Feelin It

Song of the Day 07/15/2022

Feelin’ It by Jay-Z

From 15-17 years old I regularly DJ’d at nightclubs all over New York City. I played hip hop and some deep house now and then. Occasionally my dad would surprise me at the shows. I would be in the middle of a set at 2:30 AM, only to look up into the crowd and see my father standing at the back of the room, 33% disappointed, 33% impressed, 33% confused, 1% having a good time, 0% proud. It was all very bizarre. I used to be cooler than I am now, but that’s life I suppose. Nightlife was a scummy world to be a part of anyway. 

I got a text message one afternoon from a promoter named Stafford who would regularly hire me as an opener and a closer at a variety of different nightclubs in Soho, Tribeca, the Meatpacking District, and Williamsburg, sometimes the Lower-East-Side. During this particular period, Stafford was regularly booking me at a nightclub called W.I.P. on Vandam St. It was a ‘celebrity hang out’ as well as a douchey table club, the perfect mix of semi-famous rappers, finance bros, divorced dads, rich high-school kids. Now and then a really big rapper would perform there after one of their concerts. The club usually closed around 4:30 AM, or at least until it got raided by the cops. I loved playing at W.I.P. not only because I thought it was cool, but because they paid $300 per set. That was a lot for me at the time. It still would be. 

Walking back from soccer practice, I looked at my phone to see an incoming text from Stafford. This was exciting—I knew when I get a ‘yo' from Stafford at 5:30 PM that I’d have a gig that night. 

‘Need me for tonight?’ I responded, trying to play it chill. 

‘BIG ONE.’ Stafford wrote. 

‘OK?’ 

‘TONIGHT. Q-Tip, bro. Q-tip is DJing up in here. You’re closing. You in? You in????’ 

Stafford was a 5’4, coke-snorting 32-year-old who was absolutely jacked. He had a penchant for Diesel and Ed Hardy and every two or three weeks would have a new model’s arm around his shoulder. I thought he was so cool, I never wanted to disappoint him. One time I saw him making out with a guy in the back of the DJ booth while I was in the middle of a set. I remember looking at the Russian woman who he was with that night standing alone at his promoter table with her arms crossed, frowning. I remember thinking he was a complex man. 

The closing set at W.I.P. was usually from around 3 AM until whenever the club shut. It was a Thursday night in March. My parents were neither strict nor lax. I was the third child and only boy, they went much easier on me than my two older sisters. They didn’t like me going out until 4 or 5 AM on weekends, and I usually wasn’t allowed out past a reasonable hour on school nights, but when I started DJing everything changed.

My dad is a composer and my mother is a playwright. It’s of course somewhat terse to say that because they were both artists they had an understanding for performance and expression and maybe even, unconsciously, valued it enough to allow their child to go into a nightclub unmonitored several times a week until 4:30 AM. At the end of the day, artistry above all else, I suppose. That’s the only explanation I have for why they let me do it, though I still don’t really understand. Regardless, there wasn’t a question in my mind as to whether or not I’d be going that evening. It was my ‘work’ I said to myself, stupidly.

An embarrassing thing is that at the time I didn’t know who Q-Tip was. I knew A Tribe Called Quest, I played remixes of their records all the time. I heard the name Q-Tip thrown around a lot, I just never put two and two together. I didn’t find out exactly who I performed with for another year or two.

I showered after soccer and ate dinner before preparing what songs I’d play, a melange of 90s rap with a few disco tracks. I then pretended to do a little bit of SAT prep. Homework was out of the question. I’d do it the following morning, maybe, in the school bathroom while everyone in my class was praying (I attended a terribly oppressive religious Jewish day school. To put it lightly, I never quite fit in). I took a nap and woke up at 1:30 AM, before getting dressed and heading over to the club.

Ruben Rivera was W.I.P.’s doorman, one of those classic New York nightlife figures who wears a Yankees hat, regularly boasts about being a real New York’a from the Boogie Down Bronx, and is very hip, to themselves at least. I actually have nothing bad to say about Ruben. Among the vile group of nightclub doormen, he was the nicest and most human, letting my friends in all the time, letting me come party even when I wasn’t working. He may have even bought me a pack of cigarettes once, what everyone called ‘boges’ with a hard G.   

‘Sup Gordo!’ Ruben said before waving over to the bouncer to not check my ID—‘he good, he good.’ 

I loved this feeling. The rope opening for me, not getting carded, people way older than me with real jobs outside waiting to get in. It was such respite from the darkness and displacement I felt during much of my adolescent and teenage life. As one of the youngest working DJs in New York City, I had a small modicum of respect in the nightclub, that miserably sad world. 

‘Beyonce and Jay-Z downstairs,’ Ruben said to me before I went in. 

‘What?’ 

‘Ye G. Snap a pic!’ 

There were only 18 people there that night, which was more odd than exclusive, as the club had a capacity of about 300. Two of the 18 were indeed Jay-Z and Beyonce, bopping their heads back and forth in an almost perfect unison. Another three of the 18 people there were Jay-Z and Beyonce’s bodyguards. I put my bag in the DJ booth and said hi to Q-Tip. I think he gave me a fist bump and said nice to meet ya. I didn’t care. I went down to the dance floor and circled Jay-Z and Beyonce around 15 times, mulling over whether I should ask them for a picture or not. I remember Beyonce giving me a weird, cautious look, and I lost the confidence to ask. I walked back to the DJ booth, Beyonce continued bopping her head in rhythm with her husband.

Q-Tip’s set consisted of indistinct instrumental beats with the occasional repetition of ‘uh huh’ and ‘oh shit’ blasting over them. He spun records from real vinyl and didn’t rap at all. I sat at the back of the booth drinking vodka with tonic water and lime, waiting to go on, hoping Jay-Z and Beyonce wouldn’t leave. That was my drink back then, at 16. I decided I would open my set with Feelin’ It, off of Reasonable Doubt, Jay-Z’s first album. This was of course a lame move. You don’t play Jay-Z for Jay-Z if you want any sort of respect, but I couldn’t help myself.

The clock struck 3:15 AM. I was getting restless. I looked to see Jay-Z and Beyonce still there and couldn’t believe my luck. Q-Tip signaled that it was time for me to go on. I plugged in my Serato. Q-Tip saw that I was queuing up Feelin’ It and started laughing. 

‘Hahah, all right bro.’ He said. 

I took it as a compliment and said ‘thank you!’ I was intoxicated with ego and hope. Q-Tip looked at me with confusion and unplugged his headphones. I slid the crossfade to the right and began to turn the volume up on a 4-count loop of the piano at the beginning of the song. 

‘Have a good night, man.’ Q-Tip said, politely. I don’t think I even answered. I was getting ready for a big cheer and perhaps an ‘ehhhhhhhh’ once the song’s initial beat dropped in. When I transitioned into Feeling It’ I finally looked out onto the dance floor with a smile and raised eyebrows, expecting everything and more from the great big world around me. Everyone had left.