertical flat-screen display. In each seat of the twenty-four-hundred-seat theater, I see dark, unpowered flat-screen displays. Rows of lifeless screens face me.

The theater is silent. I take a long bow toward the rows of lifeless screens, and walk offstage, turning off various screens as I go. The ones in the corners and the hallways, where the security guards stood. The ones inside and outside the greenroom where the other contestants sat. Finally, I walk back into my dressing room, where my sister still stands. I can see her looking at me.

“I love you, lil bro,” she says. “I’m so glad you invited me here.”

“Thanks,” I say with a forced smile. “It means so much to me that you could be here.”

Then I turn off the screen. I stand facing the darkened display and for a moment I reach for the button to turn it back on. I hold my finger next to the button and stare into the dead screen. Then I turn around and leave my silent dressing room.

Walking out the back of the empty studio into the alley, I see two more screens with power cables running up the wall.

“Congrats on a great show, Mr. Black,” the screens say and I thank them politely. Then I tap two power buttons and the faces vanish into dead blackened screens.

I walk down the street and onto a lifeless boulevard surrounded by the unsettling emptiness of a deserted city.