Beatles not the only colossal remasters of ‘09

I’ve always been interested in the exposure effect, a psychological term that posits how our tastes and preferences are guided by mere exposure. In the beginning of the summer, I tested this effect by subjecting myself to a weekly sit-in listen to the Oricon’s Top Twenty Singles in their entirety, regardless of how many times a single stayed on the charts and how many times I was subjected to the same damn Sakurakou Keionbu songs (“Cagayake! GIRLS” was actually OK). I was diligent for about two months before being plagued by sheer boredom and lack of interest. While I discovered one or two artists that I furthered some research into, the majority of the charts were deeply invested in formula: the acoustic strumming of some up-and-comers, mushy pop by the resident big names, a few enka tunes, and the sugary sweet big band of idols and anime opening themes. Apparently, ’twas not the season for parallel interest in consumers’ buying habits. In addition, my experiment lagged any significant results: I rated songs on a scale from 1 to 5 and without looking at the previous ratings, continually rated them each week. Aside from a few songs that vacillated between two numbers or that I enjoyed a lot, most ratings were consistently in the 2.5 range. Songs: you cannot repeat-listen yourself into loving them. You can however, repeat-listen yourself into dislike or becoming indifferent.

Albums by the Rolling Stones are similar. I feel like if I were going to rate them, I would give them 5 out of 10 across the board. They have a few great songs, a lot of good songs, and a whole lot of over played songs; I like them, I just don’t love them. I’m a huge fan of classic rock so the sheer sound and arrangement of the music appeals to me, but I can’t find myself getting excited over any of it. I’d like to think each and every album has a time and a place in my life somewhere and this just may not be the time for the Rolling Stones, even with a slew of remasters to their name. After all, if the Beatles were going to remaster their entire back catalogue the Rolling Stones would have to get in on it, too, and earlier, releasing most of their albums throughout the summer while the Beatles waited to dump their entire discography in September. The difference is that everybody hyped the Beatles remasters for months, while nobody really cared about the Rolling Stones. Why? Because the Rolling Stones never went away.

Like the sudden death of any superstar in their prime, the Beatles dissolved while talent was still on high, leaving a legacy of worship and nostalgia behind. Think of all those awesome Beatles albums we would have had if they had never broken up! The Beatles cashed in during infallibility, leaving poor records and backlash a mere glimmer of mystery. That’s not to say they don’t deserve the fame and recognition: they’re the freaking Beatles. But unlike most bands, almost every single one of their albums carry the distinction of greatness and we’ll almost never hear a critic proclaim the superiority of their early, middle, or late periods aside from personal preference: across the board, they pretty much always get 10 out of 10. But for the Rolling Stones, the 60s was just the beginning. The first eleven albums are an oral record of their introduction to the world of fame and a sentimental footnote to their work in the 70s, the 80s, the  90s, the 00s… These rock n’ roll relics just don’t expire. They were plagued by tabloid scandal, attacks of unoriginality, and accused of falling lifeless. Paul McCartney may have died in 1966 but apparently the Stones died in 1980 when they released Emotional Rescue – says Ariel Swartley: “the Stones have actually died and this word-per feet, classic-sounding, spiritless record is a message from the grave.” AllMusic was a touch kinder, skewing the playground rock versus disco spat by calling the dance-inspired tracks “sexy disco-rock” (sexy in front of anything makes it OK, try it: sexy terrorists! sexy homophobia!), although this particular album is entirely omitted from their Classic Rock Required Listening Guide.

Even so, all of their albums are worth a listen, if only to acquaint yourself with albums you would be ridiculed for never hearing. The 13 remasters of their most recent work is a good a time as any (Exile will arrive later in the year, just in time for shopping season!), though you’ll probably recognize a lot of the songs in the same way everybody knows that “Harden My Heart” song but nobody knows the band that wrote it. If you listen to it long enough you’ll probably get it. You’ll probably even like it: the Rolling Stones had perfected their formula early enough to warrant ample imitation on most of these discs, and with enough exposure you might even learn to love it. Maybe.

Nightmare on amalgam street

Though inspiration can be found anywhere, nobody seems to have found it in a more eclectic assortment than G-Dragon. Since Big Bang’s resident rapper finally took off on a successful solo career, the world has witnessed some pretty outrageous fashion concepts. Though his fashion tends to be louder than his music, nothing speaks louder than  his elaborate music videos; but behind the telephone sports coats, hearts carved in apples, and ever elusive women, lurks the mysterious origins from which he draws. Glancing at his newest PV for “Breathe,” I think I may have uncovered a few.

appears on Gaijin Kanpai!

