scans.
ORIENT EXCESS
• NED'S ATOMIC DUSTBIN take on the Land Of The Rising Brum. SIMON WILLIAMS joins them. Jap snaps: ED SIRRS
The Cast:
JONN - singer and writer
ALEX - bassist and absurdist
MAT - bassist and philosopher
RAT - guitarist and gargler
DAN DAN - drummer and chuckler
'MR ED'- photo hack
CONDI & KEN - bananas local Sony reps
TANK- band manager
BIG VERN, GARY & SOUNDMAN SIMON - The Vile Squad
SIMON WILLIAMS - saki bastard
THE LITTLE PEOPLE - the population of japan
The Scene:
"EEEEEEEEEEEEEKKKKKKKKKKH!!!!!!" Christ! The Little People
are waiting outside the venue! They've spotted the band! They've started
screaming! Again! The Vile Squad are clearing a passage... the Neds
are running for the van... cameras are flashing like white Belisha beacons,
snapping like crocodiles on Columbian cruising powder... the band are
safe... the van door is slammed shut. It's pandemonium. It's Nedsobloodymania!
Alex is shouting "IT'S CHESNEY! ITS CHESNEY!" Everyone else
is yelling "BRILLIANT!" and "HELP!"- at the same
time. Except Rat, who is halfway out of the sun room giving the Little
People a taste of their own medicine as they swarm against the side
of the vehicle.
"Say cheese!" beams the guitarist.
"EEEEEEEEKKKKKKKKK!!!!!!!!"
This is unreal. Then again, this is (cue fanfare) japan...
Five days in the Far East with Ned's Atomic Dustbin? Do me a favour.
On second thoughts, do me a triple Scotch. And make it strong. The scarifying
scene described above takes place after the last gig in Tokyo, which
in turn follows four days of unnervingly polite worshipping at the feet
and fringes of Stourbridge's answer to the old chestnut - What Makes
Good Pop Music Brilliant?
Those days also include three other 'concerts', a couple of bullet trains,
an indeterminate quantity of autographs, a posse of 15 laminated-up
semi-loonies wending their way back and forth across a bizarre country
en masse, and the kind of clock-watching organisation which makes the
average well-drilled mafiosi resemble a Salvation Army jumble sale.
The last thing anyone expected was Nedsomania on this scale. A bit of
fan enthusiasm, maybe, because after all EVERYONE is big over here.
But all out swooning was not mentioned anywhere on the agenda. I checked.
A postcard from Japan should read: 'Crazy place full of crazy people
doing crazy things at a crazy velocity. Yours crazily, etcetera'. Nothing
can prepare anyone for the culture shock of arriving in a country where
Small Equals Beautiful - not to mention downright uncomfortable - and
English is as necessary as Esperanto is in London.
The Neds have got a day's start on the NME crew, and they've been making
the worst of it by accepting an invitation from their local Sony Godparents
to experience some local cuisine.
This entails the full shoes-off-kneeling-at-the-table works. And Alex
karaoke-singing 'My Way' when literally the only words he knows are,
erm, "my way". And the record label boss
(Mr Very Very Big) standing on the same stage and crooning a home-grown
ballad as one of his Sony minnows stagedived! Not to mention Ned's Atomic
Dustbin getting to grips with the culinary concept of the hideously
expensive sushi, very unsuccessfully, by all greed-faced accounts. With
the exception of Mat, who claims to love the food.
"You only ate the lettuce!" jeers the entourage.
"Nah! I had the squid, the shellfish, the octopus..."
"Yeah, and then you threw up!"
THE FIRST mammoth movement of posse luggage takes us on a domestic
flight westbound to Osaka. At an afternoon's glance, Osaka has roads
where roads shouldn't plausibly be alongside even less logically-positioned
railway lines, and boarded-up derelict houses lurking in the shadow
of enormous, extraordinarily Westernised shopping centres. It just so
happens that a chain of these is owned by Parco, who also happen to
own every Club Quattro (where the Neds are due to play all their dates)
in the country.
Logic being the curse of the masses and all that, said clubs are inevitably
situated between the household appliances and lingerie floors in these
gargantuan centres, and Osaka's Quattro is no exception. There's a support
band tonight - the only one of the tour. They're called The Ruffians
and they throw some decent indigenous guitar shapes to an apathetically
receptive audience. Whereupon the Neds — bored silly by cracking
crap jokes backstage - set about killing off the rumours that Japanese
audiences couldn't dance with a million volts up their collective bum.
The tickets sold out weeks ago (5,000 yen, or £20), the moshing
is frantic, the stagediving is suicidal and - apart from an exhausted
Jonn being unable to bounce any more well before the encores —
the entire trampolining 90 minutes ridicules the Neds claims that they're
rough and rusty after a fortnight off the road. Highlight of the night
is Rat slipping over in a puddle of Mat's beer and continuing to play
a guitar solo flat on his back. Which is only slightly more amusing
than when the band stagger sweatily off stage and unwittingly convince
the aghast local crew that they're about to keel over and die. Which
certainly isn't on the agenda.
