I returned from my summer jaunt into Colorado Monday, slept till 4 pm, and prepared myself mentally and spiritually to attend the Babymetal concert next night at the Aragon Ballroom. It was your typical magnificent spectacle of precision dancing and heavy metal music raising the rafters of the old auditorium.
In past years, I’ve bought the VIP package that allowed me into the venue early with a spot right at the lip of the stage. But this year, for economy sake and a desire not to listen to lame opening bands, I opted for the regular general admission ticket. It worked out better than I had planned.
Now I could have waited at the end of the general admission line in the humidity and heat that stretched out to reach the entire block, but instead went over into the cool of the Green Mill Cocktail Lounge across the street, where I paid a 10 dollar cover charge to listen to a 1920s-40s swing band who were just setting up while I sipped on my club soda. But the doorman told me I could come back later: I was easily identified by my red Hiroshima Toyo Carp Japanese baseball hat that I always wear for the girls [they hail from Hiroshima and have been known to appreciate the fine sporting art of baseball], so no problem returning to the Green Mill later.
I went back to the Aragon then, where the line had diminished so that I could walk in pretty smoothly and easily. The crowd was thick and vast, full of black t-shirts and massive studded boots: I was the only one wearing a red Hiroshima Toyo Carp baseball hat. Now, I had been apprehensive when it came to finding a prime place in the crowd to view the girls, but did fortunately set myself up on the top of some stairs near a bar, at stage left.
I only had to listen to one start up band, called JinJin of something along those lines, with a woman singer who shifted from a longing ballad voice to a metallic shrill shriek as the band surged behind her. They did this formula repeatedly, with a tedious sameness. What a contrast to the might and magnificence of Babymetal.
The group never lets me down in their concerts and this one was full of the pulsing light flourishes and soaring music and song I’ve come to expect. They’ve been at it for 15 years and are currently enjoying a new record contract deal that sees them expanding their popularity. The dancing of the three girls was precise and, in a strange way, charming: the choreography mirrors the street moves of a heavy metal concert audience: the clapping, the outstretched arms, the body thrashing. Momometal, Moametal and Sumetal are truly heavy metal ballerinas in that sense, as if The Rite of Spring were being performed in a mosh pit.
For this show, I was particularly impressed by the stature and bearing of the lead singer and dancer Sumetal [Suzuka Nakamoto], who throughout a rigorous worldwide touring schedule, has forged herself into an imposing figure who takes over the stage with a forceful panache. She struts across the floor, she kicks up her right leg and holds it there for a micro second, she poses a regal bearing then comes back to earth with a smile and wave of her hands. It’s like a Mick Jagger or Robert Plant in their prime, only more nuanced in the discipline of the choreography.
I have had curious encounters with Suzuka at past concerts [she gave me the fast eye one year when I was standing at the lip of stage after noticing my magical Hiroshima Toyo Carp hat, and no, I am not a delusional fan boy on this one, I have video proof] and I do believe this year she did take notice of the hat, but in this case, I am not so sure, as I was at a greater distance. But who knows, it’s all part of the fun anyway, though it does add a kind of a spiritual collective unconscious angle, especially considering that Seiya Suzuki, a former Carp player, is tearing up the league this year in RBIs, playing for the first-place Cubs.
Yeah, me and Babymetal, it’s been quite the trip. I walked out of this concert in a drenching rain that actually felt pretty good after all the heat and sweat in the Aragon. It reminded me of when I first witnessed the group at House of Blues in Chicago 12 years ago, the best rock concert I’ve ever seen. I came out of that concert into a downpour as well, so it had a certain redemptive baptismal feel this year, and I don’t know why, such is the mystery of this group.
Anyway, I ended up going back to the Green Mill across the street, where I enjoyed old-fashioned jazz swing music that reminded me somewhat of the tune Antoine Roquentin hears in Sartre’s Nausea novel, a relief from his existential quandary, as I sunk into the dark green cool womb of the interior. People were dancing, the band was pepped up, time seemed to mean nothing. Later on, a woman scooted into the booth where I was sitting [apparently the same one that Al Capone used to favor] and introduced herself, later calling over a tattooed woman who claimed to be the photographer for Babymetal. I really should have asked for visual proof, but was still feeling enchanted by the evening and just let it go as another synchronicity in a chain of similar instances that mark my experiences with this extraordinary group.
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In Trinidad, Colorado, I took in several minor league baseball games of the local team, the Trinidad Triggers. Unlike major league games, you really get a feel for what playing hardball really means up close: the spills, the hits, the sounds. At one game, there was even a bench clearing incident when a Triggers player came off of third base to slam into the catcher at home plate, triggering [so to speak] a shoving match. The Triggers are fairly mediocre this year, but drew a large crowd for the Fourth of July celebration, though I opted out of that to take part in the local First Friday art walk: lots of neat local art and artists, not to mention free food.
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As for my novel Zelda Rising, I brought it along to two local art workshops, one in Trinidad focused on promoting creativity, the other a writing workshop hosted by the University of New Mexico in Raton, across the border. Both were interesting and involving, though judging from my questions and my participation, one of the UNM hosts told me I could have taught the class, what with my experiences in professional editing and writing. Maybe, but I am still not satisfied with the progress of the novel and need to think of new approaches to get it out there, once I get this baseball bum persona out of my system. A few days ago, Lee Elia, a former manager of the Chicago Cubs, passed away: he was known for a rant where he castigated fans for being unemployed and only attending day games because they didn’t work: he claimed 85% of the world was working, and the other 15% were at Wrigley Field raising havoc.
For years while office working, I often daydreamed about being part of that 15%. And now’s the time, I guess.
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