The older I get, the more things start to matter. Not in that vague, philosophical way you hear in bad movies—but in the bone-deep, oh shit kind of way. The kind where you realize you’ve been on autopilot too long.
I go to work.
I do the thing.
They pay me.
The loop is efficient. Clean.
Predictable.
But time? That’s the bastard I can’t tame. It slips. It speeds up. It erases.
Lately, I’ve felt it most when music dies. When a band I loved quietly fades away, breaks up, retires, or worse—becomes unrecognizable. It’s like watching your childhood dissolve in real time.
Regrets? Of course I have them. I’m not some monk.
I’ve said no to things I shouldn’t have.
Concerts. Moments. Tokyo nights that could’ve been.
But this time, it was different.
This time it was AA=.
All Animals Are Equal.
A name that sounds like a political statement but hits like a lightning bolt to the chest. Hardcore. Digital chaos. Japanese underground noise that once clawed its way above ground, briefly. Just enough for people like me to notice.
The bassist? Takeshi Ueda—the Takeshi—from The Mad Capsule Markets. A man who made the bass sound like a chainsaw fighting a synth demon.
In the States, no one knows this stuff. Not really. Maybe Chris. Chris is the one who handed it to me like a secret, years ago. He said, “You need to hear this.” And I did. And it cracked me open.
(Photo of me with my bass in 1998)
I wanted to be Takeshi.
I wanted to make noise that mattered.
So when a ticket came up?
I asked my wife. She said yes.
That was the first miracle.
Then I needed a partner in crime. Chris couldn’t do it. But Kipp? Kipp was in. My brother—fresh off surviving a world tour with me—agreed to a metal show in Japan. Not his scene, but he’s game.
We booked the cheapest flights out of LAX, eyes half-shut, wallets half-empty, and zero regrets this time.
Because when a chance like this shows up, you don’t say no. You don’t wait.
You go.
Kipp and I crashed at a hotel near LAX the night before the flight. Nothing fancy—just strategic. Long-term parking locked in at a discount rate, like a guy trying to outwit the system with spreadsheets and street smarts. I wasn’t about to blow the budget before we even left the ground.
Two tickets—$500 each.
Zipair.
Bare bones. No frills.
LAX to Narita direct, like a bullet with leg cramps.
I planned it right.
I’d done this enough times to know what matters. Not the champagne. Not the aisle upgrades.
It’s about the landings. And where you sleep once you hit the ground.
Hotels were somehow over $100 a night. For what? A bed and a bathroom the size of a broom closet?
Maybe it was sumo season. Maybe Tokyo just decided to flex.
But I found a loophole.
An Airbnb for $50 a night. Minimalist. Quiet.
Kipp got the soft bed. I took the pull-out.
Because he was tolerating this trip. Not craving it. Not chasing a band across the globe like I was.
So I made damn sure he was comfortable.
We landed.
Kipp—seasoned now. You could see it. The ease in his shoulders. The rhythm of a man who’s done this enough to recognize the arrival smell of Narita: sanitized air, tired faces, and vending machines full of mystery drinks.
It had only been six months since we were here last, but stepping off that plane felt like walking back into a story mid-sentence. Like we never left.
We checked in, dropped bags, shook off the flight.
Then did the only thing that made sense.
We walked.
And we ate.
Because that’s how every good chapter in Japan begins.
We stayed near Skytree—just close enough to touch the future, just far enough to walk back into the past. Asakusa was in reach, and we wandered there, boots crunching against the cold pavement of a January Tokyo that wasn’t interested in snow, just clarity.
My first winter in this city. No flurries. No drama. Just crisp air, clean skies, and a kind of stillness that made the neon feel sharper. We were dressed right. Layers, gloves, purpose.
Jet lag hung off us like a second coat, but we didn’t fight it. We walked through it.
I’d built in a buffer—one day before the show. A quick trip, yes, but not rushed. I’m old enough to know you need a little space. Time to breathe in a place. Time to feel it again before the chaos.
And at night? The crowds were gone. Streets usually teeming with camera flashes and confusion were suddenly wide open. Empty. Ours.
Kipp and I strolled through it like locals who never moved away. Talking like we always had—no effort, no catching up needed.
We weren’t tourists.
Not this night.
We were just two brothers, back in Tokyo, where everything felt familiar and absolutely new at the same time.
Something you learn when you travel to the same place often:
Go back to the restaurants that fed you right.
Forget the bucket list spots and Instagram darlings. Go where you were full, happy, and didn’t need to sell a kidney to pay the bill.
For me, that place is Kura Sushi.
