My first memory of listening to Ray Harakami’s music. What I felt when I saw his performance.

Mark “Frosty” McNeill, who is the co-founder of the Los Angeles-based internet radio station dublab, which has a global listenership, discovered Rei Harakami’s music as it was being released while Harakami was alive and has also shared the stage with him as a DJ. Frosty is also known as a curator on the Pacific Breeze: Japanese City Pop, AOR And Boogie 1976-1986, Pacific Breeze 2: Japanese City Pop, AOR And Boogie 1972-1986, and Somewhere Between: Mutant Pop, Electronic Minimalism & Shadow Sounds Of Japan 1980-1988 compilations. As someone who has his finger on the pulse for international music and an ardent fan of Japanese music, we asked him about his thoughts on Rei Harakami and why Harakami’s music has attracted listeners from around the world.

――When was the first time you heard Rei Harakami’s music, and what were the circumstances? How did it make you feel when you first heard his music?

Frosty: I actually can’t put my finger on the first time I heard Rei’s music, rather it seemed like something that slowly faded into existence. His music entered my sphere like the humming of the atmosphere before solidifying into recognition. This revelation is actually much more satisfying as it was an evolution of awareness, and for me, this fits the character of Rei Harakami’s sounds. Once they slid into my consciousness, I realized that my library was already well stocked with his music and that I had even played it on the radio prior, possibly in a state of Harakami-hypnosis. I’m sure I stood in front of a listening station at Spiral Records decades ago with headphones on, wrapped in the wonder of his work as the buzzing Tokyo life swirled around me as if in another universe. Once the light truly came on, the details of Rei’s individual compositions and body of work started to focus further—yet, still to this day, they retain an ephemeral quality as if hovering in a dreamstate just on the edge of possibility—almost too luminous to be real.

――You have been DJing at various events and have been active as a radio DJ with dublab for many years. Have you ever played Rei Harakami’s music as a DJ? Do you remember anything from playing his music out?

Frosty: Yes, I have definitely played Rei’s music a lot over the years: on the radio, at gigs, on curated playlists, at art happenings, but most of all in my home. His work has a really unique vibe—when I hear it, I know it’s Rei Harakami but it’s also like a sonic shapeshifter. His music has a fluid sort of sound that seems to harmonize to the call of manifold moments.

——When Carlos Niño performed in Japan (in 2010 at Tokyo Unit), Rei Harakami also performed there, and you opened up as a DJ. What do you remember from seeing his performance?

Frosty: I was completely awestruck by this experience. First off, I remember speaking with Rei Harakami backstage and was so impressed with his warm spirit. When he played, the venue’s already incredible sound system seemed to morph into some sort of spatial super system. It was as if we were immersed in a planetarium of sound—Harakami’s tones, the constellations beckoning us into new worlds. His performance was so gracefully elemental, as if his every sound emerged more so to give structure to silence and space, guideposts generously guiding us through the listening experience. It was like my brain and body had been recalibrated to experience the wonders of the world anew. When I showered him with well-deserved compliments after his set, it seemed like his humility only expanded—a peaceful attitude suggesting the music he played had always been there and he was simply gesturing at its essence.

The reason why I was attracted to Japanese music. The uniqueness of Rei Harakami

――When you started dublab (I think around 1999) you came to Japan. I met you for the first time back then, and I was surprised about how much you knew about Japanese indie music. How did you get interested in Japanese music?

Frosty: Wow, we have known each other for such a long time and I count myself a lucky person for that! Since I got involved in radio in 1994 at the University of Southern California my insatiable curiosity about the music of our wondrous world has accelerated, and when I founded dublab in 1999, it only went into overdrive. But my love for Japanese music dates back much further. My mother had an album of Japanese shakuhachi music on the Nonsesuch Explorer Series called A Bell Ringing in the Empty Sky. As a child, I would sit and listen to this for hours on end while staring at the intricate line drawings on the cover. It was as if a fantasy had manifested itself in the disc and years later when I first saw Akira Kurosawa’s film Dreams it felt like I had found an emotional equivalent to this. My thirst to experience more of this inspired creativity expanded and I started searching for Japanese music in earnest. Around 1999, when I found a copy of Cappablack’s The Opposition EP on Soup-Disk in the record bins of the mythical Aron’s Records, my flare was brightly lit and the quest for even more Japanese sounds was on.

――You must have listened to a lot of music from Japan that was of the same era as Rei Harakami. What made his music unique?

Frosty: Yes, I sure did. In college and into the early years of dublab, DJ Krush, Nobukazu Takemura, Susumu Yokota, and more were big for me and I still love this music while continuing to expand my breadth of Japanese music enjoyment. Rei’s music stood out in that it was like water sitting so crystalline in a glass on a windowsill with light pouring through the vessel projecting something altogether new on the other side. Upon lifting it to quench my thirst, I don’t long for the light that once was, but rather savor the simple glass’ many ways of giving nourishment. Listening now to Rei Harakami’s music as I write this, I feel a sense of natsukashii—I’m at once missing the past, like Rei’s 2010 concert at Tokyo Unit, while reveling in the joy his music brings me in the present moment.

――Rei was active between 1998 and 2011. He was part of the electronic music scene during this time, but what did his music achieve in the worldwide electronic scene?

Frosty: This is a hard question and I’m just grasping at my own perception. I feel like Rei Harakami’s music is still so under-appreciated, which is not necessarily a bad thing because the people who are fortunate enough to encounter it will value it even more. Many artists are not recognized in their time because our minds and souls need to move into a state where we can truly understand the value of their work. With Harakami, I feel like his music is timeless in nature and in our world of constant chaos it is a sanctuary, that once-discovered, brings great solace.

――Rei Harakami was influenced by music other than electronic music, but what type of influences do you feel from his music?

Frosty: More so than the influence of other music, when I listen to Harakami’s work, I get the sense that he was captivated by the magic of our world, the fleeting wonders that are only recognized by the eyes of the perceiver and thereby cherished as intangible elements that when summed make us human.

