Save Us, Ultraman

The lads are all a bit grumpy with the accommodations in Setagaya.
After show one in Mito it was back to Tokyo station, then a meandering journey 18 klicks into the meat of this sprawling city.
The boulevards turned into avenues, the streets into alleys.
We were finally left to wander the tiny sidewalks like asylum seeking refugees, with guitars upon back and all our worldly possessions clattering behind us, guided only by smartass smartphone directions that keep re-routing every 10 meters.

And after finally getting the lockbox code and gaining entrance, we are stunned to find a place the size of a submarine workout room.

Dear Sir and/or Madame Air BnB: I am outraged-do you hear? Outraged! -at such shamfoolery!
Do you ever verify these fanciful listings? I am an AMERICAN, are you hearing me? I need my vast spaces to sprawl, a refrigerator the size of an elephant’s coffin, Lazy Boy Recliners on each stair landing at least. You shall be hearing from me upon my return to the God Blessed states—-Good Day!

The two bedroom ,four bed palace, which looked spacious as a mid century ranch in the photos, turns out to be nothing more than a singular flat space with a ladder accessed loft.

But really, it turns out fine.
I realize the apartment probably had sensible tatami mats on the floors, perhaps a few buckwheat hull cushions to lounge upon.
It was only for us ogre-sized gaijin that the owner installed a king sized bed in the middle of the main room, which disturbed the flow of the airy space.
We take off our shoes, put on the thoughtful slippers, and sit upon the floor now, and are ashamed at our initial cranky impression.
The wee bathroom has Anthony’s beloved bidet seating, the washing machine also has a whimsical air drying feature that leaves our clothes refreshingly damp.
I push buttons on the wall and unseen fans start to whir, water starts to fill deep tubs.
Konnichi-wa a female voice chirps from the tiny control panels.
Nick takes advantage of the kitchen to whip up a tight pasta, Anthony and Kimm take to their laptops, quiet as monks, staying abreast of business back home in the slumbering states.

It is on the way to the Soshigaya-Okura station that we start to notice the odd designs surrounding us:
The streetlamps peer down at us like the watchful eyes of a super hero.
Discrete signage is confusing yet oddly familiar, triggering memories of childhood viewings on the scratchy UHF channels.

And then I happen to look up, and-ah! nani wa?– who soars above us but indeed that hero of kindness: Ultraman!

And down in the station it becomes clear:
We are staying in Ultratown brother!

Shimokitazawa neighborhood is cranking when we dip up out of the station, high end hipster clothing shops and happily noisy saloons neighbor the wee LiveHaus club.
The Vaxxines open up and slay once more, the crowd enchanted by the classy vintage punk tuneage, KC’s towering stage presence.
And then we get up and do our thing, our first time playing in Tokyo!

It is amazing to finally be here, to play our old songs for people who seem to actually know them.
I’ve thought about this for so long, and I now I am here, as if standing atop a mountain that I have only seen in the impossible distance from my darkened prison cell.

We were warned to be prepared for the reserved Japanese crowds:
Crossed arm appreciation, respectful silence between songs.
You gotta be kidding me!
The place goes off, people greet our old songs with fists raised, they shout along to the lyrics while beer cups launch into the air, baptizing us all in Sapporo.
The microphone gets smashed into my mouth by the rowdy pit, and it feels like a kiss from a girl you thought was long dead.

_{@beerdrop79 photos}

I climb up out to the street gasping for air, getting handshakes and bows at every step.
People crowd us and ask for politely for a photo, and then it is I who bows deepest, thanking them.

_Avengers!

And to cap the night, we get to watch the goddamned Avengers play once again.
What is this?
Did I suffer some consciousness robbing malady and end up on the Make a Wish shortlist?
I thank Sebastian Vaxxine once again with a sweaty hug, for making all this come together after months of planning and an email trail that had grown massive enough to crash Gmail servers.

On the way back to our flat, Ultratown is quiet now.
The town slumbers soundly, knowing they are safe,
Hayata’s finger hovers upon the Beta capsule, ready to become Ultraman once more and save his namesake town.

There is one lighted staircase on the street, though, and the fellas are in the mood for a nightcap after such an amazing night.
We find four people in a tasteful salon there, and the room is silenced as we lumber in like prehistoric mutated monsters risen from the deep.
We turn to leave, embarrassed to disturb their calm evening of relaxation.

But the smiling little woman behind the bar waves us in.
Irasshaimase, she says, bowing. She nods to four empty stools.
Wel-come, neh? she says. Then she points at the young couple sitting at the end.
“Tanjobi…he, his…” and here she turns to the old gent by the door “Kore wa Eigo?. Ah, birthday, neh?” she says.
“His Birthday.”

We raise glasses to the young man, and he toasts us back.
Kanpai, we all say quietly.

It runs out he speaks perfect English, and he tells us this little bar has survived 14 years, a miracle in this area.
I ask him about the Ultraman theme, and he explains that this whole area was transformed in preparation of the Covid cancelled Olympics.
What was to be a bustling Olympic village became a darkened ghost town, and almost all the neighborhood restaurants and bars were shuttered.
But this one shining little gem survived somehow, and was able to reopen, serving once again as a saloon and salon for the grad students and staff of the nearby universities.
“Keiko, that’s her,” he says, “she is know as the Miracle woman of the neighborhood. A hero”
Keiko bows then, eyes shining with grateful tears.
He nods to the man by the door, who we assumed was just the neighborhood barfly.
“He’s a professor, Sociology. English is so so , but fluent in French.”

Anthony pats him on the back.
:”The professor!” Ant says. “Bon Soir,” Ant says.
The man perks up then.
“Ah. Très heureux de vous rencontrer jeune homme,” he replies, and we all laugh.

We sing Happy Birthday to our new friend then, and after he says though he is a salary man he is also a serious operatic tenor, protege, we convince him to sing us one.
He blushes, then clears his throat and launches into a passage of Un Aura Amorosa from Cosi Fan Tutte.

And the tiny room is now filled with his soaring voice, all of us transformed, grateful as Fernando knowing faithful love is something real.
And now it’s out turn with the shining eyes.