Tasting blood and covered in the sweat of those surrounding me, I delicately extracted myself from being stuck between the legs of my favourite singer. The crowd was pulling him in as the hands of security tried to pull him out. All I was endeavouring to do was ensure that I placed my hands in appropriate, respectful spots. Hard to do when your face is in somebody’s knee pit. I am just glad he had decided on wearing black pants tonight, as I am sure there is a bit of my blood still lingering in the fabric.
It was chaos. Absolute chaos.
Finally, the touring manager launched into action, extracting our dear singer from the clutches of the crowd. A rabid moshpit of adoring fans. This man, who had become an object of worship before us, graced us with his presence by launching himself into our arms a mere minute into playing.
That is the energy I had been craving. At that moment, I was in the thick of it.
There is a legend about Helen of Troy, her face alone being enough to launch a thousand ships. When it comes to the musicians I love, I can almost understand that legend. Even though there is much more nuance to what the story of the Trojan War was about, I am sticking to that correlation because much like her physical beauty, the beauty of a well-crafted song can be enough for me to travel almost 8,000km to hear a man scream at me.
In the past four weeks, I have travelled across Japan to chase the ecstasy of hearing my favourite musicians live. Tokyo to Niigata. Niigata to Fukui. Fukui back to Tokyo. That was just my first week.
I stayed up ’til 6am two weekends in a row. Dropped hundreds of dollars. Tokyo to Shizuoka. Shizuoka to Nara. Nara to Osaka. Osaka back to Tokyo. Next week will be Yokohama.
Business hotels in smaller towns are bewildered by the presence of a blue-haired foreigner. I scrounge for 600 yen so I can pay the drink fee that many live music venues require upon entry. I pack a backpack and setting off on bullet trains, drinking canned coffee and convenience store chicken. I brave storms, push through with broken Japanese. Navigate unfamiliar transport systems. Explore towns in less than 24 hours. It almost feels like I am the one on tour.
This is the Japan I have chosen to partake in: standing in dark rooms with strangers, drinking vodka sodas, breathing in second-hand smoke and screaming at the top of my lungs. A country that offers so much in terms of culture, both contemporary and historical. A place that foodies flock to. Sensory seekers chase like moths to a flame. Snowboarders crave in the winter. Anime fans wax lyrically of.
Travelling for music is not a new phenomenon for me, nor is blowing all my money on concert tickets. The criticism I have faced from peers and those deemed more responsible in life than I have has been immense. I can feel their disapproval as I recount my travels and recite my upcoming plans. Their eyes roll to the side; they bite their tongues, tensing their bodies.
They want to tell me to “be more responsible”. To not waste money on something that “will not help my future”.
On my travels though, I have crossed paths with many people like me. Many of them are women. Our devotion to our favourite bands knows no bounds, at least financial and country borders. Some have relocated purely out of love for the music scene. Australia. France. The USA. England. Spain. We all found ourselves in the same dark rooms, holding and crying with each other over music. Bonding over not just our love for the bands, but the criticism many of us have been subjected to for going to this extent.
Sitting in an izakaya after a show, we draw comparisons between ourselves and our male counterparts. The same men who laugh at us, criticise us for travelling thousands of kilometres for music, will drop everything to travel to attend a sporting event.
How dare we blow hundreds of dollars on attending a festival in another city!
Would it be acceptable if the same band was playing the AFL Grand Final or the Super Bowl halftime show though?
“My ex-boyfriend spent days criticising me for how much I spent going to see DIR EN GREY back in 2014. He’s probably still reeling about it,” I laugh to my dinner companions.
They nod along, knowingly.
When I asked my community online if they ever received criticism for their pursuits of music, I was inundated with stories.
A friend mentioned how people would call her a “groupie”. Another told how her friends and coworkers would give her that subtle shade, expressing their confusion over how she would travel “just” for a band.
Another mentioned how people would criticise her for spending the money: that she should invest it into something “better”.
Her response?
“They don’t understand it’s therapy.”
These moments and conversations are etched in my brain permanently as I travel from city to city meeting the passionate fans of the bands I follow. We may never cross paths again, but in those moments, we become best friends. Whether it is pulling each other to our feet after being knocked down in the mosh pit or sipping lemon sours over dinner after the show.
I tell them about the incident a few weeks before, the bloody lip from my favourite singer. They laugh and we continue to swap battle stories. We show each other our bruises.
“Look at my arm, that’s where I got stuck on the barrier.”
We recount moments from the performance.
“Did you see how he looked at the girl not moving in the front? That staring contest was wild.”
We talk of our hometowns.
“Beer is so much more expensive at home. That’s why it is hard to not drink here in Japan.”
We swap social media handles and promise to keep in touch.
Perhaps we do, perhaps though our only interactions will be liking posts about each other’s travels. Either way, we have formed bonds that nobody outside will understand.
I cannot explain the joy of spending an afternoon being tattooed by somebody I met through a band, gushing about our favourite members and concert moments. Of going from being internet friends with someone who helps me buy tickets, to then be leaning over their bathtub as they dye my hair a few months later.
Nights out in Shinjuku as we stumble, drunk on chuhai from the convenience store, finding refuge in a coin laundry to have the most deep and meaningful conversations.
Without our silly little bands, we would not have found each other. Kindred spirits, travelling through life working towards buying our next concert tickets.
As I pack my backpack to set off to another live music venue I have yet to visit in a town I have never been to, I count my yen and sigh. My bank account may never recover from the damage, but like many people I have spoken to who are on a similar journey to me, there are no regrets.
The cost of travelling to a foreign country to see your favourite bands? Thousands of dollars.
The feeling of standing in the pit as the band starts, surrounded by people with the same fire in their hearts?
Absolutely fucking priceless.
Cover by Takashi Konuma, inset by author