For the love of a Crush Gal
Already, in the early days of this blog, I find myself somewhat falling at the first hurdle of a weekly schedule. Life has a tendency to get in the way of these things, and it's been an extraordinarily busy week - the most stressful of crunch times at my "shoot" job, my birthday earlier this week, and a litany of social commitments to go along with it. No complaints here on that last count, but it's meant I've lacked time to just sit and write.
When I started putting the plan for the blog together, I outlined a list of what I wanted to write about every week and, dear reader, on week two, I am already breaking away from that list, and it's because of one of the events that kept me so busy.
Last weekend, Pro Wrestling EVE held their She-1 weekend - the latest in what was a yearly tradition, waylaid by the Covid-19 pandemic, and now joyously returned. She-1 is more than just an admittedly excellent name, it's also one of the most intense and gruelling weekends in all of independent wrestling, comprising a tournament held across four shows in two days. The matches are invariably hard-hitting, action packed, with nothing held back, and the injury toll is high - no She-1 series has ever made it to show four with every competitor still intact. As well as showcasing the best that Britain's independent scene has to offer - this year's tournament included the likes of EVE stalwarts Rhia O'Reilly, Jetta, Skye Smitson, Kasey, Charlie Morgan and Emersyn Jayne, and was ultimately won by Alex Windsor - it's also a showcase for some of the best female wrestlers in the world, and some legends of the sport; previous years have seen the likes of Mercedes Martinez, Meiko Satomura, Emi Sakura, Kris Wolf, Command Bolshoi, Nicole Savoy and Jazz take part, and this year was no different, with Marvellous' Takumi Iroha and freelance Joshi star VENY (known as ASUKA in Japan) making the trip and winning over the audience in short order with a series of incredible performances.
There was another name on the bill, however, that was not part of the tournament, yet commanded as much attention as anyone. That name was the second inductee into EVE's Hall of Fame, Chigusa Nagayo. And it was because of Chigusa Nagayo that I decided to neglect my planned blog for this week, and write this instead.
Thoughts on "Legends"
The phrase "the word legend gets thrown around a lot these days" gets thrown around a lot these days, because professional wrestling's tendency toward hyperbole, and wrestling fans' tendency to latch on to an easy buzzword, has meant that, for at least twenty years, the word "legend" has been applied to any wrestler that's achieved a modicum of longevity. If you're over, say, fifty years old, you're a legend, regardless of ability, influence, or importance. It's become a word devoid of meaning, and fans understandably have made some effort to try and claw back a sense of import and gravitas to the term.
The most recent manifestation of that conversation has been in the recurring social media debate, "who would be on wrestling's Mount Rushmore?" - that is to say, if wrestling's litany of legends could be reduced to just four iconic names, who would make the cut?
It's an interesting thought experiment, but beyond that, I find it rather trite and reductive - does the WWE's canonising of Shawn Michaels as an unquestioned All Time Great warrant him in a position in that upper echelon that could otherwise go to the likes of Jim Londos, a wrestler who drew staggering sums of money in the mid-20th century, but who has been reduced to relative obscurity today? Should Big Daddy, a household name in the United Kingdom, yet all but unknown in the United States, take up a place on that mythical Mount Rushmore at the expense of a John Cena, or a Randy Savage? What of Japan's Rikidozan, or Mexico's El Santo, to say nothing of the countless other marquee names in those countries and elsewhere.
It's a fool's errand, and one that I see as of a piece with many wrestling fans' fixation on "five star matches" - it's an attempt to break down and to codify what constitutes "great wrestling" and "great wrestlers", but in doing so risks dissecting the proverbial frog (that is to say, in reference to E.B. White's adage that, "humour can be dissected, as a frog can, but the thing dies in the process and the innards are discouraging to any but the pure scientific mind" - substitute "humour" for "wrestling" here, and you'll start to see what I’m getting at). The rating of an individual match, shewn of context, is to miss the point of professional wrestling. A wrestling show, or at least, a good wrestling show, is a contained story, that follows the same narrative beats and emotional highs and lows of an individual wrestling match. As I explore in my book, the structure of a modern professional wrestling show was largely perfected in the 1920s and 1930s with the express intent to match the format of a vaudeville bill, which were themselves crafted based on a clear understanding of audience behaviour, and avoided scheduling similar acts too close to one another; a good vaudeville impresario wouldn't dream of booking a lesser escape artist on the same bill as Harry Houdini, or booking two cross-talking comedy acts one after another, because you don't want to risk undermining your star attraction, or robbing audiences of what they really want, which is variety. In wrestling terms, a violent, blood-soaked brawl in the main event is robbed of emotional weight and tension if three matches on the undercard are equally, or even more, violent. An acrobatic, death-defying stunt in the final match won't impress the audience half as much if they've seen a dozen more dives, somersaults and high spots in the preceding two hours.
