Musings on Kodo's "Mystery"

Yesterday I had the opportunity to see "Mystery,"  the newest performance by Kodo.  The experience was made doubly enjoyable since I went with a friend who was a former Kodo apprentice.  It has been five years since I last saw Kodo live,  and was quite looking forward to it. 

I had read that "Mystery" would be a counterpart of sorts to Kodo's previous "Amaterasu,"  which I saw back in 2006.   Besides my love of taiko, I was especially intrigued with the show since it would be dealing with themes that have long interested me, namely the ancient spirituality of Japan.  (That said, the next section is simply my own interpretation, and may be miles away from what Artistic Director Bando Tomasaburo had intended.) 

The show opens with a darkened stage, in the days before there was a "Japan."  A handful of figures come out with lights on their heads, bending occasionally to plant rice.  From this first piece, the female members of Kodo would be featured prominently throughout the first half, perhaps as a nod to a time when the archipelago consisted of little more than loosely connected clans, a time when shamanesses held a pivotal role.  This would become more explicit in the piece "Namahage," in which three women make reverent offerings to the wild deities whom they encounter in the wild.  Up until now the stage had been lit only by other performers carrying had-held lamps.  At some point, a spotlight begins to light the action, perhaps the coming of the Sun Goddess Amaterasu herself.  Then we get more conventional overhead lighting, as the Shinto cult brightens and comes to the fore.  Many of the pieces in this first act have tints of the music of Southeast Asian, a region which may have been the cultural source of these early shamanistic clans of that time. 

The second act begins a similar vein, in dim lighting, with a handful of women at the center of the action.  Suddenly, they encounter a Chinese lion, which begins to shake and dance.  At first, the lion chases the women, but then eventually they begin to run after it, perhaps a reference to the coming of culture from the Asian mainland, embraced to such an extreme that the older ways were eventually subsumed within.  From here, it is all a show of strength, the male Kodo members coming to the fore, blowing us away with their power.  And thus it builds into what my aforementioned friend laughingly refers to as "The Man Show." And due to this power,  Japan's championing of society and culture over darkness is complete. 

Musically, the show is incredible.  The speed on which the performers play Katsugi-Okedo, especially on the closing piece of the first act, is ridiculously fast.  (I've seen my share of taiko performances, but have never seen such rapid stick work.)  The movement and dance choreography has similar perfection.  The performers never cease moving.  Even on the more static numbers, there are a lot of flourishes, a lot of twirling sticks.  I was intrigued too by how much of a foreign element there were to the more recent compositions.  Some of the vocals in the first act sounds almost medieval European.        

Perhaps the biggest surprise was how few of the performers I recognized. (The members of Kodo that I actually know personally were nowhere to be seen, with the exception of Uchida Eri, who happily has grown into a central role in the group.)    Perhaps Bando had hoped to utilize this youth as a means of accentuating a time when the culture and beliefs of this country were still developing.  But the young performers are beyond the development stage, and demonstrate already an air of mastery with every strike of the drum.  Which in itself cuts both ways.  This perfection of both playing and movement demonstrates the strength of Kodo's apprentice program, yet it is dangerously close to creating almost cookie-cutter performers.  Nearly everyone looks the same,  no one member is particularly distinctive.  While Kodo has always been an ensemble, a collective, right down to living communally,  previous members brought something individual to the performances.  Many of those older members are now teaching workshops, or are performing collectively with non-Kodo performers across various cultures and performance styles.  I feel somewhat doubtful that this young generation has the ability to exude enough unique and individual creativity that will help them stand out from the others, and hence go on to pass that creativity to others, as their elders are currently doing.  I hope time proves me wrong.

Kodo's magical "Mystery" tour with continue through the spring, including dates at Kyoto's Minamiza on May 30, 31, and June 1. 



On the turntable: Jefferson Airplane, "Ignition"

Drum Rollin' on the River

The heat of last Saturday was ideal for ice cream and boat travel. So Marcin, Hideo and I went up river in search of taiko. The sound of the drums echoing off the canyon walls was magic, punctuated by the beauty of the flute that cut though the roar, unmiked.

Marcin's write-up of this event in 2006 can be found in the second half of this post. Scroll down until you see boats.

On the turntable: Quantic, "Apricot Morning"

EC '08: A Cranky Reinterpretation

Despite the respite I found during Obon and later in Kochi, I still found a slight disconnect between perception and reality. This fact was driven home after arriving in Naoetsu. I'd made this trek to Sado six times and knew my route quite well. Yet it was only after I'd bought my ticket and some food before I thought to ask myself, "Where the hell is everybody?" A quick check of the ferry times told me that the departure times had changed in April. (In my own defense, Kodo's English page still listed the old schedule.) I'd rushed off at dawn's proverbial crack in order to sit and wait for three hours. For the expensive jetfoil. This service, while convenient, took away all the joy of the slower, lumbering approach toward the island, time spent laughing it up with punters just as happy as yourself. Upon arriving, I broke my own speed record in setting up my tent, grabbed my tickets and food, then joined JesusChris and pals to climb the trail to the mountain stage, under the shrieks of sex-crazed cicadas.

