by Chris Tharp
The highlight of the show was the song “Go to Hell, Mr. Bush,” which was also the name of the tour. This was just two years into W’s second term, and the anger and disgust among many Americans (not to mention the world), was real and palpable. The song featured New York-based alto saxophonist Briggan Krauss, who seemed to channel all of our anger, frustration, and sadness through the valves of his instrument. The notes shot out like needles, with the rest of the septet working in perfect unison backing him up. The moment was transcendent. Along with the rest of the crowd, I lost myself in the music. I was totally absorbed, feeling the vibrating waves of sound prickle my skin and impact my viscera. This hadn’t happened in a very long time, and probably never at a jazz show. My eyes slickened with tears and the hair on my arms stood at attention. The audience was silent and rapt, allowing those few minutes to approach the sacred.
After the gig I stole away with Skerik, Joe Doria, and Taichi, the Japanese promoter. Like many Japanese, Taichi was quiet and incredibly polite, with long hair, glasses and a blue stocking hat to protect from the cold night air. We walked down a narrow side street, and ducked into a quiet bar that Taichi knew to grab a couple of beers. Still reeling from the show, I showered the trio with praise.
“Thanks, man,” said a smiling cousin Joe. “This is so cool you’re here. Who would’ve guessed that we would meet up in Tokyo, cuz?”
“The Tharp emerges from the mists of the war-torn peninsula,” added Skerik. “Embedded journalist with The Taint!”
“Hahaha, yeah, crazy stuff,” I said. “I’m just around the corner these days, so it was no sweat. Thanks for making this happen, Taichi. None of us would be here without you.”
We toasted our Japanese host.
“I just do it for music,” he said, choosing his words slowly. “I saw Skerik before when he came to Japan and I thought, ‘I love his playing. I must get him back.’ So I did it. I’m making no money from this tour. Seven musicians is a lot! But this is okay…” He clutched his beer with both hands and smiled. “I do it for the music.”
The conversation turned to the nature of music and the business surrounding it. Skerik has been a professional musician all his adult life. He’s toured the world and played with some really heavy names, but at the end of the day he was playing music for the exact same reason Taichi was promoting it.
“I don’t do it for the money, man. I don’t. Sure, I got bills and rent and a daughter to support, but I’ve never been about chasing the buck.”
“Hear hear,” chimed in Joe, raising his glass.
“And I’ve turned down some big gigs, man. You know I played with Roger Waters a couple years back?”
“Yeah, I heard that,” I said.
“He was coming to Seattle and they were hiring guys regionally because their regular guy had passport issues.”
“True story,” Joe chimed in.
“Somehow, through the grapevine, someone recommended me. His A&R guy from Columbia Records called me and asked if I’d be interested. ‘Sure,’ I told him. Then Roger’s tour manager called and asked me who my favorite sax players were. I said ‘John Coltrane and King Curtis’ and I think that did it. I was offered the gig. The next day there I am, playing the solo from ‘Money’ for 30,000 screaming Pink Floyd fans. It was a rush. Classic rock, baby! Waters loved it and invited me to join him for the full tour, but I had to turn him down.”
I was floored. “You told Roger Waters to go fuck himself?”
“Not in those terms, man. The gig was fun and paid well of course, but I already had a commitment to record with some friends of mine. I love Pink Floyd’s music, but I wasn’t going to abandon these guys who I’d promised to make a record with, even if it wasn’t going to pay anything as close to as much as touring with Roger Waters. I have friends who do that, who chase the buck, and they hate themselves for it. I’ve been lucky enough to pave my own way and play only the music I like. It’s not always lucrative, but here I am, still doing it.”
“And you can look at yourself in the in the mirror each day without throwing up,” said Joe.
“Amen,” I replied.