The following morning we leave the stifling heat of Osaka for even hotter
climes in the East. On a terrifyingly efficient and worryingly fast
(only 140mph, because it wasn't in a hurry) bullet train, Jonn and Dan
Dan the drumming man battle against the G-forces and struggle to get
their heads around 48 frenetic hours in an alien world.
Dan's the Quiet One with a laugh like a minor plumbing disaster. Jonn's
the brow-furrowing worrier, a situation which is hardly surprising when
one considers that he entered his Tokyo hotel room and was staggered
to find bouquets of flowers and piles of fan letters on the bed.
"We're not used to Japanese people," ponders the singer with
epic understatement "They all look like young girls, but they're
not! They're 17 or 18! Girls who follow us around in Britain and America
seem to have different intentions to these. This is like a hero worship
type of thing; they give you presents and if you give them anything
back they're shocked. Someone cried in Tokyo, just because I signed
something!"
Then there was the mistake of nipping into a record shop where he was
instantly recognised by the staff: "They asked me to sign the wall
display which had our logo like, three feet high! I explained that I
couldn't sign it 'cos the rest of the band weren't there so it'd look
really naff, and while I was doing that the entire shop was staring
at me. It was like Jaws - they started to converge towards the back
of the shop. Going in there was the worst error ever! It was crazy!"
"I'm not frightened of the fans at all," states Dan. "It's
just totally embarrassing!"
"But I still worry all the time about how I react to people,"
muses jonn. "Even people who hate us, 'cos I don't wanna put myself
in a bad light, I wanna prove I'm an 'alright bloke'."
"It's really difficult here, 'cos everything's beating on your
brow," continues Jonn, anxiously. "There are more fans, venues
that are... clean! Hotel rooms with free cotton buds? And toothbrushes!
Wrapped and then wrapped again and then inside they're wrapped a bit
more! Everything is fresh all the time, it keeps on. In America that
wasn't tiring at all, but here it's like 150 miles an hour. It's like
100 questions on Mastermind and you just start panicking!
One minute I'm thinking, how great is that? And the next I'm thinking,
oooh, I wanna go and hide!"
YOU CAN call Nagoya many things, but A Good Place To Hide isn't one
of them. Following on from the observations on Osaka, the Parco corporation
has taken the all-in-one concept a stage further. Now, as well as a
department store and the Club Quattro, the bloody hotel is under the
same roof along with dozens of restaurants.
We're talking about a hermetically-sealed environment here, kids: the
20th Century distilled into one massive cement 'n' glass complex. You
take the high road and keep your foot down - one day soon Japanese people
will never need to set a small foot outside their Parco paradises. Scary?
You bet.
At lunch in the restaurant sector of the complex, Rat rants about the
Little People who've tailed him from hotel lobby to dining room chair
"It's ridiculous!" he splutters, craning enthusiastically
for a better view of the followers. "Maybe I should do a tap dance
on the table and earn some money! I LOVE IT THOUGH!"
Here's what happens when a fan actually plucks up the courage to approach
a Ned: a Little Person stands ten yards away from her chosen band member
and giggles like a rabbit on poppers caught in the headlights of a Suzuki
four-wheel-drive jeep. The band member blushes profusely. The Little
One giggles some more. The Ned turns crimson. Several hours of tittering
and reddening later, contact will be made and a 'God Fodder' sleeve
will be scrawled upon.
FACT: autograph-hunting is the only thing that isn't efficiently dealt
with at three million miles per hour in japan.
There is some classic timing involved in the organisation of this trip:
today is the anniversary of the bombing of Hiroshima; in three days'
time there will be the same reverential remembrance for the flattening
of Nagasaki. We're in a country that's been A-bombed twice with a band
called Ned's Atomic Dustbin. Yet, call it politeness, or respect, or
sheer stark revulsion and hatred of such a crime against humanity, none
of the Japanese who come into contact with the band mention the subject
once.
Not even the local TV crew, who instigate possibly the worst television
interview with a band since yours truly screwed up with Ride last year.
Admittedly, asking the Neds why they have two bassists isn't the most
inspired of opening gambits, but "What is Ned's Atomic Dustbin's
favourite food?" ("Venezuelan beaver cheese!" - Dan Dan)
really is the kind of question which suggests that certain employees
of this particular station should be shot forthwith.