Unlike last year, we found a spot halfway back on the right. This farther vantage point gives a good overview of the choreography, yet missing is the subtle details of what the individual drummer is actually up to. It was good fun though, cracking jokes with J.C. about, well, everything really. Yet my eyes rarely left the stage. Each of the few dozen times I've seen Kodo is always a little different, a testament to their ever-evolving nature. This past year saw the group split into many smaller subunits, touring to express a more personal interpretation of the group's music. A few years ago, Marcin expressed how he felt that the cookie-cutter nature of Kodo's apprentice program, while admittedly producing fantastic drummers, has the unfortunate side effect of leaching out much of the personal attributes and talents of the individual. (Though this is the nature of any Japanese apprenticeship, shu ha ri and all that.) Tonight, on stage before us, we could see brief instances of reclaimed self-expression, for better or worse. The trio of P.P.C. made their usual appearance, but to be frank I'm getting a little tired of their one joke act. Nothing to see here, move along. More impressive were the ladies of Cocon, with their demonstrations of strength and delicacy. In fact, the theme of this show seemed to be "Grrrl Power." After the usual thunder of "Yatai Bayashi," Chieko came out to play solo, the first time I've ever seen her drum onstage. The boys would do a heavy drum piece, then were followed by something light, like the almost Celtic strains of flute and bowed shamisen. For these more mellow, choreographed pieces, I appreciated my position further back. Maybe I've been watching too much Kurosawa, but from back here everything looked surprisingly flat, as if seen through telephoto lens. Yet having worked on that stage, I know how deep it is. Bizarre. (Speaking of filmmakers, one thing audible that I noticed is how each drummer has a particular tuning, similar to how John Woo has a different sound for each of his character's guns.) As usual, there was the obligatory Odaiko, with it's rippling muscles and flexing cheeks. And every year, without fail, somebody in the crowd would actually be dancing to it. Always brings to mind a lyric by the late great Dead Milkmen. But the girls held their own, taking nearly all the premier drum parts. It almost felt like Tsubasa was the lead drummer tonight. (Although she was outplayed on the final piece by Natsumi. I mentioned this later to a Kodo insider and he said, "You better not let Tsubabsa hear you say that." ) Overall, while this show of grace and skill was beautiful to watch, it never got the crowd going. The key to Friday's show is usual an energetic, "Irrashai!" But this year we never got lift off.

Down off the hill again, that lack of energy was still apparent. There was nothing at all going on, no drumming, no fire-spinning hippies. J.C. and the girls and I grabbed some beers and sat down by the water. All the while, increasing winds whipped up waves which would cause the sailboat moored in front of us to rock violently, its ropes slapping out a ringing Morse-code on the mast with every roll. Bad weather on the way...

After a surprisingly good sleep, I did some yoga in front of my tent, then met up with J.C. to watch Cocon go on in a light rain. The worsening weather was fitting for the next act, a group of deer dancers, whose eerie movements perfectly mimicked the animal. Like shamanistic beasts moving through the mist. Soon after, I was off to my Odaiko workshop. It is the only Taiko that I'd never trained on, and with its relatively simple rhythms, it seems to be about stamina rather than skill. There were about forty of us, and only two drums, so we only got to play in short increments. But this was enough, since the shoulders begin to scream after a couple minutes. (Much respect to those who play it onstage, lasting for about 13 minutes or so.) I later mentioned to Yoshikazu how happy I was to be able to play the new Odaiko that I'd seen in construction while with KASA Mix back in 2005.

The rain stopped in time for the night's concert. J.C. had gone back home, but I was found by a group of fellow yoga teachers from the Kyo. The five of us all work together, but never seem to meet. We scored good seat up close to the stage, but it didn't matter. Within minutes of taking the stage, the lead singer of Olodum yelled out for everyone to dance, and immediately, hundreds of people rushed to dance down in front. Usually dancing is reserved to the areas of to the side, but tonight it was totally chaotic. Kodo's security team tried to get the crowd to sit back down but were completely ignored. When something if over planned, there is a certain feeling of schadenfrede in watching things fall apart within minutes. After all, the theme was Brazil night. Unlike most years, when the majority of the audience is Kodo fans, here it seemed that half had come for Olodum. And these fans wouldn't be budged for two hours. During the melee, I looked over to see poor Joe, holding his arms up as a barrier between two big Brazilians practically giving him a lap dance. He looked at me and rolled his eyes. In response, I mouthed the words in time to the Bob Marley cover currently being played on stage: "Everything's gonna be alright." Directly in front of me, a small group of people was bouncing and pogo-ing. One girl, incredibly drunk, would take a few steps backward and then run to shove her friends, who, well into their own cups, would fall all over the people around them. Normally I'm pretty subdued about things. Plus, most of the dancing I did in high school had the prefix, "Slam-" attached. But this was outright dangerous. As she stumbled in my direction, I grabbed her by the shoulder, spinning her around to shout in her face, "Cut that shit out right now!" She did, and luckily, not one her super-sized friends seemed to mind my buzzkill. On stage, Olodum powered on. I'd really been looking forward to seeing them, but it got old for me after about 15 minutes. Their rhythms were redundant, their technique limited. One giant, all done up in neon dreads, would repeatedly throw his stick waaaay up in the rafters, only to miss catching it half the time. He seemed to be the Flava Flav of the group. I laughed at the religious rites of large concerts, where the audience mimics the gestures of the singer, both sides collaborating on a large amount of call-and-response. The monorhythm finally finished two hours later. (At least for this night. Throughout the weekend, samba teams from all over Japan would occasionally march around, playing their single memorized rhythm. Again. I used to love Brazilian music, but up close, I feel that it's more about performance and spirit rather than technique. And that's fine. But likewise I prefer actually talented musicians to DJs. Not much of a party person anymore, I'm afraid.) Usually during the Saturday night show, Kodo will come on to perform a few songs with the guest, but tonight they only played one. And, boy did they look small standing amidst these massive Bahians. The skies too seemed to protest, letting loose as we all lumbered past the cattle shoots the cops had erected, creating more of a hazard in the rain. (But a music festival isn't a music festival unless there's some mud.) Tired and grumpy, I lurched toward my tent, drenched and dripping with rain.

Miserable sleep. The nearby constant dripping upon my body had me dreaming of a Chinese invasion conducted at a time when all eyes were on Olympic Beijing. Everything I had was drenched. Back at EC 2005, I'd had had the same experience, which had permanently damaged a drum and some electronics equipment, yet I hadn't remembered to waterproof the rainfly later. I'd woken sometime in the night to a long coughing jag. While I don't usually mind the lack of creature comforts, I doubted I wanted to sleep out in the rain another night. Luckily, while in line for tickets at the shrine, I met an English guy who would be heading back to Tokyo that day. His room proved to be free. My relief was short lived once I found that I had lost my camera. I spent the better part of the morning retracing my steps of the previous night, when I'd last remembered having it.

Giving up, I set off for a Brazilian percussion workshop, which was extremely dull. Rather than featuring a member of Olodum, it was led by a middle-aged Japanese woman whose main qualification seemed to be her genkiness. The first half consisted of clapping and stomping to a single beat--for an hour. I considered leaving during the break, but didn't wanted her to lose face. A shame that I didn't leave since the second hour also had us focus on a single beat, though at least we got drums this time.

