The Thrill Ride Continues
Stack 19
Last week I left you with the thrill ride beginning and me wanting more. 1990 delivered on that promise, and then some.
Red Red Groove kept building through the rest of that year. Shows, rehearsals, promotion, the slow accumulation of a real following. Mike and I were locked in, and Ross had settled into his position running video from the stage. The band had found its sound, found its image, found its footing, and we were starting to feel like we actually knew what we were doing. That’s a dangerous feeling, by the way. The moment you think you’ve figured it out is usually right before something humbles you. But in 1990, I hadn’t learned that lesson yet. I was just riding it.
By 1991, we were working on our second album, Silence, and I had started a side project called VG70. The creative engine was running full speed. Between the band, the DJ work, and whatever else was pulling at my attention, I was living inside music almost entirely. Looking back, it was exactly the life I’d dropped out of high school to find. Took a few years and some interesting detours to get there, but there I was.
And then came My Life With The Thrill Kill Kult.
If you were into that scene in the early 90s, you already know about the Sexplosion tour. If you weren’t, I’m not sure I can fully explain it to you. Up to that point, most shows were just shows. Bands played their songs, people danced or moshed or stood around looking cool, and then everybody went home. The Sexplosion tour was something else entirely. It was a production. A spectacle. The kind of show that made you rethink what a live performance could actually be.
We were booked to open for them at The Tower Theater in the Williams Center Forum in Tulsa. I remember pulling up before load-in and going in through the main entry doors. The place was already buzzing with pre-show energy, and there was a rope cordoning off part of the floor where merchandise was being set up. A long-haired guy was on the other side of it, messing around with t-shirts and whatnot. Mike and I were trying to figure out the easiest way into that area without walking all the way around the ropes. I lifted my leg to hop over.
“Gurl, you just wanted to get those legs in the air.”
That was my introduction to Groovie Mann, the lead singer of Thrill Kill Kult. Not exactly a formal handshake, but it set the tone for everything that followed.
We played our set, and then got to go backstage to meet the band afterward. I remember feeling like a complete dork. Small talk has never been my strong suit, and standing backstage trying to make conversation with people I genuinely admired was its own kind of obstacle course. I was twenty-one, still pretty new to all of it, and I probably embarrassed myself at least twice. But that’s the tax you pay for being young and enthusiastic. I’ve made peace with it.
The show itself was everything. Their performance was so fun, so committed, so unapologetically itself that Mike and I came away feeling like we’d finally found a band that had a similar mindset to ours. Not the same sound, not the same aesthetic exactly, but the same spirit. The same refusal to apologize for what they were. That meant something to us.
And then, in true Oklahoma fashion, the venue owner apparently took offense at TKK’s portrayal of Jesus on stage — details involving a cross and a prop I’ll leave to your imagination — and called the cops. On his own venue. On his own show.
The minute the set ended, our manager appeared at my elbow. “Get in the van. Now. Just go. I’ll explain later.”
In the end, I don’t think anyone was ticketed, and nobody was arrested. But it made for great lore. And it was the beginning of a kinship that has lasted to this day. Mike still hooks up with them when they come through Tulsa.
The rest of 1991 was heads down work. Promoting the band, finishing Silence, keeping the DJ career going. That year also brought some changes at The Max. The club had grown so popular that the crowd had shifted — it was becoming increasingly straight, which was a good problem to have in some ways but also meant it was time to rethink things. John decided to get a liquor license and convert The Max into a straight bar called Circa. And to make sure the community that had built the place still had a home, he opened a new bar called The Factory — which those of you in Tulsa might know today as The Starlite. Mark moved over to Circa as the resident DJ, and I moved to The Factory, continuing the afterhours weekend sets that had become my natural habitat. Circa wouldn’t last long, but that’s a story for another time — one that might be of particular interest to those of you who were around back then.
Life was full. Life was loud. Life was good.
Except for one thing I didn’t notice until later.
John had stopped coming to our shows.
It happened gradually, the way things do when you’re too busy to pay attention. I’d come home after a gig, still buzzing from the set, and the house would be quiet. John’s door closed. Which was strange, because John was a night owl. Always had been. The man was wired for the small hours. For him to be in bed in the middle of the night was out of character.
I didn’t think much of it at the time. Figured he was finally bored with the band. We’d been at it long enough that maybe the novelty had worn off for him. I told myself that and moved on.
I was wrong about that. I guess we’ll get into all that sooner than later.
One quick note before I go — last week I mentioned putting together a scrapbook page with old flyers and photos from the Red Red Groove days. I went ahead and did it. You can find it on my site, linked below. It’s a work in progress and I’ll keep adding to it as I dig up more, and I’m planning to do the same for my other past band projects down the road. If you were there for any of it, go take a look and see what shakes loose.
More road ahead next week. Make yours a good one.
Jeff
The link to my Red Red Groove scrapbook page is: