By Thomas Conner
© Tulsa World I haven't been in Jify Trip's rehearsal room for five minutes before lead singer Justin Monroe whirls around and asks me, "How do you feel about cottage cheese, man?'' "Why?'' I ask, being too cautious. "Do you use it in your show?'' "No, I just wanted to know how you feel about it,'' he says. Strap in and secure the knives — it's going to be a woolly night. It's December 21, 1995, a cold, murky night on the verge of a new season, and sleet is pelting the half dozen or so cars that swarmed like ATF agents on this modest log cabin on the north edge of Bixby. An hour after sundown, all the technology that gives Jify Trip its venerable voice has been flung into trucks and "sport vehicles.'' The four members of the band and a handful of hangers-on have sought shelter from the cold inside a shed behind the house. The members of Jify Trip and their entourage look like any burgeoning rock bunch. There's guitarist Brent Coates, a handsome everybody with bangs just long enough to confound any idea that he spends one weekend a month in the Army reserves. There's drummer Scott Rouse, the oft-but-lovingly picked-on blondie in flannel shirt and baggy trousers, both easily three sizes too large. Bassist Tommy Niemeyer is the first to joke about his appearance; being half German and half Thai, he is used to being mistaken for every conceivable ethnicity ("I'm the Afro-American-Asian-Arabian-Indian member of the band''). Then there's Justin. Justin looks like the offspring that would result from Stone Temple Pilots lead singer Scott Weiland being caught in baby Bear's bed with Goldilocks. His pink features are framed by a terribly trendy goatee and two long, wavy, blond pigtails. "A horse's ass on both sides,'' someone teases. We're not due at the club for another hour, so time is marked for killing in the carpeted shed. There's a mock stage in the shed, bracketed by a leering Val Kilmer as Jim Morrison poster on one side and a black and white shot of the members of Pearl Jam striking a Guns N' Roses guitar pose on the other. Seeing these choices for decor, I quiver at the thought of an evening of Doors-Pearl Jam inspired music ahead. My fears will soon be allayed. • • • Behind the stage is a polished piece of wood in a sun shape, and mounted on it is a colorful, lacquered puzzle of some kind of mandala. "That's an ancient, medieval Ouija board,'' Tommy says. Over the door to the shed, the phrase "It's the most...'' is stenciled on the jamb. It seems one of the groupies, Russell Becker — the one by the piano with the purple and green court jester hat on — uses the phrase a lot, as in "It's the most cool place'' or "It's the most smelly sofa.'' Russell smiles sheepishly, and I get the impression there's more to it than that. Upon learning that Good, the band scheduled to play before them, won't be playing, Justin and Brent sit down on the stage to add some songs to the set list. Tommy suggests the song "Bite,'' and others in the room call out the name. Justin responds, "Where?'' Jify trip's manager, Mark McCullough, is loitering with us, making lots of managerial promises. "I'm gonna do my damnedest to get you guys signed in '96,'' he resolves. The band mutters things like, "It's about time.'' Even the mere two years Jify Trip has been together have wrought a tinge of cynicism on the band. Finally, someone says, "Let's go to the club,'' and we're piling into S-10s and Broncos to rumble to Eclipse. Jify Trip is on a bill at the club tonight before a Kansas City tribal sensation, Billy Goat. On the ride there, Mark and Tommy reminisce about the band's humble beginnings. Like Spinal Tap, Jify Trip has been through a few drummers, but when Scott joined up exactly one year ago, everything clicked, Tommy says. "He just fit right in, the best of anybody,'' he says. "And he's flourished so much in the last year.'' Mark is clearly pumped up about his new progenitors. Mark formerly managed Tulsa's bastion of ingenious-but-unsigned music, the Mellowdramatic Wallflowers. After a good part of a decade with the group and still no success, Mark bowed out and picked up Jify Trip, which he thinks is much more in-tune with modern rock success. "These guys have so much going on,'' he says, gesturing for emphasis. "They are easily the most marketable band in town, and I think they have a real shot at getting out there.'' We get to Eclipse about 7 p.m. and mill around for a bit while club-owner K. Rahal devises a game plan for the equipment set-up. Scott and Tommy clasp each other's hands and waists and begin waltzing to Kate Bush's "Running Up That Hill'' playing over the sound system. I look around the Eclipse and enjoy a rare, smoke-free glimpse of the legendary club. The Eclipse is a second home for a band like this. K.'s club desperately caters to young, original bands like Jify Trip, and the members laugh about that period — familiar to most young bands here — when they were playing Eclipse practically every weekend. Jify Trip's first gig, though, was at the late Windjammer club in east Tulsa. "I was scared to play there,'' Justin says, and the recollection