Roland, Alfie and the lovely boys from the flying squad

What does one do when one crashlands in a major Japanese city at peak holiday time, with a major music festival playing all weekend, and an unreserved hotel room as likely to be found as a piece of hay in a massive stackful of needles? Dash it all, one turns up at a love hotel, completely unannounced, of course!

And so it was that Sir S and I farewelled the metallic brethren and those cheerful chaps in publishing, and made our way to the neon heart of Namba and its plentiful love hotels. As mentioned previously, it is fun to contemplate the names bestowed upon many an erotic inn.* In Ol' Hirosh, there's the grocer's names of parsley and bananas, the astronomist's constellation of Hotel Stardust, Hotel Cosmos & c. In Osaka, it turned rather blokey. There was Hotel Roland (!), Hotel Alfie (!!) and Hotel Mickey Cookies (???), the latter evoking images of Disney nasties and, strangely, a distinct aftertaste of chocolate chip. We feared that other tourists had the same idea and that there would be no cookies for us at the inn, in which case we'd revert to Plan B - Media Cafe Popeye (internet, tatami cubicles, massage chairs, showers, all for 400-800 yen an hour).

But thankfully Hotel Roland had a room to spare! One must check for a room on the illuminated menu tucked away inside the foyer. Here many photos of the rooms, with prices, are displayed. If the piccie is lit up, it's available. One can either go through a complicated process of guessing kanji and pressing the right button for that room, or negotiate through the grill of the reception booth. This Sir S did, and conversed with the matronly lady who was secreted in the glass-covered-in-psychedelic-contact booth (amusingly, he had to bend down quite a bit to do this). As the negotiations were in progress, I gazed about the room and observed:

• gaudy ornaments, such as a chandelier hanging from a cleavage in the red velvet ceiling, and winking, clashing colours of fairylights hung about everywhere;
• a glass cabinet of curiosities, displaying infantile precious things such as Winnie the Pooh tea-sets, a child's ball, teddy bears, a Mickey Mouse doll and an inflatable swimming ring;
• a discreet waiting alcove - two tiny sofas set behind a screen where one could sit "without being seen" whilst one awaited an available room.

After paying 5900 yen (about $60 in the old currency), Sir S and I made ourselves comfortable in Hotel Roland's rooms of love. Rather spacious, it had a massive queen-sized bed that stood higher than my waist, probably equipped with peas in the lower levels. The bed was very, very pink. One wall was decorated with a facade of traditional screens, the other was all double-glazed windows and heavy curtains, for utmost discretion. An illuminated, pink glass cabinet, with many drawers, contained various naughties, such as French letters and ticklers for sale. There was also a menu of costumes available to rent: schoolgirls, nurses, playboy bunnies, librarians & c. In brief, it was tack-o-rama central, but with a very comfy bed.

Another option for emergency accommodation is the capsule hotel. Peruse this stranger's blog for a description and snaps. What with capsules, Rolands and 24-hour-full-service Internet cafes, there are plenty of ideas for taking a kip creatively in Nippon!


*When I was a teenager, I wondered who christened lipsticks and nail varnishes with their alliterative names of "Bubblegum Blues", "Smouldering Sun" & c. What an amusing job!

A note on Japanese audiences

I now have two Summer Sonics under my Turkish coinbelt, and I have noticed a distinct difference between Japanese and Australian audiences.

Foremost, the Japanese punter is very reserved compared with their Oz counterparts. Generally, the J-fan does not sing along to songs, does not hop about, skip or mosh and rarely applauds for more than 30 seconds. Whoops are uncommon; wolf-whistles non-existent and the air is bereft of "I'm engorgingly in love with you!" or "I want to have your babies!". It is common for the visiting band to encourage the crowd to clap to the beat, but this often trails off after a minute. During The Tears' deluge of '05, and The Eds of Sunday Last, I sometimes felt as if I was the only one cheering or singing along or clapping enthusiastically, which is quite an isolating feeling among a crowd of thousands. One also feels a terrible sense of friction and wrong-doing when a foreign singer gets impatient and snaps at a shy crowd; the punters aren't usually able to understand what is said, what with muffled mikes and unwieldy Glaswegian accents and so forth.

