Dante Pascal - MEOKO Dance Agent - Episode Six
- Published on Thursday, 13 February 2014 11:13
I’ve been writing this series of articles from the comfort of my second-hand, one-bedroom house in Walsall. I moved back to whence I came for political, financial and reasons beyond my control. I’m allowed contact with my kids via telephone and postcard only; no social media, no face-to-face, no nothing like that. The ex-missus won’t communicate with me at all but I’m at peace with that now. I bashed Lisa good in front of her boyfriend and, I now admit, in writing, that belting her –you, if you’re reading – was really quite wrong of me. Your – her – broken nose healed but I now have to live with the regret of tonking Lisa’s honka for the rest of my life. Is that fair? The disadvantage levels of short term physical pain versus long term mental suffering is an argument that the likes of Pluto, Nietzsche and Stephen Fry would no doubt enjoy bickering over, but it’s not a debate I’m able to contribute to because I’m just a simple dance agent.
Being a dance agent is the best job in the world if you can handle it. I could for a while but the pressures of success defeated me, and I was very, very successful. With the exception of turning my ex-wife’s nose inside out and the loss of respect/contact with Cody and John, I wouldn’t change a grain of my history, and if I’m to leave you with any advice at all; I would say first and foremost that striking anyone, male or female, is against the law. Don’t get involved in domestics, concentrate on your work, don’t do too many drugs, don’t get caught doing things you shouldn’t be doing and don’t not never ever snort salt up your nostrils.
Living back in the midlands is ok. I need and lead a quiet life now, away from the DJs, producers, dealers, Yes men, beautiful strippers, gorgeous prostitutes, nice-looking girlfriends and the homely, money-grabbing wife and kids. I sometimes forget that I was Dante Pascal: Dance Agent when I’m walking back from the chip shop on a Friday night with my mother. She comes around every Friday night to keep me company; we talk about the old days. She talks about her divorce and I pretend to listen, one eye on Coronation Street, one eye on my saveloy and the other staring at the clock, wishing she were gone so that I can be by myself for a bit of you know what.
I like to look at the old flyers of nights I was involved in and wonder how something so simple went so un-simple.
Those were the days. Move on, Dante. The past is just an experience you’re lucky to remember.
I don't know what the future holds for me. I've been in and out of rehab. Nobody loves me. I’m a coward and a cad. Nothing but a shivering mass of unwholesome fat. I'm an ugly, old divorcee with kids who used to be rich. I've no qualifications and the only thing that sits on my CV is a list of successful, very successful, club night promotions, numerous UK number one CD singles and one US Billboard top 130, the stewardship of the DJ who mixed the highest selling World Underground compilations and a former roster of DJs that read like the who's who of late-90s/early noughties superstar DJs. My CV looks fucking brilliant actually.
Maybe I should make more of an effort with myself, but I fear the embarrassment of another defeat. I'd go fucking spare if I moved back to London and fucked it all up again. The last thing I ever want to experience for a second time is salty nostrils, so I'm happy enough with nostalgia. I'm happy to watch Coronation Street every Friday night with a seventy-odd year old bag and eat orange chips. I'm happy to know that the world of dance music is a better place without the shadow of a snide old toad who doesn't even like the music he's pushing, and who uses his personality and success to pour more shit down the UK dance music industry (pre-2007) drain.
My tip for you this week is that if you're really into making music, promoting it, whatever; ensure that you love what you're fucking hell, I'm boring myself. Do whatever you fucking like. Don't read stuff like this. Don't take tips on how to do anything from anybody. Ever. Just do whatever it is you want to do and pay nobody ANY mind. If the sun shines, the sun shines, and as my dear old friend, Jay Kay, once sang to me on the night bus to Paddington: "if I like it, I just do it yeah. Badadoo dadooda dadadada dooby dooooooo lalalalalala lolololo dadadadoodadooo…" If that doesn’t ring a chord with you, then nothing will.
Know when to stop.