――It seems that a lot of overseas music fans are taking an interest in Harakami’s music, but what is it that draws them to his music?

Frosty: Music is so subjective and we are ever-changing from moment to moment so it’s hard to guess what others are feeling but I can only imagine that his music serves as a balm to the chaos.

――Harakami’s “Hiroi Sekai To Semai Sekai” is a collection of his music before his official debut, but what were your thoughts on this album?

Frosty: I am so thrilled by this release. It’s still so new to me and I anticipate spending much time with this music in the years to come. Hearing Rei Harakami’s early works is like finding more to love. I can hear the great joy, enthusiasm, and humor that went into making these works. Rei’s later works are also enriched by this early view—reflections of his personality are colored through this wider lens.

The impact of the introduction of Japanese city pop on the U.S. music scene. Notable artists after Rei Harakami.

――You worked on the Pacific Breeze compilation that brought city pop to overseas listeners, which is an era of music before Harakami’s time, but do you see any similarities or differences?

Frosty: I think that we live in a world of wide possibilities yet our collective potential is dampened by the narrow streams we are fed through mainstream media and marketing. Most of the world listens to a miniscule body of work while conversely the majority of music made, only ever reaches a minority of people. My life’s mission is to reverse this trend and share underrepresented, creative music with the world. Our human minds have great potential to expand and music is one great way to stretch them. So much amazing music has come from Japan and it’s a shame when it ends at the country’s shores, so I’ve been thrilled to see more folks enjoying Japanese music and have been thankful to do my small part to share it.

――How has city pop influenced the US music scene? Has there been more interest in music from Japan?

Frosty: I went into a record store the other day for the first time in a long while and the Japanese bin was really well stocked but each album was easily three to four times the cost of the other records in the store. While this shows the high interest, it also illustrates that demand can decrease access. I hope that the price bubble pops a bit in the vintage record selling market and that music is once again made more accessible. Sure, we have streaming services but there is so much great music out there that’s not on these platforms, but physical media shouldn’t come at a cost that forces consumers to choose from eating or listening. That’s one of the reasons I have been excited to work with Light in the Attic Records to produce compilations of Japanese music like the Pacific Breeze series and the Somewhere Between compilation. We’re sifting through mountains of music in order to provide thoughtfully crafted collections of jewels for the public to hear at a reasonable rate.

――Has there been any music after Harakami from Japan that you are interested in? If there are any artists you have your eye on please let us know.

Frosty: I’m loving what Foodman is up to, H. Takahashi always amazes me, Chee Shimizu is the key to so much, Kuniyuki Takahashi is a sublime sureshot, Meitei is excavating and illuminating, Ytamo and Oorutaichi are my lights, Kenji Kihara keeps me grounded, and Midori Takada is like an eclipse that stays perfectly in balance.

――If Harakami were still alive, how do you think he might have influenced the current scene?

Frosty: Rei Harakami would have continued to make music true to his heart. This pure act would likely have influenced many others to follow their passions.

――What are your top 10 Rei Harakami tunes?

Rei Harakami – after joy
Rei Harakami – sequence_01
Rei Harakami with Ikuko Harada – sequence_03
Rei Harakami – unexpected situations
Rei Harakami – remain
Rei Harakami – double flat
Rei Harakami – on
Rei Harakami – a certain theme
Rei Harakami – owari no kisetsu
Rei Harakami – くそがらす (plus more favorites to come from Hiroi Sekai To Semai Sekai!)

Mark “Frosty” McNeill is a DJ, radio producer, curator, university professor, and Emmy-winning documentary filmmaker based in Los Angeles. He’s the founder of dublab.com, a pioneering web radio station that has been exploring wide-spectrum music since 1999. McNeill hosts weekly radio shows for dublab. As Adventure Time, he and Daedelus have created new worlds of sound and alongside dublab colleagues he activates the Golden Hits dream machine. Frosty has performed high concept DJ sets around the globe with the mission of sharing transcendent sonic experiences.
Web: frosty.la
Radio: dublab.com/djs/frosty
Twitter: @dublabfrosty
Instagram: @dubfrosty

Translation Hashim Kotaro Bharoocha

Edit Takahiro Fujikawa

The post “Revisiting Rei Harakami’s music” Pt. 2: Mark “Frosty” McNeill on the encounter with the music like a fluid and its peculiarities appeared first on TOKION - Cutting edge culture and fashion information.

The initial urge to write an idea

—In Oto de Miru Dansu, you’re credited as a narrator. Is what you did with that role similar to what you do today?

Sibitt: Yes. It’ll be interesting if I could pass down things people don’t know about, or if someone else could pass it down after I die like, “Here’s a story of something that happened.” I think of myself as an “ear person,” as I think everything in this world is music. I believe in sounds more than the visible world. I thought about how I would enjoy dancing if I lost my eyesight one day. I wanted to create a story through a person’s dance and make the audience listen to things they usually wouldn’t listen to and feel something. I told a story that I had envisioned in fine detail from watching the dancer, Neji-san, dance. 

—How do you rank the act of writing, speaking, singing, or rapping? 

Sibitt: The act of writing comes first. It’s an impulse. I can’t help but write to an unhealthy degree.

—So, writing comes first? 

Sibitt: More so than writing, it seems like I get a flash of inspiration like, “Oh!” I’m driven by this sense of duty to write an idea when I get one. When I write, it feels like I enter a forest of words and go on a journey of seeing where they take me next. I think I say the words aloud, whether it’s a meter of a poem or just my voice. As of late, I’ve begun digging even deeper; I wonder, “Why is it shaped like that?” [when I see] just one letter. I got an offer last year from a museum of kanji (Japanese characters) in Kyoto to show an exhibition about where kanji or words originate. They already have a meaning to them, but the museum wanted me to have a two-month exhibition where I trace back the origins. However, because the state of emergency was issued, it became an unfulfilled exhibition. I didn’t even do it for a week. But it reaffirmed the joy of words for me. It was an eye-opener, as it made me question why I hadn’t thought about something so interesting before. 

