The Revolution Will Not Be Televised: Protest Music After Fukushima 0199334692, 9780199334698, 9780199334681

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The Revolution Will Not Be Televised

The Revolution Will Not Be Televised Protest Music After Fukushima NOR IKO M A NA BE

1

1 Oxford University Press is a department of the University of Oxford. It furthers the University’s objective of excellence in research, scholarship, and education by publishing worldwide. Oxford is a registered trademark of Oxford University Press in the UK and certain other countries. Published in the United States of America by Oxford University Press 198 Madison Avenue, New York, NY 10016, United States of America

© Oxford University Press 2015 All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of Oxford University Press, or as expressly permitted by law, by license, or under terms agreed with the appropriate reproduction rights organization. Inquiries concerning reproduction outside the scope of the above should be sent to the Rights Department, Oxford University Press, at the address above. You must not circulate this work in any other form and you must impose this same condition on any acquirer. Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Manabe, Noriko, 1960– author. The revolution will not be televised : protest music after Fukushima / Noriko Manabe. pages cm Includes bibliographical references and index. ISBN 978–0–19–933469–8 (pbk. : alk. paper) — ISBN 978–0–19–933468–1 (hardcover : alk. paper) 1.  Popular music—Political aspects—Japan—History—21st century.  2.  Protest songs—Japan— 21st century—History and criticism.  3.  Fukushima Nuclear Disaster, Japan, 2011—Songs and music.  4.  Nuclear power plants—Japan—Public opinion.  5.  Protest movements—Japan— History—21st century.  I.  Title. ML3501.M36 2016 781.5′920952090512—dc23 2015035432 This publication is made possible in part by the Barr Ferree Foundation Fund for Publications, Department of Art and Archaeology, Princeton University, and the Book Subvention Award, Diversity Action Committee, Society for Ethnomusicology.

9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1 Printed in the United States of America on acid-free paper

To the musicians, activists, protesters, writers, documentarians, artists, mothers, students, academics, and ordinary residents who raise their voices despite the risks.

CONTENTS

Preface  ix Acknowledgments  xi A Note on Japanese  xv About the Companion Website 

xvii

S E C T I O N O N E   ■  THE BACKGROUND CH APTER 

1. Introduction: Analyzing Political Music Under Self-Censorship 

CH APTER 

3

2. The Nuclear Past and Present: Structures of Power and Civil Resistance 

CH APTER 

34

3. Musicians in the Antinuclear Movement: Motivations, Roles, and Risks 

67

S E C T I O N T W O   ■  SPACES OF PROTEST

4. Cyberspace: Playback and Participation  109 C H A P T E R   5. Demonstrations  5.1. Introduction to Music in Demonstrations    5.2. Emergence of Sound Demonstrations  155 CH APTER 

150

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viii   Contents  

5.3. The Evolution of Performance Style in Antinuclear Sound Demonstrations 

176

5.4. Urban Geography, Music, and Protest  234 C H A P T E R   6. Festivals: Differing Models of Communication  262 C H A P T E R   7. Recordings: Allegories, Metaphors, and Metonyms  C H A P T E R   8. Conclusion: Protesting Under (and Against)  

Constraints 

352

Selected Interviews by the Author  Notes  367 Bibliography  403 Permissions  419 Index  421

365

320

PR EFAC E

This monograph is part of a larger project on protest music in contemporary Japan. The current monograph considers the position of musicians in Japan and the workings of antinuclear protest music in different spaces of performance, along with background information on the history and structure of the nuclear industry. A second monograph, Revolution Remixed: A Typology of Intertextuality in Protest Music, examines the types and uses of intertextuality seen in protest music around the world, using antinuclear music as a case study. Each of these two monographs is written as a stand-alone entity. The two books combined provide the most complete picture of my thoughts on the text and context of protest music in Japan.

ix

ACK NOW LEDGMENTS

Multiyear book projects cannot be completed without considerable support. First, I  thank my editors at Oxford University Press, Suzanne Ryan and Daniel Gibney, for believing in the project and allowing its publication as two separate but related monographs. I thank Mary Jo Rhodes, the production manager, and Brad Gersh, who compiled an expert index. Second, I am grateful to the Japan Foundation Research Fellowship, NEH Fellowship for Advanced Social Science Research in Japan, and Kluge Fellowship, which funded my sabbaticals in 2011–2012 and 2013–2014 to conduct research and write this book. Grants for additional travel to Japan were provided by the University Council for Research in Humanities and Social Sciences, Tuck, and Class of ’59 Junior Faculty Funds from Princeton University. These funds together allowed me to make repeated trips to Japan for fieldwork in 2011, 2012, 2013, 2014, and 2015, as well as reside in Tokyo for much of 2012 and the summer of 2014. Generous subventions from the Barr Ferree Foundation Publication Fund and the Diversity Action Committee of the Society for Ethnomusicology (SEM) helped to cover copyright payments and bring down the cost of the book to an affordable level. Material from this book was previewed at nineteen conferences and seven invited talks. The earliest talks were at the Experience Music Project Pop Conference in New  York on March 25, 2012, Tokyo University of the Arts in May 2012, and the Inter-Asia Popular Music Studies Group Conference in Taipei on July 15, 2012. Other talks were given at conferences held by the American Musicological Society (AMS)/SEM/Society for Music Theory (SMT) in November 2012; Association of Asian Studies (AAS) in March 2013 and 2015; Popular Music and Politics Conference in Strasbourg in June 2013; International Association for the Study of Popular Music in June 2013 and 2015; Society for Social Studies of Science in October 2013; SEM in November 2013, 2014, and 2015; American Anthropological Association (AAA) in xi

xii   Acknowledgments

November 2013 and December 2014; AMS in November 2014 and 2015; Hearing Landscape Critically at Harvard in January 2015; and Intertextuality in Music Since 1900 at Universidade Nova de Lisboa in March 2015. In addition, I was invited to the Traveling Texts Symposium at New York University in October 2013, the Korea/Japan Music Symposium at Columbia University in November 2014, and the Child’s Play Conference at the Univer­ sity of California, Santa Barbara in February 2015; I  thank Nina Cornyetz, Will Bridges, David Lurie, Ted Hughes, and Sabine Frühstück for their generosity in including me in these valuable symposia. The Center for Japanese Studies at the University of Michigan, Oberlin College, University of Tokyo, New York University, and Oxford University also provided me with opportunities to present my work; I thank Jonathan Zwicker, Ann Sherif, Jennifer Fraser, Andrew Pau, Jason Karlin, David Samuels, Jason Stanyek, and others for their kind hospitality. Finally, the Princeton East Asian Studies Colloquium and the Music Theory Group have provided forums. I thank the many colleagues who have provided valuable feedback at these many talks and conferences, including Marié Abe, Victoria Aschheim, Andrea Bohlman, Amy Borovoy, Michael Bourdaghs, Alexander Brown, Scott Burnham, Kukhee Choo, John Covach, Millie Creighton, Sheldon Garon, Sumanth Gopinath, Hugh Gusterson, Nancy Guy, Patricia Hall, Thomas Hare, Liew Kai Khiun, Joseph Lam, Fred Lau, David Leheny, William Malm, Jennifer Milioto Matsue, Mōri Yoshitaka, Marc Moskowitz, Karen Nakamura, David Novak, Hamish Robb, Megan Sarno, Jessica Schwartz, Andrew Weintraub, Deborah Wong, Christine Yano, and others I may have inadvertently left out. Parts of this monograph were used in a graduate seminar on analyzing protest music at Princeton University. I  thank my students Sheryl Chow, Brad Gersh, Matthew Honegger, Julia Khait, Kyle Masson, and Logan Roth for their feedback and for demonstrating how the concepts of the monograph could be applied to other movements. I owe special thanks to Prof. Mōri Yoshitaka, who was my host at the Tokyo University of the Arts in 2012. He kindly organized several talks for me and invited me to his classes, which stimulated interesting discussions. Hidaka Ryōsuke and Iharada Haruka transcribed hours of interviews, for which I am very grateful. While in Japan, I also had the opportunity to attend enlightening talks related to the Fukushima Daiichi crisis at Temple University Japan and Sophia University; I thank Robert Dujarric, Kyle Cleveland, and David Slater for organizing these events. I thank Itō Eiichi at the Library of Congress for his help in accessing the extensive and unique collections of the Asian Division, and I thank Carolyn Brown, Mary Lou Reker, and Travis Hensley for creating a friendly and supportive working environment at the Kluge Center. I  also thank the librarians and staff at the Princeton University Libraries,

Acknowledgments  xiii

particularly Makino Yasuko, Noguchi Setsuko, and Martin Heijdra of the East Asian Library and Darwin Scott, Jennifer Scro, and Dan Gallagher of the Mendel Music Library. I also thank the staff at the National Diet Library in Tokyo, the National Archives in College Park, and the library of the Tokyo University of the Arts. This book would not have been possible without the cooperation of the many musicians and activists I  interviewed. I  am particularly grateful to Akuryō, ATS, Peter Barakan, Darth Reider, Deli, ECD, Endō Michirō, Futatsugi Shin, Hashimoto Mika, Hunger, K Dub Shine, Kogure Miwazō, Matsumoto Hajime, Monju-kun, Nakagawa Gorō, Nakagawa Takashi, Noma Yasumichi, Oda Masanori, Ōkubo Seishi, Ōkuma Wataru, Ōtomo Yoshihide, Panta, Rankin Taxi, Sakamoto Ryūichi, and Shing02, among others, for their time in interviews. I thank them for their generosity and guidance. I am also indebted to Akiyama Rio, Masa, Mkimpo, and ken23qu for allowing me to use their photos and videos of demonstrations, which were far superior to the ones I took myself. I also thank Agemi Haruka of Rockin’ On, Ōkubo Seishi, and Ōtomo Yoshihide for their generosity with photos and visual materials of their festivals. Members of my band, the Wayside Shrines—Paul Muldoon, Chris Harford, Ray Kubian, Nigel Smith, Ila Couch, Tim Chaston, and Kate Neal—provided much needed relief and camaraderie during the writing process. My mother Hiroko Manabe has been an invaluable sounding board. Last but not least, I thank my husband Nigel Smith for his love, support, and patience during my many months of absence. It would not have been possible without you.

A N O T E O N   J A PA N E S E

All Japanese persons’ names are listed as family name first. Transliteration is by the Hepburn method, whereby vowels are pronounced approximately as they are in Italian. Macrons indicate long vowel sounds, whose duration is two morae (the shortest prosodic units in Japanese). They have been omitted for some internationally known proper nouns (e.g., Tokyo, Kyoto, Osaka, Toshiba, and Dentsu), as well as for artists and titles whose Japanese names are presented in Roman script without them (Ko of Slang, Quruli’s “Soma”). When Japanese lyrics are analyzed, morae are separated by hyphens, and syllables are separated by periods. Wherever pitch accents are analyzed, the accented morae are capitalized. Rhyming patterns and alliterations are italicized. Repeated phrases are underlined.

xv

A B O U T T H E C O M PA N I O N W E B S I T E

www.oup.com/us/therevolutionwillnotbetelevised Oxford has created a website to accompany The Revolution Will Not Be Televised: Protest Music After Fukushima. Video, audio, links to multimedia, and color photos are provided here. The content includes pronuclear public relations videos; press conferences immediately after the Fukushima nuclear disaster; music; music videos; and extensive footage from antinuclear events, particularly demonstrations and rallies. These multimedia materials greatly enhance the reader’s experience, and the reader is encouraged to consult this resource in conjunction the chapters. Examples available online are indicated in the text with Oxford’s video , audio , and photo web icons.

xvii

The Revolution Will Not Be Televised

section

I THE BACKGROUND

CH A P T ER 

1

Introduction A N A LY Z I NG P OL I T IC A L M U S IC U N DE R SE L F - C E N S OR S H I P

The YouTube video shows a guitarist, his face hidden behind sunglasses, passionately singing an antinuclear song that captures what everyone feels but can’t say. It becomes an internet sensation and de facto song of the year, catapulting the singer from a musician’s musician to a household name. However, the record company never releases the song. A truck loaded high with speakers rolls down the streets of Tokyo, and tens of thousands of protesters erupt into shouts of “Genpatsu iranai!” (We don’t need nuclear power) to techno and hip-hop beats. Further down the road, a band of amateur drummers and brass players is repeating a riff based on “Tequila!” behind shouts of “Saikadō hantai!” (We oppose restarting [nuclear reactors]). Flanks of security police surround the protesters, intimidating passersby from joining the demonstration. Japan’s most internationally renowned popular musician hosts an antinuclear concert that is watched live by nearly half a million people over the internet. He paves the way for other musicians to hold antinuclear events. For his troubles, however, he is attacked ferociously on the internet and in the media, and his television appearances drop off. Meanwhile, major record labels release only a few antinuclear recordings, which are highly metaphorical. These snapshots show a few of the many ways in which musicians have participated in the Japanese antinuclear movement since the triple disaster of the earthquake, tsunami, and nuclear accident of March 11, 2011. As an integral part of modern Japanese life, music has played a key role in expressing antinuclear points of view. “It Was Always a Lie” and other songs in cyberspace gave voice to the anxieties that many Japanese were feeling but could not express in the atmosphere of silence that prevailed after 3.11. Indeed, cyberspace is 3

4   The Background

full of antinuclear music, from amateur musicians who are ordinary citizens to well-known musicians like Sakamoto Ryūichi sharing their sentiments. This combination of potential anonymity in cyberspace and the expressivity of music helped citizens to overcome the spiral of silence and raise their voices against nuclear power. Cyberspace and real life often interact, with music as a central activity: Protesters perform music that they initially heard on YouTube videos in street demonstrations; the rock band Frying Dutchman organized the “Human Error” virtual parade in an intersection of real space and cyberspace; and performances at demonstrations are replayed in cyberspace, taking on new meanings. Music is also everywhere in street demonstrations: accompanying the protesters’ slogans, keeping them going as they march, entertaining people along the way, and motivating them when the movement is struggling. As with cyberspace, the music can express what people cannot say. During 2012, a recurring performance at the Friday-night antinuclear protests in front of the prime minister’s residence was a woman singing “Furusato” (Hometown) a cappella. This school song, published by the Ministry of Education in 1915, extolls the beauty of hometowns in the countryside. Sung at an antinuclear protest, it was a poignant reminder of a lost furusato—the hometowns in Fukushima to which 160,000 evacuees could not return; other towns contaminated by the radioactive plume, from which many residents voluntarily fled; and the communities near nuclear plants, where residents remained anxious. Conversely, in venues dedicated to music—concerts, festivals, or commercial recordings—one is less likely to hear antinuclear music than in cyberspace or at demonstrations. At the very least, antinuclear music comprises a very small percentage of the songs performed in these venues. Of course, protest music makes up a minority of commercial recordings in the United States and Britain as well. But as explained in ­chapter 3, musicians encounter industry censorship of political matters and, in particular, antinuclear activism. Indeed, antinuclear music addresses a situation that has proved difficult to discuss, let alone change. Despite firsthand experience with the horrors of atomic bombs and their long-term consequences in Hiroshima and Nagasaki, Japan has long pursued a policy of expanding nuclear power, enabled by close relationships among the nuclear industry, central and local governments, and the media. These relationships have remained strong. The Fukushima nuclear disaster shifted public opinion against nuclear power: Surveys from June 2011 through 2014 showed that over 70 percent of the population favored a phase-out of nuclear power.1 Nonetheless, the Japanese government, led by the Liberal Democratic Party (LDP), restarted one nuclear plant in August 2015 and was planning to restart several others. All nuclear reactors had been offline since September 2013 without causing any shortages.

Introduction  5

Citizens have taken to the streets to protest nuclear power. Demonstrations have also been frequent; weekly protests in front of the prime minister’s official residence have been going on for more than three years as of August 2015. At their peak in mid-2012, they attracted as many as 200,000 protesters—numbers not seen in fifty years, since the protests against the U.S.-Japan Security Treaty.2 While the numbers have since fallen, two to three thousand were still coming to these weekly protests through 2014; antinuclear demonstrations in Tokyo to mark the third anniversary of the triple disaster in March 2014 attracted 32,000 protesters, while the fourth anniversary in 2015 attracted 23,000. This level of protest in Japan is extraordinary, given that the culture often discourages people from criticizing the government and that protests have had a negative image since the violent student protests of the late 1960s. Meanwhile, the mainstream media, which many citizens have criticized for presenting little beyond official announcements, has ignored many of these protests, depriving them of the publicity that would increase their impact. But even media outlets have raised concerns that investigative journalism, which had uncovered aspects of the Fukushima accident, would shut down after the Secrecy Law came into effect in December 2014. This law criminalizes inquiries about state secrets (regardless of whether or not the person asking knew they were secret). Clearly Japanese society has a system of restraints that discourages not only ordinary citizens but also popular musicians from speaking out on this and other contentious political issues. This book analyzes how these constraints operate, and how music is used to communicate an antinuclear message within these constraints or in circumvention of them. In particular, I  consider the restrictions and opportunities in the four spaces where antinuclear music is performed—cyberspace, demonstrations, festivals, and recordings. As explained in individual chapters, each space involves power structures, limitations on content and distribution, degrees of censorship, and activist efforts to reclaim a voice. Each space attracts different types of musicians who adjust their tactics according to the power structures and risks specific to these spaces. I omit broadcasting (by television and radio run by media conglomerates) from consideration as a separate space in this study. In many countries, broadcasting would be an active space for music of social movements. In Japan, terrestrial television has not broadcast antinuclear views in abundance. Broadcasts involving musicians’ antinuclear views have been rare—the few that come to mind are a short spot on Saitō Kazuyoshi on NTV, Saitō and Gotō Masafumi’s appearances on television wearing “No Nukes” T-shirts, and a few short reports on news programs about Sakamoto Ryūichi’s involvement in the antinuclear movement. Although radio is more open than television, it

6   The Background

is still difficult for radio personalities to speak about nuclear power on the air (Hosomi Takeshi, Atomic Café, Fuji Rock, July 25, 2014); broadcasting guidelines and radio station managements forbid the playing of many antinuclear songs (Peter Barakan, Skype interview with the author, December 24, 2011). Hence, I have not included broadcasting (outside of internet streaming) as a separate space, though I have included it as relevant in other sections. 3 This lack of media coverage creates a significant challenge to activists in communicating their alternative views. Music can be a powerful antidote to this problem and a helpful tool in the movement because of its ability to capture attention, command it through repeated play, and enter into one’s memory. Yet compared with the size of Japan’s music industry, few popular musicians have taken up this challenge, even though a majority of the population supports a reduction of nuclear power. The image of the lone musician speaking truth to power, like Woody Guthrie with his guitar sticker “This machine kills Fascists,” is so romanticized in popular consciousness that some Euro-American observers are surprised that few Japanese musicians sing against political hegemony, let alone nuclear power. What circumstances make it difficult for Japanese musicians to express their political views through their art? To answer this question, let me begin by recounting some symptoms; even naming the nuclear disaster is fraught with issues.

Naming the Disaster The preferred moniker for the triple disaster of March 11, 2011, has become 3.11. The earthquake and tsunami claimed about 16,000 lives with nearly 3,000 more still missing. Over 200,000 evacuees remain in temporary homes4; many have died while at evacuation centers; and millions more worry about the consequences of radiation. Like 9.11, the 3.11 metonym refers to tragic events without naming their painful particulars. It also has the political expediency of referring to all three disasters without implying a greater emphasis on any one. Even if speakers are referring specifically to the nuclear disaster, they may prefer to use 3.11 because it sounds more inclusive of the victims from the other two disasters. By calling it 3.11, speakers show they haven’t forgotten about the stricken regions of Tōhoku, where many people have struggled to recover from the loss of homes, communities, livelihoods, and loved ones. By referring to “3.11” rather than “Fukushima,” one also avoids stigmatizing Fukushima prefecture. In fact, “Fukushima” is the name of not only a prefecture but also its capital city, located about 90–100 kilometers by road from the stricken Fukushima Daiichi Nuclear Power Plant; the plant itself is in the towns of Futaba and Ōkuma. Unlike the people of Hiroshima and

Introduction  7

Nagasaki, who were victims of foreign bombs, some people in Fukushima feel partly responsible for the disaster because they accepted the reactors into their prefecture and feel ashamed of having done so. People with connections to Fukushima prefecture like Project Fukushima co-founder Ōtomo Yoshihide do not want to see Fukushima become shorthand for nuclear disaster. Some Fukushima residents object to the protest chant “No More Fukushima” (by which protesters mean no more nuclear accidents) and resent what they perceive as some antinuclear activists’ lack of understanding of the ambiguities of Fukushima’s situation or the conflicting feelings of its residents (Ōtomo et al. 2011; Isobe 2011; c­ hapter 6). Indeed, the naming of horrific events is a political statement. The people of Tōhoku and Fukushima have suffered enormous personal and material losses, and I sympathize with the complex issues they face. Nonetheless, for the purposes of this study, I  prefer to separate the Fukushima Daiichi accident from the other two disasters and reference it accordingly. Although Tokyo Electric Power (TEPCO) has argued that a tsunami “beyond expectations” led to the nuclear accident, several investigative reports, including that of the Fukushima Nuclear Accident Independent Investigation Commission for the Diet in 2012, have concluded that the culture of the nuclear industry, with close relationships between it and the regulators and a firm belief that accidents would not happen, was to blame rather than natural events alone (Kurokawa et al. 2012). As the rock band Frying Dutchman proclaimed, the accident was a “Human Error,” differentiating it from the other two natural disasters of 3.11. Furthermore, the term “3.11” conjures up “9.11,” thus inviting comparisons of two tragic but unrelated events. Both caused staggering losses of lives and profoundly affected the psyche of the afflicted nations. However, they are comparable in neither cause nor geopolitical implications. Refraining from using the word “Fukushima” echoes the avoidance of discussion of the nuclear accident, its consequences, and its policy implications in the media and the society at large. As discussed in c­ hapter 2, the media had operated with a pronuclear bias before the accident, and the nuclear industry and associated government bureaucracies had been generous advertisers (Kawabata 2011). As a media analyst in the early 2000s, I  once asked a Japanese television network a pointed question: “Why is TEPCO such a large and steady advertising customer of yours, when it need not compete with another company?” The financial officer, who was trying not to roll his eyes, gave a suitably evasive answer: “They care about public relations.” He omitted the fact that much of the advertising was about nuclear power. He excused me for posing the question because I  was accompanying a British investor (“Mr. X would like to know …”). A taboo air surrounds discourse on nuclear power: Even after a nuclear accident that was given the same severity rating

8   The Background

as Chernobyl, antinuclear debate on television has been minimal, and entertainers who speak out against nuclear power have been ignored or openly persecuted (­chapter  3). This taboo extends to everyday life, where teachers, coworkers, and even family members avoid discussing it. In contrast, there is no taboo against helping tsunami-stricken areas or discussing relief efforts. Although people may disagree on the best way to help, it is uncontroversial to help those in need or empathize with them. Questioning government policies or corporate actions that led to a manmade disaster evidently is. Most Japanese musicians, including most antinuclear ones, have participated in charity concerts or relief efforts. However, the media has largely applauded musicians who have participated exclusively in relief efforts and ignored or denigrated those who have also engaged in antinuclear activism. Because of the controversy over antinuclear protest, I am using “Fukushima” in the title of my book to call attention to this contrast. Here, the word “Fukushima” echoes the Japanese usage of “Fukushima” written in the katakana alphabet to refer to the nuclear disaster, just as “Hiroshima” and “Nagasaki” in katakana refer to the atomic bombings. To avoid stigmatizing Fukushima prefecture, I  refer, when practical, to Fukushima Daiichi—the name of the stricken nuclear power plant.

A Kind of Censorship Should this silence on antinuclear views, both in the media and among the people, be considered censorship? After all, as of late 2014, government censors were not systematically redacting newspaper articles, books, television broadcasts, or recordings in the same way that Occupation officials had after World War II (Abel 2012). 5 There have not been sensational court cases prosecuting critics of the nuclear industry post-Fukushima Daiichi in the way that there have been obscenity trials on literary and visual works since the Occupation (Cather 2012). What exists instead are professional structures like the kisha (press) clubs that inhibit investigative reporting (Freeman 2000), precedents of backlash against antinuclear journalists and performing artists, and rules within the broadcasting and recoding industries that prohibit the shaming of specific people or organizations (Dorsey 2013; Record Industry Association of Japan; ­chapters  2, 3, and 7). The government doesn’t explicitly censor the media:  The industry imposes it on itself in deference to its advertisers, and the nuclear industry is among the biggest. Japan is not the only country where advertising revenue influences what the media shows: Martin Cloonan (1996: 129) has also noted this influence in British commercial radio. In Japan, the result is that media personnel, producers, and individual entertainers censor themselves, making explicit censorship largely unnecessary.

Introduction  9

Cloonan (2003) suggests that such media-industry mechanisms and self-restraint should be considered censorship because “censorship does not have to be a deliberate act” (14). He defines censorship as “the process by which an agent (or agents) attempts to, and/or succeeds in, significantly altering, and/ or curtailing, the freedom of expression of another agent with a view to limiting the likely audience for that expression” (15). He identifies three levels of censorship: (1) prior restraint, such as refusing to sign an artist, preventing a signed musician from making a recording, or refusing to release a recording; (2) restriction of a release, which does not remove it from the market but limits its audience (e.g., by banning it from the radio); and (3) suppression through governmental or legal banning of a recording (17–18). He notes that most censorship in Western Europe and North America is restriction by commercial entities involved in distribution (e.g., the ban on the Sex Pistols’ “God Save the Queen” from British radio, Wal-Mart’s refusal to stock “offensive” records, parental advisory labels). However, such restrictive practices can lead artists and record companies to exercise prior restraint, so that they avoid limiting their market. In the Japanese music industry, the censorship is almost always prior restraint—understood, internalized, and self-imposed by the artists or their entourages. While Cloonan (1996) identifies several topics of censorship—sex, drugs, offensiveness, children, and politics, among others—the vast majority of his examples are related to morality and decorum. His examples of politically oriented censorship deal with violent conflicts with implications for national security, such as the conflict in Northern Ireland, the Falklands War, and the Gulf War. In contrast, Japanese nuclear power relates to industrial policy and directly impacts corporate profits more than it does national security. The media’s censorship of the topic is due to capitalistic interests. As discussed in c­ hapter 2, many bureaucrats and politicians are also beneficiaries of nuclear power. Japanese musicians are discouraged from expressing political views and encouraged to stick to their roles as entertainers; if they deviate from this practice, they may be censored or blacklisted. Even genres that are expected to be oppositional, like rap, are subject to these rules. As veteran rapper K Dub Shine, who is known for socially pertinent lyrics, explained: The censorship isn’t with the Recorin (industry inspection board, ­chapter  7); it’s self-restraint (jishuku). You’d think your freedom of speech was constitutionally protected, and if someone sued, the record company could deal with it there and then. But that’s not what happens. When I  was at Sony, people at all levels of the company pushed me to change some lyrics and threatened that they would otherwise withhold my record from release. Senior record executives sat me down and told me. [As an artist,] you can’t point to a particular

10   The Background

person or entity. You have to make it vague, or talk about larger concepts. (K Dub Shine, p.c., Tokyo, August 13, 2014) He should know. In 2002, K Dub had written the following lyrics for “911,” King Giddra’s rap questioning the morality of American military action in Afghanistan: Iwayuru dōji tahatsu tero guraundo zero Kao no nai uttae wa Paresuchina o dero Hibana chiru Chūtō no futatsu no shūkyō So-called simultaneous terrorist attacks on Ground Zero Faceless accusations should get out of Palestine The two religions of the Middle East fight desperately Defstar Records, a label of Sony Music Entertainment Japan, made him take “Palestine” out of the lyric before it would release the single, which was renamed “911 Remix” (K Dub Shine, email to the author, August 16, 2014). The company had initially insisted on many changes to the song, but for reasons they did not explain to him, eventually centered on K Dub’s redaction of the single word, which he did not replace. The group had originally recorded the track in October 2011, which would have made it extremely timely; the issue delayed the release by a year (K Dub Shine, p.c., August 17, 2014). 6 Artists with regular appearances on television or radio have an even more difficult time. One celebrated rapper would not say anything against nuclear power immediately after 3.11 because he had a regular radio show on a national network; he began to opine about nuclear power after public sentiments became clear, but he continued to refrain from criticizing the media. Musicians depend on record distribution and media exposure for their livelihoods, and both industries are concentrated into a handful of conglomerates. They can thus ill afford to alienate these companies by taking political stands that are against their interests (­chapters 2 and 3).7 Hence, Japanese record companies, producers, and artists censor their own work. As Abel (2012) and Cather (2012) have noted in their studies of Japanese censorship in literature and the visual arts, this internalized self-restraint can be more insidious than actual censorship as producers err on the side of caution, closing off avenues for thought and “kill[ing] some ideas even before they are hatched” (Abel 2012:  16). Professional musicians who feel impelled to express their views need to come up with elliptical ways to do so: by using allegories, metaphors, metonyms, allusions, pseudonyms, or alternative identities;

Introduction  11

or resorting to spaces other than the usual recordings, broadcast appearances, or concerts designated for them.

The Value of the Japanese Case Study in Music and Social Movements Nonetheless, music has been ubiquitous in the spaces in which antinuclear activism takes place:  It spreads anti-hegemonic messages over the internet, accompanies demonstrations, and provides an attraction for an antinuclear gathering or fundraising concert. It is also a way in which ordinary citizens and professional musicians alike can express their thoughts and emotions, with or without words. It can evoke memories of other injustices, places, or circumstances. Anyone can participate in a musical performance by singing, dancing, or clapping along; music can thus engage hardcore protesters and townspeople alike. It is portable and can be used in public performance or heard in private, for an audience of many or one. As Mark Mattern (1998:  144)  has argued, music has served as an important means of communication for people with few options, like the repressed democratic socialists in Pinochet’s Chile or disadvantaged Native Americans. Japan presents an interesting case study for the role of music in social movements. Politically, the people elect its legislature, making Japan a democracy; however, one political party has dominated its postwar history, and the bureaucracy has remained the dominant policymaking and implementing force, leading to entrenched policies and personnel. The media works under implied constraints; it usually does not support social movements by publicizing anti-hegemonic demonstrations or artist endorsements to the extent that media elsewhere does. Self-censorship is inherent in the culture. Music-wise, it possesses the second-largest music market in the world, with an extensive underground music scene representing a dazzling array of genres. As music is commonly taught in schools, musical literacy is high, raising the potential for ordinary citizens to participate musically. Finally, cyberspace is playing an increasingly important role in social movements (Hardt and Negri 2012, Castells 2013). With one of the highest rates of broadband and cell-phone diffusion in the world, Japanese society is highly networked; on the other hand, it is hampered by a digital divide between the PC-literate and those dependent on internet-enabled phones. These conditions make it an interesting case study on the role of the internet in social movements. This study also comes at a possible inflection point in Japan’s history. To many Japanese citizens, the nuclear accident revealed the extent to which negative information had been kept hidden from the public (­chapter 2). Many

12   The Background

journalists expected the Secrecy Law to make even less information available after it went into effect in December 2014. Polls have consistently shown that the majority of the public objects to this law, along with the Abe administration’s intention to restart nuclear power plants, its reinterpretation of the pacifist Constitution to allow collective self-defense, and its Security Bills that would allow Japanese self-defense forces to aid allies even if Japan itself is not under attack. To many activists, these issues point to a larger problem of oligarchical control that extends not only to policy decisions but also what information is available, what is shown on media, and the right to space. The musicians and activists of the antinuclear movement have also been involved in other movements, and they have carried over their tactics in contentious performances.

Theories of Music in Social Movements and the Japanese Situation As Eric Drott (ms.) has pointed out, much of scholarship on music in social movements has tended to fall along functionalist, structuralist, or rational-choice frameworks. For example, Eyerman and Jamison (1998) see social movements as knowledge-producing activity, for which music is one means of forming a “cognitive praxis.” Similarly, Rosenthal and Flacks (2011) point out ways in which music and musicians fulfill functional roles, such as educating the public, recruiting new members, and keeping people motivated when spirits are flagging. Although Japanese musicians serve many of these same functions, their more constrained circumstances, compared to North American and British musicians, often lead them to take more involved roles or adopt more complex musical responses than their counterparts. For example, John Street gives many examples of synergistic interactions between politically engaged musicians and the media (Street 2012). The situations he presents (e.g., Live Aid and Rock Against Racism) differ from the Japanese movements in that the media has not supported the antinuclear movement. In addition, Street’s examples put the musician in the position of leader, which many Japanese musicians are hesitant to take. This hesitancy may in part be cultural, because management companies often position musicians, particularly pop idols, as ordinary guys/girls next door (Aoyagi 2005). In other words, while the frameworks developed by Western scholars are enlightening, they do not necessarily capture the meaning of social behaviors in other cultures that affect the function, meaning, or need for music in social movements. There are, of course, commonalities between the situations described by Western scholarship and Japan. For example, Eyerman and Jamison see social

Introduction  13

movements selectively reworking, recombining, and revitalizing traditional cultural materials like popular music, making “use of preexisting forms of social solidarity and communication” (1998:  160)—a tactic often seen in Japanese protests, which reshape traditional musical forms and make frequent references to past movements. This continuity with historical practice is also discussed by Charles Tilly (2008), who theorizes that repertoires of contentious performances (forms of protest) change incrementally over time depending on changes in political opportunity or relationships among the players. As I discuss in c­ hapter 5, this theory is very visible in Japanese demonstrations, but it is also applicable to other recurring practices, such as political music festivals. Another theme in the literature on music and social movements is the role of music in stimulating participation. Turning his attention toward the “quality of interaction” engendered by music, Roy (2012) contrasts the Old Left, in which performers take a “top-down” approach toward the audience, with the more social music making of the civil rights movement, where the protesters sang together. Thomas Turino has defined this difference in interaction, respectively, as “presentational” vs. “participatory” styles of performance, which I discuss in detail in c­ hapter  5. Briefly, presentational performances involve a separation between performing musicians and the audience, while participatory performances involve everybody’s participation, thus privileging social interaction over the sonic result (Turino 2008: 26–28). Music within a social movement, however, is often varied rather than monolithic, spanning the spectrum from presentational to participatory. Even within the Japanese antinuclear movement, political circumstances at a particular time call for different levels of musical participation, as explained in c­ hapter  5.3. Similarly, Mattern (1998) observes a variety of musical behavior as a function of political circumstances, categorizing them as confrontational (many protests), deliberative (collaborative among various groups), or pragmatic (solutions-oriented).8 In the aftermath of 3.11, hundreds of monographs, edited collections, and popular books have been published, addressing cultural responses, resurgent protests, political ramifications, and the structure of the nuclear industry. For example, Samuels (2013) discusses three areas of policy that were reconsidered in the wake of 3.11—security, energy, and local governments—and how ideas about change, community, leadership, and vulnerability were processed. Background on politico-social conditions before 3.11 has been provided by Aldrich’s (2008) history of nuclear power, Avenell’s (2010) account of postwar social movements, and Sand’s (2013) analysis of urban space and historical contention in Tokyo, among others cited throughout this volume. By focusing on the musical aspects of this contention, as informed by ethnography and musical analysis, this book aims for a different angle on this ongoing issue.

14   The Background

Central Parameters The analysis of the book addresses the ways in which the content, performance style, and role of music in a given social movement vary according to (1) the position of the person playing it, (2)  the space in which the music is played, and (3) the political conditions underlying the movement at that point in time. Each space is subject to structural constraints, risks, and opportunities, affecting the participation and behaviors of musicians and citizens. Depending on the person, space, and time, music takes on particular political frames and invites different levels of participation. The methods by which the message is conveyed—direct accusation, oblique metaphor, the reworking of a preexisting song, or a rendition of a known song—also vary by person, place, and time. In particular, a common tactic is to make direct references to preexisting works and combine them with indexes of present experience, but the way in which a musician applies this tactic depends on these three variables.9 POSI T ION OF A RT ISTS

For the purposes of this book, musicians are described as belonging to one of three professional categories—avocational, independent, and major-label. Avocational musicians are occupied in another profession and rarely get paid to perform. They are the bedroom DJs uploading remixes of antinuclear songs or cutups (e.g., sampling and reordering words) of politicians, the karaoke singers of antinuclear songs, and the people drumming or playing instruments at protests. Although they may suffer reputational damage in their social circles or at their places of work for their antinuclear views, they are not financially at risk for their musical output. Like avocational musicians, independent artists may also hold other jobs as sources of income; the difference is that they see music as their primary focus and have visibility as musicians. Among independent musicians, I am considering professional musicians who record and distribute commercial recordings independently of the major record labels and artists’ agencies, which in Japan include the sixty-five companies listed as members of the Record Industry Association of Japan (RIAJ). This distinction is important because the major record labels are more fully integrated with the mainstream media industry than their independent cousins, and are more likely to systematically censor themselves, affecting the dynamics and psychology of the recording process (­chapter 7). Independent musicians, who may be either self-managed or handled by less restrictive record companies or agencies, usually work under fewer constraints than major-label musicians, who are discouraged from taking controversial stands. As I discuss in c­ hapters 2 and 3, it is

Introduction  15

taboo to criticize nuclear power in the media. Expressing such criticisms can result in lost income—canceled gigs, fewer income-generating projects like television commercials, reduced media exposure and visibility resulting in lower record sales, or worse. Few major-label musicians have made their views known to the public, let alone composed songs about them. Rather, much of antinuclear activity has been concentrated among the independents. There is considerable overlap among these categories. Avocational musicians mix with professional ones. In addition, the size of the record industry has shrunk in revenues, leaving it less able to support artists. Many musicians I have classified as independents previously held contracts with major record labels (e.g., ECD, Scha Dara Parr). Since the mid-2000s, some big-name musicians like Quruli and Zeebra have set up their own agencies, although they may not leave major labels. Hence, when I classify a song as coming from an independent or major-label artist, I am referring to the artist’s contract status at the time of its release. Whenever relevant, I indicate artists’ power to generate record sales or influence the media by referencing their track records on the Oricon sales charts, which are the Japanese equivalents of Billboard. Although many factors influence a musician’s involvement in political matters (discussed in c­ hapter 3), such as genre or personal background, professional status is one of the most important factors, because political involvement can have ramifications on the artist’s ability to get media exposure and earn money. T Y P E S O F   S PA C E S

These three categories of musicians take on different roles in the four spaces of the antinuclear movement in which music is played—cyberspace, street demonstrations, concerts and festivals, and commercial recordings. Although these four spaces represent sites or repositories of musical performances, I nevertheless prefer to use the word “space” rather than “venue” to describe them; unlike venue, with its implications of a physical place, space, as envisioned by David Harvey (2006:  282–283), can refer to a mental state or a social construct and the feelings thereby engendered. A  particularly attractive framework is Henri Lefebvre’s (1991) conceptualization of space as the product of a physical, mental, and social space. For Lefebvre, space is a product of hegemonic control and the acted-out responses of the people in that space. He considers urban space to be socially produced by the interaction of the perceived space (the physical environment) with conceived space (or representations of space) and lived-in space (spaces of representation). Representations of space are “tied to the relations of production and to the ‘order’ which those relations impose, and hence to knowledge, to signs, to codes, and to ‘frontal’ relations”

16   The Background

(Lefebvre 1991: 33). This conceived space is planned, ordered, and regulated by hegemonic forces—architects, developers, urban planners, and social engineers—who map out flows of people, separate areas by function, and segregate classes. By controlling how space is organized and used, they subsume ideology within these representations of space (Merrifield 1993: 523). In contrast, spaces of representation are the spaces of everyday life, where people imagine new uses and meanings for space in contrast to the conceived space regulated by hegemonic forces. Lefebvre describes this space as a system of nonverbal symbols, signs, images, and associations that inhabitants make of objects in physical space in the course of daily life; these signs include not only visual stimuli like graffiti but also sounds and music. Through imagination, the inhabitants seek to appropriate the space that otherwise dominates them (Lefebvre 1991: 39). Lefebvre’s triadic and power-sensitive conception of space is germane to all four spaces of cyberspace, street demonstrations, festivals, and recordings. It applies most obviously and directly to street demonstrations. As discussed in ­chapter 5.4, Tokyo lacks large public spaces in front of government buildings, making it extremely difficult to hold the kind of massive headline-grabbing protests that were held on the Washington Mall during the Civil Rights and anti-Vietnam War movements. Furthermore, heavy policing and restrictions placed on demonstrations (e.g., keeping street protests to one lane of a road) reduce their effectiveness because they limit their disruption of public space (and therefore their ability to command attention). Hence, the Tokyo planners’ conceived space combined with police behavior and restrictions designed to maintain its order constrain what activists and musicians can achieve in a demonstration. In response, they aim to change the hegemonic conception of the city through disruptive practices—loud music that resounds around street corners and down the street beyond one’s visibility, sudden occupations of a road or plaza, or performers capturing pedestrians’ attention from perches atop a truck rolling down the street. Such practices allow demonstrators to reclaim control of urban space. By challenging the hegemonic order in this way, they raise onlookers’ awareness of the power structures that are inherent in the production of space and that are taken for granted. They reimagine the spaces of representation, if only momentarily. Such dynamics of space are also inherent in festivals, which also act as sites of musical politics. Here, there are multiple layers of conceived space. First, the location of the site in a community or in proximity to urban centers carries restrictions and meanings. For example, the No Nukes 2012 concert was held at Makuhari Messe in the Tokyo outskirts of Chiba. Its location near the epicenter of antinuclear activism made it easy for the committed Kantō-based participants to attend. On the other hand, the Fuji Rock Festival is held at a

Introduction  17

mountain ski resort in the remote town of Naeba in Niigata prefecture. The distance forces the participants, who number over 100,000, to stay outdoors or in the rural town, hence entering into an unfamiliar space. As the area was conceived for the enjoyment of nature and the organizers need the community’s approval for the festival to continue, organizers extoll environmental conservation and ask participants to dispose of trash properly. Likewise, the Project Fukushima Festival is held in the prefectural capital of Fukushima, only fifty miles from the Fukushima Daiichi Nuclear Power Plant. Permission for this festival is granted by local authorities that had supported nuclear power before the accident; in addition, Fukushima residents have suffered directly from the triple disaster and are often reluctant to talk about it. Their sensitivities discourage direct protests against nuclear power in favor of activities that support the Fukushima community. In addition to community approval, corporate sponsors (in the case of Fuji Rock) can affect how (and if) political messages are conveyed. Second, working within predetermined parameters, festival organizers re-conceive each site to make space (or restrict it) for political expression. The No Nukes 2012 concert took the open convention halls of Makuhari Messe and repartitioned them into two separate spaces—a concert hall and a concessions hall that contained booths for NGOs; the format encouraged festivalgoers to talk to NGO staff. The Fuji Rock Festival reconfigures a ski resort into a network of stages, with the mainstream acts in the giant, centrally located Green and White Stages and the alternative acts in smaller stages farther from the center; political music and talks are largely segregated in the Atomic Café, from which conversations can continue at the nearby NGO Village. The first Project Fukushima Festival also had multiple stages, including a main stage, a second stage some distance away (on which Endō Michirō performed antinuclear songs), and an open space in which anyone could play. Hence, festivals are a multilayered conceived space, reflecting the conceptions of regional and site planners as well as event organizers. Lefebvre’s conception of space as controlled by structures of power and reimagined by users is also helpful for analyzing the behaviors of musicians, activists, and listeners in the two nonphysical spaces—cyberspace and recordings. While the internet is literally a network of connections, it has often been described as a space. Not only does the word “cyberspace” embed this idea, but the spatial metaphors of digital maps, labyrinths, and urban spaces also figure in discussions of cyberspace. This tendency toward perceiving cyberspace in spatial terms results in part from interface design, which is constructed to look like geographical space (Gordon 2007, Veel 2003). Castells captures this dichotomy of the internet as network and space by describing cyberspace as a “space of flows”—a space of networked practices, based on information

18   The Background

flows, composed of actual places of people and activities, the communication networks linking them, and the flows of information performing these activities (Castells 2013: 34). In other words, cyberspace is experienced simultaneously with real, embodied space, and the dynamics between them continually shape and reshape each other (Cohen 2006). This simultaneity characterizes cyberspace as produced space, with actions and reactions of the powerful and powerless. Indeed, the actions of governments, corporations, and individuals in cyberspace have many parallels with those in urban space. Table 1.1 shows examples from David Harvey’s matrices for the possible meanings of space, which he divides into Lefebvre’s experienced, conceived, and lived spaces (as well as Harvey’s concepts of absolute and relative spaces in place and time; Harvey 2006: 282–283). For many of Harvey’s examples referring to real space, corresponding examples in cyberspace are given. I present this exercise not as a way of denoting every possibility of Lefebvre’s trichotomy of space, but as a way of indicating that the power relationships of real space also exist in cyberspace. As the table shows, such analogies to urban space are numerous, including the existence of boundaries (firewalls), openings (portals), confinements (geographic access restrictions, walled gardens for the mobile internet before smartphones), limits (data capacity), traffic overload, and nodes and aggregations. These physical characteristics lead to corporate policies and site designs that circumscribe user behavior (e.g., terms of use on social sites), limit the information that users can see (restriction to registered or paying users, automated filtering of content, time-consuming advertisements), or give corporations the rights to user data for monetization and profit (e.g., Facebook or YouTube’s retention of rights over user-generated content). Meanwhile, people use internet platforms in ways not necessarily imagined by their designers. For example, Twitter emerged shortly after 3.11 as a clearing site for sharing information about missing loved ones and disaster logistics, as well as raw emotions; it was the venue where Wagō Ryōichi published his “pebbles” of poetry from still-shaking Fukushima, and where Monju-kun delivered his wry quips about the nuclear industry, launching him as a character. Subsequently, Twitter became a heated battleground between pronuclear and antinuclear citizens, who fought verbally under pseudonyms. Like armies, both sides could mobilize people with the goal of commanding the hashtag or the space of a timeline. Recordings can also be considered in terms of their experienced, conceived, and lived spaces. Again taking Harvey’s matrices of spaces as a starting point and refitting for recordings, as presented in table 1.2, one sees a number of parallels between the space of recordings and urban space. For recordings, the experienced space would be the recording as a material object, affected by the limits of the recording medium (e.g., storage capacity), recording equipment,

Table 1.1 Comparison of cyberspace and real space using Lefebvre and Harvey’s frameworks Material space (experienced) Real space

Representations of space (conceived)

Spaces of representation (lived)

Cyberspace

Real space

Cyberspace

Real space

Cyberspace

walls, bridges, doors

firewalls, links, portals

maps

site maps

contentment around the hearth

camaraderie on Facebook groups, chat rooms

stairways, floors

hierarchies in web pages

metaphors of confinement

access restrictions (paywalls, sense of security from passwords), difficulty of accessing enclosure some information on phones

safety through pseudonymity in virtual communities

ceilings, streets

data/memory limits, small screens of mobile phones, pathways, URLs

open space

free sites

sense of power from domination over space

command held by influential tweeters, bloggers; coordinated attacks among right-wing internet trolls

buildings, cities

data storage, nodes/hubs

geographical filters

fear of others elsewhere fear of flaming on Twitter, 2chan

continents

location, placement and positionality

corporate families of links; major sites (YouTube, situated Facebook, Google, Twitter) knowledges

territorial markers ISPs; data roaming charges physical boundaries

national URL suffixes

copyright restrictions automated filtering of search results or timeline, website sharing of private information (e.g., Facebook), lack of user control over licensing (YouTube)

frustration in a traffic jam

frustration with slow connections

thrill of moving into the unknown

thrill of discovery

international solidarities

international solidarities (continued)

Table 1.1 (Continued) Material space (experienced) Real space

Cyberspace

divisions between digital divide rich and poor neighborhoods

Representations of space (conceived) Real space

Cyberspace

motion, mobility

mobile access

gated communities

walled gardens (mobile displacement phones, corporate/national restrictions)

international access

circulation of information

circulation of information

peoples

connections of people

behavioral rules set by sites (e.g., Facebook’s requirement to use one’s real name), targeted demographic of websites

money, capital

commerce sites, buyouts

accelerations/ diminutions

quality of internet connection

in friction of distance

site traffic

psychogeographies

internalization exploitation of labor of users of forces

Spaces of representation (lived) Real space

Cyberspace

Table 1.2 Comparison of recordings and real space using Lefebvre and Harvey’s frameworks Material space (experienced)

Representations of space (conceived)

Real space

Recordings

walls, bridges, doors,

limits of recorded object maps

stairways, floors, ceilings, streets

limits of recording medium or recording equipment, room acoustics in recording

buildings, cities

artists’ agencies

continents

record companies

circulation and flows of

distribution systems for

Real space

descriptions

metaphors of confinement

Recordings

Real space

Recordings

flowcharts of music industry production and distribution

contentment around the hearth

contentment listening to music in one’s home, listener’s empathy with artist

claustrophobia from enclosure

fears leading to self-censorship

frustration in a traffic jam

annoyance at hearing someone else’s music, escaping through listening to iPod or car radio

thrill of moving into the unknown

thrill of the unexpected in the music

music press, professional critiques

record company rules record industry rules, broadcasting rules, sonic representations of space or locations in recordings

placement/ positionality

Spaces of representation (lived)

market rank of record company fantasies, desires, or agency; position of record memories companies relative to television networks, advertisers, advertising agencies, media industry

emotions provoked by music

(continued)

Table 1.2 (Continued) Material space (experienced)

Representations of space (conceived)

Real space

Recordings

commodities, peoples

recordings: broadcasters, thematic maps flowchart of music inspection loyalties to place systems; flow chart of funds through entertainment industry

information, money

publishers, retailers

capital economic potential

streaming aggregators P2Ps

recording formats private property

copyright

factories

recording studios pressing factories

spaces of consumption

spaces of listening (clubs, cafés, rooms with stereo systems)

Real space

Recordings

Spaces of representation (lived) Real space

Recordings

loyalties to music affiliated with community

metaphors of situated knowledges, internalization of forces

record company inspection committees

class, identity

identity formation through music choice

Recorin self-censorship

solidarities

solidarity among fans

exploitation in the labor process

agency systems (Johnny’s) transnational labor in recording (recording in Jamaica, mastering in New York)

world market, networks

global distribution of music

Introduction  23

the acoustics of the room, and so forth. Experienced space would also encompass the existing structures of the music business—recording companies, artists’ agencies, recording studios, publishers, retailers, broadcasters, internet aggregators like YouTube or Spotify, and so forth. Conceived space would include the rules that govern the content and marketing of recordings, such as record industry standards of appropriate or inappropriate content, its mechanisms for reinforcing these norms, and the self-censorship by artists and their managers that such systems tend to invoke. It would also encompass the flow of production and distribution in the industry that, given its concentration, excludes many musicians. It would consider the control that the production system has of artists, particularly in agencies like Johnny and Associates, the managers of boy bands like SMAP and Arashi, which nurture a specific kind of entertainer from a young age. Most importantly, it would consider the flow of money in the industry, particularly the record industry’s need for exposure through the broadcasting industry, and the latter’s financial dependency on corporate sponsors and advertising agencies. Harvey’s descriptions of lived space involve feelings; indeed, DeNora (2000) describes recordings as forming lived spaces when she notes that recorded music is “a resource for the production and self-production of emotional stances, styles, and states in daily life, and for the remembering of emotional states” (DeNora 2004:  49). For recordings, the lived space encompasses not only the feelings of both the artist and listener, but also the imagined community of fans of the song or artist, the imagined communion between artist and listener, the identification of people of an ethnicity or class with a particular music, the escape from everyday life one achieves with a pair of headphones and an iPod, the annoyance at someone else’s loud music down the hall, and the emotional reaction an individual has to hearing music. As with the other three spaces, recordings involve physical structures, mechanisms of hegemonic control, and individual responses in line with, or counter to, that control. Two parameters in particular influence how musicians act in a particular space. The first is whether a performance is live, with the audience in the same physical space as the artist, as in demonstrations and concerts. In contrast, in cyberspace and commercial recordings, the audience hears performances that are prerecorded or broadcast from another location, and they can listen to them in the privacy of their own homes (table 1.3). Just as one may say something in conversation that one wouldn’t commit to writing, musicians often feel freer to sing more political lyrics or voice political opinions in the fleeting moments of a live performance rather than on a recording that will remain and be heard multiple times. When a performer and the audience are in the same physical space, the performer has the opportunity to gauge the feelings of the audience and explain what he or she means; this can avoid misunderstandings.

24   The Background

Table 1.3 Spaces of antinuclear protest performance Paid

Free

Degree of participation

live

concerts/ festivals

demonstrations

more participatory

recorded

commercial recordings

cyberspace

more presentational

degree of confrontation

less

more

Furthermore, live spaces like demonstrations and festivals allow the audience to participate more actively in the performance; in some settings, the audience may join in the performance. In contrast, such adjustments to real-time composition are not possible in the displaced, repository-oriented spaces of cyberspace and recordings. In these spaces, participation is most often through commentary on social media, review boards, and blogs, or by covers and remixes. These types of participation do not change the original performance in the way that audiences can cause musicians to change a live performance. A second parameter that greatly influences the kind of music played in a space is whether or not the audience pays to hear the performance. At a concert, the audience has either paid for a ticket and/or spent time waiting in line or traveling to the venue to gain entry. The owner of a commercial recording has either paid for a CD, download, or streaming subscription, or spent time renting a CD or finding a way to get it for free. As the listener has to invest money and/or time to attend a concert or obtain a commercial recording, these spaces are self-selecting ones, where most audience members are fans of the artist and are likely to be in agreement with his/her views; otherwise, they wouldn’t have paid for the ticket or record, or chosen to see that artist’s performance among others at a festival. These spaces hence tend to be less confrontational and less risky for the artist. However, as commercial enterprises, both recordings and concerts are subject to restrictions. Commercial recordings receive scrutiny from producers, record company executives, and the RIAJ’s inspection committee (Recorin) prior to release (­chapter 7). Live concert performances afford recording artists more flexibility than recordings for inserting commentary or political lyrics, but managers can discourage them from doing so. The singer-songwriter Saitō Kazuyoshi has implied that he has been scolded and criticized for singing his antinuclear anthem “It Was Always a Lie” at concerts (Saitō Kazuyoshi, No Nukes 2012 concert, July 8, 2012). Artists also adjust their political expression depending on

Introduction  25

the concert setting. At Fuji Rock 2014, Gotō Masafumi (Gotch) gave an impassioned and outspoken performance against Prime Minister Abe’s policies in his guise as a member of the Ese Timers band on the Atomic Café stage, which is designated as a political venue. Later at the same festival, he said nothing political in his solo performance on the alternative-rock Red Marquee stage. The free-entry spaces—demonstrations and cyberspace—are highly risky for both the artist and the audience:  Unlike the paid spaces, they do not keep out those with opposing views. While participating in demonstrations, protesters get disapproving looks from passersby and yelled epithets from counter-demonstrators. Demonstrations are heavily policed, with protesters limited to a set time and route separated by barricades; they may be unwittingly arrested for “interfering with a public employee” if they accidentally push an officer in a crowd. Several musicians have gotten arrested in the midst of their performances. Such arrests can be highly damaging, as the police can detain arrestees for three weeks without an indictment. These factors make demonstrations the riskiest space by far for both musicians and audience members. Similarly, while the visibility of cyberspace makes it a valuable tool for disseminating movement-related information and music, its openness also leaves musicians (and participants) prone to vicious attacks by internet trolls. In the case of some artists like Sakamoto Ryūichi, these out-of-context attacks have been picked up by the mainstream print and broadcast media, damaging the artist’s reputation. The disadvantages of these confrontational aspects of cyberspace and demonstrations are somewhat offset by the relative freedoms that they bestow:  Anyone can participate, and there are fewer restrictions on content. In fact, the street demonstration, where performers are attempting to make an impact on passersby, is best suited for direct, unsubtle, and even outrageous expression. There are no profits at stake, so there are few controls—only self-censorship based on fear for one’s own reputation. As such, most major-label musicians refrain from performing at demonstrations, although several, like Gotō, participate as ordinary citizens. If they perform or give talks (as Gotō’s alter-ego band the Ese Timers do), they will do so at a stationary rally, where conditions are closer to an outdoor festival with professional sound systems and large gatherings, rather than a street demonstration, where musicians frequently perform on top of a moving truck. Many people, including well-known musicians, also participate anonymously or pseudonymously in cyberspace. Table 1.4 summarizes the risks facing artists and audiences, as well as the restrictions imposed on them in each space. The various chapters consider the ways in which musicians and audiences react to the physical experience and hegemonic controls of cyberspace, demonstrations, festivals, and recordings. None of these spaces are completely free

Table 1.4 Risks And Restrictions In Each Performance Space Live

risk to artist

Recorded/Broadcast

paid

free

paid

free

concerts

demonstrations

recordings

cyberspace

medium (possible offending of fans, objections from management)

high (attacks from internet trolls, reputational damage, copyright infringement, shutout from media)

low/medium (possible offending high (counter-demonstrators of fans, objections from in street, police, uncontrollable management) sound quality)

risk to audience low (self-selecting audience)

high (police, counter-demonstrators in street)

low (listening in private) low/medium (attacks from internet trolls)

controls on medium (management artist’s content objections)

low (some thematic congruence)

high (management, low (site policies, record company, Recorin) intimidation from trolls)

controls on audience

high (route, time, boundaries, noise laws)

low (distributors, censors low (device ownership, site can restrict access) membership, site policies)

low/medium (crowd control measures; separation of stages, seat levels, blocks of people)

Introduction  27

(e.g., although musicians can eschew the restrictions of the recording industry in cyberspace, even that space is still subject to the rules of YouTube or the intimidation of the internet trolls). The music in these spaces involves different musicians, political framing, and techniques. As cyberspace and recordings are depositories of prerecorded material, these chapters contain more musical analyses. As festivals and demonstrations involve live performances, these chapters focus on describing how political material is presented and how the audience participates. STAG E OF T H E MOV E M E N T

All social movements go through periods of increasing and decreasing fervor, as well as changing focus. For the antinuclear movement post-3.11, there have been at least three identifiable periods between 2011 and 2015 that have called for different kinds of performances. The first period, which I place from March 11, 2011, to September 30, 2011, saw an upsurge of outrage against the nuclear village—the bureaucrats, local politicians, businesses, media, and academics benefiting from the nuclear industry. The period culminated in two dramatic protests in September 2011. The first, the Shirōto no Ran (Revolt of the Laymen) demonstration in Shinjuku on September 11, 2011, resulted in the arrests of over a dozen protesters; the negative press damaged the reputation of sound demonstrations and carnivalesque protests (­chapter 5). The second, the Sayonara Genpatsu (Goodbye Nuclear Power) protest in Meiji Park on September 19, 2011, attracted 60,000 protesters—the largest number seen up to that time—but only limited media attention. The second period, which I put from October 2011 to December 2012, saw a relative lull in protest activity in the winter months, followed by impressive numbers of protesters on the first anniversary of 3.11, the establishment of weekly Friday-night protests in front of the prime minister’s official residence (Kantei) in Tokyo and throughout the country, and a surge in protesters around the time of the restarting of the Ōi Nuclear Power Plant on July 1, 2012. Dubbed the Hydrangea Revolution, the peak of demonstrations saw 150,000 to 200,000 protesters gather at Kantei each Friday from June 29 to early August, culminating in a 200,000-strong demonstration surrounding the Diet building on July 29, 2012. I place the end of the second period in December 2012, when the ruling Democratic Party of Japan (DPJ, Minshutō), splintered by defections, was decimated in the Lower House election, which handed power back to the Liberal Democratic Party (LDP, Jimintō)—the party that has ruled Japan for all but four of the last sixty years.10 Since then, news flow has become sparser, and activists have become involved in other movements (e.g., opposing hate speech toward ethnic minorities, the Secrecy Law, and Prime Minister Abe Shinzō’s

28   The Background

reinterpretation of the Peace Constitution). Although protests are still held regularly and occasionally number in the tens of thousands, the participants are fewer than at the peak in 2012. The antinuclear movement seems more active in regional cities near nuclear plants slated for restarting or new construction. I classify this period since December 2012 as the third period. Activists have expected a resurgence of protesters whenever the restarting of nuclear power plants becomes imminent. As of mid-2015, the Nuclear Regulatory Authority had approved the first nuclear reactors to restart under new, stricter regulations—two reactors at the Sendai plant in Kagoshima prefecture, two at Takahama in Fukui, and one at Ikata in Shikoku. The Sendai reactor was restarted on August 15, 2015, ending nearly two years without nuclear power.

