Oddly enough, I never really thought of what my dad did as DJing, and those parties in the 70s and 80s didn't register as raves the way seeing a documentary about Sven Väth, entitled No More Ugly Germans, in a Swiss hotel room in 1992 with my parents did. It hit me like a tonne of bricks. It was the warehouse that seemed real - far more real than Euros escaping life in Goa. I wanted urban. I wanted city. I wanted to be fancy. Maybe rich. I wanted real light switches and nice pants, real pants. I had no idea where you could even buy those proper-looking clothes. I decided that finding out was for me.
My history with DJing could be the story of any awkward teen. I never knew what to do at parties. I loved to dance, but people were slow to join in and "Do the Tiga". Girls were much more into my yo-yoing skills than I was comfortable with. But I did have an ace in the hole: music. My dad played music at parties in Goa, and I would help him make his tapes because I was super organised and had incredibly neat handwriting. That was my first lesson in DJing: be organised. Also, I knew how the buttons on the tape machine worked, and more importantly what they could make hippies do.