OVER THE EDGE October 10-24, 2007

Arts a Culture

DJ Frozen Ice Cube

TyLeR CLARKE

PRODUCTION CoorDINATOR

Jeremy Johnson, a 21 year | old UNBC English student and Over the Edge staff | writer, doesn’t know how to | play an instrument, and yet he’s managed to get almost | 120,000 people to download his music.

He began recording music under the pseudo name DJ Frozen Ice Cube a couple years ago, toiling away on his computer using several computer programs, includ- ing Fruity Loops in order to create his electronica music. He said he played recorder in elementary school, as well as screwing around on the piano, but electronica took over his musical interests and desires.

Starting in January of 2006, on a whim, Johnson decided to start posting his songs online.

“1 said to myself that I was going to post this online for fun... I never meant for my music to be popular,” Johnson said, still exasperated.

He began posting these songs online on a file-shar- ing network called the eMule Database, where it would soon take off with music fans across the world. eMule is unlike other file-sharing websites, in that it is devoted to authorized,

non-pirated material. In the first month alone, with little to no hype, Johnson’s music received 1,000 downloads. Since then he’s made, and kept up with, a goal of over 10,000 downloads

a month.

Jeremy Johnson, AKA DJ Frozen Ice Cube, with his computer, which serves as his musical instrument.

With the success of his music on eMule Johnson decided

free of charge.

“T fully support downloading my music. I would have van- ished into obscurity if people didn’t download it. It’s an ex-

to create his own personal website, at, http://web.unbc.ca/ ~johnso9/music/, where songs can currently be downloaded

tremely exciting time to be an artist,” Johnson said, add- ing that if not for download- able music of unknowns he wouldn’t have been able to listen to the music that would ultimately inspire him.to cre- ate his own:

“A lot of mainstream radio stations just play rock,” John- son said, although he said that he does enjoys rock music, himself. In order to express his varied musical tastes he’s begun incorporating rock in- spirations, such as electric guitar samples, into his music. He’s currently working on a remix of American rock band Nine Inch Nails’ latest album, keeping a strong focus on his own electronica influence.

Johnson’s passion for elec- tronica music has led to a weekly radio show on CFUR _ | 88.7 FM, the UNBC radio sta-

| | tion, Thursdays from 6-7 p.m. Johnson joins other CFUR DJs who want to fill the void left .. | by mainstream radio in their .| favourite musical genres. | Although Johnson hasn’t m4 been able to do any live shows with his music, he. said it’s something he’d like to educate himself on and hopefully do in the future. Currently he can of- fer venues in Prince George or elsewhere CDs to play in their mix, such as the one he gave to CFUR for their music library.

Until then he said he plans on continuing writing and cre- ating music on his computer equipment, in-between taking

classes at UNBC running his CFUR radio show and submit-

ting to Over the Edge.

THIS 1S THE THIRD IN A SERIES OF INSTALLMENTS OF ALAZAR SHAAM SEMERE’S NOVEL SONGS AND SoOLiTuDE. S&e NEXT IssuE OF Over THE EDGE FoR THE NEXT INSTALLMENT, AND PREVIOUS ISSUES FOR THE LAST FEW INSTALLMENTS

1:05am: Heart Attacks, and Other Body Language

The elevator doors open. immediately. Guess I knew I wouldn’t be too long. I get off on the third floor and decide to turn left instead of right, taking the long way back to my room, the scenic route. Humph, not long enough, I wish this place were bigger. Then, at least, I could take a wrong turn and end up somewhere that looks like something I’m not tired of staring at for hours a day.

I’m not wearing any.shoes so I barely make any noise as I walk down the hall. Still, I am

noticed by a lone nurse at a desk here and

there. Each of them offers a sympathetic smile as if to say, “Aww, can’t sleep?” I return an exaggerated shrug as if to say, “No, but what can you do?”, and I keep on going.

There’s my room, 3206. In the three weeks I’ve been here, I’ve been stuck in four differ- ent rooms. Three of them managed to look exactly the same. The fourth was actually a room designed to shower vegetables or other people who couldn’t get out of their beds. That place was a frigging cave. I guess the rationale was, “The comatose can’t open their eyes, so why give them windows?”

Jenna steps backwards out of the room ad- jacent to mine and pulls the door closed. She hasn’t seen me or heard me coming down the hall, and when she turns around and sees me step into the next pool of light, she almost has a heart attack. I figured that would happen.

“Sorry ‘bout that,” I say. “Been a busy night for you? I’ve heard a bunch of sirens and alerts on the intercom.”

“Yeah, yeah, it has been kind of crazy,” she replies, sifting through some paperwork and checking her watch. “It’s 1:30, almost. (Insert sympathetic smile here) Can’t sleep?”

I offer an exaggerated shrug and force my- self to radiate nonchalance. “No, but what can you do? Too much on my mind, I guess.”

Now I’m lying to my nurse. Truth is, there’s too little on my mind, and what’s there is just going round and round, backwards and for- wards, at top speed and.a snail’s pace, like some mindfucker of a merry go round.

“Well, maybe you should listen to your iPod. Some music might help you relax. Just let me know if you need anything, okay?” she says, offering another sympathetic smile. Is the sympathy real, professional, or is she politely trying to tell me to leave her to her

job? Either way, what can you do, you know?:

What can you do?

I try and smile politely and I return to my room.

1:45 am: Proof of Life

Guy in the bed next to mine is sleep- ing quietly now. Maybe he’s dead. Fingers crossed. He doesn’t have one of those heart monitor things attached to him, so we won’t know for sure until breakfast. Bastard talked too much, anyways. To me, to the hospital staff, to himself. It’s raining now, a light but steady downpour falling against the win- dow like fingers drumming on a tabletop. A woman’s voice comes over the intercom and she says, “Surgery North, code blue”. She

says it six times. Surgery North is right up the

hall. Code blue means someone just flat lined. Kaput. Dead.

I look at the curtain beside me and imagine the man lying on the other side of it. “You next, buddy?” I ask quietly. He grunts his denial, and in doing so, offers proof of life. Oh well, guess I could have been stuck with a worse roommate. Sirens outside. Coming or going?

Music can wait for a little while: I’ll listen

to the sirens first. I wonder who their going for, and where they’ll get put. Maybe I’ll get shipped out of here tomorrow and they’ll take my spot. Carmen, one of the nurses, called the paper pushers down south and ripped them a new asshole on my behalf. I was supposed to be Medevac’d out of here two days ago. The person she spoke to promised to have me down there tomorrow, and when she gave me the news, I thanked her as sincerely as I could, but I knew nothing would change. I knew she caught some dead tired office flunky or bureaucrat on his way out of the office, some- one who would have said anything to get the angry nurse off the phone. God bless her for trying, though.

Sirens coming in now. Still raining, still raining. Dark in here so I can see out this. window. If I stand at the back corner of the window, and kind of lean into it, I can see the street below and the university at the top of the hill, covered in lights. On the streets below, awkwardly spaced street lamps spray pools of light onto the pavement. The light lands in a perfect circle, broken only by a sole motorist, working his way down the hill. Wonder where he’s going? Home, I hope.