Variables to Consider L E V E L S A N D T Y P E S O F   PA R T I C I PA T I O N

A key goal of social movements is to inspire participation, and music is often a means to this goal. The kind of participation varies depending on the space of performance and the stage of the movement. At a demonstration, audience participation is often directly tied to the music, with protesters singing, chanting, dancing, drumming, blowing horns, and marching. Performances in demonstrations tend to become more participatory over time, particularly when movements are mobilizing more and more participants. In concerts and festivals, audience members clap, nod, and dance in reaction to the music, but they typically do not participate in the musical performance itself. Participation in festivals is often in the form of contributing to the overall atmosphere (e.g., by camping at the site, traveling in caravans to the festival, wearing festival T-shirts or event-appropriate clothing, or dancing in groups). Other festivals, like the Michigan Womyn’s Music Festival or Project Fukushima Festival, involve audiences by having them participate in the festival arrangements (as in the latter’s communally made quilts). In contrast, recordings and cyberspace separate the performer and listener, both physically and temporally (except for live internet broadcasts). They are both repositories of (mostly) prerecorded music and are therefore presentational according to Turino’s definition. For these spaces, listener participation usually involves a reaction to a fixed product. Some forms of participation are both physically and temporally displaced (e.g., commentary on social media, performance of covers, and composition of remixes). Other forms are physically displaced but occur simultaneously, as in Frying Dutchman’s virtual parade through their song “Human Error” (­chapter  4). Yet another form of participation is the twitcasting of live performances or tweeting about them,

Introduction  29

which allows people outside of the performance venue to experience it in real time. All of these responses are a kind of participation in that they interact with the music and contribute to its overall reception. T H E F R A M E OF T H E M E SS AG E

As music can be played and heard repeatedly, it can have a powerful role in the framing process. Frames are interpretative schemas that allow individuals to identify, label, and make sense of events. Snow and Benford (1988, 2000)  define the core framing tasks as diagnostic (identifying the issues, condensing information, focusing attention on particular interpretations), prognostic (proposing solutions, counter-framing opposing arguments), and motivational (mobilizing people to action). Most of the music of the antinuclear movement has been in the diagnostic frame, particularly during the first period. In the early days, songs like “It Was Always a Lie” pointed out that “textbooks and television commercials” had lied to the Japanese people in claiming that nuclear power was safe. Music in the motivational frame came later, particularly in the second period, in the wake of the upsurge of summer 2012. Caught up in the spirit of participation that infused musical style at demonstrations then (­chapter 5.3), several songs sampled the chants of the protesters themselves. Music with a prognostic frame has been rarer—not surprising, given the difficulties in proposing solutions to complex issues in the space of a short song. Nonetheless, music in prognostic frames has appeared in longer formats like concept albums or festivals, which allow for multiple channels of communication (­chapter 6). T ECH N IQU E S OF M E SS AGI NG

As Snow and Benford (1988) have noted, successful social movements need to identify the culpable agents. However, accusations against specific individuals or organizations are not just offensive in Japanese society; they are also against the guidelines of the RIAJ. Given this situation, many professional musicians have chosen to use another concept to convey their intended meanings—allegories, metaphors, metonyms, and indexes (­chapter 7). They have also channeled them through intertextuality, taking advantage of the familiarity of other songs in covers with new lyrics, paying homage to hip-hop classics in remakes, addressing difficult situations with humor in mash-ups, or adopting musical genres that are associated with particular social contexts. These indirect methods have helped musicians avoid censorship, make the messages more palatable, and also tie the concerns of the present with fears of the past, thus striking a chord with people’s existing assumptions.

30   The Background

Often these methods are combined with co-occurring indexes of connection in actual experiences (as per Peirce’s trichotomy of signs), such as quotes of announcements at the time of the nuclear accident.11 Another way musicians convey messages is by setting texts deliberately so that they will be misunderstood. In the Japanese language, the shortest prosodic unit is a mora, equivalent to a short syllable. They are typically a sole vowel (e.g., “a”), a vowel with a consonant (“ka”), a nasal “n,” or a double consonant (the silent space between two consonants, as in “It’s hot today.”) Each mora is spoken in the same duration as another. Long vowels (“oo”) are pronounced as having the duration of two morae; hence Tokyo is pronounced as four morae (to-o-kyo-o), even though it is heard as two syllables (too. kyoo). Similarly, compound vowels (e.g., “o-u,” “a-i,” “e-i,”) are sounded as two morae.12 In this book, I separate morae with hyphens and syllables with periods. Transliteration is by the Hepburn method, whereby vowels are pronounced approximately as they are in Italian. In English, accents are stressed by duration, volume, and pitch. In contrast, Japanese accents are only pitch-accented, with the accented morae at the same duration as any other. There are only high (H) and low (L) pitches, and only one part of the word can receive a high pitch, which can last for several morae in a row. Because the Japanese language is replete with homonyms, songwriters attempt to match melodies to the general pattern of pitch accents so that the words are not misunderstood.13 Generally, if the pitch accent is high at a particular point in the word, most composers feel it best to set it on a higher pitch. Some composers, like the twentieth-century composer Motoori Nagayo, believe that a metric or durational accent suffices if the accent is on the second mora of a word (Motoori 1933, Manabe 2009b). Texts can easily be misunderstood if they are set outside of such patterns. Although accent patterns vary by region, most commercial songwriters adopt the Tokyo accent for the purposes of setting texts because it is treated as the standard language. Wherever I analyze pitch accents, I indicate the accents (according to Tokyo dialect) by capitalizing the accented morae. Rhyming patterns and alliterations are italicized. Repeated phrases, which are more common than rhymes in many genres, are underlined.

Data Collection and Analysis Fieldwork for this book began with a trip to Japan in 2011 and continued through repeated stays there in 2012, 2013, 2014, and 2015. I lived in Tokyo for seven months from February to September 2012; this period coincided with the rise and peak of antinuclear protests, during which I was a participant-observer of

Introduction  31

dozens of demonstrations held by Shirōto no Ran/Datsu Genpatsu Suginami, No Nukes More Hearts, TwitNoNukes, Metropolitan Coalition Against Nukes, and other groups. I  also attended the No Nukes 2012 concert and other musical events. Additional trips in 2013, 2014, and 2015 were timed to coincide with major events, such as the massive quarterly demonstrations held by the Metropolitan Coalition Against Nukes (MCAN) and the large antinuclear music festivals like No Nukes or Fuji Rock. I also stayed in Japan for much of summer 2014, during which I  observed several demonstrations against nuclear power, the Secrecy Law, and remilitarization. Interviews were conducted with about twenty-five activists and musicians for this project, with many more casual conversations and email communications. This work complements my earlier work on hip-hop, reggae, rock, and electronic dance music in Japan, which I  have been conducting continuously since 2005, including a year’s stay in 2008–2009. Through this work, I had met over one hundred musicians and was already familiar with several involved in antinuclear activities, like Rankin Taxi, ECD, Shing02, and K Dub Shine. In addition to face-toface ethnography, I follow and interact with activists and musicians on Twitter, Facebook, Tumblr, YouTube, and blogs. UStream, Dommune, and Twitcasts have allowed me to observe events real-time when I could not attend, while YouTube, Nico Nico Dōga, Twitter, and blogs have provided archives of events to revisit and analyze. Contemporary secondary sources of note include independent journalism by IWJ, Tanaka Ryūsaku, and Blogos; newspapers, particularly the more radical Tokyo Shimbun; weekly magazines; and books. Historical archives were consulted at the National Archives in College Park, Maryland, as well as documents and secondary sources at the National Diet Library and the Library of Congress.

Outline of Chapters The first two chapters provide the background information for the antinuclear movement. Chapter 2 describes the power structures and financial incentives that have helped nuclear power grow since the early 1950s and have kept it in place despite widespread criticism post-Fukushima Daiichi. Chapter  3 explores the disincentives that musicians face in voicing political opinions, the biographical characteristics of those who do, and the roles they have taken in the antinuclear movement. The rest of the chapters address the different spaces in which music plays a role in the antinuclear movement. Chapter  4 notes that the openness, mobile accessibility, and potential anonymity of cyberspace made it instrumental in helping citizens overcome the spiral of silence. Cyberspace has enabled both well-known musicians and ordinary

32   The Background

citizens to disseminate music that would normally be censored by the recording industry. As music from cyberspace was played in demonstrations, and the music from those demonstrations was in turn recombined and re-circulated in cyberspace, the lines between cyberspace and real space often blurred, enabling musical collaboration and mobilization. The chapters on demonstrations begin with a description of the many types of music seen at demonstrations (­chapter  5.1), followed by a discussion of the origins and development of sound demonstrations (­chapter 5.2). Chapter 5.3 explains how this practice continued into the post-3.11 antinuclear demonstrations and evolved from a presentational format of musicians delivering prepared songs to a participatory one, in which rappers engaged protesters in improvised calls-and-response slogans. This evolution occurred as the movement shifted its focus from raising awareness to mobilizing citizens. Chapter 5.4 analyzes how the urban landscape and soundscape impact the performance of demonstrations. In music festivals, addressed in ­chapter 6, political ideas can be communicated through an informational approach, whereby arguments are presented, or in an experiential one, whereby participation in an immersive environment opens one’s mind to different points of view. The chapter compares the approaches taken by Sakamoto Ryūichi’s No Nukes concerts, the Atomic Café at Fuji Rock Festival, and the Project Fukushima Festival. In contrast, recordings (­chapter 7) are subject to a multilayered system of self-censorship by the RIAJ, individual record companies, and producers. As nuclear power is a taboo topic, recording artists on major labels have relied on allegories, metaphors (both musical and textual), and metonyms to express their antinuclear sentiments. Musicians also quote songs of similar messages and purposefully mispronounce words to suggest near-homonyms. Chapter  8 considers the continuity between the antinuclear movement and the movement opposing the Secrecy Law. The book advocates for the analysis of spaces of performance, the position of artists, and source materials in relation to each other and the constraints imposed in each circumstance. Such analysis provides insights into the roles of music in social movements and also their inventiveness.

Why Music? In an environment like Japan post-Fukushima Daiichi, where voicing viewpoints on nuclear power is difficult, music has provided a creative, affective, and not completely verbal way for expressing thoughts and emotions. It makes a difficult issue easier to digest: Wrapped in the entertaining guise of a music video, songs like Rankin Taxi’s “You Can’t See It, You Can’t Smell It Either”

Introduction  33

stand up to repeated viewings and hearings as a way for citizens to learn about the issues surrounding nuclear power. Furthermore, music allows people to participate, by clapping, singing along at a concert, drumming, playing an instrument, or yelling Sprechchor (slogans; c­ hapter 5.3) at a demonstration; the physical activity makes them feel closer and involved with others present. Music can also act as an attraction for gathering people at political rallies and discussions. It can have diagnostic, prognostic, and motivational frames. Moreover, it engages the mind, body, and heart, communicating messages in a way that is ear-catching, danceable, direct, emotion-provoking, or obscure, depending on the artist and the circumstance. It is a call to action, a source of consolation, and an outlet for creative expression—all of which are particularly important in a situation where entrenched interests make political change difficult, as explained in the next chapter.

CH A P T ER 

2

The Nuclear Past and Present STRUCTUR ES OF POW ER A ND CI V IL R ESISTA NCE

The country that suffered the atomic bombings of Hiroshima and Nagasaki boasts the world’s third-largest capacity in nuclear power generation, at one time depending on it for one-third of its electricity supply. The two explanations commonly given for the Fukushima Daiichi nuclear accident reflect the beliefs and structures that made this condition possible. As Samuels (2013) has noted, these explanations center on whether the disaster was “beyond expectations” (sōteigai) or a “nuclear village” (genshiryoku mura) wielded too much control over nuclear policy. The first was a logical extension from the prevailing pre-3.11 belief that nuclear power was a safe, cheap, and stable source of energy that powered Japan’s economy. The so-called safety myth—reiterated for decades by the government, specialists, and the media—almost made TEPCO’s initial excuse for the accident credible:  that the tsunami was a once-in-a-thousand-years event, far beyond the planners’ expectations. Many business leaders, politicians, and bureaucrats supported this view, claiming that without nuclear power, Japan would be short of electricity, the economy would suffer, and unemployment would rise.1 As nature was the root cause of the disaster, they placed blame on those who mishandled the aftermath, especially then-Prime Minister Kan Naoto; his party, the Democratic Party of Japan (DPJ); and antinuclear “rumormongers.” The second explanation was that the nuclear village (genshiryoku mura)— an entrenched network of politico-industrial interests—had captured control of nuclear power and failed to uphold safety standards, leaving Fukushima Daiichi unprepared for disaster.2 The term “mura” (village) is a derisive reference to mura shakai (village society), suggesting the group is as exclusionary (and protective of its profits) as a village. Foremost among its members are the 34

The Nuclear Past and Present   35

nine (out of ten) electric power companies with nuclear power plants—Tokyo, Kansai (KEPCO), Tōhoku, Chūbu, Chūgoku, Shikoku, Kyūshū, Hokkaidō, and Hokuriku—all regional monopolies with control of power generation and distribution. 3 Two other companies, Japan Atomic Power Company and Japan Atomic Energy Agency (JAEA), round out the list of nuclear plant operators. The village also includes suppliers of equipment and services to nuclear power plants, of which the largest are Hitachi, Toshiba, and Mitsubishi, which are among Japan’s largest conglomerates. They are so powerful that their executives regularly hold vice-chairs or other top posts at the Keidanren (Japan Business Federation), an influential voice to the government.4 The next pillars of the nuclear village are the central government bureaucracies, especially the Ministry of Economy, Trade, and Industry (METI) and the Nuclear and Industrial Safety Agency (NISA), the former regulatory agency. As explained later, METI promoted nuclear power as part of its industrial policy but also housed the agency that regulated it. Other members of the village include members of the Diet (elected legislature), particularly from the Liberal Democratic Party (LDP) that has ruled Japan for all but four of the last sixty years, but also from the DPJ, the ruling party on 3.11. The electric power industry supports both parties through fundraising, union votes, and direct donations. According to former KEPCO vice president Naitō Chimori, KEPCO chairman Ashihara Yoshishige gave seven hundred million yen a year to key politicians in the LDP and opposition parties between 1972 and 1989, including twenty million yen a year ($200,000 U.S.) to seven successive prime ministers from Tanaka Kakuei to Takeshita Noboru. 5 Other beneficiaries of the village are politicians of host communities, such as prefectural governors and municipal mayors, and other local people who benefit from nuclear power through tax incentives, jobs, or entertainment. Furthermore, many academics are employed or funded by companies and institutions involved in nuclear power and are paid to say things to support it. Finally, media companies receive generous advertising revenues from electric power companies, their suppliers, and government agencies. The nuclear village is a classic case of a small group that is politically incentivized and effective, as described in Olson’s Logic of Collective Action (1965). The village receives direct financial benefits from nuclear power that are exclusive to it. On the other hand, the costs of nuclear power—increased taxes to pay for incentives and national health insurance to cover possible health problems resulting from radiation—are spread over the entire population. These conditions leave the nuclear village strongly motivated to protect its interests. Moreover, it holds the trump cards on policy formation. Hence, the second narrative posits that the nuclear village combined forces to foster the safety myth of Japanese nuclear power. Since the village believed that accidents

36   The Background

would never happen, a lax safety culture grew, leading to a systemic breakdown that resulted in the three meltdowns at Fukushima Daiichi. In the logic of this narrative, the cause is denial and unpreparedness; the villain is the nuclear village, especially TEPCO, and secondarily METI as the industry promoter and regulator. As news reports of cover-ups emerged in 2011 and 2012, several arguments for the first narrative—safety of the system, the probability of tsunami, a possible shortage of electricity—were discounted. Judging from polls that show a persistent desire to reduce dependence on nuclear power, it is the second narrative that most Japanese believe as of early 2015. Yet the village remains in place. Since 3.11, hundreds of books and thousands of articles have been published analyzing the nuclear accident and its causes.6 My purpose in this chapter is to highlight, for the convenience of the unfamiliar reader, the elements and events that have most angered citizens and driven many to protest in the streets or cyberspace. I am therefore focusing on the nuclear-village narrative, on which the rhetoric of the antinuclear movement is based. I point out the factors that have firmly established nuclear power in Japan, as well as the issues that have hampered antinuclear activism, with anecdotes from the activists. I start with the beginning of the nuclear power industry in Japan, as many of the organizations, ties, and patterns of behavior have long historic roots, illustrating how entrenched the nuclear village had become.

The Beginning of Nuclear Power in Japan BI RT H OF T H E A N T I N UCL E A R W E A PONS MOV E M E N T

Japan embarked on developing nuclear power on March 4, 1954, when the first budget for nuclear power was passed in Japan’s Diet under the sponsorship of future Prime Minister Nakasone Yasuhiro. However, the better-known event of 1954 occurred three days earlier: the test explosion of an American H-Bomb over Bikini Atoll, injuring all men aboard the Japanese fishing boat Fukuryū (Lucky Dragon) No. 5 through radioactive fallout and requiring their hospitalization. Furthermore, sixteen tons of contaminated tuna from the boat had already been sold in several markets before reaching Tokyo, causing widespread panic. Outrage was further fanned when the boat was found to have been outside of any restricted zones. The Asahi newspaper declared that the Japanese people had now suffered from atomic bombs three times.7 In early April, an editorial in the Nihon Shakai newspaper called for “international control on all atomic energy as well as prohibition of tests, maintenance and use of atomic weapons” (USIS 1954). Fears also spread regarding radioactive substances in rain (Yamazaki 2009: 138).

The Nuclear Past and Present   37

When the United States did not halt nuclear weapons testing in the South Pacific, an antinuclear weapons movement sprung up spontaneously. In April 1954, the Science Council of Japan issued a statement appealing for the suspension of nuclear bomb experiments, the abolition of nuclear weapons, and the establishment of international control of atomic energy (Rudolph 1954). In spring 1954, Sugi-no-kai, a reading group of housewives in Suginami Ward in Tokyo, established the Suginami Petition Council Against Atomic and Hydrogen Bombs; in two weeks, they gathered 270,000 signatures—two-thirds of the total population in the ward at the time. Petition movements among local communities and work groups proliferated quickly throughout Japan; the death of one of the men on the fishing boat in September accelerated the movement. By summer 1955, 33 million Japanese residents had signed petitions against nuclear weapons (Yamazaki 2009: 141–142). T H E A M E R I C A N -L E D P U B L I C R E L A T I O N S   B L I T Z

The situation in Japan prompted a concerned President Dwight Eisenhower to send a memorandum to the secretary of state on May 26, 1954, asking “what things we can and should do now to improve our prospects in that region” (Eisenhower 1954). In a top-secret memo, Robert Murphy, acting secretary of the State Department responded: The Japanese are pathologically sensitive about nuclear weapons. They feel they are the chosen victims of such weapons … in the long run scientific interchange is the best remedy for Japanese emotion and ignorance and we intend to push such projects… . The most important thing that we can do to help is to treat Japan as a full, free-world partner and bring her as much as possible into our own and free world counsels. This is essential if we are to count upon the use of Japanese bases and other cooperation in any future conflict. (Murphy 1954) Eisenhower’s question suggests that he and others in the U.S. government saw the movement against nuclear weapons (and nuclear-bomb tests) as aligned with anti-American sentiment. Murphy’s reply reveals not only his condescending attitude toward the Japanese but also the strategic importance of military bases in Japan to the U.S. government in the midst of the Cold War. Japan had served as an important staging post for the Korean War, as it would do again a decade later in the Vietnam War. The United States Information Service (USIS) hence quickly employed the Japanese media to turn the tide of public opinion. In June 1954, it urged the State Department to have a professional writer produce an article in a popular

38   The Background

magazine discrediting “wild rumors” regarding fallout from the H-bomb tests (Stegmaier 1954). Subsequently, the Japan office of USIS launched an intensive public relations campaign “to replace atomic emotion with atomic information” and “get across to the Japanese people and leaders the concept that nuclear physics was a basic new science of untold potential for improving the life of the human race” (Evans 1956b). This strategy of deflecting attention away from the destructive power of nuclear weapons to the idealized dream of nuclear power was in keeping with Eisenhower’s “Atoms for Peace” speech at the United Nations in December 1953, in which he claimed that “this greatest of destructive forces can be developed into a great boon for the benefit of all mankind.”8 In 1955, USIS placed over 3,500 stories (i.e., ten a day) in Japanese newspapers, with eight special releases preceding its Atoms for Peace Exhibit reaching an estimated thirty-five million. On radio, 149 programs were carried on 267 stations, and the national broadcaster Nippon Hōsō Kyōkai (Japan Broadcasting Corporation, NHK) rebroadcast content from the Voice of America. Nearly four million residents watched eleven USIS-produced films on atomic energy, and millions more saw four of these films on television. In addition, ten television series on the “peaceful atom” were broadcast on NHK. These films, as well as American books in USIS-sponsored translation, were distributed through USIS-Japan’s fourteen cultural centers and prefectural libraries. This media blitz culminated in the Atoms for Peace Exhibition in Tokyo in November 1955. Attracting 350,000 visitors over six weeks, it was a resounding success that was duplicated in cities across Japan—Osaka, Kyoto, Nagoya, even Hiroshima—and was seen by 2.5 million visitors nationwide. It had the sponsorship of local (and national) newspapers, businesses, and politicians (Evans 1956b). J A PA N E S E P O L I T I C A L I N C E N T I V E S

Indeed, this campaign would not have been successful without the co-optation of Japanese leaders in government, industry, academics, and especially the media. The elite were generally eager to profit from the peaceful uses of the atom, in which they saw the potential for a secure energy source that could power industrial growth in a resource-poor country. But there were also underlying issues of Japan’s sovereignty and global position in this post-Occupation period. Nakasone had long been fascinated by the power of nuclear fission, having learned about nuclear experiments in the navy during the war and having witnessed the giant mushroom cloud over Hiroshima on August 6, 1945 (Nakasone 1999: 45). However, the U.S. had forbidden Japan from conducting research on nuclear fission in early 1947. When John Foster Dulles arrived as

The Nuclear Past and Present   39

special envoy to Japan in 1951, Nakasone asked that Japan not be restricted from peaceful use of nuclear power after the Occupation; he feared that if Japan were not allowed to exploit “the biggest discovery of the twentieth century,” it would be consigned to “the permanent status of fourth rate power” (Ibid: 107). In 1955, Nakasone—along with Maeda Masao of the Liberal Party, Shimura Shigeharu of the Left Socialist Party, and Matsumae Shigeyoshi of the Right Socialist Party—attended the United Nations International Conference for the Peaceful Use of Nuclear Power in Geneva. Writing to then-Prime Minister Hatoyama Ichirō from the conference, he noted that “the possession … of an atomic reactor … has become the symbol of international status.” Noting that Japan’s position was “comparable to that of Mexico or Turkey,” with a delegation that paled in comparison to the “hundreds” sent by the U.S. and other countries, he concluded that “[t]‌he quickest route to restoring Japan’s international position without irritating other countries is to join in this neutral scientific development program” (Ibid. 111–112). He and the other three Diet members drafted a nonpartisan declaration of the need for a system to develop Japan’s research in nuclear energy. Within six months, the Diet had passed eight foundational laws that regulated nuclear power (Ibid. 110). The Atomic Energy Act was based on the assumption that nuclear research would be for “peaceful purposes,” not the creation of a bomb.9 Nonetheless, the science behind nuclear power and nuclear weapons is closely tied: The nuclear fission of uranium-235 in the Hiroshima bomb is similar to that of the process in a commercial reactor; moreover, uranium and plutonium could potentially be extracted from spent fuel from a commercial reactor and redeployed as nuclear weapons (Nadesan 2013: 17–18). Having this nuclear industrial complex gave Japan the technology and stockpiles of fissile materials necessary to make nuclear weapons, even if it technically did not have them; signaling this capability could act as a deterrent to potential aggressors. But Nakasone also laid the groundwork for Japan to have its own nuclear weapons. As director general of the Defense Agency, he ordered a secret study on the timeline for nuclear weapons development in 1970.10 As prime minister in 1987, he negotiated a revised agreement with the U.S. so that Japan could remove plutonium from spent fuel without first obtaining approval from the U.S., allowing Japan’s stockpile of plutonium to accumulate.11 Nuclear power is hence considered a matter of national security and not entirely divorced from nuclear weaponry. CO -OP T I NG OF AC A DE M ICS A N D T H E M E DI A

Following the passage of the budget for nuclear power in 1954, Nakasone received some resistance from the Science Council, a group of academics; nonetheless, it eventually endorsed the pronuclear agenda, with its focus

40   The Background

shifting away from weaponry to the promise of nuclear energy. As Diet member Inaba Osamu quipped, “Scholars are idling their time away dozing so we are waking them up by tapping them on the cheek with a bundle of money” (Nakasone 1999: 108). Rewards soon became evident. The president of prestigious Tokyo University, Yanaihara Tadao, was appointed chair of a nuclear research institute established in April 1954 (Finn 1954). Japanese academics and leaders spoke on radio programs, in films, and at public lectures about the peaceful uses of the atom; some, like Nagoya University Faculty of Science Professor Ariyama Tanetaka, received grants to visit the United States (Evans 1956b). In early 1955, representatives from government, industry, and academics conducted a trip to Europe, Canada, and the United States to study the operation, structures, and technical aspects of atomic reactors and related organizations (U.S. Department of State 1954). That same year, a delegation of Western scientists visited Japan. Most importantly, CIA agents courted Shōriki Matsutarō, former class-A war criminal and then owner of the Yomiuri media empire consisting of the Yomiuri newspaper, Nippon Television Network Corporation, and other holdings. He agreed to publish pronuclear articles in his paper and present pro-American programming on his network (Arima 2006). His newspaper also sponsored the Atoms for Peace Exhibits. His Yomiuri Films company produced a film largely based on USIS’s “Blessings of Atomic Energy” (Kitamura 1996: 3; Evans 1956b). To this day, the Yomiuri newspaper remains among the most conservative news outlets in nuclear power-related coverage. Other newspapers followed suit: The Asahi cosponsored the Atoms for Peace Exhibits in Osaka and Kyoto, while the Chūbu Nippon cosponsored the exhibit in Nagoya. Meanwhile, working interest groups among local newspapers, academics, industrial leaders, and scientists were formed in conjunction with Atoms for Peace Exhibits outside of Tokyo. USIS consultant Harry Kendall recounted a conversation with a Japanese professional who “observed an almost complete reversal in Japanese public opinion concerning atomic energy during the last few months. He attributed this change from great fear to great hope to the intensive campaign which Japanese newspapers have been carrying on to promote the atoms for peace theme” (Evans 1956a). In December 1955, the Diet ratified a U.S.-Japan Atomic Energy Agreement; in January 1956, Shōriki became the first chairman of the Atomic Energy Commission, whereupon he set a goal of building a nuclear power plant in five years. Firms listed as undertaking research on atomic energy materials and equipment included Hitachi, Showa Denko, Asahi Synthetic Chemical, Nippon Mining, Mitsubishi Metal, Japan Carbon, Osaka Metal, and Tokyo Electric Power. These companies were parts of former zaibatsu (business groups) that had connections to General Electric and Westinghouse dating

The Nuclear Past and Present   41

back to before the war. Several of them had also participated in the study tour of the previous year. In September 1956, the U.S.  government hosted another study trip for Diet members, bureaucrats, and executives from the electric power industry to show not only the state of atomic power but also “examples of cooperation between government and industry in the progress of atomic power development in the U.S.” (Sukuda 1956). Thus was born a pattern of close relationships among the government, electric power companies, industrial manufacturers, academia, and the media, in what came to be called the nuclear village. In 1966, the first commercial nuclear power plant, in Tokaimura, began operations; in 1971, the Fukushima plant was opened.

Entrenchment of the Nuclear Village, Late 1960s to 2000s The Japanese antinuclear movement reached another critical juncture between the late 1960s and late 1970s—a period that saw large student protests against the Treaty of Mutual Cooperation and Security between the United States and Japan (Anpo), which permitted American military forces to maintain bases in Japan. The period also saw public outrage over the four big pollution diseases—Minamata disease and Niigata Minamata disease from mercury poisoning, Yokkaichi asthma, and Itai-itai disease from cadmium poisoning, all caused by industrial waste. Organized activism against nuclear power accelerated around the same time, as citizens in Hamaoka, Kagoshima, and other towns protested against the siting of nuclear power plants in their communities, which local elites had decided without citizen input (Aldrich 2008:  129). Two national organizations that disseminate information on the dangers of nuclear power and provide support to local groups—the Citizens’ Nuclear Information Center and National Liaison Conference of the Anti-Nuclear Movement (Hangenpatsu Undō Zenkoku Renrakukai)—were also established. As Aldrich recounts, the Ministry of Trade and Industry (MITI, METI’s predecessor) and the electric power companies responded by investing in public relations, initially distributing informational pamphlets in the potential host communities or bringing “neutral” experts to town to lecture on the plant’s safety and necessity in the face of a national energy crisis. By 1982, they were courting town members by taking them on educational tours of other towns with nuclear plants; these tours inevitably also included entertainment (Dusinberre and Aldrich 2011: 699–700). MITI also provided direct remuneration to the towns through the Three Power Source Development Laws (Dengen Sanpō)—a system put in place in 1973 by then-Prime Minister Tanaka Kakuei. Through

42   The Background

this law, the central government funneled tax revenues paid by electricity users to the local governments of communities hosting power plants; this money was then used to build new roads, schools, aquariums, and the like (Dusinberre and Aldrich 2011: 692). As the oil shock made the development of energy resources more urgent, MITI designated nuclear power plants as “important electric power resources,” increasing subsidies by up to double; from 1997, towns with nuclear plants received ¥900 million each over five years (Aldrich 2008: 135). Such subsidies were attractive to leaders of economically depressed rural communities, who saw nuclear power plants as a way to revive their towns. As subsidies dwindled over time, many communities found their budgets “addicted” to subsidies and accepted more reactors on their existing sites (Kainuma 2011; Idogawa Katsutaka, taped interview, No Nukes 2012 concert). Hence, Japanese nuclear plant sites contain multiple reactors; the Fukushima Daiichi site had six reactors, with two additional ones being planned. This multiple siting compounded problems during the accident, as the staff had to stabilize several reactors with limited resources (Juraku 2013). Furthermore, site selection seemed primarily driven by expected compliance (because they were poor rural towns) or political considerations (e.g., Kashiwazaki-Kariwa is near Tanaka Kakuei’s hometown). Many of these sites are suspected of being near major fault lines:  Hamaoka, near the junction of four tectonic plates where the great Tokai earthquake is anticipated; Kashiwazaki-Kariwa, near the epicenter of an earthquake in 2007; Ikata, near the median tectonic line; and Tsuruga, which the Nuclear Regulatory Authority determined to be on an active fault, among others. Meanwhile, the electric power companies were planning their own public relations campaign. While the Yomiuri and Fuji Sankei media groups remained positive on nuclear power, the Asahi and Mainichi groups had become more critical of nuclear power, in line with increased antinuclear protests. In 1974, the Association of Electric Power Companies (Denki Jigyō Rengōkai) established the Committee on Public Relations on Nuclear Power (Genshiryoku Kōhō Senmon Iinkai), with Suzuki Ken as its head. According to his autobiographical account, he told the presidents of the nine regional electric power companies to consider public relations not as advertising costs, but as part of the cost of constructing a plant. Suzuki then agreed with Ebata Kiyoshi, chief editor of the Asahi newspaper, that the electric power companies would buy large public-relations advertisements in support of nuclear power once a month in the national edition of the paper. These ads prompted Yomiuri newspaper to complain that as the historic supporter of nuclear power, it should also receive these advertisements; soon, it too was printing large public-relations advertisements for nuclear power. When the Mainichi approached Suzuki, he told the paper to change its editorial policy from its antinuclear stance; after

The Nuclear Past and Present   43

such articles disappeared, the Mainichi began publishing pronuclear advertisements (Kawabata 2011:  11–12). Television was similarly monitored:  When journalist Tahara Sōichirō produced a documentary series on nuclear power for TV Tokyo, Dentsu, Japan’s largest advertising agency, told his employer that it would not provide the series with any sponsors. He was forced to resign.12 Antinuclear sentiment grew in 1979 and 1986 after the accidents at Three Mile Island and Chernobyl, respectively. The Japanese government countered that no such accident could happen in Japan, pointing to superior technology and servicing—an argument that many Japanese believed (Nakamura and Kikuchi 2011: 894). In actuality, there had already been a string of accidents and accompanying cover-ups; for example, the Fukushima Daiichi plant had already suffered critical accidents in 1978 and 1989. However, these accidents remained largely out of public view; with the electric power companies as one of the largest advertisers and employers in each region, local media did not want to pursue these stories. In addition, safety standards were lax, as the responsible agencies were laden with potential conflicts of interest. NISA, the industry watchdog, operated under METI, whose policies have promoted nuclear power since Nakasone’s original nuclear budget. Bureaucrats were transferred repeatedly between promotional and oversight divisions as they went through their regular rotations. They were more likely to be economics and law graduates of the University of Tokyo rather than nuclear scientists; at the time of the Fukushima Daiichi accident, the director of NISA had to go outside of his organization to find someone with a nuclear engineering background to advise Prime Minister Kan (Kushida 2013: 416–417). Furthermore, independent experts claim that inspections were not rigorous and were watered down to accommodate the financial position of the electric power companies.13 The Nuclear Safety Commission (NSC) was set up as an independent agency that reported to the Cabinet; its head at the time of the Fukushima Daiichi disaster, Madarame Haruki, was a former professor at the University of Tokyo, which had received generous grants from the nuclear industry (Hara 2013: 28). The self-protective system was prone to error:  When an engineer from General Electric told NISA of cracks in the shrouds covering the reactor cores at the Fukushima Daiichi plant in 2000, NISA gave his name to TEPCO; he was subsequently blacklisted in the industry. Meanwhile, the regulators simply instructed TEPCO to inspect the shrouds while allowing it to keep operating the plant. It took two years, until 2002, for NISA to reveal to the public a series of systematic cover-ups by TEPCO involving the falsification of inspection records for thirteen out of its seventeen reactors over years and the concealments of flaws and accidents. Following widespread criticism, its chairman and president resigned but remained in advisory positions at the company.14 The same year, NISA found similar cover-ups at Chūbu Electric

44   The Background

Power, Tōhoku Electric Power, Japan Atomic Power, and Chūgoku Electric Power, as well as irregular records at Hitachi. Critics pointed out that having NISA inside METI created a conflict of interest, and that NISA should be set up independently from it. However, neither METI, the Cabinet, nor the Diet pushed for change (Yoshioka 2011: 321–322). Another cover-up occurred over the 1995 accident at the Monju fast-breeder reactor—a cornerstone of Japan’s nuclear fuel reprocessing program. Video footage was doctored to obfuscate the extent of damage. As opposition toward nuclear power grew in the 1980s and ’90s, the electric power companies and MITI intensified their public relations efforts for nuclear power, instead of developing new sources of energy; more than 95  percent of the national budget for the development of energy sources was earmarked for building nuclear power plants (Nakamura and Kikuchi 2011: 896). In the 1980s, MITI began to visit host communities to tell them about the necessity of nuclear power; in addition to seminars, it and the Japan Atomic Energy Relations Organization offered teaching materials, field trips for schoolchildren, and other support for primary and secondary school educators to teach about nuclear power (Aldrich 2008: 137, 148–149). Ceilings for subsidies to host communities were raised or eliminated. Pronuclear advertisements in newspapers, magazines, and on television for both the general population and target sites were increased, emphasizing national goals:  energy independence, lower greenhouse gas emissions, and the possibility of future energy shortages.

Interrelationships in the Nuclear Village The inclusion of both the nuclear watchdog agency and the promotion of nuclear power within METI is just one of many embedded ties binding national and local governments, electric power companies, industrial manufacturers, academics, and the media in promoting nuclear power. A  common practice is amakudari (descent from heaven): In the last fifty years, over sixty-eight senior government bureaucrats have taken executive positions in the major electric power companies upon retirement. As of 2011, thirteen former bureaucrats were on the boards of directors at these firms (Nakamura and Kikuchi 2011: 897). Bureaucrats also “descend” upon retirement to one of the twenty-five semi-governmental agencies that deal with nuclear power, like NISA (Nishioka 2011). Hence, bureaucrats have a powerful incentive not to be critical of these companies or agencies, lest they undermine their own future opportunities.

The Nuclear Past and Present   45

There is also ama-agari, whereby employees of electric power companies “ascend” into the bureaucracy or government. NISA hired active and retired nuclear engineers from the electric power companies—the very entities that the agency was regulating. In 1998, a former TEPCO executive, Kano Tokio, was elected to the Upper House of the Diet with heavy donations from TEPCO executives.15 He recommended the use of MOX (mixed oxide fuel) in fast-breeder reactors, opposed deregulation of electricity, and in 2003, led the passage of a strategic energy plan centered on nuclear power.16 The plan aimed to increase nuclear power from 26 percent of total electricity production to over 50 percent by 2030, through the construction of fourteen additional nuclear reactors.17 Academics also take on posts in government, such as at NISA, or go back and forth between academics and the electric power industry. Systems Professor Ōhashi Hirotada, notorious for his remark that plutonium in drinking water is not unsafe, was an employee of TEPCO for six years before returning to Tokyo University. Many academics rely on the nuclear industry or the government for grants to conduct research. In February 2012, NISA disclosed that twelve of its committee members had received compensation from electric power companies or equipment manufacturers for nuclear power; most of these members were academics.18 Meanwhile, antinuclear academics like Koide Hiroaki of Kyoto University have languished without promotions. These tight relationships have been criticized in the wake of the Fukushima crisis. In its executive summary released on July 5, 2012, the Diet-sponsored Fukushima Nuclear Accident Independent Investigation Commission declared the Fukushima accident to be “manmade” and placed much of the blame on lax oversight. It recommended setting up an independent, transparent regulatory body, monitored by the Diet and checked against independent investigative commissions (National Diet of Japan 2012). The Diet preempted this recommendation by passing a revised Atomic Energy Basic Law on June 20 that proposed a new Nuclear Regulation Authority (NRA), discussed in the last section of this chapter. The revised Atomic Energy Basic Law also included an article stating that nuclear power will “contribute to national security.” 19

Media and Nuclear Power in Recent Times The media has also been a beneficiary of nuclear power-related largesse: According to Nikkei Advertising Research, the electric power companies spent ¥88.4 billion ($1.1 billion) in advertising in the fiscal year ending March 2010. TEPCO and KEPCO were the eighth largest advertisers in the Kantō and Kansai markets respectively (Nikkei Kōkoku Kenkyūsho 2011).20 However,

46   The Background

these figures understate the actual expenditure: TEPCO also maintains a diffusion development account (fukyū keihatsu hi) estimated to be about ¥20 billion per annum that is largely spent on media. The Electric Power Association spends another ¥30 billon, and METI’s Resource Energy Agency and MEXT (Ministry of Education, Culture, Sports, Science, and Technology) have their own advertising budgets. Bessatsu Takarajima estimates that in total, the electric power companies and associated agencies spent about ¥200 billion ($2 billion) in 2010, even though they are regional monopolies. This amount is higher than spending in Japan by Panasonic (¥77.1 billion) and Toyota (¥50.7 billion), which need to introduce new products and maintain market share against competitors (Kawabata 2011: 11) (web figure 2.1 ). These figures do not include other companies involved in the nuclear industry, such as Hitachi, Toshiba, and Mitsubishi, which are also large advertisers. Furthermore, executives from electric power companies regularly entertain editors and journalists (Kawabata 2011:  15). On 3.11, TEPCO Chairman Katsumata Tsunehisa was in China with journalists on a “study tour.”21 Electric power companies were important sponsors of television programs, by which they obtained airtime to run commercials in favor of nuclear power. Often featuring popular actors, athletes, and other famous personalities, these commercials typically emphasized that nuclear energy was environmentally friendly because of its lack of greenhouse emissions; this was spoken against a background of idyllic beaches, sunlit lakes, and green forests. Many advertisements were aimed at women, particularly young mothers, who have historically been the most ardent antinuclear protesters; these ads usually featured attractive actresses with children living a comfortable lifestyle enabled by electricity. 22 Another recurring message was that it was necessary for the economy (web figure 2.2 ). An effective spokesperson was Katsuma Kazuyo, a high-level female executive (as a former McKinsey consultant and J.P.Morgan analyst), who had become a bestselling author of financial self-help books for women. She appeared on several commercials, explaining that to produce a strong economy, both the supply and cost of power needed to be stable, and that nuclear power enabled this stability. TEPCO also employed its own cartoon character, the pony-tailed Denko (Electric Girl). In one 2004 commercial, Denko, who is shopping at a supermarket, remarks that everything is imported. Suddenly a professor appears, telling her that energy is also imported, and that electric power companies are importing the source that generates the most energy out of the least amount of raw materials—uranium. He argues that nuclear power raises Japan’s self-sufficiency in energy23 (web figure 2.3 ). Finally, the safety theme was featured in a TEPCO commercial in which a young woman from Fukushima Daiichi is conducting safety checks and investigating environmental impacts

The Nuclear Past and Present   47

around the plant. She assures the viewers: “We’re doing everything to ensure safety and protect the environment.”24 (web figure 2.4 ) In the days and weeks following March 11, as television went to nonstop coverage of the triple disaster, corporations pulled their advertisements so that they would not be seen as profiting during the tragedy. Instead, commercial breaks were filled by AC Japan, the advertising council. Opening with a screen with the words “Things I can do now,” actors held up and read signs with messages like “Let’s think about what the people in the disaster regions really need,” “Don’t buy things excessively” (i.e., don’t hog emergency supplies), and “If we all do this, it will have a big impact.” Included among these messages aimed at promoting recovery were admonishments to save electricity—“Take care to turn off lights,” “Unplug appliances you’re not using.” More ominous was the message, “Don’t get confused by incorrect information.”25 (web figure 2.5 ) As of 2011, seven directors of AC Japan were executives from electric power companies. As Stuart Hall and others have explained, the media plays a powerful role in shaping public opinion by selecting and ranking news items and presenting them within their cultural contexts. Hall also points out that the media needs to maintain relationships with those in power as news sources (Hall et  al. 1978). Deepening this relationship in Japan is the kisha (press) club system, which has been in place since 1890. The kisha clubs are exclusive associations of journalists. They are set up around specific news sources; the Diet, the Cabinet, individual political parties, ministries, industries, semi-governmental agencies (like Japan Atomic Energy Agency), and sometimes individual companies (TEPCO) have (or have had) them. Journalists of the club receive access to press conferences from these sources, to the exclusion of nonmembers. Membership in a kisha club is usually restricted to employees of major news organizations, with preference given to national newspapers (e.g., Yomiuri, Asahi, Mainichi, Nikkei), television broadcasters, and the Kyōdō news agency. Freelancers, foreign press, and some Japanese sources (like weekly magazines and the communist-party paper Akahata) are usually excluded from kisha clubs. By holding parties, the clubs foster close relationships between news sources (e.g., politicians) and journalists, who mark their success by the frequency with which they socialize privately with their sources. The kisha club imposes sanctions on journalists who report things that were said off the record or otherwise break the so-called blackboard agreement of guidelines. The effect is to steer journalism toward rapid information gathering and dissemination of press releases, rather than critical, investigative reporting. Freeman (2000) has argued that the system creates an “information cartel” among a small number of news outlets with a pro-government slant, impoverishing the public’s understanding and undermining Japanese democracy.

48   The Background

The concentration of viewership and readership into a few media empires exacerbates the potential for manipulating information. In Japan, television remains the most powerful medium, with the average Japanese watching it about three hours a day. According to an Asahi survey in 2011, 54 percent of respondents relied most heavily on television for political news, compared with 34 percent on newspapers, 8 percent on the internet, and 1 percent on magazines.26 Most journalists at television networks and national newspapers are kisha club members. Furthermore, television viewership is concentrated on the major terrestrial television networks—NHK (the national broadcaster), Nippon Television (NTV), Tokyo Broadcasting (TBS), Fuji TV, and TV Asahi. Their viewership dwarfs that of channels confined to broadcast satellite (BS), communication satellite (CS) services like SkyPerfect TV, and cable television; as of 2010, only 24 percent of Japanese households subscribed to cable, CS, or internet protocol (IP) pay television services, compared with 88  percent of U.S.  households (Jupiter Communications 2011).27 Also important as news sources are the national newspapers, with the largest—the Yomiuri—distributing 10 million units of its morning edition daily, followed by the Asahi (7.7 million) and the Mainichi (3.4 million) (Nihon ABC Kyōkai 2011). Japanese companies have historically been organized along keiretsu, or groups of related companies, including manufacturers, suppliers, distributors, and financiers; in the media industry, the newspapers head keiretsu with affiliated television networks, radio stations, magazines, and other media. The Yomiuri, Asahi, Mainichi, and Sankei papers are affiliated with the television networks NTV, Asahi, TBS, and Fuji TV respectively.28 This concentration of media across platforms further reduces the potential diversity of views. This highly stratified media complex covered the Fukushima Daiichi crisis.

Lack of Information Following the Crisis On March 11, 2011, a magnitude 9.0 earthquake triggered a tsunami of 13–15 meters’ height, easily breaking over the 10-meter seawall surrounding the plant. Electricity at Fukushima Daiichi was cut off, and its backup generators, which were placed in a basement, were rendered unusable due to flooding. Without electricity to cool them, the cores in three reactors suffered meltdowns, setting off hydrogen explosions, while the roof of a fourth reactor, which was shut down for maintenance, blew off, exposing spent fuel in an unprotected pool. As Itō Mamoru has documented, the government downplayed risks as the Fukushima Daiichi accident unfolded, and the media complied with this narrative while being late in reporting developments. There was a two-hour delay between the time the diesel generators were drowned and NHK reported the

The Nuclear Past and Present   49

problem, adding, “NISA is confirming the information … there is no impact outside the plant, such as leaking radiation” (Itō 2012: 51–52). The explosion of reactor no. 1 on March 12 went unreported on national television for seventy-four minutes, even though it had been captured on local television. After reactor no. 3 blew up on March 14, Chief Cabinet Secretary Edano Yukio said that radioactive materials were unlikely to be dispersed, even as radiation levels at the plant climbed (Ibid: 133). On March 16, 2011, after the explosion of three reactors and a fire at reactor no. 4, both NISA and Edano claimed that radiation from the plant was at “a level that would have no immediate impact on health” (tadachi ni eikyō wa nai, Ibid: 262); he would repeat this infamous phrase on seven occasions. In fact, radioactive releases into the air peaked on March 15–16 and scattered over a wide area in Fukushima and the Kantō. This information would not be made public until April (Ibid: 44). On March 19, Edano announced that radiation over official limits had been detected in milk from Fukushima and spinach from Ibaragi. He again stated that the radiation wouldn’t affect health, although the evidence showed radiation spreading through the air to contaminate soil, food, and water (Ibid: 190). (web figure 2.6 ) In the face of a nuclear accident that looked likely to have wider consequences, he was repeating the safety myth. The Kan administration was criticized for an ineffective response that included delayed evacuation orders and confusing evacuation zones. Kushida suggests that this chaos might have happened with any party in power, due to the lack of procedures and systems to deal with a triple disaster (e.g., neither the prime minister’s office nor NISA had the operational knowledge for declaring an evacuation order) (Kushida 2013:  418). Moreover, NISA personnel and contractors had left the plant, so that the Cabinet’s sole source of information about the plant’s condition was TEPCO headquarters.29 After much frustration over several days, Kan ordered the establishment of a joint government-TEPCO emergency headquarters. The chaotic response and the downplaying of potential risks made many citizens distrustful of both the government and TEPCO; many also doubted the mainstream media, which seemed to be repeating announcements rather than investigating them. As time passed, TEPCO released information months after the fact, sparking citizens’ suspicions of a cover-up. Among many problematic official announcements, both the government and TEPCO insisted that there had been no meltdowns for more than two months after they had occurred, although plant manager Yoshida Masao had communicated this probability by the evening of March 11, when the meltdown in no. 1 actually began (although no one knew for certain at the time). After NISA Assistant Vice Minister Nakamura Kōichirō admitted to a possible meltdown the following day, he quickly disappeared from the public eye. The government delayed the release of SPEEDI data, which predicted the flow of radiation

50   The Background

from the Fukushima plant, to the Japanese public until March 23, 2011—nine days after it had given the data to the United States;30 meanwhile, many people were unnecessarily exposed to radiation, and residents from the town of Namie unknowingly evacuated to a highly contaminated area. The government set a mandatory evacuation zone of 20 kilometers around the plant and a voluntary one of 30 kilometers, while the U.S. and other countries recommended one of 80 kilometers or more for their own citizens. It also raised, without adequate explanation, the maximum permissible radiation exposure for citizens, including children, from 1 millisieverts (mSv) per annum to 20, and for nuclear industry workers from 100 to 250—far higher than the 20–50 recommended by the International Commission on Radiological Protection (Asia-Pacific Journal 2011). In June, NISA announced that radioactive emissions from the stricken plants in the first week of the crisis had been more than twice as much as originally announced31; in March 2012, the Meteorological Agency announced that the radioactive cesium released was more than twice NISA estimates. 32 Meanwhile, the management of TEPCO bowed deeply in apology in multiple press conferences, invoking the sōteigai defense—that the giant tsunami was “beyond expectations.” Officials and academics appeared regularly on television claiming that radiation levels were not harmful. Yamashita Shun’ichi, a medical professor at Nagasaki University, was appointed adviser to the Fukushima prefectural government on the management of radiation-related health risks. He claimed that radiation would not harm people who smile, as animal tests had shown. 33 During a series of lectures in Fukushima in March 2011, he claimed iodine doses were not necessary, despite evidence that children became vulnerable to thyroid cancer following the Chernobyl accident. 34 Nakagawa Keiichi, a professor in the Department of Radiology at Tokyo University Hospital, said that radiation from Fukushima was not harmful to health. A  video from a 2005 conference on nuclear fuel recycling made the rounds on YouTube, in which Tokyo University Professor Ōhashi Hirotada claimed that plutonium would not harm humans if it were to enter the drinking water supply. As high-school teacher Watanabe Tetsuji remarked in a letter to the editor at the Asahi, “… all the experts on television explaining the nuclear accident say ‘it’s safe,’ just as they did before the accident. Why don’t they let us hear the opinions of people who have long been raising questions about the dangers?”35 Frustrated with television news, citizens turned to other sources—Tokyo Shimbun, weekly magazines like Shūkan Kinyōbi, foreign news companies like the New York Times, independent journalists Tanaka Ryūsaku and Iwakami Yasumi, individual bloggers (e.g., Fukushima Diary), Tweeters (e.g., @monjukun), and books by longstanding critics of the nuclear industry like Hirose Takashi and Koide Hiroaki. These sources explained the record of safety

The Nuclear Past and Present   51

lapses in the nuclear village, particularly at TEPCO. Such findings undercut TEPCO’s sōteigai defense, particularly when it admitted that in 2008, its own employees had warned about the possibility of a tsunami of a much higher height than it had prepared for. 36 Skeptical of the government’s claims that radiation levels would not affect health, citizens also turned to alternative sources for information on radiation in the air and food. Sites like Safecast sprung up to amalgamate Geiger-counter readings from individuals. Meanwhile, a chorus of bureaucrats and businessmen, including Yonekura Hiromasa, chairman of the Keidanren, and Yosano Kaoru, minister of state for economic and fiscal policy, called for the restarting of nuclear power plants, all of which were shut down for maintenance and (with the exception of two reactors at the Ōi plant from July 2012 to September 2013) had remained shut pending computerized stress tests. Some officials who have spoken out publicly against the system have paid a price: METI bureaucrat Koga Shigeaki, who criticized the amakudari practice and tied it to the nuclear accident, was made to resign; his book became a bestseller. Prime Minister Kan ordered the shutting down of the Hamaoka Nuclear Power Plant, given its vulnerability to the expected Tokai earthquake; he publicly called for a reduction in the country’s dependence on nuclear power and passed a bill promoting renewable energy. TEPCO claimed that Kan’s sudden trip to Fukushima Daiichi was responsible for the explosions and meltdowns, when the meltdown at one plant had already occurred by the time he’d arrived; the Yomiuri, prodded by a newsletter from subsequent Prime Minister Abe Shinzō’s office, falsely claimed that Kan had ordered a halt on injecting seawater into the reactors (Kushida 2013). Kan resigned as prime minister in August 2011 and has since spoken regularly at antinuclear events. His replacement was Noda Yoshihiko, who pushed for the restarting of the Ōi nuclear reactors.

