Lost In Japan

When the Future Titillates the Optical Intellect and the Penetration is Consensual

By taking the day job of tour manager for San Diego-based The Locust, photographer Robin Laananen left Los Angeles to see the grass on the other side. They explored, punished, drank, and occasionally fell down all over the US, Canada, Mexico, Europe, and, finally, traveled through time to Japan, witnessing things not of this world, including some local pubes engulfed in flames.

Written and Photographed by Robin Laananen

Canada has thousands of miles of untouched landscape. We saw most of it covered in snow during a 2-week tour during December. During the summer months, we toured Mexico via questionable transportation, mostly involving airlines I had only believed to be mythical. I’ve walked streets of Sweden that flow with the Fountain of Youth, seen the remnants of war on the cities of Germany, tasted the rich gelato and espresso treats of Italy with a day off in Milan to touch cathedrals, danced until dawn in Austria, taken a 3 hour bicycle tour of Prague, had the Alps as eye candy during a few drives, watched a lightning shower compete with a full moon and sunset on the beaches of Barcelona, and had gone through at least one pair of Converse exploring Finland, Norway, and France. Even with countless, memorable experiences under my belt, Japan remained in my mind. I had always considered Japan to be my white whale, my Moby Dick. It was a fantasy world (thought to be a photographer’s “wet dream”) that I had heard so much about but had never been, despite a handful of near opportunities.

Armed with only big-screen visuals and hand-me-down impressions from touring friends, I really had no idea what to expect. We flew into Tokyo, and immediately after stepping off the plane I realized Americans could learn a thing or two from the Japanese. Everyone was polite, spoke softly, and smiled. It was exhausting to take in all the colors, sounds, and smells, day and night. As the years go by, seeing things for the first time becomes a lesser occurrence. I was overcome with a childlike curiosity, determined not to miss one detail. The toilets had seat warmers and fake flushing sounds for privacy, which also assisted with public-restroom stage fright. Men, women, and children wore bright colors and no one looked twice. In fact, a person has to put in extra effort to get noticed – sales clerks set up on street corners, standing on boxes and yelling through blow horns. A nearly deafening sound of metal BBs running through gambling machines can be heard while passing huge, multi-story gaming centers. At any given time, the sidewalks are thick with crowds and pedestrians rule the streets.

We spent our first few days in Shibuya, which is said to be the “capital of Japan’s youth” and the most popular area in the city of Tokyo – it’s the city with the crosswalk brought to the big screen in Lost in Translation. It’s initially intimidating with streets of huge, looming buildings, which are mostly stores where a person can find nearly anything, for a price. We quickly learned our way around and explored nearly every turn looking for oddities and temples – and usually being successful. I devoured everything with film.

Osaka is Japan’s “wet” city, the place where everyone enjoys their drinks. It’s tradition for bands to go out to dinner after a show, a tradition I immediately became a fan of. Rolling into the restaurant with a crew of about 15, we were given our own room. The language barriers were slowly broken down as the number of emptied sake and Sapporo glasses multiplied. The food and drinks continued to come as things took a turn for the worse. A formerly reserved guy – he’d coined himself the “Japanese Jimmy Page”; we had no idea why at first – was sitting at the head of the table and suddenly began to strip until he wore only a pair of white tube socks. I suppose because it seemed like a good idea, the whole table began passing things down to him to put on various parts of his lower body. Then he found the lighter and, naturally, set his pubes on fire. I felt bad for our waitress who began to stare at the floor as she surprisingly kept serving us alcohol. The spectacle would come to a finale with the insertion of wasabi, causing “Japanese Jimmy Page” to run to the bathroom to immerse himself in the sink. Kampai, meaning “cheers,” would be a word I disliked the following day.

