Part 1: And They Were All Yellow
Japan has always held a mean hold on my heart. Mythical in its pop culture influence, which has swayed this young gentleman since childhood, it is placed in my personal strata of Untouchable Coolness shared only by England and New York City. Though certain 20th century historical events tend to interfere with my complete, guilt-free devotion to all things Japanese, I still love Japan.
On my two previous outings to Nippon, both experiences were vastly different. In 2002, I visited the Southern island of Okinawa with my fellow exchange students studying abroad with me in Taiwan. A few friends from our group were from Okinawa, so we were lucky to have free housing, tour guides and drivers. Hardly a harrowing experience. In addition, the overwhelming (and unwanted) presence of all the Americans stationed at the US military base gave Okinawa a weird Bizzaro-Hawaii feeling, like parts of the island were stuck in 1950s small town America. So one minute, we're enjoying burgers at an authentic drive-in joint serviced by waitresses on roller skates, next minute we're downing sake and sashimi on a tatami mat. In fact, many young Okinawans don't even consider themselves real "Japanese" (history here and here). Though it was my first foray into the country, it didn't feel quite "Japanese" enough, like going to Hong Kong and expecting the mainland. It's just different.
In 2006, some friends and I made a pilgrimage to Tokyo to catch U2 on their Vertigo World Tour. Emerging for the first time onto the streets of downtown, I was immediately thrust into a scene from Lost In Translation: salarymen, cosplay freaks, punks, fashionistas, obasans and a whole load of neon. It was glorious sensory overload. Everything I had hoped to experience from the Japan-in-my-dreams was true and right in front of me. However, due to language barriers and slight cultural differences, I felt like a complete buffoon. Without the ability to intelligently communicate, I was reduced to hand signaling, lots of pointing, one or two butchered Japanese phrases and a permanent smile - aimed to be friendly but actually beseeching the locals to pity me - plastered on my face. This was worse than Okinawa (but far better than interacting with the French on their home turf). Here, we were on our own without a local friend to hold our hands. Yet despite the difficulties, it was still one of the most rewarding travel experiences I've ever had.
On this most recent trip, I was slightly more confident, having full knowledge of what I was up against and sure I'd have at least one hilarious cultural faux pas story to bring back to Shanghai. I still wasn't looking forward to all the sign language and broken "arigato"s, but if there was one surefire cure for the anxiety, it comes in the package of four lads from London playing big arena (soft) rock.
Ah, Coldplay, the band that captured my heart in 2001 and hasn't returned it since, whose albums have soundtracked all the ups and downs of my heretofore adult life. This would be the second time in 3 years that I'd fly overseas to see them (and my third show of theirs, overall), which is more effort than my favorite band - nine inch nails - ever received (up to this point, at least... Taipei '09!!!). But this Coldplay show was even more special than any display of fandom could describe.
If you recall a little incident from June 2008, wherein my partner in crime and I were prevented from seeing Coldplay at London's Brixton Academy, you may remember the extreme disappointment and hopelessness that we felt, standing outside the venue with nothing to do but curse fate and our bad luck. And shady scalping wankers. It may seem foolish on the surface, but we had been waiting for years for that opportunity, which once again slipped through our fingers. Let me explain.
In 2002, at the start of our friendship, Sandra and I discovered that we both had an unhealthy obsession for Coldplay. That year, we missed the Rush of Blood Tour and made an impromptu promise that we'd eventually see them together. After graduation, years passed without much contact. In 2006, weeks after I saw Coldplay in Singapore with my fellow Coldplay superfan from North Africa, I flew to Taiwan to visit relatives and we got reconnected. Upon finding out I had seen the band mere weeks before (and punching me playfully in the arm), we promised that next time Coldplay were in Asia, we had to go with one another. Three years, Muse in Taipei, Radiohead in London, and one failed attempt later, Coldplay announced the Asian leg of their Viva La Vida world tour. Emotional confetti was not the only thing exploding inside me when I received the news.
Booking through the friend of a friend in a complicated presale lottery, I scored a pair of "Standing" area tickets for the February 14 show in Osaka. Everything was perfect. I was elated. Not only would we see our band on such a special day, it would be amongst the sweaty throngs of Japanese youth on the floor of the arena with us. And the three months of waiting began.
Part 2: Where Do We Go, Nobody Knows
Although on all internet sites (even Coldplay.com), the concert was listed as being in Osaka, it was actually in Kobe. Not a bit misleading at all. However, I was all-too-happy to add another destination to the itinerary. On this trip, I finagled a few vacation days to expand my journey to a full 5 days, so I also added Kyoto to the mix. Thus, over one very long weekend, I would blow wads of money in the food and shopping mecca of Osaka; sample the world's best beef in Kobe; and drown in the ancient riches of the old capital city, Kyoto. The Kansai region of Japan boasts such an impressive amount of cultural firepower in a very concentrated area (Osaka, Kobe, Kyoto, Hiroshima, Himeji) that you could spend months here and still have items remaining on your checklist.
See what I told you? It's awesome.On the first day, we met up at Kansai International Airport, having flown from Taipei and Shanghai separately. Customs and immigration were a breeze, the layout of the building was not confusing at all. The pure sense and order were so refreshing, considering just a few hours before I had been in chaotic China. In fact, the airport is one of the coolest I've ever been to. Though nothing can compete with Singapore's Changi Wonderland, you might as well forget about the rest of the world's airports. Does your favorite airport have a Starbucks AND a Uniqlo? I didn't think so.
At our designated meeting spot, I was momentarily panicked because she was nowhere in sight. Then, from the airport intercom, a barely audible announcement: "Mistah Niiii-ru Yang-san, yoru fwlend is-a waiting [incomprehensible]." I thought I heard my name, but in the broken English, I honestly thought it was just something in Japanese. It ran a few more times, but I was none the wiser. My heightened panic disappeared when she popped out of customs, detained because I failed to give her our hotel address beforehand, forcing her to concoct a hotel locale on the spot. Oops! Crisis averted, we now faced the daunting task of getting into town.
From the airport to downtown Osaka, the most convenient mode of transport is by the "limousine bus" service, which costs 1500 JPY one way, cheaper if you buy a round-trip ticket (2700 JPY). Subway and express train also offer their services, but the bus remains affordable and you can catch a glimpse of Osaka Bay as you make your way into the heart of the city. It wasn't very difficult for us to find the bus, though there are three Kansai airport employees still wondering about my mental condition who may beg to differ, after I inexplicably accosted them in broken Mandarin. They all look the same, eh? This was going to be a long trip...
Osaka BayPlopping down on the clean, fresh-smelling and entirely phlegm-free seats, I was excited. The television screen at the front of the bus had every important notice and announcement in clear English, which did wonders for my anxiety. So far, communicating with locals was easy, no matter how foolish I looked with my arms waving around and all the sumimasens and arigato gozaimasus. Everything seemed to make sense. So far, so good.
Pulling in to the New Hankyu Hotel in the heart of Umeda district, we were thrust into the thick of afternoon pedestrian traffic. With armies of people zipping around us, robotic in their precision and stride, it was briefly disconcerting. Then, diving headlong into the flow of bodies, we descended the nearest staircase and entered the maze of tunnels in search of the subway.
Osaka is famous for its underground. However, while their subway system is indeed convenient, that isn't the only thing below street level. Osaka's underground malls are some of the largest in the world, some spanning the length of multiple city blocks and interconnecting with subway stations and basement access to the towering skyscrapers that cover the metropolis. Combined with the covered pedestrian shopping streets above ground, you could potentially spend an entire day without an ounce of sunlight. Perfect for rainy days, as we would learn that night.
In the subterranean labyrinth below Umeda, lesser warriors might break down in the face of all the confusion. If you've been to Tokyo, you are aware of the mayhem. In Japan, subway and railway lines are all interconnected, creating a massive web of tracks that can take you all over the country. Each line is owned by a different entity, whether it's the city metro or one of the Japan Railway (JR) branches, which require separate tickets from separate kiosks from separate sections of an already sprawling station. Once you get the hang of it, it all makes sense. But for first-timers (or second- and third-timers...), it is extremely daunting. Following the signs as best we could - and Sandra taking her turn with inexplicable language flubs while asking directions in British-accented English (what is wrong with us?!) - we finally found the correct subway line. Now the only problem was how to buy a ticket.
