DJing at the So Tough! So Cute! club in Malmo on Saturday, fully expecting kids who wear stripy t-shirts and their haircuts backwards to request lost indiepop classics, I was – and I urge those of a sensitive nature to cover their eyes – asked to play “Oasis”. The same tone deaf youth then asked for “Blur”. In desperation at my refusal – I can’t play what I don’t have – he pleaded for “The Rolling Stones”. Again, I disappointed him.
Ten minutes later, his girlfriend approached and demanded something with “a bit more oomph”. I pointed out that the dancefloor was heaving with the pulsating gyrations of enthusiastic dancers. She looked nonplussed. “We want to hear THE FINAL COUNTDOWN.”
It was at this point that I realised she’d mistaken the DJ booth for a confession booth. “We don’t play that sort of music. Now say three hail marys, get your ears cleaned out and if that doesn’t work I really must recommend you consider electric shock therapy.”
Odder than that – and the Swedish speakers among you will have to excuse my abuse of your mother tongue – a young man accosted me with the chilling words:
God afton , min herre. Jag och min idiot vännerna skulle raring lik till gör MACARENA. JAG lita på du vill lek den för oss.
Given the state of my Swedish (like John Candy’s in Splash) I recognised only the deathly word “Macarena” and referred the gent to resident DJ, Daniel. His answer –I think the non-Swedish speakers among you will get the gist – gave a clear message to those revellers who’d wandered into the wrong club:
Other than that, though, a smashing time was had by all. The drink flowed, the dancefloor heaved and the music raced for the prize and won. I will return in the summer. And, no, I will not play The Final Fuck Bort Countdown.