Disappointed, I dragged my stuff through a persistent rain to my new digs. One of my roomies was a guy I'd met (somewhere?) before; the other was the boyfriend of the slam-dance girl I'd put in a Vulcan Death Grip the night before. (Not Death Grip exactly. More like the grip of Faux Authority. ) Check-in time conflicted with my work schedule, but I was allowed to come to work late. When I finally arrived at the Flea Market staff tent, it was impossible to enter due to yet another costumed samba group working their way through their single song repertoire. When I could finally get into the tent, my work shift was half over, so we decided to let me off. With the ferry schedule change, I wouldn't be doing any work Monday either. This year, the festival was mine to "enjoy."

While having a soak in the rotemburo, I reflected on this 'enjoyment.' EC wasn't what it used to be. Last year had just been too big. I know that after the 10th anniversary in '97, Kodo had purposely scheduled the following year's event for May, in order to reduce the numbers. This year too felt strange. Some folks have complained that the security was too much, but I believe that these were measures that had been adopted to handle to increased mobs of last year, measures which were used again. I felt that this year's EC once again had that mellow vibe of years past, sadly missed in 2007. It was the other things, such as the changes in seating arrangements, plus the fact that the evening performance was now "all-or-nothing,' no longer using the smaller venue in the case of rain. The festival didn't feel less peaceful so much as too top heavy. It was as if Kodo again wanted a reduction in the number of fans. Scheduling the event during Obon next year will bring about exactly that. As for me, I sat in the hot water debating if I'll even come next year. If I do, I certainly won't work, or take workshops. Simply 'enjoy.'

I met up with the Kyoto gang and we lounged awhile around the flea market area. Unlike last night when I'd been the first up the mountain, this time we were amongst the last. Mobs of staff were on hand to prevent a repeat of last night's melee. And shortly into Kodo's set, I began to rethink my ideas of not coming again. Sometime during the weekend, they'd refound the magic. As they do, they were sharing it with us, helping us to forget the bad weather, which was miraculously clearing for the first time since Friday. Olodum only joined them for a few numbers, but they weren't a group who showed much versatility. Musical collaborations go somewhat beyond, "Dumdumdum, dadadadadum." Friday's division of labor was present this time too, with the men singing out in front, backed up by the women banging away on the Okedo just beyond. The dancers danced in their area off to the side and the punters sat equally contentedly on their tarps. Five encores later, Kodo had won us back.

Plus, I found my camera.

On the turntable: John Lennon, "The Complete Lost Lennon Tapes"

Winter into Spring

I was in a hotel, around where Gion meets the hills of Kiyomizu. The hotel was a week away from opening, and its long sprawling carpets had seen little contact with human feet. It was a bit odd to be here, in a building complete but for the people it was built for. The owner of the place was a former sommelier from France, Japan born, but now morphed into something unique due to decades away. I listened to him speak of his time abroad, of the organic vineyard he owned, and how each region has its own distinct flavor, and a sip of your own homegrown can be like tasting the soil from which you have sprung. And despite the rapt attention with which we all held him, and despite my own fascination with his words, soft and nearly inaudible due to the fountain in the corner, I could feel the anger welling within me. I kept asking myself why I had been brought here, why was I not up at the dojo, or home with a film. And the anger bubbled up more, cut only by a slight smile at the thought of being a character in "The Shining," sitting at the bar in a big empty hotel, on the brink of losing my shit.

Flashback a week. Miki and I are settled in on the sofa with an Ozu film. His movies usually work on me like a hot bath, melting into the still camerawork, the slow edits, miles away from the frenetic cutting I was raised with, being of the MTV generation. Yet tonight, I found myself fidgeting, my ass unable to find the right connection with sofa, my hands busy looking for something to do.

I then realize how high my stress levels have been, how absolutely at sea I've been due to the demands of my coursework. An afternoon at my drums, for the first time since last summer, brought my full concentration to something else, something non-heady. 'Drifting too far from the shore.' For some reason that line from the old spiritual had been in my head during midterm in Vermont, and now today, it seems prophetic. I'm done. I've gotten a lot out of my course, but to carry on this last month or so, merely to get a license in something I don't really plan to use, feels superfluous. Purely ego driven. And once the decision is made, the air seems a little bluer, my breathing more free...

On the turntable: The Lemonheads, "It's a Shame about Ray"

On the nighttable: Michael Zeilenziger, "Shutting out the Sun"

On the reel table: "Flavor of Green Tea over Rice" (Ozu, 1952)

Eastern Edges

Halifax. My friend Marcin, (who you may remember from our Kyoto adventures) was living here now, teaching at the local university. The morning after I arrived, we had breakfast at the hip Blower's Paper Chase cafe, then walked around the city and along the waterfront. After beers at Garrison brewery, we had lunch at the old Henry House, then drove out to Peggy Cove to hop along the huge granite stones of the shoreline. The sea beyond was teeming. The heads of seals bobbed just offshore, sharing their meal with the seabirds who would dive into the frigid water from great heights. Further out were the fountains of spray of a pod of whales migrating south along the coast. Incredible. Back in town, we chilled out a bit at Cabin Coffee amidst the lounge music and powerful scent of maple. That night was band practice. I met the other three members of the group--all Japanese. Within seconds my body language and style of speaking changed. It is amazing how at home I am in Japanese culture, and how it, not my native North American culture surrounding it, dictates how I act. Rehearsal was fun, watching them run thru some pieces with flute, taiko, and voice. The last hour or so I joined in for a jam session. Later were the obligatory beers.

