I've heard that book trailers are a thing, so I made this out of a pile of old film & TV footage, iMovie, and a set of vague memories of Godard from film studies classes.
The song is Inori by Nakigao Twintail, who played at the Quit Your Band! release party last Saturday in Kichijoji. They played this song last and a friend of mine asked me afterwards if the lyrics, "Yamete yaru! Konna band, yamete yaru!", had been inspired by my book. Those who've read the book will know that it was very much the other way around, and I'm very lucky to have had to opportunity to get them in the studio and record them before they freak out and split up again. I'm also really happy to have had the opportunity to pay tribute to them in this admittedly small way.
(You can get the CD from the Call And Response Records online store, by the way.)
Also, the music playing over the outro is the song Angel Fish by the magnificent Hyacca, from the album Sashitai - again available from Call And Response.
My January column for The Japan Times was about legendary 90s pop producer Tetsuya Komuro, who has a new album coming out and who, since his unceremonious plummet from the limelight, I’ve been finding myself feeling a bit more affection for than I used to at the pinnacle of his 90s ubiquity.
You can read it here.
I mention a few of his songs in the article, but you probably don't need to spend that much time with them unless you really are a fan of 90s J-Pop (in which case you probably already know everything you need to about Komuro. I can enjoy him nowadays as nostalgia, but it is also interesting that he (and the Avex Trax label) was so willing to try out forward-thinking ideas from overseas in massive mainstream pop productions.
OK, so obviously "Only You" is terrible if you judge it as a drum'n'bass track, although David Bowie's attempt a couple of years later (yeah, Bowie, way to stay ahead of the curve when J-Pop producers are getting there two years ahead of you!) was hardly a career highlight either, although admittedly it is better than I remember it being at the time.
And as I mention in the article, Yasutaka Nakata occupied a similar role, incorporating Western dance music into J-Pop, most effectively with Perfume, although he struggled a bit with drum'n'bass as well.
For all I go on about how daring some of his musical appropriations were, however, the real joy of Tetsuya Komuro is probably still in his deliriously cheesy 90s dance-pop anthems. It's terrible, but like a cheap, discount store vodka, it gets you there.
A bit late posting this, but my 2016 indie roundup column for The Japan Times is available to read here.
There’s a lot that I didn’t get round to mentioning in this article, but which I’m still planning to write about more comprehensively somewhere else, but there’s a still a lot of great stuff to get started with. Here's three to help you kick things off:
Sonotanotanpenz played at a show I helped organise in December, coming on in the middle of a lineup composed almost exclusively of noise-rock and dance-punk acts. They struck the room silent almost instantly and the response when they finished was incredible. It was, I believe, what we call a "moment".
Like Sonotanotanpenz, Narcolepsin hail from Fukuoka in southwestern Japan, where a lot of my favourite bands continue to come from. Narcolepsin's "Mojo" was a wonderfully, insistently irritating take on post-James Chance no wave, and a strong contender for my favourite of the year.
If Narcolepsin exist at the mischievous end of the noise-rock spectrum, Kuruucrew are more towards the cosmic end. Both bands make good use of sax though. 2016 may have a been a bad year for musical heroes and Western civilisation generally, but was a good year for sax in Japanese indie.
I’ve been a longtime fan of delinquent anime blogosphere bad boys Colony Drop, so when they asked me to contribute to a special zine they were putting together
focused exclusively on Patlabor (the best robot anime ever made), I jumped at the chance – which is to say I procrastinated for about a year and then jumped at the chance.
In any case, the zine is now out, and the short story that closes out the zine was written by me (yes, my first ever published fiction is anime fanfiction, and I’m proud of that). You can buy it here.
The story originally came out of a series of thoughts that had been gradually brewing during a fairly intense period viewing the original TV series in its entirety over just a couple of weeks. The show is rightly praised for being progressive in its equal treatment of women (there are some caveats here perhaps for a sort of over-compensating or even patronising treatment of women as level-headed mother types and men as essentially childish), and the movies in particular convey a worldview that at least addresses progressive concerns about Japanese society. The prism through which I look at the world is a decidedly leftwing one, and the ideological assumptions that underpin science fiction in particular are always something I keep half an eye on.
