1-2-3-4!
Spent a few days in Osaka last week for the customary ‘get the fork out of here’ end of semester trip. You, know that need I have to vanish and reappear somewhere nobody knows me and I don’t know anyone after an arduous few months of ‘teaching‘ in goldfish bowl Hiroshima - ah, that Anonymity, she’s a fine lass indeed.
Stayed in the Chisun Inn Shinsaibashi - a great central location in Osaka’s ‘Minami’ area, just a hop, skip and a weave your way through millions of slow-moving ant-like natives away from the ‘action‘. Whatever the ‘action‘ is. I don’t know, because I never seem to encounter it. Or perhaps I do, and I just don’t recognize it for what it is. No, officer, I haven’t been drinking. The Chisun chain of hotels are highly recommended, though. I often use the one near Shin-Osaka station and have also frequented the swish one in Tokyo’s Akasaka area. Reasonsably priced, they do a good job of disguising the miserable Japanese business hotel phenomena and make you feel as if you’re staying in a European hotel with tasteful decor, arty colours and sheets that aren’t white.
I arrived on a Friday evening, having come straight from my final classes, throwing teaching paraphernalia to the winds and already eschewing the dreaded badly-ironed shirt and tie for cool street clothes. Despite being somewhat wobbly and sick, as is my wont, I reached the hotel without incident by 4pm, and sallied forth immediately to check out the gaudy baubles on display along Shinsaibashi’s huge covered shopping malls. Umm….fantastical guitar emporiums to dreamily lope around…the same chain stores on display in Hiroshima, only bigger and better and filled with Folk Who Don’t Know Me. And all around the thronging crowds of Osakans, a heady mix of the trendy well-dressed set, both younger and older versions, and a substrata of scummy ruffians and trollops amid the throbbing neon.
Next day I busied myself in that oasis of cool the Apple Store, gawping like a slack-jawed yokel at all the shimmering white and brushed aluminium goodies on display, a heady level of sophistication unthinkable back in the village that is Hiroshima!
From thence to Osaka’s Umeda district, to browse at all manner of electronic wonderment in the unfeasibly huge Yodobashi Camera, which despite the name, sells just about anything with flashing lights and buttons on it, from computer-driven bidets to the latest nerdery in the gadgets department. A veritable home from home!
However, my main purpose in coming to Osaka was not to fritter away time in the pursuit of geeky technology, no sir! For indeed, at 6pm I sauntered into Club Quattro, there to see my favourite J-Band Shonen Knife play their customary Christmas hometown gig. Well, I’d had a larf at their sparsely attended Hiroshima show in the summer, so what better than to see them on their home turf?
The club was packed - a sold-out show, no less, and I arrived during the set of the support band, a rocking combo whose name I can’t now recall. Well, I lasted about 10 minutes in the pit before beating a hasty retreat out into the foyer where I pretended to send an email on my mobile phone. Why? They were shite! It was cabaret more than rock - every cliche in the book trotted out and hammed up for the masses, and the final straw came when the Iggy Pop-wannabe vocalist climbed out onto the speaker rig and suspended himself above the moshpit from some overhead piping while the fans below pulled all his clothes off. Yes, all of them! If you’re going to get naked in public, at least make sure you’re equipped with a reasonably sized todger, but no, this ape’s dong was barely visible through his bush, such were its puny dimentions! So I thought, I didn’t pay 3,500 yen to look at this knob’s diminutive…er…knob, so I buggered off out.
No, fear, soon the mighty Shonen Knife appeared and launched into their trademark melodic pop-punk thrash. But alas! all was not well with the sound! After a couple of songs the band themselves noticed that something was amiss and began frantically retuning their axes. However, yours truly, with his expert knowledge of audio engineering, knew at once that it was the mix that was at fault - the bass was way too loud and was distorting horribly. Unfortunately the tossers at the mixing desk (alleged professionals) either didn’t notice or couldn’t be arsed to do anything about it. Still, as seasoned troupers the Knife played on regardless, and had soon turned it around into a great gig despite the sonic shortcomings. The moshpit was wild and your narrator headbanged his merry way through a blistering nineteen song set. Yay!
Long live the Knife!