Now, I'm aware that what follows might mark me as some simpleton who lacks common sense and wits. But I tell you, buying a train ticket in Japan is a pain in the ass. Almost as bad as buying a stupid Charlie Card in Boston, but not really (Charlie takes the cake for sheer idiocy). It took us a few tries to get it, harassing countless dumbfounded Japanese who tried their best to help us, so let me just save you some time:
1. Find your stop on the colorful map on the wall.
2. Disregard all of the Japanese scribble on the ticket-kiosk screen.
3. Dump sufficient funds into the little money-hole on the machine.
4. Press the red button flashing your desired fee amount.
5. Take ticket and any change you may have coming to you.
6. Exhale.
Even the Coldplay puppets know how to buy a subway ticket...I have no idea why there is a bunch of writing on the screens that only serve to confuse a new user. Pressing "English" didn't do much; it just made me even more frustrated that I couldn't understand this machine in my native tongue. Just toss in that money and get your ticket, simple as that. Hopefully I remember this on my next trip, because I don't want to waste any more time figuring out something so obvious.
On the subway car, it was bliss. Granted, these are the same folks that employ people-pushers to cram passengers onto crowded trains during rush hour. But unlike the daily apocalypse that we experience on the Shanghai subway, everything here is so orderly. Train stops. Door opens. People slowly get off. People slowly get on. Door shuts. Train goes. Life continues. None of this pushing and shoving and little kids and old women getting trampled under hundreds of stinky, unwashed feet. No invasion of personal bubble space with foul halitosis and rugby-style scrumming. No tears of frustration, cries of anguish, passive-aggressive low blows to the idiot that just stepped on your new shoes in his frenzied attempt to catch that one empty seat. I was actually enjoying this foray into public transportation. I daresay it was relaxing. And I didn't even get molested by a salaryman!
The Women Only subway cars were created to keep them safe from molesting salarymen. Genius.
Emerging from the bowels of Osaka, I thought I was in New York City. Tall and stately concrete buildings, grand and imposing in their classic style, with tree-lined sidewalks and manageable clumps of impeccably dressed pedestrians. The grid-layout of the streets made it even more inviting. I thought this would be a breeze. So, 4-blocks-south-3-blocks-east and we were....lost.
I couldn't figure out what went wrong, and in typical guy fashion, refused to ask for directions because A.) It's embarrassing; B.) How could I communicate with a local anyway?; C.) Hurts the pride, folks, hurts the pride. So, lest we waste all day watching Neil look around aimlessly for street signs that don't exist, Sandra popped into a nearby flower shop to see if the poor shop keep could decipher our map. Luckily, she had a handy printout of the area (note to self: flower shops have delivery service that requires knowledge of local environs. Genius!) and pointed us toward the right spot, which we had passed long, long ago.
Backtracking through the patchwork weave of one-way lanes, I noticed an unhealthy abundance of karaoke bars and signs with scantily-clad Japanese girls crawling over each other with squinty come-hither eyes. More than a few times, we were accosted by eager, yet polite, young people offering us special discounts on karaoke rooms and lady friends. Tempting indeed, but I was not to be distracted so early in the game. Barreling forth, we finally found our hotel. [To sate your curiosity, it was actually 2-blocks-south-2-blocks-east.]
Comfort Hotel
1-15-15, HIGASHI-SHINSAIBASHI,
CHUO-KU, OSAKA, OSAKA 542-0083, JAPAN
Part 3: They're Talking In A Language I Don't Speak
Dumping our luggage and making ourselves pretty for the sidewalk fashion show about to commence, we could finally see Osaka with undivided attention. Apologies to Tokyo, but the energy and surroundings of Osaka were more my cup of tea. Though I've already compared it to the Big Apple, Osaka is more like the Boston to Toyko's Manhattan: humble and hearty citizens, proud of their city and culture, and almost as maniacal for their Hanshin Tigers as Bostonians are for the Sox (they even believe in retarded curses!). By American standards, the streets were still packed, but it wasn't too obscene. It also wasn't as noisy and the streetside pace not as lightspeed as in Tokyo. In a strange way, it was rejuvenating.
