Rick Minerd - Life Is A Jukebox

Every disc jockeys has had to perform at one time or another at a school dance,  a class reunion or a wedding.  I did this more times than I want to remember.

At first I would spin records at these events because I needed the extra money that could be earned doing it.  Later in life I did it because friends expected it. Either for their own shindigs or for someone close to them.

But I can honestly say that I hated every minute of doing it.  Spinning tunes in a studio was a blast, regardless of the format I was involved with, but when doing it for groups of people in a VFW  Hall or a gymnasium  it sucked.

As an emcee you try to make people believe you are enjoying their shenanigans, but I never did.  Weddings were the worst.

At wedding receptions you have to please all demographics. Forget the bride and groom or the groom and groom if it's an alternative affair. You have to please all of the little kids who pester you to play whatever the top two teeny-bop songs  are on the charts, and they'll want them over and over, the young adults who's tastes will run anywhere between head-banging rock, country, hip-hop and Bohemian Waltzes, and then their are the lovely grand parents and their friends who would prefer that you stick with a playlist of Al Jolsen and Lawrence Welk "diddies."

And when you are forced to play the occasional Black Sabbath or Jimi Hendrix tunes for the uncle of the bride, the elderly party animals shoot dirty looks and scream for you to turn it down. And when you do some intoxicated jerk accuses you of killing the celebration. As the guy charged with providing the sound track for the event you're screwed.

And then there is always the cool tunes you have to play for the father-daughter dance, usually something saccharine like  "Daddy's Little Girl" and then another one for the brides mother to dance with the groom, something for the bride and her new father-in-law, something for the best man and the bridesmaid, it all gets pretty sickening.

And finally there's that needle in the ear for the happy couple.  "We've Only Just Begun" comes to mind.  Torture.

And before the end of the day everyone wants to dance to those cool novelty things like  "The Chicken Dance"  "The Maceraena"  "Strokin'"  and every other obnoxious melody that gets played at ALL weddings.

It's enough to make a DJ want to beg his away out of any such obligation. I finally learned to say no. The last wedding I hosted was for a friend and like every other one I ever did it was more miserable than the one before it.

But my worst memory of emceeing a social event was one that nearly got me killed.  It was 1974 and I was  "assigned" by the WNCI  Program Director,  E. Karl to host a school dance for Marion River Valley High School.  It was a winter dance party on a Saturday night.

At the time I was the stations all-night DJ  so anything I did before my midnight shift would be something I would do with very little sleep. I was to be paid $200.00  so in a way it was okay.

The day of the dance I loaded up the WNCI van with sound equipment, in those days it was turn-tables for the records, an amplifier the size of a small refrigerator, speakers taller than me, a few party lights, a microphone and miles of cords.

The dance was scheduled to start at 7:00 PM  so I scooted up the freeway around 5:30.  About half way to Marion the snow became almost blinding.  It was getting hard to see the road let alone stay on it.

As I got closer to my destination I could see a railroad crossing ahead with a fast moving train crossing the road.  I panicked,  I hit the brakes and because I was on ice the van went where it wanted to go. Off the road and into a ditch.

Which compared to the alternative that wasn't a bad place to end up.

But this caused everything in the van to slide forward crashing into the back of the seat, the dashboard and me.

It took awhile but I was able to get back on the road and did make it to the dance, about 8:00.  When I got there I was met by the nastiest female I had ever been verbally attacked by. She was fit to be tied that I was late. I don't know if she was a parent, a teacher or the school mascot, but she wasn't pleased that my arrival was the opposite of prompt. She acted like she didn't want me there.

But with the help of a few students  I unpacked my gear  anyway and set it up in the gym.

Nothing worked. Apparently my ditch mishap broke some things. So we improvised. The students raided the schools audio-visual aids closet and brought out two very old record players and plugged me into the schools public address system and by 9:00 the kids were dancing.  And they danced their little hearts out until 9:30, the scheduled time for the events conclusion.

When it was over the nasty woman who had chastised me earlier for being late told me to pack up my junk and get out. So I packed that junk and after I loaded it all back up I went back inside with the audacity, her word not mine, to ask for my money. I was again verbally assaulted and had to leave with no money.

I had counted on getting paid, especially since the needle on the van's gas gauge was in the danger zone and I hadn't thought to take any money with me. But I did make it back to I-71 and Morse Road by 11:30 which under other circumstances would have been enough time to be there for the start of my showat twelve.

The problem was, the van ran out of gas on the exit ramp from 71 to Morse Road. The WNCI studios were on Sinclair Road about two blocks from Morse.

So I left the vehicle on the side of the road and walked to work, arriving only about twenty minutes late.

Because I did have a few friends in Columbus I made arrangements for someone to get the van back to the 'NCI parking lot. What a night indeed.

 Oddly enough Marion River Valley High School never again invited me back. 

Worse than that I have that nightmare embedded in the memory section of my brain.  I'd like to forget it as much as they would. But I suspect there are some who came to dance that night who still harbor less than fond memories of my visit when they think back.  Especially when the class of '74  goes hunting for a DJ to host their reunions.   Rick

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