—I see. It turned into a process of rediscovering sounds.

Sibitt: Regarding the act of writing: when the exhibition started, I tried looking at other people’s and my writings again, as though I were using a magnifying glass. For instance, the left and right sides of the kanji for 行 (read as gyo or ko, meaning line/verse/row) look similar, but [one side is] a bit slanted. Perhaps this is because long ago, people didn’t have matching straw sandals. Perhaps on their “way to” (行き, read as iki) somewhere, they would wear a sandal on their right foot, wear one on their left foot on their way back, and adjust the balance. I imagine 行 represents the shape of straw sandals. A big reason why I trace back the roots of words is because of a theme I have, which is “The future is nostalgic.” We don’t know what the future holds, so I know it’s weird to use the word nostalgic. The “Ah, I’ve seen this before” feeling, as if I’m going back in time, feels fun again.

Shinganginga Shokei, the result of having an inquisitive spirit towards words

—On the flip side, there are some cases where the past feels new. Is your interest in language related to the book version of Shinganginga?

Sibitt: Yes. Because I wanted people to see my exhibition, when I was making Shinganginga, I honed in on succumbing to the act of looking at words through a magnifying glass. I didn’t make the works overtime, though. I made them in about two weeks, nonstop. I wrote them, hit them, erased them, got on top of them to step on them; I made them using various frictions. 

—I was surprised when I picked up the physical book, as it has such a demanding presence. I felt the power of your photographed works and the joy of the words themselves.  

Sibitt: It would make me happy if people want to read the actual thing, or if people who work with words or art could use this opportunity to take a good look at what they do. Right now, we can’t touch, and we need to distance ourselves from one another; we can’t even shake hands as much. We’re not conscious of what we touch each day. On the other hand, in the world, there are people like Satoshi Fukushima-san (editor’s note: a researcher of accessibility issues and a professor at the University of Tokyo) who are deafblind. We mustn’t forget that some people understand words for the first time when people touch their fingertips using finger braille (editor’s note: a method of communication for deafblind people using six fingers—the index finger, middle finger, and ring finger on both hands—as a braille typewriter). Satoshi Fukushima-san talks about the world of touching with his fingertips. It’s vital to think about what we touch today. 

8 ∞, a project with international artists, and meeting Gozo Yoshimasu.

—That perspective ties in with a current project you’re working on, 8 ∞.

Sibitt: 8 ∞ is a project where instead of just creating my work, I look at completely different people’s work with a magnifying glass and make things that make me think, “Doesn’t this mean x y z?” with this person with a Ph.D. degree from Hiroshima University and other people. When I worked in a hip hop environment, I didn’t care about other people and didn’t seriously read other people’s lyrics or written works. I read your work and so on and analyzed it by looking through a magnifying glass, like “I wonder what this person was doing.” It was fun to deepen my understanding, and I started approaching people. For example, I had Gozo Yoshimasu (editor’s note: a poet born in 1939 who represents contemporary Japanese poetry) read “Irezumi,” a poem he wrote in the 70s, in his voice. He gave me a letter, and that is a work of art in itself. I felt like the gaps in each line had some meaning, like a signal. I felt like it was an artwork, not a letter. My current mission is to see how seriously I can deal with other people’s poems because I met someone who pours their energy into understanding other people’s minds by interpreting their poems, going to the place that inspired said poems, and writing after breathing the air they breathed.

—How did you meet Yoshimasu-san?

Sibitt: As a university student, I only read a few of Yoshimasu-san’s works. Like I said before, I wasn’t interested in other people (laughs). I started 8 ∞ because I wanted to, and I don’t know when the project will end. I reached out to Gary Snyder for it. He replied to me saying, “I can’t participate this time because I’m finishing a big collection of poems.” His reply was a poetic one, too. He told me he was looking forward [to my project]. I approached different people like Saul Williams and Kae Tempest (formerly known as Kate Tempest), but it was spontaneous. So, I didn’t know about the current scene or anything. Little by little, I reached out to people who made me wonder what poems they were writing and what they’ve got to say, as well as the surrounding people. And I thought Yoshimasu-san was an obvious choice. 

—You approached people you didn’t personally know. 

Sibitt: Yes. I contacted a bookstore in Hokkaido called Shoshi Yoshinari. I wrote a long letter to them, and they got me in touch with him. I was just actually on a phone call with Yoshimasu-san this morning. 

—Yoshimasu-san used to work with jazz musicians. Also, because of the jazz poetry movement in America, he became a spiritual pillar of jazz. People like Saul Williams, Kae Tempest, and Mike Ladd all have connections with hip hop. I feel like your work as an artist today draws from these movements. 

Sibitt: I don’t think that way at all, but I have this extreme [belief] that you can understand the world if you listen to the words of a poet, that it’s everything. I think it’s my misunderstanding, in a good way. Different information and words are everywhere, but poets sift through them all and leave one speck of words. I want to believe in this big misunderstanding that if we listen to the words and voices of poets, then it’s enough for that to be the entire world. 

—We can’t be out in the real world as much because of the pandemic. As such, some people are more aware and sensitive about words than before. As such, I bet people are showing interest in 8 ∞.

Sibitt: A vocal artist from Indonesia called Rully Shabara sent me a handwritten poem, an audio recording, and a typed-out piece. It was all in a language he created. Nobody can speak it or understand it. He even invented the letters. He’s in a different ballpark; he doesn’t make you understand, and yet, when you listen to his voice, you could picture things like a dolphin or water. When I saw that, it made me think back to how people first wrote words to communicate something, like how a child writes backward or writes made-up words. We should know that people think about many different things even though they feel frustrated when they can’t or don’t know how to communicate and don’t understand another person even though they’re trying. When you read Satoshi Fukushima-san’s book, you’ll learn that silence is scary, like silence is hell. There was a time when he begged people to talk to him about anything, as he felt like he was alone and floating in space due to not being able to see and hear others and himself and come into contact with what others were saying. We must understand that some people don’t want to be spoken to while some think the exact opposite. I wonder what words we should say to them in such situations. 

