Guys like j. frede make me feel old and out of touch at 25. When I told my mother I was going to watch a local DJ play for a story I was working on, she asked me which radio station he worked for. I scoffed then, but later that night, watching j. frede perform at The Mercury Café on what looked like nothing more than a laptop, a mouse, and a shoebox-sized soundboard, I was the dinosaur. Where were the upside-down visor, the glowsticks, the turntables, and the crate of records? What the fuck? Turns out the 26 year old isn't really a DJ after all, he's a "sound abductor." He abducts sounds he hears all over the place-- from a Speak-n-Spell he rewired, to the noise of traffic outside, to the clatter in his kitchen. He records these sounds and turns them into electronic soundscapes using a computer and assorted synthesizer equipment.

Without telling anyone in the crowd, he abducted the Denver Gentlemen at the Mercury Café that night. Not that the gentlemen minded; they're his friends. It was their first performance in something like five years, and they wanted j. frede to open for them. They gave him an acoustic recording of theirs to manipulate for his show.

How anyone could've ever guessed what he was working with is beyond me-- according to j. frede, however, one audience member figured it out. The first thing I thought of was the soundtrack to some grainy and obscure foreign film. The sound kind of crept into the room; as it evolved, I envisioned some Tool video shit, like a marching army of creepy weather-beaten naked porcelain dolls, most of them missing limbs.

Eventually, the room sounded like the creaking inner-hull of a submarine. "Normally I would've gotten up and explained to people that the sound that I was using was the Denver Gentlemen's and given them an idea as to what was going on. I knew that that crowd, they were pretty sour about the fact that an electronic artist was opening for the Denver Gentlemen, so I was just like, whatever."

That crowd was lucky. During a show he put on at Chernobyl Tone Gallery-- a now-defunct art gallery/ performance space he owned and operated-- he locked the crowd inside, made sure there were no cops in attendance, and proceeded to construct a pipe bomb. Those in attendance got to check his progress using the diagram of a pipe bomb on the flyers they were holding in their trembling hands.

"People were running for the door when I got done. It really moved them and that was the whole point of the whole thing. I mean I was sweating bullets the whole time," j. frede said. "I like waking people up, making them have some sort of feelings, whether it's hate for me, or disgust, or anything, but people are so numb."

He didn't ever detonate the bomb; he thinks he might still have it somewhere. Appropriately located a few blocks east of the state capitol on Colfax-- the part of Colfax that most resembles the residual of nuclear fallout, complete with wandering C.H.U.D.S.-- Chernobyl gave j. frede and other electronic artists a place to set up camp and promote their art form.

Chernobyl also had ties to the Guerilla Artwarfare movement to which j. frede belongs. This movement involves everything from distributing upsetting propaganda to various bits of performance art to the bomb show-- getting art exposure by any means necessary. So how do you follow up the threat of critically wounding your audience and blowing off your own hands (in the name of art)? I have no idea, but I guess movies might be a good start.

Recording the sound of wind and trickling water in Telluride was part of j. frede's job as the audio curator for the Telluride International Experimental Cinema Exposition (T. I. E.) last year. Along with providing some of the ambient sounds between films, he scored a two-hour session of 20 silent films shown back to back. He received a video of the films just two days prior to the event. "I sat down and watched every film and just got a rough idea as to how I could manipulate the sound for each film." Then, using his equipment and some of the sounds he had recorded around town, he made soundtracks for the films while they played. "It was the most intense, stressful experience I've ever had musically ... afterwards, I sat for like 20 minutes and I was completely exhausted. Like physically exhausted."

With multiple releases, many on his own record label-- ritual document release-- you'd think j. frede would consider himself an accomplished musician. Not entirely the case. "I wouldn't call myself a musician, ever. I just refer to everything I do as sound. I would never say, 'Oh, I wrote a new song. ' I just feel like it's collections of sounds."

Denver, as it turns out, has a much better scene for experimental sound than many larger cities. Here, j. frede said shows featuring prominent experimental artists can yield nearly 200 people, but when he played with some pretty big names in electronic music in San Francisco, there weren't even 50 heads. "Touring the U. S. for electronic artists, unless they're working in the field of techno or it's just straight house music, is pretty much pointless."

Having toured extensively in Europe, j. frede has noticed several differences in people's attitudes towards his work abroad. "The field that I'm working in is vibrant over there ... everyone's really respectful and really into what's going on." The frustration of playing to many unreceptive crowds in America has, in part, impelled him to plan a move to Prague in October.

Not to say he'll leave Denver untouched-- he mentioned something about mounting speakers loaded with various prerecorded sounds in undisclosed locations downtown. Let's hope they're not also packed with gunpowder.

