BLOGS!
JAPANESE DIARIES 2009
Thursday, June 25, 2009
Currently, we're on the road to Matsuyama and leaving Osaka where we had two shows last night. I can't say Osaka is my favorite city in Japan. It's the second largest and second most concentrated (after Tokyo). There was an extraordinary amount of prostitutes (both male and female) on the street near the venue we played. I'm usually tickled by such things, but for some reason I wasn't. There was a strange, subtle, intangible malaise that hovered over Osaka last night that dampened my experience of the city – that, along with an unforgivable amount of rain.
We arrived to Osaka from Kyoto, where we played a place called 'Kenny's'.
We met Kenny.
You should meet Kenny.
Kenny is a middle aged Japanese native who is positively obsessed with country music.
(It's a bit unhealthy, actually- but because of the harmless nature of his obsession he has yet to be diagnosed by a doctor or prescribed medication.)
Walking into the club is like walking into a bar that was somewhere in the outskirts of Memphis, Tennessee circa 1979. The walls are littered with old Merle Haggard records, Willie Nelson movie posters (that's right), signed George Strait paraphernalia, framed Johnny Cash lyrics, banjos, cattle horns, bullwhips and too many autographed headshots to mention. It also seemed like he imported the very distinct smell of a honky-tonk saloon across western America, over the Pacific ocean, and into the carpet and walls of his venue- which is really more of a shrine than a bar.
Kenny himself dressed the part, too. He stood tall for a Japanese man, taller than me even, and sported a white 10-gallon hat, a dusty black blazer that was older than I am, tinted gold-rimmed Elvis Presley-esque sunglasses and a cowboy boot medallion that was visible from outer space.
His daughter, Mari, opened up the show for us and he sat in with her. When she called him onstage he walked to the stage unhurried, gently rested on a stool with his guitar, and proceeded to give a long, long introduction in Japanese. I had no idea what he was saying and, moreover, I had no idea what to expect from his performance. His demeanor and grace and casual oddball persona certainly bit my curiosity and raised my expectations. What could this man possibly do to live up to the impression he has already made? I waited impatiently for his extended introduction to end…
Now, up until that point in my life, I had never actually heard a Japanese person sing WALK THE LINE before – let alone execute it with a suspiciously flawless southern accent and a meticulously emulated Johnny Cash boom– but if I had, there would be no way it could ever compare to Kenny's epic, bullet-proof rendition of the classic song that lives and breathes in every American's heart.
It.
was.
amazing.
Just as amazing, I would assume, as it would be to hear Johnny Cash speak fluent Japanese flippantly and effortlessly from the stage at Folsom prison.
Kenny, who speaks no conversational English AT ALL, and ostensibly doesn't even know the meaning to the lyrics, executed the emotion and tone of the words perfectly, hauntingly and without reservation.
It was one of the greatest and most mysterious music lessons I have ever had.
It struck a strange and transformative chord upon my heartstrings.
Thanks for that, Kenny.
Johnny would've been proud.
A bit frightened, perhaps -- but proud nonetheless.
L
Earlier that day, prior to our arrival at Kenny's, we had quite an eventful afternoon.
We took a train to the edge of the city, where the asphalt ends and the mountains begin, and followed the wooden signs pointing to 'Monkey Mountain'- a place where monkeys roam free, a place that's open to the public, and a place that would host one of the most traumatic experiences of my life.
(that is, traumatic experience's that involve monkeys)
I read the sign.
EVERYONE read the sign.
You couldn't miss it.
It was written in every language imaginable.
" Welcome to Monkey Mountain.
Please do not look the monkeys in the eyes.
Please do not take pictures of the monkey's along the path"
Listen, I'm gonna be honest here. This is what I was thinking:
"Free roaming monkeys?
Are you serious?"
I'm from Long Island, New York, which, if you didn't know, is a place where there ain't no free roaming monkey's.
So that, in turn, means if I see a monkey, you can bet your button I'm going to take a picture of it and, not only that, I'm also going to get as close as humanly possible to it.
(side note: The only other time I saw a monkey in real life was when I was 5 years-old at Great adventure, when they would let you drive your car through a makeshift safari - another traumatic experience that involved elephant shit, an aggressive giraffe and permanent damage to our '77 Coup De Ville)
Anyways.
Back to Monkey Mountain.
So, there I stood, on the path, camera out and pointing at the first monkey I saw.
Now, you'd think these primates would be avoiding human contact wherever possible, but to my surprise the little rascal was actually walking towards me!
And not only that, but he was looking at me in the eyes!
(I knew that because I, too, was looking at him in the eyes.)
I smiled.
He didn't.
I held the camera still and kept thinking "Wow, this is gonna be some picture!"
But as he got closer and closer I realized that he wasn't really interested in photography.
He was about 5 feet away and still moving when I snapped a quick picture- and that's when the squealing began. Really, REALLY loud squealing. Ear-piercing squealing designed by Mother Nature to aggravate an enemy during a moment of distress and confusion. It was an animal's final defense against a predator; a natural, unstoppable reflex rooted in fear and desperation.
When I was done squealing, and opened my eyes- the monkey was walking away.
When my adrenaline finally calmed and I no longer suffered from blinding anxiety and terror, I looked towards the faces of my friends and saw only their jaws dropped.
He hit me.
The little bastard hit me!
But, worse than that, he hit me lightly.
A tap, really.
On the back of the leg.
A quiet reprimand of sorts.
Something to say, "I know you read the sign, douchebag."
He walked away slowly- leaving me without ever looking back, without a scrape, without a bruise, and without a trace of dignity or self-respect.
Johnny Cash would NOT have been proud.
Talk about a great adventure.
I felt like a boy named Sue.
I'm pretty sure my friends look at me differently now.
But I am planning on redeeming myself at the show tonight in Matsuyama-
Check back in a couple days and I'll let you know how it goes.
for now......
L