Shinsaibashi Shopping StreetUnfortunately, due to one bastard boss, I would be flying solo for 3/5 of this trip, making this the only night available for team shopping. This was a crushing disappointment, but I had to focus. We had both left our respective jobs and flown all the way to Japan for Coldplay, slated to be the best concert ever. But before turning to soft putty in Chris Martin's hands, we had some serious retail therapy to attend to. Why hasn't Sophie Kinsella written a Shopaholic in Osaka book yet?
Objective 1: Uniqlo.
Objective 2: Cosmetics, sundries, toiletries.
Objective 3: Snack foods.
It was quite simple, actually. Genius that I am, I picked a hotel that was conveniently located about one block from Shinsaibashi pedestrian shopping lane. Numerous chemist shops (think Boots, CVS or Watson's, but filled with Japanese goodies) dotted the street, making it true one-stop shopping. Stepping foot into the massive four-floor Uniqlo (swoon!), I felt momentarily light-headed. Partially due to the increased selection, but primarily because I hadn't eaten all day.
Across the street at an affordable fast food joint, we tried our hand at ordering. To my happy surprise, this is criminally easy in Japan.
1. Acquire menu.
2. Find dish to your liking.
3. Point at it.
4. Pay.
5. Nod your head a bunch of times to denote "thanks."
6. Enjoy.
Tray in hand, I ordered a bowl of udon and a small plate of chicken curry. All for less than 5 USD. Free flow tea and piles of pickled radish were tiny comforts as I wolfed down my food, carbing up for maximum energy to help fuel the forthcoming shopping cardio workout.
Back in Uniqlo, I was momentarily tempted to create a makeshift fort in a dark corner of the store where I could live forever. The Phantom of the Uniqlo. That sleek black trenchcoat could be stretched open as my roof, a pile of ankle-cut socks as my walls, maybe some colorful jeans braided together for decoration. Oh, that denim. The new Spring line had just hit the shelves and I almost went into a diabetic coma from all the sweet, candy-colored hues of jeans, shirts and hoodies that were calling my name. With a steady mix of Rihanna, T.I., MGMT, Britney and Radiohead pumping through the speakers, I honestly couldn't have been happier. And the sales. Oh, the sales... I felt like that proverbial kid in the friggin' candy store, gah! Making quick judgment from what I saw, green and purple are in this year, as are Easter egg pastels. Jeans and khakis are also going to see plenty of cuff-rolling, with boat shoes coming back in full force. I knew it was coming, but never thought it'd be so soon: return of the 80s, baby. My brain went into mix-and-match overload at all the possibilities I had missed out on in my poorer, younger years growing up in the MTV generation. Start buying stock in Hypercolor. It's all coming back!
Paradise, Thy Name Is Uniqlo!
Captures the sentiment nicely...Next on the list, the daily sundries. Japanese face wash, Japanese vitamins, Japanese mini-inventions that you never thought you needed but make your life so easy. Japanese candy and snacks, funny drinks in colorful bottles. Stationary, glorious stationary. It had started drizzling, so those ubiquitous clear plastic umbrellas were in piles outside the shops. Too bad I didn't have any check-in luggage, as I was half-tempted to snatch up an armful of these babies for stockpiling purposes.
Follow The Yellow Neon RoadWhile Sandra went on a cosmetics hunt with a wishlist of requests from half the female population of Taipei, I wandered around outside. Much like NYC, people watching in Japan is awesome. There are so many freaks and should-be models walking around that I was having trouble processing it all. Red-mohawk with 5-inch shit-kicker Doc Martens dude, little schoolgirls with heavy goth makeup and chunky radish calves, gaggles of white-eyeliner chicks with tanned skin and bleach-blonde hair, painfully cool hipsters in the latest fashion combinations and everpresent Chuck Taylors. Even the salarymen in their pressed bespoke suits, sleek black trenchcoats and impeccably shined leather shoes looked good without even trying. I know I may have made fleeting mention that Londoners were the pinnacle of cool fashion, but I retract that statement. So Summer '08. Everyone in Japan looks so good it hurts. Even the little kids dress better than me. And that is no lie.
