Speeding cultural changes in music and fashion

David Marx: In the book, you’re cataloguing perhaps the fastest cultural change ever in human history. I find that interesting right now because there’s been this dialogue over the last decade that there’s been no cultural change, that things are really slowing down. I’ve kind of come to the conclusion after reading your book that the ‘60s are the exception rather than the rule — and that’s not a pace of cultural change that humans can probably follow all the time. In the moment, was that obvious, or is it only obvious in hindsight that the change was so much and so fast?

Nik Cohn: Hindsight. At the time, it seemed almost automatic. That’s partly because it was so fueled by drugs, and therefore things that would otherwise seem extraordinary felt normal…but quickly it changed. I’ve said this elsewhere, somewhere, but: if you had said to a singer in an upcoming band in 1964, “you know, you’re a serious artist,” they would have thought you were taking the piss; they might easily have punched you out. Whereas, by 1967, if you had said to the next wave of singers, “you know, you’re not a serious artist,” they would be shocked and dismiss you as a total philistine. It took only two or three years to go from the idea that pop music was just a business to the idea that it was an art form. And I think if you go to fashion, you see more or less the same thing. Of course in the end, the driving force in both cases was money.

Marx: If you show me a film from the ‘60s, I can probably tell you what year it is, just by the grain of the film, the colors, and what people are wearing. But you can’t do that any more…if you show me a film from 2002, it’s very difficult to know that it’s from 2002.

Cohn: Yes, I think that’s true. In the ‘60s and the ‘70s, all the way through to a group like the Clash, it was very important to be specific, to say, for instance, ‘We are West London, it’s 1979, we dress this way, our fans look that way, we hang out in these streets and clubs,’ in other words to nail down the exact moment. That isn’t a key any more; culture is much more homogenized. If something comes up from the streets or out of someone’s bedroom, it’s spotted instantly and mass-commodified. The first thing that happens is to take away the thing that made it specific to one place and one moment. In the ‘60s that didn’t happen. Where you came from, and the forces that had shaped out, you never let those go.

Marx: The book came out in ’71, and right after that there was a teddy boy revival in the U.K, and you soon get punk rock, neither of which were covered in the book. What did you think of those at the time?

Cohn: Oh, I didn’t take the teddy boy revival as serious, or being real; it seemed to me more of a marketing concept than something anyone believed in. But I took punk very seriously indeed. In many ways, it seemed to me the most authentic street movement of all, at least until hip-hop came along.

Punk, the ‘70s, and subcultural shifts

Marx: Did Malcolm McLaren feel like one of those ‘60s clothing entrepreneurs [in your book], or did he seem new?

Cohn: He seemed authentic, in a completely fake way. I didn’t know him personally, but he clearly was a spirit for the good, a risk-taker, and he grabbed onto something in rather the same way that Andrew Oldham grabbed onto the Stones in the ‘60s. He was able to capture something in the air early on, and take risks. He wasn’t scared of a risk at all. So I approved of him, very much so.

— I read recently that in his last years, Malcolm McLaren had gone on record to say that it was Today There Are No Gentlemen that led him to create the first iteration of his shop on King’s Road. In terms of that domino line, that’s a pretty significant moment in history, I would say…

Cohn: [laughs]

— But I wanted to ask you, David, Malcolm McLaren became a major figure shortly after Today There Are No Gentlemen, but also he appears at least twice in your book, Ametora, first with Cream Soda and Masayuki Yamazaki, and then again in the early ‘80s, when Hiroshi Fujiwara visits McLaren…

Marx: Yes, there’s a direct through-line. Malcolm McLaren’s store was called Let it Rock at some point, and then it was Too Fast To Live, Too Young To Die. The latter became the slogan for the first Japanese rock’n’roll store, Cream Soda. The guy who started it, Masayuki Yamazaki, had gone to London in about ’74-’75, and went to McLaren’s shops. He even had a punk fashion store in Harajuku called Super Sex modeled on the SEX boutique, McLaren had a heavy influence over Japanese youth culture. The Harajuku neighborhood, which is kind of like the Carnaby Street of Tokyo, really begins as a youth culture neighborhood with the Cream Soda store. And then Hiroshi Fujiwara, who went on to become the godfather of street fashion in the 90s, had discovered hip-hop early. He was very into Seditionaries and went to go visit London, and McLaren told him don’t be into punk, be into hip-hop, hip-hop is the new punk. And so he visited New York and became a bridge between Japan and NY-London street culture.

In the new book I’m working on, I’m trying to take a step back from these individual histories and think about the “rules” of how cultural change happens. There appear to be laws, almost like gravity, that determine the way these movements rise and call. And what is clear, in Nik’s book, is that you see the exact rhythm in which it happens. Each movement is trying to mark out its own space to be rebellious; it gets co-opted, and then obviously, in the co-optation and commercialization, loses its ability to mark difference. This then encourages the next group to rebel against the previous movement as hard as possible. You see this in the transition from fancy mods to skinheads. What’s important is that none of these phenomena are isolated: they’re always an exaggeration or a negation of the previous thing. This cultural evolution never happens in a vacuum — it’s always in relation to the thing before.

Cohn: Yes, I think that’s very true. Except with one caveat— that the rebellion against the previous thing, at the time, seems as if you were going to the opposite extreme. But then you look back, and you realize it isn’t new after all. At the deeper level, what you have is one generation after another, saying the same thing, which is ‘I am me, and I am one of a kind.’ And the moment they say that, they’re actually dooming themselves to repeat the past. The trappings and slogans are different, but the underlying impulse is eternal.

A couple of years ago, a woman from Northern Ireland approached me and wanted to do a film about my life. I asked her how she’d come to me as a subject, and she said she’d been in Japan, doing a documentary about Japanese mods and she’d asked them why there was no great mod film. And they said, “You’re wrong, there was one great mod film: Saturday Night Fever.” Well obviously, they knew the difference between disco and mod, but they saw the inner connection.

Marx: Because the underlying motivation for what they’re trying to do with fashion is the same, but in order to express difference it always has to be in context of the thing that goes before it.

Cohn: That’s right, yes. It’s almost like the Freudian thing, you have to kill the father to be the father.

— David, Nik has this moment in Today There Are No Gentlemen where he shows a pure fascination and attraction to the musician’s window in Cecil Gee’s store— “the most splendorous sights that I’d seen in my life: danceband uniforms of lamé or silk or satin, all tinselled and starred, a shimmering mass of maroons and golds and purples, silvers and pure sky-blues, like fireworks.” My understanding is that this moment, in 1957, is essential to him in terms of what he later becomes entrenched with in London, in music and fashion and everything else. Your book, Ametora, covers such a wide range of styles, and I was wondering if personally, for you, there have been comparable moments that sparked this need to document what you saw.

Marx: I grew up mostly in Pensacola, Florida, which is not small enough to be a small town, but not big enough to be somewhere, and pretty far from other big cities. So there was no moment of going somewhere physical [like Cecil Gee’s store]. For me, my window was MTV. Also I had a much older brother and sister who were into very cool bands…I grew up knowing REM and U2, while most people were into hair metal. I developed a very early snobbery about music. Fashion, on the other hand, felt incredibly far away from me.

In America, at that time, clothing was t-shirts, sneakers, shorts, jeans; you bought it for $20 at the Gap. The life-changing moment for me was coming to Tokyo at age 19, and Tokyo just being the most immaculately fashionable city I’d ever seen — without any warning. Nobody told me “Oh, you’ll be blown away by how fashionable everyone is in Tokyo.”

In fact, there was a lot of American writing at the time about how uncool Japanese kids were. Then I got there, and everyone was wearing t-shirts, jeans, sneakers, but they were wearing the perfect t-shirt, the perfect jeans: a $70, limited edition t-shirt, with $300 limited edition selvedge denim, with the cuffs rolled up so that you could see that it was selvedge, vintage Adidas superstars that nobody was wearing in the U.S. That was my introduction to fashion, because I could see myself being “into fashion” if fashion was a better version of the clothing I already wore. When I was in Tokyo, I waited in line for three hours to buy a t-shirt. Three hours: every time I say that, it sounds like some sort of exaggeration, like it’s hyperbole, but it was literally three hours waiting in line to buy a single t-shirt. Then I went up the street and I saw all the same T-shirts for sale for double the price: the resale market was starting then too.

That experience made me not just be interested in clothing on a personal level, but also made me interested in it as a sociological topic. Why in the world would somebody wait three hours to buy a t-shirt? All of these things now, you know, with Supreme, have become global…but at the time it was really a Japan-only phenomenon. And I had to go to Tokyo to get a view of it.

Nik Cohn
Born in London in 1946, and raised in Derry, Ireland. Sometimes known as a “father of rock criticism.” The film Saturday Night Fever was based on an article Cohn wrote for New York Magazine in 1976. In 2020, Today There are No Gentlemen (DU Books), which details changes in mens’ clothes through the boutique owners, designers, and rock stars who revolutionized English fashion, was translated and reprinted for the first time in Japan. Other works from Cohn translated into Japanese include The Heart of the World (Kawade Shobo Shinsha).

David Marx 
Born in Oklahoma in 1978 and raised in Florida, he graduated from Harvard University with a B.A. in Oriental Studies in 2001, and from Keio University with an M.A. in 2006. He has contributed articles on Japanese music, fashion, and art to The New Yorker and GQ among other publications. He is a founder and editor-in-chief of the web journal Neojaponisme. His book Ametora: How Japan Saved American Style, published in 2017, became a hit with six printings in Japan, an unprecedented number for a book focused on the history of clothes.
Twitter： @wdavidmarx

The post “What fashion says”: Nik Cohn and David Marx, decoders of style revolutions, discuss “Today There Are No Gentlemen” [Part 2] appeared first on TOKION - Cutting edge culture and fashion information.

Last autumn, Today There Are No Gentlemen returned to bookshelves for the first time ever since its publication— in Japan, exclusively. W. David Marx, who wrote Ametora: How Japan Saved American Style, was the driving force behind the new life of Gentlemen, yet he had never spoken to Cohn. I was able to bring the two together to discuss Cohn’s book— what does it mean today, in Japan and beyond?

The context of Today There Are No Gentlemen and its Japanese translation.

David Marx: In 2015, Ametora was published. Nick Sullivan, the fashion editor at Esquire, somehow got a copy— I don’t know if he bought it or if it was sent to him — he posted a photo on Instagram, and he said, I’ve only read the first page, and this is the best book about men’s fashion since Today There Are No Gentlemen.

Nik Cohn: [laughs]

Marx: And I said wow, Nick Sullivan likes my book…and then I thought, wait a minute, what is Today There Are No Gentlemen?  I had never heard of it. I immediately looked it up, and the few used copies were going for $900, which dashed my hope of just quickly grabbing a copy to read. I ended up having a friend at a library who scanned the entire book for me and sent it over as a PDF. When I finally opened it up and started reading it, I was shocked about how close it was to Ametora in terms of methodology and story. It really felt like you had done what I had done, but forty years before…and I was embarrassed that I hadn’t known about the book, or read it, or referenced it.

What I often complain about with fashion books is that they talk about trends just magically appearing. One day there are mods, and one day there are skinheads. Your book, because it was written in almost real time, talked about the specific people who did the things that led to these groups: the specific stores, the specific designers. Even in the case of subcultures, you talked to the original kids who became mods. With Ametora, I was also trying to show that cultural movements don’t come out of nowhere: They come from specific people.

I thought Today There are No Gentlemen was such a valuable piece of fashion history, and I wanted to see if I could help bring it back in print. I couldn’t figure out how to do this in English, but once I located your agent, Nik, I realized I could help a publisher in Japan get the translation rights. So I spent about a year pitching the Japanese publisher of Ametora, Disk Union Books, on a translation, and we then went to work on the translation. The translator for the Japanese edition of Gentlemen had done Ametora, and I helped him by reading through the text and identifying things that I knew would be difficult to translate, like 1950s British idioms. (Like “Super-mac” being Prime Minister Harold Macmillan). I did all that work and looked over the translation, then I wrote a preface to the book, to explain why I thought it was important.

The reason I wanted the book to come out again is that I think there’s more audience for this book now than in 1971 when it came out, because menswear suddenly has so much momentum behind it.

Cohn: Well— I have to say thank you for your kind words, but I think that the root of Today There Are No Gentlemen was a very simple idea, that people express themselves by their choice of clothing— that no piece of clothing is arbitrary, that it says something about you and how you want to be in the world. And that seems, now, an elementary thought— but when the book came out, it wasn’t. It made men very angry— “I just throw on whatever was in my wardrobe, and all this stuff about expressing myself is arty-farty rubbish,” and so on. So I got a lot of pushback, which is why it didn’t have a long life…but the other reason, of course, is because it’s very specific to England. So really, at that time, I’d have had to do a companion volume in America, and a companion volume elsewhere, and they’d have to publish it one by one by one…so it had a brief life, it hardly had a life at all, and then it disappeared…I think it’s the only one of my books that has had no reprints till now, the Japanese edition you’ve been talking about. It feels as if people are finally ready to talk about fashion at a non-trend level and focus on what fashion says.

Marx: You were writing about rock’n’roll, and music…where did the original idea come from for you to also write about fashion? Was that from the publisher, or did you yourself decide that you wanted to write about it?

Cohn: Well, I think it was decided over lunch, with my publisher, who’d also published Awopbopaloobop, and obviously had done well with that, so he was pretty receptive…my publisher, Tony Godwin, had said ‘Okay…have you got any more where that came from?’, meaning Awopbopaloobop.

Marx: Today people talk about teddy boys, skinheads, mods, as iconic and respected subcultures. But obviously, at the time, they were widely loathed, right?

Cohn: Yes, absolutely.

Marx: How did readers at the time react to you taking them seriously as social movements? Because your book is not mocking them nor criticizing them. It treats them as legitimately expressing their feelings through clothing.

Cohn: Well, it was kind of my trademark, in a sense, because that’s what I always did. I mean, I went to the streets when writers weren’t going to the streets, they were going to the elite. I was saying this is where the energy is, this is where the reality is. And that’s what informed my rock book, it informed Gentlemen, and of course, later on, that’s exactly what informed Saturday Night Fever, which also got a lot of pushback…until the film came along, that is.

Marx: Certainly a lot of tension in your book [is in the idea] that British clothing was meant for “gentlemen.” In other words, fashion is an upper-class practice that trickles down to everyone else. In your book, you write about how working class youth were stealing those fashions directly and making them their own, or creating new fashions, almost like junior aristocrats. A lot of this parallels what Tom Wolfe was writing about American youth culture, and I wondered how you felt about his work at the time.

