"There's nothing for kids to do in Nagoya except sit around all day drinking and taking drugs," says pal Hiroshi, who spent three years there at college.

And when I tell other guys I'm hitting Japan's third city the response is: "What the hell for?"

Well, the drink and drugs sound good, but also I've never been further south than Yokohama in four years; people are always e-mailing Fuzzy Logic saying it should get out of Tokyo; I've got nothing else to do this weekend, and, hell, I might as well admit it, my girlfriend's band, 54 Nude Honeys, are in the middle of a Japan tour and the next stop is Nagoya.

But, there's more to it than that: The Honeys are a fussy band with good contacts. They don't play with just anyone, if they can help it. So if I'm gonna board a bullet train for a gig at least I know that if the Honeys are playing there's a good chance they'll be teamed up with some of the coolest, kick-ass rock 'n' roll bands the place has to offer.

So is Nagoya the Birmingham of Japan, or is there a flourishing underground scene full of vibrant rock 'n' roll simmering beneath the surface? Don't ask me! One night in town isn't enough for a scene report (Nagoyans, you can e-mail them to fuzlog).

But if the London Calling (Vol. 8) event at the Apollo Theater is anything to go by then the bewilderment surrounding my Nagoya trip does seem a little excessive.

OK, so the Honeys are headlining, backed up by Yokkaichi's Gasoline, but Nagoya is well represented by Nine, Pills and Hells Wind.

Hopping off the bullet train, we're immediately confronted with a drunken salaryman urinating in a bush in the harsh midafternoon sun. Hiroshi's words echo through my mind . . . but within an hour things are not looking very rock 'n' roll . . .

1) The Honeys have ditched their hotel because there's an 11 p.m. curfew. Not such a good idea when your gig starts at 10.

2) All the other hotels are fully booked because there's thousands of teenagers in town for an athletics meet. Yeah, we noticed sickeningly healthy looking boys milling about the station, the kind of kids that would burrow their heads into tarmac rather than sip an ice-cold beer. A hotel for the Honeys entourage is finally secured, but all eight of us have to return at the same time if we come back after midnight. Better than a park bench.

3) When we ask several kids in punk T-shirts where the nearest bar is they give us blank looks. We give up and take six-packs back to the hotel room.

The Apollo sounds grand with the word Theater attached to it, but it's just a biggish live house. A cool one, at that, with the backstage area sealed off, but within sight of the stage and double shots for the price of singles if you neglected to sneak in a bottle of liquor.

The place is packed: Rockers, punks and some skins. I don't hear a sumimasen or gomen nasai all night as people shove past each other, snorting and spitting. This might be just a London Calling thing, of course, but it's good to be among kids with attitude. And they even make use of the bar, which doesn't happen in Tokyo.

Pills are on when I walk through the door and pal Yo says: "They're like Rancid or The Clash, but not as good." Of course they're not as good. This is the Apollo Theater in Nagoya. To draw such comparisons can't be bad, though, and although there's no mosh pit going yet, I like them.

Rockabilly trio Nine plays nine songs every gig. It's madcap rock 'n' roll, like the Stray Cats with Sid Vicious on vocals.

Traditional marching music greets the entrance of Hells Wind. Such a swank fanfare is uncool in the underground unless the band are sh** hot. Hells Wind only lives up to the latter half of the name: Lukewarm oi punk with a singer as off-key as Johnny Rotten but without the A-1 evil attitude. The skinheads love it, mind you.

They call themselves Gasoline? Should be Rocket Fuel. Singer-guitarist Gan is the spitting image of Fred Flintstone and he sneers wildly like Mutley out of Wacky Races. He knows every party trick in the "How to Put on a Mental Garage Rock 'n' Roll Show" book as well as penning a few extra chapters.

He balances his copious frame on a spindly chair; plays guitar with his teeth (very well); plays slide guitar with an empty beer can before tossing it into the mosh pit; drools enough spittle to drown a small child; sings a whole song with the mike clenched between his teeth; and then takes one step too far. He whips out a switchblade and holds it aloft. The punks cheer wildly. Oh, what a bad example to set for the kids, but hold on, he flicks it open and, phew, out pops a comb, and the cheeky little monkey slicks back his flopping fringe to wild cheering.

Gan's cartoon antics are a hot hoot, but more importantly, Gasoline rocks like delinquents, with poisonous snakes in their pockets.

Gasoline fills the tank. 54 Nude Honeys drop a match in. Few girls have the guts to clad themselves in skimpy skintight black latex and take the stage in front of a bunch of baying delinquents intent on turning a mosh pit into murderous mayhem. The Honeys' hardcore following of 20 or 30 nutters soon has the rest of the mosh pit scurrying to the back for safety as elbows fly and punks jump on the back of punks and invade the stage. The best bit is when dancer Zina decides there's too many kids cramping her style and punches them back into the mosh pit with complete disdain, a la Keith Richards.

At the aftershow party, somebody says karate chop cocktails are 96 proof. I don't believe it, but then I spill a little on my shirt and someone puts a flame to it and I'm on fire.

If this is the average night in Nagoya then I'm coming again soon.