The music thrums, an electric Bhangra beat full of quick hits and sharp highs. It’s catchy, dubstep marrying “Beware of the Boys” with a sonic antigravity that pulls my feet off the floor. I smile, enjoying myself.
Aakash, more than enjoying, freaks out as the DJ pulls us through another tonal transition.
“Holy balls of Shiva, man!” He yells in my face, like some FOB boy. Whenever Aakash drinks, he starts talking like a stereotype. “Did you hear what he did?!”
“Uh, it sounded like he changed to another song,” I yell back, annoyed.
“No way, man!” shouts Aakash. “Listen to what I am telling you: He live-sampled two snips of the first song, rolled them into repeat as he loaded the second song, and bloody freestyled the opening!”
Skeptical, I look up at the booth.
DJ Desi Derm sways there, huge belly painted gold, scraggly hair pulled up like Buddha, Sanskrit tattoos on his arms in glow paint. A mishmash of Asian holy symbols and charms dangle from his limbs and flapping ears. Couldn’t even just go for Ganesha, had to hit up other religions, too. He moves in a slow, theatrical manner, big limbs sliding across the controls. I can’t imagine he’s even touching the machines.
“What, him?” I ask. “Dude’s just a dancer playing a mixtape.”
Aakash does a 360 arms-flailing freakout and grabs my shoulders.
“Holy guru, dude!” (I can’t believe even a stereotype would say that.) “Can you not get past your homo sapiens bias? What the trunk! He’s got a theremin, see? Every time he moves his trunk over it, the thing’s sensors note the changes in position and reprogram what he’s playing.”
I look again and have to admit, DJ Desi Derm’s trunk is pretty active. Curling, twisting, looping over his controls, the thing seems remarkably in time with the music.
“If you say so, Aakash.”
“I say, I say! Elephants never preset!”