Little Bitch Be Stylin'
Style Police Say These Dudes Are Not Stylish EnoughAs I admired the local style, a familiar siren called out to me from across a herd of obnoxious Chinese tourists. No, not the Starbucks mermaid (I'll succumb to her later, be patient): new shoes. The latest styles. On sale. She sang to me and I could not resist. Though I was weighed down with approximately fifty pounds of shopping bags, I floated like a cloud to the footwear mecca across the walkway. Luckily my hands were filled, because the overwhelming selection of Converse that I had never seen before nearly threw me into a shoe-grabbing frenzy. Every brand imaginable, the latest lines. Prices be damned, I wouldn't be seeing these puppies ever again. Especially not in China. As my wide-eyes passed over each specimen, I spied a beautiful red speck on a faraway wall display. Again, drifting over like I was under a spell, I came face to face with a pair of Vans chukka boots in wine-red suede and leather with cream-colored laces and leather trim. I admit, I almost shat myself. Looking at the price tag, I had to take a big gulp and force down whatever shopper's guilt that was about to spew forth into my consciousness, preventing me from another conquest. But, when you know, you know: these shoes were going to be mine by the end of this trip.
Tearing myself away from my new loves, I hurried back to find Sandra, unaware that a substantial amount of time had passed while I was under my shoe-spell. Luckily she was just wrapping up. As we passed the sneaker store, I stopped in my tracks and simply pointed towards my would-be new shoes. Without a word of persuasion on my part, she saw them and nodded. "Nice." That was more than enough to assuage the guilt that was sure to arise from my coming expenditure. Target locked. I'll be back.
I'll Get These On The Next Trip...After a few hours of straight shopping, we needed to refuel again. I had read from multiple sources that the Crysta Underground Mall was possibly the most impressive example of Osakan subterranean goodness, so we gave the Dotonbori area a miss for what should have been a surperior experience. I learned that it is impossible to always make the right decision. Note to potential Osaka travelers: go straight to Dotonbori and enjoy the mess of neon, street food, Pachinko arcades, karaoke bars, bustling crowds and affordable souvenir shops. Say hi to the kuidaore clown, if you can.
Dotonbori
Crysta Underground Mall is indeed impressive, spanning the length of a few city blocks and housing so many shops and restaurants that you lose track of them all as they blur into the horizon. The problem? It was practically empty. On a Friday night? Confused, we pressed forth for dinner since we had already come all this way and were literally about to faint from shopping exhaustion. Perhaps because the end result was so disappointing, dinner was a little lackluster. Filling and tasty, but surrounded by downtrodden Japanese folk that looked like they had just got out of work (and it was after 9pm), it was depressing. If it weren't for the chorus of noodle-slurping, it would have been dead silent throughout the mall. No matter, we were exhausted and had a hell of a day ahead.
Part 4: Such A Perfect Day
The day was finally upon us. Our battle plan:
1. Wake up early.
2. Catch the train from Osaka to Kobe.
3. Eat a quick Kobe beef lunch.
4. Queue for an ungodly amount of time.
5. Be first in line for the floor and close enough to get sweat on by Chris Martin.
6. Lose mind for approximately 1.5 hours.
7. Remember it forever.
It was foolproof! We already had our "Standing" area tickets, so we were that much closer to the aforementioned love shower- care of Mr. Paltrow. Now, we just needed public transport time schedules to magically align for us and we'd be right as rain.
Osaka-Kobe
Mere seconds before I snapped this, he was looking at a page with a full-frontal shot of some lady with bare boobs and snatch. Filthy bugger!Kobe, home to one of the world's most famous pieces of non-NBA meat, was dazzling in the midday sun. I don't know who was working the meteorological forecast station for weather.com the day I was packing for this trip, but there wasn't a drop of rain to be seen for miles. In fact, it was so hot that I stripped down to my t-shirt for the remainder of the day. It was beautiful, foreboding amazing things for the evening ahead. But first, lunch.
Kobe beef, which is actually just the Kobe-area variety of the larger Wagyu breed of cattle, is characterized by its awesome flavor, crazy juiciness, and tender consistency. In the past, the pieces of Wagyu that I've tried were good, but nothing to warrant the kind of euphoric praise that is heaped upon the Kobe. In Shanghai, T8 does a good Wagyu, but even that doesn't justify the price tag. I wanted to see if it was really worth all the fuss.
