The Show Must Go On

Spring 2026, FORUM Magazine

“THE SHOW MUST GO ON.” My dad kept saying that from his hospital bed.

He was battling cancer for two and a half years, but he never stopped DJing. Near the end, he couldn’t lift heavy things anymore. Couldn’t load speakers in and out like he used to. But I could do it. I helped him with gigs my whole life. I knew the job.

I’d meet him all over Anchorage and help load up his truck. A big white box truck, he dropped me off to school every morning in that thing. I loved it. I’d help wheel speakers and lighting into whatever space things were happening in that night. I’d watch him dial the sound in, say "Mic check 1, 2. Mic check 1, 2.” And test songs like Uptown Funk. Then I’d wait until things were dying down and it was time to load out.

I never got sick of it. I loved it when he asked me for help.

DJing had been his whole life. In 1985, he started Tunemasters Music Services. By the time I was born, it wasn’t just his job, it was part of who he was.

I watched him move through every version of music changing. He had every ‘Now That's What I Call Music’ compilation from 1 to what felt like 1,000. I watched him start using LimeWire for the first time, downloading songs after years of collecting physical music. He kept everything. Every CD, every record, every hard drive filled with songs. 

Before he was a DJ, he was just a kid who loved music. He told me about these ‘neighborhood punks’ he used to see hanging around the park outside his window. He had an 8-track player in his room, and he started playing music out the window for them. He said he was careful with the song choices. You have to be, as a DJ.

He loved knowing they were enjoying it. He described it as an unspoken friendship. Nobody waved. Nobody said thank you. But he knew they liked it, and they knew someone inside that house understood them somehow. Music does that. It says things people don’t know how to say out loud.

He became obsessed with collecting records. He had so much vinyl that a friend asked him to DJ their wedding. Not because he was known as a DJ yet, but because he was known as the guy with all the records. DJing almost chose him. And he was good at it.

People think DJing is just showing up and playing songs, but it’s not. It’s reading people. Reading the room. Knowing how to guide energy without anybody noticing you’re doing it.

My dad would teach me all his tricks. He said men rarely enter the dance floor during a fast song. So you start with a slow dance first because it gets the guys out there. Then, once everybody’s together, you slowly raise the energy and keep them there.

He learned those lessons the hard way over decades of weddings, parties, birthdays, school dances, and community events across Anchorage. He understood people. That’s what made him incredible.

Growing up, we’d go see the Bucs play at our local baseball stadium. College players from all over come to play so they can stay sharp during the off season. He told me players loved playing ball with us in Anchorage because we’re one of the few stadiums that use wooden bats like the big leagues. He’d hand me a dollar, and I’d run off to buy a cup of bubblegum and go try to catch foul balls during the game. It was competitive. One game, I didn’t catch a single ball. I remember feeling bummed after. We got in his truck and my dad took me straight to RadioShack and bought walkie-talkies with an earpiece.

At the next game, I stood outside the stadium while my dad watched from his favorite box seat. He’d talk right into my ear. Right-handed hitter. First base side. Lefty coming up. Third base. That night, I went home with ten foul balls.

That was my dad. Always paying attention. Always finding ways to help people succeed.

As he got sicker, I started helping him more with gigs. Eventually, he ended up in the hospital, and he had a gig the next week. I asked him if he was finally going to cancel one.

“The show must go on,” he said.

I told him they could find somebody else. He said if you turn down a gig once, they’ll start calling somebody else instead. He told me he’d stop DJing when people stopped calling him. But they never stopped calling.

That final week, it was clear he wasn’t going to be able to make the event. For the first time, he asked me and his best friend Sean to fill in for him completely.

I helped him DJ countless gigs, but I had never actually done one myself. Sean used to DJ with my dad but, “Not in like 20 years!” he said. We were scared. We didn’t want technical difficulties and wanted people to feel like Tunemasters was still Tunemasters, even if Glenn wasn’t there.

So we loaded up his gear and drove to the Dimond Center Mall for a Peloton event. It was insane. People were riding stationary bikes inside the mall while we played Bruno Mars through giant speakers.

I started watching people move. Watching the room change when songs changed. I understood what he loved about it. He taught me how to do this my whole life. I just didn’t know I’d have to do it without him.

The gig went smoothly. I couldn’t believe it. I went back to the hospital after and showed him videos. Told him the songs we played. ‘Everybody Wants To Rule The World’ by Tears for Fears. We played Coldplay and Beyoncé. We even played ‘Golden’ from K-Pop Demon Hunters. He was excited. Proud. Still thinking like a DJ.

A few days later, he passed away. I think about the timing of that. The first gig he ever missed was the last week of his life.

I’m glad he never had to live a life where he couldn’t do the thing he loved most.

Now all his things are mine. The records. The speakers. The guitars we played together over the years. It feels like his life is still moving through mine.

I think that's part of the responsibility that comes with inheriting things. Not just holding onto them, but using them. Practicing what I was taught with them.

So I keep playing. ■

Quinn Christopherson (2026 FORUM Storytelling Fellow) is an Ahtna and Inupiaq songwriter from Anchorage, Alaska. He won NPR’s Tiny Desk Contest in 2019 and has since toured across the U.S. and Canada. His debut album, Write Your Name in Pink (2022), blends honest storytelling with bold sound. Most recently, Quinn co-wrote Portugal. The Man’s song “Denali.”