The next day I was solo. I had a quick swim in a waterfront pool open this late in the year due to the warm weather. I spent most of my day zigzagging up and down the hills of Halifax, looking around the Khyber Gallery and the Art School, hanging out at various coffee shops like the Paper Chase and Just Us!, and tripping over the piles of used books in the bookshops. I probably walked every square meter of the city's sidewalk, seeing the same people again and again. Halifax seems to have an overabundance of the dreadlocked and the homeless. My favorite character was this happy-go-lucky guy that seemed like a drifter with his big fuzzy Abbie Hoffman head of hair, who I most often saw begging change, though I once saw him walking with great purpose down a steep hill toward the waterfront. (To buy a beavertail maybe?) That night Marcin and I met up with the Japanese again to go see the performance Drum! The music was terrific, but the message of harmony through music was a tad overdone and somewhat naive. (Ask the indigenous people their opinion, if you can find any.) Later we all went up to Rogue's Roost for Pub Quiz. Walking home past a centuries old graveyard, I couldn't help but think that the hard work of the dead lying there had a direct correlation in my day.

Another cemetery closed out my visit. I'd been to the Maritime Museum the day before and was surprised to find that many of the Titanic's dead had been brought here since Halifax was the closest port to the site of the wreck. On the outskirts of town I found them, about half lying in graves unmarked for nearly a century. The taller stones told tales of valor and duty that no longer exists, which is perhaps just as well since it led to so many fatalities. Heading back to the waterfront, I looked out into the rainy mist and imagine the Titanic rescue ships coming in, bearing horrors yet unknown to the people watching from the shore.


On the turntable: Prem Joshua, "Water down the Ganges"
On the nighttable: Richard Ford, "Women with Men"

EC at 20

This August, I've been around, but the words haven't followed, creativity bottled up behind the stopper of analytic thought. A punishing Psych course, followed by an intensive Japanese language program takes part of the blame. Choice of reading material takes the rest--heavy on non-fiction and the fiction that there was being more of the storyteller variety, far too little wordcraft to even poke my muse, let alone rouse her.
...So here again I attempt to blow dust from my quill and begin.

Miki and I got the news late. Our overnight train to Niigata wouldn't be running. We'd bought our tickets literally hours before that region's heavy earthquake, yet hadn't made the connection until a few nights before we were supposed to depart. Luckily, we got seats on the last express heading up to Toyama, and would make due with local trains the rest of the way. We arrived in Naoetsu late, our boat not scheduled until early the next morning. Making the best of it, we laid out our bed rolls on the concrete behind the ferry terminal to pass a restless night.

The trip over to Sado was my fifth, and as usual, time was divided between dozing and feeding the gulls who would dive to take the crackers from your fingers. Once in Ogi, we found a good shady spot for the tent, grabbed our tickets, and went over to the flea market area to set up our space for Miki to do shiatsu. Suddenly, the wind kicked up, making it impossible to put up our tarp cover. Then the rain started. Miki gave up, heading off to her voice workshop; I sat on the wet grass and people-watched. Our neighbor and I got talking and decided to try again once the wind ceased. It was successful until the rain grew heavier, creating small pools on the material which would then leech through. Unless the weather was perfect, this would never work. I was frustrated, having wasted this entire first day of the festival on the fucking operation. But I perked up after having a good meal and the weather began clearing for the night's show. In line at the shrine, I again saw Taiko Tari, who I'd met in the camp area earlier that day. I'd been enjoying her blog for the last year and we'd been in contact prior to this year's EC. She and her freund Maren had promised to save us seats up front by the stage. In year's past, I'd always just turned up at the show, preferring to sit partway back in order to see the overall setup. I mean, it's an outdoor show, and there isn't really a bad seat in the whole place. I never had been able to understand why people would spend hours in line just to get the colored cards which decided the order of entry. But now, sitting literally in the front row, I recognized that yes, "Oh my God!" is in the details. To see every dance step, every subtle twist of a wrist, every change of expression. Eternal thanks Tari! In the second half, a few of the older Kodo members played the new Odaiko carved from a gnarled piece of tree trunk and prepared especially for this, the 20th Earth Celebration. I'd seen this tree two years ago during my KASA mix training. Kaoru stood in the darkness, his white-clad figure drifting up to stage out of the trees beyond, then stepping up to silence the rumble with his eerie Nohkan. And later, Yatai-bayashi with 8 drummers? C'mon!

The next morning, Miki and I met a couple of Dutch-Aussie retirees who'd been sailing the Pacific for 6 years. They invited us to have coffee on their yacht. Later, we went to join Tamango's rhythm workshop. His talk was amazing, mentioning that rhythm is always in existence but occasionally it uses us as an instrument with which to present it. (This is something I've touched on before in these pages.) He led us through some moves which are similar to how I practice drumming when I don't have a a drum kit, with claps and legslaps and heel-toe taps. At the end, someone asked how he got started and he literally danced us through 200 years of tap history, going an hour over his alotted time. Magic.
Miki spent the rest of the day doing treatments and I wandered about, saying hello to familiar faces and just simply enjoying the vibe. That night, Tari again scored us good seats from which to see one of my heroes, Zakir Hussein. His technique went beyond anything I have seen or could even imagine, and I believe I may have compared his hands to "epileptic spiders."

Sunday morning at EC is a work day for me and once again I was lingering behind the CDs in the shop. I'm supposedly there for translation help, but I spend most of my time instead discussing in Japanese the merits of various Kodo albums. In the past, it was here that I usually met with the guest artists, but this time it was merely Masuda Mio (the fado singer's) grandma. Sweet thing. Miki finished shiatsu around lunchtime so we spent the rest of the day hanging out at the fringe to see various groups (Taiko Tari's taiko troupe being one), going to the onsen, and eating local seafood. That night's show was pretty mindblowing, with all the guests sharing the stage in small permutations, them having a massive cluster jam session at the end. Kaoru, the artist director, was just beaming at the end. The main highlight for me this year, was seeing Ei-chan, a man in his forties, absolutely airborne as he'd heave his head toward the stage during "Lion." To see him keep the same passion for over twenty years brought tears. "熱き思ひ" indeed.

Monday was another workday, with flea market cleanup, and waving at the departing ship. Miki and I joined our new Aussie friends for a swim, then we headed up to Kodo Village for the after party. Ei-chan manned the BBQ again, with other Kodo members and staff hanging around. I chatted mostly with some apprentices this time, mainly with my friend Joe who is in his first year. Aside from the drumming, he's learning alot about himself and has insight at 24 that most people never seem to get. Noticibly absent this year were the other guest musicians, except for Mio who sat quietly in the dark with a couple friends. Exhausted, Miki and I went home early.

