Arts, Faculty of
Music, School of
DSpace
UBCV
King, Kirk
Doctor of Philosophy - PhD
University of British Columbia
Chasing Kadekaru examines the life and music of Okinawan minyō (“folk song”) legend Kadekaru Rinshō (1920 to 1999) in two parts. The first is a research-based novel in which the protagonist interacts with real-life people who knew Kadekaru Rinshō. These people are fellow musicians, collaborators, friends, and family. Through these encounters, a story of Kadekaru’s life and music unfolds. This first part is meant to be enjoyed as a novel by even the non-music specialist. The second part is a chapter-by-chapter guide to the first part of the dissertation (the novel) with notes, citations, analyses, and other relevant data. The dissertation aims to show the utility of biographical research and studies of the individual in ethnomusicology—approaches that have been controversial in the discipline historically but have gained popularity since the 1990s, and particularly in the last decade. Composed in a non-traditional format, the dissertation also demonstrates the potential for arts-based research to promote new modes of knowledge sharing in academic discourse.
Chasing Kadekaru by Kirk King M.A. World Music Studies, The University of Sheffield, 2010 A DISSERTATION SUBMITTED IN PARTIAL FULLFILLMENT OF THE REQUIREMENTS FOR THE DEGREE OF DOCTOR OF PHILOSOPHY in The Faculty of Graduate and Postdoctoral Studies (Music – Ethnomusicology) THE UNIVERSITY OF BRITISH COLUMBIA (Vancouver) June 2025 Ó Kirk King, 2025 ii The following individuals certify that they have read and recommend to the Faculty of Graduate and Postdoctoral Studies for acceptance the dissertation titled Chasing Kadekaru, submitted by Kirk King in partial fulfillment of the requirements for the degree of Doctor of Philosophy in Music – Ethnomusicology. Examining Committee: Nathan Hesselink, Professor, School of Music, UBC Supervisor Michael Tenzer, Professor, School of Music, UBC Co-supervisor Candace Galla, Associate Professor, Department of Language and Literacy Education, UBC Supervisory Committee Member Christina Yi, Associate Professor, Department of Asian Studies, UBC University Examiner Brandon Konoval, Associate Professor, School of Music, UBC University Examiner Anne McKnight, Associate Professor, Department of Comparative Literature & Language, University of California, Riverside External Examiner iii Abstract Chasing Kadekaru examines the life and music of Okinawan minyō (“folk song”) legend Kadekaru Rinshō (1920 to 1999) in two parts. The first is a research-based novel in which the protagonist interacts with real-life people who knew Kadekaru Rinshō. These people are fellow musicians, collaborators, friends, and family. Through these encounters, a story of Kadekaru’s life and music unfolds. This first part is meant to be enjoyed as a novel by even the non-music specialist. The second part is a chapter-by-chapter guide to the first part of the dissertation (the novel) with notes, citations, analyses, and other relevant data. The dissertation aims to show the utility of biographical research and studies of the individual in ethnomusicology—approaches that have been controversial in the discipline historically but have gained popularity since the 1990s, and particularly in the last decade. Composed in a non-traditional format, the dissertation also demonstrates the potential for arts-based research to promote new modes of knowledge sharing in academic discourse. iv Lay Summary This work is a dissertation in ethnomusicology, a field of study that investigates music in social and cultural contexts. Titled Chasing Kadekaru, this dissertation is composed in the form of a novel based on my biographical research and fieldwork into the life and music of Kadekaru Rinshō (1920 to 1999), a representative Okinawan minyō (“folk song”) musician. In the novel, the fictional character Kai, an aspiring young minyō musician, interacts with real-life people who knew Kadekaru Rinshō. These people are fellow musicians, collaborators, friends, and family, and their real names are used in the novel. Through Kai’s encounters with these people, a story of Kadekaru Rinshō’s life and music unfolds. The novel is meant to be enjoyed by the public—not only by music specialists—and is thus absent of jargon and sparing in its use of foreign language. Following the novel, a second part to the dissertation gives chapter-by-chapter commentary on the novel with notes, citations, analyses, and other data. v Preface This dissertation is the original intellectual work of the author, Kirk A. King. It draws on data collected through fieldwork interviews conducted in Okinawa, Tokyo, and Osaka in 2012, 2016, and 2021. The author gratefully acknowledges the assistance of Miho Suzuki in transcribing interview recordings. ChatGPT was used to assist in translating Japanese-language sources. The final versions of all translations, as presented in the dissertation, reflect the author’s interpretive judgment and are his sole responsibility, except where otherwise noted. This research project was approved by the University of British Columbia Office of Research Services, Behavioural Research Ethics Board under the project title “Kadekaru Rinshō: His Life, His Music, and His Role in Restoring Okinawan Identity” (UBC BREB Number: H15-02056; PAA #H15-02056-A015). vi Table of Contents Abstract...........................................................................................................................................iii Lay Summary..................................................................................................................................iv Preface..............................................................................................................................................v Table of Contents............................................................................................................................vi List of Figures...............................................................................................................................viii Acknowledgements.........................................................................................................................ix Dedication........................................................................................................................................x Introduction......................................................................................................................................1 Part I: Novel...................................................................................................................................25 Prologue: Ōdo Beach, Okinawa, March 1995...............................................................................27 Chapter 1: Taisho Ward, Osaka, Japan, 2015................................................................................34 Chapter 2: Ōdo Beach, Okinawa, 2015.........................................................................................46 Chapter 3: Naha City, Okinawa, 23 June 2015..............................................................................65 Chapter 4: Naha City, Okinawa, June 2015...................................................................................82 Chapter 5: Tokyo, Japan, 28 December 2020................................................................................94 Chapter 6: Naha City, Okinawa, February 2021..........................................................................110 Chapter 7: Kudaka Island, Okinawa, March 2021.......................................................................131 Chapter 8: Ōdo Beach, Okinawa, March 2021............................................................................143 Epilogue: Ōdo Beach, Okinawa, 2027.........................................................................................154 Part II: Commentary....................................................................................................................156 vii Works Cited.................................................................................................................................225 Appendix I: Interview Dates and Locations................................................................................235 Appendix II: Kadekaru Rinshō Discography...............................................................................237 Appendix III: Kadekaru Rinshō Filmography.............................................................................247 viii List of Figures Figure 1: Map of Japan and Okinawa............................................................................................26 Figure 2: Ōdo Beach, Okinawa....................................................................................................157 Figure 3: Chinen Mitsuji and his “Jungle Car”............................................................................169 Figure 4: Bisekatsu (Bise Yoshikatsu).........................................................................................170 Figure 5: Jacket of Kadekaru’s debut album Kadekaru Rinshō..................................................174 Figure 6: Materials distributed to Naha protest attendees...........................................................183 Figure 7: Propaganda van............................................................................................................184 Figure 8: Natural rock tunnel formation at Sēfā Utaki................................................................186 Figure 9: View of Kudaka Island.................................................................................................186 Figure 10: Ōshiro Misako............................................................................................................187 Figure 11: Kondō Toshinori’s illustration...................................................................................198 Figure 12: Kondō Toshinori.........................................................................................................198 Figure 13: Uehara Naohiko..........................................................................................................199 Figure 14: Kadekaru Rinshō and Kondō Toshinori.....................................................................215 Figure 15: Kadekaru Rinji...........................................................................................................218 ix Acknowledgements This research project was made possible through a Joseph-Armand Bombardier Canada Graduate Scholarship and a Michael Smith Foreign Study Supplement from the Social Sciences and Research Counsel of Canada, as well as scholarships from the University of British Columbia’s Public Scholars Initiative. x For: Miho Isla Reon Kai Hitomi Mitsuji Misako-sensei Kadekaru-sensei 1 INTRODUCTION This dissertation examines the life and music of Okinawan minyō (“folk song”) legend Kadekaru Rinshō (4 July 1920 – 9 October 1999) in two parts. The first part is a novel in which a fictional protagonist, Kai, encounters real-life people who knew Kadekaru Rinshō (family name/given name). These people are fellow musicians, collaborators, friends, and family. Through these encounters, a life story of Kadekaru and his music unfolds. This first part is meant to be enjoyed as a novel by even the non-music specialist, offering an impression of Okinawan life and culture in an unintimidating format. The second part of the dissertation is a chapter-by-chapter commentary on the novel with notes, citations, analyses, and other data. In this introduction, I will discuss my rationale for writing a novel as part of my dissertation, outline the theoretical grounding for such work, and review precedents for arts-based research in ethnomusicology and in other scholarship, Why Fiction? Three factors guided my decision to write the dissertation in the form of a novel with accompanying commentary: 1) cultural tribute; 2) practicality; and 3) aesthetics. Cultural Tribute I conducted multiple interviews with some twenty people over five years. The interviews were rich in data that could be readily adapted to the traditional dissertation format. However, 2 abstracting data from the colorful stories in which they were told and distilling it into an academic study felt like a disservice to the storytellers who’d taken the time to talk with me. “Minyō is storytelling,” they told me, and it thus seemed fitting to write up my research on the “God of minyō” as a story (Takenaka 1975: 47). This approach keeps the data in situ—within the stories that constitute the larger story of the novel. It also pays tribute to the notion of storytelling as a source of knowledge (Kamiyama and Imazu 2022: 23, 27), where meaning is found not only in the content of a story, but also in its being a story. In their study on storytelling and trauma in Okinawa and Hiroshima, Kamiyama and Imazu conclude that one of the most valuable aspects of storytelling is that it is not just about conveying facts, but about communicating a unique, lived reality. Firsthand testimony is an educational tool that offers a deeper emotional understanding, which cannot be achieved through intellectual knowledge alone (Kamiyama and Imazu 2022: 27, 34-35). We learn from a story through “empathetic participation in the lives of others” when we read it (Eisner in Saks 1996: 408; cf. Justice 2018: 87). Although my story is fictional, its dialog is taken from interviews with Kadekaru’s collaborators, friends, and family.1 These conversations appear largely in their original form, despite some filtering that might occur through my translation of them. In some cases, I have also changed the order of conversation points for the sake of narrative linearity. These caveats notwithstanding, choices in the handling of dialog were made with the aim of drawing attention to the voices of those who assisted in my research. Ethnomusicologist Michael Bakan writes in Speaking for Ourselves: Conversations on Life, Music, and Autism (2018), “the voices that really 1 In Part II (Commentary), I sometimes refer to Kadekaru’s collaborators, friends, and family members collectively as “interviewees” for the sake of brevity, but this is not to diminish the special relationships they had with Kadekaru, which are made apparent throughout the dissertation. 3 count in this text, the ones that most urgently need to be heard—and listened to—are those of autistic people themselves” (2018: 7). Bakan’s collaborators “speak for themselves” through edited conversations with little analysis or summary. In his introduction to P’ungmul (2006), ethnomusicologist Nathan Hesselink recounts his struggle to represent faithfully the voices of his research participants and to reproduce their stories in the main body of the text with little or no editing, rather than relegating these stories to notes and appendices or condensing them into ethnographic data. Informants’ stories, presented as “‘raw facts or primary data,” bypass the interpretive filter of the single author and invite readers to “visit and revisit them with their own unique perspectives and life experiences, creating multiple interpretations” (Hesselink 2006: 6; cf. Justice 2018: 87 “imaginative empathy”). Hesselink suggests that ethnographers have a moral and ethical obligation to include the voices of their research participants in their write-ups. “Only then,” he explains, “is the full meaning of ‘visit’ realized, reflecting our presence as a guest with an attitude of respect, expectancy, and friendship” (ibid.: 7; cf. Tuval-Mashiach 2017: 128–29). By including the voices of my research participants as dialog in the story, I have aimed to produce a work that is respectful of the culture it celebrates while being accessible to a wide audience. Dissertations, generally, are not widely read nor intended to be. Okinawa and its rich culture and history are still generally unknown to most people I meet. I hope that if they were to read this novel (perhaps in future manifestations, if not in its present form), they could learn more about Okinawa through an enjoyable reading experience. In this way, the dissertation would demonstrate the value of alternative approaches to academic research and writing. 4 Practicality The inevitable chronological and information gaps that come with assembling a biography made it difficult to compose a linear, chronological biography of Kadekaru. Some areas of knowledge are impossible to access, never to be known for one reason or another. Private, family, and other sensitive matters can be uneasy topics for research participants, especially when discussing a person who passed away recently. There are no in-depth studies of Kadekaru in English, and few in Japanese. Takenaka Rō’s Ryūka genshikō: Shima uta no sekai [Visions of Okinawan Poetry: The World of Island Songs] of 1975 is perhaps the earliest substantial writing on Kadekaru, which introduced Kadekaru and Okinawan culture to an audience in mainland Japan (Ōno 2012: 90; Uehara in Takahashi 2012: 154). Takenaka (1930 – 1991) was a journalist, author, activist, and also cited by others and himself as an anarchist or a communist, who promoted awareness of Okinawa and its culture in mainland Japan following Okinawa’s reversion to Japanese rule from American administration in 1972. Takenaka’s book comprises liner notes he wrote for Kadekaru album releases of the same year (1975) and other essays (Takenaka 1975: 1–2). Takenaka goes deep into Okinawan culture and sentiment through his detailed descriptions and analyses of Kadekaru’s recordings (lyrics in particular). Takenaka’s book, as he writes, “employs a rather unconventional style [...] written in a narrative style reminiscent of town gossip or a picture-story show” (ibid.: 2). His characterization of Kadekaru, particularly as the “wandering poet” who embodies the Okinawan spirit (ibid.: 237), established the mythos of Kadekaru that persists today in writing, film, and personal recollections. Kohama Tsukasa’s Shima-uta rekōdo hyakka ryōran: Kadekaru Rinshō to sono jidai [Island Song Recordings Discography: Kadekaru Rinshō and His Generation] (2009), gives a 5 theme-based biographical overview of Kadekaru and discusses popular recordings of his time. Kohama’s book is comprised of stories and data gathered from secondary sources (including Takenaka 1975) and the author’s interviews with Kadekaru and others. As a friend and producer of Kadekaru, Kohama’s insights are particularly valuable. Koichi Namiki’s essay of 2016, “Okinawan Folk Song and The Media: Mytholigy of Rinsyo Kadekaru” [sic], discusses Kadekaru’s rise to popularity through media agents, his reception in mainland Japan, and his influence on younger Okinawan musicians. There are also smatterings of basic data on Kadekaru in numerous encyclopedias, reference materials, and magazines on Okinawan history, culture, and music. There is little primary data on Kadekaru, however, such as his enrollment in the military, as practically all official documents were destroyed during or after WWII.2 There is no birth certificate, nor any educational or medical records. Of his family members, I was only able to converse with one—Kadekaru’s son, Kadekaru Rinji. Most of what remains of Kadekaru Rinshō, however, are stories and recordings. Writing fiction enabled me to present information on Kadekaru in a continuous narrative and overcome the problem of gaps in the chronological record (cf. Stankiewicz 2012: 538–39). Fiction was also an effective means of condensing information. I could combine numerous interviews with the same person, for example, into a single conversation in one chapter, which helped to maintain the flow of the narrative. Though challenging at first, in the end I felt that fiction was not only the best way, but perhaps the only way to write about what I had learned (ibid. 421–22). 2 Staff at the military archives of Japan’s National Institute for Defense Studies gave this response when I explained that I was trying to find information on a particular soldier. Dower adds that Japanese military, bureaucratic, and corporate offices burned documents in bonfires across Tokyo at the close of the war to destroy evidence of wartime activities (Dower 2000: 233). 6 Creative writing enabled me to integrate cultural and historical information on Okinawa into the narrative, whereas in traditional academic writing, such information might only be included as contextual preamble for theoretical discussions, thus separating the context from the narrative. WWII and the subsequent and continuous presence of U.S. military in Okinawa has had a profound impact on Okinawan music and cultural practices in general (Roberson 2009: 683). Therefore, an account of an iconic Okinawa musician such as Kadekaru Rinshō should be composed with consideration to historical and cultural context (Roberson 2020). Aesthetics The inclusion of research participants’ voices in the narrative is meant not only to address concerns about representation, as discussed above, but also to give the work greater compositional dimension by presenting multiple characters with unique personalities, as opposed to writing in a single, authorial voice. Granted, all characters’ voices are written with the same pen—mine—and this posed the challenge of having each research participant’s unique voice and personality persist through the filter of my writing. For the most part, this was not especially difficult, as each participant’s way of speaking naturally generates distinct voices in the narrative. Absent of notes, analyses, citations, and other possible distractions, fiction reads more effortlessly than standard academic writing. In the introduction to his book In Search of Korean Traditional Opera: Discourses of Ch’angguk, Andrew Killick explains that he foregoes the use of notes to maintain narrative flow, “rather than requiring the reader to keep flipping to the back of the book” (Killick 2010: xxxi). Endnotes provide only bibliographic references for further research and, importantly, no commentary, lest it tempt the reader to leave the narrative 7 momentarily to read it. “To some,” writes Killick, “this may appear unscholarly, but it reflects one scholar’s sense of duty to fit his material to the medium in which it is cast, the linear medium of expository prose” (ibid.: xxxi). For the sake of narrative flow in my story, theoretical discussions and citations are relegated to the commentary in Part II of the dissertation, which is intended to be read separately from and not simultaneously with the novel in Part I. The idea of writing fiction came in part from ethnomusicologist Richard K. Wolf’s The Voice in the Drum: Music, Language, and Emotion in Islamicate South Asia (2014), in which a fictional character’s exchanges with subjects in the field provide the content of the narrative. However, I feel the book falls short of its intention “to be read as literature” (Wolf 2014: xvi). Each chapter contains two parts: a fictional narrative followed by a scholarly analysis. I find that the analytical portions at the end of each chapter interrupt the flow of the fictional narrative. Furthermore, the fictional portions contain jargon, foreign-language words, and cultural-historical data too abundant for a work of literature to be appreciated by the non-specialist. This becomes clear from the first paragraph of the book: At age twenty-nine, anxiety-ridden because she had been unable to conceive, Sakina directed her prayers to the Panjatan Pāk. These “five pure” figures in the Shī‘ī faith, the Prophet and his closest family members, are believed to have the power to intercede on behalf of the faithful. Sakina vowed to tie her future son’s head with a turban and send him out on procession as a drummer in their honor. Drumming would commemorate, in a manner befitting the boy’s station, the sacrifice of Husain in 680 CE. On the dusty fields of Karbala, Husain and his companions were crushed mercilessly by the henchmen of the Umayyad caliph Yazid, to whom Husain refused to pay fealty in the wake of the deaths of his father and his grandfather, the Prophet Muhammad. Sakina felt the precocious Sajjad was ready at the age of five to play a part in Muharram ceremonies; he cut quite a figure with that small tāshā tied around his neck. No sooner did the extended Muharram season pass than Sakina found herself pregnant again. (2014: 1) 8 Reading such passages, I wondered if ethnomusicology could be made more accessible and more relevant to a wider audience through simpler writing, and so I set out to attempt this in my dissertation. A final aesthetic consideration is that fiction allows a writer to create atmosphere, mood, and context in a way that helps convey meaning to the reader, even on a subconscious level (Saks 1996: 408). The idea to write fiction came to me in a flash. I sketched out the structure in a flurry—the basic premise, the arch of the protagonist, the ways I would incorporate my research and interviews, and so on. Fiction, however, was outside the realm of my writing experience, and after a few false starts, I gave up on the idea altogether for a good half year. I tried to ignore it, but the idea nagged at me. It was a good idea, I thought. But can I write fiction? Would I regret not trying? Sociologist and historical fiction author Amitav Ghosh expressed regret about writing his own doctoral dissertation in a traditional format, which he later resolved by publishing his research in the novel In an Antique Land (1992). Ghosh explains, After I finished my dissertation I was left with a nagging sense of dissatisfaction: I felt that everything that was important about my time in Egypt had been left unsaid. To describe this as a “nagging sense of dissatisfaction” is perhaps inadequate. Like many who’ve spent a long time alone in a foreign circumstance, I was haunted by my experiences. This was one of the reasons why it became so important to write the book. (quoted in Stankiewicz 2012: 536–37) The story in my dissertation is very much a reflection of my own experience of conducting research in Okinawa since 2012 and living in Japan since 2002. It shows what I learned and how I learned it. Therefore, despite my initial lack of confidence in writing fiction, over time it occurred to me that to give up the approach altogether was to throw the baby out with the bathwater. As an experiment in form that would be accessible to a diverse audience, the 9 approach to my dissertation itself was an integral part of its thesis (Four Arrows 2008: 4). Exploring the potential for experimental writing in ethnomusicology was alone meaningful (Vannini 2012: 9). The writing itself, I conceded, was something I could develop in future presentations of this research (Saks 1996: 408, 421). Finally, although the dissertation might be experimental in style, it is still similar in content to more conventional formats. The data are simply organized differently.3 Like most ethnomusicological studies, it contains primary data collected over years of fieldwork. It engages with secondary sources on its subject and broader theoretical discussions in the discipline (Saks 1996: 407; 418). It builds on past research and aims to contribute to the literature. It differs only, perhaps, in giving a specialist’s view into a hitherto largely unexamined subject in a form that is digestible for both music experts and non-experts. Biography and Studies of the Individual in Ethnomusicology Biographical research is a cornerstone of ethnomusicology’s close relative, musicology, with its countless treatises on individual composers and their works, but early ethnomusicology tended to avoid studies of the individual. Ethnomusicology developed alongside and was heavily influenced by anthropology (Merriam 1964: 4), which initially understood culture as the collective and shared product of society. Early ethnomusicology followed suit. Pioneering ethnomusicologist Alan Merriam defined ethnomusicology as “the study of music in culture” and held that “music sound is the result of human behavioral processes that are shaped by the values, attitudes, and beliefs of the people who comprise a particular culture” (1964: 6). This 3 Similarly, Ghosh says of In an Antique Land (1992), also an experiment in form, “When people describe Antique Land as a novel, or as ‘fiction,’ I think they are actually referring to the book’s structure rather than its content” (quoted in Stankiewicz 2012: 536). 10 understanding led ethnomusicologists to produce what Jonathan Stock calls “cultural-average accounts” (2001: 7; cf. Nettl 2005: 12–13), or, in Merriam’s words, “the collation of ethnographic and ethnologic materials into a coherent body of knowledge about music practice, behavior, and concepts in the society being studied” (1964: 6). Within a model that understood music as the product of culture, individuals were seen merely as conduits for cultural expression. When I began discussing my ideas for a biographical dissertation on Kadekaru Rinshō with colleagues back in 2012, I encountered some pushback. In an email discussion, which I quote here with permission, one ethnomusicologist expressed his concern about writing biography: I think concepts of “the individual” are highly multiple and problematic. It’s generally hard to be a music anthropologist and a biographer at the same time, because of the ways we are trained not to believe (rightly so) in uniform notions of individuality. […] All of these concepts of the individual are in one way or another the legacy of the European liberal tradition and may be based in assumptions that people are unproblematically and uniformly […] possessed of things like souls, or autonomous consciousness, rights, responsibilities, capacities and so on—things which anthropology sees as formed in a social and cultural environment, rather than a priori or existing prior to all of that. So, a study of “individuals” has to include a study of the intellectual and discourse histories surrounding the term individual. [...] So I just stay out of it and think of my work as a study of people, paying as much attention to the social and cultural environments (full of other people, mass media, and so on) that shape them as I pay to them and their “work.” Basically, the “individual” is a practice, not a thing that we can take for granted. Same thing goes for music. This scholar rejects the notion of “the individual,” which for him suggests that people can stand outside the collective social structures that regulate their lives and inform their identities.4 Stock argues, however, that individuals are active within collective structures, and that “there is no reason why a strong sense of collective identity or responsibility should necessarily obviate a 4 I choose not to name this scholar, though he has permitted me to do so, because I do not wish to single him out for criticism. Rather, I wish to focus on his argument against studies of the individual in ethnomusicology. 11 sense of self; each of these may rather be presented, but weighted distinctly, in the various spheres of social action in which members of a society engage” (2001: 8). Stock draws largely from the work of anthropologist Anthony Cohen, who writes in Self Consciousness: An Alternative Anthropology of Identity: Societies do not determine the selves of their members. They may construct models of personhood, they may [...] attempt to reconcile selfhood to personhood. But they have no absolute powers in this regard, and almost certainly have an exaggerated view of the extent to which they can clone their members. I think of society and the self as dancing an improvised pas de deux: each tries to cover the moves of the other; sometimes they merge, at others they separate. Their combination may be harmonious; or it may be awkward in the extreme. Society creates the illusion (which social science has perpetuated) that it ultimately controls the dance, for it provides the music and the stage. But, to coin a phrase, it takes two to tango. To focus on only one of the partners is to take a very skewed look indeed. (1994: 71) Stock summarizes the implications for ethnomusicology in Cohen’s thesis as follows: Consciousness of self, or selfhood (which is to say self-awareness of individual distinctiveness), is a premise for individual action. This action, however, occurs in the social domain, and is informed by the individual’s understanding of his or her relationship with (role in) society at that particular moment. Individuality is thus not to be equated with individualism, a term that best reserved for more extreme examples of self-centred, as opposed to self-aware, activity. In sum, Cohen claims that it is both academically and morally necessary for us to consider others as individual human beings, not simply as members of groups. Anthropologists, he argues, need to pay closer attention to the manifold ways in which the conduct of specific individuals forms the larger social entity. (Stock 2001: 9–10) Despite some earlier precursors, real momentum toward biographical writing in ethnomusicology started in the early 1990s. Bernard Lortat-Jacob’s Sardinian Chronicles of 1995 is highly biographical (and reflexively autobiographical) in its examination of the musical practices of individuals. Now standard in ethnomusicology programs worldwide, the original French-language version of the book, Chroniques Sardes (1990), was not a work of ethnomusicology per se and was published by a company specializing in travel books. As such, 12 the book represents an early example of the inclusion of alternative genres in the ethnomusicological canon. Jonathan Stock’s Musical Creativity in Twentieth-Century China: Abing, His Music, and its Changing Meanings (1996) is essential reading for researchers of individuals in ethnomusicology today, but unlike Sardinian Chronicles, copies are rare and difficult to obtain. Only 500 were printed initially in hardback and priced at $89.95 USD, and no subsequent editions were published.5 Dismissive peer reviews made it difficult to get the book published in the first place. One reviewer wrote that the book had no value because Abing was not a typical folk musician and thus not representative of Chinese musical norms. Another said the focus on one musician was too narrow, and some reviewers did not respond at all. In the end, it took over two years to secure a publishing contract, which finally came from Rochester University Press, where the main editor at that time was a historical musicologist and thus more familiar with biographical writing. Were this not the case, it is highly possible (and Stock agrees) that this seminal work in ethnomusicology might never have been published at all. Published nonetheless, Stock recalls that it was then difficult to have the book reviewed in the major journals of the field (personal communication, 2022). These hurdles point to a reluctance in the field to acknowledge merit in the study of individuals. Despite its rocky origins, biographies and studies of individuals are common in the discipline today. Books by Bakan and Wolf discussed earlier are biographical in style and focus on individuals. Sean Williams and Lillis Ó Laoire highlight the interplay between the individual and society in their 2011 book, Bright Star of the West: Joe Heaney, Irish Song Man. The authors label their monograph a “critical biography,” and, though they don’t define that term 5 A scanned version, uploaded by Stock himself, is now available at Academia.edu. 13 specifically, their work shows how biography can illuminate cultural processes at play in the world. They explain: In some ways, Heaney was an anachronism in America: he was a nonassimilated, nonassimilating maverick asserting his Gaelic identity through its expressive culture. And yet, as an immigrant, faced with a rapidly changing society in which civil rights and new ideas of diversity and freedom were burgeoning, he had to negotiate and accommodate in his new environment. An examination of such negotiations can reveal much about an immigrant artist’s ability to adapt and to tailor his cultural resources to his new situation. [...] All performers present an illusion, based on deep cultural knowledge and everyday experience. In common with all art, performing must be molded to the needs of a particular time, situation, and audience. Therein lies a contradiction for Heaney, who always asserted that the culture not be changed, even as he himself adapted it for his own purposes in performance. (2011: 4–6) A similar contradiction is seen in Kadekaru Rinshō, a master of Okinawan minyō, who nevertheless altered “tradition” at whim in performance, such as by mixing lyrics from one song with the accompaniment to another.6 Several of my research participants described him as a “product of his times,” alluding to a societal influence on his life and music. On the other hand, many of the same people also said that Kadekaru was unique to the degree that he could not be compared with others, suggesting that individuals like Kadekaru also influence society and culture at large. One may conclude, therefore, that Kadekaru was, like Joe Heaney, a product of culture while also being a producer of culture. Jocelyne Guilbault and Roy Cape’s co-authored biography of 2014, Roy Cape: A Life on the Calypso and Soca Bandstand, is a more recent ethnomusicological “experiment in storytelling” and biographical writing. Switching between 1st-person and 3rd-person voices, they outline key events, experiences, and opportunities in Cape’s life to “address and clarify the 6 I write “tradition” in scare quotes because according to experts in the minyō community, Kadekaru was quintessentially “traditional” precisely because of his free interpretation of songs, long before the standard canon of minyō was developed. 14 musician’s agency and practice” in his musical world (2014: 230). Due to a scarcity of information on Caribbean musicians, the authors were tasked to generate data from scratch. They use inventive methods to “dig deep inside to get back the memory and relive what has already been lived” (ibid.: 1), such as using photos chosen by Cape to generate memories (ibid.: 137). An exercise in the “sociology of selection” (ibid.: 136), Cape’s choices are telling, as he is not concerned with celebrities that appear in the photos, but with people close to him personally (ibid.: 180). Cape first describes a photo, then Guilbault engages with it critically, asking him questions about it. Through this process, they retrieve rich stories from the photos, demonstrating their innovative approach to research. Guilbault and Cape explain their research and writing methods clearly: Cape speaks while Guilbault types, both engaging in dialogic editing in the process. They seek not “completeness” in their biography; rather, through the biographical process they wish to show that knowledge is relational and negotiated (2014: 11). In the same sense, the biographical information I have provided on Kadekaru is neither complete nor definitive. It is subject to the topics I pursued in interviews, for example, and the knowledge that each research participant has about Kadekaru, which also varies according to their unique relationship with him and how they have accumulated their knowledge (Stone 1982: 27). The Novel as Dissertation Precedents for creative writing have been established in key works of anthropology and ethnomusicology. While much has been written on the topic, many point to James Clifford’s Introduction to the volume Writing Culture: The Poetics and Politics of Ethnography (1986), subtitled “Partial Truths,” as revealing that all cultural representations, anthropological or 15 otherwise, are crafted and thus on many levels works of storytelling and fiction. Fictional writing has formally been a part of doctoral dissertations for at least the past two decades (for an excellent overview of such practices, see Gibson 2021), while three of the most well-known novels of the twentieth century either began or were accepted as academic theses: Kurt Vonnegut’s Cat’s Cradle (1963) was accepted as an MA thesis at the University of Chicago for being a “significant work in anthropology” (Lavery 1980: 676); Carlos Casteneda’s Journey to Ixtlan (1972) was accepted a PhD thesis in anthropology at UCLA; and Robert Pirsig’s Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance (1974) began as a PhD thesis at the University of Chicago. Rishma Dunlop submitted her novel Boundary Bay as a dissertation to The University of British Columbia in 1999 (Four Arrows 2008: 62). It was the first novel to be accepted as a dissertation in a Canadian Faculty of Education, and thus established a precedent for arts-based dissertations at the UBC and abroad (ibid.). It also revived a debate over the validity of novels and “alternative” or “arts-based” dissertations, famously represented in an ongoing argument between developmental psychologist Howard Gardner (Harvard University) and art educator Elliot Eisner (Stanford University) (Four Arrows 2008: 62; Saks 1996).7 Gardner’s position is that a novel is unacceptable as a dissertation because it is art, the ultimate purpose of which is to entertain (Saks 1996: 411–12). While Gardner concedes that we can learn from great literature, he holds that fiction cannot provide verifiable evidence nor be cited as such (Saks 1996: 410, 412). It cannot, therefore, contribute to scholarship. He claims, 7 Rishma Dunlop’s dissertation-in-progress was the focus of a debate between Gardner, Eisner, and other panel members at the 1999 American Educational Research Association’s annual conference in Montréal. Dunlop presented a paper titled “The Novel as Education Research” in a panel session titled “Shaking the Ivory Towers: Writing, Advising and Critiquing the Postmodern Dissertation” (Four Arrows 2008: 62). Previous public debates between Gardner and Eisner took place also at AERA annual conferences in 1994 (in a session titled “Yes, But Is It Research?”) and in 1996 (in a session titled “Should a Novel Be Allowed to Count As a Ph.D. Dissertation in a Field Like Education”) (Saks 1996: 403, 407, 427). 16 “Not only is art not true, it makes no effort toward truth. That’s not the purpose of a novel [...] You judge [works of art] by their beauty, their expressiveness, their organization, their structure, their symmetry. But not at all by their translatability or by their capacity for reduction to an additional brick of knowledge” (Saks 1996: 411).8 Gardner’s conception of “art,” however, is problematic in its simplicity. Firstly, the act of labelling a creative work “art” is consistent with Western aesthetic values, but not necessarily with the values of all cultures (Barbara Mann in Four Arrows 2008: 60). A totem pole might be no more than a work of art to a cultural outsider, for example, but for First Nations people of the Pacific Northwest, totem poles document the history, ancestry, and beliefs of the communities that erect them (Huang 2009). Totem poles tell stories. For cultures that do not rely on the written word, storytelling is essential for transmitting knowledge (Barbara Mann in Four Arrows 2008: 60). Gardner’s stance reflects what Barbara Mann describes as a tendency in Western thought toward “ONE-thinking,” in which multiple views are cast in duality, and one view must be flawed for another to be valid. (I’m reminded of a conversation I once had with a Buddhist monk who said, “In the West, you say ‘yes or no.’ In Japan, we say ‘yes and no.’”) Mann states that “ONE-thinking” is pervasive in academia due to the influence of European monotheism, with its dualistic concepts of good and evil, heaven and hell, etc. This has resulted in a mindset that there can only be one, proper form of scholarly discourse with limited variation, not unlike Biblical interpretation (Mann in Four Arrows 2008: 42). On exclusionary practices in academia that perpetuate a colonialist agenda, Galla and Holmes write, “Western academic knowledge production asserts the power to define and control, excluding other knowledge systems, framing 8 Gardner holds his position against novels as dissertations at late as 2008 as evidenced in his contribution to Four Arrows 2008. 17 them as illegitimate, and thus silencing other ways of knowing-being” (2020: 55). Gardner insists that those wishing to achieve doctoral degrees “use the symbol systems and criteria that have been established by the several scholarly disciplines” (Gardner in Four Arrows 2008: 57–58), but the question arises: by whom, if not by a hegemonic and insular “fraternity of scholars” (Gardner in ibid.: 59), have these systems and criteria been established? Recent movements in academia toward decolonization, inclusion, representation, and experimentation encourage researchers to embrace new ways of acquiring knowledge alongside traditional modes of scholarship (Espinosa 2018: ix-x; Justice 2018: 159; Kamiyama and Imazu 2022: 27). To do so is to prepare academia to address the challenges of the 21st century in an increasingly globalized world (Justice 2018: 159, Four Arrows 2008: 1; Eisner in Saks 1996: 412–13, 426). Artist James Jack explains that in Okinawa, “Creative storytelling is a method of empowering island communities to form alternative visions for the future in ways that resist the homogeneity of dominant cultures” (2018: 99; cf. Hagström and Gustafsson 2019: 400). To include storytelling in academic discourse is to recognize the contributions of minority cultures by ensuring “the right to assert uniqueness and difference through narrations of reality that differ from those of dominant societies” (Dumont, Jr. 2003: 1, cited in Justice 2018: 124; Robinson 2020: 12). Daniel Justice expresses the point succinctly in Why Indigenous Literatures Matter: The earth speaks in a multitude of voices, only some of which are human. [...] There are countless conversations taking place around us, in voices and languages of every imaginable form and frequency. Too often we don’t hear them, and when we do we rarely understand them except in ceremony—or art. Art can help focus our attention and translate some measure of that experience through imaginative empathy. Story, song, poem, and prayer all serve to remind us of our connection to one another, human and other-than-human alike. And we are in deep, desperate need of such interventions, to be good kin in a world of unfathomably complex relationships. (Justice 2018: 87) 18 To manage the “unfathomably complex relationships” Justice writes of above is a goal of public scholarship, which seeks to inform public policy and bridge gaps between academia and other social sectors through non-hierarchical collaboration among them (Espinosa 2018: ix–x). For some graduate students, public scholarship also entails producing a dissertation that has utility beyond academia—one that will get information out to the public and not simply “gather dust on a library shelf”—a sentiment I heard often in gatherings with fellow members of the UBC’s Public Scholars Initiative (cf. Eisner in Saks 1996: 418). The PSI’s mission is stated on its homepage as follows: UBC’s Public Scholars Initiative (PSI) was launched in 2015 to support UBC doctoral students whose research extended beyond the academy, and beyond traditional disciplinary approaches, to have a tangible impact for the public good through collaborative, action-oriented, and/or creative forms of scholarship in their dissertation work. [...] A ground-breaking undertaking, the PSI moves beyond “skills training” and extracurricular experience, and reimagines PhD pathways that legitimize and integrate broader conceptions of scholarship and scholarly products within the core of doctoral education and dissertation research. (italics added)9 As an inaugural member of the PSI, I describe my doctoral work in relation to public scholarship on its homepage as follows: Specific to ethnomusicology, my vision of public scholarship entails producing ethnography that gives subjects a voice and a platform to relay their knowledge. Such an approach relies on our informants’ expertise and experience as professional musicians, music business workers, teachers, and others, not only to bring to our ethnographies richer and more authentic narratives that are well-balanced in voice and content, but also to bring new ideas and different perspectives to the scholarly arena.10 9 https://www.grad.ubc.ca/psi <accessed 9 October 2023> 10 https://www.grad.ubc.ca/campus-community/meet-our-students/king-kirk <accessed 9 October 2023> 19 In the ethos of public scholarship, I have sought to produce a work that relays the knowledge of my research participants in a format that is accessible to a wide audience and contributes to scholarship in content and methodology. Positionality Reflection on my positionality in this research will be helpful for the reader to gain a broader and more balanced understanding of the contents and method of this dissertation (Sybing 2022: 758–59; Tuval-Mashiach 2017: 126). Recent calls for statements on positionality in qualitative research are predated by similar calls by phenomenological ethnomusicologists for ethnographers to consider their own agency in their research, not only for the sake of transparency and accountability, but as a subject of the research itself (Berger 2014; Clinton and Wallach 2022: 617, 628; Skoutella 2019; Stone 1982: 27). Ethnomusicologist Ruth Stone calls this process the “ethnography of ethnography” and reminds us that “the ethnographer cannot escape his personal or scientific relevances, nor can he assume perfect understanding of the participants’ interpretive processes” (Stone 1982: 27; cf. Clinton and Wallach 2022: 617). Phenomenology holds that the exact sciences are founded on the subjective world, and not the objective or lived world, as often assumed.11 It compels researchers, therefore, to consider the subjective factors—personal, social, economic, and so on—that lead them to their specializations in the first place (Sokolowski 2000: 147–50) and direct the manner in which information is collected and presented (Sybing 2022: 766; Tuval-Mashiach 2017: 126). In consideration of my positionality, therefore, I offer an account of my history and my path to this research. I hope it 11 A flat surface, for example, is an abstract geometric construct that does not exist in the natural world. A special kind of intentioning (conscious engagement with objects of experience or observation) is required to create this abstract object, one that combines perception and imagination (Sokolowski 2000: 148–49). Thus, phenomenology reveals the kinds of intentionalities that constitute the exact sciences (ibid.: 147). 