Lately, I’ve found myself escaping the oh-so numbing world of “mainstream” professional wrestling. I don’t subscribe to the idea that the best wrestling is found between the two biggest companies. In fact, I will strongly debate that it is the smaller companies that always bring the heat, because that’s something that I believe. But one thing that is fascinating about the current scene of pro wrestling is what lies in the wrestling community’s discourse about what is loved. Beyond the annoying nature of NXT debate, or AEW ratings talk, the most universally loved wrestling has come from projects that do not treat themselves as promotions or companies. This is sort of a miracle, considering wrestling discourse is dominated by a capitalist logic where a higher power suddenly decides what is valuable and what is not based on the idea of whether it draws people or not. We, as a community, have decided to ignore these ideas, and build a concept of “greatness” based on the kind of fulfillment an artist could have with their project. If an artist feels proud of their art, we can feel that too.
The general consensus around something like Sareee-ism builds from this premise because the amount of talent involved in those shows, and how Sareee books them, could produce every MOTYC that we inevitably praise. It’s more than a produce show but an invitation to explore the mind of a kind of wrestler and what lies there. It could be that Sareee’s vision is something we can all believe in, and that’s what makes her shows so unbelievably superior to every other women’s wrestling project we can find. Baka Gaijin, Chris Brookes’ pet project, also seems to always entertain the fans and exposes them to a different idea of wrestling. If offers a more creative approach to wrestling that can set a new flame in the scene, motivating different type of consumers to explore and expand their concept of this sport. Brookes’ knowledge of wrestling helps build a card of hidden gems and inside jokes from Japan’s indie circuit, just like booking Death Worm or the massively underrated Thanomsak Toba, against Deathmatch sensation Drew Parker.
I think this is the magic of freelance projects that do not depend on an income but instead on somebody running the shows and having fun with it – somebody that can have enough influence to contact and unite so much talent in a specific card. These kinds of things couldn’t be done in another era of wrestling due to the idea of protecting kayfabe, but now we have found a way to do it and even tell new or different stories under this avenue. I know I’ve been talking about these shows running as “shows” and not promotions, but I can’t make a better example of “telling new stories” than ChocoPro building its own lore and making somebody like Chris Brookes the most despicable villain in 2021 and 2022, while he was in DDT running a hot program with Konosuke Takeshita built around the friendship and presumably love both men had for each other (oh DDT, you never got over the Golden Lovers didn’t you?).
There’s one project that has been born recently that has gathered enough attention to build a cult following. I’m talking about Kakuto Tanteidan, Fuminori Abe and Takuya Nomura’s love letter to the style of Bati-Bati, and their way to bring it back to the spotlight. But what the hell is Bati-Bati exactly? The Bati-Bati style is born from the company “Fighting Investigation Team Battlarts” who ran shows from 1996 to 2011. It prioritized a shoot-style focus, but it never escaped the realms of pro-wrestling and the variety it can offer. Battlarts embraced both shoot-style and pro-wrestling in a perfect way. Its aesthetic was different, its atmosphere was something many companies would kill to get, but if there’s one thing that made Battlarts so revered and loved it is the talent it had. I’m talking about all-time greats like Yuki Ishikawa, Daisuke Ikeda, Alexander Otsuka, Katsumi Usuda, and Minoru Tanaka. And these are just the wrestlers from the first iteration of Battlarts, because I can also talk about the likes of Fujita Jr. Hayato, Keita Yano, and Munenori Sawa, who wrestled in Battlarts until the company went defunct. Kakuto Tanteidan, or KTDan, is an homage to that style and philosophy of wrestling. It’s a project born from respect and care, and it’s a product of the legacy Bati-Bati left in the wrestling industry.
Some people tend to hate the idea of shoot-style wrestling because it’s not something they watched before, or learned to enjoy. I’m conscious shoot-style has developed a bad reputation amongst some western fans, who heard some stories about the supposed “dark ages” of Puroresu or have seen some video-essays explaining the Puro scene in the early 2000s under one lens. In this article I’ll try to explain why shoot-style is actually good, and why some takes have aged like milk in terms of what wrestling is and what shouldn’t be considered part of the sport.
Shoot-style, to me, is the most honest depiction of wrestling as a sport. In honesty lies sincerity, and there’s nothing as sincere as watching an old tape from Battlarts, shot in a warehouse where they wrestle in front of 300 in attendance and share the unsettling nature of every J-Indie in the 90s. It’s more than just stiff strikes to me – I’ll gladly take your hand and show you what you’ve been missing, or what you’ve been forced to miss.
KTDan, just like Battlarts, is built around shoot-style, and if you’ve never watched a single second of a shoot-style match, you may think it is boring. You may think its pacing is slow and unnecessary. But what I want you to think, more than anything, is that KTDan is unique. You will not find something as special as this project. If I have the chance to recommend you some matches, I’d say start from the beginning, and tune in to Fuminori Abe vs. Takuya Nomura from the first show, run in 2023. I want you to analyze the way this match is presented. I want you to analyze the way both Abe and Nomura, famously known as the Astronauts (the best tag team in the world, from my perspective) approach this match. I want you to embrace the violence of the match, but I don’t want you just staying with the violence. I want you to understand it.
