Everybody Was Kung Fu Fighting

 

EVERYBODY WAS KUNG FU FIGHTING

B-Side Man presents: The Dragon, the Guitar and the Missing Reel

A VHS film noir rock 'n' roll fever dream

PICTURE STARTS • TRACKING ERROR • DO NOT ADJUST YOUR SET

The year is 1984. Or 1974. Or possibly Tuesday.

The rain is coming down sideways. A neon dragon flickers above a nightclub called The Golden Pick. Somewhere in the distance, a guitar is making a noise that sounds suspiciously like a motorcycle being thrown down a staircase.

I was looking for a song.

Just one song.

A little something to follow up that business with the octopus and Mother Earth. Something with a bit of mystery. A little international flavour. Maybe a hidden gem from the bottom of the crate.

Then I found a trail.

And the trail led straight into a world of Asian rock 'n' roll where the guitars are loud, the rules are questionable, and everybody seems to know kung fu.

Or at least, they know somebody who does.

Chapter One: The Case of the Missing Dragon

It started with Carl Douglas.

Everybody Was Kung Fu Fighting. The 1974 hit that sounds like somebody decided a martial arts movie needed a disco soundtrack and never looked back.

A perfectly innocent tune.

Except it wasn't.

Because once that song gets into your head, you start looking for kung fu everywhere. In the guitar riffs. In the drum fills. In the suspiciously dramatic album covers.

And suddenly, you're not listening to a playlist anymore.

You're investigating a crime.

The crime? Somebody stole the rock 'n' roll.

The suspects? A Japanese garage band, three Indonesian metalheads, a Mongolian cavalry unit, and a bloke in a leather jacket who claims he can play guitar with his feet.

I wasn't buying it.

But I was listening.

Chapter Two: Tokyo After Midnight

The first clue was a guitar riff.

It came from a battered cassette marked DO NOT PLAY AFTER DARK. Naturally, I played it after dark.

The speakers exploded.

Out of the static emerged Flower Travellin' Band, a Japanese outfit with a sound so heavy it could probably dent a railway carriage.

Their music wasn't asking for permission. It was taking the entire building hostage.

I followed the noise down a back alley, past a vending machine dispensing suspiciously glowing beverages, and into a room where Guitar Wolf were busy trying to blow the roof off.

Guitar Wolf.

Two words that sound less like a band and more like a warning issued by the local authorities.

Their garage rock was all distortion, sweat, and the sort of energy that suggests somebody has just discovered that guitars can be used as weapons.

I ducked behind a jukebox.

A man in sunglasses leaned over the counter.

"You're looking for the Dragon?" he asked.

"I thought I was looking for a song."

He laughed. It was the kind of laugh you hear just before somebody gets thrown through a plate-glass window.

"Same thing."

He handed me a cassette.

Shonen Knife.

Three women from Osaka who had apparently decided that punk rock needed more pop, more fun, and significantly fewer instructions.

I pressed play.

The song was Banana Chips.

For a moment, the rain stopped.

Then the jukebox exploded.

Chapter Three: Three Women Walk Into a Metal Bar

The trail took me south. Indonesia.

I found myself in a club where the floor was shaking, the lights were flashing, and three women were standing onstage looking like they had absolutely no intention of taking any nonsense from anybody.

Voice of Baceprot.

I knew the name. I'd heard the riffs. But seeing them in this imaginary nightclub was something else entirely.

The guitar was snarling. The drums were pounding. The bass was dragging the entire room into a musical fistfight.

I looked around.

The patrons were headbanging.

The bartender was headbanging.

Even the houseplants were headbanging.

Then The Other Side of the Dream came on, and the whole place went up in flames.

Not actual flames.

Probably.

I made a note in my detective's notebook:

Never underestimate a band with a good riff and something to prove.

Then I ran.

Chapter Four: The Horsemen of the Apocalypse Have Entered the Building

Mongolia.

The road was long. The sky was black. My car had run out of petrol, and a suspiciously large horse was following me.

I was beginning to think this investigation had gone too far.

