From The Independent Catalogue (UK), January 1994 issue.

It's the sound of the Home Counties, Monkees-style...The Hit Parade has a second album out (‘The Sound of The Hit Parade’), a Japan-only release on the Polystar label . We are gathered together from our other lives for ye annual trip to Japan; Julian Henry, Mr. Hit Parade, writer of the songs; Harvey Williams of Blue Boy; Raymond Watts of the very un-Hit Parade, and often naked, Pig; his brother Mike Watts and, laying down the big beat, Matt Moffat, drummer, lighting director and pal to the world. Oh and me, the Paul Rutherford impersonator.

At Narita Airport we are met by the secret King of Tokyo, Mr. Yoshi Hoshina, together with Toshi from the Smash agency. Together with Kaz Miyayama from Polystar Records, these gents will go on to map uncharted zones in the realms of patience and tolerance whilst shuttling us around their fair nation.

Our first surprise, another plane trip, to Osaka. Here we were met by two more sweethearts, Nobuko and Chie, who are friends of Watts Major. Lord knows how they knew we were there. This happened a lot. We would be met in places we didn't even know we were at by smiling young strangers who knew us better than we did ourselves. Kaz joined us in Osaka, a smiling man of few words with the look of a young John Belushi about him. This Belushi thing became increasingly disconcerting as time went on. We stay in Shinsaibashi's American Village area where we are THE ONLY PEOPLE OVER THE AGE OF 21. Until, that is, we spot fellow Anglos and all-round Glam Goths, Dogs D'Amour. Hello, Dogs!

We perform unplugged at Tower Records where Osaka's beauteous youth listen soberly. Someone organises a rowdy tickets contest in the form of a boisterous game of Stone ,Scissors, Paper. Next, Yoshi takes us to a reggae club to witness Tokyo's Rankin' Taxi. Over the PA, someone with a Ladbroke Grove twang is shouting in Japanese at local boys in wrap-around sunglasses. It's back to the hotel. If the hotel rooms had windows, we'd've seen the moony glow of the sentry-like vending machines guarding the Osaka street corners, offering beer and Carpenters CDs to anyone with the right change.

Next Day- Bullet Train!! Also, we are introduced to the Olympic sport of Dashing For Trains With Gear. Cue, lots of wheezing from us Hit Paraders. We arrive at Nagoya and repair to the hotel for naps. Julian awakes to find Matt has let some awestruck giggling HP fans into their room. I awake to find someone has let a disagreeable biting insect into mine.

Last night at Club Quattro, Winger packed 'em in, tonight, it's us. We are told that key members of the band Flipper's Guitar, trend-setting former cuties, have proclaimed that the Cutie Scene is dead and Tuff is in. We shudder fearfully, "Are Hit Parade 'Cutie'?" we quaver to each other. Oh well, consolation comes our way in the form of some gurlies who fete the boys with chocolates and whacking great genetically engineered apples. Raymond generously shares his Nuts on Parade bar with me and it makes us both feel pretty tuff.

Morning! The cuisine of Japan has a special charm but it does leave you feeling, after a few days of sea urchin and such, like you've chewed a leg off Brighton Pier. Who knew Neptune's pantry had so many things in it? And they're all being served for breakfast. Before we run for the train, we run to a McDonald's, feeling sheepish, ungrateful and strangely desperate. At the station, an elderly porter comes to help us. He will be our pace setter in the Running With Gear 1000 metres. He straps an entire back line over his shoulders and runs upstairs. We bring up the rear with the guitar strings and our toothbrushes, knowing we should have eaten more of those sea urchins. Our gear goes back to Osaka and we take a detour to the ancient capital, Kyoto.

This is the best place ever, lots of low hanging telegraph wires and enigmatic Japanese homesteads. We tromp around some temples, suitably chastened by the loveliness. Raymond has an existential crisis in the Zen Rock Garden and announces he's going to die. We see our first westerners since Dogs D'Amour (Germans).