—You express the idea of not being understood and not understanding in Shinganginga.  

Sibitt: Shinganginga derived from 8 ∞. In about the second song, I say, “Breathing is living.” When we talk to vegetables or trees, we inhale oxygen and exhale carbon dioxide, so it’s as though we grow that way. I feel like what poets, or those who speak to others in a particular field, do is equivalent to them saying, “By listening to voiceless voices, I think about what I’m encountering and what I should be listening to. As long I could hear that, it’s enough.” I want people to know that such people exist in the world. Though they may not appear at the forefront, those who work to express people, language, and talking to others exist all over the world, and I look forward to that. As I meet more people, it reminds me to spend time with and listen to people’s words.  

Field recordings; everything is music

—After you made Shinganginga, you made an instrumental track called “Chikyu Naut Ouou,” (CHIKYU NAUT -翁嫗 OUOU- 語部：志人/sibitt). It’s an interesting ambient song based on field recordings, and it doesn’t have a beat. 

Sibitt: When I made that, I was asked to do a long-distance poetry writing workshop with people who worked in a social welfare facility. Because there was a delay due to it being long distance, and the event hosts wanted to forcibly make something out of it when I didn’t think we had to rush. So tension arose, and we couldn’t create anything. However, during the few weeks I spent with them, I made “Chikyu Naut.” They inspired me to make it. 

—Was it your first time using a field recording?

Sibitt: I have a recorder around me every day and have been using it for about ten years out of habit. But I haven’t used them in my work until now. 

—So, it’s not like you listen to the field recordings and then write something down? 

Sibitt: I have a studio in a warehouse made out of clay, and I always hear the sounds of nature in the background. When I play the synths or listen to an audio recording, how it sounds changes depending on the rain, a quiet night, or when many frogs cry. On top of making something everyone can listen to, I hope to demonstrate with ease that everything is music instead of coming up with words, as I believe the sounds in people’s homes add to the music. I want to go somewhere and think about making field recordings. I still don’t know what I want to do, but I want to travel more. 

Sibitt
Sibitt was born in Japan in 1982. He is a poet, author, songwriter, and storyteller. Through examining his means of Japanese expression, he has become an artisan of words who shows new possibilities hidden in language. Aside from music, Sibitt works as an artist in domestic and international performing arts and classical theater. Starting in 2020, he began hosting 8∞, a project of endless stories with international artists. Currently, seven poets/ “voice performers” are involved: Sibitt, Khyro, Rully Shabara, Nanorunamonai, Bleubird , Bianca Casady, and Gozo Yoshimasu. In 2021, Sibitt released his self-produced album, Shinganginga alongside Shikakushi・Shokkakushi Shinganginga Shokei.
sibitts official blog Wheres sibitt? ： sibitt.exblog.jp/
TempleATS： templeats.net/
8 ∞：88project.info/

Translation Lena Grace Suda

The post Sibitt, a maverick artist and storyteller; the past and present of his craft (part II) appeared first on TOKION - Cutting edge culture and fashion information.

Fast forward to 2021. I listened to Shinganginga, which arrived at my doorstep, and turned the pages of his hand-made book while checking its texture. I asked to interview him because I genuinely wanted to know how he got to where he is today with his expression. Our conversation began as if we were carefully picking up the fallen pieces.

What living in nature taught Sibitt

—When did you start living in Kyoto? 

Sibitt: Around seven years ago. 

—Has your lifestyle changed?

Sibitt: It was like my life did a 180. I’ve loved nature since I was small, but it was like I went even deeper. Also, many people in Kyoto have an artisanal disposition. I get into trouble whenever I take orders from them and whatnot (laughs).

—So, you live in the mountains, not in the city.

Sibitt: Yes. I’ve always enjoyed being in touch with nature. But when I arrived in Kyoto, I learned I would get eaten alive if I had superficial motives and that my life could slip away. 

—You mentioned artisans; do you work with them? 

Sibitt: Yes. The first person I met with an artisanal spirit was someone who worked in the mountains. He works in forestry, and he buys Japanese horse chestnuts from grandpas and grandmas and makes many utensils and bowls out of them by himself without selling them to anyone. He’s about ten years older than me and scolded me all the time. It’s as if he’s cut off from society, but meeting him made me realize I wanted to continue creating too. It was fate. People often ask me if I’m a lumberjack or someone who works in forestry. But I also don’t know what my occupation title is. My experiences and work directly tie into writing poetry. That’s all. When I saw him creating things in silence, without thinking about his status or other people, it made me want to take my work more seriously. 

—You write poetry and also produce music. You made Shinganginga by yourself.

Sibitt: I couldn’t even picture myself creating music. I didn’t intend on doing hip hop at first. It just so happened that I had friends around me who explored verbal expression. My friends who used to make music became adults and stopped making new music. When it came time to write poems to the music, fewer and fewer people understood the spirit of the individual’s sound. I pondered what sound I wanted to write poetry to; it was silence. Without sound, there were no limits. It was only recently that I started producing because I wanted to make music just a bit.

— Shinganginga is the first album of this new phase.

Sibitt: Another reason I made it is because I was asked to try my hand at producing music. Someone asked me to make songs for zero to two-year-old babies last year. I didn’t know what to do because I had virtually never made music, so I tried playing old Yamaha—which I call 山葉 (the Japanese characters for mountain and leaf, read as Yamaha)—synthesizers that you could buy at a thrift shop. I can’t read sheet music, and I had never studied it. I stepped back and wondered, “What does music mean to me?” I felt like everything from the cries of cicadas to everyday sounds was music. I tried thinking like a baby and played with sounds to discover something that would strike a chord. 

