feature image photo by Sarah McDonald

On a fateful night in Brooklyn, a sharp chill cut through the air as two trans rock stars sought inspiration and solace amid the chaos of their lives. In an overpriced, poorly maintained apartment, where their music bled into the neighbors’ conversations, they began to experience a shared psychosis, a bond forged in the shivery sweat of terror. Suddenly, the atmosphere shifted, and from the depths of their collective consciousness emerged a being named Jennifer. Enigmatic and haunting, she stirred a mixture of fear and awe. With a presence that could be felt but not seen, Jennifer became both muse and specter, challenging their perceptions of reality and pushing them to confront their innermost fears. In this crucible of creativity, they ignited a spark that would change their lives forever.

At least, that’s the story Elijah Scarpati and Fig Regan of the band Um, Jennifer? share with me as we sit in the corner café where we first met a year ago.

I used to produce a monthly all-queer and trans variety show at this spot, showcasing comedy, writing, music, and more. My mission was simple: to provide a platform for local queer and trans artists who often miss out on the opportunities that cis-het peers enjoy: playing large venues, getting paid gigs, and running extended sets. In the vast pool of incredibly talented trans individuals in Brooklyn deserving of recognition and support, Um, Jennifer? stood out. That’s why I booked them for my fifth variety show in May 2023.

The band tells me this gig was their “goal for the year,” and they were “gagged” to be included. It’s amusing how different people can interpret the same interaction. While I was producing that show, I felt like I was working outside my skill set, booking musical talent despite having no musical background or knowledge of the necessary equipment. I was such a fan of Um, Jennifer? and wanted to impress them. Naturally, I messed up the sound equipment during their set and had to army-crawl on the floor to fix an amp issue while they rocked the stage. I feared they’d be pissed at this amateur move, thinking I had wasted their time. Yet when the show wrapped, a swarm of new and loyal fans surrounded the duo, and before they indulged, they took the time to thank and hug me.

In truth, I was the one who was gagged because I knew these two were destined for stardom.

Eli, a New School dropout with a background in jazz drumming, has played in various bands and currently tours with others. Fig, a former musical theater kid, has been playing guitar since they were 11. Unbeknownst to either of them, their traditional training would lead to something entirely unconventional: a T4T slut rock band.

The duo frequently found themselves in similar spaces — mostly birthday parties and queer events — before deciding to form a band. They began collaborating purely based on vibes, not yet asking each other about what instruments they can play or musical aspirations.

At the forefront of Um, Jennifer? is the duo’s transness. While their gender identities are not the only or most intriguing aspect of their artistry, they inform every decision they make as a band. Their casual, candid connection with the audience is a deliberate choice, intended to lighten the weight of the themes in their music: friendship, medical transition, love, and sex. They understand that some audience members may have just endured the worst day of their lives simply as a symptom of existing, and they want to provide a moment of levity. This is why I say Eli and Fig are not just musicians; they are also comedians.

I resonate with their intention for live shows to feel like genuine conversations, infused with humor. As trans artists with a microphone, we carry a quasi-responsibility to create safe spaces that feel authentic rather than transactional. It’s not an easy task, but Eli and Fig seem to have mastered it. They spent two years focusing on small shows, nurturing their community and refining their live set, figuring out their identities as performers, and establishing the ethos of their project.

The band released their first single, “Girl Class,” in July 2023. In the song, Fig makes a phone call to an unnamed girl in hopes of getting advice on how to be, well, good at being a girl! It’s a mesmerizing track that, every time I listen to it, takes me back to when I first came out as a lesbian. There’s a desperation to Fig’s vocals, a pleading with the other end of the phone, that’s so delicately balanced with sensuality. It reminds me of falling in love with a woman and wanting to be whatever kind of woman she wanted me to be. It sounds a bit pathetic, but so is sapphic yearning. I know Fig’s point of view here as a transfemme is different from my own, but I’m brave enough to propose that wanting a girl to touch you and show you she wants you can transcend all gender identities.

