The Concert And The Lavatory

“It’s at one thirty. One thirty. Come. Come.”
“Right. But where is it? Where?”
The boy speedily rattles off the location. It’s a word in Japanese I have never heard before. I look at him confusedly.
“Over here. Over here.” He beckons to me to enter a tiled room. The sign above the door reads “Boys Lavatory.”
I look at him pointedly. “… I don’t think any concerts are going on in THERE.” But I enter anyway and pass the line of urinals as I follow him to the window.
He points down to a small one-room construction. “THERE. It’s going to be there.”

For months I have heard of this band. It’s the talk of the second year students. And now I finally will be able to experience it.

One thirty arrives and I make my way to the building. It’s a tiny little gymnasium room that I have never noticed before out behind the weightlifting room that smells of sweat. Rows and rows of black, worn, loafers are strewn outside. Some have managed to be carefully lined up and placed on the wooden shoe shelves, but in a mad dash to get in, many are scattered about in a haphazard, and very un-Japanese manner.

Girls are crowded around the door, debating whether or not it’s safe to enter. I squeeze past and am greeted with a wave of energetic Japanese pop punk. Four boys are pounding away on the stage. They have all the requirements of a successful pop band: four tall boys with fashionable hair, guitars, drums and a throng of rabid Japanese school girls forming what seems to be a rather violent-looking mosh pit in front of the stage.

The boys are devouring the attention. They smile at the crowd and beckon their extreme fans towards the stage, encouraging them to go crazy on the make-shift dance floor. The lead singer wipes his furrowed brow between songs careful not to mess up his artfully arranged bangs. The sweet-faced guitar player looks angelic as he smiles sweetly at his fans and laughs as their comments and suggestions drift up to him. The bass player rocks his head in passionate unison to the music as though he simply can’t be bothered to even look at the crowd.

I can’t but help thinking that I’ve been transported to a completely different country. It’s high school night at Irving Plaza and the theme is Japan. All the girls come dressed as Japanese high school students. And then, strangely, they begin moshing to Atreyu.

The girls are completely letting loose. Girls who are stoic, pallid, completely defunct and corpse-like in class all of a sudden come to life. Limbs are flying every which way. Jackets are undone and tossed aside. White button up shirts that are usually regimented and monitored are un-tucked and wild a la Tom Cruise in “Risky Business.” There is pushing. There is shoving. The girls bound up and down on the floor with no real direction or goal in mind. Hair flies. Sweat pours. And squeals overtake the room when the band sagely plays a well-known pop song. The nucleus of the throng pulses back and forth through the room as the girls push each other around. One girl goes hurling around a circle, pushing another one and then another one until the dynamic has changed directions.

The boys are all congregated on the right side of the gym. Most of them sit, looking rather bored at the moshing girls drunk on music. Some stand, leaning against the wall too-cool to partake in the activities, or perhaps (rightfully) scared for their lives should they enter. Occasionally one group of boys tries to forsake one of their own by driving one of the weaker looking ones towards the mob of adrenalized girls. More arms thrash about as the victim flails desperately, fearful for his life.

Clusters of students hang back towards the rear of the gym, viewing the ongoing happenings from the safety of their cliques. As a teacher I am torn: Do I play it cool like the uncool chaperoning mother and hang out in the back next to the exit taking pictures that blind everyone with my flash? Or do I inch up towards the band with the possibility that I may, in the near future, be testing out my Japanese health insurance? Given that I had been personally invited by the band and my thirst for live music I opt for choice number two. These boys had often chatted with me in the hallways. They make up about half of the English club in school. Little did I know I had been privileged enough to be selected to converse the school rock stars.

After their set is over the gym lights come back on. Another group takes the stage. Outfitted in Harley Davidson apparel, their guitar strings twisting helter-skelter, coiling away from the neck of their guitars they begin. These are the seniors. The leader singer has a gruff, gnarled voice that sounds as though he has barnacles growing his in esophagus. He rasps his way through the songs until the guitarist takes over with an interesting wailing, lyrically altered rendition of Green Day’s “Wake Me When September Ends.” He then proceeds to Japan’s favorite tune, “Don’t Want To Be An American Idiot.”

I have seen my first Japanese high school mosh pit. It’s a day to remember.

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Published:
11.5.07 / 7pm
Category:
classroom antics, amusing incidents, what i call life