The Wake

The lights fade to black and a sharp piercing sound stabs its way through the Walker’s McGuire Theater on October 6. I scramble to shove in two small purple earplugs, handed out at the door like pills at a rave. And just in time: a lone, long note rings from 54-year-old Japanese artist Keiji Haino’s mouth. He’s standing at stage right, all long grey hair and dark eyes. His voice is hauntingly beautiful, even as it morphs into a screech followed by short blasts. He leans back with a nimbleness belying his age, arching his back in an arc that imitates his rising vocals.

Next, Haino loops a guitar over his body and flicks at the strings with one hand. Curtains lining the stage’s rear spread to reveal a movie screen, and the word “JO” flashes forth, indicating multi-media artist Cameron Jamie’s film. Water the color of coffee mixed with a generous portion of creamer gurgles on screen. Now there are knights riding horses through a present-day Orléans, France. A table displays rows of daggers. A woman dressed for battle is guided through a street parade. A picture shows her standing defiantly, then grinning as a chipmunk-cheeked child.

Haino plays all the while, augmenting the silent film with melancholy chords and indecipherable lyrics. Behind him, a woman in a circular room is now accepting the Sword of Holy Crosses—Joan of Arc’s weapon of choice. Haino’s soundtrack builds layer by layer, until it reaches eardrum-splitting heights. The woman walks out of the building, swaying gleefully, as if hypnotized by Haino’s song. As it reaches crescendo, images of war and marching soldiers pop up, stitched into place by Haino’s noise-rock stylings.

Later a right-wing politician places a flower bouquet at the foot of a golden Joan of Arc statue. Here Haino begins to convulse. His neck snaps back, then down. His feet slide sideways. He leans slowly into the microphone like a lover to his paramour’s lips, and lets out a quick “Oh.”

The man sitting ahead of me shifts in his seat, tapping and stretching. Inside a fast food restaurant, boxes of indistinguishable yellow food are dumped into boiling grease vats. Potatoes spew from a machine into a pool of soapy water, like chunks of bile. Haino screams a primal warning, dozens of hot dogs grill on a large frying surface, and we see the exterior of Nathan’s Famous restaurant, home of an annual all-you-can-eat orgy.

A giant man steps on a scale. Another pumps his fists skyward like the Rock in a SmackDown. Another wears a shirt boasting his titles in a score of gluttonous competitions, from eating dumplings to Doodle burgers to chicken nuggets. Two small Japanese contestants join the burly lineup before plates of hot dogs. Takeru Kobayashi rolls his head, forcing the food down his throat. He throws his arms skyward as the Dallas Cowboys-esque cheerleader behind him holds the sign “53.” Kobayashi has eaten 53 hot dogs in 12 minutes, a new Coney Island record.

Haino plays the sound of a record scratched and amplified a thousand times. The man ahead grabs the rail next to his seat in a desperate clutch. “49” reads the sign held on screen, as the hot dog eating contest unwinds before our eyes, the boy chomping mechanically, shoving in two dogs at a time, bun crumbs sticking to his lips before being suctioned down his throat. “Ayayaay, ahhrgh, ohhayaoh,” Haino grumbles, roars, hisses, rocking with his mic.

He screams with rage. Silence. Breathes deeply. Silence. Screams. Silence. “22.” “21.” “22,” read the signs. The man ahead rocks in his seat. Kicks his leg. Grabs the pole again. More hot dogs are consumed. Grease bubbles in a vat. Haino croons once more, and the curtains close.

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