tamanaramen
Audiovisual unit consisting of older sister Hana (visual artist) and younger sister Hikam (singer/producer). They began working as a unit in 2021 after initially having solo artist careers. Through a fusion of abstract soundscapes, a whisper-like vocal quality, and visuals that reflect the texture of the skin and their consistent flow, the duo is able to create a unique worldview that is unlike any other. Their music and visuals mix together without borders, transcending genres and scenes.
Twitter：@tamanaramen
Instagram：＠tamanaramen

When I first listened to tamanaramen, I felt a coolness and a faint, hazy presence from them, as if I was being let in on some wonderful secret. Like a carefully folded letter, their sound, words, footage, nature, concept, and expressions were quietly waiting to be read by someone. Similarly, kuki (2019) was so gentle, almost too delicate for it to be their first EP. Organ (2019) gave off a sense of unrest and expectation, as if something was slowly awakening, little by little. We saw different sides of them surface with mabataki (2020), and their music took on a life of its own with the release of sour cream (2020). Eventually, we all collectively shed tears to future (2020), in which the forest, light, and life were translated directly into sound.

After that, tamanaramen delivered some new songs in bits and pieces, but no more news of a release in the form of a cohesive EP. Everyone has been waiting for new music from them. In 2023, their EP Hajimari and its music video were released, and they hosted their first release party. There, the sisters were reflected more clearly than ever before. 

From the abstract and icy style of their previous works, I had sensed something of a coldness in tamanaramen. However, the sisters I actually spoke with were rather warm and malleable, sharing a gentle sense of humor, which made me understand why tamanaramen’s expressions are always positive. The sisters describe the space created by their live performances as “a place where everyone is isolated but equally connected”. What does that mean? I hope you will be touched by their conversation, so full of respect.

— This release is the first one in a while.

Hikami: We started production in 2021 and was planning a release at the beginning of 2022, but I got sick. We had to keep postponing, and we were finally able to release the EP. Our previous EP was released in 2020, so it’s been three years since we released a full project.

— I see. Have you recovered from your sickness?

Hikami: Yes, I’m better now.

— I’m happy to hear that. This EP’s title is Hajimari (beginning). What was it the beginning of? This time around, I personally got the impression that you were clearer in where you wanted to take both the music and the artwork. 

Hana & Hikami: Yes, yes. 

Hikam: The work the two of us do hasn’t changed. I write the songs, and my older sister (Hana) makes the artwork, music videos, and the video elements. We showed our faces for the first time in our last piece “friday”, so this project is a new “beginning” in that regard. 

Hana: We also started living together.

Hikami: That’s true, that’s another “beginning”. 

Hana: Until recently, we both worked in the living room at our family home. Now that we started living together, we have our own rooms so we have a little time apart. (Looks over at Hikam) We’ve become independent.

Hikam: Exactly.

— Was there a change in the songwriting process?

Hikam: (Looks over at Hana) Not really?

Hana: My sister also wrote the songs this time, maybe up to the melody? And then we wrote the lyrics together and recorded it. We chose a couple out of the bunch of songs we wrote and consolidated it into an EP.

— Hikam, do you usually have an initial idea of the kind of music you want to make and then try to realize it, or do you find a good sound and build it up as you go along? Which process is more common for you?

Hikam: I’ve never made a reference track, so I look for sounds more often. That process is fun.

— What sounds have you been responding to recently?

Hikam: I’ve been liking the sound of club music lately. I got really into “Rumble” by Skrillex and Fred Again.

— What music have you two always listened to?

Hana: Bossa Nova.

— That’s unexpected. 

Hana: I don’t really like hyper pop, but my sister does.

“We want tamanaramen to be a pop presence”

— Out of the songs in your new EP, “friday” was especially pop-influenced, more than any of your other songs.

Hikam: We want tamanaramen to be a pop presence.

Hana: My sister likes a wide variety of music. Tamanaramen is genreless precisely because of this. We make music we want when we want it, which is why we have a lot of sides to us. Just as one person is multifaceted, so is tamanaramen.

— Both of your answers have been so interesting. Hikam is abstract, and Hana explains and materializes those thoughts.

Hikam & Hana: Hehehe (laughs).

— Do your conversations always have these roles?

Hana: I’m not sure?

Hikam: I think we actually take on opposite roles in our daily conversations (laughs).

— I understand you separate the work of songwriting and visuals. Do you share ideas and opinions with each other during your production processes?

Hikam: We show each other what we’ve done when we reach the halfway point. We’re like, “This is what I have so far, what do you think?”

— Do you praise each other?

Hikam: Yeah. We say, “That’s great!” or “Love it!”, and compliment each others’ work, but we also give our honest opinions if we prefer something else. 

— Have you noticed any changes in the way you view each other since you started living together and becoming more independent?

Hikam: I don’t think so? My sister is loved by the friends around her. She’s someone who people can’t stay mad at.

Hana: You think? Hikam is very decisive. For example, she suddenly quit the middle school she took an entrance exam to get into. The other day, she exclaimed, “I feel like going to Okinawa tomorrow” and went straight there immediately after the club. She’s decisive and quick to turn her decision into action. It’s impressive. She’s strong.

Hikam: Is that a good thing? (Laughs).

Hana: I’m complimenting you. (Laughs). 

Why they’re doing tamanaramen

— The visuals for this EP were photographed by Ayaka Endo. It’s very distinctive. 

Hana: I’ve always liked Ayaka Endo’s work, and we’re friends. I knew the time was now to ask her to be a part of this project.

— tanmanaramen has appeared in art events and has many connections in the art community.

Hana: We don’t have any music-related friends. We’re only close with artworld people… Easygoing types.

Hikam: Easygoing types…? (Laughs)

— (Laughs). You had a release party at Shibuya WWW on March 9th. I believe this was also a first for you. Why did you decide to do this now?

Hikam: It was time.

— Your EP is called Hajimari (beginnings), so it’s like a re-debut of sorts?

Hikam & Hana: Exactly!

Hikam: I like that, it’s fresh.

— tamanaramen is now in its fourth year since debuting, and is now graduating the newcomer phase. I think this kind of freshness is usually hard to find at this point in an artist’s timeline. It’s usually when artists start to feel more self-conscious.

Hana: What you’re saying reminded me of when we had to stop production because Hikam got sick. I thought our career as a duo was over then. But that transformed into being a time for us to stop for a second and watch and listen to our past work. By reflecting on our past, we gained more confidence because we were able to reaffirm our skills. That was our “beginning”, and looking back, it was a crucial time.

— You’re saying that there were things that became clear only when you stopped to look at it.

Hana: After looking back at our past works, we thought some of the things we did in a more rough way were quite good. There was a time I was weirdly self conscious and thought I had to shoot with a film camera. But I realized that’s not our production process. 

Hikam: I used to be someone who made music for myself so that I wouldn’t forget about the events that took place or the emotions that arose at that time. But I think I’ve slowly started to think outwardly. Tamanaramen has enabled me to see things objectively. Perhaps I’ve begun to keep my distance, in a good way. I’ve started to think about the nuance of me seeing everyone’s tamanaramen from a different vantage point.

— Perhaps you’re able to see yourselves objectively now.

Hikam: It comes down to why we do tamanaramen. Of course our love for music is a prerequisite, but we want a space where we can all come together and create.

Isolated but equally connected

— You previously mentioned that you want tamanaramen to become a big, tent-like presence. 

Hikam: We also have a BtoB DJ unit called 4NGEL KIDZ (angel kids). We had our first party at Enter Shibuya the other day. All types of people were there, old and young. It was the best kind of distance, where no one was isolated… actually, everyone was isolated but equally connected. We passed around a notebook for everyone to write in. Everyone, including those in the corner, wrote in it.

— I love that concept of everyone being lonely but being equally connected. 

Hana: It’s like a community without a central figure. It’s not like there’s one charismatic person that everyone flocks to. We’re all on the same plane.

— It’s not a centralized rule.

Hana: Exactly. The loneliness Hikam felt during COVID, the friends we made during that time, and the communication founded within the context of those relationships are the themes of this EP.

Hikam: We made Hajimari about a year after I started college. All my classes were online, so I was mostly remote. I only went in person three times, including for health checkups. I led a suffocating life then, and perhaps that is reflected in my work. When I looked around me, I noticed my younger brother starting high school and adults going back to work in person. College students were the only people left behind. That was the kind of insolation I felt.

— Are you still a college student?

Hikam: I took a year off, but I ended up dropping out because I wanted to do music.

Hana: Nothing to lose, right? (Laughs).

Hikam: Nope!

— Everyone’s lonely but no one is alone. Being on a level playing field is ideal. But it may be difficult to build that environment. You’ve always cited social and political events of the world as an important backdrop to your work. Wouldn’t you want to let your opinions and stances be known if such things are important in the work you create?

Hana: Our work is meant to connect people with different views. We want to honor the nuances in our music that enable people of differing opinions to like the same song. It would be fine if it was on a personal level, but we try not to be divisive with tamanaramen.

— Do you exchange specific opinions between the two of you?

Hana: Unlike with tamanaramen, we have conversations like that pretty often. I’ve been told in the past that if I don’t declare my opinions, I’m on the side of the perpetrators or complicit in their actions. But I think that’s different. The space we create should be a place that respects different opinions and values. It would be ideal to be able to maintain a relationship where we can have unbiased discussions. 

— What type of person, compared to the average listener, do you think gather around tamanaramen?

Hana: I think there are a lot of nice people. That’s only what I assume, though (laughs).

— What do you think about when considering tamanaramen’s future?

Hikam: The more I think about it, the more I realize I’ve started to become the person who I wanted to be when I was in high school.

— What kind of person is that?

Hikam: At the time, I couldn’t go to clubs, and I wanted to go see foreign artists’ shows. I dreamt of playing big venues like Shibuya WWW and being invited as a guest artist for foreign acts (laughs).

— You’ve realized those dreams!

Hana: I want to be active abroad, too. Maybe I can move at the end of my lease. 

Hikam: By the way, we found out when we received attention from a  Russian internet bulletin that the name tamanaramen is good luck in Russia. 

— If you were to live elsewhere, where would you go?

Hana: London or Berlin. But I like London.

Photography Taisuke Nakano
Coordinator Yoshiko Kurata
Translation Mimiko Goldstein

■Streaming EP Hajimari
1.yurikago
2.moving like a wind
3.ebi
4.friday
5.baby fish
https://jvcmusic.lnk.to/tamanaramen_hajimari

The post tamanaramen’s New Beginnings (Hajimari): Sisters Who Create Their Ideal Space appeared first on TOKION - Cutting edge culture and fashion information.

Haru Nemuri is angry. But she’s also composed. Compared to her first LP, Haru To Shura, a rush of “poetry rap” with fast rhythms, her style of music has become heavier. Haru Nemuri’s voice surges with volatile emotion, and she’s gained the ability to scream. Her sound is close to post-hardcore or post-metal. Amid dizzying bass sounds, her singing voice sounds like a prayer in which she savors each word. She breaks out in screams at times.  

On the topic, Haru Nemuri says: “…I don’t want people to think I’m hysteric. That’s not it. I want people to understand that I’m angry for a reason.” Her music isn’t about wanting to be angry for her own sake. The artist made Shunka Ryougen with the hopes of creating the next J-pop classic and allowing others to enter her sonic world. Yes, Haru Nemuri is angry, but she listens to music, does her research, and immerses herself in creating music without losing her cool. She can keep making music the way she does because she’s “angry for a reason.”  

With a kind demeanor, Haru Nemuri searched for the right words to speak to us about her music-making process, what it means to make pop music, rapping, and screaming. 

–How has the reaction been in Japan since you released your sophomore album, Shunka Ryougen? It seems like your fanbase is gradually growing.  

Haru Nemuri: I’m grateful my music seems to be spreading steadily among music enthusiasts. But there are a lot of things I find hard to handle. [According to the music industry standards], it’s better to have a show at WWW first, then somewhere like Liquidroom half a year later rather than play many small shows. Also, people now get featured on songs by famous rappers or make music similar to certain artists to target their fanbase and create a fandom. But I don’t want to do any of that (laughs). I understand how it’s tough to have people appreciate your music unless you use these strategies. You have to compensate for your losses from covid by playing at festivals, and it’s tough for an artist to make it unless they fully know their time is coming.  

–You already have supporters abroad. It looks like there aren’t many artists who are role models in a similar position to yours.  

