Read all the feminist rhetoric you want into Sister/Benten’s role as women’s music champion. For US audiences, the chauvinistic perception remains.
Bands with Japanese chicks are hot.
Throw in the pop culture cuteness that yields the likes of Hello Kitty, and that hot factor rises proportionally.
So while Sister/Benten may be raising the profile of women in Asia, the label, whether it knows, is selling sex in the US.
For Tsu*Shi*Ma*Mi*Re, it can get tricky.
The music on the trio’s debut album, Soozoo Ninshin, can sound cute. Guitarist/vocalist Mari sings with a nasal, coquettish voice, and on a few tracks, the band is downright playful.
But that overlooks the breadth of styles Tsu*Shi*Ma*Mi*Re covers, let alone the zeal with which they perform — and, at times, deconstruct — them.
No, they’re not a very good disco band, nor are they a good jazz band, or ska band, or garage band, or psych band.
They are, however, willing to give it all a shot.
Soozoo Ninshin is all over the place where songwriting is concerned, but the band’s down-to-basics approach pulls it all together, oftentimes with multiple styles in one song.
Each of the genres listed two paragraphs ago are represented — “Umeumai Tanedekai” (disco), “Lingerie Shop” (jazz), “Ocha Ska” (ska), “Ebihara Shinji” (garage), “Manhole” (psych).
“Manhole” is the epic centerpiece of the album. The band gets downright noisy on this track, while Mari’s sprechstimme devolves into a passionate cry of the song’s title.
On “Ocha Ska”, Mari interrupts a buoyant chorus with a manly growl. “Kedama Boogie” shows the band shoeing in on eX-Girl’s operatic gymnastics, while “Kyamaboko” juggles between an agitated hook and some big metal gestures.
The album ends with the chaotic title track, a song that starts off quietly, then builds to a crashing, circular finish.
Any hint of cuteness Soozoo Ninshin may have started out with is pretty much dust by the end.
And that works to Tsu*Shi*Ma*Mi*Re’s advantage — a band of Japanese chicks may be hot, but at least you get a good album out it.
If one word could be chosen to describe Kokeshi Doll, it would be “sinister”.
The strangled singing of vocalist Okuyama Naomi sounds like a demon alien could pop out of her chest at any moment.
And there’s a wild abandon to the band’s music that sounds like how evil would feel. (Or so I imagine.)
But Kokeshi Doll isn’t a one-note wonder.
The all-women trio sticks to a basic sound — overdubs are at a minimum on the band’s second mini album Pill Korui — but they manage to cover a lot of ground doing so.
“Suicide Boogie” has the swagger of every Thee Michelle Gun Elephant song — all one of them. “Renchi no Uta” starts with an eerie, minimal intro, then launches into a song that seamlessly alternates between garage rock and hardcore.
“MESU Gyakugo” is just a wall of screaming noise, while “Shiroi Hako” is what Rivers Cuomo would write if he were a pissed-off Japanese girl.
The rest of the time, the band’s songs wander and stumble, start up and break down. But seldom does any of it sound random.
If anything, tracks such as “Mikeneko no Te” and “Heavy” sound like chaos on the surface but reveal a very purposeful sense of structure. Okuyama may be tearing her voice out, but she’s not being arbitrary about it.
It’s a neat trick, and one for which Kokeshi Doll deserves credit.
Pill Korui could have sunk under too much anarchy, but the women of Kokeshi Doll are smart enough to keep a reign on things.
Damn — those are melodies coming out of the speakers, aren’t they?
On past albums, Bleach epitomized the sound of unbridled rage. They were the kind of albums you saved on days when you were thisclose to going postal on the world’s ass.
But on the first three tracks of Bleach’s self-titled third album, it’s actually possible to sing along.
The first single from the album, “Canary Teikoku no Gyakushuu”, actually sounds like a single.
“Canary Teikoku no Gyakushuu” is an old-school ska song that transforms to a double-time punk song at the chorus. Compared to most of the band’s songs, it’s kind of slumming.
Don’t think, though, that Bleach has blunted its razor edge — single or not, “Canary Teikoku no Gyakushuu” still packs a one hell of a wallop.
In a way, it’s nice to see Bleach expanding its range. Rather than concentrating a narrow focus on rage for rage’s sake, the all-woman trio from Okinawa instead refract different styles of music through its own hardcore lens.
There’s a very successful shot at a slow song (“Chousen”). There’s a twisted stab at a disco beat (“Shiri”). And there’s a military beat that could turn the walls of Jericho to dust all over again (“Sun-dance(Moon-dance)”).
But Bleach still leave a lot of room for the usual modus operandi — hard riffs, screaming vocals, intense noise.
“Howling” and “Arigatoo Gozaimasu”, two tracks which finish the album, remind listeners just how hard these women can hit.
And like previous albums, Bleach goes by quick — 31 minutes, this time around. Still, it’s probably the most exhausting half-hour a pair of ears may ever encounter.
The tunes on this album make it Bleach’s most accessible to date, but the trio has lost none of the vitality that powers the voltage in its music.
It’s not enough to establish a pattern, but it’s more than enough to indicate a direction.
