Truly

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The turkey was eaten. The stuffing was awesome. The green-bean casserole, mashed potatoes, collard-greens and baked beans all went down easy, fulfilling my vegetable requirement. The old home movies took center stage, invoking laughs and cherished memories. And…my Lions lost another Thanksgiving game. By all accounts, another successful holiday celebration has come and gone. And now, many are already out braving the chaos of the annual Black (Thursday) Friday shopping experience.

At the day’s end, I’m comfy in my plaid pajamas, Marvel T-shirt and Nike flip-flops typing away at the keyboard. My wife is tucked away sleeping peacefully, in preparation for another day’s work. It’s the first time today that I’ve taken a serious moment to think about what I’m truly thankful for.

  1. I’m thankful for the last 10 years of marriage to my Misty. A decade ago, we were both far from God and on the brink of divorce. John 6:44 (NKJV) says, “No one can come to Me unless the Father who sent Me draws him; and I will raise him up at the last day.” I really do believe the Lord drew us both into Himself. I see so many of my own friends struggling through tough marriages, and often forget what a blessing it was for God to not only grab hold of one of us; but both at the same time. 
  2. I’m thankful for God’s mercy and grace. I came from a good family and never had to want for anything, because my parents worked hard and sacrificed for their three children. But, in my young-adult years, I made poor decisions that could have easily landed me in jail or the grave. I realize God always had a hand on my life. He’s always been watching over me. The bible teaches that even though I never knew Him, and blatantly disrespected Him, Jesus willing went to the cross and died…for me personally. He did it because He loves me more than I can ever fully comprehend.
  3.  I’m thankful for my dad. Gathering at 4269 12th Street has been a tradition for the Smith family. Over the years, we’ve lost family members: cousins, aunts, uncles, my mom. But my dad keeps the tradition alive. At the end of tonight’s celebration, my wife and I washed dishes at my Dad’s house. She searched for a drying-towel to wipe and store the clean dishes. Without thinking, I instinctively made my way to a hall closet where the towels were stored; just as they were when I was a kid. In that moment, I realized how much I loved my Dad and the house I grew up in. I haven’t lived there in years, but the important things are still right where I know to find them. Relatives thanked Misty and I for cleaning the kitchen, but it really took me back to a time long forgotten; a time when it was my job to wash dishes in that house. It didn’t seem like such a special job tonight. The fifth commandment teaches us to “Honor your father and your mother, that your days may be long upon the land which the Lord your God is giving you.”
  4. I’m thankful for our children. Throughout the celebration, I watched my children eat, laugh and even dance with their extended Smith family. One day, their grandfather will be gone. The house on 12th Street may be different without him. But for now, they enjoy the family get-together celebrations. They love their Poppa, and it shows. I’m blessed to have them. I’m blessed to have my dad be a part of their lives. I’m blessed to be able to watch them grow day by day and year by year.

My marriage, God’s grace & mercy, my dad and my children. Tonight, these are the most important aspects of life…for me.

 

Happy Thanksgiving to you and yours, friends.

 

 

*always*

What Up, Pounce!

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“What up, E?!”

“What up, Pounce!”

Whenever I heard that call, shenanigans were afoot. His voice will forever haunt me. He was never Darion. He was never Pouncy. Not to his crew. No sir, to his WMU friends—comprised of native Flintstones, cats from Detroit and a lil’ dude from a small town called Ecorse—Darion Earnest Pouncy was simply “Pounce”. He was the glue that kept us together. Sometimes, attitudes would flare between boys, and Pounce would always be the voice of reason to bring us back in sync. He wasn’t boisterous; wasn’t loud or larger than life. He was cool. His demeanor was quiet confidence; never really one to take the spotlight, but always alongside his friends supporting the plan, whether it was taking the game to the court, or breaking into the dorm cafeteria after hours. Yeah, we did that. I’d never met anyone like him, and there will never be another to take his rightful place in my heart. Had I known the last time I saw him would in fact be the last time I would ever speak to him, I most likely would have said something a bit more profound. You can never go back. Today, my friend is gone.

