We left our bags in storage and set out to explore the sights of Osaka.
I feel lighter, as if walking on some distant planet with a familiar yet slightly more forgiving gravitational pull.
I’m proud of how efficiently we have been getting around–navigating the stations, to and from clubs and hotels,–all while logging enough steps to make Kimm’s smartwatch to call us liars and give up count..
My roller bag following obediently at my heel, backpack perched atop.
And in a land where I have audibly smacked the ol’ noggin five fucking times on low temple thresholds, I had the bright idea to pack the guitar in a gig bag that sits high on my back.
The Telecaster headstock sits up there doomed, like a terrified child upon a drunken uncle’s shoulders.
The day is lovely, whole families enjoying the park surrounding Osaka castle, tourists and locals basking in the Fall sun.
We come across a chap with a owl, perhaps a Eurasian Scops, perched upon his gloved hand.
I wander close and ask to take a photo.
I take the shot then look for a tip jar, expecting this to be the sort of tourist experience we have back on Hollywood Blvd.
You know, where it cost you five bucks to be hugged by a tweaker in a shockingly bad Spiderman costume.
But no, it’s just a guy taking the bird out for a day in the park.
I nod to the owl. :“Namae wa nan desu ka?”
The guy shakes his head.
“No name. She’s wild animal.”
Our phones all chirp at the same instant, it’s Ryota on the tour chat line.
“Konnichi Wa,” the message starts, as always.
We get the day’s schedule then, load in and soundcheck, which we will inevitably miss.
The set times, perhaps a pizza party after the show thrown by the promoter.
Our man Ryota has served as driver and TM, utility merch guy when no one else is around.
The daily itineraries have become a comforting tether to the rest of the bands, our camp counselor waking up the campers with a rousing call to the mess hall and then onto a full day of potato sack races and archery.
Ant and Ryota-san
We take a multi stop local line back to Osaka, even though our beloved Shinkansen bullet train would get us there in, like, twelve minutes,
But the tinier JR line has us popping up just 350 meters from the Socrates club, so wel take the trade off.
Each day becomes a wonderful combination of walking, Uber, Go Taxi, Subway and Trainline.
The lads have become experts in calculating travel times in metric, god bless ’em.
As we march single file we whisper down the line how many clicks to head North-Northeast, using hand signs as if to guide us toward a hostage’s location.
The Socrates club is packing, and I am stunned once again by the people who welcome us to each city.
They see me and their heads tilt, eyebrows raised in question.
Then they point and nod their heads.
I nod back,
Yeah, it’s me, it’s us. We made it.
I feel a polite tap on the shoulder, turn to a bowing man in a DOA shirt.
“Thanks you so much,” he says. “For coming here. For being.”
And in my atrocious Japanese I try to respond in kind.
“Koko ni…Totemo ..Kansha?” I venture. “To be here, I am so grateful.”
He then tells me he will sing, less a question than a fact.
As if he is owed at least this, after waiting for us to finally get our asses over here.
And as we wrap up another beer flying, shout along set, he comes up and belts out the call and response parts of Make Me Feel Cheap perfectly.
He gets off stage, his hands shielding his crying eyes, as his friends wrap him in hugs.
I have to turn my back to the crowd then, afraid my own goofy tears might swamp the joint.
Our new pal and promoter Daniel invites us all to Pop Pizza for an after party, and we all get to sit, finally, and catch up with the camp news.
Casey Vaxxine fears a cold coming on, and we compare brands of throat lozenges.
Greg tells us how to fix a fret buzzing string on the road, :Luis keeps breaking drum heads.
Ryota finally has a chance to sit and drink a beer, eat a slice.
……and then things get weird.
The music keeps getting louder, tasteful stuff:
Slade, Runaways, Replacements’ Stink.
And by the time the Bon-era AC/DC set starts, the picture frames are rattling on the walls, and we are shouting to be heard.
The shirts come off, the horsehead comes on.
On the way out , I hug Daniel.
“You guys get wild, mate, ” I say “I love it!”
“We’re morons,” he says, and then turns back to the dance party.
Fushimi Inari is always open, and the locals urge us to go in the middle of the night.
No crowds, they say.
And, a chance to see the wild animals–monkeys, wild boar.
We take the Inari line and get off directly in front of the station gates of the shrine.
While walking up the path I hear someone hurrying up behind us, and see it is Ryota running to catch up.
He’d offered to drive us but I told him we could take the train, no worry.
It’s your night off, I text back, Relax.
But out of his culturally ingrained respect, he is here, to guide us, to protect us,
Or, I dunno, maybe he just wants to hang.
We take the requisite band photos in this sacred place, hoping to capture the vibe of those kimonoed KISS photos amidst these thousand gates, less the appropriated kabuki whteface,
The grounds are lovely late at night, empty save for a few other tourists passing us on the way down, some lone figures contemplating the stones in the tiny alcoves.
I peer down into a culvert at the sound of flowing water, see the clear water running over moss covered pebbles.
If I were home, I think, there would be a shopping cart abandoned here, a garbage covered tarp there.
I climb still, and when I come to a clearing I see them:
The wild boar, promised though not quite believed.
They root around the grounds, not as rodents but gods.
In this shrine, encroached on all sides by the teeming city, yet untouched still.
Still, yeah, wild.
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