20 gives the reader an impression of who is writing up this research, although it is of course only a very partial and subjective account. I’m a descendent of Irish settlers who came to Canada in 1920 and made a living farming wheat. I was raised in the prairies of rural Manitoba, about an hour’s drive north of Winnipeg. My closest neighbors lived a mile away, as did their closest neighbors. The town where I attended school was a 15-minute drive from home and had a population of 1,000. My father worked for the Department of Agriculture in the day and farmed wheat with my grandfather. My mother raised us three children and worked seasonally as an income tax accountant and was later the proprietor of a clothing boutique. I studied the piano from age 5, and guitar from age 10, but we had to drive an hour to find teachers. At age 15, my utopian, small-town view of the world was gradually dismantled after my parents and I moved to the island of Timor, Indonesia to volunteer for the Canadian University Services Overseas (CUSO). My father lectured on agriculture, and my mother on accounting and English, at a university in the city of Kupang. I became interested in Indonesian traditional music, particularly gamelan music of Java and Bali, and I also took lessons on the Timorese string instrument, the sasando. Living in Timor from 1989-90 opened my eyes to a broader view of the world, both the good and the bad, and it sparked in me a desire to travel and immerse myself in different cultures as much as possible, both back home in Canada and abroad. At age 28, after graduating from The University of Manitoba with a degree in music history and saddled with student loans, I decided to try out teaching English in Japan for a year or two, never having thought that I would end up spending my life there. What kept me here initially was the joy I was having participating in a traditional Japanese festival in Iizuna, a small town north of Nagano City, where I lived and taught English at the local junior high school. My 21 friend from Iizuna, Toshiya, had studied in the U.K., spoke English, and was a fellow music lover. He was also a member of the local Men’s Youth Association (seinenkai), which put on the annual festival featuring lion dancing with flute and drum accompaniment. Knowing of my interest in traditional music, Toshiya invited me to join the group, and for the next eight years I played the flute (yokobue) and helped organize the festival. The deep history of the festival and its rituals fascinated me, and it eventually became the topic of my MA dissertation for the University of Sheffield (2010). I first heard Kadekaru Rinshō in 2011 as recommended listening by a friend. He’d lent me a stack of Okinawan music CDs, among which was a Kadekaru “best of” album (Marufuku Records ACD-8, 1996). Hearing Kadekaru for the first time, I had a profound emotional reaction, so much that my eyes welled with tears. Of course, I could not understand the Okinawan lyrics,12 but there was something in his sound and his appearance that sparked my fascination. My first impressions were that Kadekaru was genuine, authentic, and mysterious. These impressions would turn out to be consistent with the mythos of Kadekaru, as later research would uncover. I would learn that others in Kadekaru’s circle had also had intense first reactions to his music, which led them to “follow” Kadekaru. As for my participation in the festival at that time, I was having trouble dealing with my perceived treatment as an “outsider,” despite my long devotion to the tradition (King 2013: 129–31).13 I wanted to continue living in Japan, however, learning about Japanese music and culture. I imagined that Kadekaru might have also felt like an outsider in Japan, and something in his singing triggered in me a feeling of connection to him. I could never truly empathize with 12 On the difficulty of translating Okinawan songs, Takenaka Rō wrote, “With its enchanting yet fierce melodies, what kind of explanation would be necessary?” (Takenaka 1975: 232). 13 Admittedly, having lived in Japan for much longer now (22 years), I have come to understand and accept my perceived “outsider” status more rationally than I was able to at first. 22 Kadekaru, of course, given his eventful life, but he did “speak to me,” as good singers do, and I wanted to understand why I and others were moved so deeply by his music. Is there a way, I wondered, we could express that feeling in words? When I asked Kadekaru’s collaborators to describe his style or sound, they typically responded by talking about his life: what kind of person he was, how he grew up, the times he lived in, and so on. Few described his actual “sound” without further questioning. This led me to examine Kadekaru not only in musical terms but within the context of his life experiences. A biographical study of his music and his life emerged naturally in the process. The protagonist, Kai, is a composite of individuals from my research and my personal life. Kai’s trajectory from company employee and aspiring musician to professional musician is modelled on the career of Okinawan minyō artist Horiuchi Kanako (b. 1977). Originally from Hokkaido, Japan’s northernmost island region, Horiuchi was working as a director at an advertising agency in Tokyo at age 22. During the filming of a commercial featuring the famous minyō singer Noborikawa Seijin, a contemporary, collaborator, and friend of Kadekaru, Horiuchi was so impressed with Noborikawa’s performance that she decided to change career paths and pursue the minyō tradition. She moved to Okinawa and studied under the venerated minyō singer Ōshiro Misako, also a contemporary of Kadekaru Rinshō (and a character in this story) (personal communication, Horiuchi Kanako, April 2016). Since gaining renown as a minyō artist, the energetic and charismatic Horiuchi has been constantly performing, collaborating, and recording with musicians across Japan and worldwide. Kai’s fascination with Kadekaru Rinshō is based on my own, as are his travels across Okinawa, Osaka, and Tokyo to talk with people who knew him. In this way, Kai’s story is an account of my progress from first hearing Kadekaru to learning about him through the stories of 23 his family, friends, and musical collaborators. They spoke of Kadekaru’s “inexplicable power” (Ōshiro 2012 and Uehara 2016, personal communication) to draw people in and generate “Kadekaru maniacs,” a term I’ve heard to describe a particular brand of Kadekaru fans (like me). Some young minyō singers, like Kai, even learn by imitating Kadekaru’s musical style, such as another student of Ōshiro Misako, who in part inspired the character of Kai. Kai struggles with his identity as an Okinawan and a Japanese citizen. The occasional “othering” he encounters is based on my, my children’s, and others’ experience as foreigners living in Japan. It’s also based on the experiences of Okinawans or people of Okinawan descent whom I’ve known, talked to, or read about. This is not a complaint. I’m happy to live in Japan, and I respect and admire its culture and society. Much of what amounts to “othering” in Japan is based on innocent curiosity of those who don’t easily fit the cultural mold. Kai also suffers from depression in the story, and this is also based on my own experience. Kai was to be the name of my son lost to stillbirth, and in this story, I felt I could imagine him into existence and give him a good life. I am the proud father of two children, who inspired the character of Kai as a child in the Prologue. Notes on Style I use the real-life names of interviewees who appear as characters in the novel, and names are given in the standard Japanese order of surname/given name. To maintain narrative flow in the novel, I’ve limited the use of Japanese and Okinawan words. In instances where their inclusion seemed beneficial, however, these words are defined in the context of the narrative and used regularly throughout the novel to reinforce the reader’s familiarity with them. I use a 24 modified Hepburn system of romanization for Japanese words, and all translations of Japanese-language sources are mine unless otherwise stated. Maps at the head of each chapter show the locations at which events in respective chapters take place.14 The location and date are also given in each chapter title, and the story unfolds over a 32-year period in the protagonist’s life, albeit with a few large jumps in time between some chapters. 14 Maps are used by permission from shutterstock.com and are altered from their original form for this dissertation. 25 PART I: NOVEL 26 Figure 1: Map of Japan and Okinawa 27 Prologue: Ōdo Beach, Okinawa, March 1995 Kai watched the plumes of smoke rise from the incense bowl and dissolve in the air. Ocean waves glistened in the sunlight, lulling him to sleep with their steady roll. He heard Baba speaking those strange words again. To Kai she was “Baba”—“Grandma”—but when she wore her white robes, people called her yuta-sama: “honourable spirit medium.” Kai didn’t understand this family ritual by the sea, but he was certain there would be a spread of food when it was all over—and root beer! “Kai,” whispered Haruko, “Wake up, sweetie. It’s time to go home.” “Finally!” he moaned. His thoughts turning to the imminent feast, Kai sprang to his feet. He turned his gaze toward the caves up shore. “Mama, can I go look at the caves?” “We’d better go, Kai,” said Haruko. “Please?” he begged, mustering up all his youthful charm. “OK,” she surrendered. “You can look, but don’t go in. There might be habu in there.” Kai’s face widened with intrigue. He’d been warned in school about Okinawa’s poisonous habu 28 snakes. “I’ll wait here. Go quickly,” she said. He deserves some fun, she thought. The ritual was always hard for the young ones to endure. Kai sprinted to the caves and halted before them. He gazed up in awe at the nearest one, its huge mouth black as charcoal. Kai approached slowly. Two steps into the cave, he paused until his eyes adjusted to the darkness. Squinting, he could make out a long, pale object on the ground just a few more steps away. Habu! he thought. But it didn’t move. A stick? A cool breeze wafted like a breath from deep within the cave and an eery feeling overtook him. Kai bolted from the cave. “Mama!” Kai yelled. He lunged into Haruko and threw his arms around her waist, nearly bowling her over. “Let’s go!” he said, embarrassed by his fear. “I’m hungry!” Kai and Haruko walked up the hill from the beach toward home. “Baba!” cried Haruko. “Wait!” Kai and Haruko caught up to her. “Haruko, what were you doing?” asked Baba. “Kai wanted to look at the caves,” said Haruko. Baba drew a quick breath. “He didn’t go inside,” Haruko added. “Haruko! Strong spirits abide there,” Baba reminded her. “Yes, mother. But he’s five now,” said Haruko. “It’s getting harder to keep him away.” Baba let out a sigh and smiled at her daughter. “I know. Anyway, I suppose he’ll have to learn about them eventually,” she said. 29 Kai’s aunts scurried to prepare the feast while the men poured beer for each other. Kai’s grandfather—Jiji to Kai—began singing and plucking his sanshin. The men jumped up to dance, shouting the standard refrains, Ee ya sa sa! Ah ee ya! The celebration had begun. Kai loved watching Jiji play the sanshin. He was delighted by the twanging and gyrating of its nylon strings. He marvelled at its slender neck—black and glossy. But for Kai, the most amazing part of the sanshin was its snakeskin body. Jiji taught him that the snakeskin had to be sent from Thailand because Okinawan snakes are too small to use. Jiji said that some people even used the skin of dead cats! After a few songs, Jiji took a smoke break. The men took turns filling his beer glass, and the women’s laughter from the adjoining kitchen now filled the room. “Jiji, what’s that song you played?” Kai asked. “I played a few songs, Kai,” said Jiji, “though I sometimes mix up the words and music. But it doesn’t matter. Those are shimauta, my boy—island songs.” “I know that song! Shimauta, yo kaze ni nori...” crooned Kai, his little face contorting. Jiji laughed. “Yes, that song is also called ‘Shimauta,’ but The Boom, the band that sang it, is not even an Okinawan band,” he explained. “Shimauta are the songs of our people, Kai, the uchinanchu—the people of Okinawa. Kai looked up timidly at Jiji. “Can you teach me how to play, Jiji?” he asked. “Of course!” said Jiji. “You are uchinanchu, too. You should learn how to play. How about we start tomorrow?” Kai grinned and sipped his root beer. The festivities continued late into the night, and Kai fell asleep on the tatami mats, his head in his mother’s lap. 30 Kai awoke early the next morning and raced down to the veranda. Jiji was playing his sanshin and enjoying his morning coffee. “Oh! Good morning!” said Jiji, tossing his cigarette and holding his arms out toward the boy. Kai ran to Jiji and squeezed him tight. “Morning, Jiji,” said Kai. “Will you teach me how to play today?” “Ha ha,” Jiji laughed. “So, you were serious?” “Of course!” said Kai. His smile turned to a frown. “But, I don’t have a sanshin.” “Hmm, that’s true” said Jiji. “Ah! I have an idea. Let’s make one!” “Make one?” said Kai. “Can we do that?” “Sure we can!” said Jiji. “We uchinanchu used to make sanshins all the time. There was a time when we had no money to buy things like musical instruments, but we uchinanchu are resourceful! We always found a way to make music.” “Cool!” said Kai proudly. “OK, Kai. You go into Jiji’s garage and see if you can find a can—a big can! See if you can also find a good, solid stick, some nails, and some fishing line,” said Jiji. “I’m on it!” said Kai as he ran off to his task. Jiji knew he’d be back shortly, having left the necessary items out for him to find. In minutes, the boy returned successfully from his mission. “Good job, Kai!” said Jiji. “In the old days, we used to look for these things along the beach, but you’re lucky that Jiji had them all in his garage.” Kai smiled, pleased with his accomplishment. Step by step, they transformed the bits and pieces into a musical instrument. “It doesn’t look like a sanshin,” said Kai upon completion of their project. “Ah, but it is!” said Jiji. “It might be more of a sanshin than mine! This is the real deal. We call it a kankara sanshin—‘sanshin from a can.’” Kai nodded, convinced of its legitimacy. 31 “OK, let’s tune it up!” Jiji fiddled with the pegs. “Close enough,” he said, handing Kai the sanshin. The boy’s eyes glittered with excitement. “The lowest string,” said Jiji, “the one closest to your mouth, is called ai. The middle string is called shi, and the highest one is called ko. Now, play each string, one at a time: ai, shi, ko.” Kai played each string as instructed. “Good!” praised Jiji. “Now, as you play each string, sing the same, ai, shi, ko.” Kai plucked and sang. “Now, let’s play and sing, ai, shi, ko, and then back down in reverse, ko, shi, ai.” Kai followed his instructions precisely. “Well done!” said Jiji. “Now, straighten your back, relax, and narrow your mouth. Let the sound come from here,” said Jiji, poking Kai’s belly. The boy giggled. After some practice, Jiji ended the lesson. “You practice that for a few days,” he said, “and we’ll continue from there.” “Jiji, who taught you how to play?” asked Kai. “Ah,” Jiji responded, “I didn’t have a teacher. Well, you might say I had many teachers. I listened to others and copied what they did.” “Cool!” said Kai. “Who did you listen to?” “Come on,” said Jiji. “I’ll show you.” Kai followed his grandpa into his garage. Jiji selected a record from his collection on the shelf and pulled the vinyl disc from its sleeve. Kai stood up tall on his toes and clenched the edge of Jiji’s workbench, pulling himself up to watch the record spin. He giggled with glee when it began to produce sound. “Wow!” shouted Kai. “He plays so fast!” “He sure does,” said Jiji. “That’s Kina Shoei. He was famous for his fast picking style. This is the kind of music we used to play when we were kids. We called it mōashibi.” “What’s mo-shabimi?” asked Kai, muddling the words. 32 Jiji chuckled. “MŌASHIBI,” he said slowly. “When we were young, after a long day of working in the fields, we’d get together at night and sing and dance, sometimes until sunrise! This is how we met people and had fun,” he explained. “It’s how I met Baba, too!” Kai smiled. “OK, let’s have a listen to this now,” said Jiji, changing records. “This is Kadekaru Rinshō,” he said, showing the album cover to Kai. “He’s the God of Okinawan minyō. There was no one like him,” he said, pausing. “And there never will be.” “Jiji, what’s minyō?” asked Kai, taking care to pronounce the word correctly. “Minyō means ‘songs of the people’—folk songs, you might say,” he explained. “These are our songs, Kai, and they are more than just songs. They are stories of Okinawa and its people—the uchinanchu—people like you and me.” Kai nodded slowly, sensing that Jiji had just told him something important. The needle dropped. First a little crackle, followed by a few soft notes from the sanshin. And then, the voice. It floated like a breeze above the sanshin. Pretty, but why is he so sad? thought Kai. Transfixed, the boy’s memory drifted back to the caves. The eery feeling that had made him run to his mother in fear came creeping back. He began to cry. “Jiji! Stop it!” he sobbed, clenching the old man’s leg. Jiji lifted the stylus from the record. “It’s OK, Kai,” he said, kneeling to console the boy. “I suppose Kadekaru is an acquired taste,” he said, roughing up Kai’s hair. “I have a feeling you’ll like him someday, though.” “Jiji,” whispered Kai, “Have you ever gone into the caves? Why do we always go down there?” “Ah,” sighed Jiji. “Well, you see, Kai, there was once a great war in Okinawa—especially here in the south. Many of us uchinanchu fought in that war, and many died.” Kai hung on Jiji’s every word. “My dad—your great grandfather—was a soldier, and we lost him, 33 too. So, every year in March, we go down to the beach to pray for him and all the others.” Kai looked at the floor in silence. Jiji saw tears welling up in his eyes again. “But!” Jiji added, “we uchinanchu love peace, Kai. We’ll never forget the war, and we’ll never let it happen again. So there’s nothing to worry about now. OK?” “OK,” whimpered Kai. “But Kai,” Jiji added, “it’s better you don’t go in the caves. Those are sacred places, and we leave them be. Do you understand?” “I understand,” said the boy. But his puzzled face showed otherwise. “I’ll tell you more when you’re a bit older,” he said. Kai nodded. “Do you smell that, Kai? It’s breakfast time! Baba is making our favourite— pancakes and sausages! I’m starving! How about you?” “Right on!” cheered Kai, his thoughts shifting to breakfast. He took Jiji’s big hand and dragged him off to the kitchen. 34 Chapter 1: Taisho Ward, Osaka, Japan, 2015 Kai pressed into the crowd of passengers on the morning train. Somehow, there was always room for one more. Turning to face the closing doors, he made sure not to get his tie caught in them again. One hand gripping a pole for balance, Kai glanced at the newspaper he’d strategically folded for reading in tight spaces. “The Okinawa Problem,” read the headline. It was an interview with a key figure in Osaka’s Okinawan community, Kinjō Kaoru. Kai had seen him before at Okinawan events, usually mic-in-hand, lecturing about colonialism in Okinawa. Below the headline was a photo, captioned, “The Human Museum.” It showcased a gathering of people from different ethnic groups—Okinawan, Ainu, Taiwanese, Korean, Indian, Malaysian, Javanese—all in their respective traditional outfits. Kai read the interview. Kinjō: This photo was taken at an exhibition in Osaka in 1903. It was meant to display various ethnic groups across Asia. The exhibit was created by Professor Tsuboi Shigoro of Tokyo Imperial University. Professor Tsuboi was an anthropologist who studied in London in the 1880s. In 1889, he attended the Paris Expo, where he saw an exhibition of “primitive peoples” from Asia and Africa. From this exhibition, he took away the European polarized view of humanity: the civilized and the primitive. Europe being the civilized, and Asia and Africa, the primitive. Such were the values of the time, a hierarchy supported by anthropology. Professor Tsuboi took this idea and applied it to Asia, with Japan at the top of the hierarchy and all other cultures below. This structure was supported by the scholarship of the time. It’s unimaginable by 35 today’s standards. We would call it racism, but they just called it anthropology. Okinawan Weekly: Is there still discrimination in Okinawa today? K: Not to that extent, but even if there is no longer discrimination in Okinawa, that doesn’t mean that Japan has improved. It just means that Japan has shifted its discrimination toward other targets, namely Koreans and Filipinos. Japan is inherently racist. No holds barred, thought Kai. His memory drifted back to the first day of grade 1 in primary school. “Sensei—Kai is Okinawan!” a classmate announced to the teacher. “Say something in Okinawan, Kai!” But Kai hardly knew a few words. He didn’t even know he was “Okinawan,” as such, he’d always assumed he was simply Japanese. He spoke Japanese, after all, and he lived in Japan—he was Japanese! “Haisai!” shouted another classmate, showing off her knowledge of the Okinawan word for hello, presumably learned on a family trip to Okinawa. The children giggled. “Haisai! Haisai!” they chanted. Kai smiled sheepishly. “Haisai, Kai,” said the teacher, waving to him. Upon moving to Osaka the year before, Kai immediately felt different from his classmates. Rather, he was made to feel different. Even now, as an adult salaryman, he was known at the office as the man from Okinawa. Kai continued reading his newspaper. K: Consider this. At the end of WWII, the final battle for Japan took place on Okinawa. The Japanese military brought the fight to Okinawa, using it as a buffer against devastation to mainland Japan. Up to a third of Okinawa’s population was decimated. Then, Japan handed Okinawa over to US administration as part of war reparations, and America expanded its bases on Okinawa. In 1972, we were returned to Japan. The Japanese government promised it would reduce the number and size of bases on Okinawa, but in fact the opposite has occurred. US and Japanese bases now take up 10 percent of Okinawa’s land mass, which hosts 70 percent of all U.S. military bases in Japan. This, even though Okinawa only makes up 0.6 percent of Japan’s total land mass. And yet, the Prime Minister came to Okinawa recently and declared, “We will do our utmost to reduce the burden of hosting U.S. military bases.” This is an outright lie because the U.S. and Japan are still 36 building bases on Okinawa today. How is such injustice not discrimination against the people of Okinawa? He’s not wrong, thought Kai. At the end of the article, the address was given for the Okinawan Cultural Center where Mr. Kinjō worked. I ought to stop in some time, thought Kai. I haven’t been since I was a kid. Looking up, Kai realized he’d missed his stop. Dammit! Not again! Arriving late to work, Kai heard the snickering of his coworkers on the office floor. “Late again, Kai?” his boss scolded. “We’re not on Okinawan time here, you know.” The fact that “Okinawan time” was a real thing added bite to the boss’ bark. Kai wasn’t simply late, that is, he was late because he was Okinawan. This job, he muttered. Sunday arrived, the end of Kai’s 6-day work week with overtime. 25 years old, single and living at home, he was the sole earner for his family since his father had taken disability leave due to an accident on the job. His compensation payments helped, but life in the big city was expensive. Kai dug his computer out of his backpack to catch up on some work. Yesterday’s newspaper fell to the floor. Kneeling to pick it up, Kai glimpsed the interview with Mr. Kinjō. Why not? he thought, struck with the idea of how to spend his day. “Kai, are you hungry?” his mother called. “Sausages and pancakes!” she sang. Kai sat at down at the table and Haruko serving him a heaping plate. “So,” she asked, “what are you doing today?” “I thought I’d walk down to the cultural center,” he answered. “Oh? That’s not what I was expecting,” Haruko laughed. “Yeah, well,” he said, “I read an article the other day...” “I read it,” Haruko interrupted. “Say hi to Mr. Kinjō.” 37 “You know him?” asked Kai. “Of course, Kai,” she said Every uchinanchu here knows him.” Kai strolled along the river toward the cultural center, a perfect 40-minute walk from his home. Most Okinawans lived in the Taisho Ward, as they had for the last century. Kai marvelled at the cherry blossoms, now nearing full bloom. Their sweet aroma eased his tension with each breath he took. He felt at peace. Then, a familiar cry blared from a loudspeaker: “HAIL TO THE EMPEROR!” Sundays were popular among the right wingers to go out and rile the public. They paraded slowly and determinedly down the street in their motorcade of black, oversized vans adorned with gold chrysanthemums. A man in paramilitary coveralls and a rising-sun headband directed his megaphone directly at Kai and barked again, “HAIL TO THE EMPEROR!” They have some nerve, thought Kai, coming around this neighborhood and praising the emperor. In fact, they knew exactly where and when to pick their fights. Resisting the urge to flip them the bird, Kai turned away and resumed his walk as the vile sound faded away. Kai found the center. The doors were open but there was no one inside. Peeking into the dim library beyond the entrance, Kai caught Mr. Kinjō’s gaze. Mr. Kinjō was tall and slender with a long, grey beard and gentle, piercing eyes. He smiled warmly, setting Kai at ease. “Well, hello!” said Mr. Kinjō. “Haven’t seen you in a while.” He knows me? Kai thought. “You’re Haruko’s kid, right?” he asked. Kai nodded. “Come on in. Have a seat. I was just about to fix some tea. Would you like some?” “No thanks,” answered Kai. That’s O–.” 38 “I’ll make some tea,” Mr. Kinjō interrupted, fiddling with the kettle. “So, what brings you around?” “Well, I read your interview in the paper, and I thought I might come down and check out the center,” answered Kai. “It’s my day off,” he added. “I’m glad you did,” said Mr. Kinjō. “So, what did you think of the article?” “Well, it caused me to miss my stop and be late for work again,” answered Kai, “if that answers your question.” Mr. Kinjō chuckled. “Seriously, though,” he continued, “I was interested in what you had to say about the Okinawa Problem.” “I see,” said Mr. Kinjō, leaning back in his chair. “Well, first of all, ‘The Okinawa Problem’ is a catchphrase used by Japan and the U.S. to deflect blame for the problems they’ve caused in Okinawa through their colonialist agendas,” he explained. “Calling it ‘The Okinawa Problem’ makes it appear as though Okinawa itself is responsible for its current state, when in fact, the problem should be called, ‘The Japan Problem.’” “Huh, no kidding,” said Kai. The kettle boiled and Mr. Kinjō poured two cups of jasmine tea—an Okinawa staple. “From rule by China to rule by Japan. From rule by Japan to rule by America. How astonishing the changes in this Okinawa of ours!” said Mr. Kinjō with a wink. “What’s that?” Kai asked. “You don’t know?” said Mr. Kinjō. ‘Jidai no Nagare’—‘Changing of the Times’ by Kadekaru Rinshō.” “Kade-who?” replied Kai. “Oh my,” said Mr. Kinjō, handing Kai his tea. “You’ve got to know Kadekaru Rinshō, the God of Okinawan minyō. Hang on.” Mr. Kinjō flipped through some CDs on the 39 bookshelves. “Here it is,” he said, waving one in the air. He inserted the CD into the deck and pressed play. Kai heard the first few notes of a sanshin. It sounded familiar. And then—that voice! A chill shot up his spine and his chest grew heavy. In an instant, Kai was a boy again in Jiji’s garage, hearing Kadekaru on the record player for the first time. Kai wanted to yell, stop! But he didn’t. He slowed his breath and listened. A minute passed and Kai thought, this is rather beautiful. Mr. Kinjō noticed Kai’s eyes begin to well up. “Are you OK?” he asked. “I’m OK,” answered Kai. “It’s just... that voice brings back a lot of memories for me. Sorry.” “Don’t be sorry,” said Mr. Kinjō. “I know the feeling. Shall I turn it off?” “No, don’t!” exclaimed Kai, forgetting his manners. He let out a breath. “Please, let it play.” They listened together for a while longer. “It’s too bad you couldn’t have seen him live,” said Mr. Kinjō between songs. “He was even more captivating. Mesmerizing, in fact. He left us in ’99, sadly.” Kai sat up straight. “You saw him live?” he asked. “I met him a few times, too,” Mr. Kinjō added. “Really,” Kai drawled. “What was he like?” “I thought he was kind of strange, coming on stage barefoot in slippers,” Mr. Kinjō replied. Kai laughed. “Barefoot in slippers?” “That’s right. This was about 40 years ago, in Okinawa,” said Mr. Kinjō. He played at a local community center. Not a club or a hall or anything like that—a community center. The 40 place was packed with local seniors. He used to live in Osaka before the war, so he knew a lot of people here.” “He lived in Osaka?” asked Kai. “That’s right,” said Mr. Kinjō. “He moved here when he was 16 to find work. Around 1936, I guess. A lot of people did back in those days. The sugar cane industry in Okinawa crashed, causing a mass migration to Osaka. There were a lot of factory and shipping jobs available back then. It’s a funny story, actually, how he came here,” Mr. Kinjō laughed. “Oh?” said Kai. “The story goes that Kadekaru stole money from his family that they’d recently acquired through the sale of a cow. He said later that he had ‘secretly borrowed’ the money and intended to pay it back.” The two snickered. “Anyway, he lived not far from here, but that area has all been built over now. That was long before my time, though. I was born in Okinawa in 1953 and we moved here when I was 1. When I met him for the first time, sometime in the early ’70s, his music career was just taking off. That was the so-called ‘Golden Era’ of Okinawan minyō. When Okinawa returned to Japanese rule from American administration in 1972, there was an ‘Okinawan boom’ in mainland Japan. All things Okinawan became the fad on the mainland, including tourism to the islands as a sort of exotic getaway. Anyway, he left a strong impression on me at that time. I thought he was rather...” Mr. Kinjō paused, “mysterious.” “How so?” asked Kai. “Well, for example, he detested praise,” Mr. Kinjō explained. “He probably suspected that people had ulterior motives when they did so—like they were being manipulative. He didn’t play into it.” Kai looked puzzled. Mr. Kinjō continued, “So, if someone praises you, you usually 41 feel good and you respond—you play into it. Not him. He would shut that down right away. ‘Stop,’ he’d say. ‘You don’t need to flatter me.’ He was self-secure in his own world.” “What kind of world was that?” asked Kai. “It’s like, when people become famous, they often mold themselves to fulfill the expectations of others—to fit in. But Kadekaru had his own way of living. He never felt the need to fit in,” Mr. Kinjō explained. “Tell me more about him,” said Kai, fascinated. “Well, he loved pachinko,” said Mr. Kinjō. “Whenever we couldn’t find him, we knew he was out playing pachinko. He sometimes came back feeling angry. ‘In Okinawa, the pachinko machines put out!’ he would say. ‘Here, no matter how much you play, nothing comes out!’” Mr. Kinjō laughed. “But this is exactly what I loved about him,” said Mr. Kinjō. “He was a musical genius, and at the same time, this ordinary guy who got angry at pachinko machines.” “You mentioned he was captivating live,” said Kai. “What was he like in concert?” “He didn’t perform,” he answered. “It was all about the song, not about him. The song was above him—he just sang it, simply and plainly. He didn’t bring a lot of effort or personal emotions into it. It’s like he wanted to say, ‘Isn’t this song great? I love it!’” “Was he good with a crowd?” Kai asked. “He was,” said Mr. Kinjō, “and he would crack jokes from time to time, too. I didn’t understand him, though. He spoke Okinawan. I can understand more nowadays, but back then, I didn’t understand much,” Mr. Kinjō explained. “He never felt above the audience. He wasn’t a star. It was just like he was having a conversation with his next-door neighbor. And that’s why he had no qualms about performing barefoot in slippers. I respected that about him—very much.” 42 “Could he not speak Japanese?” Kai asked. “Why did he always speak in dialect?” “He could speak Japanese, of course,” Mr. Kinjō answered. “But, like I said, he was self-secure in his own world. He just did what he wanted. He thought of everyone as equals. Everyone is free to live as they want, and so was he. I think that’s why he spoke in his native tongue. This goes back to what we were talking about before: the so-called ‘Okinawa Problem.’ Japan does not consider Okinawa equal in terms of human rights. If it did, we wouldn’t be hosting 70% of the military bases in Japan. Inequality is the root of the problem—of the many problems, rather. That’s why the bases need to go. You see, with the military comes the potential for violence. The military is there for the purpose of violence, not protection. This is the opposite of peace.” Another hour passed, and Kai, feeling he had taken up enough of the man’s time, bid farewell to Mr. Kinjō. “Here, take this,” said Mr. Kinjō, handing Kai the CD. Kai received it with both hands and read the title, “Fūkyōkajin.” The Sublime Poet: The Best of Rinshō Kadekaru. “Thank you,” said Kai. “I’ll get it back to you soon.” “Keep it,” said Mr. Kinjō, winking. “Don’t be a stranger.” On his way home, Kai stopped in at his favorite Okinawan mom-and-pop for a root beer and a Spam sandwich—comfort foods he remembered from his childhood in Okinawa. The young Kai was crushed to find they weren’t readily available on the Japanese mainland when his family moved to Osaka. 43 Kai sat on a bench by the river and flipped through the liner notes of the CD. Inside was a section titled “A Chronology of the Life of Kadekaru Rinshō.” He glanced over the entries. 1920 Born 4 July, Goeku Village, Nakagami District, Nakabara (now Kadena Air Force Base). Father: Rinjirou, Mother: Ushi. Eldest of 3 male siblings. 1927 Age 7. Enters Goeku Jinjou Koutou Elementary School. Due to mother’s influence, begins playing the sanshin. 1928 Age 8. Begins performing at venues with his mother. Together they compose the song “Haihan nu bushi” (“Samurai of the Abolished Han”). 1930 Age 10. Quits school to help family with farming. 1933 Age 13. Begins performing musical accompaniment at mōashibi. Mōashibi, thought Kai. Jiji taught him that word. Mōashibi were the parties that young Okinawans held in the fields after work. Jiji said they’d often last until sunrise! Jiji and Baba met at one. Baba liked Jiji because he was the funniest of all the men, and the best dancer, too. At least, that’s what Jiji said. 1934 Age 14. Sent to apprentice at a local shop, cooking, cleaning, making deliveries and doing various tasks. “It was extremely gruelling,” he would recall. Earned 3.5 yen per month. 1935 Age 15. Performs musical accompaniment on sanshin at local events and festivals. 1936 Age 16. “Secretly borrowing” money from his parents that they had acquired from the sale of a cow, boards the ship Ukishimamaru to Osaka (10 yen one-way) with only the clothes on his back and his sanshin. Lived in Northern Taisho Ward and worked at relatives’ sawmill delivering firewood to various businesses including a bathhouse, a candy store, and a soba noodle restaurant, where he was grateful to receive free soba noodles. Loved silent films, and on days off would sometimes go to see his favorite actress, Hara Setsuko, at the theaters. Occasionally would gather with other Okinawans to sing and play the sanshin. Of his youthful days in Osaka, he would say, “Whatever may be said, I gave it my all.” Kadekaru did more in 16 years than I’ll ever do, thought Kai. Intrigued, he read on. 1939 Age 19. Returns to Okinawa for physical examination for military conscription. Enlisted in Oita Prefecture Army Corps 46. 1941 Age 21. Time in standing reserves expires. Applies as migrant worker to the South Seas Development Company. “It was said that poor 44 people could find work in the South Seas, and just as I did, the war started,” he said. In Saipan, also worked as musical director of an Okinawan theater troupe, “Southern Star.” 1944 Age 24. War situation worsens. Sent to Kosrae Island as military trainer, shot, taken as POW. Admitted to field hospital, teeters on brink of death. Weight drops rapidly from 70 to 40 kg. South Sea Islands fall into bloody battleground. Files death report, resolving never to set foot on Japanese soil again. Notice of death? thought Kai. Clearly, he survived! 1945 Age 25. Father (Rinjiro) dies at age 52. Battle of Okinawa ends on 23 June. Leaves South Seas in November to return to Kanagawa Prefecture, Japan. 1946. Age 26. En route to buy black market goods for resale, sees banner through train window advertising an Okinawa theater troupe. Gets off train and joins troupe. Moves to Osaka and tours region for 3 years with various theater troupes. 1949. Age 29. Returns home to Okinawa in spring. Believing her son had died, mother loses her sanity for a few days. Okinawa is still a post-war wasteland. Finds job as a horse-drawn cart driver. 1950 Age 30. Records first song: “Kui katare bushi” [“Promise of Love”], later pressed on 78 rpm disc in 1958. 1955 Age 35. Participates in first Ryūkyū Broadcasting Corporation Folk Song Competition in the early days of commercial radio. Wins prize along with contemporary Noborikawa Seijin. Folk songs were received widely in this era when people were hungry for entertainment. It cannot be overstated how necessary this music was for comforting and healing the traumatized Okinawan populace. Due to regular appearance on the radio, Kadekaru becomes a household name throughout Okinawa. Quits job as a driver to become full-time musician. Learns songs from across the Okinawan archipelago and commits over 1000 songs to memory. “A thousand songs?” exclaimed Kai. Passers-by turned to look, startled by his outburst. Kai bowed his head in apology. “HAIL TO THE EMPEROR!” cried the voice from the loudspeaker, yet again. The black vans were making another round. Kai rolled his eyes and put his away his CD. Time to go home, he thought. 45 Kai returned home to find his mother waiting outside. He could see from her swollen eyes that she had been crying. “Mom, what’s wrong?” asked Kai. “Jiji is gone,” she wept. A sharp pain stabbed at the back of Kai’s throat. “We’ll return home the day after tomorrow for the funeral.” Haruko sniffled and wiped her eyes. “Please clear it with work if you can, OK?” Kai put his arm around her. “Of course, Mom. Of course.” 46 Chapter 2: Ōdo Beach, Okinawa, 2015 Clouds of incense hung in the air of the funeral parlour. Kai looked down at Jiji as he lay in his open casket. He could never have imagined him so motionless. When Kai was little, he got a kick out of watching Jiji sleep—snoring, grunting, tossing, and turning. And now, total stillness. It was more than Kai could bear. His throat grew tight and his eyes heavy with tears. He expected Jiji to jump up and yell, “Surprise!” “Kai,” whispered Haruko, “time to move along, dear.” Jolted from his stupor, Kai peered over his shoulder to see the cue forming behind him. He didn’t know how long he had been gazing at Jiji. “Sorry,” said Kai, bowing to the cue. “That’s OK, Kai,” one responded softly. “That’s OK, boy. You take your time,” said another. They understood. They knew the bond that Kai and Jiji shared. Now dead at age 89, Jiji had lived a good life. With a glass of his favorite awamori rice liquor on the table and his sanshin on the floor beside him, Jiji passed away peacefully. Kai, though, was inconsolable. 47 The next morning, Baba crept quietly toward Kai’s bedroom. “Are you awake, Kai?” she asked softly at his closed door. Kai groaned and rolled in his futon. “I have something to show you when you get up,” she said. Sunlight pierced the space between the blinds and the floor at Kai’s side. He pulled his pillow over his eyes, not yet ready to face the world. Thinking of Jiji, he was unable to fall back asleep. He forced himself up and descended the staircase to find his mother washing the breakfast dishes. “Where’s Baba?” Kai asked. “In the garage tidying up, I think,” replied Haruko. “She said she has something for you. Why don’t you go join her? She’d enjoy the company.” “All right,” Kai mumbled as he dragged himself out the kitchen door to the garage. He found Baba sorting through Jiji’s belongings. “Good morning,” sighed Baba, her voice frail but determined. “Jiji wanted you to have these.” Kai looked down at the collection of items on the bench—a stack of records, Jiji’s sanshin, and the kankara sanshin they’d made together. “I’ll leave them for you to sort through,” said Baba. She returned to the kitchen to give Kai some time alone. Kai remembered his sanshin lessons with Jiji. They played together nearly every day when he was five. Jiji gave him a proper sanshin for his sixth birthday, but after moving to Osaka shortly thereafter, Kai played less and less. He’d make sure to practice before leaving on family trips back to Okinawa, though. He knew Jiji would be looking forward to playing, and Kai didn’t want to disappoint him. In fact, Kai always looked forward to the lessons. He recalled their last one together. “Sorry, Jiji. I’m a little rusty.” 48 Jiji laughed. “That’s OK, boy. It’s not a chore! Playing should always be fun. Otherwise, what’s the point?” The lesson proceeded. “Straighten your back, Kai. Don’t slouch. Remember to sing from your belly, not your throat. Pluck through the string, not on it. Push down, not across.” Jiji would explain the meaning of song lyrics, in turn teaching Kai the Okinawan language. Kai liked the songs, but mostly he just loved playing with Jiji. He beamed with pride whenever Jiji praised him. Kai improved a little more with each visit, but he would eventually stop practicing every time his family returned to Osaka. Kai snapped back from his daydream. He took a deep breath and sighed as he began flipping through the records. Jiji had all the Okinawan minyō legends in his collection. One album stood out for its peculiar artwork. It was Kadekaru Rinshō’s self-titled debut LP, catalog number F-8 on the Marufuku Records label. The date read 1966. He would have been 46, thought Kai. The jacket was black with a ghostly white outline of Kadekaru’s face—eyes closed and mouth open slightly. He appeared to be singing, but he could just as easily have been meditating. Kai pushed the power button on Jiji’s sound system, wondering if it would respond. The VU meters lit up in a warm, yellow glow. Kai put the record on the turntable and dropped the needle. He sat back in Jiji’s big armchair, closed his eyes, and listened. The opening track began with a four-note repeating motif on the sanshin. Kai hummed along: ti-do-sol-fa, ti-do-sol-fa. He had a reasonable grasp of solfège, thanks to the Japanese public education system. Kadekaru’s sanshin attack was harsh but executed with a confidence that dignified this simple introductory motif. Ornamentation was subtle and restrained, complementing the melody perfectly and never detracting from it. The notes were enough—their 49 elegance relied not on the character of the performer. That’s what Mr. Kinjō meant, thought Kai, remembering his words: Kadekaru respected the song. He was merely a vehicle for its delivery. Kadekaru’s voice emerged effortlessly over the humble sanshin intro. That voice, thought Kai. It flows freely from the bottom of his soul. Pure—alive! As Kai continued listening, he drifted into a trance. When the first side of the record came to end, he was roused from sleep by the scratching of the stylus in the runout groove. He stopped the record and ran to get the CD Mr. Kinjō had given him. Returning to the garage, he flipped the record and picked up where he had left off reading in the CD’s liner notes. 1956 Age 36. Establishes folk song research institute in Okinawa. 1958 Age 38. Begins recording earnestly for Marutaka Records and Marufuku Records. 1959 Age 39. Waiting at a bus stop on the way home from a public broadcasting session, overhears elderly ladies talking. Uses bits from their conversation to compose the lyrics for “Jidai no Nagare” (“Changing of the Times”). That was the song Mr. Kinjō played for me, recalled Kai. He continued reading. 1962 Age 42. Participates in the establishment of the Okinawan Folk Song Association. 1963 Age 42. Moves to Iejima Island, Okinawa, to teach sanshin. Lives there for nearly 2 years. 