Sometimes violence in pro wrestling automatically translates to hate, but if there’s one thing I learned with KTDan and Battlarts is that sometimes violence can be translated into love, and care for the other, or the legacy you’re leaving in this world.
I watched some of Battlarts’ greatest matches in its history, like the 1996 October 30th tag team match between Alexander Otsuka & Yuki Ishikawa vs. Daisuke Ikeda & Takeshi Ono, or the certainly unexpected continuation of the feud between Kaientai DX and Michinoku Pro Sekigun in 1997 – another insane 8-Man tag that lies in Michi-Pro’s rankings – and what I found is exactly the kind of thing that makes KTDan so special. I found people having fun, embracing the innocence of pro wrestling and pushing it to new boundaries by the use of stiff strikes and powerful holds. I found a company that was objectively smaller than others, but didn’t care about changing to follow an agenda or the course of time. They were their own thing, and they died under their rules. Battlarts was so special – it never changed, it just evolved. It helped younger generations and inspired many like Abe and Nomura. People tend to think wrestling is about change, but I’d argue it’s more about evolving, and understanding the value of what you bring to the table. Nomura and Abe know the importance of KTDan, and they know what it could mean for their legacy. And I’m not talking about the Astronauts’ legacy. I’m talking about Bati-Bati’s legacy. Because there’s one thing that Battlarts did: it resonated with its fans to a personal level. You were part of the Fighting Investigation Team. You were part of their shows. You were part of their atmosphere. You were part of them.
KTDan makes you feel like part of it because KTDan is also a part of the Fighting Investigation Team. The translation of “Kakuto Tanteidan” is “We’re The Fighting Detectives”. It’s an obvious tribute to Battlarts’ name, but it’s also a declaration of principles from Abe and Nomura, who ran these shows. The “We” in their name is a calling for reunion, for resemblance. It is a calling to all those Bati-Bati fans that feel hopeless and want something to represent them. Something to stand for, and fight. When talking with a friend about KTDan something came to mind. In the last show of Battlarts’ history, main evented by Yuki Ishikawa vs. Daisuke Ikeda, the most significant rivalry of Bati-Bati’s history, Ishikawa recites a promo that exists as a monologue from within his inner soul. An exploration of his being, and his ideology.
In the middle of the ring lies a man that does not seem defeated nor exhausted. He can fight. He can breathe. He still has a lot of blood in his body to be shed. On the last show of his promotion, Ishikawa treats his roster as a bunch of inferiority complexes. He is disgusted. The final show of Bati-Bati was an absolute sell-out, but as we have learned to understand, in the grander scheme of things, that doesn’t mean anything. It does not assure success, and if it brings you fame or money, the second you lose it you’ll feel hopeless. As Ishikawa continues his monologue he talks about Bati-Bati’s philosophy, represented by the idea of punching an opponent. That opponent is the representation of everything he hates: an awful society; an awful world; an awful man that exists to stop him, and will fall to his knees at the end. The “opponent” of Ishikawa is the industry, and he chooses to ignore it.
He chooses to not care about the 60,000 soulless individuals in the Tokyo Dome. He wants to convert the old men and women that know nothing about wrestling, those that once cried watching his matches, those that felt their heart moving with every single strike. He cares about them. He cares more about them than his own crew, because his crew is infected with people wishing for material success. His crew is infected with awful people, a result of the awful society he criticizes. He says people need to wake up, and dares to close Bati-Bati’s doors with a phrase that makes you understand his motivation.
“It’s not that we’ve been abandoned, it’s that we’re throwing ourselves away. You all don’t need Battlarts anymore. You don’t need us anymore, do you?”
Ishikawa said this in 2011. The following year, New Japan would enter what many consider one of their best periods, drawing interest from Western fans and becoming a part of BUSHIROAD. Dragon Gate would run one of their most-attended shows in Kobe, with 9,500 in attendance. DDT would become the first indie promotion to run Nippon Budokan. All of these stories are about material success. Ishikawa saw that coming, and didn’t want to fight for an audience trained to understand wrestling under this perspective. Many years passed, and the current climate calls for a change. What is more appropriate for a change, than KTDan? I don’t think KTDan is the reincarnation of Battlarts, but I do think KTDan is necessary in the current scene of pro wrestling. Because KTDan is the cure for what you could assume is a wrestling burnout. KTDan is the thing that will make you fall in love with wrestling again, and it doesn’t matter if you’re the only person watching.
As long as you remember what you’ve seen, and you feel it, KTDan will never be forgotten. If you can explore KTDan just like I did in this article, if you can comprehend the legacy it carries and the lovable kind of tribute it is not just to Bati-Bati, but to Ishikawa’s vision of pro wrestling, you’ll never forget about the Fighting Investigation Team. You’ll always be a part of them. Just as Battlarts will never be forgotten. KTDan is the most important and special thing Battlarts’ legacy left. That’s why it feels so unique in comparison to anything in the pro wrestling scene. It’s a product of love.
Love for Bati-Bati.