Haru Nemuri: It’s not like I wanted to enter the international marketplace right from the start. It’s a result of coincidences happening one after the other. People abroad view my music as J-pop. I don’t have to force myself to follow trends and write lyrics in English. I don’t want to have to make music with pulsating bass drum sounds and clear vocals. It’s tiring when people in Japan tell me to make loads of songs that are like “Ikiru.” But I feel like I’m in the perfect in-between spot. I know what I don’t want to do. I don’t want to win awards. Ultimately, my desire to create good music and hope people will be at my shows are the strongest.  

–Do you mean you want many people to be at your shows? 

Haru Nemuri: Of course, if someone told me to play at a big venue, I would do it. But I have so much fun playing in smaller live houses. After going on my North American tour, I spoke to people about where I should go next. We concluded that it would be more authentic for me to play at a venue that holds 500 people ten times rather than a venue that holds 5,000 people once. Playing shows dozens of times costs more money, though. 

–Rather than playing a show for people to sit and appreciate, you prefer to play shows where you can be much closer to the audience and feel their energy? 

Haru Nemuri: Correct. Smaller live houses make me feel like, “Wow, we’re all alive!” Like, it makes me realize everyone has emotions. It also makes me think, “I didn’t know I could get this excited.” You know how the culture of watching live shows differs in and out of the country? Here, a lot of people stand still. I used to go over to audience members who stood still, take their hands, and say, “No one leaves until everyone turns up!” (laughs). Now, I understand that audience members enjoy my set even if they’re standing still.  

–You call out for a sister in your new album; it seems you have a clearer idea of who you want your music to reach.  

Haru Nemuri: Yes. I used to write songs that didn’t address anyone in particular. Once I understood myself, it was like I started understanding others. I make music I wish was available to me during the roughest part of my life, which is my childhood. That’s become more precise. It’s like Haru Nemuri is my ideal, and I’m doing my best to make my physical body catch up to her. I can feel my physical body at live shows because the audience perceives me. Maybe I’ve caught up by playing shows over and over. At first, I would sing without moving, but I gradually developed the performance style I have today. I feel like I’ve come to understand what’s cool.  

–Your self-perception has become acute, and so has your perception of others.  

Haru Nemuri: When I finished making “Ikiru,” I felt like I completed a song that people could consider a J-pop classic even 50 years later. If anything, it was like I had a responsibility to make the whole album a classic because of “Ikiru.” In both good and bad ways, pop music is aware of society, so I can’t ignore the listener.  

Discovering originality by utilizing knowledge gained from replicating songs 

–I feel like you mention pop music more than before, just like in this interview. What is the definition of pop? Some people view it as the mainstream. But your music transcends genres. It’s not like you’re not in the mainstream, but you’re edgier and rawer.  

Haru Nemuri: It means having the capacity to let others inside. My previous album, Haru To Shura, isn’t pop music in my eyes. It’s a world where only I exist, like a diary. Poetry is too detailed, so it’s not apt for pop music. In America, hip-hop is on the charts, yes? They rap or sing about what their hometown means, for instance. If you say, “I love my hometown,” that becomes a personal matter, but in some cases, Black hip-hop artists rap or sing about how their hometown sucks and is racist but are still willing to represent it. They’re conscious of their relationship to society. The fact that such songs enter the charts makes me believe the definition of pop music is to let others inside [and relate to it].  

–As a genre of music with a social and historical dimension, it can allow others to connect to the music and use their imagination.  

Haru Nemuri: Right. I didn’t stop at just asking someone to arrange Shunka Ryougen. I approached many different people and tried my best to invite people.  

–On the surface, it may seem like your emotions lead your music, but it’s meticulous; there’s structure everywhere. You balance emotion and reason so well. Upon first listen, it sounds like you hastily scatter your emotions, but I feel like this is the most rational album you’ve made thus far.  

Haru Nemuri: I’m an emotional person, but when I make something, I do it diligently. I’m the type of person that believes they need to be knowledgeable about what they’re doing. When I make music, I think, “What sort of reasoning will people understand?” I first fell in love with Fujifabric. Their music is strange but catchy. I dislike music that’s exclusively strange, but I don’t like music that’s exclusively catchy either. I want both things to coexist beautifully. I tried to do that in each song, as well as the entire album as a whole. I often replicate a lot of songs. If I think a song is cool, I try to reproduce it on my computer. I gain more knowledge through that experience. I believe I can create originality depending on how I reassemble the pieces of knowledge.  

–Do you want to make music you haven’t heard of or something that’s never been done? 

Haru Nemuri: I do. I study things like, “A combination of A and B exists, but no one’s combining C and D” very closely.  

–You’ve masterfully combined different elements in Shunka Ryougen.  

Haru Nemuri: I think replicating songs is vital. It might look better to act like a genius who’s like, “The song just came to me,” but that’s not who I am. I listen to music I dislike too; I try to figure out why it’s uncool. 

–Before you’re an exceptional musician, you’re an exceptional listener first.  

Haru Nemuri: I wouldn’t have to listen to that much music if I made songs in the same genre. In my case, [where I mix different genres], I have to listen to various types of music.  

–What kind of music have you recently been enjoying?  

Haru Nemuri: Mina Otsuki-san. We had a show together just recently, and the way she played the piano and sang was brilliant. I listened to her music afterward and liked it a lot. Ichi Takashi-san is another one. He’s also on butaji-san’s album, and his album, Reflection is so good. I usually don’t do this, but I gushed to him via DMs.  

Rapping and screaming are both Haru Nemuri’s brand 

–Since your debut, you’ve been doing what you describe as poetry rap and declaring your respect for hip-hop. On the other hand, I feel like the hip-hop community hasn’t been interpreting your work correctly. You had some beef with rappers in the past. The amount of poetry rap in your music has decreased, but what do you currently think about the hip-hop community? 

Haru Nemuri: Hmm, that’s a tough one. If we’re talking about rappers, I love Kanye West. I sometimes question him as a person, but I love him as an artist. He inspires me in terms of music production too. I think many Japanese rappers are cool, but I don’t think I belong among them. I would go back and forth about this in the past, but now, I don’t care if poetry rapping is a part of hip-hop or not (laughs). Not a lot of people do poetry in music. I can’t listen to songs where someone is reading a poem in a monotonous way on top of a track. If the flow is the same throughout the song, I can feel the words but not the music. People are inclined to think I ignore the rhythm or inflection in poetry rapping, but I don’t do that at all.  

–Which Japanese rappers do you like?  

Haru Nemuri: I like Zorn, ANARCHY, and Rykey Daddy Dirty.  

–I didn’t expect that (laughs). But that answer’s consistent. 

Haru Nemuri: Anarchy’s pitch control is impressive, and I like Rykey’s melodies and choruses. Their deep background translates into their lyrics. The level of how persuasive they sound is different from others. 

–They use the medium of rap, but the content is almost like the blues.  

Haru Nemuri: Their music is like a novel written in the first person. Their whole life is in their music. I admire them because I can’t do that. I like Libro, whose music is a bit different from theirs. I basically like solo rappers. When one person raps and then passes the mic to the next, I feel it can take so long to get to the chorus. It can be tedious. I judge music composition based on efficiency.  

–You rap but also scream. I feel like those things are opposites. With rap, you write lyrics and rhyme; it takes consideration while allowing space to make detours. With screaming, you skip over that and reveal your emotions. You can show an explosion of emotions in the shortest distance possible. Not many people do both things, and I wonder if you feel torn by doing that.  

Haru Nemuri: I don’t like solely being rational or emotional, so I do both. I do think screaming could be cheating because you can do that and convey something immediately.  

–Rapping takes time and is a hassle. Screaming is impressive that way.  

Haru Nemuri: Screaming is a means where you can convey something instantly, so I try not to neglect the steps it takes to get there. Otherwise, it won’t count as authentic screaming. Unless I make something that makes the listener think, “She had no choice but to scream,” there’s no point. 

–I do see you as a rapper. Only people who come from that discipline could say screaming is cheating.  

Haru Nemuri: Oh, I see. When you scream, it feels good, like you’re being violent. Expressing your emotions without any filter can be seen as violence by others. That’s the pleasure of the act.  

–You scream more frequently in your recordings now, which you’ve been doing prior at your live shows. And your voice has been changing too. What do you think about that?  

Haru Nemuri: That happened naturally the more I performed live. I didn’t learn how to scream from someone. I do it without knowing the right way to do it. I support my body with my stomach, relax my back, and scream from somewhere deep inside. I dislike it when women do it in a high voice. Shrill voices aren’t my preference, so I think that’s why my voice has gotten lower and lower. I am angry, but I don’t want people to think I’m hysteric. That’s not it. I want people to understand that I’m angry for a reason. People think [a high-pitched scream] is symbolically feminine, so I try to steer clear of that.  

–People tend to associate your voice and the content of lyrics without thought, so I understand how you want to escape that. I’m happy I could ask you questions from multiple angles today. I feel as though I’m beginning to see how strategic you are in a good way. I’m so excited to see what you do next.  

Haru Nemuri: I’m glad! I want to continue making enough money and music so I can live, create my next piece of work, and perform live.  

Haru Nemuri  
Haru Nemuri is a singer-songwriter, poetry rapper, and producer from Yokohama. She writes, produces, and arranges all of her songs. Haru Nemuri marked her debut with her first mini-album, Sayonara Youthphobia, released in October 2016. She released her second mini-album, Atom Heart Mother, in 2017. In April 2018, Haru Nemuri released her first LP, Haru To Shura. She performed at Primavera Sound, a famous European music festival with about 200,000 attendees, in 2019. She went on a European tour in six countries with 15 shows, many of which had sold out. In March 2020, she released her third mini-album, Lovetheism. In March 2022, she started her North American tour, and despite each venue reaching capacity, all the tickets sold out. It was a huge success. In April, she released her second LP, Shunka Ryougen. She will perform at POP Montreal, a music festival in Montreal, Quebec, on October 1st. Haru Nemuri will be going on her second tour in North America, aptly called Shunka Ryougen North America Tour 2022.  
http://harunemuri.love
Twitter:@haru_nemuri
Instagram:@haru_nemuri
FaceBook:https://www.facebook.com/harunemuri/
YouTube:https://www.youtube.com/channel/UC_2YAHYLNWH31UA7eXRzcXQ/featured

■SHUNKA RYOUGEN NORTH AMERICA TOUR 2022
10/1 (Sat) Montreal, QC – POP Montréal 2022
10/2 (Sun) Toronto, ON – Lee’s Palace
10/4 (Tue) Chicago, IL – Metro
10/6 (Thu) Washington D.C. – Black Cat
10/7 (Fri) Brooklyn, NY – Market Hotel
10/10 (Mon) Atlanta, GA – Masquerade
10/12 (Wed) Houston, TX – Scout Bar
10/13 (Thu) Corpus Christi, TX – House of Rock
10/14 (Fri) San Antonio, TX – Paper Tiger
10/15 (Sat) Dallas, TX – Trees
10/20 (Thu) San Diego, CA – Soda Bar
10/22 (Sat) Los Angeles, CA – Echoplex
10/23 (Sun) San Francisco, CA – Bottom of the Hill
10/25 (Tue) Seattle, WA – El Corazon
10/26 (Wed) Portland, OR – Hawthorne Theatre

Photography Takahiro Otsuji（go relax E more）

The post The Coexistence of Anger and Composure; an Interview with the Charismatic Haru Nemuri   appeared first on TOKION - Cutting edge culture and fashion information.

“To me, my musical works are like photo booth photos — a way to create memories”, he explains with an insightful look on his face.

For instance, I recently listened to “Suisei feat. Onomatopoeia Daijin” for the first time in a while. The song has been circulating everywhere recently. I’m sure it transported many people back to “the good old days”, around ten years ago, when the song was released. Or that may have been their first encounter with “Suisei”. In pop music, the passage of time in some ways makes music more fun, but also cruel. How music changes with time is also a well-kept secret. 

I reflect back. No one can question that tofubeats was representative of Japan’s pop music scene in the 2010s. At the time, the young talent was the one responsible for connecting the overground/underground scenes, online/reality, and bedroom/street scenes. His work was crucial in garnering a new generation.

Even after entering the 2020s, his fast pace never changed. He constantly releases remixes and songs, and is an active DJ. His music, which has reached the level of mastery, continues to change subtly while still retaining tofubeats’ signature sound. Of course, tofubeats himself is constantly changing, as well. At the same time he released his fifth album REFLECTION, his first in four years, he also announced his hearing loss. He chronicles his changes and his everyday life in his book Tofubeats No Chonan Nikki. To continue and to change as a result of the accumulation of what you continue to do. While many musicians have slowed down their music making pace or have moved into different genres, we looked into the strange relationship between the “unchanging tofubeats” and the “actually changing tofubeats”.