What that means is that a "good match" is often only as good as its context - by rating a match on a 1-5 (or 6, or 7, etc.) scale, without thought given to its intent, its positioning on the card, or the role it plays in educating or priming an audience to better facilitate their response to a match later on, is to fundamentally miss part of the experience of watching wrestling. While there are some matches that are undoubtedly superb out of context, and reward repeat viewing, the notion that a match might be performed with the intention that it would be watched over and over again, whether in its entirety or reduced to a series of short, easy-to-consume GIFs, is a relatively recent one - for almost all of wrestling's history, individual matches have been ephemeral, there for the enjoyment of the audience in attendance, or who happen to have tuned in to their local wrestling show on television on that day and at that time, never to be seen again. That has afforded some matches a near mythic quality, but others have been allowed to fade into obscurity. For all that they hang heavy on any account of wrestling's early 20th century history, can we compare the matches of Frank Gotch and George Hackenschmidt, in terms of importance and influence, to the matches of Ric Flair or Hulk Hogan, when no footage survives of the former? Even for names as big as Flair and Hogan, the vast majority of their career was spent away from the TV cameras, on live events, without the mixed blessing afforded to modern wrestlers, where practically every match, from the smallest show to the largest stage, is recorded and available at the push of a button.
The talk of "five star matches" strikes me as a broader symptom of wrestling criticism, and one that I have purposefully set out to avoid in my own writing - the need to present coverage of any show by way of emotionless play-by-play; a move-for-move account of a match tells us little of the story of that match, it's akin to writing a movie review that details every cut and change of camera angle, but never gets round to telling you what the film is about. In the 1990s, British music magazines NME and Melody Maker both began insisting that all album reviews culminate in a rating out of 5, and iconoclast music journalists Everett True and Steven Wells, who both felt that a review was only ever an account of their own experience of an album, rather than a quantifiable, objective measure, protested by spending months making a mockery of the new rule at their respective publications, rating everything that came across their desk either 0, 5, or a meaningless grade like "Q/5". Five star ratings in wrestling deserve a similar disrespect, an open acknowledgement that ranking matches in such a way only serves to dissect the frog - to strip the match from the context in which it was performed and from the audience that first watched it, and for whom it was intended, and present it as an isolated relic.
The Mount Rushmore-ing and codifying of "legends" serves a similar purpose; to frame a select few wrestlers as the universally agreed upon best and most important, while overlooking the contexts in which they performed, and the collaborators that put them there - the opponents, the bookers, the audiences, and the countless others whose shoulders they stand upon. What's more, by canonising a handful of wrestlers and matches as The Greatest Of All Time, one risks preserving them in amber, creating a stagnation where one daren't say that a wrestler today might actually be better than the stars of the past, or that the show last weekend might have surpassed one of the canonical Best Shows Ever. Striving for a constrained ideal of "legendary" status, or a narrow view of what makes up a "five star match" can rob wrestling of its variety, its diversity, and its imagination - few, if any, comedy matches have ever been awarded a coveted five star rating, and the groupthink received wisdom of what constitutes a "great match" is rarely one that rewards imagination, innovation and creativity, all of which are the lifeblood of professional wrestling. Instead, they reward repetition of the same tropes, the same techniques, the same structures and formats, and silo top flight wrestling away from innovation from within or inspiration from without. It should go without saying that this is a bad thing - if there were such a thing as a blueprint to having a five star match, or being a money-drawing main event star, we would all be following it, but the fact is that there is no magic bullet.