Protests since the Fukushima Accident Outrage over the handling of the accident, worries about radiation, concern over possible future accidents at other nuclear facilities, and frustration over the lack of trustworthy information have caused an upsurge in antinuclear sentiment. According to a survey by the Asahi in April 2011, nearly 90 percent of respondents were nervous about the possibility of accidents at nuclear power plants other than Fukushima, and 73 percent felt that information flow from the government was inadequate. Forty-one percent of these respondents believed that nuclear power plants should either be reduced in number or shut down entirely, up from 28 percent in 200737; in a survey in June 2011, 74 percent of respondents said that the country should reduce nuclear

52   The Background

power production over time and abolish it in the future. 38 Similarly, a survey by national broadcaster NHK, repeated in June, August, and October, showed that two-thirds of respondents thought that nuclear power should be reduced, with nearly a quarter calling for abolishing it. Over 70 percent of respondents distrusted the government’s ability to manage the safety of nuclear power plants; half believed their safety could not be assured, even if safety standards and policies were reinforced. This desire to reduce nuclear power has remained in the 60–70 percent range as of 2014. Driven by this high level of disaffection with the government, antinuclear events have spread across Japan, beginning as early as March 18, 2011, when Sono Ryōta and a handful of others began protesting in front of TEPCO headquarters. Demonstrations also occurred in Shibuya on March 20 and in the Ginza on March 27. The website Datsu Genpatsu (Abolish Nuclear Power) Event Calendar listed about 1,200 antinuclear demonstrations, lectures, and community discussions nationwide between April and September 2011, of which 216 were demonstrations. 39 In addition to longstanding groups such as Gensuikyō or No Nukes Plaza Tokyo (Tanpoposha), new groups have sprung up to organize demonstrations. On April 11, Matsumoto Hajime, manager of Shirōto no Ran (Revolt of the Laymen), a group of used-goods (recycling) shops in the Tokyo district of Kōenji, organized a so-called sound demonstration (­chapter  5.3), where rappers, DJs, and bands could perform on a truck loaded with amplifiers and speakers. News about the demonstration spread quickly on Facebook and Twitter, and many joined the protesters from the streets. An estimated 15,000 people joined the protest—far more than the 3,000 that Matsumoto had anticipated. Subsequent protests he organized on May 7, June 11, and September 11, 2011, in the Tokyo districts of Shibuya and Shinjuku attracted 15,000 to 20,000. Matsumoto then worked with Harada Akira, a councilman in Tokyo’s Suginami Ward, to form Datsu Genpatsu Suginami, which organized neighborhood-based demonstrations in the Kōenji area on February 19, May 6, and July 1, 2012, among other dates, attracting a diverse group of about 5,000 to 6,000 people, including families, neighborhood shopkeepers, and grandparents. The Shirōto no Ran protests showed that one could organize a demonstration and get a good turnout using social networking services. TwitNoNukes began to organize monthly demonstrations in the youth-oriented Tokyo district of Shibuya, solely via Twitter, attracting 1,000 to 2,000 protesters each time. This network has also supported frequent protests in front of TEPCO’s headquarters and long-term encampments in front of METI. Sayonara Genpatsu (Goodbye Nukes), backed by Nobel-prize winning author Ōe Kenzaburō and composer Sakamoto Ryūichi (­chapter 3), has organized several large demonstrations, including one attracting 60,000 in Meiji Park in Tokyo. Moreover,

The Nuclear Past and Present   53

these groups have networks outside of Tokyo: Sayonara Genpatsu organized a 15,000-person demonstration in Fukuoka on November 13, 2011, and TwitNoNukes has affiliates throughout Japan. These groups have organized simultaneous protests:  On June 11, 2011, demonstrations in 121 locations throughout Japan attracted a total of 79,000 protesters. The weekend of the anniversary of the crisis has been marked by simultaneous protests and events throughout the country. In the national government district of Kasumigaseki in Tokyo, 14,000 protested on March 11, 2012. Protests reached a dramatic peak leading up to and somewhat after the restarting of the Ōi nuclear reactors in July 2012, to which the majority of the population was opposed.40 On March 29, 2012, MCAN, a network of protest organizers including TwitNoNukes and No Nukes More Hearts, began holding weekly Friday-evening demonstrations in front of the prime minister’s official residence. Beginning with a few hundred protesters, the demonstrations quickly grew to 45,000 protesters on June 22; 200,000 on June 29; and 150,000 on July 6 and July 13 (Noma 2012); many more, blocked by police from exiting, chanted in the subway stations. This so-called Hydrangea Revolution peaked with two giant protests: the 170,000-strong protest by Sayonara Genpatsu in Tokyo’s Yoyogi Park on July 16, 2012, and the 200,000-strong demonstration by MCAN in Kasumigaseki on July 29, 2012, that ended with the protesters surrounding the Diet. The large numbers prompted then-Prime Minister Noda Yoshihiko to hold an unprecedented meeting with protest leaders on August 22, 2012, attended by ten leaders of MCAN, including Misao Redwolf, Oda Masanori, and Hirano Taichi. Since then, MCAN has continued to hold protests every Friday; as of mid-2015, the numbers have fallen to about 2,000–3,000 protesters on average, but at over three years and counting, it is nonetheless the longest-running protest in Japan, remarkable for its persistence. They have also been replicated in dozens of weekly protests in cities and towns across the country, many of which have also continued for over two years. MCAN also organizes large protests every few months in Tokyo. In 2013, these protests attracted 40,000 in March, 60,000 in June, 40,000 in October, and 15,000 in December; in 2014, they attracted 32,000 in March and 10,000 in June.

Protests Not Covered on Many Major Media Outlets Despite this activity and apparent widespread popular dissatisfaction with the country’s nuclear policy, Japanese media coverage of antinuclear demonstrations in Japan has been spotty, particularly in comparison to the wide coverage given by these same outlets to Occupy Wall Street, protests in the

54   The Background

Middle East, and antinuclear demonstrations in Europe. As Hashimoto Mika, singer-songwriter and manager of the girl group Seifuku Kōjō Iinkai, said: Demonstrations aren’t covered by mass media. The demonstration on September 19 [2011] was a massive event that attracted 60,000 people. The next day, it was mentioned ever so briefly on television, but it was barely picked up. If you hadn’t seen the demonstration yourself, you would have thought, “Ah, it seems there was something.” It’s said that the TV stations are greatly influenced by TEPCO. The newspapers that are willing to discuss abolishing nuclear power are few. They usually don’t cover demonstrations at all. (Hashimoto Mika, interview with the author, Tokyo, December 21, 2011) Indeed, the reluctance of some major media outlets to cover antinuclear demonstrations had been noted as early as April 2011, when Watanabe’s letter to the Asahi railed against the lack of coverage of the first Shirōto no Ran antinuclear demonstration: There was a 15,000-strong demonstration in Kōenji on April 10, yet I have not seen any mention of it in newspapers or on television. From what I can see on video upload sites, this group, composed of amateurs in political movements, managed to gather so many people through Twitter, just like the pro-democracy demonstrations in Egypt. The protest looked like a new wave in the nuclear power issue, yet it wasn’t picked up in a big way by the mass media. Why was that, when the media covers antinuclear protests in foreign countries like Germany?41 In May, the Asahi posted an editorial from Sakurai Hitoshi, a professor of sociology at Rissho University and former award-winning NHK producer: At the nuclear power sites that dot this nation, there’s a protest against electric power companies practically every day. Why is there almost no news coverage on these protests? … For example, there was a protest in front of TEPCO’s headquarters in the Ginza district on March 27, with 1,000 participants calling for abolishing nuclear power. But there were few media sources that covered it… . It’s come to a point where the Japanese media must research the [domestic] antinuclear movement as a social phenomenon. If they still won’t cover it, they

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will inevitably invite suspicion that weighty circumstances are preventing them from speaking about abolishing nuclear power.42 When television covered demonstrations in 2011, the placement of the reports, their brevity, and the lack of information presented lessened their impacts. The bottom line of the brief report on the June 11, 2011, protests by NTV’s News 24 (for cable and SkyPerfect television) was that “there was no particular mayhem,” while the camera lingered on a police dog. The 60,000-strong September 19 demonstration was not mentioned on the NHK 7 p.m. news program; on its News Watch program at 9 p.m., the report on the demonstration was sandwiched between two longer segments about the planned cold shutdown of the Fukushima plant, making it more likely that viewers would not remember the clip about the demonstration. Other television networks were minimizing the number of protesters: In contrast to the organizer’s count of 60,000 participants, the police were claiming 27,000, Fuji Television was reporting 25,000, and NTV mentioned “a few man [10,000s].”43 Similarly, the media largely ignored the protests in front of the prime minister’s office for three months, until they grew to 45,000 by June 22, 2012. Even then, NHK ignored that protest, and its report on the June 29 protest minimized its importance, reporting no numbers for that demonstration and showing footage from well before the peak (Williamson 2012). Television coverage of the protests fell off in the ensuing weeks, despite protesters numbering about 150,000. These protests also took place in front of the kisha club offices. Coverage in newspapers varied markedly by apparent editorial policy. The Yomiuri barely mentioned the protests:  In the first year after 3.11, its website contained only five articles on antinuclear demonstrations in Japan for its national editions.44 When the Yomiuri did publish articles, the scale and implications of the protests were minimized. Its article on the June 11, 2011, demonstrations mentioned a 200-person demonstration in Niigata but gave no numbers for the massive demonstrations in Tokyo45; its article on the September 11 Shirōto no Ran demonstration in Shinjuku stated that twelve people were arrested for “violence to the riot police”46 (­chapter 5.3); its article on the September 19 demonstration gave the number of participants as 30,000, only half the organizers’ count. The Mainichi covered the September 19 demonstration and picked up coverage of antinuclear demonstrations thereafter. The relatively liberal Asahi has taken a more sympathetic stance to antinuclear demonstrators than the Yomiuri. In addition to the two letters criticizing the media, it published 186 articles about antinuclear demonstrations in Japan in the twelve months leading up to March 2, 2012.47 Although most of these articles were placed toward the back of the paper (i.e., on pages 20 to 39), a few demonstrations (e.g., the nationwide protests of June 11, 2011, and

56   The Background

the 12,000-person protest on February 11, 2012) were featured on the front page of the morning paper. The Asahi also quotes the numbers of participants given by the organizers, which tend to be more than double the official police estimates. Generally speaking, the articles portray demonstrations as fun, participatory events, with plenty of music (“young people playing guitars and drums”) and camaraderie, where people can express their concerns. The Asahi also paints demonstrators as responsible citizens and cites them as being from a wide demographic spectrum—well-known intellectuals and ordinary people, the young and the elderly, mothers with children. Other papers that have covered demonstrations include Akahata, the newspaper of the traditionally antinuclear Japanese Communist Party, and Tokyo Shimbun, which has taken a clearly antinuclear stance. Since about mid- 2012, the Asahi and Mainichi have joined Tokyo and Akahata in covering large protests more regularly. Outside of these papers, the coverage has been more spotty and minimizing.

“Why Don’t the Japanese Protest?” According to an Asahi survey from November–December 2011, 71 percent of Japanese disapproved of the ruling party’s (DPJ) handling of the earthquake, tsunami, and Fukushima crises, yet 63 percent of respondents were reluctant to participate in demonstrations.48 This situation has prompted observers and journalists to ask, “Why don’t the Japanese protest more loudly?” Several Japanese activists and musicians, including Matsumoto Hajime of Shirōto no Ran, rapper Shing02, and Hashimoto Mika, manager of idol-pop group Seifuku Kōjō Iinkai, have cited the Japanese reluctance to speak up (koe o dasanai) as an inhibiting factor in the antinuclear movement. Nonetheless, many structural and historical factors are also at play. First, both textbooks and the media had so strongly advanced the nuclear industry’s message of nuclear power as necessary that publicly calling for its end can seem difficult. Many antinuclear protests are met with counter-protesters who yell taunts like “you have no right to use electricity” and “hikokumin.” This term is a loaded one as it was used during World War II to insult those whose full support of the war was in doubt; it literally means “not a Japanese national” and is taken to mean “unpatriotic” or “traitor.” It jabs at a fundamental source of one’s identity and belonging. In addition, for many Japanese, there is a high social price to pay for protesting. While many university students and citizens had actively participated in protests against the Anpo and the Vietnam War in the 1960s and early 1970s, violent incidents among college-age radicals, such as the purges among members of the Red Army and the Asama Lodge hostage-taking incident of 1972,

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considerably tarnished the reputation of student radicalism and, by association, popular support for leftist protest movements. To many Japanese, public protests still carry images of youths in helmets shouting slogans. Some tweeters say they are rolling their eyes at demonstrations, labeling them as urusai (noisy nuisance), kichigai (deranged), or even kyokusa bōryoku shūdan (band of extreme leftist thugs). For those with more sympathetic leanings, the police may be a source of intimidation. Although there are no statutes regulating demonstrations in Japan, they come under the purview of local public safety ordinances— remnants of the Allied Occupation enacted in Osaka in 1948 in response to demonstrations by the Korean population; other prefectures and cities had followed suit. Since then, the Japanese Supreme Court has handed down three decisions upholding public safety ordinances, giving the police a large range of discretionary power for controlling demonstrations (Repeta and Kawagishi 2012). As of 2014, demonstrators must apply to the local police for permission to demonstrate seventy-two hours in advance, with the name of the organizing group for the protest, purpose of the protest, and estimates of how many people will participate and vehicles will be used; the police can then give detailed conditions on the demonstration. As Matsumoto explained, “We have had problems getting permissions from the police. We could listen to what they say, and do smaller and quieter demonstrations, but they will still find ways to arrest people. It can’t be helped (shōganai). At the least, we try not to provoke them or tell them we object to their instructions. And if someone gets caught, we work to get him/her out as soon as possible. That’s all we can really do” (Matsumoto Hajime, interview, Tokyo, February 12, 2012). Generally speaking, there are fewer arrests at demonstrations in Japan than in the United States, but they can be far more damaging to the arrested individual. While a person arrested at a peaceful demonstration in the United States is often released within twenty-four hours, a person arrested in Japan can be held up to twenty-three days while the police determine whether or not to bring an indictment against him or her (Repeta and Kawagishi 2012). There is no bail, and during this time, no one is allowed to visit the detainee except a lawyer. The Kyūen Renraku Center (Relief Liaison), which provides legal help to those arrested during demonstrations, knows of 127 such arrests in 2011, of which seventy-three were detained for more than one day, for an average of eleven days.49 “It’s a completely different situation than in the United States,” said Matsumoto, who visited Occupy Wall Street. “If you’re held for several days, you’ll lose your job; you won’t be able to continue working” (Matsumoto, interview, 2012). Not only is the cost of being arrested quite high, but protesters also feel that the police are aiming to make arrests and purposefully create situations

58   The Background

to induce them. Most arrests at demonstration are for “interference with a public servant in the execution of duties” (kōmu shikkō bōgai). As Matsumoto explains, “It’s usually over nothing. For example, there are a lot of police at a demonstration. They’ll all start pushing into a large crowd. Someone caught in the crowd might accidentally push back. The police would arrest this person because he/she ‘pushed a policeman’” (Matsumoto, interview, 2012). Similarly, ECD claims, “In the experience of one of my acquaintances—a policeman told him to stop pushing a girl [in a large crowd], and when he denied he was pushing her, he was handcuffed” (ECD, interview, Tokyo, December 12, 2011). The music writer Futatsugi Shin, who organized sound trucks for Shirōto no Ran’s demonstrations, was arrested at one on September 11, 2011, when the large crowd of protesters spilled out from the single lane into which the police were confining the demonstration; the police claimed he was holding an illegal demonstration (­chapter 5.3). While Futatsugi himself took his arrest in stride, Matsumoto suggested that most people who are arrested and held in jail have a sobering experience: “Once that person is released, the police warn him/her never to go to another demonstration again, and if he/she does, it would be much worse next time” (Matsumoto, interview, 2012). While most arrested demonstrators are eventually released, the consequences are dire if they are charged: The obstruction of an official carrying out duties, covered in Article 95 of the Criminal Code, carries a penalty of three years in jail or a fine of 500,000 yen (about $6,300); in the United States, demonstrators may initially be charged with disorderly conduct, carrying a fine of $250 and fifteen days in jail, but are typically given an adjournment in contemplation of dismissal (ACD) such that the charges are waived (Repeta and Kawagishi 2012). Even if a person isn’t arrested at a demonstration, he or she might be intimidated by the plethora of uniformed and plainclothes policemen taking pictures, videos, and notes on the demonstrators and the crowd. In an antinuclear demonstration that I attended in Suginami-ku on February 19, 2012, policemen stood on top of trucks preceding the sound truck, taking videos of protesters. Meanwhile, large numbers of plainclothes policemen with cameras stood along the street, on top of overhead pedestrian walkways and along the march route. According to Kawagishi Norikazu, professor of constitutional law at the Law School of Waseda University, these policemen are from the Public Safety Police Department, a special department designed to gather information on people who are potentially dangerous to the public peace; he believes they file and keep this information (p.c., February 10, 2012). Matsumoto believed that the police were analyzing this data to identify the central figures organizing protests and the personal relationships among them, rather than general participants (Matsumoto, interview, 2012). Nonetheless, the prospect of being

The Nuclear Past and Present   59

photographed or identified seems to scare away many people. Many protesters wear large hats, sunglasses, and surgical masks, 50 making them harder to identify. The Halloween-like clown costumes and faux-radioactive gear worn by some marchers are not just a performance of protest: They also obfuscate one’s identity. College students have a particular disincentive for participating:  They believe that if they are spotted at a demonstration, they will not be able to get a job—especially in the public sector, which looks attractive in the long-sluggish economy (p.c., 2012). Indeed, the Asahi survey showed that twenty- and thirty-somethings were far more reluctant to participate in protests (at 68 and 72 percent of respondents respectively) than those aged over seventy. At the antinuclear demonstrations I have attended, college students seem noticeably fewer compared with people in their thirties, parents with small children, the middle-aged, and the elderly. As Matsumoto explained: Among the population, university students are the people most out of touch with society. All they want is a job; that’s why they’re in college. Despite how bad the economy is and how hopeless Japanese businesses are, they all still think they can somehow get a good job and a good life. They really are thick about this point. Even before the nuclear issue became an urgent topic, they had no idea about the growth of poverty or the increasing wealth gap. These days, even if you graduate from university and get a good job, you don’t make enough money to live well. Or your company goes bankrupt, and you lose your job and home. Many people who have had these experiences are angry, but students still think everything is all right. The Japan of today is the exact opposite of the past:  university students are the group that’s most unaware about the world. They don’t notice, so very few show up at demonstrations. In years past, university students spent their first three years trying many things and taking a good look at society. These days, they are preparing for the job market from their freshman year and only do things that will help them get jobs. They’re only thinking about getting a job, so they get really out of touch. Students used to be the ones most aware of society, because they had few obligations and were less constrained in thinking about issues. Things are now completely the opposite. (Matsumoto, interview, 2012) Matsumoto’s sentiments echo the instructors’ observations and students’ concerns I have heard at Japanese universities. A large percentage of Japanese youth have become temporary workers with low wages, no benefits, and no

60   The Background

job security. Desperate to avoid falling off the track of society’s winners, students pour their energy into the job market; they have no time for demonstrations, even if their sentiments are sympathetic. Nor is awareness built among pre-college students; the teenage members of pop group Seifuku Kōjō Iinkai have said that none of them have discussed the nuclear issue in their schools, their teachers never mention it, and their friends don’t talk about it (Hashimoto, interview, 2011). 51 While university students have begun to take leadership roles in demonstrations since the passage of the Secrets Protection Law in December 2013 and have been particularly visible in protesting against the Security Bills (which allows for Japanese troops to fight overseas) in 2015, the majority of protesters continue to be middle-aged or older. Students are not the only people who avoid going to demonstrations or voicing their antinuclear sentiments. According to Hashimoto, her friends who work for companies dealing with TEPCO believe that “things would become difficult at work” if they were spotted at a demonstration. Electric power companies and their affiliates are also among the largest employers in many small towns, and the many large industrial groups that supply the nuclear industry (e.g., Hitachi, Toshiba, and Mitsubishi) employ hundreds of thousands nationwide. In a statement that suggests a mixture of apathy and a reluctance to come forward, Hashimoto said, “A common attitude is: ‘I don’t have to get involved myself. Someone else will do it. I don’t want personal ramifications’” (Hashimoto, interview, 2011). Being from the affected region also restrains open protest, as was made evident by Hunger, a rapper from the hip-hop group Gagle. The group is based in Sendai—a city hit hard by the tsunami in Miyagi prefecture, just north of Fukushima. With his wife expecting their first child, he was feeling stressed about radiation in the food supply, and he acknowledged that he personally did not think nuclear power was necessary. Nonetheless, he was reluctant to be publicly antinuclear and had not participated in antinuclear demonstrations as of late 2011. As he explained: I volunteered to help clean up the town of Onagawa, which was hit badly by the tsunami. There is a nuclear power plant there, which was fortunately not damaged because it is high up on a hill. I noticed the town is very rich; it even has an aquarium. It was receiving a lot of money for hosting a nuclear power plant. That money is obviously a huge part of its finances. Fukushima’s like that too. So the townspeople themselves don’t oppose nuclear power, because they need the money. It’s complicated. I’d really have to study the situation before I can come out and say I’m against nuclear power.

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I’d find it easier to rap about how the nuclear accident affects my own life, like the stress of finding [uncontaminated] food. But if I  write such a song, it would hurt my friends who are farmers. My group has done tours to help them. And you see a line in the sand. People from Tokyo and Osaka can say it more easily; they have fewer connections to those directly affected. (Hunger, interview, Tokyo, December 16, 2011) Similarly, Ōtomo Yoshihide, the noise musician who co-organized Project Fukushima, has distanced himself from antinuclear protests, although he participates in antinuclear concerts (Ōtomo 2011; Isobe 2011). Indeed, musicians and entertainers, who depend on the media industry for exposure, are vulnerable if they voice their antinuclear beliefs, although a number have taken this risk (­chapter 3). Hence, participation in demonstrations potentially involves a high social cost to protesters. They could suffer disapproval and ostracism from friends, family, colleagues, and employers who are associated with the power industry, agree with the national policy on nuclear power, or simply frown upon demonstrations. The police presence is yet another damper. In addition, half of those surveyed believed that demonstrations would not bring about a change in governmental policies. 52 Indeed, demonstrations have not had a stellar record of reaching objectives or causing change. Matsumoto’s previously successful demonstrations were aimed at overturning local ordinances (e.g., the confiscation of bicycles at train stations) or specific laws (e.g., the requirement to have a PSE sticker to sell a secondhand electrical product). Large social movements have often not achieved their objectives. The heated protests against the Anpo in the 1960s—the last massive movement of comparable size (outside of Okinawa) to the post-3.11 antinuclear movement—did not result in the dissolution of the treaty, and the LDP has remained in power for all but four of the last sixty years. In 2013–2014, many protesters from the antinuclear movement migrated to the movements against hate speech, the Secrecy Law, the Abe cabinet’s reinterpretation of Article 9 prohibiting war in the Constitution, and the Security Bills, but they have not succeeded in changing policies. Arguably the most successful movement post-3.11 involved specific beneficiaries: the revision of the Occupation-era Entertainment Law, which forbade dancing in establishments that serve alcohol after midnight and had closed many clubs. After lobbying by musicians, club owners, and dance schools, the Diet passed a bill in October 2014 to revise the law to allow late hours if establishments are suitably lit. Historically, the antinuclear movement has been more successful in blocking new sites than changing national policy per se. The two planned sites of

62   The Background

Maki-machi in Niigata prefecture and Ashihama in Mie were abandoned (Aldrich 2008: 139–141). All of the completed nuclear plant sites as of 2014 had been sited by the early 1970s, suggesting how difficult it is to get approvals from new communities. In earlier days, local politicians rammed through approvals for nuclear power plants in Hamaoka in 1968 and in Kagoshima in 1974, despite large protests (Aldrich 2008: 129). With decisions to site a nuclear power plant concentrated in the hands of local elite, multiyear protests to prevent the construction of nuclear power plants have often been inconclusive, a famous example being the thirty-year conflict over the building of the Kaminoseki plant, near biologically diverse Iwai Island. The political effectiveness of protests is greatly reduced by the media’s reluctance to cover it.

Consolidation of LDP Power and the Return to Pronuclear Stance T H E PRON UCL E A R L DP R EG A I NS POW ER

In September 2012, the DPJ stated a policy of reducing dependence on nuclear power to zero by 2030 in response to public hearings in which 70 percent of respondents preferred this option. However, this policy was made moot following the LDP’s consolidation of power in the Lower House elections on December 16, 2012, and December 14, 2014, and the Upper House election on July 21, 2013. In the 2012 election, the LDP regained its majority in the Lower House of the Diet with 294 out of 480 seats, up from 118 in 2009. Combined with the New Komeito, the two parties surpassed the two-thirds figure needed to override vetoes from the Upper House. The DPJ was decimated, falling from 308 seats to 57. The LDP-Komeito coalition retained its two-thirds majority in the 2014 election. These elections were a result not only of people’s frustrations with the DPJ, the incumbent party on 3.11, but also the DPJ’s splintering into a plethora of new parties. These parties gave voters multiple choices in their districts, splitting the anti-LDP vote and leaving no strong second party to oppose the LDP. Similarly, the LDP was victorious in the Upper House election of July 21, 2013, winning 65 seats, an increase of 31, to hold 115 seats. Together with the Kōmeitō, it held a majority in the Upper House, with 135 combined seats out of 242. Due to the plethora of new parties, the DPJ lost 27 seats to hold only 59. Turnout was low for all three elections, with new postwar lows set for 2012 and 2014. Exit polls in 2012 showed that 78 percent of voters wanted a reduction of nuclear power, but their antinuclear stance had little bearing on their vote; the key issue was the economy (Endo et al. 2013: 60). The LDP platform was the most pronuclear of all the parties, advocating for the restarting of nuclear reactors. The day after the 2013 election, TEPCO told

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the NRA and METI that radioactive water may have leaked into the ocean. 53 A giant problem was soon revealed: 400,000 tons of contaminated water was being stored in tanks that were prone to leaking and corrosion (DeWit 2013). Despite Abe’s assurances to the Olympic Committee in September 2013 that “the situation is under control”—an assertion quickly criticized by TEPCO executives, 54 as well as antinuclear activists—the problem remains unresolved as of 2015. 55 N E W R EGU L ATOR U N DER PR E SSU R E

Before the LDP returned to power, the NRA, the new regulatory body, was established in September 2012, replacing NISA and NSC. To mitigate the conflict of interest that had compromised NISA due to its position within METI, the NRA was housed in the Ministry of the Environment. Tanaka Shunichi, the former vice chairman of the Japan Atomic Energy Commission, was appointed as its chairman. The NRA compiled new safety standards and acted on them. In 2013, it ruled that the Tsuruga plant had active faults underneath it, and that the Monju fast-breeder reactor was prohibited from restarting because of its operator’s failure to inspect 10,000 out of 39,000 pieces of equipment. Nonetheless, Kingston (2014) noted that almost all of NRA’s staff had come from NISA or NSC, making the “new” regulatory body more of a reorganization than an overhaul, and its guidelines concentrated on hardware rather than human work practices. By 2014, the NRA was under considerable pressure to allow nuclear reactors to restart. That year, the Abe administration allowed the terms of two of the five-person commission to expire without renewal:  Deputy Chair Shimazaki Kunihiko, a geologist and president of the Seismological Society of Japan, and Oshima Kenzō, permanent representative to the United Nations for Japan, a Hiroshima atomic bomb victim, and the author of the U.N. report “The Human Consequences of the Chernobyl Nuclear Accident: A Strategy for Recovery.” They were replaced by Ishiwatari Akira, a Tōhoku University geologist, and Tanaka Satoru, the president of the Atomic Energy Society of Japan and the former holder of an academic chair endowed by TEPCO. 56 Their five-year terms began in September 2014, and Kyōdō surmised that the replacements would speed up the restarting of nuclear reactors. 57 T H E N E W E N ERG Y PL A N A N D T H E POL I T ICS OF R E STA RT I NG N UC L E A R R E ACTOR S

The LDP’s energy plan of April 2014 left nuclear power as a “base-load” source of energy, backing the restarting of reactors and leaving open the possibility of

64   The Background

newly constructed reactors. According to the Asahi58 and Reuters, 59 only about a third of Japan’s forty-eight nuclear reactors are likely to be restarted, as a fourth are old and others need costly upgrades or face strong local opposition. Nonetheless, as of mid-2015, the NRA had approved the restarting of reactors at the Sendai Nuclear Power Plant in Kyūshū, the Takahama Nuclear Power Plant in Fukui prefecture, and the Ikata Nuclear Power Plant in Shikoku. These restarts require the utility to get approval from host towns and the prefecture, but not the neighboring towns, which do not share in the financial benefits and whose residents are highly skeptical.60 Protests in cities near these plants have grown: On March 16, 2014, 6,000 gathered in Kagoshima to protest the proposed restart of the Sendai Nuclear Power Plant. Activists have also filed lawsuits against central governments and electric power companies to block construction of the Oma plant, the restarting of the Ōi and Takahama reactors,61 and the operation of the Ikata plant.62 Meanwhile, Japan has survived nearly two years with no nuclear reactors (since September 2013 to this writing, August 2015) without problems, despite dire warnings of power shortages.

The Secrecy Law and Nuclear Power The Abe administration pushed through the Secrecy Bill close to midnight on December 6, 2013; it went into effect in December 2014. This law allows the heads of government agencies to designate information related to diplomacy, defense, counterterrorism, or counterespionage as secrets. Critics of the law, which include the United Nations Human Rights Commissioner, the Japan Federation of Bar Associations, 166 municipalities, 63 and 82 percent of residents,64 believe that the law could allow the government to withhold crucial information and restrict freedom of the press (Repeta 2014). First, the wording is vague (with words like “et cetera”), so that the scope of what could be classified is unclear and potentially wide (Usaki 2014). Second, secrets are effective up to five years, but they could be extended by thirty years and up to sixty years by the Cabinet. Secrets regarding weapons, defense, codes, and other issues could be kept indefinitely (Usaki 2014). Third, a person can be punished for leaking a state secret whether or not he or she was aware that it was a state secret. What is designated a secret would itself be a secret, so that a defense in a secrets-related trial would be difficult.65 Under the law, a person who leaks a secret when they are charged with handling it in the course of their duties can be jailed for up to ten years and fined up to ten million yen. A journalist, university researcher, member of a citizens’ group, or other non-official who leaks a secret can be jailed up to five years and fined up to five million yen. A citizen might also be prosecuted for “soliciting,” “instigating,” or “conspiring” to

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cause a leak for approaching officials or asking them to release information that happened to be a secret (Repeta 2014). The oversight body has no power to enforce its recommendations regarding the appropriateness of designations; the bureaucracy can ignore them. There is no provision for whistleblowers.66 As one does not know in advance what is classified as a secret, the law is widely expected to encourage caution and “self-restraint,” discouraging journalists, citizens, and elected officials from asking a wider range of questions than what is actually secret. Journalists and activists would find fewer officials willing to speak. When they came upon a scoop, journalists and media outlets would weigh the risk of prosecution, leading to self-censorship. There is no protection afforded to whistleblowers exposing corruption, threats to the environment, or other findings for the public good. Hence, the fear is that freedom of the press would be compromised. It may also hamper elected officials’ ability to play an oversight role, as not only would their access to information be blocked, but they would also be subject to punishment.67 Critics fear that by reducing public oversight, the law would undermine the people’s sovereignty “until [the people] are mere ‘objects’ of state rule and control” (Usaki 2014). Outraged citizens staged five continuous days of protest in front of the Diet Building and the prime minister’s residence, keeping vigil until the bill was passed. On the evening of the vote, 15,000 protesters assembled in Hibiya Park, and 40,000 gathered in front of the Diet; they held up placards saying “against fascism.” While the deliberations and vote in the Upper House were twitcast, NHK broadcast a program on the World Cup. I M PL IC AT IONS FOR N UCL E A R POW ER

The Secrecy Law could become problematic in nuclear discourse, as the Fukushima Daiichi crisis showed that the government could have greater transparency. During the public hearing for the Secrecy Law in Fukushima, the mayor of Namie reminded the audience that the government failed to share the SPEEDI data in a timely manner while his town fled right into the radioactive plume. He warned that the law could further limit access to vital information. As some politicians tie nuclear power to national security, and nuclear plants hold large stockpiles of spent fuel, some aspects of nuclear power plants could be designated as state secrets. In April 2014, the Asahi reported that some information regarding the Rokkasho Nuclear Fuel Reprocessing Plant had been newly redacted.68 With no protection for whistleblowers, subcontractors and workers at Fukushima Daiichi or other reactors may be further discouraged from reporting discrepancies, so that information about the conditions of nuclear plants may be even more restricted to the nuclear village.

66   The Background

Conclusion Over the last sixty years, the Japanese political and industrial leadership had accepted nuclear power, explaining to the public that it was safe, cheap, and necessary for a stable energy supply in a resource-poor country. In addition, politicians saw nuclear power as a security issue, signaling that Japan had the know-how and stockpiles of plutonium to produce nuclear weapons. Politicians, bureaucrats, the media, textbooks, and academics on television reiterated the catchwords that nuclear power was safe, cheap, and necessary. During the 3.11 crisis, the government proved unable to obtain sufficient information from TEPCO to make effective decisions, and TEPCO’s dissemination of information was incomplete and slow. The event led to widespread mistrust of both parties among the population. Edano’s continued insistence that there was “no immediate impact on health,” despite alarming pictures of exploding buildings and radiation figures, added to people’s doubts. Over time, TEPCO’s defense that the tsunami was “beyond expectations” was disproved by revelations of falsified data and maintenance lapses, bursting the safety myth; the lack of brownouts or blackouts in succeeding summers placed doubt on industry claims that nuclear power was absolutely necessary. Hence, the prevailing pre-3.11 narrative of nuclear power as a safe enabler of Japan’s economy was broken and replaced, for much of the population, with the narrative of a nuclear village—a small group heavily incentivized to protect its interests. Although citizens’ beliefs about nuclear power have clearly shifted, changing the systems that have kept nuclear power in place has been far more difficult. Interested parties have blunted efforts to overhaul the industry by influencing the composition of the NRA and the pace of deregulation. Meanwhile, the mainstream media, particularly NHK news and television, has been less forthcoming with antinuclear news. Protests have received little or minimizing coverage, keeping them from having the popularizing impact they could have, and high police presence and social pressures discourage many people from participating in protests. Developments since the return of the LDP, particularly the passage of the Secrecy Law, have caused concern about the suppression of discovery, reporting, and protest in the future. In such an environment, music has emerged as an important means by which antinuclear citizens can present their views, vent their frustrations, and feel validated. In cyberspace, demonstrations, festivals, and recordings, music has helped to create a sense of community among antinuclear citizens in an environment where the idea of shuttering nuclear reactors remains anti-hegemonic. In each of these spaces, musicians face varying risks and take on different roles, as explored in the following chapters.

CH A P T ER 

3

Musicians in the Antinuclear Movement M O T I VAT I O N S , R O L E S , A N D  R I S K S

Introduction On July 16, 2012, Sayonara Genpatsu, an antinuclear organization backed by Nobel prize-winning novelist Ōe Kenzaburō and others, held their largest demonstration yet in Yoyogi Park in Tokyo, with an estimated 170,000 protesters in attendance. One of the speakers was another backer—Sakamoto Ryūichi, a member of the iconic late-1970s techno-pop group Yellow Magic Orchestra (YMO) and an Academy Award-winning composer for his score to Bernardo Bertolucci’s The Last Emperor (1987). He is one of the most revered pop stars in Japan—HMV ranked YMO as the second-most influential band in Japanese pop history, and him alone as eleventh.1 His stature and intellect are indicated by his nickname: Kyōju (Professor). Sakamoto’s speech expressed his disappointment with the restarting of the Ōi Nuclear Power Plant two weeks earlier. He advocated for the deregulation of electricity transmission, which would break the regional monopolies of the electric power companies. He then said (web figure 3.1 ): It’s only electricity (takaga denki), so to speak. Why is it necessary to expose life to danger, just for the sake of electricity? … I am hoping that perhaps by 2050, it would be completely ordinary for each household, office, or factory to generate its own electricity… . We shouldn’t expose to danger this beautiful Japan or the lives of children, who represent the future of our country, just for the sake of electricity. 67

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Life is more important than money. Life is more important than the economy. Let’s protect the children. Let’s protect the land of Japan.2 Despite the debilitating mid-summer heat and humidity, the crowd reacted with great enthusiasm. The words “It’s only electricity” (takaga denki) received thunderous applause. The audience also whooped in approval at “Life is more important than money” (okane yori inochi) and “Let’s protect the children.” Several audience members quoted and paraphrased him with admiration: “Just for the sake of electricity, why must we endanger life, beautiful Japan, children?” (@nukakazu, @hoshimasato, @yagyu_ajyossi, @ucchi_ love). The crowd applauded as Sakamoto ended his speech with an adaptation of Adorno’s comment on Auschwitz: “Keeping silent after Fukushima is barbaric.” Sakamoto’s speech was clearly about alternatives to energy production and deregulation of the electric power industry. He was not speaking against electricity itself, but against using nuclear power to produce it. Nonetheless, what the pronuclear Twitter users, who had neither attended the rally nor heard his entire speech, picked out from the Twitter feed was “It’s only electricity.” This phrase was taken out of context and repeated ad infinitum over the web, where it was reframed as saying that electricity wasn’t necessary. Predictably, the words sparked a barrage of criticism. Some comments centered on the necessity of electricity to sustain daily life, such as supporting the economy, providing jobs, and running medical equipment at hospitals. Many critics seized on the irony that Sakamoto had first catapulted to fame as a member of a techno-pop group playing an electronic synthesizer (“You wouldn’t have been this successful without techno-pop,” @bleo38, July 16, 2012). They emphasized that he owed his business to electricity: “Thanks to ‘only electricity,’ he was able to record works, manufacture disks, convert electric signals to sound, and reach the ears of the masses” (@shonanjohnlenno, July 17, 2012). Pronuclear factions regularly tell antinuclear protesters, “[If you don’t want nuclear power,] don’t use electricity”; this taunt was recalled as photos of Sakamoto giving his speech, his microphone and iPhone circled in bright red, circulated around the internet. Some tweeters sarcastically suggested that Sakamoto should play unplugged from now on: “Try running your festival without ‘mere electricity.’ It’s only electricity, right? … You can say things like this because you’re living free and easy overseas” (@zodiakpanch, July 16, 2012). Indeed, many said that Sakamoto had no right to speak about the nuclear issue in Japan, as he resides in New York City (e.g., @robanomi, July 16, 2012). The controversy was further stoked—even legitimized—when the Sankei Shimbun, one of Japan’s five national newspapers with a daily circulation of

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1.6  million, ran the following editorial in its flagship column “Sankei shō” (Extract): What must you do to be a stylish person of culture these days? Having become popular by using lots of electricity, you live in a high-end condominium in New  York. Of course, you pay taxes to your beloved America while paying none in Japan… . When you’re past sixty, you stand at the head of a trendy antinuclear demonstration and give inflammatory speeches to great applause. Sure, it’s the business of artists to attract attention, but old fans hope that you’d pay a bit more attention to your primary specialty… . The musician Sakamoto Ryūichi’s speech was of such a stylish person of culture. Sure, it’s only electricity. You can’t exchange it with life. This sweet whisper invites you to nod in agreement with him. But how many lives have been saved by “only electricity?” … Does Professor Sakamoto not know how many hospital patients suffered from the planned power outages of “only” a few hours last spring, after 3.11?3 Like the pronuclear tweeters, the writer of the article ignored the original context of Sakamoto’s speech and reframed it as a criticism of electricity itself. Although many bloggers roundly panned the article, the campaign against Sakamoto gained momentum. Articles criticizing Sakamoto quickly appeared in magazines popular with salarymen, including Shūkan Bunshun (August 7, 2012), Shūkan Post (August 10, 2012), and Shinchō 45 (September 2012). In the foreword of the latter in an issue entitled “This Great Sense of Discomfort,” the editor wrote, “Is it because of the heat? There are too many strange things these days… . Before the issue has been dealt with, there’s suddenly a ‘correctness’ to exiting nuclear power, and you can’t raise objections in this kūki” (atmosphere) (­chapter 4). He dismissed the reports of “bullying” Sakamoto, saying that these claims were hiding “the essence of his words.”4 By the time the Sankei printed a clarification from Sakamoto himself in late September, reiterating that he was arguing for less dangerous alternatives to nuclear power, the damage had already been done. 5 The backlash was so vehement that the antinuclear character Monju-kun was driven to publish an interview with Sakamoto titled “Why is a musician like you speaking out on nuclear power?” As Street (2012, 2013), Thrall et al. (2008), and others have described, the Anglo-American media legitimates a musician’s authority to speak about political issues; here was a prime example of how Japanese media more often undercuts musicians who do. Criticisms of musicians’ political activism are not unique to Japan (e.g., both Pearl Jam and the Dixie Chicks were lambasted for their denunciation of

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George W. Bush; Weglarz 2013). Nonetheless, the attack on Sakamoto seemed in sharp contrast to the experiences of popular musicians in other countries. For instance, Bono of U2 and Bob Geldof have won accolades for their activism and met several heads of state, including Tony Blair, George W.  Bush, Vladimir Putin, and others, regarding debt relief for developing countries, aid packages to Africa, and other issues. Musicians from Frank Sinatra to Bruce Springsteen have campaigned prominently for U.S.  presidential candidates, and Victor Jara sang for Salvador Allende in Chile. Several musicians have become politicians themselves, including Sonny Bono (mayor, U.S. representative), John Hall (U.S. representative), Rubén Blades (Panamanian presidential candidate and minister of tourism), Gilberto Gil (Brazilian minister of culture), Silvio Rodríguez (Cuban senator), and Youssou N’Dour (Senegalese minister of tourism and leisure). Yet the Sankei article reduced Sakamoto, who is comparable (if not higher) in status in Japan than these figures, to a “stylish person of culture,” suggesting that he, as a musician, had no business speaking out on political issues—let alone nuclear power—at all and should stick to his “primary business” of entertaining. Such sentiments were also echoed from individuals on Twitter, who said, “Just shut up and play the piano” (@ kamille_a, May 11, 2013). Even his fans made such comments: Professor, I am truly disappointed. I didn’t think you were that shallow. I  liked “Tongpoo” and a lot of your music. I  would have preferred that you just concentrated on music. I’m so disappointed with Saitō [Kazuyoshi] and Kishida of Quruli as well! (@rantakun, July 21, 2012) What accounts for this difference between Japan and other countries in the receptivity to musicians’ political activities? What makes nuclear power a particularly tricky topic for entertainers? What are the characteristics of the minority of musicians who dedicate themselves to the antinuclear movement despite the risks? In what ways do they contribute to the movement?

Japanese Musicians Prescribed to Entertainer’s Role The “only electricity” incident illustrates the perils that can befall a musician who campaigns against nuclear power as long and as prominently as Sakamoto has. After having supported environmental movements since the early 1990s, he supported a petition in 2006 calling for a referendum on the initiation of pluthermal operations, which use recycled spent fuel containing plutonium (MOX fuel), at the Genkai Nuclear Power Plant. The same year, he and the

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rapper Shing02 spearheaded the Stop Rokkasho project, a web-based, multimedia project protesting the nuclear waste reprocessing plant. The sincerity of his antinuclear stance is self-evident, making the Sankei’s jeer of “stylish person of culture” particularly unfortunate. Sakamoto is far from alone in such experiences. As he has recounted, many of the musicians who participated in his No Nukes 2012 concert (­chapter 6) have also gotten attacked for making antinuclear comments or more general political statements. Both Gotō Masafumi (Gotch) of the popular rock band Asian Kung-Fu Generation and punk rocker Namba Akihiro often receive messages from fans such as “You’re a musician—stick to music,” or “You musicians should just sing about daily life.”6 When the rock band Acidman began making “No Nukes” T-shirts and badges as a way to raise money for Fukushima, the president of their then–management company told them to stop, calling it “political activism”; they had to convince him that their intentions were for charity. In comments that suggest executives fear rock stars’ influence and seek to repress it, Gotō explained, “You’re expected to restrain yourself. Whenever I appear on television, I’m told, ‘Don’t wear a No Nukes T-shirt,’ or ‘Don’t bring a Free Tibet flag.’ When I speak about nuclear power or other matters, it’s just my opinion as one human being. Perhaps my expressing an opinion would have some impact, because I’m a musician. What’s wrong with that?” 7 This atmosphere of self-restraint not only muzzles major-label artists on television but has also long infected the entire music scene. Having become involved in the antinuclear movement after the Chernobyl accident, Nakagawa Takashi of Soul Flower Union stopped talking about it in the 1990s, because “no one wanted to hear about it, and the reaction was bad” (Nakagawa Takashi, p.c., Tokyo, August 26, 2012). As Rankin Taxi had told me back in 2008, Japanese reggae “tends to omit the aspects of the genre related to social reform, criticism, or protest. It has to do with the general climate in Japan. Usually, a protest song only appeals to people who either agree with it or sympathize with protesting in general. The majority of Japanese people would prefer not to hear or think about it” (Rankin Taxi, interview with the author, Kyoto, May 15, 2008). He reiterated this view following the Fukushima accident: Pop music listeners aren’t used to hearing political messages in songs, so they don’t like hearing them. There were many message-oriented folk songs in the late ’60s to ’70s, but it’s as if there’s been a strong counter-reaction to that vogue. A protest song won’t get into the Oricon charts. It won’t get on the airwaves. It won’t get requests. Musicians think the audience won’t like message songs, and they’re not experienced in writing them. They see their function as entertainment.

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It’s hard to pull off a political song, and even if you succeed artistically, you can’t make money out of it. There are plenty of easier topics. (Rankin Taxi, interview with the author, Tokyo, December 19, 2011) Shing02 noted the risks of addressing controversial issues: I think a lot of artists avoid being in the spotlight on a controversial issue. It’s easy to talk about families or love instead of confronting something that might be hurting people. It’s definitely easier to stay abstract than to talk about a specific issue, company, or person. It’s very accusatory, and people don’t want to come off that way… . Most artists would rather do a benefit concert than talk about issues. Charity—that’s something that everyone can agree with. (Shing02, interview with the author, Tokyo, December 25, 2011) Not all Japanese music fans agree that musicians should stay out of controversial issues. As one observer of the uproar over Sakamoto’s comment noted, “The role of an artist is to stand outside of society and stir things up once in a while. It doesn’t matter if their actions are right or consistent. Their role is simply to stir things up” (@Iida_yasuyuki, July 22, 2012). Another applauded Sakamoto for using his influence: Sakamoto Ryūichi is getting beaten up for saying, “only electricity,” but I have renewed respect for him. His remark shows that he understands his responsibility as an opinion leader who isn’t swayed by what’s around him. (@jyoji_sawada, July 16, 2012) Judging from conversations with fans and Twitter feeds, fans of so-called rebel musics like punk, hip-hop, reggae, folk, indie rock, and Okinawan music seem more likely to be open to political lyrics compared to most Japanese. However, these genres lie outside of mainstream listening, which is dominated by J-Pop. A scroll through the Oricon charts of the 2010s shows the top sellers as idol-pop girl groups, boy bands, and solo pop singers who often don’t write their own songs and are carefully constructed and monitored by their management and record companies. As listeners expect musicians to be simple entertainers, and management pressures them to be that way, most Japanese musicians avoid saying or doing anything political (Gotō, Peace on Earth concert, March 9, 2014). Of course, Japan is not alone in having depoliticized musicians: As John Street (2012) has pointed out, most Anglo-American rock is not political; even during punk’s genesis of 1976–1977, only a quarter of songs released by the top five punk

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bands commented directly on social or political issues (Laing 1985: 27). What is different is the more active discouragement of political expression. Such prescribed expectations for Japanese musicians seem in contrast to the experiences of politically oriented musicians elsewhere. In many Western countries, it seems more usual than not for celebrities to support causes. Thrall (2008) found that 63 percent of celebrities from a random sample on Celebopedia (with celebrities of great and small fame) was involved with celebrity advocacy, while 90 percent of those on the Fortune-100 list of U.S.-based celebrities was so involved. Celebrities, including musicians, are valuable to causes for their ability to attract media attention to them (Meyer and Gamson 1995; Thrall et al. 2008).8 However, if the media refuses to pay attention—as has been the case with the antinuclear movement—then a celebrity advocate becomes far less effective. Furthermore, celebrities must be credible in their claims, and they can more easily claim concern over universal issues like peace or the environment (Meyer and Gamson 1995). Using this logic, one might think that the safety of nuclear power plants and the negative effects of radiation would be of concern to everyone, so that celebrities would find the antinuclear movement easier to back. This hypothetical scenario could not be further from reality.

Nuclear Power Is a Taboo Topic Nuclear power has proved to be a particularly tricky topic for entertainers. As explained in c­ hapter  2, the electric power companies and their associated agencies had been among the top advertisers in Japan, despite being regional monopolies. Over half of their advertising budgets were for television, where the electric power industry was an important sponsor for programs. The public relations department of the Federation of Electric Power Companies of Japan (Denjiren) has been monitoring the media since the 1970s, courting the media with pronuclear advertising yen and exerting pressure whenever articles or shows appear that are critical of nuclear power (Kawabata 2011). With television viewership largely concentrated among five commercial terrestrial networks, four of which have comparable ratings, the industry is competitive, and broadcasters need to maintain good relations with sponsors to retain profitability. Entertainers who are featured in such industry-sponsored programs would be well advised to refrain from being publicly critical of them. In addition, the nuclear industry paid many entertainers, including comedian and film director Beat Takeshi and former baseball star Hoshino Sen’ichi, handsomely for their appearance in commercials, said to be at double the usual rates—from 200,000 to a million yen

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per hour ($2,000–$10,000)—and with follow-on work (Kawabata 2011: 15; Wakasugi 2013: 207). In Genpatsu howaitoauto (Nuclear Whiteout, 2013), the pseudonymous author Wakasugi Retsu, identifying himself as a Tokyo University graduate in law and career bureaucrat at a ministry in Kasumigaseki, describes systems and processes that appear to have some basis in reality, even though the events he recounts (as examples of what could happen) are fictional. The novel describes easily identifiable and barely disguised people, companies, organizations, and situations in a manner that exhibits an insider’s knowledge.9 More to the point, Wakasugi’s premises echo observations previously made in Shūkan Kinyōbi, Bessatsu Takarajima, and on the web. Wakasugi describes the public relations bureau of Denjiren as maintaining blacklists of antinuclear entertainers and exerting pressure on media companies not to include them in programs or articles. Meanwhile, teams of sidelined employees of electric power companies work the phones and the web, overwhelming the reader’s comments sections whenever television programs are critical of electric power companies, and making critical comments on the internet bulletin board 2chan, Twitter feeds of celebrities, and Facebook pages (Wakasugi 2013: 206–208). Evidence suggests that systems similar to those described by Wakasugi could be in place. On January 20, 2012, Gotō Masafumi of Asian Kung-Fu Generation appeared on the Fuji Television program Bokura no ongaku wearing a “No Nukes” T-shirt. Over the next ninety minutes, about 400 fans tweeted their admiration.10 While Asian Kung-Fu Generation had not been a frequent presence on terrestrial television, their appearances dropped off in number from 2012 to 2014.11 While Sakamoto Ryūichi has continued to appear on terrestrial television, the number of his appearances during prime time (which I am considering as 7 p.m. to 11 p.m.) fell from eleven in 2012 to one in 2013 and two in 2014.12 And whether the culprits are individual internet trolls or employed ones, both artists have been attacked vehemently on social media whenever they have spoken out about nuclear power. This carrot/stick approach to pronuclear compliance has been problematic for the music industry, because television remains the primary means for introducing artists and songs. Music on television includes not only dedicated music programs but also theme songs for television shows and commercials or performances and chitchat on talk shows and news. Year after year, the annual consumer survey by the Record Industry Association of Japan (RIAJ) shows that more people become aware of a new song through television than any other medium: In 2013, of the top ten media, music programs on television ranked no. 1 (accounting for 49 percent of consumers), TV commercials for goods ranked no.  2, TV commercials for songs ranked no.  4, and other TV

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programs ranked no. 8.13 Understandably, artist management companies are reluctant to have musicians express viewpoints that could potentially alienate the television networks and their sponsors. Furthermore, the Japanese media industry is composed of vertically and horizontally integrated groups that include television, newspapers, magazines, advertising, and content companies. For example, the Sankei group, which owns Pony Canyon, a major record label in Japan, also owns the Sankei newspaper, Fuji Television, the radio company Nippon Broadcasting, and Fujipacific Music, a publisher. Although each company has its own management, such corporate relationships can impact policies. While corporate cross-ownership has far less influence today than it did in past decades, the keiretsu system of affiliated companies has long affected strategies in corporate Japan. H I S T O R I C A L P R E C E D E N T S :  C E N S O R S H I P O F   R C S U C C E S S I O N ’ S C OV E R S  (19 8 8)

The corporate ownership of a record company was a contributing factor to one of the most notorious instances of censoring antinuclear entertainers. In the wake of the Chernobyl accident in 1986, a few antinuclear songs appeared from independent and major-label musicians. In June 1988, Imawano Kiyoshirō, the leader of rock band RC Succession, was hauled into the offices of Ishizaka Keiichi, director of Japanese music at Toshiba EMI, the Japanese affiliate of EMI and RC Succession’s record company at the time. Ishizaka told Imawano to drop two songs from his forthcoming album Covers—Elvis Presley’s “Love Me Tender” and Eddie Cochran’s “Summertime Blues.”14 Both of these tracks featured Japanese lyrics by Imawano that were explicitly antinuclear. In the former, Imawano reshaped the line, “Love me tender,” with a Japanese rhyme, “Nani ittenda?”, to croon, “What are you saying? Stop messing around. We don’t need nuclear (power/weapons).” In the second verse, he sang, “We don’t need radiation, I want to drink milk… . Give us back our tax money.” “Summertime Blues” was even more explicit: It verbalized the fear of a nuclear accident triggered by natural calamities (“the Tokai earthquake is around the corner”), hidden radiation (“It was leaking without our realizing it,” “You’re losing a lot of hair these days”), and the weight of propaganda (“But the TV still says, ‘nuclear power in Japan is safe’”). It also raised the possibility of corruption and overbuilding (web figure 3.2 ): They’re increasing more and more, More nuclear power plants are being built. I don’t get it at all—who are they for? Summertime blues in a cramped Japan.