Kura in San Diego was my first intro to the glorious, hypnotic dance of conveyor belt sushi. Tiny plates circling like edible slot machines. You watch, you wait, you strike. Precision gluttony.
In Tokyo, it’s no different. But better.
Kipp and I? We’re professionals now. This isn’t just a meal. It’s a performance. A quiet duel between hunger and discipline—and hunger always wins.
We sat down, nodded to the screen, scanned the QR code like seasoned locals, and got to work. One plate after another. Tuna. Eel. Fried chicken. A rogue pudding cup. Somewhere around the 30-plate mark, we lost count. Time slowed. Soy sauce spilled. And we didn’t care.
Because this wasn’t just sushi.
It was ritual.
Memory.
Muscle memory.
And in that moment, in the warm glow of a familiar Kura in the middle of Tokyo, we ate like kings.
Kings with no shame.
We were out late—full bellies, cold air in our lungs, walking off the weight of 30 plates of sushi and a quiet night in Tokyo. The kind of night that doesn’t ask for photos or posts. Just your presence.
Only 20 minutes from Asakusa to our place near Skytree. Nothing dramatic. Just a quiet walk through shuttered shops, soft-lit vending machines, and the occasional buzz of a passing bike.
And this—this—was the part that stuck with me.
We didn’t own anything here. No apartment lease. No permanent address.
But for a few days, this was ours.
This city. These streets. This simple rhythm.
We had money. Enough to burn if we wanted to. We could’ve done the luxe version—fancy rooms, taxis, $300 omakase. But we didn’t. We were good boys. On budgets. Focused. That’s how these trips happen. Not with extravagance, but with intent.
We walked.
We saved.
We made it work.
And as we climbed back into our temporary beds, settling in for the next day, there was this quiet satisfaction.
We weren’t tourists.
We were travelers.
And we were exactly where we needed to be.
We started early—7 AM, give or take. Still dark enough to feel like we were cheating the system, reclaiming the streets before Tokyo could wake up and clutter them with its usual chaos.
Another 20-minute walk back to Asakusa. Same route. Different vibe. Morning calm, vendors still shuttered, and the city stretching out of its sleep.
But first—coffee.
Not some overpriced pour-over in a themed café. No.
Vending machine golden drip—the soul of my Japan mornings.
Warm can. Hands around it. Steam rising into cold air.
This was my ritual.
This was the taste of every trip I’d ever taken here.
My kids even know it by name. They’ve learned to love the hum of the machine, the clunk of the can dropping, the hiss as it opens in the cold.
Then—Denny’s.
Yeah, I said it.
Not because I long for pancakes and Americana, but because I know this: Kipp doesn’t eat wet eggs. And Japan loves wet eggs.
We needed an American breakfast to survive the day.
Denny’s in Japan isn’t the same circus you find stateside. It’s cleaner, calmer, and somehow more respectful of your digestive system. But when we walked in, signs were everywhere—seasonal strawberry drinks and desserts. Big pink promise. Banners like a love letter from spring.
Guess what?
They were out.
Someone either beat us to the punch or there was never enough to begin with.
And honestly? I get it.
It’s winter. Strawberries aren’t easy.
Still, the kid in me wanted to yell.
But I didn’t.
Because the coffee was endless.
Because Kipp was good.
And because I was full.
We paid.
Stepped outside.
And with no strict itinerary—just vague ideas and the whole damn city waiting—we started walking.
That’s how the best days always begin.
There are parts of Japan I intentionally leave untouched.
Little corners of the map I don’t check off.
Not because I forgot—but because I need something for later.
Ginza was one of those places.
I shelved it. For years. Ten, to be exact.
And now, Kipp and I walked it together.
Wide streets. Marble façades. Luxury stacked on luxury.
Cartier. Chanel. Stores that smell like polished wood and quiet wealth.
A fossil of Tokyo’s old money scene.
It felt like a museum where the currency is relevance.
Not many people come here now—not like they used to.
The cool kids have moved on.
But we were here for the walk.
The experience. The echo of what this district used to mean.
And tucked between all that gold-leaf elegance and sleek storefronts?
A sign of something very current: Shohei Otani.
The guy’s a legend. Plays in LA, but worshipped here like a national treasure.
Billboards, jerseys, posters in store windows.
Japan doesn’t forget its heroes.
Even when they leave, they’re still here—bigger than life.
Otani’s not just a player. He’s a symbol.
Of excellence. Of pride. Of how far Japan can reach.
And there we were—two guys from California, walking through a shrine of capitalism, surrounded by reminders that no matter how far you go…
home still claims you.
Every now and then, Japan throws something at me that stops me mid-stride. Not a temple or a bowl of perfection-level ramen—but something modern. Clever. Thoughtful.
