Tokyo

Originally published in Heartattack, circa 2003

I stared at the family wearing white masks. You know, those surgical ones that kids used to wear to shows long ago to display their antipathy for the smokers amongst the crowd. These people were not straightedge, well, I guess they could've been. Yet I think it is safe to assume that they feared the SARS. Remember SARS? It was all the rage during the early part of spring. And here I was, early April, neck deep in ominous warnings about the SARS. And in Japan! Wasn't this place allegedly infested with the deadly virus claiming thousands by the second??? No, that was up north in China. Yet the fear apparently gripped this Asian country. I thought of my mom before we left: "Here," she stated, handing two of my band mates and I such surgical masks. "So you don't get SARS!" We politely chuckled and left the masks on the table, a move that left me with a twinge of guilt because, c'mon, this was mom, and I was effectively disrespecting her clearly serious attempt to stave off death for her son and his band associates.

But that was all behind us now as we sat cooped up in a small bus. It transported us to the airport from the airplane. See, at Narita Airport, they didn't park the jets right next to the tube walkway that allows you to scamper on into the airport proper. No, here, you walk down the steps like you are the Beatles and catch a bus. That is, if those steps weren't enclosed in some strange sheathing blocking out the outside world.

My back ached and head felt worse. The plane experience lasted some twelve hours, the longest I'd ever been on such craft. We flew from JFK Airport on Long Island all the way to Narita just outside Tokyo. Some thought it implausible, damn near crazy: to fly such a distance without making a connection or at least stopping for some fuel. Yet it proved possible, just like at Kitty Hawk with the Wright Brothers a century before. The miracle of flight never ceases to amaze.

I couldn't stop soaking in the sky past the window, the funny little cargo cars, the people. This was Japan. We were nearly 7,000 miles from home on the other side of the world and for what? For punk fucking rock man. You can't beat that. Especially when punk rock has paid for your plane fare. Let us take a minute to salute the Kids.

Already I detected a sufficient difference in overall style. The youth donned the hippest of couture. No doubt, one fellow clutching a bag of records boasted some digs straight outta the Lower East Side. Yet perhaps this was the locus of such fashion. And if it wasn't, they wore it like they meant it. I did not fit in, no, not with ripped jeans, messy unwashed hair, though a fresh pair of Vans sneakers (and this is not an endorsement of said footwear since the Vans corporation has flexed its muscles in this era of globalization and moved its factories to China.

As we entered the airport, I felt weary with amazement and sleeplessness. Indeed, I caught nary a wink during the flight. So by east coast U.S. time, it was now somewhere around five in the a.m. Some more soporific-defying punkers and fellow bohemians may boast an all-nighter lifestyle. I, sadly, am not a doyen of such an existence. So the sleepiness tugged at my eyelids as I attempted to navigate my way through the throng of fellow airport-goers. It didn't help that I lugged three, count 'em, three bags. This included a smaller-size shoulder bag for journals and periodicals, not to mention vital snacks and writing implements. Then we had a bag that held my trusty, newly purchased sleeping bag and a pillow (confiscated from the plane). And then we had the monster, an immense bag that could've easily fit a few small stowaways. This, from one who prided himself on packing light and opting for the essentials. In this case, the essentials meant wardrobes for everyday of the trip. O.K., not a different pair of pants- I only brought three pairs of jeans. Yeah, "only." And let us remember the prerequisite food items. I'd been fed a healthy portion of horror stories on how un-vegan friendly this country was. In preparation for lean times, I packed a galaxy of Clif Bars, Peanut Chews, Luna Bars, trail mix, pretzels, some soy milks and of course, a stack of Emer'gen-Cs. Yes, I was ready for nuclear holocaust.

After passing though customs (a cinch, though my party and myself ran into some minor disturbance over the unforeseen question: "What is the name and address of the person you are staying with?" We could proffer a first name. And not much else. Fortunately, my interrogator was polite and accepted a surname of their devise, though some of my band members were not so lucky). Then we retrieved our luggage. For the band members out there who have been privileged enough to journey via plane to other locales, they can surely attest to the nail-biting stress-fueled moments of trying to collect musical instruments from baggage claim. We'd heard the worst- guitars being lost or destroyed, drum pieces confiscated on suspicion of weapons, etc. etc. We faired fine in this department: every parcel was accounted for.

Then it became the next gauntlet: finding our host and touring partners. Perhaps they'd be holding up a sign of our band name. Probably not.

We almost immediately found our party, sans sign. Five haggard Virginians and three smiling Japanese. This group consisted of the U.S. band we'd be touring with, two members of the Japanese band who'd be chaperoning it all, and the wife of our host and vocalist of that Japanese band.

Then things got hazy as we piled into the van and I swam in and out of consciousness. Somewhere in there was said van ride, with the scenery of Tokyo flying by, all miles and miles of it. I vaguely remember the sun crashing into the sea, loud chatter and laughing, the dizzying maze that was the many twists and turns through Yokohama on the way to Tetsu's house (he being singer of the Japanese band and our host). Maybe it was all a dream. But I do remember dragging myself out of the van and coercing the body to lift the heavy limbs into the convenience store, revealing that yes, indeed, I was going to starve while in Japan. Soon after we retired to the band suite in Tetsu's house, which I should mention, included a metal factory. Guess where the band suite rested? Right above the machines. All of us piled into the one room to consume the maniacal Japanese TV and Susan's (Tetsu's wife) unbelievably tasty vegan food. And she claimed she was still learning...and then arrived gorgeous sleep, only to be truncated by drunk Virginians and the sound of metal being shredded, molded, and wrought early the next morning.

For the remainder of my first 24 hours in Japan, I refer to my trusty notebook scribbling that recounts the adventure succinctly:

"Back aches like lightening bolts upon rooftops. Tired but not enough to sleep on. Ate delicious grub cooked by Susan. They say it's vegan but I have my doubts. 27 hours in Japan and I can't absorb it all. Tokyo is like a real-life Japanimation video- all crazy, dizzying colors, all loud, vibrant and alive in ways no city in America can ever be. We explored Tokyo briefly. It is a strange form of sane madness. There is order in this chaos. We squished into the subway. We quickly walked within massive crowds of so many faces I will never see again. I almost got arrested by not correctly using public transportation. Well, not even close. But the plastic gates tried to close on me as I bumrushed the show. Nobody told me I had to retrieve my ticket on the other side after I deposited it in the slot. And the show. Lots of kids packed into the club. Very pro, with PA, lights, rigid schedule. That seems to be routine here. None of that basement/VFW hall nonsense here. Then the rain started falling. Now it is cold and wet and shall remain that way the entire time we are here. 27 hours in Japan and all I can say is 'konichiwa,' 'arragato' and 'sumimasen.' Can I say them correctly? I do not know. And no one warned us about the bathrooms. Most do not have your Western-style seat. No, here you squat. Or at least that's what the Japanese facilities seem to demand. I was fortunate enough to try out this technique at the club and let me tell you, the Japanese must boast the leg muscles of a track runner."