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This thematic was compounded in the outro, where Imawano sang: There’s excess electric power. We don’t need [nuclear power], it’s dangerous. When Imawano refused to pull the songs, Toshiba EMI canceled the release of both the album and the singles “Love Me Tender” and “Summertime Blues.” Complying with Imawano’s demands, the company put an advertisement in the nation’s three biggest newspapers—Yomiuri, Asahi, and Mainichi—saying that the records were “too wonderful” to release (Bessatsu Takarajma 2006). The cancellation immediately caused an uproar in the media, particularly since the album had already passed inspection by the record industry body Recorin (­chapter 7), which would have flagged any problems with the lyrics or copyrights. These circumstances made the press and record company insiders suspect that Toshiba EMI’s parent company Toshiba—one of Japan’s three major nuclear engineering firms—had applied the pressure15; the president of Toshiba EMI at the time had been transferred from Toshiba. The Asahi wrote a critical and prescient editorial, expressing anger that rock—the music of rebellion—was being rendered toothless in the face of business interests: We are now standing at the crossroads where it has become taboo for a record company that is affiliated with the nuclear industry to release an antinuclear song. Toshiba EMI has still not clarified the reasons for cancelling the release. The entire company has been rigidly mute. The silence itself makes the opaqueness worse. We were supposed to have begun postwar Japan by scrapping such taboos. And rock was supposed to be the music that laughs off such taboos. This company owns the [Japanese] rights to rock’s heroes, the Beatles. … Because of the depth of its roster of [Japanese] musicians, it’s nicknamed “the Toshiba of rock.” But what’s rock about cancelling a release or this drama of silence?16 The implications for freedom of speech were not lost on ordinary citizens. A twenty-five-year-old instructor wrote to the Asahi: If it is true that consideration of pronuclear interests, related to the parent company’s position as a major nuclear-industry player, was the reason [for the cancellation of the release], it is a serious problem… . If you can cancel a release without a legitimate, rational reason, it means you are denying the freedom of expression that forms the basis of a democratic society.17

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Even as the media was calling attention to protests over this censorship, the record industry was actually stepping it up. In July 1988, the Blue Hearts released the single “Chernobyl” under an independent label, saying that they had not been given permission to release it under their record label, Meldac (Suzuki 2011: 22). For a protest song, the lyrics were mild: Its refrain simply stated, “I don’t want to go to Chernobyl. I just want to hold that girl.” Never mentioning the words “nuclear power,” it expressed the singer’s discomfort, noting that [black] rain (nuclear fallout) was falling everywhere. Meldac, a sub-label of Nippon Crown, was partly owned by Mitsubishi Electric—another of the big three nuclear engineering firms. The group left the label the following year.18 The broadcasting industry also exercised its own “self-restraint.” In his capacity as DJ at FM Tokyo, the musician Sano Motoharu had been planning a program titled “Atomic Power Generation” to play Japanese antinuclear songs. At the time, FM Tokyo supplied its programming to twenty-three out of the twenty-four FM stations nationwide; its programs accounted for 90 percent of programming for some regional stations. One of those stations, FM Toyama, complained about Sano’s program, claiming, “There are pros and cons to nuclear power. It’s inappropriate to feature only a one-sided opinion.” In a telephone interview with Asahi Shimbun, Director of Broadcasting Makino Masahiro added, “We are partly owned by Toyama Prefecture and Hokuriku Electric Power. However, it’s not as if we were pressured [to complain].”19 Indeed, most FM stations were owned by local governments, some of which hosted power plants, and sponsored partly by electric power companies. Sano relented and changed the program to Western music, but he made his own stance clear by releasing his own antinuclear song, “Keikoku dōri, keikaku dōri” (As Warned, As Planned, 1988), on Epic Records.20 Referring to “unreliable journalism” when “children just want to know the truth,” he repeats, “Windscale, Three Mile Island, Chernobyl, they’re all exactly as warned.” FM Tokyo followed by banning RC Succession’s “Love Me Tender” and “Summertime Blues” from its broadcasts, claiming that their lyrics were inappropriate for broadcast, particularly for a company engaged in educational broadcasting. It even banned the broadcast of news or commentary regarding the controversy surrounding the songs. Under questioning from journalists, the organization director Muramatsu Mitsuyoshi gave no clarification of what exactly was inappropriate, but claimed that there was “no pressure” from Toshiba or TEPCO.21 The incident likely limited the diffusion of the song to the regions and cast a pall over the production of future songs. However, this response was far from universal. Prior to cancelling the release, Toshiba EMI had already distributed copies of the single to radio stations and had not taken them back, leaving radio stations free to broadcast

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them. FM Yokohama, AM stations, and cable radio continued to broadcast it, with the former saying, “If you self-censor these kinds of songs, you’re limiting freedom of speech.” FM Osaka featured Imawano live on its late-night program, in which he sang Bob Dylan’s “I Shall Be Released” with his own Japanese lyrics: “Stupid men are pressuring me… . They tried to shut me up, but instead it served as advertisement… . The sun will likely rise again on the eastern lawn.” “Eastern lawn” (higashi no shiba) is a play on the characters for “Toshiba.” Indeed, the suppression of Imawano and the Blue Hearts’ songs conversely stimulated public interest in them. When the independent label Kitty Records released RC Succession’s Covers on the symbolic date of August 15—the date of Japan’s surrender in World War II—the record debuted at no. 1 on the Oricon charts. Similarly, the Blue Hearts’ “Chernobyl” sold better than expected. Disgusted with the media industry, Imawano wrote several songs about the incident and repression of speech, and he started playing them in live shows:  “If you record them in a studio, you have to deal with the record company from step one, and it’s a pain. We’ll play them live as much as we can, and put them out where we can.” A performance of them was recorded at a concert in mid-August 1988, and Toshiba EMI agreed to release it as an album (Kobura no nayami, 1988). Imawano believed that the record executives never bothered to listen to the album.22 He also formed an alter-ego band called the Timers that pushed at the boundaries of record-industry acceptability. The name “Timers” was a parody of the popular commercial 1960s band “Tigers,” with the members adopting pseudonyms that sounded like their predecessors (e.g., Imawano’s pseudonym, “Zerry,” sounds close to the Tiger’s “Julie” in Japanese); in addition, the word “taima” in Japanese means “marijuana,” another industry taboo. The group performed protest songs such as “Summertime Blues” and the sarcastic “Genpatsu sansei ondo” (Dance in Support of Nuclear Power) while disguised in sunglasses and helmets—a seeming parody of the headgear that student protesters wore in the late 1960s and 70s. The band’s rebellious spirit was exemplified in an appearance on the TV program Yoru no hitto sutajio on October 13, 1989. Having told the program that they would play “Gizen” (Hypocrisy), they instead launched into a surprise performance of “FM Tokyo,” in which Imawano calls it “a rotten radio station that bans everything”; unable to censor the live performance, the visibly shocked presenter Furutachi Ichirō was left to apologize23 (web figure 3.3 ). Nevertheless, the distractions of the cancelled release and Imawano’s side project took their toll on RC Succession, which broke up two years later. Despite the eventual success of Covers, the incident clearly established that nuclear power was a taboo topic for entertainers. The methods of suppression were also revealed:  withdrawing record releases, banning broadcasts, and

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cancelling broadcast programs, possibly orchestrated through corporate ownership or sponsorship related to the nuclear industry. The incident made clear that by the late 1980s, rock in Japan was no longer a rebellious form, but rather a commercial enterprise beholden to corporate relationships. It likely discouraged other artists from releasing antinuclear songs; those that were released the following year (e.g., Rankin Taxi’s “You Can’t See It, You Can’t Smell It Either” and ECD’s “Pico Curie”) were reggae and hip-hop songs released on independent labels without the distribution networks of the majors. C A ST IG AT ION OF A N T I N UC L E A R E N T E RTA I N E R S

Imawano is hardly alone as an entertainer who paid a price for engaging in antinuclear activity. In 1976, Tahara Sōichirō, a journalist and a director at Tokyo Television Channel 12, wrote the novel Genshiryoku sensō (Atomic Energy War), about a yakuza (mobster) who becomes involved in a conflict to site a nuclear power plant; it was made into a film. Creating a controversy in the media industry, it became a prohibited work. This harassment of antinuclear entertainers has persisted after the Fukushima accident. When the idol-pop group Seifuku Kōjō Iinkai released their antinuclear single, “Da! Da! Datsu genpatsu no uta” (Get Out of Nuclear Power Song, 2011) (web figure 3.4 ), Japan Railway refused to carry their advertisements because the song title qualified it as opinion advertising (iken kōkoku), and they were asked not to sing the song in performances that had been set up to commemorate its release. In 2011, they were approached about a surprise appearance (tobiiri) at a corporate-sponsored mini-stage at the Fuji Rock Festival, but the invitation was withdrawn because of objections from the corporate sponsor, which wanted to maintain a neutral image (Hashimoto Mika, interview with the author, December 21, 2011).24 In early 2012, the independent chindon25 band Jintaramūta was invited to appear at a St. Patrick’s Day event in London, which the Japanese government was sponsoring as a show of appreciation for the British government’s support for earthquake and tsunami relief. The event was to be a parade of Japanese performing arts, such as traditional dancers from Kyoto, and Jintaramūta was invited as the chindon representatives. The band had been making plans with a production company, which was working under one of Japan’s largest advertising agencies. One day, the advertising agency approached them. As chindon drummer Kogure Miwazō recounted: They asked repeatedly, “You’re not going to demonstrations, right? You’re not participating in antinuclear activities, right? You have no plans to participate in such activities in the future, right?”

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And I said, “No, no, we plan to participate.” They then replied, “Let’s say this offer never happened.” (Kogure Miwazō and Ōkuma Wataru, interview with the author, Tokyo, July 18, 2012) Interestingly, the cancellation was instigated not by the sponsor, the Japanese government, but the advertising company, with its client relationships with the nuclear industry. If advertising companies exert their power to exclude entertainers of “undesirable” opinions in a one-shot overseas performance, one could imagine their forcefulness in eliminating dissenting entertainers from lucrative television appearances, commercials, and other events that are highly visible to the Japanese population. In April 2011, the popular actor and television personality Yamamoto Tarō marched in the Shirōto no Ran demonstration and tweeted about it. In May, he appeared in a YouTube video for Operation Kodomotachi, a volunteer group that evacuates children from highly contaminated areas.26 (web figure 3.5 ) In it, he urged residents near the stricken Fukushima plant to evacuate for the sake of their children’s survival. In order to convey a sense of urgency, he was blunt, accusing the government of raising the safety limit for radiation exposure from 1 millisieverts per annum to 20 million to “keep down evacuation costs,” despite the potential harm of radiation to children. Immediately after the video became public, his agency was bombarded with phone calls. He was fired from a drama series that had been scheduled to tape during the summer. Yamamoto believed that this decision was made not by top management but by those involved in the production, who censored themselves: “They probably thought, ‘It’s best to avoid employing him right now.’” Finally, the president of the agency called Yamamoto, letting him know that the controversy was hurting business not only for him but also for other actors with the firm; his thirteen-year association with his agency ended in the span of a short phone conversation. Formerly active in commercials, talk shows, and other broadcast programs, his opportunities and income dried up immediately; his friends in the entertainment industry and his girlfriend deserted him (Yamamoto 2012). In April 2012, he was compelled to do a short stint as a salaryman selling solar panels for a construction company. 27 As of 2014, Yamamoto remains one of a few mainstream television entertainers to have come out publicly against nuclear power. Since 2011, Yamamoto has devoted much energy to antinuclear activism, giving countless free talks at nonprofit groups and demonstrations. In December 2012, he ran for election to the Lower House of the Diet and lost. He was vindicated when he won a seat in the Upper House in July 2013, and he continued to speak out against

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restarting nuclear power plants and the Secrecy Law. Even as a Diet member, however, he was treated with suspicion by large segments of the press. When he attended a protest against the Abe Cabinet’s reinterpretation of the Peace Constitution on July 1, 2014, the police surrounded him; the next day, his official Facebook page became inaccessible. Many other antinuclear figures have lost access to their platforms. In March 2015, Ian Thomas Ash, the director of A2-B-C, a documentary about thyroid problems among children in Fukushima, suddenly found that his Japanese distributor had cancelled all showings of his film and dissolved itself, leaving him unable to show the film in Japan (Ian Thomas Ash, p.c., March 2015).28 In September 2014, Peter Barakan’s show on Inter.FM radio, “Barakan Morning,” was cancelled.29 In March 2014, Oda Masanori, the founder of the drum groups that are ubiquitous at protests, lost his position as adjunct lecturer at Tokyo University of Foreign Studies after fourteen years. 30 While each situation is complex and may not be directly linked to antinuclear views, the accumulation of such incidents would likely discourage most entertainers from engaging in political issues.

Biographies of Protest Under such circumstances, it is hardly surprising that the majority of musicians have not taken up the antinuclear cause. In the first year after the triple disaster, most of the musicians who released antinuclear recordings or performed in protests were independent artists. Saitō Kazuyoshi (­chapters  4 and 7) was the only major-label artist to release antinuclear songs, and his one explicitly antinuclear song was available only on YouTube. He was surprised that no other charting artist joined him in singing an antinuclear song: “I thought everyone would do a song like that, but it didn’t turn out that way at all. It was as if I  were all alone” (TV Asahi 2011). While artists like Gotō Masafumi (Asian Kung-Fu Generation) and Kishida Shigeru (Quruli) were blogging about nuclear power, only a few major-label artists performed or spoke at protests, with exceptions including Sakamoto Ryūichi, who spoke at Sayonara Genpatsu’s 60,000-person protest in Tokyo on September 19, 2011. A few musicians began to speak out more visibly in 2012. As previously mentioned, Gotō appeared on television with his “No Nukes” T-shirt on January 20, 2012. On February 11, 2012, an advertisement from No Nukes Media appeared in the Mainichi, with names of entertainers and other public figures who supported abolishing nuclear power. Among the musicians listed were YMO members Hosono Haruomi, Sakamoto Ryūichi, and Takahashi

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Yukihiro; singer-songwriter and longtime environmental activist Katō Tokiko; rap pioneers Itō Seikō, Takagi Kan, and Scha Dara Parr; Gotō’s band, Asian Kung-Fu Generation; and DJ-producers Tanaka Tomoyuki of Plastic Fantastic Machine, Sunaga Tatsuo, and Dubmaster X.  On July 7–8, 2012, Sakamoto convened the No Nukes 2012 concert featuring eighteen groups, several of whom had not previously expressed their antinuclear opinions in public (­chapter 6). In The Logic of Collective Action (1965), Mancur Olson argued that rational individuals have little incentive to participate in collective action that provides a public good benefitting everyone equally, regardless of whether or not they contributed to the action; people are more likely to “free ride” in such cases. He claimed that individuals will participate only if there are incentives—positive or negative—that accrue exclusively to participants. In the antinuclear case, the goals—a Japan safer from the worries of radiation, nuclear accidents, and nuclear weapons proliferation—would benefit everyone, but the costs to musicians who participate can be high: lost gigs and media coverage, censorship of recordings, public ridicule, loss of fans, harassment, and threats to personal safety. On the other hand, specific organizations and people would lose financially from an end to nuclear power—the nuclear industry, media companies, nuclear workers at host towns, etc.; they are strongly incentivized to fight back. What, then, could possibly drive musicians to participate in the antinuclear movement? While one may never know why anyone chooses to participate in social movements, it is intriguing that many activist-musicians share certain biographical traits that may impact the intensity of their emotional responses to events. M O R A L O U T R A G E A N D T H R E A T S T O   DA I LY   L I F E

In the Art of Moral Protest (2008), James Jasper outlined several emotional, moral, and cognitive motivators for protesters. He noted that moral shocks, such as an unexpected event or piece of information that raises a sense of outrage among the population, often incite an individual to political action. The Fukushima accident and the subsequent news flow on the nuclear village were severe moral shocks to many Japanese, who had taken for granted that nuclear power in Japan was safe and had trusted its leaders to put safe operation and the people’s well-being above all. Many Japanese, like the antinuclear character Monju-kun and the independent musician Ippanjapanese, said that they were so angry and outraged that they felt they had to do something. In his infamous video of “It Was Always a Lie” (­chapter 4), Saitō’s anger and disgust emanate from his vocal performance. Jasper also pointed out that the ability to focus blame is crucial to protest; in the antinuclear case, protesters typically

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aim their anger at the nuclear village, particularly TEPCO and METI, as well as the prime minister.

Threat to Hometowns

Another powerful motivator that Jasper identified is fear, particularly when one’s daily life or a cherished place is threatened. Several of the musicians active in the antinuclear movement are from cities close to problematic nuclear power plants. Gotō Masafumi is from Shimada in Shizuoka prefecture, a scant 20 kilometers from the Hamaoka Nuclear Power Plant, dubbed the world’s most dangerous nuclear power plant for its position around the epicenter of the long-predicted Tokai earthquake. Yet growing up, he had not given much thought to its safety: “Next to the nuclear power plant was a picnicking and sightseeing spot called Hamaoka Sand Dunes. We used to go there as an ordinary activity. I’d even seen the exhibition hall for the nuclear power plant.”31 Gotō thus understands firsthand the complacency and denial in towns near nuclear plants. Sympathizing with Fukushima residents who have been forced to evacuate, he realizes that he, his family, and neighbors would also lose their hometown if the Hamaoka plant had a serious accident: “I can’t possibly think of the Great East Japan Earthquake as someone else’s business (taningoto). Not at all.”32 Similarly, punk rocker Namba Akihiro grew up in Niigata and has returned there to raise his children. During the Chūetsu earthquake of 2007, the nearby Kashiwazaki-Kariwa Nuclear Power Plant suffered a fire, a radioactive gas leak, and a water leak. That year, Namba became involved with No Nukes More Hearts. Since 3.11, he has tweeted frequently about the plant’s problems. A few activist musicians are from regions directly affected by 3.11. Reggae singer Likkle Mai is from the fishing town of Miyako in Iwate prefecture, which was significantly damaged by the tsunami. A  resident of Tokyo, she rushed back to Miyako within two weeks of the disaster and was shocked by the changed landscape. Quickly helping out in local relief efforts, she started her own charity to purchase boats for the fishermen. She found the residents to be greatly concerned about potential radioactive contamination of local wakame (edible seaweed) and seafood products, on which their livelihoods depended. By May 2011, she was performing in antinuclear demonstrations and has been a fixture in them ever since (Likkle Mai, p.c., Tokyo, August 9, 2012; Oguma 2013: 32–34). Conversely, some from the affected region find it difficult to voice antinuclear views. Part of this reluctance is due to social obligation: as recounted in ­chapter 2, Sendai-based rapper Hunger was reluctant to incorporate antinuclear lyrics into his tracks, despite his concern for his pregnant wife, because nearby towns were dependent on nuclear subsidies, and fears of radiation in

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agricultural products were hurting his farmer friends. The people of Fuku­ shima, who have been ostracized in evacuation zones and had their engagements broken because of radiation-related fears, tend not to talk about radiation (Endō Michirō, interview with the author, July 26, 2015). Noise musician Ōtomo Yoshihide, who grew up in the city of Fukushima, collaborated with Fukushima natives Endō Michirō, a punk rocker, and Wagō Ryōichi, a poet, to found Project Fukushima and organize its annual festival. Their purpose was to support the people of Fukushima, who were “tormented by the sense of being victimized” from not only the earthquake and tsunami but also rumors about radiation, and help them find a path to recovery. 33 Nonetheless, with the exception of two songs by Endō and one eejanaika (what the hell) song, the festival has avoided directly articulating an antinuclear stance. As Ōtomo explained, some members of the antinuclear movement have alienated the people of Fukushima by exaggerating radiation measurements there and telling its residents to evacuate. Instead, as explained in ­chapter 6, he frames nuclear power as just one manifestation of the yawning gap in power between Tokyo and peripheral regions like Fukushima prefecture, whereby the economically stagnant regions must accept undesirable projects benefitting the great metropolises, like nuclear power plants. Ōtomo believes that the regions need to break out of this structural problem before nuclear power plants can disappear; such changes take time and won’t occur simply by saying “no nukes.” Instead of proclaiming an antinuclear stance, he prefers to encourage dialogue among the people of Fukushima and the metropole (Ōtomo Yoshihide, interview with the author, New York, April 16, 2015).

Threat to Children

Hunger’s hesitancy not withstanding, one of the biggest motivators of antinuclear activism is the threat of radiation to children’s health. Since its beginnings, mothers have been a major force driving the antinuclear movement; post-3.11, antinuclear protests are full of parents and grandparents carrying placards saying “Protect our children.” Several musicians active in the antinuclear movement are parents or prospective parents of young children. The rapper ECD has two young daughters, whom he sometimes brings to demonstrations. Namba’s younger child was two years old at the time of 3.11. Likkle Mai has professed a desire to become a mother, and Hashimoto Mika gave birth to her first child in 2014. Several musicians first became activists when their children were young: Rankin Taxi’s older daughter was seven years old at the time of the Chernobyl accident; Sakamoto Ryūichi became more involved in environmental issues following the birth of his youngest son in 1991; and Sawada Kenji became more concerned about the environment after the birth of his daughter.

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G E N ER A L PR E DI L ECT ION FOR ACT I V ISM

Outsider Status and Sympathies

A musician’s childhood experiences may also predispose him or her toward activism, particularly if he or she has seen different perspectives or felt like an outsider (e.g., Tom Morello’s mixed-race heritage is cited as part of the backdrop for his political activism; Levan 2013). As the son of a newspaper reporter, Nakagawa Takashi, the lead vocalist and guitarist of Soul Flower Union, moved around the country frequently as a child, transferring from school to school. The experience left him feeling like a perpetual guest, with the mixed status of both insider and onlooker wherever he went. As a youth, he developed the philosophy: “Forget the taboos, just say anything!” (Ishida 2014: 56). Similarly, Ko, of the punk band Slang, the son of a government employee, moved and transferred schools frequently. Growing up near the Ainu, an ethnic minority in the northernmost island of Hokkaidō, he observed the discrimination they faced and sympathized with them. 34 In an itinerant background that rivals Joe Strummer’s, the rapper Shing02, the son of a Mitsubishi Corporation executive, spent his childhood and adolescent years in Tanzania, London, Chiba (near Tokyo), and the Bay Area in California, exposing him to different cultures and ways of thinking; he splits his time between the United States and Japan (Shing02, interview with the author, Tokyo, June 24, 2008). Musicians may also possess the stubbornness and rebelliousness that attract them to anti-hegemonic commentary. The rapper Rumi describes herself as a rebellious child who was continually asking, “Why? Why?” (Futatsugi 2012). Several musicians come from the working class, which has been hard-hit in the long recession following the collapse of the bubble economy in the early 1990s. ECD, a pioneer of Japanese rap, was a high school dropout and earns his living in working-class jobs. The rapper Akuryō, a frequent performer and call leader at demonstrations, is a temporary laborer who identifies himself as part of the working poor: “Even if you work and work, you don’t have any money at all” (Akuryō, interview with the author, Tokyo, August 15, 2012).

Growing Up in a Politically Active Environment

Some musicians’ parents were politically engaged. Akuryō’s mother, who died when he was a first-grader, was a Japan Communist Party (JCP) member who distributed copies of Akahata, the party newspaper. When he was a toddler, she took him to his first demonstration, against American Tomahawk missiles. 35 His sometime collaborator, ATS (Hashimoto Atsushi), also had JCP-supporting parents, who took him to its gatherings: “Somehow, I’m familiar with the atmosphere of a demonstration or a gathering of labor unions” (ATS, interview with the author, Tokyo, August 10, 2012).

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Middle-aged musicians remember the antiwar movements of the 1960s and the antipollution movements of the 1970s. As Ōkuma Wataru (b. 1960), the leader of Jintaramūta, recounts, “During the 1970s, the news every day was full of reports on the Vietnam War, Minamata (mercury poisoning), and pollution. As a child, I thought that demonstrations and protest movements were completely ordinary.”36 Among the students directly participating in the student protests of the 1960s was singer-songwriter Katō Tokiko and Sakamoto Ryūichi.

Prior Involvement in Activism

Many of the musicians in the post-3.11 antinuclear movement were previously involved in other movements. Since the early 1990s, Sakamoto has been active in calling for environmental protection, alternative energy, and an end to depleted uranium bombs. In 2001, he organized N.M.L. (“No More Landmines”) and the recording of the EP single “Zero Landmine,” the proceeds of which were donated to cover the costs of removing mines. Sakamoto wrote the music; David Sylvian wrote the English-language lyrics; and Murakami Ryū translated them into Japanese. It featured an all-star cast from Europe and the United States (David Sylvian, Brian Eno, Cyndi Lauper, Talvin Singh), as well as Japan (Yamatsuka Eye of Boredoms, Sano Motoharu, Takuro and Teru of Glay, Sakurai Kazutoshi of Mr. Children, and Nakamura Masato, Nishikawa Takahiro, Yoshida Miwa of Dreams Come True). It also included musicians from countries afflicted by landmines—Kim Dok-Su and Rie of Korea, Waldemar Bastos of Angola, Jadranka Stojaković of Bosnia, and a band from Nampula, Mozambique—and featured messages from Princess Diana and Dalai Lama. Several musicians would also collaborate with Sakamoto on his antinuclear projects:  Kraftwerk, YMO bandmates Takahashi Yukihiro and Hosono Haruomi, and UA performed in the No Nukes 2012 concert, while Kraftwerk, DJ Krush, and Sugizo participated in Stop Rokkasho (2006; ­chapter 4). 37 Ōkuma Wataru was playing music in political settings as early as 1982, when he played in several rallies and shows with A-Musik, a Japanese band headed by writer and musician Takeda Ken’ichi, with a repertoire of protest songs. In 1984, he began playing concerts in the district of San’ya to support the local day laborers’ struggle against gangsters. He also played music for the documentary San’ya de yararetara yarikaese (If They Get You in San’ya, Get Them Back, 1985). The conflict between the laborers on one side and the police, yakuza, and right-wing elements on the other was so intense that the film director, Satō Mitsuo, was murdered by the crime organization Kokusui-kai38 two weeks after shooting for the film had begun; his successor, Yamaoka Kyōichi, was also killed. Afterward, Ōkuma accepted a friend’s invitation to join a chindon band,

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a type of wind band typically hired for local advertising that had begun seeing a revival in the 1980s. As chindon has historically been associated with protest, Ōkuma’s band was often invited to political rallies, street performances, and protests in Okinawa against American military bases (Ōkuma Wataru, interview with the author, Tokyo, July 18, 2012). Ōkuma often performs in Soul Flower Mononoke Summit, an offshoot of Soul Flower Union; both bands blend rock with Okinawan, minyō, and protest musics from around the world. Its leader Nakagawa Takashi has been active in campaigns for the rights of Ainu and Palestinians, relief for the Kobe earthquake, and protests against the Henoko military base in Okinawa (Nakagawa Takashi, p.c., Tokyo, August 26, 2012). Ko had previously worked for the protection of animals and the prevention of child abuse through the Orange Ribbon Movement. Several musicians active in the post-3.11 antinuclear movement were also present at the protests against the Iraq War in 2003: ECD was on the organizing committee of the first sound demos and performed in Illcommonz’s Korosuna drum unit (­chapter 5); he and Rankin Taxi performed in antiwar rallies that year (interviews with the author, Tokyo, December 2011 and August 2012). Several musicians had written songs about other sociopolitical issues before 3.11. Rankin Taxi’s songs have commented on the Iraqi War (“Fallujah”), U.S.Japan relations and Okinawa (“Nichibei kankei”), and the frequency of railway suicides (“Jinshin jiko”). Shing02 took issue with war in “Pearl Harbor” (from the point of view of a pilot in battle) and enjō kōsai (paid dating) in “Nihon sei jijō” (Conditions of Sex in Japan). ECD’s “Yūkoto kikuyō na yatsura ja naizo” (We’re Not the Types to Do as We’re Told; c­ hapter 5.3) was an anthem of the 2003–2004 antiwar protests. Akuryō had previously rapped about war in the Middle East, depleted uranium bombs in Iraq, the Entertainment Law (which has been applied to close down clubs), Tokyo’s neo-nationalist governor Ishihara Shintarō, discrimination, and the plight of temporary workers (Akuryō, interview with the author, Tokyo, August 15, 2012). And before he earned notoriety for “It Was Always a Lie,” Saitō Kazuyoshi had written the song “Aoi hikari” (Blue Light, 2000), about the 1999 accident at the Tōkaimura JCO nuclear fuel processing plant that had resulted in the deaths of two technicians. 39

Prior Involvement in the Antinuclear Movement

While some musicians like Rumi started protesting against nuclear power after 3.11, several had previously been antinuclear activists, having been motivated by Chernobyl. This accident was the original motivation for Rankin Taxi’s “You Can’t See It, You Can’t Smell It Either” (1989; Rankin Taxi, interview with the author, Tokyo, December 19, 2011; c­ hapter  4). Namba,

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Acidman, and Akuryō also say that Chernobyl raised their awareness of the problems of nuclear power. Many activist musicians of the 1980s also read books by the antinuclear activists Takagi Jinzaburō and Hirose Takashi, of which Rankin Taxi is a great fan. Shortly after Chernobyl, Nakagawa Takashi’s band played its first antinuclear gig, an event against antinuclear weapons at Yokohama Kōkaidō in August 1986. He booked other engagements in Tokyo and met Nishimura Shigeki (of the group Loud Machine, then head of RBF Records), who introduced Nakagawa to Hirose Takashi’s Kiken na hanashi (A Dangerous Story, 1987), a classic book warning about the dangers of nuclear power. Shortly afterward, Nakagawa participated in his first demonstration, in Takamatsu opposing the Ikata Nuclear Power Plant, and has remained active in the movement ever since (Ishida 2014: 260). Hirose’s book also made the rounds at ATS’s university, and the cancellation of Imawano’s Covers, which occurred during his freshman year, left a lasting impression on him. The visual arts have also acted as catalysts for activism. Shing02 first became interested in antinuclear issues in 2002, when he happened upon a photography exhibit at the Berkeley Public Library featuring Morizumi Takashi, an activist-photographer who has reported on areas contaminated by nuclear weapons and power. He was shocked by the pictures of deformed babies who had been affected by depleted uranium bombs in Iraq.40 Through this exhibit, Shing02 met volunteers in Berkeley working for Kamanaka Hitomi, the filmmaker behind the documentaries Hibakusha, sekai no owari ni (Radiation: A Slow Death, 2003) and Rokkasho-mura rapusodii (Rokkasho Rhapsody, 2006). First helping as a translator for her movies, he later composed the soundtrack to Mitsubachi no haoto to chikyū no kaiten (Ashes to Honey, 2010), the third film in her antinuclear trilogy (web figure 3.6 ). It addresses the thirty-year conflict over the construction of the Kaminoseki Nuclear Power Plant near the environmentally fragile island of Iwai-jima (Aldrich and Dusinberre 2011; Yamaguchi 2011). Kamanaka’s films also inspired Likkle Mai and Gotō Masafumi. After seeing Rokkasho Rhapsody, Gotō visited both Rokkasho and Iwai-jima, documenting his trips and his concerns about spent fuel disposal on his blog; he was hence already an antinuclear activist before the earthquake.41

Rebel Genres, Role Models

The genre in which an artist plays also has a large impact on his or her willingness to address political issues. Some Japanese musical styles like eejanaika have long been associated with political protest. Folk music (in the style of Pete Seeger or early Bob Dylan) also has a history in Japan as political music, due to the antiwar protests of the 1960s. Hip-hop, reggae, punk, and some forms of rock have reputations as being politically conscious (or at least valuing

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authentic self-expression), even if much of the recorded output is commercial. The social atmosphere enveloping gathering spaces for these genres lends itself to political consciousness. As Shing02 explains, “Being involved in hip-hop, which has underlying themes like political awareness, I was always sensitive to issues… . In hip-hop, you can take any concept and combine it with music to express public consciousness” (Shing02, interview with the author, Tokyo, December 25, 2011). With a few exceptions, antinuclear protest songs belong to the above-named genres.42 Some genres and their environments may be less conducive to the composition of activist music. Several prominent electronic dance music (EDM) DJs have self-identified as being antinuclear (e.g., Tanaka Tomoyuki of FPM), and several techno and house DJs (e.g., DJ Tasaka and DJ Mayuri) have been active performers at sound demonstrations and protest after-parties. Nonetheless, few antinuclear dance-music recordings (with obvious titles) seem to be available commercially.43 DJs seem more open to antinuclear expression in live performance: DJ Tasaka blended in a sample of a child saying, “Genpatsu iranai” (We don’t need nuclear power) in his performance at the Shirōto no Ran demonstration on May 2011 (­chapter 5.3), while Tanaka Tomoyuki added a loop of a voice saying “Fukushima” during a show on internet dance music on station Block.fm in March 2012. Some reasons for this reticence may be genre-specific. First, unless a rapper is collaborating, EDM is focused on instrumental sounds; when words appear, they are usually short, looped phrases. Imagery is also important: As DJ Krush describes, “When I make an instrumental track, I want listeners to be able to picture a moving image by listening to my music, without words” (DJ Krush, interview with the author, Kyoto, June 13, 2008). EDM artists often like to give their tracks somewhat mysterious titles. Ishino Takkyū explains: … to the extent possible, I  try to choose a title that doesn’t limit the images that the tracks evoke. For example, if you name a track, “Catching a cold and developing a fever,” the track would only be able to evoke that image. I prefer to pick titles that don’t evoke such a clear image, but isn’t completely at odds with the direction of the track. Then the listener could listen to the track, look at the title, and think about what it was that I wanted to convey. (Ishino Takkyū, interview with the author, Tokyo, June 7, 2012) Sometimes producers like Fumiya Tanaka will purposefully title tracks in ways that differ from their actual intentions (Fumiya Tanaka, interview with the author, Tokyo, August 27, 2012).

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These tendencies toward instrumental tracks with open-ended, mysterious titles run counter to the construction of a political argument. Even an antinuclear title could change the reception of a track or an artist’s entire oeuvre. A producer (whose manager declined identification) said, “Of course, it’s not that I have no opinion at all. But if you put your activism upfront, the music can no longer communicate as it has. It will inevitably change the way your music is heard. I  really don’t want that to happen.” Finally, the primary venue for dance music—the all-night club—is hardly an ideal place for political action, as people are there to have a good time dancing.44 During 2011–2013, these clubs were under siege from vigorous enforcement of the Entertainment Law, which prohibited clubs with dancing to remain open past midnight or 1 a.m. The movement against this law became an obsession for several major dance music artists (notably Taku Takahashi of m-flo), leaving less energy to support other causes at the dance club. Many musicians who have participated in the antinuclear movement or written antinuclear songs also have musical heroes who wrote politically conscious songs or were activists. Saitō Kazuyoshi often refers to his admiration for Imawano in interviews and song lyrics (e.g., “Boku to kanojo to rokken rōru,” Me and Her and Rock ‘n’ Roll, 2011). Namba looked to the Clash, Rage Against the Machine, Fugazi, and the Sex Pistols. ECD got to know the members of Public Enemy and the Jungle Brothers when they toured Japan in the late 1980s and admired their work. Likkle Mai learned the importance of socially conscious lyrics from listening to Bob Marley. Dengaryū had spent years hanging out with hip-hop communities in upstate New York and observed how disadvantaged African-Americans used hip-hop as a mode of self-expression and hope (Dengaryū, interview with the author, Tokyo, December 21, 2012).

Ability to Take Career Risks

Lastly and importantly, artists must be in a position to withstand the career risks inherent in antinuclear activism, the biggest of which are exclusion from the media and the censorship of one’s records. Artists are also mindful that their managers, staff, agencies, and record companies depend on them for their livelihoods. This social obligation to tend to the well-being of others is one reason why folk singer Katō Tokiko has not run for political office.45 Hence, the most visible antinuclear artists usually fall into one of two categories: (1) independent artists, who arrange their own bookings and release records under independent labels, which are less pressured by corporate relationships; or (2) artists who have reached a high-enough stature or who have a large-enough base of loyal fans that they could still sell records and concert tickets even if media coverage and access to distribution networks were lost.

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As one of Japan’s best-known musicians, Sakamoto Ryūichi would be an example of the latter category; he also lives in the United States and tours overseas frequently, making him less beholden to Japanese pressures. Another example of the second category is Sawada Kenji (Julie), who rose to fame in the late 1960s as the lead singer of the Tigers. As he explained, “When I was selling a lot of records, I consciously tried not to think about [political] issues. I understood that if I tried to do something political, my minders would have stopped me. But at my age, I’d be ashamed not to call it exactly as it is.”46 According to Ōkubo Seishi, organizer of the Atomic Café at the Fuji Rock Festival, Gotō Masafumi has persevered as a politically oriented musician because his commercial base and personal character are strong enough to withstand the pressure (Ōkubo Seishi, interview with the author, Tokyo, October 16, 2013).

Differentiation of Venues

Major-label musicians may speak at large protest rallies or participate as individual citizens in protests, but they generally do not perform in street demonstrations. They are more likely to perform (if at all) at an antinuclear concert or festival, such as Sakamoto’s No Nukes concerts or Fuji Rock’s Atomic Café. Artists like punk rocker Namba or rapper K Dub Shine perform in stationary political rallies, where sound systems can be set up like a concert; examples include Miyake Yōhei’s senkyo fesu (“election festivals”) and the Peace on Earth concert of March 9, 2014. It is largely left to independent musicians (in the first category) to perform in street demonstrations—a particularly difficult task. Musicians must perform while standing on top of a moving truck, exposed to the elements, with little control over the sound system. They encounter hostile counter-demonstrators who wave placards and hurl epithets. Musicians who have played in moving street demonstrations include the chindon band Jintaramūta, with Ōkuma Wataru and Kogure Miwazō; punk rocker Anamizu and Pinprick Punishment; rappers Akuryō, ATS, ECD, and Rumi; and reggae musicians Likkle Mai, Rankin Taxi, and Hibikilla, among others. Within this division of performance venues, musicians fulfill a variety of roles for the antinuclear movement.

Musician’s Roles in the Movement ON E OF T H E PEOPL E

John Street (2012) has argued that musicians act as representatives for causes, and that they gain claim to this role through various circumstances including biography, genre, and institutional factors. In contrast, the majority of Japanese musicians disavow the representation of others in political causes.

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A  host of well-known musicians—Sakamoto Ryūichi, Gotō Masafumi, Nakagawa Takashi, Kishida Shigeru of Quruli, among many others—have participated in the weekly antinuclear demonstrations in front of the prime minister’s residence (Kantei-mae) as ordinary citizens. Asked to speak at one such demonstration on July 6, 2012, Sakamoto said, “I come not as a musician, but … to participate as one Japanese. Let’s raise our voices without giving up. It will be a long fight.”47 Playing at the No Nukes 2012 concert the following day, Gotō echoed, “I went to the Kantei last night as an ordinary citizen… . As citizens, we can all do our bit.” When I  caught up with Nakagawa of Soul Flower Union at a TwitNoNukes demonstration, he explained why musicians eschew active leadership in the antinuclear movement as follows: I share information on my blog and on Twitter, but I’d rather participate as an individual and encourage others to think and act as individuals. Society won’t work if one person acts as a leader and everyone else follows. What if the leader were wrong? You would be headed in the wrong direction. What’s important is for more people to start thinking for themselves. That’s why I prefer to participate in demonstrations rather than sing at them. (Nakagawa Takashi, p.c., Tokyo, August 26, 2012) Echoing Hardt and Negri (2005, 2012), Sakamoto recounted to me that like other demonstrations worldwide, the Kantei-mae protests expressed the frustrations of the people: As politicians were not representing their best interests, they had little recourse but to protest directly. Under these circumstances, he felt that “musicians should participate in the role of a citizen. Among the people, you have fishmongers, butchers, musicians, everyone. It’s best to participate at the same level as everyone else … rather than delivering a message from above.” He elaborated: S:  In rock, the vocalist is like a minister, preaching to many people through a loudspeaker. I hate that way of doing things. That, in itself, is power. NM:  I see. But at a YMO concert, you would be in front of lots of people. S:  I hated that during the YMO years. I didn’t like it. I mean, there were only three of us on our side, and several thousand people looking at us. I hate being on such unequal footing. I think it’s undemocratic… .   I don’t like this position by nature, but, well, I  am more famous than the neighborhood fishmonger. There are cases where a musician making a statement has more impact. But in Japan today, the individual citizen has the leading role. At long last, it’s in the pattern I  prefer, where there are musicians among concerned people from all walks of life, and everyone

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is acting together as equals, raising his or her voice. (Sakamoto Ryūichi, interview with the author, New York, September 10, 2012) Despite their protestations, and as Sakamoto admits, musicians fulfill some roles more effectively than ordinary citizens because of their name recognition, networks of fans, and creative engagement with sound. Rosenthal and Flacks (2011) categorize the roles played by musicians as education, conversion and recruitment, mobilization, and serving the committed; the first corresponds to Snow and Benford’s diagnostic and prognostic frames, while the latter three pertain to a motivational one. Their rich descriptions of how musicians fulfill these roles refer largely to song lyrics, musical performances, the ambience of a performance venue, or the peripheral items surrounding a performance or recording (e.g., CD inserts). Musicians in the Japanese antinuclear movement also educate, convert, and mobilize people through their songs and performances. However, their roles can also be more varied, to compensate for the pronuclear bias overall in the media or adjust for the cultural preference for collective harmony. E DUC AT ION

Several musicians have undertaken the role of educators. Most commonly, musicians like Namba Akihiro, Sawada Kenji, and Nakagawa Takashi (through Soul Flower Union) blog or tweet information about nuclear power, radiation, related political developments, earthquakes, and other issues.48 Many have also composed songs or made videos that outline the issues regarding nuclear power, as Rankin Taxi did with “You Can’t See It, You Can’t Smell It Either” (­chapter 4). Some artists have taken this educational role much further.

Shing02’s “Boku to Kaku”

Shing02 has long served an educational role in the antinuclear movement. In 2006, the rapper collaborated with Sakamoto Ryūichi on the Stop Rokkasho website to protest the Rokkasho Reprocessing Plant (­chapter 4). In addition to music and artwork, the site contains pictographs about the dangers of nuclear reprocessing, such as the release of radioactive materials and potential proliferation of nuclear weapons. Participating in the project, Shing02 “recognized that the issue was not about whether we should reprocess [spent nuclear fuel], but that we were producing the [nuclear] waste without knowing what to do with it. That leads to proliferation of plutonium, and all sorts of other problems.” The University of California at Berkeley engineering graduate then began investigating the process: The more I researched, I realized that regular operation [of nuclear power plants] contaminates air and water, and that nuclear energy is directly related to the military complex and the history of America… .

94   The Background

I had to really break it down from the first step. What is an atom? What is radiation? What are the problems? Where are the divisions between scientists? Some say low-level radiation is not bad, and others say it is very harmful if it accumulates in the environment over time (Shing02, interview with the author, Tokyo, December 25, 2011). He published a report on his website, which became the first version of “Boku to kaku” (The Atom and Me, 2006)49 (web figure 3.7 ). In layman’s language and graphics, he explained the basics of nuclear power, radiation, and nuclear waste. He also included an interview with Ernest Sternglass, director of the Radiation and Public Health Project and controversial researcher on the impact of low-level radiation on health. Immediately after 3.11, Shing02 returned to the Bay Area to research and consult with whistleblowers from Livermore Laboratories who were knowledgeable about radiation and health problems. He began to upload a new set of infographs and essays on his website and published an entirely new version of “Boku to kaku” in 2012 (web figure 3.8 ). This version focused on how radioactive materials harm the body, arguing that it was more important to focus on the principles of radiation than on the levels of it: “To deal with radiation, which has no taste or smell, it’s not good to remain ignorant and incompetent.”50 Referring to the periodic chart, Shing02 explains the similarities in the molecules of (radioactive) strontium and calcium, allowing strontium to be absorbed into the bones. He presents a chart of radioactive materials, where they tend to collect in the body, and the amount of time it takes for the body to excrete them. He shows how radiation damages cells, and how it can lead to cancer. He compares maximum allowable radiation levels, as established by the Japanese government and international organizations, and points out the pronuclear bias in mass media and educational institutions. The site also explains the issues with nuclear waste and the interconnections between nuclear power and nuclear weapons. Shing02 explained his purpose: My job is not to instill fear… . The sheer amount of information you need to process before you can decide, as to whether or not radiation is harmful to your body, or nuclear power is good or bad, is huge. There’s a lot of conflicting information as well. The problem is that no one seems to understand what the issues are. Governments and industries can take advantage of people’s ignorance and not give them the entire truth. You have to break down the issues to a level that people can understand, without being too technical, so that people can decide for themselves. (Shing02, interview with the author, Tokyo, December 25, 2011)

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Based on this material, Shing02 gave a series of presentations about radiation and health in art and concert venues in Tokyo (at Uplink in Shibuya), Kyoto (Metro), Sendai, and New York. He also spoke in Chicago and Vancouver in conjunction with the film Ashes and Honey, and participated in benefit concerts in New York and San Francisco. As with his website, Shing02 aimed for these talks to encourage greater dialogue about the nuclear issue: “You can directly talk about what people need to hear. Or indirectly encourage dialogue or shift people’s values, so that we can create a more conducive environment [for discussion], where people don’t feel too shy to talk about what they see that are contrary to what the media is saying.” He also hoped for the audience to keep informing themselves so that they could make their own decisions:  “With the right knowledge, you can apply it for yourself—whether you should avoid certain products or areas, or how to interpret what the government is saying. It’s a political and economic issue. It is very, very entangled. All parties have different agendas. You shouldn’t just take anything at face value” (Shing02, interview, December 2011).

Gotō Masafumi’s The Future Times

Like Shing02, Gotō had already been blogging about nuclear power for some years before 3.11. Following the disaster, he tweeted that he wanted to produce a newspaper: “… Something you could distribute to the people who fill up Shibuya during Golden Week, which could be the catalyst that makes them think about nuclear power or radioactive waste. Where all the biases are dispelled … You could include it in flyers at live-music clubs or music festivals” (@gotch_akg, Twitter, May 7, 2011). He also noted that a physical paper could be “left on top of the kotatsu”51 for others in the household to pick up and read. In late 2011, he published the first issue, billing it as something he, “as a fellow citizen,” had put together so that others could think about various issues along with him. He humbly added that he’d learned much from the research process. As of December 2014, Gotō, who holds a bachelor’s degree in economics from Kantō Gakuin University, had produced eight issues of the paper. They cover a range of topics related to disaster recovery, including the roles of artists and culture in recovery, relief efforts, alternative energy, and organic farming. More generally, some articles present alternative visions of a future run on naturalistic, community-oriented philosophies that may be at odds with a capitalistic, consumer-oriented society. Much of the paper consists of interviews, mostly conducted by Gotō himself. Interviewees have included musicians Sakamoto Ryūichi, Yokoyama Ken, Ko of Slang, Toshi-Low of Brahman, and Ōki Nobuo of Acidman; TwitNoNukes protest organizers Hirano Taichi, Takenaka Ryo, and Kurosawa Ryōichi; alternative energy expert Iida Tetsunari; documentary filmmakers Kamanaka Hitomi, Jean-Paul

96   The Background

Figure 3.1  Gotō Masafumi of Asian Kung-Fu Generation at No Nukes 2012. Photo courtesy of Rockin’ On.

Jaud (of Tous cobayes?, on genetically modified foods), and Michael Madsen (Into Eternity, on the radioactive waste disposal facility at Onkalo); and mayors, university students, farmers, relief workers, humanists, and philosophers from the areas affected by 3.11. The paper, which is free of charge, is distributed in hundreds of CD shops, cafes, movie houses, clubs, and fashion retailers throughout the country; as of March 2014, 70,000 copies of the paper had been distributed (Gotō Masafumi, talk with Miyake Yōhei and Sakamoto Ryūichi, Peace on Earth concert, Tokyo, March 9, 2014). The paper can also be read for free on its website (web figure 3.9 ). In conjunction with The Future Times, he has also given talks all over Japan and spoken on J-Wave FM radio. Gotō covers the expenses of conducting research and printing the paper out of his own pocket by selling downloads of solo tracks and Future Times T-shirts from the website, which is free of advertising.

Educational Workshops

Besides Shing02 and Gotō, other musicians have also organized workshops on radiation and other issues related to nuclear power. Ōtomo Yoshihide organized a study session about the impact of radiation on children’s health led by Kimura Shinzō, a professor at Dokkyo Medical University and a specialist on radiation and health. Ōtomo said, “I believe there are a lot of people who delayed evacuating [Fukushima] because Professor Yamashita of Nagasaki University, a specialist in radiation, told them everything was fine and safe.

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Figure 3.2  Sakamoto Ryūichi (seated, left) and Ōtomo Yoshihide (standing, right) at Project Fukushima Festival, August 2013. Photo by Jibiki Yūichi. Courtesy of Ōtomo Yoshihide.

Rather than listen to the opinions of such people who haven’t properly thought about the damage on residents’ health, I think it would be good to hold a workshop with someone who has thought about how residents could reduce harm. That’s why we’re holding a study session with someone you could really trust.”52 Hence, musicians’ activities in educating the population can take many forms beyond blogging, tweeting, or writing and performing songs. They research and publish articles on their own websites, give talks, and organize informational sessions. Their fan bases, established through their music, provide them with an audience, and some fans may be more willing to listen to difficult issues when a favorite artist discusses them. CON V ER SION A N D R ECRU IT M EN T

Although Sakamoto and other musicians prefer to participate in the antinuclear movement as citizens, their presence draws people to events at which political messages can be conveyed. Even when musicians like Gotō are participating in a demonstration only as citizens, their tweets announcing their plans or describing their experiences inspire fans to attend as well. Recognizing this potential, organizers have often invited musicians and celebrities to large antinuclear protests. Rallies run by Sayonara Genpatsu have included speeches by Sakamoto and Nobel prize-winning author Ōe Kenzaburō, among others, and

98   The Background

included performances by Namba, Sugizo, and others. The Peace on Earth antinuclear event on March 9, 2014, interspersed talks by activists from Peaceboat and musicians Sakamoto, Gotō, and Miyake Yōhei with performances by rockers Namba, Brahman, and Sugizo, and rappers Deli and K Dub Shine, among others; it attracted thousands to its stage and the surrounding booths. Meyer and Gamson (1995) have dubbed this use of celebrities to draw people to an event as “charitainment”; music fans would attend an event to see a particular artist, and in the process, hear speakers talk about alternative energy or mingle with a crowd that includes committed activists. In Japan as elsewhere, music festivals are supportive environments for converting people to a cause; they entertain fans with music while neither requiring much political commitment from the audience nor posing a risk of arrest (in contrast to demonstrations). Meanwhile, activists can work the booths or distribute pamphlets around the concert venue. As discussed in ­chapter 6, such politically themed events can also help the musicians themselves to be more open about their antinuclear views. Musicians have been at the forefront of organizing such events, including Sakamoto’s No Nukes concerts, Namba’s No More Fuckin’ Nukes, and Ōtomo Yoshihide’s Project Fukushima Festival (which, as explained earlier, does not have an explicitly antinuclear theme). In addition, Ōkubo Seishi has organized the Atomic Café, both independently and at the gigantic Fuji Rock Festival. Musicians can also express their antinuclear views in non-themed concerts. Some, like Namba, talk in between songs. Kuwata Keisuke, lead singer of the highly influential pop-rock band Southern All-Stars and a major star in his own right, is generally not known for his antinuclear views. Nonetheless, he performed concerts in June 2011 in which he changed the lyrics of “Goodbye Waltz,” singing, “These days, everyone says that nuclear power is the devil and a murder weapon, but weren’t we all saying before that it was for peaceful use, advantageous, and convenient?”53 In the middle of another concert at the Sun Dome in Fukui prefecture on October 6, 2012, pictures of the damaged buildings of Fukushima Daiichi and protesters against the restarting of the nearby Ōi Nuclear Power Plant were projected onto a big screen. One concert attendee blogged that the message had an impact in the Nuclear Ginza of Fukui prefecture, where voicing antinuclear views is difficult. 54 Kuwata’s images illustrate the multiple nonverbal ways in which musicians can appeal to the audience’s emotions at an event. During his speech at No Nukes Day in Hibiya Park, Tokyo, on March 9, 2014, Sakamoto described his experiences on 3.11: “I was in Tokyo. I realized that it wasn’t an ordinary earthquake. I then saw the videos of the tsunami and earthquake. I couldn’t even think about music. A month later, I was overflowing with emotion, and I composed this piece.” From his iPad, he played a recording of a moving lament with

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saxophone and synthesizer. The audience applauded in appreciation. He continued, “Our feelings don’t settle down so easily. If we don’t keep the people of Fukushima and Tōhoku in mind, the antinuclear movement won’t succeed.”55 Indeed, music can take the edge off of the intimidating aspects of demonstrations, making it easier for the non-hardcore to join. Ōkuma of Jintaramūta recounted the beginnings of the carnivalesque antinuclear demonstrations: When Shirōto no Ran first put out the call for their [April 10, 2011] demonstration, the point was, “Let’s all say ‘NO’ together without hesitating, just like that.” And it wasn’t just our band that came along—so did the punks, hip-hoppers, all sorts of musicians. It was a complete racket. We realized that we could hold such carnival-like demonstrations, and they would be successful… . Rather than activists organizing serious demonstrations, people who happened to like music were organizing colorful demonstrations. (Ōkuma Wataru, interview with the author, Tokyo, July 18, 2012) With their bright-colored costumes and upbeat sounds, the chindon band Jintaramūta provided a familiar, nonthreatening presence that reduced the barriers for a passerby or newcomer to join a protest. They appealed to families with children with songs like “Anpanman March,” the theme song to the popular manga (comics) and anime (cartoon), while beckoning people to join in. In addition, performances by ECD, Rankin Taxi, Rumi, Likkle Mai, DJ Mayuri, Pinprick Punishment, and others helped to attract people on the street to the Shirōto no Ran sound demonstrations of 2011 (­chapter 5.3), and as of 2014, several of these musicians, along with i Zoom i Rockers, Akuryō, and others, were continuing to lift up protesters in the weekly and quarterly demonstrations staged by the Metropolitan Coalition Against Nukes (web figure 3.10 ). MOBI LI Z AT ION

Relief and Fundraising

Since 3.11, many, if not most, musicians living in Japan (as well as many outside Japan) have performed in charity concerts to raise money for the disaster-afflicted areas, and many have also recorded songs to raise money for charity. Unlike antinuclear activism, such relief activities are completely uncontroversial. Team Amuse’s “Let’s Try Again” (2011), written and fronted by Kuwata Keisuke and featuring fifty-four artists from the Amuse agency, was one of the bestselling hits of the year; between proceeds from its sales and charity concerts, the agency raised nearly 500 million yen (about $6.4 million at the time) for charities in Tōhoku in the fiscal year ending March 2012. 56

100   The Background

Other musicians, like Sendai-based hip-hop crew Gagle, uploaded songs for charity onto the DIY Hearts website, where music fans could make donations in exchange for songs. Among the songs raising money for Tōhoku relief were several antinuclear songs, such as “Apocalypse Now” by King Giddra, Rankin Taxi’s “You Can’t See It, You Can’t Smell It Either” (2011), and Rumi’s “Jaaku na hōshanō” (Evil Radiation). Indeed, many antinuclear musicians have been active in fundraising and relief efforts in Tōhoku. Following the earthquake, Sakamoto began three charity projects to help the Tōhoku area:  (1)  Kizunaworld, where musicians and artists made their work available for download, and proceeds were donated to charity; (2) Life 311, which raises money to build temporary housing in affected areas; and (3) School Music Revival, which supports musical activities and the maintenance, repair, and replacement purchase of musical instruments for schools in affected areas. Many antinuclear musicians have given free concerts—often in unplugged format—in the damaged areas, including Soul Flower Union, Quruli, Asian Kung-Fu Generation, Sakamoto, and Likkle Mai, among others. Brahman, Ko, Gotō, Nakagawa, Likkle Mai, and others have spent much time and energy sending or personally delivering food, personal care products, and other necessities to the region. They sometimes went to areas that the relief workers had not yet reached. Anamizu Masahiko of the hardcore punk band Pinprick Punishment first went to tsunami-damaged Minami-sōma in Fukushima prefecture about two weeks after the earthquake. Aggravated by damage and the scattering of radioactive materials from nearby Fukushima Daiichi, the town had become split into districts; local gangs and thieves were rumored to control some areas, making people afraid to enter them. Visually marked as punks, Anamizu and his associates went into these areas. They realized that the households there had not been receiving food deliveries and were out of provisions. They took it upon themselves to deliver food to these areas. Forming the Human Recovery Project, Anamizu mobilized the punk community to deliver other goods, such as special surgical masks to screen out radiation. He also assembled a CD called What a Hell Fukushima, featuring antinuclear songs contributed by punk rockers from all over the country. 57 Ko of punk band Slang was also early in going to the affected regions and runs NBC Sakusen (NBC Operation) to deliver goods to them. He also started the Jiritsu Shien Purojekuto (Support Yourself Project) for the displaced in temporary housing, who have lost homes and jobs due to the disaster. The organization provides raw materials for them to sew, embroider, or hand-make items; it sells the finished products at live shows and other outlets, returning the proceeds to the makers. Elderly women participating in the project have

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told Ko that they’re happy just to be kept busy with stringing beads. 58 Ko is also one of the leaders of the Hokkaidō Coalition Against Nukes, which organizes weekly antinuclear protests and occasional sound demonstrations in Hokkaidō.

Rescue Operations

Mobilization efforts directly related to radiation or the antinuclear movement itself have been more controversial. One such tendentious effort is Operation Kodomotachi, a non-profit organization (NPO) formed by the rapper Deli and videographer Yokokawa Keiki. It grew out of a discussion Deli organized among the hip-hop community on May 5, 2011—Children’s Day—to see what could be done for the children of Fukushima; about fifty artists, including Zeebra, K Dub Shine, and Ai, participated. Deli noted that children are the most vulnerable to radiation, and that those living in contaminated areas were being exposed to radiation not only through the air but also by eating locally grown food. He argued that children near Fukushima Daiichi would be better off evacuating to a less affected area, and he suggested making such an area available for them, at least for the summer. Many artists made videos in support of Operation Kodomotachi, including rappers Zeebra, K Dub Shine, Coma-chi, Rumi, and Darth Reider; DJs Mayumi and Kaori; and dancehall reggae artists Ryo the Skywalker, Mighty Crown, Moomin, and Fireball. In cooperation with the NPO Minna Chikyū no Kodomo Jan, he identified an unused housing development in Sapporo. Hokkaidō prefecture paid for round-trip transport for evacuees and offered them rent-free housing. The group matched evacuees to available housing from the prefecture. Deli estimates that the group helped 300 to 400 people evacuate; they were housed in previously empty spaces. Many were from Fukushima City and Kōriyama, where radiation levels had been noticeably high. Operation Kodomotachi also organized symposia to discuss radiation, coupled with live shows, in Sapporo and Shibuya. Deli encountered several obstacles. As Fukushima residents were being refused second medical opinions, he looked for a doctor to conduct thyroid inspections for children but had difficulty finding one who was willing. He believed that local governments were discouraging residents from changing their residence cards, which would have a negative impact on tax revenues. Some Fukushima residents blamed him, saying, “Thanks to people like you making a fuss, we’re losing money from false rumors.” He and Yokokawa were attacked on the internet. Meanwhile, the time spent on the project, as well as possible losses in bookings, took a toll on his income. Nonetheless, in 2014, he started Planet Rock, an organization promoting local activism through music. In November 2014, he was elected to the Matsudo City Council.

