The Tune in Tokyo: And the Curious Appeal of a Thing Called X-Japan

I don't know which part of this tale is the most absurd. It could be the fact that this is the third night in a row that I find myself among 55,000 screaming, crying, hyperventilating Japanese people. It could be that the crowd has no problem filling the requisite 25 minutes in between songs by singing the same broken English refrain over and over while the band “regroups” offstage. Maybe it’s the envelope full of yen I received upon check-in at the luxury hotel, or the first-class plane ticket booked mere days in advance by a mysterious stranger on the other end of the ocean. But it’s probably the fact that I’m even in Tokyo at all, witnessing the biggest music event in Japanese history—when, until about a week ago, I had never heard of X-Japan. And until you read that last sentence, neither had you.

X-Japan was one of the biggest bands in southeast Asia from the late ’80s—bursting upon Japan’s power metal scene with a song called “I’ll Kill You”—until the late ’90s, when it disbanded because of the singer’s alleged involvement with a cult. It has sold over 20 million records to date, and its surviving members (the lead guitarist died in 1998) cannot walk down a public street in Tokyo for fear of being mobbed. When it was announced this winter that X-Japan would be reuniting for two nights at the Tokyo Dome, Japan’s largest concert facility, tickets sold out so quickly that a third night was immediately added. It’s like Beatlemania, except more Yoko than John.

To celebrate this historic occasion, and, as I soon learned, to feed the band’s Asia-sized ego, a cluster of international music industry folk were flown to Tokyo (presumably out of the band’s own bottomless pocket) to witness the reunion of a group that, as I also learned, means nothing to any of us. We were told an itinerary would be waiting for us in our rooms; said schedule consisted only of three concert tickets, one for each show, dramatically named “Night of Destruction,” “Night of Madness” and, ultimately, “Night of Creation.” The only thing missing would be the four horsemen riding amidst a swarm of apocalyptic locusts.

Well before 9 a.m. on the day of the first show, a line formed outside the Tokyo Dome that snaked around the entire city block-sized complex; this was the merch line, which would be packed with over 100 yards of fans continuously for three days straight and would sell over 2 million dollars’ worth of X-Japan gear per day. No wonder we flew first class.

While waiting for the show to start (due to “technical problems,” it began a full two hours late), I learned that the band was a “Visual Kei” pioneer, which means it helped start the Japanese metal trend of glam, make-up, and Goth—basically The Cure meets Kiss, but, you know…shorter. Thousands of fans, from 40-something moms wearing nostalgia on their sleeves to peace-sign flashing teens beyond stoked to finally have the chance to buy an authentic X-Japan T-shirt, were dressed in the full ’80s regalia of their heroes, replete with giant red wigs, and looked very much like albino troll dolls, right down to the ecstatic perma-grins on each and every face. The majority were dressed specifically like Hide (pronounced “HEE-day”), the deceased guitarist; these shows were taking place a month prior to what would be the 10-year anniversary of his “accidental death,” as it’s referred to in Tokyo. When the show finally began, with a series of pyrotechnic explosions and full-on weeping from the over-30 crowd, my first count revealed five members on stage—but, squinting, I realized that the guitar player at stage left was actually a video screen broadcasting a synched-up image of the dead Hide himself, accompanied by live offstage guitar. I later learned that these parts were coming from none other than Limp Bizkit’s Wes Borland.

Without a real frame of reference for normal Japanese rock bands, it’s hard not to objectify X-Japan as, to put it kindly, a bit over the top. Toshi, the singer, looks more like he idolizes Bono than Heaven’s Gate, and the flesh-and-blood guitarist, Pata, looks like Jimmy Page, complete with the Les Paul. Throughout the three nights, drummer/keyboardist Yoshi spent almost as much time falling dramatically on the stage to soak up the adoration as he did behind the kit. In the middle of night two, during a 20-minute drum solo, his set rose from the stage and proceeded to twist down a catwalk into the audience while spinning him 20 feet in the air. It was actually pretty cool, until he did the exact same thing again the next night—but for 10 minutes longer.

None of these ego-fueling clichés seemed to matter to the audience, who cried and hugged and clamored and waved glo-sticks in the shape of little X’s for the entire seven hours of performance, and also the three hours of the band’s in-between song regrouping. It was as close to Shea stadium in ’65 as I’ll ever be. However, although at first the worship served as a pleasant break from the pretense of American rock clubs, as the cacophony roars through this third night, I can’t help but notice that it ultimately sounds like one, big, soulless “cha-ching.”

The industry guests are invited to a “party” after the final show, which turns out to be merely a press conference with libations. By now I’ve learned that promptness is a custom as foreign to X-Japan as bowing to a bathroom attendant is to me, so an hour after we’re expected, I amble down to the hotel’s reception room to wait. Finally, the foursome shows up, looking pretty much how I’d imagine Nickelback to dress after a show; lots of leather and shiny shirts. They speak softly, mostly through a translator (except for the band’s de-facto leader, Yoshi, who speaks decent English and apparently has a house in L.A.) and politely thank us for coming, comment briefly on the shows and their fans, and, ironically, call it a night after 10 minutes. No questions from the audience, no photos, no 25-minute sing-alongs. The irony is lost on no one. F