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There’s something deeply accurate in this quote from Theo Parrish that’s been making the rounds again lately: “You gotta take shitty gigs. Eat it.”
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This is not provocation. It’s not disguised contempt. It’s a fundamental truth about DJing, one that many seem to have forgotten in a time where the scene glorifies visibility over experience, speed over learning, and recognition over artistic construction.
Because a dangerous idea has crept into people’s minds—the idea that some gigs are “too small,” “not prestigious enough,” “unworthy” of certain artists. As if DJing were a career only worth pursuing when the room is full, the lights perfect, and the stage looks like a movie set. In our view, it’s exactly the opposite.
You’re never “too good” for a gig
Saying a gig is beneath you is, whether you admit it or not, saying that you’re better than the crowd in front of you. It’s forgetting that a dancefloor—however small—deserves just as much respect as a mainstage in front of thousands. It’s also forgetting that this culture was built in basements, bars, secret clubs, parking lots, and uncertain afters—not on monumental stages.
The artists who last, who transcend decades, who shape a musical language, are never the ones who chose their gigs out of ego. They’re the ones who agreed to play often, everywhere, in front of few people, and under imperfect conditions.
Small crowds shape an aesthetic, not a “minor” career
You have to live it to truly understand: it’s often in a half-empty room that you learn the most. It’s formative. When the reaction isn’t automatic. When you have to understand what works, what doesn’t, and what you really love to play. When you need to hold a half-filled dancefloor.
These nights, the ones no one talks about, the ones your managers/bookers make you cut from your highlight reels, are perhaps the most precious.
They force you to listen, to take risks, to breathe with the few people present. They allow you to test tracks, assert your taste, and develop your identity. They also free you from the pressure of performance, and put music back at the center. They’re scary, but should ease every DJ’s anxiety, because playing for no one means being ready to play for everyone.
Many artists say it: sometimes, it’s the tiniest contexts that spark the most long-lasting careers.
The warm-up, often overlooked, is an essential school
There is an art to the warm-up, and it’s often ignored. Playing slowly, setting the tone, building the night, leaving space rather than filling everything—this is a demanding task that requires real musical intelligence.
Yet for many, starting out with warm-ups feels like a downgrade. That’s a mistake. Warm-ups build listening, patience, and coherence—three qualities social media never values, but which DJing absolutely requires.
“Bad gigs” are teachers big stages can’t replace
You don’t learn to be a solid DJ only by playing with perfect gear, surrounded by techs who fix everything instantly. You learn by facing the unexpected—a broken deck, a faulty cable, unstable monitor, skipping needle, or a broken SYNC button.
That’s part of the job too. Staying calm, improvising, carrying on even when the setup betrays you. A DJ who’s only known comfort is a fragile DJ.
The essence of DJing is about sharing music—not status
To play is to make others hear what you’ve discovered. To share what you love, and create moments—however small—that connect us. That act has nothing to do with the size of the crowd or the fame of the venue. We don’t become DJs to climb on a stage. We become DJs to transmit—to share the sounds that move us.
Accepting the “shitty gigs” means understanding what being a DJ really means
It means recognizing that every context teaches you, that the importance of a gig isn’t measured by the venue’s prestige, but by what it builds in you.
When the “big gigs” come—if that’s the path you take—you’ll know why you’re there. You’ll know how to play, because you’ve gone through enough realities to be stable, confident, grounded. And it will be felt—on both sides of the booth.