– I thought this new album was the most characteristic album of yours to date.

tofubeats: I feel like after years of training, I’m finally able to show myself.

– The details are very elaborate, but it’s flat overall. The contrast between the two is interesting. Your works have always incorporated elements that conflict with each other. It was especially noticeable this time around. The feeling, or “temperature” behind every song was consistent. I felt like body temperature control was an underlying theme of this work.

tofubeats: My definition of “good music” includes being able to listen to it over and over again. However, it takes time to create something that you can listen to many times. In that way, it was a blessing that we were able to continue production in a state of tension for nearly four years, partly because the release was postponed because of COVID. We were able to make many fine adjustments. Some songs were based on a rough idea on purpose, but we were able to make the smallest adjustments. 

– I think many musicians tend to become introverted or extreme in their work after being immersed in it for such a long period of time, but your finished product has a nice pop feel to it.

tofubeats: There were many ups and downs in the process of making the album, but I knew I wanted to end the album on a bright note. I always try to change my approach to pop music, not just for this album, but for every single one. As long as I’m signed to a major label, I think adding such restrictions can make things more interesting. 

– For example, the track that features Kaho Nakamura, “REFLECTION feat. Kaho Nakamura”, is likely to be immediately categorized as a drum n bass track because of the beat. But the fact that the “popiness” of it stands out first is impressive. 

tofubeats: This is embarrassing, but when this song was released before the rest, everyone said that it sounded like Pinkpanthress. I had never even listened to Pinkpanthress before then. I was just listening to drum machines and thought, “drum n bass is great” and made the song. Fortunately this time, I was able to create without being too distracted by external trends. 

I’m also older now, so I don’t trust my own music sensors anymore. I know that the next generation understands new trends better than I do, so I leave it to them and do what I want to do. “REFLECTION feat. Kaho Nakamura” also happened purely because I wanted to try it out. I watched a YouTube video called “I tried combining drum n bass and jungle beats using a hardware sampler”, and I thought I wanted to do something similar on Ableton. That’s how it came about. Not having to think about live shows (because of COVID) was also a significant factor. I usually play four on the floor when I’m DJing, and I play a lot of hip-hop style music when I play live. But when I’m making music without thinking about my live shows, I just want to make drum n bass. 

Challenges of the theme “reflection”

– That song is most symbolic, but the album REFLECTION itself has themes of mirrors and reflections. I was surprised when I heard that because I thought you were headed in a wild direction. Since…

tofubeats: Yes, it’s a common theme (laughs).

– It’s not common, but rather, such an essential and large part of creation. Not just in music, but in art, films, and many different art forms, “mirror” is a theme that has been tried so many times, and a monster of a theme to tackle. 

tofubeats: It’s a subject that many people, even historically, have taken on. At first, I was very naive. One day, I looked at myself in the mirror, freaked out, and took a photo of myself. I’m not sure why I took the photo, but I wanted to do a deep dive into that “why”. Afterwards, once I started production, I realized the gravity of the situation. Like, I realized that Michael Jackson had a song called “Man In the Mirror” (laughs). Once I started using the word “reflection”, I felt a little more at ease because I thought it was better than “mirror”. But I was determined to only focus on myself for this project, so I didn’t worry too much about other “reflections” – something that’s rare for me. Usually, I’d be concerned with doing something similar to others, but I trained myself to not care about those things while I worked on this project.

– In your book, you describe the moment you chose “reflection” as the theme. You were lying on the bed in a business hotel watching TV. In a sense, that’s a moment when your true self was laid bare. By taking a photo of that moment, that true self is captured through another filter.

tofubeats: I felt the intense difference between who I thought I was and who I actually was through the mirror and through my hearing loss. Until then, I never thought of the person in the mirror as someone losing their hearing. It’s the same from a stranger’s point of view. People don’t talk to me thinking, “this person might be deaf in one ear”. The more I lost my hearing, the more I lost faith in what I was seeing, hearing, and how I was receiving information… I felt like I was losing trust in my own senses. So when I thought about how to overcome this part of me that was wavering, I thought it would be interesting to incorporate my process of searching for a part of me that I wasn’t conscious of, like a documentary, through an album. I tried the diary for a similar reason. 

– Are there portions of the song production that reflect that documentary feel?

tofubeats: I decided rather early on in the process to take on irreversible editing, in hopes of preserving the timeless aspects of the album. For instance, I rewrote MIDI data into audio, and sampled a song on the album that I wrote on the album, so that it would give a nesting doll effect. I’ve always thought that sampling and remixing my own songs was a way to convey how interesting music making can be. But I kind of did that with the whole album. 

“I wanted to showcase the realistic parts like a documentary”

– In terms of irreversibility, as I read Tofubeats No Chonan Nikki, I thought about the various accidents that occur in everyday life, like a leak in the house, or your PC breaking. In daily life, these things are just inconveniences that pass us by. But when they are written in the diary, you can visualize how each one of them must have affected the production process. Seeing the accumulation of such things made me realize that people are constantly changing, and the reason we can’t go back to the way things were is because we’re not aware of such changes on a daily basis.

tofubeats: I had the same thought process making this, but was surprised that maybe I would be misunderstood. That’s why I wanted to release the book. People close to me – my family, imdkm, who appears in the book, and Kotetsu Shoichiro – all know that tofubeats creates music while feeding on resentment, hatred, envy, and jealousy. But I think the public sees me as just a skillful musician. That’s an interesting part of it all, but I wanted to showcase the realistic parts like a documentary this time.

– I see.

tofubeats: I briefly mention in my book that I used to hang out with the local rappers when I was in middle school. I saw them get up to some bad things up close… I was only in middle school, you know? I was like, “what are you doing to me”? (laughs). There was a gap between what they were rapping about and what they were actually doing. Even a DJ that I looked up to turned out to be a terrible person. Things like that happen a lot. It’s not that I can’t tolerate them, but I want my true self to match the self that I present to the world. I feel like the words and the actions of the artists I respect do align. Everyone’s human, so there will always be contradictions. Sometimes it can’t be helped. I felt like I wasn’t conveying that part well before. 

– There has been a lot of news like that in recent years, not only in the music industry, but also in the film industry. Consequently, auteurism has become increasingly difficult. On the other hand, it’s interesting to see how works can be interpreted beyond the creator’s initial intention. That balance has become increasingly sensitive. That’s why publishing a book exposing your daily routine is so refreshing.

tofubeats: But that’s also what people like Konishi (Koyo) have done. I’m just copying them and putting stuff that’s unique to myself out into the world. I usually say, “I don’t publicly comment on political issues”, but that doesn’t mean I don’t think about politics or that it doesn’t affect me. But that’s a nuance that’s really hard to demonstrate. It’s easier to get across in a book. In the past, I intentionally stayed away from the realistic aspects that stemmed from documentary-style documentation. I’m glad I was able to convey my current values without hiding my influences this time. 

– There’s a passage in your book that reads, “there is nothing in particular that bothers me about changing. I just watch it change”. That to me was so authentically you. 

tofubeats: “Watching the scenery go by every night”, like from the song “WOW WAR TONIGHT” (laughs). 

– (laughs). It’s like how everything in the world is transitory. Your album and book demonstrate how you’re living life while unobtrusively watching the landscape go by. But you’re still making your voice heard. 

tofubeats: You’re right. In my case, I’m more documenting what’s currently going on, rather than forcefully trying to change it. That’s the whole point of creating an album. It’s fun to have a record of something. I love looking at five years worth of work at once and seeing how it’s changed. I like watching things intently. It’s not the type of thing you can intervene in and change. I feel the accumulated changes most in my song “Asa Ga Kuru Made Owaru Koto No Nai Dance Wo” (2014). I look back and think, “the balance on this record is crazy, I can’t believe I put this out in the world”. Now, it amazes me. 

If you break something down into smaller pieces, people are ultimately the most important thing

– You mentioned the word “irreversibility” earlier. Were there any songs that ended up completely different from the original version because you watched it change and evolve?

tofubeats: The first song, “Mirror”, is a completely different song compared to its demo. The released version is a half step down from the original version. “Mirai” started with a sample from “REFLECTION feat. Kaho Nakamura”. “RUN” and “Keep’n Loving You” were also incorporated into that song later on. Digital music is fun because the shapes of your creations constantly change.

– On the other hand, it was mentioned in your book that the song “NIRVANA” you did with dodo had to be reverted back to its original because the changes weren’t working out. How do you decide what to morph more and what to revert back?

tofubeats: It’s hard to say, but I think it’s experience. And that my daily routine was on a Monday to Friday, 9 to 5 schedule.  In other words, I was no longer lazily working on my music at night. I stopped when it was a good place to stop. I realized that nothing good ever came out of working late. Plus, since my routine became Monday through Friday because of COVID, I’m able to get work done without working overtime. I was also conscious of not overdoing things because of my hearing loss. I no longer feel the need to live up to my expectation of doing more to achieve more. Thinking lazily is also a form of dependence. I couldn’t be dependent once I started to lose my hearing. Although when the production of an album reaches its climax, I’d find that I wasn’t in the mood for anything else when I went home. 

– Have you noticed any changes since moving to Tokyo?

tofubeats: Coming to Tokyo, I realized that it’s easier to live in Kansai because the local network is closer. Everyone was their own boss. When I was in Kobe, I felt a sense of belonging. But in Tokyo, it’s hard to find a sense of belonging because I’m not from here. But in a way, it’s nice to be able to “blend in”. 

– You’ve said in the past that you like Newtown, Book-Off, J-Pop, or anything that has a shared public image. I feel fragments of such shared images in your past works. On the other hand, the Japanese music scene has changed considerably over the past four years, and there’s no longer a common image because the J-POP structure has collapsed. Is it more difficult now to determine how REFLECTION should be positioned within music?

Tofubeats: I understand, it’s really difficult. Your comment makes me happy, though, because that kind of work is what I was going for. When I used to listen to Illreme, I’d think, “how can I be like this?! This is too good!”. Time hadn’t caught up with us yet back then, and I wanted to be immersed in that mood. If a J-Pop category still existed, I would want to be the person to throw Illreme’s music in there. After all, that is how I got into music in the first place. But strangely, I was most excited about Warner Music making and releasing an album like REFLECTION without hesitation. I’m so grateful. When I first made my major label debut, I was gambling on my music so much that I couldn’t even imagine three years into the future. I was making things expecting failure. Considering that, they’ve allowed me to create much more freely.

– Perhaps you’re even at a point in your career where you can create your own image to then share to the world. The message can be, “the more you confront yourself and don’t limit yourself, the more your true self comes out. It’s OK to let it out.” I feel like many musicians are inspired by this release. It’s a significant presence from a generational perspective.

tofubeats: I’d be happy if my audience reacts like that. Even outside of music, I think if you break something down into smaller pieces, people are ultimately the most important thing. Career-wise, I won’t be the one tapping into “the new wave of house” or “the new wave of J-Pop”. I think this album is the result of that era. 

– I think many musicians who’ve had long careers create works that confront themselves at some point – this may be yours. It’s interesting to watch where those musicians head afterwards. Do you have an idea of what you want to do next?

tofubeats: It’s fun getting to know myself through making music, so I’ve continued to keep records of it. But the most important thing is to never stop. As long as you don’t stop, you just wait until you catch the next fish. I think it’s important to solemnly continue. Personally, I think my third album FANTASY CLUB was my worst to date, but I feel like it’s grown on me lately. My manager and I were talking about how we wanted to do what we did in FANTASY CLUB with the same grueling intensity we had while making Lost Decade as an indie band. The only option is to just keep going. I can’t change what I aim for, or else there would be no point in keeping a record of it. Music making is documentation, and a way to create memories. It’s like taking a photo booth picture (laughs). 