Looking back on Sibitt’s musical trajectory; discovering hip hop

—I met you when Origami’s (editor’s note: Origami is a hip hop crew that took the Tokyo hip hop scene by storm, composed of MCs Sibitt and Nanorunamonai and producer onimas) first eponymous album came out in 2003. Could you talk about what kind of music you listened to before Origami and what you wanted to do?

Sibitt: When I was roaming around Asia in my youth before I started making art, I didn’t listen to hip hop at all. I listened to Boredoms and Rashinban. In terms of DJs, DJ Spooky. I also listened to goa trance music like Hallucinogen. While traveling, I listened to stuff that made me go, “What in the world is this?” I liked music that went one step further. I remember how this street vendor in Asia was playing a cassette tape; it was DJ Krush’s song. When I asked the street vendor, “Where is this music from?” they replied, “It’s Japanese music; it’s music from your country.” I “met” Dj Krush not in Japan but on the streets. 

—And then you started doing hip hop once you returned to Japan.

Sibitt: In part, because I was a student, I had the strong urge to express and create something. That’s how I met friends who were making hip hop music. I went to Waseda University, and there were these rooms for extracurricular activities on the basement floor, which was chaotic. A group of misfits called Reggae Stars got together in one of the rooms there. The next room was where the Brazilian music society and sign language society got together. The first time I held a mic was at a block party with turntables at a park. Meaning, the first time I held a mic was through reggae. 

—When Origami entered the scene, American underground hip hop was having a moment. There were similar groups out there, but Origami was different. I felt like you two rappers and the producer deviated from the category of hip hop. 

Sibitt: Of course, a part of me is obsessed with and interested in hip hop’s great culture, but I’m not in a position to be like, “This is what hip hop is.” When I was younger, I would freestyle and [join] ciphers. But the music that excited me wasn’t old-school hip hop. I would visit my friend who was knowledgeable in different genres, and after we listened to underground hip hop, we would watch Fishmans’ music videos. I did random things when I was young.

—I’m sure the musical influence from Origami was significant.

Sibitt: Concerning Origami, onimas, who’s Taiwanese-American, started listening to post-rock music like Tortoise and Mice Parade, and the tracks began having non-hip hop elements. I just liked music that you couldn’t categorize—music that surprised you—more than traditional hip hop. It might be because I had begun thinking about what kind of music I wanted to make. I played live shows in the hip hop scene for a long time, but then I started doing live shows with people in totally different genres, like rock and hardcore, and as a result… I stopped chasing after people. Before I knew it, I would only perform live at hippy, commune-like places. It makes you wonder how it got to that point. I mean, I did sort of disappear too. 

Sibitt’s relationship with language

—I presume your rap and language skills became polished as you evolved. What do you think? 

Sibitt: That’s a difficult question. I think I can look deeper, thanks to both meeting people and, more recently, not meeting people. I’m considering expanding on what I learned when other people and I influenced each other and had some friendly rivalry. And the time where I immersed myself in words without outside influence.

—Your solo music and Origami’s music have elements of old Japanese songs. The music itself might have some western qualities, but were you always interested in Japan?

Sibitt: Yes. I was born in Shinjuku ward, but my grandparents are from Shikoku, and they couldn’t do what they wanted during the war. After the war, they cleared the land and built their own house in Nagano prefecture. They led a life where they gave up convenience, a la having a goemonburo (cauldron bath) and a wood-burning stove. I would visit them when I was small, in elementary school. I would go for walks with my grandmother, and she would tell me the names of bugs, birds, and flowers like, “This is called a waremoko (great burnet). It’s called that because ‘I too want to become like this’ (我もこうなりたい, read as waremokonaritai)” and “This bug is an antlion.” When I write poems, most of the time I’m like, “How do I know this word?” I don’t look it up and say, write a story about a particular flower. They’re more like words from the corners of my mind. My brain is imprinted with memories of my grandparents before I started making art and flowers and plants named by Japanese people through the power of language. 

The teachings of theater

—So, it’s not like you go out of your way to focus on Japanese. 

Sibitt: I don’t impose an “It has to be in Japanese” rule on myself. However, there’s a part of me that thinks about things while I go on walks like, “Where does my idiolect come from?” and even “What kind of country is Japan?” and “What is the emperor about?” I want to study the etymology of Japanese words and how they sound. I started doing theater recently. A few years ago, I acted in a play called Portal (screenplay by Shinichiro Hayashi), directed by Yukichi Matsumoto-san of Ishinha (editor’s note: Ishinha is a theater troupe founded by the late Yukichi Matsumoto in 1970. The group disbanded in 2017 after their show in Taiwan). That was the exact opposite [of what I do], as the theme was on using foreign words to create imaginary cities and games. And first, I wondered if I could even do it. However, I was interested because I felt like there were non-Japanese words trying to connect with Japanese words. Also, it was a play with a lot of words, and I realized I must’ve been digging myself a hole. I realized everything didn’t have to be in Japanese and discovered various foreign words as I absorbed them. 

—What did you do in that play? 

Sibitt: I played the role of Cloud, who is a nebulous person. I took on the role after studying it in the script. And under the condition that I could also come up with my lines. Until then, I never really read out other people’s words because I thought it might be untruthful. That’s where I drew the line. But I wanted to see what words could be born if there was some space to insert myself into that role. I was like, “I want to try it if I could do this at liberty,” so in a way, it was experimental. 

—The play involved physical expression too. Did you discover anything new aside from using words?

Sibitt: The movements of Ishinha were unique. As someone who fundamentally doesn’t see themselves as a hip hop person, I have a self-less side that creates things with no subject like “I.” It makes you wonder who’s speaking. When I moved my body in that state, it was as if I was there, but simultaneously not. It was a strange sensation like I was dead or a ghost. The moves were choreographed, so depending on the scene, you couldn’t move freely. When you have to lose both yourself and the role when you move, it’s like you become no one. That’s what I experienced from moving with Ishinha. 

