Punk didn't die; it moved to Tokyo

I returned from Tokyo on Sunday. I'm still mulling the experience around in my head, as it was one that was atypical of any tourist. Please consider this the first of a multi-part (how many parts I don't know because I don't plan out my diatribes in advance, they must be semi-drunk spur of the moment verbal vomit) series on a recent visit to Japan.

The main feature and topic of the trip wasn't history or anything of like, it was music. Specifically, Japan being the final frontier for American bands. I'm prepared to declare Japan the only nation on the planet in which a non-publicized band can become famous by way of selling records and just being good. But what happens when Japan maintains its interest in non-PR whoring bands but loses its interest in buying their records?

We were traveling with a friend's band. You have probably never heard of them, because you probably don't live in Japan. So I'll just call them Banana Hammock, because it's funny and I don't care to associate them with their actual business secrets that I divulge in this here blog. They were playing two shows in Tokyo, one of which was without any supporting bands. They sold out the house. Their record reached second position on Tower Records Japan's charts. In Japan, they are a big deal. Alas, they have fallen victim to the little monster in the closet that is illegal downloading.

C'mon. You've probably done it. And you've probably thought that it was okay because the artists are rich. I agree, when they are rich and they're gallivanting all over town in the Lambo, by all means, steal their poor excuse for art. However, this is not the case of most recording artists. They're probably like Banana Hammock. They work day jobs and producing a high-selling record is just a part time job.

It would still be a part time job even if all these records were analog and all consumers who had the records in their hot little hands and legitimately paid for them.

So there isn't much money in music unless licensing agreements are all up in your business portfolio and tours are endless. That's fine. But those that do it do it for the right reasons are existing to make audiences happy. Their real payment comes in the form of signing autographs and taking photos with fans.

But in America, that's pretty hard to come by. Fans don't get excited anymore, unless they're in their teens. I don't quite know when it happened, but at some point in the last 20 years we stopped looking like we gave a shit. Artists that existed prior to that period are still famous. They still induce enthusiasm. Unless an artist regularly graces the postings of PerezHilton.com, nobody really gives a shit about them. What if they're just good? When did talent cease being enough to cause awe in the eyes of the general public? That's a bit sad, isn't it?

I think so.

It makes artists not want to try, or just abandon the USA and move to greener and more exciting pastures.

I used to be deeply entrenched in the underground music scene in Oregon. Making your friends well known was a prideful act. Because of this, I put on shows - anywhere. In my basement, in a church, in a park, anywhere. So long as it would be a catalyst for lots of people coming together and having fun. Then it turned into a high school popularity clusterfuck. The cool kids reigned supreme. I still have no idea what it means to be cool, I haven't figured it out and I'm a fucking dork. But hey, that's my cross to bear, and it means I get away with saying nerdy stuff and nobody has "coolness" expectations of me. It also unfortunately means no one will ever follow my lead.

And so, the cool kids set forth on turning this music scene into a seemingly negative place that only they controlled. They controlled it by scoffing, nitpicking, and mockery. Y'know, the same behavior you might remember from middle school. It seems that this a microcosm of what was to come on a large scale. This same behavior now has killed all underground music. Social acceptance based on listening to a certain type of music or a band always existed. Now it controls music in the United States all together.

At the first Banana Hammock show we met a guy that was a big fan and he took a shine to us - the Banana Hammock entourage. He had followed us to our own after-after party at a 24 hour udon place down the street from a club called Jump in Shibuya. He sat down next to me and didn't say a word. I assumed he spoke some English, since he'd thought to come hang out with us, but I was very wrong. I used my caveman-esque Japanese skills to try to muddle through a conversation with him.

I asked him his name.

"Matako...but please...call me...OG."

"You got it." He was henceforth known as OG.*

OG also came to the show the next night. We spotted him front and center. In his Banana Hammock band t-shirt and towel wrapped around his neck. He spotted Jab and I on stage and waved feverishly, like a kid meeting Mickey Mouse, from the audience.

At a break in songs we hollered to our friend on stage, "give OG a beer."

So he did. OG's smile lit up that night for me in a way I'll never forget.

Later, he showed us some album artwork that had been covered by the autographs of all band members save for one - the singer. The singer had been feeling quite sick that night but regardless, he needs to tend to his fans. Jab and I took the album cover back to the dressing room and asked Brian to sign it. He stared at it for a minute then finally made the minute motion with his pen that didn't mean shit to him but made all the difference in the world to OG. When we handed it back to OG, he hugged us, but he was shaking. I can only assume that was a shaking out of excitement and general enthusiasm. I hope I'm right, or I feel like a dick.

At the same show, two concert-goers approached my fiance and I and asked to take our photos. We tried to explain, in our shitty Japanese, that we are not famous and they should not take photos of us. Jab was very intent on communicating that we did not deserve to have our photos taken for the purpose of infamy. I understood, but was curious as to why this seemed so deeply important to him. A veteran semi-famous musician himself, he said, "I never play a show without bringing a notebook of my own for autographs. For every person I sign something for, they have to give me their signature too."

In our journey we met someone that was a hero of ours. We were ecstatic to meet him. He was formerly in a band called The Suicide Machines. They were punk rock icons. This fellow led the charge. He had moved to Tokyo two years ago to make music and work for a record label. He couldn't do this in the United States. While he makes a modest income in Tokyo, he makes more to do something that he loves than he would make in America.

My fiance told him regarding his own band, "we're not worried about giving our music away, we feel it's a necessary evil."

Our icon replied, "well get ready to bleed for it."

And bleed they will, as long as audiences are ready to welcome them with enthusiasm like OG had. That great hemorrhage of record selling blood is worth it to see the smile on the face of a fan. Being an artist isn't about fucking chicks and getting plastic surgery, it's about gathering autographs of your own fans and adoring them as much as they adore you. It's about cutting yourself open to ensure that your observers can dissect you. I suppose the challenge for which payment should be returned is that of opening up and being transparent.

I hope that our icon saw that in us. I also hope that it's the truth that the music industry may be able to be saved by truth and mutual adoration by fans and musicians. It may be forced into it by the eventual mediocre incomes of even the most business-savvy artists.

*Later I learned that what I had colloquially interpreted as "OG" or "original gangsta" was actually "oji" which means "prince." Regardless, that guy still holds a place in my heart for teaching me that it's possible to still admire musicians even if they aren't winning Grammy awards.