dallas

James Estopinal is having an existential crisis.
For most of his professional life, Estopinal has operated as Disco Donnie, an old school concert promoter known for throwing festivals and taking dance artists on tours across the country. Estopinal was what many called a “pure play” promoter, meaning he didn’t own any venues himself; 100 percent of his attention and capital was spent building artists’ touring careers and supporting acts on the road.

Unfortunately for Estopinal, it has become increasingly difficult to sustain oneself as a full-time road warrior, renting out venues and battling club owners each night for his artists’ fair share. After a bumpy festival season in 2024, Estopinal and his partner, Patrick Tetrick, crossed the concert world’s Rubicon last summer and opened Silo, a brand-new nightclub in Dallas’ burgeoning Design District. Silo is not a typical nightclub — it’s a 30,000-square-foot transformed historic grain storage facility with beveled walls, 40-foot height ceilings, a 1,200-square-foot stage and a massive 100,000-watt sound system made by German loudspeaker company D&B Sound. Silo is Dallas’ first ever concert venue built for the electronic dance world and, to most people, opening their city’s hottest new nightclub would be the ultimate flex on a high-profile 30-year career in music and touring.

But Estopinal is not like most people.

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“I’m really struggling to suddenly be a club owner; it’s just not how I’m programmed,” he tells Billboard, noting that the transition from tour promoter to venue management has been difficult. As a promoter, Estopinal was taught early on not to trust venue managers and to always be skeptical of the line they’re pushing.

“I’ve always had a love-hate relationship with club owners,” Estopinal says. “They’re shady and I’m always trying to do the right thing. Like 90 percent of them have some shady shit going on and I never imagined myself being on that team.”

Making the leap from promotion to club operations is like a public defender suddenly joining the district attorney’s office, or an environmental activist going to work at a big oil company. Traditionally, the nightclub owner is the adversary of the show promoter, due in large part to the economic model of concert promotion.

Concerts typically make money in two ways: ticket sales and food and beverage sales. In a perfect world, the artist and the promoter keep 100% of the ticket sales, while the venue keeps all the food and booze money. That part’s easy — the tricky part is splitting up the show costs and deciding who pays each bill. Typically, venues will cover bar staffing and basic production needs, but the bigger the show, the more ticket takers and bouncers need to be hired, and the more expensive backline becomes.

These types of details should be worked out in advance, typically months ahead of time when the promoter is paying the deposit to book the venue. But it’s not uncommon for surprise expenses to pop up when the bill is settled between the parties. That’s when the gamesmanship begins, Estopinal explains, with both sides going line by line through bills, arguing over money.

Estopinal says he loathes the idea of hitting acts that play Silo with last minute expenses. As a promoter, when it “came to the settlement, I would always fight back,” Estopinal says, especially when club owners tried to make him pay their house nut — essentially a standard fee the venue would charge every touring show to recover unspecified expenses. To Estopinal, the house nut is like a hotel charging a $40 resort fee or an Airbnb rental charging a $100 cleaning fee — “they’re junk fees that are just a cash grab.”

Shakey Settlement

Inside Silo Dallas

Patrick Le

Estopinal remembers a show settlement in El Paso, Texas, when a club owner shook him down for a last-minute $1,000 “rent” charge.

“The deal was that he kept the bar and I got the door. Rent wasn’t in the original deal and I told him I wasn’t going to pay him rent,” Estopinal explains. “So, he opens his drawer and pulls out a gun and puts it on the desk. So, I say, ‘Oh, you’re threatening me now? Fine, take your $1,000 blood money.’”

Estopinal says he returned to the tour bus and stewed in anger for a while, before going back inside to confront the club owner again. Six security guards were summoned to the office, and “one got me in a headlock and they all kind of picked me up in a lateral position, carried me out down the stairs and put me back on the tour bus,” he recalls. “I never got my $1,000 back, but I did hear that he later got arrested for something else.”

Then there was a Skrillex show Estopinal promoted in the 2010s at a country western bar in San Antonio, Texas. Skrillex finished his set at midnight and his crew wanted to break down the show and leave, but the bar owner wanted to stay open to keep selling beer. The owner even had his resident DJ go on after Skrillex’s set and play Skrillex music.

“Suddenly all the fans that were leaving at the end of the Skrillex set turned around and came back in,” Estopinal says. “All so that the club owner can sell beer for two more hours.”

The tour managers approached Estopinal and told him to find the owner and shut down the faux Skrillex set so they could leave. “But I couldn’t find the owner anywhere. I noticed they had four bodyguards stationed around the DJ booth, and so I went back to the dressing room and said, ‘Hey, I can’t get this guy to turn the music off. You guys are just going to have to load out.’ They told me, ‘We can’t load out with all these people in here.’”