—Did you feel selfless since your rapping days?

Sibitt: I mean, there are so many cool rappers, but I can’t be cool. 

—Don’t worry, your rapping is cool (laughs). 

Sibitt: No, no (laughs). I don’t really like narcissism. I wonder if we could speak for plants or trees, things that humanity has strayed away from. Even if we can’t talk on their behalf, perhaps we could translate what they’re saying, even if it’s wrong. When you speak as a person addressing other people, it becomes routine. Honestly, I believe [the plants and trees] speak to us in sounds that go beyond language. I work with the thought, “I wonder if now is the time for me to listen and translate,” in my head. 

(Continued)

Sibitt
Sibitt was born in Japan in 1982. He is a poet, author, songwriter, and storyteller. Through examining his means of Japanese expression, he has become an artisan of words who shows new possibilities hidden in language. Aside from music, Sibitt works as an artist in domestic and international performing arts and classical theater. Starting in 2020, he began hosting 8∞, a project of endless stories with international artists. Currently, seven poets/ “voice performers” are involved: Sibitt, Khyro, Rully Shabara, Nanorunamonai, Bleubird , Bianca Casady, and Gozo Yoshimasu. In 2021, Sibitt released his self-produced album, Shinganginga alongside Shikakushi・Shokkakushi Shinganginga Shokei.
sibitts official blog Wheres sibitt? ： sibitt.exblog.jp/
TempleATS： templeats.net/
8 ∞：88project.info/

Translation Lena Grace Suda

The post Sibitt, a maverick artist and storyteller; the past and present of his craft (part I) appeared first on TOKION - Cutting edge culture and fashion information.

Living in New York during a pandemic, looking back on the music scene

—Were you in New York during the pandemic?

BIGYUKI: For the most part, yes. I went everywhere until March 2020 because I was on tour, but I stopped moving around at once.

—You didn’t meet up with your musician friends?

BIGYUKI: I occasionally had recording sessions in New York, but I didn’t meet them at all in March and April when the situation was at its worst. Different states were providing financial support, and there were various mutual aid groups such as the American Federation of Musicians making donations, so I had several lifelines. My musician friends and I had prepared equipment like mics and monitor speakers to share music from our homes.

—Did you have to be active online with your music to receive financial aid or donations?

BIGYUKI: The aid wasn’t for my future career. We got judged on how much we had contributed to the music industry at that point. They ask you questions like what album you’ve been a part of and what sort of tours you’ve done. I [wrote] everything on my application.

—Were you able to keep your motivation for music under those circumstances?

BIGYUKI: During March and April, I was not motivated whatsoever. We were told staying home was crucial and not going outside would save the world. Frankly, a part of me was content with that message. I stayed at home all day, watched Netflix, cooked for myself — I was merely consuming every day. It was a complete lockdown at the time, so New York was dead silent. Eventually, other musicians asked me to partake in videos with my keyboard. There was this movement where we were like, “Let’s raise each other’s spirits!” My music [muscle] memory started coming back slowly.

—You’re in José James’s online live show. Was this around the same time?

BIGYUKI: We did that show twice, with the first one being in August. It was a great opportunity. It was my first time playing as a band since lockdown, and it was an excellent experience. I felt rejuvenated because I went from the gloomy, eerie vibe of the city to meeting my close friends and talking [about our experiences]. I performed after not doing so for a long time, and it was my first time playing with that band. I’m not satisfied with my performance, but it was a wonderful experience.

—I heard it’s going to be released (New York 2020).

BIGYUKI: Really? Oh, I mean, it’s been a while. Let’s put that aside (laughs). There’s one thing I believe is going to happen, and I’m excited about it. Once the pandemic settles down a bit, economic activities would go back to normal, and people would [go out and] make art. I think we’re going to see this explosive energy spread everywhere, like an art renaissance. New York underwent a lot of stress, so I think the response will be immense. I want to contribute when the time comes, and I want to share something with meaning. I’m feeling motivated again, with that as my focus.

—Even though musicians in New York usually work separately, I feel you all have the power to come together and support one another when necessary.

BIGYUKI: Right. We received so much support from mutual aid groups, and we shared a lot of information. What’s interesting about what’s going on online is that successful producers use the power of YouTube and Instagram to have the audience send their beats so that they could judge them. Thanks to that, talented and unknown beatmakers could get new gigs and get acknowledged by the scene. The producers are trying to give major opportunities to these people. It’s so healthy and great to get other people involved and support the scene. Seeing this phenomenon makes me constantly think about how I could also contribute.

—You partially feel that way because you feel accepted by the music scene in America.

BIGYUKI: Around 15 years ago, when I was in Berklee, I developed an interest in gospel music and had the chance to play at a church thanks to fate. Before I knew it, I was in that community, and I started playing without knowing how it functioned. I felt like the people there had the heart to accept something different. I’m not sure if that was America or Black culture, but they had this notion of not rejecting those who came to them. I also felt like as long as you show you want to learn about the culture and that you love it, they’ll return their feelings to you.

2099, BIGYUKI’s latest album born from his change in preferences, collaborating with CHAI and Miho Hatori 

——昨年リリースした『2099』はコロナ禍の状況を反映したものですか？

—Is 2099, which you released last year, an album reflecting on the pandemic?

BIGYUKI: I think so. Not to talk about contributing again, but I wanted to express how I survived 2020 and what I genuinely felt during those times. The music I listened to changed a lot because I was under stress. I used to like music that went from tension to relaxation: music that made you liberated from unpleasant feelings. The way I listen to music has changed now. I just wanted to release something in 2020, including new songs and songs I had within myself.

—I got the impression that 2099 isn’t limited to one genre, but it’s also not necessarily trying to make big crossovers. You knew what kind of music you wanted to do clearly.