102   The Background

Encouraging Political Action

Following the LDP victory in the Lower House elections in December 2012 with record-low voter participation rates, several musicians have been active in encouraging people, particularly the young, to vote. During the Upper House elections in July 2013, Metropolitan Coalition Against Nukes organized a series of sessions on street corners, handing out pamphlets and educating people on the various parties’ stances vis-à-vis nuclear power; the rapper ATS provided improvisatory entertainment at these sessions. Namba’s No More Fuckin’ Nukes rock concert at Shibuya Ax on July 14, 2013, happened during the election period by accident rather than by design, but it quickly took on a get-out-the-vote message. Acting as MC between acts, Namba addressed the crowd several times: “Everyone, let’s vote. Let’s decide ourselves whom we want to vote for.” Toshi-Low said, “Fans tell me I shouldn’t do [antinuclear] events like this one. I want you all to vote so that we wouldn’t have to hold them.” In front of a wildly enthusiastic, mosh-pitting crowd, Yokoyama Ken said, “Let’s all think about the election, because it is we that decide.” The most memorable election plug for this author came from Ko, who said, “When guys with green hair like me have to tell you to vote, you know we’re in extraordinary times.” Between acts, a cartoon was shown that explained the basics of voting:  a citizen needs to write out the full name of the candidate or party on the ballot (and hence needs to decide his/her choices before going to the polls); one can’t vote on the internet, but one can vote in advance of election day at ward offices (web figure 3.11 ). Two candidates for office spoke from the stage—Yamamoto Tarō and Miyake Yōhei. Miyake was a thirty-four-year-old rock musician with a degree from Waseda University. Asked about his motivation for running, he explained, “Since before 3.11, I had been campaigning against nuclear power in my own way—demonstrations, pleas, petitions, negotiations with the Diet. They came to nothing. I felt that there was no other way but for us to become politicians ourselves. Unless we went that far, the society wasn’t going to change.”59 Drawing from a network developed through years of touring as a musician, he raised twenty million yen ($200,000) in donations and campaigned through a series of senkyo fesu (election festivals) in seventeen cities around the country and twenty-five locales. Dressed in a T-shirt and jeans, between renditions of songs like Tracy Chapman’s “Talkin’ ’Bout a Revolution,” he strummed his guitar while delivering political ideas in spoken-word poetry style. He was against nuclear power, Trans-Pacific Partnership (TPP), and constitutional revision, but more importantly, he was for speaking up and encouraging open discussion about Japan’s future:  “Democracy isn’t just about the majority deciding. The system has to allow everyone to speak up loudly. Let’s change the Diet from a

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place where the powerful harass the weak (pawahara) back to one where we can all discuss.”60 He was deftly using his musical performance skills to deliver his message, clearly, passionately, and inspirationally. (web figure 3.12 ) His charisma quickly attracted much attention, which was compounded by enthusiastic audience members tweeting his words and twitcasting the events live. The events were also filmed by the independent news network Iwakami Journal on UStream and archived through videos on YouTube. As the events grew, many artists joined in, including the Kyoto rock band Frying Dutchman, known for its antinuclear song “Human Error”; the rapper Dengaryū, who performed his “Senkyo ni ikō” (Let’s Go Vote) (web figure 3.13 );61 and K Dub Shine, among others. Also often appearing on Miyake’s festival stage was Yamamoto Tarō, the antinuclear actor who was running for an Upper House seat from Tokyo as an independent. Miyake’s final senkyo fesu, in Hachiko Square in Shibuya on the day before the election, drew as many as 10,000 people. Miyake received 176,970 votes in the election, ranking him twenty-sixth out of 162 candidates who ran for seats under the proportional system and giving him seven times more votes than the least-popular winning candidate, Niizuma Hideki of the Kōmeitō. Nonetheless, Miyake did not win a seat, because the party under which he ran, the Green Party, failed to win enough votes to qualify for a proportional seat. His loss, despite this political performance—all the more spectacular because he had come from nowhere, without political experience, party support, or much mainstream media coverage—sparked much commentary in the press about the fairness of the electoral system. His generous support of Yamamoto, in sharing the stage with him, likely helped the latter to gain some votes. Miyake has continued to be politically active, performing in a vote-counting concert during the Tokyo gubernatorial election in February 2014 and the Peace on Earth 2014 concert in remembrance of the third anniversary of 3.11, among other events. K E EPI NG SU PPORT ER S GOI NG

Sitting on the stage of the Peace on Earth concert on March 9, 2014, Gotō and Sakamoto looked visibly discouraged by events over the past year, with the pronuclear Abe administration and LDP consolidating power with the Upper House and Tokyo gubernatorial elections. Reflecting what many citizens were thinking, Sakamoto said, “Are people already forgetting after only three years? It’s disappointing.” Gotō expressed dismay at the low voter participation rates. Miyake, however, noted optimistically that having two candidates, Hosokawa Morihiro and Utsunomiya Kenji, advocate for a nuclear-free Japan brought the issue to the forefront and gave many citizens the impression that the world was

104   The Background

heading in that direction. Their participation would set up an awareness of the issue for the next few months. Namba Akihiro then took the stage to play a set. He told the audience: Hold on to your dreams. There’s no reason to give up. It’s a matter of spirit (genki). Let’s go forward, understanding that the future awaits us. What kind of future would be good? Hold on to that dream as hard as you can. [Clenches fist.] Don’t forget this fist. [He raises his fist. Everyone in the audience raises his/hers.] To the future! He plunged into a rendition of “It’s Your Future” (web figure 3.14 ), while the audience pumped its fists and moshed. As he segued into his signature song “Stay Gold,” Sugizo joined him in a rare collaboration, further exciting the audience. Everyone knew that the fight for an antinuclear future was going to be long. But the crowd had spirit.

Conclusion The behaviors and profiles of Japanese musicians who support causes mirror that of their American or European counterparts in several ways. They are driven to action by moral shock and/or a sense of threat to one’s home or daily life. They may have personal backgrounds that gave them an outsider’s status (e.g., frequent moving or socioeconomic conditions), or they may have had prior exposure to protest movements through the media, their parents, or personal experience. Certain genres, like folk, hip-hop, reggae, or some kinds of rock, are more associated with protest than others. The roles they undertake further the social movement goals of education, recruitment, mobilization, and supporting the converted, as they do in other countries. What does seem strikingly different is the way that the Japanese media handles the political activities of celebrities. Meyer and Gamson, Thrall, and others have surmised that a celebrity’s greatest source of worth to a cause is his or her access to the media and the publicity he or she can bring; Street has said that the media legitimates celebrities’ activism. Yet the media has more commonly ignored Japanese musicians’ political activities, negating this source of value; in fact, it has brutally attacked, discredited, censored, and blacklisted several antinuclear celebrities. It is a stark contrast to the respectful treatment U2 received in their protests against the Sellafield nuclear reprocessing site.62 Indeed, the media treats antinuclear activities differently from other causes: In contrast to the lack of coverage or attack of his antinuclear work, Sakamoto received industry support for his Zero Landmine project, with the

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cooperation of leading artists and broadcasts on television; the single reached no. 1 on the Oricon charts. At the root of this difference is the degree of independence of the media. As explained in ­chapter 2, news media depend on access to government and industrial leaders for information (Hall et  al. 1978); in Japan, this access is codified by the kisha club, which limits access to select journalists and, according to some critics, discourages investigative reporting. On the other hand, the financial sponsors of the media are Japan’s corporations, which have historically been strongly interconnected. Electric power companies, along with affiliated industrial and governmental agencies, are large advertisers. In addition, their equipment and infrastructure are largely supplied by Hitachi, Toshiba, and Mitsubishi Electric—among Japan’s giant corporate groups, including thousands of subsidiaries, equity-owned corporations, suppliers, distributors, contractors, financial companies, and retailers, etc. If corporations avoid dealing with media outlets and entertainers who oppose one of their businesses, the implications may extend beyond advertising sponsorship for that company to include associated companies. Furthermore, advertising agencies buy spots across media outlets (such as television and newspapers), and two agencies, Dentsu and Hakuhodo, dominate the market, with 24 percent and 14 percent of the market respectively.63 The agencies buy from media groups that contain television, newspapers, radio, and sometimes record companies under their roofs. This interconnected nature of corporate relationships and the high concentration of power in the advertising industry would provide the mechanisms by which entertainers could be excluded on ideological grounds. While outside of the scope of this book, it would be interesting to compare the media in Japan with media in other countries with large nuclear programs and interconnected business groups, like India, South Korea, or France. While Sakamoto, Gotō, Namba, and other antinuclear musicians have seen a drop in television appearances since 2012, Saitō Kazuyoshi and Ōtomo Yoshihide have conversely seen a dramatic rise. In Saitō’s case, it was a matter of timing. “It Was Always a Lie” (­chapter 4) was the first antinuclear song to spread virally, voicing what many people were thinking but could not articulate. His agency explained that someone else had leaked the video on YouTube, freeing Saitō of blame. He became a hero for speaking up—a poster boy for free speech, if one wanted to be cynical. At the end of a segment on NTV’s Zero Person in October 2011, the host remarked, “What is important is that we have a society where many, many people can say many different things freely. And I believe strongly that we must protect such a society.” The female co-host looked on approvingly.64 Since 2011 (and as of March 2014), Saitō has appeared on television frequently, transitioning from a musician’s musician to a major star; he even appeared on the Kōhaku Uta Gassen, the New Year’s

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Eve extravaganza on NHK, in 2012. As the antinuclear character Monju-kun observed, “The timing made that song a success. If he were to release it now, it would be dismissed as nihilistic” (Monju-kun, interview with the author, “Tsuruga,” October 15, 2013). In Ōtomo’s case, it was a matter of framing. While his antinuclear sentiments could be inferred through his participation in Sakamoto’s No Nukes concerts and support of Monju-kun’s activities, he has framed the Project Fukushima festivals as a way to encourage interaction with the people of Fukushima, rather than as antinuclear concerts. Because he focuses his critique on the structural gap in economic fortunes between the metropolis and the regions, he turns the listener’s attention toward the underlying reasons why these plants were in Fukushima in the first place. For his organization of Project Fukushima, Ōtomo was rewarded with the Geijutsu senshō (arts promotion) award from the Minister of Education, Culture, Sports, Science, and Technology in 2012. Since then, his name recognition has skyrocketed. In 2013, he produced the soundtrack to the NHK drama series Ama-chan; it became the hit of the year, making the experimental/noise musician a household name and winning him the composition award at the 2013 Japan Record Awards. Of course, Ōtomo, too, has suffered from vicious attacks and criticism (­chapter 6). Nevertheless, on balance, supporting the afflicted is not controversial; protesting the cause apparently is.

Section

II SPACES OF PROTEST

CH A P T ER 

4

Cyberspace PL AY B A C K A N D PA R T I C I PAT I O N

Cyberspace is a metaphor to describe the social and informational connections made possible through the networked computers of the internet. From a theoretical and idealistic point of view, it allows instant, borderless communication not possible in physical space. Anyone can broadcast through Ustream or YouTube, allowing opinions or music that would otherwise be censored to propagate. Cyberspace affords a social setting, irrespective of physical proximity, that may be kept entirely within the internet or exist in tandem with physical realities. Users can construct new or pseudonymous identities outside of their normal social spheres. Through Twitter, anyone can communicate directly (or imagine that he or she is) with politicians, activists, and rock stars. These possibilities of time-space compression and pseudonymity have led cyberspace to play a key role in movements of the 2010s—the Arab Spring, Occupy Wall Street, los Indignados of Spain, the Icelandic protests, and Ukraine, to name a few (Castells 2013). Vedel (2007) identifies three roles that the internet plays in political movements:  (1)  disseminating information, (2)  providing a forum for discussion and debate, and (3)  mobilizing citizens (Breindl 2010)—a division that corresponds roughly to Snow and Benford’s frames of diagnosis, prognosis, and mobilization, respectively. The Japanese antinuclear movement has benefitted from the internet in all three ways. First, the internet provides an alternative to mainstream media, much of which reports official views. Independent journalists and citizens have contributed news on Twitter, YouTube, Ustream, blogs, and Nico Nico Dōga, the last of which is a YouTube-like Japanese video upload service that allows users to input comments into the video itself. Together, they form an archive of events neglected by mainstream media that can be forwarded, reposted, 109

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and commented upon to raise awareness, stir emotions, and provoke discussion. Likewise, music available solely on the internet tends to present alternative viewpoints unlikely to be supported by major labels. Second, discussions about nuclear power have raged over Twitter, the anonymous bulletin board 2channel, videos on YouTube and Nico Nico Dōga, and other sites. Third, social media and YouTube videos have mobilized citizens to protest, while wikis, blogs, and public calendars have kept schedules of demonstrations, concerts, and other antinuclear events nationwide. Using the internet and music, activists and musicians have informed citizens, encouraged discussion, and recruited hundreds of thousands to demonstrations without the formal, hierarchical organizations often associated with pre-2000 social movements in Japan. Cyberspace is not hermetically isolated: Activities in it spill over into the real world. Castells has argued that social movements create a “public space” for political deliberation. This public space is a “hybrid space between the Internet social networks and the occupied urban space,” consisting of “instant communities of transformative practice” (Castells 2013: 11). Indeed, while a person can compartmentalize his or her online world from the physical one, these worlds are more often interconnected and experienced simultaneously. The ubiquity of the mobile internet intensifies the interconnectedness of the online and offline worlds. In Japan, 95 percent of the population has mobile phones (MoIC 2012:  64), all of which have some internet capability. Many Japanese residents use the mobile internet constantly while away from home, especially on public transportation (Itō, Okabe, and Matsuda 2006; Manabe 2008, 2009a). When protesters tweet, post pictures, and twitcast video streams while at a demonstration, they participate in both physical space and cyberspace: They are simultaneously in conversation with people not physically present but online. With this ubiquity, physical space and cyberspace become less a dichotomy than a continuum (Meek 2012) or a simultaneity (Cohen 2007).1 This interconnectedness with real life makes the internet effective for gathering information, facilitating discussion, and mobilizing citizens. Through these qualities—lack of censorship, anonymity, a separate but interconnected reality—cyberspace helped residents to overcome the spiral of silence and the kūki (atmosphere) of compliance that befell Japan following the crisis. This chapter begins by explaining these two concepts and the role of cyberspace in helping residents to find like minds and speak up. Two characteristics of the Japanese internet—prevalence of anonymity and heavy mobile use—made it a fertile ground for social change. For music and social movements, cyberspace serves two functions. First, it is a repository of music that the recording industry would normally not release. Second, it enables participation, allowing musicians a site for remixing each other’s work or organizing

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musical protests. Music bounces between cyberspace and real space; what first occurred in a demonstration takes on new meaning in cyberspace, and musicians reinterpret in protests what they first heard in cyberspace. The internet, however, houses both sides of the nuclear debate, and the vicious and highly visible attacks inveighed against antinuclear musicians can have a chilling effect on their willingness to speak out. Hence, the advantages of the internet—fast dissemination and less censorship—are also its downsides, making it an attractive site for anonymous, amateur, or independent musicians but a risky one, particularly for major-label artists.

Restraining Opinions: Spiral of Silence, Kūki, and the Centralization of Media T H E SPI R A L OF SI L E NCE

According to Elisabeth Noelle-Neumann (1974, 1993), the spiral of silence occurs because societies threaten individuals who violate the consensus, and individuals conform out of the fear of social isolation. Individuals have a quasi-statistical organ that assesses the frequency distribution and trends of opinions in one’s environment. People are more likely to speak out if they hold the majority view, or if they think their views will become dominant in the future. They are more willing to speak up among those who share their views than among those who disagree. As those holding majority views speak up and others stay silent, the silencing spirals so that one opinion becomes established as the prevailing one. Public opinion—attitudes one can express without isolating oneself—can thus move from fluid states to dogmas. This spiral of silence seems stronger in Japan than in other cultures. Individualistic cultures like the United States are said to value consistency between public and private self-images and encourage people to speak their minds to a greater extent than collectivist cultures (Ting-Toomey 1988; Trubinsky et  al. 1991). In collectivist cultures like Japan, people are said to define themselves in relation to social contexts more than in individualistic cultures. They are more likely to refrain from voicing opinions, making the spiral of silence stronger. Tokinoya (1989) found that Tokyo residents were three times more likely to stay silent about controversial issues in public than residents of Seoul or Beijing. The media can accelerate the formation of the spiral: By pronouncing one view repeatedly, it can cause people to overestimate the level of public consensus. This effect is particularly strong if all media outlets are united in their view—a situation made common in Japan for structural reasons, as explained later. The pronuclear stance and public-relations advertising on television prior

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to the crisis would have led to a pronuclear public consensus. In the first weeks after 3.11, the media’s repetition of official viewpoints made it uncomfortable for citizens to voice an antinuclear view. K Ū K I :   T H E   J A PA N E S E C O N C E P T O F   A T M O S P H E R E

Reticence on controversial subjects is so prevalent in Japan that there is a home-grown concept for it:  kūki. Similar to Noelle-Neumann’s climate of public opinion and literally meaning “air,” it refers to “the atmosphere of a situation to which all are expected to pay heed.” It is widely used to describe the dynamics of groups of all types, from small ones to businesses entities and political constructs. Itō Yōichi (2009) describes kūki as a system of social, psychological, and political pressures requiring compliance with group norms. What matters are not the distribution patterns of public opinions so much as the opinions themselves and the knowledge of the majority’s opinions. People who are insensitive to kūki tend to be disliked and isolated by other group members. Kūki is widely recognized by the Japanese public, who refer to it in casual conversation. Itō (2013) explains that kūki operates in spheres of different-sized groups. At the lowest level, which is between two people (kankei no kūki), one reads the other person’s face or nonverbal cues and acts according to situational norms. The person of lower social rank, or the woman in a mixed-gender setting, is expected to put more effort into reading the kūki and is faulted for any miscommunication. Hence, the lower-ranked person would be unlikely to speak his or her view if he or she felt that the other person would disagree, regardless of the majority opinion in society. Kūki is hence more situation-specific than Noelle-Neumann’s spiral of silence, which refers primarily to the society at large (Itō Y. 2013: 224–225). Experiments in Japan have shown that a Japanese person is unlikely to speak about controversial issues at all, regardless of whether or not his or her view is the majority view in society (Ikeda 1989; Tokinoya 1989). People also act according to their readings of situations and norms at the second level, crowds and organized groups (ba no kūki). They experience group pressure (shūdan atsuryoku) to imitate (mohō) or follow the vogue (ryūkō) and are infected by others’ sentiments (densen). In political causes, members of labor unions will follow stated policies of the organization (as in the Agricultural Cooperative Association’s opposition to the Trans-Pacific Partnership). If there is no stated policy (as is often the case with the antinuclear movement), individual members will act according to their assessments of their leaders’ intentions, the thinking of the group’s majority, and the general atmosphere (Itō Y. 2013: 227–228).

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As with the spiral of silence, mass media plays a key role in creating and sustaining a kūki, particularly at the third level of society at large (makuro, macro). It can take the still-inchoate sentiments of the public and systematize them into coherent arguments. Itō describes the macro-level kūki as the time in which the public’s scattered, sentimental reactions to an issue cohere into a uniform direction, but before policy options have solidified. The macro kūki is those unformed sentiments that are shared by the majority of people or those that are being agitated by a political leader. People go along with the kūki in order to receive benefits or avoid trouble (Itō Y. 2013: 232–234). In the immediate aftermath of 3.11, a kūki of jishuku, or self-restraint, befell Japan. People were discouraged not only from speaking their thoughts but also from going out and enjoying themselves when the people in Tōhoku were suffering. Signs went up around cherry blossom-viewing parks, asking people to voluntarily refrain from this annual custom that season. Musicians saw live shows and club events cancelled. Furthermore, concerns about high radiation levels in the air deterred people from spending time outdoors. With most of the population cooped up in their homes, the time was ripe for the internet to play a role in reshaping the kūki.

Characteristics of the Japanese Internet for Sociopolitical Topics T H E I N T E R N E T A S A LT E R N AT I V E I N FOR M AT ION S OU RC E

The aftermath of 3.11 confirmed a shift in information f low in Japan from the historical, unidirectional pattern in which the media transmits information to the masses, to a multidirectional form where individuals choose, transmit, and supplement information independently through the internet (Itō M. 2013). This change was necessitated by the lack of adequate information f low in the aftermath of the crisis. As explained in ­c hapter 2, the kisha clubs limit governmental access to an exclusive group of journalists, who then are incentivized to repeat what they are told. Independent journalists have claimed that the system causes media outlets to take a uniform view. In addition, the media industry in Japan is concentrated into a handful of conglomerates with multiple media formats. With a low penetration of pay satellite and cable television relative to the United States, Japanese television lacks the atomization of taste of the American market. This situation leaves national broadcaster NHK and five private networks—Fuji TV, Nippon Television, TV Asahi, TBS, and TV Tokyo—with a near-monopoly share of Japan, where television remains the most trusted news source. Furthermore, until 2014, the long-sluggish

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economy had dampened advertising revenues, so that media companies were especially averse to displeasing stable advertisers. Practically all the major media outlets had received advertising sponsorship from TEPCO (Iwakami 2013). These conditions resulted in uniform, largely pronuclear coverage. Unsettled by the authorities’ assurances that things were fine and sensing that they could no longer trust television and newspapers as their only sources, the net literate took to internet sources for information, such as the websites of the Citizen’s Nuclear Information Center, Professor Koide Hiroaki’s Nuclear Safety Research Group, and Iwakami’s IWJ internet news network. Moreover, individuals began reporting the news as they saw it, on Twitter, blogs, Ustream, Nico Nico Dōga, and YouTube. Twitter’s openness, streamlined format, search-enabling hashtags, and sense of time flow made it the go-to source for real-time information, broadcasting a range of data and opinions without the filtering of mainstream media. Meanwhile, YouTube allowed Sakurai Katsunobu, the mayor of the hard-hit coastal town Minami-sōma, to appeal directly for help (Slater, Nishimura, and Kindstrand 2012). Independent journalists like Tanaka Ryūsaku and Iwakami Yasumi, the latter of whom broadcasts press conferences and demonstrations live on Ustream, provide professional alternatives to conservative newspapers and television stations. Rather than the kisha club distributing information unidirectionally, information was generated and distributed from all directions. This explosion of independent contributions broke the informational monopoly of the kisha club and diminished its ability to shape the kūki. Not all, however, had access to this information: A digital divide between the net literate and others persisted. Rural residents, the elderly, the poor, and women and children without easy access to PCs or smartphones were at a disadvantage in access to information (Shineha and Tanaka 2014). Social media sites like Twitter, Facebook, and Mixi acted not only as consolidators of information but also as forums in which citizens could discuss and debate political questions regarding nuclear power and radiation. In so doing, they allowed users to find a community of like-minded (antinuclear) people and created a space to express their opinions. Having first felt validated on the internet, some became sufficiently emboldened to go out to public demonstrations. In expressing their antinuclear positions, they may have assessed the climate of opinion to be more in favor than it actually was: As Schulz and Roessler (2012) have explained, internet users often select content that is consonant with their views to avoid cognitive dissonance. Nonetheless, by enabling Japanese citizens to find communities of like-minded people, the internet helped them to overcome the spiral of silence. Similarly, the internet gathered people together and emboldened them to action in social movements around the globe in 2011. Castells describes the emotional import of this role as follows:

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… the theory of affective intelligence in political communication (Neuman et al. 2007) argues that the trigger is anger, and the repressor is fear. Anger increases with the perception of an unjust action and with the identification of the agent responsible for the action… . Fear is overcome by sharing and identifying with others in a process of communicative action. Then anger takes over: it leads to risk-taking behavior. When the process of communicative action induces collective action and change is enacted, the most potent positive emotion prevails:  enthusiasm, which powers purposive social mobilization. (Castells 2013: 219) ST RONG PR EF ER E NCE FOR A NON Y M I T Y

One aspect of Japanese internet usage that facilitates discussion about the nuclear crisis is its strong preference for anonymity. The Japanese flocked to Twitter precisely for this reason: Unlike Facebook, which encourages users to display their real names and interact with people they know, Twitter users could maintain anonymity, using pseudonyms to disguise their identities. This anonymity preference is much more prevalent in Japan than in the United States (Morio and Buchholz 2009). While 70 percent of Americans were registered on Facebook under their own names, only 22.5 percent of Japanese held a Twitter account in their real names as of 2010; 70 percent held a pseudonymous account, and 8.5 percent had multiple accounts (Kin 2010: 75). Similarly, Japanese are only half as likely to reveal their real names in online communities than South Koreans are (Ishii 2008). Anonymity and pseudonymity are particularly important for employees of Japanese corporations, which may object to employees’ airing political views or participating in demonstrations. As such, Japanese in their thirties and forties, who are often in the most intensive phase of their careers, are least likely to use Twitter in their real names; only 19.7 percent of Japanese thirty-year-olds and 18.2 percent of forty-year-olds do (Kim 2010: 77). This anonymity allows for frank discussion that is rarely available in real life, as people can throw off their corporate, school, or family personae to speak from their hearts without the usual social consequences. Japanese survey respondents said that they could talk more openly on Twitter than with friends (Kin 2010: 43). This tendency to use anonymity to criticize established powers without fear of reprisal is seen globally (Akdeniz 2002, quoted in Farrall 2012). On the downside, anonymity imposes fewer social constraints, and Twitter in Japan sees its share of personal attacks, flaming, and hate speech against ethnic minorities. Twitter’s pseudonymity, ease of use, and ability to transmit information in real time make it apt for political commentary. Several key activists on Twitter,

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such as company employees @bcxxx and @noiehoie, have not revealed their real names to the public. Some of the most popular antinuclear commentators have been avatars. The Pluto-kun bot (@plutokun_bot) poses as the mascot of the Japan Atomic Energy Agency. The original character looked like a cute little boy from outer space, wearing a helmet with the letters “Pu,” the chemical symbol for plutonium. He starred in a notorious public relations video in 1993,2 in which he claimed, “If you drink plutonium, your body will just get rid of it.” In contrast, the Twitter bot sends sarcastic takes on news related to nuclear power and infamous quotes from the nuclear village (e.g., “no immediate impact on health”). Biting messages are also sent out by Genki-kun (@ genkikun_bot), who pretends to be the mascot of the Rokkasho Nuclear Fuel Reprocessing Plant. The most successful of all the nuclear avatars is Monju-kun—the personification of the Monju Fast-Breeder Reactor (FBR). Antinuclear activists consider this reactor to be particularly dangerous because it uses MOX containing plutonium as fuel and sodium as coolant, even though the latter catches fire when it is exposed to air and explodes when it touches water. Twenty years after having reached criticality, this reactor has only managed to operate for about six months, yet it requires an annual budget of about twenty billion yen. Monju-kun personifies this reactor as a good-natured but lazy boy who wets his pants with sodium—a metaphor for the real-life sodium leak and accident in 1995. Written with sarcastic humor in layperson’s terms, Monju-kun became an important information source on nuclear power and radiation for those who lacked technical knowledge or the time to acquire it. His characterization harkens to the father-son, technology-man conflicts inherent in such classic anime as Astro Boy and Doraemon. His cute, hapless, and sickly persona is completely opposite of the technologically advanced, powerful, and masculine image that Japanese media typically projects onto nuclear power; Monju-kun’s personification emasculates it. Quickly amassing over 100,000 followers on Twitter, he expanded to books, music, and live appearances at demonstrations and music festivals. The author’s identity remains unknown to the public, including the author’s own parents. (web figure 4.1 )

Cyberspace as a Repository of Antinuclear Music Potential anonymity, reach, and lack of censorship make cyberspace an attractive space for musicians to release antinuclear songs. Cyberspace is the repository for antinuclear music that most major record labels would have censored. Musicians of all professional levels—amateur, independent, and major-label—have contributed to this virtual jukebox. Its accessibility enables

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citizens to listen to this music repeatedly and in private. Music on the internet has served as anthems at antinuclear events, conduits of information to raise awareness, and anonymous protests. A N A N T H E M I S B O R N:  S A I T Ō K A Z U YO S H I ’ S “ I T WA S A LWA Y S   A   L I E ”

As with Twitter, music on the internet is often pseudonymous. On April 7, 2011, a video was uploaded anonymously on YouTube3 (web figure 4.2a, 4.2b ). In it, a singer—his face obscured in a cowboy hat and dark sunglasses, and obviously taping himself—picked up an acoustic guitar and began singing “Zutto uso dattandaze” (It Was Always a Lie). The song used the melody of “Zutto suki dattandaze” (I Always Loved You) by singer-songwriter Saitō Kazuyoshi, with lyrics refashioned as an antinuclear song. The video instantly became a viral hit on the internet, recommended on Twitter and on blogs. Hyōgo Shinji of the music magazine Rockin’ On commented, “This song has completely taken over my timeline.”4 That day, both the song’s title and Saitō’s name ranked among the top searches on Yahoo Japan and Google Japan. Internet bulletin boards filled up with viewers speculating that the singer in sunglasses was Saitō himself. Meanwhile, Saitō’s record company, Japan Victor, repeatedly had YouTube remove the video, claiming that someone other than Saitō had released a private video on YouTube without permission. 5 These attempts were to no avail: Fans re-uploaded multiple copies on multiple sites. On April 8, Saitō played both the original and antinuclear song live on his program on Ustream. About a minute into the antinuclear version, the website crashed as more than 30,000 listeners tuned in6; Saitō waited and played the antinuclear version a second time (Shūkan Asahi 2011). In an article in the Asahi on April 27, Saitō’s agency admitted that the artist had made the video himself.7 The song immediately resonated with the Japanese population because it was one of the first antinuclear songs to gain broad listenership on the internet. The familiarity of the singer and the song helped it attain notoriety. Saitō, whose debut release was in 1993, had several top-twenty hits to his name. The original song had received constant airplay as the theme song to a television commercial for Shiseido’s In and On cosmetics product8 (web figure 4.3 ); it had reached number eight on the Oricon charts. But most of all, “It Was Always a Lie” gave voice to the fear and anger that the country’s residents were feeling at a time when the kūki had pressured them into silence. Peppered with direct quotes from the nuclear village (“nuclear power is safe,” “it was beyond expectations”) and indexical references to then–widespread fears of radiation (“I want to eat spinach,” “Have you found water you can drink?”), the lyrics went straight to the

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core of people’s wrath. As one observer tweeted, “What were those claims that ‘It’s safe, it’s safe’ about? But the lyrics are so direct, they sting” (@eco0322, April 8, 2011). Moreover, Saitō sang them with palpable anger, setting words like “beyond expectations” at the top of his tessitura to sound like an exasperated yell. The catchy chorus perfectly encapsulated the people’s outrage through minimal word changes from the original song: Original: Cover: Cover:

Zutto suki dattandaze I always loved you Zutto uso dattandaze It was always a lie Zutto kuso dattandaze It was always bullshit

Comments on Twitter, blogs, and comment boards were filled with praise for Saitō’s courage and outspokenness: How cool that he has the guts to say what he wants to say! His courage is exactly what we needed. This admiration was augmented by Saitō’s willingness to voice his opinions despite the constraints recording artists are under: Finally a protest song from a musician! It’s great that artists like this still exist in Japan! The majority [of artists] wouldn’t sing out, even if they felt the same. So cool. Protesters quickly took up the song. The day following its first appearance, demonstrators played it in front of TEPCO headquarters (@heiwakun, April 8, 2011). On April 10, protesters participating in Shirōto no Ran’s first antinuclear demonstration in Kōenji played a recording of it, singing the chorus energetically in unison as they marched along. The scene—broadcast on YouTube9 (web figure 4.4 )—was repeated in demonstrations in April and May in Osaka, Nagoya, and Kyoto. Nearly a year later in February 2012, I heard it at the gathering point for an antinuclear demonstration I attended in Suginami Ward. It was a staple of antinuclear demonstrations all over Japan in 2011 and early 2012, making it the de facto anthem of the antinuclear movement. Composed of indexes of current events, the song itself had become an index of the movement. Saitō himself sang it in practically every one of his concerts between April 2011 and July 2012, including large festivals such as Fuji Rock,

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Arabaki Rock, Koyuba Sonic, and Live Fukushima, despite being scolded by his handlers for doing so. At the No Nukes 2012 concert (­chapter 6), the song easily elicited the greatest excitement during his set, with audience members clapping as soon as they recognized the opening riff. As he finished the song, he said to the roaring crowd, “I thought I wouldn’t be scolded for playing it here.” The song was greeted with equal enthusiasm in both political and nonpolitical concerts. Saitō’s outspokenness could have damaged his career, but his agency handled it well. After taking much criticism in April and May, Saitō won back many fans with the single “Amayadori” (Shelter from the Rain), released during the June rainy season. Like the internet sensation, the song alluded to the nuclear village and controls on the media (“News reports on TV and in newspapers are only paying heed to someone. They’re just swallowing [what they’re told] whole”). Nonetheless, the andante lament is best remembered for its chorus, which many heard as addressing those lost on 3.11: I want to see you. Especially now, I want you to be here. God is so busy that he’s made a mistake in the people he’s taking. Perceived as empathetic to mourners, the song redeemed Saitō to many critics. Furthermore, most music fans approved of his defiant act: It catapulted him from being a musician’s musician to becoming a major star. His 2011 album 45 Stones became his highest-ranking album to date, at no. 2 on the Oricon weekly chart (­chapter 7). A HOM E FOR R ECOR DI NGS T H AT WOU L D BE C O M M E R C I A L LY R E S T R I C T E D

Despite the success of “It Was Always a Lie,” Saitō’s agency and record company ruled against releasing it commercially because of “considerations for related companies” and “the existence of many different opinions on nuclear power.”10 Indeed, a major record company is highly unlikely to release such a song. As Imawano Kiyoshirō’s experience with “Summertime Blues” had demonstrated, nuclear power and radiation are taboo topics in the entertainment industry (­chapter 3). Furthermore, the standards of the Recorin, the inspection committee of the Record Industry Association of Japan, and the National Association of Broadcasters prohibit recordings that “disgrace governmental authority” and “damage the honor of an organization,” particularly by naming them (­chapter 7). As shown in table 4.1, “It Was Always a Lie” breaks all these rules—mentioning nuclear power, citing radiation in spinach and drinking water, criticizing the government, and mentioning the electric power companies by name. Only in cyberspace could the song ever be released.

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Table 4.1 Recording Industry Conventions Broken in “It Was Always a Lie” Prohibition Nuclear Radiation Shaming Shaming/Naming Power Government Companies

Lyric

“nuclear power”

x

“Textbooks and commercials said they were safe” “black rain”

“No one can stop the radiation in the wind”

x

“how many people will be stricken with radiation”

x

“This government”

“TEPCO, Hokkaidō Electric Power, Chūbu Electric Power, Kyūshū Electric Power”

x

x

x

x

x

“you must have known this condition”

“Did you find water you can drink?”

x

x

“It was always a lie” “I want to eat spinach”

x

x x x

Many antinuclear tracks in cyberspace ignore these restrictions. Shing02 and Hunger’s “Kakumei wa terebi ni utsuranai” (The Revolution Will Not Be Televised), a remake of Gil Scott-Heron’s classic, uses the original’s premise of naming the people (e.g., politicians and television personalities) and commercial sponsors (e.g., TEPCO) on television to comment on the stiltedness of media reporting (web figure 4.5 ). Similarly, in “Don’t Believe the Hype,” a remake of Public Enemy’s classic, the rapper Deli calls out TEPCO and dismisses the Nuclear and Industrial Safety Agency (NISA) with this palindromic line (web figure 4.6 ): Ho-a-n’-i-n ze-n-i-n a-ho NISA, all stupid as sin He would have had to change these lyrics to release the song as a single or in an album. Instead, he made it freely available on YouTube: “I released that

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track because it had meaning. It didn’t matter if I made no money from it… . I’d rather have people know about the song. I can always perform it live” (Deli, interview with the author, Kita-senju, Tokyo, June 5, 2012). Both of these examples illustrate another characteristic of protest music in cyberspace: It often engages in large-scale borrowing from copyrighted material—what Gérard Genette (1997) would call hypertextuality. Many antinuclear songs are mash-ups, remixes, and hip-hop remakes that make extensive use of copyrighted material that would normally require permissions (which may be refused) and payments (which may render the project economically unviable). For example, Scha Dara Parr’s “Kaese! Chikyū o” (Give Us Back the Earth)—a humorous mash-up of Tone-Loc’s “Wild Thing” and “Kaese! Taiyō o” (Give Us Back the Sun), the theme song from the movie Godzilla vs. the Smog Monster (1971)—would have required permissions not only for these songs but also from the copyright holders of Public Enemy’s “Don’t Believe the Hype” and the music of the video game Dragon Quest. Yet despite this lack of commercial viability, hypertextual songs can make effective protest songs: Their borrowed music and lyrics make them familiar to listeners, catching their attention; furthermore, they remind listeners of the contexts and premises of the original song, layering their feelings about them over the current situation in semantic snowballing (Turino 1999: 235). By posting them on cyberspace for free viewing and listening, often anonymously or pseudonymously, the musician eschews these problems.11 Another form of protest song that relies on large-scale borrowing is the kaeuta (song with substituted lyrics). “It Was Always a Lie” is a kaeuta: Saitō wrote new, topical lyrics to a preexisting melody. The Japanese also call this practice a “cover,” after the practice of covering foreign songs with lyrics translated into Japanese (and hence substituted). Around the same time that Saitō’s song was lighting up the internet, “Tōden ni hairō” (Let’s Join TEPCO) was being discovered. Kawai Tetsuo, a bassist and composer, began singing the song in small clubs around Tokyo in late March 2011 (@tetsuzo_k, March 29, 2011). He tweeted a link to an anonymous recording of the song performed live in a boisterous setting (@ tetsuzo_k, April 3, 2011)12 (web figure 4.7a ). The song took off after a group with the handle “Plutoleaks” uploaded another performance of this song with a video showing the lyrics against a collage of photos from Fukushima Daiichi (web figure 4.7b ). They continued to operate pseudonymously as the Tōden ni Hairo Band, with “hairo” spelled in kanji (Chinese characters) to mean, “Decommission TEPCO,” until they revealed themselves to be the Osaka-based folk group Hippopo Daiō in October 2011. The source song for “Let’s Join TEPCO” was the 1960s antiwar song “Jieitai ni hairō” (Let’s Join the Self-Defense Forces) by folk singer Takada Wataru

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(web figure 4.8 ). Set to the tune of Malvina Reynolds’ “Andorra,” Takada’s song was a parody of a recruitment song whose cheery chorus sarcastically said: Let’s join, join, join the Self-Defense Forces. If you join the Self-Defense Forces, your world will be heaven. “Let’s Join TEPCO” retains the sarcastic tone and many of the words of its predecessor—a tactic common in kaeuta, as it helps to make the parody more recognizable. The chorus is the same as Takada’s version, with only “self-defense forces” replaced by “TEPCO”: Let’s join, join, join TEPCO If you join TEPCO, your world will be heaven. Common in musical protest, the kaeuta comprised much of the repertoire of the American folk movement in the mid-twentieth century and the Japanese folk scene in the 1960s–1970s, when singers regularly recycled songs by Pete Seeger, Bob Dylan, and Japanese musicians with new lyrics (Dorsey 2013). It has been featured in twenty-first century movements like the Egyptian Revolution of 2011 and the Hong Kong pro-democracy protests of 2014. As songwriters need only refit lyrics rather than write music, amateurs can produce kaeuta more easily. Most of the antinuclear songs posted on YouTube and Nico Nico Dōga in 2011 were kaeuta of popular Japanese songs (or occasionally English songs) contributed anonymously. In addition to “Let’s Join TEPCO,” Hippopo Daiō pseudonymously posted several kaeuta of Japanese folk songs of the 1960s and ’70s, like “Meltdown” (based on “Neage,” price hike) and “In the Case of Plutonium” (“In the Case of Francine,” about a self-immolation). M U S I C A S   A N O N Y M O U S P R O T E S T: “ L O N G L I V E N UCL E A R POW ER!”

Several of the previous examples began when professional musicians released protest songs pseudonymously or anonymously. Indeed, anonymity has also been useful for ordinary citizens seeking to express themselves while avoiding backlash. One such person, using the handle “Ippanjapanese” (literally, ordinary Japanese), uploaded an original song called “Viva, viva, genshiryoku” (Long Live Nuclear Power! 2011)13 (web figure 4.9 ). Interviewing him over Skype in January 2012, I found a well-informed professional in another field who had earned a degree in literature and traveled extensively worldwide. He wished to remain anonymous, not so much to avoid social disapproval but because he feared for his family’s safety: “Some staunchly pronuclear people respond hysterically to antinuclear activists. They are potentially dangerous.

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I didn’t want to risk exposing my wife and child to harm, so I took precautions.” Furthermore, his message—delivered through a rapid montage of indexes of the accident, images of World War II, and metaphorical pop-culture references—requires repeated viewing to fully absorb, making the internet the most appropriate venue for this work. Ippanjapanese had not held strong opinions on nuclear power until the Fukushima crisis. As events unfolded, he worried about the harm that radiation could potentially inflict on his newborn. The lack of informative news appalled him. “All the problems that have existed in Japan for decades have suddenly come to light as a result of this accident. It revealed how things truly work in Japan.” He felt impelled to do something, but he could not easily participate in demonstrations between working and caring for a young child. He also wasn’t convinced that demonstrating was the most effective way: In demonstrations, people chant that they are against nuclear power. But the message doesn’t seem to be getting through to those responsible. So I wanted to try a sarcastic approach—something more akin to a mind terrorist’s tactics … something that would make the targets squirm. For example, let’s say there’s a particular bureaucrat who pushes strongly for nuclear power. We could form a fake fan club for him and build a cult around him—raising him up on a pedestal with an exaggerated politeness (ingin burei), distributing pamphlets about him, even gathering young women together to spearhead his fan club. That would be very funny. Or have a group of children say to him in unison, “Thank you very much indeed for building nuclear power plants, just for us.” That’s probably much more disturbing to the bureaucrats responsible. Or, let’s make a video where smiling bureaucrats from METI are killing children. Wouldn’t they then see the parallels between the song and what they are in fact doing? (Ippanjapanese, Skype interview with the author, January 21, 2012) Ippanjapanese felt that such sarcasm could more effectively convey the antinuclear message, but that few such songs existed, “outside of ‘Let’s Join TEPCO.’” Posing as a pronuclear song, “Long Live Nuclear Power” is a sarcastic sendup of official views on nuclear power and the Fukushima crisis. Its video—a dizzying array of images from television, newspapers, the internet, and Japanese popular culture—tells the more complex story underneath. Ippanjapanese claimed that he had two targets for critique:  the political-industrial-media complex that supported nuclear power, but also Japanese citizens who “have ignored the nuclear issue as someone else’s problem, as I had done myself… . I want them to realize that their apathy is equivalent to supporting these bad decisions.”

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The lyrics quote nuclear-village propaganda, ironically extolling nuclear power as the “clean, open, cheap, safe energy for a bright future,” enabled by “Japan’s technological superiority,” which, in turn, allows Japan’s economic survival (“As long as there’s nuclear power, Japan’s economy is an unsinkable armada”). The musical setting, a cheery, fast-paced rock anthem in major mode, adds to this sense of irony. After the introduction, which proclaims “Viva, nuclear power!” a mock call-and-response greets the imagined audience, with “Rokkasho!” and “Monju and Jōyō!” shouted with humorously inappropriate zest. These are the nuclear fuel reprocessing plant and fast-breeder reactors, respectively—key nodes of the nuclear cycle—that have long failed to work but have been kept stubbornly in place. Ippanjapanese also musically illustrates the pervasiveness of the safety mantra (“it’s absolutely safe”); in a “nya-nya” tone, he names the parties forwarding the mantra—TEPCO, bureaucrats, the media, academics, dad, and mom—in a repeating melodic motive, an imitation of its repetition. For further emphasis, he positions each of them on a downbeat (example 4.1). Example 4.1  Ippanjapanese, “Long Live Nuclear Power”

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Along with these words, the accompanying video consists of television stills of officials who declared that conditions were safe:  Cabinet Secretary Edano Yukio, former TEPCO President Shimizu Masataka, METI Minister Kaieda Banri, and the Nuclear and Industrial Safety Agency, the regulatory agency still in effect at the time. They also include the scientific experts who particularly enraged the father in Ippanjapanese:  Yamashita Shun’ichi, the Fukushima Radiation Health Risk Management adviser who claimed radiation won’t hurt those who smile; Ōhashi Hirotada, the Tokyo University professor who claimed that plutonium in tap water would cause no harm; and Nakagawa Keiichi, radiologist at Tokyo University Hospital, who claimed that children could safely drink cesium-laced milk. As the pre-chorus proclaims “Even if all the children disappear, it can’t be helped if it’s for the economy,” the screen flashes pictures of officials who claim nuclear power is necessary for Japan’s economic survival:  Keidanren Chairman Yonekura Hiromasa; Furukawa Yasushi, Saga prefecture governor, who corroborated with Kyūshū Electric Power in an email campaign supporting the restarting of the Genkai Nuclear Power Plant; and Yosano Kaoru, minister of state for economic and fiscal policy. The second verse details the dark sides of the nuclear power industry. Rapped (rather than sung) in a sparse texture, the format allows Ippanjapanese to cram in more words. Nodding to hip-hop practice, the verse sarcastically “pays respect” to the nuclear village, while the video shows graphs illustrating the personnel exchanges between the government and the power industry. The video pictures former METI Vice Ministers Mochizuki Harufumi and Matsunaga Kazuo; as Ippanjapanese explained, “I think these bureaucrats, who are pushing a pro-TEPCO, pronuclear agenda but whom the media never mention by name, are particularly devious. I thought about putting their names in the lyrics, but I didn’t want any trouble for my family. So I settled for paying them ‘respect.’” Meanwhile, the electric power companies are shown resisting the deregulation of electric power distribution.14 Like much Japanese rap, the lyrics use repeated words (underlined) and end rhymes (in italics): Keizai ga mahi sureba nihon wa shūryō Kokusaku wa seigi dakara gimon wa fuyō “No” to iwanai nihonjin ga risō “No” to iu nihonjin wa yurusanai fūchō If the economy becomes paralyzed, Japan is done for. The national policy is justice itself; no need for questions. A Japanese who never says “no” is ideal. A Japanese who says “no” tends not to be forgiven.

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Citizen passivity and the repression of opposing views are primary themes in this second verse. Accompanied by pictures of sheep in suits and Japanese crowding into trains at rush hour, the singer proclaims, “The Japanese are ‘sheeple’ (sheep people), so controlling them is easy.” This derogatory American term describes people who follow orders without thinking. The foreign media used it to describe Japanese behavior following the Fukushima crisis:  “Immediately after the tsunami, the foreign press praised Japanese behavior, because everyone seemed so calm. But as the crisis wore on, the reports became negative—‘Are the Japanese robots?’ ‘Why don’t they complain?’ I wanted to show that the Japanese were behaving like sheeple.”15 On the other hand, the song declares, “For anyone who opposes, life is over; it is better for one’s position to stay silent,” as the video shows photos of antinuclear figures—actor Yamamoto Tarō, Diet member Kōno Tarō, and Saitō Kazuyoshi. To note that antinuclear protests have largely gone uncovered, he sings, “Demonstrations have no impact,” against pictures of massive antinuclear demonstrations in Japan, Germany, and elsewhere. He also recalls the epithets commonly yelled at antinuclear demonstrators: “Those that oppose nuclear power have no right to use electricity. Those that evacuate or chant objections are all hikokumin”—the wartime term for traitor. The accompanying video flashes pictures of antinuclear figures: musician Sakamoto Ryūichi; the ’80s band the Timers (­chapter 3); Softbank President Son Masayoshi, a proponent of renewable energy; writer Hirose Takashi; scientist Koide Hiroaki; and independent journalists Uesugi Takashi and Iwakami Yasumi. The video then pauses on a frame from Hadashi no Gen (Barefoot Gen), Nakazawa Keiji’s classic antiwar manga about a boy in Hiroshima at the time of the atomic bombing. The frame shows a crowd taunting Gen’s brother as a hikokumin because his father opposes the war. The juxtaposition of these visuals and lyrics draws parallels between pronuclear people who accuse antinuclear citizens of being unpatriotic, and the people who persecuted objectors to the Pacific War as un-Japanese. Indeed, the song and video contain multiple references to World War II, drawing parallels between the war and the current nuclear crisis. The Japanese economy, which had been sluggish for two decades, is given the sarcastic metaphor of an “unsinkable armada,” a wartime slogan for the Imperial Navy; the words are sung out of tune, as if to mock their false claims. The video includes a wartime propaganda poster telling people to use electricity sparingly so that there would be more energy available to power warplanes; similarly, the government and TEPCO urged citizens and businesses to conserve energy after the Fukushima accident, collectively turning down air conditioners and dimming lights for the sake of the country in extraordinary times. More disturbingly, in describing Japan’s nuclear fuel reprocessing program—criticized

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for safety concerns, high costs, and the risk it poses for nuclear proliferation (Hirose 2012)—the singer quips, “Once we start marching, we’ll fight to the death even though we know it’s impossible, because we’re Japanese,” using the words ichi oku gyokusai. Gyokusai, honorable death or defeat, was a euphemism used during World War II to describe battles in which practically every soldier had perished, usually on Pacific Islands from which escape was impossible and whose surrender military headquarters would not recognize. If the main Japanese islands were invaded, all citizens of the empire, who numbered 100 million including Taiwanese and Koreans, were expected to fight to the death in an ichi oku gyokusai (100 million honorable deaths). The video shows wartime pictures of teenage kamikaze pilots and schoolgirls practicing combat with bamboo spears in preparation for the anticipated invasion. As Ippanjapanese explained: Once the Japanese start something, we can’t quit. We’re bad at quitting. Even when it was obvious that the United States had superior military power, the Japanese relied on konjōron and seishinron [the belief that the Japanese strength of spirit will overcome any physical difficulties] and kept on fighting. The inability to abandon Monju and Rokkasho shows the same failure to stop something that’s been started, even though it’s obvious that it’s not going to work. I  used the words “ichi oku gyokusai” and those pictures to underline that the behavior in these cases is the same. (Ippanjapanese, interview) Ippanjapanese draws another parallel with World War II—an elite is setting national policy while suppressing information and opposing opinions. Ippanjapanese’s rap proclaims, “Heil, electric power companies! Great Fascists!” as pictures of a crowd hailing Hitler are juxtaposed against TEPCO’s logo. As he explains, “These words really express what Japan is like right now—how extraordinarily powerful and influential the electric power companies are, how they have set the national energy agenda, and how the media is kowtowing to them. The power structure is similar to Nazism.” In the extended ending for the song, the narrator sarcastically encourages listeners to “believe what the media says, because it is easier to bow before political authority,” and that “passivity, silence, and apathy are best.” Ippanjapanese is “giving false praise to those who think it best to believe what they are told.” In the corresponding video, journalists on German network ZDF are saying, “Japanese media doesn’t tell its citizens the truth” and “Why doesn’t anyone get mad in Japan? Not even the journalists do.” Ippanjapanese thus critiques the lack of investigative reporting and the suppression of opposing views, as happened in the highly censored environment of World War II.

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The song draws a final parallel between the war and the nuclear crisis: the sacrifice of the weak to support those in power. As previously mentioned, the first verse featured pictures of kamikaze pilots, the young men sacrificed during World War II. In the second verse, Ippanjapanese raps, “Let’s support the lifestyle of feudal lords with blood taxes, while we sacrifice the weak.” The video shows pictures of workers at the Fukushima plant who have been exposed to high levels of radiation; several have died.16 He shows patients at a hospital, implying that radiation from the accident has compromised the health of those living near the plant or exposed to the plume. Furthermore, the final chorus relates, “The economy grew, and people’s lifestyles became affluent,” as the photo sequence illustrates Japanese society from the late 1950s to the recent past, showing how prosperity increased over time. As he sings, “By forcing [nuclear power plants] on far-away [towns], the lights of the cities grew bright,” the photos connect this prosperity to the increasing numbers of nuclear power plants forced on rural communities that had few other financial options. In the coda, Ippanjapanese turns to the culpability of the ordinary citizen in the nuclear crisis with his punchline: “To see, speak, and hear no evil—that’s the same as promoting [nuclear] policy.” As he explains, “I don’t think the problem is just with the ministers and directors, but also with Japanese citizens who don’t question what they’re told, including myself. I’m taking a sarcastic swipe at ordinary citizens who believe unquestioningly that the economy is most important, nuclear power is necessary, and accidents like Fukushima can’t be helped.” He sarcastically takes this logic to an extreme, putting the economy, nuclear village, and money over the health of children:  “We’re not thinking about such a thing as children! The present is most important, because we can’t predict the future. Money is most important.” The audiovisual accompaniment—manic martial drums, a repeating synthesizer riff similar to a Japanese siren, and a montage of money, sex, and debauchery—encapsulates how deranged this thinking is. An even more manic sequence follows, depicting Japanese cheering on athletes and repeating, “Japan as number one.” Ippanjapanese explained, I’m criticizing people who want to close their eyes to what’s going on around Fukushima but cling to this concept of Japan being number one among nations. We’re lucky to be Japanese! Banzai (hurray)! I’m not against patriotism per se; I’m against mindlessness and apathy. I wondered, what would really make such apathetic people squirm? To make them say, “Money is more important than lives.” Everyone knows in his or her heart of hearts that it’s twisted to believe that. So I tell them to say these words, because if you are apathetic and do nothing, it’s the same as condoning that twisted idea. The mindless

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nationalism at work here is similar to what we saw in World War II. (Ippanjapanese, interview) Related to this theme is the monster Kanegon, which appears toward the close of the video. Appearing in an episode of the Japanese television series Urutora Q (Ultraman) in 1966, Kanegon (where kane means “money”) is an allegory about greed and mammonism. A child does not return money he found to the police. The next morning, he wakes up to discover that he has undergone a metamorphosis into Kanegon, a monster that eats coins and bills as its food. Even his head is symbolic of money: It is shaped like a scallop, a reference to an old Japanese term (kai) that also means money. Eventually, the boy returns to his original form and comes home, only to find that his parents have picked up the money he had left behind and become Kanegon themselves. Ippanjapanese claimed, “I’m telling the apathetic Japanese that they’re Kanegon monsters, prioritizing money.” Hence, Ippanjapanese points out the roots of the nuclear problem—an oligarchical power structure with many characteristics left over from World War II, and a compliant population—through a sarcastic song with wry and symbolic references to history and popular culture. In retrospect, the parallels he drew between contemporary Japan and its wartime past were prescient: While the opaqueness surrounding nuclear power had led citizens to distrust the government, the passage of the Secrecy Law, which is regarded as restricting information access, and the Security Bills, which would enable armed conflict, stoked fear that the government was returning to a prewar status quo of a powerful oligarchy and a disempowered, uninformed citizenry. Its accompanying montage, full of indexes of the nuclear crisis and metaphors for greed and submissiveness, can only be fully appreciated by repeated viewing on the internet; it can only be safely exhibited as an anonymous posting. M U S I C I N   C Y B E R S PA C E A S   D I S S E M I N A T O R OF I N FOR M AT ION

As music videos like “Long Live Nuclear Power” can be packed with meaningful images, they can be an effective way of educating the population and spreading the antinuclear message, not only in Japan but also around the world. One of the most successful antinuclear web offerings in this regard has been reggae singer Rankin Taxi’s “Dare nimo mienai, nioi mo nai” (You Can’t See It, You Can’t Smell It Either). The song originated in the late 1980s following the Chernobyl accident (1986), when, as the father of a seven-year-old, he became concerned about the potential of radiation to cause cancer in children; he felt that Japan should put children’s health as the first priority (Rankin Taxi, interview, 2011). He played around with several versions of an antinuclear song, including “Ikura

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anzen demo gomenda” (No Matter How Safe It Is, I  Don’t Want It, 1988).17 Calling the safety myth into question by relentlessly repeating anzen da (“it’s safe”), he uses humor and irony to convey a difficult message: Anzen da, anzen da … Ore ga sō kimeta kara anzen da … Ōmizu ga moretemo anzen da … Cherunobiru yori wa anzen da … Jishin ga kitatte anzen da … Media niggite ireba anzen da … Jiko okiru made wa anzen da … It’s safe, it’s safe! It’s safe, because I’ve decided it is! … It’s safe, even if it’s leaking a lot of water! … It’s safer than Chernobyl! … Even if there’s an earthquake, it’s safe! … As long as we control the media, it’s safe! It’s safe until there’s an accident! Nonetheless, he admits, “I thought an accident as huge and horrible as Chernobyl would never happen in Japan. Nuclear power plants in Japan were supposed to be safe. But at the same time, I thought—well, what if the worst were to happen?” (Rankin Taxi, interview, 2011). With this thought in mind, he put “You Can’t See it, You Can’t Smell It Either” on his first album (Kajidaa, 1989).18 In this original version of the song, the first verse points out the potential dangers of nuclear power, directly referring to the previous accidents at Chernobyl and Three Mile Island, the risks of nuclear submarines, the unsolved questions of nuclear waste disposal, and the impact of increased radiation on daily life. The chorus points out, “Radiation is strong. It doesn’t discriminate against anyone; it doesn’t lose to anyone.” The song then proceeds, in humorous, rapid-fire delivery, through a list of those who would be affected by radiation: the emperor,19 the prime minister, Recruit Holdings Company,20 and celebrities of the day, including Mick Jagger, Mike Tyson, Ben Johnson, and Japanese pop idol Matsuda Seiko. Also on the list are those involved on both sides of the nuclear power debate—electric power companies TEPCO and KEPCO, nuclear power plant suppliers Toshiba and Mitsubishi, antinuclear groups Gensuikin and Gensuikyō, and antinuclear activists Hirose Takashi and Rankin Taxi himself.21 Also in the mix are Godzilla, the monster awakened by hydrogen bomb tests, and Mothra, the South Pacific protector-god and his sometime opponent.

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Rankin reworked the song in 1996, following the sodium-leak accident at the Monju FBR (Wata Ting, 1996). This version adds an introduction explaining this accident and the 600 billion yen investment in the Monju plant, using a new musical track. Nonetheless, Rankin usually omitted the song in performances: I knew I should be seizing the opportunity to teach people, but the song just wasn’t getting a good reaction. Maybe it was OK in concerts where people brought their children, but certainly not in a club at night with young fans. I  was very disappointed. Either I  lacked the skills to bring it off, or it was indicative of the character of this nation’s people. (Rankin Taxi, interview, Tokyo, December 19, 2011) Audience receptivity changed following the Fukushima Daiichi accident. At Shirōto no Ran’s first antinuclear sound demonstration in Kōenji, Tokyo, on April 10, 2011 (­chapter 5.3), Rankin Taxi lent the sound system for one of the trucks and performed on it. For the occasion, he revived “You Can’t See It, You Can’t Smell It Either,” changing a few words to reflect the Fukushima disaster. Fans had already uploaded the 1989 recording onto YouTube, and many protesters seemed to be familiar with it. The bridge quotes the melody of “Old McDonald Had a Farm,” which is well known in Japan as “Yukai na Makiba” (Happy Farm). At the point when Rankin Taxi converts the “E-I-E-I-O” of the original to “iya iya yo” (meaning “I don’t want it”), the protesters sang along in a call and response. Videos of Rankin’s performance, taken by protesters at the scene, soon circulated over the web. Oki (Kanō Oki), the leader of Dub Ainu Band,22 approached Rankin Taxi about producing a new version of the song; just four days after the Kōenji demonstration, they were already in a studio recording it. In May 2011, they released the new version on YouTube,23 with lyrics changed to reflect a shift in frame from “What if there were an accident?” to “We have had a serious accident.” The introduction and second verse were largely unchanged, which Rankin has noted as a “sad indication” of the continued domination of pronuclear forces over the twenty-two years separating the two versions. Nonetheless, a few new lines refer directly to Fukushima, such as, “The safety myth ends with Fukushima.” These changed words are shown in italics in table 4.2. His updated list of cultural references includes Softbank, whose founder, Son Masayoshi, is a proponent of solar energy; comedian and film director Kitano (Beat) Takeshi, who appeared in pronuclear public relations campaigns; hardcore punk rockers, many of whom have been active in the antinuclear movement and relief efforts; and Level 7, the most serious rating for nuclear accidents.

