N.Hoolywood opened with stage lights and a phonograph. A twisted screech zigzagged its way through the stadium theatre. There were mix match prints, spray dyed denim and neon buzz cuts.
Enter the lair of a mad scientist. A skinhead. A punk. A businessman. There were many stories to be told. Sensible pinstripe suiting for Doctor Jekyll. A two-tone button-up suited for Mr. Hyde. There was no guessing that Obana ripped his cloth straight from Robert Louis Stevenson’s gothic novel, like an exaggerated sleeve.

But there were other stories. Plaid with runners. A velvet jumpsuit, bowl cuts with trench coats and a particular tattoo knuckled-pierced faced someone who put the alt in alternative. There was an elementary undertone. Like a boarding school brat who might enjoy cut-out anoraks in spring and cutting up cats in summer. Fashionably disturbed.

Like products on a conveyer belt they came. One by one. Each with a different story to tell. A different burden to bear. Absent were celebrities. Instead, the front row was peppered with high brow editors. Enthusiasts. The glitter and frivolity of fashion notwithstanding. Simple onlookers. Slaves to craft.

With each pensive glance, each model turn. Silence. Save for the operatic screech of the phonograph. Each breath celebrating such sweet pain. Such dreadful pleasure. Then the lights dimmed, and the stories became a book. The mad scientist. The skinhead. The punk. The businessman. All the archetypes were there.

Polite claps as Daisuke Obana took his bow before his audience. And as each guest walked up the stadium steps, I could see the cogs turning as they whispered to themselves and to each other, was that a sweet dream or a beautiful nightmare? Either way, I don’t want to wake up from you.