Nagoya brought a nostalgic feeling, as our venue resembled the small punk clubs I frequented so often during my impressionable years, the black walls and ceiling providing tight, claustrophobic quarters. The tiny elevator forced multiple trips while loading in the rain, and we nearly had to crawl through the door to the dressing room off to the side of the stage. Then again, things are generally much smaller in Japan. The audience poured through the elevator doors in suits, safety-pinned clothes, and panty hose. I could feel the humidity – already intensified by the mixture of damp clothes and sweat – increase as the show broke out. There was no room to squeeze up front, so I took video from the tiny hole known as “backstage.” The crowd banter lost in translation complimented the human slingshots off the single bar barricade. I felt caught in a weird parallel déjà vu.

The paper-thin walls of our “traditional-style” hotel room in Kyoto didn’t leave much to the imagination. I could hear the announcer at the train station a few blocks away, the crows laughing outside, and a distant roaring an American might say resembled Godzilla. Our rooms were small with mattresses unrolled over a bamboo floor. We had the day to explore, a rare occurrence for anywhere. When entering the Sanjusangen-do Temple – home of a thousand, gold armored Kannon statues – cameras are stowed, voices are lowered, and shoes must be removed and placed in open wooden lockers in exchange for a colored clothespin.

The temple was like nothing I had ever seen. My thoughts were interrupted as Justin said to me, “This is why I always bring black socks to Japan,” as I was taking off my Converse. I had mistakenly worn bright purple and orange argyle socks…I didn’t even like the colors, they had been included in an assorted pack I had bought during the last minute tour shopping. The day before leaving the comforts of home for weeks to tour involves the usual scrambling to tie up loose ends. Personal relationships aside, everything is typically procrastinated until the final hours. One of the tedious errands necessary is buying socks and toiletry items, all the while convinced that something will be forgotten. Packing to cross the International Dateline to Japan (otherwise known as traveling into the future) is similar to other tours, only it’s mentally different. And now I was walking in this beautiful temple wearing offensive, very American socks. So I’ve learned to bring only black socks into the future.

I tend to go out the night before leaving a tour, not the smartest idea, but at least I’m consistent. Prior to leaving for Japan was no exception. I had taken care of all the tedious, last minute tasks – my suitcase was packed of clothes and merch, my cameras charged. I went to a Big Business show but have no memory of it even though I love the band. I couldn’t have been less mentally present if I tried. My mind was already on the plane, and I was worried about getting through customs without work permits.

Now we’re going home, after 11 days and 7 shows, considered to be a rather lengthy stay in tour terms. We didn’t have a van until 7 days into the tour, so we were lugging ourselves and our gear by plane, bus, and taxi. I was fried and finally ready to return to familiarity. Obvious reasons aside, being in Japan feels quite different than anywhere else. It’s the closest I had been to time travel, being 16 hours ahead of home and almost completely isolated from my “real life” with no phone and spotty internet. We would fly out Friday afternoon and land in Los Angeles Friday morning. Experiences would begin to fade with jetlag and feel more like a dream. I love jetlag. I see it as a time to reflect, uninterrupted since reflections are typically done through the odd hours of insomnia. As I begin to return to normal, the trip becomes a blur, details get lost in daily routine...luckily I take too many photos. Now I wonder where I will go next, and hopefully it’s a place I’ll be seeing for the first time. But after this trip I know one thing for certain: I doubt it will be a place as strangely beautiful as Japan.

bout Robin Laananen: Born into the world with rare eyes and the ability to document nanoseconds of time, capturing all aspects that are submerged in culture, politics, art, music, fashion, while taking you there to that very place of texture, smell, temperature, and just about every emotion under the umbrella of life as we know it. Robin Laananen, has lived in various parts of the U.S. and has worked her way into the lives of creative outlets by traveling the planet, documenting what only a fraction of humanity gets to see firsthand. She is a rare breed with much soul, making it easy for her and the visions she sees to be documented in their most natural way. Photographer, writer, tour manager for The Locust, and all around visionary, Robin has managed to cover grounds working for clients such as Rock Sound, MOJO, Alternative Press, Thrasher, Revolver, Guitar World, Tokion, Decibel, Hydra Head Records, Universal, Alternative Apparel, Lifetime Clothing, Epic, Epitaph, Three One G, Ipecac, and many more. (Written by Justin Pearson)

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