Just tell me where you wanna go...

The Hi-Fives in BAM, 1997

The Hi-Fives

by Tom Lanham

(First appeared in BAM magazine, 1/24/97)

Only in San Francisco. That's about all you can say.

North Beach, gnarled Beat-era bar, one recent evening: A handful of patrons, mostly grizzled old-timers, are slurring their syllables in sorry "Wasn't that a party?" reminiscences, the kind Kerouac or Richard Farina might be having, were either still alive. Over in a deserted corner sit two immaculately-groomed 27-year-olds, sporting pegged trousers, spiffy button-down shirts, and the kind of short, politely-parted haircuts you only see on Green Hornet re-runs. The duo is definitely at odds with the pub's mostly ponytailed aging-hippie clientele, but for roughly 30 minutes, nobody pays much attention.

Then it happens.

Stumbling out of the bathroom--where he'd been carrying on about Hessians to anyone within earshot--comes a bespectacled, silver-maned relic, obviously inebriated, who suddenly mistakes the two youths for--that's right--Hessians. Stunned, Chris Imlay and John Denery decry their innocence; they're not Hessian, they swear, just co-singer/guitarists in a local retro-fueled combo, the Hi-Fives. At which point the interloper leans in and declares, "There is no reality! There isn't!" Why not roll with it, the musicians figure. Ask the oracle a question: What would reality be, then, for a quartet that sports vintage suits and recreates Kinks-scratchy chords with a speedy, punk-era abandon?

Teetering precariously, the gentleman (who bears an eerie resemblance to leering Laugh-In comedian Arte Johnson) thinks about this for an uncomfortable minute. "Well, see, now, first you have the '60s, and then you have an audience. OK?" Everyone nods. They're with him so far. "But the audience never lived in the '60s, and the only people you would have to prove anything to is the audience. The audience! The audience!" he shouts, and Imlay and Denery both pull their Guinnesses closer as they scoot farther into their seats. "You don't have to prove anything to me! You have to prove it to the audience!"

And no, the soliloquy isn't over. The philosopher is at the table now, waggling a finger at his new disciples. "Now, there's a fuckin' universal truth, a universal truth," he stammers. "And I was hit upside the head one day by this. And with the audience, you have to look for that universal truth." Pause. Teeter. Uh, which is? Rasputin himself couldn't have told it with more wild-eyed zeal: "I am! I am great, man, and we're gonna get it on! Let's party and get it on!" And a parting shot before he shambles out the door. "You might be very creative....but I don't think you're that creative!"

Denery looks at Imlay. Imlay stares back. There are no words that can adequately summarize this twisted moment. Both realize that there is some deep, long-sought tidbit of knowledge lurking somewhere in all that babble, but both would rather go back to sipping Guinness than dig for it. And there's one thing the songwriters agree on: Hi-Fives reality--despite its vaguely mod-revivalist trappings--isn't artificial or laboratory-contrived. "We obviously pick old influences from the '60s," smiles the soft-spoken, boy-next-door-ish Denery. "But I'm a fan of today's punk rock, and I see myself more as a punk rocker than I do a '60s guy."

Imlay--who carries a briefcase and punches the day-job clock at the Hi-Fives' label, Berkeley-based Lookout! Records--adds, "There are always things about other times that are better or worse. You've just gotta find the things that are fun now." Oh yeah. And one other thing: "Steal all the things that were fun then!" He and his pal snicker wickedly. They've known each other since Humboldt State University days, and played together in a succession of pop/punk bands since '88. They badminton-bat bad puns back and forth, finish each other's sentences and argue over favorite albums, finally settling on a best-of-Frank-Sinatra tape they compiled themselves, just for touring. And--bad news for hippie-dippie man--yes, they are that creative. After only two albums (Welcome to My Mind and the new And a Whole Lotta You!), it's safe to say that the Hi-Fives not only are, the Hi-Fives are great.

The two opening tracks from And a Whole Lotta You! tell the pince-nez tale: "It's Up to You" jumps out of the gate on a blatantly Dave Davies/Muswell Hillbillies riff and a hip-shaking American Bandstand rhythm, courtesy of bassist Jess Hilliard and rimshot drummer Danny Seelig (who've since been replaced by Steve Faine and Gary Gutfield, respectively). Then Imlay and Denery woof in with their twin-vocal raveups and the mix soon feels as urgent as the Fleshtones, circa the frantic Hexbreaker. Two minutes later, things rev up to Dickies speed with the Merseybeat-on-methedrine guitar slam of "It Begins With You." The album stays on a similar course--Kinks to kinetic punk, and back again--culminating in the Link Wray-rousing instrumental "Shhh!" and spastic skinny-tied covers of two trusty New Wave standards: Yaz's "Bad Connection" and Soft Cell's campy version of "Tainted Love."

See the Hi-Fives perform this material live--neckties whipping to and fro as the two frontmen shake, shiver and shimmy their way through chord after delirious chord, jackets tossed aside after the first couple of numbers--and its sly backyard genius becomes more apparent; in one flick-of-the-wrist move, Imlay and Denery have channelled all the disenchantment of the Gen-X '90s through the tinny tube amps of a carefree yesteryear, creating a fist-waving atavism that sort of slaps you in the face like a giant marshmallow glove. Even the album artwork--blocky ink drawings of the band by equally retro-styled artist Steffan Britt--recalls those fabulous covers from Blue Note's cocktail-hour golden age. No wonder the group snagged a Bammy last year for "Outstanding Alternative Pop/Rock Group."