In the Fall of ’91, I moved away from my family, and into a first-floor dormitory room at Western Michigan University’s Garneau Hall—Valley Two; an uphill climb, both ways between the housing dorm and the main campus. The first night of my freshman year was the loneliest night of my young life. I remember feeling utterly alone and homesick. Tough guy that I am now, I think some tears were shed that night. Long before I ever found the Lord, I remember actually praying to Him to make the next day better. True to His character, the Lord came through. That next day, I was walking out of my dorm room, when I literally bumped into a young cat from Flint, Michigan who was passing through the hallway, on his way back to his own room…two doors down, on the left. His name was Darion Pouncy. That fateful encounter led to a friendship that would last until the end of his days.

I remember a night in the late Fall season of that freshman year, when the crew assembled for a road trip to Detroit. Pounce’s beat-up hatchback was gassed and ready to make the two-and-a-half-hour trip from Kalamazoo to Detroit’s infamous dress-to-sweat “Club Inferno”. It was a different atmosphere in the 90s, and we were ready to cut loose and blow off steam on the dance-floor. A small portion of the crew—which included Alford “Gene” Harris; Bobby Johnson and Dante Carter—had packed into that little car and bounced; Tupac Shakur’s first album, “2Pacalypse Now” blaring through the screechy front and rear speakers of the rust-bucket, followed by Uncle Luke’s (that’s Luther Campbell to you squares) gig album of the year. That night, we partied until the club closed at 4AM, before making the long and tiresome ride back to Kalamazoo. While everyone slept during the return drive, I sat in the backseat as Pounce quietly navigated the darkness of westbound I-94. Occasionally, his head bobbed in time with the bassline of “Soulja’s Story” crackling the busted woofers of the little car’s taxed speakers. During that trip back to the dorm, I periodically checked on our driver, just to let him know someone was up awake with him.

“What up, Pounce?”

“What up, E? Did you have a good time?”

I remember glancing around the car, at my sleeping brothers and realizing these cats were my new family. “I did. I had a good time. What about you,” I asked. He answered in what would become trademark Pounce fashion.

“It was straight.”

The trip took a little longer than expected, and I remember crawling into my dorm-room bed as the sky was changing from midnight black to pale blue, with the rising of the sun. It was the first time I’d ever stayed awake for over 24 hours. I crashed, exhausted yet grateful for my friends; my brothers; grateful for the chance encounter with Darion Pouncy.

Somewhere along life’s path—after Western Michigan University—I took a turn that caused me to lose touch with my brothers. At the time, I figured leaving those relationships behind was probably for the best, because the change in trajectory had brought my wife into the picture. As a consequence, distance created a gap between me and everybody else who I’d once considered WMU family. Although social media provided a way for us all to reconnect, it just wasn’t the same. As we grew older, we lost touch—I lost touch. In spite of me, time and distance, some true friendships endure.

In August of 2015, I was sent to Kalamazoo to complete a professional project for work. It had been years since I’d last seen or spoken directly to Pounce but like a true friend, when I called, he came. I opened the door of my hotel room and was greeted by that familiar voice. Suddenly, years melted into yesterday.

“What up, E?!”

“What up, Pounce!”

The dap was strong and the love transcended time. In that moment, we were simply brothers catching up with one another after a short stint apart. I told Pounce about my life after Western Michigan University: kids, career, marriage, music, writing and God. I gave him a copy of my recently published book, and a CD of my music. He listened and brought me up to speed on his life, his lady and his dog. The reunion was short. He had things to do and I had a job to prepare for. We promised to catch up again, stepped outside of the hotel and snapped a selfie on his phone. Somewhere between the count down from “three” and “cheese” I flashed a goofy grin. I regret it now…because it was the last time I saw Pounce in the flesh. It was the last time I would hear his voice. I guess I figured there would be more time. It never came.