--Josh Tyson

THE MAGIC MAN MOBILE DJ RODD METCALF RARELY MISSES A BEAT

A wedding is not a leisure activity. Who can relax during such an ordeal? Certainly not the brides and grooms. For nuptial first-timers-- virgins, so to speak-- wedded lock-down is a traumatic thing. Like a hospital birthing, certified professionals push the couple out of the gates and into a strange new world of bright lights, white color schemes and stunned, weepy relatives. For battle-hardened veterans of failed marriage campaigns, wedded bliss is a case of once more into the breach, dear friends, let's hope with this shot the intelligence and trajectory are a bit more on target.

Certainly not the certified professionals, like DJ Rodd Metcalf of Lights, Music, Dance (LMD) Productions, whom I shadowed for two days. DJ Rodd (as he's known at Tracks 2000, where he spins progressive house and Top 40 remixes on Thursdays) gives and takes orders of Kool & the Gang, Nat King Cole, straight or mixed Madonna, among an extensive catalogue of others. From behind his mixing board and CD players, between the corporate functions, bat mitzvahs and birthday gigs, Metcalf surveys parquet floors crisscrossed by frantic caterers and chain-smoking fathers of brides. Gay commitment ceremonies, breeder weddings; marriages of convenience, love, necessity, propriety and desperation. On the happiest day of the newlyweds' lives, Metcalf helps to make it seem that way.

I'm not relaxed. I'm squatted down in an awkward catcher's stance in the merciless sun. The black wool suit I'm wearing for the dress code is sweat-plastered to my back. Shifting my weight from one leg to the other, feeling the grind of arthritis in each knee (skiing crash), I spy on the bride and groom. I look back at Metcalf, also sweating from the heat and amplifier stacking. Standing in the sunken reception room, he can't see the holy matrimony on the lawn above and that's why I'm signaling down low like a Marine under fire. I've already signed twice; first to indicate the arrival of the bride's maid so Metcalf can hit the processional music, and second to tell him that the bride made it under the white trellis archway, next to her husband in t-minus counting: what? I wait in pain, too far away to hear coherent sentences, catching bits from the preacher about Jesus and pre-marital counseling. My knees creak. God, kiss the mug so I can chop this oppressive air with three fingers and stand up!

"Do you...?" I think I hear this. "And do you...?" the preacher asks of the woman. I snap my arm at Metcalf, rise and wince in joint pain to Mendelsshohn's "Wedding March." "I consider myself to be somewhat of an entertainer," Metcalf said of his profession. "I entertain people so that they can have fun and dance." In person, he speaks thoughtfully in gentle tones. On his microphone (the same model used by Cher during her last tour), Metcalf's voice lowers, assuming a bold assertiveness. A DJ since 1988, Metcalf has been playing weddings for more than six years, gaining expertise and a solid reputation in that time. While living in Durango for most of the '80s, Metcalf began to find his niche.

"I always liked music," he said. "I always had tons of 12-inch remixes. So every time my friends would have a party, they would ask me to DJ it." By 1995, Metcalf had cashed in his 401( K) to buy the thousands of dollars worth of lighting, support booms and other equipment that go into his shows. LMD Productions, as the name would have it, also does extensive lighting work, which include Technobeams-- computerized units which project ornate, dynamic displays ranging from dragons to psychedelic swirls. Such exhibitions may be too exciting for some. I noted that one of Metcalf's recent engagements near Vail, which was attended by Dick Cheney, seemed to coincide with the vice president's most recent bout of cardiac distress.

While many DJs prefer vinyl on their turntables, Metcalf opts for CDs. "What I can cram into one [CD] case would take a vinyl DJ a whole van," he said. White albums-- pirate remixes of pop music, and essential elements in many DJs' quivers-- are often on vinyl. Metcalf solves this needling dilemma with a CD burner and a record turntable, turning vinyl to digital. The portability, and durability, of compact discs are crucial for this DJ on the run.

Metcalf cites few specific influences, but said the encouragement of his sister, Cheryl Metcalf, was crucial in helping him achieve his aspirations.

"It's mostly because she really believed in me when I didn't," Metcalf explained, who finally was offered a gig by Sven of Tracks during a chat room conversation. Discouraged by past rejection, Metcalf had to be convinced by Cheryl to send in the samples of his music that Sven had requested. "Two days later, after I sent the demos, I got the job there. And my club thing in Denver kind of really took off," Metcalf said.

Today, Metcalf can pick and choose his work, which he likes to switch between light shows, mobile music and club work. The variety keeps the burnout at bay, which is crucial for a job that entails long hours of travel, setup and performances before treacherous audiences. Think manic chew-out by a bride's mom who can't stand the playlist her daughter chose for her own wedding. Think multi-tasking worthy of Kali, spinning tunes while placating the meddler. Think dead silence after the music dies with mama still hollering. DJ Rodd is no miracle worker. Or is he? He got the deaf to groove to music.

"He was able to devise a system of entertaining them that involved more heavy bass," said Nancy Williams, event coordinator at Karen's in the Country, who was introduced to Metcalf by a family whose members include deaf individuals. "The lights, the whole of it came together to allow deaf people to feel the music."