A knowledgeable trip adviser told me to drop by Steakland, one of the many Kobe beef joints in a confusing sea of restaurants surrounding Kobe's Sannomiya station. We made one enormous circle in our desperate attempt to find a place whose location, provided by my pal, was "Steakland. 5 minutes from Sannomiya." I know I should have asked "Thank you, thank you... little more specific?" for even a minor bit of help, but the thought of all that buttery flesh clouded my better senses. From an adorably wrinkly old bakery obasan to a pair of young, sexy Century 21 real estate agents, Sandra took the reins and interrogated enough locals in the general radius to finally get us in the right direction. Passing a porn shop owned by a toadish looking hag (see abundant sexiness below), we arrived on a street directly adjacent to the station. Had we taken this exit instead of the other, Steakland really would have been "5 minutes from Sannomiya" - it was right across the street.
Porn Obasan Wants YOU
STEAKLAND!
Steakland's Orgasmic Set Menu From Paradise, ~3000 Yen:
-eight (8) pieces of thick, succulent Kobe beef
-stir fried bean sprouts and crunchy cabbage
-deep friend garlic chips
-miso soup
-Japanese green salad
-bowl of white rice
-plate of pickles
-coffee/juice/water
-eight (8) pieces of thick, succulent Kobe beef
-stir fried bean sprouts and crunchy cabbage
-deep friend garlic chips
-miso soup
-Japanese green salad
-bowl of white rice
-plate of pickles
-coffee/juice/water
To anyone with teppanyaki experience, this should seem pretty standard. Without all the clown tricks and knife tossing that accompanies US teppanyaki joints, it took mere minutes to prepare everything. I admit, my hunger made me a little too excited to see this spread. But when that Kobe beef hit my plate and I took the first bite, I swear I saw stars.
Sensei Rocks The HouseBehold Your New God:
We slowly stumbled from Steakland in a daze that usually accompanies a particularly potent happy hour or a visit to your neighborhood supermodel brothel. The protein high was still clouding my brain and I was drunk on beef. I entertained notions of returning for more after the concert, but decided that this singular experience was best left untarnished by a potentially less-orgasmic second go-round. Now it was time to get serious. Time to start queuing.
Upon searching for the concert venue on Google, nothing substantial came up. You would assume that there would be something in English for the potential English-speaking concertgoers' benefit, but nothing. Stupid Neil should not make so many cultural assumptions, but it seemed pretty basic to me. Searching in Japanese, I took a guess at some links and finally found Kobe Kinen World Hall's homepage. Entirely in Japanese. Thank God for Chinese characters. On their site, the information was still insufficient. Directions, please? Despite it all, I managed to coddle together an idea of how to get there. The rest would have to rely on luck and friendly locals.
From Sannomiya, we took the Port Line (which terminates at the Kobe airport) a few stops south to the People's Square area. Unlike the typical People's Square areas in China, this was deserted. Save for one or two guards in pressed blue uniforms, it was quiet enough to hear the distant ship horns at Kobe port. From the metro station, we could clearly see the arena, a mere stroll from where we were standing. With about 5 hours to go until showtime, we were guaranteed to be at the head of the line and that much closer to Coldplay. But you didn't think it would be smooth sailing forever, did you? Let the headaches commence.
Kobe Kinen World HallSigns on the way to the arena - again, all in Japanese - directed patrons in section A and B to two different points for queuing. Odd, I wondered, what about those in the other sections, such as those of us in section C? *Cue ominous fright music* Thinking little of it, we walked to the gates of the arena and saw one equally crazy fan already waiting. Plopping down next to him, we got ready for the long and arduous wait.
Dedication.An uncomfortable silence hung over our makeshift threesome, so we tried to talk to the guy. Luckily, he spoke some English. In fact, he told us he studied English at university. However, after a few sentences back and forth, I decided that someone needed to fire his professor because they were doing a terrible job. Nonetheless, we could communicate well enough and wiled the time away by chatting about music and concerts. As it turned out, he was also in attendance at the same U2 show I went to in 2006. Fancy that.