I’m happy to announce that I’ll be a guest on Gaijin Kanpai! this Thursday night, September 24 at 7:30PM EST to discuss The Trouble with J-pop article I wrote. The show will be open to listeners so if you have time, feel free to drop in on the chat and join the discussion. If you can’t make it, the recorded program will be available Saturday. For more information, visit Gaijin Kanpai!. I encourage you to participate, we’d love to have you with us!

Keeping it (mostly) real: JONAS

Understanding the Jonas Brothers isn’t hard: they’re a wholesome, nonthreatening trio of cuddly brothers who sing songs about puppy love and parties. Young girls are drawn to their well-mannered nature, boyish features, and parent-friendly image: they don’t drink, smoke, or use drugs. But getting the Jonas Brothers is a little more difficult. Part of the contingent of 21st century celebrities, their entire existence is staked on the relationship to their ever present publicist and what I imagine is hours of training in successfully avoiding embarrassing, tough questions and steering conversations to more banal chat about chasing dreams, living their dreams, and never giving up on dreams. When asked if they’re unable to reap the benefits of their success, Joe Jonas politely says, “We’re happy with just video games and ping pong. We’re really easy going guys. We don’t need to always go out and do crazy stuff everyday.” But his eyes look dead and everyone looks unconvinced.

Their music is a testament to the kind of play-it-safe rock that has been making the rounds of Radio Disney since rock became less about teenage rebellion and more of a useful formula to keep fans outside of the preadolescence demographic tuned in. Though they’re quite content with the fan base they have, they’re also desperate to appeal to the recognition of their musical peers by padding their musical influences list with names like Neil Diamond and Elvis Costello and making bold, pseudo-deep statements that don’t actually mean anything. “We’ve also been working on trying to use metaphors,” Nick revealed in the March 2009 issue of Rolling Stone, “to kind of mask a literal thing that happens to us.” Can’t wait until he finds out what hyperbole is. About song “Black Keys,” he said, “I thought it was a cool metaphor for how sometimes in life it’s better to keep things black and white instead of screwing things up with color” (Rolling Stone, June 2009), which is the sort of backward logic masquerading as sense that makes me wonder when the other two were heatedly talking amongst themselves about being grounded. “They can take away our phones and they can take away our keys, but they cannot take away our dreams!” I imagine Joe Jonas whimpered. Kevin probably looked very serious. “Yeah, because we’re like, sleeping when we have them.”

If this sounds like something you might actually recall the Jonas Brothers saying, then you’ve been paying attention to their new Disney sitcom JONAS. What initially struck me about the show was the poor acting; the Jo Bros may have starred in the original Disney movie Camp Rock, but they still have varying degrees of comedic timing and a tendency to overact. But what they lack in general talent, they manage to make up for in the ability to keep straight faces, poke fun at themselves, and master scripts that are in and of themselves humorous. It’s almost impossible to find a Disney show that doesn’t rely on physical comedy that gets young viewers chuckling, but the show has also created an honest, low-key sincerity that allows the Jo Bros to come off as demure as the baby rabbits their fans want them to be: most of the scenarios have the boys chasing girls in their school and getting heartbroken, all the better to appear sensitive and pen wistful, bleeding songs. The  set-up has the boys sometimes playing extreme caricatures of themselves (Kevin, the oldest, actually plays to the kids with the most childish role and delivers lines that would rate him at a mental age of five), but mostly, they just kind of play themselves (Joe Jonas: “It’s, um, it’s really easy to kind of play yourself“): three brothers striving to maintain ordinary lives under extraordinary circumstances. They get detention! They fall in love with the pizza delivery girl! Their parents go out of town! They get caught wearing offensive outfits when meeting the Queen of England! What, you mean that last one never happened to you?

At the same time, the boys jovially mock their own fame. In episode 1 (“Wrong Song”), when asked if he’s being serious, Nick replies, “Of course. Read the fan magazines. I’m the serious one.” In episode 8 (“That Ding You Do”), they take a how well do you know Jonas quiz and while Joe finds out he’s a real “Joe nut,” the other two discover incorrect answers (“Your favorite snack is not cherry pudding!”) and decide to write the magazine a letter; they ask the screaming fans outside their window for a pen and hundreds come hurling towards them, carving a heart in the wall. In addition, the Jonas fan club only has one male member, the school mascot is the praying mantis, Kevin finds the ambiance of a roaring crowd helps him sleep, and they’re liable to break into song until one of the others points out there’s not enough time. It’s all fun and games until a song needs to be recorded, but at least none of it interferes with the action; after all, watching people play video games and ping pong doesn’t make for the best television.

