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I had in my mind a typical family gravesite: a number of names where he was one of a long line in the family, a number of stone slots, all covering ashes of various family members. Such graves belong to their families, and while others may visit, they should only do so as explicitly invited.

Japanese graves are family sites. Japanese graves are private.

In the worst case scenarios, I imagined the pressence of fans and their excessive “gifts” imposing on the family, or worse, the families of others whose departed loved ones rested nearby, constantly disturbed.

I wanted no part of it.

How was it then that the taxi driver included it on his “Buck-Tick tour,” brought us to a flower shop where bundles were already prepared, and readily dropped us off on a hill up the road from the old Sakurai home? Isn’t this invasive? I wondered. How is he so cavallier? If it were a nussiance, surely the families would ask the taxi company to stop. Graves are sacred enough that the law would be on the family’s side in the case of a claim…

It wasn’t what I expected.

An entire plot was given to his name. I had only before seen this with the oldest daimyos.

The spot was isolated, away from the city or other gravesites and surrounded by forest. Flowers grew by the edge of the wood, visited by pollinators. Birds sang in the trees.

There were only a couple of other plots nearby, more typical with the presence of numerous pillars and plaques. I recognized the older kanji of “櫻井” on some. But they were behind and out of view. We were directed instead to attend the large monument in front of us.

We added our own bouquet to the already packed bundles. Many were fresh. I noted a set of red roses begining to wilt. 🥀

The taxi driver did not leave to give us a moment alone. It may be their way to keep an eye on visitors while allowing them access, I thought.

Several times he interrupted us to point out the stone sign to the side. “BUCK-TICK” was visible in Latin letters, and in Japanese, it noted Sakurai’s importance to the band, Fujioka, Gumma, and Japan.

“His brother put this here,” the driver told us.

Historically, there have been a few split graves, where the ashes of someone both important and beloved by two or more houses were divided and buried at multiple graves. It struck me that Sakurai might be the same: a portion laid here, expressly for the fans, and another elsewhere, with his family proper.

Releived by a sense of permission, I was able to cry.

💐

There has been a lot of unclear information out there regarding Sakurai’s grave, how it should be spoken about, and whether it can be visited. I wanted to share my experience to fill in those important gaps.

It stands alone. You will not disturb Sakurai’s family simply by visiting him.

It stands away from other families. You will not disturb strangers by visiting Sakurai.

It is still a grave. Be respectful, and know that, as a stranger, your actions will be watched. Take nothing but the air for your breath. Leave only your bouquets and prayers.

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He didn't look like Sakurai, but there were definitely similarities.

He was tall and handsome with gorgeous black hair to his shoulders. His gentle and polite demeanor made him easy to talk to, and his charming smile made crow's feet to frame his dark eyes.

He had a denser build and a tenor voice, and you wouldn't mistake him for Sakurai, but I couldn't help but think of our beloved Acchan while speaking to this guest, this stranger, at the hotel where I work.

It was the morning of his check-out date, and he asked if his bags could be brought down from his room while he went out for a while. We don't normally offer such a service, but with it being low season, I had the time, so I obliged.

Entering a guest room before cleaning is always its own adventure. Guests leave such unique marks of themselves: which bed they chose, how they used the unoccupied bed, the way things are rearranged, the trash and how much of it actually made its way to the bin, whether the used towels were rehung or left on the floor, how much and which amenities were used, the temperature, the humidity, the scent.

It's always different.

I entered his room and stopped dead in my step. It was warm and exceptionally humid. So much so, the walls were weeping.

Housekeeping staff talk. I read a rumor once about what it's like for a hotel to have Atsushi Sakurai for a guest. He requests two humidifiers and turns the temperature up. When housekeeping comes to clean, the very walls are dripping with condensation.

Having spent a few stints as a singer myself, I understand the reasoning. The best way to moisturize your throat—and if you sing, you should be moisturizing it constantly—is by drinking water. The second best is directly applied water vapor. Steam is great for this, and relatively accessible, as you can spend a few minutes breathing the evaporating vapor off a cup of just-boiled water. But a high-humid environment is vocal heaven.

I had often fantasized about hosting Buck-Tick at our hotel. As best I could, I would behave and stay calm, of course. But I'd certainly and happily install extra humidifiers without being asked. I would imagine coming to check on the rooms after their check-outs. Would I find wet walls in Sakurai's like I had heard there would be?