So, with those hefty caveats and big reckons firmly in place, what would I say does constitute a genuine "legend" in professional wrestling? It would have to be someone whose impact on either the business or the art form of professional wrestling is undeniable, someone who drew significant money, brought in new fans, inspired, influenced or directly had a hand in cultivating a subsequent generation of wrestlers, whose in-ring work was not just top tier but actively worked to fundamentally reshape how professional wrestling is performed. It would have to be someone who, on some level, transcended professional wrestling as it was when they entered the sport, and left it improved through their efforts. It's a narrow field, and one that - finally - brings me to our topic of discussion.
Chigusa Nagayo
Chigusa Nagayo made her wrestling debut on August 8th 1980, at the tender of age of 15, for the All Japan Women's Pro Wrestling promotion. AJW was on the crest of a wave of popularity - despite women's professional wrestling actually predating its male counterpart in Japan by some years, it had fought an uphill struggle for credibility since its origins as part of a comedic variety show, and years spent in the cultural wilderness of strip clubs, burlesque shows, and small community theatres. Caught in the crosshairs of a Japanese culture war, as post-war Japanese society attempted to reconcile with not only their defeat in War, but the ensuing influx of American cultural influence, women's wrestling shows performed largely to affluent American GIs were a frequent target of suspicion and abuse, seen as either unbecoming of an idealised Japanese femininity, or faced with allegations that all-female or intergender wrestling matches were an erotic performance, akin to a cheap strip show. Later, when pioneering wrestler Mildred Burke, blacklisted from performing in the United States by an abusive ex-husband and a sexist and patriarchal wrestling establishment, brought a touring troupe to Japan that briefly elevated women's wrestling in the public eye, the critics who once derided women's wrestling as merely a source of titillation often derided the presentations of serious competition in a post-Burke wrestling scene as insufficiently erotic for men to bother with. Damned if you do, damned if you don't.
In 1968, AJW managed to secure a television deal on Fuji TV, but it was in 1973 that they found their first steps toward changing wrestling forever, thanks to a new recruit named Mach Fumiake. Her career was to be short-lived - wrestling her first match in 1974, and her last in 1976 - but it was her achievements outside of the ring that really mattered. For wrestling was just one small step on Fumiake's entertainment career - she would go on to star in a number of movies, becoming a cult figure thanks to her appearance in one movie in the Gamera franchise, but before wrestling, she had come second in the popular TV talent show Star Tanjo!. Seeing potential in cultivating a crossover star, AJW had Fumiake perform her signature tune on TV and at wrestling events, bringing in curious young female fans who might never before have dreamed of watching pro-wrestling.
Before long, all of AJW was to follow suit - where the wrestlers of AJW past had largely been somewhat androgynous in presentation, hair cut in neat, short bobs, and clad in unadorned swimsuit-style ring gear, the pop star appeal of Fumiake bled into the promotion as a whole; wrestlers became more glamorous, elaborate costuming and musical numbers became part of the presentation, as Fuji TV pushed for AJW's television to become more a variety show, to appeal to families and young children, while teenage girls saw in Fumiake's talent show-to-movie-stardom-by-way-of-wrestling pipeline a potential blueprint for fame and fortune of their own, and an escape from the drudgeries of domestic life that they saw laid out before them.
After Fumiake came Jackie Sato and Maki Ueda, a tag team collectively known as The Beauty Pair. They took the pop star blueprint of Fumiake to new heights, scoring a top ten single, which they performed at AJW shows, and even starring in their own movie in 1977. Jackie Sato was a talented, charismatic, attractive and convincing main event star in singles competition, but it was as a tag team wrestler that she truly shone - the psychology of a tag team match relies, more than any other wrestling match, on a babyface getting beaten down and, in a very literal sense, reaching out for salvation, both from their partner, but also from their adoring audience. It turned out that the tag team dynamic was the magic missing ingredient that AJW needed, because it gave the teenage fanbase a brand new fantasy - they would no longer just daydream of being wrestlers, but of being there on the apron, or at ringside, actively cheering on Jackie or Maki, reaching out to give them the support they needed to turn their fortunes around and win the match. It was no longer a solitary fantasy, but a shared one - you and your best friend could both be the Beauty Pair.
