An Eternal Thought in the Mind of Godzilla: Ass Sashimi

An Eternal Thought in the Mind of Godzilla: Ass Sashimi
Ass Sashimi

The café ESPY (Extra Sensory Perception Youth) in Shimokitazawa. Nice name. Ugly painted walls in yellow, just like all the other franchises here. Potted plant dying across from me. Girl with a bandage and cotton ball taped to her face, dabbing at her cheeks with foundation. They try to pass it off as a deli, and I come in craving pastrami, but all they have is pasta and what’s not pizza – but they call it pizza anyways - on the menu. But I bitch too much. Saving graces and sweet imports on the menu: pints of them and for not too much scratch. Also, we’re near a nondescript apartment block, the best kind. Sure to be a wireless signal here somewhere. Secret acts within four walls. Sure enough, it gets me online. Praying the Bass hasn’t gone skunk before the garlic toast arrives. And it’s not until the second one that I realize it hasn’t happened. Matt Gray should appreciate this. They’re playing Hocus Pocus by Focus on the house stereo.

Two days ago, in a cushy Shibuya noodle shop leeching bandwidth, maybe yours. Light samba with ba-ba-ba vocals swirling around. Who says the kei is passé? Skinny ass Japanese answer to the Olsen twins planted next to me. Flashing Nano and the fake diamonds. Honda-san says over asa gohan: “If she says she wants a Vitton handbag, smack the bitch up.” Next, he explains the particle “de” to me by smashing a cup over my head.

Da Buya: tinkering the opening pages of the Goka Jyu-Pun Senso, a prologue by a happy-sad narrator set in the Meishotai jidai, after they turned Youna into a statue and the Government of Darkness is dealt with. The message comes in from Batty. There’s a Mighty Moguls concert tonight in Shimokitazawa, sharing stage with two other bands - The Neatbeats and The Privates - rounding out the bill.

By the time we get inside, the Mighty are seriously pounding it out. Three chord stupidity: the devil’s music with a wild caveman stomp. A lot of Japanese garage bands do it well enough technically, but tend to play up the vocals. Others merely skip around the edges of real peanut butter R&R. Soul wa ja nai. Not so with Moguls, who jump in wearing tiger print togas screaming, twisting the night away. Duck walk. Ass shaking. Inspirational as always. A trio of dull white guys stand in back, too lame to rock with the rock. Is there a frat nearby? The Animal House would be ashamed.

By two am, the bands are all played out. Time to mix it up. Goodbye Batty and Cherry-san. I’m going to the Prince All Night Dance Party at Loft Plus One. Every one looks at me like I’m nuts. Facial expressions reading, “Prince? You mean that skinny motherfucker with the high voice?”

You’d think people as into black music as they are would get it, but sadly, no. I mean, it should be a fairly short walk from Little Richard to Lovesexy, but turns out the cab from Shimokitazawa to Kabuki-cho is about 2500 yen.

am now too e-wasted to write anymore.