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Rating: The king of Japanese garage returns to Europe after a long period of absence; it can't be missed.
Since 1990, they've been churning out garage albums, definitely crackling, partly melodic, sung in English and Japanese, played with great drive. The group has always been known for their killer live shows, unique, truly unmissable.
On the web, you can find their official shaky music videos and their film "Wild Zero," a B-movie featuring zombies, motorbikes, and garage rock.
I'm waiting under the stage and at some point, "Blitzkrieg Bop" by the Ramones blasts from the speakers at an overwhelming volume, almost distorted.
After two verses, the trio suddenly appears and starts playing while the Ramones' song continues to play in the background: it's chaos.
The charismatic frontman Guitar Wolf Seiji, born in 1963, in a leather jacket and black leather pants, with inseparable black sunglasses, brandishes his guitar like a machine gun and aims at the entire audience, a large audience.
It feels like the end of the concert.
After this delirium, a couple of songs are played and sung, among which I recognize "Black Hole Mama" and their famous "Jet Generation."
Drum Wolf Toru hammers fiercely, like a madman, with anger, leaning forward towards the lone tom, with 883 boots on his feet; after about one song, a piece of a cymbal falls off.
Bass Wolf U.G. thumps the bass with a limp right hand, seemingly at random, with total nonchalance.
The bass, a Fender, has the headstock and body sawed off along the lower part, but poorly sawed, with splinters protruding.
After the first tracks with something like a beginning and an end, the performance now represents a single song, a devastating garage rock continuum, anguished, spoken, mimed, shouted, danced, moaned.
The guitar begins to go out of tune inexorably; it will not be retuned.
Seiji practically does all the cheesiest moves from the history of rock guitarist frontmen every thirty seconds, and he does them well. The audience appreciates.
The guitar starts to be abandoned behind the back or on the ground, in heavy feedback.
In the meantime, the drums pound a hypnotic and unstoppable four-four beat at high intensity; an incredible physical feat for the drummer.
At some point, Seiji calls a guy from the audience and tells him to play his guitar. The guy doesn't know how to play, but Seiji encourages him and goads him to do some rock'n'roll.
Seiji is exhausted: he's visibly giving everything he has, truly. He calls more people from the audience.
He builds a human pyramid on stage and attempts to climb it to play. After a chord, it all collapses.
After about an hour and a half of live performance, a killer downpour starts with strong wind. Everyone runs to take cover under tents. Even the stage gets soaked.
Seiji is the only one left, performing "I Love You OK" with guitar and voice, in front of the shocked eyes of the various stage technicians, who are hurriedly covering everything possible.
Many return under the stage to get wet, just like Seiji, soaked to the point of electrocution; I almost cry.
The rain stops and so does the concert, with the belief that I'll never see another like this again.
Small anecdote. In November 2011, they return to Italy and knowing the organizer, I manage to be at the venue before the sound check begins: I want to meet them off stage.
A van arrives, unloading the equipment and hangers with their stage clothes: leather jacket and black leather pants.
After a moment, the band arrives as well. Except for a few less studs, they were dressed the same: leather jacket and black leather pants, black sunglasses even in the dark.
In the backstage, there's a foosball table, an object unknown to them. I explain how to play, and we have a few matches. With every shot, Seiji says "Rock'n'Roooool."
As I bid them farewell, I remind them how epic the concert finale was a few months before at Festivalbeat, under a torrential downpour. The response? "Great show. It was raining?"
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