Darion Earnest Pouncy was my first true friend, in the land of Kalamazoo. He didn’t know it then, but just knowing him changed my life for the better. When I danced in public, he cheered me on; when I ran guard on the court, he was by my side; when I was down, he had quiet and simple words of encouragement. Darion never knew I struggled with anxiety as a kid, right up into my first year at Western Michigan University. If he’d figured it out, he never made fun of me. He never laughed at me. He laughed with me. I regret the time I wasted out of touch with him; with Al; with Doug; with Dante; Jeff; Bobby; Redic, James “Book” and Jesse. I missed my friend. I will miss my friend. I wish I could have thanked him for bumping into me in the hallway. I pray he’s with Jesus; no more suffering; no troubles. I hope he’s straight.

What up Pounce…

 

 

Acrostic

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Hell is real, bruv.

Ask any saint, and he’ll tell you so.

Lives are cut short;

Lasting only as long as sin entertains, persuades and deceives and destroys;

Oh, the agony of the eternal fire!

When exactly did this happen?

Even now, I regret some of my past decisions; actually…

Every decision to ignore the truth of God;

Never to breathe a peaceful life again.

Sometimes, You Gotta Just Go With God

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“What does that mean, Enn?”

Yeah, I know…

“Sometimes, you gotta just go with God; what exactly are you saying?”

Well, see, that’s the thing. I don’t exactly know.

“What do you mean, ‘I don’t exactly know?’ What am I about to read here?”

I can’t rightly answer that question. But, I can tell you this: there are seasons when the Spirit moves in me and I recognize it’s time to sit down at the keyboard. Usually, I’ll turn on some inspiring music and wait for Him to put words into my heart. Tonight is no different. He’s moving, and I’m trying to listen.

One of my favorite songs is “Hymn of Praise” by William McDowell, featuring Julia McMillian and Daniel Johnson on lead vocals. Man, whenever I hear this powerful worship song, I can’t help but to fall in line with the Holy Spirit. Tonight, this song is on heavy repeat…even as I write. As I listen to the praises of God’s people, I’m trying to see the words forming in my heart. This special message is for someone tonight.

You’ve been trying so hard to make things work out in your favor, doing everything you think is right. You’ve been working hard, taking care of your responsibilities and doing everything by the book. Yet, for every step you take, it seems like something or someone pulls you two steps backward. When’s it going to be your time to catch a break, for once?

God sees you. He heard that prayer of desperation, last night. He knows exactly where you are and precisely what you’re going through right this moment, as you read these impossible words. Yeah…He sees you. He sees your struggles.

Mark 9:23-24 records a powerful exchange between Jesus and a father. “Jesus said to him, ‘If you can believe, all things are possible to him who believes.’ Immediately the father of the child cried out and said with tears, ‘Lord, I believe; help my unbelief!'”

That last verse is personal to me, because I know what it feels like to struggle with unbelief strapped to weak hope. But Jesus doesn’t say, “If you wait until your emotions line up with your head-belief, then I’ll act.” No. He simply tells us to believe. You may not feel it emotionally. It may not make any sense to you. It’s a leap of faith.

Tonight, I need you to believe, even if you don’t feel it in your bones. Just trust in God and know that He’s got you exactly where he wants you. Maybe it’s time to leave that job. Maybe it’s time to be brave and put yourself out there. Maybe it’s time to ask for help. Maybe it’s your time to pursue you calling. You’ve been struggling so hard. Believe. He is with you, and knows where you are.

 

*Always*

Find Your Space

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Proverbs 16:9 (NKJV) – “A man’s heart plans his way, but the LORD directs his steps.”

Everyone is born to do something. Everyone has pizzazz. Everybody has a unique gift. Yes; even you. The problem is, life has a tendency to strangle our calling. We might be sidetracked by alluring distractions, causing us to forgo the search for our niche. Maybe we’re born into a life full of never-ending challenges that literally choke the hope of fulfillment out of our hearts. Or just maybe…we’re too darned lazy to find our space in the world.

