yakihito

Tracking the Obsession

My current obsession with Japan stems from a two-month stay in Tokyo in 2004. But the roots go much deeper—all the way back to childhood. I've recently been thinking about those roots. How did it come to this, that I've completely re-tracked my life in a Japanese direction?

Let's find out.

1. Godzilla
My earliest memory of film is Godzilla. KTVU Channel 2 used to show monster movies on Saturday afternoons after the Ma and Pa Kettle flicks. If I was lucky, it'd be a Godzilla picture. I couldn't have been more than 4, putting this around 1976. I remember pretending to be Godzilla, stomping cars and trains and screaming Tokyo-ites. I even remember extolling the virtues of Godzilla to friends of my parents. The critic starts young.

2. Ultraman
In the afternoons as a child, that same wonderful Channel 2 would show the dubbed Ultraman. All those incredible rubber suit monsters and flying ships. Channel 2 also aired episodes of Spectreman and Space Giants. How could I not fall in love with the culture?

3. Chris' Toys
My friend Chris had these pre-Transformers Japanese toys that changed from space ships into robots, or they at least looked really cool. They were die-cast metal and super expensive. I remember looking at some in a store at the Stanford mall behind a glass case. You couldn't get them at Kay-Bee, you had to go to the special shop. Who bought those toys? Adults?

4. Zeno
Around 3rd grade I had a friend named Zeno, whose father was American and mother was Japanese. He had lived in Japan, and told me all about it. It seemed unfathomably exotic. I remember he told me they had huge mazes to wander through. What a country! When the Wooz was built outside Sacramento by a Japanese company, it all made sense to me: Zeno said the Japanese like big mazes.

5. After-school Anime
First it was Battle of the Planets, with that weird transvestite villain. Then it was Robotech, which was the thing to watch in middle school. Every day we'd race home from school on our bikes to follow the adventures of characters that retained their names even though their appearances changed dramatically. There was also Captain Harlock, Starblazers, and, later, Voltron. These were all on Channel 26, which is still going as a non-network affiliate in the San Francisco Bay Area. They have international programming, including Japanese shows on Saturday and Sunday nights.

Along the way to total obsession, there was discovering sushi in high school, seeing Tokyo Decadence on first-run and not knowing what the hell was going on, and then a succession of friends who kept running off to Japan and coming back with incredible stories. Call me a late bloomer I guess.

Now it's too late. There's no going back, and I wouldn't have it any other way.

Takenoko Nostalgia

Before I went to Japan for the first time, I was well familiar with the magazine Fruits and its collected book of photographs. The fashions within were astonishing, both for their variety and for their obvious creativity. These were largely homemade or customized outfits. Those bought off-the-rack were added to, supplemented with piles of accessories and extras. Mostly taken in Harajuku, the pictures showed a youth not content to merely accept what was spoon-fed them by the mass media. They were to seek their own independence.

Imagine my dismay when I finally got to Tokyo in the summer of 2004 to find that most of the fashions depicted in the book—that of the decora and cyber-kids—had faded with the 20th century and the reopening of Harajuku streets to traffic on Sundays, the traditional day for the "pedestrian paradise" in which the kids would trade accessories and fashion secrets. Wonderful fashion remains, to be sure, but the sheer originality to be found in Fruits has largely passed.

Yes, the gothic lolitas parade around, waiting for their pictures to be taken, but their fashion is largely the product of media: visual kei bands. What looks like startlingly original monster outfits are just slavish reproductions of the costumes worn by their favorite bands. And yes, the rock 'n' rollers still dance inside the gates to Yoyogi Park, but you couldn't call their retro leather look all that original. I'll give it to them for tradition though—they've been dancing in that park every Sunday for something like 25 years.

But before the decora and gothloli, before even the rockabillies, were the takenono-zoku (竹の子ゾク). I have fallen in love with them. If I could go back in time, it would be to any Sunday in 1979 to watch these original Harajuku kids dance in Yoyogi Park. They were the first, and—I'll say it—still the best.

According to Patrick Macias' book Japanese Schoolgirl Inferno, the takenoko kids took their name from a Harajuku boutique which sold pricey, Heian-era-inspired outfits. Beyond their price range, these kids starting making their own outfits, which looked like a cross between a disco one-piece and something MC Hammer would have worn. The outfits were accessorized with dog tags, necklaces, whistles, and nametags. Karate slippers were favored for the feet, big ribbons for the hair. Men as well as women wore the baggy outfits (and disco-inspired glitter and rouge makeup), and, according to Chris Marker's film Sans Soleil (the only record I know of the kids actually dancing) it was the men who stood at the center of the circle and led the dance.