Cohn: Well, of course I was aware of Tom Wolfe…and I was never a fan of his. I didn’t like writing where the attention is meant to be on the writer, rather than on the subject. There’s a lot of grandstanding with Wolfe, a lot of look at me, I’m so clever, and the real story tended to get lost. He wrote, what was it, “The Noonday Underground” [on British mods], I knew those people, that club, and it didn’t have the kiss of reality at all to me. I felt here was a snooty guy, taking a day off being snooty, never getting below the surface. He wrote like a day tripper, where I didn’t have to go very far from my front door. This was my life. I wasn’t just there for the weekend.

Marx: That’s very interesting.

The waning appeal of ephemera

Cohn: It was my life, and then suddenly it wasn’t. In my late twenties, I suddenly lost interest in fashion.

— That was in the late ‘70s?

Cohn: Yeah, that was in the mid-70s. Suddenly there were a lot of other youngish male writers who started writing about “style.” And they referred to me as if I’d invented “style.” And I couldn’t respond to that…I didn’t invent “style” any more than I’d invented the “rock critic.” I just wrote about something that interested me.

Marx: I get that sense at the end of your book, because you talk a lot about how suddenly not being into fashion was the fashionable option. Were you talking about yourself?

Cohn: I think so, to a degree, yes. I think I was very attracted to ephemera— the idea that rock or fashion was simply a moment, here it was, and then, just like that, gone. And therefore, whether it was with rock or with fashion, the idea that somebody would open a boutique, make fabulous clothes, and forty years later, they’d still be in the same boutique, making replicas of the original styles, that was anathema to me. My thought was, you create something new, you revel in the moment, enjoy it to the max, and then you move on.

−− Nik, you have a great line in the book, about taste, where you mention something Donovan says, that he thinks of taste as “very boring and meaningless.” You write: “This was great ignorance on his part: taste is not an absolute but evolves constantly, and what is good taste in one age may be rotten in the next. During our time, it has been used as a synonym for orthodoxy and politeness but that’s a misuse. Good taste, if it can be defined, means whatever works in its own moment and certainly, in the sixties, white shirts and baggy grey suits weren’t it.”

Cohn: [laughs]

Marx: I think you’re chronicling a very important turning point for the concept of taste there. For a long time there was an authoritative idea that there is a good taste, and yes it shifts, but it shifts slowly. What you write about in the 1960s is that moment in which taste becomes detached from an upper-class establishment, and becomes much more protean, and really becomes what does work in the moment. Now that’s the world we live in, and [in the book] you’re capturing this change as it’s happening in real time.

Cohn: Hm…yes, I think that’s right. I think that one of the subtexts which, obviously, publishers really didn’t want me to go into to much, in 1971, was this curious thing— that you had the working class creating fashion, but they hadn’t really created it: they took it from gay culture. I’m just talking about England now. Almost everything important, everything that really changed the feel of things originated in gay culture, gay clubs. That’s where it was born. And then the working-class kids took it over. Many of them would be homophobic, but they still knew a great new look when they saw one.

Marx: On top of that, there is also the Jewish influence. In the U.S., many of the prominent clothing industry pioneers were Jewish: Ralph Lauren, J. Press, and all of these brands that are foundational for what American style is. Did you feel like you had a specific perspective on that going into it?

Cohn: You know, I didn’t really think about it at the time…I was too close-up, and it didn’t really resonate with me. And I didn’t identify particularly as Jewish…even though both my parents were Jewish, they didn’t give me any Jewish culture. In retrospect, looking back…of course it’s not only gay, it’s Jewish-gay.

Marx: And would you put Brian Epstein in this world as well?

Cohn: Yes, very much. There were exceptions, like Robert Stigwood, but that’s the base narrative. Because they were, in those days, outsiders, rebels, and so they could empathize with working-class rebellion and see how to market it. And of course, in many cases, they fell in love with everything they were helping to create.

Marx: In reading your chapters about the mod movement, I wasn’t under the impression that the pioneers were gay, but I’m guessing, because of the prejudices of the moment, I’m guessing you had to underplay the gay influence.

Cohn: I think so, yes. I don’t think it was compulsory to be gay, but when I look back on it…at the time I wrote the book, I didn’t categorize people in my mind as ‘he’s gay, he’s straight.’ Now, with perspective, I see that the change in mens’ fashion, the creation of Carnaby Street, the creation of King’s Road…many entrepreneurs were both Jewish and gay. Exception was John Stephen, who almost single-handedly made Carnaby Street the hub of teenage fashion.

*Continue to Part 2

Nik Cohn
Born in London in 1946, and raised in Derry, Ireland. Sometimes known as a “father of rock criticism.” The film Saturday Night Fever was based on an article Cohn wrote for New York Magazine in 1976. In 2020, Today There are No Gentlemen (DU Books), which details changes in mens’ clothes through the boutique owners, designers, and rock stars who revolutionized English fashion, was translated and reprinted for the first time in Japan. Other works from Cohn translated into Japanese include The Heart of the World (Kawade Shobo Shinsha).

David Marx 
Born in Oklahoma in 1978 and raised in Florida, he graduated from Harvard University with a B.A. in Oriental Studies in 2001, and from Keio University with an M.A. in 2006. He has contributed articles on Japanese music, fashion, and art to The New Yorker and GQ among other publications. He is a founder and editor-in-chief of the web journal Neojaponisme. His book Ametora: How Japan Saved American Style, published in 2017, became a hit with six printings in Japan, an unprecedented number for a book focused on the history of clothes.
Twitter： @wdavidmarx

The post “What fashion says”: Nik Cohn and David Marx, decoders of style revolutions, discuss “Today There Are No Gentlemen” [Part 1] appeared first on TOKION - Cutting edge culture and fashion information.

“Graffiti is action itself.” Without a hint of pretension, KAZZROCK uttered those words on the second floor of BLOCK HOUSE. We were waiting at HARUKAITO by island for the arrival of SNIPE1, who contacted us right before to let us know he would be a bit late. There was no hesitation in his voice. No pause as he delivered his words. Perhaps it’s proof that none of the words he delivers are borrowed. Ever since the late ‘80s, when he stood before a blank wall in Tokyo holding a spray can in one hand, he’s been a living witness who independently pioneered Tokyo’s street art and led the scene. As a member of CBS, one of the craziest graffiti crews from America’s West Coast, he was the first person in Japan to have a solo graffiti exhibition. The people following in his footsteps often refer to him as a legend. But KAZZROCK himself smiles and says that he doesn’t want to be called such a grandiose name, even if it is an expression of respect. According to him, he’s the same as anyone who just recently started graffiti. And to this day, he’s on the same playing field.

During KAZZROCK’s solo exhibition, GOOD VIBES ONLY!, I visited the venue in BLOCK

HOUSE twice. BLOCKHOUSE, which is located in backstreets a five-minute walk from Meiji-jingumae station, was markedly different from its usual state during those few weeks. There was a sort of nostalgic feeling—that feeling of the ‘90s. That tingling sensation that I felt when I accidentally wandered into the back alleys of Harajuku back then. To tell the truth, the sensation of the street that we no longer feel in today’s Harajuku was certainly in the air around BLOCK HOUSE during those few weeks. At the bottom of the stairs on the first floor, guys with tattooed arms were gathered, skateboards in hand. In the corridor outside the second floor, where the gallery is located, I could see tough-looking guys with tattoos enjoying friendly conversation while smoking. Strangely enough, the fact that the TABOO1 exhibition was open on the fourth floor at the same time may have had a synergistic effect. It was as if BLOCKHOUSE was being occupied by the delinquents of the city, and the entire four-story building had turned into a huge hangout—a street.

At the center of this monkey park (in fact, the exterior of BLOCK HOUSE is somewhat reminiscent of a rocky cliff) that suddenly appeared in the backstreets of Harajuku was none other than KAZZROCK and the traces of aerosol spray that he had streaked onto the canvas. Perhaps the works on display were just an excuse for the men to hang out. Or rather, it seemed as if the fact that they were hanging out in and of itself was a conceptual work of art. (Of course, the exhibited works were without a doubt backed by KAZZROCK’s skills and vibes.) If this imaginary work had a statement, it would be something like this: The street does not summon graffiti; graffiti creates the street. In this sense, the infamous “broken window theory,” a theory that supported cleaning up the city’s landscape, may not be entirely wrong.

For a moment, something happened that made me a bit nervous. SNIPE1 was nowhere to be found, so while we were waiting for him, I interviewed KAZZROCK one-on-one for a bit. Around 45 minutes past our appointment time, KAZZROCK, clearly annoyed and standing up from his seat, said, “I think that’s enough—let’s call it a day. I’m going home.” At that exact moment, SNIPE1 came rushing into HARUKAITO by island. “Sorry, KAZZ-san!” I worried for a moment that there was about to be a confrontation, but KAZZROCK, who had been gazing at the same landscape for over a quarter of a century with SNIPE1, had already broken into a smile when he rebuked, “What the hell, man?”

“There’s no story more interesting than that of the scene in the mid-90s.”

SNIPE1, who is about five years younger than KAZZROCK, is also an active graffiti writer who has been on the scene since its dawn and continues to be at its forefront. Regarding the scene back then, which they are both familiar with, the two look back and say, “It was really wild.” So, what are their thoughts on the scene today, which is rumored to be the “street art bubble?” But honestly, that’s not really what I want to hear from them. I just want to hear them reminisce on old times. What happened back then—in Tokyo and the world? This is a two-part conversation between the two men, who are now “dad friends,” consulting each other from time to time on concerns about their children’s educations.

When the two first met: Tokyo’s graffiti scene in the early ‘90s

──When did you two first meet?

KAZZROCK: Hm, when did we first meet again?

SNIPE1: Around 1993 in Yoyogi Park.

KAZZROCK: Really? I don’t remember that at all. Were you by yourself?

SNIPE1: I was with IZO and others. But you were cold at the time. (laughs)

KAZZROCK: ’93, right? It was a cold time. (laughs) It was right around the time that Tokyo’s graffiti scene, though still small, was starting to gain traction.

SNIPE1: Right. You were a pioneer of Yoyogi Park, so I tried to keep out of that territory. I was at Komazawa Park. And you didn’t go there much either, right?

KAZZROCK: Yeah, I didn’t go there.

SNIPE1: At the time, you already appeared in the media a lot. You stood out. Even though you were in the public eye, you were doing what you had to do, and you didn’t just do legal work, but also illegal work too. I respected that about you. A lot of people stop doing illegal stuff the moment they appear in the media, don’t they? 

KAZZROCK: I did that consciously. To be honest, there were times when people would criticize me for making media appearances. But I thought there was no point in keeping everything within a small circle. It would be more interesting if, for example, because I appeared in the media, some kid out in the country might think, “I want to try that too,” right? In fact, I’d been going to Osaka since then, but there was no graffiti there at all, even in Amemura [American Village]. Even if I bombed in the afternoon, no one would say anything to me. At the time, there was hardly any graffiti in the streets of Osaka. The only thing I saw was when XLARGE opened and SLICK came to paint Kikaider. That’s how things were, which is why when the media approached me, I was like, “I’ll give it a go.”

SNIPE1: There are a lot of people in the generation below us who started graffiti because they were inspired by you.

KAZZROCK: But that’s not to say that I wanted to go down the commercial route. I was still doing stuff while being in the media. I thought God would forgive me. (laughs)

SNIPE1: No, he won’t forgive you (laughs)

KAZZROCK: Also, I joined CBS [Editor note: One of LA’s leading graffiti crews] around 1993, and when I’d tell the guys over there that I was in the media, they’d be like, “That’s dope, you did it!” I didn’t have to market myself—the media approached me and gave me publicity, so there was no reason not to do it. But I was getting a lot of hate from people in Japan.

SNIPE1: Really? There wasn’t anyone around me who was dissing you.

KAZZROCK: It’s because in any case, I handled that well while continuing to paint to this day. In the end, I think whoever keeps painting wins. If you quit, it’s all over.

SNIPE1: There are a lot of people who quit even though they said all kinds of stuff.

KAZZROCK: It’s a waste. Even if you quit for a year or two, if you have a love for street art in your heart, you can just come back to it.

SNIPE1: There’s no way you can quit. Once you know that joy, there’s no way to quit.

The LA scene in the early ‘90s and becoming a member of CBS

──KAZZ, what kind of impression did you have of SNIPE in the ‘90s?

KAZZROCK: This isn’t particular to SNIPE, but I wasn’t really aware of other writers, you know?

SNIPE1: (laughs)

KAZZROCK: Although when someone goes over you [Editor note: “going over” is the action of painting on top of another writer’s graffiti], it’s like, “What a pain in the ass—what’s his problem?” SNIPE wasn’t that type.

SNIPE1: I don’t do that.

KAZZROCK: Right. SNIPE has clearly defined his own rules—he draws the line, like, “This is fine, but I don’t do that.”

SNIPE1: But I do remember you once gave me a warning back then.

KAZZROCK: What are you talking about? I don’t remember that.

SNIPE1: When I was painting in Harajuku, I once bombed [Editor’s note: To graffiti on the street] your acquaintance’s store.

KAZZROCK: Oh, around Urahara, right? Back when that area was still dull.

SNIPE1: Yeah. You were like, “Leave that store alone.”

KAZZROCK: I guess that happened, huh. Well, we used to hang out around there with all kinds of people back then.

SNIPE1: But I have a strong impression that you worked solo. I think people respect that about you. Because I totally attack with numbers.

KAZZROCK: I was basically solo. It’s much faster that way.

SNIPE1: That’s true. But VANGUARD [Editor note: An organization founded by KAZZROCK in the early ‘90s that was involved in a variety of activities in the street scene, including graffiti and hip hop] had a lot of people.

KAZZROCK: At one point, VANGUARD had grown to around 150 people. There were all kinds of people— dancers, DJs, and skateboarders—but everyone loved graffiti. With those friends, I was always the one who took the initiative to paint. Wow, that takes me back.

SNIPE1: I tricked locals into carrying spray cans and dragged them into graffiti. And as we were hanging out at Komazawa Park, another group doing graffiti came up to us. We basically always rolled with about 20 people. We’d go on expeditions to Ueno or Asakusa, beat up a neighborhood in a single night, and go home.

──You both went to the US in the early ‘90s, right?

KAZZROCK: I used to go to LA a lot from ‘90-92. I went intermittently after that too. Plus, I joined CBS in ’93.

SNIPE1: It was the best time in LA, wasn’t it?

KAZZROCK: Yeah, it was a time when RISK (Kelly “RISK” Graval), SLICK, and HEX were painting like crazy, and Mr. Cartoon was really active in LA. There were the Los Angeles riots, too.

