Klub Krackers Part 1

You have to understand the way I am, mein Herr

A tiger is a tiger, not a lamb, mein Herr

As I stood on stage of the Japanese night club in Tokyo, the lyrics came out of my mouth just as they had the night before. The iconic song reverberated into my microphone along with the stench of damp alcoholic carpet. The cold night air from the open front door of the club cut straight through my black sequined unitard, sending shivers down my spine. The stage wasn’t big, but it seemed vast, uncomfortable almost. An unfamiliar stranger. Not the friend I had always had through the countless years of performing. The stage lights were bright. The kind of brightness that you only find in an interrogation room. I squinted slightly as I lowered my gaze.

You'll never turn the vinegar to jam, mein Herr

So I do, what I do

The audience was a ring of empty red pleather seating booths. Each had their own circular table. Brown. Dilapidated, looking like they were from the 70s. An older Japanese man in a worn-down grey business suit sat alone with a short glass of brown liqueur. The club’s sound guy sat behind him, wires everywhere. On the table, under the table like a nest of snakes. Judging by the way he sat lifeless staring up at me, I’m pretty sure he didn’t give 2 hoots about foldback levels, Mein Herr, or the ‘best of Broadway.’ His vacant stare only created a pit in my stomach. That was the only thing in my stomach, given I didn’t eat our pre-show contractually obligated sit-down meal. On the menu that night was a brown paper bag full of assorted MacDonalds burgers and scattered loose fries. Slapped on the countertops of the club’s empty commercial kitchen. According to the non-English speaking club owner, doubled as ‘the performers’ dining room. No chairs, no crockery, no hot meal – just a dusty silver countertop at the back of a Japanese club. Hard pass on the cold big mac and fries, before a 2-show night.

When I'm through, then I'm through

And I'm through, toodle-oo

My microphone was loud, and the entire place was quiet. Eerily so. Not what one would expect at 9pm on a Friday at a night club in Tokyo. Correction: A night club which could only be described as a rundown black building, singularly positioned on a deserted roadside - in rice fields, 2 hrs out of Tokyo city. That minor detail seemed to have slipped through the contractual cracks too. The florescent signage on the building read UFO Club. It certainly was. I tried to focus my mind back on the present. The song, performing, but disturbing thoughts were swirling around in my head. Where was everything we had been told, sold and promised by agents and producers? Crowds of people queuing for tickets? Screaming fans at the stage door? The dancers on stage with me carried out intricate choreography, rehearsed for 8 weeks. Their faces stark. It was clear we all shared a similar disposition. Uncertainty, confusion, with an underbelly of fear. I looked back at the single Japanese businessman in the audience. A smirk now on his face, resembling the joker. The pit in my stomach tightened. None of us on stage were laughing. What the hell is going on here?

After the first show the cast sat in the dressing room, quietly touching up hair and makeup. The mood was somber, not the usual energized atmosphere that being on stage brings. We were at a loss for words and felt defeated. Packing up our lives moving from Australia to Japan for 3 months to perform for a seedy Japanese man, in a seedy club, in the middle of nowhere. I was beginning to feel like I was in some strange parallel universe. The only bathrooms were at the entrance of the club which the guests also used. I pulled on some sweats and made my way there before the next show. Hopefully finding some motivation along the way. As I opened the swinging door with a picture of a women’s figure on it, the odour of urine was overwhelming. My attention was quickly stolen to something even more confronting, a tiny woman squatting in the corner of the yellow tiled bathroom crying her eyes out. Distressed. Her hands gripping her hair as if she was trying to extract answers. She must have been no taller than 5 feet. We both froze spotting each other. Mascara and red lipstick smeared across her face. Her blue skirt was ripped, and one bra strap had fallen down from her shoulder. The walls started to close in on me. I had no idea what to do, but I sure as hell wasn’t sticking around to find out. My bladder got stage fright and I quickly closed the door, scurrying back to the dressing room. Something isn't right here.

My stomach gurgled with fear and hunger. The image of the woman in the bathroom from the night before flashed in my mind like a silent old fashioned horror film. There was a huge glass bowl of lunch box sized crackers and peanuts at the club’s entrance for guests. I had grabbed a handful earlier that night, stuffing them in my bag. As I wasn’t going near cold McDonalds AGAIN. The salty and dry snacks would have to suffice. Just as I was about to pop a peanut in my mouth, a fifty something year old Japanese man reeking of grease and sweat flung the dressing room door open. The Club’s owner. Occasional English translator by his side. Some of the cast were mid bra change, quickly grabbing clothes to cover themselves. He aggressively yelled something in Japanese, gesticulating towards the door. We were all motionless, giving each other side eye in a look that read ‘what the hell is going on?’ Six little 20-year-old Aussies, alone in the middle of nowhere, who had just been yelled at by their employer in another language. ‘The girls have to go sit on the bench in the foyer between shows,' the young translator said meekly. ‘What, why? I asked. The Owner answered in a way that read ‘Do what your told.’ Every muscle in my back became rock hard. So we did, following them both.

My legs were wobbly, and my mind was blank. We made our way through the dark hallway, towards the foyer. My friend and cast member grabbed my hand to find comfort, but I had none to offer her as I was just as scared as she was. All of a sudden, the black and white horror film flashed in my mind again, no wait in front of my eyes! There on the rickety old bench in the club's foyer sat the tiny crying woman. The tiny crying woman from the bathroom the night before. Her make-up had been touched up, but she had on the same ripped blue skirt and she wasn’t alone. As I glanced at who sat with her, my heart began to pound. One woman with jet black hair was asleep, in a mini skirt, drooling. Another was laughing and holding a cigarette. Laughing with who or to what was unclear. Judging by the way the club owner ignored them, the three women didn’t look like guests. They looked like employees? ‘Sit there please,’ the translator told us pointing to the bench and the Japanese women. Oh, holy Jesus, what the hell is going on here and how the hell do we get out!

To be continued.......