Later that night, I returned to the cramped confines of Shibuya Capsule Land. When I checked in, I had seemed to be the only guest, but now the place was full, teeming with tipsy businessmen who had missed that last train home. I changed into the T-shirt and shorts and crawled into my capsule, pulling down the screen to complete the cocoon. I switched off the light and lay on my back, looking up into the dark. The smell of whisky, BO, and beer hung in the air, and I could hear my Capsule Land companions cough, rustle, and clear their throats. To the pod on my left, other, less wholesome sounds emerged: a rhythmic stroking, accompanied by a low, prolonged moan. I sighed to myself and just lay there, willing him to make quick work of his self-pleasure, but he continued on and on. Finally, I had enough. I clicked on the light, grabbed the headphones, and stuffed the buds in my ears. I then plugged them into the little radio and turned it on, scanning the channels for some music, anything to block out his ecstatic grunts and carry me away.
*
At 8 a.m. sharp, a woman’s voice blared from the loudspeakers of Shibuya Capsule Land. Sleepy-eyed and hung-over men roused, shuffling off to the shower in their cotton shorts and robes. I didn’t need to understand Japanese to know that she was kicking us out. Capsule hotels have a lockout policy between 9:00 and 5:00 daily. During this time the staff cleans the place top to bottom, readying the pods for yet another onslaught of liquored-up suit-and-tie men. I had an hour to perform my ablutions and get the hell out.
I quickly showered with the herd before heading to the sauna, immersing myself in the communal bath. The room itself was quite impressive—one hot pool, one cold pool, and a steam room to boot. The pools were lined with immaculate stone slabs. Three other men joined me, soaking in the steaming bath with their eyes closed. Like a Korean sauna, we were all nude, though thankfully none of my Japanese companions made any overt effort to check out my junk. They were wholly concerned with their internal lives, sitting motionless in the nearly scalding water, oblivious to the pink foreigner among them.
Clean, relaxed, and refreshed, I made my way to the locker, where I dressed, threw on my black overcoat, and grabbed my bag. Other men milled about in their underwear, brushing their teeth, shaving, cleaning their ears, and splashing themselves with the cheap aftershave and cologne supplied by Shibuya Capsule Land. Nobody spoke—it was all about morning business. One older dude propped a saggy leg up on a bench and proceeded to apply a blow dryer to his undercarriage and rather substantial bush of pubes.
I walked out into a bracing morning wind. It was almost winter and the air was sharp—that piercing chill found throughout Northeast Asia during the cold months, when Siberian winds whip down and punish the region. I buttoned the top button of my jacket, grabbed the straps of my pack, and made my way toward the Curelian, where I was to board a van with the band and head to Nagoya for the night’s gig.
A few blocks into my hike, I realized that I was famished— in need of a good feed that would impact the wallet as lightly as possible. I passed a Lawson, a minimart ubiquitous in Japan that offers a variety of cheap, ready-to-eat fare—but decided that I needn’t go so ghetto. I wanted real food, something cooked to order, that hadn’t been sitting under a radioactive lamp for the better part of the morning.
I soon came across a small restaurant, where the unmistakable aroma of deliciousness poured forth. When I poked my head through the door, I saw that the place was packed full of Saturday breakfasters getting down on bowls full of noodles, rice, and various kinds of katsu—breaded, deep-fried meat cutlets, which the Japanese have basically perfected. My mouth gushed at the prospect, so before I knew it I was inside, staring down a wall-sized machine made up of large buttons displaying Japanese writing. A coin slot and change dispenser were boxed and mounted to the side: an auto-order restaurant. The machine also contained a lit-up menu, with both pictures and names of the vert
iginous array of items available. I didn’t know where to start. I just stared at the motherboard like an infant, rocking back and forth, autistic-style, just praying that someone would take pity on my gaijin ass. My wish was soon granted in the form of a man in his late fifties. He walked through the door and saw that I was caught in a kind of holding pattern of desire and complete helplessness.
“Can I help you?” he asked in clear, calm English. His eyes twinkled with kindness.
“Yes. Please.”
“Do you know what you’d like?”
“Yes.” I was craving a Japanese dish I’d had before: breaded pork cutlet with sauce and an egg on top. “Do they have katsu-don?”
“Of course. Just put 700 yen into the slot and push this button, here.”
I dug some coins out of my pocket and slid them into the slot, just as the man directed. I then pressed the button for katsu-don, and the machine spat out a slip of paper with a number on it. I thanked my savior as he ducked out the door, and I grabbed a seat at one of the automat’s small tables. Soon my number came up, and I happily tucked into the hot bowl of rice, pork, egg, and sweet/savory sauce.