Of course, with Sakurai's passing last year, that silly little fantasy faded.

Yet here I stood. Our usually chilly and relatively dry guestroom made fit for tropical amphibians. I could see the water dripping down the windows and metal frames, and the wallpaper along the rest of the room damp to the touch. For a moment, that fantasy was manifest, and the echo of Acchan was here, across time and space, delivered unintentionally and unknowingly by a completely different human being, who happened to share of a few of his best-known traits.

I wondered if he was also a singer.

December 8th, 20:00.

I’m not terribly good at calculating the number in large crowds, but I’d say there were between 400 and 500 people in line for the time slot, many who were already waiting when I arrived thirty minutes early.

The staff were gentle but urged us to be efficient, and we had little time to absorb all that was around us with more waiting to enter behind.

Upon entering the venue, the staff handed us one each of a pile of pink carnations. Along the walls were bouquets sent by various companies and musicians, which continued through all the lean hallways from start to finish.

As we turned the corner, framed poster-sized photographs of our Acchan greeted us along the left wall. All were recent, taken in the last year or two, poses of him on stage in costume. The last of these struck me the most. The underside of his legs was fully exposed. And as if to provide the starkest contrast with the burlesque view, his face had the sweetest expression. An angel in black sheen and lace, standing before an audience of flowers and the moving mourning procession, with tears already falling.

In the main hall, the banners we had all signed over the past seven weeks were hung high up along the three walls around the audience, as if presenting them heavenward. The band’s speakers were hung up and in that moment were playing “Kodou,” Sakurai’s voice gently speaking like a lullaby, Gomennasai arigatou.

As we were escorted to our individual standing spots, we beheld the stage.

Nine of his recent costumes stood before us on black mannequins. The stage was absolutely lush with flowers: shades of red, pink, white and yellow that covered every inch of the stage floor and ascended upward all the way to the ceiling, from which hung three massive prints of Sakurai. The flower that he held in the image stage right was the same as many that now surrounded him.

Between the flowers and the pictures was a background of white gossamer, striped with sequins for the appearance of silver rain against white clouds.

Once the first several rows of us were lined up neatly, the staff called for the first row to step forward.

We were given only ten seconds or so before the staff called people to exit to the next hallway. The audience all advanced one floor spot, and the next row was called up.

As more of the stage became visible to me, I noticed one of Yagami’s drumheads, signed by the whole band, standing upright near the center stage for the audience to see.

Sakurai’s finger cymbals hanging on their red string.

A candelabra swollen with melted white wax and black ash.

Our row was called up. I lay my carnation slightly to the side so as not to contribute to the near toppling pile already formed. I found myself praying before the black lace of the Tour the Best costume, the second and last time I would ever come this close to those clothes. I kept my prayer short, a thank you as spoken in another one of his lyrics, bowed and reopened my eyes. I wanted to take in as much as possible before being sent away.

As our row was thanked to leave, we crossed the row of masks laid out neatly by the cymbals. I wanted to linger to look at them more, but the staff were motioning us to move quickly.

Another hall of bouquets to the right and framed photo posters to the left, this time many of which were from photo shoots.

A third hallway.

At the exit, the staff took the final tickets from us and handed us a card in a plastic wrap, the commemorative photo. It would be sometime later that evening when I would be in a comfortable place to open it.

I made a point to approach one of the staff and thank them for their work during such a difficult time. I then sat on one of the benches in the nearby open space to cry freely for a while before I was able to head out.

The work it must have taken to accommodate so many mourners is deeply appreciated, and I’m very, very grateful to the band and staff for pulling this off, especially in taking in so many additional mourners as the demand grew.

And to Sakurai Atsushi,

Acchan,

I’ve said it so many time and will continue to,

arigatou iwanakucha

thank you, thank you, eternally and sincerely, thank you

for so much music, love, and more

But when a celebrity dies, however greatly they may have been loved, there's an underlying assumption in the general society that one shouldn't mourn too much, and that the comfort of those who were not fans is of greater import. And in our current time, in many English-speaking places, there is talk of "parasocial relationships," and how, when this phrase is present, love of a celebrity is akin to mental illness.