The J-fans seemed less reserved when boppier, more cheerful music was played, such as The Rapture, The Charlatans, and Ian Brown of '05 glory. At these times they would jump for lengthy periods and clap to the beat, and holler out a variety of chants, such as last year's "Eeeeee-an, EEEEEEEEE-AN!" (Ian! Ian!).

Some people say that Japanese punters are reluctant to be vocal or expressive to darker, moodier music and apparently don't really know "how to take that kind of music"; or that they wish to listen to the English lyrics and bands' commentary carefully, so they stay quiet in order to concentrate on understanding what is sung or said. I think the latter is probably more correct. I know for certain that their reserve is not due to the fear of the crowd: just look at any baseball game with its orchestra of chants, songs and simultaneous semaphoring. It is more likely a language issue.

It would be interesting to observe Japanese audiences at the gigs of famous Japanese artists to see if they act differently - I suspect they most definitely would be bolder and noisier in this situation. Most curious!

Has anyone else observed a non-English-speaking audience's reaction to an English-speaking/English-singing band?

I'm feelin' Summer Sonic (again)!

On Sunday, Sir S and I had a whizz-bang flying trip to Osaka for the annual Summer Sonic music festival.

Sadly, as the roads were choked with Obon holiday traffic, our SuperExpress bus was 1 hour late and we missed The Cardigans - curses! However, we baggsied a grand spot in front of the Mountain Stage for The Rapture and, most importantly, Editors, who were following. Sir S and I were near the stage so we had a very close squiz at the band members as they emerged from the shadows. The lead singer oddly looks a tad like Andrew from Buffy, but with dark hair. He was surprisingly short-armed and camp, and his arms were stupendously flexible in that tortured acrobat sort of way (he twisted them around his head at one point, making the nearby Japanese emit many an "eeeeeeehhhhhhhhhh???").

Editors played almost everything from their album, The Back Room, except one stray that I didn't know. Their live performance was a triumph of grey, stormy, jerky guitar that often flittered into cheerful, bittersweet jangliness, and superb vocals were delivered by lead singer Tom Smith, his voice stern with both melancholy and alacrity. Comparisons have been made to Bauhaus and Interpol. I think his voice is a little Interpolish with a tinge of Pearl Jam-ness about it too. They played my faves, "Blood" (blood runs through our veins/that's where our similiarity ends) - a fabulous tune for all enemies and arch-nemeses - and "Munich" (people are fragile things ... be careful what you put them through). Their music has that yearnful quality of grey, dead-end places yet hope for better times ahead; regret; frailty; honesty and a jolly good dash of pain to boot (but not in that thundering, roaring death metal kind of way). The show was so spiff that my skin was rendered all goose-bumpy under my polka-dot outfit and I bounced and sang along despite the quiet crowd. Editors are a marvel on the gramophone, as well as in the music hall, so if you ever get the chance to see them live, *do* go and clap along.

After watching The Eds, Sir S and I ventured into the Oasis Tent to bask under the modern Air Con and scoff down on-the-run okonomiyaki before watching The Charlatans and Metallica. To my surprise, I espied a tent which enclosed two white desks set out like the Three Bears' table with neatly arranged pens and textas (including gold and silver) - actually, special "penboys" stood shaking every one of these pens in preparation for the incoming pedants - and above the table was hung the sign "Editors". There was no other English emblazoned anywhere nearby, nor on our map (and thus few gaijin, who were off watching the next gig), but I could read the katakana which stated the obvious: "Sign-o". So Editors were going to sign sigs for the kids! Huzzah! A crowd of people waited in a roped-off area and other people sat cross-legged nibbling snacks in front of the tables. After consulting the petite security staff, we realised the quota for sign-o's had been filled, but I was content to sit back and sup on my o-mizu and watch the show.