Jonn is convinced that it's 'The Gig' that overcomes the language and
culture barriers more than anything else, and he's got a point. In spite
of the 7pm starting time (on the dot, or it's sword-time for the promoters),
it's difficult to resist the Neds' lurching, frothing blend of noisy
inclinations and poppy instinct. Especially if you're a teenage Nagoyan
who thinks the sun shines out of Jonn's bottom. Rat doesn't fall over
tonight, but selected Best Bits include the jabbering new single 'Trust',
with its sonic blast of an intro; 'Kill Your Television' - a bizarre
favourite in the land of hi-tech obsessiveness - the swaggering 'Cut
Up' and 'Selfish', wherein subtle nuances evolve towards a skull-hammering
finale.
The night draws in. Or so they say, because we can't actually see outside.
Ensconced in an Italian joint which serves one type of pasta (spaghetti)
and two types of pizza (meat and, erm, non-meat) Mat hits the cheap
red wine and starts loosening up after four days of enforced sobriety
thanks to an insect bite and a pile of antibiotics.
"I love it here. If the gargling was cheaper I'd move tomorrow.
I'm gonna learn Japanese and find someone to marry. Problem is, I probably
won't manage it 'til I'm 60..."
The alcohol leads us into one of those heavy philosophical discussions
about ambition, personal fulfilment and mountain bikes which doesn't
really get us anywhere - least of all to a conclusion - but makes us
feel mildly intellectual anyway. Later on, Mat will fall unconscious,
Rat will drunkenly abuse the band's press officer and be carried upstairs
to bed by a member of The Vile Squad, and a man will decapitate a turtle
on television, cutting off its head and pouring the blood into a wine
glass, whereupon a middle-aged woman will appear on the screen, beaming
broadly. Come back James Whale - all could be forgiven!
Morning brings bleary eyes and yet more tales of nocturnal inebriation.
So the Neds had a party, right?
"You would call it a party because you're a Londoner," leers
manager Tank. "But up where we come from it's called sitting around
with some friends and drinking."
Best of all, morning brings escape from the Parco prison. Fleeing towards
another bullet train, Alex breathes a whale-like sigh of relief: "This
is the first time I've seen daylight for what feels like days,"
he quivers. "Why didn't I ever go outside? 'Cos there was no need
- everything was in there. Actually, I didn't know how to get out! I
tried to get out and I just kept walking and walking down. And then
I thought, I must be in the basement by now, so I started walking back
up again. I couldn't find a door."
Hmmm. Were you never in the scouts, Alex?
"Yeah, but I wasn't a very good one. In fact, I only got one badge
and that was my musician's one. I was trying to get my collector's badge
by taking in my 'collection' of pencils from HB to 9B, and the bloke
said, 'You can't have a badge for that — you can just go into
WH Smiths and buy them in one pack'! I was most distressed!"
NO MATTER where a British band is in the solar system, they'll always
sniff out a curry house. The Neds are no exception. After the first
Tokyo show - sealed by Rat diving into the audience and losing all of
the earrings in his right lobe as a consequence - they make haste for
spicy nourishment. This sounds simple, but when there's every chance
of being besieged by Little People on the street, a two-minute stroll
becomes an immaculately-organised protective van ride from the back
exit of the hotel. Once safely inside the restaurant and banging down
the Grolsch, Mat and Alex provide a double bass (sorry) interview, again
full of exclamations of amazement at the reception they've received.
Then again, Ned's Atomic Dustbin are perpetually amazed at what is happening,
from their first NME On interview on The Wonder Stuff
tour in 1989, to hitting the other side of the world.
Excepting the music, this innocence and bewilderment is their main asset.
The band knows that their naivety charms the dayglo pants off people,
because those people tell them. They knew they were right when they
scoffed at their record company's chart predictions (Number 38, but
only if you release five formats and do a 72-shop HMV signing tour!)
for 'Happy', but were still amazed when they ignored all of Sony's advice
and the single steamed into the Top 20.
And they know they're correct to stick out the gibbering 'Trust' when
Those Who Think They Know Everything wanted the poppier 'Not Sleeping
Around' in the record racks. The Neds don't just stick to their guns
- they're positively super-glued to the barrel.
Alex openly admits that his sister cried when she read the NME review
of last year's Neds/ Mega City 4 bash in Wolverhampton. The Neds aren't
even attempting to bluff their way through to the top by pretending
to be something that they aren't (ie cocky, assertive, stand-offish).
They're content to bluster their way through the musical minefield doing
things their own way, being vulnerable with a ferocious edge. Good grief,
they're the pandas of pop!
That's why Mat perceives the Neds to be "The luckiest c--—s
in the world".
"I can't go up to Birmingham anymore," groans Alex. "I
can't! I went up there with my mate a few weeks ago, as I used to. We
wanted to recreate and reminisce and go to the art gallery to do poos."
I'm sorry, I could have sworn you just said, "To do poos"?
"Yeah, we never used to look at the paintings. We'd go for dinner,
go for coffee, then go to the art gallery to do a shit. And that was
it, every Saturday."
Oh. Right.
