Some summer weddings are something else
- Mike Dewey: Life Lines
- June 7, 2025
- 348
It was one of those humid summer afternoons when the heat feels like you’re wearing a raccoon coat over a surfer’s wetsuit.
I was halfway up the narrow stairwell, lugging a 50-pound speaker, when I knew I was in serious trouble, having made the kind of mistake that can haunt you for the rest of your mortal life.
Had I been thinking clearly, I never would have agreed to serve as DJ at my girlfriend’s brother’s wedding reception, but you know how it goes. You’re listening to the sound of her voice, looking into her eyes and suddenly, you’re committed to the mission.
Some guys do that.
We’re hardwired into doing anything to improve our standing, believing that stockpiling goodwill gestures will accrue to the credit side of the relationship ledger, possibly erasing a few debits.
Besides, she knew I’d done a similar favor at the wedding of a high school friend, having also provided the music at a class reunion not that long ago and that I’d basically enjoyed myself immensely.
When you have a job to do, it alleviates the pressure of mingling while simultaneously keeping you occupied and out of trouble, no small thing when negotiating the minefield of social interaction.
Not to put too fine a point on it, but I have always had a tendency toward leaning a bit too heavily on my skills as a small-talk wizard, a character flaw that usually makes me among the last to leave.
Some guys do that.
As the summer heated up and the wedding neared, I had a decision to make vis a vis the best way to make the reception memorable: I could create five hours of taped music or haul in a lot of albums.
I had just replaced the turntable that had done yeoman’s duty during my college days, and I was eager to put a few miles on my new machine, a high-end model that had the sleek look and superb specs of an audiophile’s prized possession, the kind of design that, had it been a boat, would have been a yacht, gleaming in the sun.
The biggest obstacle, once I’d chosen to go the more hands-on route, was I knew very little about the bride and groom. Sure, I’d had Sunday supper with them after church, visited family gatherings on Thanksgiving and Christmas, but as far as their taste in music, I was essentially clueless, so I talked with my girlfriend.
“I’m thinking he likes country,” she said, not really sounding sure. “Maybe some arena rock, you know those bands you can’t stand.”
I refused to take the bait. Some guys do that.
“What about her?” I pressed on. “She’s so young, you know?”
“I don’t know,” she said with a sigh. “Madonna? Prince? Cher?”
“Either of them like ‘60s stuff? Even the ‘70s?” I tried.
“They’re kids,” she said. “They’re in love. They’ll be busy.”
The Friday afternoon before the wedding, I loaded the speakers, amp, turntable, Disc-washer and about 75 albums into the back of my ’82 Mustang and drove south until I reached the fraternal lodge.
The reception room was on the second floor, up a rickety staircase, and I was sweating before I’d gotten things situated. I checked the connections, set the balances, adjusted the volume and fired it up.
Without really thinking, I put a recent Police LP on the turntable.
If you’re familiar with “Every Breath You Take,” you no doubt know it’s not what you’d call a love song, more of a stalker anthem, but I was more interested in sound quality than lyrics.
Some guys do that.
I pushed the level up to 9 and walked to the center of the space, appreciating the bass thrum and the drum’s clarity and Sting’s guitar, which rang through the room with fervent intensity, echoing the words, which I’d tuned out, having memorized them long ago.
In case you need a reminder, here’s a sample of its attitude:
‘“Every move you make
Every vow you break
Every smile you fake
Every claim you stake
I’ll be watching you.”
Suddenly, my girlfriend appeared at my side, glaring daggers at me.
“Are you crazy?” she hissed. “Playing that song? For a wedding?”
“Well,” I said, flashing what I hoped was a winning smile, “technically, it’s not a wedding. More of a dress rehearsal.”
She gave me a quick grin, letting me off the hook, and I pondered what my next selection should be. For the briefest moment, I considered cuing up “Can’t You See,” the Marshall Tucker Band’s heartbreaker, but decided on Prince’s “Little Red Corvette” instead.
Since then I’ve hung up my DJ headphones and play music for my own enlightenment, though when I get the urge, I’ll crank up Led Zeppelin’s “Kashmir” so the neighbors can enjoy it too.
Some guys do that.
Mike Dewey can be reached at Carolinamiked@aol.com or 1317 Troy Road, Ashland, OH 44805. He invites you to join him on his Facebook page, where the magic’s in the music and the music’s in us.