– I see (laughs). Whether with your album or book, I have a feeling that people who don’t normally listen to music can casually enjoy tofubeats and your music.

tofubeats: Exactly! I want to know what the people who don’t know me think about what they read or hear. There aren’t many people who come across your music with fresh ears when you’ve been active for such a long time. That’s one reason that motivated me to write the book, too. 

tofubeats / トーフビーツ
Born 1990, from Kobe prefecture. Started making music in middle school and performed at Japan’s largest Techno event WIRE in 12th grade, making him the youngest performer to ever participate. Subsequently, after “Suisei feat. Onomatopoeia Daijin” debuted at No.1 on the iTunes Store Singles Overall Chart, he made his major label debut. He has gained attention for his numerous collaborations with popular artists such as Chisato Moritaka, KREVA, and Takashi Fujii, and has released four full-length albums. On May 18th, 2022, he released REFLECTION,  his first full-length album in four years. On the same day, he also published Tofubeats No Nanchou Nikki. 
https://www.tofubeats.com
Twitter:@tofubeats
Instagram：@tofubeats
YouTube:https://www.youtube.com/c/tofubeats

■5th アルバム『REFLECTION』
https://wmg.jp/tofubeats/discography/

■Tofubeats No Nanchou Nikki.
¥1,870
http://kansai.pia.co.jp/news/art/2022-02/tofubeats.html

Photography Takuya Nagata（W）
Translation Mimiko Goldstein
Edit Atsushi Takayama（TOKION）

The post “I want to know what people who don’t know tofubeats thinks”: A realistic, four-year record expressed through music and books appeared first on TOKION - Cutting edge culture and fashion information.

Controlled number of sounds and a rich timbre 

I’m finally able to take a step back and respond to BAD MODE. 

We might’ve underestimated the album, as it only includes three brand new songs. But the ending of “Kibunja Naino (Not In The Mood)” leads into “Darenimo Iwanai,” making it sound different. The snares of “PINK BLOOD” sound even fiercer when it follows the gently trembling rhythm of “One Last Kiss.” The album’s a work of magic that makes the ten songs feel new and vivid, even though I’ve listened to the songs previously.  

Does “Face My Fears (Japanese Version)” stick out that much? The booming, heavy bass sound at the end of “Find Love” acts as a foreshadow, and it violently bursts into “Face My Fears,” which feels like the perfect transition to the album’s climax. Moreover, I’m surprised by the ambiguous, blurry measures that run through the album. The stuttering snares in “Time” threaten to break down borders. The piano riffs in “Kimini Muchuu” are like a dizzying vortex sucking us in. Another trait is how said swirling vortex doesn’t feel restricted but rather an elegant reverberation. The ambient tone of the album seems like a rotating film stock for the film (or soundtrack) that is the album. Every time I listen to BAD MODE, I dream of how everything turns into a gradation of sorts. It makes me wish all the walls that separate us would fade away as we sway in the space of melted ambient sounds. 

I have one conclusive remark to make. What shocked me the most about this album was how Utada could create such a rich and lush universe with a controlled number of sounds. Minimalist compositions have been a prominent feature in their recent music, and they’ve successfully utilized strings and live band sounds to dress up the music in a dazzling way. However, this album has a different type of glamor. Rather than being dressed up, I would say BAD MODE is clothed. Perhaps this stems from the richness of timbre and nuance. They cut down on excessive sounds to leave an ample amount of space. The distance between each sound creates a wide array of sounds and textures. When I listen to “One Last Kiss,” I feel astonished at how a mere synthesizer can create a dynamic and glamorous vibe within a simple composition. In “BAD MODE” and “Kibunja Naino (Not In The Mood),” the lyrics are realistic and include common proper nouns of a particular kind, yet they have an overwhelmingly refined glamor to them. The same goes for the percussions on “Darenimo Iwanai” and the electronic sound of “Find Love.” How in the world does Utada manage to discover such remarkable sounds? 

Speaking of which, their choked-up voice at the end of “Pink Blood,” which I enjoy listening to repeatedly, as well as the bonus track “Beautiful World (Da Capo Version),” contributes to the overall sonic colorfulness. I’m not sure if the vocals are edited or if they’re using their nasal voice, but even if it’s the latter, the right to enjoy this occurrence should be protected, since Utada said, “At times, interesting things are born from coincidence.” Their voice is choked-up and almost wet-like, giving the song a rough and languorous flair. It reflects the relaxed nature of the cover art, in which they’re wearing casual clothes, and is one of the many brilliant tones in this diverse album. 

Not glamor or richness, but a different kind of pathos 

Good music never allows its interpretation to be limited to the category of music. This album, in which they wrote most of the songs in the pandemic, suggests something to us. 

During modern times, we’ve created culture by meeting and interacting with other people. Even after the proliferation of the internet, the shape of communication hasn’t changed. Just like the connection of dots, we’ve made new things by interacting with and stimulating others and making discoveries. One of the ultimate glamorous experiences is traveling. But now that we need to live alongside the pandemic, and the designer who explored modern travel without boundaries has passed away, we’ve lost a very emotional and glamorous experience. We can’t even see people anymore. So, then, how should we create culture? Many people don’t know. 

The pandemic strongly influenced BAD MODE. Utada’s music has always sounded personal while retaining its pop sound, and this album seems to be fueled by a sense of acceptance that surpasses introspection. The evident elements of electronic music embody this. But Utada locked themselves inside their house, engaged in their musical equipment, looked for every possible timbre, and built a universe of atmospheric yet glamorous music without boundaries. I still regard this as something groundbreaking. This album points to a new direction during an era where we’ve reached a significant cultural turning point. Now that I’ve written this column thus far, I’m starting to think that glamorous isn’t an apt descriptor. It’s not flashy enough to be that. Rich isn’t the right word either. At this point, the appropriate way to describe BAD MODE doesn’t exist, at least not in Japanese. That’s what it means to create a new kind of pathos. It’s not glamorous or rich; if I had to say, I could only describe the album as elegant and meaningful. Utada’s birthing something new. Today, as soon as there’s new music, people immediately translate that into words, but I feel a sense of freshness from Utada, as though they’re rejecting the substitution of language.  

In other words, the era in which culture’s made by people passing, meeting, and stimulating each other is over. We’re now living in an era where people create their own occurrences. You can live a luxurious life by opening up your senses, even if you stay at home. BAD MODE suggests a new kind of luxury for a new time. You don’t have to travel anywhere. To be luxurious is to be at home, engage in something, welcome coincidences, open up your senses, and ponder without limits. 

“Un-J-pop” 

BAD MODE’s a step away from J-pop. The album doesn’t have any melodies and patterns typical to J-pop. They’ve “forgotten” how to belt out a song. Instead, their vocals carry rhythm and nuance. Simultaneously, J-pop’s being rapidly deconstructed in Japan, differently from the approach Utada tried out in the UK. The landscape of Japanese pop music has changed drastically, especially in the last couple of years. The new mainstream music scene is being led by bands and musicians who have their musical roots in genres like jazz and metal but reconstruct them, at times maniacal and at other times pop-like. Idol music, used in many reality shows, is still predominant. At the same time, the younger generation now supports influences that existed in the underground for a long time; they’re regarded as classics. Vocaloid music today has a faster BPM, an attempt to create a rhythm with its fast-paced score. Hip-hop and rap music groups incorporate Japanese and English words into their flows without rules. It’s different from the J-pop of the past, as this is real, grounded music. 

Yes, it’s real indeed. Far away from J-pop music of the past, in which people sang high-pitched songs with peaks and valleys with a certain kind of pretense and image, real music has begun to gain new support. It’s because it reflects reality that contemporary Japanese music feels somewhat close. Japan’s rapidly becoming poorer, so it’s real in this sense too. I’m proud of Japanese pop today, as it’s filled with brilliant, down-to-earth music rather than music solely for entertainment or showbiz. 

Of course, I’m not saying I’m not interested in music in neighboring countries or the US or UK. Japanese pop music isn’t competing—or can’t compete—in that department, as many musicians abroad have obtained both popularity and artistry on an immense scale. In that sense, there’s no such thing as “glamorous” music in Japan anymore. Isn’t BAD MODE an album that’s taken an approach that’s different from such opposites? The album shifted the standard of luxury to a qualitative one, where luxury’s not measured in terms of whether something’s extravagant or not. As such, it’s not the same thing as being glamorous or rich. 

Traveling, and the end of the pandemic 

Finally, I must talk about this song: “Somewhere Near Marseilles.” Scarily, this song’s about traveling. It’s about Utada leaving their home at the very end to book a room with an ocean view, and it’s in the service of how it sounds sonically, with both English and Japanese words being used. But why meet up in Marseilles, when Utada’s in London? Why is the other person in Paris, anyway? Because they use words as a series of sounds, I consider these lyrics as fiction and a pure form of sound. 

In their previous album, Hatsukoi, they sang about love (ai). In the song “Anata,” the word ai was used repeatedly. It must’ve been a critical attempt to move away from the straightforward love song formula and to open up endless imaginative possibilities from the sound of ai. In “Somewhere Near Marseilles,” the phonetic universe of ai progresses more. Paris is ai. Through their American pronunciation, they connect to the context of the Japanese word ai. In the line, “Bokuwa London, kimiwa Paris (I’m in London, you’re in Paris)/Kono natsu gouryuu shitaine (I want to meet up with you this summer)/Ikiyasui tokoga iine (Somewhere easy to go to)/Marseilles atari (Near Marseilles)/Somewhere near Marseilles,” the sound of ai is in Paris, shitaine, and atari. 

The one thing that I can’t help but wonder about is the sound of the subtle “se” between the ai sounds in Marseilles. The fricative “se” sound, pronounced quietly, has an undeniably erotic ring to it. The rubbing of something against something else is reminiscent of people meeting and creating something. The line “In the twilight/In the sunshine” follows, which creates friction and a poignant feeling through the word sunshine. Finally, they venture on a trip to a room with an ocean view. Here, Utada rhymes ocean view with yoyaku (reservation), which has a double meaning, as it can be interpreted as the word finally (youyaku). They effortlessly signal the end of the long pandemic. The new concept of luxury isn’t glamorous and rich, as it’s elegant and meaningful. And so, the long, long story that challenges our pathos comes to a close. 

I’ve had many conversations with people about BAD MODE since its release. Utada’s album carved out a new pathos through pop music, and now the world is trying to catch up with their language. Perhaps, it’ll take some time. Some avid listeners told me that it seems a bit out of reach and that they can’t process it until they hear it live. I’m eagerly waiting for the day I can experience this album in a live setting. Until then, I’ll try to rely on my sensibilities and Utada’s music and live each day to the fullest, with luxury. 

Translation Lena Grace Suda

The post A new kind of luxury for a new era: Hikaru Utada’s BAD MODE appeared first on TOKION - Cutting edge culture and fashion information.

For the 17th installment, the last one of the series, she gets to the core of the music of Japanese women rappers by referencing the notion of iki (chicness). She also looks at the year 2009, which was a turning point, through the lens of fashion history. 

Analyzing the imaginative power of hip-hop (history) through fashion

In this series of columns, I’ve uncovered how contemporary music—namely hip-hop, which has been active in recent years with its raw spirit—has woven an inseparable relationship with fashion. If I’ve been able to reveal how hip-hop subconsciously/deeply breathes in sync with fashion one way or another, then the purpose of this series has been reached.  

When I talk about the marriage of the two, I’m not only referring to the changes that have taken place, like the convergence of high fashion and streetwear post-2010s, which drastically shook the existing class structure and the fact that rappers and dancers came to wear luxury brands. I don’t wish to emphasize the repeated attempts to reinforce hip-hop attitudes with lyrical references that use brands like Gucci and Chanel, either. What I want to state is thus: the sound and history of brand names like Gucci and Chanel create a narrative, and hip-hop has become an autonomous art form with an unexpected vibrancy.

The same is true for fashion staples such as sneakers and jeans, which I spoke about in the penultimate installment. Without a doubt, these items, originally from streetwear, have been redefined and given a new context as of late. Hip-hop is enmeshed with these items in a way that can’t be labeled as a mere trend. The sneakers that rappers wear carry the core idea of hip-hop, which is the “reversal of black and white.” When one drags a pair of sagging jeans on the streets, they’re followed around by something that upholds the essence of hip-hop, which is the unchangeable origin of oneself. Imagination is far superior to reality. The imagination of hip-hop (history) can provide a grand story by using fashion as a symbolic tool.

The concept and aesthetic of iki underlying the music of Japanese women rappers

As TOKION is a platform that introduces “cutting edge culture,” I brought to life the entangled play between hip-hop and fashion through rap music in Japan. If there’s one last point I should explore, it’s the notion of iki (chicness), which upholds Japanese fashion, and the influence that this fleeting (and therefore hard to grasp) aesthetic has on hip-hop. This approach in hip-hop, introduced by many women rappers, hasn’t been in the spotlight because of its subtleness and difficult-to-understand nuance. During the Edo period, when the concept of iki prospered, the structure of hierarchal society was dominant, and modesty was encouraged thanks to the sumptuary law. The iki culture and aesthetic that blossomed under the oppressive environment is similar to women rappers in the male-centric hip-hop game in the form of a pyramid, who have expressed themselves despite being ridiculed as being soft at times. And this isn’t common in women rappers in America.