Para Para is a close approximation for the takenoko dance, all hands and coordinated, synchronized movements. Group harmony is more important that individual prowess, although variations in attitude can be seen in Sans Soleil, particularly in the leader's display of restrained cool. (The lasting influence of takenoko moves can be seen in the coordinated hands of girls watching bands in Yoyogi Park.)

The takenoko (which means "bamboo shoot") were the first to bring any kind of cohesive youth movement to the Harajuku area, so their name has since been erroneously applied to any kids hanging out in the area on a Sunday. Even the stalwart rockabillies, who moved in towards the end of the takenokozoku craze, get saddled with the tag, something that probably really pisses them off.

While researching this piece, I came across this blog, which has pictures of takenokozoku kids in Yoyogi Park in 1985, about the time they disappeared, says the author. The blog then links to six pages of photos of different teams, including scanned nametags. Check out the capes!

Page 1
Page 2
Page 3
Page 4
Page 5
Page 6

What is it I like about them so much? It's the combination of innocence and sex appeal (come on, disco was all about being sexy), as well as the cool disdain for acknowledging all the people fawning over them. I like the androgyny, the group synchronization, the fun colors. But mostly I like the creativity and originality, and that the movement came not from the media (which certainly helped swell its numbers) but from the heart.

Reason #6398 Why Japan Rules: Underwear Fashion

Underwear fashion:

パンツ見える！

Apparently the girl was walking around Osaka's Amerika-Mura, the Kansai city's answer to Shibuya. Hey, I've been to Osaka and I didn't see anything like that. (Granted, it was January...)

As spotted on Japan Probe.

Simasen!

Why is it so difficult for me to shout out "Simasen!" when eating in a restaurant in Japan? Answer: because I'm American.

No matter how accepted (and expected) I know this to be, I just can't do it. I'll sit there, face burning with embarrassment, trying desperately to will myself to call out for service. And yet I just can't. Oh, almost there. Wait, this time I'll… but no. Nothing. I just can't shout out in a restaurant.

The wait staff expect this. They keep an eye on me and when it looks like I'm ready to order, they sheepishly come over. They know that because my face is white I will not call them over. I will wait, patiently, for them to approach me. I am glad they do because I suspect that if they didn't we would stay in that stalemate forever.

In America, where I grew up, we do not shout at the wait staff. We may raise a finger to get their attention but for the most part we are beholden to their timetable. Place an order; request a glass of water; get the check—we are at their mercy. Of course, the tip system helps to keep things moving smoothly but God forbid you should get a bad waiter on an off night.

In Japan, you do not wait. When you are ready for service, you call the wait staff over to you. "Simasen!" Roughly: excuse me! And here they come. You don't have to wait for the staff to be unoccupied, or to notice you. Just shout it out. They'll hear you and come as soon as they can. They don't want to run the risk of interrupting you by appearing unbidden. It's a perfect system, really. And no tips either. It's part of the service.

So why this difference? I've thought about it, and the answer I've come up with is not based on any scientific research, it's just what I've come up with. The difference, I feel, is in power.

In America, a lot of lip service is paid to the adage, "The customer is always right." This applies that the customer is in some sort of position of power. But really, the customer is subservient to the staff. Think about it: as a customer, you enter a space that belongs to the staff. You wait for them to seat you. You wait for them to take your order, bring your check, and so on. You can reward their service with a good tip, and can of course come back again as well, but ultimately you are occupying their space and are subject to their whims.

In Japan, the opposite seems true. Once you enter a restaurant (or indeed any other service space) it then becomes your space. You have the power. You call over the staff, order at your whim, and all without a tip. You are paying for the right to own that space, so service is a given.

This makes sense to me. So the next time I'm in Japan I will take my theory with me into a restaurant and participate. By not calling out, I am upsetting the balance of power. So I will call out. That is, if I can get over that pesky conditioning about not shouting in public…

Sans Memory

I recently picked up the Criterion release of Chris Marker's Sans Soleil. I've seen the movie a few times and am always impressed by its depth. Anyway, while watching it the other day I realized that the sequence in the film of the homeless man directing traffic in Tokyo isn't a personal memory of mine but a part of this movie.

See, I'd somehow mixed that sequence up in my mind with my own experiences in Tokyo. I did once see a homeless man in Shibuya standing perilously close to the edge of the sidewalk, but I guess I took Marker's more interesting image and replaced my own with it.

Of course, this is all the more poignant because Sans Soleil is largely about memory...