Less than a year later, Um, Jennifer? released The Girl Class EP on April 5, 2024, which just so happens to be the day of New York City’s first earthquake and the day of my first testosterone shot. A historic day, if you will. There’s five songs on the EP: “Girl Class,” “Glamour Girl,” “Jazz Machine,” “Sweet Until I’m Not,” and “Cut Me Open.” The band’s description of the EP is so perfect that I’m just going to quote them on it instead of paraphrasing myself:

The Girl Class EP is an ode to break ups, freak outs, and deep queer longing. Each song takes on a new perspective, writing through the eyes of best friends, lovers, ex lovers’ new lovers, and all the messy places in between. In the Girl Class EP, love is personified as something fantastic, gory, loud, needy, and needed. These songs were all written within the past year of our lives, and were the first songs we wrote together. They are our attempt at measuring the immeasurable; at understanding ourselves, each other, and the world around us.

The fan favorite, according to their Bandcamp page and my personal opinion, is “Glamour Girl.” Eli leads the vocals on this one, supported by Fig’s harmony on the chorus, and I’d like to submit it to be the anthem for transmascs who love women so feminine and beautiful that we can’t help but fear them. If there’s one thing Eli and Fig know how to do, it’s simp.

As their popularity and gig opportunities grew, they wanted to remain accessible to queer and trans fans, so they started posting on social media. In New York City — especially in Brooklyn — we often take for granted the abundance of DIY queer and trans events surrounding us. Some folks even experience fatigue from attending countless queer clothing swaps, trans comedy shows, gay speed dating, and dyke bingo in a single week. I’m one of those folks. But Um, Jennifer? reminds me that not every trans person is as fortunate as we are to live in a queer city. Their playful online presence allows them to extend the essence of their shows to trans folks in the Midwest and South, who are at greater risk of anti-trans legislation and discrimination.

Amongst the myriad of rights and freedoms at risk for trans folks across the country is access to healthcare, including hormone replacement therapy. When I ask Um, Jennifer? what typically informs what they write songs about, they tell me they want their music to feel like a conversation, and they want to spread the message that being trans is not only cool, but healthy.

Enter: “Went on T,” an indie rock anthem calling listeners back home to themself, a song about “taking your own body back from those that claim to love you. It’s a reminder not to take on anybody else’s shit.” The hit was released in August 2024 amidst the Sweat and Brat of it all, when queer folks in New York were running frantically trying to find themselves in fleeting trends. Jennifer, in those times, served as a voice of reason. A voice reminding us all that no one knows us like we know our goddamn selves.

All the guilt and shame you put me through was yours
No accountability for all the harm you caused

On August 21, the official Um, Jennifer? Instagram announced the band would be opening for Towa Bird’s (American) Hero Complex Tour at the Music Hall of Williamsburg. The public’s reaction to this news was quite hysterical and horny, but mostly folks were just happy to see a deserving team celebrate a win. The independent record label who represents the band, Final Girl Records, put them up for the gig. The label’s mission is to “strive for a healthier label model to serve as a safer space for women, trans, and non binary people in creative industries to share their work,” which sounds like a match made in heaven.

I knew this would be a turning point for Um, Jennifer? and their project. It would easily be their largest show to date, not to mention Towa’s own recent rise to mainstream fame. Everyone billed on this show is entirely due for the flowers they’re getting. If we’ve learned one thing from this past year in music, it’s that lesbians have the power to absolutely catapult someone into fame. So, I attended the Towa Bird/Um, Jennifer? show in hopes that one day I can brag about seeing the artists while I could still afford and access their tickets, the same way I do now with Chappell Roan (sorry!).

When the house lights dimmed at 8 p.m., a group in the front started chanting “JENNIFER,” which quickly spread through the crowd, not dissimilar to how her spirit takes over young, impressionable minds. There was no fucking around, no backs turned to the stage in group conversations, and the only folks loitering the downstairs bar were chaperones. All eyes were on stage as queer folks from the tri-state area filled the standing room and spilled into the wings.