To be iki is to alter something. While the most prominent male rappers in Japanese hip-hop history have been rhyming stoically, a small number of male and women rappers have been showcasing a playful and laidback style compared to their solemn counterparts. Starting with ORCHIDS, who debuted on MAJOR FORCE, to FUNKY ALIEN, HAC, YURI, HALCALI, Y.I.M, and chelmico, the laidback rap style that strays away from hip-hop’s stylistic beauty, has introduced a new perspective of changing the rap game.

Additionally, iki also equates to sexiness. Hiroshige Utagawa’s “After a Bath” is a well-known example of how one could find many instances of flushed women after taking a bath, considered as iki culture, in ukiyo-e paintings, which flourished during the Edo period. The Edo culture carefully illustrated the warmth of their exposed bodies and sighs and the sexiness of their unguarded intimacy. As such, the ways Daoko and Izumi Makura use their breaths are worthy examples of the incorporation of sexiness into hip-hop (in a different manner from the sexiness of traditional women rappers). Sexiness is also an act of suggestion and allusion. Instead of showing everything at the start, it’s about performing and producing a sense of push and pull. In this way, Daoko is an interesting rapper. Her lyrics, packed with relentless, hard-sounding rhymes, are acutely technical, which is why the occasional glimpse of her “body heat” seems to affect the listener and give off the scent of a different kind of sensuality.

I would also like to bring to mind Namie Amuro’s approach. With the release of STYLE in 2003, she switched to R&B/hip-hop. She opened the song, “Namie’s Style,” with “How does this sound? It’s Namie’s style/Were you waiting for this? Here is my nu style.” This album became crucial in the following history of hip-hop in Japan. Because she was an established pop star by then, she presented her work carefully, as if to test out the waters. In other words, she teased the audience with a slight glimpse of the push and pull in a brilliantly iki manner.

What is unprecedented is that in hip-hop, women themselves have stood up and grabbed the mic to channel their sensuality and sexiness in their music, unlike in ukiyo-e, where male artists portrayed iki by drawing women. Most of these performances by women may not have been intentional. Women rappers have been expressing themselves with authenticity while holding up the times, and themselves, like a mirror. As a result, iki qualities have been incorporated into hip-hop. Thanks to the works of these women rappers, our ability to appreciate hip-hop has broadened in some small way.

The turning point of 2009; when RUMI and COMA-CHI created their masterpieces, and a momentous shift in fashion history took place

A significant turning point in the history of Japanese hip-hop made by women was in 2009. RUMI completed her trilogy of dark and unique music with the release of HELL ME NATION, while COMA-CHI made her major-label debut with RED NAKED. The use of red, the antithesis of iki, in the title is suggestive in various contexts. COMA-CHI climbed her way up the ladder and stood at the frontlines with men; indeed, it was a necessary step for her to represent women rappers on a major label and send out a message. Simultaneously, this was also when hip-hop entered a dark period in the Japanese music scene.

Out of the past few decades, the years surrounding 2009 were the most crucial turning points in Japanese womenswear history. After Phoebe Philo became the creative director of Celine in 2008, the effortless, minimalist style saturated Japan at breakneck speed. There’s fashion pre-Phoebe and post-Phoebe; that’s how much fashion changed. This surge solidified after the Great East Japan Earthquake in 2011. It caused an immense tectonic shift, as style went from being based on various fashion tribes to being more relaxed/casual—emphasizing the materials themselves—while referencing such tribes. The style changed from a manufactured and adorned one to one that valued the individual’s lifestyle. This development encouraged basics like sneakers, knit dresses, sportswear, and natural, texture-oriented makeup for women. Working on one’s body and beauty also became widespread, and as a result, the individual was prioritized over the clothes.

Listening to hip-hop as a genre that conveys the zeitgeist of the era and picking up the pieces of the evolving image of fashion

In response to the dramatic shift in fashion, women rappers also changed. The works of COMA-CHI and RUMI, who made a name for themselves in MC battles by adding onto the existing male-centric hip-hop music and creating a rich, complete sound, were at the apex then. More new women rappers began showing their talents. Daoko, Awich, NENE, Zoomgals, lyrical school, and other rappers who gained popularity in the 2010s and beyond have distinct styles that don’t overlap. Each of these rapper’s flair is distant from the male point of view in hip-hop.

Hip-hop—a sharp, progressive mode of expression that’s closely related to fashion and conveys the zeitgeist of the times—will continue to stimulate people’s values through the birth and collaborations of more skilled rappers of all genders.

Experiments in modern colloquialism breathe with the clothes that adorn the body, still ring on the streets as odd sounds at this very moment, travel around the internet, and resonate with people’s bodies and spirits. If the play on sounds and words and the changing image of fashion are thrown away on the streets as insignificant things, one must continue to listen meticulously and collect them. I’m sure you’re one of those people.

References:
Oshare Bunkashi Asuka Jidai kara Edo Jidai made, edited by The POLA Research Institute of Beauty and Culture, Shumei Daigaku Shuppankai, 2019

Illustration AUTO MOAI

Translation Lena Grace Suda

The post On the iki of women rappers and the year 2009, a turning point [Shockwaves in Contemporary Music and Fashion] Vol. 17 appeared first on TOKION - Cutting edge culture and fashion information.

The protagonist of this installment is LEX, a Japanese rapper who had the most remarkable year. Through analyzing three brands who showed their collection at Tokyo Fashion Week, I’d like to discuss LEX’s brilliant and unique creativity, which he fostered by the influence of foreign artists his age. 

The relationship between Japan and abroad as seen in yoshiokubo, White Mountaineering, and kolor collections 

LEAt the end of September, LEX released one of the most promising albums of 2021, LOGIC. Even though his album was received with enthusiasm, the rapper’s work hasn’t been analyzed so much. I’d like to get to the main point by identifying creators in a different field who showed similar movements at the beginning of September. With that said, this isn’t a detour. To reveal what makes LEX a standout, I’ll start with a somewhat distant topic.

By “creators in a different field,” I mean a few fashion designers who showed at 2022 Spring/Summer Fashion Week Tokyo, which was held under a prolonged state of emergency about a month before the release of LEX’s LOGIC. Among several intriguing collections, what stood out was how domestic brands returned to Tokyo once again due to worldwide changes. For instance, yoshiokubo, which returned from Milan for the first time in five years, took on the challenge to reinterpret Japanese clothing based on the notion of a warrior.

One brand returned from Paris for the first time in nine years. White Mountaineering used women models, a rarity for the brand, to present a stunning show in the natural environment of Shinjuku Gyoen. Their endeavor to use black—a key color in fashion history that domestic brands have valued—while utilizing contemporary high-tech materials as in the past drew attention.

Like last season, kolor held their show in Tokyo instead of Paris. The brand’s individuality was heightened with a hybrid patchwork approach while simultaneously adding spice to our everyday life by taking over the Keikyu train. 

Like last season, kolor held their show in Tokyo instead of Paris. The brand’s individuality was heightened with a hybrid patchwork approach while simultaneously adding spice to our everyday life by taking over the Keikyu train. 

The innovative spirit of LEX: sublimating American trends into his rap

Allow me to lay out some quotes regarding the good traits of LEX, who’s been getting both praise and criticism. “[LEX is] filled with songwriting talent at a young age,” “A representative of artists who started on SoundCloud,” “A rapper with a flow that surpasses the rest in the country,” “Reminiscent of rap trends in the U.S.,” “Influenced by Lil Uzi Vert.” Each description is scarily accurate. Let’s take it one step further; the following is about his technique of incorporating current American rap into Japanese rap: 

“With LEX’s !!! And OZworld’s OZWORLD, there are Japanese words mixed with English words, and even foreign people could listen to their music like, ‘This song sounds English, but there’s another language in there too.’

“They frequently use vague-sounding vowels and go from an open syllable to a closed syllable. They’re making their pronunciation close to English at a consonant and vowel level. I think 5lack and LEX, who I mentioned before, come from that lineage.” 

Masashi Yoshida, “The frontlines of Japanese Rap; The current state of hip hop in Japan, as predicted by trends in 2019” Part 1 (ele-king)

On “Nandemo Icchatte feat. JP THE WAVY,” the biggest hit LEX has released, he raps in a very neutral way, which is uncharacteristic of him. But this is just one type of flow among his diverse library of flows. As mentioned above, LEX fundamentally uses “vague-sounding vowels and go from an open syllable to a closed syllable,” while, at times, adopting American rap trends and rearranging Japanese words. There’s no doubt this is his approach.

“Nandemo Icchatte,” on “stranger,” by LEX, Only U, and Yung sticky wom, which gained popularity on TikTok, the way they reinterpret Japanese words is striking. For instance, in “Fuku wo nugasu (take your clothes off) / Teineini, teineini (carefully),” the “i” vowel is erased. Instead, it sounds like “Fuku wo nugasu/ Te-ne-ni, te-ne-ni.” On “V.I.P,” a song off LEXBEX, an EP LEX made with BEXEY from London, the “i” vowel is gone: “Keitai ga naru (the phone rings)” sounds like “Ke-ta ga naru.” Moreover, on “Loyalty,” “Omae ga neteru timing (when you’re sleeping)/ Ore wa genki (I’m good),” “omae ga” clearly sounds like oh my god. 

The vowels fall through the crevices of the rough surface of LEX’s uniquely coarse voice—reminiscent of birds like chickens and geese quaking. His controlled use of language via Japanese words that sound like English and the aggressive omission of vowels is evolving. LEX is leading the Japanese rap scene with innovation. 

The sparkle of emotion seen in a controllable aspect  

On LOGIC, LEX’s distance from the Japanese language shows a different side. Although on “Venus,” he pronounces “ore no (my)” as oh no, and says “nori dake (vibes only)” instead of “nori de akeru (start with a vibe),” he extends the vowel sounds alongside his violent breaths. This song, which has his inhales between words recorded, creates a physicality that’s usually not seen in his controlled flows. Additionally, the repetitiveness of “Woah, woah, uh, uh, yeah, yeah” accentuates the vowels.

LEX manipulates vowels with finesse in the opening song of the album, “GOLD.” In this song, which he sings with more intent than ever, LEX repeatedly sings, “Motto ikitai ue (I want to go higher)”. Surprisingly, after disciplining himself with the technicalities of omitting vowels to imitate English sounds, he clearly and powerfully repeats the “ue” sound, with the desire to, indeed, go even higher. 

LEX has grown the seed he planted in “GOLD” throughout his recent music. Let’s look at KM’s “STAY feat. LEX,” a popular song of 2021. Can you understand the verse of this song clearly? LEX raps the following: 

“Runway wo aruku model to date (a date with a runway model)/ Sugunisa kakete iPhone (call my iPhone now)/ Taiwan, South America no (from Taiwan and South America)/ Tomodachi to asobu (hang out with friends)/ Model satsuei shinaito (need to have a model shoot)/ Sonano heiki, heiki (that’s alright)/ Tamani get high hitori (get high on my own sometimes)/ Dareka no seini, seini (blame somebody else)/ Shite hajiketa rain (the bursting rain)” 

In this verse, which completely deviates from the sound of the Japanese language, the word that stands out is iPhone. With this as the keyword, LEX’s signature controlled English-sounding Japanese develops into something thrilling. He emotes in Japanese more emotionally than before, riding on the noisy and elegant production of KM, which expands and bounces.

“Sukina mondake wo kisetai (I want to dress you in clothes only I like)/ Tamani aruyo shikatanai (It happens sometimes)/ Koto tokamo koeteku ai (a love that goes beyond)/ Sonano heiki, heiki (that’s alright)/ Tamani get high hitori (get high on my own sometimes)/ Dareka no seini, seini (blame somebody else)/ Shite hajiketa rain (the bursting rain)”

In this hook, LEX rhymes “kisetai” and “shikatanai” with “ai” and then adds “heiki,” “high,” “seini,” and “rain.” The vowels are smartly used as the climax, triggering an explosion of emotions. At the core of the song is “ai” (love), which connects to “iPhone” in a vowel exchange. In his discography, he connects words with closed syllables. This sort of corniness in “STAY” has a significant meaning.

Although LEX’s skill in overlaying English onto Japanese with ease is excellent, his appeal is even more accentuated when he goes beyond the controlled aspect and leans toward emotion. It’s in the vowels that draw out with emotion and in the breaths that abruptly come in. In KM’s “STAY feat. LEX,” that contrast is executed beautifully, and in “GOLD,” it comes to fruition. In a way, the roots of LEX, who sang “Flower” sentimentally with a tender voice on SoundCloud, are being revived.

