‘We were treated like enemies of society’: Japan’s dangerous hardcore punk scene looks back to its roots
NEWS | 25 December 2025
A few short years after punk’s initial shock-and-awe inspired thousands of teenagers to spike their hair and learn three chords, the genre mutated into hardcore: a leaner, meaner and fiercely independent hybrid that would soon be tearing up squats, church halls and dive bars around the world. Forty-five years on, hardcore is enjoying a moment in the mainstream thanks to bands such as Turnstile, Speed and Knocked Loose. There are hardcore bands on talkshows, in fast-food ads and on $40 T-shirts – all things that the 1980s artists would probably have gobbed at. Anyone longing for hardcore’s original underdog spirit may be minded to look to Japan, and a range of newly reissued albums that document the early hardcore scene there. “It was extremely violent and frightening,” says Ishiya, frontman of the band Death Side, one of Japanese hardcore’s linchpin acts (he and many of his punk peers reject surnames or use stage names). “At every gig, someone would be beaten bloody, and you never knew when it might be your turn. That tension was something you could never experience in ordinary life – it was thrilling.” Tokyo alone was home to a huge array of foundational acts such as GISM, Gauze, the Comes and the Execute – and later Death Side, Bastard and Tetsu Arrey – all playing some of the most furious, exciting punk of the late 1980s and early 90s. But for all the sense of camaraderie the bands found on stage, on tour and in the sweaty, volatile crowds, being a punk in Japan could nevertheless be isolating. “Our basic stance was to rebel against society and ‘common sense’, so of course we chose a look that mainstream society wouldn’t accept,” says Ishiya, who used to sport a towering magenta mohawk. “In Japan, the pressure to conform is extremely strong, and we were subjected to discriminatory treatment just for looking different. On trains people avoided us, and when we looked for work, we were screened out. We were treated like enemies of society.” View image in fullscreen ‘Pressure to conform is extremely strong’ … Punks in Osaka in the sumner of 1985. Photograph: Corbis/VCG/Getty Images One of the earliest bands on the scene was Lip Cream. Bassist Minoru Ogawa used to hang out at the Japanese record store chain UK Edison “digging through the few hardcore records they had” and asking staff for recommendations, eventually alighting on western hardcore originators such as Discharge, Chaos UK, Dead Kennedys and Disorder: “I was always looking for fast rhythms.” He had already cut his teeth with the Comes, a raw, scything punk act whose enigmatic singer Chitose had been inspired by the Damned and the Stranglers, who he saw on a trip to London. Ogawa quit, but was then asked whether the Comes might provide tracks for a compilation LP. “I just made something up on the spot: ‘We’ll do it! We’ve actually got a new band!’ I randomly said: ‘We’re called Lip Cream.’” To make good on his word, Ogawa drafted in Aburadako drummer Maru and ex-Comes guitarist Naoki, and the band eventually released four albums containing some of the era’s most scintillatingly out-of-control thrash. “Everything I’d experienced in the Comes ended up turning into this stronger drive with Lip Cream,” says Ogawa. “It wasn’t that I wanted to change what I did – I just wanted to keep moving.” Listen to Lip Cream: Sin Elsewhere, a shorter-lived act called the Nurse were also making their mark as one of the world’s first all-female hardcore bands. Aged 16, singer Neko – a fan of GBH and Discharge – recruited members through Doll, a Japanese magazine. “My family was against me playing punk music,” she says, and they were surprised when she would leave the house “wearing heavy, eccentric makeup and strange fashion. I’d go to gigs at Tsubaki House in Shinjuku, and it caused problems when I’d stay out late.” In this first rush of Tokyo noise, Ishiya’s band Death Side released two landmark albums, a split release with Ishiya’s idols Chaos UK and a scattering of EPs, all between 1987 and 1994. “It was the feeling of: ‘I want to do something myself.’ A punk band was something anyone could do,” he says. “I got an instrument cheaply and practised, couldn’t manage it, and decided to be the vocalist. Hardcore punk was perfect for expressing the hopeless anger of my teenage years.” View image in fullscreen Lip Cream on stage in 1984. Photograph: © Dynamite Records Ishiya has a number of theories about why violence was so prevalent on the scene, ranging from a traditional samurai worldview to the country’s post-second world war trauma. Other reasons are more prosaic. “Basically, people who couldn’t fit into this thing called society – school, companies and so on – were all labelled delinquents,” he says. “When those kinds of people gather together, I think violence naturally breaks out.” This inclination was then magnified by bands such as GISM, whose frontman Sakevi had form for attacking journalists and wielding a flamethrower on stage. “Because of GISM’s violent performances there was a sense that hardcore gigs had to be violent,” says Ishiya. “It made gigs a kind of extraterritorial space where ordinary rules didn’t apply.” All these people seemed crazy, so I thought I’d be a crazy person too The problems came when the punks stepped back into regular society. Zigyaku, guitarist of the bluntly named Bastard, was shut out of venues and jobs, and unable to rent a room because of his appearance. He had played with Gudon and Half Years in Hiroshima before moving to Tokyo, where he instantly became enamoured of the city’s chaotic pace. “The first thing I felt was that everyone was just flying,” he laughs. “All these people seemed crazy, so I thought I’d be a crazy person too. There were so many hardcore bands; there were gigs all over the place every week. Time passed so quickly. It was like Ryūgū-jō in Japanese folklore” – a tale where the story’s hero visits the dragon god Ryūjin’s temple for what appears to be a few days, only to return home to find that centuries have passed. View image in fullscreen ‘At every gig, someone would be beaten bloody’ … Death Side. Photograph: Courtesy: La Vida Es Un Mus But as well as his day-to-day difficulties, there were others as Bastard bulldozed their way across the country, incinerating audiences with the gristly, invincible-sounding hardcore they perfected on their 1992 album, Wind of Pain. “Bastard was never a violent band, but we still had a lot of trouble,” he says. “Punks are conspicuous, so they are easily noticed by the police and yakuza gangsters. On Bastard’s tour with Cruck, Mad Conflux and Pile Driver, there were troubles in every city.” Nevertheless, like Ishiya, Zigyaku apparently wouldn’t have it any other way. “Being a punk makes you a minority, and there’s value in that,” he says. “If more than half of Japan’s population became punk, I think it would be a more disgusting world!” For all their close proximity, each of these bands maintained a distinct sound and identity. “There was a sense of rivalry but I think it was more like sharpening one another,” says Ishiya, who is now an author and punk historian. “It was a wonderful relationship where we would collide head-on and raise each other up.” This wild individualism was reflected elsewhere in Japan, with bands such as Confuse, Disclose, SOB, Mobs, Crow and Nightmare all twisting hardcore into strange, aberrant shapes. As to why these bands were so original, most of the players offer little more than a shrug by way of response. Ishiya, however, finds a specific reason. “The musical lineage differs from that of overseas,” he suggests. “Abroad, rock plays in ordinary households, but in Japan in the 60s or 70s such a thing was unthinkable.” He highlights how Japanese music is instead rooted in gentle forms such as geinō kayōkyoku, enka and folk – meaning that punk was always going to burn even brighter in Japan. “If one rebels, one will likely move in a unique direction.”
Author: Alex Deller.
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