Paris Hilton D.J.-ing at the Pool After Dark, in Atlantic City.

Amateur Hour

An unexpected side effect of house music’s stratospheric rise? Everyone and their mother thinks that they, too, can be a D.J.

By Elena Clavarino

It’s two A.M. at Paul’s Baby Grand, Paul Sevigny’s nightclub in New York’s Tribeca, and Orson, a tall, blond, 29-year-old D.J., is standing behind the decks. For the club’s “French Tuesday” night, he’s playing “Stayin’ Alive,” by the Bee Gees, which he follows with “Gangsta’s Paradise,” by Coolio. Next to me, a blonde woman says, “Orson tonight.” To which her friend responds, “He’s so handsome.”

In a career-confused generation where no one can decide whether they want to be a paralegal or an actress, a striver or a lie-flatter, one thing everyone below age 35 definitely wants to be is a D.J. “There are a lot of Peter Pans out there,” the 32-year-old data engineer Benjamin Brown says. “Boys who don’t want to grow up.”