Such was AJW's commitment to cultivating a teenage fanbase with plucky heroes designed to be audience surrogates that they enforced a retirement age of 26 - with the sexist and cynically calculated reasoning that a girl of 13 or 14 would no longer be able to picture a woman of over 26 as either a surrogate for their own emotions and ambitions, or as an idealised "big sister" to look up to. That policy would come back to bite AJW many times, with marquee stars arbitrarily put out to pasture time and time again, but it speaks volumes to the sheer quantity of aspiring wrestlers that applied to train with AJW that they were able to keep it up for so long.
Crush Gals
Inevitably, the Beauty Pair reached the dreaded 26, and a replacement was in order. In 1983, after two years of more or less treading water in the AJW undercard, and already considering calling it quits, Chigusa Nagayo was booked to wrestle Lioness Asuka, another young wrestler being groomed for stardom. They had clear and immediate chemistry, and were soon paired up as a tag team, adopting a nickname of male wrestler Akira Maeda to become the Crush Gals.
It's not always the originators of a style, gimmick, or idea that manage to perfect it or reach its potential. Superstar Billy Graham had a bodybuilder physique, long, bleach blonde hair and a penchant for the word "brother", but it took Hulk Hogan stretching those characteristics to almost parodic extremes and adding a touch of Dusty Rhodes-inspired mock-jive talk to the mix to take that persona to unimagined heights. Similarly, the Crush Gals picked up the baton laid down by the Beauty Pair and found their own takes and revisions on the formula that propelled them to super-stardom.
While the Beauty Pair were glamorous, stylised, and carried themselves like 1970s MOR pop stars, the Crush Gals were, while by no means unattractive, a little rougher around the edges, with shorter hair, and a taste for somewhat more boyish fashion, as likely to be seen rocking double denim as their trademark coloured ring gear - red for Chigusa, blue for Asuka, in recognition of something that Giant Baba’s AJPW would realise in the 1990s; a wrestler being immediately identifiable by the colour of their gear is an easy hook for new viewers getting to grips with a roster's worth of names and faces. As a result, the Crush Gals weren't quite the aspirational pop star models that the Beauty Pair had been, but a more relatable type of hero. They really were the "big sisters" that AJW wanted their audience to look for in wrestlers, and it proved to be a recipe for incredible success.
When I say "success", I don't just mean the list of championships, sell-out shows, or in-ring victories. Together, the Crush Gals' merchandise sales rivalled those of Hulk Hogan in America. Like other Joshi stars before them, they released records, but unlike the novelty records of many Japanese wrestlers (or American wrestlers in Japan - looking at Terry Funk's rendition of the Jimmy Hart-penned "I Hate School" here), their records sold in the hundreds of thousands, and led to appearances on mainstream TV, and a boom period for AJW, where, with the Crush Gals topping the card, the Fuji TV show regularly drew a rating of 12.0 (for comparison, at the height of the Monday Night Wars, the WWE's flagship show Monday Night RAW achieved a highest ever rating of 8.1). They had advertising deals aplenty, were regulars on the TV variety show circuit, and in 1986 were even the subject of a Wall Street Journal article, where it was reported that, in contrast to the 80,000 Yen (then around $520) monthly allowance of most AJW recruits, the Crush Gals recording, advertising and merchandising empire was netting them 30 million Yen ($193,000) apiece in a single year. They were a cultural behemoth.
I said earlier that there's no magic ingredient to super-stardom, but whatever it was in 1983, the Crush Gals had it. They built on the Beauty Pair's success, took it to even greater heights, and combined it with expert in-ring ability, as AJW's in-ring product diversified and improved throughout the '80s boom period, thanks to a greater focus on wrestling acumen born of excursions overseas.
Lioness Asuka was, arguably, the superior wrestler of the two, but Chigusa Nagayo's appeal came from a never-say-die approach to every match, and a connection with her fanbase that may never have been equalled since. It used to be common in wrestling circles to refer to one member of a tag team as "playing Ricky Morton" after the Rock 'N' Roll Express star perfected the role of the beaten down hero reaching out to his partner - one could just as easily refer to "playing Chigusa Nagayo", because no wrestler in history better played their part, eliciting screams, cries, gasps and floods of tears in every bout. When pitted against another influential Japanese tag team, The Jumping Bomb Angels, some of the Crush Gals' fans formed an impromptu cheer-leading squad in the audience, such was the intensity of their devotion - not a single match went by without a cacophony of screaming and cheering, at Beatlemania pitch, from fans clad in red or blue, depending on their favourite Crush Gal.