So watching the Patlabor TV series with the benefit of 20-30 years hindsight, there was a lot happening in the background of those adventures that seemed very much an ideological feature of its era. Patlabor’s tale of a special police unit to deal with crime involving construction robots was a child of Japan’s bubble era construction boom with the vast Tokyo Bay construction project that lay at its core. However, it was also a child of the Berlin Wall’s fall and the Soviet Union’s collapse. It may have pre-dated Clinton, but it was a child of the same post-Soviet political world, where environmental activists were built up by security agencies as a new focus for resources that now had nowhere to go. The series treats these eco-terrorists as comical and misguided, perhaps recognising the spectral nature of their threat, but they still loom large in the show’s pantheon of antagonists.
Another key antagonist is Schaft Enterprises, an evil labor manufacturer from overseas, prone to running inexplicably destructive tests for new combat labors in civilian areas. Here, the Special Vehicles crew, one of whose members is the son of the Japanese industrialist who manufactures the labors the police use, are functioning as the de facto militia of a Japanese labor manufacturer protecting its economic turf from an aggressive foreign rival.
In other episodes, they have a happy jaunt with a Middle-Eastern prince who just loves labors, and a couple of cheerful adventures with a yakuza boss who is also a big fan of labors. The Special Vehicles crew collaborate with both these people to varying degrees, teaching them to use these massive machines with unparalleled destructive potential.
The world we live in now is not the late ‘80s and early ‘90s though. The world we live in now is the post-9/11, post-Fukushima world. How does the world of Patlabor fit into that environment? What does our present environment tell us about the world of Patlabor?
How would the child prince of a small Arabian kingdom use police labors in this world? What consequences could we expect of that, knowing what we do about the politics of the Middle-East?
How would the 2020 Olympics affect the Tokyo Bay construction projects? How would the irresistable pull of money into the capital affect the trickle of resources for the more mundane business of post-tsunami reconstruction?
When government, industry and organised crime have collaborated so shamelessly over the Fukushima nuclear disaster, what role is there left for the police to uphold the law?
My image of Patlabor in the post-Fukushima world is a pretty bleak one, and I felt the ideal central character for a story like this was the show’s overweight, world-weary detective Matsui. A minor character in the series, he often works informally with Goto of Special Vehicles to uncover mysteries and corruption. Despite clearly being very good at his job, he has this aura of a man who knows nothing he does will ever make a difference, but plods ahead anyway (as an organiser in the indie music scene, I relate to him more than perhaps any other character in the show).
The Patlabor movies happen in a different timeline to the TV series and have a very different, much bleaker atmosphere. I tried to keep my story more or less consistent with the events of the TV show, but the tone was lifted from the movies.
In the second Patlabor film, there’s a scene where Matsui cuts his way through a wire fence to break into an airship company’s offices, bemoaning all the laws he’s breaking to do so, but nonetheless well equipped and ready to break all of them. I expanded that wire fence to make it the whole Fukushima evacuation zone, and tried to import the ghostly, unnatural atmosphere of Tarkovsky’s Stalker into Matsui’s escapade.
That was an atmosphere that a lot of us here in Japan felt in the aftermath of the quake, as uncertain, contradictory news from Fukushima filtered through – an unreality creeping through the otherwise calm streets of Tokyo. It’s still there now, although we’ve learned to paper over it and push it from our minds more effectively as we go about our lives. Every night, I still look out of my apartment’s window at the view it offers me of my town, and it looks both reassuringly solid and fragile as glass. It’s there, anchoring me to a place and a community, but it’s also unreal and could be gone in a flash – if not in an earthquake, then in one of the many other, more human eruptions of compulsive destruction that Tokyo likes to wreak upon its people.