Of course there’s a certain amount of belief that must be suspended (a running gag is the sheer size and amount of items that characters pull out of lockers), but even the seemingly “random” moments speak to one of the decade’s most overused words without pushing the envelope too far. Again, it’s safe, it’s likable, it’s even funny. It’s the Jonas Brothers and luckily, you don’t have to like a single one of their songs to enjoy the show (though it helps). JONAS is a testament to the dire urgency of adolescence, reminding you again why first crushes hurt so bad, the world stopped moving when your best friend got picked over you, all of your dreams were possible, and you would do anything to meet your heroes: three boys who wore tight suits, played guitar, and really just wanted to follow rules and keep their parents happy. We all had our own equivalents, particular to a certain time and place, and it never mattered that parents or friends didn’t get it, because we did. Certainly you’re never too old to get that.

Maki Goto’s “SWEET BLACK”

Maki Goto / SWEET BLACK / September 16, 2009
01. Queen Bee / 02. Lady-Rise / 06. Fly away

If there’s been one distinguishing shift in my listening modus operandi since music became a Thing, it’s been the subtraction of anticipation over forthcoming albums. Ever on the decline since the beginning of the 00’s, it’s become increasingly rare to listen to pop records without a) acknowledging that the pivotal single released prior to the album will be/is the best song on the record, and b) mentally fighting the urge to defend albums on behalf of my rockist soul. It’s not that I don’t care about new albums; I do, still, listen to new releases in their entirety, and I do, still, find a few here and there that have something to say that generally takes longer than four minutes, and then makes that experience enjoyable. But the majority of pop releases have tricked me into pre-hype long enough and I can no longer bother caring until I’ve actually heard something, a practice which has made Maki Goto’s new mini-album so much less disappointing.

I absolutely adored “Fly away” when it was released back in January, but I never expected anything else to come of it. I took it for what it was: one great song by one undistinguished artist. Though clearly a morale booster, there’s something melancholy about the whole thing, like Goto sang it without any context but a sole drum to keep the beat. If she was auditioning to become America’s Next Top J-pop Queen, she at least got to wear the crown for four minutes and thirty-nine seconds, after which it was less than gracefully revoked after “borrowing” music video concepts and hosting a DIY coronation ceremony, dubbing herself Queen Bee, like hey, I may not be the new J-pop Queen or even the Queen of Hip-Pop, but I do have the power to scare the shit out of most people and cause some minor swelling. And then die. But even the annoying rasps of BIGGA RAIJI can’t ruin how fun “Queen Bee” is at its best moments: the catchy “boom boom boom boom”s, the reggaeton beat which is only slightly dated. Really, those are the best moments.

But the rest of the album is only half-heartedly interesting. “Candy” is a fun track that has some great electric guitars for a harder pop sound, but then “Mine” hovers in the safe zone, while “Plastic Lover” completely takes shelter in the sort of soft frivolity Goto has always been cushioned in. The ballads are nameless, placeless tracks bereft of moxie. The album ends up being an unresolved issue, a dead metaphor that fails to meet all the interesting allusions to flight: the bees, the lyrics (“fly high,” “fly away,” “lady rise!”), the cover of the album that features butterflies and Goto draped in feathers. It’s like she was trying so hard to make this the album that would take off, that it ended up bogged down by performance fear and inefficient collaborating crutches; you really can’t fly if you’ve got a faulty SWEET BLACK cast on your wing anyway. Time to do some trimming.

♫ Official Site
♫ Buy SWEET BLACK

Lee Jung Hyun’s “Vogue Girl” and Western beauty

“Hollywood is a place where they’ll pay you a thousand dollars for a kiss and fifty cents for your soul.”

While the rest of the world was watching Kanye West make an ass out of himself last night, I was busy catching up on some albums and watching the Old Hollywood promotional blitz for Lee Jung Hyun’s comeback mini-album Avaholic. I listened to the album back in May when it was released and was sincerely disappointed. A long time fan of Lee’s eccentric techno, I’ve come to love the beautiful mess of her shrill voice and high-pitched attempts at rap. I loved the tribal influence on I Love Natural and the traditional Spanish instrumentation on Passion. But for all its purported hip-hop influence, Fantastic Girl had all the toughness of a mewling kitten and the street sense of a Hall & Oates single. After three years, my expectations were pretty high and the failure to deliver on even five full-length tracks was a rude wake-up call; Lee Jung Hyun: No longer awesome.

But when I stumbled upon a couple of performance videos for “Vogue Girl” (or “Vogue It Girl” as the television shows call them), I was forced to reassess my initial response. OK, so Avaholic, as a whole, is still sub-par pop, but “Vogue Girl” is extremely fun and fits right into the mold of current electro-inspired Korean hip-pop. It’s got a great beat and sassy attitude and if the satire is intentional, it’s kind of genius.