Crush Gals vs. JB Angels 9/14/1987 - AJW - YouTube
Every hero needs a villain, and for the Crush Gals, it came in the form of the Atrocious Alliance, headed up by Dump Matsumoto. The Alliance were, in a way, typical of the mindset behind AJW's booking of heels - any wrestler that was a little too tall, too overweight, or not conventionally attractive enough, was encouraged to pile on the pounds, work rough, and become a "monster" heel, but Dump Matsumoto, and future Alliance member Bull Nakano, made the Joshi Monster Heel an archetype that has been copied ever since. With wildly styled and coloured hair, extravagant make-up, and often clad in heavy metal T-shirts and leather jackets, the Atrocious Alliance represented a western influence, an unruly violent disrespectful air, and, above all, danger and unpredictability. Against the Crush Gals - the everywoman heroes to teenage girls everywhere - they became a grown-up avatar of high school bullies, while also standing in for wider Japanese anxieties about urban gangs and the counter-culture, and propelled the Gals to even greater heights as they played out the fantasy of standing up to their oppressors. The Crush Gals and the Atrocious Alliance had countless matches, but it was a pair of one-on-one matches between Chigusa Nagayo and Dump Matsumoto that provided the emotional high point of their entire feud. With both women's hair on the line, the audience are at a fever pitch throughout, with floods of tears when Chigusa is ultimately defeated - only to return in a wild, violent and unpredictable 1985 rematch, where the crowd reaches levels of excitement that, if you've only followed wrestling in the last few years, you may have never considered possible. I cannot recommend it enough.
Chigusa Nagayo vs Dump Matsumoto - Hair Match 8/28/1985 - AJW - YouTube
GAEA
The Crush Gals' run would come to an end in 1989, when the dreaded age of 26 snuck up on both women, and AJW were either too stubborn, too principled, too stupid, or a combination of all three, to make exceptions for the biggest stars they would ever know. In subsequent years, AJW entered a new boom period, as all of Japanese wrestling did in the early 1990s, but in doing so they sacrificed much of what they had built for a female audience, working to appeal more and more to a conventional (and male) wrestling demographic - it gave us incredible matches from the likes of Bull Nakano, Akira Hokuto, Aja Kong and Manami Toyota, but it lost something of the charm of the Crush Gals era.
Nagayo spent the early part of the 1990s in "retirement", working in television and theatre, before returning to AJW for a brief run of showcase matches, including a match with Reggie Bennett at the colossal, and excellently named, Big Egg Wrestling Universe, a ten hour extravaganza that marked the crest of the Joshi wrestling wave. There, a short-haired Nagayo showed her capacity for reinvention, and for changing with the times, presenting herself as a proto-MMA styled brawler and shoot-fighter, in clear emulation of the "shoot style" phenomenon sweeping men’s wrestling at the time.
That hard-edged, stiff and violent style is one that she would take to her next project, launching a promotion named GAEA Japan. It was in GAEA that I first became aware of Chigusa Nagayo, and of the possibilities of women's wrestling - first watching wrestling in the mid-'90s meant I had a brief glimpse of women's wrestling as something other than a burlesque sideshow; the visual of Bull Nakano tying Alundra Blayze up in the Scorpion Cross Lock was burned on my brain, while my earliest flight of fandom coincided with the brief 1995 WWF run of Aja Kong, and even a blink-and-you'll-miss-it WWF appearance for Lioness Asuka in a frustratingly brief Survivor Series match. But it was GAEA, airing on the UK's Wrestling Channel, where I discovered that women's wrestling couldn't just be good, it could be some of the best wrestling I had ever seen. The rise in GAEA of Meiko Satomura, and the hard-hitting matches she had with Aja Kong, are another story for another time, but they were my gateway drug for a greater understanding of professional wrestling as an art form, and it was all born of the will of Chigusa Nagayo.
