<by ben. from his myspace page>///There is not a chance that I will sleep tonight. I’m nestled in a narrow bunker, one of probably 100 orphanage-style beds, stacked to the ceiling and spread out in all directions. Upon entering these dimly lit quarters, chaperoned by closed circuit cameras, I paused in awe to soak in the eclectic choir of the snoring Japanese. A wave of assorted frequencies swept in and pricked my ears with each subsequent step. I stopped, motionless, staring at the only unoccupied wooden plank, thin veneer of comfort stretching across in the form of white sheet and beanbag pillow. The absurdity of this bizarre display washed over me cherubically, charmingly. I have troubles keeping this smile from overthrowing the rest of my face. I’m in Kyoto, Japan.
After a 12 hour flight to Tokyo we met Tsune and Katz who transported the four of us to the northern city in a small white van at a painfully glacial pace through relentless Japanese wind and rain. The law calls for vigilance and extreme caution in such conditions, transforming our 5 hour drive to nearly 9. We bundled up our weary frames and placed them in a hostel for about 4 hours before waking and wandering about in the city.
Tsunehiro runs Friend of Mine Records. He stands about 5’9” with droopy eyes and shaggy black hair, lighter streaks of chestnut diffused between rogue streaks of faint gray. He’s passionate, gregarious, and not discouraged by an amateur comprehension of the English language. He doubles as a magazine editor in Tokyo to help make ends meet and fund the 8 or 9 records he has released in the last two years. Last night at the public bathhouse Tsune and I spoke of the upcoming performances in the days ahead and future releases for his infant label. I sat on a small plastic footstool to his left as we washed in crouching position with a small bar of soap and a mobile shower head. After spending a few minutes in the steaming public bath, we donned little blue shorts and matching robes and retired to the human cupboard downstairs. I had no trouble drifting off the coast of consciousness at 4am and convincing myself that 8 hours rest was indeed mine at sunrise, gently awakened by our host.
We played in Osaka tonight for a generous crowd and ate octopus tempura and curry rice with twenty or so Japanese that comprised the 5 bands who played before us. We have some kinks to work out but the performance was satisfactory for our first as the current four-piece. I bought a new hat before the show downtown, washed down a soybean pastry with a bottle of peach tea and wandered in sensory chaos for about a half hour, struggling to absorb the vibrant and urgent propaganda and commercialization lining the streets and alleyways.
These last three days blur and smear so that I can barely distinguish them from each other. I cannot seem to orient myself amongst them. This country is unlike anything I have ever seen or previously encountered. I cannot recall in all frankness the last time that I had a totally new experience, such as this. Tuesday morning on the way to the post office we witnessed a throng of commuters flowing in and out of the subway in total silence. The streets and the buildings sparkle and shine with sovereign cleanliness. Like mini skyscrapers, apartments, condos and houses display unique construction designs as much as they vary in actual building materials, from brick to marble, to ceramic tile, slate to stucco, etc. The mountains are lush and bustling with leafy vegetation in the softest spectrum of green and yellow, bleeding into the heavens. I want to wrap my arms around the world.
I’m an alien in a foreign occupation. Japan is truly a world apart from the one I’ve come to know. The entire system, top to bottom is conducted with such consistent efficiency, it is difficult to believe it to be run by humans. Vending machines decorate the city, dispensing hot meals and hot drink. The taxi drivers wear white gloves and polish their vehicles so as not to remain idle while awaiting a fare. Those passing out handbills do so with a smile and a bow, retaining a reverence for a seemingly meaningless occupation. After the performance tonight, several club employees quickly eradicated any semblance of stage markings from the felt and proceeded to thoroughly vacuum and meticulously put to order the entire stage and backstage areas. There is no trash to be seen in even the darkest corners, and smoking is allowed only in specifically designated areas out of doors, enforced by a hefty sentence for offenders. The Japanese are patient, respectful, thorough and dignified, and though sometimes labeled xenophobic, are consistently accommodating and welcoming to these four little foreigners.
At the same time, surprises linger around every corner. Andrew saw a girl with a penis. While we were marveling at the oddity, a man entered our periphery with an actual monkey on his back. Nine days will not be sufficient. I want to understand. I want to learn and comprehend this culture. I will have to come back.