And in pop music, rarely is the distinction made between continuing success and repeating it.
Hayashi Asuca delivered a strong debut with Saki in 2003. Rather than dress her up in techno beats and walls of synthesizers, Hayashi’s handlers gave her a relatively unconventional sound.
The maturity of the young teen-ager’s voice demanded it.
So it stands to reason what worked the last time on Saki would work again on her second album, Hatsukoi.
Thing is, this time around, the producers and writers have backed off.
The non-single tracks on the album aren’t very distinctive. Some are pretty forgettable. “Zutto Issho” is a predictable electric piano ballad, while the light jazz of “Shinryoku” is just plain trite.
(Aside: Although AJICO named its album and title track “Fukamidori”, it’s spelled with the same kanji as “Shinryoku”. What if Hayashi had covered “Fukamidori” instead?)
A lot of the tracks attempt to incorporate the tribal rhythms and acoustic guitar combination that worked well for Hayashi on the singles “ake-kaze” and “‘Haha'”.
“Negai” nearly quotes Sting’s oft-sampled “Shape of My Heart” guitar lick, while “Hanamusubi” and “Juuni Hitoe” refer to flamenco and Latin music for inspiration.
The singles from Hatsukoi are a bit more blatant about referring to the past. The chorus of “Rin no Kuni” possess all the drama of “ake-kaze”, while “Sanctuary” avoids a straight-forward pop beat, instead relying on tablas to provide rhythm.
Oddly enough, the singles are where Hayashi takes the most risks.
“Rin no Kuni” may resemble her past work, but it’s the kind of drastic song that challenges her to give a full-throated performance.
“Moo Ichido Anata ni Aitai”, on the other hand, numbers among the album’s weaker tracks, and a second acoustic version at the end only confirms it.
Hatsukoi finds Hayashi playing it safe, not fixing a formula that isn’t broken. Thing is, the album doesn’t exactly rise to the expectations set the last time around either.
Through it all, Hayashi gives more of the same wonderful, magnetic singing, which is perhaps the biggest saving grace on this disc.
But it wouldn’t be very responsible if the next time around, the material doesn’t serve the instrument.
My Japanese teacher explained a while back that Japanese women join the workforce to find a husband. Once married, they become housewives.
It’s that cultural factoid that colors the news of Hajime Chitose’s announcement that she was going on hiatus. In early 2004, she announced her marriage to a restaurant manager, and she is expecting her first child.
Examples abound of women singers who resume their careers after having children — Namie Amuro, UA, Shiina Ringo, Mikami Chisako of fra-foa.
But music wasn’t Hajime’s first career choice. She chased away label representatives to become a beautician, only to discover she was allergic to the chemicals in haircare products.
So perhaps too much can be read into the release of the live album Fuyu no Hainumikaze. The nearly two-hour, two-disc set offers a broad overview of Hajime’s career thus far — hit singles, coupling songs, album tracks, songs from the indie days.
The only thing that would make it more complete would be some traditional shimauta. (It’s criminal those earliest recordings aren’t more readily available.)
Her cover songs are missing as well, but it’s no great loss, considering the arrangements never suited Hajime’s voice in the first place.
This kind of retrospective, especially with such a wide scope, is usually given to artists at the end of their career. And man would it suck were that the case.
Because as Hajime ably demonstrates on this album, her voice is no fluke. Maybe here and there, she flubs a note, but her expressive power comes through as clearly in live performance as it does in the studio.
It’s also a testament to her producers and collaborators — though considered a pop singer, Hajime performs material richer and far more difficult than the stuff cranked out for idols.
For the most part, Hajime’s band sticks to the arrangements in the studio, but the midpoint of the album provides some departures.
Taiko drums provide the primary accompaniment on “Shooryoo”, while “Kono Machi” features only Hajime and a piano.
Some songs actually sound better here than on their original release. “Getsurei 17.4” always felt out of place on Nomad Soul, but on this album, it fits nicely.
And the inclusion of some coupling tracks — “Byakuya”, “Sanpo no Susume” and “Hummingbird” — brings up the question why they were relegated to singles instead of included on albums.
Fuyu no Hainumikaze covers a lot of ground, and by the end of it, you can’t help but feel exhausted.
But it also leaves you hungering for more. Hajime may choose to conform to cultural norms and lead a private life after her child arrives. This album provides a great review of her accomplishments, while documenting the depth of her talent.
Let’s also hope I’m just reading way too much into it.
Sasagawa Miwa has done something incredible — she’s recorded follow-up albums for at least three artists who haven’t done so for themselves.
Inspired by the hymnals she sang as a Christian school student, Sasagawa writes music that combines traditional Celtic, traditional Japanese and modern pop music in an effortless, singular style.
Her debut album, Jijitsu, calls to mind a number of divergent influences.
On “Taiyoo”, she sings in a soprano as spine-chilling as anything Hajime Chitose can do in her higher ranges.
“Naraba” shows she can edge into Onitsuka Chihiro’s piano balladry without overtly flaunting the echoes of Carole King, another artist to whom Sasagawa is compared.