Worried that he might lose the rest of the tour if he didn’t quickly act, Estopinal took two shots of tequila with the tour manager and then “ran into the front of the DJ booth, dove inside, unplugged all the wires and pushed all the equipment on the floor,” he says. While the security guards weren’t able to stop Estopinal from silencing the bootleg set, they did “eventually get a hold of me and started wailing on me.”

The police eventually showed up, placed Estopinal in handcuffs and got him to fork over $2,000 to pay for the broken mixers and busted CDJ player. An expensive night, but minor when compared to the extortion Estopinal encountered when he tried to throw a rave with several big-name promoters in San Bernardino, Calif., in 1999. What had originally been forecast as a 5,000 to 8,000 person show quickly ballooned into a 25,000-person riot with fans swarming the box office, desperate to buy tickets.

“It was cash only and we’d have people come up to the window with a huge wad of cash and be like, ‘Give me 16 tickets,’” he says. “The money was coming in so fast that one of the ticket takers just started sweeping the cash onto the ground. There was no place to put it. And she just keeps selling tickets, ankle deep in cash.”

Eventually, Estopinal lost control of the show and “the police called in the riot squad, and they arrived in helicopters and tear gassed the front of the venue,” he says. Once the dust eventually settled, the venue manager approached Estopinal and told him the police wanted $40,000 in cash, right away. “I asked, ‘Can I give it to them myself?’ And they told me, ‘No, that would be illegal.’ The whole thing sounded illegal to me, but my only goal was not to have that party shut down. So, I went and got the $40,000 in cash and gave it to the venue manager. I don’t know where it went, but the event never got shut down.”

Promising Signs

Inside Silo Dallas

Tyler Church

The concert world has changed significantly since Estopinal’s riotous rave in 1999, mostly for the better, he concedes. The corporatization of the business led by Live Nation and AEG has standardized the show settlement system, and major talent agencies have become much more vigilant about sticking to the language of the contract and avoiding last-minute surprises.

“I’ve spent a lot of time thinking about how I can change the dynamic as a club owner and make the venue more artist-friendly,” Estopinal says. “I can try to make the tickets as cheap as possible and not let people bribe the doorman to cut in line or slip in through a side door that the promoter doesn’t know about.”

He’s also decided to make Silo available to community groups during off hours and has even struck a deal with a local Dallas church to lease the club for its Sunday services.

Pastor Richard Ellis with the Dallas-based Reunion Church told Billboard that he happened to stumble upon Silo while looking for a new home after the church ended its lease at the Dallas Convention Center.

“I met with Donnie’s partner Patrick Tetrick and he told me, ‘I probably shouldn’t tell you this, but it would be good for us to have you in here,’” recalls Ellis. “Sometimes a club like that can have a reputation and one can soften that reputation by having a church in the building on Sundays.”

Estopinal says he has other community uses for Silo in mind and notes that having a church in the building makes him feel better about crossing over into the venue world.

Protect The Enterprise

Inside Silo Dallas

Bo Buckley 

Estopinal also says he has started to bring a lot of his own experience to Silo and do some of the club’s bookings in-house, tapping into his own expertise. One of his first lessons came during the opening of Silo in September when he ignored his own advice about splurging on a big headliner for opening night.

Estopinal says it’s a “classic mistake” to book a big a headliner for an opening night concert at a new venue because “if there’s any type of delay due to permit issues or construction, you’re not going to be able to open the venue and you’re still going to end up owing the artist the money.”

For reasons he can’t explain, Estopinal ignored his own advice and booked superstar DJ Tiesto as the opening artist for Silo. “The day of the show arrived and we still don’t have the permit needed to open the venue” due to a disagreement with the local fire marshal about Silo’s sprinkler system, he says. “The show sold out and I’m just sitting there imagining, ‘How am I going to get out of this one?’” Estopinal recalls. “Then Tiesto’s agent calls me and says, ‘I got some bad news. Tiesto’s plane had depressurized, and he had to turn back.’”

Estopinal described the news as divine intervention: If Tiesto was cancelling on Silo, then he didn’t owe the Dutch DJ a dime — crisis averted.

“And then, oddly enough, about an hour later, my phone rang again,” he says. “It was the fire marshal’s office. The permit issue had been resolved, and I was cleared to open Silo.”

Estopinal says he was shocked, but also clear-eyed in what he had to do. Tapping into his instincts as a promoter, new club owner and lifelong hustler, Estopinal grabbed the phone and immediately dialed Tiesto’s agent.

“I told him, ‘You better put him on a new plane immediately and get him out here tonight or else!’” Estopinal remembers. Tiesto made it in time to play the gig and the show opened without a hitch.

Surprisingly, Estopinal said he didn’t feel bad about the episode, noting that club ownership and tour promotion had one key component in common.

“You’ve got to protect the enterprise,” he says. “No matter what side you’re on, you want the show to go on.”