Soon The Eds walked out to gay applause from the sizeable crowd that had gathered and took their places al desko, looking very chuffed, cheerful and a bit shy. The 30 lucky people queued up clutching their Eds records & c for signing. Observing this unexpected event was a wonderful study of Japanese politeness and cuteness. Almost every fan shook hands, then bowed, to all four members of the band. Two fans gave the Eds a pressie each (soap, perchance, or chocolates? It looked like bath soaps from where I was sitting) and a few politely asked for a hug (a very chaste embrace at that). One fan literally jumped for joy on the spot and proclaimed each Editor "kawaiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii", to which there was much blushing and bewilderment from the band. Meanwhile, my neighbouring Japanese Eds fans - between signings - waved shyly and called "her-ro!", and when a band member gave them a nod or smile, they exploded in giggles and hid behind their fans (of the o-sensu variety, that is!). The band members appeared quite bashful, wonderstruck and a little smitten by the audience's attention. It was nice to see too that they were down-to-earth and friendly, with no airs or arrogance at all. Bravo!

Next, it was forward march to the Charlatans, who'd attracted a large crowd and who thumped out old Britpop faves. I was whipped back in time to the heady days of Britpop in my old town of Ad'laide - where Pop! spinned many a Mancunian music hall song - especially when I heard "The Only One I Know" and other tunes. All those images of girls wearing 70s Adidas sports jackets - stripes down the sleeves - with pin-stripe trousers dancing around their secondhand 60s reproduction handbags wearing white eye shadow, a shag-bob and thick black-framed spectacles and knocking back the Passion Pop, all came flooding back.

Then to the Open-Air Stadium - where Sir S had nipped off earlier - to witness the towering spectacle of Metallica. Now I'm no metalhead, the "mosher Charlston" didn't take off down my way, but I was rather curious to see this band in action, having observed their popularity among peers from my schooldays and knowing that my beau was mad for them in his youth. Unlike the other bands who played in a selection of warehouses, Metallica owned the night in their prime position outdoors, playing to a crowd in an area the size of a World Cup soccer pitch. The stage was classic 80s stadium concert: a massive screen projected images of religious icons and greedy politicians & c, flanked either side by scorching spotlights that flashed during all the thumpy bits, and three more screens beamed footage of the band. May I say that all the members of Metallica are bloomin' huge, mega-beasts from Hell! They are tall, muscly and BIG, with lots of hair and tattoos (except the lead singer who was shaved with a goatee ala the Australas boganus, but minus the flannie). The guitars whomped, the bass thumped, the drums rattled and thundered and James Hetfield's voice raked the night. In short, it was brilliant! Previously, I thought that metal would be a confusion of fuzzy noise when played live, but no - it was oomphy, soaring and vast and - shockhorrorgasp - I loved it! It was also most jolly to gaze at the Japanese fans with their beautiful, inky grey tattoos of trailing cloud and dragons on display, and the cropped, spiky heads banging to the music in a most elegant manner. No loutishness, no stoushes, just pure appreciation.

All in all, a fab day out, even if Sir Anderson's fringe was absent this year!

More snaps from Hiroshima Day

If you squint hard enough at the speaker on the podium in the background of one of these pics, you may see PM Koizumi.

Of Accidents Most Horrid and Near-Death Experiences

This past week I have encountered a surge in paranormal activity, especially where my safety and general health are concerned. How can I possibly survive tomorrow after these peculiar goings-on?

First, after a Ladies’ Night at Koba with Misses A, K and E, I cycled home at midnight on my little red racer, rather squiffed on my fave drinky of plum wine, when before me in the gloaming I saw a young woman walking along the pavement, and several metres behind her a corgi dog sniffed about in the grasses, totally unperturbed by the whir of my bicycle chain and the clank-clank of my dangling bike lock striking the pedals. Being a little tipsy, I overcompensated for my lack of spatial perception by riding extremely slowly, like a snail that isn’t too keen to resume French class after the summer hols. I wobbled past the corgi who looked up at me, suitably unimpressed by my minor inebriation, when all of a sudden a noose of rough rope snagged around my neck and I screeched to a halt in a fit of coughing, spluttering and near decapitation. It was then that I realised in horror that * that * corgi and * that * woman were attached by one of those damned extendable leashes. The woman, seeing me swaying forth in her general direction, had hoisted the leash above her head in the hope that I would sail under it unscathed but – alas! – it was not to be, for she was shorter than I and my bike of greater speed than her petite legs. Despite the shower of “Gomen nasais! Sumimasens! Sorries!” I could not empty my head of what could have been my final vision: the detail of the pavement, the fading stars above and the corgi snuffling around my severed head. Yes, dear friends, a rather sticky end I think you’ll agree.