BIGYUKI: Yes. I went on a radio show that Goro Inagaki hosts, and he asked me if the music I make is jazz. I said, “It’s Black music.” What I should’ve said was, “My music is my own interpretation of Black music, which I’m inspired by.” But I don’t know what that exactly looks like yet.

—You produced the beats and everything, but you also improvise as a keyboard player. I felt like these things connected naturally.

BIGYUKI: That makes me very happy. Thank you. That’s what I’m striving for. I enjoy producing a lot. In a broad sense, I feel the same when I put a band together. I want to create music with people with interesting insights, and I want to perform with people who can unlock a door inside me. I value this sort of sensibility when I make beats and work with other producers too.

—Your production on CHAI’s new song came as a surprise.

BIGYUKI: That song came about through my friend from Berklee. That friend is also involved with producing their music. They noticed I wasn’t releasing any music after the pandemic started and were worried about me. I told them about how I was using my time to begin producing complete tracks by myself, which I hadn’t taken too seriously before then. They told me to send something once I came up with a good idea. One of the songs I polished became “Maybe Chocolate Chip.” It makes me pleased to think I completed a song like that. The music video is cute too.

—It’s also interesting how there’s a gap between the song and CHAI’s image as a band.

BIGYUKI: The person who produced their previous single, “Action,” is a producer called Ruben, with whom I make music often. His productions are ornate, and his programming is so elaborate, so I was honestly worried if it was okay for me to produce [for CHAI]. I would like to think the bad but good vibe matched how they looked at the song (laughs).

—You were also involved with the making of Miho Hatori-san’s album, Between Isekai and Slice of Life.

BIGYUKI: She became interested in my musical sensibilities when I got asked to play at the Brooklyn Museum. I played the synthesizer for that. I arranged it my way, made suggestions, and experimented with them like, “I think it might be nice to add this sound.” She took a liking and contacted me afterward. I brushed up the sounds and added my arrangements to her production.

American society today and tomorrow, thoughts on the Japanese music scene

—Do you think it’ll be crucial for you to continue working in America?

BIGYUKI: Before coronavirus, I came to Japan for a show and saw a performance with musicians younger than myself. I spoke to the musicians, who were in their 20s, and the drummer was especially intriguing. It’s as if he had rhythm in his bones. He liked the music scene in Dallas and had known about musicians I play with in New York [through the internet]. Thanks to YouTube, people can now research things visually. Compared to when I was in my 20s, people have many ways to absorb cultural information now. There are fewer geographical disadvantages than before. Of course, it’s vital to build relationships in real life because that influences your music, but you can make creative exchanges and environments online more and more. So, I don’t think I need to live in New York. When I graduated from Berklee, my options were Japan, New York, or Los Angeles. I chose New York because I wanted to challenge myself. But I’m not sure about the future. I want to live flexibly and fluidly.

—Do you mean it’s better to be unsure of the future?

BIGYUKI: It gets quite comfortable to work after you get recognized in one place to a certain degree and gain respect. If you change your environment, meet new people, and take some risks, then you could ultimately discover a potential that you’ve never noticed before. After all, I’m an artist, and it’s not like I’ll stop being one at a determined date. My whole life is a process of discovering myself. That’s why I want to go to as many places as I can, meet people from diverse backgrounds, and expand my worldview beyond my imagination — such experiences are imperative. In this sense, it’s a positive thing to move to another place.

I’m a Japanese man when I’m in Japan, so I’m part of the overwhelming majority. However, I found out how privileged I was for the first time when I went to America and became a minority. As a student, I was at a socially low point and couldn’t speak English. My experience informed me about how important it is to have empathy during the Black Lives Matter movement. In America, murders that would unquestionably be in history textbooks in the future were taking place. When I researched Japanese news and reactions via newspapers, websites, and social media, I realized how difficult it is to truly and accurately understand the situation. Because Black people fought for their rights, laws were made to “control” racism and prejudice, which were deeply carved into the history of America, and on the surface, it seemed like things were becoming equal. However, racism meticulously and carefully turned into systemic racism, and that’s how it hides in modern society. That’s what I think. When people say, “Asians are discriminated against too,” in response to the Black Lives Matter movement, I think they miss the mark completely. I must talk about the roots of that, as someone who lives and experiences it. Some people try to empathize and understand the situation, but it’s not as though everyone tries to confront it seriously. Wait, what were we talking about again (laughs)?

—It’s alright. I wanted to ask you about this anyway (laughs).

BIGYUKI: I have a sense of duty to talk about this. I don’t have influence or anything, but I was given the chance to discuss this, and I also have a platform I can use. I’m starting to be aware of my responsibility to use my platform in this way. I might only have a small amount of influence, but I need to think about what a person like me can do to make things better. I also need to talk about the things I see or experience and topics about race and human rights.

—What do you think about the mainstream music scene in Japan? Young musicians are now able to break into the industry more than before.

BIGYUKI: I watched the Music Station special (a Japanese music TV show) the other day (laughs). There are more interesting people now. People have an environment where they can learn about and look into as much information as possible, and they’re curious about things happening elsewhere because they’re physically apart. I think many people try to consume things voraciously. Also, many places are now in need of musicians who can express themselves freely with the tools they’ve earned, and the level is higher. I’m excited. I predict there will be more ways for people to express themselves at whatever level they please; the quality will get better.