This time, it was a 3D billboard—the kind that plays tricks on your eyes and your sense of reality. Kipp and I had just finished a marathon walk. From Ginza to Roppongi, burning calories, chasing conversation, racking up 20,000 steps like we were training for something.
We didn’t have anywhere to be—yet.
Just killing time before a lunch show.
So we hopped a train to Shinjuku and started wandering. The billboard caught our eye—floating, morphing, bending reality with marketing. It was ridiculous. It was genius. It worked.
We ducked into Book Offs, as is tradition. Hunted for retro games.
Same routine, new city.
Only now?
$20 a game.
For stuff we used to find in a bargain bin for pocket lint and loose change.
I get it. Nostalgia has a price tag now.
Someone will pay it.
It just won’t be me.
As we walked through the chaos of Shinjuku—past love hotels, capsule signs, and vending machines that never sleep—we thought of Vince and Penn, our crew from the last round.
We missed them.
This was their kind of weird.
And we were ready for it again—
the creepy, the offbeat, the only-in-Japan kind of stuff that makes you feel alive and a little uncomfortable at the same time.
Shinjuku delivers that. Every time.
For years, I’d heard the whispers—
Robot Restaurant, Shinjuku’s neon fever dream.
The greatest show on Earth, they said.
Was it Yakuza-funded madness? Or just fueled by $60 tickets and an endless stream of jetlagged tourists looking to be blown away by something truly, unapologetically Japanese and weird?
I missed it in 2018.
My stepdaughter collapsed from the heat that trip, and the idea of dragging her into a laser-soaked basement carnival didn’t feel like the right move.
In 2023?
Still shuttered—just another casualty of the COVID-era silence that dulled so much of what made Tokyo electric.
But now?
It was back.
Sort of.
Rebranded. Reborn.
The Samurai Show.
A name less cocaine, more culture.
I’ll allow it.
I had waited a decade. Ten years. I didn’t come here to be polite. I came to be overwhelmed. And yes—I paid.
The old chaos of Robot Restaurant had been tamed. The glitter cannons traded in for narrative arcs.
Now it was Good vs Evil.
Samurai. Demons. Laser swords.
And somewhere in the middle of it all—bikini armor and battle cries.
It wasn’t just a show. It was a spectacle with purpose.
And then—near the end—things shifted again.
The girls dressed down. Legs out. Bruises visible like battle scars or maybe something else. A second job? Maybe. Japan is layered like that.
But the one that stole the show?
The drummer.
This guy didn’t stop.
Mounted on a moving platform, flying around the room, hammering the beat like his life depended on it. A human engine wrapped in rhythm and sweat.
I was grinning like an idiot.
It delivered. Every weird, wild, borderline-inappropriate promise.
I waited ten years.
And Shinjuku—you beautiful, degenerate circus—you gave me exactly what I came for.
Thank you.
Kipp had picked TeamLabs in Roppongi—his call, not mine. One of those immersive digital art things. Sensory overload for the Instagram generation. Still, I was curious.
We hopped the train from Shinjuku, like pros at this point, weaving through Tokyo’s underground like we were born into it. Out the window, Tokyo Tower pierced the skyline—an Eiffel knockoff, sure, but still a sight that makes you pause. I’d seen it before, but like everything else I love in this city, I leave some bites uneaten. Save something for next time.
Just before the museum, a ramen shop called to us with the siren song of boiling broth and springy noodles. We ducked in. Slurped down bowls of comfort. Big mistake.
Because not long after, inside the echoing LED womb of TeamLabs, I started to feel it—hot, heavy, that post-ramen bloat setting in like a lead blanket in a dreamscape. Immersion has its price.
eamLabs was… something else. The kind of place that delivers exactly what the brochure promises—an immersive, interactive environment, bursting with color, light, movement, even scent. A full assault on the senses.
Kipp was in his element. This was what he came for. A visual feast.
Me? I got something too—vertigo. Dizzy, nauseous, overloaded like a hard drive pushed past its limit. They nailed it. Well done, museum. You got a reaction.
The final room? A cathedral of strobing lights, flickering like a million tiny suns. That one broke me. I was cooked. Sweating ramen and regret.
We woke up the next day and, once again, Kipp played tour guide and court jester. We walked. And walked. And walked some more—because that’s what you do in Tokyo. You walk until your feet scream in six languages.
This time, we passed through Akihabara. The neon temple of nerd-dom. We clocked the “fat girl bar” was open—yes, that’s exactly what it sounds like—but we’d already hit our quota of strange and slightly uncomfortable for the week. Hard pass.