Second, again on the little red racer speeding homewards on the pavement after my shift at Malory Towers – this time a perfect picture of health and sobriety – I espied a pretty carnival sight on the road. In the left lane was a dinky utility van – very titchy compared with its Aussie counterpart – and in its tray was a stock of Obon lanterns, all foil and sparkles in the sun. What a delightful sight! I thought, and was reminded of the India Tour of ’03 where unadulterated colour and glitter could be seen on every dusty street corner. I tore past the flower-shop, noodle-shop and café towards the streetcar crossing, the electric green man steady and glowing in his little box on the traffic light, and my front wheel had just thumped down over the kerb when what should come hooning around the corner through a red light, but the titchy jalopy with Obon-lanterns a-bristle, full steam ahead! With an almighty squeal of the brakes that caused a 90-degree turn, I missed the vehicle by a whisker and it raced away, my garbled curses lost in its roar. Dear reader, but to think I could have been squished under the wheels of a truck carrying lanterns for the festival of the DEAD! O, what cruel irony such a fate would have been!

Third, on way to my night-time picnic with Sir S, I walked hastily along the Aioibashi bridge and then slackened my pace to contemplate the orange moon above, when all of a sudden something zipped through the air with a “wheeeeee!” and at my feet dropped a handsome copper-striped fishing lure and a hook so sharp it could reel in an entire school of koi in one go. Some mad devil was fishing nearby and had cast out his line onto a major pedestrian bridge and streetcar network! And to think if it weren’t for the distracting aspect of the full moon, I might be writing this blog on a keyboard of Braille. Out vile jelly, and so forth; perhaps even stickier than my first brush with death when considered from a Shakespearian viewpoint, and all that.

Sir S too has been lately pursued by the hounds of death. We savoured the tranquillity of our frog-watching beneath the Peace Bell, the very same bell that was tolled so sombrely at the memorial services, and the wooden clapper of which is tied up at night, rendering it mute in the dark hours. I was belly-down on the bell’s stone platform, a burbling frog at my fingertips. Sir S scoured the reeds on the other side of the platform in his pursuit of a prize amphibian. Yes, we were content - like little bairns, gaily reliving past-times of yesteryear, where kiddies escaped the endless fagging and buggery of the boarders at school to catch a frog or two and forget about the whole mess – when the Peace Bell boomed with a deep, resounding timbre that made me drop my frog with a splosh and croak. What had happened? Had the clapper been untied by some ghostly hand? Had the Fates tampered with the donger? I wriggled up and turned around to see Sir S staggering away blindly from the enormous metal instrument and then teetering dangerously close to the swamp of lilypads and reeds. I realised, aghast, that Sir S (a little tiddly on champers) had lost all spatial perception (as per my First Brush with Death) and had walked headlong into the Peace Bell and headfirst at that, cracking his skull against the bell and causing it to toll its funereal echo over the park! Sir S clutched his forehead and prayed for mercy whilst I was on the verge of hysterics and reached for my vapours. Sir S ambled away, muttering something about washing the blood from his mouth, and I lay apoplectic on the ground surrounded by the din of frogs’ laughter.

Though in light of this series of unfortunate events, I’m happy to report that, so far, Sir S and I remain alive and well, despite several earth tremors that rattled the house last night. And may it be known that be it bus accident, tubular instrument or falling gargoyle, we will remain ever vigilant for the sneaky hand of doom!