SNIPE1: There was also the Zero [One] Gallery [Editor note: 01 Gallery, an art gallery that made a big contribution to the street art scene], right? And there was the AM7 crew. I painted with those guys.

KAZZROCK: That crew was like CBS’s little brother, right? Wow, that brings back memories.

SNIPE1: A group of Europeans got together and formed AM7 because they couldn’t join CBS. They were great guys, and we got along right away because I was also an outsider. CBS painted on the front streets of Melrose, so we painted on the backstreets.

KAZZROCK: Because CBS is based in Midtown. Actually, Mear (Mear One) lived in an apartment on the corner of Melrose and Fairfax, and I used to go there all the time.

SNIPE1: There’s a high school there, right? There was a tunnel underneath that. I’ve painted in that tunnel before. I respect Mear a lot—he’s so cool.

SNIPE1’s experience of the NY graffiti scene

──SNIPE, you were living in NY at the time, right?

SNIPE1: Yeah. From around ’90 to ’93.

KAZZROCK: You can tell that he was in New York from looking at his style, right? His lettering has that NY style. Although of course, he has his own style, too. In that respect, I’m LA-style. That’s why I like characters more than lettering. California is more about characters than letters.

SNIPE1: Bronx kids (BEP, BRT, NSV) taught me all kinds of things about tags [Editor’s note: A graffiti writer’s signature] and throw-ups [Editor’s note: Drawing letter outlines in one or two colors]. To this day, I still talk to the guys from that crew.

KAZZROCK: You painted cool masterpieces, too.

SNIPE1: Wow, I didn’t think you’d say that. (laughs)

──So in NY at the time, did you go to the Alleged Gallery [Editor’s note: An art gallery that featured a lot of street art from its establishment in 1992 to its closing in 2002]?

SNIPE1: No, I didn’t. I was honestly just hanging out with kids from the hood. It wasn’t like writers were doing things in galleries then. But I went to the opening of Alife! It was around 2000, I think. There were fights all over the place. (laughs)

KAZZROCK: That’s true. It wasn’t a time where graffiti writers were doing exhibitions yet.

SNIPE1: I think there was the concept of street art, but it wasn’t pop like it is now. It probably changed after Twist (Barry McGee) and KAWS started to move towards art.

KAZZROCK: It was around 2000, wasn’t it? Actually, I did an exhibition at a gallery in ’95.

SNIPE1: What?!

KAZZROCK: It was a solo exhibition called Graffiti Art is Not a Crime.

SNIPE1: You were early. Oh, but there was also the Graffiti Expo 96 at the time, wasn’t there?

KAZZROCK: I also remember doing a discussion in Shimo-takaido.

SNIPE1: Oh, you were there too?

KAZZROCK: I was invited. I went with some people from my crew and my dog (Bulldog). We were supposed to line up on the stage and have a discussion. But even there, I was attacked. They said graffiti was vandalism, shady, and so on.

SNIPE1: I was rapping with YOU (YOU THE ROCK) there. (laughs) But I feel like at the root of the criticism you receive, there’s jealousy. For example, Mear isn’t the type to bomb that much, but even bombers can respect him. I don’t think it’s right to say that bombing is the only kind of graffiti.

KAZZROCK: If you only bomb, it’s hard to keep it going. If you want to make a living and dedicate your life to it, there’s also an aspect where you might need to think about what’s next. It’s not just about making money though. It’s also about how you can make time for art within your daily life. I’ve always thought a lot about those things. Because I always wondered why I was doing part-time jobs when I just wanted to use that time to paint.

SNIPE1: I get it. Well, if all you do is complain about other people, karma will make its way back to you. People who say bad things will end up having bad things said about them.

KAZZROCK: In any case, there was a lot of conflict back then.

SNIPE1: A lot happened. (laughs) You were pretty wild at the time.

KAZZROCK: I’m really nice now, right?

SNIPE1: You’re the best. Because you’re a graffiti senpai, and also a life senpai. (laughs)

※Continues to the last half part 2

*

KAZZROCK
KAZZROCK is a graffiti writer/artist from Tokyo. In the early ‘90s, he founded VANGUARD, an organization dedicated to various activities within the street scene, including graffiti and hip hop. Later, he moved by himself to the US to hone his skills and joined the Los Angeles graffiti crew CBS, becoming the only Japanese member. After returning to Japan, he continued with street art while also doing solo exhibitions, making CD jackets and artwork, and designing things for manufacturers. In 1998, he started his own apparel brand, KAZZROC ORIGINAL, and in the following year, he established his own company, VANGUARD. In 2005, he became the main sponsor of the All Japan Road Race Championship in the ST600 class, designing the racing suit and helmet under the name KAZZROCK RACING. In 2015, he had an exhibition in Hong Kong, and in 2019, he had exhibitions in Taiwan (in 10 locations including Taipei, Taichung, Tainan, and Kaohsiung). Today, he continues to be active in a variety of fields both at home and abroad.
Instagram：@kazzrock_cbs
Twitter：@kroriginal

SNIPE1
SNIPE1 is a graffiti writer and artist. As a teenager in the early ‘90s, he threw himself into the NY graffiti scene. After exploring the graffiti community across the world and creating connections, he returned to Japan. Since moving his base to Japan, he has contributed to the rise of graffiti culture in Japan in many ways. In 2018, he held his first solo exhibition at Takashi Murakami’s Hidari Zingaro gallery, winning acclaim. To this day, he’s still bombing the art world through avant-garde galleries around the world, including in LA, NY, Bangkok, Hong Kong, and Melbourne.
Instagram：@fukitalltokyo

Photography Ryosuke Kikuchi

Special Thanks HARUKAITO by island

Translation Aya Apton

The post KAZZROCK x SNIPE1: Two pioneers talk about the past and present of Japan’s graffiti scene and where they are now ―Part 1― appeared first on TOKION - Cutting edge culture and fashion information.

Takuma Watanabe is a musician who works across genres, including contemporary music, pop, and film scores. Meanwhile, Yayako Uchida wears many hats—including that of essayist, translator, and actor. The two, who used to work together as part of the musical group sighboat, reunited for the first time in a long while for this conversation. This is the first half of the resulting two-part interview. In part one, we discuss Watanabe’s new album, Last Afternoon. The album features bassist Masato Suzuki, who was also a member of sighboat, and other leading Japanese string players such as Seigen Tokuzawa and Atsuko Hatano. The wide range of guest artists featured on the album also includes American vocalist Joan La Barbara and Akira Rabelais, a composer and software developer known for his collaborations with Bjork and David Sylvian. Additionally, the album was mastered by Jim O’Rourke. How did this album come about, and what did Uchida think upon listening? TOKION takes a closer look at the mysterious sound of strings and electronic music melting together.

How sighboat was formed

ーーIt seems it’s been a while since the two of you last talked like this.

Yayako Uchida: I lived in London from 2012 to 2018, and I haven’t seen Takuma since moving to England—so we haven’t seen each other in about 10 years. It’s been so long, so I’m a bit nervous. Like meeting an old lover. (laughs)

――So, you two started making music together after performing at an event?

Yayako: That’s right. There was a [Jean-Luc] Godard event where I was supposed to do a reading of a movie script. But I wasn’t that familiar with Godard. I didn’t know what to do, so I tried listening to the albums of the artists who were playing at the event. And then I was struck by his music, so I asked, “Will you collaborate with me?” I did a reading, and Takuma, you played the piano for me, right?

Takuma Watanabe: Yeah. After that, we started to perform at other events together, so I asked her to do readings and sing a bit. Through that, I started to think that maybe we could make some sort of music together. At first, I thought Yayako could do a solo project or something, but then she said she wanted to do a band.

Yayako: I definitely don’t want to be solo. (laughs) I wanted to get Takuma or Masato [Suzuki] involved somehow.

――Then you guys started sighboat and released two albums. What did you think after trying out music, Yayako?

Yayako: I’d always admired music, but I personally grew up listening to fairly popular music. When I was in elementary school, the first album I bought was “License to Ill” by the Beastie Boys, and after that, I was listening to stuff like Radiohead and Red Hot Chili Peppers. But Takuma and Masato had a totally different relationship to music. So I wondered how to keep up. But I was a total amateur, so I figured I’d be myself and have them use me as an ingredient in their cooking.

Takuma: Speaking of which, Masato and I had a sort of composer’s meeting. We asked, what kind of music would suit Yayako?

Yayako: Oh, I didn’t know that!

Takuma: After we made the first album, Yayako said she wanted to make music that was a bit more rock n’ roll. So when we made the second album, Masato and I discussed approaches that we hadn’t taken in the previous album, and we featured guest artists like the guitarist Kazuhisa Uchihashi and drummer Senju Muneomi.

Uchida: Oh, I see. Looking back on it now, I think I got to have a really valuable experience.

The “seamless universe” depicted by Last Afternoon

――Some time has gone by since then, and now, Takuma has just released his new album, Last Afternoon. What did you think after listening to the album, Yayako?

Yayako: I thought: For the past 10 years, I’ve been drifting in a big sea. What I mean by that is that I have three kids, I write essays and do a bit of creative work, but basically, I’ve lived my life as an ordinary person. I’ve spent a lot of time in the mindset of always thinking about people other than myself. When I listened to Last Afternoon, I realized that although we’re the same age, and were born and raised on this earth for the same number of years, Takuma has faced solitude. And rather than drowning in it, he’s able to pump what he needs from the well of solitude.

――The well of solitude?

Yayako: This is a bit of an abstract thought, but because my family has grown, I’ve always been part of a family or the surrounding community. So the rhythm of my life makes it difficult to feel solitude. Takuma is an artist, so it’s like he can infinitely keep digging deeper into the well of solitude. As a result, when someone like me, who has a different rhythm of life, listens to an album like this, we can become aware of a world on a completely different dimension, and there’s a sense of freedom in that. But the feeling isn’t just gratitude, like, “Thanks for opening the door to a world I didn’t know.” At the same time, there’s another feeling, something like an immeasurable fear.

――What kind of fear is that?

Yayako: It’s the feeling I get from Takuma’s solitude. He also made a music video this time, right? That video was also somewhat creepy or uncomfortable, with a gloomy and dark atmosphere, but there’s also something faintly cheerful about it. It’s not the rock bottom of despair, nor is it full of hope. It feels like a back and forth between the two. Anyway, the large scale and the way it’s unlike anything else—I interpreted that as solitude. To put it a little better: independence. I felt that Takuma has a strong spirit.

――I see. You really listened to it deeply. What did you [Takuma] think as the artist?

Yayako: Let’s try asking the artist! (laughs)

Takuma: Well, is there anything more to say? (laughs) In the past, I’ve often made music for some sort of occasion or in collaboration with others—people like Yayako, Kip Hanrahan, and David Sylvian. So, it’s probably only recently that I’ve started to take the time to make what I want on my own. In that sense, this album may be introspective in some ways.

――That introspective aspect may be connected to the sense of solitude that Yayako felt.

Takuma: For this album, I ultimately recorded eight songs that were left over from the songs I’d been composing since about 2014. I’d been doing a thing where I’d wake up every morning and write down at least one bar of notes on a music sheet. So, I didn’t have a specific concept, but it was like the creation itself became my motivation. I had four string players, Yuko Kajitani, Anzu Suhara, Seigen Tokuzawa, and Hiroki Chiba, perform the songs I wrote, and the tour was one of the major triggers for making the album. I actually wrote some of the songs while imagining what the performers would sound like.

――You formed a string quartet in 2014. Are those four the members?

Takuma: Yeah. At the time, I was studying Johann Sebastian Bach, so I guess it was formed out of a personal motivation to teach myself counterpoint, or to do a study of it.

Yayako: I see! Sensei, when you say counterpoint, are you talking about a method?

Takuma: (laughs) Yes. It involves making multiple melodies that are in harmony with each other. For example, one person plays the bass, and the other performs the inner parts of the melody.

Yayako: Bach came up with counterpoint?

Takuma: It has origins in early hymns and church music. Bach didn’t come up with it, but his works are the culmination of it. In the two years after starting my quartet, I think I achieved certain results through the music that came out of my studies, and I’ve also used that knowledge in my film score work. After that, my interest in composition underwent minor changes, and I began to focus on things like textures and moods. In the process, I became more interested in what kind of sound would be generated when string sounds were put through a computer.

Yayako: This album sounds digital at first, but after it passes through your body, what remains is an organic feeling. It’s as if these completely opposite worlds are actually connected at their core, and it moves back and forth between these worlds freely. So, when I was listening to the album, I thought, “What’s this organic feeling I’m getting?” When I learned that you wrote the songs in your daily life, and that you were thinking about the performers on a personal level, it made sense to me.

――I get the impression that it [the album] is wavering on the border between two worlds. The album is titled Last Afternoon, and it has the atmosphere of dusk—when the worlds of night and day melt together.

Yayako: That’s true. Like those worlds are seamlessly connected. The songs are mostly instrumental, and then halfway through, you hear Joan [La Barbara]’s voice. It’s striking, but if you look at the overall structure of the album, it’s consistent. I’d always thought that instruments and voices were two different worlds, but they seem to be seamlessly connected here, so I felt taken by surprise.

Chance encounters with the collaborators who helped with the sound

――Earlier, you mentioned that you became interested in the texture of sound. The sound and mixing on this album are unique. The sounds are mixed in a strange way, like time and space are distorted. Is there anything you were conscious of in terms of the sound?

Takuma: I wanted a work that was derived from the mutual interference of the sounds on the score and the sounds generated from the computer. Then, I wanted to distance that from academicism and form, and bring it to life in my own way. So, there was a period when I felt like I was walking alone in a pitch-black tunnel. But within the context of contemporary music and electronic music, I found some lights here and there that became hints. If I walked towards them [the “lights”], I’d make a small discovery. [This album] has a sound and timbre that was created through that process of walking.

――Was the inspiration you got from Akira Rabelais and Jim O’Rourke important in terms of the sound?

Takuma: That was huge. I collaborated with Akira in about 2018. I met him through David Sylvian. When I was with David on his tour, after the Cologne show, David told me, “There’s someone I want to introduce you to.” I asked him, “Who is it?” and he replied, “Akira,” so I thought he was Japanese, but when I met him, he was an American composer. We had tea together, and at the time, I was a bit homesick from the exhaustion of touring and the fact that I had been away from Japan for a month or two. So, I was whining, or grumbling, to Akira. (laughs) And he listened to my grumbling with a calm smile. When I looked at his website later, I found that he was an artist with this amazing worldview, and I felt embarrassed. Later, I got in touch with him because I was interested in his ideas and the music software he was developing, and I’ve been in contact with him since. I’m inspired by how he connects to music. Jim, of course, has an amazing way of focusing on sound, doesn’t he? It makes me realize what I still need to work on.

