Japanese GG Allin: Reminiscing about my first impressions of Dir en Grey
What’s up, Tumblr? I lost my password to this account for the better part of two years, but here I am.
As I was listening to Mortal Downer (for the third time, no less, hoping I might eventually comprehend whatever they were trying to achieve with it - no, I didn't like it), I felt like reminiscing about the first time I was exposed to Dir en Grey. The actually cool Dir en Grey.
The Dir en Grey that made me a convert.
The Dir en Grey that is absent in Mortal Downer.
In the early 2000s, I was a very young aspiring music reporter with a very closed mind. Anything that deviated from my comfort zone gave me a rash. Metal bands that didn’t fit the mould made me rant about how “real metal doesn’t exist anymore.” Any metal band that didn't fit the bearded, aggressive, testosterone‑fuelled archetype earned a snort and a “how gay” from me. Don’t worry, dear reader — I’ve changed. I’m no longer the despicable little asshole I was back then.
I didn’t go to my first Dir en Grey gig of my own free will. I was dragged there by a friend who promised “this sick up‑and‑coming Japanese band” that was just starting to export itself onto the international scene. As a pre‑show baptism, I had to sit through the Obscure music video while my friend ranted about how transcendental it was. It made me gag, but I happened to be infatuated with this friend of mine, so I agreed to take the train to Berlin and have my eardrums violated by “the sick Japanese band.”
The year must have been 2005. The concert hall wasn’t full. Half the people there seemed to be die‑hard fans; the other half, much like me, looked as though they’d been dragged there by impassioned friends. Or maybe they’d bought tickets for the wrong band. Rumours were circulating about the “nutjob vocalist” who “kicked all sorts of ass.” My friend had shown me Gazette videos, and I didn’t want to see blokes in dresses kicking ass — told you, I’ve changed a lot.
The band walked on stage: four nondescript dudes. The first few rows went berserk. They started to play. My first impression was that the drummer was carrying the show on his shoulders. The sound was so bad all I could hear were drums and a wall of guitars. A fifth guy walked in with hair covering his face, staring at his shoes. He started to scream, gesticulating at some unknown entity only he could see. On my side of the stage was the man I later learned was Kaoru — the only guy in the band I decided was acceptably metal. I downed my beer, deciding this was going to suck.
The first few songs were reasonably tame. Not bad. The musicianship was above average, and the delivery was somewhat nice. And then it all started to go to shit… kind of in a good way?
Whatever invisible entity their frontman had been communicating with must have flipped a switch inside him. I wasn’t familiar with Kyo’s antics, so the young me, blasé as I was, took it at face value. This little angry guy was flailing around, defying gravity, twisting, kicking, and thrashing in a way that left me unsure whether I was watching some twisted performance art or a genuine mental breakdown.
To this day, no one can convince me young Kyo wasn’t on something. No fucking way a human being can do that sober. Fight me — I’ll die on this hill. That guy had gobbled down one too many space cakes and chased them with Jägerbombs and vinegar.
The only indication that this display of absolute insanity might be normal by Dir en Grey standards was the very stoic behaviour of the other band members. Not one looked up from their instruments. They just headbanged on autopilot, avoiding the crowd’s gaze for the most part. Kaoru, whom I had decided was cool, looked at the crowd knowingly, as if to say this was just a normal Tuesday.
It went even further south when the basket case of a frontman pulled a blade from his pocket, shot a terrifying glance at the audience, and made intense eye contact as he started cutting his chest. Wait… what? And if at first I thought this was an elaborate trick involving ketchup, my doubts vanished when he took the same blade into his mouth and started scratching at his tongue. Not trying to be gory here, but let’s just say there was a lot of spitting blood, smearing blood, eating blood.
I’d seen my fair share of metal bands, and although I knew bands like Mayhem had done much worse, this was my first time watching someone bleed on purpose in real time.
My friend was psyched. She was maybe 17, and this was deep by teenage standards. I stood there, eyes riveted to his scrawny figure, thinking he could benefit from a few weeks in a straightjacket on a diet of apple juice. I wasn’t sure whether I should hate it or go with the vibe and enjoy Japanese GG Allin.
The kicking, screaming, scratching, blood‑spitting, head‑banging‑on‑all‑fours, and hitting‑his‑head‑against‑whatever lasted two hours. Two fucking hours. I’m pretty sure even Regan MacNeil’s exorcism didn’t last that long.
The drummer didn’t seem to tire despite the strenuous setlist. Here was another scrawny guy giving the audience a proverbial finger and proving that looks can be very deceiving.
By the end of it, I remember Kyo could no longer sing — and could you blame him? — so he just lay on the floor on his back, dumping water on himself for the first part of the last song. Then he somehow picked himself up, screamed a few unintelligible final lines, and dashed off stage on unsteady legs. No goodbye. That was it. After two hours of extreme fuckery, he just fucked off.
No explanation. Just one final “fuck you, I don’t get paid enough to explain myself.” And Judas Priest, did we all desperately need some sort of explanation.
The second time I saw them was about two years later. This time no one dragged me to the show — I went of my own free will. In fact, I was the one dragging a few non‑connoisseur friends. Dir en Grey was already a completely different band. In the meantime, they had released The Marrow of a Bone and had begun making a name for themselves internationally. This time, I had the distinct feeling of witnessing an act at the beginning of an ascent — one that, whether they tried to please the West or not, couldn’t remain a secret for long.
The delivery of Conceived Sorrow stayed with me for a very long time. There was less craziness, more control. I began to truly appreciate the brilliant duo Kaoru and Die made, laying the foundations of compositions that were complex and absurdly vulnerable in all their rage.
Despite the obvious talent of his bandmates, Kyo was beginning to stand apart, now emerging as a singer who had won the genetic lottery. At the time, I was sure he would carve his name into the history of metal alongside Mike Patton, Devin Townsend, Ronnie James Dio. If the last time I saw him he had a few voices inside him, now he had a legion. If only I knew back then the international expansion thing would soon dwindle to breadcrumbs.
Funny enough, this time around there was less blood. He replaced it with cracking two raw eggs into his mouth and spitting them out at a very delighted front row. In his defence, the next thing he did was douse them in water… to wash them off? Very considerate. I could never eat eggs again.