You ever see those images of a square peg being forced into a round hole? That image perfectly sums up the lives of many people. We busy ourselves trying to fit in where we don’t belong. In the process, life moves forward and we grow complacent and bitter.

What if I told you that Proverbs 16:9 is real? Would you believe me? If I said to you, “Hey Kim, you know that hobby you can’t seem to turn away from? God sewed that into your heart before you were ever born, and he wants you to use that to glorify him.” Would you call me nuts, and turn to another website? I hope you wouldn’t, because my favorite proverb is real. God is in the business of planting His design into your heart, and then causing you to chase after that very desire.

I’ve been writing since I was 12 years old. Trends, fads and styles came and went as I grew older–and actually still do. But, I always had a desire to write. It wasn’t until I submitted to Jesus, that I discovered I was born to write. Not for fame, money or notoriety. I was born to use my God-given talent to glorify Him. When I write about God and the kingdom, I honestly do my best work. It’s the perfectly shaped hole this square was born to fit into. And, I believe it happens easily because God planted that seed into my heart, to fulfill His purpose for my life.

Let’s look at it another way. A Suzuki GXS-R1000 crotch rocket was produced on the assembly line for a very specific purpose. If you try riding that motorcycle on a frozen pond, you’re going to have troubles making it up to 20 miles-per-hour. But if you throttle that sucker along twisting roads and open straightaways, you’re going to effortlessly peak 120 miles-per-hour without even trying. That’s because the bike was made to go fast and grip dry roads with precision. That’s its design, and it wants to go fast. If it wanted to go slow, it would have been made a moped. Round hole; round peg.

So here is your homework assignment: take a moment and look back at your life. What’s that one thing you’ve never been able to stay away from, and that you actually do pretty well? Trust me, everybody’s got one, so find yours.  Once you think you’ve got it, I want you to take an actual leap of faith. Ask God what you’re supposed to do with it. After you do that, start doing that one thing. If it was truly sewn into your heart, watch what God does in your life through His gifted talent in you.

Throwback

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Eric looked around the cozy 7-feet by 7-feet booth. The white gypsum board walls behind and around him were covered by black squares of sound deadening foam. The overhead lighting was dimmed just enough to set a “chill” mood. In that moment—the calm before the storm—he was glad they’d decided to install the LED lighting bank recessed into the low ceiling. The air inside the new booth was still rich with the intermingled smells of newly-laid carpet and spray paint. Three feet in front of him, the neon green graffiti-tag painted along the bottom half-wall underneath the see-through Plexiglas window read, “Cut It ‘Till It Bleeds the Music”. Eric glanced out beyond the window and flashed a quick thumbs up, before settling his hand on top of the left deck’s 7-inch diameter steel platter of his Pioneer DJ controller. His right hand instinctively gravitated to the mixer’s crossfader and slid the smooth knob right. Eric clicked the crossfader—between thumb and middle finger—and simultaneously flicked his left wrist back and forth; two quick jabs. Underneath his hand, the platter skipped in time, filling his ears with the beautiful sound of chirp-scratch. He grinned and leaned toward the microphone setup left of the controller.

“I’m good here boys.”

“Alright E. We’re rolling.” Jerry’s voice resonated inside Eric’s oversized studio-headphones. “Take me back, bro. I need to feel it, not just hear it.”

“Word. Like ’89 summertime backyard Bar-B-Ques and Faygo red.”

Eric tapped the “Play” key, below the deck-2 platter. A 4/4 House Music beat instantly blared through the headphones, at 120 beats per minute. The bump was infectious.

My body may be middle-aged and slightly pudgy, he thought, but I still know how to two-step.