――Jim’s mixing is unique, isn’t it?

Takuma: Although the sound may seem a bit small by today’s mastering standards, I was truly amazed at the master data he created. It was in the right volume, without losing any of the dynamics of the strings or the nuances of the music. It reminded me that the depth of his involvement in sound is quite deep.

Yayako: Can I say something a bit off-topic? I don’t know much about Jim…

Takuma: Didn’t you meet him once?

Yayako: Yeah. I met him once backstage at some event. He suddenly asked me, “Are you Yuya Uchida’s daughter?” Then he said, “I like him,” and listed off movie titles that even I didn’t know. (laughs) Like, “Yuya was awesome in that Nikkatsu Roman Porno film,” or stuff about Toshi Ichiyanagi’s Opera from the works of Tadanori Yokoo and the Flower Travellin’ Band. I felt a certain warmth in being told all kinds of things about my father, who I’d been estranged from, by a musician I’d met for the first time.

――Jim really loves movies.

Yayako: Also, I went to David Sylvian’s show in Paris.

Takuma: Oh yeah, you came.

Yayako: You were homesick at that time, too. (laughs)

Takuma: What! Was I really? (laughs) I do remember wanting to eat Japanese food—well, I suppose that’s homesickness. (laughs)

Yayako: But his performance was perfect. I thought it was interesting how he has a feeling of instability about him. By the way, wasn’t the reason David found out about you because he happened to hear sighboat at a café in Kyoto?

Takuma: That’s right. When David was in Kyoto for a concert, he went to a café that was playing sighboat. Apparently, he asked, “Who is this song by?” That’s how he stumbled upon the album I’d released at the time, and he asked me to join him on a world tour. It was really fortuitous.

――It’s amazing that the music they were playing at the café led to an offer. It must have made a strong impression on David.

Takuma: Apparently, David was looking for people to join him on a world tour at the time. At first, I thought it’d be more like a guest appearance with a laptop rather than a band. Ultimately, it was decided that I’d play some songs in my repertoire, so I joined with a piano and a laptop, and I had a lot of fun working on the arrangement of original songs with Steve Jansen and other band members.

Yayako: When you introduced me to David in Paris, he shook my hand and said, “If it weren’t for you, Takuma and I would never have met.” That really left an impression on me.

Takuma: Meeting you was big for me as well, Yayako.

Takuma Watanabe
He studied composition and music technology in 1997 at Berklee college of music in Boston. In 2007 he joined the world tour of David Sylvian performing with synthesizers and computer and played 28 concerts. In 2014 he founded a string ensemble with computer technology which has been giving public performances of contemporary and drone music. In 2010 he started his film composing career. He has performed or collaborated with, Jonas Mekas, David Sylvian, Joan La Barbara, Kazuhisa Uchihashi, Akira Rabelais, Félicia Atkinson, Tatsuhisa Yamamoto, Seiichi Yamamoto amongst others.

Yayako Uchida
She was born in Tokyo in 1976. She is involved in the world of words and sounds; she mainly writes essays, but also translates, writes lyrics, plays in a band called sighboat, and does narrations. She is also a mother of three. Her recent publications include a book co-authored with neuroscientist Nobuko Nakano, Nande Kazoku Wo Tsuzukeru No? (Bunshun Shinsho). She has translated picture books including Ping (Poplar Publishing), Blanket & Bear, a Remarkable Pair (Hayakawa Publishing), and Maman (Pie International). Her essay series, “BLANK PAGE” can be found in the quarterly magazine, Shukan Bunshun WOMAN. She is also a narrator on the NHK Educational TV Program, no art, no life.

Translation Aya Apton

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The post Takuma Watanabe x Yayako Uchida [Part 1]: On Last Afternoon’s musical universe and the background of its production. appeared first on TOKION - Cutting edge culture and fashion information.

The image visual for The Shepherd Undercover’s Spring / Summer Collection in 2021 features musician Yumi Matsutoya as a model, for which Takahashi himself performed as a stylist. This article, which includes the conversation between the two during the shooting, uncovers the stories about their roots, values for music, and the future.

Music from 1970s as Yumi Matsutoya’s musical roots and the impact of Hipgnosis in 1980s

Yumi Matsutoya: When I first visited London in the late 70’s, I went to the “Seditionaries” shop. When I went there, I came across Vivienne Westwood herself by chance. She was closely guarded by leathermen though.

Jun Takahashi: It’s amazing that you went to the “Seditionaries” store at that time. Did you go to London for sightseeing or a recording?

Matsutoya: It was for sightseeing. I walked all the way from Sloane Square to King’s Road. But that experience later became a source of inspiration for my eighth album, Toki no Nai Hotel.

Takahashi: I see. So, was it around 1978?

Matsutoya: Yes, 1978. It had been about two years since I became Yumi Matsutoya. I myself didn’t go through punk music or fashion, but I felt that I had the same attitude as them. British rock provided a spark for me to try to become a musician in the first place, and I had always had a longing for London. When I was a teenager I was exposed to the so-called British Invasion that had been hailing around the world, so I was obsessed with rock music such as Jimi Hendrix, Eric Clapton and Cream.

Takahashi: It was a great time, wasn’t it?

Matsutoya: It was an era when rock was properly functioning as rock. It was the end of the Vietnam War, or the time when it became fierce. It would also lead to the Wood Stock Festival.

Takahashi: Lately, I often listen to records at home, and I always end up picking up ones from the late 1960s to the 1970s.

Matsutoya: Pink Floyd came out in the 70’s.

Takahashi: Pink Floyd released “Dark Side of the Moon” around that time, right?

Matsutoya: In 1981, I was able to work with Hipgnosis for the first time for “I Will See You Last Night.”

Takahashi: I first listened to the album “I Will See You Last Night” when I was in junior high school. The jacket was really cool. When I was in high school, I got interested in Hipgnosis’s artworks and was amazed by the fact that the jacket had been created by them. How did that happen?

Matsutoya: It was when our company was even smaller than it is now. The student who was forced to become the president of our company offered only one condition, which was to let him do whatever he wanted to do. And one of his wishes was to work with Hipgnosis. That person called Hipgnosis directly and then they really came to us.

Takahashi: I see. That jacket was really cool.

Matsutoya: At that time, Hipgnosis was a company that was run by three people. The group consisted of the creator, Storm Thorgerson, the photographer Peter (Christopherson), and the producer (Aubrey) Powell. I chose one from a number of rough sketches lined up by them in my house at the time. One of what we didn’t choose was later used as a jacket for Pink Floyd’s “A Collection of Great Dance Songs” album.

Takahashi: Oh, was it?

Matsutoya: Also, the other one was used for the jacket of Alan Parsons. By the way, an icon of 90’s culture, the London-based graphic group “Tomato”, to which the electronic group “Underworld” belongs, was also greatly influenced by Hipgnosis. Instead of creating graphics with CG like we do now, everyone was into the analog process. They are geniuses with incredible freehand techniques. That made them even more amazing.

Takahashi: It’s amazing that they were all made in analog fashion. Of course, the sound is amazing, but the jacket is also great. I listened to your “I Will See You Last Night” this morning.

Matsutoya: Glad to hear that! Thank you! There is great value in the fact that we did that in the early 80’s, right? After that, we entered into an age of bubble economy, and I came to be regarded as a quite a materialist or big-spender by the general (laugh). I know there are some people who understand my true self, but I don’t think the majority do so.

Takahashi: But I believe people who have always liked you don’t have that kind of impression.

Encounters with the next generation throughout their decade-long careers

Matsutoya: When do you think Undercover came to the forefront ?

Takahashi: I started it when I was a student, which was in 1990. I did the first show in Tokyo in 1993, which was one of the breakthroughs. And another one was when I started doing shows in Paris in 2000.

Matsutoya: But it’s wonderful because you have been consistent in your actions.

Takahashi: I don’t know if I am (laugh).

Matsutoya: Successful apparel designers tend to stop making things and to buy and sell companies. Do you still want to remain as a creator?

Takahashi: I like making something. It’s not just about clothes, it’s also about drawing. So it’s like, I cannot be satisfied unless I keep making things.

Matsutoya: If you don’t continue, it feels like you get rusty, and you feel uncomfortable, right?

Takahashi: That’s right. By continuing something, I feel that I can create something new and can witness something interesting again.

Matsutoya: If you continue, you will be able to meet important people in the process.

Takahashi: I really think so. I just can’t sell my own label. Well, if I were in desperate trouble… (laugh). But anyway, I’ve been doing it for 30 years now.

Matsutoya: When you were a student, you had a longing for music, fashion or culture of the previous generation. But when you can actually do what you have wanted to, you want to work with the generations who shape the time, or with the talented people of the younger generation.

Takahashi: I agree with it. That is the most interesting because it brings out the different aspects of your own ability. It’s great if both could draw strength from each other.

Matsutoya: Until the other day, there was a retrospective exhibition of Eiko Ishioka (art director). And, people around me asked me: “Did you work with her at the time?” But in reality, there was about 10 years between the time where she was in the forefront and when I started my career. It was when I was a high school student that I was impressed by Parco’s advertisement created by her. But when I started making something myself, I was not interested in collaborating with established creators. But that was not the case with creators from foreign countries.

Takahashi: That may be true. Do you have any projects with young people?

Matsutoya: I have some. I am glad that they want to meet me. The day after tomorrow, I will be meeting with Daiki Tsuneta from the band King Gnu.

Takahashi: I reckon there are a lot of fans in their 20s like him, right?

Matsutoya: Well, it means that their parents were listening to my music. However, it seems that people, especially men, are particularly interested in what it means to continue something for 50 years. We end up talking about the contents though.

Takahashi: Musicians must be really interested in that.

Matsutoya: They tend to ask me: “how can I continue it?” But the only thing I can say is: “Just continue it.” (laugh) If you quit, it will end at that point.

Takahashi: Also, things just continue naturally.

Matsutoya: Yeah, there are also reliable supporters and collaborators.

“People look at the past and move ahead, facing rearwards.”

Takahashi: How many years have you been active so far? 50 years?

Matsutoya: It will be 50 years next year.

Takahashi: That makes me think Undercover is still a child (laugh).

Matsutoya: The more time you continue it, the steeper the slope becomes to the extent which you feel as if you are walking towards the vertex of an inverted parabolic curve. Things go on in quite a pace until about 10 or 20 years, but from there the slope will become steeper.

Takahashi: Yes, it’s going to be steeper.

Matsutoya: It seems it went by so fast in retrospect, but if you try to do it from now on, the goal just seems too far.

Takahashi: Yes, it really does.

Matsutoya: One of the philosophies of Beat Culture says: “People look at the past and move ahead, facing rearward.” It’s easy to see what has been done so far. We can move forward, thinking that since we’ve done this and that so far, we should put my legs out like this.

Takahashi: Certainly, that is true. Making things is like drawing something out from yourself and wringing your own neck with it.

Matsutoya: The standards of creation will also be elevated.

Takahashi: Yes, the standards will be elevated. Also, you will have to draw out a source of an idea from yourself. The result will be that the contents of the drawer will increase, but it becomes more difficult to balance them. However, new things are sometimes born from unexpected places, and that kind of interesting things will make you continue unknowingly.

Matsutoya: Sometimes you will find the drawer you have forgotten. And when you open it, you will say: “Oh, there are quite a few ideas.”

Takahashi: You will also find and say: “I didn’t know that I had something like this.”

Matsutoya: Even what has been done in the past will never be old because you will see it from a different perspective.

Takahashi: The interpretation is also different, and you can fix it yourself.

Matsutoya: It was exactly your generation that embodied those kind of things such as editing and collages, right?

Takahashi: That’s right because the 90’s can be described as a remix generation. But when I was young, foundational quality of myself was formed in the 70’s and 80’s. So, I have experienced the gap between analog and digital. It’s quite interesting to be able to deal with both, now I’m completely into analog though.

Matsutoya: There is a lot of information right now. Looking from a perspective of the generation who thought that there was no information, there is just too much now.

Takahashi: With the analog method, every part of a thing is more easily visible than digital. So, you can look at more detailed and deeper parts of it. That may be why I prefer analog. Even among young people today, the number of musicians who are into analog is increasing.

Matsutoya: That may be true. In my opinion, people will stand at a crossroad in in their 50s. Some people keep an aggressive attitude, and others will be satisfied with the positions they are in.

Takahashi: What kind of people are those who are satisfied with where they are now?

Matsutoya: I can’t give you specific examples, but they are someone who would say: “I don’t mind staying in this position.” But it’s a matter of personal preference.

Takahashi: Are they someone who won’t evolve, but will go slowly?

Matsutoya: You could say that.

Takahashi:I’m turning 52 years old this year, and I haven’t been able to make up my mind. I have no problem with going at this pace, but sometimes I feel like slowing down. I am just wondering if I can balance both attitudes.

Matsutoya: In order to keep quality high, we take more time to work on something. We also have to care about our own body.

Takahashi: I really think so too. In that case, we can no longer deal with the amount of work I’ve been doing. I would like to take more time to maintain the quality one by one. I think that’s how you should spend your time slowly.

The importance of worrying, feeling anxious, and experiencing a plateau as a step to move forward

Matsutoya: From a third-person perspective, I think the 40s is the age where men can try out various kinds of things. They have wider horizons and still have physical strength.

Takahashi: In your 40s, there are 10 years that you can spend on accelerating the things that you developed during your 30s. I think in your 50s, you become more matured to some extent, but it becomes difficult to go further. My life is going through a big change these days. In this situation, part of me wants to relax and another part of me wants to go aggressively, and I haven’t reached a conclusion yet. For me, this change is very interesting, but I’m feeling confused about what I should do.

Matsutoya: Well, when I speak to those people (who are in a similar situation), I tell them “natural lawn and ‘grassy’ lawn are different”, and they understand. Looking natural means well-maintained.

Takahashi: And “grassy” means untrimmed.

Matsutoya: People need to put effort to take care of themselves and relax to do what they want to do. If you go easy on that, you just become an old dude. (laugh) When I meet a guy, I can tell instantly if he belongs to such a group or not.

Takahashi: Sometimes I overthink, but I guess now is the time for change. Did you also have such a moment?

Matsutoya: Well, there may be some differences between men and women, or maybe this is due to the differences between music and fashion scenes, but sometimes I feel glad that I didn’t ease up when I was in my 50s.

Takahashi: There are many things that we don’t realize at the time.

Matsutoya: For example, when you really need to improve a skill, say, for skiing or speaking English, it’s hard to recognize the changes, as if staying on a landing for a long time when climbing up the stairs. You might feel that all your efforts might end up being a waste, but without experiencing such a difficulty, you can’t go further.

