Behind the Headphones
Two individual stories. One shared booth.
Fictional biographies of Riff and Jinx, the mascots of Aux Roulette.
Nobody should have to know enough about music to deserve a good night.
Riff
Prepared for almost anything.
Early listening
Riff’s musical education began in the stockroom of Second Helping Records, where the filing system consisted of genre dividers, cardboard boxes, and the owner saying, “It was definitely here recently.”
Initially employed to price empty sleeves and untangle headphone leads, Riff became an expert in records nobody had asked about. B-sides held particular appeal. Here were songs that had already been passed over and still had something to say.
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Their early favorites included the patient bass lines of Bellwether’s Harbor Street instrumental scene, the clipped drum machines of bedroom producer Velvet Exit, and the extravagant final choruses of Lorna Lux.
They also loved a department-store demonstration cassette called Make Your Living Room Come Alive. In interviews, this became “an early interest in domestic electronics.”
Riff’s first public set took place at a Second Helping sidewalk sale. They prepared ninety minutes of carefully sequenced music for an audience primarily interested in a discounted lamp.
One customer stopped browsing and stayed for three consecutive songs.
Riff considers this the beginning of their career. The customer was waiting for a ride. The songs were good either way.
The System
By the following year, Riff carried a handwritten notebook containing transitions, alternate closers, and emergency selections for situations including “room has become conversational” and “birthday person appears unconvinced.”
The notebook became known as The System.
The System worked. Riff could steady an uneven night, identify a recording from a badly sung fragment, and introduce an unfamiliar song without making anyone feel as though they were being examined.
Riff wanted those skills to look effortless. They rehearsed transitions until they sounded spontaneous, then described them afterward as “something I felt in the moment.”
The lime sunglasses arrived after a badly positioned desk lamp made an early promotional photograph look unusually authoritative. Riff kept the glasses.
They were less successful at keeping the authority in perspective.
The Aux Oracle
“The Aux Oracle” began as a joke between Riff and Jinx.
There had been no appointment. Bellwether had no recognized procedure for appointing one.
For a while, the title appeared only on homemade flyers and the occasional equipment label. Then Riff approved a promotional biography describing their “almost preternatural understanding of sequencing.”
Jinx added “owns three identical black shirts” to the next version.
Beneath the presentation, Riff worried about something ordinary: whether people would still want them around if they weren’t the person with the answer.
That fear made them generous with their time and difficult to disagree with. They would spend an afternoon finding the exact version somebody remembered, then struggle to accept that somebody else might prefer another one.
As Loose Connections grew, those carefully planned sets left Jinx less room to respond to the audience. Riff struggled to see why that hurt.
Learning to leave room
During the duo’s separation, Riff released A Controlled Environment, an EP of beautifully arranged tracks.
Bellwether music zine The Loading Bay described it as sounding “as though every chair has been placed correctly and nobody has arrived.”
Riff kept the review.
They returned to quiet opening sets, where there was little expectation of a grand reveal. Gradually, they remembered how satisfying it could be to help a few people settle into a room.
The System remained in use. Blank pages began appearing between its sections.
When Riff and Jinx eventually rehearsed together again, Jinx noticed.
These days, Riff still checks the connections, carries a backup cable labeled ACTUAL BACKUP, and knows which version they meant to play.
They also look across the booth before deciding that the night is finished.
A few things worth knowing
Riff turns record sleeves toward the audience so people can see what’s playing. They remember the first song someone loved more reliably than their birthday. Their archive contains every Loose Connections flyer, including the one Jinx corrected in marker.
Their most important rule has never appeared in a technical rider:
Nobody should have to know enough about music to deserve a good night.
Nobody should feel embarrassed about the song that makes them happy.
Jinx
Already watching the dance floor.
Music Provided
Jinx learned to DJ at family gatherings in the community room above Bellwether’s shuttered bowling alley.
Responsibility for the music passed informally between adults until Jinx noticed that almost anyone could take charge by being willing to stand beside the speakers all evening.
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They volunteered immediately.
Their selections mixed the theatrical pop of The Velvet Emergencies, the scrappy dance recordings of Pocket Weather, and sentimental songs that somehow belonged to every older relative at once.
Jinx watched what happened when those songs played.
A chorus could reunite people who had spent the evening avoiding each other. A familiar opening could get somebody out of a chair before they had decided to dance. The right closing song could let a night end without making it feel interrupted.
At their first advertised appearance, a community fundraiser, the flyer credited Jinx as Music Provided.
For several years, they claimed this had been an early stage name.
The pink headphones
Jinx’s first proper performance payment arrived in an envelope containing less money than expected and a voucher for a sandwich.
They put the money toward a pair of pink headphones.
The headphones were display stock, with a cosmetic mark on one side. They were comfortable, affordable, and impossible to mistake for anyone else’s.
Later, when Loose Connections had something resembling a promotional budget, several people suggested replacing them with a more professional-looking pair.
Jinx declined.
Those headphones had been there when someone first paid them to do the thing they loved. A repaired hinge did not make them less suitable for the job.
Riff eventually learned which replacement parts fit.
Reading the room
Jinx’s expressive face and enthusiasm sometimes distracted people from how carefully they worked.
They checked levels. They remembered requests. They could distinguish a crowd that wanted a surprise from a crowd that wanted a familiar chorus without being made to feel predictable.
They also understood that people watched the booth.
A raised cable and a brief pause could turn the next song into a shared expectation. Jinx enjoyed that moment: the room leaning forward together, waiting to find out.
Their lime aux cable became a recognizable part of the act. Asked whether it possessed special sonic properties, Jinx said:
“You can find it in the dark.”
Riff considered this a complete and defensible specification.
Everyone can come
Jinx found it easy to welcome people and difficult to disappoint them.
They promised requests they couldn’t fit, accepted encores when the equipment needed packing, and volunteered Loose Connections for favors before checking with Riff.
As the duo’s shows became more structured, Jinx heard Riff’s planning as a judgment about their reliability. Neither knew how to talk about it.
During their solo period, Jinx made Everyone Can Come, a release with six guest contributions and seventeen names in the acknowledgments.
It contained some of their best work. It was also late, partly because Jinx kept assuring people there was room for one more idea.
The final track, “House Lights,” sounded different. A soft rhythm, a slowly changing melody, and enough space to hear both.
Riff listened to it often.
Jinx later admitted that learning how to end a song had been harder than learning how to start a party.
A few things worth knowing
Jinx tests the cable before holding it aloft. They introduce opening performers properly, even when those performers arrive carrying their entire setup in a shopping bag.
They keep requests on a folded piece of paper, with notes such as “for the person in silver boots.”
They save the last decent snack backstage and claim not to be hungry.
Their rule is simple:
Nobody should feel embarrassed about the song that makes them happy.