Andrez Bergen's Blog, page 10

Kanji Can-Can

I think it's high time that I talked up kanji in this wayward blog.

While I'd like to assume that most people know precisely what I'm on about, I guess I should throw in a morsel for those people not so interested in things Japanese: In case you don't know, kanji is the stuff you see on scrolls and painted in big black letters on banners – logographic Chinese characters used in the modern Japanese writing system.

Sometimes in movies you see people dabbing big brushes in ink and artily doing strokes across washi paper.

Kanji is grammatically flexible – it can twist itself into nouns and adjective and verb stems – and personally I have a delight/despair affair with the beasties. It's a bugger to remember the thousands of characters and their various pronunciations, let alone acquire the talent to reproduce the multitude of lines.

To make things trickier, a single kanji may be used to write one or more different words, and deciding which one depends on context, intended meaning, use in compounds, and/or sentence location.

While I've loved the simpler Japanese katakana lettering since I was a kid (when I first saw neon Tokyo signage through the eyes of Cubby Broccoli's film crew in the Sean Connery-James Bond flick You Only Live Twice), I've had a more cautious, developing relationship with kanji that probably started with Akira Kurosawa's Ran in my early 20s.


So the funny thing is that kanji, not katakana, made such a big impact on the novel I published last month – which is based in Melbourne, Australia, not Tokyo, Japan.

The first completed treatise of what's now known as Tobacco-Stained Mountain Goat was completed in 1992, while I was living in Richmond, an inner city suburb of Melbourne, and there was nothing Japanese about it whatsoever.

But when I moved to Tokyo in 2001, the seepage began to set in.

I wrote up a redux of the decade-old tome the following year – and thereafter again let it sit pretty, collecting dust, for the five years leading up to 2007. Then I did a major reboot, was accepted for publication through Another Sky Press in the U.S., and rewrites and editing took the better part of the next three years.

Somewhere along the line inserting kanji into the text became a big part.

As I mentioned, in 1992 there was none, not even mention of our protagonist Floyd's tattoo fuyu ('winter') – probably because I didn't get it myself until 1994 in a particular winter of discontent; that's something Floyd and I share, aside from drinks.

Likely the kanji settled itself in my brain 15 years later, after I'd watched in excess of a dozen Akira Kurosawa movies on the trot (all within one week) at the beginning of 2010.

While I do love Kurosawa and would readily volunteer myself to sit through this process another time round, there was a reason for my committed viewing: an article I was writing for Australian magazine Filmink to celebrate the centennial since the great man's birth.


In Kurosawa films there's occasionally kanji that dominates the screen all by itself – accompanied by a sparse, minimal score by a composer like Fumio Hayasaka or Toru Takemitsu – and it's powerful stuff even if you can't understand what the devil it says.

So in Tobacco-Stained Mountain Goat I decided to do a Kurosawa and throw in meaningful kanji, some of which isn't even explained in the text – meaning that anyone who scoots through this piece will have a wee bit more insight than anyone having read the book.

IF VAGUELY INSPIRED, YOU CAN READ MORE OF THIS ARTICLE @ FORCES OF GEEK.

AWOL: Sanja Matsuri Festival, Asakusa

'Matsuri', the Japanese word for festival, has a special meaning in this country that beats (hands down) the notion of a festival in a lot of other countries.

As my insider at anime studio Production I.G once told me, albeit sarcastically, "Japanese love their matsuri" - and he was spot on.

That affection usually doesn't get much bigger than this: Sanja Matsuri Festival (三社祭), literally the Three Shrines Festival, in Asakusa. It's one of the three more over-the-top annual Shinto matsuri here in Tokyo... and also happens to be considered the wildest and weirdest.

Purportedly established to honor the triumvirate that set up Senso-ji, the ancient temple at Asakusa almost 1,500 years ago, the festival actually kicks off at the adjacent Asakusa Shrine on the third weekend of May, and has done so since the early Edo period (1603-1868).

That is, it usually has every year but was cancelled in 2011 as a direct result of the March 11 earthquake and tsunami up north-east, and the subsequent power supply problems (related to the travails at the Fukushima nuclear power plant) that have gripped the region.

So May came and went without any dose of this festival, and that's just plain sad.

It usually takes over the entire district, involving hordes of locals, hundreds of thousands of spectators, and a dozen or more mikoshi (portable shrines) lugged along by chanting, sweaty bearers of all ages, many of whom also happen to be members of the yazuza clad in happi jackets and exceptionally short pants.


There's also taiko drumming, shamisen, other kinds of traditional music, performance art, a highly-charged atmosphere, beer, Ozeki One Cup saké aplenty - and geisha. Well, not quite the spectacular apprentice geisha (actually called maiko) in Kyoto, but more of a working-class, downtown, down-to-earth Tokyo variant with subdued kimonos and middle-aged lady-next-door looks.

Anyway, here's to seeing the matsuri up and running again next year, and my #1 tip for anybody planning to go: after a cursory look, steer clear of the main drags and investigate the more honestly lively side-streets instead.

Demise of a Classic Old Tokyo Manor

Two evenings ago I was walking home in the rain from Jiyugaoka Station, and spotted about 10 fire engines, a horde of people, and a huge billow of smoke that drifted up into the sky in spite of heavy rain from an approaching typhoon.

The sad fact was that a classic Taishō period (1912-26) mansion was up in flames, and the firefighters were struggling with a huge blaze that consumed a wonderful, historic wooden building.

Today I went back to see the outcome.

The photo (right) was taken just over the front gate, where a wheelchair was disturbingly left and police tape wound across the entrance. The destruction is pretty intense - the whole building is a skeleton now, with the refuse of burned telephone books, kimono, furniture, a TV, and even a coveted old reel-to-reel tape player parked on the small roof above where the front door used to be.

For Okusawa, a generally wealthy area, this is an incredibly big space. And sadly it was probably the largest old house I'd seen in Tokyo - till now.


This is the way the place was 18 months ago.

The trees surrounding the huge property made it difficult to get a decent shot from the street; I always intended to climb the wall (discreetly!) and get a couple of good photos. Now, sadly, it's too late.

I just hope the people got out of there safely.

Yamataka Eye 山塚アイ of Boredoms

With scraggly hair and a raucous character, Tetsuro Yamatsuka (left) is not the best candidate to hustle home and greet sheltered parents.

Despite Yamatsuka's predilection towards changing his DJ and production names, he's best known as Yamataka Eye, and as a member of Boredoms - one of the greatest noise rock bands in a country equally renowned for Melt-Banana and Merzbow.

Formed between 1982-1986 and likely inspired by The Birthday Party and Einstürzende Neubauten, Boredoms have rotated their membership while keeping Yamatsuka in the role of front man.

Known for his atypical vocal workouts and post-production prowess, Yamatsuka was a pivotal player in the band's most enduring album, Pop Tatari (1993), which still stands strong 18 years on.

Beyond Boredoms, Yamatsuka also recorded an EP with Sonic Youth (1993's TV Shit), worked with Bill Laswell's band Praxis, John Zorn's Naked City and released two brilliant live LPs in 1995 with experimental composer Yoshihide Otomo (under the underplayed alias of MC Hellshit & DJ Carhouse).

Thrown together in disseminated ways, Yamatsuka is a rock kami unto himself—hair awry and all.

** Excerpt (my hack bit) from a Metropolis magazine article dedicated to Japanese rock gods, published yesterday - hit HERE for more.