Dark Dance Halls
On Saturday eve, the company had a rostered night off. As Sir S had supervised the Tottori leg of the tour, and yours truly had arranged the Hiroshima reconnaissance, it was Sgt M who devised the Grand Plan for the evening's entertainments. And so it was that after a near-disastrous PrintStation* adventure, we headed back to the neon wilderness to attend the dancehall, Midnight Mess.
On arrival, all was quiet on the local front except for a conglomeration of gaijin (which I confess was rather disheartening, me being eager to admire the Nipponese Gothic and all). The venue was spacious by Japanese standards and comprised of two floors, the top floor overlooking the dancefloor and stage, whereupon was stretched a screen of gauze onto which inky, arty pictures were projected. For the first hour or so, the company consisted of two blonde, curly-haired gaijin in white ruffly shirts, two fat skinheads and a perky Swedish girl & others. Things became more colourful (or er, monochrome?) as local dancers filled the hall: a Lolita girl dressed in black and white maidy garb with her long-haired, eyeliner-besmirched beau; a tall, slender, ruffly-haired man in a Victorian frock; a nerdy businessman who kicked of his work shoes for a comfy pair of white high-heels, a dress and wig; Morticia goth girls with hair flailing to their waspish waists and their long dresses ragged with tattered lace, their tresses occassionally whipping across my face as they skipped to the music (as I've said before, bobs are certainly less perilous); a burlesque lassie in candy-cane striped corset, ample of bust, with a pink ostrich feather pinned in her hair. Also spotted was a cute girl in a black sailor outfit - knee-shorts, trad sailor shirt with white piping and a black sailor hat with white ribbon - very snazzy!
After a few turns on the dancefloor with the Sergeant, the music stopped and the DJ made way for the band - a chap wearing a gas mask bleeping on his new-fangled computer thingie, and a guitartist with spiky hair and eye-liner who was reminisicent of a gothy Prince - rather a dish actually. As the band music subsided and the chaps and I readied ourselves for another shoe-shuffle, the stage was cleared for an unexpected performance of erotic pantomime. Two ladies were dragged onto the stage. One of them, with bandages tied around her head, was fastened to a chair whilst the other was suspended in the middle of the stage by ropes, chains & c that hung from the ceiling. And so the fetish theatrics commenced. Needless to say there was much nipple-tweaking, whipping and spanking, and this progressed in a downward spiral of violent candle-wax exploits and plastic bag suffocation. All rather squeamish and disturbing for some: Sir S slinked off into the shadows and Sgt M escaped upstairs, probably for another martini and cigar, to get his breath back. I however remained transfixed, as there was that aspect of paying 3000 yen ($35 in the old currency) doorcharge niggling at the back of one's mind, as well as that morbid fascination of just how far they would actually go, that left me rooted to the spot. But it seemed a line was drawn at plastic bags and nipples, and the panto went on far too long, picking out "members" of the audience to "have a go", and the Masters and Mistresses took an awfully long time to tie people up in the arachnid ropes, swing them about for a full 15 minutes and then give someone else a go. Rather dull really. It became a bit like watching children queue for the shuggy-boats at Blackpool in the summer of '84.
By this stage, the chaps and I had flagged somewhat, and as there was no hope of the music reviving and every hope of the fetish shenanigans hogging the spotlight for the rest of the wee hours, we decided to head back to our inn. So we left Midnight Mess and its fleshpots, and we meandered home at dawn through Tokyo streets in the mist of neon rain, our eyeliner crushed, hobbling somewhat upon aching feet.
* Small photographic studios where one can manipulate the snaps taken by adding an array of backgrounds and dinky icons, e.g. stars, lovehearts, cats & c, and write amusing messages with a magic pen onto the said prints. "White Lines", "sugoi des ka?" and "It's a pretzel" were the choice selections for our photo montage. These prints are actually tiny stickers, and can decorate one's diary, passport, portable telephone and so forth.