LEX is sometimes criticized for simply translating American rap and its flow into Japanese. However, having generated his distinct sound of Japanese by erasing vowels, he’s now innovatively experimenting with modern colloquialism, using vowels with more emotion than anyone else and taking breaths to express his physicality. As I listened to his sticky, raw pronunciation of such vowels, I was reminded of the ingenuity of a few Japanese fashion brands. The counterattack of domestic creativity is steadily advancing everywhere. LEX is fighting with his body at the forefront.

Illustration AUTO MOAI

Translation Lena Grace Suda

The post The counterattack of Japanese music [Shockwaves in Contemporary Music and Fashion] Vol. 16 appeared first on TOKION - Cutting edge culture and fashion information.

Read Part 1

In the first half of this interview, we caught up with Dos Monos about their music in 2021. In the latter half, they discuss their diverse range of collaborations and their thoughts on “an extraordinary that transcends seduction.”  

On transitioning to pop: “We need to reveal our true selves and put ourselves on display.”

――Zo Zhit, you and the other members of the group are constantly doing the unexpected, collaborating/talking to all kinds of interesting people rather than only musicians. Time and time again, you’ve made efforts to soften rigid values. As a result, I think Dos Monos listeners’ have come to expect a lot from the group. It’s like you’ve established yourselves as characters that set up glitches all over the system and shake up people’s thinking, and in a way, I think people are starting to sense a certain pop quality from that. Is that just part of Dos Monos’s personality, or is that something that everyone in Dos Monos is actually trying to do?

Zo Zhit: Everyone says that our work is interesting. We get that reaction often, especially in the industry, and in and of itself, it’s a good thing. But to become pop, we need to reveal our true selves and put ourselves on display.

―― What exactly do you mean by “reveal your true selves”?

Zo Zhit: At the end of the day, when an artist talks about their work, it’s them saying, “This is how I’d like people to see it.” But I think you become a real artist when you go a step beyond that, and people are almost making fun of you. Like, “Sure, that’s what the artist says it is, but this is what it actually is.” Even respected film directors start being grilled about their shortcomings as human beings. Like—Denis Villeneuve worships women too much, to the point where it’s not even feminist (laughs). The game truly begins once the audience can see through the artist’s struggles. When an artist is still able to hide that, they may seem happy, but they haven’t entered the ring as creators.

I mean, people admire Denis Villeneuve in a way that’s too psychoanalytic, so I don’t really like that (laughs). But still, in a way, it’d be nice if people dug a bit deeper and saw the things that we didn’t want them to see. Maybe that pop quality comes from whether an artist is worth teasing. So instead of, “They do cool stuff,” people are talking candidly about it, like, “Something about them is annoying.” (laughs) But we haven’t gotten anywhere close to that point yet.

Botsu a.k.a NGS: Even after Futa*, no one really said anything bad about us.

*An experimental program that suddenly aired on a late-night slot on TV Tokyo in September 2020. The program featured new Dos Monos songs and music videos as part of the group’s collaboration with the program),

Dos Monos – OCCUPIED!

Zo Zhit: Our usual fans had zero reaction to Futa. They were completely silent. But a different group of people got riled up. It was great that it enabled us to take on a completely new audience. Plus, it was a great move in terms of changing our path. Going forward, we have to go down the path rather than just building it.

Botsu a.k.a NGS: Even after Futa*, no one really said anything bad about us.

*An experimental program that suddenly aired on a late-night slot on TV Tokyo in September 2020. The program featured new Dos Monos songs and music videos as part of the group’s collaboration with the program),

Zo Zhit: Our usual fans had zero reaction to Futa. They were completely silent. But a different group of people got riled up. It was great that it enabled us to take on a completely new audience. Plus, it was a great move in terms of changing our path. Going forward, we have to go down the path rather than just building it.

The hopeless feeling of being bored with yourself: “Music should be more compelling.”

――As you mentioned, Dos Monos fans who watched Futa already had an idea of what Dos Monos is like, so what’s important is the reaction of people who listened to Dos Monos for the first time via Futa. Did you hear anything about their reactions?

Zo Zhit: There were a lot of people analyzing Futa. I’m not sure how I feel about people who fundamentally need something they can analyze, like a twist or foreshadowing. Maybe it’s none of my business to say that—because they’re just watching for pleasure. I’m not going to suddenly become a critic and say something antiquated like, “That’s why the critics are so admirable.”

So I think the only necessary path is to discover true pleasure while analyzing the work. The “if you know, you know” sort of thing said by people with cultural capital has its value, but we want to break through that. We want our work to truly awaken just a few of the people who analyze it.

――I see. So it’s about the extent to which you’re able to awaken those people.

Zo Zhit: But in reality, some people said things like, “I had fun analyzing Futa, but I lost interest once I realized it was promoting a hip hop group.” I think almost every encounter is like that—sadly, nothing comes of it. That’s just life. Isn’t that how it is with most encounters? Nothing comes of them, and pleasure is all that remains. But amid all these encounters, there’s a small probability that something amazing will happen. For that to happen, to some extent, you need more traffic. I want to keep a more constant flow of traffic while making sure we stay true to our concept and non-negotiables. After that, it’s just a matter of probability.

TaiTan: As we rack up more work, like collaborating with Audrey Tang or making an ad using a DAW, our reputation as the kind of group that does stuff like that is solidified. I had interest in that until recently. So in that sense, Futa was a success. But if people start to expect that kind of stuff, then it falls into the category of the expected. I’ve already started to feel like I’m at risk of getting bored of myself.

――Somehow, I had a feeling that you’d started to feel that way.

TaiTan: I want to see more bizarre work from other artists too. I want more flashy surprises. There are people like us who aren’t signed to a label and barely have any funds, yet, they’re able to do all kinds of things based on their ideas. But there are people out there with more resources. As a listener, I feel like it’s not enough for people with much bigger budgets than us to just go through the motions of writing songs and making music videos. I’m not judging them, but I’m personally always looking to discover new ways of doing things. I think it would be great if someone who does crazy stuff—like Kanye West—came out of Japan. I want people like that to mess with me more often.

Zo Zhit: I want everyone to start a festival together, because we’re truly powerless on our own. Even if an artist is cool, it doesn’t matter if only a few enthusiasts are happy. Unless there are larger powers at play, you can’t create a culture that gives back to society. Some intellectuals don’t like that, but I disagree. I want to create more with everyone.

TaiTan: Recently, I’ve really been feeling that music should be more compelling. People who make music should absolutely hate when everyone follows the same routine of making songs and shooting music videos. Isn’t that so boring? That’s always left me feeling bored and craving more. Music should be more compelling. That’s why we want to link up and keep scheming with people from all kinds of areas who have the same goals.

――It’s about time that people who are interested in Dos Monos go beyond just being interested and work with you guys to make something interesting, isn’t it?

Zo Zhit:Since I was a teenager, I only thought ofexchange in terms of culture. I thought it’d be nice if cinephile culture and club culture could link more deeply, or if I could link the two. I think in a way, we’ve been quite successful in doing that. But that’s still just cultural exchange, and we haven’t linked up with the economy, for example. We haven’t been able to create jobs. At the end of the day, if I think hard about culture, I reach that conclusion. I’ve been able to see that more clearly recently because I didn’t think that way at first.

How each member approached the new single for Documental in their own way

――Your new song, “ŌBO,” was a collaboration with HITOSHI MATSUMOTO presents Documental. This was another unexpected development.

Zo Zhit: Documental initially approached us about using one of our existing songs. But we offered to make them a new song because thought we could make something that worked better.

TaiTan: We wouldn’t grow at all if they used an old song. And we wondered what we could present to them for an interesting collaboration.

Zo Zhit: TaiTan and I added some comedic elements, but Botsu didn’t. I wrote about comedy in Japanese culture, and TaiTan went a bit deeper into the inner perspective of the comedy struggle.

TaiTan: Mine was basically a love letter to the team who made Documental. (laughs)

Zo Zhit: Right (laughs). I took a step back to write mine. And in between, there’s a hook, and then Botsu wrote about something that has nothing to do with comedy. But for Botsu, he thought that if he wrote with his usual attitude, his lyrics would have a bit more range, which would be interesting. In the end, each of us thought about what we wanted to do rather than just giving it back to the client within a set framework. TaiTan and I looked at it through a professional lens and wanted to make this client work even more interesting than they expected. And in a way, Botsu decided not to do that as the ultimate form of amateurism.

Botsu a.k.a NGS: My music normally goes beyond the framework, so I feel like I didn’t have to go out of my way to do something meta. I think if the music is cool, then it’s cool. Personally, I like music videos, and I’m a person who consumes them. I think Dos Monos brings out that interesting side of me. 

Zo Zhit: It’s all about balance, isn’t it? When you put our opinions side by side, it looks like they’re at odds with each other. But if we skillfully balance those opinions, Dos Monos becomes better as a whole.

Botsu a.k.a NGS: I was always conflicted though. Now I understand the fact that we’re balancing [our opinions].

Zo Zhit: Botsu is a guy who is always conflicted and in turmoil. About a year ago, I was more assertive, but recently, I’m just a guy who makes songs. (laughs) TaiTan and Botsu are the most radical —on opposite ends of the spectrum—and I’ve decided it’s okay if I just make good songs. (laughs)

Dos Monos hopes that 2022 will be “a year where tricksters toy with the world.”

――Amid that standstill that we’re seeing today, I think Dos Monos’s activities are a good reference — not only for the music industry but for all kinds of industries. Don’t you feel like everything has become a template these days?

Zo Zhit: Everyone can just say what they think they’re supposed to. Works aren’t compelling unless that raw human element comes out, but people just let pretty things be pretty. I guess that’s fine if that works well. But I think that raw human element is the foundation. There needs to be a seductive foundation to begin with. And I don’t mean seductive as in sexy. So much out there is very sterile—if people added even a little bit of personality, I think it’d become incredibly seductive. So first, if you at least have that seductive element, the work will probably be interesting. I think 99% of interesting things out there have that.

――It’s completely different if you can pick up on that raw human touch.

Zo Zhit: To take that even further, that can only be great to the extent that humans can be great. I think that the remaining 1% of amazing things have a godliness that exceeds humans. An extraordinary that transcends seduction. When I consider that, I think that rather than connecting with people who like Dos Monos, it’d be more amazing to connect with people who don’t like us at all. Maybe our greatness would truly be tested for the first time. For example, comedy and baseball are two of Japan’s most local cultures. So we need to become like [Tsuyoshi] Shinjo, who is a trickster within those two cultures.

Botsu a.k.a NGS: Shinjo is unbelievable. TaiTan: Everyone was too satisfied with Otani. (laughs) I’ve been waiting for someone who is more provocative, someone who can bluff. So Shinjo [becoming the manager of the Hokkaido Nippon Ham Fighters] was the best news of the year. I think next year, he’ll do something that reinterprets professional baseball. Like, even if they become the lowest-ranked team, they’ll still do well financially because they put on a show for fans. I want [2022 to be] a year where tricksters toy with the world. Otani is an amazing superstar, but people will discover that being a superstar isn’t all that’s amazing and that there are other perspectives out there.  

――And it’s interesting that Shinjo does all that in the old-fashioned world of baseball.

TaiTan: That’s why I want to work with people like Shinjo. I want to connect with [people who have] that sense. Why is it that when some people slip up, they can pull it off? I could watch that forever. There’s something godly about it. And on the flip side, Tatsunami will become the manager of the Chunichi Dragons next year, and he’s talking about banning long hair. Shinjo vs. Tatsunami will be worth watching. Will Shinjo’s values—which somehow work thanks to his absurd Showa-era trickery—prevail, or will traditional Showa-era values make a comeback? If Nippon Ham finishes at the bottom of the rankings, I think that’s still a win for Shinjo in a way.

Zo Zhit: At the very least, next year’s professional baseball will be more interesting than Japanese politics.