I exuberantly penned the above pages at the genesis of our Asiatic adventure, and have since found much trouble in the way of articulating the remainder of the trip. I’m sitting on my black Ikea couch with legs stretching over a wooden plank coffee table, with clumsy fingers and blurry vision, struggling to extricate this Japanese dream from the filing cabinet and stretch it out before me for inspection. The digital timepiece in the upper right hand corner of my display reads a quarter of 4 in the morning. For at least six months I have had to deal with this disagreeable sleep schedule. I cannot find a job to save my life and the crippling weight of unfulfilled financial obligations is compromising the integrity of the roof above me, decorating my pallid flesh with a cocktail of splintered pine, asbestos and crushed red brick. Aside from a thirty minute cameo at the gym this afternoon, sitting here to type is the first outward manifestation of my autonomy in three days.
So, yes, back to Japan. After all, isn’t this a tour journal? I seem to find great difficulty in strictly delineating explicit tour observations from everything else swirling in the ether. I’m a mess.
On to the real thesis of our investigation, Japanese cuisine:
Most of our meals were economized to adequately acquaint our American sensibilities with the greatest diversity of Japanese food culture, so names and descriptions of dishes are lost in the vapor they expelled on the way to the table. We devoured everything that was placed before us, from tripe to liver to squid to eel, and everything in between. The ornate and elaborate sushi of American Japanese restaurants is just that, an American interpretation of the original. Rolled sushi is found in gas stations like hot dogs or burritos in the states, while the real sushi like nigiri and sashimi are found in the more respectable venues, and are served as simple fish and rice. All of the embellished combinations we find in American sushi restaurants are concocted for our over-sexed palates. It was refreshing to eat clean, simple, flavorful meals, without having to feel wrecked afterwards. The only overweight people I came across in Japan were tourists. Go figure.
I don’t want to write about Tokyo. After four days in the city, I left with no greater comprehension of the capital than I could gather watching wide-eyed from the back of the van in the twenty minutes that expired as we wriggled through the fog from our arrival gate in Narita to the outer city limits. I took the subway on Sunday night to Shinjuku, to catch a glimpse of the glittering hyperbole unique to such a colossal metropolis, and ambled aimlessly with headphones on, grateful and serene. I walked, oblivious to my body, to the physicality of my existence, hypnotized by a kaleidescope of flickering flashes of neon and halogen. I walked in total anonymity, in a country of brazen homogeny. I re-entered the tube amidst the vibrant energy of this teeming populous, tired feet making pathetic motion, carried by the electric current surging through the multitude. I watched an elderly woman slap an inebriate for a good four minutes until she lifted her head and exposed an empty seat on the bench, where the geriatric rested her sagging body for the next two stops until the train retired to its bay. I waited nervously for another string of cars to illuminate the tracks and carry my wasted skeleton the remaining distance to my resting place, but managed to make it only as far as Ueno, leaving me no other alternative than to follow the bus stop display maps three more miles on foot to the hostel. I stretched out on a tatami mat and slept for the first time in a week and a half.
When Garrett arrived in the morning we loaded the car and sent Tsune off with the equipment and took the train with Ikumi to the airport. I knew that 9 days would pass in a nuclear flash and leave little permanence in our memories, such that engraving these few words on a rotating disk will likely stand as the only semi-focused portrait of the whole experience. Regardless, I wasn’t prepared for the advanced state of melancholy that would grindingly force itself up to the surface over the next couple of days. I remember waving goodbye to our new friends as we descended slowly, painfully, down the escalator to the security checkpoint, as Ikumi slowly scrolled up my periphery and out of sight. I remember walking for hours with Andrew in Nagoya, digging our claws into the city as the hours gripped our coat tails and forcibly removed us from the scene. I remember our nightly fraternal ritual, gathering some twenty-odd twenty-somethings in a circle for a nightcap and an indecipherable Japanese salutation from our tour captain, a palatable meal and earnest communication between sincere parties, none dismayed by a seemingly impenetrable language barrier and cultural incongruity. You tucked us into bed, pricked our hearts, and calmed our spirits. My words are frail, shadowy, and inaccurate. The truth is better found in heart smears and heavy held embraces. We are blessed.