I’ve never been one to shy away from an unpopular opinion. For example, I hate Seinfeld. And The Beatles, but please allow me to expand upon my latest one. I can only equate my underwhelming feelings about Japan to the same happy and excited feelings at the beginning of a new relationship. And just before the honeymoon phase is over, life becomes more real, the diffuser on the bedside table becomes your first joint purchase, you suddenly get the “I’ve been thinking text”. So much hype and excitement, followed by the feeling that a rug has been pulled out from underneath your feet. And you’re left feeling sad, and despondent. This has happened to me before, in relationships and travelling, as I’m sure it has to a great many others, but as a result, I vow to never return to Vegas.
Heresy aside, I think the underlying problem here is social media. Think about it. People only portray themselves as having a great time, and everything being excellent online. People go on their holidays, post their fluffed up pictures on to their Instagram, and of course say “oh my god, we had the best time ever”. Maybe they did, but let’s just say for arguments sake they didn’t. Is it a knee jerk reaction for fear of looking stupid? Or admitting to their immediate circle of friends they should have just gone to Disney World in Florida instead. Don’t get me wrong, they might have had the best time ever, but that’s because they haven’t been to Hamburg, or Hobart. Maybe I’m just pessimistic, but there is a certain vibe to smoking a cigarette in a cafe somewhere in France and watching the world go by that simply doesn’t exist in Japan. I get the impression that the Japanese have fell victim to the same work-every-hour-possible that plagues us in North America. And I’m sorry, but that’s simply not a life style that appeals to me whatsoever.
As a result, Japan in general, but Tokyo especially feels like it’s a few candles short of a menorah. While it’s very busy and efficient, it lacks romance, personality, and the ability to smoke cigarettes anywhere you please. What isn’t a few candles short of a menorah though, and seems to be a raging forest fire, is Singapore. My god. This tiny little off cut of land dips its toes into the Java Sea or the Gulf of Thailand depending on how you look at a globe, gained its independence from Malaysia in 1965. And I tell you what, if this is what they’re able to do in their first 60 years of freedom, the rest of us are doomed by the year 2125. It’s brilliant. The architecture is out of this world, and rivals the best that Baku and Dubai have to offer. As someone that’s spent far too many years in the construction game, I know first hand how complicated some of these architectural sensations would have been to build.
It seems that Singapore has the common sense to take the plug socket from Britain, the climate from Colombia and infuse the cuisine with some rice and noodles. Sadly, I only had one evening to experience this city, which was both good and bad simultaneously. Good because despite its pageantry of beauty, it is eye-wateringly expensive, but bad because against the best wishes of my credit card, I could have stayed for much, much longer. Limited timeline aside, I was able to throw my hair in a bun, squeeze into some tight jeans, and hunt down The Flying V Metal Bar! The Flying V isn’t exactly what we’d call a “proper dive” bar in the traditional sense, it’s more inline with The Riff in Helsinki. Or Dr. Feelgood’s in the aforementioned Paris, but since I was in the neighbourhood, and they serve beer, it would have been rude if I didn’t stop in for a cheeky visit.
The scene of the crime was quiet for a Friday night, but that’s because everyone else was outside having cocktails in the humidity, and enjoying the palm trees, instead of hiding in the air con. Despite its rather odd location, in the basement of a shopping mall, the bar has the character and aesthetic that’ll rival GODZ or Lucky 13, and will most certainly outlive the beige interior of your local H&M. The beer and song selection was straight out of the NWOBHM playbook. Motörheads Röad Crew, and Iron Maidens Trooper Ale flowed from the taps like Victoria Falls. Along side was a plethora of ciders and whiskeys that would make a sommelier glee with excitement. And since you, and the table next to you double as the DJ’s, the soundtrack is as good as you, or the bloke beside you, make it. Even though the barmans English was was as broken as my Mandarin, I very much enjoyed talking about some of our collective favourite metal bands and learning a little bit about Singapore on this very random and weirdly timed layover. Just goes to show that no matter where we’re from, there’s always something we can agree on. Maybe it’s simply that Donald Trump is a cunt, or that Poison’s first record was their best.
I’ve copped a fair amount of shit about feeling underwhelmed by Japan, but I guess at the end of the day we’re not obligated to all like the same things in life. How boring and beige would that be? Life would be like we’re reading a Jane Austen novel. I like finding cool, underground metal bars around the world. Maybe you don’t. I won’t be planning on rushing back to Japan anytime soon, for many reasons, but the main one being, why are there no bloody rubbish bins anywhere?!
6/6.
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