Unfortunately, human follies, such as back-to-back 98 Degrees requests, are out of Metcalf's hands. --Andrew Wells

THE CLUB STAR SKUNK RIDES CONSTANT SUCCESS IN AN INCONSTANT WORLD

A club night that runs with the same style of music, the same night of the week and the same DJ for five years is rare. Skunk Motel, the Monday night house party at the Snake Pit, proves it can be done. They started with DJ Skunk in March of 1996 to try out a different kind of club night and it lasted.

Ever since the start of Skunk Motel, both DJ Skunk and the Snake Pit have won prizes for this night. The key to Skunk Motel's success may very well be DJ Skunk. He is the one who won the faith of the owners to do a club night the way he wanted to. "They opened up in 1996, as did club America ... I decided the Snake Pit was better for what I wanted to do. They offered me either Monday or Friday night and I chose Monday, which surprised the owners. All I asked was for them not to tell me what music to play, not to pressure me to change to get people in there and I wanted to be in charge of flyers. They agreed with that. Within three to four months we actually got really good crowds in there. Within a year the place was packed."

Skunk never intended to be a DJ. He was in school for architecture when he went to London in 1989. There he discovered the acid-house scene that was just hitting off there. A year later he moved to England for eight months and experienced the house explosion right where it all started. When he came back to the United States and experienced San Francisco's legendary "Together" Tuesday, he decided to leave his profession and try to DJ himself.

According to Skunk, it's the people who come to Skunk Motel who got it going. "They really come out to Skunk Motel to dance. They're there for the music. Overall it's about the music and not about being watched when you're dancing. It's more of a release and less of a place to be seen. They're just there to have fun, which is really different from the weekend mentality. I don't think this could happen on the weekend."

The way Skunk works is quite different from most club DJs. Where at most clubs the DJs will play what people do know, Skunk tries to play as much new material as possible. "I try to never play the same record more than three weeks in a row. After that I take it out of my crate. I really like to see what the crowd will let me do. All I play is dance music, but within that, it varies widely; I'll play trance, techno, breakbeat. If I like something, I'll find a way to play it."

Skunk thinks the Monday night crowd is a very specific crowd. The actual faces of the people there might change, but the energy has stayed the same during those five years. The crowd isn't a "snobby purist" crowd, as he calls it. They appreciate the diversity in the music Skunk is playing. Also, they know what Skunk's general way of playing is and will not come up to him with requests. "If someone requests something from me, they really don't understand what Monday nights are about. I read the crowd. I'll start a little lighter and slower and try to see where they're going over the first four or five records. Later on I'll get a little darker and heavier. It all depends on what the crowd wants, but I won't play banging techno at 11. You've got to see what people want to hear and build toward that. Basically you can feel when they're ready to go, and on Mondays, they don't mind not knowing what they're gonna hear."

The crowd on Mondays at the Snake Pit is a very vocal one. They're very expressive. It's a feeling of letting loose a little, a vibe that probably comes from the old rave scene. "If they like a record, they'll yell or whistle, which is something that doesn't happen at many clubs."

Skunk's work for the club isn't just standing in the booth mixing some records, though. The work already starts at home when he has to get his stuff together for the night. He has to pack his records, which means sorting through a crate and a big bag of records to see what can stay in there for the night. In general about a third of the stack is taken out and replaced by other records, of which many are brand-new and probably never heard in Denver before that night. "It's in with the new, out with the older, they end up somewhere in this room, but I remember where. This way I slowly rotate through the crate. Sometime I'll take something older though, something that goes with the mood of that day." Skunk doesn't get his records together until the last moment and takes about twice or three times as many records as he can possibly play through the night, as the mood can still change. He starts spinning around 11 p. m. Before that his protege Jeremy opens up the dance floor for him and warms up the crowd.

But before he starts spinning, he'll have to go through his little routine of taking off his shoes. "It's really strange, but it just doesn't feel right when I'm wearing my shoes when I'm working. I learned how to DJ at home, where I didn't have my shoes on, so the first time I played for an audience it felt really strange to have my shoes on. Since then I always took them off. By now it's become a superstition. I'm afraid things will go wrong when I do wear my shoes. Maybe it also has to do with being grounded without your shoes on. I've advised other DJs to try it too, but they never do."

Besides being the resident DJ at the Snake Pit on Mondays, Club Amsterdam's after-hours party on Fridays and the Tribe's monthly "Strawberry Fields" Friday night party, Skunk is the new music buyer for Soulflower. He's in charge of getting the newest house music to sell there. Also he produces and re-mixes his own music. Last March he released his first 12-inch on the prestigious British electronic music label End Recordings. The 12-inch-- The Parasite EP-- was released under the name Colfax, which is a collaboration between Skunk and Brendan McCarthy of San Francisco, who is known worldwide for his solo releases under the names B. McCarthy and Aquatherium. A second EP for End Recordings is currently on its way, while Skunk also keeps working on solo work and re-mixes.

--Valerie van de Flier

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