By Oliver Wang

THE CULT OF personality is so common among modern turntablists that it almost seems required. For example, Q-Bert, patron saint of scratch DJs, is notorious for the fantastical non-sequitur answers he throws back at interviewers. And the only thing more indecipherable than DJ Spooky's compositions is the litany of obtuse poststructuralist theory that he speaks and writes in.

In comparison with his peers, Canada's Kid Koala (born Eric San) is so down-to-earth you want to check his feet for roots. He might be a musical marvel, but there's something earnest and accessible about the 24-year-old. Other sonic architects may take pains to appear burdened by god-given talent, but Koala seems like the kind of DJ who has invested countless hours of turntable play in the basement. Whether on his infamous 1996 mix tape, "Scratchscratchscratchhappyland," or his long-awaited debut album, Carpal Tunnel Syndrome (Ninjatune), Koala's work reflects an aesthetic born of experimentation, creativity, and a healthy dose of humor.

Who is Kid Koala? In search of an answer, I followed the Kid from the deserts of California to the rain-slicked streets of Montreal. Our journey ended on a secret spaceship cruising the cosmos.

Phase one: Coachella, Calif.

Los Angeles might be a good two hours west, but the sprinkling of palm trees that dots the barren landscape is a reminder that we're in southern California. The weathercasters threaten 110-degree heat. Thankfully, it never materializes, but the sun still blazes down on the 30,000 people attending the two-day Coachella Music Festival. Koala takes a run through the misting tent and throws a quick glance back to his crate of records, secured in the shade: vinyl warps easily, but Koala keeps cool.

Bay Guardian: Are you worried about your records in this heat?

Kid Koala: Not really. Since I've been touring, rain's been the bigger problem. We did a show in South Africa, and it started pouring. I'm surprised the needle didn't just surf off.

BG: You recently played the Montreal Jazz Festival, which draws seventy thousand people. How do you feel about playing to large crowds?

KK: I like smaller places, because you can yell at the crowd and they can yell back at you – and throw things. Here you look out and all you see is a huge box of security guards. Plus, the stuff we do is confusing to most people. When me and [DJ] A-Trak played the Montreal Jazz Festival, there were fifteen-piece bands, but for our set, it was us and some turntables. The grandparents and the people with their strollers weren't dropping their jaws, they just truly didn't understand what we were doing.

BG: In all fairness, though, your music has a complex density – it's a challenge to unravel.

KK: I don't know enough fundamentals about music or song structure to be a serious composer. Put me in a room with a bunch of records, a multitrack recorder, and a couple turntables and I'll try to make some sense out of it. When I listen to my spoken word records, I write down things that jump out; I have tons of notes. Eventually, all these quotes floating in [my] head start talking to each other. Once a song develops into a theme, it gives me ideas. I like to take stuff way out of context.

BG: For example?

KK: On the record, there's a track called "Fender Bender." It started [with] some weird sounds I found on a record, some gibberish with a low voice and high voice. I thought, 'I'm going to freak that.' It reminded me of a traffic argument. People are always yelling out their cars.

BG: Instead of working with routines like a battle DJ, you work with random, inspired concepts.

KK: The reason I DJ is not to win battles. I like being part of a party, part of a crowd – that's my thing.

BG: You were never into the competition aspect?

KK: I've never been that competitive – I didn't even do sports in school. Well, that's not true; I did track once, trying to impress my girlfriend at the time. I ran the hurdles, and in one race I was feeling it – one, two, three, jump, one, two, three, jump – but got stuck too close to the fifth hurdle. I kicked it down, kept running, and came in dead last.

BG: What else do you plan to do while you're here in Coachella?

KK: I thought it'd be cool to take a tumbleweed home 'cause I have some extra space in my bags. That'd be a fucked-up souvenir, though.

Phase two: Montreal, Quebec

It's a slow evening at the Swimming, a Montreal nightlife spot tucked away amid glitzy restaurants and small boutiques. Kid Koala is scheduled to play with Bullfrog, a live funk band that he's been a member of for several years. At the moment, he's DJing between Bullfrog's sets, playing Joe Sample's "Carmel," perhaps one of the most easygoing soul-jazz songs ever recorded. A bar brawl breaks out, and security quickly ushers the amateur fighters out the door. Koala saunters over and deadpans, "Man, I should never have played that song."

BG: I noticed that your turntables are set up on rolls of toilet paper.

KK: Yeah, they work great for shock absorption. I've tried other materials: foam, cotton. But nothing beats Scottie.

BG: Considering how much love you get in the States, is Bullfrog a big deal here?

KK: People don't even know [about us]. We play at least twice a month, in little shitty dumps and cigar lounges, [places] where people just don't care we're there.

BG: What do you get out of playing with a live band?

KK: This is where I get to try stuff, no pressure. I'll throw really strange things at [the band], and even if they're not used to it, they start bringing in their own angles and influences. When I go on bigger tours, I have a few solid ideas to work with.

BG: Given your Chinese heritage and Montreal's Francophile history, have you become multilingual living here?

KK: Not really, but I'm food fluent. I can order food in different languages – like, I can put together a hell of an order of sushi for you.

BG: Cool, I love sushi.

KK: You like that sea urchin stuff, uni? You know those crazy triangle cardboard things on the table that describe each sushi piece? If you notice, whenever they have uni, it has "challenging" printed next to it.

BG: Have you always lived here?

KK: I was born in Vancouver. My parents moved there from Hong Kong. They were high school sweethearts and basically came over and decided to build a nest. My dad is a genetic toxicologist, and my mom's an accountant. Believe it or not, they forced me to get into music. I had mandatory piano lessons, recitals, competitions, all that.

BG: Did you stick with the piano?

KK: No. I played clarinet in elementary school band. I had to wear the bow tie and vest. Those were the real rock and roll tour days. Everyone did band because band got to go to Seattle at the end of the year and play in a shopping mall or something. I think that's where I'll probably end up, doing mall tours, outside the muffin kiosk.

Phase four: Alpha Quadrant, Sector four

On the CD version of Carpal Tunnel Syndrome is a copy of Vinoids, an adaptation of Atari's classic Asteroids. In the game, a shipment of radioactive LPs has gone amok in space, and it's up to you – rocketing skyward in a turntable headshell – to blast the deadly discs into oblivion. Apart from the floating bits of glowing vinyl, there's the dreaded flying saucer, this time in the shape of a 45 adapter ring. While Vinoids is just the sideshow to the main stage of the album, the fact that Koala had it included proves his love for the irreverent. His real life may not be as exciting as pumping lasers into radioactive records, but he has helped to protect us from the scourge of bad tunes.

BG: On the album, you sample this line that says, defiantly, "We're just the nerds you say we are." Is that how you see yourself as part of this new DJ community?

KK: We're all like nerds to an extent. We all hang out in our room for hours. But just to see this culture and community grow has been phenomenal. You go to someplace like Belgium, and kids will be like, "You want to come over and practice?" or "Yo, you can stay at my house." If you're a stockbroker, you can't go up to an accounting agency and ask, "Yo, can I have a place to stay?"

BG: You're from the generation of bedroom DJs. What do you think is around the corner?

KK: Whoever's got bugged-out ideas and wants to put time into it can make it happen. Kids [now] practice insane amounts of time. [I] have no idea where the next [big DJ] is going to come from.

BG: What's the craziest thing you've experimented with in your music?

KK: I have a gramophone, and I might try doing something with it. Sometimes I like to play a normal record on it, just to see what the record sounds like through the little horn.

BG: How does it sound?

KK: Sounds good, but only once.

PHOTO: FRANK LEMIRE

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