"So we thought we'd do that again. But I couldn't walk round -
I was getting too much hassle! There are so many Neds T-shirts in Birmingham,
I was so paranoid!"
Nope, this isn't an Emo Phillips-style nightmare with a punchline about
coleslaw. It's real life. Or as close to real life as you can get in
a curry house in downtown Tokyo with a West Midlands quintet whose album
title was Wolverhampton-speak for Good Food and who say 'gargling' instead
of simple old drinking.
"The Japanese don't understand us," decides Mat, clanking
his cutlery. "But no one understands us except in parts. What part
the Japanese do understand is that we're there to catalyse a happy reaction.
They smile, they have fun at the gigs. Our gigs motivate people to enjoy
themselves... even if we're really pissed off!
"I feel misplaced and displaced here here," he frowns, hitting
a more serious note. "The language carrier is so colossal you tend
to perceive people as being very two-dimensional. I don't give a shit
about not being able to speak French or Swedish, but it bothers me here,
because you haven't got a clue: I don't know if when a Japanese smiles
it's the same as when I smile. But it's a good thing as well 'cos it
cushions the culture shock perfectly. All you see is the ideal world,
and nothing looks threatening 'cos the language barrier makes everything
so simple."
What is ironic is that the Neds are over here being feted and pampered
and stuffed full of sushi by the biggest record company in the world,
which just happens to be Japanese. Yet, as every month sees another
Brit act fly into flowers in Tokyo, there isn't a single Japanese act
that could wander down a London street in a G-string and get arrested.
Hell, 1991 is bearing witness to Japanese tours by The Exploited (with
mohican extensions!). Sham 69 and Charged GBH — the home music
scene must be extremely DESPERATE!
"But they're so adaptable," ventures Mat "The Japanese
started the 20th Century 40 years late and because they're such an adaptable
race they caught up and overtook us by taking something, making it their
own and improving it. So in ten years' time Japanese music could be
at the front of the world music scene. I can see it happening 'cos they'll
work harder at it, they'll understand it better and they'll do it better,
like they've done with everything else."
Mat might be right. But, going on the following day's evidence, the
'hard work' will need to be of labour camp proportions. The entourage
heads off to the park down the road, which just so happens to play host
to a weekly music event. Imagine the Sir George Robey organising Reading,
and you might get some idea of what it's like.
All along the park road there are bands spaced ten yards apart. They've
all got vans, the most expensive amps (as good as the hyper-expensive
ones the Neds are hiring), monitors and their own sound desks. Not to
mention at least one crass characteristic along the lines of platform
heels, bondage trousers, terrible axe solos or purple hair. The worst
bands have all of them. I can't watch one of them for more than 30 seconds
without feeling nauseous, mainly because no matter where you stand you'll
hear ten bands simultaneously. All of them being rubbish.
Which, funnily enough, is precisely what Ned's Atomic Dustbin aren't
that night. It's the last show, and a sentimental event where the 'mental'
frequently outweighs the 'senti' several-fold. The Little People bounce
hither and thither like little people who've been locked up in a very
small box for far too long and wriggle on top of each others' heads
with the sense of abandonment that your hack used to experience while
wearing nappies and growing teeth. Condi and Ken Sony are in the moshpit
(next tome, if you must ask) being violent - just like their wholly
unreserved counterparts in Britain - and Mr Very Very Big is tapping
several toes appreciatively.
Jonn now knows roughly four Japanese words and reels them off to massed
shrieks and brilliant (ie absolutely incomprehensible) heckling, and
if you haven't witnessed the staggering sight of 500 Little People leaping
on the spot, punching the air with unbridled abandon and screaming along
to 'Kill Your Television' IN PERFECT UNISON then I'm afraid you weren't
here.
Post-show, as a lackey scrapes chewing gum off the dancefloor with a
nail file, the local business types hold a little shindig, light on
raw fish and heavy on the snivelling-but-genuine gratitude. The Neds
promise to come back next year and look very embarrassed about making
speeches, which is hardly surprising as they're being treated as The
Most Important People On This Side Of The Planet. A feeling promptly
exacerbated by stepping outside into the maelstrom of snap-happy Little
People shrieking like a million skewered cockroaches.
"EEEEEEKKKKKKKK!!!!!!!"
It's somehow fitting that the final social gathering is in a club on
the other side of town. Because it's indie night in a basement that
holds approximately three people (or 150 Little People) and we're on
the other side of the globe listening to Snuff, Carter, Swervedriver,
Teenage Fanclub et al and carving up the dancefloor like there's no
tomorrow. And alternative has never seemed like such an important worldwide
word.
"I don't know if we represent an alternative — I think we
are one," shouts Mat, merrily. "It's like we're not Sweetex
representing a plethora of other sugar alternatives - if there was only
one Sweetex we would be it... especially with the bitter aftertaste!"
Life's a scream.