Why is Everyone A DJ?
You see a man flipping through a Simone De Beauvoir novel on the subway, while a woman two seats down posts her meticulously curated Spotify playlist online to be viewed by an inconsequential number of followers. You enter a party only to realize the DJ behind the control deck is a guy you had class with last semester, but you’re unable to recall him mentioning an interest in music. Is there a way to tell whether these actions are in earnest, or part of a ceaseless creation of persona? When we’re constantly projecting ourselves onto others, is existence in itself performative?
In 2025, we are under ubiquitous surveillance. We can’t leave our houses without exposure to the possibility of being photographed and posted online, our decontextualized bodies placed on the world stage, begging for judgement. Young people, especially those who have spent their entire conscious lives attached to the internet, are placed under some sort of omniscient gaze, urging them to tear themselves apart, pick at their skin, their stomach, their brains. We present ourselves as carefully curated entities in an attempt to avoid vulnerability, flipping the kill switch on our own humanity.
This solipsilistic view of human existence has deeply uprooted creative communities and careers, particularly in the music scene. The consequences of capitalism are not limited to the fields of agriculture, manufacturing and economics. The Postmodern American dream of fame, success, and money, met with a persistent focus on mass production, contributes to the fetishization and commodification of creativity. Similarly to the concept of a corporate CEO receiving praise for the work of the people they employ, a DJ receives credit for curating a vibe that is majorly dependent on the true curators: the crowd.
Although the democratization of art and the massive increase of access to creative materials are net positives, the commodification of creativity strips us of our natural human urges— to play, to dance, to sing. If an individual dreams of being on stage, adored and admired, the tools to do so are already in their hands. Instead of immersing themselves in the community they seek to be admired by, they focus only on what they can bring to the (turn)table, essentially diluting the culture of their own community.
This phenomenon doesn’t apply only to DJs— we all see influencers popping up on our Spotify Discover weekly, YouTubers taking the wrestling stage, etc. Of course, some of these hobby-hopping individuals might be expressing their true passion, but how can we measure authenticity? Where do we draw the line between a passion for art and a passion for praise?
The bassline is that human nature is not a performance; we shouldn’t choose our fashions or interests or opinions in the hopes that another human will notice and commend our choices. Sure, an online tutorial can teach you how to mix songs, but swaying in the middle of the crowd, eyes closed, tuning out your own performativity is where true passion is born.
Strike Out,
Mia Cadaret, Writer
Strike Magazine Chattanooga