Emi and I pull into a car park outside the Arumadiro club. The neon signs are lit but the silence is deathly. As we approach the door I see the neon logo and suddenly the name of the club makes sense to me. Armadillo! The interior is hot and cramped, and the band is already playing. We order tequilas and nachos at the bar then cause a major upheaval as we try to find a place to sit – half the people in the club thinks it is necessary to shift about to make an enormous space for us. Everyone is smiling and nodding at me, I feel that something I don’t fully understand is being acknowledged.

Emi fishes around in her bag and gives me the package from MagA. She tells me that the game has been confusing to play. She doesn’t know what she is meant to do, and hasn’t yet found anything of great interest in the scenario. She mentions that her phone has been receiving game-related messages that make no sense to her, and she has been receiving similar emails. She thinks I have been up to something.

‘But I haven’t even seen it yet. How could it be me?’

‘But these messages know many things about me. How is that?’

I shrug. ‘I’ll have a look at it,’ I offer.

The guys on stage are tight and controlled. They wear the full country regalia: shoestring ties, blue jeans, oversize belt buckles, snakeskin boots, and Stetsons. Their equipment is all shiny and top quality: Gibson, Fender, Pearl, and Kawai. The lyrics are curiously accented, but comprehensible nevertheless. They are playing country standards. They are Team Nashville.

The drummer is a dentist, the singer is a mathematical linguist, Emi tells me. Their sheet music is laid out on music stands. They are all Japanese, of course. They are playing, having fun. They are playing, music. They are playing, at being musical cowboys. They are playing, in their own way, with our boundaries of identity.

I amuse and embarrass Emi with a few loud yeeehaaa’s and arriba’s when it is time to applaud. She stamps her little fist on my leg to make me stop, and lets it rest there.

During the intermission the band descends on me.

‘Hello. My name is Masa. Are you American?’ one of them asks.

‘No, Australian,’ I reply, and their disappointment is obvious and immediate.

‘Ah, Australia very nice place.’

‘Thank you. Yes, we have quite a big country music scene in Australia. Many Americans come over to enjoy our country music festivals.’ My emphasis is a pathetic attempt to curry favour.

‘Oh, really?’ Now they are genuinely interested. The Australian country music scene is completely new to them. And so over the next half minute I tell them all I know about it.

‘Do you like country music?’ they ask. The killer question. I dare not lie and say yes, because the inevitable follow-up questions will have me tangled in the web of supporting lies I’ll be forced to weave. I cannot say no, for reasons of politeness. I handle the dilemma in a Japanese way. I put my head to the side, suck my breath through my teeth and nod slightly.

‘A little,’ I say. They are able to accept this. ‘I liked your act,’ I add, truthfully.

‘Oh, really?’

‘Yes. Very professional.’ They beam at me, but deny it.

‘Please come and sing with us.’

‘Oh, I cannot do that,’ I say. As if they are offering me too high an honour. They offer once more and I decline. They excuse themselves and walk around the tables, chatting to their friends.

Another guest comes up to me.

‘American?’

‘Australian.’

‘Ah.’ He walks away.

Before the band resumes, their roadie gets up at the mike and cracks a few jokes. He sits in on a few songs, on buruu gurasu baiorin (blue grass violin).

Before the next set finishes, we leave. The doorman looks at me and asks ‘American?’

‘Australian,’ I apologise.