I have seen so many opening bands not get the crowd they deserve because concert goers have carefully calculated exactly when they need to arrive in order to get a good spot without having to camp out for hours. Dana and Allison, two Towa Bird fans from New York, thought they timed it just right. “We showed up a little after eight because usually, at shows like this at smaller venues, it’s not really filled up, and we were literally all the way at the back. There was nowhere to go because it was already packed. People were screaming and I asked, ‘Who is even on right now?’” Dana said. “It made me interested.”

“It seemed like there were a lot of OG fans here and we appreciated that,” Allison said. Dana agreed, “Yeah, we were into it more because of that.” They’re not wrong. There were a ton of day one Um, Jennifer? fans at this show, some even wearing hand-stitched band merch and holding homemade signs.

Dana and Allison weren’t the only people Jennifer converted at the show; others were infected. Breeze, who came in from New Jersey, said they love other queer kids. “Seeing them thrive on stage meant a lot to me.” This was a common sentiment among concert goers. Liv, from Westchester, told me she thought Um, Jennifer? was fucking awesome. “I think it’s so great that there’s trans representation on stage and queer representation,” she said, “I guess that’s expected at a Towa Bird concert, but it was really beautiful to see.”

Queer and trans representation is obviously important, but not just for the sake of seeing someone like you on stage or in power. Queer and trans representation, to me, means leading by example and thinking outside of yourself. Just a few weeks ago, lesbian band MUNA took the stage at the All Things Go music festival at Forest Hills Stadium to call for a ceasefire and for a Free Palestine in an exemplary display of queer and trans representation. Um, Jennifer?, at the biggest show of their career to date, shared a smile and assuring head nod before they both shouted “FREE PALESTINE” into their microphones. To me, and evidently everyone else in the venue, that was even more of a display of queer representation than a song about injecting yourself with testosterone.

After the opening set, I found two Towa Bird fans decked out in her tour merch leaning over the rails of the wings. One of them, named Cailee, had been looking forward to this show ever since it was announced. She traveled all the way from Massachusetts and did her homework before arriving. “After I saw Um, Jennifer? was announced as the opener, I started listening to their music, watching some of their projects, and I started getting into them,” Cailee told me. “Seeing them in person is unreal.”

Everyone who got to see Um, Jennifer? that night — both new fans and day ones — were in for a treat. Not only did they play the entirety of “The Girl Class EP,” “Went on T,” and a snippet cover of Grimes’ “Oblivion,” they also played a new song titled “Fishy,” which wouldn’t be released for another two days. The crowd went wild for a song they had never heard before, and the whole room jumped as Fig told us all the things that make her the hottest bitch in New York City, which include: being spineless, sporting compressive shapewear, being tucked up to death, and having fishy bad breath.

“Fishy” is just one of the many projects Um, Jennifer? has been working on. Fans can look forward to two more singles and the band’s first full length album in early-mid 2025. It’s the future Republicans are afraid of and the future trans people are actively getting themselves hotter for.

I like to think of Jennifer as a metaphor for transness. Stay with me. Jennifer is a ghost. She is a God. An inside joke shared between thousands and thousands of people. Something that scares the shit out of Eli and Fig, yet rules and fuels them. Jennifer is something you don’t get until you get, and even when you do, you still kinda don’t. Jennifer will seek you out and find you if you do not find her first. Thankfully, Jennifer found Eli and Fig that one fateful night. The story they told me through giggles may be bullshit, but I don’t blame them. It’s difficult to put into words or name the all-powerful, invisible thing that moves you through life like a marionettist, forcing your gaze to a mirror and showing you that you and all your potential may just be the scariest thing the mind can comprehend.

It’s much easier to create a character, assign her a pronoun, and name her…um, Jennifer?