Takahashi: That phase, the period of stagnation, is very important. You go through hard times, such as being worried or feeling like giving up, but you need to overcome such difficulties, otherwise, you can’t go ahead.

Matsutoya: You might worry if you’re just being consumed or fear young people excessively, but now I feel those thoughts are no big deal.

Takahashi: When I look at people with a new type of strength, I kind of feel left out. But at the same time, I tend to forget that I have strength that I’ve gained over the years.

Matsutoya: Because, at the time, you forget the times when you had so much power.

Takahashi: Young people today tend to give up so easily, but maybe that’s because they don’t really like what they are doing.

Matsutoya: Maybe it’s because they tend to seek answers immediately.

Takahashi: Or maybe they’re feeling that they must act fast.

Matsutoya: I think it depends on people, but to them, it’s all or nothing. There’s nothing in between.

Takahashi: There are many people who are like that.

Matsutoya: As part of the process of transitioning to the age of International Space Station, or the age of global governance, I’ve heard that humans may be programmed to survive even if they’re only given a small space. (laugh) It seems so rigid when seen from the perspective we used to have, but people are acting very freely within that restriction. Consumers also need to be educated, otherwise, they will be gone. Even if we explain how good the sashimi of wild-caught fish tastes, people who prefer supplements won’t understand.

Takahashi: The world might turn into such a state.

――In that case, the same goes for fashion. Everything is available online, but after all, what we enjoy is the act of shopping at a physical store.

The balance between the cool and the real (everyday life)

Takahashi: (Due to the pandemic) things have become difficult to engage physically today. I grew up thinking there are emotional experiences that you can only have by being there, especially with live music. This may sound bad, but if you think in such a way, I feel musicians are a little unfair. (laugh) I really envy them.

Matsutoya: At the same time, it can be fierce. There’s a lot of artists, and there used to be a lot of fans for one artist, but today, since everyone began to make their own works available to public. Instead of celebrating what people have made, everyone is inclined towards becoming an artist. You can become popular and disappear in no time. Is there such a system that creates “stars” in fashion as well?

Takahashi: You can see that in big fashion houses, like Louis Vuitton. They keep changing their designers. They used to choose new designers by ability, but now, they tend to select people with outstanding character, which I’m not convinced of.

Matsutoya: Like Virgil Abloh?

Takahashi: They were influenced by what we’ve done in Harajuku in the 90s, so it makes me feel very complicated sometimes.

Matsutoya: Such struggles are parts of your 50s. You’re inclined to feel you are being consumed. The things you’ve been doing appears in front of you very easily. But they just come and go in turns.

Takahashi: Perhaps, I’ll be able to access the next stage when I overcome that struggle.

Matsutoya: Taking away those fences. Probably that’s the only way.

Takahashi: That’s true after all. My interest won’t fade away after all these years, so I suppose there will be changes if I continue working on it. With all my experiences, even if I do the same thing as young people, the outcome would be something different.

Matsutoya: You can make them more hybrid, for instance.

Takahashi: There’s a lot I can do. What matters is how much I can enjoy it.

Matsutoya: For example, providing a fresh perspective is one way. I guess that’s the point in design. With different elements such as philosophy combined, it makes people realize a new perspective.

Takahashi: You mean approaches. In fashion, designers like Margiela, when he was designing his own label , made us aware that there are different ways to think about and look at fashion. The same is true when starting a new genre in music. That’s such an amazing thing to do.

Matsutoya: It won’t be interesting if you don’t balance the cool with the real in clothing. Even if “cool” modern music win praise, the concept of “cool” may change tomorrow. How you can blend that music into the lives of people, integrating to the point they can sing to themselves, is what matters. That’s why it’s great.

Takahashi: The point is, how much you can make it blend into everyday lives. Making it radical or cool is another thing. Achieving the balance is the crucial part.

Matsutoya: Yes, I agree. Well, it was fun to speak with you today. Thank you so much.

Takahashi: Thank you too!

Yumi Matsutoya
Born in 1954 in Tokyo, Japan. A female singer-songwriter from Tokyo, she made her professional debut as a composer in 1971, and made her debut as a singer in 1972 as Yumi Arai, becoming a pioneer among female singers and songwriters. In 2020, she released her first original album in four years, “Shinkai No Machi”, and will be touring with this album from September 2021 for a total of 60 concerts under the title “Yumi Matsutoya Concert Tour: Shinkai No Machi”.

Jun Takahashi
Born in Kiryu City, Gunma, Japan. Graduated from Bunka Fashion College in 1991. Founded his own fashion brand “UNDERCOVER” while he was in college.In 1994, UNDERCOVER’s inaugural collection 1994-95 Autumn/Winter launched in Tokyo. In 2002, made a first appearance at Women’s Fashion Week 2003 Spring/Summer in Paris. Since then, the brand has been participating at fashion shows mainly in Paris. He founded a creative team “UNDERCOVER PRODUCTION” in 2018.

Photography Shunya Arai
Interview & Text Hiroshi Kagiyama
Translation Shinichiro Sato

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From Japan to Germany: cassette tapes and letters across the sea

Makoto Ori: The first Der Plan album that I and my fellow (of Picky Picnic) listened to was “Normalette Surprise”. I was still a high school student at the time, and I didn’t even know the term German New Wave. It was avant-garde, but still very pop. It was as compact as music in advertisement, but very dark and humorous. I was attracted to that taste and came to want to make this kind of music. So I decided to make a cassette tape and send it with an English letter to Der Plan. That was 1982.

Moritz R®️: I fell in love with it as soon as I listened to it. I felt the same spirit and didn’t need any discussion. For us, The Residents from America, Der Plan from Germany, and his Picky Picnic from Tokyo share the same sense of value. The name Picky Picnic is also good. But have you forgotten to put K in PICNIC? What does that mean, a grumpy person?

Ori: I was a high school student at the time, so I didn’t understand English very well, and when I looked up the dictionary, Picky was explained as a synonymous of “noisy.” Noisy picnics sounded good to me. Then I decided to name ourselves as Picky Picnic. I was so excited to receive a positive response from Der Plan. Around that time, since we got an offer for recording of an album from a Japanese indie label, we were working on the 1st album “Ha! Ha! Tarachine”. The release of the foreign edition was also decided. Of course, I asked Moritz to design the album jacket for both the original and foreign version.

Moritz: Computer graphics were new at the time, and I used the Commodore 64 and the KoalaPad. The impression of Japan that I got from my first visit is modern, electronic, and computer-like. So I thought the computer-generated graphics would fit the image of your duo perfectly. Then I sent the artwork, and you decided to use it. Looking at it now, the resolution is quite low (laughs).

Ori: By the way, Moritz was absent when I went to the Ata Tak studio in Dusseldorf with a member of Picky Picnic.

Moritz: I was living in Hamburg at that time. The first time we met and talked was the last year’s tour to Japan.

Ori: Partly because of that, Moritz’s image was mysterious and artistic.

Moritz: Since I didn’t know much about you, I was not sure what you were like. But I remember you sent me a photo with the letter. Maybe you were visiting some world fair and a naked woman was lying behind you. That’s my image of you.

Ori: What was it? I don’t remember at all (laughs).

The 2020 concert in Japan: meeting each other for the first time

Ori: We met each other for the first time last year when you came to Japan, so we took a photo with everyone around. A lot of musicians I knew gathered at the venue. That’s when I realized everyone liked Der Plan.

Moritz: You know, our recent live show is different from the past ones. In the past, We used to use a lot of masks and cardboard-painted props because there was no video projection. Also, I was lip-synching because I wanted to focus on visual rather than music. You can’t sing if you wear a mask in the first place, and if you want to listen to music, you can put on a record on the floor. But on the new tour, I’m singing all the songs for the first time. It’s a big challenge for me, and this is the biggest difference from the past ones.

Ori: I remember your first show in Japan in 1984 was a kind of mocking live performance without playing any instrument. And I thought that’s exactly what Der Plan should do. Actually, I went to that show with my fellow. At that time, there were people in the art and fashion fields who loved new things dealt with at the legendary record shop WAVE, and I am sure that kind of performance was attractive to them. I had known from the internet that you guys were doing the live show in a way that you did last year. I loved it as well, and I was like, “that’s how you do it.”

Moritz: Did Picky Picnic do shows a lot?

Ori: No, only once. Since a manga artist Kiriko Kubo joined the group, we did a one-off performance in the event at Aoyama CAY organized by a publisher she was involved. For that show, we had two women in swimsuits lying down at the venue as part of performance. Do you think the photo you talked about earlier was depicting that scene?

Moritz: No, I don’t think so. Wait a minute, maybe I have some data so I’ll send it. (Moritz sent a photo on Zoom) Do you remember?

Ori: Oh, this is the one that my fellow sent just as a joke(laughs). A photo of us taken at Atami Hihokan (=The humorous sex museum located in a seaside town ). I was surprised that Moritz still had it (laughs). But the world of Picky Picnic is as tricky, surreal and humorous as that place is. And I think Der Plan also has the same taste.

Moritz: Yeah, I think so too. I love the song “It’s A Hysterical Place” from the album “Cynical Hysteria World”. It’s like a polka or a Disneyland attraction which makes you feel as if you are going through a mysterious world. I was just impressed so much. Half pop, half weird and dark world, which was my cup of tea.

Ori: I made that album as a theme of Kiriko Kubo’s manga. An amusement park is absolutely essential because it is a manga depicting the world of children.

Moritz: In relation to amusement parks, I went to Tokyo Disneyland with the members in 1984. It has the Enchanted Tiki Room, that only the original Disneyland in California has too; the other Disneylands don’t have it, but the one in Tokyo is better. That was really moving.

The creation of original music from our own culture

Moritz: When I first came to Japan, I became obsessed with Japanese culture. Watching a TV commercial at the hotel, I was like “this is exactly like Der Plan!” Another thing I strongly remember is the robot. I bought a dinosaur robot in Kiddy Land. It’s already broken, but it’s cool, isn’t it? The best thing is that it has a golden pilot in its head. The instruction says that this pilot is a doll, which is reminiscent of our origins. I thought it’s strange because it’s just a children’s toy (laughs).

Ori: Haha, that’s amazing.

Moritz: To be honest, I don’t know much about old Japanese culture, but I like modern Japanese culture including architecture, design and pop culture. I often listen to Blue Heron Radio, which plays Japanese music, and I also like Kabuki music. Interestingly, westerners in the 1960s and 70s said that Japanese people were just copying their culture. But that’s not true at all. I think traditional Japanese culture is really rich, which also influences robots and modern culture.

Ori: You have such a wide range of interests. It’s related to your new album, but Moritz’s works and music always have an exotic feeling that transcends continents. It feels like it does consists of more than one culture. That’s one of the charms of Der Plan, and I also felt it from your solo work.

Moritz: We can’t ignore American culture, including rock and roll, but I wanted to connect with the traditional culture of my area. So when we started Der Plan, we wanted to sing in German instead of English. I think it was the same in Japan, and so was Picky Picnic. Of course American culture is there and I was influenced by it, but I’m still trying to create something original by myself. I want to create music from my own culture, just as America created art from their own culture. I am sure you can feel it from Der Plan and my music. That’s the similarity between us, right?

Ori: I think we are the same in terms of making original things while always looking at various cultures. As an aside, after I had stopped creating music for Picky Picnic, I was performing as a bassist for rock bands such as Original Love and The Collectors, which embody the orthodox road rock and roll style. By playing that kind of music in the band, I came to have a clear view of what kind of music I had been inspired and impressed by when I first started Picky Picnic, and what made me decided to make music by myself. This experience may have been a great factor that enabled me to feel amazed by my own self. Francis, my solo project, is something closer to what I really want to do.

Moritz: By the way, my son’s name is Franz. It’s the German version of Francis. He was born in 2006.

Ori: Haha, I started Francis in 1994. Actually, this year, I will release the album for the first time in 27 years. By the way, why did you decide to release a solo album this time?

Moritz: The other members also released solo work, and there was a lot of unused lyrics and music originally for Der Plan. I was working at home during the lockdown and it just ended up with a solo album. One of the good things about solo work is that you don’t need to ask anyone what he/she wants to do. You make all the decisions yourself and you can enjoy it. “Silberner Manta” and “Dunkel Wars” were originally released as songs of Der Plan, and I also have a cover of Frank Zappa. Just for your information, “Wochenend und Sonnenschein” is a cover of the record I listened to for the first time when I was 3 years old. It was a popular song in Germany in the 1920s. So this album is very personal and conceptual. That’s why the title of it is “To your heart’s content”.

Ori: I was surprised at how many songs it has. Just as the other works of Moritz, every song has a slightly exotic atmosphere, which I love. The artwork is also interesting.

Moritz: If you look closely, you can see the rubber between the two faces, right? That implies that the mask is actually my true face and my face is actually the mask.

Ori: This is also Der Plan’s world (laughs). You put on and take off masks during the performance.

Moritz: I was talking to the members when I made the previous album. We were like, “we’re old now, so let’s take a picture of this old face like a mask (laughs)”.

Moritz R®
Born in Halle, Germany in 1955, now lives in Berlin. His real name is Moritz Reichelt. He is the main vocalist of Der Plan, a band that represents Neue Deutsche Welle in the 1980s. He is also a talented artist who also works as an art direction for the band. In February 2020, he came to Japan for the first time in 36 years as a member of Der Plan, and in 2021 released his first solo album “Nach Herzenslust”. www.moritz-r.de

Makoto Ori
Born in Kanagawa prefecture, Japan in 1965. He formed a strange techno pop duo, Picky Picnic, with his high school friend. In 1985, he started his musical career with the release of the album “Ha! Ha! Tarachine!” from Der Plan’s label Ata Tak. After working as a bassist for The Red Curtain (now Original Love) and The Collectors, he started to solely focus on his own project in 2015. He has been active as a solo unit Francis since 1994, and has released two mini-albums under the name of the collaboration unit “Haruko and Francis” with Haruko Tajima. He is going to release a new solo album this year. www.orimakoto.com

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What brought HOLE AND HOLLAND together? The three core members talk to TOKION about the origins of their formation as well as their individual work. They also tell us their thoughts on the label’s flagship store, OFFF, which opened in Shibuya at the end of last year.

It all began with a house that became a hangout spot; friends who were brought together by music and skateboarding

――First, could you tell me about how HOLE AND HOLLAND (Hereinafter “HOLLAND”) was formed? Are you two brothers?

NAIJEL GRAPH(Hereinafter NAIJEL): Yeah. I’m the oldest brother, and Mamazu is the third oldest brother. The second oldest brother, STONE’D, who makes beats and films, is also a member.

