Inside Jameson’s Bar, a few dozen patrons drink, chat quietly and play pool as the beats ooze from a turntable set up in an isolated corner. Standing behind all the musical paraphernalia is a tall bearded man wearing a green cap and dark hoodie. Despite his ordinary appearance, there’s something about the man that catches the eye. Wrapped up in his art, the man is oblivious to the effects his music is having on the small audience.
Suddenly, he looks up and smiles, a wicked grin revealing passion, personality and just a hint of showmanship. This is Andre Sirois, the beat-busting, record-scratching mastermind known as the captivating DJ Food Stamp.
How is a DJ born? For Sirois, it’s something that was always there — a mind-set of taking, recreating and innovating that’s been a part of him as long as he can remember, even though it was initially concealed until his freshman year of college by something else: a budding athletic career.
Sirois entered Central Connecticut State University not as a musical maestro, but as a touted NCAA Division I track athlete on a full scholarship. Despite some friction with the coaching staff, he posted decent race times in track, cross country and steeplechase events and looked worthy of his scholarship.
Then disaster struck. A motorcycle accident left Sirois with a pinched sciatic nerve in his lower back, sidelining him. Then, three weeks later, already on the road to recovery, he fell into an building’s foundation while playing Frisbee with friends and sliced his knee open, cutting the tendon in two. In three short weeks, the running career that once consumed his life was over.
Life-changing circumstances can break someone or create someone new. Athletes go through a rough transitional period after injuries, sometimes taking months to adjust to normal life after that integral part of their being has been peeled away — but not so for Sirois.
“I (had) always wanted to do radio. I always wanted to do newspaper writing. I always wanted to DJ, but I never had time,” he said. “I was a competitive runner 365 days a year. Having those accidents allowed me to really go to where I had always wanted to go.”
So he turned to his other passion: hip-hop.
“I’ve been a hip-hop fan since the early ’80s … I remember scratching my Fisher-Price record for performance when my friend beat-boxed in second grade,” Sirois said. “I had all this free time … so I went and got a radio show and I started buying records. After my radio show at two in the morning, we’d shut off our transmitter so it wouldn’t broadcast, and I would stay until like 6 a.m., and I’d just practice until the next DJ came in and we turned the transmitter back on.”
Sirois completed his bachelor’s degree in communications and journalism from Central Connecticut State and decided to test the job market for a year. Despite a stacked resume, including a stint with ESPN Radio in Bristol, Conn., he didn’t receive any substantial job offers.
Rather than accept a position he felt he’d end up regretting, Sirois returned to school to pursue his master’s degree in communication at the University of Maine. After graduating in 2005, he found the job market still stagnant and began looking for another time-killing option. His next stop was Eugene.
“Growing up as a serious runner, I always had this fascination with Eugene and the University of Oregon because of Steve Prefontaine,” Sirois said. “I wanted to come here. I wanted to run here. I mean, this was it.”
So Sirois headed west to pursue his Ph.D. in communication and society. In his fourth and final year, he’s now closing in on his third degree and has become a well-known face in the campus community.
Although academia and his dissertation have become a huge part of Sirois’ lifestyle, he still finds time for his passion: playing the music he loves for people who appreciate it.
Sitting at his kitchen table one day after having his application rejected for Oregon food stamps, he decided if he couldn’t have food stamps, he’d be a Food Stamp. The name has stuck ever since.
Sirois feels out of place and prehistoric in Eugene’s rapidly shifting musical culture. The digitalization of music mixing has, in his eyes, lead to an influx of unskilled, unprofessional turntableists who spend more time dolling themselves up for a night working the club scene than practicing their art and experimenting with innovative new sounds.
“Anybody can DJ as long as they have a laptop. They’re out there doing it. What does that mean for dudes who’ve been invested in the craft for 10, 15, 20 years? They gotta get out, they’re done, because they’re getting undercut.” said Sirois, tapping his knee with increasing agitation. “They’re chipping into my livelihood.”
Instead, Sirois has cut back, performing now in smaller bars and lounges for people who want to hear older music. He figures he’s sunk almost $50,000 into vinyl records and still carries crates of them around to his different venues. And people still love him, despite the oldie tracks and cumbersome equipment.
Though Andre Sirois doesn’t play the jams the local dance clubs are grinding to, he brings something to the game that his younger, flashier, less-experienced competition does not: He’s managed to stay true to himself and to his craft.
Drinking a beer at Jameson’s while music from another DJ starts up again in the background, DJ Food Stamp is in his element. He talks everything from Britney Spears to the downward spiral record labels are locked into. Does he see this as his future? Realistically, no.
“DJs are not taste-makers anymore; it’s a changing of the guard. I’m the salty old guy now,” Sirois complained, a touch of bitterness edging into his voice. “Record labels don’t really innovate anymore; they follow. Now it’s all ‘fuck’ music.”
Shifting his toothpick from one side to the other, his scowl disappears as his mood abruptly shifts.
Proclaiming that he’d stay home and watch television rather than sell out to the masses and play that “Lady Gaga shit,” he discounts the possibility of graduating with a Ph.D. and not finding work in the music industry.
For DJ Food Stamp, it’s his way or the highway — his beats and nothing else. In this environment, Sirois admits that making a living off his craft isn’t possible anymore. But he’s not worried. Like the poor job market of the early 2000s, and his injury before that, this is just another obstacle to overcome.
DJ Food Stamp swirls his beer, glances over and flashes that same wicked grin.
“Like, I’m a hustler. I make money,” Sirois said.
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