My friends and I would crowd around a single pair of headphones and take turns listening to songs, singing aloud so that those who were waiting their turn with the headphones could sing along as well. We sang together to and from camp each day; the bus stop quickly became the best part of the summer despite the traffic and heat. Somone would think of a great song to put on next and the rest of us would cheer. We called each other DJs, and I began to see new possibilities for myself.
Across from our stop where we waited in a clustered line to get on the bus, another line often formed. It was a line to pick up commodities and food from the local soup kitchen. The line was comprised mostly of adults but some had children with them, most stood quietly and looked straight ahead, waiting for the doors to open and for food distribution to start. Our two lines, forming at the same time, seemed headed in opposite directions.
I would wonder if there was any way to interweave our two lines, so I could share the happiness mine brought me. I wished they could join our dance party while they waited, until it occurred to me: why couldn’t they? We discussed the idea amongst ourselves. We worried that the other line would not be in the mood for music, and would get angry with us. But I had seen how music works. I had seen how joy is infectious and sounds as simple as a common rhythm could be contagious. I had also seen that the success of a shared musical experience depended on the music choice, but a carefully selected song based on the crowd could be noticeably uplifting. We soon felt brave enough to try it. Someone brought a small portable speaker, loud enough so we could all hear the music at the same time.
The results were almost instantaneous. Suddenly the same people who seemed to have nothing but troubles on their mind tapped a foot while they waited on line. Or swayed or clapped along. Some smiled at us. I knew they would like that song, I thought to myself as I turned up the volume just slightly.
This was how The Dining TurnTable was born. I started cold calling churches, synagogues, and charitable organizations to ask if they needed a volunteer DJ to add music to their communal events, especially those with a focus on charity and aid. I’m pretty sure some groups only let me play for them because they couldn’t bring themselves to say no to a kid, and they felt they were doing me a favor…they could not have been more right. I gained experience in basic music production, in using music mixing apps, in behaving professionally, in fielding song requests, and in interacting with audiences of all ages and backgrounds. Because of these events, I was offered an occasional paid gig, which allowed me to slowly upgrade my equipment. A better speaker one year, an actual starter turntable the next. By the time I was eleven, I had regular collaborations with organizations including MetCounil, which focuses on many different needs in New York City including housing and food. I helped organize pizza parties for seniors, holiday parties for children, and food and clothing distribution events for families. Children would gather around me as their mothers collected the food and clothing that had been prepared for donation to them. They were thrilled to be allowed to press buttons on the turntable, or to request their favorite tunes. Even though I played a lot of children-themed remixes, I could tell the adults in the room were enjoying themselves as well. Even the volunteers handling the various stations would often sing along, and the atmosphere in the warehouses and community center basements was not one of a drab distribution center: it became a party.
In time, the “eleven-year-old-DJ” became known as DJ#Red because of my hair color, and the project, which is ongoing to date, eventually became The Dining TurnTable. As I took notice of different demographics and nationalities represented among particpants, I mixed songs in other languages and from different cultures. I combined pop hits with cultural folk songs. In time, I added some lights for effect, and even a bubble machine. The youngest children would go nuts from the bubbles, and it was an easy way to generate more jumping around, more arms in the air, more dancing with glee.
A young child once approached me behind my station and asked if he could press a button on my machines. “You could start the next song,” I told him loudly. We had to yell over the music, but the child happily got into position and watched for my signal. “When I say go, press this green flashing button right here!” I shouted. Upon completing the mission, he heard the song transition and beamed at me. My heart tightened as his smile revealed a painful-looking severe dental condition. But he held up a shiny new toy he had been given at the toy station in the distribution center. “I got a Transformer AND I pressed the button! Today is my luckiest day!” We high fived and he ran off, his mother following behind him. I knew enough to understand that he had badly needed a lucky day. I knew his mother wanted one for him more than anything. I wished I could fix his teeth, but a lucky day is a win in its own right, and I hoped it would set the tone for more lucky days, one by one.
On another occasion, I had set up my system at a large open warehouse where Passover food was being distributed to local elderly residents. The residents formed a long line that snaked around several aisles and moved very slowly. Most pushed a wheeled cart they had brought from home with which to transport the groceries, and they leaned on the carts for support while they waited in line. As I plugged my speakers into my extension cord and prepared for starting the music, I noted that the atmosphere would not call for techno beats and lighting effects at all. If anything, those would likely disturb this crowd and upset them. Undeterred, I quickly dug through some music searches and assembled a lineup of holiday ballads. I turned the volume to a moderate level, just enough to be pleasant background music, not a feature. The playlist included a Yiddish song about candle lighting. When it came on, a man started singing along in a deep, quiet voice, and within seconds the whole place seemed to fill with dozens of voices singing. Some got out of line and linked arms with others, forming a circle that swayed in prayer. Some stayed in their spots and tilted their heads from side to side. Standing among the endless stacks of cans and boxes to the ceiling, the spirituality was palpable. “I don’t think I’ve heard that song in sixty years, not since my mother sang it to me,” a woman said with tears in her eyes as she passed me. People left carrying not only their holiday pantry staples, but also the holiday spirit.
At a seasonal food distribution event, I was once approached by a teenager who claimed to know how to DJ, and asked if he could try out my equipment. The boy walked with a white cane, as he was completely blind. Cautiously, dubiously, I stepped aside and guided him as best I could to where I usually stood behind my equipment. I helped unplug my phone and plug in his, with which he could access his music files because of its accessibility apps. He opened his files and put his phone down momentarily, lightly running his fingers over the spread of equipment. The turntable, the rows of buttons, the mixer dials, the sliders. I recognized that he was orienting himself without accidentally pressing anything. After a few seconds he was ready to begin, and he boldly turned the dials up until music filled the air. Once immersed in the beat, an observer would never be able to tell that he was blind. I could hardly believe my eyes, watching the ease with which he manipulated the sound and mixed the song. The crowd cheered as they moved around the various supply stations, and I was in awe. Performing, among other things, means establishing a relationship with the audience. It means exchanging knowing glances, nodding in support, and smiling at each other when sharing great moments. It’s all in the eyes. This DJ had to build all these relationships with the audience – offer support and get support from them – without those visual cues. Just as I cannot explain how he handled the turntable without his sight, so too I cannot explain how he fostered the DJ-audience relationship; I only know that he did. So long as music was playing, we were all in sync. Only when the music stopped were we reminded of our differences.
Could the essential food and clothing reach the right hands without me? Of course. But I saw the people on line for food without music, eyes downcast, shoulders hunched. I realized it was not enough just to hand out the food they needed. They needed to be a real part of the community so they could build themselves up contribute back to the community themselves. I have certainly benefitted from them already. I wonder if any of the kids I used to wait for the bus with remember our start as DJs, but for me, those moments were nothing less than formative, and the key that unlocked a desire to share the experience of music as an uplifter for all. Together, we can turn the tables on poverty. I’ll bring the turntable.