Mamazu: The friends who used to hang out at our house in high school are HOLLAND. That’s how HOLLAND started.

YO.AN: Those two [NAIJEL GRAPH and Mamazu] lived in Nerima, and I lived in Setagaya. But we liked the same things, like skateboarding and music, so we hung out all the time. NAIJEL GRAPH was a super cool older brother, wasn’t he? He drew pictures, DJed, and had a lot of records. The house was like a toy box, and the music was bumping. (laughs)

NAIJEL: It was like, is this a club? (laughs)

YO.AN: Actually, I did think it was a club. (laughs) Even during the day on a weekend, it was super loud——to the point that I’d be the one who was concerned, like, “Is this okay?” But it was really fun because there weren’t many environments like that, and listening to music loudly sounds totally different. The DJ and producer FUSHIMING and the artist EDO KANPACHI, who drew the HOLLAND logo, also lived in the neighborhood. They were friends we grew up hanging out with. After that, we started making music. Everyone loved the act of creating something, so once our sound was coming together, we started talking about how it’d be a good idea to do it ourselves. So, we started working as a label.

――How many members are there?

YO.AN: There are seven original members. In addition to us three, there’s STONE’D, Haruka Katagata, FUSHIMING, and EDO KANPACHI.

――What does the name HOLE AND HOLLAND mean?

Mamazu: EDO KANPACHI, who writes songs and draws, had written it in his notebook: HOLE AND HOLLAND.

NAIJEL: It was sort of a doodle, but it was cool because it looked like a logo. So we just started using it from there.

――What were you all doing when you formed the label?

Mamazu: We were partying with our friends, but at the same time, when I was about 22, we released the compilation album “RIDE MUSIC” through HOLLAND for the first time. We released it as a 12” record too. We turned it into a single and included a remix.

――I saw that 5lack was part of that compilation.

YO.AN: I used to work for a skate brand agency with Kacchan [Katsumi Minami of Evisen Skateboards]. He introduced me to 5lack back then. It was right around the time we were making our first compilation, so we were also reaching out to people who weren’t part of HOLLAND. When I talked to 5lack, he agreed to join.

――The group has a strong connection to skaters, like Haruka Katagata, one of HOLLAND’s members.

YO.AN: Haruka is from my hometown, and we lived in the same neighborhood.

NAIJEL: He was already really good at skateboarding from the time we met him, wasn’t he?

YO.AN: When we met him, he was still in elementary school, but he was basically sponsored from head to toe. I think he was the coolest guy in Tokyo. He would come to HOLLAND’s parties all the time, and eventually, he started DJing. He just naturally became a member from there.

With art and music as their weapons, HOLLAND
bands together and works all over the world

――Could you guys tell me about what you’ve been up to recently?

Mamazu: Basically, we all do our own thing, so we get our own bookings. I think DJing is sort of an extension of all of us working as artists.

YO.AN: HOLLAND is like a platform that we can release things through at any time. Sometimes, we get asked to perform as a crew. STONE’D makes sound systems, so if the event is on the scale of a reception party, there are times when we bring the sound system in and all perform.

――Has the coronavirus affected your DJ work?

Mamazu: Yeah, it has. We suddenly started doing more live streams.

YO.AN: Some live streams based overseas, like in London, reached out to us, so we joined in online.

Mamazu: Right. At first, we didn’t see the advantage of live streaming, so we were a bit torn, but then we realized there are some positive aspects. We take DJing really seriously.

YO.AN: Usually, I select songs based on the audience in front of me. But with a live stream, there’s a large, unspecified number of people in the audience, and you don’t know what’s happening on the other side of the screen. So, if I think about it, ultimately, the only option is to trust in the quality of the music. I try to play things that would sound like a good mix CD if you closed your eyes.

――NAIJEL, have you taken part in any online group exhibitions?

NAIJEL: Not really. Fortunately, I was able to hold the art exhibition I’d planned just in time.

――The members of HOLLAND have DJed at the reception parties for NAIJEL’s art exhibitions, right?

YO.AN: Yeah. We even go overseas together.

――Where have you gone before, for example?

YO.AN: In 2020, we went to Hong Kong. In 2019, there was a three-way collaboration project between BEAMS T and NAIJEL at a select shop called Goodhood in London. Mamazu and I DJed there too.

――While you were in the UK, you performed on NTS Radio, right? Did you get a good response abroad?

Mamazu: Yeah. In the UK, it’s a famous radio station that people are quite familiar with, so there was a good response. At the time, there weren’t many Japanese people appearing on overseas internet radio stations, either.

――You [NAIJEL] sold apparel as part of a three-way collaboration with Goodhood and BEAMS T. I think the HOLLAND T-shirt that was the basis for that was a really great idea. It had a round pocket the size of a CD, and in that pocket was a mix CD.

NAIJEL: There’ve been a lot of brands who thought it was interesting and reached out about a collaboration.

Apparel with a music concept is
part of the expanding HOLLAND universe

――HOLLAND has also been proactively developing apparel.

NAIJEL: That’s true, but the music comes before the apparel.

YO.AN: We use something music-related as the base, and create an intricate idea. For each item, I try to attach a CD, cassette tape with music that you can only hear with that item. I wanted to make clothes with added value.

YO.AN: We make clothes because we want to introduce people who like fashion to our music and new music. We hope HOLLAND apparel can be an opportunity to connect with people from different fields.

Mamazu: We want to keep making things that we want to wear and use.

――In December of last year, HOLLAND opened the OFFF shop. Before it opened, NAIJEL said that he wanted to make it a store that felt like hanging out at a friend’s house. Hearing your stories today, it feels like you’re recreating the atmosphere from back when the HOLLAND members would hang out at NAIJEL and Mamazu’s house.

NAIJEL: Yeah. That might be close to how we feel. We want people to stop by the shop as if they’re visiting a friend’s house. There’s a coffee shop nearby that our friend runs, Coffee Supreme Tokyo, so I’d like people to buy coffee there, and then come relax while drinking a coffee.

Mamazu: We even have a bed right in the middle of the store. (laughs) We want people to feel at home. That’s why it’s called OFFF.

――Does the store have any other concepts?

YO.AN: It’s a space where people can come hang out and relax——where they can buy HOLLAND merchandise whenever, and buy music and art. We’d also like it to function as a rental space where people can hold exhibitions or solo shows.

NAIJEL: I’m planning all kinds of projects as part of HOLLAND, but I also plan to have a proper exhibition as NAIJEL GRAPH at OFFF.

――I noticed that there’s a women’s vintage shop, Griffith Vintage, attached to the store.

YO.AN: The store is run by two women, one of them being my wife. They started a women’s vintage shop around the same time, so we opened a shared shop space.

NAIJEL: It feels more like home if we have men’s and women’s [clothing], and even couples who stop by can enjoy themselves.

――So, what does HOLLAND plan to do this year?

YO.AN: If we’re talking about releases that are already set in stone, there’s a 12” by SUNGA, which includes the song used in the recent Evisen video, “WORKING HOLIDAY,” and a 12” by an up-and-coming-artist from Nagoya, TAIHEI. Both of them are perfect for playing at parties. Also, FRAN-KEY’s disco edit will be released on cassette. Of course, we’re also working on a bunch of clothing and merch.

――What’s next for the shop?

Mamazu: I’d like to sell more stuff that’s influenced us.

NAIJEL: Also, it’d be nice to sell limited-edition collaborations and carry our friends’ brands.

YO.AN: We’re also thinking about making YouTube videos at the store.

NAIJEL: In a really laidback way. We might even do it in our sleep. (laughs)

Mamazu: Since we have the space to do it, I’d like to do interesting things like that.

YO.AN: Also, we plan to have a pop-up in Tokyo around the summer of this year. I can really only say that as a loose plan because we’re living in unpredictable times. We’re currently making various items for that.

NAIJEL: I think it’d be great if we could have a pop-up that captures the spirit of OFFF. I’m also working on some really cool collaborations, so stay tuned.

NAIJEL GRAPH
NAIJEL GRAPH is an artist who has worked on magazine covers and advertisements. In 2018, he made a splash through an official collaboration with the Beastie Boys. He’s attracted attention both in Japan and abroad through projects such as his exhibitions created in collaboration with Adidas and Sony. In 2017, he created the picture book “Nandemo Tashizan” (Oakla Publishing) based on the concept of adding unexpected things together. This book won the Japan Book Publishers Association Award (Children’s Book and Picture Book Division) at the 52nd Japan Book Design Awards.
Instagram：@naijelgraph

Mamazu
Mamazu began his DJ career in the mid ‘90s. To date, he’s performed at well-known venues/events, including Fuji Rock Festival, Boiler Room, and Hong Kong’s Cassio. He’s released music and remixes through labels not only in Japan but also in several other countries. His highly-acclaimed music has been played all over the world.
Instagram：@mamazu

YO.AN
YO.AN is a DJ/Producer who has made music for domestic skate brands such as Evisen Skateboards and Tightbooth, as well as global brands such as Levi’s and The North Face. He’s performed on the Boiler Room, as well as in London, Shanghai, and Hong Kong. Numerous DJs have played his released works and DJ edits.
Instagram：@_yo.an_

HOLE AND HOLLAND
https://hole-and-holland.com/
Instagram：@holeandholland

Photography Shinpo Kimura
Translation Aya Apton

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The post From Tokyo to the world: HOLE AND HOLLAND’s multifaceted approach appeared first on TOKION - Cutting edge culture and fashion information.

The keyword ‘semi-transparent’ born from giving a significant amount of thought to the interaction with the actors

――I heard that the first time you two worked together was in 2011 for chelfitsch’s play Impossible To Understand You, It’s Almost like Electrical Devices. First, can you tell me the reason why you decided to welcome Kaneuji as a scenic designer for the play?

Toshiki Okada：Whenever I’m putting out a play, I always don’t know what to do with the scenic design. For me, in most cases, I’m not like, “I want this particular set.” But I also don’t want it to be abstract, as that would appear too rough. I just can’t explain what I look for in stage designs with words. Anyway, I always anguish on this matter. And if it can’t be done by myself, I need to ask for someone’s help, and Kaneuji is the right man to ask.

Teppei Kaneuji：When I worked for Impossible To Understand You, It’s Almost like Electrical Devices, that was my first time stepping into the world of scenic design. I began by checking out chelfitsch’s plays right after I got the offer, but the more I watch the more I felt there’s no need of scenic design. Especially, the old chelfitsch plays are well done without any set designs. But, Okada is vigorously challenging things that go beyond the scope of my assumptions, and I’m working with him not only because I’m being needed, but hoping to find joy in it. Including tower, which by the way was led by me, it’s my fourth time working together with Okada, and I know he’s the type of artist who loathes repeating the same thing, so there’s always a new challenge; and I feel the efforts are eventually echoed in my own projects, so it’s worth challenging positively with him.  

Okada：I’ve realized since Kaneuji told me that, essentially, we don’t need set designs. However, I think it would be boring if we didn’t have any. I’d like to believe that ‘it could be done with or without it’ instead of ‘it’s there because it’s needed.’ I just noticed as I speak—I’m pretty much saying: “The production can be done without you” to a scenic designer. If I say such rude thing to other scenic designers, they would be like “Okay, goodbye then,” but I’m grateful to have a scenic designer who tells me, “If that’s the case, we can make something way better.” So, I work with Kaneuji not because I want him to help me, but because he’s capable of accomplishing the part that can’t be done by myself, and I want him to take the helm on that part. Language is not enough to describe the difference, but it’s a huge difference having him on board.    

Kaneuji：I understand what you mean. Normally, I collage various things and I’m basically welding different elements together into one, so I really understand that feeling of ‘it could be done with or without it.’ I’m aware that it’s not about scraping off excess, it’s about the comfort of having the possibilities of various elements coming together—so that’s why I was able to take your remark in a positive way.

――In the past, there were times where Kaneuji did the set designs for chelfitsch’s plays, and Okada provided texts for Kaneuji’s works, yet Eraser Mountain is a collaboration project between you two. How did this unique play come about?

Okada：Concisely speaking, I told Kaneuji that the set doesn’t need to be relevant to the play at all. In fact, I wanted it to be ‘annoyingly in the way.’ When we say ‘it could be accomplished with nothing,’ that also implies ‘it could be accomplished with an obstacle.’   

Kaneuji：This time, I intended to make things to be in one another’s way. There were things blocking the sight and placed precariously on purpose to make the objects and performances coexist on stage in parallel, and even there was nothing happening on stage, there was still something sitting on the stage—that’s what I was intending.  

Okada：I wrote Eraser Mountain after I witnessed the reconstruction work of Rikuzentakata in 2017. As a countermeasure against future tsunami, the town is undergoing construction to elevate the land over ten meters higher than where it was before. When I was on site and seeing the view changing rapidly and artificially, my doubts toward ‘criteria used by humans’ began to raise.  

Also, there’s another story about when I was eating at a terrace seat at a restaurant, a fly flew to my table. Normally, I would beat it away like others would do, but at that time I was somewhat not in the mood to do so. The place was a place to dine for me, but I knew it wasn’t for the fly—I wanted to convey these sentiments on stage, and that’s how Eraser Mountain came about.   

――Specifically, what kind of efforts were put in to successfully portray those sentiments in the play?

Okada：I have almost no idea what Kaneuji did to bring my ideas to fruition, but speaking of what I did was not letting the actors perform for the audience. I made them look away from the audience when saying the lines and perform not to the audience but look upwards when performing. In the beginning, all the actors were lost with my idea, but at least that was my aim from the start.

Kaneuji：There were multiple ideas I came up on my end as well. For example, the objects are deliberately placed in the way they are. The objects are usually placed on stage with certain context and rules, but I placed them in order to become estranged from their original purposes and made sure they don’t find themselves a new story. It was quite difficult, because even though they all seem to be random and abstract, they can easily make themselves look somewhat relevant. So, these things are placed in the way to avoid the audience from referring them to something. Also, I didn’t want them to be seen as ‘the things merely lying on stage’, but rather wanted them to appear as a piece of the vast wilderness. In order to achieve this idea, I didn’t hesitate to place them boldly even if they blocked the sight. For instance, I placed the monument, Christmas tree, tombstone and wooden pillar, randomly so that the territories of these things get mashed up that they become almost irrelevant.        

Okada：There are so many ideas implemented in the set that I still don’t know about, and it was my first time hearing that story. Pragmatically speaking, it’s difficult to completely take away the meanings of these objects, but it’s interesting to see the objects, that have strong presences like the Christmas tree and wooden pillar, placed in the same spot, conflicting with each other and eventually losing their essential meanings—They’re like getting in each other’s way.   