*
The show in Nagoya was organized by some kind of hippy art collective and held in a warehouse on the city’s edge that also doubled as a sculpture gallery. It was a larger, better-attended affair than the gig at the Curelian Homeworld. About three hundred young Japanese crusties showed up, resplendent in dreadlocks, baggy brown trousers, piercings, and flowing cotton dresses.
The room had been specially set up and decorated for this show, and you got a sense that these kids had been waiting in anticipation for some time to hear Skerik and his septet do their thing. The Japanese are known to be extremely receptive audiences. American musicians who tour Japan are often amazed at just how great and attentive the crowds can be. The Japanese appreciate good music and show it the respect it deserves. They really know how to listen. In addition, the promoters and venue owners are renowned for taking care of their musicians. That certainly was the case with Taichi and the folks working with him. The band seemed satisfied. The only complaint so far was with the van driver, who compulsively sped and tailgated like an asshole.
“Traffic accidents are the number one cause of death among musicians,” Skerik said on the highway that day. “It’s no joke, man. I’ve known people who have died. We spend so much time on the road that our chances of getting in a wreck are way higher than anyone else’s. I always tell the driver to slow down.”
“No doubt,” added Earl, the drummer. “There’s no need to drive like a fool. It’s just not worth it, man. We’re really not in a hurry.”
The band played two sets that night to a sweaty crowd who spun and grooved with every beat of the music. The organizers even set up a liquid light show on an overhead projector, which beamed the colorful, psychedelic swirls onto a screen at the back of the stage, ’60s “happening” style. The band was even more confident and together than the night before, relaxing into the tunes and playing around a bit more loosely with improvisations outside of the arrangements. Briggan once again stunned the house with his solo in “Go to Hell Mr. Bush,” and by the end of it all, the musicians and the generous crowd were aglow in that happy exhaustion that only comes after live music is created in front of an audience who truly gets it. After the final note resolved, it was all smiles, hugs, and handshakes. Good vibes all around.
*
I woke up the next morning dry-mouthed and groggy. My first impulse was to puke. My toxic head hissed. Empty cans of Yebisu and Sapporo beer littered the nightstand and table next to my bed. We had invited a couple of female septet fans back to the room after the show for some sudsy nightcaps, but I don’t recall things getting too wild—just chatting and drinking a couple of beers. Why did I feel like I had downed a whole bottle of rotgut tequila?
“The Tharp arouses from his Rip Van Winkle slumber to survey the damage from twenty years before!” Skerik emerged from the bathroom in his robe, toothbrush in hand. “Can you believe those chicks had boyfriends?”
“Yeah, man. I thought rooming with the rock star would at least get me to first base. What are you good for?”
He laughed. “It ain’t as glamorous as it looks. They were cool anyway. How are you feeling?”
“Like shit.” It was then I noticed that my throat burned. I hadn’t smoked any cigarettes for several weeks. “Oh man, I think I’m sick.”
“Hung-over?”
“No. Sick sick.”
After a perfect breakfast of soup, fish, rice, and noodles, we stuffed into the van and headed back toward Tokyo. Our driver, having been admonished the day before for his recklessness, drove with reassuring sanity. My sore throat had now blossomed into a full-blown body ache and I was wracked with chills. It felt like the flu. I craved more sleep, but was stuck in an upright sitting position with no space to stretch out. I quietly endured, sipping from plastic bottle of water and watching the green, mountainous countryside zip by outside of the passenger window. Japan is a crowded nation but still manages to keep large areas of forest intact. The scenery reminded me of home. As we approached the city, we pulled off and marveled at snow-covered symmetry of Mt. Fuji, standing guard south of Tokyo.
I bade farewell to Skerik and crew in the lobby of the Curelian Homeworld. They were finished with their dates and due to fly out the next morning. I was now on my own and had time to kill. All I really wanted to do was lie down and ride out this damned fever, but Shibuya Capsule Land wouldn’t open its doors for several more hours. It was time to wander.