Then I heard it.

A voice from the darkness. A strange, guttural sound, like a mountain clearing its throat.

The Hu.

Throat singing. Horsehead fiddles. A rhythm that sounded like an army of angry ancestors marching through the desert.

I stood there in the headlights.

The horse looked at me.

I looked at the horse.

The Hu launched into Wolf Totem.

The horse started headbanging.

I don't mind admitting it. I was a little frightened.

There are some bands you listen to.

And then there are bands that make you wonder whether you've accidentally summoned something.

The horse disappeared into the night.

I never saw it again.

Chapter Five: The Case Gets Completely Out of Hand

By now, I was beginning to suspect that the Dragon wasn't a person.

It was a riff.

A riff that had been travelling through Asia, jumping from guitar to guitar, from one underground club to another, leaving a trail of broken amplifiers and confused police officers.

I followed it to South Korea.

The city was glowing. The streets were crowded. Somewhere, a karaoke machine was playing a power ballad loud enough to rearrange the furniture.

I walked into a basement club.

The band onstage were playing Sanulrim.

A raw, strange, beautiful sound from the Korean rock underground. The sort of music that doesn't care whether you understand the lyrics. It just wants you to feel something.

I sat down.

For the first time all night, nobody was fighting.

Nobody was chasing me.

Nobody was setting fire to anything.

Then the drummer dropped his sticks.

The lights went out.

And somebody shouted:

"THE DRAGON IS IN MANILA!"

I was out the door before the last guitar chord had finished ringing.

Chapter Six: Manila, the Final Showdown

Manila.

The city was alive with neon, noise, and the unmistakable smell of something frying in a street stall.

I found the club.

The sign above the door read THE LAST CHORD.

Inside, a band called Juan de la Cruz were playing Himig Natin. The guitar was dirty. The groove was hypnotic. The crowd looked like they'd been waiting all night for somebody to kick the door in.

I ordered a drink.

The barman slid it across the counter.

"You're late," he said.

"Late for what?"

He pointed to the stage.

A spotlight came on.

A figure stepped out of the smoke.

Leather jacket. Black boots. A guitar slung over one shoulder.

The Dragon.

I recognised the riff immediately.

It was the same riff I'd heard in Tokyo. The same riff that had sent the horse into a frenzy in Mongolia. The same riff that had brought three Indonesian metalheads to the edge of musical warfare.

The Dragon wasn't a band.

It wasn't a song.

It was rock 'n' roll itself.

And it was about to kick my backside.

The Great Asian Rock 'n' Roll Chop-Socky Playlist

SIDE A • THE INVESTIGATION

* Carl Douglas – Everybody Was Kung Fu Fighting

* Flower Travellin' Band – Satori Part I

* Guitar Wolf – Jet Generation

* Shonen Knife – Banana Chips

* Voice of Baceprot – The Other Side of the Dream 

* The Hu – Wolf Totem

* Sanulrim – 청춘 (Youth)

* Juan de la Cruz – Himig Natin

SIDE B • THE DRAGON STRIKES BACK

* Beyond – 海阔天空 (Boundless Oceans, Vast Skies)

* Search – Isabella

* Indus Creed – Top of the Rock

* Flower Travellin' Band – Hiroshima

Press Play ▶️ 

The Final Reel

The Dragon raised his guitar. I raised my hands.

He struck one chord.

The entire club went silent.

Then the bass kicked in.

The drums came crashing down.

And everybody was kung fu fighting.

Not because they knew kung fu. Not because there was a tournament.

But because the music was so loud, so ridiculous, so gloriously out of control, that the only reasonable response was to start kicking the air.

I was thrown through the door.

I landed in the street.

The rain had stopped.

The neon dragon was gone.

In its place stood a small, battered cassette player.

I picked it up.

There was a label on the tape.

SIDE B: DO NOT REWIND.

I pressed play.

A guitar riff.

A drumbeat.

A voice from the darkness.

And somewhere, Carl Douglas was still wondering what on earth he started.

THE END

Or is it?

Because some songs deserve their moment.