Eric glanced up at his Macbook Pro laptop perched on its stand above his DJ controller. He smiled at the camera image reflected back. Purple Adidas track suit; purple vintage Kangol hat flipped backwards; Gazelle-sunglasses—all bobbing to the beat. He looked down at the left white shell-toe of his classic Adidas, tapping in sync with the music. His kids hated his apparel, but his wife loved it. She said his style reminded her of their high-school days. To some, he might have stepped right out of a 1980s time-warp. But to brother-E, a nickname his brothers had dubbed him two decades ago, tonight he was simply the DJ.

On the opposite side of the Plexiglas window, the new Engineer studio was on full jam as the two soundboard operators and six spectators swayed with the beat. The music pumped crystal clear through dual 15-inch diameter Mackie-brand studio loudspeakers setup on the carpeted floor; each on either side of a brand new 32-channel Behringer studio-mixer, permanently fastened to a smooth cherrywood table pushed against the opposite side of the DJ-booth’s Plexiglas half-wall. Sound deadening foam attached to the white-walls and ceiling of the 7-feet by 12-feet Engineer studio left no echo; just crisp music thumping in the currently cramped space.

The side door next to Jerry—Eric’s twin brother and lead sound engineer—suddenly flung open. Marcus stepped over the threshold of the packed Engineer room, bobbing and dancing. Despite his thinning hairline and salt-n-pepper goatee, he moved with youthful fluidity.

“Shut the door lil brother,” Jerry yelled over the loud music.

“Dang!” Marcus squealed. “That’s ‘Blow Your House Down—A Guy Named Gerald.’ Ain’t heard this one in a minute, bro. Eric really opened up with a classic banger. He’s not messin’ around tonight. Goin’ straight for the jugular!”

Zeek, a young protégé engineer-in-training seated to Jerry’s right, looked up from the studio-mixer’s volume-knobs and pushed his horn-rimmed glasses up the bridge of his nose, through his unkempt dreadlocks. He glanced left and slapped his dad—Marcus—a high-five behind uncle Jerry’s nodding head.

“Pop’s,” Zeek yelled, “what’s the name of this old-school joint, again?”

Jerry and Marcus exchanged agitated looks, before the brothers set their stone gazes on Zeek.

“Boy,” Jerry yelled, “get your scrawny lil’ butt out of my new seat—”

“In fact,” Marcus shifted a thumb toward the door, “get out of this studio. How you gonna become a sound engineer when you don’t even know the music? Beat it, and take all six of your young Thundercat friends with you!”

“But pops—”

“Out.” Marcus yelled. “Tell your momma I’m gonna be home late. Me and your uncles got work to do.”

“Nephew,” Jerry said, “you’ve got to be a student of the music first, before you sit down and start pushing buttons.” He smacked the teenaged boy across the butt, as Zeek walked out behind his entourage.

“Yes sir, uncle Jerry.”

As the side door slammed shut, the music dimmed. Eric’s low voice rumbled through the studio speakers.

“Yo, where’d the kids go? I need them to test out the music. That’s my target audience, right there.”

Jerry punched a blinking button on the mixer. “No. You don’t. You’ve got your brothers.”

“Heh, the three musketeers,” Marcus laughed, “back in the saddles!”

“Three musketeers, back in the saddles,” Eric said, looking at his two brothers behind the window. “Bar-B-Ques and Faygo red?”

“Bar-B-Ques—” Jerry started.

“And Faygo red, big brothers!” Marcus yelled.

“Word. Marc, we’re gonna do it like we used to, back then.” Eric punched the play button on deck-2. The music slowly ground to a halt.

“What’ve you got in mind?” Jerry asked, over the studio PA system.

Inside the DJ booth, Eric’s fingers worked feverishly over the laptop’s touch pad. Scrolling. Sifting. Searching, until he found it. Marcus’ all-time favorite song.

“Let’s get this throwback session going, boys,” Eric said into the booth’s microphone. “We ready to record?”

“No dry run, bro?” Marcus asked; Jerry still holding down the PA button.

“Nah, we’re good. ‘Blow Your House Down’ was the dry run.”