Early the next morning, we caught a ride back to Niigata city on our new friends' yacht. The wind ensured a quick ride, but the waves were somewhat high and eating was a risking undertaking. It was a joy to lounge on the deck, feeling the roll of the sea, and the sun on your face. Time was meaningless, the wind and the currents and the planet dictating our schedule. Nearing the harbor, an Italian windsurfer sailed out to chat, then we followed a high speed ferry in. We found that the quake had limited our choices of rides home, so we were forced to shell out for the Shink, first to Tokyo, then back home.


And as August now gives way to September, I read this back and reflect on the lack of art in my life. After the festival, I find I greatly miss the music, not having played a gig in over a year. And the words? They seem to have deserted me in this post. But like cliched swallows, they'll return, as the pace of life once again slows toward autumn. I remind myself that the head is not always the best pilot. Better to let it slide over to ride shotgun and give the heart the controls again.


On the turntable: Bright Eyes, "Letting off the Happiness"
On the nighttable: Haruki Murakami, "The Elephant Vanishes"

Architectural Dance Steps

I've mentioned in these pages that I was worried about the increase in posts about music. The fear lies in not knowing the proper steps while "dancing about architecture," a famous quip that I'd attribute to Dorothy Parker, though not without conjecture. Yet I also seem to recall Goethe's claim that architecture is frozen music, so there you go. Whatever the case, I can't write about last weekend without mentioning music.

Friday night I was in Osaka, to catch Kodo's annual year end show there. Enjoyable as always. It started out with clackers which resonated loudly thru my head to the point that the sound cleared out my sinuses. Much welcome relief after days of rain. Marcin and I sat omnipotently up in the balcony, our wisecracks drawing frightening-close comparisons with the two old codgers from the Muppet show. Many of the musical pieces tread familiar ground, though it was nice to see Yoshikazu play Odaiko again. After his long solo, as he knelt in his own sweat, back heaving, I imagined him thinking, "I'm getting too old for this shit."
Afterward, a few of us went backstage to say our hellos, then moved on to some trendy spot for a New Year's party. Later, our mad dash for trains was epic, missing the last Keihan train by five minutes, the last Hankyu by one, me humming "Race for Your Life, Charlie Brown" until stepping aboard a warm JR train filled with drunks.

Saturday, MatsuMiki and I went to visit Keith and Masumi at their new digs in rural Kyoto. Local Legend Tim was in town for the party, which included a few of the local housewives and their kids. After dinner, we started to play some acoustic versions of Keith's songs. Although I've taken loads of drumming workshops this year, I haven't played in front of an audience since June, and was looking forward to connecting musically with my friends. But before things began to really cook, one of the kids fell down, drawing blood. Game over, man.

Sunday I spent drumming, three hours on Miyake, three on Yatai. Neither of these pieces are difficult musically, but require serious demands physically, particularly the calves, shoulders, and abs.. (My arms are still heavy as I write this post.) After the workshop, I rushed over to KyoDai's Seibu Kodo for Big Frog Day. I've long wanted to see this place, the center of late '60s student riots and still beyond University control. (Back in Isla Vista, I had been equally happy to see radical bands like Public Enemy, Disposable Heroes, and Rage Against the Machine play in the former Bank of America building torched during anti-war protests in 1970.) Passing thru a torii arch painted psychedelic colors, into an open lot now in full hippie vibe. I'm sure most of the usual Kyoto longhairs were here, washing down fry bread with Chai, or buying new clothing made of hemp. Many more were inside, watching Nami-san going thru his set. I've seen Nami's gigs a dozen times and have played percussion for him occasionally. (Even Ken-chan banged away on tin cups at one show.) He seems to follow some kind of hippie underground railway, playing each town with a collective of local musicians like myself. But this was the first time I'd seen him play fully fleshed out with a large band, including a young drummer playing with what I initially thought were rather unimaginative fills. But the main difference is that he was up there and I wasn't. Another quick impression was that the young girl singing backup sounded a lot better than Isako and her Yoko Ono-esque whelps and yawps. I assumed that these backup musicians were some KyoDai students. Imagine my shock when they later came out alone to play the second set. It had been Big Frog all along. Rather than Nami opening for them, they had chosen to play together. On their own tunes, they were really incredible, no real surprise considering that they're essentially the Phish of Japan. Throughout the entire show, a couple of artists were creating their visions, spray-painting white designs on clear plastic sheets hanging behind the stage. It was like watching spiders at work. Meanwhile, the band was cranking thru some really ripping songs, and despite my extreme fatigue I still found the energy to dance, far in the back with the drunks and other casualties. A couple nice hippie touches to the show were a dog wandering the stage and yawning, plus Nami-san missing his cue to rejoin the band. He wandered onstage midsong, played a few chords before putting down his guitar, made some bizarre hand gestures, then wandered off again. (Not unlike the dog, really.) Around this point I noticed Isako, having just arrived late from a long drive down from Tottori. When it was over, we both went backstage. I really felt guilty about initially underrating the band's drummer since he turned out to be an extremely friendly and nice guy. The gang seemed to be settling in with their respective substances and I didn't want to intrude, so after a short visit with Nami, I headed back out to the friendly freak scene outside. I'm sure there were some other friends around, but I was too tired to dive in. Nor did I want to linger too long on the fringe, so I created space by heading home to a Herzog DVD and his own unique take on lovable outsiders.



On the turntable: Adjabel, "Acoustic Revolution"
On the nighttable: Kerouac, Saijo, Welch, "Trip Trap"

Suddenly Last Summer 4

Mid August. I headed out to Sado for EC. Again, many others have written on this, and I myself have said too much about Kodo already. So I won't comment on the show other than to say how visually exciting their performances have become, due no doubt to the Bando connection. Musically, the first night's Miyake was the best I've ever seen. Plus Kodo playing Ravel's Bolero as an encore? C'mon!
Like last year, I worked in the EC shop as translator, took a Miyake Daiko workshop, wandered the flea market. This year I met many young Japanese artists coming from various parts of Japan. I also spent more time wandering Ogi itself. Marcin and I found an onsen and a new place for swimming, partaking of both twice a day. (His own take on the festival is here: http://lost--in-translation.blogspot.com/2006/09/sado-2-earth-celebration.html)
On Monday, after it was all over, I helped take down the stage. Eight gruelling hours in the unrelenting sun. I was too exhausted to really enjoy the post-fest party that night. The group too seemed surprisingly mellow. Unlike the musical highs of last years, they felt that things didn't really click this time, that the audience never really cut loose. Artistic Director Kaoru Watanabe seemed especially down. I told him that the choreography of the show itself was fantasic. Then he told me all the things that should've happened but didn't, due to missed cues or whatever. Oh man! What a show that would've been. But only Kaoru got to see it.