Eventually, we made it to Ochanomizu. It took some wandering to figure out where to catch the view, but we found it. A scenic overlook tucked away like an old jazz record in a second-hand bin. Other tourists were already posted up, snapping pics. I took mine, too—me in the frame, checking off a tiny box on the ever-growing bucket list.
A small win. A quiet moment. Worth the blisters.
The clock was ticking. The show was coming up fast. But before the night swallowed us whole, Kipp and I drifted over to Shibuya.
We ducked into a kebab joint Hetal and I had scoped out the year before—one of those places you remember but never actually try. This time, we did. Kipp went all in, stuffing himself like he hadn’t eaten in days.
I peeled off afterward, weaving through the chaos of the Shibuya scramble—Tokyo’s beating heart, a five-way pulse of neon and motion—and made my way to Tower Records. I was on a mission.
AA= CDs. They had them. But the prices? Steep enough to make you think twice. I left them on the shelf, whispering a quiet “next time” as I walked away. Some things are better as unfinished business.
Then it happened. Showtime.
We waited patiently—Japanese concerts are a masterclass in order. No openers, no chaos, just a calm procession of fans being called in by group. Precision entry. Like boarding a bullet train to sonic mayhem.
As we stepped through the doors, I caught sight of the merch booth. Jackpot. My buddy Chris had one request: a hoodie. He’s the guy who got me into this music in the first place—dragged me down the rabbit hole of industrial metal, noise rock, and bass lines thick enough to punch through drywall. I owed him. Post-show mission: acquire hoodie.
Downstairs, they handed out a single drink. Probably more if you knew the trick or spoke enough Japanese. We got funneled into the main stage area—a black box of anticipation and sweat. Aside from one lone white dude off to the side, it was just me, Kipp, and a sea of Japanese metalheads, all dressed like we were about to summon a demon with distortion pedals.
And then—it began.
The lights dropped. The bass dropped harder. That first distorted note didn’t just hit—it throbbed, ripped through the air and into my chest like a blunt weapon made of sound. I was in it. This was the moment. Twenty-eight years in the making.
And there he was.
Takeshi Ueda.
In the flesh. My hero. The man who sculpted the soundtrack to my teenage chaos. I didn’t cry—but if I had, no shame. Sometimes something that cool just cracks you open.
I’ll admit, I’m here for the music—not the themes, not the lyrics. But Takeshi? He’s a showman, a force, a one-man seismic event. They played a new song from the upcoming #7 album, tight and brutal and strange in all the best ways.
Two hours later, they wrapped with a surprise—video reveal, new album promo. And yeah, I got it. Of course I did.
Worth. Every. Yen.
These guys aren’t just a band. They’re an experience. A damn good one.
We were handed something rare—exclusive reservation rights to the new album. A kind of golden ticket. But of course, there was a catch. No Japanese address, no dice. So later, I’d lean on ZenMarket, the proxy service every foreign fan learns to worship. That CD would make its way home eventually.
But in that moment, it didn’t matter. This was it. The show. The reason we came.
Something shifted inside me. A slow-burning satisfaction, deep and quiet. Like finally acing a test you’d been studying for your whole damn life. Years of waiting, planning, not being able to make it… and now, here I was. I made it.
I thought about the future—maybe I’ll be back for another show, one day. Maybe. But not while my kids are still teenagers. Their time is now. Mine can wait.
Still, there’s hope. Hope that this band keeps playing, keeps making noise, keeps refusing to fade away. That Takeshi and crew never hang it up.
Because some things you don’t grow out of. You grow into them.
The lesson for me is simple: wherever in the world your favorite band is—go. See them now. Don’t wait. Don’t assume there’ll be another tour, another year, another chance.
Because time moves fast, and artists disappear. Life happens. Borders close. People change.
If only Globe was still playing.
That’s the regret.
So don’t let it happen again. Chase the sound. Buy the ticket. Get on the plane.
You never know when the final encore really is the last one.
The next day, before heading home, Kipp and I made one last stop—Tokyo Skytree.
When I first came to Japan, I remember looking up at that towering steel needle and thinking it was ugly. Too modern, too sterile. It didn’t have the charm of Tokyo Tower or the grit of the neighborhoods below.
But now? I get it. Time changes how you see things. What once felt cold and out of place now stands like a monument to everything this city is—bold, massive, unapologetic. Beautiful in its own way.
From the top, we saw her—Mount Fuji, rising out of the haze like a ghost. A perfect goodbye.
I raised a quiet toast to our trip. To Kipp. To the music. To all the chaos and calm in between.
And I knew—I’ll be back.