Well, except once.
It's not surprising, really - my lack of desire to DJ. Firstly, I don't love dance music. Don't get me wrong - I enjoy listening to it in the right circumstances, and I appreciate the effort that DJs put in to choose just the right track for the dancefloor. I love the control that a DJ has - especially with Trance - where they can beatmatch tracks together seamlessly, moving from one song to another without a pause, raising and lowering the energy levels in a room, dragging the dancers along on a journey that won't let go of them. Trace, especially, is about guiding that journey, not interrupting it.
So I like dance music. But I don't love it. Even after all the clubs I've been to, I could probably identify a score of dance tracks. I don't listen to dance music the way that many of my friends do - it blends into one and I dance on, my inner shaman taking control.
That's the second reason. My friends. I'm lucky to know a lot of very good DJs, capable of playing a wide number of genres. They're able to read a room, surprise people, make them laugh with recognition or just grin in exultation, smiles bouncing off the walls with the strobe lights. A little while ago I was able to name 20 friends who are professional (as in, have been paid to play) DJs.
But there was once.
It was at Planet Angel, and it must have been 5 years ago. I was partying, and in the Meltdown Room, where the music tended to be Trance; four to the floor, constant, uplifting. Bright lights and neon clothing and smiles of recognition, welcome and friendship. One of my favourite dancefloors. Jurrane was about to go on - one of the Planet Angel resident DJs, and a lovely bloke. And just before he started playing, I bumped into him, and he said "I've got such a track to play tonight. I've really been looking forward to it!". And I smiled, and hugged him, and said that I hoped I'd recognise it.
"Oh", he said, "You'll know."
So time passed, and he took the decks, and for 30 minutes he seamlessly wove different tracks together. And I got lost in the moment and forgot what he'd said.
And then there was a second of silence.
You don't have silence in a trance room. Not intentionally. It breaks the rhythm, stops the flow. It brings people back from wherever they were.
Silence usually means something has gone wrong. Either the equipment has failed, or the DJ has just pressed the eject button instead of play and is currently trying to find the CD they've just spat onto the floor.
So the instance I heard silence, I looked at the DJ booth. What was wrong? Where was the problem?
And I saw Jurrane with the biggest grin on his face that I'd ever seen.
Chik ... Chikka Chikka ....
It's a cliche to say that the room exploded; I know. But everyone had heard the pause. Everyone had stopped and was just working out that the music wasn't there when Yello's Oh, Yeah started. Some dance remix of it, of course; not the original. But that clip - as the friend who made me remember this today said - are there many tracks you can identify from so few words? - that clip had the room in an uproar.
It was a masterly performance - the pause, the fact that the 'Bomm Bomm' isn't until about 40 seconds into the track but it's the most identifiable bit so that's what got played.
Jurrane knew. He knew we'd think he'd made a mistake. He knew that we'd instantly recognise the track. He knew we'd laugh out loud, bounce like furies and grin at everyone else in the room.
He knew, and when I saw that grin, I knew that he knew.
And that grin - despite my lack of musical talent. Despite my ignorance of dance music. Despite my complete lack of desire to perform.
That grin made me want to be a DJ. Just for a moment.