Written by Chad Taylor. Originally appeared on the Culture Myth website on March 20, 2016.
There's nobody here. That's not even that big of an exaggeration: the crowd is so small, that at one point Sara Routh makes everyone go around the room and introduce themselves. And yet, this place is what you wish every show could embody.
The venue. Holy shit, the venue. JJ's Alley Bricktown Pub is a tiny, dirty, glorious clusterfuck of kitsch. The walls are covered with such a jumbled, eclectic collection of doll heads, signs, doors, toys, glasses and various random fuckery as to be nearly overwhelming in their incomprehensibility. The first thing one does when entering JJ's for the first time is gape.
There's nobody here. That's not even that big of an exaggeration: the crowd is so small, that at one point Sara Routh makes everyone go around the room and introduce themselves. And yet, this place is what you wish every show could embody.
The venue. Holy shit, the venue. JJ's Alley Bricktown Pub is a tiny, dirty, glorious clusterfuck of kitsch. The walls are covered with such a jumbled, eclectic collection of doll heads, signs, doors, toys, glasses and various random fuckery as to be nearly overwhelming in their incomprehensibility. The first thing one does when entering JJ's for the first time is gape.