Before an hour passed, my anal-retentive worrying got the best of me and I had to solve the mystery of A- and B-section. Our friend had a section A ticket, so the two section C tickets in my hand were starting to feel a little suspect. With a furrowed brow and nervous feeling, I got up from the hot brick walkway and tried to find someone who could help. Nearby, I found a pair of distinctly un-Japanese looking girls who were also hanging around with confused expressions. I ran over to see if they knew anything. Turns out they were from Guam, and like us, were crazy enough to fly to Japan just for a Coldplay show. Their tickets, also "Standing" area, were in section I. Equally confused, we decided to join forces in our quest to get to the bottom of the ticket mystery, splitting up to cover as much ground as possible.
Walking around the deserted wasteland of brick and concrete, the first event staff that I found did not speak a word of English. This was expected. So I showed him my ticket and made the universal palms-up, shoulders-hunched "HRMM???" motion. He made a perplexed expression that did not give me much hope. Giving me the "hold on" finger, he ran off to check with a colleague. From where I was standing, his colleague gave him the same palms-up, shoulders-hunched motion, except this time it denoted "meh, I dunno." Things were not looking good.
Around the corner, I almost started to weep with joy. At the steps to the lower entrance, I saw a fat black lady smoking a cigarette. If Japanese was the only language she spoke, may God have poked my eyes out with a burning metal rod. When I reached her, breathless and with the stupidest of grins on my face, I asked her if she knew about the seating arrangements. Unfortunately, she didn't have a clue. But she could find someone who did. Someone who spoke English. Praise Jesus.
A few minutes later, a really large Japanese dude lumbered towards me with a seating chart printout. The Guam chicks had found me just in time to hear the news. We exchanged greetings and he asked to see our tickets. I handed them over and, upon seeing his expression, I tell you my balls nearly dropped out of my pants leg. "Tsk, tsk, hmmm, you are actually in this area," pointing to a section so faraway from where we were supposed to be that I let out an inadvertent whimper.
Section C was located in the middle of the arena, nearly halfway between the stage and the back wall. And it was all seats. I looked up at him and "You can't be serious." With an apologetically nervous laugh, he told me that "Standing" in Japan actually meant "Sitting in seats," whereas "Arena" tickets were the ones on the floor near the stage that we had expected. To be completely honest, I felt like someone just set a box of newborn puppies and kittens on fire right before my eyes.
Slowly walking back to Sandra, who had already stood up to receive whatever update I had, I frantically thought of how to break the news to her. Though I've seen Coldplay twice before, this would be her first time and I wanted it to be absolutely perfect for her. We had flown all the way to Japan on a perfectly timed weekend (see: Valentine's Day) to scream and swoon for our band from where God intends all bands to be seen: the pit. My face gave it all away. "What's wrong?"
After the debriefing, she looked a little shell-shocked. We had been disappointed before in London, but twice would have been too much to handle before leaping off the nearest bashi. Thankfully there were no firearms handy, otherwise one of us was going down for the count. On the bright side, we were still going to see Coldplay. But it didn't feel the same. In a mad flurry of brainstorming, we settled on a scheme of options:
A.) Go for broke and buy another pair of section A tickets from the box office.
B.) If A failed, try to buy section A tickets from scalpers, whether we could get anything for our crappy C section tickets or not.
C.) If A or B failed, just be happy that we even had tickets.
There was still over an hour before the box office opened, so our only hope was to just wait anxiously whilst stewing in our own impatient juices.
One hour before doors opened, the upper deck box office was ready to sell whatever was left. I bounded up the stairs and past a group of people being led by arena staff to will call. No one was getting in front of me, manners be damned. At the box office and out of breath, I asked if there were any A tickets. "Solly, no. But-a we still havu B-sekshun!" @!&!$&*% Option A out of the question, I slowly backed away and gathered my bearings for the headache that would accompany Option B. Face in hand, I heard a pitter-patter coming up behind me. Panting, Sandra had run to stop me from buying anything else. Pointing to the ranks that I noticed were slowly forming around me, she told me that even those in section A were being grouped into separate lines, entering in a staggered order. So it was clear: no matter how long you queued, there was a procedure in place that made it completely useless. No wonder there was nobody in line hours before. Unlike in the US, where it's first come, first served, order in Japan was so strict that even "general admission" had rules.
With that realization, option B was tossed out the window and we accepted our fates and option C. We said our goodbyes to our Japanese friend (who was in the first section of the section A phalanx, lucky man) and went to grab a bite to eat. With designated seats, we could enter just minutes before showtime.