And “Warai” is perhaps the most successful integration of Scottish waulking songs with Japanese lyrics. It’s the outtake Celtic music scholar Talitha Mackenzie never recorded on any of her albums.
All this name-dropping might seem like Sasagawa apes too many other artists, but she manages to sound completely herself.
The burnished singing of the title track may be reminiscent of Sinéad O’Connor but not for any timbral resemblance — it’s all spiritual.
Spiritual. That’s a good word to describe her music.
Not just for its sacred inspirations but for its secular creativity. Sasagawa Miwa has produced pop music that’s miles ahead of most pop music, and she does so by evoking the distant past.
It doesn’t mean she’s beholden to it.
On “Tsukusu”, heavy guitars demonstrates her ability to rock out. “Hokuro” combines an agitated beat with folk guitars and long drones, while “Doozo” brings together Celtic melodies, electric guitars and simple (tribal, perhaps) drumming.
Jijitsu is one of the most fascinating debuts by an artist in the last year. It’s tough to pry the album off your playlist once it’s there — Sasagawa’s music operates on so many levels, it rewards with each subsequent listen.
It also helps that her less-than-polished vocals delivers some incredible melodies. That rustic quality suits her music well.
The Road Runner connection on which the audio server for the Musicwhore.org Audiobin resides has a habit of dropping every few minutes in the morning hours, usually between 4-10 a.m. Central time. The connection has about 5 to 10 minutes of uptime before dropping.
Time Warner had sent a maintenance person over about two weeks ago and tweaked the connection. It seemed to help for a few days, but it looks like the intermittent drops are back. I will contact Time Warner again when I can discern another pattern in the outtage times.
Truth be told, Oceanlane is really not remarkable.
The duo’s music falls easily into that over-extended, catch-all tag of “emo”.
The melodies on the band’s debut, On my way back home, hit all the right peaks and valleys for earnestness and sincerity. The backing vocals harmonize for that right dosage of sweet. The guitars ring during the verses, buzz at the choruses.
“Everlasting Scene”, the album’s opener, is what a watered-down Smashing Pumpkins may have sounded like if James Iha were in charge.
On my way back home is so blatantly targeted for a specific audience, it’s almost amazing it’s not theme music for a show on the WB.
If that happened, Oceanlane would be the first Japanese rock band to accomplish that feat.
Oceanlane may sound like yet another in a long line of American emo bands, were it not for the fact the duo are actually based in Japan.
All of the band’s songs are sung in English by Hajime, who shows no hint of an accent.
And while Oceanlane may sound rather predictable, the band does receive some major credits.
Hajime’s singing, for one, isn’t as annoyingly whiny as most music branded “emo”. There’s still a nasal quality requisite for this kind of music, but it’s not as preciously grating.
And even if Oceanlane’s songwriting won’t give Quruli or Art-School any sleepless nights, the duo still offer up a batch better than most.
Wiseass remarks about Smashing Pumpkins aside, “Everlasting Gaze” is actually a decent sugary pop song, and I always liked James Iha anyway. “Sign” makes a great choice as a pre-release single.
Bandmate Kay takes a turn on vocals on “Broken Wings”, and if you listen close, you can hear a hint of his accent.
On my way back home aims for a specific aesthetic and hits it on the mark. Oceanlane does what it does well, even if it’s not exactly earth-shattering.
But try singing along with any of those songs — let alone recall their melodies away from a playback device — and it gets challenging.
“Nare no Hate” is the closest thing to a single on the album, and it’s the only one.
Singer Nakada Yuuji has an appealing voice, and the rhythm section of bassist Nakada Takashige and drummer Kotera Ryoota can navigate some thorny terrain.
Tight playing and smart songs make Tsubakiya Shijuuso an incredible band, but if the trio can slum it a bit, it could be revelatory.
Straightner is the kind of band I usually avoid — power-pop post-punk, loud as it wants to be, sincere when it has to be, and melodic as all get out.
Under less-skilled hands, this kind of music can be an instrument of unwitting evil. Oh what atrocities have been done in the name of Weezer.
“Emo”. Ugh.
But Straightener doesn’t fall into that trap. If anything, the way the duo — more recently, a trio — plays the hell out of its songs is enough to make naysayers shut up.
Straightener is good. The band’s full-length debut, Lost World’s Anthology, is good.
A lot of credit goes to singer Horie Atsushi — he has an appealing voice that doesn’t indulge in the usual whiny gestures of emo.
Even when the band pulls back and gets all earnest, as it does on “Kiseki no Michi” and “DJ Roll”, Horie doesn’t sound fake.
And the band can get a lot of mileage out of a doubled-up power chord.
“A Song Runs Through the World”, “Mad Pianist”, “Stained Android”, “Freezing” — all these songs start off pretty much the same. Eighth-note power chord, repeat.
On the surface, it’s not remarkable, but somehow, it sounds new. Then Horie comes in with the melody, and it all makes sense.
Lost World’s Anthology is rock ‘n’ roll — simple, loud, passionate.
It’s not an artistic statement — just good songwriting played with a lot of volume.
Hooks play an important part in the album’s appeal but not so much as the performance. Straightener demonstrates that sometimes, swagger is everything.