“Alright, E,” Jerry announced. “I’m gonna say it again: Take me back, bro. I need to feel it, not just hear it.” Jerry turned toward Marcus. “Rollin’ lil brother?”

“Sound’s recording’. Once you start the feed, we’re good to go. Drop it when you’re ready, E.”

Jerry released the PA button and spun his black leather swivel chair toward a Microsoft ergo keyboard sitting next to the studio mixer. As he typed, a 24-inch flat-screen monitor mounted to the wall, just left of the Plexiglas window, flashed to life displaying a Windows wallpaper logo—cartooned, purple-themed graffiti—of DJ Brother-E standing beside a vintage boombox. Jerry tapped the “Enter” key. The screen suddenly displayed two live video feeds; one beside the other. The left feed showed a Facebook-Live video of the adjoining DJ booth; its camera lens seemingly trained on the entire little room, from a ceiling corner, over the laptop and DJ table. The right feed was a close-up video of Eric—the laptop camera—wringing his hands together; eager to get started. Jerry typed.

“Going live in 3, 2, 1…” he said. He wheeled the chair over to the mixer, and depressed the blinking PA button again.

“We’re live, E. Bring it.” Jerry released the button, and punched Marcus in the left shoulder.

Inside the DJ booth, Eric nodded at the tiny Go-Pro camera mounted in the right corner of the low ceiling, then tapped a button labeled “Sample 1” on the DJ controller. Instantly, his headphones lit up with a voice over tag he’d used for every DJ set ever recorded over the last 20 years.

“Brother-E is on the Beat!”

Eric leaned into the microphone. “Yeah, yeah, yeah party people! You know what it is, and you know who it is. It’s ya man, brother-E, comin’ to you live and direct from the new headquarters. That’s right, after months of renovating, and bouncing between satellite locations, I’ve finally landed in my new home studio. This maiden voyage episode of ‘Brother-E on the Beat’ is executively produced by Jerry Smith, mixed by Marcus Smith, with yours truly manning the ones-n-twos. You know how we do it. House Music is life; one hour strong to get your dance, jog, or workout on! Tonight, I’m takin’ y’all back on a lil journey through the old school, strictly for my Generation-X family. Nothing but them classics, yo! In fact, we’re gonna kick this thing off with an eternal anthem. This is the ‘Jungle Brothers—I’ll House You.’ Let’s go to work people! Brother-E is on the beat!”

Eric tapped the “Play” key under the deck-2 platter, and glanced up through the window to see Marcus pump two fists in the air. Jerry pointed back at Eric through the window. His toothy grin was all the confirmation Eric needed; signifying tonight’s session would be epic.

Inside the Engineer room, “♪ Girl I’ll house You; girl I’ll house you; girl I’ll house you; you in my hut now… ♪” blared through the loudspeakers. The highs, crisp; the mids, sharp; the lows explosive. Marcus’ teeth seemed to rattle in his skull. He loved every moment of it, allowing the music to awaken memories of family parties in the backyard of Ma and Pop’s old house; his brothers manning the turntables and old mixer, while he handed over vinyl records when needed.

The bassline kicked so hard, Eric could feel the vibrations emanating from the Engineer studio rumble through the DJ-booth floor; in perfect time with the music blaring through his headphones. As he bobbed with the beat, knobs on the controller were adjusted, buttons were pushed and level-meters jumped between green and orange hues with each beat-kick. Eric looked into the laptop camera and pointed at the lens, then back to himself before spreading his arms wide, while bouncing to the beat; playing to his live-stream audience. A tally app in the top left corner of the screen displayed 3,021 and climbing already. Thirty seconds into the set, his faithful audience was savoring the music. It was a good start. Three minutes into the first track, his virtual audience had doubled.

In the Engineer studio, Jerry punched the PA button. The music blasting through the loudspeakers momentarily died, as he spoke.

“E, I’m gonna need some of that Steve ‘Silk’ Hurley, bro. The requests are rollin’ in already.”