1965 Age 45. “I worked so hard it made me dizzy.” Releases debut album on Marufuku Records. Rises to a level of prominence unrivaled among minyō singers. 1966 Age 46. First recording with Ōshiro Misako at Maruteru Records. Kai wondered, who’s Ōshiro Misako? 1967 Age 47. Becomes regular guest on Ryūkyū Broadcasting Company radio programs. Records for Gomon Records, Okinawa. 1969 Age 49. Begins regular performances at minyō club Nantahama in Koza (present-day Okinawa City). Performs as regular headliner for 26 years. Kai opened his phone to make a list of the many names he was reading. 50 1970 Age 50. Performs at hot spring resort in Ishikawa Prefecture for 1 year as member of an Okinawan performing arts group. Hears of Koza Riot of December 1970, protesting continued presence of U.S. military in Okinawa. Regrets not being there. Riot? thought Kai. He knew Okinawa had its turmoil with the U.S. military, but he’d never heard of any riots. The name Koza seemed to come up often in connection to Okinawan music, though. A quick search revealed that Koza had been the entertainment hub for U.S. soldiers stationed at the nearby Kadena Airforce Base. Its nightlife peaked in the 1970s during the Vietnam War. A further search for “Koza music” led Kai to the homepage of Campus Records, a record shop and music label specializing in Okinawan music since 1971. I’ve got to check this out, he thought. Why not now? Kai sprang to his feet and ran back into the house. “Baba!” Kai called out, “can I borrow your scooter?” “Eh? Sure,” she said. “Why?” “I’m going to Koza!” Baba smiled, wondering where he had learned the word. “Okinawa City? Koza is the old name,” she told him. “It would take a few hours by scooter, Kai,” “I know!” he exclaimed eagerly. “But we just got here yesterday,” said Haruko, implying that Kai was being impolite. “That’s fine,” said Baba. “It’ll do the boy some good.” Haruko nodded. Baba tossed the keys to Kai. “Enjoy yourself!” “And be careful!” added Haruko. “I will!” yelled Kai as he darted out the door, CD in hand. 51 Peace Memorial Park, Okinawa Kai took the long way to Koza, driving up the southeast coast of the island from their home near Ōdo Beach. Minutes in, Kai decided to pull into the Peace Memorial Park, a site that honored the victims of the ninety-day “Typhoon of Steel,” as the Battle of Okinawa came to be known locally. Kai had fonder memories of the place, though. As a child, he would play hide-and-seek with his cousins among the rows of stone monuments, inscribed with 240,000 names of those who had died in the battle, regardless of nation or ethnicity. The children enjoyed guessing the languages of the names: Japanese, English, Korean, or Chinese. Kai walked out to the edge of the cliffs where the Peace Monument was erected. The sunshine glistened on the sea as he looked out from the vantage point. Kai contemplated his surroundings—the serenity of the present and the savagery of the past. Suddenly, he heard a voice. “They say the sea was red with blood.” Kai looked to his side at a man in a purple fedora and lightly tinted glasses that barely hid his eyes. He wore an unbuttoned aloha shirt over a tie-died T-shirt and jeans. “Pardon?” said Kai, not sure if the man was talking to himself. “After the battle, they say the sea was the color of blood. What we are seeing now—completely red,” he explained. “The very cliffs we’re standing on were known as the Suicide Cliffs.” “Suicide Cliffs?” repeated Kai. “That’s right. When the Japanese army finally realized they had lost the war, they convinced many survivors that it would be better to kill themselves than be taken prisoner by the Americans. Some of my ancestors jumped from these very cliffs. I never knew them, but I come 52 now and then to honor them just the same,” he explained. Kai was speechless. “Mitch,” said the man, extending his hand. Kai quickly came to his senses. “Kai,” he said, shaking Mitch’s hand. “Heh, heh. Sorry,” said Mitch. “I got swept up in the moment.” “No problem,” said Kai. “It’s not inappropriate given the circumstances. I mean, where we’re standing and all.” Mitch nodded. The two continued gazing out at the sea in a moment of silence. “And what brings you here?” asked Mitch. “Oh, my family home is close by, and I was just on my way to Koza, err... Okinawa City,” said Kai. “Koza!” said Mitch. “That’s a bit far from here. What’s in Koza?” I’m not really sure, thought Kai. “Nothing much. I just thought it was a nice day for a scooter ride,” he said. “Scooter!” Mitch laughed. “Aren’t you a riot!” Kai turned red. “Tell you what. I’ve been meaning to go up to Koza myself. Why don’t I give you a lift?” “Thanks, that’s kind of you, but I’ve got the scooter and all,” said Kai. “Leave it here!” Mitch insisted. “I’ll bring you back later. Or better yet, you live nearby, right? Just drive it back home and I’ll follow.” “OK, but I was planning to take the long way there,” Kai answered in a final effort to decline the offer. “You know, the scenic route,” he chuckled nervously. Mitch looked out over the top of his sunglasses and smirked at Kai. “Is there any other way?” he said. Kai caved in. “All right. Let’s go!” 53 The two started toward the parking lot. “I have to apologize, though,” said Mitch. “I don’t have air conditioning.” “You have windows though, right?” joked Kai. Mitch didn’t hear him—or perhaps he had. “Woah!” shouted Kai. “Check that out!” Kai pointed to a tiny car with a garden on its roof. A self-contained ecosystem on wheels, it hosted all matter of shrubbery and flowers. “I call it the Jungle Car,” said Mitch, proudly. “As I was saying, I don’t have air conditioning, so I...” “Wait,” Kai interrupted, “this is your car?” Mitch smiled. “Heh, heh. Yeah. My air conditioning broke down one day and I didn’t have the money to replace it. Then I saw a news report on green spaces that people were planting on rooftops in Tokyo to control the heat. So, I thought, why not make a green space on my car?” This guy’s half crazy, thought Kai. I like him! Kai explored the mini jungle while Mitch gave his spiel. “First, I put down some insulation to block the heat and provide a root bed for the plants. Then, I screwed a mesh screen on top of that and planted some seeds.” “And what are these?” asked Kai, pointing to two little trees. “Oh, those. Heh, heh. Those I didn’t plant. They’re two banyan trees who somehow hitched a ride! I call them Gaju and Maru. Gajumaru is Okinawan for banyan. I was parked under the shade of a large tree one day, and I think the seeds must have fallen on the roof. When I found them growing, I was just as surprised as you are.” Somehow, I doubt it, thought Kai. “Jump in!” said Mitch, clearing the passenger’s seat. 54 Having dropped off Baba’s scooter, Kai and Mitch were en route to Koza within the half hour. Baba and Haruko were delighted with the Jungle Car and Mitch’s good nature. They were even happier that Kai made a new friend. An uchinanchu no less—a real Okinawan. As they cruised in the Jungle Car, Mitch played tour guide, pointing out sights to Kai along the way. “So, how about you?” said Kai to Mitch. “You said you’d been meaning to go to Koza?” “Yeah, some of my CDs have sold, so I’ve been meaning to pick up the money,” replied Mitch. “CDs?” said Kai. “Are you a musician?” “Heh, heh. No,” said Mitch. “I produced a CD some years ago and I sell them on commission at Campus Records,” he explained. “Campus Records?” exclaimed Kai. “That’s where I was planning on going!” “Well, it’s your lucky day!” said Mitch. “Hang on.” One hand on the wheel and one reaching behind the passenger’s seat, Mitch fumbled around to retrieve a small box of CDs. He placed it on Kai’s lap. Kai’s eyes widened in disbelief. The spines of the CDs read Kadekaru Rinshō: Whereabouts of the Okinawan Spirit. He looked at Mitch, then back down at the box, and then back again at Mitch. “Kadekaru Rinshō?” said Kai. “Seriously? You produced a CD of Kadekaru Rinshō?” “Heh, heh. Yeah. Why? You like him?” asked Mitch. “Well, it’s a long story.” Kai talked about Jiji and his records, his conversation with Mr. Kinjō, and his growing fascination with Kadekaru Rinshō. As he told his story, Kai noticed people on the streets looking at him and smiling. Such friendly people, he thought. 55 “What a coincidence,” said Mitch. “Serendipity, even. Hang on a second,” he said, pulling up beside a reservoir, “I’ve got to water the car.” Kai watched, puzzled, as Mitch got out of the car. Mitch opened the hatch and pulled out two 4-liter plastic bottles. Kai got out to stretch his legs. As he stood up, something scratched the back of his neck. Kai spun around to see a branch from the Jungle Car swaying in the breeze. Kai sighed in relief. Oh, right. So THAT’S why everyone was looking. After riding in the car for some time, he’d forgotten about the jungle just above his head. Kai recalled a story he’d read once about the 19th-century novelist Guy du Maupassant, who so detested the Eiffel Tower that he ate lunch under it every day as it was the only location from which he could not see it. Mitch filled his bottles and doused the parched jungle. “Hungry?” he said to Kai. “I know a cheap soba place. It’s not the best, but it’s cheap.” “That’ll be fine,” said Kai. “I’m so hungry I could graze on your roof.” Koza (Okinawa City), Okinawa Mitch ordered two soki-sobas, wheat noodles in clear pork broth with chunks of spareribs and konbu seaweed. “Anything to drink?” he asked. “I’ll take a root beer,” said Kai. “Heh, heh,” chuckled Mitch. “We could’ve gone to A&W if you wanted.” Kai blushed. He did enjoy his root beer and onion rings from A&W, an American import exclusive to Okinawa from the days of U.S. administration. Just then, Kai noticed a group of rosy-cheeked boys with crew cuts sitting at the counter—American soldiers from the nearby Kadena Airbase. They couldn’t have been more than nineteen years old. “That was delicious,” said one of the 56 boys as he passed his tray to the server. “Thank you,” said the others in turn, practicing their bows. Kai was impressed with their manners. They’re not so bad, he thought. Heck, they’re just kids. From their earlier conversation, Kai surmised that Mitch had little experience in the music business. “How is it that you came to produce an album of Kadekaru Rinshō?” he asked. “Well, I’m a huge fan of Kondō Toshinori,” said Mitch. He could tell Kai didn’t know the name. “He’s a jazz trumpeter, but he attaches mics to different points on the trumpet and runs the sound through all kinds of effects.” “Cool,” said Kai. “So cool,” Mitch agreed. “He had a performance series called Blow the Earth. He would visit sacred spots around the world, set up his rig, and blow. It was his way of revering nature and the spiritual realm. I had an idea for him to perform at a sacred location in Okinawa and pitched it to him. Kondō said he would do it, but on one condition: that he could perform with Kadekaru Rinshō. This would also help to draw a bigger crowd, we thought, as Kondō wasn’t well known in Okinawa. So, I reached out to various people and made it happen. Okinawa is small, after all,” said Mitch. “Long story short, this CD is the result of that live performance.” “That’s amazing,” said Kai. “Well, there’s a lot more to the story,” said Mitch, slurping his last noodle, “but we’d better get to Campus Records soon while Bisekatsu is still there. He’s usually there in the mornings.” “Bise...katsu?” asked Kai? 57 Kai and Mitch arrived at Campus Records, an unassuming little store packed wall to wall with CDs and merchandise. Kai’s face lit up. All these CDs, he thought. All Okinawan music! Kai made a beeline to the “K” section and began pulling Kadekaru CDs off the shelf until he had too many to hold. He set them down on a table and resumed combing the shelves. Kai brought up his list of names on his phone. Ōshiro Misako. There you are. He grabbed a few at random. Next. Noborikawa Seijin. N, N, N, he muttered, running his fingers across the stacks. He chose a few Noborikawa CDs based solely on the album art. Just then, Kai noticed an alcove of bookshelves. One book stood out among the rest. Its cover showed a long, wooden dock extending outward into the turquoise Okinawan sea. A sanshin sat smack dab in the middle. The title read, The Power of Okinawa: Roots Music from the Ryūkyūs, by John Potter. Kai flipped through its pages and stopped on the chapter titled Recommended Albums. Good timing, he thought. Using the book as a guide, Kai pared down his haul and proceeded to the register. Mitch, who had been chatting with the woman behind the counter, looked at Kai and laughed. Kai fumbled with his stack of treasures. “What?” he said. “You don’t see these anywhere else!” “That’s true,” said Mitch. Indeed, Campus Records had the best selection. The door chimed and an elderly man entered the store. He started going through Kai’s stack of CDs and books by the register. “What are all these doing out?” he said. “Father!” said the woman. “Those are the customer’s items,” she said, gesturing politely toward Kai. “All of them?” he exclaimed. “Pardon me,” he said to Kai. “Kai, this is Bisekatsu, owner of Campus Records,” said Mitch. “And this is his daughter, Makiko.” Kai greeted them both. 58 “Nice selection,” said Bidekatsu. “Kadekaru, eh?” Bisekatsu pointed to chair in the corner. “That’s Kadekaru’s corner over there,” he said. “He used to come in here every day and just sit in that chair, waiting for me to give him some money for pachinko. How that man loved his pachinko! He never asked outright for money. He just came in and sat in that chair. When he sat, you knew what he wanted. If he returned in a few hours, you knew why he was back. I’d give him a few thousand yen at a time.” Kai found it that odd a famous musician like Kadekaru would need money for pachinko, but he didn’t ask. “I’ve been reading about music in Okinawa,” said Kai. “It seems Koza is a real cultural hub of Okinawa. A lot of music came from here. What’s special about this area?” Kai asked. “Frankly, it has a lot to do with the war,” Bisekatsu explained. He sat down at the table, gesturing for his guests to do the same. “It took about five years, until about 1950, to even start rebuilding. The only employment was at the base, and there was nothing to work for other than food and shelter. Culture, music—these were non-existent. But people needed some relief, so they brought music back. They made sanshins out of cans—especially those big coffee cans left over by the U.S. army. Some people had hidden sanshins in caves or tombs to spare them from destruction during battle. And driver’s licenses were rare in Okinawa, so those who had them could get work easily as drivers. Mainly they hauled goods from the beach to the base. They’d also unload items on the way to sell in the black market—spoils of war, I guess you could say. “Kadekaru was a driver. He also worked in the kitchen at the base, and that is one of the best jobs because you could get free food and whiskey. The minyō singer Kohama Shuei also worked in the kitchens. He and Kadekaru used to drink and play music after work. The singer Noborikawa Seijin, too. He was also in Koza at that time. From then on, Koza became a Mecca of minyō. But it wasn’t just musicians. All kinds of people were coming from all over the place. 59 The population was 5 or 6,000 thousand at that time, but quickly grew to 30,000. All this is to say, that’s the origin of Koza. That’s also why you have this great mixture of people from the outer islands, Miyako Island, Yaeyama Island, Amami Island, and so on, all bringing their distinct cultures and musical traditions to Koza. That’s probably where Kadekaru learned so many different songs from different places around Okinawa. That was uncommon—to know such a wide range of songs,” explained Bisekatsu. “When did you first meet him?” Kai asked. “Well, I don’t recall exactly,” answered Bisekatsu, “but I sure remember the first time I heard him. I was in grade two of junior high school at the time, hanging out in the market on a hot day in July. It was a lively atmosphere. Suddenly, I heard a voice and sanshin from the outdoor speakers. I was so awestruck that I listened for two hours straight. As it turned out, it was Kadekaru. I wasn’t particularly interested in minyō then, but Kadekaru had this power to draw people in, whether they liked minyō or not. In those two hours, he never sang the same lyrics twice. He was always doing that. He would sing a song one way at one time, but the next time, he would change the lyrics entirely.” “I’ve heard that about the old minyō singers,” Mitch interjected, “that they improvised a lot. There was a lot more freedom in their playing.” “That’s right,” said Bisekatsu. “You see, Kadekaru was one of the originators—from the first generation of minyō. Noborikawa Seijin said he was ‘the last minyō singer.’ What he meant is that Kadekaru was from that generation that improvised, played freely. That is the essence of minyō. His generation was also the first to record, and even if they improvised in the studio, what they recorded subsequently became canon, and this canon was further cemented into sanshin notation. The following generations just repeated those forms as custom, but that’s not what the 60 music was like originally. It was much freer. This comes out of the tradition of mōashibi, you see. When you were entertaining people in the fields all night, you would play much more freely. And sometimes you would just make things up to fill the time.” “Anyway, after that first experience of hearing Kadekaru,” Bisekatsu continued, “I remember thinking, this man is no mere mortal! After that, he remained firmly in my memory. Then, years later when I started working for Marufuku Records, I got to know him personally.” “So, you were friends?” asked Kai. “Not friends, as such,” replied Bisekatsu. “He was 20 years my senior. I always saw him as a brother and looked out for him as such. He used to take me with him here and there back in my single days,” he laughed. “What was he like?” asked Kai. “He was a fun, or, fun-loving person, I guess you could say. He was always joking and pulling pranks on people. On the other hand, he had a more serious side to him, too. Except when it came to finances,” he chuckled. “Anyway, he was a really fun guy. I could go on all day about him.” “Please do!” said Kai. “I suppose I have a story or two,” said Bisekatsu. “There was this one time, he was asked to sing a song on TV. Usually you do a rehearsal, and then perform, right? But Kadekaru, he came in, played his one song, and went home. The way he saw it, he’d fulfilled his contract to perform, one song, after all. Well, the producer was furious! He scolded the director, ‘It’s your fault for asking him to play only one song! With Kadekaru, you need to explain clearly that there will be a rehearsal and then the actual performance!’” Bisekatsu laughed. “I suppose he was kind of childish that way. 61 “He had some strange habits, too,” Bisekatsu continued. “He used to pick fights with American servicemen. He’d be walking along the street, drunk, and he’d go right up to the biggest soldier and get up in his face. I used to think, what the hell? Once he got his teeth knocked out and then showed up to a live radio broadcast the next day to perform. They asked him, ‘How are you going to sing like that?’ But he just laughed it off. ‘No problem,’ he said, ‘I sing with my mouth, not my teeth.’” “It sounds like he was suffering from some kind of trauma. Possibly from the war?” asked Kai. “I mean, a lot happened overseas. I’d read he was taken prisoner and almost died.” “Right, right,” said Bisekatsu. “I sometimes wonder if that’s the sadness I hear in his voice,” said Kai. Bisekatsu sighed. “Only he could tell you. I think it can be said, though, that he found solace in music. There’s a story about him with Fukuhara Chōki, the founder of Marufuku records. Kadekaru was just staring at his sanshin and thinking. He turned to Fukuhara and asked, ‘What would have happened to me? Without this sanshin, what would have become of me?’ Or so the story goes. Here’s what I think: he was able to live because of that sanshin.” Kai remembered Jiji and the joy that his sanshin brought him, too. Maybe Jiji, he thought was also captivated by Kadekaru’s voice, the way he and Bisekatsu were the first time they’d heard it. Kai looked around the shop at walls of CDs and posters. “Is minyō still popular?” Kai asked. “You’ve got a lot of it here.” “You’d be surprised,” said Bisekatsu. “The number of people in their 40s and 50s who listen to minyō has increased—even people thirty and younger. On the other hand, people in their 70s and 80s don’t listen to it as much. When they were young, they were encouraged to become 62 more Japanese by turning their backs on Okinawan culture and language. Have you ever heard of the dialect cards used at school?” he asked. Kai shook his head. “Before the war, and during,” Bisekatsu explained, “Okinawan children were not allowed to use their native tongue in school. They were expected to speak standard Japanese. If they slipped up and spoke dialect, they’d be forced to wear a wooden plaque on a string around their neck with the word ‘dialect’ written on it. It was a way of shaming them. Even worse, but rooted in the same ideology, is how the Japanese military sometimes shot Okinawans for speaking in dialect, fearing they might be spies.” “Seriously?” said Kai. “Yes. At that time, the use of dialect was banned altogether. Musical recordings in war time had to pass the military censors. If it contained dialect, it would not pass. That’s why some early recordings of Okinawan songs are sung in Japanese. For these reasons, minyō had completely disappeared from Okinawa. That’s why it’s not so popular among the elderly now. Kadekaru said that when he was a soldier, his superiors beat him often for using dialect. ‘How do you expect to win a war when you attack your enemies and your allies,’ he once said.” “Could he speak Japanese?” asked Kai. “All of his recordings are in Okinawan.” “He was a master of the Japanese language,” said Bisekatsu. “So, was his use of dialect a way of sticking it to the power structure?” Kai asked. “I don’t think so,” said Bisekatsu. “The ban on dialect was over by then. Kadekaru and his peers, they were just making the music of their time. After the war, of course, it was okay to perform minyō out in the open. Only then did it become popular. There were few people born 63 before the war, though, who sang minyō—especially men. Most minyō singers were born after the war.” “So, people like Kadekaru were rare?” asked Kai. Bisekatsu nodded. “There really was no one like him, and there never will be. Minyō is about individual expression. You can’t get that from reading sheet music. Today’s minyō artists play properly, but Kadekaru was from the tradition of mōashibi and played with a rough attack. You had to play loud for your sound to carry outside, after all. He played naturally, like the sanshin was an extension of his body. And he hardly opened his mouth when he sang, so it sounded like he was mumbling. You couldn’t catch all the lyrics. That style of singing wasn’t popular back then. When blues and soul came along, then it became fashionable to sing that way. Only then did Kadekaru receive public approval. Some people even called his music Okinawan blues. He sang in falsetto sometimes, too. No one else did that. If a singer does it these days, it’s calculated. I think Kadekaru sang that way because he liked to play and sing while drinking in small bars and he didn’t want to disturb anyone. I think that’s why.” Bisekatsu glanced at his watch and shuffled in his chair. “Anyway, I’d better get back to work,” he said. “Please come again.” “Thank you,” said Kai. “I mean, nifēdēbiru,” he added, trying out his Okinawan. Bisekatsu and Mitch laughed approvingly. “Guburī sabitan,” replied Bisekatsu. Kai and Mitsuji made their way back south, this time taking a different route. Kai was growing used to people pointing and smiling at the Jungle Car. In fact, he enjoyed the attention. He felt he was part of something special. 64 “What an awesome day,” said Kai, “thanks!” “Heh, heh. My pleasure,” said Mitch. He and Kai exchanged numbers and said their goodbyes. “Oh,” said Mitch, extending his hand out the window. “A little gift.” It was one of his Kadekaru CDs. “Oh, thanks, but I already bought one at Campus Records.” He dug into his shopping bag to pull it out and show him. “Heh, heh,” laughed Mitch. “No, you didn’t.” Kai rummaged through his bag and looked up suddenly at Mitch, puzzled. “I had her take it out of your pile,” said Mitch. Kai felt a pang his throat. “Nifēdēbiru,” he said. “Heh, heh. Guburī sabitan,” said Mitch as he waved and sped away. 65 Chapter 3: Naha City, Okinawa, 23 June 2015 “America! Japan! Hear our voices!” cried the young woman on the stage. “Hear our voices!” hollered the crowd. “Prime Minister! Keep your promises!” she cried again. “Keep your promises!” shouted the crowd. “Since the return of Okinawa to Japanese rule in 1972, the government has been promising to reduce the burden of hosting U.S. bases. Forty-three years later, the Prime Minister comes to Okinawa today, and—on this day of all days, Memorial Day, when we honor the victims of the Battle of Okinawa—he utters the same lie. He said, and I quote, ‘We will do our utmost to reduce the burden of hosting U.S. military bases.’” “Unbelievable!” screamed a man from the crowd. “Meanwhile,” she continued, “right at this very moment, as I stand here speaking for you, construction continues on the new military base at Henoko!” “Shameful!” yelled another. “Prime Minister!” she screamed, “Stop lying to the Okinawan people!” “Stop lying!” echoed the crowd, breaking into thunderous applause. 66 Kai and Mitch sat on the grass and held pamphlets over their heads to hide from the blazing sun. “How many people do you think are here?” asked Kai. “Must be a few thousand at least,” said Mitch. The protest had been organized in haste following the rape and murder of another local by a U.S. serviceman. It was the most gruesome incident since the 1995 abduction, rape, and murder of a twelve-year-old girl by three U.S. servicemen. The U.S. Navy Admiral in charge at the time responded, “I think that was absolutely stupid. For the price they paid to rent the car, they could have had a girl.” As the protest ended, the black vans predictably appeared. “HAIL TO THE EMPEROR!” they shouted from the shelter of their paramilitary vehicles. They sure pick their moments, thought Kai. The crowd looked on—silent, angry, but seemingly unsurprised. “I can’t understand it,” said Kai. “I can see this kind of movement happening in Osaka or Tokyo, but...here? In Okinawa? These fascists are Okinawan people, right? Don’t they know their history? It just doesn’t make sense.” “They are Okinawan, and they do know their history,” explained Mitch, “but they do it for money.” “For money?” repeated Kai. Mitch peered out over his glasses, “They get money from the same right-wing groups that run the country,” he said. “But why do the people stand for it?” asked Kai. “There are thousands of people here. Why are they not turning these vans over and setting them on fire?” “Because that’s exactly what they want,” said Mitch. “That is their very purpose—to fuel outrage and dissent.” 67 Kai stared at the ground, perplexed. Returning to his senses, he nodded. “I see,” he said. He did. “Come on, let’s go,” said Mitch. Even in the vast stadium parking lot, it took no time to spot Mitch’s car. “Who was the woman speaking earlier?” asked Kai. “She’s from the Himeyuri Museum,” said Mitch. “The what museum?” Mitch was about to start the car but paused. He looked at Kai in disbelief. “You’ve never heard of the Himeyuri Museum? It’s right by your place!” Kai shrugged. “What?” he laughed. “My parents always took us to the aquarium and the tropical fruit parks.” “You’ve been a tourist in your own home!” joked Mitch. “Sad, but true,” Kai agreed. “Well, your parents took you to fun places when you were a kid. Nothing wrong with that.” Mitch fired up the engine. “Why don’t we go now?” he said. Kai turned his head toward the long line of cars blocking their exit. “Well, what are you waiting for?” he said. Himeyuri Peace Museum and Monument Mitch and Kai pulled into a parking lot near the Himeyuri Monument and Museum, a half-hour ride from the protest in Naha. Souvenir shops lined the road on both sides. A stone monument sat below an overhanging acacia tree in the gardens outside the museum. Kai looked down at a hole 68 in the ground before his feet, just big enough for a person to crawl in and out of the cave that lay within. Kai read the sign. Monument Dedicated to the Himeyuri Student Corps This cenotaph marks the site of the Ihara Third Surgical Cave, where girls from the Himeyuri Student Corps died during the Battle of Okinawa. Third surgical unit, thought Kai. The cave was used as a field hospital. He continued reading. The front entrance of the museum is lined with acacia trees to make it look like the approach to the campus gate of Himeyuri, the Female Division of Okinawa Normal School and Okinawa First Girls’ High School. “You know,” Mitch whispered to Kai, “about 30 years ago, the Crown Prince came here to lay a wreath. Two men hid in this cave for seven days until his visit. When the future emperor finally arrived, they jumped out and threw a Molotov cocktail and firecrackers at him. Crown Prince, go home! they yelled. They managed to fend off the police for a while with nunchuks but were eventually seized.” “No way!” said Kai. “Was he OK?” “Well, he’s the emperor today,” said Mitch. “Come on, let’s go in.” Inside the museum doors, Kai stopped to look at a class photo of the schoolgirls, their bright smiles a reflection of their future potential. They couldn’t have known the horror that lay ahead. I know this photo, thought Kai, as he flashed back his junior high school history book. Himeyuri. I knew the name sounded familiar! Kai read the panel on the wall. In April 1945, as the Battle of Okinawa drew to a close, 222 female students, aged 15 to 19, and 18 teachers were dispatched to the battlefield to assist in the war effort, mainly working as nurses in the Army Field Hospital in what is now Haebaru Town. 136 of them died. They came to be called the Lily or Himeyuri Student Corps. 69 Kai proceeded through the dark museum, impressed with its multimedia displays, model caves, and coastal environment simulations. Reaching the end of the exhibits, Kai turned a corner and entered a gallery—Exhibit Chamber 4: Requiem. Long rows of podiums displayed oversized books filled with Himeyuri survivors’ testimonies. The room was dim, lit only by reading lights suspended over each book. Kai found Mitch flipping through one of the books. “I try to read a few pages every time I come,” said Mitch. Kai moved to an open book and started to read. ITOKAZU DETACHMENT CAVE PACKED WITH THE SERIOUSLY WOUNDED Yabiku Toshiko (now Shimabukuro Toshiko) Then 17 and a junior, Preparatory Course, Women’s Normal School It was May 1st when 15 of us were taken by our teacher to the Itokazu Detachment cave. There were only about twenty medical personnel, including us, taking care of some seven hundred patients. The cave was always filled with an unbearable stench, so it was almost impossible to nurse the wounded. I can still hear the cries and shrieks of those soldiers in the throes of death during surgical operations. It was hell itself. We didn’t have enough anesthetic, so doctors administered just enough to ease their patients’ tension. One patient begged desperately, “That’s enough! Doctor, kill me! Just kill me now!” “Shut up! You can’t put up with this much pain? You’re a Japanese soldier, aren’t you?” the surgeon shouted at him. By mid-May, you could tell the condition of the patients had gotten really bad. All of them were smeared with pus, and lice crawled all over their bodies. The number of brain-fever and tetanus patients rapidly increased. Completely deranged, brain-fever patients were really terrible. They’d suddenly stand up and start walking, trampling seriously wounded soldiers lying in the cave. “Take this madman somewhere else!” panicked soldiers would shout. Medical corpsmen would rush to the scene and take him further into the cave. “Where are you taking him?” somebody would ask, but the corpsmen never replied. Tetanus patients developed cramps in their legs and arms, finally getting lockjaw. When they reached that point, they could no longer even eat the cream of rice gruel. Such patients were taken to a narrow isolation ward enclosed by wooden shutters. They kept their eyes wide open and just stared at us as if to implore us to get them out of there. 70 Starved almost to death, soldiers shouted and screamed for something to eat. “You had that sergeant’s arm or leg! Cook it, broil it!” Of course, they were talking about amputated arms and legs. Horrible even to imagine. But that’s war. Kai’s heart raced as he flipped the page. EXECUTED AS A SPY Ginoza Hiroko (now Shinzato Hiroko) Then 16 and in her fourth year, First Prefectural Girls’ High School It was around midnight. There were many people, civilians, and soldiers hiding in the pandanus grove, but nobody made any sound. All of a sudden, I heard a young woman screaming, “Father, Father!” I asked a soldier next to me what was going on. He told me that a soldier had overheard the woman’s father talking about the deployment of Japanese troops, so the soldier had arrested him as a spy and was taking him away for execution on charges of leaking classified military information. “Never talk about the military. Absolutely not!” the two of us whispered to each other. Indeed, it was a terribly frightening time for us. The two weeks we spent in that cave at Kyan Point seemed terribly long and were filled with many painful experiences. At night the only sound we heard was the monotonous lapping of the waves, and that nearly drove me out of my mind. I was also so lonely that the only hope I had was seeing my family before I died. About that time, there was a seriously wounded soldier who’d somehow managed to get to Kyan. “I’m wounded like this and can’t even walk anymore and I can’t go out to look for food. I want to die, but I don’t have the guts to kill myself, so please kill me,” he said to his fellow soldiers. I later heard that one of the soldiers had shot him in the temple and put him to rest. Days later, winds carried the sickening odor of rotting flesh to us. That soldier’s body was rotting out there, I thought, and this made me feel miserable. There were countless corpses lying around at Kyan Point, and Americans were burning them with flamethrowers. Flamethrowers, said Kai under his breath. His memory flashed to the charred caves at the beach near his family home, an image that had impressed itself irremovably upon his 5-year-old mind. He flipped the page. ARAAKI BEACH, THE END OF THE WORLD Kaneshiro Kikuko (now Miyagi Kikuko) Then 16 and in her first year, First Prefectural Girls’ High School 71 We continued to flee along the shore of Kyan Point, wading across jagged coral reefs when the tide was low and clinging to the walls of wave-eroded recesses at the base of the cliff, like crabs when the tide was high. Below, waves were pounding the cliff, and spray whirled around us. I was scared to death. Totally exhausted in mind and body, we were talking about committing suicide. Third-year students were especially impatient. “Taira-sensei, let’s die before it’s too late!” some demanded. Taira-sensei looked quite disturbed because he, as our teacher, had the responsibility to protect our lives and was determined to do so. I had a hand grenade he had given me. “It’s all over. So, let’s sing a song,” someone said. We started singing our favorite song, “Furusato,” all of us looking toward the sea. Our voices were hoarse, so we could hardly sing. As we sang, our singing turned into sobbing. “I want to see my mother!” said one girl in tears. “I wish I could walk freely again under the blue skies with no bombs dropping!” Upon hearing that, everybody started crying loudly. It was too sad to accept that we had to die after being cornered in such a wretched place. Kai took a deep breath. Just one more, he thought, and flipped the page. “DON’T TAKE OFF MY CLOTHES!” Yabiku Toshiko (now Shimabukuro Toshiko) Then 17 and in her third year, Preparatory Course, Women’s Normal School “I'm not afraid of dying. Kill me now, please! You may kill me,” I said, bringing the muzzle of the rifle to my chest. “No! No!” the American soldier said. He was trying to tell me something with his gestures. Then he started to cut my uniform with his scissors. “Why do you take my clothes off? I’m telling you to kill me! You can’t kill me, so you’re trying to put me to shame!” I shouted at the top of my voice. But the American soldier, standing beside me and watching me like I was mad, was just smiling. I tried to bite him again. “Oh, no, no,” he said and started cutting one of my trouser legs lengthwise from the bottom up to the thigh, where I had a gash. Then he turned his scissors crosswise and cut off the pant leg, making it look like a pair of shorts. He poured disinfectant onto the maggot-infested wound and out came many wriggling worms. After treating the wound, he took a stick of chewing gum from his pocket and offered it to me. I refused to take it. He then showed me a canteen and drank water from it. If they were going to kill me anyway, I might as well drink the water and die, I thought, so I drank from his canteen. 72 Kai exited the gallery and found Mitch waiting in the lobby. They gave each other a look that conveyed the weight of emotion they were feeling and left the Himeyuri Museum in silence. Ōdo Beach, Okinawa That night, Kai couldn’t sleep. Each time he drifted off, he was jolted awake by some haunting memory from the museum: the putrid smell of rotting flesh, the horrid image of maggot-infested wounds, or the tormented voices of girls crying, “Let’s die before it’s too late!” He rolled off his futon and went out to the garage, hoping the cool evening air might relax him. He sat in Jiji’s armchair and took a deep breath. And another. He felt his heartbeat slowing down. Jiji’s sanshin lay before him and Kai reached to pick it up. He smiled as he remembered happier times of sanshin lessons with Jiji. “Ai, shi, ko,” he sang, plucking the corresponding strings from low to high, and then again in reverse, “ko, shi, ai.” Over and over again, “Ai, shi, ko. Ko, shi, ai,” he played, this time singing along, as Jiji had instructed. Kai could almost hear Jiji’s voice. Sing from your belly. Close your mouth a bit and narrow your vocal cavity. Imagine you are sending the sound out in a straight line to the other side of the room. Listen while you sing. Is your voice matching the sanshin? Kai laughed and put the sanshin down on his lap. He glanced at the clock and realized forty minutes had passed without a single, sad thought. He felt settled, at least for now. The power of music, he thought. Kai let out a yawn and returned to his room to sleep. The morning sunlight pierced again through the gap near the floor where Kai lay. Indignant at being awoken, Kai threw his blanket at the blinds, blocking the light and returning the room to 73 its comfortable darkness. Waking up was too great an effort to make just yet. Each morning, Kai slept in a little longer. It was not that he felt sleepy, but if he closed his eyes long enough, he might fall asleep again and avoid facing the day a little longer. Only his sanshin could help him make the transition from sleep to waking life, and it was the only reason he had for getting up. Kai had felt this way since visiting the Himeyuri Museum. He was outraged at the suffering of his ancestors—at how such a hell could have existed in this paradise of Okinawa. His grief drove him to play the sanshin for hours on end, every morning and night. Kai managed to recall most of the songs Jiji had taught him with the help of some notes he found in the pocket of Jiji’s sanshin case. Feeling restless one evening, Kai marched toward the door. Enough! he thought. He hadn’t even noticed Haruko sitting at the table on his way out. Kai slipped on his sandals hurriedly and slammed the door behind him. A few steps down the driveway, he heard his mother calling him. “Where are you going, Kai?” She sounded worried. “Just going for a walk.” “Can I come with you?” “Sure, if you want.” Kai chuckled. “To the beach?” “Where else?” Kai and his mother walked down to the beach and sat looking out at the sea. Fishermen cast nets from their boats and children collected shells along the shore. Kai had something on his mind, but he couldn’t find the right words. Just say it. “Mom, I’ve been thinking, I don’t want to go back to Osaka.” 74 “I see. Why not?” she asked. Kai thought she would be more surprised. “Oh, I don’t know,” he said. “I’ve lived there most of my life, but I’ve never really felt like I fully belong there. You know what I mean?” “I do,” she said. “And yet,” Kai added, “I feel at home here, but I also feel like a tourist. I don’t even know my own roots.” “What about your job?” she asked. “I’ve been thinking about that,” said Kai. “And?” “And,” he replied, “I don’t want to be the man from Okinawa anymore.” “Here you can just be the man,” she joked. When their laughter subsided, Kai and his mother gazed in silence at the ocean sunset. “Kai, this comes as good news for everyone,” said Haruko. “The truth is, your father and I have been talking about moving back home to Okinawa.” “Really?” he exclaimed. “We’ve been meaning to discuss it with you,” she said. Baba’s getting old and she needs our help. And honestly, with your dad retiring soon, there’s no need for us to continue living in Osaka. We thought it might be best for all of us to move back home.” “That’s great!” said Kai. Haruko smiled. “Well, let’s go home and tell everyone the good news,” she said as she got up and brushed the sand off her clothes. “Mom?” said Kai, looking up at her. “Yes, dear?” 75 “Thank you, Mom.” said Kai, with a sincerity that took her aback. “For what?” she laughed, blushing. Kai just smiled in return, and they began their walk back to the house. “Hey, Mom,” said Kai, nudging over his shoulder. The caves, thought Haruko. “The caves,” said Kai. “Jiji said he would tell me about them, but he never did.” “Well,” she started to explain. “It’s OK, Mom,” Kai interrupted. “I know.” “What do you know?” she asked. “I assume people hid out in those caves,” he said, “and that they also died in them. American soldiers used flamethrowers to clear them out, scorching the rock.” Haruko sighed. “There’s more to it, though,” she said. “Come on.” They walked toward the caves until Kai froze suddenly. He’d sometimes gone near them during his childhood trips home to Okinawa, but Jiji’s warning had spooked him enough to keep a safe distance. Kai snapped out of his daze and caught up with Haruko. Her fearlessness amazed him. Kai and his mother stood side by side at the mouth of the cave. Water dripped from its roof and a dank smell wafted from within. Haruko sensed Kai’s apprehension. “It’s OK,” she said with a reassuring grin. “Let’s go in.” “Are there habu in there?” he quavered. Kai had developed a phobia of the snake from the constant warnings he’d received in school. “Probably,” she joked. Kai gasped. “Not funny, Mom!” he said. Haruko giggled. 76 Drawing closer, Kai saw a smooth, white object on the ground before him, the same one he’d seen twenty years ago when he first entered the cave. His heart raced. Relax, he thought. His eyes adjusted to the darkness and Kai made out the shape of a small stone monument with an inscription, now illegible from years of weathering. Fresh flowers lay at its base. “What is it, Mom?” he asked. “It’s a shrine,” she answered. “It’s the reason we used to come down here every spring.” Since moving to Osaka, Kai’s family only returned to Okinawa during the summer or winter holidays. He hadn’t partaken in the ritual since he was five. “For whom?” he asked. “For our relatives,” said Haruko, “and others from the area who hid out in these caves. Your great aunt died here. Her mother, too. She had two older brothers as well, but they were over fifteen and deemed old enough to fight. We assume they died, as their bodies were never found. We like to think maybe they ran back here to be with family in the end, but who really knows.” “That’s so sad,” lamented Kai, “but not as terrifying as I’d imagined. The way Baba and Jiji would talk about it, I used the think there were ghosts in here.” “It’s a quiet, place, Kai,” said Haruko answered, “not a place for children to play. Also, you know Baba is a yuta. People like her see things—well, sense things—that you and I can’t. So, who knows what kind of relationship she has with this place? She didn’t allow me to play here either when I was a kid.” “How does one become a yuta?” asked Kai. “You should ask Baba about it. But from what I understand, becoming a yuta starts when a young woman first realizes that she has a special ability—spiritual knowledge or psychic 77 powers, that kind of thing. Then, if she wishes, she may choose a vocation as a spirit medium or a performer of rituals. Your great grandmother was a yuta as well. It runs in the family.” Kai gave Haruko a peculiar look. “I don’t think so,” laughed Haruko. “Not me.” “How do you know?” “Well, for one, I can go in the caves. Baba won’t go anywhere near them. She says there are spirits in there and, if she goes in, she’s afraid they’ll ask things of her that she cannot provide. She doesn’t want to upset them.” “Wow, I had no idea.” “I do have one psychic power, though,” said Haruko, grinning. “Oh? What’s that?” Kai asked. “I know when you’re hungry,” she said. “Let’s go home.” Mitch pulled up to the house the following morning. The banyan trees on the roof of the Jungle Car swayed wildly from side to side, hanging on for dear life. “Kai!” called Haruko, “Mitch is here, and he’s brought the forest with him!” Haruko and Baba howled in amusement. Mitch parked and got out of the car. “You were on the news again last night!” yelled Baba. Mitch laughed. “Apparently it was on the news in Italy, too! Not sure how it got that far.” “What adventures do you two have planned for today?” said Haruko. “Sēfā Utaki,” said Mitch. Kai had never visited this sacred site, and Mitch thought it would do his spirits good. 78 “Oh, I haven’t been in a while,” said Baba. “I ought to pay my respects. Have you got a hammock up in those trees I could ride in?” “Morning!” said Kai as he stepped out onto the verandah, munching on a cold pancake. “Morning,” said Mitch. “All set?” Kai nodded and jumped in the car. Baba and Haruko waved them off. “So, let me guess,” said Mitch. “You’ve never been to Sēfā Utaki?” “No,” said Kai. “And don’t start with the tourist-in-my-own-home comments,” he laughed. “Well, you know what utaki are, right?” asked Mitch. “Yeah, kind of,” Kai replied. “Like, sacred spots?” “That’s right. Usually like a cave, a spring, or a grove. You know, unusual natural phenomenon. Many of them, people aren’t even allowed to enter. Only a yuta like your Baba can,” Mitch explained. “Sēfā Utaki used to be like that. In the days of the Okinawan Kingdom, only the royal family could enter. Now it’s open to anyone. Although, in fact, they are talking about going back to the old practice of allowing only females.” “We’d better hurry then,” said Kai. Sēfā Utaki, Okinawa Having parked and watered the car, Kai and Mitch walked the road toward Sēfā Utaki. The sun scorched them relentlessly. Parched, they stopped at a roadside vendor for a shīkwāsā slushy—a brain-freezing blend of ice, Okinawan shīkwāsā lime, and cane sugar. They sat in the shade of the vendor’s tent and sipped their beverages. 