Dragons, Birthdays & Bananas

On 9 August, Sir S celebrated his birthday with me here in Ol’ Hirosh. After a decadent breakfast of scrambled eggs, cakes and hot coffee, we went off to the talkies to watch Studio Ghibli’s Gedo Senki, an animation of Ursula Le Guin’s Earthsea Quartet. Although the dialogue was overly incomprehensible (but marvellous listening comprehension practice, for example, I was chuffed when I understood Ged saying “he was having bad dreams”), the flick was fabulous with its stern, silent Sparrowhawk and its immense dragon of shingled, sparking mail. A dazzling review can be read in Sir S’s chronicle.

In the late evening, we picnicked in the Peace Park near the riverbank, the famous Dome shadowy and streaked in orange light. Then we indulged in a spot of frog-watching by the Peace Bell, where a whole flummery of frogs hopped and skipped and whacked in a strange chorus upon the lilypads (some froggies sounded like the clack-clack of rain-sticks, others trilled or popped in a most unfroglike manner). With torches twitching and knees grazed upon the stone, Sir S and I scooped up a frog or two to become more closely acquainted. One sat on my lap for a full minute, then hopped onto my hand before croaking “sayonara” and plopping back into its stagnant waters. Several rather frenzied froggy copulations were spotted, indeed too unseemly for the pages of this journal. It was indeed a daring exploit and I was flushed with delight having held a hopsome, damp frog on the palm of my hand (thankfully not in the throes of amphibious shaggery).

Then we set about playing with sparklers that Sir S had acquired from the local shop. The little ones, tipped with pink feathery paper, fizzled like little tangles of orange in the dark, and the bigger ones sparked blue and pink. Sir S and I twirled them about as if in a circus (being most careful not to singe one’s frock in the process). The smoulder of the sparklers reminded me of bonfire nights in England and penny-for-the-guy, and those horrific telly commercials about the little girl who picked up the discarded but still-red-hot sparkler and was left with a raging welt on her palm – the stuff of nightmares (as well as that AIDS grim reaper commercial and Wurzel Gummage – eek!).

Once the last Chu-hi* was glugged down, we packed up our things and wandered home along the river and its neon strip of Love Hotels, featuring the herbaciously-inspired Hotel Parsley, as well as Hotel Tomato and Hotel Banana. As previously mentioned on this blog, amorous couples escape the confines and appalling acoustics of the family home in exchange for a discreet pay-by-the-hour room at indiscreet hotels, lit up with neon tomatoes and named after mundane items on one’s grocery list. As we passed Hotel Banana (its sign proclaiming “get relax for your body”), a great banging came from within its yellow walls, and a shrill squeal – interspersed with mouse-like squeaking – issued forth upon the sultry evening air like a banshee wail of Mariah Carey-like pitch. Most diverting!

*Cheap, 100-yen alcopop-style beverage available in a variety of unusual flavour combinations such as Aloe & Muscat, and my fave, Acerola & Rosehip.

The day the clocks stopped

On Sunday 6 August, Japanese and foreigners alike gathered in the Peace Park to remember those who died 61 years ago, when the atomic bomb was dropped on Hiroshima at 8.15 am, reducing the city to a scorching, grim wasteland of rubble and fire, and in which tens of thousands of people died.

It was a humid morning and the sky was a blinding blue, the heat already stifling with many an o-sensu beating the air. People clustered under the shade of trees, many wearing hats to fend off the strong sunlight, dabbing at their brow with a neatly-folded sweat-towel. Other spectators sweltered in the sun on the folded chairs that lined the lawns, facing the Flame of Peace and the rising shadow of the Dome. A choir sang songs of peace, schoolchildren gave speeches about nuclear disarmament, wreaths were laid down before the flame and a cloud of white and speckled doves was released over the crowd. At 8.15 am, hats were removed and heads were bowed as the Peace Bell tolled mournfully over the park, marking the exact minute the bomb devastated Hiroshima. Around me the cicadas rattled as if in a perpetual summer, and I shivered at the reality that here, all those years ago, people lay ragged and dying under burning trees and a blackened sun.

