Friday night let me cross one more thing off my to-do list. Done: Stop worrying that our DJ is going to be some chucklehead who enjoys blathering into the mic about “all the lovely ladiessss in the house,” or playing “Fat Bottom Girls.” I confirmed after hearing him spin that we’re hiring Daryle Maciocha, who you may know from such gigs as the packed-like-sardines Modernist Society gatherings at Bourbon and the packed-like sardines gatherings at Upstairs at Marvin.
He set a very chill vibe the whole night at Marvin and par for the course in my email dealings with him, he was very nice, especially considering that he was working like a headphoned fiend. His regular milieu is soul, funk, bossa nova, world beat, and dance jazz. For weddings, he mixes in guaranteed groove-inducers and then of course anything else specific we want him to play.
Who I am nothiring is the DJ who first demanded in his contract sent with his estimate that he get alcoholic beverages throughout the course of the reception. Then, when I emailed him to let him know we were going to go with an alternate vendor, he sent me a tone-laden email in response chastising me for not meeting with him personally before making that decision. He followed this with, “I sincerely hope that you do not end up getting severely lacking service at your event because of your decision to pay less for another DJ.” For starters, jackhole, we’re not paying less. We’re paying more. For quality. And who in the hell writes a bride trying to scare her about her reception? He closed his email by asking how he could keep our business. Well, my advice, sir, is that you be sure to drop me a line just as soon as a flying pig crashes into your window.
In the mean time, let me know in the comments what your favorite dance song is. And if you’re not doing anything Friday, check out Maciocha at Marvin.