I managed to talk Mr. E, the promoter for tonight's rave, into letting me pick Joe up from the airport. Joe usually insists on a limo, but I convinced Mr. E that my ride--a Jetta with the bumpin'est system money can buy--would be a more suitable chariot for the nation's most important DJ. I've also read that Joe likes to smoke a joint as soon as he's on the ground, and most limo drivers probably wouldn't take kindly to pot smoke.
Since he always flies first class, Joe's the third one off the plane. He's wheeling a shiny metal crate, special-made for his prized record collection. Oh, what I wouldn't give to thumb through that stack just once. Joe looks up and gives me a brief jerk of the chin, a.k.a. The Dudes' Greeting. He must recognize me! Six years ago, I flew out to catch a set of his at Sound Factory in New York City. I stood up next to his decks for the entire three-hour set, writing down each record label I could make out in the dim light of the club. Our interaction was limited to my shouting, "phat track, dude!" and his giving me a slight nod in reply. Not much, but I guess he remembers. Wow. Now I don't feel so bad about bringing the list from that night. I can hardly believe I finally get to talk it over with him.
The chick at his record label was right--he does look exhausted. After spending two hours navigating the phone-maze of Virgin Records, I learned yesterday that he's just finished a long studio stint with Madonna. The Material Girl demanded a remix from the man after hearing that Britney Spears and Cher had both gotten the JOE treatment.
"So, are you the limo guy?" he barks. "Uh, not exactly," I mutter. "I'm more your personal servant," I say with a nervous giggle. He looks puzzled. "Seriously, Joe, you're the phattest DJ in the universe. It's truly an honor to be your driver." More puzzlement. "Well, Joe, I happen to know you're a bit of a smoker," I say with a wink. "And so I wanted to accommodate you right away."
Soon we're rollin' down I-5, smokin' a J and listening to a tape of his I bought by mail order. "Can we listen to some jazz?" he asks. I'm surprised he's not flattered to hear his tape in my deck, but I switch the station to 88.5. He relaxes.
I can't wait, so I rummage the crumpled list out of my pocket and thrust it in his face. "What's this?" he asks, a bit repulsed. "Remember when you played Sound Factory on July 9, 1993?" He laughs out loud. "I was a resident there for years," he says, "the Fridays all blend together."
I'm a little disappointed. How could he forget one of the most important nights of my life? I remind him how I'd been there, writing down each record he spun. His expression changes a bit. "I also told you how dope a couple of the tracks were," I say.
"Holy shit," he exclaims. "You're that asshole who kept bumping the tables!" I'm stunned. On the one hand, I'm thrilled that he remembers me; on the other, my hero just called me an asshole.
"Well, I just really like your stuff," I say, meekly.
"Listen, buddy, I appreciate your going to all this trouble, but could you just drop me off at the hotel?"
"But I wanted to take you record shopping, I know this place you'll--" He cuts me off. "No, really, I'd just like to rest up a bit before tonight."
I'm hurt to the quick, but I head to the hotel. I pull up to the entrance, pop the trunk, and move around to get his record crate. He rushes over, cutting off a bellhop. "It's okay, I've got it," he says, grabbing it out of my hands.
He utters a brief thank you and disappears into the revolving door of the hotel. "I'll see you tonight," I holler after him, but he doesn't hear me. "There goes a legend," I think to myself, "I can't believe he remembered me."