Some of the performances have Lee spoofing Classic Hollywood cinema, namely as Audrey Hepburn (Roman Holiday, Breakfast at Tiffany’s) and Marilyn Monroe (The Seven Year Itch, although the opening clip they used was from Some Like it Hot – a totally different, declining-health Monroe). But even after watching something like ten of these performances, the song began to seem a bit hokey and even the Hollywood schtick seemed slightly bizarre. Lee Jung Hyun is a beautiful Asian woman, so why the exultation of  a platinum blonde stereotype? My hope is that the whole concept pokes fun at these pedestaled institutions of fashion and beauty, although the lyrics of the song are so vague it’s hard to debate. But let’s give her the benefit of the doubt and operate under those terms, that she’s not just having fun playing dress up but that she really does have something to say. Take for example the lines “Making, making / an image that I don’t even know” and the playful, mocking call of “Baby, don’t you wanna wanna be a di li di di di, it girl?” as if she’s some sort of sleazy publicist. But she’s not; she’s dressed as the product of misogynistic Hollywood studios, going through the motions of the winks and the ultra-feminine poses, while playing the preening starlet who’s aware of and very satisfied with the use she can get out of her sexuality; in promotional photo shoots, it goes further back historically as she dons the heavily tiered powdered wigs of a Marie Antoinette inspired get-up. The implications are brilliant in a way I’ve seen rarely expressed by a pop star, particularly an Asian one who has more to lose with the world’s obsession with Western women’s beauty standards.

But though those are the central concerns, it’s more than that: using Classic Hollywood figures attacks one of the biggest industries to fuel the obsession with a woman’s appearance. And while many might just see Marilyn Monroe as the classic embodiment of femme fatal or condemn her role as a willing play-thing of big-wigs and casting directors, there’s really something very vulnerable and sad about her entire existence that demands a sympathetic eye-opener to the strings that manipulated her every move, abandoned her during her weakest moment, and allowed her life to end so tragically and alone.

But if Lee is attempting to make a big statement, she’s not very good at following up on it: the rest of her performances of “Vogue Girl” drop the Hollywood act and feature her seemingly just as flawless and airbrushed as her fickle public demands and generally embodying whatever stereotype I thought she was making fun of up until that point. Perhaps it’s wishful thinking to ruminate on the possible satire in the those few moments of promotional brilliance, or maybe it’s just another culture she’s almost fetishizing in the likes of her past fascinations with Native American and Spanish cultures, but I’d like to think it’s one more positive, albeit brief, message that managed to slip through the cracks.

The Trouble with J-pop: Revolutionizing the Western Community of Criticism

I wish that the concept of serious Japanese pop and rock criticism was, on the whole, more prevalent. I might even venture to say I wish it existed at all. There are of course, numerous problems with why criticism of Japanese music is in absentia, the most important which is obvious: everything about music criticism has stemmed around the Western world of music. The arguments are clear: (1) a lot of people speak English, some people speak Japanese; (2) if analyzing involves deconstructing the music within a cultural context, the Japanese culture is too far removed to do any of the analyzing unless you were born and raised within that culture. I’ll share an example.

In the introduction to Chuck Klosterman’s heavy metal odyssey Fargo Rock City, Klosterman claims that music criticism has been largely restrained to pop, blues, jazz, and the like, while intellectual criticism about heavy metal has been pretty moot. So he thought, well, I’m fairly intelligent and I like heavy metal, why don’t I write about it? So he did. It’s at this point I thought about pursuing the same thing in regards to Japanese pop. Hey, I’m fairly intelligent and I like J-pop. I could even narrow this down and do an entire study on Ayumi Hamasaki, considering I know more about her music and persona than any other artist I’ve listened to and researched. If I followed Klosterman’s example, I would then delve into how she affected my culture, my friends, and my life. But that’s the problem: Ayumi Hamasaki never affected my culture, she never affected the people around me, and so can she really have affected my life?

On a personal note, absolutely. Hamasaki’s music and persona seeped into every inch of my existence since I was a twelve year old kid listening to “Boys & Girls.” But Ayumi is not a part of my culture, no matter how much she sounds, looks, and acts the part. I have never walked down the street and glanced at billboards advertising A BEST. I have never stepped into a CD store with the knowledge that I would easily obtain her latest single. I have never turned on the radio and heard her songs on Top 40. I have never turned on the television and seen her advertising Visee Kose or a Panasonic camera; Ayumi is part of a culture, but it’s not mine.