Dos Monos
Dos Monos is a hip hop crew comprised of three MCs from Tokyo. The mastermind producer, Zo Zhit, approached TaiTan and Botsu, his classmates in middle and high school, and founded the group in 2015. Before their debut, they played live at Summer Sonic and then got signed to Deathbomb Arc, an LA-based hip hop label home to the likes of JPEGMafia. After performing abroad, they released their first album in March of 2019 titled Dos City. In July 2020, they released their second album, Dos Siki, and on the same day the following year, they released Dos Siki 2nd Season, the reinterpretation of the previous album featuring black midi, Soushi Sakiyama, Tomomi Oda, SMTK, Qiezi Mabo, and JAZZ DOMMUNISTERS. In September, they released Larderello and Dos Siki (1st & 2nd Season) on CD.
Twitter：@dosmonostres
YouTube：Dos Monos

Photography Kana Tarumi
Edit Ai Iijima
Translation Aya Apton Aya

The post “We need more provocative people”—the elusive Dos Monos, who makes the ordinary extraordinary, wraps 2021 up (part 2) appeared first on TOKION - Cutting edge culture and fashion information.

At the end of the day, it’s about oomph and the ordinary. Dos Monos makes that clear. 

The release of their third album Dos Siki 2nd Season, their fourth album Larderello in conjunction with TV Tokyo’s experimental program Futa, and their new song “Obo”. Between these milestones, the trio performed live and engaged in radical activities like having various dialogues. The sudden appearances and disappearances of Dos Monos are exciting. They soften the stiffened thinking of the world while simultaneously creating a rawness that shocks us.

I believe this rawness is what Dos Monos calls “an extraordinary ordinary that transcends sex appeal.” In the first part of this interview, a wrap-up of this year, they talk about their Theater D show held back in September and their collaboration with SMTK. While Dos Monos’ music is danceable, it doesn’t stop there; it allows new “traffic” to pass and creates pleasure by opening up previously unconnected circuits. We’ll dive even deeper in the second part of the interview. The members urge that music should be more compelling, which ultimately leads to the statement that we require more provocative people. Then they end up discussing a particularly infamous professional baseball director.

Dos Monos is doing something fascinating, and the intriguing anecdotes in this interview are a testament to that. However, they also fear they’re merely having fun. The trio can’t achieve their destination alone. In the second half of the interview, Zo Zhit describes this destination as “restoring culture in society.” Perhaps this requires us to (implicitly) transform ourselves to be more provocative and subversive.

“An experience where my stoic thinking came undone”; gaining a new understanding through performing live  

——This summer, you released Dos Siki 2nd Season, a reinterpretation of your sophomore album, Dos Siki. In September, you had a live performance, titled Theater D, with guest artists. My friends and acquaintances all claim it was the best show of the year. It was amazing. Did things go well from the rehearsal phase? 

Botsu aka NGS: It was so good. Rehearsals were the best part. 

Zo Zhit: We tend to sound amazing during rehearsals, surprisingly. The entertainment element directed towards the audience is exclusive to performing live, of course. 

——Although “A Spring Monkey Song feat. Soushi Sakiyama, SMTK, and Tomomi Oda” is a collaborative song, it also sounded like a battle. As in, rather than harmonizing with your performance, it seemed like Soushi Sakiyama-san rapping through his teeth, and Tomomi Oda-san and SMTK’s pulsating performance were in a battle. How would you describe the magic that occurred onstage? 

Zo Zhit: As Dos Monos, we wanted to do something that a band couldn’t do and create a groove that a band couldn’t produce. It’s said that Chris Dave revolutionized grooves in bands. But there’s a certain beauty in humans using beats made with machines. We wanted to make something twisted only with a machine or a DAW. We’ve always wanted to make Dos Monos as a band but were afraid it would become boring, so we didn’t try it. But we decided to take this opportunity to try it out.

Zo Zhit: I thought we had to make a lot of time for band practice to find the ideal groove, but when we had a jam session, it ended up being good in about an hour (laughs). It was an experience where my stoic thinking came undone. For three years since our debut, I had kept that lid shut, but I felt like we could do it much easier than I imagined. I felt satisfied. 

A thrilling performance with SMTK and Soushi Sakiyama  

——A lot of your guests’ forte was improvisation, so your live set was impressive. You could always count on SMTK to do something exciting. Meanwhile, Sakiyama-san has an unexpected thrill to him. It was interesting how he wasn’t trying to emit that deliberately. There was this uncertainty with him. 

Botsu aka NGS: More than this being about the show, the fact that we threw Sakiyama-kun in there among all those sounds was thrilling (laughs). 

Zo Zhit: Since his debut as a high school student, Sakiyama-kun’s been playing live constantly, but he hasn’t gotten used to the stage; in a good way (laughs). That’s weirdly impressive. 

Botsu aka NGS: But I think it was vital that we had once worked together in the studio with the same people. It would’ve been so hard if we hadn’t done that and played in sessions for the live show instead.

Zo Zhit: Yeah, we had a common understanding. But we didn’t record in the studio at the same time. First, I removed the drums from my song “A Spring Monkey Song” and asked Shun Ishiwaka to play the drums, then I removed the bassline and asked Marty (Holoubek) to play the bass, then I removed the guitar parts and asked Tokutaro Hosoi to play the guitar, then I removed the piano and chorus and asked Tomomi Oda to play the piano and sing the chorus. Like so, I made the song by subtracting and adding each factor. The band didn’t play together, and in part, the cut-and-paste vibe and each component operating in a scattered way created the groove.

Zo Zhit on discovering hidden grooves while producing songs

——You were featured on SMTK’s second album that came out this year, SIREN PROPAGANDA. I’d like to know about how you made the track, “Headhunters (feat. Dos Monos).” Unlike your usual style, Zo Zhit-san, where you sample sounds based on memory and sensations, you sampled SMTK’s sounds to make the song. Did your creativity change because of the lack of memories attached to and the limited nature of the source? 

Zo Zhit: With sampling, everything’s pretty much the same as far as the material is concerned. It doesn’t matter if you have an associated memory or not, as in the end, it’s almost the same once you deconstruct the sound and “cook” it. More importantly, I want to go beyond my ideas whenever I make a song from different sources. While I’m playing around, I inevitably can’t bring myself to cut out subtle flickering noises.

Zo Zhit: I like how you could pick up the flickering sounds and create something while making discoveries. It’s like an impromptu dance. On the other hand, when I have a phrase I want to use that makes me go like, “I want to use that,” I could see the trajectory. So, I play it safe, in a way. I try not to use samples in that manner too much. 

——Instead of sampling sounds based on memory, you search for unpredictable moments. 

Zo Zhit: Well, for “Obo,” our latest song, I referenced about four, five songs. I didn’t use any samples, but I saw the goal from the start. I had an ideal image in my mind, more so than usual, and tried to make that concrete. This time, I used the bass included in Ableton, which was rare for me, but I created a fun sound. I usually use samples to create the bassline, so it’s easy to make strange sounds. But this time around, I played the bassline on the keyboard. Even if I come up with the bassline first, the most creative part is when I play it and mess around with the tone.

Zo Zhit: The role of the score or midi is minimal. I’m not that interested in tweaking the phrases themselves. The bassline is the same from start to finish in that song. I used to change the development of the drums a lot when I initially started making music on a computer, but I don’t have that desire right now. TaiTan’s verses go well with gimmicky developments, so I do the bare minimum for that, but I usually go with a loop all the way through. 

A simple substructure and a complex superstructure; the element that makes Dos Monos’ world special  

——Many of your songs are danceable, but they also have a story. One can listen to the former sonically, and one can listen to the latter to find meaning. As such, the two circuits intertwine. That’s what makes your music fascinating. 

Zo Zhit: The upper layer (the part that makes one think narratively) and the lower layer (the part that speaks to one’s physical body)—the superstructure and substructure—describe the relationship between the beat and other sounds. In our case, the substructure is quite simple, and the superstructure is complicated. I had a phase where I immersed myself in studying the superstructure. I didn’t like that and started to want to incorporate the ordinariness and simplicity of the substructure. 

I want to make a danceable substructure, an engaging superstructure, and intersect the upper and lower layers. Upon the rerelease of A Gentle Woman, directed by Robert Bresson, I had a panel discussion with Masaya Nakahara-san. Bresson’s films have effective beats. People talk about him as this holy, catholic-like director—the superstructure—but the underlying substructure is solid; you can bop your head to that film. I want to incorporate that kind of sensibility towards beats. 

Botsu aka NGS: I think our character as rappers is interesting. Everybody talks about the superstructure, but when you peel that away a bit, you’ll see that we put on a character. I feel like that’s how I contribute. 

TaiTan: I think the fun of Dos Monos is you can vibe to the beat, and the words will then come to you. When we make a song, Zo Zhit gives us a theme, and each of us writes lyrics in a completely different direction from one another. But the listeners put the words together and listen to them like that. When you think about it, it’s valuable for the three of us to work together.

Zo Zhit: In a superstructure world, it’s easy to neglect the substructure. But even if the superstructure constructs a story or ideology, I want the beat to create a rift there.

TaiTan: In either case, you could listen to something repeatedly and see another side. If you listen to just the beat and hear one catchy word, that’s entertaining too. 

Zo Zhit: Yeah, it’s like you could just be dancing and all of a sudden find yourself in the superstructure. That reciprocal exchange is crucial. 

——Perhaps your music is exciting because a different circuit from the usual opens up unexpectedly. 

Continue to Part 2 

Dos Monos 
Dos Monos is a hip hop crew comprised of three MCs from Tokyo. The mastermind producer, Zi Zhit, approached TaiTan and Botsu, his classmates in middle and high school, and founded the group in 2015. Before their debut, they played live at Summer Sonic and then got signed to Deathbomb Arc, an LA-based hip hop label home to the likes of JPEGMafia. After performing abroad, they released their first album in March of 2019 titled Dos City. In July 2020, they released their second album, Dos Siki, and on the same day the following year, they released Dos Siki 2nd Season, the reinterpretation of the previous album featuring black midi, Soushi Sakiyama, Tomomi Oda, SMTK, Qiezi Mabo, and JAZZ DOMMUNISTERS. In September, they released Larderello and Dos Siki (1st & 2nd Season) on CD.  
Twitter：@dosmonostres
YouTube：Dos Monos 

Photography Kana Tarumi
Edit Ai Iijima
Translation Lena Grace Suda

The post “We need more provocative people”—the elusive Dos Monos, who makes the ordinary extraordinary, wraps 2021 up (part I) appeared first on TOKION - Cutting edge culture and fashion information.

Like the previous installment, where she focused on sneakers, she analyzes one clothing item instead of a fashion house in the fifteenth installment. The clothing item in question is jeans, a longstanding symbol of hip hop fashion. What have rappers depicted through putting their trust in jeans? Tsuya-chan gets down to the close relationship between hip hop and jeans by referencing the lyrics of BUDDHA BRAND, RHYMESTER, GADORO, and more.

The fate of a few centimeters of the jean waistline

The waistline is starting to look different in 2021. Just as ACROSS reported this fall, crop tops are trending, and it suddenly seems like people have started healthily showing skin more. Additionally, a couple of fashion houses have lowered the waistline during the SS 2022 season, and Vogue put out an article about it: How Low Can These Low-Rise Jeans Go? Effortless style a la Phoebe Philo, who was the creative director of Celine at the time, became in-style post-2009. Now, the style has reached the ultimate mode of relaxation, with people showing skin in a liberating and innocent manner. 

The topic of the waistline is no laughing matter, however. The tension that exists in how many centimeters the jean waistline could move is notable in youth culture. We’ve found ourselves in many situations like listening to a breakbeat song where the 0.1-second delay is the determining factor of the song’s groove. Just as songs with pulsating kick-induced beats with the singing in between said beats transformed many people’s lives, the waistline of jeans governs people’s consciousness worldwide. For such a small detail, it sways fate in a big way.

Among youth culture, the tension regarding where the jeans hang on the waist is the rifest in hip hop and skater circles. There are various ideas on the origin of sagging pants; some say those who grew up in a poor household would buy oversized clothes, and incarcerated people would drag their low-hanging pants because they couldn’t get a belt. In Japan, many rappers have consciously worn their pants low (called koshipan) to express how loose-fitting they were and that they had momentum going even with a low center of gravity. For instance, Tohji’s extreme sagging pants tie in with the theme of his song, “Propella” well. His low, growling sounds are delightfully shocking. “Street Survivors –Blood, Sweat, Tears & Hip Hop-” by Infumiaikumiai was released last year and deemed a classic. In the lyrics, “Teens that dreamed of the city/ In baggy jeans/ A one-way ticket/ Hold onto one hand, for now,/ Beef with Dober ended in peace/ Both of us chasing after a street dream,” “baggy jeans” rhymes beautifully with “teens.”

