Born under a wasp-infested peach tree on his family’s Hollywood ranch, the howling infant form of Tayln Lang was delivered up to a beautiful spring morning two dozen years before his spiritual awakening, which took place on a small Persian rug between Discofish and the beige cubicles of Chickenhed's corporate cluster$@#% fax machine farm at Burning Man. Here, a worn-out old executive who had been wandering the desert for 40 years on a shamanic quest for promotion to general regional inventory specialist, draped three white faux fur overcoats over Tayln’s anxious shoulders, handed him a slurpie and a pair of gold chain sunglasses and told him he was destined to become a DJ of the people. Since that day Tayln continues to roll through the Pacific Northwest and beyond, spreading hope, love, and the essential sonic qualifications for getting down wherever sunsets and sunrises most abound.