But even if I did choose to write serious criticism on contemporary Japanese pop regardless, where could I even hope to be published outside of my own blog? Just who is the largest demographic of English-speaking Japanese pop and rock fans? And I’m left with the (sad) realization that it’s probably anime fans.

In 2003, a short year after the first incarnation of my (largely Japanese pop oriented) music blog appears was born, I received an E-mail from a representative of Tofu Records asking if I would help by advertising the releases of their albums, to which I politely declined on the basis that I believed (and still do) that their mission statement was outrageous. Tofu Records had a simple, albeit ambitious goal: to bring Japanese music to the United States by releasing Japanese pop artists’ albums in North America. A brilliant idea, except that the angle was to connect Japanese pop to anime. The idea was that kids and teenagers who watch anime are already primed to appreciate a facet of Japanese culture that would enable them to transition and be the likeliest foundation audience, hence, getting Japanese artists to perform at anime-cons. Well OK, some people who watch anime do listen to East Asian pop. The problem is that they are only a tiny fraction of people who listen to music in general and to say the two have any business being singularly attached at all is like using a Flaming Lips song to promote Mitsubishi. Using this approach, Tofu Records closed in 2007, less than five years later. So how do we successfully market a country’s musical oeuvre while allowing it to keep its integrity? How do we make it accessible and appealing to those not completely taken with Japanophilia, who just enjoy music without the anime attachment that may give them reason to judge before even hearing something they probably weren’t even aware existed? How do we get serious students, listeners, writers, and critics of music to pay attention in a country not very open to musical imports?

The cultural imperialism analysis puts things into a bit of perspective – Western culture influences everything and therefore, everything seems to be Western, if not simply American. But what Eastern countries like Japan have (amazingly) done is invite these ideologies without submitting their culture: the Oricon charts (similar to Billboard) feature both Western and Eastern artists, they eat at Western fast food restaurants, but their primary staple is still rice, they wear jeans and T-shirts, but don kimonos during formal events. These are just a few of the shallow aspects I’m pointing out – there is a lot of self-preservation within the country. Ayumi Hamasaki is a product of this unique culture and after all that, Ayumi can come to America, study our culture, and even speak our language fluently, but does that really make her a certifiable authority on our culture? If she chose to write criticism on say, some movie like There Will Be Blood in relation to our culture, would we take it seriously? Well, forgetting the fact that she’s a pop star, maybe.

First of all, America is built on that sort of acceptance; anyone can be American because our culture reaches beyond our borders and influences every aspect of non-Americans. But second of all, while Ayumi can conceivably “become” American, an “American” can never conceivably become “Japanese.” You can study the language, you can visit the country, you can live there for twenty years and make it your home, but if you weren’t raised there, can you really embody the true spirit of someone who’s gone through the cultural process of growing up in a country that, though very Westernized, is still undeniably different? Will you ever be more than just a gaijin oddity?

But this is the big question: can I legitimately dissect and analyze the influence of Ayumi Hamasaki on culture (or in general) when her culture is not my culture? When I have not been to Japan, have not exhaustively studied the language and only have a deeper understanding of the culture…to a certain extent? To just say it’s impossible is of course both stupid and short-sighted. But then there’s the question of who would read the analyses anyway.

The Japanese pop and rock culture is almost exclusively based on the Internet. For argument’s sake, the Internet is a concept and not a reality (I’ve read the phrase “in the real world” so many times on blogs, I find this argument beyond justifiable). That’s not to say it doesn’t exist at all – there are a handful of genuinely superb Japanese pop and rock blogs or web sites (but again, just a handful) and even a few “communities” that discuss the music in general, but I have yet to find any sort of transcendent, intellectual, and serious agenda on said subject matter. Pleasure Principled attempted this with its “revealingly articulate idol worship,” but the site hasn’t been updated in a long time, and even when it was, it focused almost exclusively on the “idol” community instead of embracing the full spectrum of J-pop. That’s not to say these casual fan blogs are somehow wrong or useless; personal journals are meant to be conduits of very personal, emotional, and unprofessional reactions and opinions, many of them launched to have fun with no serious aspirations attached. They allow fans to come together to discuss and interact, no matter what they have to say and how they choose to go about saying it. But where is its academic counterpart: the all-encompassing, articulate, savvy prose on all things Japanese pop, ie; where is the English-speaking J-pop version of Pitchfork? Hell, where is the English-speaking J-pop version of Rolling Stone or NME?