of the event illicits laughter from the other members, but it's a proud, survivalist laughter. "The band before us actually did the hair-swinging thing as they played.'' "And don't forget the girl in white playing pool all night,'' Brent adds. Once Scott's drums are set up and other amps and gear has been tucked out of Billy Goat's way, the entire entourage crams into a weathered, white Ford Bronco in search of sustenance. I have no idea whose Bronco it is, or who is driving, and white Broncos have macabre connotations for me now. We wind up at the Hideaway pizza place on 15th Street, flustering the waitstaff about a table for 10. Brian Hartman — the wide-eyed friend and "fifth member of the band,'' Justin proclaims — is delighted that the restaurant has Pente board games. He seizes one at once and threatens everyone with a game. Once seated and orders taken, the band begins to talk about its illustrious and blooming career. Jify Trip has played the gamut of Tulsa nightspots — the Dugout, the Rhythm Room, Xenophon, TU frat parties — as well as Norman, Oklahoma City and Stillwater clubs. Promotion involves photocopied fliers stuck on phone poles and handed out at shopping malls, and lots of word of mouth. Justin proceeds to illustrate the tireless promotion of a local rock band. He catches the waitress as she begins to walk away with the orders: "Hey, what are you doing about 9:30 tonight?'' She promptly ignores him. He wasn't trying to ask her for a date. It's just another way to spread the word about the band, and it's worked before. Waitresses (and waiters, Brent is a bit too quick to add) from the evening's supper have been known to show up at gigs. Brent works at Chili's and has convinced several of his cohorts to attend. "We just basically play our music,'' Tommy says. "That in itself has gotten people to come back and spread the word. That's how it works, just like the old shampoo commercial: they tell two friends, and they tell two friends, and so on and so on. "Basically, Jify Trip is a cult,'' Justin says. "Everyone is welcome.'' "But nobody comes,'' Brent adds. He assures me it's a joke and promises a substantial core following. "When we started, we had no idea what we were doing,'' Justin says. "It's really funny, man, the growing process we've gone through.'' "We grew, then we got stale for a while,'' Tommy says. "We didn't change our underwear for, like, three months.'' "But now we rock!'' Justin says. "We create from nothing,'' he adds, mystically. "We're absolute music,'' Brent says. Justin, who earlier failed to sell the band on calling the music "hydraulic music,'' says, "I don't get that.'' "We play music for the sake of music,'' Brent explains. Justin laughs. "You caught us on a good night. We're usually at each other's throats. We're all dicks.'' "That's not true,'' says the stong-silent Scott. "Tommy's a nice guy.'' The waitress returns, diverting his attention. Justin tries to make up for the previous misunderstanding. "I wasn't trying to ask you out,'' he says. "I just wanted to know if you'd be interested in seeing a band tonight called Jify Trip.'' "I heard they sucked,'' the waitress says. Tips are reclaimed from the money pile. • • • Back at Eclipse, clubbers are starting to drift in, and the Marlboro haze already has defined the spotlights and slide projections. Justin paces through the tables and chairs with heavy sighs and clenching fists, denying that he's nervous. By 9 p.m., Mark is equally nervous as he scans the sparse room. "I just can't figure out where all the people are,'' he says. "I guess people aren't used to seeing bands here on Thursdays.'' Eclipse usually schedules open mic nights on Thursdays. He's not worrying from his wallet, though. The band, I find out from Mark, is playing tonight's show for free. My jaw drops. "This is your idea of the Christmas spirit?'' I ask. "This is my idea of getting good exposure,'' McCullough says. "I wanted to open for Billy Goat, a strong, popular regional act. It's always good to get a tape in their hands, find out who books their shows, etc.'' Tommy is crouching behind his amp to smoke a cigarette in peace. Brent kneels on the stage tuning his two guitars. Brian sets up the retail arm of this project with a box of Jify Trip CDs at a table near the bar. The crowd has picked up by 9:30 p.m. — the usual Eclipse throng of shaved-head and flannel-laden hipsters dressed like they just came in from the fields around Poznon, Poland circa 1908. All the seats and tables are filled, anyway, and a chummy bunch of high school (at most) girls with braces and bobs sit cross-legged on the floor before the stage. At 9:35 p.m., the band gets the word to get onstage. K.'s cheeky announcement booms out of the speakers: "We have for you tonight, Billy Goat! And first, a great Tulsa band, we love them -- Jify Trip!'' The beat and strums fall at the same instant, and the sound slams forward. Justin grabs the mic and shakes and wails as if he'd just caught hold of a wire pulsing several thousand volts. From this moment through to the encore, Justin is no longer with us. He stares forward with glazed