Late August. Spent the weekend with MatsuMiki at Gallery Moon, deep in the wilds of Nara. I love this part of the world, spooky and creaky with the weight of ancient history and its ghosts. The gallery owner is MatsuMiki's friend, as is Chie, the young macrobiotic food artist who was putting on a show of her talent. Saturday night we cleaned up the gallery and the adjoining farmhouse where the following day, lunch would be served up on the beautiful pottery currently on display. After the cleanup, we seven weary bodies had a simple dinner then fell into our futons to a cicada serenade.
Just before noon the next day, the guests began to arrive. I was immediately thrust back into my former life as a waiter. What was it, serve from the right, clear from the left? Stacking incredibly rare and expensive pottery up one arm had all the thrills of an extreme sport. As I worked, I thought about how different service is in Japan compared with the West. The topic deserves a post of it's own, but it's a post that I'd find too boring to write.
At the end of the day, after clean-up, Chie drove us back to Nara city. On the way, we all talked about her next show. We began to joke about the theme--MacroDonarudo, to follow the local pronunciation. Imagine, rather than a Happy Meal, a Healthy Meal-- soy and veggies molded into the shape of burger and fries. I'm lovin' it.




August last. Day hike with friends. Again, pass the mic the MC Marcin: http://lost--in-translation.blogspot.com/2006_09_01_lost--in-translation_archive.html



On the turntable: JFA, "We Know You Suck"
On the nighttable: Hillary Raphael, "I (heart) Lord Buddha"

No moss

This past weekend was a microcosm of my life and interests.

Thursday saw me in Tokyo at the 30th anniversary party of Printed Matter Press. Over wine and a nice buffet, I ran into a few old friends and made some new ones. Entertainment was a mixed bag of poetry and music. Some really great characters in the house, forming the cornerstone of a lively and vibrant expat subculture.

Friday morning I spent watching the koryu demos at Meiji Shrine. I go every year, more as a chance to see friends than anything else. Yet I am beginning to appreciate the demos more and more, starting to develop an awareness to the subtle differences in style between the schools. Does this reflect a maturity in my own training, or simply that things become familiar with repeated viewings?

That afternoon I spent in Ginza for my Phoenix Rising Yoga Therapy training which will wind up later this month. Enjoy the group but won't miss the commute.

Saturday, early, I headed down to Okayama to take part in the Takeuchi demos. This year is the 20th anniversary of this event, so rather than being held in the usual dusty concrete thunderdome, we got to "fight" on the grass at Korakuen garden. A gorgeous day under blue skies, beauty static in the form of flowers and stone, and beauty in action in the form of swirling bodies and spinning oak.

Sunday, up to Ishikawa for the 20th anniversary concert of Honno Daiko. Just getting there took most of the day, riding a series of trains which grew smaller and smaller. A nice change from the frantic Bullet Time of the previous few days. Honno Daiko was smoking, both musically and aesthetically. (They have the taiko world's most exciting costume changes since Leonard Eto.) Incredible, effortless power coming from three women. I personally feel that aside from Kodo, this is the best Taiko group in the world. As it was a special gig, there were a few special guests, including Kodo's own Yoshikazu. Watching him and Honno Daiko's Jige Akemi play Odaiko together was magic. That ten minutes alone was worth the trip. Marcin's Nov. 9th "Lost in Translation" entry has more detailed text, plus photos, and video. So click away.

http://lost--in-translation.blogspot.com/2006/11/trip-to-ishikawa-ken-1-out-of-blue.html




On the turntable: Joe Strummer bootleg
On the nighttable: Ryu Murakami, "69"

Warning! This post has too many metaphors...

Last week, in a surprise move, Kodo played a gig in Nara-ken. The event was Tenkyo-sai, held every year amongst the ancient burial mounds in Asuka. This festival is the showcase of Yamato Daiko, essentially their scaled down version of Earth Celebration. I'd been wanting to see Yamato for about a decade now. And I wasn't disappointed. Young taiko groups tend to overemphasize flashy movements in an attempt to hide lack of power, but Yamato has both, dynamic, well-choreographed moves and a full sound which strikes the listener in the chest where it should. Their handling of bachi is incredible, with sticking so high that it'd get you penalty time in the NHL. Over half the group is women, equal in power to the men. Strangely, they all have big boobs and even bigger hair. Essentially, they're from New Jersey. One song has them all playing shamisen, knocking hell out of the things in a frenzied jam. Another number features the two lead male players, in sort of a drum battle. During this piece, they keep rolling out bigger and bigger drums in a mockery of the arms race. Then by the end, both players begin to harmonize, finishing with a handshake. Very Japanese.

Then Kodo came on. They are currently in the midst of a full tour, and as this gig seemed a mere hiccup, we got a younger, more stripped down version of the group. But blazing just the same. While Yamato may have power, Kodo has POWER. Plus their playing had the usual finesse; move subtle, more tradition. This younger Kodo was missing all of the older, pre-apprentice program stars but one, the one I call Mohawk Boy. During one piece he was at the end of a five person drum line. The other four, all former apprentices, had identical sticking exact to the millimeter. Only he was slightly different. Marcin has a theory that Kodo's apprentice program is creating almost an assembly line of drummers, at the risk of creativity. I agree, but feel that this is making for some incredibly precise stage shows, something I've noticed over the past few years. While the live shows will get better and better, future CDs will no doubt suffer. Think Grateful Dead. (Sorry Mickey Hart, dude!) On stage or off, Kodo doesn't need the flash of the younger groups since the music is what has always driven audience emotion. (Think European film vs. Hollywood.) A testiment to drumming's shamanic role.