One other influence weighed on the writing of this story, which was the 1980s BBC drama Edge of Darkness. There’s a scene near the end, where the powerful players on both sides of the conflict are seen enjoying a lovely meal and drinks together, as the show’s main protagonists push themselves to destruction in order to clean up the mess. There’s nothing like that in my story, but I know something like it was happening somewhere – whatever side they seem to be on, the fuckers are all mates in the end, and it’s the little people who clean up their mess.
My Japan Times column for November coincided with the release of my book, Quit Your Band!, so I was faced with the awkward task of trying to tie the latter in with the former without being dreadfully cheesy
about it. The approach I took was, rather than talk about my own book and make the column essentially an advert for myself, to write about other books people have written about music in
You can read the article on The Japan Times site here.
One of the overwhelming fears I've had about my own book is that it can't possibly cover the subject in a way that will satisfy everyone. Each reader will be entering with varying levels of advance knowledge and hugely different expectations. The prism through which I've come to understand music in Japan is not one shared by many other people writing about the subject, so the artists and themes that loom largest in my field of vision are going to be insignificant specks to someone else. I had to set parameters for myself though, and the route I chose for doing that was to just be open about the book's position looking at music from a position in the indie basement and to try to use that world as a microcosm to illuminate issues or themes that could be more broadly relevant.
All the books I talk about in my column limit their scope in some way as well, and you really should read all of them (and my book as well, obviously) if you really want a useful and broad picture of the music scene in Japan. Michael Bourdaghs' Sayonara Amerika, Sayonara Nippon does a great job of covering more or less mainstream music up until the end of the 1980s and putting it in its social context. David Novak's Japanoise: Music on the Edge of Circulation is obviously focused in a microscopic way on the noise scene. Kato David Hopkins' Dokkiri: Japanese Indies Music 1976-1989: A History and Guide focuses on the punk and underground scenes during its own specific time period. Julian Cope's Japrocksampler: How the Post-War Japanese Blew their Minds on Rock ‘n’ Roll deals with underground heavy rock and prog during the 1970s.
It's interesting that most of these books choose to end their periods of focus before the 1990s, and writing my own book I felt I could understand why. The 90s is a natural turning point in a lot of ways, seeing the emergence of J-Pop as the dominant "modern" form of Japanese popular music and the appearance of Shibuya-kei being a big enough thing in indie(ish) music that it disrupts narratives and demands quite detailed attention on its own. There's also the problem that assessing the relative importance of different artists and musical styles becomes more difficult the closer to the present day it occurred. Since the frame of my book was my own experience of Japanese music, which really began in late 2001 or thereabouts, I was never going to have the perspective needed to write a useful music guide, which again fed back into a structure that used artists primarily as jumping-off points to discuss broader issues about the scene as a whole.
There are particular things each book did well that I hope I was also able to do with my own work. Bourdaghs and Novak are both writing from an academic background (and for academic publishers), and so they are quite theoretically rigorous. I'm just a journalist, and not even a proper one at that, but I tried within the limitations of my ability to look at the structures, semiotics and culture of the music scene in something more than a superficial way. Hopkins' book is written with a real insider's eye, and so it rings with a kind of authenticity that, again, I hope I was able to evoke to at least some extent -- if a Japanese edition of my book ever appears, I'd like the people I see at venues and clubs around Tokyo to be able to read it and recognise something of their own experience in it. Cope's book retains an unapologetic focus on just what he likes, to the exclusion of almost anything else, and even if I lack Cope's swagger and buccaneering attitude towards the truth (there are fictional or somewhat fictionalised elements of my book, but they're separated from the main story), I admire his refusal to let more established narratives get in the way of him telling the story he wants. Julian Cope is also someone I admire a lot simply as a writer of the English language, and his book is by far the most entertainingly written and funniest of the four I discuss in my article. If Quit Your Band! manages to give its readers a little laugh here and there, I'm going to chalk that up as an important success.