“I’m standing there, right,” begins Relm, “and it’s my first tour. It’s with Gift of Gab in 2004, in Arizona I think. And 10 minutes before I go on, this girl comes up to me and is like, ‘Oh, which hotel are you in?’ I’m thinking, ‘Man, I’m on tour, this girl knows I’m famous, and she wants to know what hotel I’m in. Wow.’ So I tell her and it turns out it was her hotel. So she’s like, ‘Did you just get off?’ What? Did I just get off? Then I realized, she saw my suit and thought I worked in her hotel, man. Afterward she was like, ‘Oh, I’m sorry,’ and it was funny, but that was a moment.”
Indeed it was; a foreshadowing one, too. By 2005, Relm was a veteran of the hustle. Twelve years in and he had ostensibly worn all DJ paths. From the outside, DJing looks exciting as shit, sure, but for every beautiful woman you see, there’s a guy tired of nailing her. Relm was burnt out; bored, even. And when someone is apathetic with their art there are two choices: move on or make a change. Relm chose the latter.
“I was looking for something new,” admits Relm. “DJing was boring. It was getting to the point where skill was not at the forefront. It became all about what you played and, in a sense, I guess that’s a part of it. But there’s more to it.”
That something new came in the form a Pioneer DVJ. Hardly a secret, the DVD turntable was widely known, but only dedication could capitalize on its potential. Mike familiarized himself with the piece like few others had.
“I think because people want instant gratification, they didn’t see it,” says Relm.“DJing is not an art form that lends itself to that. You have to prepare and practice, always.”
And prepare and practice he did, until he was able to manipulate video images with his audio just as easily as other DJs juggled beats. Mike began honing his act. He’d mesh Napoleon Dynamite with AC/DC, the Pussycat Dolls with The Outfield, Office Space and Peanuts and Pee-Wee Herman with bass kicks and turntablism; audiences ate it up. He’d spend months preparing for shows; watching, reviewing, editing, adapting each set to match his crowd. He stylized juxtaposition, splintered genres, and did it all in a chic suit. Essentially, he Reservoir Dog-ed the game. Like a virgin.
In New York, he was Mr. Blonde—slick, cold blooded and relentless—with a set to match, giving nods to Jay-Z, Nas, and the like. In Atlanta, he was Mr. Pink— professional, quick-witted and subtle—the OutKast. In San Francisco, he was Mr. White—loyal and unforgiving—always with something special for his hometown.
Today, in Texas, he’s Mr. Orange—undercover, dropping hat tips to some of the South’s favorite rockers and his own hip-hop core.
He ends with an audio clip of Gary Glitter’s “Rock And Roll Part 2” played simultaneously with a video of himself flipping through a notebook that contains the words to the song. The finale is a countdown to the beginning of HuckJam. The crowd hits its crescendo as the countdown nears zero. Mike Relm has done his job. Somehow, in what seemed like an unfathomable outcome 20 minutes ago, he has defeated Texan dogmaticism. At this point he’s fuckin’ Berreta; he’s super cool.
Three years ago, boredom almost caused Mike Relm to leave DJing. Today, he’s on his second national tour in as many years. But three years is apparently too long to be stagnant, and Relm is once again in a familiar position: bored. With the September release of his next album, Spectacle, and his first headlining tour in October, it appears he’s eyeing those same plans again.
“I got rid of everything I was doing,” con-fides Relm. “On my tour, everything is new. I’m doing stuff beyond just video now. The only hint I’ll give is, I’ve always made my show a show. It’s not been like, ‘Oh, you’ve got an hour, do whatever.’ No, I got an hour, I’m killing an hour. Now, I’ve got two hours. I’m going to kill both of them.”
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