Music

Nightfly Visits the Jet Lounge

Monday night's Psycho Haws Zombie Circus

As told to Chris Henderson 

Monday nights at Jet Lounge (1515 Pease, 713-659-2000) are about high-octane tunes, horror flicks and well-dressed ladies with good hair. Psycho Haws Zombie Circus — in its second month — caters to the sort of folks who believe that a stand-up bass and campy death scenes have an intrinsic relationship. The night usually features a horror flick, a DJ, stiff drinks and a variety of sideshow acts like fortune-tellers and fire-breathers.

I'm watching Shaun of the Dead and minding my drink when one of the bar's staff sidles up next to me and stirs her club soda. We introduce ourselves (I'm me and she's Tiffany) and chat for a bit, about her day job (preschool teacher; four- and five-year-olds), her job at Jet (she is one of two girls who occupy the swing on Monday nights) and serendipity (see my February 22 column “Swing It, Girl!” for more on a theme in my nightlife coverage).

“This is a pretty good crowd, but Mondays are usually crazy,” Tiffany says, looking over at the ten or 12 folks whooping it up and watching Shaun.

“I was told that you guys had all sorts of nonsense going on...fire-breathers and fortune-tellers. I guess I hit an off night,” I say.

Tiffany shrugs.

If I can't have my fortune told, nor see someone exhale fire (Jet Lounge's Monday-night fire-breather is the infamous — and absent — Punk Rock Jeff), what's a Nightfly to do on an off night at the Circus?

“There's the Ring Game,” Tiffany suggests.

Before I can reply, she's waving at the bartender.

“Billie! He wants to play the Ring Game.”

Billie Jo — a 16-year bar veteran with three college degrees, including one in funeral service, who is probably the most bombastic personality pouring drinks anywhere in town on Monday night — tilts her head and vamps. She cracks open a six-inch glow stick, pushes the ends together and directs me to the front of the bar. The rules of the game are simple: You hit it, you get it. Ring a liquor bottle and accept your poison.

I wind up and toss. The ring sails short, just clipping the bar mat, at least a foot from anything that could reasonably be called close.

Billie and Tiffany groan. No one else seems to notice. Not wanting to stand around and have Tiffany feel sorry for me, I head to the DJ booth to chat up Hawz, who plays a balanced mix of genre favorites (Cramps, Thirlwell, etc.) with a little Devo and Johnny Cash for good measure. Hawz is a longtime DJ who recently left the HaVok contingency and — due to personal and professional concerns — was planning on abandoning DJing all together. He credits Billie Jo and her idea for the Monday night Circus with giving his career a second wind.

“Psychobilly and horror flicks go hand in hand. It's more or less impossible to be a fan of one and not the other,” he says.

I leave Hawz for the lounge on the other side of the bar, not wanting to pass up the opportunity to bask — and hopefully look somewhat rugged — by Jet's fireplace. Billie Jo leans over the bar and holds up the glowing green ring. It's time for round two.

I hop onto a stool next to Tiffany, rolling up my right sleeve. Ready for action, I accept the ring from Billie Jo, who shimmies backward and frames the wall of bottles like a psychobilly Vanna White.

I size up my target: the standard three-tier liquor shelves, big money up in the back and bottles of the cheap stuff down front.

I toss the ring with a flick of my wrist. It's a bit of an arc, but it's in the gallery, falling toward the middle. No top shelf for me, but I'll avoid “economy booze” if I manage to loop a spout.

The ring slips over a bottleneck. The crowd goes wild...sort of. Well, actually, not really. Nobody but Tiffany is paying any attention to me and my now expert ring-tossing skills.

My prize: lemon-flavored rum. Billie Jo scowls.

“Are you sure you wanna shoot that? I can mix something for you.”

“No. Rules are rules. I'll shoot it.”

She reluctantly pours a hefty dose and slides it at me. I tap the bar and toss the shot at my tonsils.

“Ouch,” Billie cringes as I gag it down. “You want a club soda or something?”

“No thanks,” I choke out. “Just another bourbon, please.”