Hang the DJ,” Morrissey once recommended. And while the folks over at the Double Down Saloon aren’t proponents of outright manslaughter, they have no qualms about taking a hammer to wax for their Record Sale and Smash-Up Nights. Every Monday at 10 p.m., The Bargain DJ Collective’s Rex Dart—whose business card identifies him as a “Pirate Detective”—hauls two boxes of old underground 45s, two turntables and a tip bucket up onto a folding table atop the Double Down’s miniscule stage. Under the glare of red spotlights, the 33-year-old Spinner About Town, who also works the room at such venues as Beauty Bar and The Griffin, chooses cuts left over from his days at the now-defunct store/gallery/venue High End Mystery Emporium. Sleater-Kinney and anime-porn videos overhead getting to you? Tired of getting bumped by some drunk jerk’s chair? Don’t like the Johnny Cash, Roger Miller or Soggy Bottom Boys Dart is blaring? Ten dollars gets you a shot of the bar’s notorious Ass Juice and the opportunity to smash the offending vinyl with the bar’s Ass Juice Hammer.
A great concept, to be sure, but tonight the action is decidedly unsmashing. By 12:30 the bar is mostly empty and the Ass Juice Hammer has yet to make an appearance.
“We found out about this online,” says Cara Moorhead, a tourist visiting from Ottawa. “We thought it would be more like our Jet International Bingo, where people dress up in Old Vegas-style clothes, give themselves names like Johnny Vegas, and play Bingo. It’s been going on for six years. Whoever wins the Smash Round puts on goggles, lights shit on fire, and smashes the record with a baseball bat. You’d be surprised at how fast they melt.”
By now a dude has passed by three separate times with toilet paper stuck to his shoe, an obese fellow has removed his shirt and given his female friend a lap dance, and every song has been enjoyed by all. It’s loud ,and spilled drinks have turned the table top sticky. Suddenly, a repetitive banging, and everyone turns to look. Is it an elusive record smash-up? No, just a guy hammering the bottom of his pool cue on the ground. Disappointment.
Sleep beckons and the wallet empties, and still no acts of preapproved destruction. Tonight may have evolved into a punk-rock Waiting For Godot, but there’s always next week. Roger Miller haters welcomed.