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Table 4.2 Comparison of 1989 and 2011 versions of Rankin Taxi’s “You Can’t See It, You Can’t Smell It Either.”

Introduction

First verse

1989

2011

It’s terrible, terrible, terrible, nuclear power.

It’s terrible, terrible, terrible, Fukushima.

It’s terrible, terrible, terrible, if it remains like this.

It’s terrible, terrible, terrible, they’ve really screwed up.

If there were one accident, it would cause a great panic.

If there’s one accident, it causes a great panic.

Make a little mistake, and we’re all dead.

It’s like just before the Titanic sank.

Chernobyl’s still a no-go zone.

Chernobyl’s now a ghost town.

Once the trouble’s past, tomorrow, Innocent children with thyroid it’s Three Mile Island. cancer. What’ll happen to the sea if a nuclear submarine sinks?

Pleasure to meet you! The plutonium you’ve heard about.

Where can we put nuclear waste?

The safety myth ends with Fukushima.

We won’t be able to eat produce anymore.

We won’t be able to eat produce anymore.

We wouldn’t be able to sunbathe calmly.

How far, and how long, will the contamination spread?

Bridge

It was leaking without your noticing? I want none of that!

It’s leaking incessantly, but they can’t stop it. I want none of that!

Final chorus

Radiation is strong, radiation is powerful.

Radiation is scary, radiation is dangerous.

It doesn’t discriminate, no one can You can’t see it, smell it, or run beat it. away from it. Courtesy of Rankin Taxi.

Like Ippanjapanese, Shing02, and Deli, Rankin is concerned about the lack of information: The [nuclear] industry has been acting as if the safety of citizens is not their primary concern, and they’re using the media to their own ends. Television stations and newspapers are keeping citizens in the

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dark… . They let the people know about the problems slowly. It’s atodashi janken24 —they’re bringing out crucial information late. (Rankin Taxi, interview, 2011) He has also been dismayed that neither the government nor the mass media has held TEPCO, the industry, or anyone else accountable for the accident: “It’s as if the government plans to take care of medical issues for those in the affected areas through National Health Insurance without holding any party accountable” (Rankin Taxi, interview, 2011). Rankin’s concerns—the hidden dangers, lack of accountability, and the myths sustained in the media—are effectively illustrated in Morita Takahiro’s video for the song, which reframes the prevailing arguments in the media (web figure 4.10 ). In particular, the safety frame forwarded by the electric power companies is undermined at the outset, as a video of the explosion at the Fukushima plant is followed by Rankin repeating “Taihen da” (It’s a disaster!) against a montage of nuclear blasts including Hiroshima, Nagasaki, and the Bikini Atoll. This juxtaposition of the nuclear plant accident with nuclear bomb blasts indicates that nuclear power and weapons are linked, as Rankin believes, because the material from spent fuel can be reprocessed to produce weapons. As the words refer to safety, the video shows maps of the extent of radiation and pictures of Monju. His avatar sings the words “No one can escape, you can’t see it or smell it” in front of a billboard at the entrance to a depressed, grey-skied industrial town, declaring “Nuclear power: the energy of the bright future” (figure 4.1). A sign to the left of the frame identifies the town as Futaba, one of the host towns of the troubled Fukushima Daiichi Nuclear Power Plant; with its residents evacuated, it is now a ghost town, a dicent index of the accident and the fallacy of the safety myth. Also illustrated is the nuclear village’s enduring strength: The words “suishin ha” (supporters of nuclear power) are pictured by a conference room full of people, while “hantai ha” (antinuclear groups) get an empty room. In particular, the song highlights the role of the media in supporting a positive public opinion of nuclear power; the lyrics are a holdover from the 1989 version. The skillful advertising in the media is powerful. The sweet, optimistic images transmit subliminal messages. With lots of money, they buy full-page ads in the newspaper. While you believe in what they say, the winds [of radiation] are blowing towards you. In the accompanying video, images oscillate with their inversions. At the words “skillful advertising,” we see a graph of the controversial plutonium-thermal

Figure 4.1  “You Can’t See It, You Can’t Smell It Either,” Rankin Taxi, Video Still. Courtesy of Rankin Taxi.

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fuel cycle that was shown on public-relations commercials—first in black-onwhite, then in white-on-black. At “the sweet, optimistic images of the media,” we see a heartwarming scene of a mother and child—an archetypal image in power-company commercials. This idyllic image segues to an eerie, X-ray-like color reversal for the word “subliminal.” Negative images return in “the winds [of radiation] are blowing” where color-reversed photographs of weeds blowing in the wind are juxtaposed against children being checked with radiation equipment. This unsettling oscillation between photos and their negative images implies that the media manipulates information to be the opposite of reality. In the new coda for the 2011 version, Rankin’s avatar, dressed in a TEPCO uniform, addresses press conferences and the Diet, repeating “It’s safe, it’s safe, as long as there are no accidents.” The sequence recalls actual television images of such conferences, before and after Fukushima. The montage of multiple interiors signals how often TEPCO officials have repeated “It’s safe”; it implies that the government and the media have failed to ask hard questions of the nuclear industry and hence have complied in perpetuating the safety myth. Musically, the three-morae unit “anzen da” (it’s safe) is repeated continually so that each repeat accents a different part of the song’s 4/4 meter. The polyrhythmic effect of the words fills the sonic space, a musical simulacrum for the relentless repetition of the safety mantra (example 4.2). The words to this coda also parallel the previously discussed prelude: They share the same rhythm, and the phrases taihen da (it’s a disaster) and anzen da (it’s safe) rhyme, as indicated by the italics. This parallelism points out that these two statements—“it’s a disaster if there is an accident” and “it’s safe as long as there are no accidents”—are two sides of the same coin. Tragically, the latter had been given more salience by officials and the media. The song ends with a pointed phonetic liaison between “nakunareba” (if it goes away) and “baka” (stupid). This last word is left reverberating, in dub fashion, into silence, as if to echo Rankin’s opinion of nuclear policy. Anzen da, anzen da, anzen, nakunareba, Nakunareba, nakunareba, Nakunare ba-ka! It’s safe, it’s safe, it’s safe, if it goes away If [nuclear plants] go away. Go away, stupid! “You Can’t See It, You Can’t Smell it Either” could not be played on radio or television. The radio DJ and music-book author Peter Barakan was not allowed

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Example 4.2  Rankin Taxi, “You Can’t See it, You Can’t Smell It Either,” 2011, Prelude and Coda (E Mixolydian). Courtesy of Rankin Taxi.

to play it on his Inter.fm show because it names individuals and corporations (Peter Barakan, Skype interview, December 24, 2011). However, Barakan provided an English translation of the lyrics, which were added as subtitles to the YouTube video. This video and its Chinese-subtitled version helped to bring international attention to Rankin Taxi and the Japanese antinuclear

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cause. Journalists from France, China, Switzerland, Germany, Sweden, and the United States interviewed him.25 The mainstream Japanese press ignored him; however, many bloggers and tweeters reposted the song. Commentators on YouTube thanked Rankin Taxi for his long dedication to the antinuclear cause and for making the issues easy to understand (“I wish they would show [this video] on educational television”). Rankin’s humor, particularly the rapid sequence of names, helped to make the video more popular. The video, as uploaded by the journalists themselves, had been viewed a total of 260,000 times as of July 2015.

Cyberspace and Musical Participation As discussed thus far, cyberspace houses music for listening, but it also enables participation. The music recirculates in demonstrations; a song may itself be the inspiration for a protest. Cyberspace is also a site for musical collaborations through remixes, mash-ups, and motivic development. M U S I C A L I N T E R C H A N G E B E T W E E N   C Y B E R S PA C E A N D ST R E ET DE MONST R AT IONS

The YouTube video helped to make “You Can’t See It, You Can’t Smell It Either” familiar among protesters, allowing Rankin Taxi to engage demonstrators in enthusiastic call-and-response patterns. The rapper ECD, a fixture at demonstrations, has uploaded several protest songs to YouTube and Soundcloud that he has subsequently performed in demonstrations. In April 2011, ECD uploaded “Recording Report:  Hangenpatsu Remix” (Antinuclear Remix) (web figure 4.11 ),26 refitting new lyrics to his song “Recording Report” (2010). The original song was about fresh new rappers on the scene, like Aklo and Cherry Brown. The triple disaster interrupted the recording process, and the completed album was finally released in 2012. Hence, the “Antinuclear Remix” was released before the original. An emergency motif runs through the song: The opening repeated rhyme “Toketa rashii zo, moreteta rashii zo” (There seems to have been a meltdown; [radioactive materials] seem to have been leaking) is recorded in the fuzzy timbre of a voice magnified by a megaphone or emergency sound system with a siren wailing in the background. At the punch line “No more nuclear power stations,” the megaphone timbre recurs, recalling the slogans chanted in street demonstrations. The verses expressed his anger over the inadequate flow of information and his worries for children’s health. The refrain “acchi mo, kocchi mo” (here, there, everywhere) describes the spreading of radiation.

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When ECD performed the song in Shirōto no Ran’s June 11 and September 11, 2011, demonstrations (­chapter 5.3), the protesters engaged him in a call and response of this refrain. They appeared to be familiar with the words, having heard the track on YouTube. In his song “Baby Cart and Placard (web figure 4.12 ),”27 ECD identifies himself as one of the faithful who participates constantly in demonstrations (ECD, interview, December 22, 2011). Saying that he feels unsettled whenever he can’t go to demonstrations, he vividly captures their ambience—the bustle of shoppers, the cheers and jeers from passersby, the noise of the drums and whistles. He also tips his hat to the protesters—the men and women, the young and old, the unemployed and hardworking, and most of all, the mothers with a baby stroller in one hand and a placard in the other: “They’re not here because they have time on their hands. If you don’t do it now, there won’t be a future. Surely they will be the ones who’ll stop nuclear power.” ECD’s antinuclear songs on the internet reflect the progression of the rapper’s feelings in the movement, from the diagnostic concerns of “Recording Report: Antinuclear Remix” to the mobilizing ode to the protesters in “Baby Cart and Placard.” M USIC A S MOBI L I Z AT ION

Music made familiar in cyberspace not only engages protesters at demonstrations but also serves as a catalyst for them. In November 2011, an indie rock band from Kyoto called Frying Dutchman uploaded on YouTube the song “Human Error,” in which lead singer Lee Tabasco gives an impassioned seventeen-minute rant over a simple two-chord acoustic riff on an E bass pedal.28 The original video is a still picture of a suited man wearing a yen tie, with a television for his head, the dials replaced by the symbol for radioactivity—a representation of the nuclear village’s control of the media. However, a camel—the logo for Frying Dutchman—fills the television screen, suggesting that the band is usurping this control. The words “human/error” and “machine/control” are highlighted in red and black respectively, suggesting that humans are not in control of the machine (i.e., nuclear reactors; figure 4.2). In his rant, Tabasco frames the nuclear village as money-obsessed villains, arguing that electric power companies have tricked the population into thinking that nuclear power is safe and renewable energy is not viable; that they staged the planned power outages to convince the population there wasn’t enough electricity, and people died as a result; and that they have bribed host communities into accepting nuclear reactors without taking sufficient safety measures. Noting the Yomiuri’s role in selling nuclear power to the Japanese in the 1950s, he claims television news is pronuclear propaganda. Repeating

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Figure 4.2  “Human Error,” Frying Dutchman, Still Picture. Courtesy of Frying Dutchman.

Edano’s infamous “There’s no immediate impact on human health” three times, he sarcastically declares these words the big winner of the “new buzzword of the year” award; actually, Edano’s word “tadachi” (immediate) had been nominated for this annual award.29 He says that all these decisions are for money, which “the power companies, the Nuclear and Industrial Safety Agency, bureaucrats, politicians, bankers, corporate executives, the mass media, and government scientists are all chasing … like characters in a comedy.” Shifting from a diagnostic to a prognostic frame, he calls for “electric democracy” in apportioning energy sources and for increased use of hydroelectric and geothermal energy. Appropriating Edano’s word “tadachi,” he finishes with a demand to abolish nuclear power immediately. But perhaps more important than the words is Tabasco’s impassioned delivery, yelling in anger and disgust at the absent authorities. Comments under the YouTube video noted that Tabasco’s performance “pierced my heart more than any other antinuclear song” (@kidsportal, 2012), while others said, “The words are so direct that they move me” (@Brown Rice Genmai, 2012).

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In early January 2012, the band released a new video showing the members playing on the banks of the Kamo River in a highly visible spot under the Sanjō Bridge in central Kyoto, as passersby stopped to listen or ignored the commotion. Subtitles in English, French, and German were added in various versions (web figure 4.13 ).30 One did not need subtitles, however, to feel Tabasco’s rage. By the following month, the combined versions had already been seen over 400,000 times. Frying Dutchman then used their song for mobilization. They asked people to participate in a “parade of one million” to memorialize those lost on 3.11 and protest against the continued use of nuclear power. The band asked people to “play this song wherever you are; in the streets, shops, your car, your friend’s or colleagues’ cars,” regardless of whether they were attending a gathering or were by themselves. Hence, the “parade” was an imaginary community of people, connected by playing the song from disparate locations from mid-day on March 10, 2012, for two days. On March 11, Frying Dutchman played the song live at the Tidanowa Festival in Okinawa and broadcast their performance over Ustream. Several notables in the antinuclear movement, including musicians Nakagawa Takashi and Katō Tokiko, actor Yamamoto Tarō, and antinuclear scientist Koide Hiroaki, sent in messages of support. The movement was joined by 62,550 organized events and 3,665 members of the general public, mostly from Japan but also from Europe and the United States. 31 At a demonstration in New  York City, the band Brown Rice covered the song, while Japanese and American women took turns reciting the English translation of Tabasco’s lyrics. 32 This cyberspace-based song functioned in several frames: as a blunt diagnosis of the nuclear village as villain; a prognostic call for greater use of alternative energy; and the mobilization of people to demonstrate using the song. It brought protesters from all over Japan and the world together, affectively united by playing or listening to the song; this musical protest existed simultaneously in cyberspace and real space. As of July 2015, the combined versions of “Human Error” had about 1.2 million hits. C Y B E R S PA C E A S   S I T E O F   M U S I C A L C O L L A B O R A T I O N

Another kind of music-based mobilization over the internet is musical collaboration. In 2006, Sakamoto Ryūichi and Shing02 combined forces for Stop Rokkasho, a web-based movement of music, art, and infographs to protest the Rokkasho Reprocessing Plant (web figure 4.14 ).33 The pair uploaded stems of Sakamoto’s piano and Shing02’s vocals and asked for remixes and original compositions. Kraftwerk, DJ Krush, Alva Noto, Thomas Dolby, and other artists contributed over one hundred compositions, remixes, videos, photos, T-shirts, and poetry.

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Infographs explained the nuclear fuel cycle and the risks of the plant. Sakamoto believed the project was effective in raising public awareness of Rokkasho; as Shing02 added, “It was an issue that virtually no one even knew about. It was the first step that we took to even bring attention to the problem… . We all chipped in collectively over the internet” (Shing02, interview with the author, Tokyo, December 25, 2011). Nonetheless, Sakamoto conceded that the project did not cross over the digital divide and would have had greater impact if it had had a physical presence like a concert: “You can’t just be satisfied with the internet-based audience” (Sakamoto Ryūichi, interview with the author, New York City, September 10, 2012). In July 2012, Sakamoto and Shing02 collaborated again on “Odakias,” a response to the restarting of the Ōi Nuclear Power Plant on July 1, 2012. In the days leading up to the restart, protesters had occupied the area surrounding the gates of the plant. Sakamoto took a sample of protesters chanting “saikadō hantai” (we oppose restarting [nuclear power plants]) and arranged it into an atmospheric musical loop that he uploaded (web figure 4.15 ). 34 He explained, “I was in New  York at the time, so I  couldn’t be there physically. But I wanted to let those [protesters] know that I was with them in spirit and was cheering them on.” Music on the internet was allowing Sakamoto to place himself at the protest. He added, “By making this music, I  could also raise awareness that protests were going on at that site” (Sakamoto, interview). “Odakias” is “saikadō” (restart) spelled backward—“hantai” in Japanese means “opposed.” The title is hence a pun on the chant “Saikadō hantai.” Sakamoto’s track was remixed by Ōtomo Yoshihide, U-zhaan, Soon Era, and Nanao Tavito. Shing02 and Tokimonsta’s remix referenced the ubiquity and scale of antinuclear protests: “From in front of the United Nations Headquarters, the Japanese Consulate, and the prime minister’s residence, let our voices reach the Ōi Nuclear Power Plant (web figure 4.16 ).”35 Naming each of Japan’s nuclear plants sites, Shing02 encouraged people to join demonstrations and let their voices be heard. The sample of actual protesters chanting provided a powerful backdrop to Shing02’s call to action. Through the compression of space, cyberspace enabled connections to be formed between protesters at one site and a musician elsewhere, and then among musicians in disparate sites, who called for the voices of protesters around the world to support those in a particular place.

Mobile Orientation of the Japanese Internet Sakamoto’s source material had come from a live recording made by someone at the protest and uploaded onto the internet. Indeed, the integration of

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cyberspace into real space has been hastened by the ubiquity of multifunctional mobile phones. Internet access on mobile phones came relatively early to Japan, in 1999, and rapidly became popular as it fit well with the nation’s urban, ambulatory lifestyle (Manabe 2009a; Kim 2010). Today, all phones offer internet accessibility, and they are the sole access to the internet for many people, particularly women, youths, and the less wealthy. This mobile orientation allows citizens to report and archive antinuclear events. BR I NGI NG I T I N PL AY BACK

The internet has enabled people from all over Japan and the world to witness antinuclear events that would otherwise remain unknown. Within hours after the Kōenji demonstration of April 10, 2011, people who were at the scene uploaded videos onto YouTube. 36 These videos confirmed the immensity of the demonstration—about 15,000 protesters—when television news failed to report it. They also showed the atmosphere of the demonstration as lively, friendly, and approachable, with families in attendance. These images contrasted with the widely held perception that demonstrations were scary; they encouraged would-be protesters to come to demonstrations. When news media repeatedly failed to report large demonstrations (even when their cameras were present), the professional videographer Akiyama Rio began filming and uploading videos of them with tireless diligence. IWJ broadcast the Friday demonstrations live in front of the prime minister’s official residence. Regular protesters like “mkimpo” and “ken23qu” share videos and photographs publicly, believing it is their duty as citizens (p.c.). 37 Such efforts have created an archive of demonstrations around the country. These videos have enhanced the music of demonstrations in several ways. First, a number of loose-knit musical groups have formed for playing at demonstrations, such as the drum corps led by anthropologist Oda Masanori [pen name Illcommonz] or its spinoffs, the brass band Nora Brigade and the samba drums group. Would-be participants watch videos of these groups and become familiar with their repertoire—even practice at home—before joining in (­chapter 5.3). They thus lower the bar for participating and enhance the coordination of the group’s performance. Second, they allow ideas to circulate across communities and develop. Shortly after the crisis, Hamada Yūsuke, a council member for the city of Shimanto, Kōchi prefecture, wrote a blues song titled “Meltdown Blues,” which started with the line “Hey, TEPCO! Are you still planning to trick us?” (web figure 4.17 )38 In the recurring demonstrations in the town beginning in May 2011, the song was sung in call-and-response fragments. A woman, Yamamoto Yūko, took over the singing at the June 11, 2011, protest, changing the words to “Hey,

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TEPCO! It’s a meltdown.”39 By the July 14, 2012, demonstration, when Akiyama Rio came to record it, she had substituted “Hey, Noda” (then the prime minister) for “Hey, TEPCO” (example 4.3, web figure 4.18 ).40 Through repeated use in demonstrations, the song had transformed from a presentational multi-verse song to the repeated, improvised fragments of a participatory performance. Example 4.3  “Meltdown Blues,” Basic Melody.

Illcommonz saw Akiyama’s video of the performance on YouTube. His brass-and-drum band learned to play it by ear, with Kozuka Ruiko as singer. The group performed it at the Friday protest in front of the Diet on July 20, 2012, and several times at the July 29, 2012, demonstration in Tokyo organized by the Metropolitan Coalition Against Nukes (MCAN, Hangenren). The Shimanto group, who had come all the way from Shikoku to join this protest, also sang the song there, both separately and with Illcommonz’s group. This protest began with a march around the Ginza-Shinbashi-Kasumigaseki areas (­chapter 5.3), followed by a human chain around the Diet Building after nightfall. Protesters were originally asked to hold lit candles, and activists had hired helicopters to record the scene from the sky. At the last minute, the police forbade the use of candles, depriving the activists of the dramatic photo opportunity of a multitude of lights around the Diet Building. They also erected barricades forcing the protesters off the road approaching the Diet and onto the sidewalks. Trees lined the sidewalks, making the crowd less visible from the sky. As one of the 200,000 protesters participating that day, I can testify that the barricading made for dangerously overcrowded conditions. In a memorable moment, someone kicked down the barricades, and before the police could step in, the crowd poured out from the sidewalks and onto the street, easily filling the multi-lane road leading up to the Diet. This reclaiming of public space excited the protesters, who congregated around the drum corps. With no sound system and aided solely by a megaphone, Kozuka improvised a bluesy scat pattern on the melody, trading licks with Illcommonz’s brass players and drum corps. They culminated in the drum riff and call “Saikadō hantai” (We oppose restarting [nuclear reactors]) (web figure 4.19 ).41 It was a climactic moment capping hours of demonstrating on a day that would mark the peak of antinuclear

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protests. Illcommonz’s group played the melody again at an antinuclear obon matsuri (summer festival) in Suginami Ward, Tokyo, on August 18, 2012, sporting the dotted rhythm typical of festival music.42 Through the internet, an original song transformed first into a local protest chant and then into the theme song of the largest demonstrations seen in Tokyo since the 1960s. Third, these archival videos shift the purpose and target audience of action during the demonstration. MCAN has often staged large demonstrations in the government district of Kasumigaseki. As they usually take place on a Sunday or public holiday (so that more people can participate, and the police are more likely to grant permission), protesters are on empty streets, yelling at the empty offices of TEPCO and METI. As a participant in these demonstrations, I have wondered about the effectiveness of routing demonstrations this way when the people responsible are unlikely to be present. But as Oda Masanori explains, the protesters’ voices do not need to reach those responsible. The real point is to protest against what the office or place symbolizes: Even if no one is actually in the offices, and even if there’s no audience in the streets, the cameras are on. When the videos are uploaded and streamed, they turn into a protest in their own right. The protest is not over once we leave the area. Even if the protest looks pointless at the time, the video, seen afterwards, gives it meaning at another level. (Oda Masanori [Illcommonz], interview with the author, Kichijōji, October 19, 2013) In other words, the video showing angry, passionate protesters criticizing a silent, unresponsive building—a symbol of unresponsive powers—invokes a strong emotional response in the viewer. Even if those buildings are empty, the protesters are typically at their most passionate when they are at those symbolic spots. The rappers, drummers, and call leaders ratchet up their performances accordingly. These are the memorable moments at a demonstration, when everyone is yelling at the top of their lungs and the sound is ricocheting off the buildings. In such circumstances, the call leaders and the demonstrators are performing not only for themselves, but also for the audience that will see them later on YouTube (web figure 4.20 ).43 Even a shaky camera phone will capture the intensity of emotion. Fourth, the internet allows activists around the country to adopt tactics, music, and calls from elsewhere. The simple Friday-night protests and the carnivalesque sound demos began in Tokyo and were taken up elsewhere. Tokyo-based activists often help out in demonstrations in other cities. Matsumoto Hajime of Shirōto no Ran has made multiple visits to cities in Japan and around Asia. Tokyo-based performers Illcommonz and the drum

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corps, Deli, and Rankin Taxi performed in a sound demo in Osaka in August 4, 2012; Rankin Taxi performed in one in Sapporo; and Akuryō rapped in one in Kyoto. The internet facilitates outsiders to participate in demonstrations, allowing out-of-towners to review local protest practices and, through mapping applications, understand the urban layout. B R I N G I N G I T,   L I V E

Live streaming has also helped many people observe antinuclear events. Many protests, including the Friday-night protests, are streamed live on Ustream by IWJ. Individuals also broadcast protests live from their mobile phones using TwitCasting.tv. Live streaming was also made available for antinuclear music festivals, including Sakamoto Ryūichi’s No Nukes 2012 and 2013 concerts, Namba Akihiro’s No More Fuckin’ Nukes, and Ōtomo Yoshihide’s Project Fukushima Festival. These streaming audiences have been sizable: the Ustream feed for No Nukes 2012 was accessed over 542,000 times, while No More Fuckin’ Nukes 2013 was accessed over 41,300 times. In the case of Sakamoto and Namba’s festivals, the Ustream broadcasts included a few songs (if artists’ agencies had granted permission), short films played between sets, and special programs (­chapter  6). While not as immersive as attending the concerts, these streams allowed those outside the grounds to capture some of the music and magic, and the cyberspace audiences commented in real time on Twitter and the Ustream comment board. The streams also included backstage interviews with artists and activists that were added to fill the time between sets and to deal with limits imposed by artists’ agencies. Those at the event also tuned in on their phones to see these extras, creating two-way traffic between cyberspace and festival space.

Risks on the Internet While the internet allows sympathizers from around the world to learn about and witness antinuclear activities, its openness also leaves the movement prone to attacks and misunderstandings. As Oda explains: During the student movement in the 1970s, a particular sect would be slandered, or sects would fight each other. Most of the slander was between activists. But now, someone who has never even been to a demonstration can spread something completely untrue on Twitter. That wouldn’t happen without the internet. In the old days, slander couldn’t travel far, because it spread by word of mouth or by

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pamphlets. But now, rumors spread at an incomparable speed. You can plan and execute a negative campaign anonymously. You can inflict great harm. The internet has good points and bad points in equal measure. (Oda Masanori, interview with the author, Tokyo, October 19, 2013) Antinuclear activists, particularly MCAN members, have been vulnerable to groundless rumors and slander. Some are laughable: “There’s a frequent rumor that MCAN is connected with the CIA (laughs). Or that MCAN’s advertisements and public relations are so good, it must be connected with [major advertising agency] Dentsu” (Oda, interview, 2013). Much of the rumormongering and trolling is done anonymously or pseudonymously. Anonymity in cyberspace helps citizens to express their true beliefs, but this characteristic is double-edged for activists. As with the sect era, some attacks come from other activists. Since its inception, MCAN has operated as a single-issue group opposed to nuclear power. It consciously avoids the inclusion of other issues addressed by Japanese social movements. The group does not allow protesters to wave flags or distribute pamphlets regarding other issues at its demonstrations. This policy has caused grudges to develop among some protesters who have written negative commentary on Twitter. MCAN’s members must dispel any false rumors on Twitter rapidly, as they can quickly grow out of control. While quick action helps to limit damage, it can also create enemies. Sometimes, old-time social activists and sympathetic intellectuals or bloggers would get into an argument with MCAN. Each side has its own followers, who in turn respond negatively, widening the spiral of ill will. The dynamic can lead to fragmentation of the antinuclear movement. As Oda explained, “We’d rather not fight back, but unless we do, it could destroy MCAN and the movement. We have to consider the positives and negatives and act” (Oda, interview, 2013). More maliciously, attacks can be so swift and unrelenting that they seem like well-organized platoons. As these attacks occupy more and more space in comment sections and timelines, they may give the impression that the attackers’ views are prevailing; this impression, in turn, could retrigger the spiral of silence. Sites such as 2channel and Nico Nico Dōga are well known for large concentrations of net-uyo (right-wing internet trolls) who commandeer and dominate much of the sites. These groups have effectively taken up a role in cyberspace akin to the security police at a demonstration, intimidating would-be protesters. Even this author was attacked on social media over articles published in The Asia-Pacific Journal, which sent chills down my spine at the time. Were I constantly subjected to such harassment and intimidation, I would have found it difficult to continue. If an American academic can be

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attacked over English-language articles, one can imagine how utterly intimidating the attacks on well-known Japanese activists and musicians must be. AT TAC K S ON M USIC I A NS

Antinuclear musicians seem particularly vulnerable to internet attacks. As recounted in ­chapter 3, Sakamoto Ryūichi was attacked for the quote “It’s only electricity,” which was taken out of context and cascaded from Twitter to the mainstream media. Attacking out-of-context quotes is a common trolling pattern. On May 5, 2012, Rankin Taxi was recorded singing “Genptasu gakkari ondo” (Dance of Disappointment over Nuclear Power) at a party celebrating the temporary shutdown of all nuclear power plants (web figure 4.21 ). The video caught the first two verses, in which Rankin assumes the persona of an elder in a host town of Fukushima Daiichi bidding a tearful goodbye to his “precious hometown” and lamenting having believed in the nuclear village’s promises of affluence. Rankin was heavily criticized for “mocking” these unfortunate towns. The larger message of this multi-verse song—that another nuclear accident may happen if the reactors were restarted—was lost in the arguments. It took several months before Rankin Taxi performed at another Tokyo-area demonstration—a shame for an artist who had been so dedicated to the antinuclear movement.44 AT TAC K S ON E V E N TS

Music events are also vulnerable to attack, often from people who are not at the venue and are commenting without context on a photo or a tweet. On the first day of the No Nukes 2012 concert (­chapter 6), someone tweeted several photos, claiming that the festival was completely empty (@hossi0113, July 7, 2012, 10:51am, 10:53, 11:01, 11:35). The photos were linked to 2channel, where they accumulated over a thousand snarky comments about the antinuclear movement (e.g., “Antinuclear left wing = poor people, so it can’t be helped,” @ywG5XLDd0).45 Having attended the concert myself, I  found the photographs and captions to be misleading:  All four of @hossi0113’s photos had been taken well before the show started (12 noon).46 Another photo (@threechordrev, July 7, 2012, 12:21pm), which claimed that the hangout space was empty, was similarly misleading. The organizers had rented two halls—one for the performance and one as a hangout space with tables, booths for NGOs, and concession stands. The hangout space in the photograph had few people at the time the photo was taken because Asian Kung-Fu Generation was on stage, and most of the concertgoers had gone into the performance hall. As the group opened the festival, the performance hall was not yet completely full, but even

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at that early hour, the hall looked about 70 percent full. By mid-afternoon, the performance hall and hangout space were quite crowded. In contrast to the respectable attendance of over 8,500 people each day, the postings created the impression that the concert had been a failure, even with such prominent performers as Yellow Magic Orchestra, Kraftwerk, Asian Kung-Fu Generation, and Saitō Kazuyoshi, among others. There was not enough mainstream media coverage to negate this impression: Only the Asahi and Mainichi newspapers mentioned it after its first day, and no television stations covered it beyond the initial announcement the preceding March. These incidents show that the positive aspects of cyberspace are also its negatives: It invites everyone in, including those who inflict harm. Just as it allows antinuclear people to find like-minded communities and amass the courage to speak out, it is the site of bullying and ideological battles that intimidate people back into silence. Since 2013, many antinuclear videos, blog posts, aggregator sites, and tweets have been deleted or made private.

Conclusion By providing a space for people to obtain alternative information, discuss issues, and mobilize themselves for action, cyberspace helped residents overcome the spiral of silence and shaped the kūki toward greater tolerance of antinuclear activity, particularly in 2012. These changes were driven by two aspects of the Japanese internet environment. First, anonymity on the internet  allows citizens a safer space for contentious commentary. Second, the mobile nature of the Japanese internet has enabled participants at antinuclear events to relay news, post photos, and broadcast from the scene, or upload videos and accounts shortly afterward. Like recordings, cyberspace serves as a repository of recorded musical material. Protest music in cyberspace is often not commercially viable, as it does not conform to record-industry guidelines that tend toward political conservatism or use copyrighted material extensively. In addition, like demonstrations and festivals, cyberspace is a site for musical participation. Musicians encourage and post remixes. Furthermore, this participation mixes experiences in both cyberspace and the real world:  Protesters yell call-and-response patterns learned from recordings in cyberspace, and new songs like “Meltdown Blues” are born of fragments heard in cyberspace and developed in demonstrations. When rappers perform and protesters respond in a demonstration, they simultaneously perform for the future audience on YouTube. For musicians, cyberspace presents opportunities and risks. In cyberspace, anyone, from charting musicians like Saitō Kazuyoshi to bedroom producers

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like Ippanjapanese, can upload a song. Under the protection of anonymity, alter egos like Monju-kun can develop and flourish, and Ippanjapanese can present his thoughts without risking harm to himself or his family. Songs by independent artists like Rankin Taxi’s “You Can’t See It, You Can’t Smell It Either” and Frying Dutchman’s “Human Error” can reach an international audience, and people can listen to them repeatedly to absorb their complex messages. Artists like Deli can release songs that would never have passed inspection at a record company, and hip-hop and mash-up artists like Scha Dara Parr can avoid copyright issues. Cyberspace is a site in which ECD and Rankin Taxi can release songs that they subsequently perform in protests, helping to amplify the audience reaction. It allowed Frying Dutchman to fashion a virtual demonstration centered around their song. On the negative side, musicians can expect little, if any, compensation from independent internet releases, and their work can be taken down because of copyright claims or user complaints. More problematically, the internet is a highly contentious space, open to the sympathetic and unsympathetic alike. Whether they are individuals or coordinated troll campaigns, attacks on antinuclear musicians, their work, and their associated events are swift and brutal, the impact of every perceived misstep amplified by the immediacy and connectedness of the web. Such attacks, often based on quotes or images taken out of context, can compromise the reputation of a musician, an event, or an entire movement. Cyberspace, like radiation, is powerful and risky: Anyone can participate without being seen.

CH A P T ER 

5.1

Introduction to Music in Demonstrations

February 19, 2012, was a crisp, sunny Sunday—perfect weather to participate in what Matsumoto Hajime, founder of secondhand shop-cum-activist group Shirōto no Ran, billed as an antinuclear demonstration for the community, created with the participation of residents and shopkeepers of Suginami Ward in western Tokyo. When I  arrived at Higashi Kōenji station, the demonstration’s staff directed me toward Sanshinomori Park, where a large group had already gathered. While we waited to march, people were handing out pamphlets for upcoming demonstrations and selling booklets of tanka poems written by Fukushima residents. Music was everywhere:  A  loudspeaker in the park was playing antinuclear songs like “Zutto uso dattandaze” (It Was Always a Lie) and the late Imawano Kiyoshirō’s antinuclear version of Eddie Cochran’s “Summertime Blues.” Among the protesters waiting in line was a band, its drummer playing a kit on top of a makeshift portable stage. Across the street, there were musical rumblings from several sound trucks. I chatted with the reggae singer Rankin Taxi, who was on top of the truck with the biggest speakers. Another truck, decorated with hand-drawn peace placards, featured a DJ spinning R&B (­figure 5.1-1, web figure 5.1-1 ), while others were reserved for live bands and karaoke. On such a truck was Jintaramūta, a chindon-style band with brass instruments, saxes, and clarinets, playing songs identified with global protests: “Amazing Grace,” “We Shall Overcome,” and Chilean songwriter Victor Jara’s anti-Vietnam War song, “El derecho de vivir en paz” (The Right to Live in Peace) (web figure 5.1-2 ). It was a motley crew of all ages—young adults (in their late twenties to thirties), parents with baby strollers and young children, the middle-aged, and grandparents (web figure 5.1-3 ). A  few were decked out in white anti-radiation suits or clown suits with the word hikakumin (nonnuclear person) posted on their backs; the word is a play on hikokumin, the wartime term 150

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Figure 5.1-1  DJ at Datsu Genpatsu Suginami demonstration, February 19, 2012. Photo by the author.

for “traitor.” Protesters were carrying colorful placards:  “No More Nukes,” “Referendum on Nuclear Power,” “Public Enemy:  TEPCO,” “Bring Back Sanrizuka” (the site of a concert protesting Narita Airport in the 1970s), and “Give Us Back Our Sushi!” (web figures 5.1-4, 5.1-5 ) People marched behind the three sound trucks, whose performers entertained protesters, gave them music to march to, and engaged them in calls and responses. Also helping to keep pace on the five-kilometer walk through Suginami Ward were the many musicians walking with the crowd, including acoustic guitar players singing protest folk songs from the 1960s and ’70s, accordion and sax players, the chindon band Jintaramūta, and Illcommonz’s drum groups. Meanwhile, the second sound truck, spinning R&B, played topical songs, such as Michael Jackson’s “They Don’t Care about Us.”

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Figure 5.1-2  Rankin Taxi, Datsu Genpatsu Suginami demonstration, February 19, 2012. Photo by the author.

In the middle of the march, Rankin Taxi began his performance with “Aozora” (Blue Sky), for which he improvised a few antinuclear verses (­figure 5.1-2). He sang “Mental Slavery,” a nod to Bob Marley’s “Redemption Song,” referring to the lack of information from the official government and media. The police, who were out in exaggerated force, made us observe every stoplight; while the truck was stopped at one such light, Rankin told the crowd that nuclear power was among the many things that Japan had adopted from the United States. He reflected on the good and the bad of this relationship and commented briefly on Whitney Houston’s recent passing. He performed a song he was then developing, “Genpatsu gakkari ondo” (Song of Disappointment about Nuclear Power), to the Jamaican riddim of Sleng Teng1 warning that if there’s another earthquake, another nuclear plant could explode. After he finished, the DJs shifted to techno, and the fast beats kept the crowd going through the five-kilometer march. As the truck approached the end of the march, protest organizer and music critic Futatsugi Shin stood atop the truck and led a spirited call-and-response of “Genpatsu iranai” (We don’t need nuclear power) and “Saikadō wa yurusanai” (We won’t allow the restarting of nuclear reactors), punctuated spontaneously by drummers marching in the demonstration. A  ridiculously large file of policemen stared at us at the endpoint and shepherded us to a school playground where a loudspeaker was

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blasting John Lennon’s “Power to the People.” A folk dance troupe invited the protesters to join an antinuclear chain dance while punk rockers, who had earlier played on another truck, performed acoustic versions of their songs (web figure 5.1-6 ). The convivial spirit carried on into the evening as Kōenji bar owners offered discounts to demonstrators. This scene illustrates the ubiquity of music in antinuclear protests. In this demonstration, music was heard where people gathered, where they departed, and every step of the way in between. Both professional musicians on the truck and ordinary protesters played music, with the latter banging drums, singing in choruses, or “entertaining” us with less-than-perfect karaoke in the spirit of participation. The acts of marching, shouting antinuclear slogans, singing, and dancing together made us feel united; at that moment, we felt we were not alone in our political beliefs. We addressed a dead serious matter in a carnivalesque manner. However, the joyousness did not seem inappropriate, for it attracted onlookers and enticed them to join the demonstration, despite the intimidating police presence. Through the music, we had a good time while making a political statement. Many of us already knew the songs, as we’d heard them before on YouTube. This narrative shows the conflicts between the conceived and lived-in urban spaces through which demonstrations pass; it also illustrates the role of music in reclaiming urban space in demonstrations. Street protests challenge the social order by attempting to appropriate urban space for uses that neither planners nor authorities originally intended. The police maintain order: They place controls on demonstrations, requiring applications, approving allowed paths, limiting protests to single lanes, and making them stop at lights in order to minimize their disruption of traffic. Most of all, they intimidate people with their sheer presence, often in great numbers. Music and sound, along with colorful costumes and placards, are among the tactics protesters use to reassert control over urban space and recapture its spontaneity and collective spirit. The music helps to attract attention from onlookers and makes the demonstration more enjoyable. It engages the protesters, who join choruses or exchange slogans to drumbeats. As they march, dance, sing, and yell together in time, they bond with each other at a physical level (McNeill 1997). This music is not tied to a specific genre; musicians from a wide variety of genres participate, including hip-hop, dance music, reggae, folk, chindon/ brass, and punk, among others. The performers on top of the trucks are mostly independent professional musicians rather than major-label artists, because the negative image of demonstrations, the threat of arrest, and the inability to control the sound make demonstrations too risky for major-label artists. As shown by Rankin Taxi’s performance, these musicians react to the circumstances and crowd, mixing improvisation with rehearsed material. The music

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of demonstrations also circulates in other spaces—cyberspace, festivals/concerts, and recordings—in which it takes on different functions. These musical practices at protests are a mixture of preexisting practices in Japan and the influence of overseas movements. They fit with Charles Tilly’s (2008) hypothesis that contentious performances rely on fixed repertoires that change incrementally in response to changes in the political opportunity structure and the connections among participants. In the following chapters, I map out the trajectory of incremental changes in performance and control of space in antinuclear protests, focusing first on the sound demonstration and second on the drum corps. The first considers the origins of sound demonstrations. While protests using trucks with speakers in Japan were already being seen during the 1990s, they became a consciously political tool during the 2003 antiwar demonstrations. Several of the personalities who later play central roles in the antinuclear demonstrations, as well as the police tactics that have continued into the 2010s, are discussed. The next chapter traces the evolution of sound-demonstration style. Drawing from Thomas Turino’s concept of presentational and participatory styles of musical performance, I explain how the musical style became more participatory as the antinuclear movement shifted from diagnostic to motivational frames. The final chapter on demonstrations illustrates the impact of urban geography and acoustics on the performance of demonstrations and their ability to attract attention and motivate participation.

CH A P T ER 

5.2

Emergence of Sound Demonstrations

Early Demonstrations with Sound Trucks The term “sound demonstration,” or “sound demo,” was first coined in 2003 during the demonstrations against the Iraq War, to indicate a demonstration featuring a sound system (e.g., speakers, microphones or megaphones, DJ systems) carried on a vehicle in an ambulatory demonstration. However, mobile sound systems had previously appeared in Japanese political events. Since the 1990s, gay and lesbian rights parades in Japan had featured trucks with DJs playing techno and house to a dancing crowd, like the Fourth Rainbow March in Sapporo in 1999 and the Tokyo Lesbian and Gay Parade in 2000, the latter of which featured DJ M*Naruse, well-known in the gay bars of Shinjuku nichome, and the drag queen Hosshii as agitator.1 In the West, vehicular sound systems had been a presence in such politically colored events as the Notting Hill Carnival in London, the Love Parade in Berlin and the Ruhr (1989–2010), and many “Reclaim the Streets” events in the 1990s. In a more direct Japanese precedent, sound trucks had also appeared in previous protests against war in Afghanistan and Iraq. One of the first organizers was Chance! Peace Walk, which was initiated by science writer Kobayashi Ichirō and Hani Kanta, founder of A Seed Japan, an environmentally oriented NGO for youths. Three days after the attacks of 9/11, the two circulated an email proposing a protest; through word of mouth and email forwarding, the email list quickly grew to over 1,000 names. It was one of the first protest groups in Japan to originate from a network of individuals on the internet rather than a preformed group.2 The organizers called these demonstrations “peace walks” or “parades” to differentiate them from the violent student protests of the 1960s and ’70s. This distancing attempt led activists 155

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like Yoshikawa Yūichi, former leader of 1960s–1970s antiwar activist group Beheiren (Citizens’ Federation for Peace in Vietnam), to accuse the organizers of naïveté regarding conflicts within society, police repression, and the political nature of movements (Yoshikawa 2004). The first Chance! Peace Walk was held on September 23, 2001. Its basic concept was to march peacefully through the streets while playing a recording of John Lennon’s “Give Peace a Chance” on speakers; protesters were encouraged to bring portable radios and tune in to a particular FM frequency, which would broadcast the music being played in the front truck (web figure 5.2-1 ). The concept soon spread nationwide, with similar walks in Kyoto, Fukuoka, and other cities following suit. The concept expanded in the course of 2001, as the group held eight additional peace walks; the walk on December 9 involved five sound trucks playing different genres, including peace songs on acoustic instruments, reggae, and techno. 3 Chance! Fukuoka also held raves in parks in conjunction with their peace walks on June 15 and September 14, 2002. As war in Iraq looked imminent in early 2003, Chance! and several other groups came together to organize demonstrations under the name World Peace Now (web figure 5.2-2 ). These parades attracted large and varied groups of musical performers: The demonstration on January 18, 2003, featured a preconcert with politically oriented musicians Panta of the 1960s and ’70s folk-rock group Zunō Keisatsu (­chapter 6) and the idol-pop group Seifuku Kōjō Iinkai. The parade included chindon bands, drummers and dancers in Okinawan and traditional Japanese styles, military drum groups, monks tapping uchiwadaiko (fan-shaped handheld drums), and Christians singing hymns, in addition to marchers singing the theme song “Give Peace a Chance.”4 The World Peace Now event in Hibiya (central Tokyo) on March 8 attracted 40,000 protesters. An agitator stood atop a sound truck with large speakers, engaging the crowd in a rhythmical call and response: “Don’t kill Iraqi children!” and “We’re opposed to war! (sensō hantai).”

Motivation for a New Type of Demonstration The organizers of the first sound demos saw a need for a new type of demonstration. Oda Masanori (Illcommonz) said that the demonstrations by World Peace Now (WPN) were uninteresting, centering on old-style calls and responses of slogans (Oda Masanori, interview with the author, Tokyo, August 16, 2012). More importantly, he found the WPN protests to be overly compliant; they lacked the rebellious spirit of occupying public space that is often central to protests. He felt out of place at these demonstrations: Just before the Iraq War started, I  saw Michael Moore’s clip “The Boom,” which showed scenes from anti-Iraq War demonstrations

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around the world. I sensed that they had a different groove than demonstrations up to that point. You sensed the presence of this worldwide groove in the World Peace Now (WPN) demonstrations in Shibuya and Ginza, but only by a little bit. On the whole, these demonstrations smelled like a pious peace movement by sensible citizens (shimin). 5 The WPN demonstrations are definitely contemporary, but they’re late to the game. Their designs are geared toward children. Even though they are antiwar demonstrations—sorry! they are “parades”—they’re friendly, strangely enough. When you saw them, you didn’t think, “Ah, I must go to that.” It had none of the edge, badness, or grittiness that would raise your adrenaline… . It was tepid, even though it was a demonstration. (ECD et al. 2005: 120) One reason for this staid atmosphere was the organizers’ deferential attitude toward the police. As Noiz, a musician in the hardcore punk band Voco Protesta and one of the organizers of sound demonstrations, points out, “These peace parades would include the security police in their official letters of thanks” (Noiz 2011). At protests, Chance! staff thanked the police along the route, and WPN staff told protesters to do as the police told them and even stopped some people from marching. By early 2003, an identifiable segment of participants was fed up with both the police and Chance!’s servile stance toward them. In mid-April 2003, it was leaked that Chance! organizers had dinner meetings with the police, sparking an outcry of criticism over their mailing list and costing the group credibility among protesters (Fujii 2006).6 Chance! also restricted the activities of protesters at the march. Its calls for participation asked protesters to show their placards to the organizers beforehand. Its staff asked protesters to take down placards or flags if they didn’t approve of them. They also asked protesters with musical instruments to explain the nature of their performances in advance. If they thought a performance clashed with the protest theme or the organizers’ music, they would ask participants not to perform.7 Chance! also specified that it welcomed acoustic instruments (naming African drums specifically) but not electric or amplified ones. These rules frustrated the initiative of protesters and made a contentious street occupation unlikely. Participants like Noiz saw an irreconcilable difference in attitude between the peace parades and the kind of demonstration his cohorts desired: The bigger the antiwar movement became, the more the demonstrations became oriented toward nonviolence and avoiding friction with the police. At WPN and other coordinated demonstrations, the atmosphere was to alienate people who came to demonstrate their anger, whose attitude is not to listen to what the police say… . The people

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who couldn’t fit into [this format] put together the sound demonstrations. They were pushed aside by the antiwar movement… . Non-sect radicals, anarchists, and others wanted to protest war without being painted in peace… . (Noiz 2011) Noiz and Oda were also frustrated by the organizers’ adherence to the compliant model of civic activism that was established at that time. Simon Avenell (2010) has explained that as the concept of shimin (citizen) evolved to emphasize the promotion of community, modes of activism shifted from the contentiousness of the Anpo and antiwar movements of the 1960s and ’70s to cooperation with state and corporate actors and an avoidance of ideological alignment since the mid-1970s. With its cooperative stance toward the police and lack of ideology, the WPN was acting within this shimin model. The people who would organize and participate in the new sound demonstrations were of another character. The need for Chance! organizers to control every action also alienated musicians and DJs, who distanced themselves from Chance! Yet they were still eager to participate: “These musicians were longing for new connections… . They just wanted to show clearly their opposition to the war by beating it into the street” (Noiz 2011). This alienation of a group of activists and musicians paved the way for a new form of protest. T H E PH I LOSOPH I E S OF AG A I NST ST R E ET CON T ROL

In the weeks following the beginning of the Iraq War, the frustrated protesters began to discuss the launch of a new type of demonstration. As the rapper ECD recalls, “On the day before the Iraq War began, I went to the American Embassy to join an antiwar protest. There, I  ran into Ishiguro Keita [of the graphic design unit Illdozer], who had designed album covers for me. We agreed that the demonstrations up to that point had been uncool (dasai). He asked me to join a group forming a new kind of demonstration that would be cooler (kakkoii)” (ECD, interview with the author, December 22, 2011). When the sound truck at another demonstration in April 2003 was cancelled due to rain, the group already gathered—musicians, editors, novelists, artists, writers, designers, freeters, the unemployed, students, day laborers—discussed how they might organize this new type of demonstration. The ideology of the resulting collective was inherent in its name—Against Street Control (ASC). It would organize five sound demonstrations in 2003 and 2004. The central members included Ishiguro; ECD; music critics Isobe Ryō, Mita Itaru, Noda Tsutomu, and Futatsugi Shin; Oda Masanori; DJ and rave organizer Seino Eiichi; and hardcore band Struggle for Pride (Oda, interview, 2012). They

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were inexperienced in organizing demonstrations, many of them having only recently begun to participate in social movements through the Iraq War protests. However, Noda, Mita, and Seino had all witnessed European raves and the Berlin Love Parade and understood how dance music could work in the street. They also knew that obtaining permits for political demonstrations was easier than for street parties.8 Against Street Control was the antithesis of WPN’s cooperative stance with the police. As Noiz put it, ASC “completely changed the basic stance [of the demonstrations] from ‘people for peace’ to ‘people who won’t do as they’re told,’ giving birth to a kind of demonstration where we would be prepared to resist police interference to the end” (Noiz 2011). Its demonstrations not only protested war but also the disappearing right to urban space, which participants resented at a gut level. Recalling the aforementioned protest at the American Embassy, ECD explained: The road to the [American] Embassy was completely blocked, and we couldn’t get near it… . It made me angry that we could not pass through this normally free road. I felt a switch in me go on… . I decided right there and then that I would participate, be it demonstrations or any other method. (ECD 2007: 176) This fight for space was not only a revolt against excessive policing of demonstrations, but also nostalgia for the greater availability of public space. As Oda explained, “The sound demos tried to take back the city of Tokyo, which had become nothing but a giant amusement park, and return it to an empty field… . We wanted to exchange the asphalt for an empty field” (ECD et al. 2005: 121). ASC’s adopted slogan, rojō kaihō (literally “liberate the road”), announced its wish to take back urban space as well as its affinity with the Reclaim the Streets movement of the United Kingdom.9 This contestation of urban space was not ASC’s only similarity with the European movement or the WTO protests in Seattle: All of these protests sported a carnivalesque atmosphere with loud music, colorful costumes, and performances (Mōri 2003). They also drew from previously unrelated individuals who came together through social networks rather than an organization, like the multitude of Hardt and Negri (2005). While ASC’s membership came from various backgrounds, many participants of sound demos in the 2000s were from the freeter generation that resulted from the recession of the 1990s onward (Mōri 2003, 2005, 2009; Hayashi and McKnight 2005; Deguchi 2008). The term “freeter” refers to nonpermanent employees (e.g., freelancers, contract workers, temporary agency workers, day

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laborers, and part-timers at retailers). On average, they receive less than a third of the salary of permanent employees at similar levels. The vast majority of freeters make about 1.5 million yen ($15,000) a year,10 with neither the benefits nor security of a permanent employee. The population of freeters grew rapidly after the collapse of Japan’s bubble economy in the early 1990s. During the growth period of 1955 to 1990, large Japanese companies were expected to provide permanent employment to employees, whom they hired from university and retained until retirement. After the financial bubble burst, Japanese companies reduced their hiring of university graduates in favor of temporary workers. As a result, the percentage of non-regular employees in the labor force rose from about 20 percent in 1992 to over 30 percent in 2003; it would rise to 38 percent by 2012.11 Younger workers were particularly hard-hit by the downturn in new-graduate hires; by the early 2000s, the number of freeters under 35 had risen to 4.1 million according to the Cabinet Office (2001)12 and to 2.2 million according to the Minister of Health, Labor, and Welfare (2003).13 Another 640,000 youths were estimated to be neets, or those pursuing neither education nor employment. When the term “freeter” was originally coined during the bubble economy of the 1980s, it had a more bohemian connotation of young people who were enjoying the freedom to pursue their dreams in the creative industries. According to Mōri, these freelancers form one type of freeter; the other type has fewer economic choices and may have less formal education (Mōri 2003: 184). Several of the ASC organizers, who are alumni of elite universities, fit into Mōri’s first category. Most freeters fit into Mōri’s second category:  An overwhelming majority of freeters yearn for permanent jobs. Of the many university graduates who are unable to secure permanent jobs and become freeters upon graduation, less than a third eventually find a permanent position at a company.14 Hence, the early sound demonstrations by ASC were a movement against not only war but also this “state of [economic] emergency” in which many twenty-to-thirty-year-olds found themselves, with middle-class freelancers identifying with the plight of more proletarian freeters.15 In conjunction with their economic marginalization, the freeters also found themselves unwelcome in an increasingly controlled urban landscape. Pointing to the proliferation of surveillance cameras as a sign of increasing controls on urban space, the music critic Hirai Gen commented, “The downtown areas are preferably reserved for corporations, consumers who buy their products, their regular employees, and passers-by. If someone outside of those groups intrudes, someone will immediately come after them.”16 The sound demos were a way for youths to take back the spaces of Shibuya, the commercial capital of Tokyo youth culture, by disrupting the order of its streets.

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The First Sound Demonstrations ASC’s first sound demo, “Street Rave Against War,” took place on May 10, 2003, in Shibuya. One four-ton truck packed with speakers provided the stage from which the techno DJs and party organizers Doel Sound Force, DJ Mayuri, DJ Toby, and Seino Eiichi would perform. All these performers had had extensive experience in Europe’s rave and dance music scenes. Seino had lived in Paris, where he had participated in demonstrations that resembled street parties (Mōri 2003: 163; Seino 1997). Toby had spent much time in Germany (as did members of Doel Sound Force) and had brought the first reports of Berlin’s Love Parade to Japan; he had also performed in Japan’s Rainbow Parade in 2000. DJ Mayuri had lived in Britain for four years, experiencing firsthand the second (rave-oriented) “Summer of Love.” The sound demo was more like a street party than a conventional demonstration, with protesters dancing behind the truck to techno beats. Occasionally, protesters would exchange short calls of slogans, such as “Sensō, hantai” (We oppose war), “Yūjihō, funsai” (Crush Emergency Legislation [allowing the Self-Defense Forces to fight]), and “Ko-ro-su-na” (Don’t kill). Nonetheless, the focus was on music, dancing, and taking over the street (web figure 5.2-3 ). This ethos of revelry led some commentators to criticize sound demos as mere entertainment, particularly as some participants were joining the demo for fun rather than out of any political convictions. The 1960s folk singer Takaishi Tomoya (­chapter  6) accused sound demonstrations of lacking in thought; for him, the volume itself was “its own kind of violence.”17 The organizers countered that the music and dancing attracted more people to participate in demonstrations, and the experience opened them to further thought: “Perhaps by talking to people at demonstrations, participants would become more interested in political issues. Or by seeing the riot police or the plainclothes policemen taking pictures of participants, they would question their own level of freedom.”18 Indeed, the sheer volume of sound redefined the boundaries imposed on behavior by the structural designs of the city. Projecting down the wide boulevards of Shibuya, the amplified sound could be heard before it was seen; drenching the urban space with noise, it “reduced the distance between the passersby on the sidewalk and the demonstrators on the pavement” (Noda et al. 2003: 93), encouraging people to join the protest. As Oda recalled, “The gathering at the starting point, at Miyashita Park in Shibuya, was only about twenty people. When the sound car left at the head of the demonstration, there were about fifty people following it. But people kept joining in from the street. By the time the demonstration ended, it had grown to about 200 participants” (Oda, interview, 2012).19 This organic growth of the demonstration

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contrasted with the peace walks, whose calls for participation explicitly discouraged people from joining along the route—in line with the police’s expectations.20 The club music fans, activists, freeters, students, high school girls, B-boys, middle-aged women, and foreigners in this crowd were united by the music, which “released this collective energy of the group of protesters” (Noiz 2011). The sheer volume of the sound enabled participants to overcome their reticence:  “even Japanese who could hardly bring themselves to raise their hands in a classroom could shout whatever they wanted to say, at the top of their lungs … when they spontaneously sang along to DJ Mayuri’s playing the Beastie Boys’ ‘You’ve Gotta Fight for Your Right to Party,’ it was as if the music had given them the courage to scream what they had wanted to say” (Noda et  al. 2003:  94). The spectacle of the large, growing, openly rowdy crowd lent the demonstration a unique, previously unimagined atmosphere—as Futatsugi Shin put it, “a special autonomous space in the middle of the city, which opened and closed simultaneously” (Futatsugi 2013: 65).

