J-pop | girlpants
Tag: j-pop

Gaijinfest 2010: Domo Arigato, Mister J-Rocko

Stereo­types about Japanese cul­ture per­sist in the Western con­scious­ness, in spite, or per­haps as a result of our increased expo­sure to it. Blogs, mag­a­zines, and TV shows love to say, “OH LOOK AT HOW WEIRD AND FUCKED UP JAPAN IS,” and that’s because people who don’t live in Japan only want to see only the bizarre things that come out of Japan. This is true chiefly in two areas: porn and music. But this isn’t Fleshbot or what­ever, so LET’S MUSIC BLOG!!

I co-host an occa­sional radio show on KSFR. It’s a grave­yard shift show, which is great for all the insom­niac tweaker types because they prob­ably actu­ally like shiny, hyper­ac­tive animé tunes. But there’s that stereo­type again: not all Japanese music is cute girls with 20,000 sailor out­fits singing about love, burning spirit, and food. Main­stream pop in Japan, like main­stream pop every­where else, is pretty much the same over­pro­duced, slick non­sense. Of course, Japan has great bands of all types right below the sugary pop frosting. This entry is intended to serve as a brief guide to some of the acts that make up the cake below the frosting (see Rohin’s guide below if you’re more of a just-give-me-the-sweets type).

I’m going to start with “modern Japanese folk rock music,” a term I pretty much despise–so let’s just call it “rock” for now. For English-speaking lis­teners, it almost doesn’t make sense to listen to it, since rock music in the style of Bob Dylan or Joni Mitchell has as much lyrical weight as musical. If you’re lis­tening to the Japanese equiv­a­lent of Lady Gaga, the lyrics may not matter so much, right? That shouldn’t be the case for the Japanese equiv­a­lent of Leonard Cohen.

Actu­ally, it is the case, since a rock singer worth any­thing will be singing like they’re about to pushed off a cliff: des­perate or defiant, or even both. With this in mind, you don’t need to know Japanese to like Kazuki Tomokawa and Morita Doji. Kazuki is a dude, and Morita is a lady, by the way. Both sing like they go way beyond giving a shit, into the realms of var­ious other kinds of bodily distress.

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This video by Tomokawa should make it clear he is not singing about candy and first kisses. Or maybe he is, but he’s very upset about those things. What­ever, I’m basi­cally learning Japanese solely so I can trans­late this dude’s lyrics (which will take a long time). He’s been per­forming since the late 70s, var­i­ously writing his own lyrics and adapting those of other poets like Naka­hara Chūya. He’s often com­pared to Kan Mikami, who also sings with no remorse or fear, but I like Tomokawa’s furious, punkish inten­sity a little more. Both are still active and per­forming in Japan, and nei­ther have lost their style. Lis­tening to his record­ings from the 70s and 80s, Kazuki, lov­ingly referred to as the “screaming philoso­pher,” seems to have lost none of his vigor and voice, and remains more a force of music than just another singer-songwriter.

Morita Doji is on the other end of the rock-singer spec­trum. She’s a sui­cidal Joni Mitchell. She has nothing to rail against, except her own with­ering dis­ap­point­ment with reality. In short, she is my dream girl. Her most famous song is “Boku­tachi no Shippai,” which can be trans­lated as “Our Failure.” This is fucking weird as hell, since Japanese titles and lyrics are almost never this direct. Regard­less of what the lyrics are (and they’re pretty depressing, according to what I remember of a trans­la­tion I can no longer find), you know she’s singing about some­thing she can’t change. The music tries to be wistful and warm, but it doesn’t really help. This singer is falling a long way off her cliff and she doesn’t really care. Pretty much all her songs are like this; songs that seem like echoes of someone who’s no longer there.

In fact, no one has heard from her in more than 27 years. Some people think “Morita Doji” isn’t even her real name. Her songs became pop­ular in the 90s when “Our Failure” was used as the theme for a pop­ular TV show, which led to the recording of many ill-conceived cover ver­sions. In the mid-90s a psych-rock group formed to exclu­sively cover her songs, but they didn’t get per­mis­sion to do so, so their album got pulled from shelves almost as quickly as it was released. These songs are pretty much the only good covers of Morita Doji you will ever hear.

I’m passing over plenty of good Japanese rock music here, but this is just a sam­pler. This album is a great intro­duc­tion to the rock scene of Japan in the sev­en­ties, but it focuses on folk rock and doesn’t get to the great Kraftwerk and Talking Heads inspired stuff that rose up later in the decade. Hey, what a great sub­ject for a future blog here, huh?