79 “The royal family and its attendants made pilgrimages here every year. They walked all the way from Shuri Castle in Naha, likely up this very path,” said Mitch, pointing at the dusty gravel road, now lined with vendors. “I thought it would be an ideal location for the Kadekaru-Kondō joint concert, you know, the one on the CD. I approached the staff here with my idea.” “What did they say?” They said neither yes nor no, and that was that. But that’s when I got an idea.” “What idea?” “Come on,” said Mitch, “I’ll show you.” The two downed the remaining chunks of their shīkwāsā slushies and entered the grounds of the sacred site. Mitch bought tickets and led Kai into a small theater. Visitors were required to watch a film about the history and significance of Sēfā Utaki before entering. The film ended and a staff member ushered the small crowd toward the stone path to the utaki. The solid path gave way to clay at the base of a hill, and they climbed a slope dotted with sandbags for secure footing. An elderly lady clung to the handrail as she passed on her way down. The path leveled out at the top of the slope, and Kai stood in awe of the majestic Okinawan rainforest that now surrounded him. Along the path was a small pond that had formed where a bomb was dropped during the war. They came into a clearing, the main area of the utaki. To Kai’s right, the face of a cliff angled inward toward the ground leaving an open space under the rock. Clay pots had been placed to catch the water that dripped from ancient stalactites. A sign read it was forbidden to touch the pots and the sacred water within them. Kai couldn’t resist catching a few drops midair, though, which he smeared on his forehead for good luck. A few steps ahead, a massive slab of rock leaned against the face of the cliff forming a triangular tunnel through which people were walking in and out. Looking up, Kai thought it must 80 be about six times his own height. Its walls were flat and smooth inside. Kai and Mitch walked through the tunnel to a rocky promontory that overlooked the sea. “Look,” said Mitch, pointing out to the water. Kai squinted to see a small, white island, hovering over the ocean. “Kudaka Island,” said Mitch, “island of the gods. This is where the world was created.” Kai looked outward in awe. “That is also where we ended up having our concert. Come on, we can talk more outside,” said Mitch. “Let’s make way for others who’ve come here to pray.” Kai and Mitch sat on a stone block near the utaki, taking in the scenery and the people coming and going. “Tell me about the concert,” said Kai. “I’ve listened to the CD. I love the atmosphere it captures—people talking and laughing, children singing. When I close my eyes and listen to it, I really feel like I’m there, in the audience, watching and listening to Kadekaru.” “Thanks,” replied Mitch. “When they wouldn’t let us do the concert here at Sēfā Utaki, Kudaka seemed to be the logical choice, being Okinawa’s most sacred place. It wasn’t easy to produce a concert on the island, mind you. There were a lot of challenges and surprises along the way. But that’s a long story. Maybe I’ll take you there some time and tell you all about it. Let’s get some lunch.” “Before we go, I’ve got some good news,” said Kai. My family has decided to stay in Okinawa... for good! I’m staying, too.” “That’s great!” said Mitch. We’ll make a real Okinawan out of you yet. We should celebrate! Why don’t we go to Ōshiro Misako’s bar tonight?” 81 “Tonight?” Kai had read all about Ōshiro Misako. People called her the Female Kadekaru. She was his musical right hand—a living legend. Kai grew nervous and scrambled for an out. “It’s kind of expensive there, no?” he said. “Not really,” said Mitch, “and you can play a song or two as well.” “What?” Kai gasped. “Sure, why not? She always invites people to play,” said Mitch. Although Kai wasn’t keen on the idea performing, he was most curious to see Ōshiro Misako in person. He knew about her minyō bar in Naha, but he’d never had the nerve to go there himself. “All right,” he surrendered. “Why not?” “It’s settled, then. You can practice in the car,” said Mitch. Kai raised an eyebrow. “As if people weren’t staring enough already,” he said. “Heh, heh,” chuckled Mitch. 82 Chapter 4: Naha City, Okinawa, June 2015 Ōshiro Misako’s minyō bar, Shimaumui—Okinawan for “Island Dream”—was a short walk from the tourist strip in Naha City. Small and unassuming, Kai had expected a grander place—something more commensurate with a minyō goddess. But this was much cozier than he’d imagined, and Kai felt at ease. On one side of the room was the bar with five stools and a small kitchen off to the back. On the other side were some tables that faced a small stage area at floor level. The staff called out, “Welcome!” as the two entered. Behind the bar stood Ōshiro Misako and her minyō apprentices, who also worked and performed at the bar. “Mitch! Long time no see!” said Misako, much to Kai’s admiration. Misako had performed with Kadekaru at the concert on Kudaka Island. “Please, sit down,” she said. The men took a seat at the bar. Misako gestured to her staff to prepare some hors d’oeuvres. Misako always had delicious snacks, usually speciality foods sent to her by fans from across Japan. Today’s offering was Okinawa’s famous “three-layer meat,” sanmai niku, a stewed cut of pork skin, fat, and meat. Misako set two glasses down and poured some awamori, Okinawa’s trademark distilled rice liquor, mixed down with water and ice. Shouldn’t I be pouring? thought Kai. Who was he to have such a legend pouring his drinks? Misako poured herself a healthy glassful, too. “Kanpai,” they toasted. 83 “This is Kai,” said Mitch to Misako. “It’s an honor, sensei,” said Kai. “Kai here has been practicing like a madman,” said Mitch. “Oh?” said Misako. “Will you give us a song?” “Me?” Kai said, blushing. “Why not?” said Misako. “Have a drink first, though.” “Misako-sensei,” said Kai, “I’m a great fan of your music. I especially like your work with Kadekaru. I read that of all his collaborations, he said he enjoyed working with you the most.” Misako smiled modestly. “Why do you think this duo was so special?” Kai asked. Misako looked off in the distance for a moment, reflecting. “I suppose there are a number of reasons,” she replied. “To sing with Kadekaru, you had to know a lot of songs. He would often forget the lyrics. I used to stand behind him pretending to clear my throat, but really, I was giving him the words. And he would change the lyrics suddenly, sometimes using lines from other songs. You had to be able to follow. Sometimes he just made words up on the spot, too, and you had to be able to improvise. For example, we were once recording for a radio broadcast, and he noticed a pregnant woman in the audience. Kadekaru started ad-libbing about the pregnant woman, and we went back and forth improvising on this theme. We did this kind of thing often. Now, most people ask a pregnant woman, ‘Is it a girl or a boy?’ But in Okinawa we have many mixed races, so Kadekaru sang, ‘Will the baby be born black or white?’ The director glared at us in panic, worried that I wouldn’t be able to respond to his joke and that the program would be rendered unfit to air. I was used to this kind of thing, though, and I sang, ‘We can’t know if it’s black or white before it’s born.’ The director was relieved.” 84 “When I first heard Kadekaru,” said Kai, “I was moved to tears. I don’t know why—I couldn’t even understand the words! His voice had an inexplicable power.” “It was the same for me, too” replied Misako. “When I was a child, we had a community cable radio broadcast that used to play a lot of minyō. One day, I heard a peculiar voice, and I was so taken aback that my body started quivering. It wouldn’t stop. What’s happening? I thought. Who is this? They announced that it was Kadekaru Rinshō. From then on, listening to him was more important to me than eating. I followed him since that day.” “That’s amazing,” said Kai. “Bisekatsu told me that he’d also had an intense reaction to Kadekaru’s music the first time he’d heard it.” “Most people do,” said Misako. “He sang with heart. I guess he thought of hard times when he sang, and the music just came out that way. He’d had many painful life experiences that had a profound effect on his music. Nowadays, when I think about my own experience, I think this is also the case for me. When I sing, I get swept up in the imagery of the song, like I’m being carried off somewhere. It was easy to do this with him. I could easily ride his wave, his rhythm. So, for me too, working with him was the best of all my collaborations.” “You two sounded great together,” said Kai. “Thank you,” replied Misako. “He sang in falsetto, too, so maybe that had something to do with it. I could match his voice easily. One time, though, we were rehearsing, and China Sadao... do you know the singer, China Sadao?” Misako asked. Kai and Mitch nodded. “China yelled out, ‘Hey! Sanshin! Tune it down! How the hell is a woman supposed to sing that high? Lower your tuning to her!’” Misako laughed. “We continued that way ever since.” Kai and Mitch laughed along. 85 “Well, it’s hard!” she said. “A man’s falsetto is really high!” “When I listen to Kadekaru,” said Kai, “I’m never sure when he’s entered falsetto. I know when he’s in falsetto, but I’m never sure exactly when he’s transitioned to it. It’s so subtle!” “Yes,” agreed Misako. “It’s hard for the untrained ear to detect. Because he had such a strong falsetto. About the same volume as his regular voice.” “Were there ever times when you couldn’t follow him? Or times when you felt lost?” asked Kai. “Not really,” she said. “Well, just one time. I don’t know what happened. Out of the blue, he just started singing a lewd song. There’s no way I can sing that! I thought. I bowed out and he just continued singing on his own. I remember thinking, what a strange man! And that was in Tokyo! On a big stage! He just sang it as if he hadn’t a care in the world! You’re such a weirdo! I thought. He knew a lot of dirty songs. But you see, he’d been singing since he was four. He’d heard a lot of adult songs as a child and remembered them. He knew a lot of obscure songs that other singers didn’t know. That’s also what made him so interesting, though.” “Fascinating,” said Kai. “It seems every person I ask remembers a different Kadekaru. Some say he was quiet, lived in his own world. Some say he was playful and outgoing.” “Well, he was all of those things,” said Misako. “Is there anyone else who lived so freely? So unrestrained? I suppose there were family issues, too. Maybe he was unhappy. He was the eldest son and had the responsibilities that came with that, including looking after his mother. Then he got married and had children to provide for, too. He was close with his mother, though. She was a musical god, he’d say. She’d taught him many songs from a young age, you see, and had him performing anywhere she could. After she died, he felt so lonely that he never wanted to return home. So, he went out a lot. He never talked about his family, though—only his mother. 86 He missed her a lot. His son Rinji was always with him, though. Always and everywhere. They performed together constantly.” “I found Kadekaru rather charming,” Mitch interjected. “Handsome, too. I wonder if that’s also why people were attracted to him.” “Maybe,” replied Misako, “but not me. He was very good at singing—that’s what attracted me. I stuck with him so that I could learn more songs. I didn’t understand what people found so charming about him, to be honest. I guess when I think about it now, though, he had a lot of masculine charm. He was old enough to be my father, though, so I suppose I looked up to him like a daughter would. More than anything, though, he was a friend. Sometimes he was like a big brother or a father, but mostly he was a friend. We travelled together a lot, so people often got the wrong idea about us. We just laughed about it and corrected them when necessary. We had arguments, too, though—some really big ones!” “Really?” said Kai, curious. “Oh, yes. Like his constantly retuning his sanshin. It drove me crazy! I would tune our sanshins together, but as soon as he sat down, he would start retuning his,” she explained. “So, once when we played with Noborikawa Seijin, I told him, ‘Whenever I tune Kadekaru’s sanshin, he re-tunes it. So, could you tune it and ask him not to change it?’ Noborikawa agreed and said to Kadekaru, ‘Look, I’ve tuned your sanshin, so don’t change it, all right?’ Kadekaru would say, ‘OK, OK,’ all the while fiddling with the tuning pegs. Then we’d be out of tune again and I couldn’t sing. It was so frustrating! This happened more than a few times.” “Kadekaru and Noborikawa were friends but also rivals, weren’t they?” asked Mitch. 87 “To Kadekaru, everyone was a rival. He was very competitive,” said Misako. “It’s fine once you become his friend, but when you first meet him, he’s always competing with you, and glaring at you all the while!” “Was he like that with you?” asked Mitch. “Me?” said Misako. “No. Not with us women, just with other men. People he’d met for the first time. As if he were saying, “Hey you! I’m better than you are!’” “Was he like that with all men or just musicians?” asked Kai. “All men,” she answered. “I’m surprised to hear that,” said Kai. “People say that Kadekaru played for himself, not for others. That he didn’t really care about who was around him or who was listening. That he was always in his own world, etc. Yet, he must have cared even a little. Otherwise, why would he have been so competitive?” “I don’t know,” replied Misako, “but indeed, he played for himself. Whenever he played in front of an audience, he seemed oblivious to it.” “Why did he bother performing at all then? And so often?” asked Kai. “He just wouldn’t say no if he was asked,” said Misako. “Everyone wanted him. At that time, you just had to say the name Kadekaru and crowds would gather. He also had mouths to feed. It was a struggle to make ends meet.” “Surely a famous performing and recording artist like Kadekaru Rinshō must have done pretty well though, no?” asked Kai. Misako smiled. “The thing is,” she replied, “in Okinawa, even if you’re a famous musician, you don’t get paid a lot. Not enough to making a living, anyway. When you record, it’s like you’re doing it for free. You even have to pay your own way to the studio. At least, that’s 88 what it was like back then.” Misako sighed. “Anyway, in the end, I only have really good memories of him. I suppose people drink a lot and make mistakes, but he had a lot of good points, too. When I think of him now, I mostly remember him holding his sanshin—playing and singing. And when he wasn’t doing that, he was smoking,” she laughed. “Or drinking, getting excited, and hitting people.” “Hitting people?” said Kai. “Yes,” Misako laughed. “You know, that man, he had a habit of punching people, like on the shoulder or leg. Especially cute girls. He wouldn’t do it when he was sober. It was just when he started drinking. He’d start laughing strangely, and then you knew what was coming next. It was just his way of showing affection. Mostly, though, I just remember him singing.” “It seems everyone has a funny story about him,” said Kai. “There are so many I wouldn’t know where to begin,” said Misako. “We had a lot of fun together. This isn’t really a funny story, as such—actually, it might seem strange to tell it now. Anyway, we had a concert once in celebration of my 30th anniversary as a performer. We had two shows, one in the afternoon and one in the evening. Many people came—students, relatives, friends, and so on. They brought a lot of beer and we had coolers stuffed with it. We started guzzling beer at lunchtime, and by the time the evening concert came, we were so drunk that we were making mistakes all over the place.” Misako looked down and laughed to herself, seemingly reliving the event in her mind. Suddenly, her face lit up. “Ah! I just remembered a funny story. The dish you’re eating now is a three-layered pork, right? We call it sanmai niku, three-layer meat—skin, fat, and meat.” “Right,” mumbled Kai and Mitch with their mouths full. 89 “Well, he loved his three-layer meat, that man,” said Misako. “He would rip the fat right off and just slurp it up. Anyway, just before he passed, we all gathered at his bed. He wasn’t eating or taking his medicine, so we all worried. I wondered if he might eat his favorite dish if I made it for him. ‘Kadekaru-san,’ I asked him, ‘If I bring you some three-layer meat, will you eat it?’ That got his attention. ‘Eh?’ he said. ‘Three-layer meat? Yes! Bring me some! But bring me four layers!’ he joked. We all laughed at his bedside. Well, I thought, if he’s in such good spirits, he should be fine until I get back. But while I was gone, he passed away. That was just like him, though—a joker till the end.” Kai and Mitch stopped chewing and bowed their heads gently in condolence. “He remembered many things, though, around the time before he died,” Misako continued. ‘Do you remember this song?’ he’d say. ‘Oh, I remember this one, too,’ he’d say and start singing. So many songs came back to him. He really was one who was saved by music. He could live because of music.” Kai thought about the solace he received from his own sanshin. “Did Kadekaru ever talk about the war?” asked Kai. “Never,” she replied. “Well, once. Just in passing. On his deathbed. ‘I can’t hear out of this ear,’ he said, pointing to it. ‘What?’ I laughed. ‘You’re full of it!’ I thought he was having me on. But he didn’t smile. ‘You’re not serious, right?’ I asked. That was the first I’d heard of it—after all that time. ‘It’s true,’ he said. ‘I ruptured my eardrum during gun practice.’ I think it was his right ear. Yes, it must have been. He would have held his gun on his right shoulder.” “What a different life the old-timers lived,” said Mitch. “Do you think today’s minyō singers are different?” asked Kai. “Yes, I think so,” she said. It makes me sad. Nowadays, people sing without heart. Of course, there are some people who sing well, but there are many who just copy the greats. It’s so 90 sad. That’s not minyō, in my opinion. To sing authentically, you must respect the song. Most Okinawans do things in a careless way. Do you remember that famous Okinawan TV commercial? ‘Do it with care!’ was the catch phrase. In most cases, people sing half-heartedly. The older minyō singers—they sang earnestly.” “Today’s singers never lived through war,” said Mitch. “How could they possibly sing with the same depth as the past generation? In the post-war period, until about the ’80s, there were a lot of songs about war. Now—nothing. No one knows the horrors of the past.” “Yes, there were a lot of songs that expressed resentment about the war,” Misako agreed. “It had a huge influence on the music of the time. I was nine when the war ended. It was terrifying—a painful, unspeakable experience. When I sing a song now, I think it’s the war that I remember. Today’s children, raised in the lap of luxury, they can’t possibly understand what it was like back then. That said, I don’t think the people of Okinawa carried that feeling of resentment forever. We also sang to let go. Minyō has many purposes—it was never just about the sorrows of war. We had fast songs for dancing, and slow songs for heartbreak. There are songs about being poor, and songs about just giving up and moving on. There are many dimensions to Okinawan minyō.” “There are still many problems today, though,” Kai pressed on. “The military bases, for example. They’re still here and they’re only expanding. And as we see on the news, soldiers do horrible things. It’s unbelievable that such atrocities still occur so long after the war. Do you think these troubles have some impact on the new generation of singers? On their music?” “I don’t think so,” replied Misako. “People have a lot of problems—not just in Okinawa. There are bad people doing bad things on the mainland, too. I think the base-related incidents are stressful for foreigners in Okinawa, too. Generally, I feel sorry for them.” 91 Kai and Mitch sat silent, moved by her compassion. “That’s a wonderful way of looking at it, sensei,” said Mitch. “The most important thing is peace in the world,” she concluded. “That’s what I want. If we have that, we’ll have no more war.” “Cheers to that,” said Mitch. “So, how about that song?” he urged Kai. “Yeah, give us a song!” said Misako. She took her sanshin down from the wall and handed it to Kai. He looked at it curiously. “I’ve never seen a white sanshin skin,” he said. “Cat skin,” said Misako. “I hate snakes!” Everyone laughed. “Me, too,” said Kai. “Well, all right, then. This is my favorite song, ‘Kaisare.’ I used to sing it with Jiji, uh, my grandpa all the time. It was also the first Kadekaru song I ever heard.” Nervous at playing in front of a living legend, Kai felt as if he were watching himself from outside his own body. What on earth am I doing, playing in front of Ōshiro Misako? He couldn’t keep his concentration. How should I sing this? How does it sound? Before he knew it, the song was over, and the room applauded. “It’s not easy to play in front of Ōshiro Misako!” exclaimed Kai. A bead of sweat dripped from his forehead. “Nonsense,” she replied. “Minyō is for everyone. That’s why I don’t have a raised stage in here—it’s at floor level.” Kai felt relieved. “I need to practice more,” he admitted. “Any advice?” “Listen. Spend as much time listening as you do playing,” she answered. “You like Kadekaru, right? I can hear him in your sound.” 92 “Really?” said Kai, somewhat disingenuously. He wasn’t actually surprised. He’d been copying Kadekaru since he’d started playing again. “How so?” “Well, for one, you play with that harsh attack like he did. Like you’re chopping wood or something. Gan-gan!” she said, mimicking the sound. “Is that his sound?” asked Kai. “In the old days a lot of people played like that,” Misako replied. “They didn’t have microphones, so they had to project the sound acoustically.” “Like the old American blues singers,” Mitch interjected. “The blues shouters. Big Joe Williams, Big Mama Thornton—they had to shout to be heard above the band.” “Oh, I didn’t know that,” said Misako. “Come to think of that, it is the same, isn’t it? How interesting! When I first heard that kind of playing, I thought, eh? That’s weird. I was classically trained, you see. We didn’t dare play like that. I became used to that sound over time, though. I even grew to like it. It was bold and consistent. I think Kadekaru played that way since his younger days, when he was playing mōashibi in the fields. So, it just became natural for him. That’s why he was is in a category of his own. He played what he lived.” “I’ve heard people call Kadekaru’s sound Okinawan Blues,” said Mitch. “Is that why?” “I think it has to do more with how he touched people’s hearts,” said Misako. “Quiet, sad. His sound resonated with people. I think this is what they mean by ‘Okinawan Blues.’ Anyway,” she continued, turning to Kai, “Listen, and do what he does. Then find your own voice. And sing from the heart.” Kai bowed his head. “Thank you, sensei,” he said. “I will.” “You have a sanshin, right?” she asked. “I do,” replied Kai. “It’s not a very good one, but...” 93 “Don’t say that,” Misako interrupted. “Cherish it.” “You’re right,” said Kai. “Even though I’m not a good player yet, I always feel rejuvenated after playing.” “Even if you play just one song, play it often,” she said. “That’s all it takes. Play your sanshin and it will answer you. Give it love and it will reciprocate.” 94 Chapter 5: Tokyo, Japan, 28 December 2020 “Hang on. I’ll text you in a bit,” said Kai. “I’m just about to board.” “Sure thing,” said Mitch, hanging up. Observing the etiquette of not talking on trains, Kai switched off his phone. Although he was careful not to get the sash of his kimono caught in the train door again, he mistakenly boarded the females-only car. Schoolgirls giggled as he made the walk of shame to the adjacent car. Finding a seat, Kai sat down to text Mitch. Hey Mitch – just got on the train. Cool. Where you playing tonight? Okinawan bar in Yotsuya. Who knew there were so many Okinawan venues in Tokyo?! lol 95 OMG. That name! Well, you do sound like him. 5 years of study under Misako-sensei, I’m surprised she hasn’t beaten that out of you. Ha ha. It’s not like I’m trying to. Oh well. Maybe that’s why people are hiring me. Mustn’t complain, I guess. When are you coming home? Jan 4th. I’ve got that interview on Okinawa Radio on the 5th. Right. That’ll be cool. Oh – I told Kondō Toshinori that you’d be calling. He said some time in the new year would be good. You still have his contact info? John Potter wrote about you today on the Power of Okinawa blog. Seems he caught a show in Tokyo. “The New Kadekaru” :-) 96 Kai immediately brought up the Power of Okinawa blog on his phone. Its author, John Potter, wrote the English guide to Okinawan music in his book of the same name. Kai had Yep. Thanks for setting that up. Always glad to help you in your Kadekaru obsession. ;-) Ha! Funny guy You’re gonna love Kondō. He’s a trip. Def looking forward to it Have a good gig :-) Thanks – later Deep thinker. 97 purchased it on his first visit to Campus Records with Mitch, and the book was a formidable part of his education on Okinawan music. Since publishing the book, John Potter continued his work by posting reviews of performances and recordings by Okinawan musicians on his blog. While reviewers in Okinawa tended to forego critique and lavish their subjects with praise, John was less reluctant to give constructive criticism. For that reason, Kai valued Potter’s reviews. Potter wrote: The young singer has all the attributes of a well-trained minyō artist, undoubtedly due to his apprenticeship under the revered minyō singer Ōshiro Misako, sometimes called the “Female Kadekaru.” His vocal delivery is clear and adequately decorated, thoughtfully expressing the story of the song. His hard sanshin attack produces a full, resonant tone, that sets him apart from his peers—he has obviously put in the practice time, his young age notwithstanding. Kai’s subtle and agile use of ornamentation is restrained and never forced. His voice is both eerily and pleasantly reminiscent of Kadekaru Rinshō, but I feel that this “New Kadekaru” would fare better to find his own, original voice in order to rise to the rank of a master minyō artist. New Kadekaru, thought Kai. He was grateful for John’s positive review, but Kai wondered how he could shake the Kadekaru association. I can’t help it, he thought, that’s just how I sound. The train pulled to a stop and Kai checked the time. Dammit! Late again! The doors swooshed open and Kai darted for the exit. The club was a three-minute run and the rain was pounding down. He set his case down to open his umbrella. Dammit! He’d left it on the train. A passerby raised her eyebrow disapprovingly and Kai bowed in apology. She huffed and scurried along. To hell with it, Kai resolved and sprinted down the street. Squinting through his soaked eyelids, he saw the familiar glow of Okinawan paper lanterns hanging from the club’s awning. Their red and blue Orion Beer logos shimmered against the asphalt. Kai flung the door open to find the owner, arms crossed and fuming with anger. “Your set began twenty minutes ago!” he snapped. 98 Kai bowed. “I’m really so...” “We don’t operate on Okinawan time here,” he interrupted. “Hurry up!” Kai rolled his eyes. The old man noticed. “What—you think because you sing like Kadekaru, you can act like him, too? Show up whenever you like?” he charged. Flustered and rain-drenched, Kai unpacked his sanshin and jumped to the stage. After some quick strategizing with the drummer, he opened with a guaranteed crowd-pleaser, “Haisai Ojisan”—“Hey, Old Man!” The audience cheered and sang along. Everyone knew the song mainly through a parody by a Japanese comedian who, through a small twist of wording, changed the meaning entirely to “strange old man”—henna ojisan. The comedian played a lecherous old man who took voyeuristic pleasure in shocking women. Whenever Kai performed “Haisai Ojisan,” customers would break into this perverted rendition and its choreography that mimicked Okinawan dance. Kai didn’t usually mind, as long as people were having a good time, but tonight he stopped the song short. He switched abruptly to a sombre tune and the audience quickly lost interest, returning to their drinks and chatter. Kai soon found himself competing with bursts of laughter and the clanging of tableware. The song ended, and it took a moment before the audience realized it was time to applaud. Kai was annoyed. “Thank you,” said Kai into the microphone. “Should I continue playing real Okinawan music or something else for you to make fun of?” The audience returned a dull and awkward laugh. “You know,” he continued, “Kina Shōkichi wrote “Haisai Ojisan” at age sixteen. It was the first song to show the world that Okinawa could produce popular music. And then, a mainland comedian comes along and makes a mockery of it. Typical.” The room grew so quiet 99 Kai could hear the turning of the overhead fans. “Trust Japan to quash the achievements of Okinawans,” sneered Kai while fiddling with his tuning pegs. The audience was aghast. “Lighten up, would you?” cried a voice from the back. Kai squinted to see who was speaking, and a little old man poked his head out from the shadows of the corner. “Everyone’s here to have a good time,” he shouted. “Don’t be so serious!” “I’m sorry,” said Kai, “I just meant...” “New Kadekaru,” he scoffed. “The old Kadekaru wouldn’t care what people thought. Heck, he’d be the first to dance along! We’re all here to forget our troubles. Why don’t you do the same and give us some music to help with that?” Speechless, Kai stared blankly at the frozen room. “You’re right,” he said, shaking his head. “You’re right.” Kai turned to the drummer, and, with a nod, they launched into an upbeat number. Table after table, the audience got up to dance, their arms flailing above their heads in the Okinawan style. The tune ended and the crowd roared with applause. By the end of his set, they seemed to have forgiven him for his outburst. He packed his gear and went to collect his pay. “Good set, kid,” said the owner, handing him an envelope. “Thanks,” said Kai. “Sorry about earlier.” The owner shrugged. “We all have our days. Just don’t make a habit of it,” he said with a wink. “Who’s the old man?” asked Kai, nodding toward the corner of the room. The owner chuckled. “He’s a fixture in that corner. He’s been coming here for as long as I can remember. And wouldn’t you know it, he was a student of Kadekaru Rinshō.” “What? I thought Kadekaru didn’t have any students!” said Kai, shocked. 100 “Well, he had at least one,” said the owner. “I should know. I used to watch them sit in that corner playing sanshin once a week.” “Well, now I’ll have to speak with him,” said Kai. I’d been meaning to anyway—clear the air.” Kai approached the old man, ready to apologize. The man spotted Kai and jumped up from his chair, bowing profusely. “I’m sorry,” he said. “It was rude of me to make a scene like that.” “Not at all!” replied Kai. “I’m the one who is sorry. I don’t know what got into me. I was in a bad mood, and playing in wet underwear didn’t help.” The old man cackled. “May I join you for a minute?” asked Kai. The man scurried to clear a space at his corner table, covered with his personal items. “The owner asked me when I’m going to pitch a tent here,” he joked. “Please, sit.” “He told me that you were a student of Kadekaru,” said Kai. The old man blushed. “That’s not something I usually talk about,” he said. “Why not?” Kai asked. “I’m not good enough to tell people I was his student,” he said. “Kadekaru was a god. I’m nobody.” “I see,” said Kai. “Who am I to say that I had any connection with such a musical god?” he continued. “Do you still play?” asked Kai. “A little. But what’s the point? Kadekaru was a god. I’m nobody,” he repeated. “What was it like to study with him?” Kai asked. “It was the greatest experience of my life. The man was a god, you see.” 101 “I do,” said Kai. “But it was difficult. It was hard to learn a song from him because he’d change the way he played it every week.” Kai smiled. “I’ve heard that,” he said. “But if I had been any good, I could have kept up,” he added. “It’s my fault, not his.” Kai nodded, no longer sure how to respond. “Could I talk to you about Kadekaru a little more, perhaps another day?” “I don’t think so,” the man declined. “I have nothing to say about him. He was a god, that’s all I can say. Who am I to talk about Kadekaru Rinshō? You should talk to Ōshiro Misako.” “I have,” said Kai. “Actually, I’ve been her student for five years now.” The man’s face lit up. “Is that right? Well, you certainly sound good!” Kai blushed. “You sound just like him, in fact.” Kai felt his heart sink. “Thank you,” he said. “I don’t mean to. I suppose I listened to Kadekaru so intensely when I was learning that I came to sound like him. In that way, he was my teacher, too.” “Don’t worry,” said the man. “Keep at it and your true voice will emerge. Kadekaru taught me that. Just remember: you are unique. Only Kadekaru can be Kadekaru, and only you can be you. No one can be you, better than you can. Once you understand that, the sky’s the limit.” “Huh,” said Kai, unprepared for such deep advice. “Thank you. I needed that.” “Ah, what do I know?” scoffed the man. “Well, I do know one thing.” 102 “What’s that?” asked Kai. “Henna ojisan—strange uncle. Kina Shōkichi got a big kick out of that joke. He was honored to have his song parodied by such a talented comedian. So don’t be concerned about the songwriter. He’s highly respected already. Just look after yourself.” “I will,” said Kai. “Thank you.” He shook the man’s hand. “Nifēdēbiru.” “Guburī sabitan,” replied the man, “and Happy New Year.” Kawasaki City, Greater Tokyo Area, 2 January 2021 Kai gorged himself on the complimentary toast and coffee at his budget guesthouse. Crumbs falling on his phone, he searched the address of jazz musician Kondō Toshinori. Kawasaki, he thought. Never been there before. Kai set out into the cold, Tokyo morning. A fresh blanket of fallen snow absorbed the usual sounds of the neighbourhood, making it especially quiet on this holiday morning. Locals lined up at the local Shinto shrine to make their first prayers of the new year. Kai felt glad he made his supplications late last night when the line was shorter. Small shops in old, narrow streets had their tables set up outside, and vendors shouted out their offerings of New Year bargains. Kai adored these charming neighborhoods of the old Tokyo, where family-owned shops eked out an existence in the face of harsh competition from the ubiquitous box buildings of corporate chain stores. It wouldn’t be long though, he thought, before these shops were driven out entirely. Passing his phone over the sensor of the turnstile, Kai entered the station and waited for his train. 103 Within the hour, Kai arrived in Kawasaki. He wondered what sort of scenery he might see when he exited the station but was disappointed to find it was the same as anywhere in the greater metropolis of Tokyo. I’m not here for sightseeing, he sighed. He started toward Kondō’s studio, a ten-minute walk from the station. In a phone call the previous day, Kondō had instructed him to call when he got close. Kai took out his phone and dialed. “Hi, Mr. Kondō. It’s me, Kai.” “Where are you now?” said Kondō. “I think I’m outside your building.” “Hang on, I’ll come down.” Kai waited patiently as the snow began to fall again. He hugged himself to keep warm. Back in Okinawa, I’d be in shorts and a T-shirt, he thought. “Hey,” came a deep voice from behind. Kai turned to see a man with intense eyes and frizzy grey hair. “Kondō,” he said, shaking Kai’s hand firmly. “You’re close. I’m back this way a bit. Come with me.” Kai followed Kondō up a narrow stairwell to what seemed like a small office space more than an apartment or studio. The only toilet was the one they’d passed in the hallway. There was nothing that resembled a kitchen or a bedroom. Stacks of gear lined the walls and cables overran the floor like vines. “Have a seat,” said Kondō, gesturing toward a chair opposite him on a table covered in manuscript paper and musical gadgets. “So, Mitch tells me you’re a Kadekaru fanatic.” Kai turned red. “I guess you could say that,” he laughed uneasily. “Relax,” said Kondō. “I’m just teasing. How can I help you?” Kai let go a sigh of relief. “Well, I know that you did a concert on Kudaka Island with Kadekaru, the one that Mitch produced. I was just curious about your experience.” 104 “Fire away,” said Kondō. Kai fumbled with his notebook. “OK. When did you first hear him?” “When I was in my twenties,” said Kondō. “A friend lent me a cassette tape. At that time, I’d never even heard his name before. I was really surprised. What a voice! I thought. I was playing free jazz in those days. When I heard his voice, that tone, it just blew me away.” “What in particular?” asked Kai. “Okinawa music is a mix of joy and sadness. Maybe sadness isn’t the right word. Sorrow, I suppose. It has both at the same time. I think that is the secret to the Okinawan scale: it has elements of both major and minor. That expresses the heart of Okinawan people,” explained Kondō. “At any rate, I think Kadekaru, compared to other folk singers, was exceptional. That’s why I wanted to play with him.” “How did the concert on Kudaka Island come about?” asked Kai. “It started when Mitch asked me to play in Okinawa. He wanted me to play in front of a military base. Fucking political shit. I didn’t like that. I was more interested in Okinawan spiritual things, so I told them I wanted to play at Sēfā Utaki. But we weren’t allowed, probably because they didn’t want us making noise at such a sacred place. So, we decided on nearby Kudaka. And that’s how it started. ‘Is there anyone you’d like to play with?’ Mitch asked me. ‘Well, if you could get Kadekaru Rinshō, I’d be very happy,’ I said. And so he did.” “Fascinating,” said Kai. “When you finally met Kadekaru, what was your impression?” “The first thing I noticed was his posture,” replied Kondō, “the way he stood up so straight. He had a powerful stance, but not tense—relaxed. Like he was one and the same as the Okinawan air around him. The first time I saw him perform live was at the concert itself. He sang just like I’d imagined—conveying that same stance through his music. Wow, what a 105 graceful man, I thought. He was unlike anybody else. He didn’t over-sing or over-play. His sound just drifted like the air—naturally. I don’t know if you call that traditional music, but it’s the music of that place and time.” Kondō reached for a large bottle of shochu rice liquor. “Would you like some?” he asked. “Huh?” said Kai. “Oh, no thanks. Please, you go ahead.” Kondō poured himself a large glass of the liquor, neat, and lit a cigarette. “What was he like as a person?” Kai asked. “He was a free person,” said Kondō. “Really lived as he pleased. You might have heard this story before. His parents thought he’d been killed in the South Pacific, but he was living and working here in Kawasaki for a year after the war. All that time, he didn’t tell his family that he’d returned to Japan. One day, he just showed up back home.” “He really surprised them, huh?” Kai chuckled. “He moved like the wind, that guy,” said Kondō.” “How did you guys get along?” asked Kai. “He was a really open person,” said Kondō. “He didn’t think in terms of status or seniority. He was a really natural kind of person. People today just overthink everything,” Kondō scowled. “Fucking negative! He was just easy going—didn’t speak a lot. I liked that.” Kondō took a swig. “Traditional music is for those people to express their spirituality,” he continued. “It’s not like the commercial music of today. Originally, people didn’t play for money. That’s the kind of music Kadekaru played. When I saw him, I was surprised to see that kind of music still existed. I respected that about him. At that time, I was starting to become less interested in commercial music. I had just started my project, Blow the Earth, playing at natural wonders 106 around the world, the first being the Negev desert in Israel. It wasn’t about performing, it was about playing and resonating with the earth. I wasn’t meeting fans. I was meeting with nature.” Kondō topped up his glass and shifted in his chair. Kai suspected he was about to say something profound. “The music of the world has been distorted by Western classical music,” he said. “You follow? One hundred years ago, white Europeans set the standard. They brought Western classical music to different parts of the world and taught it in schools and universities. The piano was boss. It was the standard, and that was taken for granted. If you questioned it, people thought you were crazy. The piano was the straightjacket of the musical world. But the piano isn’t even that attractive of an instrument, don’t you think? Dong! Dong! Dong!” bellowed Kondō, banging clumsily on the table. “Even a three-year old can play it. It’s convenient, but it’s not charming. Piano is the king, and ninety-nine percent of students who enter university never question that. From the beginning, they just accept that the piano is the world standard. Just like we accept without question that the U.S. dollar is the world standard, even though the world’s currencies are currently in chaos. The hierarchy of music in the world was set up a hundred years ago. It was planned from the start. For me, this has killed half the appeal of music altogether.” Kondō poured another drink and lit another cigarette. “Let me give you an example.” he continued, urgently exhaling his cigarette smoke. “When I was young, about the same time I’d discovered Kadekaru, I was also listening to traditional music from around the world—much of it on the French Ocora label. I remember hearing Pygmy music from Africa that some French ethnomusicologist had recorded. It just blew my mind! They had an amazing sense of pitch and harmony—the kind of pitch you can never get from an equal-tempered piano. And, did these people have formal musical training?” 107 Kai snickered at the question. “Right?” Kondō continued. “Some people study music formally and their ears become worse. But these people had developed an incredible sense of pitch and harmony without formal training. That blew me away. Makes you wonder—what is music education? Jazz, what I’m into, is not something you learn in school. It’s from the streets. That’s why I like it. That’s why I started playing it.” Kondō stood up and walked out the hall to the toilet, Kai gathered from the sound. Peering into the adjacent room behind Kondō’s chair, he saw a mattress on the floor and clothes lying about. Around the studio, Kai spotted tape recorders and devices from throughout recent decades. This man sleeps and makes music—that’s all he does, he thought. Kondō returned to the room, zipping up his pants. “I just remembered something while I was in the toilet,” said Kondō. “When I first met Kadekaru, he told me a story. While stationed overseas during the war, he always carried the neck of his sanshin with him. Not the whole instrument, just the neck. It gave him comfort. He brought it back home with him, too. “It’s my most precious thing, Kondō,” he said, showing it to me. It was made from ebony—very expensive. It was like a sword to a samurai.” Kai remembered how Bisekatsu said the sanshin was an extension of Kadekaru’s body. Sanshin samurai, he thought. “How would you describe Kadekaru’s style,” asked Kai. “Well, he doesn’t think about anything,” said Kondō. “He doesn’t have anything to prove. That’s his style. Other folk singers, they feel they have to express themselves in the music. They try too hard. They sing and play like their lives depended on it. It just came naturally for 108 him. He didn’t have to try.” Kondō leaned in toward Kai. “Here’s the important point. This is the meeting point of traditional and modern music. It can be summed up in one word: nature.” “Nature?” repeated Kai. “Right,” said Kondō. “The keyword missing from twenty-first-century music is nature. We mustn’t forget our connection to nature. The forms of music we study are all urban forms developed over the last hundred years. But what about the music and dance that people have been doing in natural environments for thousands of years before that? Now people say, ‘music is communication.’ What kind of cheap shit is that? To say that the marvel of musical creativity is merely a tool of communication between you and me? How did the meaning of music become so perverted? Music is much more than that, is it not?” Kondō poured another glass of liquor, and Kai began to feel drunk vicariously. He can really put it back, he thought. “My point is this,” said Kondō. “This is what I want everyone to think about. Music is perceived through the ears, not the eyes, right?” “Sure,” said Kai, playing along. “Your ears are open twenty-four hours, right? Your ears don’t have lids like your eyes do, right? Even when you’re sleeping, they’re working,” he explained. “Here, write this down in that notebook of yours, the Chinese character for darkness.” Kai wrote it on the page: 闇 109 “So, we have the symbol for sound,” he said, grabbing Kai’s pen and circling ⾳音, “enclosed by the symbol for gate,” he continued, circling ⾨門. And, as you know, the symbol for gate is used to express enclosure.” “Right,” said Kai, trying to follow. “You would think that to create the character for darkness, you would enclose the symbol for brightness,” said Kondō, writing 明 on the page, “rather than the symbol for sound.” But the people who invented these Chinese characters four thousand years ago, they decided to enclose the symbol for sound to express darkness. This is to suggest that when we can no longer hear, that is darkness. Even more than not seeing. Like animals in the jungle, the most frightening thing is not being able to hear. Even more than the eyes, the ears are essential for human survival. Sight is in the conscious mind, but sound is subconscious. The subconscious mind is more important than the conscious mind. Your eyes can fool you. The ears cannot.” Kai took a deep breath, moved by his words. “Young musicians today are trying to understand the beauty of Okinawan music through their minds. You have to feel it in the body—not the mind. Japanese culture is oriented on the body, not the mind.” This last thought resonated with Kai. Maybe this was the key to finding his minyō voice—to evolve from the New Kadekaru into the New Kai. 110 Chapter 6: Naha City, Okinawa, February 2021 “We’ve only got thirty minutes to broadcast,” said Mr. Uehara, “so we’ll have to talk briefly. A month, two months, wouldn’t be enough to talk about Kadekaru Rinshō. He was an extraordinary person, you know? So there are many stories.” “Of course,” said Kai. Even though he was about to make his live debut on Ryūkyū Broadcasting Company (RBC), Kai couldn’t forego his chance to question Uehara Naohiko, producer, broadcaster, and friend of Kadekaru. “There are as many ways of seeing Kadekaru as there are people who knew him,” said Mr. Uehara. “Some would say he was a good person. Some would say he was bad. Some like his music, some don’t. One thing is for certain: he couldn’t have lived without his sanshin. He would have been half a person without it. He couldn’t live a regular life, you see, as a member of society. He only knew his own road—he was that kind of person. If I suddenly told you all I knew about him, your head would spin. I can only scratch the surface.” “I’d like to ask a few questions anyway, if you don’t mind,” said Kai. “Sure, knock yourself out,” said Mr. Uehara. 