Parallel Protest Performances: Korosuna and TCDC At the same time as the sound demos, Oda started two other initiatives in protest performance. The first, Korosuna (Do Not Kill), was unusual in that it involved contemporary artists who, according to Mōri, had rarely made political commentary since the 1970s (Mōri 2003: 161–162; 2005). Oda collaborated with modern-art critic Sawaragi Noi, his partner and gallery owner Yamamoto Yūko, and the novelist Kudō Kiki. The group took its name and logo, originally designed by the artist Okamoto Tarō, from an antiwar advertisement that Beheiren had placed in the Washington Post. 21 Having obtained permission from the Okamoto Foundation and Beheiren, the group posted graphic designs based on the Korosuna logo on its website; people reproduced them for use as stickers, placards, or even three-dimensional sculptures in demonstrations.22 (web figure 5.2-4 ) Korosuna participated in demonstrations by World Peace Now, sound demos, and its own protests. The participants shouted “Ko! Ro! Su! Na!” while Oda, Sawaragi, and others beat the drums to the syllables23; this rhythmic chanting made them a precursor of the drum corps one sees at antinuclear demonstrations. As the group explained on its website, “We can’t just say, ‘For the sake of peace.’ Why? Because the logic of Bush’s war is ‘Kill for peace!’”24 Oda added, “It is not about love and peace, but about screaming to overcome war” (web figure 5.2-5 ).25 The second performance unit was the drum collective TCDC (Transistor Connected Drum Collective)—the direct predecessor of TDC, the drum corps playing in virtually every major demonstration in Tokyo post-2011.

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According to Oda, its genesis resulted from a pragmatic need to maintain noise under whatever circumstance, in rainy weather and through larger distances: The first sound demo took place on May 10. And soon after that, Japan entered the rainy season. We couldn’t bring out a sound system during the rainy season. But war was continuing, and we felt we needed to form a unit that could make sounds at a demonstration, even on a rainy day. Around that time, ECD, (hardcore punk rocker) Shiga Kuro, and I were beating drums and calling out slogans behind the Diet Building. The three of us started TCDC and were later joined by Futatsugi Shin. The second reason we needed TCDC was that no matter how loud the sound system was, the sound would only reach about one hundred people immediately around the truck. We had many more people than that. The sound wasn’t reaching all the way to the rear of the line. Back there, it looked little different from old-style demonstrations. The people there felt alienated. So we formed TCDC to move the crowd where the sound wasn’t reaching. (Oda, interview, 2012) Oda and his friends formed an acoustic band (mainly drums, with ECD on sax) that could walk along the demonstration. They thus circumvented another police obstacle—the restriction of sound cars for ASC demonstrations to only one. To a moderate 4/4 beat on the drums, they repeated short slogans in call and response: “sen-sō, han-tai” (We oppose war), “gen-bak[u]‌han-tai” (We oppose atomic weapons).26 (web figure 5.2-6 ) Members saw their primary role as “making sounds that fired up protesters to march” (ECD, interview, 2011). For a model, Oda looked to radical marching bands like the Infernal Noise Brigade (INB) at the WTO meeting in Seattle in 1999 (Oda, interview, 2012). While both TCDC and INB aimed to energize the crowd, their philosophies nonetheless differed. INB retained aspects of the disciplined marching band: It rehearsed so that it could play “really tight, well crafted songs”; it sought to avoid “degenerat[ing] into meandering ‘jam sessions’”; and it “spent hours discussing uniforms.” These policies led some to accuse INB of elitism (Whitney 2003: 221). In contrast, TCDC embraced a ragtag philosophy: Anyone could join, there were no rehearsals, everything was improvised, and no one tried to coordinate the group’s costumes. In fact, “We preferred to be uncoordinated, because our purpose was to make noise, not music” (Oda, interview, 2012). This strategic amateurism was adopted to encourage participation—a strategy also taken by the Rude Mechanical Orchestra of New  York or the bands that make up the Honk! festivals in the United States (Podber 2013; Garofalo 2013).

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Furthermore, Japan also had local precedents for drum groups. Percussive instruments have long accompanied traditional festival parades (matsuri). They have also long been played in protests, going at least as far back as the Yonaoshi ikki (Social Reform Riots) of the 1860s. These three elements—the sound truck playing techno, the visual displays of the Korosuna emblem, and the TCDC drum corps—provided the sonic and visual backdrop to the sound demonstration.

Growth of Sound Demos and Conflict with the Police The next sound demo on May 30, 2003, “Yūjihō funsai (Crush Emergency Legislation):  Street Party to Demonstration” featured the noise musician Nakahara Masaya of Violent Onsen Geisha among electronic dance music artists such as DJ Kent (from the duo Force of Nature) and DJ Mayuri. Building on the success of the first sound demo, it saw the number of participants double to 400. The riot police, who had failed to take the group seriously, were completely unprepared. As with all demonstrations, the police restricted the sound demo to one lane of a boulevard; in order to avoid arrests, the organizers worked hard to maintain this boundary, placing themselves as buffers between protesters and police. On the other boundary—the one facing the sidewalk—many bystanders were stepping in to participate, so that the demonstration was growing along the route. The protesters were so absorbed in sonic revelry that when a line of shield-carrying riot police came off the sidewalk to invade their space, they continued to mosh in oblivion; the physical commotion of the crowd beat back the police (Noiz 2011). From the point of view of ASC’s goals—reclaiming urban space from hegemonic powers as embodied by the police—the demonstration was a great success. But the police were not accepting defeat. ASC members suspected that the public safety police were reconsidering tactics and had already placed some of them under surveillance (Noiz 2011). Tensions were high on both sides at the next sound demo on July 19 in Shibuya. As usual, the sound demo promised an uproarious time, advertising itself as a party where it was “forbidden to forbid”27; the DJs included Eye of the rock band Boredoms, house DJ Moodman, and vocalist Himitsu Hakase. The demonstration attracted between 700 and 1,000 participants, and the atmosphere was energetic (­figure 5.2-1). As ECD describes, “The crowd behind the truck was moshing, their bodies bumping into the shields of the riot police who had surrounded both sides of the demonstration. The Damned’s ‘Neet Neet Neet’ was playing” (ECD 2007: 178).

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Figure 5.2-1  Sound demonstration, Shibuya, July 19, 2003. Photo by Mkimpo. Used with permission.

The riot police seemed to be geared up for a confrontation. They lined up between the guardrails and the sidewalks, preventing bystanders from joining in; on the side of the road, they pushed back the demonstrators with shields. A commanding car went in front of the sound truck, while a file of riot police marched at the rear of the demonstration. By surrounding the demonstration, they made the protesters (and the fun they were having) less visible to passersby—a tactic they would follow in subsequent sound demonstrations. The payback came as the demonstration turned the corner from Shibuya Public Hall to Kōen Dori (Park Avenue) in its final stretch. As one participant described, “Suddenly, someone from outside the demonstration barged in swinging at us. He hit someone near me. In the chaos, the police intervened in droves.”28 ECD added, “The people in front of me were knocked down like dominoes. At the same time, the riot police came toward us, trampling over those who fell” (ECD 2007: 178). Noiz amends, “A plainclothes policeman shouted H (an organizer)’s legal name. A  group of riot police followed in from behind me… . H was dancing in front of a large banner, which drew negative attention. He was immediately arrested. The riot police knocked me down, and in the confusion, I lay helplessly as the riot police, public safety staff, and demonstrators trampled me underfoot” (Noiz 2011). H was arrested on a

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supposed violation of the Tokyo Public Safety Ordinance, possibly because the demonstration had fallen behind the schedule given in the application ASC had filed with the police. Another participant was arrested for interfering with a government officer. A crowd of protesters gathered at the front of the police station where they chanted, “Hand us back our comrades!” Neither arrestee was ultimately charged. BI RT H OF A N A N T H E M

At an ASC strategy meeting held shortly after this debacle, the philosopher Yabe Shirō asked ECD to record a rap for the movement. ECD took up the challenge, as he felt his personal rights were at stake: “Following those arrests, the authorities searched the offices of Illdozer, which had designed the flyers advertising the demonstration. One of the people arrested was a musician working for [fabled record store] Diskunion in Shinjuku. It was not someone else’s business (taningoto); it was ours” (ECD 2007: 179). For the title refrain, he quoted a retort that a demonstrator had yelled in the midst of the fracas: “Yūkoto kikuyō na yatsura ja naizo,” meaning, “We’re not the kind of guys who’ll do as we’re told” or, “We’re not the kind of guys who’ll listen to what’s been said.” He made a recording by rapping over the pop kitsch of Japanese singer Shuri Eiko’s “Ie ie” (1967).29 ASC immediately put his recording on its website (web figure 5.2-7 ). 30 The rap is a snapshot of the 2003 sound demos, capturing the spirit, sounds, characters, and conflicts of that time. The lyrics, transliteration, and translation are given in table  5.2-1; the rhymes31 and alliterations are italicized. The first verse describes the riotous atmosphere of the sound demonstration, which has taken over urban space through sound:  Oda Masanori and company are creating a “racket in the streets” as they “bang on oil cans for three hours,” while the sound trucks turn the street into “a dance floor.” The second verse criticizes the police’s excessive force in asserting hegemonic control over urban space. Alluding to NWA’s “Fuck the Police,” ECD likens them to “murderers” who knock down protesters and send them straight to jail for little reason. He defiantly declares the streets “liberated,” recalling the ASC slogan rojō kaihō. Appealing to fellow protesters, he peppers the text with co-occurring indexes of the demo; he references the Beastie Boys’ “Fight for Your Right (to Party),” an anthem of these sound demos, and yells the Korosuna slogan “Do not kill,” in the same cadence used in the protests. At the end of the second verse, ECD refers to “hooligans with a bad attitude.” If the demonstrators are denouncing violence, then just who are these hooligans? Although outsiders might so describe the protesters, Mōri points out that the words more accurately capture the police’s behavior:  “Japanese

Table 5.2-1 “Yūkoto kikuyō na yatsura ja naizo” (We’re not the kind of guys who’ll do as we’re told), ECD. Yū koto kiku yōna yatsura ja naizo.

We’re not the kinds of guys who’ll do as we’re told.

Otamajakushi de machi o ume tsukushi.

Filling the city with musical notes.

Oda Masanori de michi o hame hazushi.

Making a racket in the streets with Oda Masanori.

Tōri wa odoriba, yōji wa hōridashi.

The streets are a dance floor, forget your business.

Pori wa okori dasu. Sōri ni iitsukero.

The cops get furious. Tell it like it is to the prime minister.

Arienai keshiki, katsute nai kuraishisu.

An impossible scene, unprecedented crisis.

Shibuya dō naru, shiruka gurōbaru.

What will happen to Shibuya? Don’t you know about globalization?

Hibike, ittokan, tataku sanjikan.

Ring out, oil cans! Beating them for three hours.

Hansen, han dan’atsu, han Ishihara.

Anti-war, anti-oppression, anti-Ishihara.

Yū koto kiku yōna yatsura ja naizo.

We’re not the kinds of guys who’ll do as we’re told.

Sekai zankoku Ain’ t no jōku.

A Dog’s World, Ain’t no joke.

Shokku renzoku sore o furihodoku.

Break free of the serial shocks.

Hippari ageru taosareta nakama.

Help pull up friends who have been knocked down.

Yappari porisu fakkuda hitogoroshi.

Fuck the police, they’re murderers after all.

Jitsuryoku kōshi, chokkō tetsugōshi.

Exercising their power, they send us straight to jail.

Wakatcha irukedo rojō kaihō-ku.

We already know that, but this is the liberated-street zone.

Maido no taido warui abarenbō.

Every time, those hooligans have a bad attitude.

Faito no raito shurui tada renko. Korosu na.

The types that Fight for Your Right [to Party] are just yelling repeatedly, do not kill. (continued )

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Table 5.2-1 (Continued) Yū koto kiku yōna yatsura ja naizo.

We’re not the kinds of guys who’ll do as we’re told.

Hanekaeshi hanekaeshi hanekaeshi fukuramu.

We fight back, fight back, fight back; our ranks swell.

Zenshin kobamu kōshin, shin teian.

A march that refuses to advance, a new plan.

Rikai shi gatai to katai atama ni wa.

When it’s hard to understand, the hard headed.

Shinpai. Nani ga okiru ka wakan’nai.

Worry, don’t know what’s going to happen next.

Nendai koete mukankei tsunagari.

Crossing generational lines, connecting the unconnected.

Nan-mai shashin tottemo tegakari.

No matter how many photos [the police] take.

Aru wakenai bakku mo mokuteki mo.

They can’t get a clue as to the group’s background or purpose.

Narimono, junbi shūgō-zai, wak.

Making loud noises, unlawful assembly, weirdos.

Courtesy of ECD.

demonstrators are surprisingly obedient, because if they disobey the police even a little bit, they’ll be arrested immediately. On the contrary, it’s difficult to withstand the provocation of the police.” These words point to an ambiguity in the refrain “Yūkoto kikuyō na yatsura ja naizo”: They describe both the protesters’ newly radicalized identity, as guys who won’t do as they’re told, and the unreceptive police, who won’t listen to what the protesters are telling them (Mōri 2009: 186). ECD’s defiance of the police is in full force in the final verse: The protesters are determined to “fight back,” even while the police are photographing them. Convinced they are in the right, ECD points to the broad appeal of the protests (“our ranks swell,” “crossing generational lines, connecting the unconnected”). ECD warns the police that the protesters will be back, and they “don’t know what’s going to happen next.” The sound demonstrators were not ready to give up. ECD underlines his defiance through the timing of his flow. As shown in ­example 5.2-1, he places key words of the refrain—yū (say), kiku (listen), yatsu (guy), nai (not)—on downbeats, giving the line a square rhythm that makes

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it sound emphatic and mimics the cadence of a call-and-response pattern at a protest. The rhythm punctuates ECD’s emphatic message of defiance against police oppression. On the other hand, the verse often has a syncopated flow. In an excerpt in e­ xample 5.2-2, semantic units (a noun or verb with particles or auxiliary verbs) are marked off by “/,” with direct translations of each unit written below. Here, ECD imitates the anticipated-downbeat pattern common in African diasporic musics, with semantic units beginning on beat four and the downbeat held over and missing a new attack (e.g., “tōri,” “yōji,” “hōridasu”). The syncopation makes the flow of this line looser, like the rhythm of the dance filling the street in a sound demo. It is an appropriate setting for an ode to the sound demo, both celebratory in its liberation of the street and determined in its resistance to oppression from the police and the government. Example 5.2-1  “Yūkoto kikuyō na yatsura ja naizo,” Refrain. Transcription by the author based on the original recording (YeYe version). Courtesy of ECD.

Example 5.2-2  “Yūkoto kikuyō na yatsura ja naizo,” Verse. Courtesy of ECD.

As the anthem of the antiwar sound demonstrations, the song has stuck in the memories of Japanese protesters. It was reprised in demonstrations over freeter rights in the latter half of the 2000s. The refrain reappeared in a transformation—“yūkoto kikaseru ban da, oretachi ga” (It’s our turn to make

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them listen to us)—in protests against nuclear power in 2012 and against the Secrecy Law in 2014. The refrain evolved once again to “yūkoto kikaseru ban da, kokumin ga” (It’s the people’s turn to make them listen) in the 2015 protests against the Security Bill (­chapters 5.3 and 8). F IGH T I NG BACK

ASC staged its “revenge demonstration” against the police on October 5, ahead of President George W.  Bush’s visit to Japan on October 17–18. The title of the demonstration, “Set Bush Fire,” supposedly called for firing Bush from the U.S.  presidency, but it was open to other interpretations. This event began with another kind of spatial occupation: a daytime symposium in Miyashita Park, featuring Oda, philosopher Ukai Satoshi, cultural critic Ōta Masakuni, performance artist Katō Yoshihiro, 32 economics professor Nagahara Yutaka, cultural studies professor Mizushima Kazuori, music critics Hirai Gen and Higashi Takuma, and Pepe Hasegawa, the founder of alternative lifestyle group Dame-ren, 33 among others. On either side of this symposium were sound systems, providing a free concert with musicians playing a mishmash of genres: hardcore punk artists Abraham Cross, Struggle for Pride, Voco Protesta, and Guchi; hip-hop artists ECD, Illreme, and Temple ATS; reggae singer Rankin Taxi; jazz saxophonist Kikuchi Naruyoshi; female singer-songwriter Nikaidō Kazumi; and dance music DJs Kent, Doel Sound Force, Moodman, and Shiro the Goodman, among others. A highlight of the concert was ECD’s performance of “Yūkoto kikuyō na yatsura janai zo,” with a Japanese taiko drum adding a matsuri-like dotted lilt to his performance. 34 (web figure 5.2-8 ) The knowing audience joined in at his “ko-ro-su-na” chant. Having stoked feelings of defiance, ECD and Illreme rapped the phone number of the Relief Liaison Center, a legal service for arrested protesters. The rhythmic repetition drilled the phone number into the audience’s memory. Seeking to minimize arrests, ASC handed out leaflets with this phone number and posted some guidelines for dealing with the police on its website. The sound demo proper took place at night, with DJ Dr. Shingo and Force of Nature playing house and techno. The police presence was even heavier than in July: At the start of the demonstration, there were an estimated 630 protesters against 500 riot policemen and additional plain-clothes police. As in July, the riot police surrounded the demonstration; an additional file of them walked on the sidewalk, making it difficult for onlookers to join or even see the demonstration. The police set firm rules to separate passersby and protesters:  When protesters asked the police for permission to go onto the sidewalk to rest, they responded that they would not be allowed to reenter the demonstration. They also split the demonstration into two halves, making it seem smaller. Security police and plain-clothes police lined the pedestrian

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overpasses, taking pictures of the crowds. The overwhelming police presence led some participants to remark on the “scary atmosphere.”35 Despite this police pressure, the demonstration grew to about 1,000 participants along the route, reaching a peak at the turnoff from Yoyogi Park into Kōen Dōri. The members of ASC were delighted at the success of their “revenge” demo against the riot police. The demonstration also succeeded in getting press coverage from the Asahi and Tokyo newspapers. ASC sponsored two more sound demonstrations in early 2004, on January 24 and February 22, the latter of which featured Konishi Yasuharu, a founding member of Shibuya-kei pop group Pizzicato Five, as DJ. The February 2004 demonstration was to be ASC’s last, “not because of internal disagreements, as often happens, but because we all got tired with doing things this way… . We got bored, and we couldn’t find the next style of doing things, so we quit” (Oda, interview, 2012). 36 Indeed, protest practices had solidified: the use of sound trucks with performers and amplified sound, the centrality of Miyashita Park as a gathering and ending point, and routes favoring the crowded shopping boulevards and squares of Omotesandō, Kōen Dōri, and Shibuya Station. Police tactics had also settled into a pattern, with exaggerated numbers of security police lining the road and the sidewalk; to counter them, protest organizers routinely brought lawyers along to demonstrations.

Spread to Other Regions Even as ASC disbanded, its concept of the sound demo caught on in other regions. On August 3, 2003, a sound demonstration featuring a sound truck with a DJ was held in Osaka’s entertainment district of Dōtombori, attracting about 250 protesters. As with ASC, the Guru Guru Dōtombori demonstration was put together by “people shoved out of the peace walks, … [in a] temporary fusion of activists and musicians” (Noiz 2011). Freeters carried placards saying, “Assembly of the insurgent poor” and “Give us money! Give us work! Give us food!”37 As in Tokyo, taking back the street was the goal, with many onlookers joining in and placards declaring “What’s so wrong with stepping outside the [designated demonstration] boundary?” Demonstrations followed in central Kyoto on October 19, 2003, and Osaka’s nightclub district of Amemura on May 8, 2004. Similarly, the first sound demo in Nagoya, on June 6, 2004, was supported by “homeless laborers, anarchists, and punks,” who borrowed PA equipment from punk rockers in Tokyo (Noiz 2011). The commonalities in types of participants and tactics showed that younger people throughout Japan shared a frustration with economic circumstances and restrictive spatial practices. There were also regional variants. Kyoto had a history of mobile sound systems going back to the 1990s, using two-wheel carts that were pushed by hand

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or pulled by a bicycle or hand trucks (Noiz 2011). A  sound demonstration using such human-powered carts was easier to mount than one using a truck, since non-motorized carts did not need to be included in the application for permission to demonstrate. This style saw a revival, with such demonstrations taking place in Tokyo on July 4 and September 19, 2004; September 11, 2005; July 22, 2007; and November 16, 2008. Tokyo, Matsumoto, Sendai, Fukuoka, and Kumamoto also staged sound demos with non-motorized carts.

Sound Demonstrations in the Later 2000s From 2005 onward, sound demos addressed the plight of freeters, laborers, and others facing uncertain employment and a financially precarious existence. These “precariats”—a combination of “precarious” and “proletariat”— had already been a strong presence in the original sound demos; now, they protested directly their lack of jobs, job security, benefits, and living wages. In the later 2000s, sound demos for freeters took place annually on May 1, the traditional worker’s day, in Tokyo, Matsumoto, Fukuoka, Sapporo, and Kumamoto. Some considered globalization as one cause of precarity, and several anti-globalization demonstrations were held leading up to the G8 summit in Sapporo in July 2008. A central figure in demonstrations of the late 2000s was Matsumoto Hajime (b. 1974). He had begun organizing protests while a law student at Hōsei University, many of which were humorous stabs at campus life (e.g., the quality and cost of food in the cafeteria). He founded the Zen Nihon Binbō Gakusei Sōrengō (All-Japan Federation of Poor Students), a wry reference to the Zen Nihon Gakusei Jichikai Sōrengō (All-Japan Federation of Students’ Self-Government Associations, or Zengakuren), the radical student group that protested against the U.S.-Japan Security Treaty in the 1960s; he established affiliations at thirteen universities. During this period, he worked in a “recycle” (secondhand) shop and was attracted by the community among the shopkeepers and customers around the store (Matsumoto 2008: 79). In 2005, he opened his own secondhand shop—the first of the Shirōto no Ran (Revolt of the Laymen) shops in the Kōenji district in western Tokyo. At the time, the Kitanaka-Dōri shopping area was in decline as shops were closing (Matsumoto 2008: 81). The Shirōto no Ran group helped to revive the area into a vibrant bohemian community; as of early 2015, the group listed thirteen establishments, including a used furniture store, used clothing store, bar, event space, and guesthouse (web figure 5.2-9 ). 38 Matsumoto soon began organizing demonstrations on poverty-related issues. On August 20, 2005, he led the “Ore no chari o kaese” demonstration

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(Gimme Back My Bike), protesting the zealous impounding of bicycles left around Kōenji Station. He argued that the practice discriminated against the poor, as the people riding bicycles to the station were those who couldn’t afford a home within walking distance of it. For them, the 4,000–5,000-yen charge to reclaim bicycles was too onerous. Matsumoto also noted that city officials and businesses had caused this problem: They had built so many shops around the station that little space was left to park bicycles properly (Matsumoto 2008: 151–152). The planners had conceived space to generate more revenue, and in the process, had squeezed out the poor. The sound demo featured a DJ and a hardcore punk band; whenever the demonstration approached intersections or train stations where people gathered, Matsumoto called out: “Isn’t it strange? They’re taking away other people’s bikes as they please!” Most observers, particularly its 200 participants, saw the carnivalesque demonstration as a fun event, but the police found themselves greatly outnumbered. Similar protests against poverty included the “Yachin o tada ni shiro” demonstration (Make Rent Free) on September 16, 2006, which drew 300 participants. This protest featured precariat advocate Amamiya Karin riding on a makeshift “living room” on wheels, humorously depicting the precariats’ poor living conditions. Some of Matsumoto’s demonstrations yielded concrete results. In March 2006, a proposed revision to the Product Safety Electrical (PSE) Appliance and Material Law required any electrical merchandise older than five or ten years (depending on the product) to bear a PSE seal. The law threatened Matsumoto’s secondhand business, because it made it impossible to resell electrical products from another era. He fashioned a demonstration with the sound truck carrying a retro stereo system and a Nintendo Famicon console—just the sort of products affected by the PSE Law. Two hundred protesters joined, carrying old electrical equipment. NHK showed the demonstration on its news programs (Matsumoto 2008: 163). Matsumoto followed up with a “guerilla performance” in Shinjuku. Since the police do not restrict the activities of megaphone-equipped trucks belonging to political parties, Matsumoto obtained a truck from the New Socialist Party of Japan and parked it in front of the busy Shinjuku Alta plaza. A DJ alternated with secondhand shopkeepers from around the country, who gave speeches denouncing the proposed revision. Their goals were met: The requirement for labeling equipment over a certain age was dropped. Hence, Shirōto no Ran raised objections about precariat causes through festive street performances, employing sound trucks with DJs and hardcore bands. The festive quality and the sound trucks were inherited from the antiwar sound demonstrations, with a large dose of humor injected. Many of these characteristics were carried over into the sound demonstrations against nuclear power.

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The police continued to target sound demonstrations during the later 2000s, establishing a pattern of arrests followed by “revenge demos.” On April 30, 2006, three people were arrested at the “Mayday for Freedom and Survival” demonstration in Tokyo’s Harajuku district, which was held with sponsorship from the General Union of Freeters. The DJ was arrested in the middle of his performance for violation of the Road Traffic Law because he had “mounted the back of a truck for reasons other than to look after the cargo,” even though the application with the police had stated he would be performing. The arrest made the DJ hesitant to perform in another demonstration, as another arrest would get him fired from his day job. 39 Organizers responded to the arrests with a revenge demo entitled “Return of Precariat Mayday,” on August 5 in the electronic goods shopping district of Akihabara. On that day, the organizers held a press conference and rally explaining the precarious nature of freeters’ employment, the supposed reasoning behind the DJ’s arrest, and contact details for lawyers at the demonstration if protesters ran into trouble. Nonetheless, organizers advised protesters to avoid trouble by following the police’s instructions (Deguchi 2008). Oda Masanori himself was arrested while DJ-ing at a sound demonstration protesting the G8 meeting in Sapporo on July 5, 2008, for supposed violations of the Road Traffic Law and the Sapporo Public Security Ordinance for “inciting the crowd at an illegal demonstration.” Three others were also arrested—another DJ, the driver of the sound truck, and a Reuters journalist caught up in the mayhem.40 Shirōto no Ran organized a raucous sound demonstration in Kōenji to protest the arrests. Oda was finally released after eleven days of detention. For his part, Matsumoto pushed back at over-policing in a characteristically humorous manner. In 2004, he applied for permits for “anti-government” demonstrations of several hundred protesters on Christmas Eve and New Year’s Eve. Hundreds of police came, to face no one (Matsumoto 2008: 160).

Conclusion: History of Sound Demonstrations The sound demonstration originated not just to protest a particular cause: It was a way for youths to reoccupy the urban space from which they were becoming marginalized. It drew inspiration from other carnivalesque, reclaim-the-streets-style protests and street performances around the world; Oda’s drum corps was modeled on Seattle’s Infernal Noise Brigade, and the sound trucks shared features with Berlin’s Love Parade. The sound demo also resulted from incremental changes in previous practices of protest performance in Japan. As suggested by Charles Tilly’s theories of contentious performance,

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these changes were driven by the social positions and dispositions of the organizers and the participants. While the peace walks were organized by NGO operators for a relatively mainstream group of protesters, the sound demonstrations were put together by freeters inveighing against the capitalist order by occupying the streets with dancing and sound. The appropriate soundtrack for this purpose was often-wordless contemporary dance music and noise, not the verbal messages of recordings like “Give Peace a Chance” favored by the peace walkers. Such different motives for the use of sound equipment necessitated different names for these demonstrations. Likewise, Oda’s TCDC drew from a long line of drumming in protests and festivals, but its motley character, with its lack of rehearsals and makeshift instruments, was much in keeping with the unruly ethos of the sound demonstration. Police tactics to counter sound demonstrations also crystallized. The police aimed to maintain the order of the city by restricting the growth and movement of the demonstration. They prevented bystanders from joining the protesters by blockading entry from the sidewalks. They surrounded the demonstration on all sides, reducing its visibility from the road and creating a threatening atmosphere. They divided the demonstrators into two or more files, making the demonstration look smaller. They arrested protesters as part of a strategy to discourage further demonstrations and intimidate people from joining them. The protesters developed tactics to counter police: They brought lawyers along to demonstrations, educated protesters on how to avoid arrest, and held larger revenge demonstrations after protesters were arrested. Limited to one sound truck, they distributed the musical entertainment by having drummers perform toward the back of the group. The strategies on both sides, as well as many of the key characters, reappeared in the antinuclear demonstrations of 2011 onward and the demonstrations against the Secrecy Law and Security Bills from 2013 onward.

CH A P T ER 

5.3

The Evolution of Performance Style in Antinuclear Sound Demonstrations

In post-3.11 Japan, public protests have played a major part in raising awareness of the problems with nuclear power and building solidarity among antinuclear citizens. Music is integral to these protests. In the weekly Friday protests in front of the prime minister’s office (Kantei) that had run without a break for an unprecedented three years (as of July 2015), drummers and horn players accompany the protesters’ calls and responses of slogans in unison, while folk singers, traditional drummers, chanters with uchiwadaiko, and fans of the late rocker Imawano Kiyoshirō play in different spots around the block. In ambulatory demonstrations—which attracted 15,000–20,000 people in 2011, as many as 200,000 in 2012, and up to 60,000 in 2013—drum corps, brass bands, chindon bands, and other musicians perform alongside sound trucks, atop which rappers, singers, DJs, and bands perform. The sound demos (­chapter 5.2) have been credited with attracting masses of first-time demonstrators. Protesters credit the performances of musicians for establishing the mood of a demonstration. Drawing from the theories of Charles Tilly and Thomas Turino, this chapter focuses on the music of ambulatory demonstrations and explains the political catalysts for shifts between two styles: presentational and participatory, which I define later. Since 2011, several activist groups have formed or regrouped from earlier activist configurations to hold antinuclear demonstrations:  Shirōto no Ran, which held monthly sound demos for the first six months of the crisis, and subsequently worked with Datsu Genpatsu Suginami; No Nukes More Hearts, which has been holding demonstrations and other events since 2007 and is led by illustrator Misao Redwolf; TwitNoNukes, which began holding 176

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regular monthly demonstrations in April 2011; and the Metropolitan Coalition Against Nukes (MCAN, Shutō Hangenpatsu Rengō, or Hangenren), composed of fourteen antinuclear organizations including members of TwitNoNukes, No Nukes More Hearts, and Shirōto no Ran. MCAN organizes the weekly demonstrations in front of the prime minister’s residence and large-scale demonstrations attracting tens of thousands every few months. These groups have had sharply differing views of the impact music has on a demonstration: Some believe it supports it by attracting people, whereas others believe it detracts from the political purpose. They also disagree on its role: Some believe that music should be for listening, whereas others consider it an activity to be shared by as many people as possible. Moreover, activists have shifted their stances as political circumstances have changed. Charles Tilly noted that protest repertoires change incrementally in response to changes in political opportunity structures, available models of performances, and connections among potential actors (Tilly 2008: 90). As I will illustrate, this theory applies well to the case of music in Japanese antinuclear demonstrations. Part of the debate about music and demonstrations concerns the question: To what extent does a demonstrator engage with a musical performance, and in what ways? To address this question more generally for musical performances, Thomas Turino has categorized them as being in one of two styles: participatory, which has “no artist-audience distinctions, only participants and potential participants performing different roles”; and presentational, where artists play music for an audience that does not participate in the music-making (Turino 2008: 26). These approaches differ in both goals and aesthetics. In the participatory approach, the aim is to involve as many people, as intensely as possible. As such, the music must be easy enough for newcomers to join in; it is usually comprised of short forms that are repeated over and over. While the repetitiveness may make the music uninteresting to an outside audience, it adds to the intensity of the performance for the participants. The emphasis is on inclusivity, regardless of the players’ abilities, at the expense of showmanship. Because participants must concentrate on each other’s actions and sounds, participatory music promotes social bonding (Turino 2008: 28–41). In contrast, presentational music involves a separation between artist and audience, with musicians performing scripted pieces, as they usually do at concerts. The goal of these performances is to entertain the audience, so the emphasis is on showmanship and variability. The performers are not one with the audience, as in a participatory performance; rather, the audience looks at them, and they may even be seen as heroes by some audience members (Turino 2008:  52–63). Nonetheless, presentational performances can also help to forge feelings of community among audience members as triangulated through the performer, whom they may identify with or adore. Many musical

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performances involve some elements of both presentational and participatory approaches, but one approach usually predominates over the other. In sound demonstrations, the protesters and onlookers comprise the audience, but the protesters have also come to participate: They play in one of the ambulatory ensembles, engage in call-and-response patterns, or simply walk along the demonstration route. The performers in a sound demonstration, who must interact with both protesters and onlookers, shift between presentational and participatory approaches. It is useful to think of a spectrum of performance styles from the presentational to the participatory; as we will discuss, several factors, including not only the artist’s genre and disposition, but also the political context, affect which style predominates. This spectrum is among the many factors that organizers of demonstrations consider when they are seeking to maximize participation and impact. This chapter explains the activists’ philosophies behind the presentational and participatory performance styles and the political context for shifts between the two styles. I  focus on rap and reggae performers on sound trucks and on drum corps—forms that easily lend themselves to both presentational and participatory performance. The chapter charts the evolution of musical style in demonstrations from 2011 to 2013, considering primarily the Shirōto no Ran demonstrations of 2011 and the No Nukes More Hearts and MCAN demonstrations of late 2011 to 2013, and the influence that more stoic demonstrations—TwitNoNukes, drum corps-driven protests, and the weekly protests in front of the prime minister’s residence—had on this style. Participatory-style rap, as developed by Akuryō in late 2011, has continued to play a major part in demonstrations. Combinations of the rappers Akuryō, ATS, and ECD performed in this style in the antiracist demonstration of September 22, as well as antinuclear MCAN demonstrations on March 10 and October 13, 2013. Furthermore, the sound demo has been revived in Osaka, Sapporo, and other cities. Along the way, I consider the protest organizers’ differing ideas regarding the nature of participation, as gleaned through discussions with them.

Presentational Style: Shirōto no Ran Demonstrations of 2011 Although it was far from the first demonstration after the Fukushima accident,1 the Shirōto no Ran demonstration of April 10, 2011, is often cited as a milestone in the antinuclear movement because of the masses of people it unexpectedly attracted. This demonstration featured two sound trucks—one with reggae singer Rankin Taxi, female rapper Rumi, and DJs including techno DJ Mayuri, and the other with punk bands. A  drum corps headed by Oda Masanori (Illcommonz, ­chapter  5.2) also joined. Chindon-style brass band

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Jintaramūta, headed by Ōkuma Wataru—a member of activist band Soul Flower Union Mononoke Summit—played international protest classics such as “We Shall Overcome” and Chilean singer-songwriter Victor Jara’s “El derecho de vivir en paz” (The Right to Live in Peace). As music critic and Shirōto no Ran member Futatsugi Shin explained, the demonstration had been organized because the group was astounded by the lack of antinuclear views reported in the media: “The going assumption was that nuclear power would continue as if nothing had happened. But people on the street felt outraged. We had to show something” (Futatsugi Shin, in conversation with Noma Yasumichi, Club Cactus, Tokyo, August 9, 2012). Originally envisioned as a demonstration of a thousand or so people, it grew to 15,000 participants as passersby joined in the course of the demonstration. Matsumoto Hajime, the founder of Shirōto no Ran, was himself mystified by the huge turnout, explaining, “It wasn’t because our group tried to recruit many people. Rather, it happened naturally because everyone was angry, so that word got around on its own. We’d never had 10,000 people show up at an event before” (Matsumoto Hajime, interview with the author, Tokyo, February 12, 2012). Even Noma Yasumichi, an activist and music critic with mixed feelings about sound demonstrations, conceded, “Many people got into protesting through the Shirōto no Ran demonstration on April 10 [2011]. One can’t deny the importance of those demonstrations” (Noma, Club Cactus, Tokyo, 2012). Following the success of this demonstration, the group concentrated its antinuclear demonstrations in heavily trafficked central Tokyo shopping districts—Shibuya (May 7), Shinjuku (June 11), Ginza (August 6), and Shinjuku (September 11)—each attracting 15,000 to 20,000 participants. The places were chosen because the target audience for these demonstrations was not the government per se, but rather citizens who were either not aware of the issues regarding nuclear power or not speaking up, despite being against nuclear power (Matsumoto, interview). A N I NCLUSI V E PH I LOSOPH Y

A distinguishing characteristic of the Shirōto no Ran demonstrations of 2011 was that they were all sound demonstrations, usually with a hip-hop/reggae/ DJ truck (organized by Futatsugi) and a hardcore/punk band truck (organized by Anamizu Masahiko of the hardcore band Pinprick Punishment). The organizers’ stance was to welcome musicians’ participation; as Futatsugi explained, “We’re not really organizers (shusaisha) so much as we invite people to participate (yobikake). If someone approaches us and says, ‘I want to have a reggae truck, a hardcore truck,’ or whatever, we invite them to do it, as long as they take care of renting the truck and sound system themselves” (Futatsugi, interview with the author, Tokyo, August 18, 2012). Similarly, Matsumoto said,

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“We don’t try to determine the musical genre. Usually those artists with whom our circle has relationships approach us. It naturally leans toward some genres more than others. Maybe those genres tend to be more politically conscious? There are a lot of punk rockers in Kōenji, which is why our sound demos tend to involve them. Lots of bands want to participate. We’re besieged by them” (Matsumoto, interview, 2012). In allowing individuals to take the initiative, Shirōto no Ran acted on its philosophy. As Futatsugi explained, “it’s best to have a diversity of people there—suspicious characters, the shopkeepers and shoppers of the commercial streets (shōtengai), labor unions, families, everyone—showing their individuality while saying, ‘We oppose nuclear power’” (Futatsugi, Club Cactus). “It has more impact if you let passersby see this chaotic amalgamation, as it naturally is, saying ‘No Nukes’ together” (Futatsugi, interview, 2012). Such diversity, the group believed, became more difficult if a few central people decided how things should be done. Shirōto no Ran also left the booking of performers up to the people organizing each truck, who typically leaned heavily on their personal connections. As Futatsugi explained, “The people around us have strong connections with underground musicians [i.e., outside of the major record labels],2 so we tend to invite them—acquaintances of acquaintances, friends of friends. It’s usually more difficult to make arrangements with major-name musicians” (Futatsugi, interview). Hence, the performing musicians tended to be underground and included few Oricon-charting musicians, Namba Akihiro being one of a few exceptions. DE BAT E S OV ER G E N R E S

Given this reliance on underground performers, the genres typically played in sound demonstrations—hardcore punk, techno, reggae, and hip-hop—are usually more subcultural than mainstream. As Noma explained, “These [subcultural] genres tend to attract people who are different. On the other hand, the mainstream is listening to Exile [J-Pop boy band] or AKB48 [idol-pop girl band]. It’s a huge gap.” He realized this gap was potentially problematic:  “Music plays on the emotions, which makes it a double-edged sword. If you don’t like the genre or song, you won’t listen to the message” (Noma, Club Cactus). Futatsugi also acknowledged that the music would attract those who like the genre but drive away those who don’t. He noted that the aggressive nature of hardcore punk made it particularly controversial: “Some people live by it. Those who hate it won’t go near it” (Futatsugi, interview). For example, Miyakoshi Satoko, a member of the artist collective Sayonara Atom, expressed horror at the punks around the sound truck in the April 10 demonstration: “Their makeup was scary. They even had their placards written

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in blood ink! I had doubts as to whether such a demonstration would attract more people from here on.”3 Shirōto no Ran even held a meeting to discuss whether or not its demonstrations should continue to have a hardcore truck; the group decided that it was “more important to present these subcultures and show all that’s in the world… . There are people who can only express their antinuclear stance through hardcore punk. Their expression should be respected” (Futatsugi, interview). The group rationalized that each demonstration organized itself into segregated blocks, and that those who did not like the music could choose to be in a different block (Futatsugi, Club Cactus). This segmented approach made sense: Rather than allow the demonstrators to march as one continuous file, the police typically broke up the protesters into blocks of several hundred to a few thousand, spacing them one large city block or two apart. This practice mitigates traffic bottlenecks—and makes the demonstration look smaller. It does, however, help to segment the group into different sounds and atmospheres. A large demonstration often includes a drum corps block, a family block for protesters with children, a sound truck or two, and general blocks centered on calling out slogans. PER FOR M A NCE ST Y L E: MOR E FOCUS ON R A PPER S, SI NGER S, WOR DS

In the sound demos of the 2000s, the featured music was house and techno, with hardcore punk also included. These musics seemed a propos to the purpose of music in these demonstrations, which was to attract attention, take over sonic space, and entice dancing, in line with their reclaim-the-streets subtheme. The focus was very much on the DJ, without much rap or singing. In contrast, the sound demos since 2011 have featured more rappers, with the likes of Rumi, ECD, and Akuryō. As Oda Masanori, the drum corps leader who was also on the organizing committee for the 2003 demonstrations, explains: This change to rap allows for calls and responses between the performers and the audience. There wasn’t much of that in the early 2000s. Back then, when DJ Mayuri played the Beastie Boys “You’ve Gotta Fight for Your Right to Party,” people would call out the refrain. But that was it. These days, ECD and other rappers would respond to and expand that. There was none of that before. (Oda Masanori, interview with the author, Tokyo, August 16, 2012) The rapper ECD concurred:  “Back in 2003, there were some call-andresponses, like ‘Don’t start the war.’ But it wasn’t that much, and there were almost no speeches.” He believed a different sense of purpose necessitated a more verbal response: “As serious as the war was, Iraq was very distant from us.

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The  nuclear crisis is right in front of us, affecting every Japanese in his/her daily life. This time, we have an urgent message. So there’s more focus on rappers and singers, who use words, fitted to music, to deliver those messages” (ECD, interview with the author, Tokyo, December 22, 2011). Hence, the change in political purpose led to the change in the central musical genre—in keeping with Tilly’s theory that changes in political opportunities cause incremental changes in contentious repertoires. A F O C U S O N   P R E PA R E D   S O N G S

While performers in the Shirōto no Ran sound demonstrations improvised speeches and engaged the protesters in calls and responses, the vast majority of their performance consisted of prewritten songs and raps; hence, these performances leaned toward the presentational end of the performance spectrum. For example, in the June 11, 2011, Shirōto no Ran demonstration in Shinjuku, DJ Shinco of the hip-hop trio Scha Dara Parr played “Kaese! Chikyū o 2011” (Give Us Back the Earth)4 —a mash-up of Tone-Loc’s “Wild Thing” (1988) with the song “Kaese! Taiyō o” (Give Us Back the Sun) from the film Godzilla vs. the Smog Monster (1971)—in its multi-verse entirety. When ECD took the microphone, he performed his “Recording Report:  Hangenpatsu Remix” (­chapter 4), 5 with the protesters whooping as they recognized the opening line “Toketa rashiizo, moreteta rashiizo” (We seem to have had a meltdown, radiation seems to have been leaking) (web figure 5.3-1 ). Next, he performed “Exodus 11,” a rap he wrote a few days after 3.11, having returned to an eerily empty Tokyo after evacuating his family to Hiroshima; in the refrain, he defiantly declares that no matter how bad the world gets, he and his wife still have the right to have a third child.6 Finally, he performed “Mada yume no naka” (Still in a Dream), about his anxieties over bringing up two daughters under straitened circumstances. At the end of the rap, he passionately repeated an additional phrase, reflecting the fears of many parents (rhymes italicized): Jūnen tatte, gan ni natte, Oya o urandari suru kamo shirenai. Ten years later, having developed cancer, You might come to bear a grudge against your parents.7 Hence, ECD’s set list was composed entirely of songs that were tied to the antinuclear theme. Most artists, however, perform a mixture of songs that are thematically connected and songs that are not. Rankin Taxi’s set list for the Shirōto no Ran demos in April, May, and June 2011 included the sexually humorous song “Chin chin pin pin” (Hard-On) and the uplifting song “Aozora”

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(Blue Skies) along with his antinuclear song “You Can’t See It, You Can’t Smell It Either” (­chapter  4) and “Mental Slavery,” a warning against being misled by politicians and the media. As Matsumoto said, “I think message songs are important, but it would seem strange to have only message-oriented songs. I think it’s fine for the musicians to perform as they usually would. It’s more important that the performers also talk and express their thoughts in their own way” (Matsumoto, interview). Futatsugi added: Nuclear power is a serious issue. But it’s not necessarily best to play serious music to support serious topics, all the time. No matter how you express yourself, it’s still going to be serious, because the topic is serious. What I like about Rankin Taxi is his humor; he can shift the topic in a way that captures your interest. It’s best to have musicians with a variety of approaches. You have a comical performer like Rankin, and you also have someone straight, emotional, and sentimental like Rumi. There are also different types of protesters: you’ll get people who want to shout “No Nukes” passionately, and you’ll also have people who want to say it in a funky way. It’s best for the demonstration to have several artists, each of whom engages people in a different way: anger, laughter, emotion and sentiment. Then you could appeal to people through various affects. (Futatsugi, interview) E NG AGI NG AU DI E NCE S

While most performances of Shirōto no Ran sound demos were of prewritten songs, the musicians also engaged the audience-cum-protesters in more participatory practices, thus sowing the seeds for a more participatory approach down the line. For example, Rankin Taxi encouraged protesters to sing along to the bridge of “You Can’t See It, You Can’t Smell It Either.” Quoting the melody of “Old McDonald Had a Farm”—familiar in Japan as “Yukai na makiba”— Rankin substitutes the refrain “E-I-E-I-O” with the Japanese near-homonym “iya, iya yo,” which expresses annoyance and disgust8 (web figure 5.3-2 ): Hōshanō kuratte shinjau nante, iya iya yo. Itsu no ma nika moreteta nante, iya iya yo. Umarete kuru kodomo ni uramareru nante, iya iya yo. Yutaka de fukenkō na kurashi nante, iya iya yo. Do I want to die from radiation? No way! It’s only a leak, but it can’t be stopped? No way! Do I want to be hated by children to be born in the future? No way! Do I want an affluent but unhealthy lifestyle? No way!

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At the April 10 demonstration, the audience easily picked up this repeated scheme and sang louder with each repetition. Several copies of Rankin’s song from twenty-two years ago had been uploaded onto YouTube just before the demonstration, so the protesters were prepared. Similarly, many protesters at the demonstrations in June and September 2011 were already familiar with ECD’s “Recording Report:  Hangenpatsu Remix,” as ECD had posted it on YouTube in April 2011. The rap had spawned several fan remixes and a video by Illcommonz, also posted on YouTube. Hence, the protesters joined ECD in the refrain “Acchi mo kocchi mo, nicchi mo sacchi mo” (Here, there, everywhere, we’re in deep trouble), as well as the punch line “No hōshanō, mō iranaiyo” (We don’t need any more radiation).9 (web figure 5.3-2 ) Interspersed in ECD’s performance was a call-and-response pattern he had developed for the occasion (example 5.3-1). Example 5.3-1  ECD’s call-and-response pattern.

Other performers also cultivated signature call-and-response patterns. At the April 10 demonstration, Rankin Taxi improvised a series of antinuclear comments with a recurring tagline in a catchy melody that enticed the protesters to join in the singsong refrain “Yappari genpatsu dame zettai” (Sure enough, nuclear power is totally useless) (example 5.3-2, web figure 5.3-4 ).10 Example 5.3-2  Rankin Taxi’s call-and-response pattern

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Futatsugi said, “[That call] was a huge hit. Everyone got very excited, and they reacted really well to Rankin’s humor and gentle voice. I thought, ‘I’m really glad I invited him’” (Futatsugi, interview). In addition to these signature calls, the performers also engaged in the standard calls of “genpatsu hantai” (we oppose nuclear power) and other calls. Nevertheless, the calls were not the centerpieces of these performances. A M O V E T O WA R D   S P R E C H C H O R

Call-and-response slogans have marked Japanese demonstrations and political gatherings at least since the worker’s movements of the 1920s, and the Japanese use the German word “Sprechchor” (speaking chorus) to describe them.11 Although Sprechchor were not the primary focus of the Shirōto no Ran demonstrations, there was a pivotal event in the April 10 demonstration that hinted at the future shape of demonstrations. As Futatsugi Shin recounted: The sound demo changed after 3.11. An interesting moment came while DJ Mayuri was DJ-ing. There was a huge crowd that had gathered around the sound truck. We were all very tense. It was so soon after the disaster that no one knew what to do. We were just following the truck, not raising our voices. When the truck turned on Oume Kaidō [a major thoroughfare], Mayuri played a cool, soulful techno track [Dutch DJ Joris Voorn’s “Incident”]. She cut the bass for a long time. As we went into the intersection, she suddenly put the bass up, and everyone began to dance in unison. Someone spontaneously yelled out, “Genpatsu yamero!” (Abandon nuclear power) (web figure 5.3-5 ).12 Without being led by anyone, everyone joined in this call-and-response [in rhythm to the beats]. The Sprechchor spread throughout the entire block (web figure 5.3-6 .13 It was an amazing scene. At that time, people were not yet accustomed to going to demonstrations, raising their voices, or repeating Sprechchor. Everyone had a hard time doing that. Techno music gave us this huge push, helping us to cry out in the street. “Everyone, we can raise our voices!” The music was the trigger. It was one of the highlights of the April 10 demonstration. (Futatsugi, interview) Continuing this trend, at the next Shirōto no Ran demonstration of May 7, 2011, DJ Tasaka played samples of a child saying “Genpatsu hantai” (We oppose nuclear power), “Genpatsu iranai” (We don’t need nuclear power), and “Imasugu tomeyo” (Let’s stop [the nuclear reactors] right now) in rhythm (web figure 5.3-7 ).14 The crowd engaged in a call-and-response

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to this child’s voice. Such incidents, however, tended to comprise a small part of sound demos in those early days, most of which concentrated on rappers and singers performing prewritten songs or DJs playing tracks (i.e., in presentational style). M USIC’S CON T R I BU T ION TO DE MONST R AT IONS

Sound demonstrations were credited with attracting people to the protests, particularly at a time when only a small minority of Japanese citizens were accustomed to demonstrating. As Noma explained, “There are many people who were first attracted to a demonstration through a sound demo and have come to participate in social movements” (Noma Yasumichi, interview with author, Tokyo, December 17, 2012). As ECD explained further, “Sound demos can appeal to the passersby on the street and are effective as publicity, even now. They’re the modern-day version of chindon-ya” (ECD, interview). Matsumoto (figure 5.3-1, web figure 5.3-8 ) mentioned that at a time when citizens weren’t used to voicing their opposition, seeing a musician they know

Figure 5.3-1  Matsumoto Hajime, founder of Shirōto no Ran, at an antinuclear demonstration in Suginami-ku, May 6, 2012. Photo by the author.

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perform or participate in a demonstration made them feel that they too could raise their voices (Matsumoto, interview). Music was also seen as giving energy to participants at protests. ECD said that sound demos and music are “good at lifting up the feelings and excitement level of the participating protesters.” The rapper ATS noted, “The protesters tell us that it’s easier to walk and shout Sprechchor when music is playing.” He recounted a similar experience when he himself participated in a sit-in at Ōi Nuclear Power Plant the evening before it was restarted. The group was shouting Sprechchor continuously through the entire night until the following morning. He said, “I don’t think we could have lasted if we didn’t have the drums or music. They kept us going” (ATS, interview with the author, Tokyo, August 10, 2012). ATS said that some outsiders criticized the Ōi sit-in as being too much like a matsuri (festival). Although social movements around the globe had been incorporating carnivalesque approaches since the late 1990s (Bakhtin 1998; Reed 2005), this aspect of sound demos made them prone to criticism, as it looked like people were just having fun, rather than addressing a serious matter. On the other hand, Matsumoto did not find fun-making inappropriate for demonstrations, as it attracted attention and helped foster a sense of unity among participants. He had been incorporating fun and humor into demonstrations since the mid-2000s (­chapter 5.2), aligning him with the approaches taken at the WTO meeting in Seattle and the antiwar sound demos of 2003. Matsumoto defended this fun-making: I don’t think there’s anything negative in having music at a demonstration. It’s narrow-minded to think that you can’t do a demonstration unless it looks completely serious. I think you must allow for the ability to express your opinions in a light-hearted manner. It’s disrespectful to the musicians to say that a demonstration is not serious just because there’s music. Musicians are earnestly playing music, with a proper message, to express themselves. To say that these people are just amusing themselves is wrong. It’s a pin-headed way of thinking. (Matsumoto, interview) Similarly, Futatsugi’s instructions to DJs on sound trucks emphasized the festive aspects of the music. He explained, “I hardly give DJs any direction. But the one thing I do ask is that they pay heed to the perspective of the people on the street. If those people don’t like what’s being played, it’s negative for the cause. Rather than emphasize the ‘rebel’ aspects of the music, I ask them to keep it funky. People on the street get into funky music more readily than serious, rebellious, or punkish music.” (Futatsugi, interview)

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POLICE PR E SSU R E

The large numbers of people that Shirōto no Ran’s sound demos were attracting had caught the attention of the police. In the days before the demonstration in Shinjuku on September 11, 2011, signs pointed to a showdown brewing between the demonstrators and the police. Futatsugi explained, “During the June 11 demonstration in Shinjuku, we completely packed the Alta-mae plaza [in front of Studio Alta, near an exit of Shinjuku Station]. We’d wanted to turn that place into a liberated zone, and we succeeded. It was a complete victory for us. It was a complete fiasco for the police. When we did another demonstration in Shinjuku three months later, they were determined not to let us take over again, so they came to crush us” (Futatsugi, interview). To make things worse, Shinjuku’s police force had a more severe stance than the police force of Kōenji, Shirōto no Ran’s home neighborhood. The Shinjuku police had developed this stance in reaction to the district’s history as the site of large protests and riots, most notoriously the Shinjuku riots of 1968. Before the demonstration, flowerbeds suddenly appeared in Alta-mae, the location for the pre- and after-rallies; this development reduced the available square footage and limited the number of people that could assemble there.15 At the last minute, the police ordered a complete change in the demonstration route, moving its starting point from Alta-mae to Shinjuku Chūō Park, far away on the other side of the railway station (web figure 5.3-9 ).16 As Futatsugi recalled, “It was obvious that the police were determined to make arrests from their sheer numbers, the tense atmosphere, the way they were pushing us around, their facial expressions, their language with us” (Futatsugi, interview). A file of policemen walked directly behind the sound truck, forcing the demonstrators to walk at a considerable distance behind it. Futatsugi soon found himself arrested: I was in charge of the DJ and rap truck, which was the most popular— humongous speakers up to here, the loudest sound. It attracted so many people from the street that you could no longer distinguish between the people on the sidewalk and the demonstrators on the road. The police hated that, because the demonstration was going to get bigger and bigger. About twenty minutes into the demonstration, seven policemen came up to me and ordered me to separate the people on the sidewalk from those on the street. They commanded me to order those on the sidewalk to get onto the road with the demonstration, or they’d arrest me. I told them that it was the personal decision of these individuals to stay on the sidewalk, and that I had

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no right to tell them what to do. The police wouldn’t listen. They handed me three written warnings. Upon the third time, they suddenly rushed about. Someone said, “Arrest him!” All of a sudden, a bunch of them came upon me, knocked me down, grabbed my limbs, stopped a taxi passing by, and pushed me into it. I got taken straight to the Shinjuku police station, on the suspicion that I was holding an “improper demonstration.” It was all over in an instant. (Futatsugi, interview) Similarly, several demonstrators were pushed down, dragged, and arrested as the sound truck passed by Shinjuku Station’s crowded south exit.17 As ECD said, “People got arrested for bullshit reasons. My acquaintance said the police suddenly yelled, ‘You’re pushing that girl,’ then handcuffed him. It’s harassment” (ECD, interview with the author, Tokyo, December 22, 2011). More demonstrators were arrested around the punk-band truck. All twelve arrested were thrown in jail. Witnessing the arrests greatly affected Rumi and ECD, who were on the sound truck. As part of his freestyling that day, ECD screamed a series of sarcastic questions (web figure 5.3-10 )18: Demo o yat temo iidesuka? Meiwaku kaketemo iidesuka? Denki tsukat temo iidesuka? Kodomo tsukut temo iidesuka? Tokyo nigetemo iidesuka? Tokyo ni nokot temo iidesuka? Do you mind if we demonstrate? Do you mind if we cause a nuisance? Do you mind if we use electricity? Do you mind if we have children? Do you mind if we escape from Tokyo? Do you mind if we remain in Tokyo? Matsumoto led a campaign to get Futatsugi and the others out of jail.19 He explained, “Futatsugi is a central figure. We spread the word, ‘He’s been caught; let’s all support him.’ All kinds of people—activists, non-activists, musicians, people from dance clubs, and so on, came forth. It became a hot topic and a pain in the ass for the police” (Matsumoto, interview). Half of those arrested, including Futatsugi, were released in two days, while the others were released within eleven days. The police charged none of them but still searched some of their homes.