It was in GAEA that, after briefly feuding with her former partner, Nagayo reunited with Lioness Asuka to form Crush Gals 2000, and where Nagayo and her trainees formed the basis of a documentary, GAEA Girls, by filmmaker Kim Longinotto, where Nagayo is portrayed as a brutal, unforgiving trainer of impressionable young talent, in often uncomfortable and hard-to-watch footage, with little explanation of who she was at the height of her fame to give the western viewer any understanding of exactly why young girls all over Japan were lining up to put themselves through such an ordeal. While some of the film's more unrelenting footage has gone viral in recent years, particularly following the greater mainstream recognition of Meiko Satomura, some of its more powerful moments come in one of the movie's interview scenes, where an emotional Chigusa Nagayo speaks of the motivation she found in outgrowing the physical abuse she suffered at the hands of her father, and how she channels that into her work. While the film contains layers of kayfabe, and of "protecting the business", that passed unremarked upon by Longinotto, Nagayo's message is clear - toughen up, and rise above the world that made you, prove your abusers wrong by becoming better than they ever were.
After GAEA's closure in 2005, and another period of retirement for Nagayo - and a seemingly permanent retirement for Lioness Asuka - it was taking a stand against abuse that brought Chigusa Nagayo back into the headlines. In 2018 - by which point Nagayo had launched her new promotion and dojo Marvellous, a far more relaxed and dare I say it fun product than GAEA ever was, and embarked on a third wave of her career in which she mixed it up in Explosion Matches with deathmatch pioneer Atsushi Onita - Nagayo found herself in the mainstream spotlight again after stepping in to intervene in a domestic dispute in Sapporo, saving a distressed woman from an abusive spouse. Nagayo suffered broken fingers in the ordeal, but in press conferences and media appearances after the fact, explained that she never hit the man, as in doing so she would be no better than him, and that she feared it might have jeopardised the careers of her trainees.
Meeting Chigusa Nagayo
And it's here that this lengthy blog goes from history lecture to personal anecdote - working on the crew for Pro Wrestling EVE at She-1, I knew that I was going to be sharing the same rarefied air as Chigusa Nagayo, and I had no idea what to expect. After almost ten years working in wrestling, there are still moments that fill me with the buzz and the butterflies in the stomach of a fan, and they tend to stem from opportunities to work with, or meet, wrestlers that were a formative influence on me. But I can safely say that I had never met anyone with the pedigree of Chigusa Nagayo because, quite frankly, there is no one else with the pedigree of Chigusa Nagayo.
For the second day of She-1, I dug out my old GAEA-era Crush Gals 2000 T-shirt, and wore it to the event, in honour of Chigusa's Hall of Fame induction. I knew, at some point, that she would likely see it, and I hadn't given much thought to what her reaction would be. I had expected that any interaction I had with her would be deferential, and coloured by nothing short of intimidation on my part.
Instead - and I hope I'm not speaking too much out of turn when I say this - she was a joy to be around, sharing stories about the wrestlers she had worked with, explaining her tattoos (one for the Crush Gals, one for GAEA, one for Marvellous, one for one of her many rescue dogs) and, most of all, laughing and cracking jokes. I had expected Chigusa Nagayo to be many things, but consistently witty and hilarious were not among them.
Back to the T-shirt. On seeing it for the first time, she rubbed her eyes in mock disbelief, and repeated the word "Wow". She called for VENY and Takumi to see it, and thanked me. With the hint of actual tears in her eyes, she repeated the words "very good memories", before telling me something that I hope I never forget - "it would touch my partner Lioness Asuka's heart too". When discussing her role later in the show - prior to her Hall of Fame induction, she got physically involved in a match with Rhia O'Reilly and Skye Smitson - she explained a double-team move she wanted to do with Takumi Iroha, at which point she turned to me and approvingly said, "Crush Gals move!". Weekend-long wrestling events are invariably surreal, otherworldly spaces, but that moment is going to take some beating.
When the weekend drew to a close, and I went to say my goodbyes, I won't tell you what Chigusa Nagayo said to me, but I will say that she grabbed my arm and pulled me in for a hug. I was speechless until after I had left the venue.
I can look back on the undoubtedly Hall of Fame-worthy career of Chigusa Nagayo and remember her for many things - a world-class trainer, a once-in-a-lifetime superstar talent, part of some of the most emotionally volatile wrestling matches I have ever seen, and a unique crossover star. But now, I can happily say that I will remember her, above all, as being a genuinely wonderful person to be around, and the source of some of my happiest memories in wrestling for a long time. Marvellous, indeed - long live the Crush Gals, and long live Chigusa Nagayo, a one-woman Mount Rushmore.
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