111 “How would you describe his style?” asked Kai, leading with his favorite question. “Say, in comparison to other singers?” “Basically, what it comes down to is that he was an exceptional individual,” said Mr. Uehara. Kai wondered why people always described Kadekaru’s style by referring to his character. “As such, he’s not somebody you can compare with others. He was unique. And if you don’t know the times he lived in,” he added, “you can’t see the real person.” Mr. Uehara paused. “How old are you?” he asked Kai. “Thirty,” Kai answered. “Well, someone your age couldn’t possibly understand Okinawa in those times,” he said. “You can’t know the man if you don’t know the times.” “Sure,” said Kai, “but regarding style, you’re an expert on folk music, so...” “No, no, no,” said Mr. Uehara, blushing. “I’ve been listening to Kadekaru for years, and still it’s hard for me to pin down his style,” explained Kai. “What do you think makes him unique?” “It’s hard to explain,” said Mr. Uehara. “To put it simply, it was because he lived so free. He didn’t go to school. His family was poor—so poor they didn’t own their own land. They worked other people’s land. That was his life. When he got older, he fled to Osaka to find work. He faced discrimination there as an Okinawan. Then, he joined the army. So, it’s hard for us, who live in times of peace, to understand. You see?” “Yes,” said Kai. The discrimination’s still there, though, he thought. Not as bad now, of course. “People your age take those times for granted. You know they existed, but you can’t know the feeling of living through them,” said Mr. Uehara. “He, on the other hand, did live 112 through them. People are products of their environment, right? If you can’t grasp that, you can’t understand his way of singing, his way of expressing himself—his essence.” “How can we understand that connection?” asked Kai. “Between his life, his music, and his style.” Mr. Uehara answered, “To put it plainly, life can be hard as a poor person, right? It’s hard when you’re discriminated against. Music was a means of healing for him. He wouldn’t have survived if it weren’t for music. It was like that for most Okinawans.” Kai nodded. He could relate. “A song is not just a song. It makes you strong,” Mr. Uehara continued. “After the war, without music and art, songs and sanshins, you might say that Okinawan people would not have survived. Kadekaru didn’t just think of such things when he performed, you see. It’s more than that. He felt those things down to his bones. He lived them. From that place,” he said, “Kadekaru sang minyō.” Kai sat silent for moment, processing the comment. “Do you think being a soldier had an effect, too?” he asked. “Definitely,” replied Mr. Uehara. “On the battlefield, he sang to maintain self-discipline. That’s how he lived. He sang for himself—for his own well-being. Not for others. That’s why you can’t compare him with anyone else. There was no one like him.” Mr. Uehara paused and looked Kai straight in the eye. “You’re a strange one, if you ask me,” he scoffed. “Huh?” said Kai with a nervous laugh. “Of all the brilliant minyō singers, you follow Kadekaru. Ha!” he laughed. “When I heard that, I knew right then you were strange.” 113 “Huh?” said Kai again, embarrassed and uncertain how to respond. “Mm,” grunted Mr. Uehara. “At the same time, I’m very happy you’ve taken an interest in him. He was an outlaw, you see. People like him, they put their blood, sweat, and tears into their work—their souls. I guess that’s what it is. They have soul. People hear their songs and are drawn to them.” “Exactly,” said Kai, “and that’s what puzzles me. People always say Kadekaru sang for himself, yet he had such power to draw people in.” “Oh, make no mistake,” snickered Mr. Uehara, “he was always singing for himself. If other happened to enjoy it, that was gratuitous. When you are one who lives for music, others who feel your emotion will be attracted to you. That’s all. And that’s why the women liked him. Ha!” Mr. Uehara laughed. “That old man! “I’m almost envious!” “Maybe he was singing for the women, then” Kai quipped. “No,” said Mr. Uehara, dismissing the joke. “He couldn’t. There are even some who didn’t want to be his friend at all. He was useless to others, you know? And yet people were attracted to him. I once asked a woman, what’s the attraction? ‘I don’t know,’ was all she said.” “Why did he always speak in Okinawan?” asked Kai. “Was his Okinawan stronger than his Japanese? Even in concert in Tokyo, he spoke Okinawan! People wouldn’t have understood him.” “He mixed the two,” said Mr. Uehara. “Like I said earlier, he was a product of the times. Okinawans born in the 1920s were speaking Okinawan before the war and Japanese after. The generation before us was forbidden to speak Okinawan. The goal was to turn them into ‘proper’ Japanese citizens. Imperial Education, they called it. I don’t think Kadekaru tried very hard to 114 learn. Where he lived, he could get by without Japanese, right? That’s how it was in those days. When he moved to Osaka, only then did he become familiar with standard Japanese.” “So, it wasn’t because he was weak in Japanese?” asked Kai. “Not at all,” said Mr. Uehara. “He was a man of few words, but those words were always packed with meaning. I was fascinated by that. At a press conference once in Osaka—I was doing a lot translating for him in those days—a reporter asked him, ‘Do you think if you sing in Okinawan here, anyone will understand you?’ Kadekaru looked at him and answered, ‘If a singer from America or Europe came over here, would you ask them to sing in Japanese? I can’t sing a song in Japanese that wasn’t written in Japanese,’ he said. ‘So, don’t listen with your ears. Listen with your heart.’” “Listening to Kadekaru led me to the sanshin,” said Kai. “Well, he and Jiji, my grandpa. I feel like I found my Okinawan identity through his music.” “Ha! I can tell you for certain, Kadekaru never thought about such complex things as Okinawan identity. So, you must be very careful not to suggest that he did. In the post-war era, a lot of people were ‘awoken’ by minyō,” Mr. Uehara explained. “It was a form of education for them. It was educated people later who went on to think about folk song, what it was and what it meant. And when they talk about uneducated people like Kadekaru, they tend to emphasize the good points and downplay the bad, don’t they? By what criteria can educated people decide whether Kadekaru is smart or foolish? He didn’t go to school, but that wasn’t his fault. It was the fault of the times. Poor people couldn’t go to school ninety years ago. If people could know his private life, they’d understand more about him. But they can only see the exterior. So, they collect bits and pieces and fabricate a story, connecting it to things Kadekaru said to lend it 115 credence. Their analysis starts with, ‘Is this the case?’ and in time becomes, ‘this is the case.’ That’s how they get their results.” “I see,” said Kai, heeding his words. “For example,” Mr. Uehara continued, “people attribute songs to Kadekaru that he himself never said he wrote. Whatever song he was singing, original or not, he would always just say, ‘It’s an old song,’ as if it had always existed. Even I wrote lyrics sometimes. I’d leave them out, and the next thing you know, Kadekaru would be on stage, improvising with my lyrics! And there were some dirty ones, too!” Mr. Uehara laughed and gazed off into the distance as if reliving past memories. “Have you ever heard the story of his song, “Jidai no Nagare?” Kai feigned ignorance, but he knew the story. “Jidai no Nagare”—“Changing of the Times”—was Kadekaru’s trademark song. “The story goes that some time back in the late fifties, Kadekaru was waiting at a bus stop near Shuri Castle here in Naha. He overheard some ladies talking about the differences in Okinawa from the pre- to post-war periods.” “How astonishing the changes in this Okinawa of ours,” said Kai quoting the song. “Right,” said Mr. Uehara. “And they say that’s how he wrote it. He was listening to some old ladies talking and used their conversation as lyrics.” “I can see that,” said Kai. “It sounds like a conversation some elderly ladies might have while waiting for a bus. “‘We used to know the old from the young by the patterns on their kimonos. Now they all dress the same.’” “Yes, and now that has become the origin story of the song,” said Uehara. “And how do we know? Because someone wrote that. But Kadekaru never said such a thing!” This, Kai did not know. He had always assumed this charming story was true. 116 “Some researcher asked, ‘Is this so?’ And by virtue of asking, it became so,” said Mr. Uehara. “That’s the thing with doing research on Kadekaru: it’s hard to know the truth. And if you were to sit down and talk to him, you’d be only more confused.” “I’m confused already,” Kai chuckled. “Do you remember when you first met him? What was your impression?” “There’s nothing I don’t remember,” Mr. Uehara asserted. “The first time I met him, I was twenty-two and had just started working at Okinawa Radio. I was assigned to performing arts. I hated it! I wanted to be a news reporter. But that’s how it was back then: when you entered a company, they told you what to do, and you did it. Anyway, Okinawa Radio produced an annual competition for amateurs, called Proud Voice.” “Like an American Idol for Okinawans?” Kai joked. “Performers who got three rings of the bell would go on to the final competition,” continued Mr. Uehara, ignoring Kai’s joke again. “Kadekaru would always be in that group.” “Fascinating,” said Kai. “He’d often smell of alcohol, too, mind you,” he laughed. “At first, I thought he was a strange old man. Looking back now, though, as I got to talking to him, I suppose I succumbed to his charm. In those days, I’d go around Okinawa covering festivals, music events, theater and dance—everywhere. He’d always appear out of nowhere. I think he went for the prize money.” “Is that how he knew so many songs? From performing in so many different places?” asked Kai. “If you ask me,” Mr. Uehara replied, “Kadekaru could remember songs so well because he didn’t like reading. It was easier for him to commit a song to memory than to read or write it.” “But...” Kai stammered, “we’re talking about thousands of songs!” 117 “Indeed,” said Mr. Uehara. “In the old times, people remembered things! We had no easy way of recording things. We just had good sense. We were good at things like that.” Kai sat still, in awe. “As for Kadekaru, he was actually a very shy person,” Mr. Uehara continued. “Of all the songs he sang, how many ended up on records and CDs? About a thousand, I guess? All committed to memory, too. Your teacher, Misako, was drawn to him for his vast knowledge of songs.” “So she said,” replied Kai. “She worked hard and learned fast,” said Mr. Uehara. “They became a spectacular combination.” “Do you think Kadekaru would have become a star on his own?” Kai asked. “To what extent did the efforts of others help to make him famous? I know the writer Takenaka Rō produced a lot of his concerts and helped to boost his popularity on the mainland.” “No, no, no, no, no” said Mr. Uehara, defiantly. “Takenaka Rō was someone who had discovered Kadekaru after he was already well known. Before and after Okinawa’s reversion to Japan in 1972, we were doing national tours together. Takenaka picked up where we left off, later. Some might say that Takenaka made him famous, but I don’t think so.” “I see,” said Kai, sensing he’d hit a nerve. “Who did this, who did that—if someone wrote that Takenaka Rō made him famous, people will read that and it assume it’s true,” continued Mr. Uehara. “But, it wouldn’t be true, would it? When it comes down to it, it was the times that made him a star. He was charming and talented. People were drawn to him. That’s the thing—everyone who knows him says, ‘I knew him best.’ Isn’t that a strange thing to brag about? There’s no one in Okinawa who would say 118 they didn’t know him—at least in the minyō world. But no one knew him like I did, I’ll tell you. If you want to ask questions about Kadekaru, I’m the one you should ask. That’s how much I loved him. To be honest,” he said, pausing, “I think I would have become more successful had I never known him.” “How so?” asked Kai. “I think I would have become more esteemed,” said Mr. Uehara. “I’m not saying I was the closest person to him, but where my name comes up, his does also. Even now.” “By the way,” said Mr. Uehara, changing the subject, “I’ve set up a meeting for you with Yohen Aiko, owner of Nantahama minyō bar. You’ll make your debut there in two weeks’ time. We’ll plug your show on today’s broadcast.” Kai’s chest grew tight. “Nantahama?” he gasped. Performing at this legendary venue was a rite of passage for a minyō singer. “Here’s her number.” Mr. Uehara handed Kai a sticky note. Kai received it with both hands like it was sacrament. “I asked her to answer if you should call. How many years has it been open now? Fifty years? It was the first minyō bar of its kind, to be sure. Kadekaru had a regular gig there—not huge money, mind you. Maybe 3000 yen in today’s money. If Kadekaru got 3000 yen, he’d consider himself a rich man!” laughed Mr. Uehara. “I remember him getting called to perform at political rallies. At that time, you just had to mention the name Kadekaru and people would gather. One week he would perform at the Democrat Party convention, and the next week he’d be called to the Communist Party convention. He’d go wherever they paid. ‘Which is better? The Democrats or the Communists?’ I asked him. ‘Democrats,’ he said. ‘Better food.’” Kai laughed. 119 “He had no sense of money. We went to Hawaii once and he only brought 180 dollars for a ten-day stay! Can you believe it?” Mr. Uehara’s face lit up at the memory. “On the way home, he had the most souvenirs, and more money than I did! I think the Okinawan community there was smitten with him. They showered him with gifts and parties. The man who went with a hundred and eighty dollars—lugging pineapples home for everyone!” The two burst into laughter. “No kidding. When I travel, I take a small bag for souvenirs. He had three, huge cardboard boxes!” Mr. Uehara mimicked Kadekaru fumbling with his luggage. “Three boxes!” Kai wiped the tears from his eyes. Mr. Uehara continued. “‘Take one,’ he says to me.” ‘Carry your own stuff!’ I tell him. ‘Humans only have two hands, right?’ says Kadekaru. ‘How should I carry three?’” Mr. Uehara and Kai were in stitches. Fellow station workers peered through the glass office windows to see what the ruckus was all about. “I ended up carrying it, of course,” Mr. Uehara concluded. “Anyway, call Aiko. And if you want to know more about Kadekaru, she can tell you. She knew him well: his personal life, his sons, his home. She performed with for him for a long time. She can tell you what kind of person he was. Whether he ever voted in elections, things like that. Whether he did what it takes to be a proper member of society—paying taxes, and such. We’d better get ready for broadcast. You know, Kadekaru still gets the most requests, even though he died sixteen years ago. We don’t usually get requests for people who have passed. Only Kadekaru.” 120 Chatan Town, Okinawa, February 2021 Yohen Aiko had arranged for Kai to meet her at the A&W near her home in Chatan Town, a forty-five-minute drive north of Naha. Kai arrived early with designs on a Teen Burger Combo with root beer. Kai ordered and took a number while his meal was being prepared. He chose a table near the window to watch for Aiko’s arrival. Minutes passed slowly on a hungry stomach and Kai worried whether he could finish his lunch before she came. His combo arrived and Kai tucked in voraciously. Halfway through his burger, he saw a lady approach the entrance. She glanced at her watch. That must be Aiko, he thought. Kai looked down longingly at his onion rings. They would have to wait. He tidied up his tray and stood up to greet her. “Kai? Nice to meet you.” Kai almost went to shake her hand but he feared his own might be greasy. He opted for a bow of appropriate formality—low, but not too low. “I’m just going to grab a coffee,” said Aiko. “Please, allow me,” said Kai. “Oh, no,” she said, smiling. “That’s all right. Thank you.” Kai returned to his table to wait for Aiko. His stomach growled as he stared at his half-eaten meal. Licking his lips, he found a glob of mayonnaise that Aiko would have certainly noticed but been too polite to mention. Nice one, Kai, he thought, wiping it away. He dashed to the toilet to wash his hands. When he returned, Aiko was waiting at his table. He wished he’d removed the dirty tray. “Please, go ahead and finish,” she said. “That’s all right. I’m full,” he fibbed. “Don’t be silly,” she protested. “Enjoy your burger.” 121 Kai excused himself and continued eating. The wrapper was now cold to the touch. Aiko outlined the details of his concert while Kai finished his meal as discretely as one can a Teen Burger Combo. Talk about first impressions, he thought. “Do you have any questions?” she asked, wrapping up. “I think I’m good,” said Kai. “Very well,” she said. “You have my number just in case.” Kai couldn’t resist. “Mr. Uehara told me you worked a lot with Kadekaru Rinshō,” he said. “Dad?” she said. Kai looked confused. “We called him Dad. Yes, we worked together for about twenty years. Six hours every night at the minyō bar. Let’s see.” Aiko counted on her fingers. “Eleven, twelve, one, two, three, and the last set was at four. Six hours. I suppose we spent more time together than with our families.” “Wow! You guys were busy,” said Kai. “I can’t imagine playing that kind of schedule.” “It was also a lot of fun,” she said. “The golden age of minyō, wasn’t it?” asked Kai. “That’s right. The golden age,” she said. “Where did you guys play? Naha? Koza? Everywhere?” “Koza. I was born in Koza. Naha is a popular tourist destination nowadays, but Koza is the birthplace of mōashibi. When you play in Naha, no one dances. You just can’t get them up! In Koza, everyone dances joyfully. Naha was always a merchant’s town—an urban center. Koza was rural. In the old days, young boys and girls in Koza would have mōashibi parties in the fields. It might seem unsophisticated, but they didn’t have places to get together otherwise. Kadekaru grew up in that tradition.” 122 “How did you first meet Kadekaru?” asked Kai. “Well, do you know Kina-sensei?” she asked. “Kina Shoei? Sure! He must be the fastest sanshin player ever!” said Kai. “Jiji...err, my grandfather and I used to listen to his records. And what a musical family! I perform one of his son’s songs at the bars. Well, I’m sure you can guess which one,” chuckled Kai. “Hey, Old Man!” Aiko beamed. “Well, his father was my sensei. We all lived in the same neighborhood.” Kai sat up in his chair. “You were a student of Kina Shoei?” he asked. “Yes. I guess I was eighteen or nineteen then. Kadekaru was out of this world. A musical god. I’d see him from time to time at my sensei’s house, and I’d say hello, but we never actually talked. One day, though, I was riding the bus and a voice called out, ‘Ai-chan!’ That’s what they called me, Ai-chan. I looked around to see who it was, and it was Kadekaru-sensei! He knows my name! I thought. Since that day he called out my name, we’d cross paths here and there.” “What was your first impression of him?” asked Kai. “Hmm, well, let me put it this way,” she said. “In Okinawa you have, I guess you might call it, ‘New Minyō,’ right? Or, songs that are Okinawan in style but not necessarily traditional. For example, there are Okinawan songs that were sung in Japanese to make Okinawan music accessible to people on the mainland.” Kai nodded. “Well, I made my debut with the song, ‘Nantahama.’” “Ah,” said Kai, “so you named your bar Nantahama, too, after the song.” “Yes, but I sang ‘Nantahama’ in Japanese, and people in the minyō world frowned on me for that. ‘Okinawan songs should be sung in their pure form,’ they said. ‘What were you 123 thinking?’ I was devastated. But Kadekaru said to me, ‘Ai-chan, I like how you sing that song. Just keep doing it the way you like.’ That meant the world to me.” “Well, I can understand wanting to appeal to a wider audience,” said Kai. “Especially at that time. That was during the Okinawan Boom, right? Just after Okinawa returned to Japanese rule in 1972. Okinawa was all the rage across Japan.” “That’s right,” she said. “Right around that time, we were playing at venues in Tokyo like Honmokutei Vaudeville Theater in Ueno, Jan-Jan in Shibuya—places where Okinawans had never performed. Mr. Uehara would remember this story: one time, at Tokyo University, Kadekaru and I performed the song ‘Sagichijuya.’ The concert producer, Takenaka Rō, was standing in the wings of the stage and wept upon hearing it. Later in the concert, I sang ‘Himeyuri Song.’ Do you know about the Himeyuri Student Corps? The troupe of girls who died in the Battle of Okinawa?” Kai nodded. “When I sang that, Takenaka was again moved to tears. It’s a shame we have no photographs from those times. Nowadays people take pictures of anything. I’m grateful that Mr. Uehara remembers those times, though. Places like Yasuda Auditorium at Tokyo University—prestigious places. We were the first Okinawans ever to perform there. Yet, not a single photo. What a shame.” Kai smiled in sympathy. “Of all the places we played,” she said, “travelling here and there. Nothing.” “Surely there must be some photos out there,” said Kai. “Someone must have taken a photo at some time, right?” “There must be, right?” Aiko’s voice grew desperate. “I mean, there were always people around—maybe someone took a photo.” 124 “I’m sure of it,” said Kai. “After all, Kadekaru was rather famous around that time. I’d heard that if you looked in the Okinawan section of a record store in Tokyo back then, it would be full of Kadekaru records.” “Right, right,” she said, nodding. “Do you think his fame was due to the efforts of people like Takenaka Rō?” Kai asked. “No,” she said, “that would be Mr. Uehara. The one who really believed in Kadekaru—I mean, really believed—was Mr. Uehara. He worshipped him.” “Really,” Kai muttered, recalling how Mr. Uehara had chided him for the same thing. “Well, if you think about it, he has a discerning ear,” she said. “He’s worked for Okinawa Radio all his life now. He was an announcer and a DJ—and he was obsessed with Kadekaru.” “Do you think Kadekaru wanted to be famous?” asked Kai. “Dad?” Aiko laughed. “I don’t think so. I mean, if you want to be famous, you play the part. Like when you go on TV, you dress up nice, you rehearse, you prepare. He had no interest in that—dressing up in tailored kimonos, pretending to be something he’s not. If you’re chasing a dream, you give it all you’ve got, right? He didn’t. Even when we went to the mainland, he’d just do as he pleased. Smoke wherever he liked. That kind of thing. It was easier for him to do what he liked than to ask for permission. He had no dreams of becoming famous. He just wanted to sing.” “Perhaps he was just such a great talent that others wanted to promote him,” said Kai. “I suppose so,” said Aiko. “Is it possible that he might not have become famous at all, then, were it not for these people? Given that he had no such aspirations of his own?” Kai asked. 125 “I think that’s true,” she said. “The power of Mr. Uehara is incredible. He really raised Kadekaru up. He and other remarkable people who were fans of Dad.” “And did Mr. Uehara also act as a manager for Kadekaru?” asked Kai. “Not at all. He just came along because he loved doing it,” she said. “So, who was his manager?” Kai asked. “In Okinawa, we don’t need managers,” she answered. “I see. Do you think Kadekaru would have fared better with a manager?” “Sure,” she said, “someone to keep track of things, accounting and such.” “I mean, he sold a lot of records, right? He should have been well off,” said Kai. Aiko shook her head. “Okinawan musicians don’t get paid for recording, you know. I can’t say for certain in Dad’s case whether he got paid in those days.” “Even though his records were handled by such large companies, like Victor Records?” asked Kai. “It might have been different with companies like Victor, but in Okinawa, it wasn’t like on the mainland where musicians got paid,” said Aiko. “You recorded with him too, right?” Kai asked. “Yes. Mostly live recordings, so there was no editing,” she replied. “When I listen to those recordings now, I think, wow, we really nailed it. With all kinds of instruments in the mix, too. It wasn’t like we could say, that wasn’t so good, could we take it again? Take 1, Take 2 you know? We didn’t have that option. It was life or death. When I think about it now, I’m amazed how we did that—thirty, forty years ago, making all those live recordings, just like that. And you can’t look at the lyrics when you’re performing live, right? These days, when you record in the studio, you have the lyrics in front of you. You don’t just do it all from memory like we did.” 126 “People say that Kadekaru knew a lot of songs—even obscure songs from remote islands, and all from memory. Is that true?” “That’s true,” Aiko confirmed. “How is that possible?” asked Kai. “How did he acquire such a vast repertory?” “He just had an incredible ability to remember things,” she answered. “At a concert once, a man tried to stump Dad by requesting a newer song, one that had been written after the war. ‘You know a lot of songs,’ he said, ‘but you probably don’t know this one, do you?’ And just like that, Dad just sang it. He’d never sung it before. He’d just heard other people sing it and he remembered it. I was dumfounded.” Aiko put her hand to her chin. “It makes we wonder,” she added, “how many songs did he really know?” “Mr. Uehara suggested that because he was so shy and unassuming, he probably knew a lot more songs than he let on,” said Kai. “He didn’t like attention or praise.” “Indeed, he didn’t,” said Aiko, “and he didn’t give praise, either! In my first solo recital, Kadekaru sang a song with me. Mr. Uehara was the MC, as usual. When the song ended, Mr. Uehara asked Kadekaru, ‘What do you think, Kadekaru? What kind of girl is Ai-chan?’ I thought he might say, ‘Oh, she’s cute and she sings really well!’ or something like that.” Aiko giggled. “I’m kidding. But in front of an audience of five thousand people, you might think he’d say something even a bit flattering, but he just said, ‘Hmm,’ and paused. ‘Well, she’s, you know... she’s a girl,’ he said. That’s it! That’s all he said! The audience roared, though.” Aiko laughed. “On the other hand, he never said a bad thing about anyone. Not once. And no matter what, he never got angry. Never said anything bad—ever.” “What was he like to sing with?” asked Kai. 127 “Oh, he was amazing,” she said. “You know, male minyō singers tend to play and sing in a key that’s too high for female singers—like D, for example. For women, B-flat is more common. But with Dad, he would always adjust to the other singer. That’s something most players couldn’t do. If women try to sing in D, it’s going to be squeaky. Out of respect for the other singer, he would adjust his singing and accompaniment. In that way, he was different from other minyō artists.” “He often sang in falsetto, too. So maybe that helped him to adjust his range,” added Kai. “Yes, that’s right,” agreed Aiko. “I’m also a fan of Noborikawa Seijin,” said Kai. “He had such a distinct sound in minyō. He and Kadekaru were close, weren’t they?” “Yes, they had a special relationship,” said Aiko. “Noborikawa’s trademark song was ‘Achāmegwā.’ Kadekaru said he learned it from Noborikawa. That’s not something such a famous person would normally admit, especially having learned it from someone his junior. Noborikawa denied this though—said it wasn’t true. He might have just done that out of respect for Kadekaru, though, his senior. They propped each other up, those two. It was a friendly rivalry. Not one where one wants to better the other, but one in which they recognize each other’s greatness and want to rise to it.” “How would you describe Kadekaru’s style?” asked Kai. “Style?” said Aiko. “His way of singing and playing,” Kai elaborated. “Like, if you had to compare him to other folk singers.” “Tīchibanchā,” she said. That’s what we call his picking style: one note at a time—strong, clear, slapping the strings. Some people say that style is rough, but he was famous for it. 128 And he would stand perfectly upright, straight as a post, always facing forward and gazing slightly downward. Like this,” said Aiko, demonstrating. “It seemed like he wasn’t looking at the audience, but he could see and hear everything. Once, a man was standing at the foot of the state, heckling Dad. ‘OK, OK. Now show us your longest song!’ he yelled. ‘Sing us the longest song you know.’ Why was this man giving Dad a hard time? I thought. Dad just kept playing as if he didn’t notice, but when he finished his song, he called me over. ‘Ai-chan,’ he said, ‘I’m going to sing a song you don’t know.’ The heckler sang along, verse after verse, as though it were a contest. Eventually, though, he gave up after five or six verses, but Dad continued singing the song for thirteen minutes straight, no interludes. The heckler had to admit defeat.” Aiko laughed. “I just couldn’t believe it. I’d been working with him for sixteen years, and I’d never heard him sing that song. Not once. Then suddenly, on stage, he pulls it out of nowhere and sings it for thirteen minutes, non-stop. Afterward, the heckler yelled out, ‘Sorry!’” “I was talking to Bisekatsu about his way of singing,” said Kai. “Bisekatsu said that in bars or other public places, Kadekaru would sing and play to himself, off to the side, not wanting to disturb anyone. Bisekatsu said that might be why he sang the way he did.” “Like he was singing with his mouth closed,” said Aiko. “Right!” said Kai, sitting up. “Why do you think that is? Why did he sing like that?” “Well, Kai,” she said, smiling at him. “You don’t have to open your mouth too wide to speak, do you?” “I see what you mean,” he said. “There’s an Okinawan expression for that style of singing,” she said. “They call it ‘smelling the soil.’ So, if you think about it, it’s actually a very Okinawan way of singing. I think Kadekaru’s way of singing was very Okinawan.” 129 “Smelling the soil, huh?” said Kai. “I’ve never heard that before.” “Devotees of Kadekaru might know better than I do,” she laughed gently. “There are a few of you out there. I’d like to ask what you all think.” Kai blushed, but he didn’t doubt her sincerity. “It’s the compassion with which he sang, isn’t it?” she asked. “Isn’t that what really made his singing unique?” “I think so,” said Kai. “There’s just something about that voice that draws you in. And maybe not immediately, like a flavor you reject at first but relish later. At least, that’s how it was for me.” Kai had few memories from when he was a little boy, but one that would always remain was his profound reaction to hearing Kadekaru for the first time in Jiji’s garage. “Did he ever talk about the war?” Kai asked. “Just in passing,” she said. “He told me he’d been to Kosrae Island in the south Pacific. Then Truck Island. ‘The war was a terrible thing, wasn’t it?’ he’d say, but he never went into much detail about it. ‘When I came home to Okinawa, it was in a terrible state,’ he’d say. That kind of thing.” “He came home to Okinawa after quite some time, didn’t he? What was he doing all that time?” asked Kai. “I wonder,” she said. “I wanted to ask him that. I wish I had. I also wish I’d taken lots of pictures! When he died, I couldn’t believe it. He wanted to live a long life,” she said. “I know the feeling,” said Kai. How he wished Jiji could have lived longer, too. Kai smiled at Aiko and bowed. “Thank you for meeting me today,” he said. “See you at Nantahama,” she said. “I’m looking forward to it.” “I’ll do my best,” said Kai. He shook her hand and said farewell. 130 131 Chapter 7: Kudaka Island, Okinawa, March 2021 “The ferry will arrive at Kudaka Island in 20 minutes,” announced the voice over the intercom. “Please take caution in case of any abrupt changes in weather.” “When we had Kadekaru’s concert on Kudaka Island back in ’96,” said Mitch, “ferries only ran once a week, unlike now when they run a few times a day. We hired fishermen to transport the musicians and staff in their small boats. What were we thinking?” Mitch laughed. “The rain was pounding and we feared for our safety. We had no concept of liability and insurance in those days. Heh, heh.” Kai had missed his good friend’s laugh and was pleased to make his first visit to Kudaka Island with him. Kai looked out over Okinawa Sea. A long, white sandbar stood out against the blue-green ocean—Kudaka Island! It was exactly how he remembered seeing it from high up on the sacred site of Sēfā Utaki years ago with Mitch. Kai recalled his sadness in those days, and how his visit to Sēfā Utaki had lifted his spirits. He looked at Mitch, with his trademark fedora hat, shades, and aloha shirt, and felt grateful. When they arrived and deboarded, Kai instantly felt the heat from the concrete blocks of the quay penetrate upward through his sandals and feet. Feral cats purred and rubbed their chins against his shins. 132 “Oi!” called a voice from the shore. Mitch and Kai turned to see a man waving with full arms. “That’s Yusei,” said Mitch to Kai. “I was telling you about him. He was head of the Kudaka Island Men’s Youth Association back in 1996, the year of the concert.” According to Mitch, if one wanted to do anything on Kudaka Island, one had to go through the Association. But the islanders tended to keep to themselves. They had been reluctant to host the concert when he first proposed it to them. They revered Kadekaru, but they didn’t know this jazz musician from Tokyo, Kondō Toshinori. “Oh really? I’m a huge fan,” Mitch said to them, telling them all about Kondō and his extraordinary projects. The men looked around the room to see if anyone else knew this musician. “I think I’ve heard of him,” said Yusei, raising his hand. “Yeah, that sounds familiar now.” The other men gasped in awe of Yusei’s worldliness. “You probably have,” said Mitch. “He’s quite famous. He’s been on TV a few times.” The men chattered amongst themselves. “Well, it would be good for the island,” said a voice. “Yeah, nothing ever happens here. We’re so closed off!” said another. The men discussed it further and finally agreed to give the concert a try. Drinks followed the meeting and, as the party continued into the night, the Association grew excited about the new venture. “Come on,” said Mitch to Kai. “Let’s go say hello.” They walked up to Yusei and Mitch introduced the two. “You guys must be hungry,” said Yusei. “Let’s go grab some soba.” Yusei led them to a local noodle spot. They sat outside on a low wooden deck under an umbrella, shielding them from the glaring sun. A woman prepared their lunch in the adjoining trailer. 133 “Back in the days of the Kadekaru-Kondō joint concert, this was the only place to eat on Kudaka Island,” said Yusei. “Since then, a few cafes and restaurants have popped up here and there.” “There was nowhere to stay, either,” Mitch added. “No one visited Kudaka Island back then. We set up tents for all the performers and staff.” “Did you rent them?” Kai asked. “We borrowed them from the local elementary school,” said Yusei. “They had a bunch for their student camping trips. We had thirty tents that slept twenty people each.” “We designated people to specific tents,” said Mitch, “but in the end, everyone just crashed wherever there was an open spot.” “I don’t understand,” said Kai. “If Kudaka Island is Okinawa’s most sacred place, why did no one visit?” “It’s precisely because it is sacred that no one came,” answered Yusei. “The island is the dwelling place of the gods. It wasn’t seen as a tourist destination.” Kai remembered the shrine in Tokyo where people lined up for hours on New Year’s Day. How different from Japan, he thought. “I heard a story once that Kudaka Island is such a sacred place that you should not remove even a stone from it,” said Kai. “If you do, misfortune will follow you until you return it.” Yusei furrowed his brow. “You see, that’s what’s wrong with people’s thinking nowadays,” he said. “The truth is, every sacred place is like that, anywhere in the world. People should not greedily take souvenirs from anywhere—not just Kudaka Island. The problem is that people have lost touch with nature and spirit.” Hearing this brought Kai back to Kondō 134 Toshinori’s studio in Kawasaki. “The keyword missing from twenty-first-century music is nature,” the jazz musician had said. “You’re right,” said Kai. “I’d never thought of it that way.” Yusei smiled, forgiving Kai’s faux pas. “I’ve got to give a tour at 1:00,” he said as the men finished their noodles. “I’ll catch up with you guys later and send you home with some sea grapes.” Following Kadekaru’s concert in ’96, Yusei had worked to become one of Kudaka Island’s most highly rated tour guides, and his family’s sea-grape production was second to none. They shipped the delicacy to restaurants and shops across Okinawa. “We’ll get a couple rental bikes and tour around the island,” said Mitch. “Go to that rental shop there,” said Yusei, pointing, “and tell them I sent you.” Kai and Mitch said farewell to Yusei and went to select their bicycles. Mitch got on one and gripped the handles. “Mitch on a bicycle,” laughed Kai. “Who would have thought?” Mitch stuck out his tongue. “Won’t you be too hot? Should I pull up this banyan tree and strap it to your chin?” Kai joked, gesturing toward a sapling. Mitch sped away on his bike. “Catch me if you can!” he hollered. “Oh! You rascal! Where are we going?” yelled Kai. “Follow me and find out!” shouted Mitch. “If you can keep up!” The two had ridden not three minutes when Mitch stopped before a large field. Kai recognized the location from the photos in Mitch’s CD. It was the site of the Kadekaru-Kondō joint concert. It wasn’t one of Kudaka Island’s holy pilgrimage sites, but for Kai, it felt sacred nonetheless. 135 “Wow,” said Kai with a long drawl. “This is it, huh?” “This is it,” said Mitch. A reverent silence took hold of the moment. The two sat down on a stone wall overlooking the field. Kai pulled Mitch’s CD out of his sanshin gig bag and carefully removed the liner notes. He looked through the photos inside and pointed at a small building on the edge of the field. “Isn’t that where Kadekaru and Kondō sat together? In this photo, here,” he said. “Yeah, that’s it.” said Mitch. “You brought the CD?” he chuckled. “I thought it would be fun to compare,” said Kai. “It’s a peculiar combination, isn’t it? This modern jazz musician from Tokyo and a traditional minyō singer from Okinawa. It looks like they got along rather well, though.” Mitch looked again at the photo. Kadekaru appeared to be telling Kondō a story, and the two were all smiles. “Kadekaru didn’t have a very positive image of jazz musicians. But after a while, it was as if they had known each other for years. They were like father and son.” “Why didn’t he like jazz musicians?” asked Kai. “Kadekaru once performed with a jazz pianist in a nation-wide TV broadcast in Tokyo. Kadekaru’s style is very laid back, you know, but the pianist played like he was fighting with Kadekaru. From that experience, he had a poor impression of jazz musicians.” “I see. And what’s happening here?” Kai pointed to a photo of Kadekaru walking with Kondō and others down an island road. “We walked around the island to all the utaki sacred sites to pray,” said Mitch. “They’re carrying umbrellas as it was raining heavily all morning, even though it was sunny the day before. We were worried that the concert would be rained out. In the afternoon, the rain let up but the sun hadn’t yet come out. Then, just when Kondō started playing, the most amazing thing 136 happened. Everyone looked up to witness a huge, circular cloud form above the concert grounds. It was miraculous.” “Maybe it had something to do with your pilgrimage earlier that day,” said Kai. “I like to think so,” replied Mitch. “I love the CD title,” said Kai. “Whereabouts of the Okinawan Spirit. What does it mean?” “I don’t know if I can say what the Okinawan spirit is,” said Mitch. “For Okinawans, I guess it’s nature—the sea, the wind, the banyan trees. And I wonder, in ten years, twenty years, one-hundred years, what is going to happen to that spirit? Kondō came up with that title, mind you. Maybe for him, Kadekaru represents that Okinawan spirit.” “How about for you?” asked Kai. “For me? Hmm. I guess it’s both nature and Kadekaru,” said Mitch. “Does the title have any personal significance for you, though?” Kai pressed. “Not really,” Mitch started. “Well, actually, my mother has that Okinawan spirit, so there I suppose there’s a personal connection for me there. My mother is a kaminchu—a shaman, I guess you could say, similar to your grandmother. She won’t come to places like this.” Kai looked puzzled. “Why wouldn’t a kaminchu want to visit such a sacred place?” he asked. “She’s afraid a god will speak to her or ask her to undertake some impossible task that she wouldn’t be permitted to refuse,” he answered. “In ’96, my brother and I were travelling back and forth to Kudaka Island about a week before the concert to prepare. Mom was often at home alone. One day, the doorbell rang, and she opened the door to find an old lady standing there. Mom didn’t recognize her from the neighborhood. ‘Can I help you?’ she asked. The old 137 lady looked at mom and said, ‘You have two sons, zodiac signs rooster and dog, living here, correct?’ Mom nodded. ‘The gods are pleased with what your sons are doing now,’ she said, ‘so you need not worry.’” “Woah,” said Kai. He’d always been intrigued with the spiritual depth of Okinawan people. It’s something he didn’t quite understand or share, but he didn’t see it as mere superstition, either. “I felt lucky,” Mitch added, “like I had the gods’ blessings to follow through with the project.” “So, how did the CD come about? Was that part of the plan from the beginning?” asked Kai. Mitch shook his head. “Not at all,” he said. “I wish it had been. It was more of an afterthought and it was rife with problems. It was a lot of stress.” “What was so hard about it?” asked Kai. “First of all,” explained Mitch, “we didn’t have proper recording equipment. We just lifted the audio from a video tape. There was a lot of background noise—wind and such. It took forever to clean it up. The engineer worked really hard on it—he had around 200 notes on the page. It took over a year. We just kept finding more and more problems with it.” “Did you ever feel like it was impossible? Like you just wanted to give up?” Kai asked. “So many times,” said Mitch. “It was just so hard. I was tired of pestering the engineer. I hadn’t paid him that much, after all. In the beginning, I asked him how much I should pay. ‘How much do you have?’ he asked. I said I could pay him a thousand dollars to start. ‘OK, I’ll do it for a thousand,’ he said. Kondō was surprised—he thought it should be closer to ten thousand,” Mitch laughed. 138 “So, what kept you going?” asked Kai. “I honestly don’t know,” said Mitch. “It was so stressful. I suppose, though, since I had already come so far on it, and so many people had contributed, I felt I couldn’t just give up halfway through.” “Despite there being a lot of problems with it, there must be a lot of good points, too—things that you thought made it worthwhile to push through,” said Kai. “Is there anything you think is special about this recording, say, compared to other Kadekaru albums?” “Well, the CD contains more than just the Kudaka Island concert. I did so much research that I think the CD liner notes might be the best point of departure for future researchers of Kadekaru Rinshō. I’d written letters to Okinawan communities around the world to gather information on him. The Okinawan People’s Association in Argentina were excited about the CD project and sent me a video of Kadekaru performing in Argentina in 1986. We included a song from that concert on the CD. It was the world debut for that song.” “I love the atmosphere of this recording. People talking and laughing, children singing, Kadekaru’s storytelling stories and banter, showcasing his sharp wit. The album captures a genuine Okinawan musical experience in a way that no live recording of Okinawan music has, in my opinion.” “Nifēdēbiru,” said Mitch. “No, thank you,” replied Kai. “Should we make the rounds now? Pay our respects?” Before Mitch could answer, Kai sped off on his bike. “Ha!” he yelled. “Heh, heh,” laughed Mitch. “Do you know where you’re going?” Kai squeezed his brakes and came to a halt. He looked back to watch Mitch, nose up in the air, ride slowly and triumphantly through his dust cloud. 139 The island landscape was thick with a story-high tropical forest, criss-crossed with white sand and gravel roads. Only 1.5 kilometers square in size with flat terrain, one could cycle from end to end in minutes. No buildings stood outside the port area, save for a few storage shacks at the edges of gardens where Kai spotted the occasional farmer working. Kai and Mitch stopped at Fubo Utaki, the island’s most sacred site. Kai peered through the brushes that hid it from the road. “Can we go in?” asked Kai. Mitch pointed to a sign that prohibited entry. “Not a chance,” he said. Only the shrine maiden can enter here, and only once a year.” Kai looked around. There was no one in sight. “And no one else enters? Ever? No kids sneaking a peek inside?” he asked. “That might happen,” said Mitch, “but it’s probably rare. People here respect the utaki. They fear them, too. Who would want to upset a god?” Kai nodded in agreement. Completing their bicycle tour of Kudaka’s beaches and sacred sites, Kai and Mitch finally reached the top of the island, Cape Kaberu. They stepped cautiously on the sharp coral stone toward the tip of the island, where waves crashed violently against the shore. A mother and her two children lit incense and prayed. “This is where it all began,” said Mitch. “What’s that?” asked Kai. “Right here,” said Mitch, “Amamikyu, the goddess of creation, came down from the heavens and created these islands of Okinawa. This is it where it all began.” Cape Kaebaru was one the seven most sacred sites in Okinawa, but Kai could see no indication of it as such. No shrine gates, no massive stone structures—not even a sign. Yet, Kai 140 felt that this place, at this moment, was significant. Mitch put his hands together and bowed toward the ocean, and Kai did the same. To whom or what, he wasn’t sure, but Kai whispered, “thank you.” Feeling overwhelmed with gratitude, he thanked all the people in his life who had brought him to this moment: his mother, who always smiled through the hard times. His teacher Misako, who turned him into a proper minyō singer. Mitch, whose friendship was unfaltering. And Kadekaru Rinshō, whose ghost Kai had been chasing for years—perhaps, even, since he had first heard his voice in Jiji’s garage. But why? Kai now understood. Kadekaru was one who knew himself—one who had found his own voice, and Kai had been longing to do the same. He took his sanshin out of its case. “Huh? What’s that?” laughed Mitch. Kai looked down at his primitive sanshin, now an antique coffee can with a dried-out stick rusty wires for strings. “This is kankara sanshin that Jiji and I made together when I was a boy. It’s my first sanshin,” he said. “I thought I’d bring it out here to play for him.” Mitch was speechless at Kai’s thoughtfulness. He really is Okinawan after all, he thought. Kai looked out at the ocean. “Thank you, Jiji,” he said. He looked down at his sanshin. “Thank you,” he said again. Kai closed his eyes, took a deep breath of ocean air, and exhaled. Nature is the key, he remembered. You have to feel it in the body—not the mind. In he breathed, and out again. Straighten your back, relax, and narrow your mouth. Let the sound come from here. Kai poked his belly as Jiji used to do and smiled. He slowly opened his eyes and fixed his gaze on the horizon. Aim your voice there, he thought as he began to sing. The song ended and Kai awoke as if from a dream. He took a moment to get his bearings. He looked over his shoulder to see Mitch with a dropped jaw and a stunned look on his face. 141 “What’s up?” laughed Kai. “What was that?” said Mitch. “Or, who was that?” “Huh?” said Kai. “Who was who? What?” “I’ve never heard you sound like that, Kai. I mean, you’ve always been a good singer, but that was, well, that was something else. What happened?” “I don’t know,” said Kai. “I suppose I just kind of let go and let the song sing itself. I stopped thinking about it and started feeling it, you know?” “It sounded like you, but more you and less Kadekaru,” Mitch chuckled. “Well, I’ve been thinking recently about something a student of Kadekaru told me once,” said Kai. “Student?” said Mitch. “Yeah, apparently he had a student,” said Kai. “I met him in Tokyo. He said ‘Only Kadekaru can be Kadekaru, and only you can be you. No one can be you, better than you can.’ It made me think, for years I’ve been taking after Kadekaru, not simply to copy him, but to understand how he produced that sound that touched so many people. And then it occurred to me, you can never fully imitate another person even if you wanted to, no matter how hard you try. And that’s because each person is unique. Only Kadekaru can ever sound 100% like Kadekaru. What I mean is, even if I come close, there will always be a difference, and in that difference lies my original sound—my true voice.” “Shu-ha-ri,” said Mitch. “Pardon me?” said Kai. “Shu-ha-ri,” repeated Mitch, “protect, detach, transcend.” It’s something my karate teacher taught us when we were kids.” 142 Kai laughed. “You did karate?” “Sure,” laughed Mitch. “A lot of Okinawan kids do. Karate is from Okinawa, after all. Anyway, shu-ha-ri is the philosophy that one first imitates his master. Then, when one reaches a high level of skill, one begins to detach himself from the master—sort of like learning the rules before you break them. Finally, one breaks away completely from his master to transcend into a master in his own right.” “Huh,” said Kai, “shu-ha-ri. Is that what happened?” “Never mind. It doesn’t matter,” said Mitch. “Look, you just sit there and keep playing. Keep doing whatever you’re doing. We’ll catch a later ferry.” Mitch pulled out his phone to text Yusei. “But what about...?” “Just play,” said Mitch. “I’ll take care of it.” Kai shrugged and turned back toward the ocean. “Thank you, Mitch,” he said. He continued singing as the sky grew dark. 143 Chapter 8: Ōdo Beach, Okinawa, March 2021 Kai woke up early and tore the curtains open. He stretched out his arms to greet the morning sun. The big day! he said to himself. His Nantahama debut would begin at 8:00, but Kai had to arrive earlier for soundcheck. Mitch would pick him up at noon, giving him plenty of time to practice. They’d planned to have lunch in Koza and spend some time looking around. “Breakfast, Kai!” called his mother. “Your favorite!” she sang. Kai could smell the stack of pancakes and sausages from his room. Kai leaped down the stairs to the kitchen. “How are you feeling?” asked Baba as Kai sat down at the table. Haruko poured him a hot cup of coffee. “Nervous,” said Kai, “but excited.” “You’re going to be great,” said Baba. She smiled at Kai in the way she always did when she made predictions that only a yuta spirit medium could make. As it turns out, she was usually correct. Kai didn’t race through his breakfast today. He wanted to savor this precious time with his family and carry that feeling of love and kinship with him all day and into his performance. Kai practiced the rest of the morning and waited outside for Mitch at noon as planned. The Jungle Car pulled up at 12:15. 144 “You’re late!” yelled Kai, half-joking. “I was getting worried.” “Okinawa time!” laughed Mitch. “Jump in!” They were on the road, Koza-bound again, just like the first time they had met six years ago. Onlookers laughed and waved at the Jungle Car, as usual. Kai, feeling grateful and ready to take on the day, waved back and smiled. Koza (Okinawa City) Kai’s soundcheck and rehearsal were scheduled for 6:00. He and Mitch arrived at Nantahama Minyō Club in Koza at 2:30 to drop off Kai’s sanshin and kimono. Aiko was standing behind the bar, polishing glasses. A man sat at the counter drinking coffee and chatting with her. “Come on in, boys,” said Aiko. “Kai, you can put your things in the green room.” The green room! thought Kai. He had been to the club before but never backstage. “Come on, I’ll show you,” she said. Just then, the man turned on his barstool to look at Kai. “Have you met?” asked Aiko. “Kai, this is Kadekaru Rinji.” Kai froze. He hadn’t recognized him at first. Kai only knew his face from the cover of his album, My Sweet Home Koza, but this was indeed Kadekaru Rinji, son of Kadekaru Rinshō. His CD was one of Kai’s favourites. Rinji played violin and sanshin in both his interpretations of traditional songs and his original compositions. His tracks featured a variety of instruments—guitar, keyboards, and even euphonium. Few Okinawan musicians today were able of creating such a seamless fusion of old and new sounds. Rinji was the spitting image of his father, too, both in looks and in sound. Wait, though Kai, will he be here tonight? Watching me? He panicked momentarily but then assured himself he would be OK. After all, he didn’t sound exactly like Kadekaru anymore. “Kai?” said Aiko. Kai snapped out of his stupor. 145 “I think Kai’s a little starstruck,” said Mitch. “Nice to meet you,” he said to Aiko, introducing himself. “You and I have met, though,” said Mitch to Rinji. “I produced the concert on Kudaka Island back in 1996.” Rinji had accompanied his father in this concert, as he had done in most of his father’s later performances. “Of course,” said Rinji, shaking Mitch’s hand. “Sorry, it’s been so long.” Rinji turned to Kai and said, “Nice to meet you, too. I’m looking forward to your concert.” Kai’s heart skipped a beat. Aiko pulled two glasses down from the bar. “Can I get you boys something cold to drink?” she asked. “It sure is hot out there!” “Whatever you have is fine, thank you,” replied Mitch. “I don’t think they have root beer here, Kai,” he joked. Everyone laughed. “Kai’s crazy about root beer,” said Mitch, “but he’s even crazier about your father’s music,” said Mitch to Rinji. Kai turned red. “I’m very happy. I appreciate your interest in my father.” Kai was pleased with Rinji’s response. “Well, I think your father’s music possesses a special power. The first time I heard it, of course I didn’t understand the words, but just by the sound I was moved deeply, nearly to tears. It spoke to me somehow, and at that moment I decided I wanted to know more about him,” explained Kai. “Ah, I’m grateful to hear that,” said Rinji. “Indeed, unlike with many other artists, people rarely grow tired of listening to his music. No matter how many times they listen to it.” “Do you still listen to your father’s music?” asked Kai. “Yes,” replied Rinji. “He is a role model for me. I aim to sound like him. For me he is number one. Number two is Noborikawa Seijin.” Kai was relieved that someone else also thought taking after Kadekaru was a worthwhile pursuit. 146 “Well, your sound is much like your father’s,” said Kai, “but it also has your own unique element. For example, your father didn’t practice fusion in his music the way you do, aside from his performance with the trumpter Kondō Toshinori, perhaps.” “He didn’t really like that,” said Rinji. “He was more traditional.” “And he had very good posture, didn’t he?” said Kai. “Yes, indeed. That was from his military training,” said Rinji. “His military training made him very physically sensitive. For example, if someone touched him while he was sleeping, he would awake immediately. So, I always tried to be quiet and not startle him.” “What’s the most important thing you learned about music from your father?” Kai asked. Rinji thought for a moment. “Minyō is not about singing,” he replied, “it’s about storytelling. That’s the most important thing I learned from him. Minyō is not as much about singing as it is about talking.” “Is it difficult to be the son of an Okinawan minyō legend?” asked Kai. “I mean, do people compare you to him?” “I was very pleased to have a father like him,” Rinji answered. “It might have been a bit difficult when I started playing the sanshin. I felt a lot of pressure. I tried not to think about it too much, though. I tried to focus on his character.” “He seemed like a very charming man,” said Kai. “Yes, and he was very smart. You’d ask one question and he’d give five answers,” Rinji laughed. “What was he like as a father?” asked Kai. Rinji sipped his coffee and put the cup down on the table. “I like to say he was good-natured. He never put on airs. He was just himself and he treated everyone the same. Even 147 though he was the head of the Okinawa Minyō Association, for example, he wasn’t a snob about it.” “Which association?” asked Kai. “There are so many. Does it still exist?” “Yes, it does,” said Rinji. “It’s called just that: the Okinawa Minyō Association. It’s the first one of its kind in Okinawa.” “I’ve talked with a lot of people who knew your father, but this is the first time I’ve met a family member,” said Kai. “There are so many stories about him, and I wonder if, over time, some of those stories became exaggerated or if they are even true at all.” “What kind of stories?” Rinji asked, sipping his coffee. “For example, people like to tell the story of how, when he was out drinking with people, he would grab the person beside him by the knee and squeeze really hard. Big or small, male or female—it didn’t matter!” said Kai. Rinji smiled. “Yes, that’s true. Or even by the ears!” he laughed. “Dad loved people, so he liked to tease them.” Kai pressed further. “I’d also heard he sometimes picked fights with U.S. servicemen when he’d been drinking.” “Yes, that’s also true,” said Rinji. “I think it’s because he was suffering from war trauma. He was somewhat disturbed. So, when he drank, he would remember the past and feel irritated and stressed. This caused him to act out aggressively.” “So, did he become angry or aggressive when he was drinking?” Kai asked. Rinji explained, “When he was drinking, he would become more emotional and expressive, which is why he would do things like grab people’s knees. Sometimes it was too much for people, but he was just fooling around. Most of the time, he became cheerful when he 148 drank, but only sometimes he became aggressive. It was all just for kicks. Normally, he was very quiet.” “Did he ever talk about his war experiences?” asked Kai. “He talked about losing weight,” said Rinji. “He weighed 74 kg when he was dispatched, but he weighed only 38 kg when he came back.” “Is it true that he was taken as a POW?” Kai asked. “I’d heard he was taken as a POW in Saipan, but I didn’t hear that from him directly,” said Rinji. “He didn’t talk much. When he was drinking, he would talk a lot, but normally he was a very quiet person. Even when he laughed, it was very soft.” “I’d read that a notification of his death was issued after the war and sent to his home, even though he was actually still alive. Is that true?” asked Kai. “Yes, that’s true,” said Rinji. “They didn’t have his remains, but our family enshrined him in the altar in our home and prayed for him.” “It must have been a real shock for his mother when he finally returned home,” said Kai. “She fainted when she first saw him—thought she was seeing a ghost,” replied Rinji. “She was surprised as well as grateful—a whole mixture of feelings. She was over the moon for a few months, very happy he was alive.” “Do you think those war experiences had an impact on his music?” asked Kai. “Yes, I think so,” said Rinji. “His experiences were reflected in his music because he felt lonely, sad, and afraid.” “And when he finally returned to Okinawa, his home and neighborhood had been absorbed into the Kadena Air Base. That must have been a traumatic experience, too, to return from the war and find his family home had vanished.” 149 “Yes, exactly,” said Rinji. “Can I ask you one more thing?” said Kai. “Sure, go ahead,” said Rinji. “I’ve often heard or read that his favorite things were smoking, drinking, and playing pachinko. Surely he must have had some other interests too, though. No? What else can you tell me about him?” asked Kai. “Well,” said Rinji, thinking, “he represented his local district in a marathon once. He didn’t really like running, actually, but he did it because he was selected by the neighborhood.” Kai didn’t see that coming. In every picture he’d seen of Kadekaru, he was smoking when he wasn’t singing. “He also liked Okinawan bullfighting,” Rinji continued. “That and, as you said earlier, smoking, drinking, and pachinko,” laughed Rinji. “Anyway, I’ve got to run. I have to teach a lesson soon.” Kai assumed he wasn’t performing much these days, as he hadn’t seen Rinji’s name around, but he was happy to hear that he was passing on the tradition through teaching. “Thank you,” said Kai. “I’m honored to have met you.” Kai and Mitch had some time to kill and decided to explore the neighborhood. Walking through an old shopping arcade, Kai was shocked at all the shuttered store fronts. Neon signs, once vibrant and promising excitement, were now sun-bleached and lifeless. He imagined a time when the arcade was crowded: young couples walking arm-in-arm and children running in and out of the shops. Now only a few remained, mostly clothing stores catering to the elderly and a spattering of pharmacies. They reached the end of the arcade and stepped out into a wide, four-lane road more typical of a street in America than Okinawa. A sign on the street read “Koza Gate 150 Street – Kadena Air Base 500 m.” Here was the heart of American military night life in Koza. Army surplus stores and bars dotted the street. Kai and Mitch walked in the direction of the Air Base, feeling a little uneasy, like they were in a foreign country. Kai imagined a young Kadekaru walking down this same street, picking fights with U.S. servicemen. As they neared the gates of the air base, Mitch stopped and looked up at the building beside him. “Okinawa Post-War Cultural Material Museum Histreet,” he read aloud. “This is new. I’m sure it wasn’t here before.” He looked at Kai. “Wanna check it out?” Kai nodded and they went inside. Wall to wall and floor to ceiling, the museum was filled with photos and relics from the pre- to post-war periods. One would need hours to take in all the exhibits, but Kai didn’t have time. He narrowed in on a map of the Kadena Air Base superimposed over Koza. “Excuse me,” said Kai to the young lady at the desk. “Do you happen to know where Goeku Village was located, before it became part of Koza?” “Sure, right here,” she said, pointing to a location on the map. She took a second look at Kai and asked, “Were you wondering where Kadekaru grew up?” “Busted!” said Mitch, laughing out loud. “I was curious, yes,” said Kai, embarrassed. She smiled at Kai. “I’m looking forward to your show tonight, by the way.” Kai nodded, wide-eyed and beet-red. “Here,” she said. “It would have been right about here.” Kai leaned in toward the map. Her pinky nail touched down squarely within the bounds of the Kadena Air Base. “Check this out,” called Mitch. He was transfixed with a large photo of a car, standing on its side and consumed by flames. Beside it hung more photos of overturned, torched vehicles, 151 including one police car. The placard read, “Koza Riot. December 20th, 1970.” Kai read the description. Lt. Gen. Lampert, U.S. High Commissioner for Okinawa, issued a statement on the Koza Incident warning that if such incidents continue, the removal of poison gases from Okinawa would be postponed. U.S. authorities, who have been unable to restrain the anger of Okinawans under their colonial rule, have finally decided to resort to such extreme measures as threats. The inevitable conduct of Koza citizens was caused by Americans. It was directly motivated by the fact that U.S. authorities tried to protect a U.S. Serviceman who committed such a crime as hitting an Okinawan with his car. There are more deep-rooted reasons for their conduct. The Okinawans do not want Americans to stay on their island any longer. Okinawa has been changed into a major U.S. base for launching aggression against Asia. Therefore, the Okinawans are fully aware that such a role for Okinawa, which has been assigned in the Pentagon’s strategy, will sooner or later lead them to an unfathomable disaster. Okinawans do not want their lives being exposed to constant danger because of the accidents of U.S. military aircraft, radioactive contamination of waters around their islands, or leakage of poison gases from ammunition depots. The Okinawans have a hatred for U.S. servicemen, who commit murder, burglary, and assault. These facts caused Koza citizens to rise up. “We should head back,” said Kai. Mitch sensed Kai’s uneasiness. He looked out the window cocked his chin toward an American diner across the street. “Wanna grab a quick root beer?” he said. A hint of a smile forced its way to Kai’s lips. Kai turned to the young lady behind the desk. “Thank you. Hope you enjoy the show!” he said, stuttering at the end of his sentence. Mitch snickered. “Smooth, Kai,” he joked as they walked out into the street. “Shut up!” laughed Kai, elbowing him in the ribs. At 7:30, the doors to Nantahama Minyō Bar opened and the guests filed in. Kai peered at the crowd from a gap between the stage’s backdrops. His family sat in the front row, talking with Mitch. His teacher, Misako, Mr. Uehara, Bisekatsu, and other luminaries of the minyō world 152 were seated and chatting. Kai gasped when he saw John Potter, the music critic, notepad in hand. The young lady from the museum sat near the back. She spotted Kai and waved inconspicuously. His heart skipped a beat. Busted again! Her reassuring smile set him at ease, though, and he grinned back nervously. Kai felt a hand on his shoulder. “Kai,” said Aiko. “It’s time.” Ōdo Beach, Okinawa Kai sat back in Jiji’s armchair and let out a sigh of relief. He was satisfied with his performance and the crowd had received him warmly. Kai wasn’t one for talking on stage, though, and Aiko, who had accompanied Kai on the drum, did most of the talking for him. Kai mainly fixed his gaze on the back wall, a horizon of heads on an imaginary ocean. He tended not to think much these days when playing, and just allowed his mind to wander. Kai’s phone chimed. It was a text from Mitch. Hey Kai – great show. John Potter already has his review up on his blog. Oh no! How bad is it? lol See for yourself. ;-) later 153 Kai scurried to bring up the Power of Okinawa blog, now a prominent bookmark in his phone’s browser. Kai found John’s review at the top of the page: It was a full house tonight at Yohen Aiko’s prestigious minyō bar Nantahama in Koza. Minyō fans and luminaries gathered to celebrate the Nantahama debut of the “New Kadekaru,” Kai... Yeah, yeah, whispered Kai, skipping the preamble. Let’s get to the pork and rice. Prepared for the worst, he read on. Up to now, I had been sceptical of the “New Kadekaru,” fearing that his overt resemblance to Kadekaru Rinshō would stifle his growth into a master minyō artist. So, it is remarkable, and nearly unfathomable, to see that Kai has now indeed found his own voice. What we witnessed last night was not the “New Kadekaru” but the new Kai, and he has now emerged as a one of the most important Okinawan singers in his own right. Kai took a quick breath. “Finally,” he whispered. He got up and sifted through Jiji’s records. There was only one album appropriate for this occasion—Kadekaru’s debut. Kai recalled the first time they’d listened to this record together. “I have a feeling you’ll like him some day,” Jiji had said. Looking up at his kankara sanshin hanging on the wall, Kai wished Jiji could see him now. “You were right, Jiji,” he said. “Thank you, Jiji. Nifēdēbiru.” Kai cracked a root beer, sat back in his chair, and listened. 154 Epilogue: Ōdo Beach, Okinawa, 2027 The sun settled on the horizon and cast an orange glow over the ocean. Kai dug his feet into the sand and reached for his sanshin to play his ritual morning dedication to the sea. A little girl splashed at the shoreline and came running toward Kai and Haruko. “Papa!” she said, “Can we go look in the caves?” Kai glanced at his mother and smiled. “We should get home soon and finish your sanshin,” he said to Sora. “You wanted to put some stickers on it, remember?” Haruko took Sora in her arms. “Papa is afraid of the caves,” she teased, “but grandma’s not afraid of anything!” “Are you afraid of the man with the sanshin?” Sora asked her. “What?” said Haruko, puzzled. “What man with the sanshin?” she laughed. “The old man with the sanshin,” said Sora. “The one who’s always sitting on that rock there.” She pointed to a group of boulders on the edge of the shoreline. “He’s always playing. He’s really good.” Sora tilted her head. “He has a weird voice, though.” 155 Kai wiped the sand from his shorts and walked toward the boulders at the water’s edge. He looked between and around the boulders, but no one was there. He walked back to Haruko and Sora. “There’s no one there, sweetie,” he said to Sora. “No, he’s gone now,” said Sora. “He’ll be back though. He always comes back.” Kai and Haruko looked at each other, puzzled. “Does he ever speak to you?” asked Haruko. “No,” said Sora. “He just looks and smiles sometimes. He has a really big smile. He usually just plays his sanshin and looks at the water. He’s really good,” she said again. Kai and Haruko looked at each other, perplexed. They came to the beach nearly every day, but they had never seen an old man with a sanshin. Then it struck her. Haruko closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and exhaled. She looked at Kai, who then also realized. “Sweetie, when we go back home, I want you to tell Baba about this, OK?” said Haruko. “Tell her about the man with the sanshin.” “OK,” said Sora, shrugging. “She’s seen him, too.” Kai and Haruko looked at each other. They were both thinking the same thing. Sora and Baba have a secret. “Can we go to the caves now?” she begged. Kai smiled at her. “Come on, let’s go,” he said. Sora jumped with excitement. “Papa, are there habu in there? I don’t like snakes,” she fretted. “I’ve never seen one,” said Kai, “but we’ll be very careful anyway. Then we can go back home for some root beer. How does that sound?” “Yuck!” cried Sora, her tiny face all in a grimace. “Orange soda is the best! But you can have root beer, Papa,” she giggled. “You can have all the root beer.” 156 PART II: COMMENTARY 157 In this commentary to the chapters, portions from the novel are reproduced in bold font and comments are given beneath them. Prologue: Ōdo Beach, Okinawa, March 1995 The Prologue is set at Ōdo Beach in Itoman on the southern coast of Okinawa (see Figure 2). The beach is a close walk from the home of friend and Okinawan music reviewer John Potter, who appears in the story as himself. The caves by the beach appear to be scorched by fire and were used as hideouts during the battle in Okinawa. I once observed a family lighting incense and praying near the caves, and from this came the inspiration for the ceremony on the beach in this prologue. The characters introduced in this chapter are fictional, including Kai (meaning “sea” in Japanese), Haruko (Kai’s mother), Baba (Kai’s grandmother), and Jiji (Kai’s grandfather). Figure 2: Ōdo Beach, Okinawa, 2016. The image on the left shows author John Potter standing on the beach where I once observed a family holding a prayer ritual. The image on the right shows the caves on Ōdo Beach (photos by author). He heard Baba speaking those strange words again. To Kai she was “Baba”—“Grandma”—but when she wore her white robes, people called her yuta-sama: honourable spirit medium. 158 A potential yuta, an Okinawan spirit medium, becomes aware of her special abilities when she sees or hears the voice of a god or an ancestor (Allen 2002: 145). Then, if she wishes, she may choose a vocation as a spirit medium or a performer of rituals. “Those are shimauta, my boy—island songs.” (Jiji) Shimauta, meaning “island songs,” once referred to early 20th-century Okinawan songs derived or updated from traditional minyō, but since the 1990s the term has been used for Okinawan music in general (Rowlett 2011: 158). When five-year-old Kai hears his grandfather use this word, he confuses it (as many do) for the Okinawa-themed 1992 hit song of the same name by Japanese rock band The Boom. “We uchinanchu used to make sanshins all the time.” (Jiji) The sanshin is a 3-string plucked lute with a hard ebony neck and a snakeskin resonator (usually python skin imported from Southeast Asia), though synthetic skin is also common today due to the high cost and limited availability of python skin. Forerunner of the Japanese shamisen, it is assumed that the sanshin originates from the Chinese sanxian, also a plucked lute made of snakeskin, imported from China to Okinawa in the 14th century (Gillan 2012: 32). The kankara sanshin, literally meaning “sanshin from a can,” originates in post-war Okinawa and was typically assembled from scrapped U.S. military coffee cans and wire. Today, tourists in Okinawa can participate in workshops in which they can build their own kankara sanshin. “Play each string, one at a time: ai, shi, ko.” (Jiji) 159 Ai, shi, and ko are the names of the three open strings on the sanshin from lowest to highest in pitch. My lessons on the sanshin began with practicing a proper plectrum stroke to produce a full, resonant tone on these open strings. I was then instructed to sing “ai, shi, ko” while playing these notes respectively to achieve unison between instrument and voice. “Minyō means ‘songs of the people’—folk songs [...]. They are stories of Okinawa and its people—the uchinanchu.” (Jiji) Minyō is a term used for folk song across Japan. While mainland Japanese minyō may be fading in popularity, Okinawan minyō still attracts young listeners (Hughes 2008: 300; Takenaka 1975: 46; Thompson 2008: 321). In Okinawa, minyō is a living tradition, performed and popularized by young musicians, and thriving in its traditional form, in modernized forms, and in fusions with other genres (Hughes 2008: 300; Thompson 2008: 321; Rowlett 2011: 157). David Hughes posits that one reason for the popularity of Okinawan minyō in Japan today is the prominent use of a major mode, sometimes referred to as the “Okinawan scale,” a pentatonic scale consisting of scale degrees 1, 3, 4, 5, and 7. Unlike the minor modes found in mainland minyō, the Okinawan scale is more consistent with the “Western” sound of popular music today (Hughes 2008: 300). Okinawan music thus sounds more familiar to listeners outside Japan and facilitates collaborations between foreign and Okinawan musicians (ibid.). Namiki Koichi adds that the popularity of Kadekaru Rinshō proves that Okinawan minyō can be appreciated even by people who do not understand the Okinawan language (Namiki 2016; cf. Takenaka 1975: 53). Another reason for the popularity of Okinawan music, according to Robin Thompson, is the ease in which new learners can access lessons, whereas traditional music in mainland Japan is 160 taught through the often rigid and costly iemoto system, a hierarchical structure consisting of a master teacher and disciples (Thompson 2008: 321). “There was once a great war here in Okinawa—especially here in the south.” (Jiji) The Battle of Okinawa, the final battle of World War II, took place from March to June 1945. Known by Okinawans as “The Typhoon of Steel,” the battle killed approximately 140,000 Okinawans, almost a third of Okinawa’s population at the time (Ota 2000: 5–7; Mitchell 2020: 56). The Japanese military saw Okinawa as expendable and used it as a buffer to prevent battle from reaching mainland Japan (Kerr 2000: 10, 463; Ota 2000: 7–9). Jon Mitchell (2020) gives numerous examples of how Okinawa and its surrounding seas became a veritable dumping ground for expired military machinery and chemical weapons from both the U.S. and Japan. Top-secret U.S. documents declassified in the late 1990s also reveal that the U.S. stored nuclear weapons on Okinawa from 1954 until 1972 (Mitchell 2020: 66–71). 161 Chapter 1: Taisho Ward, Osaka, Japan, 2015 Kinjō Kaoru (b. 1953), an important figure in Osaka’s Okinawan community, is a main character in Chapter 1. I interviewed him in 2016 at the Kansai Okinawa Bunko (http://okinawabunko.com/), an Okinawan cultural center, library, and archives in Osaka where he worked. Kinjō is an expert on the history of the Okinawan community in Osaka, and he started an eisa (traditional Okinawan drum and dance) group in Osaka in 1975 to promote local pride in Okinawa identity and culture. The newspaper interview with him in the story is fictional, as is the publication “Okinawa Weekly,” but Kinjō has discussed the history, life, and struggles of Okinawans in Osaka in several newspaper articles (see Furuichi 2022) and in my interview with him. “Japan handed Okinawa over to US administration as part of war reparations, and America expanded its bases on Okinawa. [...] US and Japanese bases now take up 10 percent of the land mass of our small island, and Okinawa hosts 70 percent of all U.S. military bases in Japan, despite the fact that Okinawa only accounts for 0.6 percent of Japan’s total land mass.” (Kinjō Kaoru) Statistics from Okinawa Prefectural Government 2016. “HAIL TO THE EMPEROR!” There are several right-wing groups (uyoku dantai) in Japan that cruise urban areas in large, black “propaganda vehicles” (gaisensha), provoking the public with their message of 162 emperor-worship, which hearkens back to the authoritarian and nationalistic ideology of Japan’s military government leading up to and during World War II (Wakisaka 2004: 2–3). “‘The Okinawa Problem’ is a catchphrase used by Japan and the U.S. to deflect blame for the myriad of problems they’ve created in Okinawa through their colonialist agendas.” (Kinjō Kaoru) “The Okinawa Problem” refers to a myriad of problems regarding post-war Okinawa, including the presence of U.S. military and its bases and weaponry; Okinawan people’s rights vis-à-vis Japan and America’s perception and treatment of them; environmental issues connected to base expansion and handling of toxic chemicals (see Mitchell 2020); and more. Masahide Ota gives an excellent overview of “The Okinawa Problem” in his book Essays on Okinawan Problems (2000). Kinjō asserts that “The Okinawa Problem” should be more correctly stated as “The Japan Problem,” suggesting that the nation needs to do more to address the problems in Okinawa (personal communication, 2016). “From rule by China to rule by Japan. From rule by Japan to rule by America. How astonishing the changes in this Okinawa of ours!” This is a verse from Kadekaru’s trademark song “Jidai no Nagare” (“The Changing of the Times”), translated by Robin Thompson in the liner notes to the CD Folk Songs of Okinawa (JVC VICG-5360). The lyrics cited above outline the history of foreign rule of Okinawa. This portion of this chapter in which Kinjō introduces the music of Kadekaru to Kai is fictional and is not based on my actual interview with Kinjō—I took creative license here to inform the protagonist about Kadekaru. 163 “He moved here when he was 16—I guess around 1936—to find work. A lot of people did back in those days. The sugar cane industry in Okinawa crashed and that caused a massive migration to Osaka.” (Kinjō Kaoru) A crash in global sugar prices in 1921 had a severe impact on Okinawa’s economy (with sugar cane as its main industry), prompting mass emigration from the island to mainland Japan and overseas. The population of Okinawans in Osaka rose from about 1,000 in 1920 to over 18,000 in 1930. They labored for low pay and suffered discrimination from mainland Japanese. Job postings commonly included a notice that Koreans and Okinawans need not apply (Dower 2000: 159). Inside was a section titled “A Chronology of the Life of Kadekaru Rinshō.” Kohama Tsukasa’s life chronology of Kadekaru appears in the liner notes of the CD Fūkyōkajin: The Best of Rinshō Kadekaru (2000, VICG-60265, Victor Entertainment Inc.). I’ve translated the name of this CD (風狂歌⼈人, Fūkyōkajin) in the story as The Sublime Poet. Kohama’s chronology also appears in the liner notes of the CD Jirū: Rare Tracks of Rinshō Kadekaru (2000, VICG-60283 Victor Entertainment Inc.), and on the website that documents Kadekaru’s Kudakajima Island concert of 1996, Okinawa no Tamashi no Yukue [Whereabouts of the Okinawan Spirit] (Chinen 2005). Kohama compiled his chronology from secondary sources (including Takenaka 1975) and the author’s interviews with Kadekaru and others (Kohama, personal communication, 2016). The original chronology is given in Japanese, and the translations of excerpts are my own. Excerpts that appear in the story are abridged from the original, which can be viewed at the website <https://www.inplace.jp/okinawa/>. 164 1934 Age 14. Sent to apprentice at a local shop, cooking, cleaning, making deliveries and doing various tasks. “It was extremely gruelling,” he would recall. Earned 3.5 yen per month. This is an entry in Kohama’s chronology (in Chinen 2005) that appears to be adapted from Takenaka Rō’s earlier biographical account (1975), due its similarity in content. Takenaka quotes Kadekaru in his account: “At the age of eleven, I was sent out to work, which was not uncommon in Okinawan farming families. I graduated from ordinary school after three years.” Working as a helper in a small shop (starting with a monthly salary of three yen and fifty sen, then serving as a farmhand for many years with a daily wage of forty sen, the labor was hard. “It was tough, I tell you, with blood in my stool every day.” (Takenaka 1975: 229) Kohama also writes Kadekaru’s wages in as “three yen and fifty sen,” which I simplified to “3.5 yen” in the story. 1936 Age 16. “Secretly borrowing” money from his parents that they had acquired from the sale of a cow, boards the ship Ukishimamaru to Osaka (10 yen one-way) with only the clothes on his back and his sanshin. Lived in Northern Taisho Ward and worked at relatives’ sawmill delivering firewood to various businesses. According to Takenaka, Kadekaru worked at the sawmill until he was called home for military inspection. “Before I knew it, I had saved up 500 yen,” Kadekaru told Takenaka. “I returned home in high spirits. My father danced with joy, exclaiming, ‘My son Jirū, you’ve earned a lot of money! 500 yen!’ He boasted to relatives and acquaintances, ‘Thanks to him, we were able to pay off all the debts, and we even managed to buy back the field that had been sold off.’ It was a way to make up for my filial impiety” (Takenaka 1975: 230). 165 1939 Age 19. Returns to Okinawa for physical examination for military conscription. Enlisted in Oita Prefecture Army Corps 46. This is an entry in Kohama’s chronology (in Chinen 2005). I was not able to find information on this regiment at the military archives of Japan’s National Institute for Defense Studies. As I explained in a footnote in the introduction, staff at the military archives of Japan’s National Institute for Defense Studies in Japan explained that practically all official documents were destroyed during or after the war. Dower adds that Japanese military, bureaucratic, and corporate offices burned documents in bonfires across Tokyo at the close of the war to destroy evidence of wartime activities (Dower 2000: 233). 1941 Age 21. Time in standing reserves expires. Applies as migrant worker to the South Seas Development Company. This is an entry in Kohama’s chronology (in Chinen 2005). Takenaka (1975) wrote that in 1941, Kadekaru was discharged from the military. He became a “southern immigrant” and wandered through the Pacific Islands of Saipan, Tinian, Kwajalein, Pagan, Aguijan, and Guam. He worked for a sugar cane company (unidentified), as a dockworker, and in other manual labor. Persuaded by a “bad man,” he ran a brothel and ended up penniless. When the Pacific War broke out, he was conscripted again and forced to work in airfield construction (Takenaka 1975: 234). Kadekaru spoke of his experience as a migrant worker in the Pacific Islands in a conversation with Ōshiro Misako in the 1995 film Kadekaru Rinshō: Uta to katari [Kadekaru Rinshō: Songs and Stories] (Takamine 1995). Kadekaru and Ōshiro spoke in Okinawan, and the film contains Japanese subtitles, which I’ve translated below. 166 Ōshiro: Did Okinawan people do mōashibi in the Pacific Islands? Kadekaru: No way. We were too busy with the sugar canes. O: People didn’t get together? K: Nah, we were busy, and it was hot. O: But at night? K: We would get together, but we had to work the next day, so... But I loved the sanshin, so I always kept playing. We could take holidays when we were sick, and though we were expected to rest, I would play the sanshin and would get in trouble [by the immigration patrol]. “You lied!” they would say. But I worked hard, otherwise. I worked hard, but no matter how hard one worked, the pay was the same. As long as we had enough to eat, though, we were okay. And we’d lose our sense of purpose. As long as you made enough to eat, you didn’t have to try so hard. The first year, we’d send lots of money home; the second year, maybe half that; and by the third year, we wouldn’t send anything. So, in a way I was glad we lost the war. I could return to Okinawa. If we hadn’t lost, I might still be there. No one came home from there rich. The only souvenirs we brought back were the clothes on our back. 1944 Age 24. War situation worsens. Sent to Kosrae Island as military trainer, shot, taken as POW. Admitted to field hospital, teeters on brink of death. Weight drops rapidly from 70 to 40 kg. South Sea Islands fall into bloody battleground. Files death report, resolving never to set foot on Japanese soil again. This entry in Kohama’s chronology (in Chinen 2005) states that Kadekaru was taken as a prisoner of war after being shot, but there is no record of a battle taking place on Kosrae (Kusai in Japanese). I asked Kohama about this discrepancy in an interview in 2016, and he explained that this account of Kadekaru was an error. The confusion appears to arise from a muddling of two separate events recorded in Takenaka 1975. In the first event, Takenaka writes that Kadekaru had been wandering around the Pacific Islands in 1941 after being discharged from the military. He was conscripted when the Great East Asia War broke out and forced to participate in the construction of an airfield. He was later injured from a gunshot to the thigh while stationed at a defense outpost on Kosrae. “I wasn't such a great soldier,” said Kadekaru to Takenaka, “when I 167 was hit by a bullet, I was just urinating by the riverbank. Nothing to brag about, really” (Takenaka 1975: 234). In the second event, Takenaka wrote that in 1943, Kadekaru was conscripted and dispatched to Kosrae, which eventually surrendered unconditionally. Suffering from malnutrition and a state of confusion or unconsciousness, Kadekaru was taken prisoner and transported by helicopter to an American military base. Although he was in critical condition, he miraculously survived. When he arrived at the prison camp, he recounts, “I thought I was going to die, my face and stomach swollen like a gourd” (Takenaka 1975: 256). When his day of repatriation arrived, Kadekaru decided to return to Kosrae to live with his wife Irene (“アイリン” or airin in Takenaka)15 and asked Lieutenant Natsu of his unit to forge a death notice to be sent home to Okinawa. Kadekaru changed his name by combining his childhood nickname Jirū with Rinshō to become Rinshō Jirū. Missing Okinawa, however, he eventually boarded a ship (date unknown) and returned to Japan (ibid.: 256). Kadekaru’s son Rinji stated that his father talked about losing weight (specifically, that he was 74 kg when he was dispatched and 38 kg when he returned), but regarding his status as a POW, Rinji stated, “I’d heard he was taken as a POW in Saipan, but I didn’t hear that from him directly” (personal communication, 2019). 1946. Age 26. En route to buy black market goods for resale, sees banner through train window advertising an Okinawa theater troupe. Gets off train and joins troupe. 15 As to what became of his wife Irene in Kosrae, I have not been able to find any information. Kadekaru married again and fathered two sons. 168 The name of the troupe was Okuma Eigoro Ichiza (Kohama in Chinen 2005), and Kadekaru sang as a chorus member for various theater troupes (Kitanaka and Teruya 2000: 93). 1949. Age 29. Returns home to Okinawa in spring. Believing her son had died, his mother loses her sanity for a few days. [...] Finds job as a horse-drawn cart driver. This is from Kohama’s chronology (in Chinen 2005), and Kadekaru Rinji added that his grandmother thought she had seen a ghost and fainted (personal communication, 2019). Kohama (in Chinen 2005) gives the date of 1949 for Kadekaru’s return to Okinawa, which appears to be correct, but according to Takenaka, “In November 1946, he finally made his way home to Koza. He suddenly appeared in the yard with his tall, thin figure. His first words upon returning were, ‘Mother, I’m home!’ His mother, who had thought him dead, was utterly shocked! ‘Jirū, you’ve come back!’ she exclaimed, and, not knowing her hands from her feet, she began dancing a kachaashii [traditional Okinawan dance]” (Takenaka 1975: 257). The date of 1946 in Takenaka (1975) is likely an error. In an interesting anecdote that refers to both Kadekaru’s brush with death and his postwar employment, musician and contemporary of Kadekaru, Teruya Rinsuke, recalled in a Japan Record Collector magazine interview that “He was a very strong-willed person. I remember seeing him hit the horse with the cart’s reins. He would shout, ‘You idiot, can’t you hear what I’m saying?’ The time was tough, and food was scarce, so the hungry horse wouldn’t budge, no matter how much he struck it. Because of this, people in the village used to say he was a munō amowannū: a person who doesn’t think—uncivilized—and they were afraid of him. When he got drunk, he would often shout loudly, ‘I’ve already died once before!’ I remember that well” (Kitanaka and Teruya 2000: 93). 169 Chapter 2: Ōdo Beach, Okinawa, 2015 In Chapter 2, the fictional character Mitch first appears. Mitch’s character is based on my friend Chinen Mitsuji who lives in Naha, Okinawa. All the locations Kai visits with Mitch in the novel are based on my experiences of travelling around Okinawa with Chinen, whose help has been invaluable to me since I began my research into Kadekaru in 2012. Chinen was one of the producers of the 1996 Kadekaru-Kondō joint concert on Kudaka Island, and producer of the CD that resulted from that concert, Kadekaru Rinshō Okinawa no Tamashi no Yukue [Kadekaru Rinshō: Whereabouts of the Okinawan Spirit]. Chinen also created a website of the same name that documents the concert and CD (Chinen 2005). Mitch’s “Jungle Car” from the story was Chinen’s actual car for several years, and he made it to compensate for the car’s air conditioning breaking down. It made the news across Okinawan and Japan, and even as far as Italy. Figure 3 shows a picture of Chinen “watering the car.” Chinen wrote two children’s picture books based on the car, and I helped him shop for a publisher in North America, sending them cover letters and samples. The book was never picked up by a western publisher, but I was glad to have a chance to reciprocate, in a small way, for all the help that Chinen had given me in my Okinawa travel and research. Figure 3: Chinen Mitsuji and his “Jungle Car” in 2016 (photo by author). 