Prior to the fireworks show which closed the festival, the two groups combined to perform "Zoku." Here the differences were glaring. Yamato members looked like kids, jumping around, while Kodo, the elders, played solid and steady. (Or, a flashback to the 2002 Soccer World Cup: workman Germany against the "play" of Brazil.)

It's OK kids, the food is just as tasty at the small table, but the conversation doesn't resonate as long...


On the turntable: Aki Ueda, "Invisible Visions"
On the nighttable: Joseph Svinth, "Getting a Grip"

Wake for Pluto

As most of you know, Pluto lost it's planetary status recently. An Astronomy professor at Kyoto University (on loan from Canada) and I (simple stargazer and poet) have decided to hold a wake for poor pitiful diminished Pluto at Hill of Tara, next Sunday evening. This low-key event will begin around 7pm. Look for the Men (and Women) in Black. If you're in town, please join us.


Also...
...I have yet to write on my experiences at this year's EC, and hope to soon. Jamie over at "I'm Still in Japan" has written an excellent post that really captures the spirit of the thing. Treat yourself by clicking here.




On the turntable: "The Best Smooth Jazz...Ever!"
On the nighttable: Satish Kumar, "The Buddha and the Terrorist"

Marquis de Sado

Mid-August, I went out to Sado again for EC. I'll write my version later, but for now, please enjoy Marcin's account. As he himself said, Kodo was so smokin' this year, his head was spinning.

http://lost--in-translation.blogspot.com/.

On the turntable: "Sound Contact from L.A."

Gion and on...

(Cliche coming. Just as every J-blogger will write about the sakura of April, every resident of the Kyo will inevitably write about Gion matsuri.)

It was my second Gion experience. the last time was 11 years ago, with Gordo and C-Lo. Due to certain excesses and the passage of time, memory is hazy, but I remember staying at Hiden-in (soonafter dubbed Hiden-ism), a real, octopus-free taco stand somewhere in the backstreets of Pontocho, and bands playing in the smoke-filled Kamo river bed. My main memory is of a yukata clad girl talking on a cellphone. This was a unique sight back in '95, and no matter how hard I tried to take a photo, she kept twisting and turning like Marlo Thomas in order to escape my lens. The following day was sunny, but a sudden deluge found us huddled somewhere in Daitokuji, reading Gary Snyder poems while waiting for the onslaught to cease.

This year's weather was even worse. I met up with MatsuMiki, Maaaachin, and his friend Hideyo at Yasaka Jinja, where we looked over a sea of damp black hair to watch Kagura. The group this year was from next door in Shimane, where Kagura flourishes. I've seen the art many times, but never a group this visually amazing, swirling and jumping and swinging swords. Our vantage point was directly in front of the mikoshi, so I'm sure we wound up in lots of people's pictures. When the rain let up a little, we headed down Shijo, stopping often for food or to watch random performers. One taiko group was really cookin' in front of Minami-za, but my attention was repeatedly drawn to a nearby combini for beer, coffee, snacks, ice cream. We kept going west, saying hello to many yukata-clad friends. To escape the crush, we went into a Mexican restaurant in Kiyamachi. A lone guy in a huge black sombrero was working his way through the Spanish songbook. Amazingly, he did "Guantanamera," which I'd been humming out on the streets earlier.

The next morning, it poured. We decided to watch the parade anyway. It was a morning of umbrella spines at eye-height and pointy elbows in ribs. Somehow, we got a decent vantage point to see the yamaboko make their turn onto Shijo. (And used my yogic contortions to get decent photos.) We eventually had enough of rain and spent the rest of the day going cafe to cafe but never fully getting dry, or warm. But in true festival mood, laughs were aplenty. How to eat a banana without using your hands. A traditional art for opening doors. Essay writing, East and West.

And after the drumming ceased, both in my ears and on my head, it was time for a bath.


On the turntable: The Pogues, "The Very Best of..."
On the nighttable: Jim Thompson, "Pop. 1280"

Take a cha-cha-cha chance

I think the drummer was a robot. OK, so maybe not a robot, but he had this way of playing where only his arms moved. Literally only his arms, the wrists at the end of them seemed welded on, and his upper body and shoulders barely twitched. He moved almost in the hyper-stylized way a classical Japanese performer would move. Namba ugoki for the jazz hipster set. Yet Shinnosuke Takahashi's playing was undeniably genius, and I found myself getting tired just watching him, trying to figure out how he moved like he did. Tonite he was backing Fumio Karashima, one of Japan's best pianists. MatsuMiki had brought me here, to Kyoto's Rag, after having one of G Love's oven-baked Quattro Formaggios, eaten out on the balcony, overlooking Kiyamachi's creek reflecting the parting rain clouds and the full moon coming through.

No birthday is complete without sweets. We bought some combini ice cream and walked into the quiet grounds of Kinkakuji in order to see the moon through the trees. Literally within seconds of crossing the barrier, a flashlight began bouncing toward us. We turned quickly then, hurrying toward the safety of my nearby house, me still pretty spry for 39.



On the turntable: Shuichi Hidano/Keisuke Doi, "Trust"

Idle hands...

...don't get blistered. I'm just back from a week in Nagano, studying taiko with the phenomenal Art Lee. To be honest, I'd never heard of the guy, and had never seen him really play until Saturday night in a performance where he had us 13 stow-aways. If I'd known how simply incredible the guy was, I would've shown much more respect during the week.

Beginning on June 26th , new friend Marcin of the Kyo has been posting incrimentally on the course. So as to save my tired, blistered fingers, I'm gonna poach. Sorry Marcin! (He also posted a good report on Kodo's Amaterasu, which I caught a few weeks back. See the June 17th entry.)http://lost--in-translation.blogspot.com/.

For me, the beat keeps on. During my yoga class yesterday, I did a series of sideways lunges based on the yokomen uchi style of playing. For abs, it was all suwari uchi. (If you've seen Miyake or Yatai-bayashi played live, you know what I'm talking about.) My students had so much sweaty fun I'm going to do it in all this week's classes.