Scott White works with com­puters, cats, food, bikes, cars, elec­tronics, gui­tars, friends, words, and deep and impor­tant feel­ings in New Mexico. He plays a 5th-level half-elf female rogue in Dun­geons and Dragons. You might hear more from him in the future, but man, who even knows?

Japan’s First Ladies of Pop

In an age when “Rah-rah-ah-ah-ah! Roma-Roma-ma-ah! Ga-ga-ooh-la-la!” has become an iconic watch­word, you have no choice but to com­mence eye­roll sequence when some dun­der­head flails his arms and cries, “I DON’T SPEAK JAPANESE AND AM INCAPABLE OF APPRECIATING SOLID MELODIES, IMPRESSIVE VISUALS, AND GENERAL KICK-ASSERY.” Now more than ever, pop is about the impor­tance of exciting sounds, on-key war­bling, nifty out­fits, and sharp art direc­tion above the actual con­ceit of “lyrical con­tent.” This is pre­cisely why the J-Pop pen­ta­gram of Utada Hikaru, Namie Amuro, Shiina Ringo, alan, and Yano Junko is one all people with ears should learn to love. But to pace our­selves, let’s wrap our heads around the queens first: Utada and Amuro.

Utada presents a wel­come foil to such a case study in dun­der­headed xeno­phobia. While flirting with an English-language career, Utada hasn’t made it the cen­ter­piece of her artistic ambi­tions. Still in her twen­ties, she is essen­tially a bizarro-world Britney Spears: a pic­ture of the pro­to­typ­ical Amer­ican pop star had she (a) not suf­fered a tragic melt­down and (b) learned the value of cre­ative autonomy. Utada is proof that child stars pushed into pop­stardom at an early age need not come apart at the seams as they stumble into their twen­ties. Like most young pop­strels, Utada built her name on medi­oc­rity, shilling J.Lo-esque pas­tiches at first, like “Addicted to You” (1999).

But unlike her Amer­ican coun­ter­parts who stall and ulti­mately crumble before they can evolve, Utada man­aged a bril­liant evo­lu­tion, her­alded by sin­gles like “Trav­eling” (2001) and “Sakura Drops” (2002). Although it would still be another three years before she’d finally grow into her musical matu­rity, as someone who could handle more lay­ered pop.

As Utada grav­i­tated towards mid-tempo pieces with more sub­stance, this ulti­mately left a vacuum for a proper J-Pop dance diva. It was a niche that Koda Kumi and Ayumi Hamasaki couldn’t fill, because the former was unin­spired and the latter—while holding the “Queen of J-Pop” title for cer­tainly some time—struggled to keep up with trends. Enter Namie Amuro.

Amuro essen­tially ped­dles Pocky pop—it’s cavity-inducing stuff that places a pre­mium on style over sub­stance. It’s also an aes­thetic that shame­lessly engages in product place­ment, like in this Patricia Field-assisted Vidal Sassoon-hawking video for “New Look” (2008):

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Although per­haps it’s here that she had even pur­ported pop fore­run­ners like Lady Gaga beat.

But what’s exciting with Amuro’s pop is the gim­mick that comes with each release. “New Look” served as one-third of a triple A-side single (the entire effort finan­cially fronted by Vidal Sas­soon) dubbed 60s70s80s. With “New Look” sam­pling The Supremes’ “Baby Love” (from the 1960s, obvi­ously), “Rock Steady” sam­pled Aretha Franklin’s song of the same name, while “What A Feeling” rounded out the the set by appro­pri­ating Irene Cara. Then there is also Amuro singing songs like the double A-side “Dr.” / “Wild” (again, Vidal Sassoon-sponsored), and man­aging a number of musical styles within a tra­di­tional pop structure.

What Amuro and Utada both do well is enter­tain the main­stream. We could eth­no­cen­tri­cally liken the Amuro–Utada dynamic to a heady Madonna–Kylie Minogue style of pop ten­sion, though unlike that pop pair, nei­ther Amuro nor Utada seem with­ered enough to ever devolve into some­thing as dreadful as a leather-clad Madonna stum­bling awk­wardly around sad rap beats. Per­haps the best thing about this duo is that their oli­gopoly on J-Pop cre­ates a slightly lower class of even more inter­esting pop—but let’s not get ahead of ourselves.


Rohin Guha is hard at work on his first novel, which fea­tures steamy scenes of tea-sipping and a back-handed slap or two. If you Google his name, you’ll find that he has, at one point or another, aroused the curiosity of the fol­lowing com­mu­ni­ties: Adam Lam­bert fans, white suprema­cists, fem­i­nists, Taylor Swift fans, and Japanophiles. You’ll also find that he’s written for quite a few places.