170 In this chapter, Kai also meets Bise Yoshikatsu (b. 1940; see Figure 4), largely known by his nickname, Bisekatsu. He is owner of Campus Records (opened in 1971) in Okinawa City, a record producer, and owner of the independent label B/C Record, which specializes in Okinawan traditional music. B/C Record produced the album My Sweet Home Koza by Kadekaru Rinji (son of Kadekaru Rinshō) in 1998 (catalog number BCD-1). Bisekatsu is highly knowledgeable of Okinawan history and music and regularly hosts and speaks at educational events. In 2012, he opened Ongaku Mura [Music Village] in Koza (Okinawa City), an archive of records, CDs, posters, literature, and other resources on Okinawan music and history, where guests can drop in freely and talk with Bisekatsu and conduct research (visit the homepage at <http://ongakumura.okinawa/>). Kai’s visit to Campus Records is based on my first visit there in 2012. I interviewed Bisekatsu on that occasion and again in 2016. Bisekatu’s daughter Bise Makiko is an Okinawan music producer and helps run the store. She appears in the story as the clerk at Campus Records. Figure 4: Bisekatsu (Bise Yoshikatsu) and the author at Campus Records in 2012 (photo by author). Mental health is a theme in this story due to Kadekaru’s war-related trauma. The protagonist Kai suffers from depression after the loss of his grandfather, Jiji, and after his visit to 171 the Himeyuri Museum, where he learns of the atrocities suffered by schoolgirls who were dispatched by the Japanese military to assist with the war effort during the Battle of Okinawa. Regarding the lingering traumatic impact of the war and on Okinawan people, Matthew Allen states: The Battle of Okinawa was one of the most brutal and destructive confrontations of the Pacific War. Okinawans’ memories of this event are strongly linked not only with the fear and panic of being military targets, and the abject despair engendered by the fighting, but also the importance of appropriately dealing with the dead from the battle (between one-quarter and one-third of all Okinawans died in the hostilities). After initial trauma, anxiety and depression became common among Okinawans in the aftermath of the war, compounded by their inability to physically inter the dead. Literally stateless, abandoned by Japan, and under the control of a foreign military government, Okinawans faced a bleak and uncertain future. Indeed, the U.S. occupation authorities recognized that psychological problems would need considerable attention. (Allen 2002: 144) My interviewees spoke of Kadekaru’s trauma, and his son Rinji stated that he might have suffered (undiagnosed) from PTSD, which sometimes led to random and aggressive outbursts toward U.S. soldiers he would encounter in Koza (Okinawa City). Rinji stated, “He was somewhat disturbed. So, when he drank, he would remember the past and feel irritated and stressed. This caused him to act out aggressively. [...] Most of the time, he became cheerful when he drank, but only sometimes he became aggressive. [...] He didn’t talk much. He was pretty quiet. When he was drinking, he would talk a lot, but normally he was a very quiet person. Even when he laughed, it was very soft.” Rinji added that his father’s military training made him very physically sensitive, and that he was startled easily, so Rinji always tried to be quiet so as not to startle him (personal communication, 2019). Takenaka wrote that Kadekaru underwent thorough punishment and discipline (presumably by his superiors—Takenaka does not state) as a form of initiation into Oita 172 Prefecture’s 46th Regiment. Due to his lack of assertiveness and eloquence of speaking, common traits among Okinawan soldiers at the time, Kadekaru was subjected to relentless slaps and beatings with army boots. Takenaka quotes Kadekaru, “If you don’t hit your comrades, they would say, you won’t win the war” (Takenaka 1975: 230–31). Interviewees also said that Kadekaru’s trauma influenced his musical style, as Ōshiro Misako expressed succinctly, “He sang with heart. I guess he thought of hard times when he sang, and the music just came out that way. He’d had many painful life experiences that had a profound effect on his music” (personal communication, 2012). Teruya Rinsuke describes his war experiences as “the background to his music” (Kitanaka and Teruya 2000: 94). Kadekaru Rinji also stated that “his experiences were reflected in his music because he felt lonely, sad, and afraid” (personal communication, 2019). At age 16, Kadekaru joined the wave of migrants who left Okinawa to settle and work in Osaka, where they were discriminated against by mainland Japanese. After the war, Kadekaru (like most Okinawans) was unable to return to the war-ravaged Okinawa. When he finally did return, Kadekaru would have discovered that his family home and neighborhood had been subsumed into the U.S. Kadena air base, and Kadekaru’s son Rinji said that this was probably a traumatic experience for him, though his father generally did not speak about his war experiences (personal communication, 2019). Takenaka confirms, “Nakahara, where Kadekaru Rinshō was born, is now directly under the runway of Kadena Air Base, and every single house has been destroyed” (Takenaka 1975: 228). Indeed, many Okinawans returned home after the war to find their homes and land taken up by U.S. military bases (Mitchell 2020: 58). In his song “Okuyama nu Hana” [“Flower of Okuyama”], Kinjō Rikushō reflects on his hometown village, now submerged beneath a U.S. military dam (Takenaka 1975: 86). Discrimination, displacement, and 173 relocation negatively affect the mental health of young Okinawans today, who, like Kai in the story, leave Okinawa to seek employment, which is difficult to find and keep (Allen 2002: 143). “Straighten your back, Kai. Don’t slouch. Remember to sing from your belly, not your throat. Pluck through the string, not on it. Push down, not across.” Jiji would explain the meaning of song lyrics, in turn teaching Kai the Okinawan language. (Jiji) Jiji’s instruction to Kai is based on my own beginner sanshin lessons with two different teachers. The term “Okinawan language” is sometimes used instead of “Okinawan dialect,” by people who feel the language is too far disconnected from standard Japanese to be considered a variation of it (cf. Gillan 2012: 57). “Dialect” also suggests a closer cultural and historical connection to Japan, whereas the notion of Okinawan as a distinct language suggests a cultural group independent from Japan (Shimoji 2010: 1). Takenaka Rō, who produced concerts and recordings for Kadekaru and composed liner notes for several Kadekaru albums, doubted the value of translating Okinawan songs into Japanese, believing that the unique rhythms and musical inflections of the Okinawan language defied translation into written language (Takenaka Rō 1975: 211). He also asserted that Okinawan songs “clearly exist outside the realm of Yamato culture, and in the world of music alone, it’s crucial to understand that the Ryūkyū Republic is independent from the Japanese archipelago. That is the world of Kadekaru Rinshō” (ibid.: 233). It was Kadekaru Rinshō’s self-titled debut LP, catalog number F-8 on the Marufuku Records label. The date read 1966. [...] The jacket was black with a ghostly white outline of 174 Kadekaru’s face—eyes closed and mouth open slightly. He appeared to be singing, but he could just as easily have been meditating. The jacket of this album is shown in Figure 5. My first impression of this album art was that it expressed a sense of mystique about Kadekaru. The full album can be heard at the following YouTube link: <https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vVSO6feUQNw&t=1s>. Figure 5: Jacket of Kadekaru’s debut album Kadekaru Rinshō (1966, Marufuku Records F-8; photo by author). Kadekaru’s vocal emerged effortlessly over the humble sanshin intro. That voice, thought Kai. It flows freely from the deepest bottom of his soul. Pure—alive! This excerpt is derived from the words of Aragaki Mutsumi, Okinawan musician and sanshin and vocal teacher. When I asked her to describe Kadekaru’s sound, she replied, To the fullest, from the purest and the deepest bottom of his soul, flow with the free vibes is what came to my mind when I think about him. And of course also his highly sophisticated trained techniques. I can surely tell you as an Okinawan vocal instructor that he literally uses his body from the deepest bottom. I do love his way of playing and singing like free jazz, flow with the vibes, in the form of Okinawan music. His music is definitely alive like a creature! (Aragaki, personal communication, 2019; original in English) I find Aragaki’s comparison to free jazz interesting, considering Kadekaru’s tendency to improvise (cf. Takenaka 1974: 3, 247–49). Jazz trumpeter Kondō Toshinori, who collaborated 175 with Kadekaru in the 1996 Kudaka Island concert, stated that he was playing free jazz in the days when he first heard Kadekaru. “When I heard his voice, that tone,” he said, “it just blew me away.” Similar to Aragaki’s description, Kondō also said, “His sound just drifted like the air—naturally” (personal communication, 2016), echoing Takenaka Rō’s description of Kadekaru in 1975: “He buries his emotions deep within his heart and sings like the wind, like the water—carefree yet filled with sorrow” (Takenaka 1975: 209). “His rhythmically flexible vocal style makes it impossible to determine when he takes a breath” (ibid.: 226). Takenaka wrote that Kadekaru’s improvisation is “like a spring of improvisation, where the lyrics flow out ad-lib. [...] The improvisational prowess of Kadekaru Rinshō is underpinned by a profound knowledge of ancient Ryūkyūan songs. He skillfully reimagines these renowned phrases into expressions that resonate with the common people [..] with words rolling off the tongue, freely and effortlessly” (1975: 247–49). Kai recalled a story he once read about the 19th-century novelist Guy du Maupassant, who so detested the Eiffel Tower that he ate lunch under it every day as it was the only location in Paris from which he couldn’t see it. Zarevich 2023: “The Artists Who Hated the Eiffel Tower.” Kai noticed a group of rosy-cheeked boys with crew cuts sitting at the counter—American soldiers from the nearby Kadena Airbase. They couldn’t have been more than nineteen years old. “That was delicious,” said one of the boys as he passed his tray to the server. “Thank you,” said the others in turn, practicing their bows. Kai was impressed with their manners. They’re not so bad, he thought. Heck, they’re just kids. 176 This account is based on my own experience of seeing some young soldiers having lunch at a diner in Okinawa City (formerly Koza) near the Kadena Airbase. I was impressed with their manners, and I recalled being told that soldiers are educated on local customs and culture. Cultural awareness classes and workshops are also offered to soldiers (see for example <https://www.okinawa.usmc-mccs.org/marine-family-support/military-family-life/cultural-awareness-and-adaptation>, accessed 3 January 2024). “I was so awestruck that I listened for two hours straight. [...] I wasn’t particularly interested in minyō then, but Kadekaru had this power to draw people in, whether they liked minyō or not.” (Bisekatsu) Bisekatsu’s profound reaction to Kadekaru upon first hearing him sing is like my own, and as I would come to discover, that of several of my interviewees. Ōshiro Misako said, “When I was a child, we had a community cable radio broadcast that used to play a lot of minyō. One day, I heard a peculiar voice, and I was so taken aback that my body started quivering. It wouldn’t stop. What’s happening? I thought. Who is this? They announced that it was Kadekaru Rinshō. From then on, listening to him was more important to me than eating. I followed him since that day” (personal communication, 2012). Uehara Naohiko, radio host and producer at Ryūkyū Broadcasting Company, author, and friend and collaborator of Kadekaru Rinshō, said of the singer, “When you are one who lives for music, others who feel your emotion will be attracted to you” (personal communication, 2016). The period in which Bisekatsu first saw Kadekaru perform was described by Teruya Rinken as (possibly) Kadekaru’s “peak,” which is a surprising statement given that Kadekaru’s 177 performance at the market in Koza came well before he had recorded or gained his later fame. Teruya said, During the sales period at the market in Okinawa City (Koza), Kaderu was hired to attract people. He set up a small booth at the entrance and would sit there, singing alone from morning until evening. It became so popular that every year, the market would ask him to come back. People would say, “It’s better than playing records, because only Kaderu Rinshō knows so many folk songs.” He would sing song after song without stopping. While singing, he would mix in lyrics from different songs and change the tunes in the middle, creating a kind of variation. Since he was singing all day, he would sing standing, sitting, crouching, or even lying down. When he changed his posture, normally, you would stop playing, but it was more like a circus performer—he played continuously without a break, almost like it was seamless. (Kitanaka and Teruya 2000: 93) “Seijin said he was ‘the last minyō singer.’ What he meant is that Kadekaru was from that generation that improvised, played freely. That is the essence of minyō. His generation was also the first to record, and even if they improvised in the studio, what they recorded subsequently became canon, and this canon was further cemented into sanshin notation. The following generations just repeated those forms as custom, but that’s not what the music was like originally. It was much freer. This comes out of the tradition of mōashibi, you see. When you were entertaining people in the fields all night, you would play much more freely. And sometimes you would just make things up to fill the time.” (Bisekatsu) Bisekatsu is quoting Noborikawa Seijin, minyō artist, collaborator, and friend of Kadekaru. Bisekatsu’s comments echo a view expressed by other interviewees (including Yohen Aiko, Ōshiro Misako, and Uehara Naohiko), that the older minyō artists were more authentic due to their tendency to improvise. “To his liking, he improvises lyrics over the sanshin,” wrote Takenaka Rō. “This is true island song, and none other than Kadekaru Rinshō can sing so freely” (Takenaka 1975: 209). Similarly, Teruya Rinsuke stated that his flexibility and improvisational 178 spirit were what made Kaderi Rinsho’s music, and Okinawan folk music in general, so special. He added that “nowadays, more people in Okinawa are learning fixed forms and styles under a teacher, but it is those who inherit this kind of free, flexible attitude who should be the ones to thrive in the future” (Kitanaka and Teruya 2000: 97). Ethnomusicologist Matt Gillan shows how the introduction of sanshin notation (kunkunshi) led to the standardization of Okinawan classical music repertories that were once performed with greater variation (Gillan 2012: 93; Gillan 2013: 388). He writes of the Nomura school performer and teacher Okuhama Shison, “Okuhuma belonged to a generation of performers who learned before the widespread introduction of the Serei kukunshī [a particular style of Okinawan music notation] and performed melodic variants that were somewhat different from the standardized versions performed by the modern Nomura-ryū [Nomura School]” (Gillan 2013: 388; notes and translation in brackets added). Gillan also observes that the rigid competition system in Okinawa played a role in the standardization of repertories, as standards were required to create a fair judging system (ibid.: 105–106). Bisekatsu and other interviewees explained that Kadekaru’s improvisatory style was developed in his years of playing at mōashibi parties, in which young people would gather in the fields at night after a long day of work and sing, dance, and socialize, often until morning. These gatherings presented opportunities for young men and women to find partners, preference given to young men who could outdo each other in wit, storytelling, song, and dance. In the mōashibi, men and women engaged in a game of antiphonal singing between the two groups, and the winners were those who could successfully improvise verses (often with sexual undertones) (Gillan 2010: 54). In the novel, I recount a story told to me by Ōshiro Misako about a particular incident with Kadekaru that resembles this improvisatory game played at mōashibi: 179 We were once recording for a radio broadcast, and he noticed a pregnant woman in the audience. Kadekaru started ad-libbing about the pregnant woman, and we went back and forth improvising on this theme. We did this kind of thing often. Now, most people ask a pregnant woman, “Is it a girl or a boy?” But in Okinawa we have many mixed races, so Kadekaru sang, “Will the baby be born black or white?” The director glared at us in panic, worried that I wouldn’t be able to respond to his joke and that the program would be rendered unfit to air. I was used to this kind of thing, though, and I sang, “We can’t know if it’s black or white before it’s born.” The director was relieved. (Ōshiro Misako, personal communication, 2016) Ōshiro stressed that Kadekaru’s tendency to improvise and change lyrics on a whim meant that only those who could keep up with him could perform with him (personal communication, 2012). On the other hand, a student of Kadekaru stated that it was difficult to learn from him because he would change his way of playing a song from week to week (anonymous, personal communication, 2016). Kadekaru speaks of his mōashibi experiences in a conversation with Ōshiro Misako in the 1995 film Kadekaru Rinshō: Uta to katari [Kadekaru Rinshō: Songs and Stories] (Go 1995): Ōshiro: Play me an old mōashibi song. You did a lot of mōashibi right? Kadekaru: Played so much I’m almost tired of it. O: You used to gather at night, right? K: Yes, the males and females would gather in the fields. [Misako laughs because Kadekaru refers to “males and females” here with the connotation of a mating ritual]. Playing the sanshin was a joke—you couldn’t hook up with anyone. You couldn’t even get in the game. It sucked. O: You were the only one left? K: Everyone would hook up with someone and run off to make out in the bushes. We were just watching them, helping them to hook up. We had to stay until the end, though. Even if the sun came up, we had to stay until the last person was gone. O: What about work the next day? K: Well, we had to work. This man is no mere mortal! (Bisekatsu) 180 Bisekatsu’s statement reflects the god-like status that Kadekaru has in the minyō world. A recurring sentiment expressed by interviews is that Kadekaru was unique and in a category of his own. Uehara Naohiko stated, “He was an exceptional individual. As such, he’s not somebody you can compare with others. He was unique” (personal communication, 2016). Lest my writing on Kadekaru seem hagiographic, I have not come across any accounts of Kadekaru that contain anything other than praise and admiration. His influence in the Okinawan musical world cannot be understated. In 2012, I interviewed a young, established minyō artist, Matsuda Kazutoshi (b. 1976), who is managed by Bisekatsu’s daughter, Makiko Bise. Matsuda stated, “In today’s minyō, everybody is influenced by Kadekaru. If a player today were to say he has never heard Kadekaru’s music and is therefore not influenced by him, he would be wrong. He is in fact most definitely influenced by him because his teacher was influenced by Kadekaru” (Matsuda, personal communication, 2012). “On the other hand, he had a more serious side to him, too,’ said Bisekatsu, pausing, ‘except when it came to finances.’” (Bisekatsu) I was surprised that despite Kadekaru’s popularity, he was of modest means and would come to Bisekatsu’s store to get money for pachinko (Japanese slot pinball). Ōshiro Misako explained that even famous Okinawan musicians are not paid enough to make a living and are not paid for recording (personal communication, 2012). Yohen Aiko confirmed that Okinawan musicians are not paid for recording and stated that Kadekaru might have fared better financially had he had a manager, though Okinawan musicians typically do not have one (personal communication, 2016). Before the reversion in 1972, contracts between labels and singers were all based on verbal agreements. While there was mutual trust between the singers and labels, 181 many popular singers recorded for multiple labels, which sometimes led to disputes between the labels. Among them, Kaderi Rinsho was the one who recorded for the most labels (Kitanaka and Teruya 2000: 94). “At that time, the use of dialect was banned altogether. Musical recordings in war time had to pass the military censors. If it contained dialect, it would not pass. That’s why some early recordings of Okinawan songs are sung in Japanese.” (Bisekatsu) Not included in the story, Bisekatsu mentioned “Gunjin-bushi” [“Soldier’s Song”], written by Fukuhara Chōki in 1933, as an example of a song that came under early military censorship. The honorific term for soldier, gunjin, was deemed unfit as a title for a popular Okinawan song, and Fukuhara changed the title but not the lyrics (Roberson 2020: 3–4). Okinawan language altogether, including song lyrics, was banned outright during the war. Even absent of Okinawan language, however, the use of Okinawan instruments and scales in minyō songs stood as clear markers of Okinawan identity (ibid.: 5). “Minyō is about individual expression.” (Bisekatsu) Ōshiro Misako told me that a minyō singer must find their own unique voice (personal communication, 2016). In the story, this becomes the protagonist Kai’s raison d’être. Williams and Ó Laoire point out the same principle in Irish sean-nós folk singing, in which “each individual is expected to make a song his or her own and to do it one’s own way” (Williams and Ó Laoire 2011: 55).). 182 Chapter 3: Naha City, Okinawa, 23 June 2015 Chapter 3 opens at a protest that took place at Onoyama Athletic Stadium in Naha on 19 June 2016, but in the story, it is set on 23 June, Okinawa Memorial Day, the day on which the Battle of Okinawa ended. Approximately 65,000 people attended this protest, held in the wake of a recent murder of a 20-year-old woman by a U.S. military base employee (Sumida and Sumida 2016; Johnston 2016). I attended the protest with Chinen Mitsuji (the inspiration for the character Mitch in the story). “Since the return of Okinawa to Japanese rule in 1972, the government has been promising to reduce the burden of hosting U.S. bases. Forty-three years later, the Prime Minister comes to Okinawa today, and—on this day of all days, Memorial Day, when we honor the victims of the Battle of Okinawa—he utters the same lie. He said, and I quote, ‘We will do our utmost to reduce the burden of hosting U.S. military bases.’” (speaker at protest) Abe Shinzo was the Prime Minister of Japan during the time of this protest (2016), but the above portion from the novel was adapted from events that took place during Prime Minister Kishida Fumio’s visit to Okinawa to attend a memorial service for war victims on Okinawa Memorial Day, 23 June 2022. Kishida stated during his visit that Japan would work to reduce the burden caused by U.S. military bases. His attendance was met by protestors who yelled for him to “go home,” and to “listen to the voices of Okinawan people” (Miyagi 2022). At the Naha protest in 2016, posters and fans with protest messages were distributed to attendees (see Figure 6). 183 Figure 6: Materials distributed to Naha protest attendees on 23 June 2016. The poster on the left reads, “Marines retreat.” The poster in the middle reads, “Enough is enough.” The fan on the right reads, “We will not forgive Prime Minister Abe” (photos by author). “I think that was absolutely stupid. For the price they paid to rent the car, they could have had a girl.” This was the response of Commander-in-Chief of U.S. Pacific Command, Admiral Richard Macke, whose use of “girl” implies “prostitute” (Eldridge 2020) As the protest ended, the black vans predictably appeared. “HAIL TO THE EMPEROR!” they shouted from the shelter of their paramilitary vehicles. Figure 7 shows photos I took of a right-wing “propaganda vehicle” (gaisensha) at the close of the protest on 19 June 2016 in Naha, Okinawa (discussed above). The photo on the left shows the van approaching as protest attendees wait to cross the street. The photos in the center and right show the van decorated with chrysanthemums and the “rising sun” flag, controversial symbols connected to emperor-worship and Japanese WWII-era militarism. The “rising sun” flag is particularly controversial in Japan and Asia, with some comparing it to the Nazi swastika, and efforts were made to have it banned from the 2020 Olympics in Japan (Illmer 2020). The message blaring from the van’s loudspeakers was that the protest was organized by left-wing communist and sympathizers, in league with China, to incite civil disorder in Okinawa. 184 Figure 7: Propaganda van appears at the close of the protest in Naha in 2016 (photos by author). “They get money from the same right-wing groups that run the country.” (Mitch) This statement refers to the ultra-conservative, nationalist lobby group Nippon Kaigi (“Japan Conference”), of which several Japanese Prime Ministers and other powerful political figures have been members. Abe Shinzo, Prime Minister of Japan in 2016 when the protest in Naha took place, was also a member of Nippon Kaigi along with 75% of his cabinet (Kim 2014; Tawara and Yamaguchi 2017). While it cannot be established that Nippon Kaigi directly funds particular right-wing groups (uyoku dantai) like the one that appeared at the Naha protest, it is known to support and foster grassroots right-wing organizations across Japan (Tawara 2017). A particularly controversial goal of Nippon Kaigi was to revise Japan’s pacificist Constitution that prohibited the nation from maintaining a standing army and waging war. Himeyuri Peace Museum and Monument The Himeyuri girls’ testmonies included in the story are abridged and reproduced from Himeyuri Peace Museum 2001. Their actual names are included as they appear in the original testimonies. One account mentions how Okinawans were killed by the Japanese military for speaking Okinawan, which was banned during wartime for fear that those who spoke it might be committing espionage (Mitchell 2020: 57; name tags were also used after the war according to 185 Takenaka 1975: 51). In addition to displaying survivors’ testimonies for visitors, the museum employs “guides” (setsumein) who interact daily with surviving witnesses to inherit their stories (Kamiyama and Imazu 2022: 28). For more information on the Himeyuri Museum, visit its homepage at <https://www.himeyuri.or.jp/en/>. Kai made out the shape of a small stone monument with an inscription, now illegible from years of weathering. Fresh flowers lay at its base. I saw this monument with flowers in a cave at Ōdo Beach, Okinawa, in 2012. “Sēfā Utaki,” said Mitch. Kai had never visited this sacred site, and Mitch thought it would do his spirits good. Utaki are sacred, natural sites in Okinawa where Okinawan gods and ancestors are worshipped. They often feature unique rock formations (Rots 2010), such as the enormous rock slab that leans against the stone escarpment at Sēfā Utaki, forming a tunnel through which visitors can walk (see Figure 8). From the promontory of Sēfā Utaki, one can see Kudaka Island (Figure 9), the most sacred place in Okinawa where, according to Okinawan belief, the deity Amamikiyo descended and created the islands of Okinawa. 186 Figure 8: Natural rock tunnel formation at Sēfā Utaki. At the end of the tunnel, where people are gathered, one can view Kudaka Island in the distance (photo by author). Figure 9: View of Kudaka Island from the promontory at Sēfā Utaki (photo by author). Kai had read all about Ōshiro Misako. People called her the Female Kadekaru. This term was likely popularized by Takenaka who wrote, “Ōshiro Misako was known as the ‘Female Kadekaru Rinshō’ or even ‘Okinawa’s Billy Holiday.’ She is a master of ‘jōuta’ [love or sentimental songs], and especially when paired with Kadekaru Rinshō, she demonstrates her true worth” (1975: 219). 187 Chapter 4: Naha City, Okinawa, 2015 Misako Ōshiro’s minyō bar, Shimaumui—Okinawan for “Island Heart”—was a short walk from the tourist strip in Naha City. Okinawan minyō legend Ōshiro Misako (1936–2021; see Figure 10) is introduced in Chapter 4. Ōshiro collaborated with Kadekaru Rinshō for most of her career and performed and recorded until she passed at the age of 84. I interviewed Ōshiro twice, once in 2012 and again in 2016, and I regularly visited her minyō bar Shimaumui, which I’ve translated in the story as “Island Dream” (the Okinawan/Japanese name 島思い translates literally to “island thought”). Shimaumui is a mecca for minyō fans, and Ōshiro would perform several sets every night with her apprentices who worked the bar and studied under her. One young male apprentice was a Kadekaru Rinshō fanatic who, according to Ōshiro, practiced hard to imitate his sound. I borrowed this trait for the character, Kai. Figure 10: The author (left) and Ōshiro Misako (right) at her minyō bar Shimaumui in Naha, Okinawa, 2016 (photo by author). Misako set two glasses down and poured them some awamori, Okinawa’s trademark distilled rice liquor, mixed down with water and ice. Misako poured herself a healthy glassful, too. 188 When I visited her bar, I was always amused when Ōshiro, a goddess of the minyō world, would pour drinks for me. I liken it to going into a bar in Canada and having Joni Mitchell pour beer for you from behind the bar. He’d had many painful life experiences that had a profound effect on his music. Nowadays, when I think about my own experience, I think this is also the case for me. When I sing, I get swept up in the imagery of the song, like I’m being carried off somewhere. (Ōshiro Misako) In Takenaka’s description of Ōshiro, “Her feeling is the blues—the sense of a port-town prostitute. To put it another way, she carries the depth of ‘love sickness, ‘love exhaustion,’ ‘awakening from love,’ and the like, riding on the ‘magic wind, sea breeze, love breeze...’” Takenaka cites Ozawa Shōichi, radio announcer and expert on Japanese folk arts, “Indeed, her songs have a seductive quality. It’s like a house bathed in morning sunlight, isn't it?” (Takenaka 1975: 219). “It’s hard for the untrained ear to detect. Because he had such a strong falsetto. About the same volume as his regular voice.” (Ōshiro Misako) Takenaka Rō stated that falsetto was “powerful” and “rustic,” and a feature of his singing that made him unique (Takenaka 1975: 216). “He knew a lot of dirty songs. But you see, he’d been singing since he was four. [...] He knew a many obscure songs that other singers didn’t know. That’s also what made him so interesting, though.” (Ōshiro Misako) 189 The song that Ōshiro refers to here is “Ashibi kendo bushi” [“Prefectural Office Road Play Song”], but this is a standard song in the minyō repertory that typically contains no obscene lyrics and it’s safe to presume that Kadekaru’s “dirty” version was an improvisation. Ōshiro Manabu confirms that Kadekaru sometimes sang obscene songs, though such songs are intrinsic to the minyō tradition (Ōshiro 1996: 71). “Kadekaru played for himself, not for others.” (Kai) “Kadekaru played for himself” was a recurring motif in my interviews with his circle (including Ōshiro, Uehara, and Yohen). Kadekaru did not play for the enjoyment of others, but rather for his own benefit. For this reason, Kadekaru does not fit comfortably in the framework cited in Okinawan music research of “inward-looking” (nai-muki) versus “outward looking” (gai-muki) styles of performance (Takahashi 2002: 17-18). An “inward-looking” style appeals to members of one’s own culture (i.e., in Okinawa and Okinawan communities worldwide), and “outward-looking” to an audience outside of one’s culture (i.e., to non-Okinawans worldwide). Kadekaru did not intentionally play in either style—he simply played how he always played. Even in film appearances, Kadekaru does not “act,” rather, he appears as himself, singing and playing in the background, as he does in Takamine Gō’s Paradise View (1985) and Untamagirū (1989). In Nakae Yūji’s Nabī no Koi (Nabbie’s Love) of 1995, Kadekaru’s character is listed as “elder” in the credits (though in Takamine’s prior films he is not given a character name), and his character’s wife “Misako” and his son are played by Ōshiro Misako and Kadekaru Rinji (his actual son) respectively. They mostly appear as background musical performers, though they also appear in another scene where Kadekaru as the “elder” recites a prayer before the family altar. In Thomas Stiller’s film of 1998, The Great-Grandson of the Man Who Drank a 190 Cow, Kadekaru plays himself again in the role of the “old musician” who is the bearer of tradition. The mere presentation of Kadekaru “as he is” in these films evokes in the viewer a sense of authenticity. As Takahashi observes, conveying “Okinawan-ness” is necessary for Okinawan music targeted at a nation-wide audience (Takahashi 2002: 18), and it follows that this also applies to film and other media. “To Kadekaru, everyone was a rival. He was very competitive,” said Misako. “It’s fine once you become his friend, but when you first meet him, he’s always competing with you, and glaring at you all the while!” (Ōshiro Misako) I found this statement by Ōshiro to contradict the notion expressed by many interviewees that Kadekaru just sang and played for himself and that he didn’t care about others’ perception of him. If he didn’t care, one might wonder why he was so competitive. I asked Ōshiro about this, and she confirmed what other interviewees said, that he played for his own benefit and not for others. Ōshiro said Kadekaru seemed oblivious to the audience when he played live. Yohen, on the other hand, said that he was always aware of the audience, even if he didn’t seem to be. Regardless, Kadekaru took pride in being “the best,” as Takenaka reported: “After finishing singing, there are times when he nods to himself, saying, ‘The best in the world!’ [Jōtō, sekaiichi!] [...] When tackling difficult songs, the declaration of ‘the best in the world’ bursts forth” (Takenaka 1975: 286). Takenaka adds that Kadekaru never uttered these words in his “drinking days” (ibid.). He just wouldn’t say no if he was asked,” said Misako. “Everyone wanted him. At that time, you just had to say the name Kadekaru and crowds would gather. (Ōshiro Misako) 191 Uehara (Chapter 6) stated the same: “At that time, you just had to mention the name Kadekaru and people would gather” (personal communication, 2016; cf. Kitanaka and Teruya 2000: 94–95). “Nowadays, people sing without heart. Of course, there are some people who sing well, but there are many who just copy the greats. It’s so sad. That’s not minyō, in my opinion. To sing authentically, you must respect the song. [...] In most cases, people sing half-heartedly. The older minyō singers—they sang earnestly.” (Ōshiro Misako) In Takamine Gō’s 1995 film Kadekaru Rinshō: Uta to katari [Kadekaru Rinshō: Songs and Stories], Ōshiro speaks with Kadekaru about her concern for the future of minyō: Ōshiro: In 300 years from now, what will happen to minyō? Kadekaru: I wonder. O: The lyrics will be the same but the sound might be different. K: Well, 300 years is a long time. O: Well, I worry. What will happen to minyō? It will change. K: Sure it will, but that’s OK. O: If it gets to that point, it won’t be able to return to its origins. K: The world turns, and turns, but it’s round so it always comes back to the start. But to think of 300 years from now... O: It’s fine for everything to be lively, but we also need compassionate songs. K: There’s nothing that can’t pass in Okinawa minyō. There’s not a single bad thing in Okinawan music. On the future of Okinawan song, singer and contemporary of Kadekaru, Teruya Rinsuke, stated that “fluidity” (or “flexibility”) in the tradition is necessary for its preservation and future success (Takenaka 1975: 38, Kitanaka and Teruya 2000: 97). “Yes, there were a lot of songs that expressed resentment about the war,” Misako agreed. “It had a huge influence on the music of the time. I was nine when the war ended. It was 192 terrifying—a painful, unspeakable experience. When I sing a song now, I think it’s the war that I remember.” (Ōshiro Misako) Ōshiro’s statement shows the impact of the war on Okinawan music (cf. Roberson 2009 and 2020 on songs inspired by war themes). She added, though, that “there are many dimensions to Okinawan minyō. There are also songs about letting go, joy, heartbreak, giving up, and moving on” (personal communication, 2012). Teruya Rinsuke expressed the same in Takenaka 1975: “[D]on’t adopt a sentimental view that Okinawan songs are solely about sorrow or the lament of a lost nation. There is both sorrow and joy; it’s the land of the sun, after all. There are songs that are both beautiful and sad, which can also be considered attributes of Okinawan performing arts” (Takenaka 1975: 55–56). “Cat skin,” said Misako. “I hate snakes!” (Ōshiro Misako) Ōshiro in fact uses a cat skin sanshin because she hates snakes (personal communication, 2016). Whereas the Okinawan sanshin resonator is traditionally made of snakeskin, cat skin is commonly used in the construction of the mainland Japanese shamisen. “This is my favorite song, ‘Kaisare.’” [...] Nervous at playing in front of a living legend, Kai felt as if he were watching himself from outside his own body. “Kaisare” [“Beauty”] is the first track from Kadekaru’s debut album and would have been the first Kadekaru song that Kai heard. Kai’s nervous performance in front of Ōshiro Misako at her minyō bar Shimaumui is based on my own experience. I was sitting at the bar in Misako’s minyō club one night in 2016 after having interviewed her a few hours earlier. A fellow patron urged me to sing a song, and Misako passed me her cat-skin sanshin from across the bar. I 193 obliged, but I was so nervous to sing in front of her that I fumbled the notes and the words a few too many times (the awamori rice liquor she was pouring might have played a role). Misako nodded after my performance and encouraged me to keep practicing. As she did to Kai in the story, Misako told me, “Even if you play just one song, play it often. That’s all it takes. Play your sanshin and it will answer you. Give it love and it will reciprocate.” “Nonsense,” she replied. “Minyō is for everyone. That’s why I don’t have a raised stage in here—it’s at floor level.” (Ōshiro Misako) Ōshiro’s statement here is from our interview, and reflects the essence of the word minyō, meaning “music of the people.” Indeed, the stage in her bar is at floor level, and customers are regularly invited to perform, regardless of their level of ability. 194 Chapter 5: Tokyo, 28 December 2020 Five years later than the previous chapter, Kai is 25 years old and has developed into a professional musician under the tutelage of Ōshiro Misako. In this chapter, Kai meets a former student of Kadekaru. This character is fictional, but his conversation with Kai after their altercation (which is fictional) in the minyō club is based on a conversation I had with an actual student of Kadekaru in 2016 (anonymous here by request). I was surprised to learn that Kadekaru had a student at all, as I had never heard anyone speak of Kadekaru as a teacher. The student was humble and self-deprecating, like the character in the novel. He described Kadekaru several times as a “god” but was otherwise hesitant to speak about Kadekaru, feeling inadequate to do so, and declined further interviews. He suggested that I speak to others more knowledgeable of Kadekaru, such as Ōshiro Misako. Jazz trumpeter Kondō Toshinori (1948-2020; see Figure 12) is also introduced in Chapter 5, and Kai’s discussion with him is based on my interview with Kondō in 2016 at his studio in Kawasaki. In addition to his collaboration with Kadekaru in the 1996 Kudaka Island concert, Kondō also appeared alongside Kadekaru in the 1998 English-language film The Great-Grandson of the Man Who Drank a Cow. Kondō stars in the film under his own name as a musician with a quest to find a “sacred melody,” which Kadekaru provides. While reviewers in Okinawa tended to forego critique and lavish their subjects with praise, John was known to be more balanced. Music reviewer John Potter explains the tendency of the media in Okinawa to avoid criticism in an entry of 7 July 2023 from his blog The Power of Okinawa: The media in Okinawa don’t really do criticism. When “reviewing” a new album or concert by any musician with roots in these islands there is a strong 195 tendency to avoid saying or writing anything at all that could possibly be construed as negative. The attitude of the local media seems to be that we are all islanders together and as such are part of one big family. Therefore, it’s necessary to support all musicians and performing artists equally, so don’t rock the boat with too much criticism. In fact, let’s not have any criticism. This means that any review becomes a public relations exercise in giving basic information rather than a chance to provide a balanced assessment of the work in question. (Potter 2023) Potter’s blog post is his reflection on a preceding Okinawa Times newspaper article (in Japanese) in which Ryūkyū Arts Embassy representative Tomita Megumi expresses the same concern and states that while the avoidance of criticism might promote camaraderie and support in the Okinawan music community, it has the adverse effect of stifling the progress that constructive criticism might otherwise generate (Tomita 2023). In conversations I’ve had with Potter, I gathered that Okinawan musicians (including Kina Shōkichi and Shimoji Satoru, for example) place stock in Potter’s reviews, particularly as they are read abroad and not only in Okinawa. For this reason, Kai values Potter’s reviews in the story. “Haisai Ojisan”—“Hey, Old Man!” This famous Okinawan song by Kina Shōkichi was parodied by Japanese comedian Shimura Ken who changed the lyrics to the similar sounding “henna ojisan,” meaning “strange” or “perverted old man.” Shimura’s accompanying choreography also mimics Okinawan traditional eisa dance. “Hai-Sai Ojisan” is often performed in Okinawan tourist bars and restaurants that feature live music, and on a few occasions, I have heard audience members sing the Shimura version along with the original being performed live. Readers can compare similarities among Kina Shōkichi’s “Haisai Ojisan,” Shimura Ken’s “Henna Ojisan,” and Okinawan eisa by viewing the following YouTube links. 196 Kina Shōkichi’s “Haisai Ojisan”: <https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=L5Ba86h3rUI>, accessed 2 January 2024. Shimura Ken’s “Henna Ojisan” (one of several episodes in the comedian’s series): <https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ifN1Is4kI9U>, accessed 2 January 2024. Okinawan eisa: <https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4_aW4nUJGNg>, accessed 2 January 2024. “When I was in my twenties,” said Kondō. “A friend lent me a cassette tape. At that time, I’d never even heard his name before. I was really surprised. What a voice! I thought. I was playing free jazz in those days. When I heard his voice, that tone, it just blew me away.” (Kondō Toshinori) Like other interviewees and I, Kondō states here that he also had an intense reaction upon first hearing Kadekaru and was drawn to him since. “He didn’t over-sing or over-play. His sound just drifted like the air—naturally. I don’t know if you call that traditional music, but it’s the music of that place and time,” he explained.” (Toshinori Kondō) When I asked interviewees to describe Kadekaru’s style, they tended not to refer to the sonic elements of his performance, but rather to an attitude or stance from which he approached music making. Kondō responded, for example, “He doesn’t have anything to prove. That’s his style. Some folk singers, they feel they must express themselves in the music. They try too hard. They sing and play like their lives depended on it. It just came naturally for him. He didn’t have to try” (personal communication, 2016). Kinjō Kaoru stated similarly, “He didn’t perform. It was 197 all about the song, not about him. The song was above him—he just sang it, simply and plainly. He didn’t bring a lot of effort or personal emotions into it. It’s like he wanted to say, ‘Isn’t this song great? I love it!’” (personal communication, 2016). Regarding the priority of the song over the performer, Ōshiro Misako stated, “to sing authentically, you must respect the song” (personal communication, 2016). “Kadekaru suppresses his emotions when he sings. The sadness sinks deep within the song” (Takenaka 1975: 211). “The piano was the straightjacket of the musical world.” (Kondō Toshinori) Kondō Toshinori expressed strong views on the history and development of music, and his words and actions in the novel are recorded precisely as they occurred in this thought-provoking interview with him. “So, we have the symbol for sound,” he said, grabbing Kai’s pen and circling ⾳音, “enclosed by the symbol for gate,” he continued, circling ⾨門. And, as you know, the symbol for gate is used to express enclosure. [...] You would think that to create the character for darkness, you would enclose the symbol for brightness,” said Kondō, writing 明 on the page, “rather than the symbol for sound.” But the people who invented these Chinese characters four thousand years ago, they decided to enclose the symbol for sound to express darkness. This is to suggest that when we can no longer hear, that is darkness. Even more than not seeing.” (Kondō Toshinori) Kondō explained this fascinating theory to me in our interview of 2016 (Figure 12), and Figure 11 shows a photograph of the notes he wrote on my interview sheet to illustrate his point. 198 Figure 11: Kondō Toshinori’s illustration of the Japanese kanji for “darkness” (闇) from our interview of 2016 (photo by author). Figure 12: Kondō Toshinori (left) and the author (right) in Kondō’s studio in 2016 (photo by author). 199 Chapter 6: Naha City, Okinawa, February 2021 Chapter 6 introduces Uehara Naohiko (b. 1938; see Figure 13), radio host and producer at Ryūkyū Broadcasting Company (RBC) in Naha, Okinawa, author, and long-time friend and collaborator of Kadekaru Rinshō. As recounted in the story, he toured in Japan and overseas with Kadekaru and assisted as concert MC and interpreter. His voice as MC can be heard on several Kadekaru live recordings. I interviewed Uehara in 2016 at RBC before the broadcast of the popular minyō program, which he created and produced, called Minyō de you haina bira [Celebrate Today with Minyō]. Uehara put me in contact with Yohen Aiko (b. 1945), owner of Nantahama minyō bar in Koza (Okinawa City), who I also interviewed in 2016. Yohen also appears as a character in this chapter. Figure 13: Uehara Naohiko (left) and the author (right) at Ryūkyū Broadcasting Company in Naha, Okinawa in 2016 (photo by author). “One thing is for certain: he couldn’t have lived without his sanshin. He would have been half a person without it. He couldn’t live a regular life, you see, as a member of society. He only knew his own road—he was that kind of person. Truly unique.” (Uehara Naohiko) All interviewees made similar statements that Kadekaru could not have lived without his sanshin and that he was saved by it. It helped him to deal with the trauma he suffered from his 200 war experience and from the discrimination he faced as an Okinawan. Ōshiro Misako stated, “He really was one who was saved by music. He could live because of music” (personal communication, 2016). When I asked Uehara about the connection between Kadekaru’s life and his musical expression, he answered, “To put it plainly, life can be hard as a poor person, right? It’s hard when you’re discriminated against. Music was a means of healing for him. He wouldn’t have survived if it weren’t for music. It was like that for most Okinawans.” Uehara suggests that music was a means of healing for Okinawan people. Roberson writes, “songs in Okinawa may be heard to constitute complex sites of cultural memory and resistance” (2020). “A song is not just a song. It makes you strong,” Uehara explained. “After the war, without music and art, songs and sanshins, you might say that Okinawan people would not have survived. Kadekaru didn’t just think of such things when he performed, you see. It’s more than that. He felt those things down to his bones. He lived them. From that place, Kadekaru sang minyō” (personal communication, 2016). Uehara also stated that music helped Kadekaru to survive the war: “On the battlefield, he sang to maintain self-discipline (personal communication, 2016; cf. Takenaka 1975: 230). Kondō Toshinori stated (in personal communication, 2016), “While stationed overseas during the war, he always carried the neck of his sanshin with him. Not the whole instrument, just the neck. It gave him comfort. He brought it back home with him, too. ‘It’s my most precious thing, Kondō,’ he said, showing it to me. It was made from ebony—very expensive. It was like a sword to a samurai”. Kondō might have been mistaken when he stated that Kadekaru only took the neck of the sanshin with him, as Kondō’s account is the only one I’m aware of that makes this claim, and Takenaka writes that there was a “refined samurai” among Kadekaru’s military superiors who “deeply appreciated” the sound of the sanshin, and that it was unprecedented to be granted 201 special permission to carry a sanshin, especially considering the military’s discriminatory attitude toward Okinawan soldiers (Takenaka 1975: 231). “What do you think makes him unique?” (Kai) “To put it simply, it was because he lived so free. [...] People your age take those times for granted. You know they existed, but you can’t know the feeling of living through them. He, on the other hand, did live through them. People are products of their environment, right? If you can’t grasp that, you can’t understand his way of singing, his way of expressing himself—his essence.” (Uehara Naohiko) Uehara stated repeatedly that Kadekaru was a product of his times, and that this was the key to understanding the inspiration behind his music (personal communication, 2016). Jazz trumpeter Kondō Toshinori also stated that Kadekaru’s music is “the music of that place and time” (personal communication, 2016). “You’re a strange one, if you ask me,” he scoffed. [...] “Of all the brilliant minyō singers, you follow Kadekaru. Ha!” he laughed. “When I heard that, I knew right then you were strange.” (Uehara Naohiko) Uehara said this about me in our interview of 2016, joking that I was a “strange foreigner” (henna gaijin) for focussing my research on Kadekaru. He added, though, that he appreciated my interest in Kadekaru. “At a press conference once in Osaka—I was doing a lot translating for him in those days—a reporter asked him, ‘Do you think if you sing in Okinawan here, anyone will understand 202 you?’ Kadekaru looked at him and answered, ‘If a singer from America or Europe came over here, would you ask them to sing in Japanese? I can’t sing a song in Japanese that wasn’t written in Japanese,’ he said. ‘So, don’t listen with your ears. Listen with your heart.’” (Uehara Naohiko) Kadekaru’s statement to listen with the heart rather than the ears is similar in sentiment to jazz trumpeter Kondō Toshinori’s statement (Chapter 5) that one must understand the beauty of Okinawan music through the body, not the mind. Kondō’s and Kadekaru’s similar view on Okinawan music might explain in part why these two musicians, from very different musical worlds, were able to collaborate and get along so well. Chinen Mitsuji said their relationship was like father and son (personal communication, 2016). “In the post-war era, a lot of people were ‘awoken’ by minyō,” Mr. Uehara explained. “It was a form of education for them. It was educated people later who went on to think about folk song, what it was and what it meant. And when they talk about uneducated people like Kadekaru, they tend to emphasize the good points and downplay the bad, don’t they? By what criteria can educated people decide whether Kadekaru is smart or foolish? He didn’t go to school, but that wasn’t his fault. It was the fault of the times. Poor people couldn’t go to school ninety years ago. If people could know his private life, they’d understand more about him. But they can only see the exterior. So, they collect bits and pieces and fabricate a story, connecting it to things Kadekaru said to lend it credence. Their analysis starts with, ‘Is this the case?’ and in time becomes, ‘this is the case.’ That’s how they get their results.” (Uehara Naohiko) 203 Uehara makes an important point here that writings on Kadekaru tend to emphasize his good points and avoid mention of anything that might seem negative. We are thus limited in our understanding of him, and we cannot know his private life. In turn, assumptions are made. Uehara also stated, “There are as many ways of seeing Kadekaru as there are people who knew him. Some would say he was a good person. Some would say he was bad. Some like his music, some don’t” (personal communication, 2016). In my research, however, I did not come across any overtly negative opinions about Kadekaru. “People attribute songs to Kadekaru that he himself never said he wrote. Whatever song he was singing, original or not, he would always just say, ‘It’s an old song,’ as if it had always existed. Even I wrote lyrics sometimes. I’d leave them out, and the next thing you know, Kadekaru would be on stage, improvising with my lyrics! And there were some dirty ones, too!” (Uehara Naohiko) This statement by Uehara suggests that beyond assumptions about Kadekaru’s character, assumptions are also made about the authorship of songs. Uehara gave the example of Kadekaru’s trademark song “Jidai No Nagare” [“Changing of the Times”] and the oft written story of how Kadekaru composed the lyrics using bits of conversation he overheard from a group of elderly ladies waiting for a bus (see for example Kohama 2009: 85). Uehara stated, however, that Kadekaru himself never claimed he wrote the lyrics, but it is generally assumed that he did, and this story has become part of the mythos of Kadekaru. 204 “I can see that,” said Kai. “It sounds like the kind of conversation some elderly ladies might have while waiting for a bus. ‘We used to know the old from the young by the patterns on their kimonos. Now they all dress the same.’” (Kai) Here, Kai quotes a verse from Kadekaru’s trademark song “Jidai no Nagare” [“Changing of the Times”]. Other verses compare young women to birds: In the past, a woman’s heart virtue was long hair, but now she cuts her hair short and perms it like a bird’s nest. / Walking awkwardly in high heels looks just like the way birds walk. / Wearing a ruffled tight skirt that emphasizes the hips looks like a turkey. The above is my translation of lyrics as they appear on the Okinawan song research website Taru no shimauta majime nu kenkyū [Taru’s Serious Island Song Research] (<https://taru.ti-da.net/e623725.html>, accessed 12 September 2023). Of the many recordings of this song by Kadekaru, however, no two versions are the same, and the lyrics are sung in a different order or with variations. “As for Kadekaru, he was actually a very shy person,” Mr. Uehara continued. “Of all the songs he sang, how many ended up on records and CDs? About a thousand, I guess? All committed to memory, too. Your teacher, Misako, was drawn to him for his vast knowledge of songs.” (Uehara Naohiko) This statement by Uehara is another testament to Kadekaru’s vast repertory, as interviewees all confirmed. Yohen Aiko also mentioned that he seemed to pull songs “out of nowhere” (personal communication, 2016). 205 “Do you think Kadekaru would have become a star on his own?” Kai asked. “To what extent did the efforts of others help to make him famous? I know the writer Takenaka Rō, for example, produced a lot of his concerts and helped to boost his popularity on the mainland.” (Kai) Takenaka Rō (1930-1991) was a Japanese writer and journalist who also produced several early albums of Kadekaru as well as concerts in mainland Japan, most notably the Ryūkyū Festival in Tokyo and Osaka in 1974 and 1975. The question cited above is from my interview with Uehara in 2016, and his response to it was that Takenaka Rō discovered Kadekaru only after he became well known (personal communication, 2016). Takenaka’s role in bringing Okinawan culture to Japan cannot be understated, however, as Uehara himself stated in a 2012 interview, “In my experience, there was no one as dedicated as Takenaka. He risked his life, fully committed, constantly advocating for ‘Okinawa! Okinawa!’” (Uehara in Takahashi 2012: 154; cf. Ōshiro Misako in Chūshin and Kohama 200: 66). Teruya Rinksuke cites Kadekaru’s Victor album release of 1974 Ryūkyū jōka-kyō [Verses of Okinawan Romantic Poetry] as the album that introduced Kadekaru to a nationwide audience (Kitanaka and Teruya 2000: 95), and this album was the brainchild of its producer, Takenaka Rō. Yohen Aiko believes, however, that Uehara did more than anyone to help Kadekaru in his rise to fame (personal communication, 2016). Both Uehara and Yohen stated that Kadekaru himself had no aspirations of fame, and Yohen added that he might not have become famous at all had others not propped him up (personal communication, 2016). As I discussed in the Introduction, Takenaka helped to popularize Kadekaru and Okinawan music and culture in mainland Japan (Ōno 2012: 90; Takahashi 2012: 154). In the Introduction, I also told the story of my first time hearing Kadekaru on a CD lent to me by a 206 friend. This friend, known as Mr. K, is an example of one who was reached by Takenaka’s writings. Mr. K was born in Japan in 1951, graduated from the prestigious Tokyo University in 1978, and then moved to Okinawa for two years to experience its cultural life first-hand. Mr. K explained to me in an email, Before I moved to Okinawa in 1978, I had been quite impressed by Shoukichi Kina and his band Champloose. After moving to Okinawa, as a matter of course, I got interested in the other Okinawan musicians. In the meantime, one of my Okinawan friends who was a good sanshin player taught me a bit about Kadekaru. And almost at the same time I happened to read several Takenaka’s books in which he wrote about Kadekaru. As you point out, Takenaka played a big role in creating my interest in Kadekaru. It is a nice and big surprise you refer to Takenaka. As far as I remember, he was the first and the only writer that introduced Kadekaru to Japan. (personal communication 2025, original in English) Given that Mr. K introduced me to Kadekaru Rinshō, one might suggest that Takenaka’s Rō’s influence reached beyond Japan and to an audience abroad as well. “How many years has it been open now? Fifty years? It was the first minyō bar of its kind, to be sure. Kadekaru had a regular gig there—not huge money, mind you. Maybe 3000 yen in today’s money. If Kadekaru got 3000 yen, he’d consider himself a rich man!” (Uehara Naohiko) Uehara was speaking here of Kadekaru’s regular gig at Yohen Aiko’s minyō bar Nantahama in Koza (Okinawa City). As I discussed earlier, Bisekatsu had commented that Kadekaru had a serious side to him, “except when it came to finances” (personal communication, 2016). Uehara also stated that Kadekaru “had no sense of money,” and that “he’d go wherever they paid.” Having arranged my interview with Yohen, Uehara said that she would be able to tell me about whether Kadekaru did “what it takes to be a proper member of society—paying taxes, 207 and such” (personal communication 2016). I did not raise these topics with Yohen, however, as I felt they were too personal, especially for a first meeting. Yohen did say, however, that Okinawan musicians are generally underpaid, regardless of their stature (personal communication 2016). “Kadekaru still gets the most requests, even though he died sixteen years ago. We don’t usually get requests for people who have passed. Only Kadekaru.” (Uehara Naohiko) Uehara’s statement here that Kadekaru is the most requested artist on his minyō radio program goes to show his immense and continued popularity in the minyō listening world. “Well, do you know Kina-sensei?” (Yohen Aiko) “Kina Shoei? Sure! He must be the fastest sanshin player ever!” (Kai) Yohen Aiko was a student of Okinawan minyō artist Kina Shoei (1920 – 2009), renowned for his rapid picking style (hayabiki). Among his many incredible accomplishments, he recorded over 500 songs, developed the kunkunshi system of notation for the sanshin, and created the castanet-like percussion instrument the sanba, now standard in Okinawan music (Potter 2017). He is also father of Kina Shōkichi, a famous Okinawan musician who composed the song “Haisai Ojisan” [“Hey, Old Man!”], parodied by Japanese comedian Shimura Ken (discussed above in the commentary to Chapter 5). Kai first hears Kina Shoei as a young boy in the Prologue when Jiji plays his record. “There are Okinawan songs that were sung in Japanese to make Okinawan music accessible to people on the mainland. [...] I sang ‘Nantahama’ in Japanese, and people in the minyō world frowned on me for that. ‘Okinawan songs should be sung in their pure form,’ 208 they said. ‘What were you thinking?’ I was devastated. But Kadekaru said to me, ‘Ai-chan, I like how you sing that song. Just keep doing it the way you like.’ That meant the world to me.” (Yohen Aiko) Singing in the Okinawan language is a “celebration of Okinawan cultural distinctiveness” (Roberson 2020) and was banned during World War II. Thus, for some Okinawans of Yohen’s generation, singing Okinawan songs in Japanese is a sad reminder of past cultural repression. “Do you think his fame was due to the efforts of people like Takenaka Rō?” Kai asked. “No,” she said, “that would be Mr. Uehara. The one who really believed in Kadekaru—I mean, really believed—was Mr. Uehara. He worshipped him. [...] He was obsessed with Kadekaru.” (Yohen Aiko) I was amused to hear Yohen say this about Uehara, given how he chided me for being a “strange foreigner” for taking such a deep interest in Kadekaru. Her statement goes to the extent to which Uehara’s support of Kadekaru helped propel him toward success, even at the expense of his own success, as Uehara believes. He stated, “No one knew him like I did, I’ll tell you. If you want to ask questions about Kadekaru, I’m the one you should ask. That’s how much I loved him. To be honest, I think I would have become more successful had I never known him” (personal communication, 2016). “Mostly live recordings, so there was no editing,” she replied. “When I listen to those recordings now, I think, Wow, we really nailed it. With all kinds of instruments in the mix, too.” 209 And you can’t look at the lyrics when you’re performing live, right? These days, when you record in the studio, you have the lyrics in front of you. You don’t just do it all from memory like we did.” (Yohen Aiko) This statement speaks to the notion of “authenticity” among the earlier minyō artists in their capacity for memorization. Gillan gives a similar example from a school of traditional music in Yaeyama, Okinawa: “The older members often complained, however, that since the publication of a book [...] of song lyrics, the younger members rely too much on the printed page and are unable to memorise songs. During the practices that I observed, the group didn’t usually sing a song right to the end (often 20 or 30 verses) but typically shortened songs to four or six verses” (Gillan 2012: 109). Several of my interviewees spoke of Kadekaru’s vast repertory, apparently having committed over 1000 songs to memory. “Male minyō singers tend to play and sing in a key that’s too high for female singers—like D, for example. For women, A-sharp is more common. But with Dad, he would always adjust to the other singer. That’s something most players couldn’t do. If women try to sing in D, it’s going to be squeaky. Out of respect for the other singer, he would adjust his singing and accompaniment. That’s the kind of thing that made him unique.” (Yohen Aiko) Ōshiro Misako recounted a story (written in Chapter 4) in which she, Kadekaru, and minyō artist China Sadao were rehearsing. Sadao, aware that Ōshiro could not match her voice easily to Kadekaru’s high tuning, yelled “Hey! Sanshin! Tune it down! How the hell is a woman supposed to sing that high? Lower your tuning to her!” Ōshiro added that they continued using the lowered tuning from that point on. 210 “Tīchibanchā,” she said. That’s what we call his picking style: one note at a time—strong, clear, slapping the strings. Some people say that style is rough, but he was famous for it. And he would stand perfectly upright, straight as a post, always facing forward and gazing slightly downward. Like this,” said Aiko, demonstrating. “It seemed like he wasn’t looking at the audience, but he could see and hear everything. (Yohen Aiko) In contrast to this statement by Yohen, Ōshiro Misako said that Kadekaru was oblivious to the audience, which would support the notion expressed by many interviewees that Kadekaru “played for himself” (personal communication, 2016). Ōshiro Misako also described Kadekaru’s harsh sanshin attack as the sound of “chopping wood,” using the Japanese onomatopoeic expression, “gan-gan,” which represents a clanging or chopping sound. This style of picking was necessary to project the sound of the sanshin when playing outdoors in mōashibi field parties. Teruya Rinsuke recounted the influence of Kadekaru’s sanshin attack on his own playing style: Kaderu didn’t follow the standard phrases with the sanshin; he would play in a way that resembled broken chords. It wasn’t random, but there was something very flexible about it. There was a time when I was asked to accompany him, and I said I couldn’t do it because I didn’t know the song well enough. He said, ‘No problem, even if you play randomly, if you play it ten times, one time it will match, and that’s enough to sing to.’ He called that accompaniment, and I tried it, and it worked! I didn’t press the strings with my left hand; instead, I strummed the chord like Kadekaru, and I came to adopt that style. Later, people would tell me that such free strumming wasn’t right, but in a way, it resembles the jongara [Tsugaru shamisen style] of Aomori. (Kitanaka and Teruya 2000: 96–97) Takenaka recounted that during the 1974 Ryūkyū Arts Festival, Tsugaru shamisen (Tsugaru-jamisen) master Takahashi Chikuzan debated the proper shamisen/sanshin attack with sanshin player and singer Kina Shōei (known for his fast and harsh picking style). “‘The shamisen is meant to be played,’ said Takahashi. ‘No, it’s meant to be struck,’ argued Kina. Kadekaru unconcerned, calmly played his patched-up shamisen [sanshin]. When asked about it, 211 he answered with a serene smile, ‘Well, some play it, and some strike it. Either way, it's still a shamisen’” (Takenaka 1975: 286). All interviewees commented on Kadekaru’s excellent posture, and Kadekaru Rinji explained that this was due to his military training (personal communication, 2019). ‘Ai-chan,’ he said, ‘I’m going to sing a song you don’t know.’ The heckler sang along, verse after verse, as though it were a contest. Eventually, though, he gave up after five or six verses, but Dad continued singing the song for thirteen minutes straight, no interludes. The heckler had to admit defeat. [...] . I’d been working with him for sixteen years, and I’d never heard him sing that song. Not once. (Yohen Aiko) This statement by Yohen supports the notion that Kadekaru had a vast repertory committed to memory. The specific song is Yohen refers to is “Sarati Kuduchi” [“A Person Who Has Newly Become a Prostitute”]. Fifteen verses to the song are given on the Okinawan song research website Taru no shimauta majime nu kenkyu [Taru’s Serious Island Song Research] (<https://taru.ti-da.net/e10424959.html>, accessed 3 January 2024). “I was talking to Bisekatsu-san about his way of singing. He said that in bars or other public places, Kadekaru would sing and play to himself, off to the side, not wanting to disturb anyone. Bisekatsu said that might be why he sang the way he did.” (Kai) “Like he was singing with his mouth closed.” [...] “There’s an Okinawan expression for that style of singing,” she said. “They call it ‘smelling the soil.’ So, if you think about it, it’s actually a very Okinawan way of singing. I think Kadekaru’s way of singing was very Okinawan.” (Yohen Aiko) 212 “Smelling the soil” is my translation of the expression that Yohen said in Okinawan language, muchagwa-kajasuru (personal communication, 2016). Bisekatsu had explained, “He hardly opened his mouth when he sang, so it sounded like he was mumbling. You couldn’t catch all the lyrics. That style of singing wasn’t popular back then. When blues and soul came along, then it became fashionable to sing that way. After that, Kadekaru received public approval. Some people even call his music Okinawa blues. He sang in falsetto sometimes, too. No one else did that” (personal communication, 2016). American popular music flooded into Okinawa with the waves of U.S. soldiers stationed in Koza (Okinawa City), en route to the war in Vietnam, and Okinawan music venues and radio stations catered to the U.S. soldiers (Ogura 2003: 466; Roberson 2011: 598). Kadekaru’s debut album was released in 1965, coinciding with this time when new styles of singing became popular in Okinawa. Even still, Kadekaru’s voice at this time was, according to Teruya, “clear, fresh, and full of bright tone, which is surprising compared to the more muffled voice heard after he became widely known” (Kitanaka and Teruya 2000: 94). Teruya added that while Kadekaru’s voice had a more mature and refined quality in his later recordings, it often revealed a decline in vocal strength rather than a richness of tone (ibid.: 97). Kohama Tsukasa describes Kadekaru’s singing style as numigui, literally “swallow voice,” and connects it to the notion that Kadekaru did not sing for the pleasure of others: First and foremost, we must overcome an initial challenge. The question is: do we really sing only to be heard by others? [...] I assumed without doubt that songs are meant to be heard by others. However, is this always the case? There are occasions when singing is not meant for someone else’s ears. So, what is the purpose of singing in such cases, when it’s not for others to hear? “Song is not for others to hear. Dance is not for others to see.” These are the words of the late Kadekaru Rinshō, a master of classical performing arts. [...] The reason Kadekaru Rinshō started singing numigui was that he always carried his sanshin with him and wanted to play it anywhere, anytime. In other words, since singing loudly on the edge of the stage or in a 213 music room would disturb others, he naturally continued singing in a more hidden way through numigui. The reason behind the emergence of numigui was not that Kadekaru wanted to practice his songs, but rather that, whenever he had time, he simply wanted to "whisper" wherever he was. This seems to be the real reason. The issue that Kadekaru was not singing for the purpose of having others hear him is quite different from the self-indulgent rock stars. Kadekaru’s songs, by the time he sings them, have already left the judgment to someone, or rather to something larger, almost like a “pure land.” [...] I believe this pure land represents the inner image of Kadekaru Rinshō’s mother. His songs are neither for others to hear nor solely for himself. (Chūshin and Kohama 2000: 71–73) “He came home to Okinawa after quite some time, didn’t he? What was he doing all that time?” asked Kai. Okinawans were not able to return home easily after the war, according to John Dower: Okinawa had been so devastated that there was not enough food and shelter for the much reduced population of survivors already living there. As a consequence, Okinawans became yet another group of displaced persons forced to languish and suffer unrepatriated in “repatriation camps” in Japan. (Dower 1999: 55) “When he died, I couldn’t believe it. He wanted to live a long life,” she said. (Yohen Aiko) Yohen Aiko said this in our interview of 2016. Kadekaru himself stated that he wanted to live long in a dialog with Ōshiro Misako in the 1995 film Kadekaru Rinshō: Uta to katari [Kadekaru Rinshō: Songs and Stories] (Go 1995): Kadekaru: Would be great if we could live long, eh? You and I. Ōshiro: You should live a little longer. K: Do you mean you’re planning to go before me? O: [Laughs] Of course not. But the minyō world will be lonely without you. K: Well, I guess I should stick around a little longer. I still have things to do. O: That’s right, you’re just starting. K: I have a few itches I need to scratch. 214 Chapter 7: Kudaka Island, Okinawa, March 2021 Chapter 7 features a discussion with Fukuji Yusei, who was head of the men’s youth association on Kudaka Island during the 1996 joint concert of Kadekaru and Toshinori Kondō. He currently works as a tour guide on Kudaka Island and his family operates a sea grape farm. “Yeah, nothing ever happens here. We’re so closed off!” (Kudaka Island men’s youth association member) Chinen Mitsuji and Fukuji Yusei (head of the men’s youth association in 1996) stated that the 1996 concert opened the island up to tourism. Prior to the concert, people seldom travelled to the island and there were no lodgings, so large tents were set up for the concert performers and staff. Today, Kudaka Island promotes tourism, and there are several lodgings, restaurants, and tourist activities. “Isn’t that where Kadekaru and Kondō sat together? In this photo, here,” he said, showing Mitch. (Kai) This discussion between Kai and Mitch was inspired by a photo of Kadekaru and Kondō (shown in Figure 14) sitting together at Kodomo No Kuni Zoo & Museum [Children’s Land Zoo and Museum] in Koza (Okinawa City) after the first plenary meeting between the two musicians and concert organizers. There are photos of Kadekaru and Kondō together on Kudaka Island (viewable at the website <https://inplace.jp/okinawa/>), but I chose this photo as it captured well the camaraderie between the two. 215 Figure 14: Kadekaru Rinshō (left) and Kondō Toshinori (right) in Koza (Okinawa City) in 1996 (photo from <https://inplace.jp/okinawa/>, used with permission from Chinen Mitsuji). “Then, just when Kondō started playing, the most amazing thing happened. Everyone looked up to witness a huge, circular cloud form above the concert grounds. It was miraculous.” (Mitch) Discussions with interviewees about Kudaka Island, Okinawa’s most sacred place, often included stories of the supernatural. Chinen Mitsuji told me that his mother, a kaminchu (Okinawan shaman), had a stranger show up at her door to tell her that the gods were pleased with the work her sons were doing to produce the concert on Kudaka Island and that she need not be worried. Chinen’s mother would not visit such sacred locations because she was afraid the gods might ask her to carry out a task that she could not fulfill, thus sparking their ire (Chinen, personal communication, 2016). Okinawan musician Hidekatsu told me that he tried several times to perform on Kudaka Island, but his plans were always thwarted due to some turn of bad luck, and that other Okinawan musicians have experienced the same phenomenon (personal communication, 2016). Chinen and Fukuji Yusei, head of the men’s youth association on Kudaka Island that hosted the Kadekaru concert in 1996, said that the island was seldom visited by outsiders because it is such a sacred place. Okinawans did not see the island as a tourist 216 destination but rather as the dwelling place of gods that should be left alone (Chinen and Fukuji, personal communication, 2016). “I love the CD title,” said Kai. “Whereabouts of the Okinawan Spirit. What does it mean?” (Kai) “I don’t know if I can say what the Okinawan spirit is,” said Mitch. For Okinawans, I guess it’s nature—the sea, the wind, the banyan trees. And I wonder, in ten years, twenty years, one-hundred years, what is going to happen to that spirit?” (Mitch) The above is Chinen Mitsuji’s explanation of why he chose this title for his CD, Okinawa no tamashi no yukue (沖縄の魂の⾏行行⽅方) [Whereabouts of the Okinawan Spirit]. He also explained that for him, his mother, a kaminchu (shaman or spirit medium) also represents the “Okinawan spirit.” His question about the future of the Okinawan spirit is reminiscent of Ōshiro Misako’s concern about the future of minyō as she expressed in a conversation with Kadekaru (quoted earlier in the commentary to Chapter 4). “The CD contains more than just the Kudaka Island concert. I did so much research that I think the CD liner notes might be the best point of departure for future researchers of Kadekaru Rinshō. I’d written letters to Okinawan communities around the world to gather information on him. The Okinawan People’s Association in Argentina were excited about the CD project and sent me a video of Kadekaru performing in Argentina in 1986. We included a song from that concert on the CD. It was the world debut for that song.” (Mitch) The song featured on the CD is “Koishi Aruzenchin” [“I Miss Argentina”], the audio for which was extracted from a video sent to Chinen Mitsuji by the Okinawan People’s Association 217 (Okinawa Kenjinkai) in Argentina. The contact person from the association added a note, “Kadekaru loved Argentinian beer and drank every day until late at night. We took turns looking after him, it would have been difficult” (Chinen 2005). “Shu-ha-ri is the philosophy that one first imitates his master. Then, when one reaches a high level of skill, one begins to detach himself from the master—sort of like learning the rules before you break them. Finally, one breaks away completely from his master in order to transcend into a master in his own right.” The concept of shu-ha-ri (守破離) is observed in Japanese martial arts and originates in the Japanese Noh theater tradition of actor and playwright Zeami (1363-1443). It was later adopted by Japanese tea ceremony master Sen no Rikyu (1522-1591), who may have been the first to use the term shu-ha-ri (Kasuhara: “Shu-Ha-Ri”). Chairman of the Japanese Karate Association Kasuhara Katsuhide writes, “the term ‘shu-ha-ri’ sometimes describes the training process in geido [the way of art]. ‘Shu (protect)’ refers to faithfully following the teachings of the master, i.e., basics. ‘Ha (break)’ is to think and devise for oneself, i.e., independence. ‘Ri (detach)’ is to establish one’s new world, i.e., the creation. [...] Today, the term shu-ha-ri is not limited to sado [tea ceremony] or budo [martial arts] but is also widely used to describe an essential process in a person’s development as a human being” (ibid.; translations in brackets added). 218 Chapter 8: Ōdo Beach, Okinawa, March 2021 Chapter 8 introduces Kadekaru Rinji (b. 1956; see Figure 15), son of Kadekaru Rinshō. He has rarely given interviews, and it took several years and attempts to arrange one with him. We finally met in 2019. Figure 15: Kadekaru Rinji (left) and the author (right) in Koza (Okinawa City) in 2019 (photo by Cory Penner) Rinji was the spitting image of his father, too, both in looks and in sound. Takenaka Rō wrote of Rinji in 1975, when Rinji was 19 years old, “It’s natural for a parent and child to have similar vocal qualities. When Rinji expressed his desire to become a singer, his father opposed, saying, ‘You’ll become foolish, so it’s best you don’t.’ Rinji replied, ‘I won’t become as foolish as you, Dad.’ So, as a foolish father and a foolish child, they stand together on the stage. Although Rinji is not yet allowed to sing alone, it seems that as successor to his father, he is beginning to show great talent” (Takenaka 1975: 214). “You and I have met, though,” said Mitch to Rinji. “I produced the concert on Kudaka Island back in 1996.” 219 This part of the story, when Mitch talks with Rinji, is fictional, but the conversation between Kai and Rinji that follows is from my interview with Rinji in 2019. “For example, your father didn’t practice fusion in his music the way you do, aside from his performance with the trumpter Kondō Toshinori, perhaps.” “He didn’t really like that,” said Rinji. “He was more traditional.” Kohama noted that “Kadekaru once laughed and said ‘kunpī busaku naisa’ (‘I want to step on it,’), referring to the practice of folk singers adopting the pop music styles” (Chūshin and Kohama 200: 73). “Minyō is not about singing,” he replied, “it’s about storytelling. That’s the most important thing I learned from him. Minyō is not as much about singing as it is about talking.” (Kadekaru Rinji) This theme of minyō as storytelling is reflected in the title of the 1995 documentary film Kadekaru Rinshō: Uta to katari [Kadekaru Rinshō: Songs and Stories] (Go 1995), a collage of performances by and conversations with Kadekaru. The title Uta to katari is expressed in Japanese as 歌と語り, where歌 means “song” and 語りmeans “talking” or “storytelling.” Ōshiro Misako also stated that minyō is storytelling in my interview with her in 2012. Uehara further describes Okinawan songs as “conversations” (Takahashi 2012: 150). Similarly, for Irish sean-nós folk singer Joe Heaney, “performing a song was all about telling the story” (Williams and Ó Laoire 2011: 53; emphasis in original). 220 “I like to say he was good-natured. He never put on airs. He was just himself and he treated everyone the same.” (Kadekaru Rinji) Rinji twice described his father’s character using the word shizentai (⾃自然体; literally, “natural body”), which may be interpreted as “being oneself.” Several interviewees stated that Kadekaru despised flattery and just wanted to be treated like a regular person. Kondō Toshinori stated, “He didn’t think in terms of status or seniority. He was a really natural kind of person” (personal communication, 2016). “He was the head of the Okinawa Minyō Association. [...] It’s the first one of its kind in Okinawa.” (Kadekaru Rinji) This entry is from Kohama’s chronology (in Chinen 2005). The Ryūkyū Minyō Kyokai (琉球⺠民謡協会) [Okinawa Minyō Association]] is still active today (visit the homepage at <http://Ryūkyūminyōutokai.web.fc2.com/index.html>). In a 1997 round-table discussion including Kadekaru as Honorary President and Noborikawa Seijin as Association President, Noborikawa said that thanks to Kadekaru, the folk song association was established and has thrived. “He’s just that kind of person,” said Noborikawa (Noborikawa and Kadekaru 1997: 11). Interestingly, in this discussion, Kadekaru remained characteristically quiet, his only statement being a response to the host’s question: “Even if you can’t sing or play the sanshin, being in a place with traditional music, like a restaurant with a sanshin or shamisen, tends to make people feel relaxed and in a good mood. For someone who loves soba, like you, Mr. Kaderu, how do you feel about this?” Kadekaru answered, “I really love soba, so when I eat it, I prefer sitting on a tatami mat rather than on a chair. If there’s a sanshin playing there, it makes the experience even better and really adds to the overall enjoyment” (ibid.: 33). 221 “He represented his local district in a marathon once. He didn’t really like running, actually, but he did it because he was selected by the neighborhood. [...] He also liked Okinawan bullfighting,” Rinji continued. “That and, as you said earlier, smoking, drinking, and pachinko,” laughed Rinji. This the first I had heard anyone speak of Kadekaru’s participation in a marathon and his interest in Okinawan bullfighting. Several interviewees spoke of Kadekaru’s love of smoking, drinking, and pachinko, however, and these pastimes of his have been mentioned in various sources, including Kohama Tsukasa’s book which devotes sections to these topics (Kohama 2019: 124–30). Kohama stated in an Edge magazine article that “when sober, Kadekaru would become quiet and wear a sad expression, always smoking his cigarettes. In his later years, when he was hospitalized, he would even pull out the catheter on his own and sneak out of his room to smoke. When the doctor admonished him, he responded by saying that if he couldn’t smoke, he might as well die. This caused the doctor to relent, allowing him to smoke in the end” (Chūshin and Kohama 200: 71). On Kadekaru’s smoking and drinking, Yoshimura records the following conversation in his Switch article and interview with Kadekaru in 1996: Kadekaru struck a match, lit it, slowly inhaled the smoke, and then exhaled with satisfaction. [Kadekaru:] “It’s better not to buy cigarettes, right? A pack of 20 costs 80 yen, you know. One to two packs a day. I’m not really one to dislike alcohol, though. I drink anything. I decided to quit alcohol and cigarettes, though.” When I gave him a somewhat questioning look, he said, “I’ve quit, you know. I stopped buying them. I thought I’d better quit something, or the economy won’t hold up. I don’t have the means to get them. As for food, I’m only drinking because someone bought it for me.” I couldn’t help but laugh and admire the way he steered the conversation with its unique, curving logic, rather than directly. 222 [Yoshimura:] “Does smoking affect your throat?” [K:] “I don’t really know about that. You’ve got to make sure to get enough sleep, you know. People always say alcohol is bad, or something else is bad, but they drink all night. If you get enough sleep, it doesn’t matter, that’s what I think. There are nights when I don’t sleep at all, but on average, I sleep about eight hours.” [Y:] “On nights when you don’t sleep at all, what do you do?” [K:] “If I drink alcohol, I don’t sleep at all. When I don’t drink, I don’t drink at all. But when I start drinking, I can’t stop.” (Yoshimura 1996: 116) Of his penchant for alcohol in his younger days, Kadekaru said in Takenaka 1975, “I was quite a drinker,” he said, “but never getting drunk was unheard of. Then one day, no matter how much I drank, I stayed sober. I downed three bottles of whiskey as if it were water. It terrified me; I thought I might die. Strange things happen, you know. From the next day, I couldn’t stand the sight of alcohol anymore” (Takenaka 1975: 286). In the Switch magazine article mentioned above, Yoshimura Nobuhiko wrote on pachinko that Kadekaru would wake up at 5:30 in the morning, walk for 3 kilometers, and then have breakfast. After breakfast he would play the sanshin and then go outside again. He quotes Kadekaru: “I didn’t know where I was going. I would just move my feet, walk, and somehow I’d always end up at a pachinko parlor” (Yoshimura 1996: 116). “Excuse me,” said Kai to the young lady at the desk. “Do you happen to know where Goeku Village was located, before it became part of Koza?” This exchange between Kai and the staff at Okinawa Post-War Cultural Material Museum Histreet is based on my experience of visiting there in 2019 (homepage: <https://www.histreet.okinawa.jp/histreet/FAA10/init#gsc.tab=0>). I had asked the staff to point out the location of Kadekaru’s neighborhood on a map of Okinawa City (Koza), on which the 223 outer territory of the U.S. Kadena Air Base had been highlighted. The staff placed his neighborhood squarely within the boundaries of the base. The placard read, “Koza Riot. December 20th, 1970.” Kai read the description. The description of the Koza Riot in the story is abridged and reproduced from the book Koza Riot as Seen by the U.S. (Okinawa City 1999: 242–44). It is a radio broadcast from Russian High Commissioner Vladmir Yakovlev made on 25 December 1970. Kai found John’s review at the top of the page. John Potter’s fictitious review of Kai’s concert was adapted from a portion of his review of a new CD by minyō artist Hajime Nakasone. Potter praises Nakasone for achieving autonomy from his teacher, master minyō artist Noborikawa Seijin (posted 13 July 2023, <https://powerofokinawa.wordpress.com/>). 224 Epilogue: Ōdo Beach, Okinawa, 2027 In the Epilogue, six years have passed since Kai’s debut concert at Nantahama minyō club. He is on the beach with his mother and Sora, his daughter. Sora is convinced that she sees an old man playing a sanshin regularly down at the beach, but she is the only one, other than her great-grandmother, Baba, who can see him. 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Zarevich, Emily. 2023. “The Artists Who Hated the Eiffel Tower.” JSTOR Daily. <https://daily.jstor.org/the-artists-who-hated-the-eiffel-tower/>, accessed 17 September 2023. 235 APPENDIX I: INTERVIEW DATES AND LOCATIONS Interviewee Date and Location Bise Yoshikatsu (Bisekatsu) 22 November 2012, Okinawa City 30 April 2016, Okinawa City Chinen Mitsuji 11 April 2016, Naha Fukuji Yusei 4 April 2016, Kudaka Island Hidekatsu 26 April 2016, Naha Horiuchi Kanako 10 April 2016, Naha Kadekaru Rinji 10 January 2019, Okinawa City Kengo Tarumi 27 April 2016, Naha Kinjō Kaoru 30 January 2016, Osaka Kohama Tsukasa 22 November 2012, Okinawa City 26 April 2016, Naha Kondō Toshinori 23 June 2016, Tokyo Matsuda Kazutoshi 22 November 2012, Okinawa City Miyazato Masanori 12 April 2016, Okinawa City Ōshiro Misako 24 November 2012, Naha 27 April 2016, Naha Potter, John 18 March 2016, Itoman 236 Staff: Kudaka Island Concert 12 October 1996 12 March 2016, Naha Student of Kadekaru Rinshō (anonymous by request) 2 February 2016 Thompson, Robin Uehara Naohiko 9 March 2016, Naha 10 April 2016, Naha Yohen Aiko 12 April 2016, Okinawa City 237 APPENDIX II: KADEKARU RINSHŌ DISCOGRAPHY 1965. 嘉⼿手苅林林昌 [Kadekaru Rinshō]. Marufuku Records F-8. LP. Debut album. Includes lyrics and personnel credits. 1974. おきなわの⼼心 [The Heart of Okinawa]. ELEC Records (Warner Music Japan Inc.) ELEC-5005. LP. Recorded live in 1974. Reissued on CD in 2013 (WPCL-11503). 1974. 彈語やびら島うた嘉⼿手苅林林昌の世界 [Bullet: Let’s Talk About Island Songs. The World of Kadekaru Rinshō]. Nippon Columbia Co., Ltd. CD-5104. LP. Live recording from Ryūkyū Festival, Nagoya, 1974. Includes liner notes and photos. Reissued on CD in 2014 (COCJ-38625). 1974. 琉球情歌⾏行行 [Verses of Okinawan Romantic Poetry]. Victor SJV-2017. LP. Recorded live at club Shibuya Janjan in Tokyo. Reissued on CD in 2000 (VICG-60266). 1974. 琉球フェスティバル '74 ⽇日比⾕谷野⾳音ライブ！！[Ryūkyū Festival ’74: Hibiya Outdoor Live!!]. CBS/Sony SODL-24. LP. 238 Compilation of live performances by Kadekaru Rinshō, China Sadao, Tetsuhiro Daiku, Teruya Rinsuke, Yamasato Yūkichi, Kuniyoshi Genji, and Kinjō Bokushō at the 1974 Ryūkyū Festival in Tokyo, produced by Takenaka Rō. Reissued on CD in 2005 (Rinken Records: Rinken-2031). 1975. 飄嘉⼿手苅林林昌の世界その２ [Air: The World of Kadekaru Rinshō Part 2]. Nippon Columbia Co., Ltd. CD-5106. LP. Includes liner notes and photos. Reissued on CD in 2014 (COCJ-38627). 1975. 情嘉⼿手苅林林昌の世界その３ [Love: The World of Kadekaru Rinshō Part 3]. Nippon Columbia Co., Ltd. CD-5107. LP. Includes liner notes and photos. Reissued on CD in 2014 (COCJ-38628). 1975. 吟嘉⼿手苅林林昌の世界その４ [Recitation: The World of Kadekaru Rinshō Part 4]. Nippon Columbia Co., Ltd. CD-5108. LP. Includes liner notes and photos. Reissued on CD in 2014 (COCJ-38631). 1975. Nippon Columbia Co., Ltd. CD-5109. LP. Recorded live at the Hibiya Open Air Concert Hall (Tokyo, 15 August 1975). Reissued on CD in 2014 (COCJ-38629). 1975. 沖縄情歌⾏行行琉球フェスティバル'75 春・夜桜コンサート [Okinawan Love Songs Journey, Ryūkyū Festival ‘75 Spring: Cherry Blossom Concert at Night]. Victor SJV-2026-27. LP. 239 Compilation of live performances by Kadekaru Rinshō, Kuniyoshi Genji, Ōshiro Misako, China Sadao, Kadekaru Rinji, and Kuba Yōko. Recorded live at the 1974 Ryūkyū Festival (Tokyo). Produced by Takenaka Rō. 1975. 潮騒のリズム 独演！嘉⼿手苅林林昌 [1] [Rhythm of the Waves: Solo Performance. Kadekaru Rinshō I.]. Victor SJV-2028. LP. Recorded live at Ryūkyū Festival ’75 Spring (Shinjuku Welfare Pension Hall, 23-25 March 1975). Produced By Takenaka Rō. 1975. 決定版 これが島うただ！嘉⼿手苅林林昌のすべて [The Definitive Edition: This is Island Song! The Complete Kadekaru Rinshō]. Victor SJV-2031. LP. Produced By Takenaka Rō. 1975. 嘉⼿手苅林林昌川⽥田琉球舞踏団決定盤縄の⺠民謡沖縄の⺠民謡. [Kadekaru Rinshō and the Kawata Ryūkyū Dance Company Definitive Edition: Okinawa Minyō and Nawa Minyō]. Victor SJV-6031-2. LP. 1975. 失われた海海への挽歌 [Elegy for the Lost Sea]. Teichiku Records BH 1525-6. LP. Reissued on CD in 2002 (TECX-28061-2 and TECI 1037-8). 240 1976. これが南島のリズムだ!! カチャーシー⼤大会 - ⼤大狂踏乱舞篇(てのまい・あしのふむ・ところをしらず) [This is the Rhythm of the Southern Islands! Kachāshī Tournament, Great Frenzied Dance Version (Not Knowing Hands from Feet)]. Teichiku Records BH-1530. LP. Compilation of kachāshī (Okinawan traditional dance) musical performances by Kadekaru Rinshō, Noborikawa Seijin, China Sadao, China Teihan, Sato Kunitaka, Itokazu Kame, Seragaki Naeko, Yohen Aiko, Hagiwara Kinue, and Teruya Rinsuke. Produced by Kanno Tōru. Liner notes by Takenaka Rō. Reissued on CD in 2008 (TECE-20764). 1990. 七⽉月のエイサー [July Eisa]. Marufuku Records ACD-9. CD. Recorded in July 1985 and July 1988 with the Sonda Youth Association (園⽥田⻘青年年会), which performed eisa (Okinawan festival drum and dancing) accompaniment. 1991. 沖縄島唄～彩なす島の伝説 Vol. 1 [Okinawa Island Song: Legend of the Colorful Island Volume 1]. Victor VICG-5143. CD. Produced by Takenaka Rō. Liner notes by Takenaka Rō. 1991. 沖縄島唄～彩なす島の伝説 Vol. 2 [Okinawa Island Song: Legend of the Colorful Island Volume 2]. Victor VICG-5144. CD. Produced by Takenaka Rō. Liner notes by Takenaka Rō. 241 1992. 琉球フェス千葉葉る‘９１語やびら島歌、ふたたび [Ryūkyū Festival ’91: Island Songs and Storytelling Revisited]. Victor VICG-40022-23. CD. Compilation of artists recorded at the 1991 Ryūkyū Festival (20 September 1991, Saitama). 1994. Before/After. B/C Records BCD-2. CD. Produced by Bise Yoshikatsu (Bisekatsu) and Sakurazawa Yūri. Contains liner notes and photos. 1994. Folk Songs of Okinawa. 沖縄しまうたの神髄 [The Essence of Okinawan Island Songs]. JVC VICG-5360. CD. Recorded 9 April 1994 (Southern Carnival Studio, Okinawa). Song titles given in romaji. Liner notes by Morita Shunichi (translated to English by Robin Thompson). Reissued on CD in 2000 (VICG-60399). 1996. 特集 [Special Feature]. Marufuku Records ACD-8. CD. Studio recordings from 1982 featuring Kadekaru’s “best songs” (tokui). 1999. 嘉⼿手苅林林昌⼭山⾥里里勇吉うたあわせ [Kadekaru Rinshō and Yamazato Yukichi: Sing Together]. B/C Records BCD-6XY. CD. Produced by Sakurazawa Yūri. 2000. 風狂歌⼈人 The Best of Rinshō Kadekaru [The Sublime Poet: The Best of Kadekaru Rinshō]. Victor Entertainment Inc., Japan VICG-60265. CD. 242 Includes recording dates; chronology by Kohama Tsukasa; liner notes by Bise Yoshikatsu (Bisekatsu) and Kohama Tsukasa; personnel; original recording sources for all tracks; and photos. 2000. ジルーRare Tracks of Rinshō Kadekaru [Jirū: Rare Tracks of Kadekaru Rinshō]. Victor Entertainment Inc., Japan VICG-60283. CD. 2000. 沖縄島唄の伝説 海海・恋・戦 [Legends of Okinawan Island Songs: Sea, Love, and War]. Victor VICG 60284-91. 4 CD. 4-CD compilation of tracks originally produced by Takenaka Rō. Liner notes by Takenaka Rō. 2000. 決定盤沖縄⺠民謡嘉⼿手苅林林昌２０曲 [Selection: Okinawa Folk Song. 20 Songs by Kadekaru Rinshō]. BCY AC-3. Cassette. 2001. 平成の嘉⼿手苅林林昌 [Heisei Era Kadekaru Rinshō]. BCY 30NCD-21. CD. Originally released in 1992 on cassette. 2003. The Last Session: Rinshō Kadekaru & Tsuneo Fukuhara. EMI Music Japan TOCT-10932. CD. 243 2004. 唄遊び嘉⼿手苅林林昌の世界 Live & Studio Records Vol. 1-2 [Song Play: The World of Kadekaru Rinshō. Live and Studio Recordings Volumes 1 and 2]. Columbia Music Entertainment COCJ-32806-7. CD. Compilation of tracks previously released on LPs CD-5104, CD-5106, CD-5107, CD-5108, and CD-5109. Includes recording dates, personnel, and photos. 2005. 沖縄の魂の⾏行行⽅方 [Whereabouts of the Okinawan Spirit]. Spiritual Nature Island. SPNI 002. CD. Live recording of Kadekaru’s performance on Kudaka Island in 1996. This album is linked to the Spiritual Nature Island website: <http://www.inplace.jp/okinawa/>. Includes introductions by co-performers Kadekaru Rinji and Kondō Toshinori; photos; song descriptions; performer profiles; chronology by Kohama Tsukasa; and hereto unreleased recording 夢の間のアルゼンチン [Argentina Between Dreams]. 2008. 嘉⼿手苅林林昌名演集〜うた遊びの世界 [Kadekaru Rinshō Master Performances Collection: The World of Song Play]. Columbia Music Entertainment COCJ-35010. CD. Compilation of live and studio recordings from LPs CD-5104, CD-5106, CD-5107, and CD-5108. 2010. ⼩小浜守栄、嘉⼿手苅林林昌 [Kohama Shuei and Kadekaru Rinshō]. Marufuku Records ACD-2003. CD. Includes liner notes and photos. 244 2013. ンナルフォン全曲 [Sonarufon Records Complete Recordings]. Campus Records 35NCD-86/87. Compilation of Includes liner notes Ōshima Yasukatsu and photos. 2013. 親⼦子ラジオは島うたラジオ [Mother-and-child Radio is Island Song Radio]. BCY Sonarufonrekōdo BCY-13. CD. Compilation of post-war recordings from Okinawa cable-broadcast radio. 2019. Maruteru Recordings 島唄⻩黄⾦金金時代の嘉⼿手苅林林昌 [Kadekaru Rinshō in the Golden Era of Island Song]. Terurin Records TR-002. Compilation of recordings for Maruteru Records ca. 1965. 2022. 沖縄島唄伝説の巨⼈人たち (1). [Okinawa Island Song: The Legendary Giants]. Victor VFD-10466. CD. CD 1 from a set of 6 CDs featuring Kadekaru Rinshō (CD 1), Noborikawa Seihin (CD 2), China Sadao (CD 3), Ōshiro Misako (CD 4), Kuniyoshi Genji and Daiku Tetsuhiro (CD 5) and various artists (CD 6). 245 Kadekaru Rinshō recordings on 7” record (ca. 1960-75; listed by label and catalog number) Gomon Records (ゴモンレコード) (Columbia) GM-5 GS-12 GS-40 GS-42 GS-47 GS-54 GS-57 GS-58 GS-60 GS-61 GS-62 GS-64 GS-65 GS-66 GS-68 GS-70 Marufuku Records (マルフクレコード) (Mercury) CF-5 (10”) FF-28 FF-37 FF-96 FF-99 FF-102 FM-224 FM-225 FS-1 FS-3 FS-6 FS-7 FS-13 FS-15 FS-17 FS-41 FS-45 FS-47 FS-48 FS-66 FS-68 KF-67 KF-68 KF-69 246 KF-103 KF-107 KF-109 KF-110 KF-111 KF-121 (Columbia DI 1022) KF-176 KF-184 KF-203S KF-204-S Marutaka Records (マルタカレコード) (Victor) TJ-43 TJ-46 TRS-5018 MV-1074-S Maruteru Records (マルテールレコード) (Columbia) MT-1002 MT-1009 MT 1010 MT-1014 MT-1015 MT-1017 MT-1020 MT-1021 MT-1037 MT-104 247 APPENDIX III: KADEKARU RINSHŌ FILMOGRAPHY 1985. パラダイスビュー [Paradise View]. Hitōban Production. Film. Takamine Gō, director. 1989. ウンタマギルー [Untamagirū]. Parco. Film. Takamine Gō, director. 1995. 嘉⼿手苅林林昌 歌と語り [Kadekaru Rinshō: Songs and Stories]. Sesuko Japan Sakuhin. Documentary film. Takamine Gō, director. 1995. ナビィの恋 [Nabī no Koi / Nabbie’s Love]. Office Shirous. Film. Nakae Yūji, director. 1998. 教えられなかった戦争 沖縄編 阿波根昌鴻・伊江島のたたかい [The War We Were Not Taught About: Okinawa Edition: Masahiro Awane and the Battle of Iejima]. Eizō Bunka Kyōkai Sakuhin. Documentary film. Takaiwa Hitoshi, director. 1998. 秘祭 [Secret Ritual]. Shinchōsha. Film. Shinjō, Taku, director. 1998. The Great-Grandson of the Man Who Drank a Cow. Original Melted Snowman Production. Thomas Stiller, director.
Thesis/Dissertation
eng
Music - Ethnomusicology
Vancouver : University of British Columbia Library
Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivatives 4.0 International
Graduate
Hesselink, Nathan
Tenzer, Michael
Chasing Kadekaru
Text