The Internet is already primed for this community; with no one else to talk to in the immediate, real world vicinity, English-speaking fans of Japanese pop found their allies through the Internet back in the day when the word anime still returned hollow, questioning stares. In fact, one can make the claim that Japanese music in America is a total Internet phenomenon; almost no one I’ve ever met who listens to it has discovered it without a decent ISP. This has bourgeoned into today’s mélange of blogs and message boards that post and discuss everything from Namie Amuro’s latest commercial endorsement, to the cutest member of Morning Musume. But if this is supposed to be “my” community, why does it sometimes embarrass the hell out of me? I would be loathe to claim superiority, intellectual or otherwise (though it can be argued that my entire stance in this essay stems from at least a certain type and degree of elitism), nor do I claim some sort of encyclopedic knowledge of all things J-pop; if anything, exposure to these blogs has taught me how much I have yet to listen to and learn. However, it’s also taught me how shallow, inhibited, exclusive, and unstimulating the core collective of English-speaking Japanese pop writers are; a lack of critical thinking, analyzing, and perceptive discussion plagues the very community I have never truly felt a part of. I’ve been listening to Japanese pop for eleven years now, during which my tastes have grown, changed, expanded, and matured, and yet it seems all of my peers have remained perpetually thirteen years old. How they can expect anyone else to take it seriously if they don’t either?

Again, there are huge exceptions here; it’s not my intention to cut down a community that, though never truly wrapping its arms around me, has always acknowledged my interest and ambition, even when they call my opinions “biased” as if they’re not, you know, opinions. There are great blogs out there with insightful comments and worthwhile niche communities: there’s jrockynyc, a veritable goldmine of humor, knowledge, and experience; Pink Wota, a witty, stream-of-consciousness take on pop; unchained, an intellectual oasis for some of the more obscure, indie titles; and International Wota, a community that connects all of these blogs with a feed keeping readers abreast of the salient topics du jour. But though there are a few more I don’t have the space to include, I’m still left with a plethora of blogs that recycle the same singles and albums from J-pop .rar blogs, most of who write reviews as if to recreate songs using uninventive, poorly stringed words after one or two listens, and never place any of the music in cultural or artistic contexts, let alone elude to a bigger picture. The poorly written comments that lash out in juvenile, unconstructive ways is a whole other beast. Plus, most of the writers are relatively young; I’m young myself, but that’s kind of the point. There are thousands of records I haven’t heard and books on music journalism I haven’t read and it’s only with time that I can hope to get through some of them and gain a more well-rounded understanding that will contribute to the way I listen to and analyze a piece of music, not to mention the way I choose to express that. Shouldn’t our community strive to be defined by just as much maturity and experience as Western criticism?

But then, I guess my aim has always been bigger. I’m not content to see Japanese pop and rock straddle the fringe, barely hanging on. I’m not willing to rest on the laurels that it’s the best we have, this J-pop community that’s content to remain a sort of cult hobby, that expresses horror and jealousy when a favorite pop star deigns to be just as accessible as Britney Spears. Shouldn’t our ambitions be higher? Shouldn’t we be aiming to put Eastern pop and rock on the same wavelength as its Western counterpart, without compromising it like, say, Dir en grey, without stripping it of its unique Japan-ness that causes us to love it so much or rob via the same impulse that wants the accessible, kitschy aspects of Japan only with the cute or eccentric filters on? Shouldn’t we be pushing it to be just as important, just as canon-worthy? Hell, to create a canon in the first place? To make sure Yellow Magic Orchestra and Happy End one day stand in the same hall of fame as Yes or The Beatles? I’m not saying it will be easy. I mean, even this desire to amass a legion of English-speaking J-pop savants forces Japanese music to succumb to the words and phrases of Western taste. Even something as simple as an album review requires filtering it through the Western mouth and spitting it out into some sort of ersatz reality, the one that claims any of us Westerners can truly be conduits of Eastern music culture when most of us have not been born, raised, or visited Asia, let alone speak any Asian languages; yes, music is a universal language, but it takes a lot more than just an I-like/I-don’t-like approach to write about it.

But I believe it’s possible. To look at something like a Buono! promotional video and critique it on the basis of talent and originality without submitting to cheap, easy shots at its sheer cuteness, or the sometimes endless Western desire to bemoan an utter lack of irony (hipsters, steer clear), and instead, see the unblemished sincerity not as a sign of ignorance, but, simply, as a whole different style of accessible, radio-friendly music contingent on the people in its culture is not easy, but it’s certainly reasonable. And we can’t take for granted the sheer amount of rock and indie that pervades the island either; the Kinks and the Rolling Stones shouldn’t  be (and aren’t) the only progenitors of rock music. And as countless have studied their influence on counter and youth cultures, we, too, should look at the way a uniquely influenced country like Japan has managed to craft rock without use of as much blues as its Western contemporaries and what it meant for its listeners. Or the outcome of what a lack of a Western definition of a minority has on the emergence of Japanese hip-hop.