And where is that coveted microphone-shaped award right now? Denery--a schoolteacher by trade, who currently works with severely emotionally disturbed children in San Jose--gets visibly nervous fielding the question. "Well, it's supposed to be in our van. It was at his mom's house for a while..."

"And then we traded, every few weeks!" Imlay continues. "Each week, one member got to put it on their mantlepiece and take photos with the family. Then, after everyone had it, we thought we'd mount it in our van somewhere, like on the dash, maybe on the gear shift. So it was under the front seat for two months, with all the maps. Then John cleaned the van one day, and it was gone!" He gasps in mock horror.

Denery raises his eyebrows. "Uh-huh. I cleaned the van, alright. So now the Bammy is on my bookshelf! Actually, we decided that every Christmas we'd exchange it as a present--I'd mail it to him one Christmas, he'd mail it back to me the next. Like the tie no one in the family wanted that goes from uncle to uncle." Speaking of ties, he adds, there are no clip-ons in the Hi-Fives camp. "And I just found out I've been tying my tie wrong my whole life, in a half-Windsor."

Imlay cracks up. "No, no, no--we do a double Windsor." And he goes through the over-and-under motions to illustrate his point. "Can you believe it--John's dad didn't even know, and he works at NASA! He can make a huge space shuttle fly, but can't tie his own tie..." He goes on to explain that, while doing time in a 1991 incarnation called the Ne'erdowells, he and Denery decided to switch to the elegant two-piece look that's become the Hi-Fives' trademark. Why? "Because all of our favorite bands wore suits, like the early Beatles, and any part we play in encouraging even shitty punk bands to wear suits, that's great. I'd rather look at a suit onstage than some stupid Billabong shorts. At least with a suit, you're tying yourself into a bit of rock 'n' roll history. It's an identity."

His partner agrees: "Our motto is 'You have to respect your audience.' And suits were our way of showing respect. Plus, I always got a big kick out of those bands from the '60s who wore matching sweaters with a big 'A' on the front--just the whole uniform idea." Fashion icons for the slacker set? Hardly, says Denery. "We don't stockpile on suits--we'll wear one suit until it's gone, then it's time to go to the thrift store and buy another one. I found one in Nova Scotia--the one I'm wearing onstage now--for about $7 Canadian, which is about $4.50 U.S. And I found another one for $5 in LA, but that one turned a strange green color after I sweated in it once."

How long does a decent set of threads last on Hi-Fives tour? About a month, according to Imlay, who reluctantly admits to coughing up 50 hard-earned bucks for his latest concert outfit. "But that included getting it tailored," he notes. But wait a minute. Wearing the same suit on tour, over and over again, while travelling in a cramped little van? Imlay sighs. "Yeah, it smells. But that's the price you pay for respecting your audience."

Along the road, the Hi-Fives have had numerous brushes with fame. "Jon Spencer said 'Fuck you' to me once!" Imlay beams proudly. "He said, 'Nice set.' And I said, 'Oh, that's OK, Mr. Spencer--I know we're both industry, so you don't really have to butter my chain.' And he goes, 'Well, fuck you then!' We'd played with him that night in Boss Hog, but that means that basically he was trying to be nice, but I kinda blew him off 'cause he seemed so grumpy." He smirks impishly. You get the idea that Imlay knew exactly what he was doing. And he'd most likely do it again, given the opportunity. Cynicism, it seems, is his middle name. For nearly a decade, he and Denery have bounced around their native Arcata in assorted groups such as Brent's TV, Judy and the Loadies, the Dukes of Burl, and the all-surf offshoot, Thee Shatners. Naturally, Imlay's creative credo is set in stone.

"You can't worry about fame if you wanna stay sane," he posits. "You shouldn't be in a band and expect to do anything, except maybe play in your garage. You're lucky if you get anywhere past that. Ninety percent of the bands who sign to major labels don't even put a record out--for us, that would be bad business, really stupid. We're too quirky, so I don't think they'd spend too much money on us. Major labels operate like, 'You're a genius! You're great, you're super!' And they have all the machinery in place to spend a ton of money, but it rarely pans out. 'The boss isn't happy with the tape--we think you should go back and re-mix it, put a little bit more beat in there.' They just eat bands up and spit them out."

Imlay opens his briefcase, removes the new Lookout! '97 catalog, and starts running through all the notable artists signed to the thriving company--Cub, the Queers, the Mr. T Experience. Simultaneously, he points out all of his own layout/design handiwork contained therein, like the retooling of Pansy Division's logo in Gothic AC/DC script. (An upcoming release--the Bomb Bassets--features Denery playing with his brother Dallas, backed by the always-lively Mr. T Experience.) There's even a snarling caricature of Imlay on the cover--"That does not look anything like me!" he insists. Indie, the Hi-Fives began. Indie, the Hi-Fives remain.

A couple of Guinnesses earlier, Denery had been expounding on this very subject: how the attitude an artist puts across is more important than the sound. And it was at this point that our besotted prophet bumbled into the picture. "I just read your book!" he declares.

"Uh, I didn't write a book," says Denery, momentarily amused.

This upsets hippie-dippie man. "Well, why don't you write a book, then?" he snaps.

Denery tosses a conspiratorial grin toward his Hi-Fives buddy before responding. "Maybe tomorrow. We're working on it, we're working on it..."