The close relationship between jeans and hip hop; Gaki Ranger’s enthusiasm and BUDDHA BRAND’s maturity

Because jeans are integral in hip hop, rappers have put many meanings to that word in their lyrics. Gaki Ranger’s songs especially show love for jeans. In “NO PLAN B,” they rap, “Can’t stop movin’/ A maturity like secondhand blue jeans/ Bring about/ Artwork that impresses connoisseurs.” In “Rap Ojisan feat. AMIDA, KREVA,” they rap, “Quite lavish EVISBEATS/ Solid rap like denim jeans.” Gaki Ranger rhymes “movin’” with “blue jeans,” and it’s shown as a symbol of maturity. On the other hand, they rhyme “EVISBEATS,” the producer behind the song, with “denim jeans,” and describe jeans as solid rap. In hip hop, jeans have a pleasurable ring while they also get better with time. It conjures up the image that jeans are “solid.” 

Allow me to recall BUDDHA BRAND’s lyrics. In 2003’s “RETURN OF THE BUDDHA BROS.,” the lines, “This is our universal style/ Ten years strong on this path/ Just like denim,” subtly allude to the maturity and solidness of jeans. Further, there’s one thing that happened in 2016 that we mustn’t forget. Jeans were referenced in a surprising fashion and became a historical moment in Japanese rap.

In “Boukyaku,” a poignant song in which KOHH raps in a swaying, airy spoken word-like way on top of a tense rhythm, Hikaru Utada responds to his verses: “Hot lips/ Cold hands/ Make me forget words/ Stiff jeans/ Kind eyes/ Call me by a nostalgic name.” The maturity and solidness of jeans connect to stiffness here.

Dragging stiff jeans and wandering the streets: a scenery depicted by RHYMESTER, a fate portrayed by GADORO

In Japanese rap, stiffness doesn’t only refer to the texture of jeans. There’s another reason behind the conflict surrounding where the jeans should sit at the waist, and started sagging as though they were going to drop. This key fate lies in the small details, so I’d like to look back on some lyrics again. In “Shibuya Hyouryuki,” RHYMESTER raps the following:

“Night cruising from club to club/ Fluttering oversized blue jeans/ Gripping my mic, hit ‘em with my routine/ Wild music this city nurtured”

Their stiff, oversized jeans drift the streets of Shibuya. Let’s listen even closer; “blue jeans” rhymes with “night cruising,” “routine,” and “music.” “Routine” relates to searching for dance moves and music while being on a night cruise. This makes one picture someone wandering the midnight streets as their jeans fall lower until the hem touches the ground. It’s just like what Creepy Nuts rapped on “Daga Sore de Ii”: “I’m starting to wear New Era/ Dragging my baggy jeans/ Heading out to Amemura/ They made me buy a hoodie.” GADORO’s “Life Is Go On” can’t be forgotten either: 

“It’s too late to give lip service/ If the sound stops, it’s the same as dying/ I don’t talk, I pass it down/ Dragging jeans that are the past/ It’s the same as throwing the present away/ Right when I was born, I was already a loser”

Here, GADORO puts forward one answer. When he says, “Dragging jeans that is the past,” he means that the stiffness of his jeans, the way they sag, and the conflict of a few centimeters are all being dragged by the past. The past points to his origins. With fate he must accept, such as his origin, gender, and race, which were all passed down to him, he drags his stiff jeans and roams the streets.

Where the jeans sit on their waist is up to the individual as long as they can accept their origins and the stiffness of their jeans upon roaming the streets. Hip hop is open to women too. Women can wear distressed, low-rise jeans. Hip hop welcomes those who listen to hardcore or emo music. It’s okay to wear black jeans at the hip. In “GREEN QUEEN x PARKGOLF,” AKKOGORILLA says, “Distressed denim again/ With a rusty crown on my head/ A microphone on my left hand, let’s dance.” In “XXX,” kiLLa says, “A shiny gold chain/ My jeans are black.” Hip hop is extending a hand to you because you’ve accepted the hardness of denim and wander the streets. The only thing left to do is to loiter the streets, drag your pants, and rap. And dance. And make breakbeat music. Your jeans are bound to go lower. Where will your jeans fall on your hips? Hip hop dwells in those determining centimeters. 

Illustration AUTO MOAI

Translation Lena Grace Suda

The post Stiff jean and rappers’ poetic sentiments [Shockwaves in Contemporary Music and Fashion] Vol. 15 appeared first on TOKION - Cutting edge culture and fashion information.

Until now, this series has focused on a single brand. However, in the fourteenth installment, Tsuya-chan focuses on the item known as sneakers. Starting with changes in the depiction of sneakers, which have a special presence in hip hop, she will discuss the chain of metaphors and images spun through this item and the “essence of hip hop” that emerges.

Sneakers as a sacred motif

It’s like the roles that trains, bars, and mirrors play in film history.

It’s like how the movement of the hanging white laundry that flutters in the yard—beyond the softly, eerily swaying curtains—does not only convey the fact that the wind is blowing. It also connects to our memories of various films, moving our hearts and slowly inducing a sweet spasm in our bodies.

In hip hop history, sneakers are a special and sacred motif, an item, simultaneously a detail and everything. Immediately, my hands grab a record called Sora Kara No Chikara. From that track, which isn’t exactly the best audio quality, I hear the following rap:

“Historic music/Run-D.M.C., KRS, Rakim, Chuck D/I could never forget ‘87/Even when I remember it now, it’s crazy/Adidas from head to toe/Weaving together moves no one had ever seen”

-From “Yukue Fumei”, 1995

Here, “Adidas” is rhymed with “Amidasu” [“Weaving together”], a brilliant display of the rapper’s skill in dramatically describing sneakers. Years later, K Dub Shine similarly rhymed, “Top and bottom Adidas/Kangol hat/Superstars with no laces/Standing with arms crossed/I memorized and sang/ “You Talk Too Much,” Fly Girl,” “Nightmare,” “Just Buggin Lali Dadi” (Shoushin Shoumei). The image he mentions—of RUN-D.M.C. wearing Adidas track jackets with laceless Superstars—is still known by many people. But the word “weaving” in the previously mentioned passage makes me envision the action of tying a sneaker’s laces. Moreover, I think this is linked to the action of rappers, DJs, and dancers weaving their own brilliant techniques. In this way, sneakers were depicted as an important device in Japanese rap, and later, many stories would be created.

Additionally, citing equally important lines by Twigy and DABO, the sacredness of sneakers in hip hop history is also referenced in the following passage:

“Even besides RUN-D.M.C.’s “My Adidas” and “Mainichi Migaku Sneaker to Skill” (Twigy), a love for sneakers is very characteristic of old-school hip hop. For example, I recall that DABO sang about something similar with, ‘Hey kid, watch out/If you step on my Nikes, that’s an immediate death sentence’ (“Mischief” by Nitro Microphone Underground).

-From “Infumi Otto ni Yoru Nihongo Rap Blog”

When luxury and street began to intersect

Sneakers are such a sacred item that there is the threat of “an immediate death sentence” if they’re stepped on. Yet, so many brands are accepted that in COMA-CHI’s “me & my kicks,” he says, “Vans/Adidas/Nike/Reebok/Regardless of the brand, what’s good is good.” On the other hand, until a certain era, luxury brands were rarely coordinated with sneaker brands. As Kick the Can Crew says in “3MCS+1DJ”: “Nike over Prada/Adidas over Gucci/Wearing it and spitting party rap.” It wasn’t until the mid-2010s, when high fashion began to boldly incorporate street style, that the times changed.

In 2015, KOHH mentions Adidas collaboration with Yohji Yamamoto in “Dirt Boys feat.Dutch Montana & Loota”: “Filthy, but I’m still lookin’ fresh/Artistic, tats all up on my neck/Damaged denim Ksubi, is how I’m dressed/Shirts by Y-3, clothes every month I cop too many.” And G.RINA sang in “close2u” in 2017: “Dressed down/White Adidas.” Adidas became something that could be worn with dressy clothes to make them more casual, and the boundary between high fashion and street began to disappear. Later, in the 2021 song “BEAST MODE feat. JP THE WAVY,” Leon Fanourakis describes sneakers: “Nike grails/Everything I just bought is the latest.” Since the time when Black people didn’t have the money to buy expensive sneakers and cleaned a pair of sneakers over and over to keep them bright white, rappers have risen to the level that they not only can buy new sneakers, but multiple pairs of expensive sneakers. It’s gotten to the point where the musician Mom wrote with a tinge of irony, “Black jeans I wear all the time/Dropkick yesterday’s coward/I’m not a dreamer or a realist/Nike or Mizuno, it doesn’t matter/The value of things is what chokes.” (“Mom no Daycatch”) For now, we can use this to summarize the changing portrayal of sneakers within lyrics.

”Bright white sneakers” are full of associations and metaphors

However, the purpose of this article is not to trace the evolution of how sneakers are portrayed in lyrics. Here’s what I want to discuss: How the white sneaker has layers upon layers of associations and metaphors, intertwining with the backdrop of hip hop and Japanese rap and opening the door for all races and generations. For example, if we reflect upon the following verse from OMSB’s “CLOWN,” which was released to critical acclaim this year, it helps us unravel the story:

“A vision of mixed emotions/Beautiful women don’t even notice me/White Nikes stepped on in a frenzy/Sigh at everything, my music/Fuck it”

「The “naishi” in “mimukimoshinaishi” [“Don’t even notice me”], the “iki” in “ikiri” [“frenzy”], “iki” in “tameiki” [“sigh”], “myuji” in “myujikku” [“music”], and “Nike” all rhyme, and the verse is concluded with “Fuck it.” These lines reveal once again how sacred white Nikes are. However, the “Nikes” here do not refer only to the fact that he is wearing new sneakers. OMSB wrote the following lines, which provide a contrast to the whiteness of the sneakers:

“A freak show of ego monsters/A strange prison where shame feeds art/A beautiful person/A color that isn’t skin/The internal is external/You can tell if you look closely/No matter how cheerful he acts, he’s a scumbag/A black tone but such a sweet guy”

Here, black is depicted as a contrast to white. OMSB utters the phrases “A color that isn’t skin” and “A black tone.” Here, another meaning of the “white” of white sneakers emerges. It becomes clear that white has a very important significance as a contrast to black. To add to this, the phrase “Yellow cheers spread,” inserted towards the end of the song could be heard as a metaphor for a certain race.

The perpetual reversal of black and white with sneakers as well as pen & paper

The lyrics don’t end there. Let me raise another example. We must not forget another important item related to “white” in Japanese rap history. Cypress Ueno To Roberto Yoshino’s “RUN AND GUN feat LEON a.k.a. SHISHI, DOLLARBILL” presented an accurate depiction of this color.

“Like always, I throw my empty contents onto a blank white paper/In these moments alone, anyone is a young boy/Where I want to be is always far away

My shoes keep going even if the heels wear out/I’ll pay back the debt I owe with color/I’m still up there, not down there/Even if it’s just lip service/I’ll connect this relay

Run faster than usual/Run and gun/If you’re chasing your dreams, for real/Run and gun

Kanye Jay Z are the roots, the beginning/Wearing loose clothes/My thing back then/Walking in the hood with Nike shoes”

“Blank white paper.” In this song, both sacred white items—“blank white paper” and “sneakers”—are depicted. They walk in the hood wearing sneakers with worn-out heels, stringing together lyrics on blank white paper, and where they want to be is far off in the distance. Run and gun—to run swiftly. It’s just as Soul Scream once wrote in “Brand New feat. RHYMESTER”: “My tool is/A white paper and pen/ I only recognize words of my choice.” These lines show that as long as one has a worn-out (but white!) pair of sneakers and a blank white (but filled with black pen!) paper, rap is open to anyone. The essence of hip hop lies in the repeated reversal of black and white: Sneakers that have been cleaned over and over to preserve their whiteness and blank white paper filled with black lyrics.

A record travels. It effortlessly transcends time. The times have changed, and rappers’ white sneakers have gone from one polished pair to multiple pairs of new sneakers. However, the sacredness of white will not change in the slightest as long as those who love hip hop—who are attracted to the culture and music and come knocking at the door regardless of race, generation, and class—continue to wear white sneakers and eagerly fill up blank sheets of paper with lyrics. That’s precisely why they clean their sneakers. Move their pens. And get pair after pair of bright white sneakers. Speed up the reversal of black and white. Spin the records. Use loops to create a groove. Run and gun—aim for a place far into the distance and start running.

Illustration AUTO MOAI

Translation Aya Apton

The post Sneakers and hip hop: The perpetual reversal of black and white / [Shockwaves in Contemporary Music and Fashion] Vol. 14 appeared first on TOKION - Cutting edge culture and fashion information.