In the September 2007 issue of the Japanese version of Rolling Stone (which is barely three years old!), Kawasaku Daisuke compiled a list of the 100 Greatest Japanese Rock albums of all time – an absolute, groundbreaking first.

“The Japanese music magazine industry resembles what existed in America before the rise of Rolling Stone. That’s to say, record companies – the main advertisers – see their wishes strongly reflected on every page, and because of this, magazines’ main job is to praise new releases. Is that why we’ve never seen one of these lists? It’s a strange situation, almost like the entire industry is infected with the idea that they should not rank releases because it would “make the record companies angry.” […] We must change this ridiculous situation into something more normal.” (Daisuke)

That was in 2007. Has anything changed since then? Well, when Yasutaka Nakata, a prolific Japanese producer, songwriter, and DJ was interviewed for The Japan Times Online in August 2009, he said, “The power of music critics is less in Japan now. [...] And partly this is because they’ll talk about music saying that ‘this’ or ‘that’ is really fashionable, but the [sic] themselves obviously have no sense of style, so people react like, ‘What? Why should we listen to this guy?’” No. Nothing has changed at all. Albums are reviewed with praise and high ratings so they sell well, when let’s be honest – not every album is worth buying, or even listening to. It’s time to make the big leap in establishing the canon with well-written, researched reviews, articles, and essays by professional, critical listeners and writers who live and breath music, while remaining sensitive to our own handicaps and restrictions, cultural or otherwise.

After all, to speak of LUNA SEA or Dir en grey’s influence is to speak of the culture they have affected – those hundreds of visual kei/metal/lolita/what-have-yous – of which I have never partook of and thus know very little of, regardless of the fact that I have been listening to Dir en grey for eight years, from its VK infancy, to the bastardized riffs of American nu-metal mimicry. Here’s that socio/anthropological question again: does analysis of art in a particular culture require cultural participation? And if it doesn’t, if we agree that Western fans of Japanese pop have just as much valid insight into the Japanese musical landscape as Japanese music writers who were born, raised, and live/publish in Japan (and again, the idea of actual Japanese music criticism by the Japanese vis-à-vis the Western paradigm is extremely, ridiculously recent, if at all), is the message really genuine, or like Namie Amuro’s Queen of Hip-Pop, can it simply reflect the culture to which it aspires?

Like any art, music is not made in a vacuum. In fact, if the purpose of art is communication (of ideas, of feelings, of shared values), music speaks directly to the social environment in which it was begat. That doesn’t mean we can’t enjoy it and discuss it on a (relatively) superficial level (as many J-pop blogs do), but as Americans living across the ocean (even with really reliable Internet access), does it mean we’ll never be able to truly grasp its central conceit? And if it’s feasible, does it mean we repair, from the ashes of so many trivial Hello! Project and Johnny’s fan blogs, this unique community to which all J-pop fans belong? Or do we break off and revolutionize the way the world perceives Japanese popular music forever?

(Special thanks to Mike for helping me work out and edit the ideas here.)

Mercury Prize winner announced; appears weeps

So Speech Debelle’s Speech Therapy won this year’s Mercury Prize and I’m a little upset because I was totally rooting for Florence + the Machine’s Lungs in a very enthusiastic, unhealthy way. Not in the same way I wanted Neon Neon’s Stainless Style to win last year, and that only because it was so cheerfully unexpected and out there (seriously? an album based on John DeLorean’s life?) in a way a concept album hasn’t been in so very long. I guess it’s an honor to be nominated at all, but isn’t that just something losers say?

But I really did want Florence + the Machine’s Lungs to take the prize, probably because it would selfishly confirm my own taste. Not since Kent’s Tillbaka till samtiden have I been so impressed with a recently released album. It’s easy to get caught up in old records that blow your mind; all summer I’ve been jamming to David Bowie’s The Rise and Fall of Ziggy Stardust and the Spiders from Mars and Fleetwood Mac’s Rumours, coincidentally, also  two concept albums (one loosely predicated on a rock n’ roll alien and the other on the world’s most exploited break-ups), but to be there when an album is released is a whole other beast entirely. It leaves records unsullied by decades of nostalgia and overrated hype that leads you to them with enormous expectations that can hardly break even with reality. It lets you create your own judgments on the spot without resorting to thinking about what the album means in the context that’s been pre-created by critics, friends, or sentimental baby boomers.