My own impressions on last week are to come soon. In the meantime check out:
http://www.wadaikoworld.net/ArtLee/index.html


On the turntable: Ondekoza, "Colezo"
On the nightable: Preston Whaley Jr., "Blows Like a Horn"

Have a Day!

I'm sitting at the edge of Lake Togo playing djembe with Alama. The lines I'm slapping down are relatively complex, but he's literally playing figure eights around me, wrapping his rhythm around mine and meeting me on the upbeat. As my mind and ego shut down I begin to play unconsciously. My attention is drawn to the lake. It's a windy day, the waves pushed into small chop. I begin to accent my playing whenever I spy a whitecap.

Lately, my attention is drawn to the shape water takes. This cold winter, I watched a dozen or so surf films. Whenever I drive along the coast, I start to check out conditions. The funny thing is that I haven't surfed in twenty-five years. This stretch of coast is famous for winter swells, bringing surfers from across the nation who try to ignore how friggin cold their faces are. When summer comes back, I may go in myself.

My thoughts here are much like waves and as they move of their own volition, oblivious to obstacle, I digress. Earlier when I picked up Alama, I realized, embarrassed that I'd been playing his CD in my truck. I quickly replaced it with "Pulse! A Stomp Odyssey." He seemed to enjoy this aural document on drumming from across the world. Then as one track came on he said happily, "These are my Friends!" The National Drummers of Guinea.

At home, I pulled out my latest read, "Tuesdays with Morrie." The book came to my attention when I noticed it on the bookshelf of my dad, then in his final months. For years afterward, I'd often see the book in airports or restaurants back home. Reading it was like wearing a badge saying, "Someone I love is dying." But we're all dying, and the book's message echoes what I said this week. Embrace Life. Give it a big fat wet sloppy kiss too.


On the turntable: Alama Dioubate, "Femmes du Monde"
On the nighttable: Mitch Albom, "Tuesdays with Morrie"

How to spend 3 weekends in Tokyo. In Verse.

(Rather than the usual rushed shopping list...)

Centuries old pain played out in today's traumas;
The channeler reads my scars
like a map to my future

Neon-blind in Kabuki-cho--
Thai fire and yellow beer
fuels aggressive karaoke

Old friends amongst old weapons;
Another Meiji afternoon under November sun

Strolling narrow Shimokitazawa lanes
searching for drums,
found friendship

Pizza and Ebisu and Red;
Must be Friday
In Kichijoji

Yoga
and Yoga
and Yoga again

Inokashira color--
Perfect antidote to
too much curry

Saitama paved countryside;
Here concrete rivers
are considered nature

Have I mentioned beer?
Hundreds of options
in smoky Shinjuku basements

Shibuya on Sunday in heavy rain;
Won umbrella slalom gold medal

Zach and I perfect our kata:
eating and beering and jawin'
(with musical interludes)

Dancing to Brazilian magic:
the perfect way to burn off
excess Wolfgang Puck

Lunch in Akasaka amid high security--
suits try to ignore all the guns

--------------------------------------

Music lesson in Ogikubo.
tap bongos and sing
to a cat sleeping on a speaker

Overcrowded Hokusai exhibit-
Still life in lines

On the way to monja-yaki,
Lead Taiwanese tourists
To a kaiseki joint

Paid daytime gig
keeping time
for three gorgeous singers;
retarded man kisses my hand
between songs.
How'd he know I'm a righty?

Strange gospel gig,
Bigfoot on vocals &
Jackie Chan on bass.
Ridiculous lighting,
retarded audience,
unnecessary banter

Confused middle-aged man
working at "Freshness Burger"

Yet another Sunday
at Inokashira Park

Latin percussion lesson
From famous gay couple

--------------------------------------

Leza's Friday night class:
Restorative yoga/Thai massage--
Body as butter

Other end of spectrum:
Lance's yoga boot camp--
My limits are behind me

Saturday night Aoyama gig:
Southwestern diva,
Stand up bass with flute,
and us, psycho-bossa nova.



On the turntable: Animal Collective: "Feels"

Dreaming of a Green Xmas

Fought the incessant snow and wind to play two impromptu gigs last weekend. Music broke out at the English School Xmas party, in the form of a couple guitars strumming carols to a djembe beat. An R2D2 karaoke machine was also in attendance, and much fawned over.

Sunday saw Nami-san's thing at GuruGuru in Kurayoshi. Due to the roads, there were maybe a dozen people there. It was very chilled out affair. Nami's first set was all sung in Spanish, a nod to DeNada, his backing band. I sat on the floor and beat out the Latin rhythms I learnt in Tokyo last month. The price of admittance also included a plate of curry and a delicious cookie. Since I only had large money, I was given a second cookie in lieu of 50 yen. A little bit later, I realized that the cookies came with a secret toy surprise inside. Oops! Generally, I don't partake, but... I wouldn't have gotten so fucked up if only I'd had the right change! Visiting the striped shirted inmates of Lawson much later, I laughed at how oblivious they were to late night munchie culture. On the way out, I saw the first snowplow I've ever seen in this country, plowing a parking lot. Meanwhile the roads were death. That's so Japan, man!


On the turntable: Juan MacClean, "Less than Human"
On the nightable: Patrick Bernard, "Music as Yoga"

A one and a two and a...

Reading a music score while playing drums is like wearing a watch to your job in a clock shop.

On the turntable: Wilco, "Kicking Television"

Beat up, Gettin the Beat Down

Had a bizarre experience yesterday. For a couple hours in the afternoon, my masseuse worked the last bits of three Tokyo weekends out of fatigued muscles. A few hours later, I went to do aikido. I was a literal marionette on the mat, joints loose, spinning and whirling. These same joints felt like they would give every time I was thrown, pieces of me flying like shrapnel to the far corners of the dojo. Lots of rolling, my pressure points buzzing from the earlier bodywork. I finished the workout feeling spacy and euphoric.

Home, I watched the collision of three recent purchases, djembe, DVD of "Festival Express," and a bottle of red slightly pricier than usual. As the wine worked warmth from inside out, I jammed along to the bands on the TV, battering away at the cold winter night.


On the turntable: Elliot Smith, "Elliot Smith"