Kaneuji：While I was giving a significant amount of thoughts on the ways of placing these things, and how to link my ideas with Okada’s, I was given the opportunity to do a workshop led by me. When we were discussing deeply about how we should interact with the actors, the word ‘semi-transparent’ came up as a keyword.

Things becoming visible through the process of developing in various forms

――Can you tell me more about that keyword：‘semi-transparent’?

Kaneuji：Originally, it was a word we used when analyzing the works by the photographer, Kotori Kawashima, which appear to us as idol pictures. For example, even if he took a picture of a view, it would still look like an idol photography. By the way, that’s what we mean by ‘semi-transparent’; and regarding Kawashima’s works, he lenses moments that look as if he captured them while his one foot was stepping in the other world, and that’s probably where the ‘idol-ness’ comes from. I thought that we could implement his style in the play, and at the workshop, based on what we studied from Kawashima’s works, I had the actors work in pairs, and have one person in each pair to establish a relationship with an object—and that person had to come up with a pose—and the other person would take a picture of that person. The purpose of turning half of themselves into an object, and the other half to be inexistent was for them to eventually find ways to perform towards somewhere other than the audience seats.

Okada：When we discussed about how we can free ourselves from anthropocentrism, we could have explained to the actors like, “It’s achieved when the relationship between humans and things become flat”—however, instead of explaining them so, it was more effective using the word ‘semi-transparent.’ The word ‘semi-transparent’ is more specific to them. When instructing the actors, if we told them to be ‘flat,’ they wouldn’t quite understand. It made more sense to them when we told them to be ‘semi-transparent.’ By discovering the intrinsic meaning of becoming ‘semi-transparent,’ they were able to obtain a very concise weapon. We would tell them: “That’s ‘semi-transparent,’ well done” or “You’re almost there [to be ‘semi-transparent’]”—it became an imperative word in the creative space. I think that was a huge accomplishment.    

――Eraser Mountain has a theme of ‘extricating from anthropocentrism.’ The Eraser series have been brought into conversation among various media—how was the time performing a play that’s likely to become human centered, for both of you?

Okada：I would say there are so many texts out there that write about human issues, however, there aren’t still enough texts that focus on the outer factors. These outer factors are more crucial, and I’ve been trying to convey them but had no idea how to elaborate. Yet, I just did it anyway by manifesting: “I’m going to start a play that doesn’t center on humans.” Well, I‘ve said it out loud and it worked out. If I went on with an empty concept, it would’ve become a sheer embarrassment, however, we were able to discover what is intrinsic to a play that isn’t centered on humans, after going through the creative process. It’s a fluke that we were able to specify and be definitive with the ideas, and move forward with a blueprint at hand.      

Kaneuji：After we did Eraser Mountain at the theatre, we did Eraser Forest, which was the performance of Eraser Mountain staged in a museum. During the two weeks, as the actors were performing for hours, I could see the actors were delving into the concept, and I was moved by that. Also, the tour was postponed due to Covid, but we were able to put out the performance Eraser Fields, book Eraser Stone, and novel “Eraser SHIKI” (double meaning of “Eraser Ceremony / Style”), which is novelized “Eraser Fields”. By constantly presenting works in different creative forms, I was able to see more things. I also think the tour being postponed due to the pandemic was very important for us, as we were able to keep our creations alive—instead of sleeping on them and just waiting for it to pass—and feel the flow of time. There were accidents during the period, where our set didn’t get delivered to New York, but it was really funny imagining the set of Eraser Mountain being trapped in the middle of the ocean. The timeline of Eraser Mountain was determined considering the circumstance, but that accident directly impacted us and made us even more aware of the situation.   

――There were moments in Eraser Mountain where the actors spoke about time—in the Eraser series, what were your thoughts on time?

Okada：One day, I was talking to a musician, and that person said: “There’s no such thing as time. There’s only space.” When I heard that, I thought it might be right.

Kaneuji：I sometimes think about time when creating something, and for this performance, I realized that time is only part of a ‘scale.’ If you concentrate for a very long period of time, or heed every moment of time, it feels like time doesn’t actually exist. That’s what I felt especially for this performance. I think the Eraser series focus a lot about time, and moreover highlights various experiences born in multiple distances or spaces. The same idea is showcased in the other series, but I think it’s especially conspicuous in Eraser Mountain. It’s not like: “As Eraser Mountain is a completed work, it needs to be reflected as a relatable experience to the viewers or else it wouldn’t work out as a play”—yet instead, it’s a work that positively accepts the possibility of being assimilated as a completely different experience; and I feel that links to the idea of time that I was just talking about.        

Okada：I genuinely agree with the word ‘scale’ that Kaneuji just mentioned. I handle eclectic ideas, but I think I always incorporate the idea of ‘scale.’ For example, the play Eraser Mountain was obviously shown on the scale of the physical space of the theatre. Also, there was a time frame of two hours. However, it’s certain that there are some ‘scales’ in the play that ignore the time frame or the restrictions. That’s probably one of the biggest factors that allowed me to achieve my goal of truly showcasing what I’d felt at Rikuzentakata, with Eraser Mountain.

Each and every one of the Eraser series is individualized

――The Eraser series have been presented in various media and spaces, and today, how do you feel about showing it on the scale of the theatre?   

Okada：You need to obtain a lot of power to share a physical place with others. We genuinely feel so especially after such opportunities were taken away from us last year; the importance of theaters have been emphasized, and it’s like realizing the ‘importance of health’ when you get sick. In museums, you can perceive the time scale enough from those famous ancient paintings that have been around from hundreds of years ago, and you don’t necessarily need to trace all the way back to the cave paintings to feel the dynamics. However, in theaters, all matters are temporarily created and only last in the moments. And I think it’s worth overcoming the challenges that only arise in theaters. After we put out Eraser Mountain in Kyoto, we did Eraser Forest in Kanazawa—and that felt right. Also, I was confident from the start that presenting the Eraser concept under the system of museum was going to work out. I think it’s rather challenging to perform Eraser Mountain in a human-centered place like theaters. For the Tokyo performance, I was relatively happy that we were able to accomplish up to a certain point.

――For Eraser Mountain—which was performed at the theater in Ikebukuro in February—there were various services that made the space of the theater more welcoming to guests: such as you did workshops before performances, provided audio guides, decreased barriers to make the theater more accessible for people with disabilities, and scheduled performances with“Performances with low viewing-manner hurdles” What did you acquire from executing these services?     

Okada：I felt potential and success with the performances with the ‘low viewing-manner hurdles.’ Because just by notifying the audience that it’s a performance with ‘a low viewing-manner hurdles,’ they would become more laid-back as the bar was instantly set low for them. It felt like a conceptual art or instruction art.

Kaneuji：For this performance, we did livestreaming, had audio-guides, and organized workshops. Yet eventually, they all became an individual artwork instead of just mediums to assist people to further understand Eraser Mountain. I was very fascinated by the outcome. It was fun seeing each medium as a unique work, and they were not only contributing to make the performance multifaceted, but naturally morphing into various forms of art through catering to people from different distances, and with diverse situations, and conditions.

Okada：We’ve done livestreaming for this performance, but there weren’t that many viewers. It’s a shame. I’ve realized that we garner more audience at physical places, and the importance for people to make extra efforts of planning and scheduling to got to the theater, as they feel more rewarded that way.

Kaneuji：The livestream performance itself was great, but it just wasn’t seen much.

Okada：By the way the livestream video is titled Eraser Mountain is Watching, and you can watch the archived video. I would love for people to watch it.

■Eraser Stone
The book version of the Eraser series that coalesces the documentations of the play Eraser Mountain and performance Eraser Forest, interviews, and critic reviews—an essential guide to unravel the contexts of the series.
Price：JPY2,000
Specification 1：A4 size
Total number of pages：144 pages
Specification 2：Japanese and English
Publish：SHUKYU

■“Eraser Mountain” streaming ver. “Eraser Mountain is watching”
Currently livestreaming at the barrier-free platform, THEATER for ALL. It is another version of Eraser Mountain that cannot be experienced in theaters, embodying the concept of Eraser seriesand delivered by a unique approach through video-streaming.
Date：February 22 – April 30^th, 2021
Subtitles：Japanese and English / 155minutes of run time
Ticket：JPY1,800
Livestream link URL:
https://theatreforall.net/movie/erasermountain_archive

Translation Ai Kaneda

The post Toshiki Okada and Teppei Kaneuji Unveil the Meaning Behind the Eraser Series that Convey the New Relationship Between Humans and Things appeared first on TOKION - Cutting edge culture and fashion information.

For this interview, Kotaro Togawa, designer of the pajama-making company “NOWHAW,” tells us about the brand’s concept of a “new, unpredictable, and surprising holiday and world.” Along with his wife and producer Chuuson, NOWHAW produces conceptual outfits such as jacket-shaped pajama day, which can be worn all day, or the “calming” design of the no-collar, fly-front pajama shhh. The brand also excels for its convenience, full of amusing and sensible details such as small pockets to fit paperback books, belt loops for when you need to go out, secret pockets on the back of the collar, phosphorescent woven name labels, and more. The pajamas are not only comfortable to wear but also very durable and easy to wash, thanks to their strong and stable stitches. NOWHAW also collaborates with contemporary artists such as Ken Kagami and Masanao Hirayama.

As the spontaneously funny brand’s concepts and designs suggest, Togawa himself is especially humorous, leading to a friendly and peaceful dialogue from beginning to end. What kind of pajamas will be born from this conversation?

Daisuke Gemma: About six years ago, I found NOWHAW’s kung-fu (a Chinese-style jacket) in a magazine and thought it was super good. After that, I contacted Togawa-san immediately and met him for the first time at his exhibition.

Kotaro Togawa: I was so surprised when you came. Without even thinking, I just blurted out something like, “What?! You have free time?”. (laughs)

Gemma: NOWHAW itself is good, of course, but I also thought that all members of its team had good character and were insanely funny.

Togawa: You laughed no matter what we said; Chuuson and I were so happy. I thought you had to be a reliable person since you took an interest in such an underground pajama brand like ours.

Gemma: The more I know about the brand, the more I realize how exquisite the level of design is; every outfit follows a specific concept.

Togawa: I’m happy to hear that. We started the brand because of people like you and Hiroshi Fujiwara, who make a living through your taste in fashion and music. You actually wear our pajamas, right?

Gemma: In the summer, I wear T-shirts and shorts, but I often wear kung-fu in the winter. You can even wear it to go to the convenience store.

Togawa: It’s cool to put your effort into dressing up nicely, but I really like when it looks effortless, which is one of our strong suits and what we aim to. When I started NOWHAW, I lived in Daikanyama, and the idea was to make pajamas that people could wear at a place like the nearby Tsutaya bookstore, so you don’t have to change before going out.

“Everyone loves to loaf around, right?”

Gemma: What made you decide to make pajamas in the first place?

Togawa: I’ve always loved wearing pajamas and spending time at home. I started NOWHAW after I turned 30, and one of the reasons was that I wanted to make something I could continue doing comfortably for a long time. Also, the public image of loafing around at home isn’t very good, but I’ve always thought that secretly everyone loves to.

Gemma: I actually love to. I have a sofa in my house that I call the “one-person sofa,” which lets you stretch your legs; on my days off, I just sit there looking for movies I want to watch and just spend my time without thinking about anything.

Togawa: I’m the same. I go through my daily routine just for that kind of time. That’s why I decided to create a brand that specializes in loafing around at home, and at the same, integrates my favorite cultures and influences I got through the magazines I used to read, even letting me collaborate with different artists.

Gemma: Before the corona pandemic, I kind of thought that everyone was trying too hard to get out of their houses.

Togawa: Loafing around is surprisingly good for you, too.

Gemma: You also become more particular about what you put in your house.

Togawa: At first, everyone told me it wouldn’t go well. Generally, people spend money on clothes they wear outside; pajamas are a niche market, after all.

Gemma: Well, people enjoy clothes through self-satisfaction, and pajamas are a prime example of that.

Togawa: Exactly, I thought so too. Some people tell me that NOWHAW is in line with the times, but you were the first one who found us. You even came to the exhibition six years ago.

NOWHAW’s functional beauty and fit

Gemma: NOWHAW’s pajamas have different concepts behind them, right?

Togawa: Well, one of their strong points is that they’re not making that too obvious. Pajamas are different from common fashion; they’re mostly seen as daily necessities, but I think that you can play with the design as long as comfort and functionality are guaranteed. Besides, other people are not supposed to see them, so it doesn’t matter if they fit or not, you can just buy them if you want to wear them.

Gemma: Now that I think of it, pajamas are the ultimate private outfit. I don’t really show them to anyone, so when I buy them, I choose what I actually like, and in that sense, I think pajamas are the essence of fashion. Did you make any clothes before starting NOWHAW?

Togawa: I was a pattern designer for a designer brand—or I wish I could say that, but that’s not actually the case. When I was in my twenties, I used to ride garbage trucks for work; I even worked in the kitchen of a shop called “Wakeari Jukujo Kurabu” (in Japanese, Secret Agenda MILF Club). I was just aimlessly living my life without committing to a regular job. After that, there were twists and turns; I was also a sales staff for A.P.C. I was doing quite well, too.

Gemma: What an unexpected side of you.

Togawa: My experience with serving customers really comes in handy, even now. Customers go shopping with a limited budget, right? So, when they’re wondering if they should buy a product, trying to convince them with sales talk like, “It suits you,” or, “It works with your pants” is just pointless; it doesn’t stick. In these situations, talking about the features of the product gets the customer excited.

Gemma: Oh, that’s interesting.

Togawa: For example, “This pocket can fit an iPad mini.” Even if it’s made-up, talking about the functional beauty of things helps to push the customer forward. NOWHAW pajamas include many functions suitable for being inside your house. Also, comfort-wise, it’s better to wear pajamas loosely, so I recommend a larger size for those worried about the fit.

Gemma: They’re functional, and they look cute if you wear them loose.

Togawa: Since ancient times, there’s a saying: “Better too big than too small.” My mom used to say that often. Sometimes I remember my mom’s punchlines.

Gemma: You have to listen to what your mother says (laughs). Many of your designs are based on daily life; when do you come up with such ideas?

Togawa: I’m not doing it on purpose, but if I notice some kind of problem in my daily life, I’ll incorporate it into my designs later. However, I’m not the deft type, so I tend to scrap my samples. Chuuson’s judgment is pretty strict.

Gemma: Your voice suddenly got quiet (laughs).

Togawa: I’m the one who plans and designs, but it’s Chuuson who decides whether it’s good enough to sell. She doesn’t mince her words; she says stuff like, “Who would wear that?”.

Gemma: Chuuson is a good one. She’s making you stronger, right?