I had no map and pretty much zero knowledge of the city’s layout (aside from the immediate area surrounding Capsule Land). I could barely think and felt the sickness of the flu burning in my head, throat, and joints. Just walking took effort, but once I was moving, things seemed to get easier, so I fixed my eyes on the largest thing I could see and made for that: the clusters of silver skyscrapers that make up the Shinjuku business district.
It was early Sunday afternoon, and most of the offices were shuttered. The streets of Shinjuku were mostly empty of people as I plodded around, snapping photos of the American-style buildings that stood glimmering in the late-fall sun. I bought a cup of coffee to go, and now pressed ahead into the labyrinth of Shinjuku Station, said to be the busiest in the world. The station is more than a transportation hub: it’s a mini-city in itself, stretching above and below ground, home to restaurants and stores and clothing shops. I found some rental lockers and stashed my bag; free from the burden of my pack, I exited the station and headed into a shopping district specializing in electronics. I rode up on escalators and down into the bowels of buildings selling flat-screen televisions, DVD players, smartphones, laptop computers, notebook computers, video game systems, stereos, and speakers. I was surrounded by colors, flashing lights, peppy digital music, character voices, and glowing pixels. In my semi-delirious state, I felt like I was inside a slot machine. I bought nothing; I just looked and walked.
After the electronics bazaar I came upon a whole street of sex shops, with pink dildos, ball gags, gimp masks, handcuffs, packaged worn panties, pocket pussies, and thousands of DVDs specializing in every preference, kink, and perversion under the sun.
I eventually crossed into the famed Harajuku district, where I saw giant, lit-up billboards featuring huge-eyed anime girls in miniskirts and skin-tight swimsuits, and teenagers walking the street in full cosplay regalia, done up as their favorite characters from manga comic books. I pressed on, walking in a feverish stagger, pulled forth by the strange magnetism of the place. At one point I came into a small plaza, where I heard live music echoing up from the concrete and off the building sides. An all-girl rock band played three-chord pop, and all four members were dressed as cats.
In my woozy state, this kaleidoscope of stimuli rattled my brain and caused my knees to buckle: sensory overload achieved. I felt drugged and needed to sit and eat, so I shuffled into a brightly lit restaurant done up in gar
ish shades of orange. Pop music blared in a manic, never-ending loop. I was immediately greeted in enthusiastic synchronized chirps by the all-female staff; it was as if the restaurant itself was a kind of cybernetic being, half machine and half alive, there to force us all to be happy whether we wanted to or not. Grinning involuntarily, I pointed to my preferred selection on the huge menu exploding behind the counter, and was soon served a bowl of savory/sweet Japanese-style curry over rice. Depleted of all energy, I greedily devoured it in a matter of minutes. It was insanely delicious.
Now that my belly was warm and full, I became drowsy. I glanced through blurry eyes at my watch. It was 6:00. Capsule Land would be open! I paid the bill and was up and out the door. Not even the psychotropic bells and whistles of Harajuku could keep me away from my now-beloved sleeping pod.
After I retrieved my bag from Shinjuku Station, it took me over an hour to find Shibuya Capsule Land. I didn’t know my way back, so I just roved the streets, scanning the cityscape for something familiar, anything I could use as a bearing. At one point I thought I may have to give up and find another place to sleep, but Capsule Land wanted me, it seemed, and suddenly, to my left, it appeared yet again.
I checked in at once, put my clothes in the locker, and slid my aching limbs into the hot bath, which I now had all to myself. I listened myself breathe as I relished the pool’s intense, radiating heat that acted as a medicine of sorts. I had never had a soak that felt so right. Soon I was crawling up the ladder and pulling the screen down on my warm little capsule, where I exhaled and collapsed into a black, delirious sleep.
*
My fever broke during the course of that sweat-drenched night, and the next day I emerged remade. Rested and cured, I said goodbye to Shibuya Capsule Land, promising to return one day. It was hard to leave that strange little hotel, but it was my last full day in the city and I wanted to see another section of town. So I got the address of a backpackers’ hostel near Ueno Station from a random Internet search, and by the afternoon—with the help of a kind young woman in Shinjuku Station who assisted me with deciphering the rats’ nest of the Tokyo train map—I managed to track the place down.