In Ryan Dombal’s review of Lungs on Pitchfork, he says that for vocalist Florence Welsh, “matters of the heart aren’t simple, everyday occurrences– they’re as grand and mysterious as the big bang itself”; I cannot think of a better way to describe this record.

The key to this album lies in the subtle, constant innuendos that Welsh brings to life with a bluesy, soft voice that is anything but gentle. In fact, more often than not it’s the strength of all the juxtapositions that really brings to life the soaring harps and bombastic drums that play with all the aplomb of a ticker-tape parade, expressing the rises, falls, heartbeats, wounds, scarring, and occasional backstabbing that make this album so complex. Is the subject matter of “My Boy Builds Coffins” really building coffins, or collecting, then spitting out, hapless victims of love? Is she singing about a crush or spiritual ecstasy in “Drumming Song”? Is it a good or bad thing that love has turned her into a she-wolf in “Howl”? These questions are only half the fun of the record; the other half is the sheer pleasure that comes from exploring the intricate scenarios of these fairy tale songs. And although names like KT Tunstall and Kate Bush are being thrown around to nab the mystical aura of the album, the first one that comes to my mind is Stevie Nicks – the sweeping garments, the perpetual flashlight on love as seen through some of the more bizarre corners of the gothic, and of course, the dripping cynicism that betrays any semblance of a true love song without eluding to its partner: heartbreak (or maybe I’ve just been listening to too much Nicks lately).

It’s sometimes a bit jarring to hear the pure soul of the vocals on top of all those drums and guitars, but it works. Nowhere does the tone or direction of the album get confused or clash. It’s an all-around masterpiece, really, and though I’ve been playing it non-stop for the past few weeks, I still haven’t grown tired or bored with it the way I do with so many of the records that have topped my year end lists; overwhelmed by the first few listens, I slowed down to pick apart tracks and found something new with each spin.

So it lost out to Speech Therapy, which I heard and didn’t like, but then I’ve never really took to or understood rap so I’m probably missing something fundamental and that’s fine, she probably deserved to win. You’re never going to be fond of everything you hear. But when you do have that rare moment of discovery, everybody wins. And that’s all that really matters in the very personal, very relentless pursuit of that glorious, ultimate response to recorded music.

Koda Kumi’s “Physical Thing” PV

The title track of Koda Kumi’s forty-fifth single Alive is about as exciting as dishwater. Ballads have never really been her strong suit, after all, she doesn’t have the smoothest of voices, instead flourishing in sounds that easily drown her vocals in bass. But just when you think she has reached the apex of boundaries’ final frontiers, she turns into Darth Kumi.

And now, your Monday Evening Phallic Imagery brought to you by the the c/w track “Physical Thing” and Rhythm Zone (I’ve never said this before, but seriously, it’s probably not safe for work).

Physical Thing PV ░ [ View ]

But what, no fake smoke to go with the fake cigarette? Not even a little?

“It seems crazy to cut smoking out of textbooks but within a few years they won’t be allowed in movies either. A woman can throw her newborn child from the roof of a high-rise building. She can then retrieve the body and stomp on it while shooting into the windows of a day care center, but to celebrate these murders by lighting a cigarette is to send a harmful message. There are, after all, young people watching, and we wouldn’t want them to get the wrong idea.” (David Sedaris, When You Are Engulfed in Flames, pg 251)

Koda Clueless has never been good with subtlety, often misunderstanding the line between sexy and sex, and there is little she hasn’t done for shock value. But unless there are sex tapes yet to be released, we’re going to have to be content to snark anything she brings near her promotional video-d lips, including that cigarette. Ah, cigarettes, one of the last bastions of moral rectitude. It’s almost the last “controversial” object or action she hasn’t been filmed singing with or doing, until they put together one of those mock-docs and we see her do a line on a sheet of lyrics.

But the whole thing looks unrealistic and clumsy, and the fact that it’s done purely as a means to put both parents’ and fans’ knickers in a twist is what upsets me. In some ways, it makes it twice as less threatening, turning it into something of a joke (the pressing question becomes: will it or will it not tumble from her teeth in the middle of a dance step and set the room ablaze?). Clearly, I have fallen prey to it: the conversation generated by one cigarette that doesn’t burn or ever seem to ash is the conversation they want you to have. But still, the cigarette-a-look-alike is only shocking in so far as most teens today are of the truth generation, already forgetting that smoking was common on television and movies until fairly recently.

In reality, the cigarette is only distracting us from the real problem of this video. Forget the music, I can’t hum a single bar of this vacuous song after watching this twice, but the image of her red wig and wine bottle hand-jobs has been sealed like a cattle brand to my retinas. But then I’m an old-school feminist; if you really want to assert your sexual freedom, go burn a bra or something.