How Aaron Smet Became the Hottest DJ at the University of Oregon

Inside the rise of a college DJ who learned to read the room

By the time Aaron hit play, the basement was already too full.

People were pressed shoulder to shoulder, red cups sweating onto concrete, the air thick with heat and anticipation. Girls in glitter hovered near the makeshift dance floor. Guys leaned against the walls pretending not to care. Everyone was waiting for the same thing.

Aaron glanced at his phone, then up at me.

“You ready?”

Nelly Furtado’s Promiscuous cut through the room, and just like that, the night belonged to him.

It’s hard to pinpoint exactly when it happened—when Aaron stopped being just another student grinding through midterms and became the guy. The one whose name meant something. One semester earlier, he blended into the crowd. Now, if someone asked, “Who’s DJing?” and heard “Smet,” the response was automatic.

“We’re going.”

His rise wasn’t gradual. It was fast, magnetic. Rooms filled differently when he was on the lineup. Parties carried weight. The music didn’t just play—it pulled.

Later, he told me it all started at a frat party—the kind where the drinks are warm, the lights are low, and the aux cord is controlled by someone who thinks EDM remixes of country songs qualify as a vibe.

“There were gaps,” he said. “Dead moments.”

He noticed something most people didn’t. The entire memory of a party—how people danced, talked, hooked up, remembered it the next morning—hinged on the music. Good songs could save a mediocre night. Great music could define a semester.

“Spotify playlists weren’t gonna cut it.”

Aaron realized that if he could control the sound, he could control the energy. And if he could control the energy, maybe he could elevate more than just the party. Maybe he could lift the reputation of his fraternity with it.

So he stepped in. Took the aux. And never really gave it back.

By twenty-one, it was unofficially official. Aaron was the DJ. Every weekend, he was behind the decks, learning the room, sharpening instincts, building a name one house party at a time.

“I mean, at this point, it’s just a given,” he shrugged.

I saw the full effect on his twenty-third birthday in January 2019.

Over 300 people were invited. We pulled up to the massive, multimillion-dollar frat house he helped build—yeah, helped build—and the basement had been transformed into something else entirely. Lights cut through the dark. Speakers lined the walls. Cables snaked across the floor. It felt less like a party and more like a pop-up nightclub.

Just after 10:00 p.m., Aaron was downstairs making final adjustments to his booth. The crowd swelled by the minute. Drinks in hand, bodies drifting closer to the dance floor, eyes flicking toward the controller.

When he finally started, there was no hesitation.

Track after track flowed seamlessly. No dead air. No awkward transitions. Just momentum. A continuous wall of sound that made it harder and harder for anyone to leave.

“I perfected the mix,” he told me later. “I figured out which songs are universally loved—and stitched them together.”

He wasn’t exaggerating.

“A great DJ makes it damn near impossible for anyone to leave the dance floor,” he said.

Watching him work, it was clear this wasn’t luck. He barely looked at the controller. His hands moved automatically. His eyes stayed on the crowd—reading reactions, anticipating shifts, adjusting in real time.

DJing, for Aaron, wasn’t background noise. It was a performance. A sport.

“A good DJ knows what to play,” he said. “A great DJ knows when to play it.”

At 12:30 a.m., he hit the gas.

Yeah!. Get Low. Crazy in Love.

The room peaked all at once. Sweat, shouting, bodies packed tight. The set had structure—rising action, climax, and a reckless descent that left no doubt the night had gone exactly where it was supposed to.

Eventually, the cops showed up.

“That’s how you know it was a good one,” he laughed.

But the night didn’t end there.

We migrated to the Holiday Inn, where Aaron looked every bit the post-set rockstar—drink in hand, surrounded by friends, still glowing. I asked how he’d made the jump from house parties to spinning at the biggest bars near campus.

He didn’t hesitate.

He studied.

He hung around local bars, watching crowds, taking mental notes. And when the night wound down, he’d strike up conversations with the house DJ. No pressure. No asks. Just rapport.

“It’s about building a relationship with the person who can give you what you’re looking for,” he said. “Once you’re known as someone who gets it, you ask for the opportunity.”

That’s how he got his first shot at Taylor’s.

It took four months.

Now, he’s in the rotation.

Before we split, I asked what advice he’d give someone trying to follow the same path.

“Patience and execution,” he said. “Do your research. Watch the crowd. Transitions are nice—but song selection is king.”

I asked about the weirdest request he’d ever gotten.

He laughed.

“Not really any,” he said. “But one girl did ask if I DJ every day.”

He grinned.

“I told her… often.”