We get into a taxi outside Narita airport. All the cab hailers (genuine job) are wearing little cotton surgeon masks. Our driver's wearing white gloves and all the headrests and seats are covered in doilies. It's a strange spectacle that gives me the instant fear that this land is ruled by some 50ft nanzilla who befouls the atmosphere with them old people smells that we're all destined to inherit. Nothing of the sort; it's just one of the nice little extra touches that can be found everywhere, and which go towards making Japan one of the most pleasant places we've done been able to visit; the taxi doors open and close for you, the toilets all have an in-built seat heater and, for the adventurous, a terrifyingly accurate bum spritz option, everyone bows, tipping is frowned upon. It's like if heaven were created by a sheltered being of simple pleasures.
Our first few days are spent being interviewed. It becomes clear that if our interpreter hears about 'growing up in St. Albans' one more time she's going to commit hara-kiri. We get to record some radio show plugs, you know the sort - 'Hi, I'm Nicola from Girls Aloud. When I'm not busy looking like Elizabeth I in hot-pants on the same easyjet plane as Friendly Fires, I'm always listening to roly-poly unfunny man Chris Moyles'. We are plain rubbish at these in English, let alone when we've got to speak in Japanese, in unison, to plug a show called 'loveflaps'. After a hard day's going mad chatting about yourself, we get to sample some tasty food and head back to the hotel for a night's spritzing.
We get to play a gig with Hot Chip at Duo, a venue designed by Jamiroquai. It seems that in a rush to frost that stupid horned hat logo onto all the mirrors, they forgot to put the soundsystem where it wouldn't be blocked by load-bearing pillars. No matter, it's a good gaff and the toilets boast an impressive three different ways of jetting your tush. The gig goes really well. Despite everyone saying that Japanese audiences are reserved, motionless, whatever, it turns out they put the good people of London to shame with all dancing and shouting.
I wake up at 5 in the morning courtesy of jet-lag. Thank god it's Olympics season so I can settle in to watch the women's weightlifting, a bizarre castrating experience. After 4 hours watching athletes at the peak of physical health, I'm vowing to never again be tempted by Colonel Sanders, but to instead dedicate my life to a Rocky IV style exercise regime pulling trees up hills and suchlike. Fortunately the phone rings before the notion is set in stone and we're whisked off for some more press, and so, more time with our translator. I'm intrigued by the notion of an interpreter. It's a comfort imagining there's this linguistic alchemist turning our confusions into golden proffering on the intangible concept of sound and spiritual notions of art. Alternatively, if your thoughts have to be filtered through someone else's brain, ending up with something altogether different, then there's less of you in the final product. Hmm, a quandary. Ultimately, our translator was an amazingly clever and articulate lady who I've good mind to get to edit this blog and everything I ever say in the future.
Back to the noise – Summersonic was the main reason we went to Japan. Like Leeds and Reading insomuch as two cities share a weekend's line-up, it's spread between Osaka and Tokyo. In Tokyo, we play in a huge air-hanger style building. It fills up sharpish for the first acts and stays that way for the rest of the day. We're startled by the number of people who recognise 'Paris' and sing it back to us. Jack swears he saw a guy with a broken leg get out of his wheelchair and play airguitar with his cast. Lovely, especially as healing the sick and making the lame walk has always been a musical ambition of ours.
Osaka's a similar affair, but this time our stage is in a ginormous greenhouse. I'm no physicist, but my basic understanding of convection makes me wonder if we'll survive the heat of this one. I sweat in English February, my blood's too thick and my skin's too thin for this kind of temperature. I've already spent the day being trounced at table tennis by some hustling guitar tech. We play and no one expires. Success.
On the very last night we finally won the fight with jet-lag and could stay awake beyond dinner time, so we get ourselves to a karaoke bar. Among the hits murdered that night were:
Faith Evans, 112, Diddy - Tribute to Notorious B.I.G (sake was poured on the floor for the fallen)
Sepultura – Territory (there are only about 5 videos that play behind the lyrics on karaoke screens – this one had a young lad running around an empty building looking confused – pretty metal)
Blackstreet - No Diggity (tune)
Lionel Ritchie – Hello (sung to a dessert dog, pics will explain)
Napalm Death - Scum (there are only 2 lines of lyrics, the other 20 seconds of his song was spent watching stock footage of a guy on a motorbike)
Def Leppard - Love Bites (nonsensical grilling from Joe Elliott)
On a final note
Don't watch Drillbit Taylor, Son of Rambow or Be Kind, Rewind, they are total rot.
Don't order pudding in a karaoke bar, you will be served a dog made from banana and ice-cream balanced on half a loaf of bread.
Do eat as much Japanese food as you can, it's tasty and the average life expectancy over there is about 261.
Do go and buy our album which is out today, no matter where you are in the world because you can get it off of the internet, can't you?
Do forgive me for the length of this one; I've omitted so much and included so little.
Big love,
edd g. x