The mood was grim. We tried to think on the bright side and, for the most part, it worked. We had made every attempt to get where we wanted to be (short of selling our bodies), but it was not meant to be. Even if we had snatched up section A tickets, they wouldn't have been in the front area of section A, as those were clearly sold out long ago. Slurping down instant noodles on a bench inside a nearby Lawson's convenience store, we patiently waited.
Inside the arena, smoke machines had pumped out enough mist to make the lobby as foggy as a college dormitory on a weekend evening. Weaving our way through the crowd, we entered the arena. Section C was not as bad as it looked on paper, but we were still quite far away. Chris Martin would be about the size of my thumbnail from where we sat. I hadn't been in a seated section at a non-China concert in a very long time, so I forgot how nice it was to actually sit while we waited for the band to come out. The arena was filling quickly and it was obvious that it was a sell-out. There would be a second show the following night, so I assume there was high demand.
Ample CrowdThen, right in front of us, I spotted the most glorious vision: a square stage, small and unassuming, was hidden right in plain sight, mere yards before our seats. My mouth dropped and I think I may have whooped with joy. At that point, I would have bet my left hand that Coldplay would be performing their unplugged session from that tiny block. What incredible luck.
SCORE!Before Coldplay took the stage, we were forced to bear one of the more excrutiating opening acts that I've ever seen in my life, an electronic duo that accompanied their Bjork-lite instrumental crap with tripped out animation on giant projector screens. Once they finished punishing us, the house lights came back on and the glorious thud of Jay-Z's "Give It To Me" pumped from the speakers. Then, the familiar tune Strauss' Blue Danube twinkled from the PA. Like hearing the first chords of "The Ecstasy of Gold" at a Metallica show, all the fans in the room knew that we were seconds away from the main event. And thus, the house lights dropped to the deafening cries of a packed arena.
In the darkness and frenzied chaos, I peered over to the Japanese chap sitting next to me. I intended to ask permission whether it was OK for me to stand, fearing I might have blocked his view. In the simplest of queries, I pointed to myself and asked, "I stand-o, OK?" which I think he took as a command, because he immediately grabbed his girlfriend's arm and, yanking her up with a nervous expression, ordered her to also "stand-o, stand-o!" All the better. Pretty soon, our entire section was on its feet ("Standing", ha!, now I get it...shoot me), just in time for the opening jangle of the uplifting "Life in Technicolor."
The show was amazing. With four albums under their belts now, Coldplay have a deep pool of songs they can pick and choose from. Their latest, Viva La Vida, got the most love, while first album, Parachutes, only contributed one hit. They are clearly comfortable in their position as a dominant arena rock band now, as evidenced by the superb stage layout designed for maximum interactivity. Huge orbs hanging from the stage and towards the rear of the arena projected real-time video of the band members, strange satellites that brought us closer to the guys. Two catwalks extended into the area reserved for those lucky "Arena" bastards, while those of us in the back had the luxury of hi-def projection screens that flanked the stage. The simple technical effects were also executed perfectly, hitting that emotional mark between ineffable joy and manic bliss: a blizzard of paper butterflies fluttering from the rafters during "Lovers In Japan"; blinding lasers blasting forth during "Clocks"; and their trademark giant, confetti-filled balloons bouncing en masse into the audience during "Yellow."
Helium Bliss
Best Medley Ever
Chris Martin = Showboating Ham
Bless you, mini stage, bless you...
Coldplay, Live in Kobe, February 14, 2009:1. Life in Technicolor i
2. Violet Hill
3. Clocks
4. In My Place
5. Speed of Sound
6. Yellow
7. Chinese Sleep Chant
8. 42
9. Fix You
10. Strawberry Swing
11. God Put A Smile Upon Your Face
12. Talk
13. Hardest Part
14. Postcards From Far Away
15. Viva La Vida
16. Lost!
17. Green Eyes
18. Death Will Never Conquer
19. Viva La Vida (Thin White Duke Remix) Interlude
20. Politik
21. Lovers In Japan
22. Death and All His Friends
23. The Escapist
24. The Scientist
25. Life in Technicolor ii
