Caesar and the sound systems

Beautiful Caesar was tall, maybe 6-1/2 feet, with wide shoulders and a narrow waist. His muscles were toned and his smooth skin was the color of coffee that isn't quite strong enough. His past-the-shoulder dreadlocks were thin and uniform, not clumpy and frightening like some nyabinghi mountain man. Caesar's wardrobe was as stylish as his person and he employed all of these traits, and ample charm, in his quest to be a man-about-town.

Caesar was a musician, electronic music producer and DJ. Through these channels he and I became friends. For a few years in the early aughts, when I pretended I was an impresario, I emulated Caesar with my spin on beauty—easier done twenty years and sixty pounds ago—and, lacking Caesars natural gifts, I compensated with outrageousness. With varying success, Caesar and I parlayed our looks and charm into gigs, although Caesar could back up looks with talent and ambition and I had to rely on luck and tenacity. Caesar landed regular DJ stints at trendy ultra-lounges with expensive bottle service. I played the sticky-floored lounge at First Avenue. Caesar spun through hi-tech sound systems at chic dance clubs and hipster watering holes. I hosed down derelict warehouses and schlepped in heavy, battered, borrowed gear.

Sometimes our worlds aligned. Caesar would perform at one of my events, or I'd get on the DJ bill at one of his swank venues. A crowning achievement for Caesar was landing the musical-directorship for DIFFA—in '02 or '03. DIFFA, the Design Industry Federation Fighting Aids, was a big, big deal. For years DIFFA held an annual fund-raiser in the gorgeous atrium of International Market Square (IMS), an old knitting factory on the northwest edge of downtown that was converted into upscale design studios and apartments. The DIFFA event raised hundreds of thousands of dollars through donations, spendy tickets, really spendy fine dining, an uber spendy auction, and late-night dancing where expensive cocktails flowed like the Mississippi under the Stone Arch Bridge. Local celebrities would attend en masse, maybe a smattering of national celebrities as well.

Caesar pulled out all stops as he prepared for the late, dance portion of DIFFA. His entertainment roster included the creme de la creme of local DJs. The DIFFA organizers, with their deep pockets, assembled a first-rate sound system and sophisticated lighting in a pop-up dance club on an upper floor of IMS. For the early portion of the evening, held in the atrium, where attendees dined and events played out on a large stage, Caesar needed a single DJ for a long set—three or four hours—that would be punctuated by events on the stage. He chose me.

The pop-up dance club was impressive, but it was really in the atrium were DIFFA organizers spared no expense. Linen-covered tables filled the huge floor space. Exotic floral arrangements in the centers of the tables were surrounding by gleaming place settings. A beautifully lit stage, with a central cat walk, was erected above an astonishing number of subwoofers for the sound system. Hung from the Atrium's ceiling were many more speaker cabinets, arrayed to service multiple balcony levels and pointing in all directions. My DJ booth had top-of-the line CD decks and a connection cable waiting for the small mixer I'd brought—the only piece of gear I had to carry that night! My booth was flanked by enormous potted ferns and was lit in a dim, sexy way. Next to my spot, a sound man with his racks of gear kept the big system running smoothly. He even allowed me to sound check before guests arrived, giving me a chance to tweak the system specifically for my chill-out tracks, and to hear them like I'd never heard them before.

My long DJ set went off without a hitch. I had a front row seat for the night's hottest party. I was treated like royalty. And, I have Caesar to thank for handing me the best DJ gig of my life.

Not all events went so well for Caesar. One time he threw a party in another swank atrium, in the US Bank building at 5th and 3rd downtown. Among the businesses that ringed the atrium was Atlas restaurant, and Caesar had a connection there. I can't recall Caesar's deal exactly, but it involved collaboration with Atlas. As I remember it, Atlas would arrange for Caesar to use the atrium and, in exchange, Caesar's party would have to generate a certain level of business at the Atlas bar. By certain level, I mean, thousands of dollars—maybe two or three. If the event didn't generate that sum, Caesar would have to make up the difference.

As was his method, Caesar went all in, with a giant line-up of DJs and a mountain of gear to fill the big space with sound. Unlike DIFFA, however, preparation for this gig was coming out of his pocket. He was convinced that if he packed the house, the party would pay for the gear, the DJs, the Atlas bar tab and still yield him a tidy profit. His plan was sound aside from two colossal mistakes.

Mistake number one was that Caesar's party took place on Pride weekend. Caesar's view was that the city would be packed with party people looking to drink and dance, and he was absolutely correct. My view was that entertainment competition was fierce on Pride weekend. Clubs everywhere were throwing parties and, for dancing, the Saloon, on Hennepin, owned Pride.

Mistake number two was a doozy. Caesar's party was under hyped. Back in the day, carpeting the city with flyers was part of the promotional landscape. Advertising in The City Pages, an entertainment weekly, would help. On Pride weekend, advertising in Lavender, the preeminent local queer magazine, would totally help. Tragically, Caesar dropped the promo ball. In the days before the party a grim reality was apparent. Ticket sales were nearly zilch and, though tickets would also sell at the door, the lack of pre-sales was making Caesar crazy.

It was no better on the day of the party. In an admirable, show-must-go on, manner, Caesar saw to the load in and set-up of the gear. Then, just hours before the show, when gear schleppers had left and other DJs had yet to show up, it was just Caesar and me alone in the atrium. In a panic he told me that he had to head to Loring Park, where Pride festivities were in full swing, and furiously pass out his flyers. He told me—the first DJ on the bill—to kick off the party on time if he wasn't back. And then he was gone and I was alone behind an unfamiliar mixer and a big sound system I didn't quite know how to control. On top of this, the Atlas manager came to me, wondering were Caesar had gone and what the hell, exactly, was going on.

8:00 p.m. party time came and not a single guest was on the big, empty atrium floor. I fired up the system and dropped some bass-heavy dub tracks. My only audience was a few DJs at the Atlas bar who'd arrived and were scheduled to spin later.

A bad as I felt for Caesar, not a dime had come out of my pocket for this fiasco. I'd only offered some shlepping support and earned a few drink tickets. And so I found myself in a beautiful space, with a stiff Atlas cocktail, and I had control of another big sound system and a stack of cool CDs. I didn't inherit Caesar's stress, instead I enjoyed hearing music that I loved fill the atrium. Sonically, this was second only to hearing my music on the dreamy DIFFA rig at IMS.

Eventually Caesar returned, other DJs spelled me and my Atlas party duties came to an end. Caesar took a bath on this night, but I don't remember him ever bitching about it. Maybe, player that we was, he swung some deal with Atlas and lessened the financial blow. Maybe the other DJs were working for drink tickets like me. Who knows? I can only say that he seemed to rebound pretty well, and I had another rare and delightful evening courtesy of my beautiful friend Caesar.