eyes in an eerie trance, like a deranged sleepwalker. He shrieks like a 12-year-old Billy Corgan being choked and moves around the stage like Riff Raff doing "The Time Warp.'' The crowd watches with a nonchalance that would ruin bands of lesser conviction. The first song is "Help the Mustard.'' Since there is no sound check before showtime, this is it. When the sound finally dies away, Justin calls to K., "Can I have some monitor? I don't have any.'' During the second song, "Wool,'' which involves a lot of screaming, his vocals cut out several times from the sound system. It's a learning experience for everyone, every single night. Brent gnashes a wad of gum while he slashes his guitar, a stream of flawless chords punctuated with the occasional sharp fill. Tommy's deft dancing up and down the frets of his bass suffers from an unjust mix. Scott's drumming is fervent and pristine; he sometimes even smiles. Jify Trip plays carefully wrought guitar-pop, excellent melodies and rhythms supporting Justin's banshee wails. The girls in front of the stage are up and dancing right away, but they are the only ones moving to the music. A few people against the Van Gogh wall are mouthing the words, but most simply stare. Justin is unfazed; in fact, he approaches them. Pulling on his mic cable, he wanders into the crowd, sometimes getting a good 20 feet from the stage — about halfway across the club. Drifting among frat boys standing near the bar and neohippies flopped on the couches, he takes his shtick to the masses, convulsing and conjuring things from his mic while those near him try to act casual. He's almost oblivious to the crowd — drawn to them, but still off in another dimension of higher sonic beings. During "Nothing Artificial,'' Justin is on top of the speaker stacks. K. comes to the edge of the stage wearing worry under the bill of his Triple X Records cap. Justin hangs upside down off the stack, then stands and spreads his arms out like a plane (or a Christ figure, heaven forbid). While the band takes off on one lick, he dangles the mic and cord from his crotch and swings. When the song ends, Justin chants as if hypnotized, "Us. Us. Us. Us.'' The crowd dares him to jump. "Isn't this great?'' McCullough says behind me. He looks like he's just seen his first snowfall. "Now do you see why I wanted to push these guys?'' The last song is an Adorable cover, "Homeboy.'' When Justin teeters toward the edge of the stage in preparation to leave it, the crowd, to my delighted surprise, begins shouting, "One more! One more!'' Justin looks up, as if the voices of adoration have pierced a pinhole in his trance. K.'s voice again booms from the darkness: "C'mon guys, they want one more song. How 'bout it?'' Justin hardly moves and says, "This song is called 'Ides of January.' It sucks because we suck. Thank you. Yes, we suck. Thank you.'' Tommy straps his bass back on and they dish out one more screamer. • • • When Jify Trip makes its hasty exodus from the stage and Billy Goat members begin setting up their gear around 10:30 p.m., the band members scatter through the crowd in search of girlfriends. Justin can't seem to find his, and he natters unconvincing assurances that this was a good show. He snatches a handful of the band's CDs and begins passing them out to the crowd — giving them away. When asked if this was a good show, Brian, our Pente champ, turns thumbs down. He's not slagging the band; he's slagging the crowd. "Nobody did anything,'' he says. "Usually we've got people jumping around, going crazy. Everybody's lazy here tonight.'' They weren't lazy when Billy Goat came on. Jify Trip regrouped outside to cool off, then filed back in once Billy Goat's beats started shaking the walls. Billy Goat, a funk-a-go-go band now out of Kansas City, keeps the crowd on its feet during its whole set. Jify Trip stays for most of the show, as enthralled by the band as anyone — likely moreso. When Billy Goat leader Mike Dillon really started going on his hand drums, Justin scans the club. "Where's Scott? He's gotta see this!'' During Billy Goat's "Old School, Jam 23,'' Justin is up on someone's shoulders, waving his arms like he's at a Dokken show. Scott was, indeed, there, staring typically calmly at the two drummers' precision timing. An hour into Billy Goat's set, Jify Trip files out to the sidewalk and huddles in the cold. Tommy's eyes are still wide from the Billy Goat experience. "Jeez, did we even play?'' Justin asks. "They are the only band that's ever played after us that just completely kicked our ass,'' Tommy says. With everyone screaming in the cold, it's decided to return to Tommy's to consume mass quantities. "So this is Jify Trip,'' Justin said. "Hope you liked it. See you at the top.'' |
Thomas Conner
These online "clips" reproduce a self-selection of my journalism (music etc) during the last 20+ years. It's a lotta stuff, but it only scratches the surface. I do not currently possess the time or resources to digitize the whole body of work. These posts are simply a bunch of pretty great days at the office. Archives
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