Desperation. He grabs the microphone. He attempts a "Where my ravers at?!" but his voice echoes off the back wall because there is no music to mask it. It sounds like a lonely man yelling into a well.
Then, the horror sets in.
It sounds like an ant farting.
For ten seconds, tinny, phone-speaker-quality audio of Sia plays through a $2 million Funktion-One sound system.
David tries the other CDJ. He taps the screen. He taps it again—harder. He looks at the FOH engineer, screaming into his mic, "DID YOU PULL THE PLUG?!" The engineer shrugs, holding up both hands.
Not a “vinyl crackle” silence. Not a “dramatic pause” silence. The silence. The kind of silence where you hear the ice clinking in a VIP bottle girl’s tray 200 feet away.