Towards the end of the service, Japan’s Prime Minister Koizumi gave a speech. On a lighter note, many people were standing on tippy-toe vying for a glimpse of the famous, high-powered silver hair amid the entourage of security. After a swift bow, the PM was ushered into a waiting black car with tinted windows and sped off, with a gaggle of curious onlookers sprinting alongside taking snaps.

I later rendezvoused with a fellow scholar and took a turn of the park, looking on at the various speakers and political activists handing out fliers, watching scores of people signing nuclear disarmament petitions and contemplating the paper cranes that were heaped in mounds of rainbow hues by the river.


Sir S tells me that the Japanese refer to the current time as the Era of Peace.

And so it was that thousands of people from across the country, and abroad, poured into the Peace Park throughout the day and evening of 6 August to remember the Hiroshima tragedy and pray for an end to war. Around the ruins of the A-Bomb Dome, white-pillared lanterns glimmered. They were decorated with crayon-coloured rainbows, ruins, suns, and messages, etched by the hands of children. On the river in front of the Dome, people floated paper lanterns – pink, green, blue – inscribed with their messages of peace. The atmosphere was calm, the air rhythmic with chattering families and friends and hopeful with the chorus of a singing choir.

The Japanese Swimming Baths

So humid has it been here in Ol' Hirosh, that one can hardly fingerwave one's hair without a fine sheen of sweat coating one's skin and dripping from one's wee nosie onto one's polka dot underthings. Tossing my sequinned Hello Kitty! handkerchief to one's side, I rued the day the Shinto gods invented humidity and damned my maple-frosted abode for not having the modern contraption of new-fangledness, Air Con. To the Family Swimming Baths, and snappy! And so it was I mounted my little red racer and sped to the local lagoon of aqua blue.

Donning my 1950s Glamourpuss togs and polka dot scarf (as pictured, from their web shoppe), I left the changing rooms and waded through the nostalgic disinfectant-foot-bath that evoked memories of fat men, wave machines and athlete's foot from my English childhood. Before me was spread acres of striped shadecloths, four glistening pools, skinny sun-kissed kiddies and fields of fake grass. I bagsied a spot under the shadecloth near the circular "rapids" style pool, where children sped along on the current, bobbling about on inflated rings, giving me a perfect view of capsizing tots and the occasional successfully-executed Eskimo roll; a most diverting sight in between pages of "How Proust Can Change Your Life".

When I went for a dip, I noted that each pool was surrounded by 5 lifeguards seated atop their own little laddered pavilion, many of them dozing off in the sun; the more alert ones berating certain dive-bombing, floaty-capsizing kiddies through a megaphone. Curiously, on the hour, a recorded announcement buzzed over the sound system, requesting us most politely to adjourn from the swimmerly activities for 5 minutes. I followed the locals, who gave a heave-ho without batting an eyelid, returned to their spot in the shade for a drink and a quick lie down upon the plastic sheeting* that was spread out upon every bagsied spot. What this 5 minute intermission is for, I know not. To refuel on iced tea? To sweep the pool for dead bodies, misplaced danglies or lost bikini padding? It is a mystery. However, when a little tune jingled from the speakers, everyone regrouped in an orderly fashion and recommenced splashing about in the cool waters.

Perchance I stumbled upon the Oriental version of Butlin's Holiday Camp? Thankfully, there was no mesh fence topped with barbed wire - so it wasn't *the* authentic Skegness experience - but on my next visit, I will have to investigate as to whether they sell saucy postcards at the shop.

* At picnics, cherry blossom parties, fireworks parties, beach or poolside, it is essential to bring a plastic sheet on which to sit or snooze. These can be picked up at any 100 Yen Shoppe or supermarket. Sheets are often decorated with Disney, Pokemon or Kitty, or other animation images and are brightly coloured. It was odd not to see anyone stretched out on their towel in the sun. I am yet to invest in the plastic sheeting myself, but will avoid Mickey Mouse versions at all costs.

Tokyo nights

Here are some further snaps from the Tokyo Campaign, featuring myself and Sgt M on our way to the Mess, and a piccie of me in Tokyo rain at dawn. For further piccies, also flick through Sir S's Grandmaster Chronicles (right) and associated Illustration Gallery.