Quit Your Band! book trailer

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

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Strange Boutique (November 2016) - "A reading list for Japan's music scene"

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 Japan.

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.

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Quit Your Band! - Musical Notes from the Japanese Underground

I've been working on this book on and off for two and a half years, and finally it's out -- kind of. The Kindle edition is available on Amazon (and its various local iterations), while the paperback edition exists in a sort of quantum state somewhere between being available everywhere and not existing at all. Once Amazon and other booksellers have processed it and updated their web sites, the probability waveforms should resolve themselves and it will exist in something more than a theoretical state.

The initial idea for the book came from the publisher, Awai Books, who wanted to publish a collection of my Japan Times Strange Boutique columns in a single volume. Given how long ago I'd written a lot of them and how unsure I was about just how much I really felt I could stand by the opinions I'd held at the time, I swiftly returned with the counteroffer that I would write a fresh book, covering the same broad topics and linking them together into something that would give a broad overview of the music scene from a number of angles. I said I'd have it ready in six months, so that's something we can all laugh at now.

 

The emphasis of the book is on using my own experience in the Tokyo indie scene over the past 10-15 years -- as an event organiser, label owner and DJ -- to provide a framework for understanding the music scene as a whole, and as a result, it's not so much about discussing specific important bands in depth as it is using bands illustratively to establish a context that will help you make sense of pretty much any Japanese music you encounter.

 

It's also in the nature of the book's contemporary setting, and an idea embedded in the title, that whatever I pick out for particular mention are likely to be gone in a wisp of smoke before you even have time to get used to them. Already in the time between writing the first draft and publishing the book, a lot of the artists I mention in the book have "quit their bands", their music consigned to the scene's hopefully now not entirely forgotten past.

 

One band I mention briefly in the book, You Got A Radio, chose Quit Your Band!'s release day to play their final show. A coincidence, as far as I know, although a fitting one, given the significance of November 25th in musical history.

On the other hand, another band I discuss in the book -- indeed, the band whose dedication to their own demise gave the book its title -- chose to re-form during the book's long gestation period, at least for long enough for my Call And Response label to hustle them into the studio and record an EP. I describe a teenage Nakigao Twintail performing at Utero in Fukuoka (a venue since closed down and relocated, such is the transient nature of even the scene's bricks-and-mortar institutions) as a rush of energy that helped revitalise me during one of my own many slumps, and their re-formation in Tokyo more recently helped kick me out of another one. Bands like that are precious and it's to them that this book is really dedicated.

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