Bullshit.

If you loved, then you feel loss. What is the point of pretending the pain isn't as genuine or strong as you can feel that it is? Give yourself that space to mourn. Your heart requires it to heal. Don't deny it.

And if you are one of those who are not in the fandom, don't deny it of others. You don't have to understand the cause of someone's pain to see that the pain exists. Be kind.

tickets, seats

If you just want to say you went to one, get your ticket for one of the massive Tokyo or Osaka venues.

For a decent crowd-energy and some great stage theatrics and sound, join Fish Tank* and reserve your ticket for one of the big cities.

For a close up look at the band members and a chance at interaction, join Fish Tank x LMP* and plan to go to one of the smaller venues.

* Fish Tank is the official fan club with a yearly membership. They have an English side for international fans and Japanese for domestic fans. (I went through the Japanese side.) LMP, short for Love & Media Portable, is a monthly subscription that gets you into the "upper tier" of the fan club, granting access to additional information, media (including digital images and a physical magazine), and the earliest window for ticket purchases.

Frankly, I think the extra 50 USD/yr + a month or two (or more) of LMP (5 USD/mo) is worth the better seat. You also get access to informative emails and Yuta's blog. Both are in Japanese but can be run through automatic translators for an adequate understanding, and both will give you extra information on how the concerts will go, in advance.

swag

There is no cheap swag. If you plan to buy something, be in line before 11:00 a.m. in the big cities, 12:00 p.m. in smaller places, and bring a thick wallet.

B-T post their goods just before the tour starts, so check there and plan in advance what you want to buy. Measure yourself for any clothes. While they do keep some on racks on display, you may not have time to check them, depending on the venue and how strict the lines are.

For randomized items (keychains, trading cards, and other collectables; and for this tour, signed copies of Hide's autobiography; etc.), you are given the item selected by the staff. You will have no hand in choosing which you get.

the event

The air was misty upon entering. Combined with the pre-show music, a mix of classical and electronic instruments, there was a sense of entering another world.

Anyone with photosensitivities should be aware: there are flashing and strobing lights as a regular part of these shows. I don't typically suffer, but this was one of the few times I struggled with them.

Hide's eyes never stopped moving. I met them for a second, and then he had moved on, and on, and on. I had the distinct impression that he was methodically passing over every row, looking every single audience member in the eyes.

Yuta is Yuta. Ever the ball of sunshine, he seemed to carry the same level of energy throughout the show. He did take on a new pose, throwing his hands to stage right and head down and stage left as if to shield himself from Sakurai's sheer power. I squeed.

Toll, as usual, rarely looked up from his kit. Because of this, more than for any other member, I was frustrated by the current policy of no singing/screaming/cheering. (Completely understandable, given Japan's continued caution and the tour cancellations of last August, but still frustrating.) His work on ドレス was particularly intense. I wish I could have called his name out during the applause.

Imai hobbled on stage with his cane, and, though it pained me at first, I wonder how much of it is theatrics by now, as he never picked it up during a song and showed no slowing down for his distinctive dances and kicks, including a few directed at the audience.

I wish I could tell you how lovely Sakurai's voice is live, but my seat put me close to a speaker with some distortion. Much of his attention was directed out toward the bulk of the audience, but during Romance, he teased the front row with melting candle wax, and during the finale, very briefly touched a few hands from the audience at stage front center.

The entire show was just over two hours and left me with the feeling of cotton in my ears.

afterthoughts

For my seat, the extra fee to go through the fan club was absolutely worth it.

I had also booked a room at a lesser known guest house close by rather than one of the better known chain hotels nearer the station. It made preparing for the concert and resting afterward much easier.

Yesterday (December 7th, 2022), Buck-Tick released a statement to fans regarding behavior during the touring events.

It seems that recently, during the concerts, fans have been leaving their seats and running up to the stage.

The statement also reminds fans not to attempt to photograph or record inside the venue, as it's strictly prohibited, and audience members caught doing so will be asked to leave.

Moreover, apparently fans were pursuing band members at the hotel where they were staying, imposing on privacy and creating a potentially dangerous situation.

For this tour especially, terms of attendance have included stipulations against bringing physical letters or gifts, as neither the members nor any management or staff will accept them per the no-contact policy of COVID-19 preventative measures.