Jerry released the button and the music roared through the loudspeakers again. He spun toward the flat-screen monitor. The Facebook-Live feed still streamed live video of Eric commanding the DJ controller and dancing. Below the image, a steady stream of viewer comments scrolled upscreen. He saw Eric flash a thumbs up toward the Plexiglas window, before hunkering close to the laptop. On the close-up feed, Jerry watched as Eric’s fingers flew across the touchpad. The live-recording elapsed time stamp read 3:24-minutes. Jerry knew his brother would transition into the next song within 20 seconds. He glanced at Marcus bobbing in the next seat. Their younger brother had always been Eric’s number one fan since the beginning.

“He hasn’t lost a step in 20 years, has he Marc?” Jerry yelled over the music.

Marcus looked at Jerry. “What?!” he yelled.

Jerry leaned closer to Marcus. “I said, he hasn’t lost a step in 20 years!”

“Oh! Naw, he hasn’t! You know in 20 years, all three of us will be deaf, by the time you guys are 65 and I’m 62, right?” Marcus leaned closer and punched Jerry in the right shoulder.

Jerry nodded and fist-bumped his little brother, before turning back to the board. Over the loudspeakers, a beat juggle scratched over the music and then his favorite track blended in seamlessly. Jerry closed his eyes, smiled wide and felt the music transport his heart back to a time when they were simply the three Smith brothers, with no cares in the world; just the music between them.

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Eric was in the zone. The Jungle Brothers track was midway through its pace and he was setting up to transition into “Royal House—Can You Party”. Suddenly, Jerry’s voice interrupted the groove blaring through his headphones.

“E, I’m gonna need some of that Steve ‘Silk’ Hurley, bro. The requests are rollin’ in already.”

Eric glanced through the Plexiglas window to flash a thumbs up at Jerry, who was already staring at the studio’s flat-screen monitor. That impromptu request would alter his set a little, but not much. He knew his twin brother’s favorite track and simply needed to drop it into the set, as his second track for the night. Eric’s fingers navigated the laptop touchpad flawlessly. He methodically scrolled through Serato DJ digital crates until he found the prize: “Jack Your Body” by Steve “Silk” Hurley. He dropped the track into deck-1and thumbed the pitch knob, raising its tempo to 120 beats per minute. As the main track continued to dominate his ears, Eric closed his eyes and pushed the deck-1 “Cue” button then began to manipulate the deck-1 platter using the tips of his middle and ring-fingers. His left ear registered the new track, while his right ear registered the original track now entering the bridge of the song. He played with the two songs until the beats were precisely where he wanted them. Eric opened his eyes and punched the “Cue” button again, then set his right middle-finger and thumb on the cross-fader held wide open, right. The original track blared through both ears. He looked up through the window and saw his brothers immersed in conversation. While holding the deck-1 platter in place, Eric punched the deck-1 “Play” button, then returned his right hand to the cross-fader. He clicked the cross-fader and simultaneously wrist-flicked the left platter. The new track beat-juggled in perfect time with the Jungle Brothers track—two half beats; two quarter beats—and then…

“JACK! Jack; jack; jack, jack, jack…” echoed over the original track.

Eric slid the cross-fader left toward the mixer’s middle position and let the dual beats of both tracks ride together in perfect sync. He slowly spun the deck-2 Bass equalizer knob counter-clockwise, and lowered the deck-2 volume effectively fading out the first song. Onscreen, the tally app suddenly exploded from 6, 567 viewers to 8, 982 with the new track blended. DJ Brother-E’s throwback set was shaping up to be one for the books, and his fans loved every minute of his set. For 56 minutes straight, he took his audience back in time on a musical journey. As he DJed, Eric remembered a time when he and his brothers cared for nothing but the music. It wasn’t even about the crowds, the fans nor the prestige tied to their skills. It was only about their love for the music. For the moment, that time was once again…right now.

~ END ~

 

For my man…Bro. E