BIGYUKI
BIGYUKI started playing the classical piano at six years old. After graduating from high school, he got into Berklee College of Music. As a student, he played at jazz clubs in Boston and churches after developing an interest in church music. He moved to New York afterward. He joined a band with Talib Kweli, the leading figure in hip hop, and neo-soul singer Bilal. BIGYUKI’s name became more known in the city. Robert Glasper also played with the band, and his presence became more solidified in the jazz scene. In 2016, he was named as the best keyboardist by the readers of Jazz Times, a major jazz magazine, alongside Harvey Hancock, Chick Corea, and Robert Glasper. He also was involved in making music for A Tribe Called Quest and J. Cole. BIGYUKI has also played with the likes of Robert Glasper and Kamasi Washington. He’s an artist of the moment who is a prominent Japanese name in Black music.
https://jazz.lnk.to/BIGYUKI2099
Twitter：@bigyuki

Translation Lena Grace Suda

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In this article, Masaaki Hara, music critic and author of “Jazz Thing: This Thing Called Jazz,” delves into 70s era Davis’ proximity to ambient music, his intersection with Brian Eno, and the influence he had on Japanese artists in the 80s in regards to ambient music.

Where Miles Davis and Brian Eno meet

Right after his first recording session with Miles Davis, guitarist John McLaughlin said the following to Herbie Hancock, who was also in said session:

“I can’t tell. Was that any good what we did? I mean, what did we do? I can’t tell what’s going on.” (from “Miles Beyond: The Electric Explorations of Miles Davis, 1967-1991” by Paul Tingen)

This took place during the recording of “In A Silent Way” (1969). The record is held in high regard and is seen as the blueprint of ambient music. It can also be said that he gave birth to music with more of an off-kilter sound. Alongside Hancock were musicians such as Wayne Shorter and Tony Williams, former members of the Second Great Quintet who had been on Davis’ side since his acoustic days in the 60s. The performance during the recording was vastly different from what they had been used to.

In his liner notes on “Ambient 4: On Land” (1982), Brian Eno wrote that “He Loved Him Madly” from Davis’ early 70s compilation album, “Get Up With It” (1974) and Federico Fellini’s “Amarcord” were major inspirations for his album. Eno stated that ambient music is “… related to a sense of place – landscape, environment…”

It’s not just Davis’ and the other musicians’ performance that Eno appreciates; it’s the production. More specifically, it’s the way each sound was recorded in certain spots in the studio, as well as the song structure and mixing. This is largely thanks to producer Teo Macero, who was in charge of recording and editing. Despite having an undeniable icon such as Davis in the center, the main sound you hear doesn’t come from a trumpet using a wah pedal. It’s only after around ten minutes go by when you hear the drums begin to maintain a steady rhythm. Moreover, the song sounds as though it’s being played in another room, and it ends with no other instrument taking center stage. “He Loved Him Madly” spans over 30 minutes and has what Eno calls a “spacious quality” throughout the song. The track was recorded in 1974, and the musicians involved were different from “In A Silent Way.” Guitarists such as Reggie Lucas and Pete Cosey were among them, and they understood what Davis’ wanted to do, musically-speaking.

When one looks at his use of modal jazz, a style of jazz that emphasizes less on chords and more on scales, as well as Gil Evans’ orchestral arrangement, one will see that it was only natural for Davis to progress in a way that eventually led him to off-kilter music. He took a break after this and made a comeback in the 80s. During the 70s, Davis was able to develop his music in fields outside of jazz and America. This brings me to my next point: his reception and effect in Japan.

On Miles Davis’ Reception and Connection to Ambient Music

“Kankyo Ongaku: Japanese Ambient, Environmental & New Age Music 1980-1990” (2019) was nominated for a Grammy, which increased foreign interest in 80s Japanese ambient music. A portion of Japanese jazz musicians started to turn their attention to ambient music during that era. Davis’ music from the 70s and Eno’s music after that period were behind this shift.

Pianist Masabumi Kikuchi worked with Gil Evans from the 70s and during the latter half of the 70s when Davis was on a hiatus from the public, he joined a recording session with him, which was officially unissued. In the session were musicians such as Larry Coryell and Al Foster. I had the opportunity to interview Kikuchi in 1997 for a magazine and asked him about how “Susto” (1981), an album often regarded as one that carried the legacy of Davis, came to be. I also asked him about how he began using synthesizers and drum machines, as well as how he felt about going from mainly playing the jazz piano to synthesizers. Let me quote from the interview:

“I come from a background of playing lyrical, emotive music. That element is sort of limited in computer music or electronic music. So, when I tried to put in more of a lyrical feeling into that genre, it was hard.”

“Brian Eno! I was obsessed with his work and have all of his records from that time. He made me want to make music like that. But I didn’t have enough equipment and was also unsatisfied with what I had created. I just couldn’t pour my emotions into it, so I felt like something had to be done.”

Kikuchi injured his finger in 1976 and became unable to play the piano in a way that made him satisfied enough, hence his transition to creating music with synthesizers. After releasing “Susto” and “One Way Traveller” (1982), he continued to produce more ambient music on his own. Around the same time, Yoshio Suzuki, a bassist that was previously in Kikuchi’s group who then moved to New York, released “Morning Picture” (1984), which he made alone using instruments such as the synth and drum machines. He was commissioned to create the ambient record, but Suzuki said that he tried to express Japan as a space in his own mind as well as the sense of cosmic space he strongly felt in New York.

Musicians such as Yasuaki Shimizu, who’s also critically acclaimed outside of Japan, and Jun Miyake, who was discovered by Terumasa Hino, had their debut boosted by the fusion genre trend in the 80s. However, these people distanced themselves from said trend and were digging deep to find their own style. The influence of Davis’ 70s era and Eno’s music were behind this too. By the 80s, which is also when Davis made a comeback, the kind of “lyrical music” that Kikuchi described was starting to become digitalized. It seemed as though there was no room for the “spacious quality” that initially drew Eno to Davis. However, if one listens to ambient music, minimal, improvised music, small ensembles, and electronica, one could hear the traces of 70s era Davis and Eno’s influence. Perhaps the people that paved the way were Japanese artists that created the space of ambient music. I’m sure of that now.

※１ Cited from Paul Tingen『Miles Beyond: “The Electric Explorations of Miles Davis, 1967-1991” 』

Translation Lena-Grace Suda

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