Typically, when people envision a band performance, they picture musicians pouring their souls into their songs on a wide, rectangular stage. This is because, unlike idol groups, bands are constrained by the physical reality of their instruments, which inherently limits their range of motion.
The reason bands often communicate 'only' through music in front of massive crowds stems partly from a musician's pathological obsession with sincerity in their craft, but fundamentally, it is rooted in the limitations of the band format itself.
The act of moving around to engage directly with the audience is usually reserved for the vocalist. One only needs to look at the drums to understand why—how on earth is a drummer supposed to move while tethered to those massive, heavy pieces of gear mid-performance?
However, Tanaka Shuji harbored a burning desire to make that impossible feat a reality.
"Leader, we've used thrust stages at various concerts before, but those were always for solo segments or parts where we didn't need the drums, right? What if we try to overcome that limitation?"
"Baldy, sounds great in theory, but how are you going to pull it off?"
Yokishi tilted his head in skepticism at Shuji's suggestion.
"Shuji, let's just stick to what we know."
"Leader, you want to 'stick to what we know' in front of 250,000 people? You of all people should know better."
Fundamentally, a solo concert is a space where an artist carves their existence into the hearts of the audience.
Radiating a 'star' aura simply by existing and commanding a crowd overwhelmed by that presence is a common sight today, especially now that bands and massive sing-alongs have become normalized.
The problem is physical distance. No matter how powerful a star's aura is, it becomes harder to feel the further away you are. Even if the Leader's aura was blindingly intense, it would inevitably hit a limit in a venue packed with 250,000 people.
As the numbers grow, fans in the back struggle with obstacles—the press of the crowd, the height of the people in front of them—that pull them out of the experience.
A thrust stage was the mechanism to compensate for that. If the stage extended outward, the performers could advance right into the heart of the crowd.
"Musicians should communicate through music. That's the law."
"And who was it that's been aggressively pushing for all these different performances? Wasn't that you, Leader?"
"Shuji, we're only two months away from Knebworth. You want to change the stage configuration now?"
"That's exactly what you've always done. Hide, if you can't do it, hand it over to me. We still have two whole months."
Ever since Ai suddenly began to distance herself, the Leader had started crumbling at a frightening pace.
While his persona as a 'star' on stage had become flawlessly brilliant, the 'human' side of the Leader was rotting away—physically dependent on alcohol and 'poison' like heroin, and psychologically consumed by lethargy.
Even in moments like this, why does he act like someone who's ready to leave? Like nothing matters?
The Leader of the past would have jumped at my idea. Knebworth, set to be the largest concert in history, was still two months away, and with the relaxed schedule, there was plenty of time to refine the concept.
"Hey, Hide. Snap out of it. We're pros. Professionals who have to show the public our best at all times. If you keep acting like this, I'm going to knock some sense into you."
"Is there anyone in this room more 'pro' than me? Who else here is professional enough to provide the public with the perfect gossip alongside the music, acting the part of the 'star'?"
"Yeah, you're a 'pro' alright. But is a man who's lost his will to live, lying there and smoking his life away on junk, really a 'Rock Star'?"
Enfants Terribles weren't just [Professionals]; they were [Rock Stars]. And if you're a rock star, shouldn't you be obsessed with making the stage more spectacular and driving the crowd into a frenzy?
While I spent my spare time studying the performances of other artists to improve our own show, the Leader was lying there, high on heroin.
"Baldy, Hide, both of you calm down. If you don't stop, I'll fold you both in half."
"And Baldy, if we do a thrust stage, how do you plan to handle the cables?"
In a live venue, band instruments are hardwired to amplifiers to produce sound. Naturally, the length of those cables has a physical limit.
If we were some 'Pop Dance' group just singing and shaking our asses, we could roam a thrust stage freely. But we were a band.
"Sakamoto, didn't we struggle like hell in LA because of the cables? The staff were literally swearing while they worked."
Sakamoto Ryuichi was right. Back in LA, dozens of staff members were mobilized just to manage the cables, and even then, we almost tripped over them several times.
"There's no need to push it. A standard front-facing setup is enough to win anyway."
"True. The Leader has a point."
I conceded to the Leader's words. In truth, you don't need a thrust stage for a successful band performance.
"But if we pull it off, we'll become even more 'special.'"
We are [Rock Stars]. Icons who blaze trails others won't take, who run toward things we hate just to smash them into pieces because that's what we feel like doing.
"Aren't you excited? Showing the world something on the biggest stage possible that no other amateur can even dream of?"
"Baldy, now that's a thought that gets the blood pumping."
"So what's the plan then?"
Sakamoto asked me. But I had no answer for him.
"I don't know."
"But for now, we just do it."
Wasn't Enfants Terribles a gathering of rock stars?
Refusing a challenge just because we might fail—that was never our way.