Togawa: I always reply with a sad yes and return to my work as if nothing happened. To be fair, I’m grateful that even if she doesn’t like something, she’ll let me make the sample anyway.

Gemma: Sounds like a good relationship.

“What we want to wear” — The collaboration with TOKION

Togawa: We’re not very good at sales; Thankfully, there are nympho-like fans like you who ask about our products.

Gemma: Who are you calling a nympho? (laughs)

Togawa: The thing is, we love our nymphos; we are influenced by them, and they understand us. To me, you’re like a senpai, so it’d be an honor to collaborate with you.

Gemma: It’s important to share an archetype, or rather, common sense when making something together.

Togawa: Collaborations are fun for me too. At the end of the day, though, we all want to make what we want to wear, right? You like shorts, and I think they work with a long-sleeve top. If it’s the middle of summer, you can wear shorts and a T-shirt, and if it gets a little cold, you can wear a long-sleeve top like a coat, and you can wear that for a long time. NOWHAW pajamas’ tops and bottoms are always made with matching materials; the real thrill of collaborating is how much you can play inside such restrictions.

Gemma: It could be interesting to put gussets in the pockets.

Togawa: I always want to make tote bags of the same size as the L-size plastic shopping bags of the supermarket I often go to. I think it’d be very cute to wear pajamas with a bag that has the same pattern.

Gemma: Once, I was stopped and questioned by the police, and when I asked them why they told me that it’s because I was wearing all black (laughs). So, this time I want to make plain navy pajamas instead of black ones.

Togawa: “Pajamas for those who don’t want to be questioned;” sounds good (laughs).

Kotaro Togawa
Born in 1980, Hokkaido, Kōtarō Togawa started his brand NOWHAW with his wife Chuuson in 2013. He also collaborates with artists such as Ken Kagami, Masanao Hirayama, Yuki MIKAMI, BAKIBAKI, Shunsuke Imai, and calligrapher Mami. In addition, he is currently developing other lines such as Twilight, a line of before-and-after pajamas room wear, and HOMESICK by NOWHAW, 100% made of silk pajamas that will make you miss your home.
www.nowhaw.com

Daisuke Gemma:
Born in 1975, Gemma moved to the U.K. in 1996. In 1997, he began working for Browns in London, launching his career as a buyer. After returning to Japan in 2002, he established the Nakameguro select shop FAMILY, where he became executive director. In 2007, he ventured off to establish his own office. Since then, he has worked as branding director of CELUX (a members-only club for LVJ Group). Currently, he works as a creative director at sacai and a buying consultant for Lane Crawford, a specialty luxury store from Hong Kong. He is also a member of the Ministry of Economy, Trade and Industry’s Fashion Policy Council.

Photography: Kazuo Yoshida
Translation: Leandro Di Rosa
Cooperation: MIDORI.so NAKAMEGURO

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The post Daisuke Gemma and NOWHAW’s Kotaro Togawa in conversation — Pajamas: fashion’s ultimate example of self-satisfaction appeared first on TOKION - Cutting edge culture and fashion information.

Two co-creators have contributed to Aoba’s expression of her newfound creativity; musician Taro Umebayashi, who co-composed and arranged all the songs off the album, and photographer Kodai Kobayashi, who worked on the art direction and photography. How was the album born? Writer Tomofumi Hashimoto, who was in Okinawa at the same time as Aoba, speaks to the three creators.

Translucent sea grapes, and how the word “adan” inspired a story 

 —Before we get into your new album, how did you, Ichiko-san, meet your two collaborators?

Ichiko Aoba (Aoba): Last year, I released a 12-inch EP called Karaki to Amaneki with beatmaker Sweet William. And Kodai-san shot the cover art and booklet. That was when I first met him. His photos were pretty, and the way he captured light resonated with me.

Kodai Kobayashi (Kobayashi): To a certain extent, most musicians have a particular way of getting shot, but Aoba-san didn’t have that. When I shot the cover for Karaki to Amaneki, Aoba-san drew circles on the ground. Think hopscotch. Then, all the kids at the park started following her. I remember how fun it was to shoot something unpredictable. You can call it a happy accident or that feeling you get when something is on the verge of happening.

Aoba: The first time I worked with you, Umebayashi-san, was when we made a song for a commercial, right?

Taro Umebayashi (Umebayashi): The first time we met was to make a song for a commercial, but the first song we created together outside of that was the single “amuletum,” released in January 2020. This song is on the album, amuletum bouquet. Ichiko-chan and I belong to the same agency, and I always marveled at how she creates experiences akin to reading a novel, with only her guitar and voice.

Aoba: Behind my classical guitar and voice were sounds only I could hear in my head. I had a specific image of the sounds. Like, “This is where the oboe melody goes, the clarinet trio goes here, and the harp goes there.” I spoke about this to Umebayashi-san, and when we recorded “amuletum,” most of the sounds I had imagined came to life. The process was smooth because he knew what melodies I wanted and hoped for, even without explaining them with words.

—I heard you didn’t make Windswept Adan alone, as it’s the manifestation of everyone using their imagination together. How did you take the first step to create this album?

Aoba: When I was in Okinawa in January 2020, Kodai-san came to the island after I parted ways with you, Hashimoto-san. Kodai-san drove me around Zamami island, and he said, “Those are adan trees.” That was the first time I learned about it. We spoke about it, with me being like, “Hm. So, is adan edible?” and him being like, “Yeah, but I heard it’s not that good.” While we were going back and forth, the phrase windswept adan had already popped up in my mind. I remember telling him, “If I were to make another album, I think I’m going to call it ‘Windswept Adan.’” After the drive, we went back to the main island to go to this izakaya called Urizun. An epiphany struck me when I picked up a piece of sea grape and saw how translucent it was. I put the dishes to the side, put down my notebook, and wrote, “There were no words on the island.” The plot unfolded from there.

—It’s common to hear writers prepare the plot before writing a story, but why did you decide to do that with an album?

Aoba: Umebayashi-san told me, “I want you to write the plot because that would be the map for songwriting.”  

Umebayashi: What Ichiko-chan said about placing the oboe or the harp in certain parts is similar to the idea of opera. Because opera is a comprehensive art form, when everyone shares something, the worldbuilding becomes stronger. I asked her to write the plot down just before she went to Okinawa because I thought it would be something that could be shared evenly with not just Kobayashi-kun and Toshihiko Kasai-kun, the mastering and mixing engineer, but everyone involved in the album.

Aoba: That’s why I stayed in Okinawa, knowing I might create something. Just when I felt like I didn’t have any inspiration to work off of, Kodai-san told me about the adan tree. That and the translucence of sea grapes triggered the inception of a story. I finished writing it around October; I wrote and rewrote it right until the album was in its mastering stage. As the songs gained more meat to them, Umebayashi-san would make demos. And that gave me the strength to polish my writing, which led to me rewriting some parts. Kasai-san would read that and be like, “Let’s change how it’s mixed then.”  Umebayashi: A lot was born from our interactions with one another.

Connected by inspiration, everyone put out the same amount of energy  

Aoba: We worked in a broad, loose way from start to finish. Sometimes once Kodai-san’s photos were almost complete, Umebayashi-san would look at them and compose a song. Usually, designers and photographers get involved in the visual part of the process, but it was a refreshing balance because Kodai-san was there from the beginning.

Kobayashi: It doesn’t happen often. It’s common practice to receive the completed songs and then think about ways to build the visuals from there. I’ve never really experienced making something like this with other people, so it was interesting. It was exciting to think my point of view might affect the music. The plot itself was still unfinished, so it was like running into unknown territory. There was no right or wrong with the photos; I was free to take whatever I wanted. We judged the images on whether the vibe was good, so the criteria were fuzzy. I’m unsure if “fuzzy” is the right word… 

Aoba: When you look at things in a fuzzy way, you heavily lean on your intuition. If you could connect with your intuition rather than your thinking, then I think that means you’re in touch with something deep in your heart. Everyone was inspired equally, which is the step before being imaginative, and that’s why the foundation for Windswept Adan is so strong.

Kobayashi: Having a playful spirit played a massive part.

Umebayashi: I think everyone on the team shared that spirit. It wasn’t about being stuck in your role, like “I’m the composer,” “I’m the photographer,” or “I’m the lyricist.” Everyone put out the same amount of energy, and that’s what I’m proudest of.

Accepting the light, the return of conviction  

—I don’t mean to force the connection, but because you made this album in 2020, I believe the things you felt during the year are reflected somewhere on the album. What did you feel over this past year?

Umebayashi: This situation allows us to be aware of the meaningful things in front of our eyes. What I want to express through music is that everyone can realize such things. It doesn’t take someone with exceptional talent. I wished to convey that the most with this album. Also, thanks to everyone working together, this album became something to be proud of.

Kobayashi: I spoke about this with the production team thoroughly: our senses became sharper by the day because we stayed at home for a long time. Eating, touching, walking — all these senses. I decided to be conscious of the things that happened in front of my eyes. I welcomed the blowing of the wind and the blooming of flowers as a part of my body. That’s what I wanted to value, and I think that informed the photos I took for Windswept Adan.

Aoba: I can deeply relate to what Kodai-san said just now. Living in Tokyo, my ears pick up on many sounds, partially because music is my occupation. When the city became quiet, I realized I had unknowingly developed the ability to shut out the noise. My ears had hardened from the city noise, but they began to soften slowly. It was as if my hearing had reverted to when I was born. And what I started hearing was my inner, dormant voice; until that point, the outside noise drowned it out. It became easier to immerse in it because of how clear it sounded. I would ask myself questions and find out how I felt and thought. It’s not just my hearing, though. My sense of smell and sight also improved similarly.

In terms of life itself, I would wonder, “Why do planktons light up?” Many artists I know use the word “light” with care, and when I genuinely, wholeheartedly accepted that word, this feeling like conviction came back to me. It was a year where I felt like I could live on because of this conviction I gained. It’s like I got a lucky charm.

—Do you mean your understanding of “light” changed?

Aoba: This goes back to what Umebayashi-san said. Something important doesn’t necessarily equate to something bright. For instance, the feeling of “It’s not raining today. The sun is out” is a special feeling. This is because something you took for granted is, in fact, valuable. If a big earthquake hit us right now, we might die. If you got coronavirus tomorrow, you might die silently and alone in your home. These possibilities are everywhere, every day. Each and everything, from “I can’t see them from here, but a certain someone is living in a faraway place” to “A sea turtle is swimming in the ocean of Zamami,” felt illuminated with light. It was like being surprised by magic from moment to moment.

Imagining the first plankton emitting light, feeling surprised forever  

—The listeners of Windswept Adan also lived through 2020. Was there anything you were particular about, such as what sort of demographic you wanted?

Aoba: Making sure the album could reach far into the future was a big theme. The lyrics and the music are quite personal, and I didn’t want to make the album only for those living in the present. Early on, I spoke about how I wanted to make something for creatures living 300 years later with the team. Also, I think Kasai-san had a strong desire to capture the atmosphere, not just the visible sounds. We used a mic that could record every single sound in the room and placed it at the best spot. That’s how we tried to record the album to reach those in the future. What about you, Kodai-san and Umebayashi-san?

Kobayashi: I still can’t explain what I shot. Kasai-san said, “I still don’t know what I made,” and I understand him in that regard.

Umebayashi: We all have our separate universes, and I think Windswept Adan is one stepping stone we have in common. Ichiko-chan and Kobayashi-kun will probably create more of these “points” down the line, and I think this means of expression fits the era we live in today. I’m not sure how humanity and the ecosystem will be like 300 years from now, but if we create works that uphold order, then I think that might speak to others in the future. I feel like we’re at a stage where we’re exploring undiscovered orders. Because Windswept Adan is another stepping stone, I think this will connect to the next piece of music. I hope I can work with this team again.

Aoba: Umebayashi-san and I spoke about this over the phone. Windswept Adan won’t end here, as it’s the first opening. It’s just the beginning.

—I’m intrigued by your idea of “300 years later.” The fact that this album might reach someone 300 years later, where the language and culture might look different, is the same as how we’re receiving signals and signs from those who lived 300 years before ourselves.

Aoba: The lyrics of “Dawn in the Adan” are precisely about that. We’re here talking to one another today thanks to those beyond Ohigan (a Japanese holiday when people visit the graves of their late family). Our grandmothers and their grandmothers and so forth — I’m so overwhelmed by that. And I’ll forever be. I’m also amazed by how we’re still alive, even though we started conversing a while ago. When I say “300 years later,” I’m talking about the far, far past. I’m tracing back to when the first plankton was born.

This is a personal memory but, when I played the role of Eh-chan in the theater piece cocoon in 2015, I felt like I was going to die with each succession of the sound of a gun. I can’t say if I was really on a sandy beach, but I can say what I had experienced was real to me. I went through that and live through music today, so I can’t help but feel overwhelmed by everything.

The first plankton to be born must’ve felt startled but happy. After learning of its loneliness, it must’ve lit itself up to find a mate. I want to carry that plankton’s force with me and live my life. I hope to remain that way, even after my physical body dies.

Kobayashi: I feel like we’re expressing the distance of 300 years by trying to transmit that light in its purest form. If you can express your amazement or emit a light that says, “I’m here,” it will reach someone, even if the amount of light is small. It could be slow or light speed.

Aoba: I mean, the stars we see are from long, long ago. Kobayashi: “How can we transmit that light without damaging it?” I think we all thought about that and had fun making the album.

Ichiko Aoba is a musician born on January 28th, 1990. She released her first album, Razor Girl, in 2010 and has released six albums since then. With her voice and classical guitar in hand, she plays her music across Japan and the world. Aside from singing, she works in many fields. Ichiko Aoba also works as a narrator and creates music for commercials, theater, and art festivals. She founded her label, hermine in 2020, the tenth anniversary of her debut. She continues creating warm, fantastical worlds.
http://www.ichikoaoba.com
Twitter：@ichikoaoba

Taro Umebayashi is a composer and arranger. He graduated from the Department of Composition at the Tokyo University of the Arts. As [milk], he released his first album, greeting for the sleeping seeds, in 2012 via Rallye Label. He works across diverse fields like music production, composition for other artists, soundtracks, anime music, and music for commercials. He is assiduously working on his second album.
http://piano.tt/umebayashi

Kodai Kobayashi is a photographer born in Niigata prefecture. Aside from working on the art direction of Windswept Adan, he has also directed the music video for Porcelain, which is available to watch now.

Photography Kodai Kobayashi

Translation Lena Grace Suda 

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The post Ichiko Aoba, Taro Umebayashi, and Kodai Kobayashi discuss Windswept Adan appeared first on TOKION - Cutting edge culture and fashion information.