On arrival, all was quiet on the local front except for a conglomeration of gaijin (which I confess was rather disheartening, me being eager to admire the Nipponese Gothic and all). The venue was spacious by Japanese standards and comprised of two floors, the top floor overlooking the dancefloor and stage, whereupon was stretched a screen of gauze onto which inky, arty pictures were projected. For the first hour or so, the company consisted of two blonde, curly-haired gaijin in white ruffly shirts, two fat skinheads and a perky Swedish girl & others. Things became more colourful (or er, monochrome?) as local dancers filled the hall: a Lolita girl dressed in black and white maidy garb with her long-haired, eyeliner-besmirched beau; a tall, slender, ruffly-haired man in a Victorian frock; a nerdy businessman who kicked of his work shoes for a comfy pair of white high-heels, a dress and wig; Morticia goth girls with hair flailing to their waspish waists and their long dresses ragged with tattered lace, their tresses occassionally whipping across my face as they skipped to the music (as I've said before, bobs are certainly less perilous); a burlesque lassie in candy-cane striped corset, ample of bust, with a pink ostrich feather pinned in her hair. Also spotted was a cute girl in a black sailor outfit - knee-shorts, trad sailor shirt with white piping and a black sailor hat with white ribbon - very snazzy!
After a few turns on the dancefloor with the Sergeant, the music stopped and the DJ made way for the band - a chap wearing a gas mask bleeping on his new-fangled computer thingie, and a guitartist with spiky hair and eye-liner who was reminisicent of a gothy Prince - rather a dish actually. As the band music subsided and the chaps and I readied ourselves for another shoe-shuffle, the stage was cleared for an unexpected performance of erotic pantomime. Two ladies were dragged onto the stage. One of them, with bandages tied around her head, was fastened to a chair whilst the other was suspended in the middle of the stage by ropes, chains & c that hung from the ceiling. And so the fetish theatrics commenced. Needless to say there was much nipple-tweaking, whipping and spanking, and this progressed in a downward spiral of violent candle-wax exploits and plastic bag suffocation. All rather squeamish and disturbing for some: Sir S slinked off into the shadows and Sgt M escaped upstairs, probably for another martini and cigar, to get his breath back. I however remained transfixed, as there was that aspect of paying 3000 yen ($35 in the old currency) doorcharge niggling at the back of one's mind, as well as that morbid fascination of just how far they would actually go, that left me rooted to the spot. But it seemed a line was drawn at plastic bags and nipples, and the panto went on far too long, picking out "members" of the audience to "have a go", and the Masters and Mistresses took an awfully long time to tie people up in the arachnid ropes, swing them about for a full 15 minutes and then give someone else a go. Rather dull really. It became a bit like watching children queue for the shuggy-boats at Blackpool in the summer of '84.
By this stage, the chaps and I had flagged somewhat, and as there was no hope of the music reviving and every hope of the fetish shenanigans hogging the spotlight for the rest of the wee hours, we decided to head back to our inn. So we left Midnight Mess and its fleshpots, and we meandered home at dawn through Tokyo streets in the mist of neon rain, our eyeliner crushed, hobbling somewhat upon aching feet.
* Small photographic studios where one can manipulate the snaps taken by adding an array of backgrounds and dinky icons, e.g. stars, lovehearts, cats & c, and write amusing messages with a magic pen onto the said prints. "White Lines", "sugoi des ka?" and "It's a pretzel" were the choice selections for our photo montage. These prints are actually tiny stickers, and can decorate one's diary, passport, portable telephone and so forth.
posted by Miss Ember at 1:29 pm
2 Comments:
a nerdy businessman who kicked of his work shoes for a comfy pair of white high-heels
What a splendid idea, I shall abandon my trusty slippers for a similar pair immediately!
I am amused to hear of your taking a sniff of a cigar; I've long yearned to take up pipe-smoking myself, and perhaps a smart walking-stick to boot.
Oh, and I too was delighted to hear the news of Professor Fox's latest appointment at Oxford Cunning University -- do pass on my hearty congrats if you happen to see the old chap around.
Whoa. Cross-dressing like it's no big deal? Who'd have thought?
Reminds me of the costume competition for the anime convention in Sydney last year. There was a lot of queerness and cross-dressing. I was astonished.
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