COVID-19 was killing Tacoma’s iconic Java Jive. Then fans of the dive bar stepped up
Bob’s Java Jive is a bar — a dive bar, to be more specific — in the truest sense of the name. Shaped like a big coffee pot, and stained by decades of cheap spilled beer and long nights, the South Tacoma Way landmark is an icon, a Nalley Valley roadside oddity that has captured the imagination of many over the years.
But for the unkempt breed of Tacomans that hold it dear to this day — the regulars, the aging rockers, the sagging, eternal hipsters and local kitsch brokers — the Jive’s staying power has little to do with the facade. It’s the stories that make it special, and the mysteries, and what happened inside.
“The Java Jive represents the old, crazy, amazing town that I grew up in,” said Bon Henderson, longtime drummer for the never grunge, never polished and never famous Tacoma band Girl Trouble, who — much like the city they call home and the Jive itself — have ground out a local legacy over nearly 40 years of not caring.
Henderson remembers the punks and new wavers who would crowd into the Jive in the 1980s, many of them originally drawn by the unpredictable Bobby Floyd Show, which featured Floyd on organ and “Steve and his Sexy Stix” on drums, back before irony went mainstream. It’s one of many memories she has where the Jive serves as the backdrop and a main character, and she’s clearly not alone.
That’s why it was no surprise this week when Tacoma — and fans of the storied bar across the country — stepped up for Bob’s Java Jive in a big way.
In the estimation of current Java Jive manager Jenna Schrenk, reopening the bar — which has now been closed for more than a year due to COVID-19 — was going to take a community effort.
On Wednesday, Schrenk posted a desperate call for help — and financial donations — on Facebook. Less than 24 hours later, the effort had raised more than $12,000, quickly exceeding the initial $10,000 goal she had set.
Schrenk has managed the Java Jive since 2018, working for longtime owner Bob Radonich’s daughter, Danette Staatz, while living in the small apartment above the bar. She now hopes to be able to reopen the Jive as soon as COVID-19 restrictions make it financially feasible at a location known for its tight quarters and limited capacity. The influx of money will definitely help, she promised.
On Thursday, the 50-year-old Java Jive “den mother,” as she described it, told The News Tribune that the forced slumber of an official historical landmark has inflicted a mounting toll of disrepair. For a bar that has felt like it was hanging on by a tattered shoelace for decades, the time off hasn’t been kind, she said.
There are plumbing issues, electrical problems and 13 months of dirt to scrub off (at least to get the dive bar back to its previously seasoned state). The gas needs to be turned back on, and licenses that need to be renewed. They’ll need pandemic-appropriate cleaning supplies, which — to be frank — hasn’t always been a priority in the past. Plus, the bar is broke, Schrenk wrote in her plea, “as in not a pot in which to piss.”
Schrenk said the immediate flood of support left her overwhelmed, and grateful. She knew people loved the Java Jive — as she has come to since moving to Tacoma seven years ago — but, still, the response has blown her away.
“I am overjoyed. I am ecstatic,” Schrenk said. “I can’t believe how much love is pouring in.”
For the Java Jive, the COVID-19 pandemic is far from its first brush with death. The bar didn’t even take on its name and identity until 1955, nearly 30 years after it first opened, when Radonich, who died in 2002, bought a struggling restaurant then known as the Coffee Pot and turned it into the institution we know today. Over the years, it’s been threatened by everything from freeway construction to changing tastes and fire code violations. Each time, Tacoma has come to the rescue.
According to Henderson, who has been promoting underdog causes since her days photocopying Girl Trouble flyers and underground zines, the reason is simple: The Java Jive is part of the city’s fabric.
While she might have more stories than most — like tales of Granny Go Go, who made a local name for herself on the late-night movie program “Stu Martin’s Double Date at the Movies” and became a fixture on the dance floor for nearly three decades — in local lore, we all share the bar’s colorful history and everything that makes it special, Henderson said.
The old speakeasy whispers are part of Tacoma, just like the Keanu Reeves and River Phoenix sightings. So are the infamous Nirvana shows that never happened, and the Ventures and Wailers shows that did. Neko Case’s time working behind the bar is a lineage we can all proudly point to, while memories of the resident monkeys who were once housed behind glass near the pool tables make us collectively cringe.
In a city that feels like it’s constantly changing — and losing just a little bit of its soul in the process — Henderson said hanging on to the things that make Tacoma unique matters.
“The people and stories are disappearing, brick by brick. I was born here. Things weren’t perfect, and certainly not politically correct, and it was a tough town, but you learned to love all that,” Henderson said.
“I want people moving here to know what Tacoma was all about,” she continued. “If we lose places like the Java Jive, they will never know. And that would be a damn shame.”