We also see some elderly gents parading around with placards. We are told they are vagrants, which wasn’t immediately apparent to us. What about the placards? "For a sex shop", explains Yoshi, evenly. On several occasions, Matt and Raymond are mobbed by schoolgirls. The gurls throng around them, making two-fingered peace signs and sticking their thumbs in the air- so much to answer for, Mr. McCartney. We are lead up a steep hill for some tea and the streets are suddenly filled with geisha girls in full make-up and costume, all of whom seem to know Matt.

Osaka: Julian has written a song on the bullet train using his porta-sequencer. “It’s called 'Osaka Girl’," Julian explains with his very special blend of twenty different strains of self-deprecation. Heady with spontaneity, we perform it that night. Later in a cafe, Matt cheerily engages the owners in a long conversation. "I've got a dog. I don't speak a word of Japanese" The owners speak plenty of Japanese in response and they all rattle away together in this Esperanto of the soul. Later at the hotel, Chie and Nobuko stop by to give us a party, the refreshments being smoked cuttlefish and self-combusting cans of sake. They give us things and we don't want to go home.

Finally, to Tokyo: We meet Ricky from Polystar, a fluently American Japanese fella, and our American interpreter, Brian. Another Kaz, this one from Crossbeat magazine, cruelly tries to make us reconcile the sound of the Hit Parade with that of Raymond's Pig. Then the lads are hauled off for some TV and radio and I get to stroll through Tokyo in the rain. Who could want more?. I happen upon a Kensington-ish residential area of green, bonsai silence. It is hard to imagine anyone moving inside the homes, they must be lying low, steeped in sake steam and octopus juice. The only sound comes from some carrion crows. The only other humans abroad that day are three phone engineers waist deep in a side street. In the rain, Tokyo smells of London, and its parks have that same stale duck food smell.

Back at the hotel, I make the mistake of listening to the US Army radio station. It's a phone poll. The question, delivered with hearty, stentorian clarity, "How LONG do YOU expect to LIVE?" Thank you, Pacific Stars and Stripes.

We 'do' several more performances, and suddenly, we are in a restaurant again. Kaz M's wallet is smoking. A lot of the people who had colds are starting to feel better and someone demands we all exchange exotic holiday anecdotes. Of course that someone goes first, with a story involving Thailand, a teaspoon, an oriental hallucinogen and, consequently, haemorrhoids. His recital climaxes with a gruesome reenactment of a scene previously presented to a group of concerned Thai pharmacists. Harvey was deeply pained by the vulgarity. He would have us believe he is a young man of delicate sensibilities. However, we had seem him after shows, surrounded by Blue Boy fans, murmuring, “Yes, I do work at the BBC, actually" whilst holding some of those mutant apples.

It's raining like a bastard out there and we only have three umbrellas, so Yoshi Kubota, Pig's record company man in Japan, does a selfless mercy dash through the sheets of water and comes back with more- enough for us, but still none for him. He waves off all offers of sharing lest we get wet.

Kaz and Yoshi H. remain gracious to the end, even during Matt and Raymond's beer and eggs eating competition. We are later shepherded to the London Underground club. Tonight's host, our pal Kaz from Crossbeat. Julian organises an impromptu records give-away. People swarm and accidentally suffocate Raymond who had been ‘mellowing out ' on the floor by the DJ booth. Later, Julian claims, Raymond (6'5" tall) accidentally slid out of the window of a taxi cab at a stop light. You know it's time to go home when that happens.

So it was back to Narita airport with the delightful Toshi, who graciously hid his relief in finally giving us the farewell boot. But soft! We spy alien gig gear next to ours in the baggage check. Which venerable rock geezers will share our flight back to fair Londinium? Sweet Mother Mary...it's Brian May! And he's wearing the same white clogs he wore back in '74! This is too excellent. We see his leonine-maned entourage in the galley during the flight, amongst them, the godlike Cozy Powell. Yep, the Brian May group. You'll always find them in the kitchen on long flights, as Jonah Lewie would say, if he knew. -Cath