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Reflecting on his experience, Futatsugi explained that this showdown was inevitable, as Shirōto no Ran’s reclaim-the-street ethos conflicted with the police’s raison d’être: It’s not that the police don’t like the antinuclear cause. They don’t necessarily want to crush it. Their job is to maintain order in the city. As police, they dislike anything that disturbs the calm. On the other hand, what distinguishes a Shirōto no Ran demonstration is that it is looking to see how much chaos it could bring to the street. We believe that if the demonstration has even a little impact on the city, it would send a political message. Our premise is that it is useless to conduct a meek and obedient demonstration. No matter what we do, we’re going to end up conflicting with the police. Even if we try to demonstrate in an obedient way, we’re inevitably going to clash with them. (Futatsugi, interview) Futatsugi’s view was confirmed when the examiner in detention told him that “it was fine for us to demonstrate, but that our demonstrations were against the rules.” From the police’s point of view, it was against the rules to have more people join in the course of a demonstration or have so many people come to watch that they overflow the sidewalk. Futatsugi surmised that the police still considered a proper demonstration to be an “old-style” one, run by organizations and their members:  “Those protest organizers know how many participants there will be in advance, because they have a regular membership. If the organizer says 200 protesters will come, then 200 protesters will come. The police think that’s how a demonstration should be. But we think demonstrations should be allowed to grow organically” (Futatsugi, interview). I M PA C T O N   S H I R Ō T O N O R A N   D E M O S

After the arrests in the September 11 demonstration, Shirōto no Ran pulled back from acting as the sole organizer of demonstrations. As Futatsugi admitted, “The arrest of twelve people in Shinjuku was a big deal. We saw right there the limit of what the loud, rough format of the sound demo could do for making an impact, at least for our group. If Shirōto no Ran got a reputation as rowdy, and we carried on organizing demonstrations after those arrests, then we risked worsening the image of the antinuclear movement. We didn’t want that” (Futatsugi, interview). Performers and protest organizers saw the arrests as a bad sign. ECD noted, “That Shinjuku demonstration proved that the police are targeting sound

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demonstrations. If there were no sound truck, there wouldn’t have been so many police” (ECD, interview). Oda commented: All the people who were arrested at the September 11 demonstrations were around the sound trucks. It showed to those organizing a demonstration—not just Shirōto no Ran, but anyone—that sound trucks were high risk. Perhaps it was a turning point for sound demonstrations. In July [2012], there was a 170,000-person gathering in Yoyogi Park organized by Sayonara Genpatsu, and they had a sound truck. The police treated that block differently from all the others; they were very strict with it. We know the police target sound demos, making it difficult to hold them. But they seem easier to do in regional cities, where the police haven’t targeted them so much. (Oda, interview, 2012) Matsumoto deduced that Shirōto no Ran’s role as an antinuclear protest organizer had run its course: For the first six months, we all did these demonstrations together with many other people. It was a good way of doing things in the initial stages. People with different philosophies were all coming together for a purpose. But if you continue doing everything together, you get frustrated that you can’t do things your own way. Then the movement stops getting stronger. You won’t succeed if you just hold huge demonstrations with everyone over a long period of time. The number of participants will fall off. People will get exhausted and bored because they’re continuing only out of a sense of obligation. That’s not good. So we thought we’d go our separate ways, so that each group could protest in the way that would have the most impact. The people who were coming to our demonstrations are now staging them themselves. (Matsumoto, interview) Futatsugi echoed the sense that the group’s mission had been accomplished: “We saw our role as lighting a fire, and that all kinds of people will start doing their own demonstrations.” He also echoed the exhaustion: “Half a year is the limit for staging monthly demonstrations with that level of energy. Everyone’s working at his/her jobs while organizing these demonstrations. If you’re staging something of that size, you can hardly do anything else. That’s why we stopped doing them” (Futatsugi, interview). In addition, some performers also shared this feeling that the sound demo format, as initially conceived by Shirōto no Ran, had run its course. As ECD

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said in December 2011, “A sound demo can help raise interest and get more people to come. But at this time, I think they’re not so necessary for that purpose alone. It’s hard to avoid the criticism that they are just entertainment. At this point, it’s better to concentrate on appealing to people in the street in a more serious manner” (ECD, interview). R EFOCUSI NG DE MONST R AT IONS AT T H E LOC A L L E V E L

Shirōto no Ran did not stop organizing sound demonstrations. Matsumoto and his crew refocused on community-oriented demonstrations primarily around their own Suginami Ward, teaming with local citizens including Harada Akira, a young councilor of Suginami Ward and a member of the Communist Party,20 under the name “Datsu Genpatsu Suginami” (Suginami for the Abolition of Nuclear Power). The first of these demonstrations was held in Asagaya, Suginami Ward, on February 19, 2012, with subsequent demonstrations held on May 6, December 22, 2012, and April 7, 2013. The sound demonstrations I attended in February and May attracted about 5,000–6,000 participants of various ages and types, from punk, reggae, and techno fans following their respective sound trucks to families with small children and the elderly (figure 5.3-2).

Figure 5.3-2  Punk truck, Datsu Genpatsu Suginami demonstration, February 19, 2012. Photo by the author.

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When I  met with Matsumoto before the February 19 demonstration, he described its goal as bringing together “a real mix-up of people at the local level—the aunts and uncles, the mothers, the shopkeepers” (Matsumoto, interview). In keeping with this goal, the group began holding organizational meetings that were open to the general public and held in community centers in January 2012 to discuss how these antinuclear demonstrations should be conducted. In a blog post inviting participants, Matsumoto described a demonstration block for everyone imaginable: a karaoke truck for the “aunts and uncles,” a DJ sound truck, a band truck, a block for parents with baby strollers (including a diaper-changing cart), a Sprechchor block, a right-wing block, an “unprecedented business opportunity” block for local merchants (some of whom gave discounts to demonstrators), and a “fighting elderly” block, the latter flouting the power bestowed upon them through Japan’s traditional respect for the elderly: No one can match the magnificent power of a demonstration block whose average age is 80! If a policeman the same age as their children fails to remember his gratitude to the elderly and thoughtlessly tries to restrict the demonstration, they might well end up shouting, “You idiot!” and deliver a firm smack on the policeman’s head! 21 In all seriousness, Matsumoto was seeking to encourage everyday people—not just activists—to speak up and spark local demonstrations all over Japan. Local constituents elect many of the Diet members, and local governments have a say as to whether or not nuclear plants can be built or restarted in their towns. But Matsumoto was also thinking of the emotional impact of seeing an acquaintance demonstrate. As he explained in February 2012: What would be powerful about this local type of demonstration is that your neighbors would be demonstrating, which itself would be a surprise. It’s a big deal for moms, uncles, and shopkeepers who have not been politically active before to participate in a demonstration. People would see them and think, hey, these people I know are demonstrating! Most people think nuclear power is unnecessary. If all sorts of people came to raise their voices, it would have the greatest impact on public opinion. Then it will become a major issue that the government must face. That would lead to change. If only a few central people are demonstrating and everything depends on them, then you would just have “the people who specialize in demonstrating.” The police will think, “We’ll show these guys a

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thing or two.” We have to avoid that kind of situation. The world is not going to change that way. (Matsumoto, interview) CR I T ICISM AG A I NST SOU N D DE MONST R AT IONS

Although Shirōto no Ran’s sound demonstrations were credited with attracting people to protests, many activists had qualms about the message they presented. As Noma explained: When you have music at a demonstration, it’s difficult to avoid the appearance that it’s just for fun… . If there is a famous DJ like Mayuri heading a sound truck, you’ll attract a lot of people, but those people would be coming for the DJ. You reverse the priorities from making a political statement to entertaining a crowd. You’d see a bunch of people whooping, hollering, and getting excited to music from a sound truck. The police push and shove, and someone gets arrested. That won’t look good for the cause, and the message would be lost to the passersby. (Noma, interview) Contrary to Matsumoto’s view that fun at demonstrations encouraged participation, Noma believed that it actually discouraged it: “If people look like they’re having too much fun and getting too excited, it gives the impression that the fun is shared only among an inner circle. It loses its openness to new participants. When the Japanese see other people getting excited and they are not in that group, they feel very alienated and isolated… . They think it’s something they shouldn’t join” (Noma, interview). Decorum at sound demos was an issue. Because they were originally conceived in 2003 as street parties, many protesters at sound demos considered it normal to drink beer along the route. In the context of the antinuclear movement—a serious matter of national policy—activists raised questions as to the appropriateness of this behavior. As Rankin Taxi commented, “It doesn’t look good when demonstrators at a sound demo are seen dancing with beers in their hands. That’s fine for events like LGBT parades, but not for antinuclear demonstrations. It looks too rowdy for the political theme” (Rankin Taxi, Club Cactus). As previously mentioned, the musical genres in sound demos were potentially controversial. Indeed, differences in musical taste or social associations of genres had the potential to undermine attempts at finding common ground. Noma explained:  “In demonstrations, the underground subcultures tend to come to the fore and dominate. It can make the demonstration look like a gathering of subcultures, or demonstrating itself to be a subcultural activity.”

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Furthermore, these subcultural musics excluded different groups: “Folk music is associated with an older generation. Punk and techno are associated with a younger generation. They’re all subcultures: They don’t represent everyone.” He continued: The antinuclear movement can’t be seen as a minority rights movement or a subcultural social movement. We have to appeal to the masses. And from that point of view, the Shirōto no Ran demonstrations reached a limit there. They came to have a reputation of appealing more to young music lovers, punks, and anarchists. The movement needed to appeal to ordinary men and women, mothers and fathers, the elderly. (Noma, Club Cactus)

Development of a Participatory Style A M O R E S T O I C M O D E L :  T H E   T W I T N O N U K E S A N D K A N T EI PROT E STS

At the same time as the sound demonstrations, a more stoic style of antinuclear demonstrations was taking root. One of the first new series of demonstrations was TwitNoNukes, its name derived from the fact that it was organized through Twitter. Hirano Taichi, who was then twenty-six years old, had attended protests in front of TEPCO headquarters and METI, but had been disappointed by the emptiness of Kasumigaseki on the weekends.22 He then participated in a Gensuikin-organized antinuclear demonstration in the Ginza on March 27, 2011, where he found 1,200 participants, many of whom, like him, had learned of the protest through Twitter. Also present at that demonstration were several future participants in TwitNoNukes, including Noma; Ishiguro Keita, MC in rap group Kimidori and former member of ASC; and the rapper Akuryō. After the demonstration, Hirano found his timeline filling up with comments such as “Why aren’t there demonstrations in Shinjuku or Shibuya?” On April 5, Hirano tweeted, “Hypothetically speaking, if you would be interested in participating in a demonstration around Shibuya calling for the end of nuclear power, for which we’d recruit people via Twitter, please retweet.” By the following day, the message had been retweeted over 300 times.23 The first TwitNoNukes demonstration took place in Shibuya on April 30, 2011, attracting about 1,000 people. It was held about once a month until May 2012, when its organizers became overwhelmed from managing the weekly Friday protests in front of the prime minister’s residence, which had grown to 150,000–200,000 participants that summer. It continued again from August to November 2012, and March, May, and November of 2013. Its

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format was replicated in several places across the country, including Osaka, Nagoya, Kanagawa, Hiroshima, Gunma, Fukuoka, and other areas. Although the organizing group for TwitNoNukes included well-known musicians, music writers, and bloggers, it decided not to include music in the demonstration or have live performances at rallies before or after the demonstration. Instead, it aimed for a simple and stoic demonstration centered on Sprechchor and placards, and without a sound truck. As Noma explained, “For young people who don’t belong to a political organization, there were only two choices of demonstrations: one organized by Shirōto no Ran or one by labor unions. Many people did not want to go to either of these. We wanted to put together an alternative” (Noma, Club Cactus). ATS agrees, “When TwitNoNukes was started, the concept was to try to eliminate anything that wasn’t necessary. There were no flags, no sound systems, no nonsense. It was supposed to be very stoic” (ATS, interview). The Twitter demos attracted a steady rate of participation of about 1,000 people each time. Its simple concept made it easy to join, while the drum circle (figure 5.3-3), Kodomo no Mirai Orchestra, and the colorful banners

Figure 5.3-3  TwitNoNukes demonstration, Tokyo, September 2011. Photo © Rio Akiyama. Reprinted by permission of Rokusaisha, Ltd.

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made by Sayonara Atom made the demonstration more inviting to first-time protesters. In addition, TwitNoNukes published a guidebook to demonstrating, edited by Noma, which lowered the hurdles of participation for first-time protesters. 24 Several musicians participated in these demonstrations, but only as ordinary citizens; they included those who had performed in sound demos, like ECD and Rankin Taxi, as well as Gotō Masafumi of Asian Kung-Fu Generation and Nakagawa Takashi of Soul Flower Union. But when the government began discussing the restarting of nuclear power plants that had been shut down for periodic maintenance, the once-a-month effort no longer felt sufficient. From November 2011 onward, part of this group began shouting criticisms at TEPCO in front of its headquarters. This type of stationary demonstration did not need permission from the police, as it did not affect access to roads. These demonstrations served as the seeds for the stationary protests that would develop in front of the prime minister’s residence (Kantei-mae kōgi). Based on the simplest of ideas—shouting Sprechchor opposing nuclear power directly at the politicians in charge—the Kantei-mae antinuclear protest distinguished itself in its persistence and numbers. As previously mentioned, the protests had been going on without a break for over three years (as of September 2015) since March 29, 2012. As tension and outrage grew over the restarting of the Ōi nuclear reactors, these protests attracted impressive numbers of participants—about 45,000 on June 22, 2012; 200,000 on June 29; 150,000 on July 6 and July 13; and 80,000–90,000 on July 20, August 3, and August 10 (Noma 2012; Williamson 2012). Much of this growth was through word of mouth and tweets. The protests were being organized by the Metropolitan Coalition Against Nukes (MCAN)—a coalition, formed in late 2011 of several protest organizations, including TwitNoNukes, No Nukes More Hearts, Drums of Fury, Datsu Genpatsu Suginami, Tanpopo-sha, and others. This coalition did not have its own Twitter account until June 21, 2012. Unable to reach the Kantei itself due to police barricades and roadblocks, many protesters began protesting in front of other governmental offices at the same time, such as the Diet Building, METI, MEXT, and the Ministry of the Environment (in which the new nuclear regulatory agency is housed), in what Noma described as Occupy Nagata-chō (Noma, Club Cactus). With those types of numbers, not seen since the antiwar protests of the 1960s, the antinuclear movement was no longer subcultural; it had become mainstream. In this initial phase, these Friday protests were kept minimal, without music or too many speeches. As Noma explained, “Music is good for attracting the interest of people walking by. But at the Kantei, there’s no viewer’s gallery, just protesters. There’s no need for music” (Noma, interview).

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PA R T I C I PA T O R Y M O D E L S (1):  D R U M   C O R P S

A reliable presence in the TwitNoNukes and Kantei demonstrations was the drum corps TDC, founded by Oda Masanori (figure 5.3-4). He operated on the philosophy that “music is most powerful and effective [in social movements] when anyone can participate in it… . It’s not about what genre you have or who performs.” He had held this belief in the participatory approach to music since the early days of sound demonstrations: I was on the planning committee for the Iraq War sound demos, but I  had some doubts about having sound systems in demonstrations. Why? Because there’s a DJ, and the DJ plays tracks that the DJ selected. The DJ is the performer. Everyone else dances, which is a form of participation, but you establish this structure of performer vs. audience. I had real doubts about that. I think one should avoid having a central figure in a demonstration. It shouldn’t be the case that one person is the performer, and everyone else is the audience watching the performer. Everyone should be a performer. That’s why I started TCDC [in  2003]. With TCDC, there was no difference between the performer and the audience. What was important to me was to develop a structure so that many people can make sounds together. There was no need for musical training or experience; we just go into the streets making noise. (Oda, interview, 2012) The version of the drum corps in operation at these protests was TDC. This collective was formed in 2010 among drummers who had met at demonstrations against Nike’s buyout of Miyashita Park in Shibuya and its plans to remake it as a fee-collecting park (web figure 5.3-11 ).25 The group became active again after 3.11, participating in the April 10 demonstration in Kōenji as the Doka Doka Urusai Marching Band (The Boom-Boom Noisy Marching Band). The group also participated in the TwitNoNukes protests.26 The collective also formed the Drums of Fury project, under which it organized its own demonstrations and participates in the weekly Kantei demonstrations. The philosophy of TDC and Drums of Fury remained highly egalitarian. As Oda described: There’s no leader, conductor, instructor, or facilitator. We only have one rule at TDC. As Henry David Thoreau wrote in Walden, “We must not find fault with the person who drums to a different rhythm. He might be drumming to a more generous, freer rhythm that we’ve forgotten.”27 We run TDC with that philosophy. That way, people who don’t belong to TDC can join us and beat drums with

Figure 5.3-4  Drum corps with Oda Masanori (center). Photo courtesy of Masa.

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us at demonstrations. We don’t tell them if their playing doesn’t go with ours. TDC has a structure where the gap between people who are skilled in music and people who aren’t can be closed. More and more people join us in front of the Kantei who are not part of TDC. We never say, “Your rhythm is wrong,” to any new person. (Oda, interview, 2012) The group almost never rehearsed. As of August 2012, Oda claimed that TDC had only rehearsed three times, each in advance of special occasions.28 This lack of polish is cultivated so that anyone would be able to join the group at any time: “If you do anything difficult, new people won’t be able to join. If you get too good, then for the people who’ve come for the first time, there will be a distinction between player and audience, or master and follower, which I absolutely hate. So it’s best not to get too good, and play really simple music.” Furthermore, all but three of the members (at the time of the interview) were beginners, having just joined after 3.11, and only one of them was a trained musician. Sometimes members of TDC played wind instruments; in keeping with the DIY spirit, Oda lent them various instruments out of his collection so that they could identify “which instrument makes them happiest when they blow into it. After that, they buy a cheap instrument on Yahoo Auctions for 1,000 to 10,000 yen [about $8 to $83].” Hence, Oda’s group practiced what I call strategic amateurism. This strategy was similar to the open memberships espoused by radical marching bands like the Rude Mechanical Orchestra in Brooklyn and the activist street bands of HONK! festivals (Garofalo 2013). Furthermore, this amateur stance was celebrated: “We rely on the enthusiasm of amateurs and beginners, who might have no sense of pitch and a bad sense of rhythm. Anyone can join, and no one would mind if your rhythm was off.” The group also did not play songs so much as create simple riffs. According to Oda, the riff that accompanies the call “saikadō hantai”29 was formed spontaneously in front of the Kantei and was taken from “the most basic part of the samba rhythm.” If the group played “simple phrases that are so easy that you don’t need to practice, then there will be more people who will be able to play along.” In contrast to this inclusivity through simplicity, attempts at playing pieces had a negative impact: What really was a no-go was when a sax player joined us, playing a prewritten jazz number. We couldn’t match the rhythm. Even though our drums are big, that melody ended up dominating the sound. It interfered with the call and response between the protesters’ Sprechchor and the drums. So when we do a piece, we try to play one that nobody

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knows, or a riff, like a simplified version of “Tequila.” We leave it as a riff so that it doesn’t become a song. (Oda, interview, 2012) Despite the potential boredom of repeating simple riffs over weeks and months, Oda found the predictability to be important:  “People will see the riffs on YouTube and come along with the intention of playing them. If you do something different, they’ll be disappointed, and that won’t be good.”30 Hence, TDC exhibited the characteristics of participatory music, as defined by Turino: an emphasis on inclusivity over technical competence, and a preference for easy, repetitive riffs that anyone could play. Oda thought of these riffs as an oral tradition: Each time, different people come, and something different happens. Someone who wasn’t there last week, a music that wasn’t being played, an instrument that wasn’t present… . The saikadō hantai rhythm is changing little by little. The placement of accents might change, or a spot that was supposed to be silent gets a sound. Different sounds are added. (Oda, interview, 2012) Proudly stating that the saikadō hantai riff had become a signature of the drum corps, he nonetheless felt no exclusive ownership of it: “If it gets adopted in Kyūshū, Shikoku, or Hokkaidō, that would make us very happy. We would be even happier if they changed the riff in a way we hadn’t thought of ” (Oda, interview, 2012). PA R T I C I PA T O R Y M O D E L S (2):   C O M B I N I N G D R U M S A N D SPR ECHCHOR

In the beginning, the TwitNoNukes demonstrations were dominated by protesters shouting Sprechchor a cappella, sometimes punctuated by tambourine or other percussion instruments. Already there was a beat; as Akuryō noted, “There was a groove just from everyone shouting, ‘Genpatsu hantai.’ It was so awesome.”31 As the number of participating percussionists grew, the drums became a more pervasive accompaniment, providing not only a beat to which the protesters walked but also a rhythmic bed upon which they fitted their Sprechchor (web figure 5.3-12 ). Meanwhile, Drums of Fury staged its own demonstrations on October 9 and November 26, 2011, and February 11, 2012. The sheer sound of drums dominated the first demonstration, but as time went on, the drums increasingly were accompaniment for Sprechchor, exchanging turns with the protesters in call and response. Both ECD and Rankin Taxi felt that drum corps were more effective than music in a demonstration, as

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protesters could both walk and shout Sprechchor to the rhythm of the drums. Rankin also felt that “drums lend a sense of urgency, so that the words and message might be better communicated” (Rankin Taxi, interview). When the weekly protests in front of the prime minister’s residence began in March 2012, Oda initially refrained from bringing drums, as the area around the Diet Building is covered by the Noise Regulation Law. Once large crowds began to gather in June, however, he brought drums and encountered no problems: Apparently the Noise Regulation Law isn’t as restrictive as we thought. We’ve never been warned about the drums—not even once. According to the letter of the law, what it restricts are megaphones, and there’s nothing specifically about drums. The police have led us to a spot and said, “Please play them here.” Perhaps if the police wanted to, they could include all sorts of noisemakers beyond megaphones. But there have been so many people around the Kantei and the Diet Building [as of August 2012] that they don’t seem to want to force the issue. (Oda, interview, 2012) Akuryō, who had been a frequent participant in the TwitNoNukes demonstrations and led calls at them, was invited to lead Sprechchor at the Drums of Fury and Kantei demonstrations. Every Friday evening that hot summer, he and the drum corps could be seen making the rounds of Kasumigaseki, playing in front of various ministries and the Diet, shouting Sprechchor in time to the drum beats. This experience of having participated in the TwitNoNukes and Kantei demonstrations had a great impact on Akuryō’s rap style in sound demonstrations, as he understood how demonstrations work and how demonstrators act.

Sound Demos, Restyled in Participatory Mode CONCEP T ION

In the weeks following the arrests at the Shinjuku demonstration, sound demos began to disappear from the scene as Shirōto no Ran retreated from organizing them. In order to preserve the format, the illustrator Misao Redwolf took the initiative to organize sound demos herself through No Nukes More Hearts, the antinuclear group she heads (Akuryō, interview with the author, Tokyo, August 15, 2012). Dubbed the No Nukes All Star Demo, these demonstrations took place in Shibuya, Tokyo, on September 19 and December 3, 2011, and February 25, May 20, and July 7, 2012. 32 These events were filled with performers, as the rallies held both before and after the sound demo

Evolution of Performance Style in Demonstrations   203

featured musicians ranging from the 1970s rockers Panta (of Zunō Keisatsu, ­chapter 6) and Magical Power Mako, to musicians who had also performed for the Shirōto no Ran demos, like Rankin Taxi and Likkle Mai. Generally, the musicians that performed on the sound truck—Rankin Taxi, Deli, Hibikilla, DJ Mayuri—performed in presentational style, with the emphasis on performing prepared songs with occasional call-and-response patterns. But Noma had another idea. As he explained: People were coming to demonstrations because they wanted to shout Sprechchor like “Genpatsu hantai!” (We oppose nuclear power!). But instead, they were just listening to music from the DJ. There wasn’t much time for Sprechchor. The protesters were frustrated. Meanwhile, the blocks of demonstrators without sound trucks would have someone screaming into a megaphone, “Genpatsu iranai!” (We don’t need nuclear power!), and the protesters were joining in the Sprechchor with that call. We thought, why not lead these Sprechchor from on top of a sound truck? It will be easier to say the Sprechchor if you put a beat behind it. That was the idea. (Noma, interview) E A R LY PA R T I C I PA T O R Y S O U N D D E M O S :  D E C E M B E R 2 011–F E B R U A R Y  2 01 2

Akuryō’s first performance in a sound demo was in the second No Nukes All Star Demo on December 3, 2011—the first demonstration by No Nukes More Hearts with a sound truck. Misao Redwolf had heard his recordings of “No Nukes” and “For Children” on the internet and had been impressed by them. Noma, who had met Akuryō at TwitNoNukes demonstrations, extended the invitation. 33 Having participated in demonstrations for a long time, Akuryō had also seen that “just playing a bunch of songs wasn’t motivating the demonstrators.” He had been thinking about another format for sound demos that was in line with Noma’s thinking: “I thought you’d rev people up more by doing call and responses to the beats than by doing songs. You’d appeal more effectively to the people on the street. You can do songs, too, but it’s more worthwhile for a sound demo to be based mainly on agitation and call and response” (Akuryō, interview). When Akuryō performed in the No Nukes More Hearts sound demo of December 2011, he split his time evenly between Sprechchor and prepared raps and got an excited response. Noma was impressed: When Akuryō got on the sound truck, his speeches, Sprechchor, and provocation of the crowd were highly skilled and really effective.

204   Spaces of Protest

I thought, “This style is just right.” What he’s saying was so direct and easy to understand that passersby were responding too. Until Akuryō came along, most sound trucks just played music. When he’s on the sound truck, you’re not just listening to music. You’re interacting. You yell, “Genpatsu hantai!” (We oppose nuclear power!) and other Sprechchor from the beginning to the end of the sound demo. It was just as if you were at a [non-sound] demonstration. That style [of sound demo] was completely new. (Noma, interview) Akuryō’s performance style was a direct result of his experience participating in demonstrations, which gave him a feel for how protesters respond: Because I’d participated as a protester in demonstrations from March to December, I knew which calls were familiar and got good responses, and how everyone wanted to appeal to people in the streets. I  had thought for a long time how I would perform in a sound demo if I got the chance. I would probably have done it differently if I had suddenly been thrust into performing at a sound demo. I’d probably just done some songs, and that would have been it. If I hadn’t had that experience of having walked with everyone else for all that time, I wouldn’t have been able to perform in this style. (Akuryō, interview) Akuryō was invited back to all of No Nukes More Heart’s sound demonstrations, as well as the Datsu Genpatsu Sekai Kaigi (Global Conference for a Nuclear Power-Free World) in Yokohama in January 16, 2012. He was also invited to demonstrations organized by Shirōto no Ran’s associates, including a demonstration in Funabashi (then–Prime Minister Noda’s hometown) on June 24, the Datsu Genpatsu Suginami demo in Shinjuku on July 1, and the Datsu Genpatsu Nakano Mo demonstration in Nakano Ward on July 28, 2012. The pace of sound demos picked up in July 2012 in reaction to the restarting of the Ōi Nuclear Power Plant on July 5. This widespread anger over the restart, combined with protesters’ accumulated experience with demonstrations, helped to solidify the participatory style. As Akuryō recounts: What really left an impression on me was the July 1 demonstration in Shinjuku. The Ōi nuclear plant had just restarted. Before I came on, there were two other groups. They were playing tunes, but the demonstrators weren’t paying any attention to them. They were spontaneously calling out, “saikadō hantai” (we oppose restarts) to the beats. It was amazing. If everyone was going to shout “saikadō hantai” on top of any sound, no performance could possibly beat it. And because everyone was calling out without any prodding, I  myself felt much

Evolution of Performance Style in Demonstrations   205

more motivated. It was so powerful. The demonstrators were overwhelming me! Everyone was so hungry. So I played to that, and their reaction was even more powerful. (Akuryō, interview) N O M A , A T S , E C D J O I N T H E   S O U N D D E M O, M A Y–J U LY  2 01 2

Noma had never DJ’d himself when he took the sound-truck stage during the No Nukes More Hearts sound demonstration in May 2012 (web figure 5.3-13 ).34 He enlisted ATS, the rapper from his i Zoom i Rockers Afrobeat unit, to perform. As ATS recounted, “I was wondering how we would perform, and Noma said, ‘It’s fine if we make call and responses the main thing. We don’t need to do songs.’ I thought that made sense. Noma suggested inviting Akuryō along. And the combination worked.” That was despite an astonishing lack of rehearsal: The group rehearsed for an hour before the first joint performance in May 2012, but hasn’t had a rehearsal since. Furthermore, Noma never let the rappers know in advance what he would play, forcing them to improvise live to unexpected tracks during the demonstration:35 NM:  Did Noma tell you what kind of thing he was going to play, or show you a playlist? ATS:  No, we had no idea at all. NM:  You mean, he just plays whatever he feels like?! ATS:  Oh yes! Before the July 29 demonstration, he wrote on Twitter that he was going to play a lot of metal. I wasn’t sure if he was joking, but I thought about what I might do. As it turned out, there was a lot of rock that day… . NM:  So it’s a complete surprise. ATS:  Yes. But I’ve gotten to the point where no matter what he plays, I somehow know what to do. (ATS, interview) On July 7, 2012, this ensemble was joined by ECD (web figure 5.3-14 ). 36 The rapper had been turning down invitations to perform in sound demonstrations after the arrests at the Shinjuku demonstration in September 2011, as he had come to believe that performances were not helping the cause. The July demos hence marked his return to the sound-truck stage. As ECD was a familiar figure at demonstrations, frequently participating in TwitNoNukes and protests in front of METI, he was well versed in the rhythms of Sprechchor. MCAN began to organize large protests in the Hibiya Park-Kasumigaseki area every three to four months, which included a rally, a demonstration march through the area, and a vigil surrounding the Diet Building. The first of these protests was on the anniversary of the earthquake and tsunami on March 11, 2012, when 14,000 people attended. For the next demonstration on July 29, 2012, Redwolf suggested adding a sound truck. As Noma recounted, “Since it

206   Spaces of Protest

was neither a static demonstration like Kantei nor named a TwitNoNukes demonstration, we thought, why not? We suggested asking Akuryō to perform on the truck because he is an effective call leader” (Noma interview). As in the July 7 demonstration, ECD, ATS, and Noma joined Akuryō on the sound truck.

Musical Tactics in a Participatory Sound-Truck Performance F O R M A T O F   A PA R T I C I PA T O R Y S O U N D   D E M O

An analysis of the performance of Akuryō, ATS, ECD, and Noma in the antinuclear demonstration in Kasumigaseki, Tokyo, on July 29, 2012, is shown in table 5.3-1; the recording can be heard on Mixcloud (web figure 5.3-15 ). 37 True to Noma and Akuryō’s intentions, Sprechchor comprised 60 percent of the time in this performance (figure. 5.3-5). With an emphasis on call and response, this sound demo was more participatory than presentational. The rappers also engaged with the audience and passersby in several other modes. They talked to the audience, explained the demonstration to passersby, introduced the performers, and discussed their views in regular speech rhythms (i.e., without fitting them to a beat); these instances, which I call the speech mode, accounted for 23 percent of the time. Rappers also delivered speeches as improvisations fitted rhythmically to beats, which I call the freestyle mode; these instances accounted for 5  percent of the demonstration. Rappers performed raps that they had either written or recorded; this mode of prepared raps, including improvisation and repeating of refrains, accounted for about 12  percent of the performance. Hence, the more presentational parts of the performance—the prepared raps and freestyle—only accounted for one-sixth of the total time. In contrast, in the more presentational performances of the 2011 Shirōto no Ran sound demos, prepared songs took up most of the performance. Furthermore, in the MCAN demonstration, the rappers rotated through these modes—Sprechchor, prepared raps, freestyle, and speeches—with great frequency, with each mode usually lasting less than a minute. The longest-lasting episodes consisted of Sprechchor. SPR ECHCHOR

In sound demonstrations, protesters voiced Sprechchor together in metered time. Some typical calls with their typical rhythms are given in example 5.3-3. The rhythms of these patterns tended not to change from performance to performance. Nevertheless, rappers found ways to rap Sprechchor to the grooves of a diversity of tracks, as shown in table 5.3-1.

Table 5.3-1  Timeline of i Zoom i Rockers’ Performance at Sound Demo of July 29, 2012 Time spent (mm:ss) Time

Track

Key

Action mode

Rapper: Description

DJ

Notes

Per rapper Per track

00:00

The Heavymanners— “The Rebel”

Gm

Speech

Ak: Introductory; getting people going

Protesters 03:23 arriving into truck area

01:29

01:29

John McLaughlin— “Marbles”

D♭

Speech

Ak: Inviting people to walk

Waiting for departure

04:46

02:48

Sprechchor (pitch)

Ak: Genpatsu iranee (A ♭); ECD, ATS response (F)

03:23

Sprechchor (pitch)

03:44

Prepared rap/ improv

ECD: Saikadō hantai (ECD Bass emphasized on F, Ak response on G ♯)

03:53

Sprechchor

ECD: Saikadō hantai

04:07

Sprechchor (speed)

ECD: Saikadō hantai (augmentation), 8x

Cut track on 4th iteration (4:46)

05:16

Sprechchor

ECD: Genpatsu iranai

Cut track on response

Per mode

02:48

00:56

ECD: Yūkoto kikaseru ban da, oretachi ga (“Straight Outta 138”)

02:15 Too fast to continue prepared rap

00:21

01:45

(continued )

Table 5.3-1 (Continued) Time spent (mm:ss) Time

Track

Key

Action mode

Rapper: Description

Speech, Prepared rap/ improv

ATS: “Sprechchor”/ Ak: uh! (offbeats)

Sprechchor

ATS: Genpatsu iranai; saikadō hantai

07:11

Sprechchor (pitch)

Ak: Genpatsu iranai (G), ECD: Genpatsu iranai (D)

00:56

07:30

Sprechchor (sung)

ECD: Genpatsu iranee (E-DBD-DE-), Saikadō hantai

00:19

07:58

Sprechchor (speed)

ATS: Hairo (diminution); Ak: Hairo (off beats)

00:28

08:18

Speech

Ak: Motherfuckin’ Tokyo Denryoku (TEPCO)!

08:47

Freestyle (rhythmic)

Ak: Declaiming rhythmically (~G)

A cappella except for siren sound

08:51

Sprechchor (sung)

Ak: Genpatsu iranee (F♯ -EC ♯ E-F♯)

Begins a cappella

05:38

06:15

The Stooges—“Down E on the Street”

DJ

Notes

Per rapper Per track

01:33

00:37

02:40

Nearing TEPCO HQ ″

01:03

Per mode

02:03

00:29

00:04 00:48

08:55

Black Sabbath— “Sabbath Bloody Sabbath”

C ♯m ″

Ak/ECD: Genpatsu iranee Initial riff (F♯ -EC ♯E-F♯)

09:21

Sprechchor (sung)

09:39

Speech

Ak: TEPCO, are you listening?

09:49

″

Ak: Let’s tell it to TEPCO. Terminal climax*riff

10:02

Sprechchor (pitch)

11:08

Cheap Trick—“Auf Wiedersehen”

E

Prepared rap/ improv

ECD: Saikadō hantai (F♯ -EC ♯E-F♯)

Ak: Genpatsu hantai (G ♯); ECD/ATS: Genpatsu hantai (E ♯)

02:13

00:26 In front of 01:29 TEPCO HQ

00:23

Cut track at response (10:54)

ECD: Yūkoto kikaseru ban da, oretachi ga; Ak, ATS join in

11:23

Prepared rap

ECD: “Straight Outta 138,” 3rd verse

11:57

″

ECD: Sore ga genpatsu da, Cut track machigai nee

12:00

Prepared rap/ improv

ECD: Sonna mon ni tsukiatterareruka (2x); Ak joins

01:06

01:48

02:22

01:34

(continued )

Table 5.3-1 (Continued) Time spent (mm:ss) Time

Action mode

Rapper: Description

12:13

″

ECD: Yūkoto kikaseru ban da, oretachi ga; Ak joins in

12:42

Sprechchor

ECD: Saikadō hantai; Ak, ATS respond

12:56

Speech

Ak: Motherfuckin’ Tokyo Denryoku (TEPCO)!

13:00

Sprechchor

ATS: Genpatsu iranai; ECD, Ak respond

13:13

Speech

ATS

Speech/ Prepared rap/ improv

ATS: Sprechchor/ Ak: uh! (offbeats)

13:44

Sprechchor

ATS: Genpatsu iranai (2x), saikadō hantai; ECD, Ak respond

14:10

Sprechchor (speed)

ATS: Genpatsu iranai (diminution, 2x)

13:30

Track

Runaways—“Dead End Justice”

Key

E

DJ

Notes

Per rapper Per track

Per mode

00:14

Cut track on 4th iteration (13:12)

00:14

00:04

01:39

00:13 00:31 01:04

00:55

14:22

″

ATS: Saikadō hantai (diminution, 2x)

Cut track/siren sound

″

All: Saikadō hantai (rallentando)

No drums, transition

14:39

Speech

Ak: TEPCO, take responsibility!

14:55

Freestyle

Ak: about TEPCO not taking responsibility, not paying the victims

00:56

15:51

Sprechchor (pitch)

Ak: Genpatsu hantai (2x), genpatsu iranai, kodomo o mamore, mirai o mamore, genpatsu iranee, saikadō yamero (G); ECD (E)

00:50

Speech

Ak: Genpatsu wa iranee! … Kasumigaseki! Come walk with us!

Sprechchor (pitch)

Ak: Genpatsu iranee (4x), Ōi o tomero, Minna de sakebō, Minna de tomeyō (A); ECD, ATS (F)

14:34

16:41

17:20

Buddy Miles— E “Down by the River”

Richard Ashcroft— Dm “Check the Meaning”

03:38

02:07

02:22

00:16

00:39

00:57

(continued )

Table 5.3-1 (Continued) Time spent (mm:ss) Time

Action mode

Rapper: Description

18:17

Prepared rap/ improv

ECD: Acchi mo kocchi mo (“Recording Report”); Ak responding

18:34

Prepared rap

ECD: “Recording Report Hangenpatsu Remix,” 1st verse; Ak joins in No hōshanō, mō iranaiyo (18:47), hatsudensho

18:57

Prepared rap/ improv

ECD: Acchi mo kocchi mo; Ak responding

″

″

19:10

Sprechchor (pitch)

ECD: Genpatsu iranai, saikadō hantai (E); Ak response (G)

19:55

Freestyle

ECD

19:03

Track

Key

Funkadelic—“Mommy,E What’s a Funkadelic?”

DJ

Notes

Per rapper Per track

Nishi 01:52 Shinbashi intersection

Per mode

00:53

Cuts track for two beats to transition into next track 01:31 Cuts drums and bass for four beats (19:42)

00:45

00:14

20:09

Introductions (rhythmic)

Ak: ECD in the building!

00:14

00:13

20:22

Speech

ATS: Daijōbu desuka? Atsuideshō! (Is everyone all right? It’s very hot!)

02:17

00:32

20:34

Barry White—“Midnight & You”

Dm9 ″

ATS: Genpatsu no nai mirai!

03:00

20:54

Prepared rap/ improv

ATS: “Sprechchor”/ Ak: uh! (offbeats)

00:13

21:07

Sprechchor

ATS: Genpatsu iranai, Periodic saikadō hantai, kodomo interjections from o mamore, otona ga next track mamore, mirai o mamore; ECD, Ak respond (E)

01:16

22:11

Sprechchor (speed)

ATS: Hairo (diminution); Ak: Hairo (off beats)

22:23

Speech

ATS: Genpatsu ga nai mirai e!

22:39

Speech

Akuryō

00:39 Periodic interjections from next track

02:02

(continued )

Table 5.3-1 (Continued) Time spent (mm:ss) Time

Action mode

Rapper: Description

23:02

Freestyle

Ak: How many years have we been catering to big business? No one can protect the children… . We have to raise our voices

23:28

Sprechchor (pitch)

Ak: Genpatsu hantai (~A); ECD (E)

″

Ak: Kodomo o mamore, genpatsu hantai, minna de arukō (~A); ECD (E)

24:13

Sprechchor (sung)

Ak: Ōi o tomerō (2x), genpatsu hantai, genpatsu yamero (A-GEG-GA-); ECD (E-DBD-DE-)

24:41

Sprechchor

ECD: Saikadō hantai; Ak, ATS respond

Cut track at response (25:03, 25:42)

25:43

″

ECD: Saikadō hantai →Genpatsu iranai; Ak response

Bass emphasized; Cut track at response (26:21)

23:34

Track

Key

Ted Am Nugent—“Stranglehold”

DJ

Notes

Per rapper Per track

Stopped in Sotobori Dōri

Per mode

00:26

03:53 02:48

Going up 02:40 to overhead crosswalk

26:22

Sprechchor (sung)

ECD: Genpatsu iranee (E-DBD-DE-), Saikadō hantai; Ak response

26:48

Sprechchor (pitch)

ECD: Kobushi tsuki agero! (E); Ak response (E)

26:57

Sprechchor (speed)

ECD: Genpatsu hantai Track out (27:00) (diminution); Ak response

27:10

Sprechchor (speed)

ECD: Genpatsu hantai (augmentation); Ak response

Track out (27:13)

27:21

Speech

ATS

Track out at Koe o agero (Raise your voice, 27:40)

27:40

Improv/ Prepared rap

ATS: “Sprechchor”/ Ak: uh! (offbeats), Oh-oh (G-E-)

00:35

28:15

Sprechchor (pitch)

ATS: Genpatsu iranai (4x), saikadō hantai; Ak, ECD (E)

01:15

Sprechchor (speed)

ATS: Genpatsu iranai (diminution, 4x), saikadō hantai; Ak, ECD

28:52

Graham Central Station—“Hair”

Can—“Yoo Doo Right”

E

E

Stopped at crosswalk

Tempo is speeding up

02:30

02:18

00:19

01:18

(continued )

Table 5.3-1 (Continued) Time spent (mm:ss) Time

Action mode

Rapper: Description

29:17

Sprechchor

ATS: Hairo; Ak (offbeats)

29:30

Speech

ATS

29:39

Speech

Ak: We are no nukes! If we stay silent, they [nuclear reactors] won’t stop!

E

Speech

Ak: (Screaming and riling the crowd)

(B ♭ in riff)

Sprechchor

Ak: Genpatsu iranai (G), genpatsu hantai, dakara Ōi o tomero, Sōri wa yamero; ECD, ATS responding (E)

Sprechchor (sung)

Ak: Genpatsu iranee (A ♭ -G ♭ E ♭ G ♭ -G ♭ A ♭ -); ECD response (starting on F)

Bass cut out in transition

Sprechchor

ECD: Saikadō hantai (F); Ak

Cut out except drums at transition (32:45)

30:10

Track

Can—“Mother Sky”

30:54

Key

31:42

32:13

Can—“Father Can’t Yell”

B ♭**

DJ

Notes

Per rapper Per track

Per mode

01:24 02:34

02:03 02:13

02:27

00:34

32:47

″

″

33:07

Prepared rap

ECD: “Baby Cart and Placard,” verse

33:46

Prepared rap/ improv

ECD: koitsura ga kitto (3x); Ak joins; ECD: nakusu genpatsu, Ak joins

″

″

34:05

Sprechchor

ECD: Saikadō hantai; Ak, ATS respond

34:40

Speech

ATS

35:46

Prepared rap/ improv

36:08

Sprechchor

ATS: “Sprechchor”/ Ak: Oh-oh (F♯ -E-)

33:54

ECD—“Baby Cart and Placard”

i ZooM i Rockers— “Maimoun”

E **

E

ATS: Genpatsu iranai, saikadō hantai, kodomo o mamore, otona ga mamore, imasugu hairo, hairo; Ak responds (E)

01:07 00:58

Bass emphasized

03:43 00:35 Turning at NishiShibanshi 1-chome

03:09

01:06

00:22 Track out on saikadō hantai (36:26), otona ga mamore (36:53)

01:23

(continued )

Table 5.3-1 (Continued) Time spent (mm:ss) Time

Action mode

Rapper: Description

37:07

Sprechchor (pitch)

37:31

Speech

ATS: Hairo; Ak, ECD: Hairo (F♯ -G-)

37:37

Track

Freestyle (pitch)

Ak: (on G-E) Everyone, coming into view on your left is METI, the guys who restarted the nuclear reactors… [To METI] You should do your jobs.

38:19

Sprechchor (pitch)

Ak: Saikadō hantai (A); ECD, ATS respond (E)

″

″

Sprechchor (sung)

Ak: Genpatsu yamero Track out on (A-GEG-GA-); ECD, ATS ECD’s response respond (starting on E)

38:55

Per rapper Per track

Per mode

00:18

37:49

Am

Notes

ATS ″

Alan Vega, Alex Chilton, Ben Vaughn—“Fat City”

A

DJ

″

38:41

The Doors—“L.A. Woman”

Key

01:04 Track out at Passing “hoan in” (former in front of nuclear regulatory METI agency, 38:04) and “chanto shigoto shiagerō” (do your jobs, 38:16)

02:17

00:30

06:17 Bass emphasized

02:47

39:41

Sprechchor (pitch)

Ak: Saikadō hantai (A); ECD, ATS respond (E)

Track out at ECD’s response (39:53)

40:06

Sprechchor (pitch)

ECD: Saikadō hantai (E); Ak response (A)

Track out for 2 beats in transition to next track

Sprechchor (pitch)

Ak: Saikadō hantai (G); ECD respond (E ♭)

Track out periodically on response

42:18

″

″

Bass emphasized

42:54

″

″

Brass line back

44:15

″

41:28

44:36 44:52

San Francisco T.K.O.’s—“Acid Lady”

C

Jimmy Cliff— D♭ “Harder They Come”

Track out except Ak: Saikadō hantai (G #); # ECD, ATS respond (E/G ) siren sound

Speech

Akuryō

Sprechchor (sing)

Ak: Genpatsu iranai; ECD responds; iranee (D ♭)

00:25

Stopped 05:28 in front of METI at light before turn back to Hibiya Park

03:08

Arrived back at Hibiya Park 02:20

00:16 00:45 (continued )

Table 5.3-1 (Continued) Time spent (mm:ss) Time

Action mode

Rapper: Description

45:37

Introduction/ Sprechchor

Ak: ECD in the building; ECD: Saikadō hantai

46:17

Speech

Ak: announcement of second round of sound truck

46:56

Track

Dennis Bovell— “Harmoniser Dub”

Key

E

Outro

DJ

Notes

Per rapper Per track

Per mode

01:19 Track out

Protesters leaving truck area

Median

01:52

02:20

00:42

Maximum

05:28

04:46

06:17

Minimum

00:14

00:34

00:04

*A terminal climax is a non-transitional, non-recapitulatory thematic unit driving toward the end of a song. Brad Osborn, “Subverting the Verse–Chorus Paradigm Terminally Climactic Forms in Recent Rock Music,” Music Theory Spectrum 35, no. 1 (Spring 2013): 23–47. **Transposed *** B ♭ emphasized

Evolution of Performance Style in Demonstrations   221 Prepared rap and related improvisation 12%

Speeches and introductions 23%

Sprechchor 60%

Rhythmic freestyle 5%

Figure 5.3-5  Percent of total time spent in activities; July 29, 2012 protest, Round 1.

To relieve the potential monotony of often-repeated slogans, rappers varied the speed of text consumption. At 4:07 on the Mixcloud recording, ECD slowed down the pace of “saikadō hantai” to double its length in an augmentation (example 5.3-4): Conversely, rappers sometimes sped up the pace of the usual call in a diminution. ECD doubled the speed of “Genpatsu hantai” (26:57 on the recording) and then slowed it down to its usual pace (27:10; example 5.3-5): Sometimes, these changes in pace were in response to the track. In doubling the Sprechchor pace at 14:10, ATS fitted the Sprechchor as a response to a guitar riff; at 28:52, he appeared to be responding to the faster articulation in the track. Sprechchor episodes could last for a considerable period when the protesters’ emotions were stirred. The longest stretch of Sprechchor in the July 29 demonstration, lasting over six minutes, occurred in front of METI—the ministry then in charge of promoting and regulating nuclear power, and thus responsible for the breakdown in oversight and the restarting of the Ōi nuclear reactors (38:19ff). The shouts of “saikadō hantai” intensified as the sound truck was held up by the light at the intersection; it made for a dramatic entry back to the starting point at Hibiya Park. Indeed, Sprechchor episodes could also lengthen when there was a crowd of passersby for whom the protesters perform, such as at intersections, in front of train stations or plazas, or near overhead pedestrian crosswalks. The protesters sustained a four-minute episode of Sprechchor while approaching and stopping in front of a pedestrian crosswalk full of onlookers (23:28ff).

Example 5.3-3  Basic Sprechchor patterns.

Example 5.3-4  Augmentation of Sprechchor.

Example 5.3.5  Diminution of Sprechchor.

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PI TCH E D R A PS

Japanese rappers often use a variety of pitches in their performances because of the pitched accents of the Japanese language (Manabe 2006a). As shown in the breakdown of Sprechchor in this performance (figure 5.3-6), nearly 60 percent of Sprechchor in the July 29, 2012, demonstration was either sung or intoned on a recognizable pitch, rather than the heightened speech more associated with rap. In what I am calling “pitched” rap, the rappers declaimed primarily on a single note in 45 percent of the Sprechchor, the (very) approximate pitches of which are written, along with the rapper’s initials, into the “Rapper: Description” column of table 5.3-1. They usually pitched themselves around 1ˆ , 5ˆ , 3ˆ , and 7ˆ of the fundamental key of the track, in line with the emphasized notes of the blues scale in the rock and funk tracks Noma played; in addition, ECD intoned on a ninth in Barry White’s “Midnight and You,” matching a prominent ninth on the guitar. Hence, the rappers, though not perfectly pitched, showed sensitivity to the keys of the track. Akuryō, who has a high tenor voice, usually intoned between F♯ 4 and A4, while ECD and ATS, who are high baritones, pitched themselves around E4, a third or fourth below Akuryō. This pitch differential created a choir-like effect in various spots, as at 44:15, where Noma’s cutting out the track highlighted this effect. SU NG R A PS

Another way that rappers varied Sprechchor was by singing them in an easy-tofollow melody. Example 5.3-6 shows a typical melody sung by Akuryō and ECD in this demonstration, with Akuryō singing the higher A pitch, the tonic of the track, and ECD responding a fourth below on E. The rhythm of the melody went well with the busy bass line and had the syncopated characteristic of

Rhythmic only 31%

Change in pace 10%

Sung 15%

Pitched 44%

Figure 5.3-6  Types of Sprechchor, i Zoom i Rockers, July 29, 2012, protest, Round 1.

Example 5.3-6  Sung rap, Akuryō and ECD, to Ted Nugent’s “Stranglehold” (24:13 on Mixcloud recording).

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rock and hip-hop. It was well received by the protesters, who joined ECD in singing the response. The melody was repeated seven times in the course of the demonstration. P R E PA R E D   R A P S

In the context of a participatory sound demo, a prepared rap gave the protesters a break and was particularly suited to long stretches of road. Hence, ECD broke into “Recording Report Hangenpatsu Remix” around the midpoint of the long walk up Sotobori Dōri, which tends to be empty on Sundays and can therefore be boring for the protesters. 38 Rather than perform the rap as on their recordings, however, the rappers tended to improvise around the refrain or repeat it, allowing other rappers or protesters to join in. Hence, ECD took only thirty-four seconds to recite his verse for “Straight Outta 138” (time 11:23 in table 5.3-1), while he and the other rappers spent more time (one minute) repeating and responding to the refrain “Yūkoto kikaseru ban da, oretachi ga” (It’s our turn to make them listen to what we say). Similarly, he delivered only one verse for “Recording Report” and “Baby Cart and Placard,”39 taking up only half a minute for each. In contrast, most musicians at more presentational demonstrations sang multiple verses of their songs. Furthermore, in all cases but “Baby Cart,” ECD rapped on the track that was playing rather than the background track on his recordings; by not disturbing the flow of Noma’s track choices and using an alternative track, the improvisatory nature of the participatory performance was preserved. In addition, both “Straight Outta 138” and “Baby Cart” are raps about demonstrating itself. The former implores people to make their views known. The latter is an ode to protesters, particularly mothers holding a placard in one hand and a baby stroller in the other (­chapter 4). FR EEST Y LE

Like prepared raps, a freestyle episode gave the protesters a break from shouting Sprechchor, which was welcome on a long road; in the July 29 demonstration, Akuryō freestyled while the truck was stopped in the middle of Sotobori Dōri. Freestyling also gave the rapper an opportunity to comment on symbolic landmarks along the route. As the sound truck approached the offices of METI, Akuryō began freestyling40 (37:49; figure 5.3-7 web figure 5.3-16 ): Minna mieteru ka, hidari te ni wa sobieru Keisanshō. Aitsura ga saikadō mitometa mo onaji daze. Maji de, kusottare, Keisanshō Genshiryoku Anzen Hoan’in? Maji de, bōzen, zente ga detarame de,

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Figure 5.3-7  Akuryō in sound car, in front of METI, antinuclear demonstration, Tokyo, July 29, 2012. Photo by the author.

Ōi Genpatsu katsudansō ga arutte hanashi ja nee ka yo? Temeera wa chanto shigoto shiyagare, kono yarō! Everyone, can you see coming up on your left, the towering METI [building]? They’re the guys who approved the restarting [of the Ōi nuclear reactors], the one and the same. Can you believe that? Scumbags! METI Nuclear and Industrial Safety Agency? Seriously, it’s dumbfounding. Everything they say is bogus. Isn’t there talk that there’s an active fault under the Ōi Nuclear Power Plant? Do your jobs right, you bastards! Riding the groove of the Doors’ “LA Woman” at this symbolic location, Akuryō’s freestyle effectively riled the crowd, launching the long Sprechchor episode previously mentioned. SPEECH ES

Performers and call leaders tended to launch into speeches of non-metered talk at intersections and other areas where crowds gathered. In addition, musicians “made speeches to comment on symbolic landmarks along the route, as Akuryō did as the truck approached TEPCO’s headquarters. In the context of

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a sound truck, speeches also occurred when one rapper was handing the lead microphone to another rapper (e.g., 8:18, 9:39, etc.). Rappers in participatory style rotated the lead microphone frequently; in the July 29 demonstration, they generally did not take the lead for more than three minutes, one exception being Akuryō’s episode in front of METI. In contrast, in presentational sound demos, each artist took the microphone through a set of about four songs. The frequent rotations helped to support the aura of a participatory performance rather than a presentational one, as the performance became a team effort, and no single performer hogged the stage. I N T ER ACT ION W I T H T H E M USIC A L T R ACK

In addition to frequent rotations of rappers, Noma was constantly changing musical tracks, usually switching them over every two to three minutes. As he had not told the rappers what he would play beforehand, the rappers were reacting to the music on the spot, keeping the performance lively. Sometimes, Noma would ready another track when the rappers went into speech mode (e.g., 5:38, 13:13). At other times, he would cut out large parts of the sample (e.g., leaving only the drums, 32:45) or the entire track for a few beats (8:47–8:55, 14:22–14:34), sometimes substituting a siren sound, to ease the transition. This momentary absence of tonal material was particularly helpful if the two tracks’ keys were unrelated or the groove was substantially different (e.g., the transition from “Acid Lady” in C to “The Harder They Come” in D ♭ , 44:36). The rappers sometimes reacted to the change in track by changing their mode. For example, the appearance of the straight snare drums from Cheap Trick’s “Auf Wiedersehen” prompted ECD into the refrain of “Straight Outta 138” (11:38). Sudden changes in tempo, as when Buddy Miles’s moderato “Down by the River” was introduced after a string of rockers, prompted Akuryō into freestyle. Similarly, the change to the straight-ahead groove of “LA Woman” contributed to Akuryō’s freestyle in front of METI; one can hear him feeling the groove as he shifts his “ah” from on-beat to off-beat preceding the freestyle. Noma’s actions as a DJ also supported the political aspects of the performance. He periodically cut out parts of the musical track during responses in the Sprechchor; doing so allowed the protesters to hear the full force of their own volume, encouraging them to participate. He also cut the track during prepared raps to emphasize the punch lines. For example, he let ECD rap “That’s nuclear power—no doubt about it” from “Straight Outta 138” unmasked by accompaniment (11:57), letting those lyrics be heard in full force. Similarly, he anticipated the punch lines in Akuryō’s freestyles, cutting the track to make

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the words “Hoan’in” (Nuclear and Industrial Safety Agency) and “Do your jobs right!” stand out (37:49). While Noma chose his selections out of musical interest, from time to time, he played songs for their textual themes. In the MCAN demonstration on December 15, 2012, he began the demonstration by playing “New Kids in the City” (1979) by Lizard, considered one of Japan’s first punk rock bands. He explained: I’d played it because the old guy who drives the sound truck is Waka, the bassist from Lizard. Not only does he drive the truck, but he’s also the guy who picks up the truck from the rental company, loads the equipment, and breaks it down after the demo. The sound truck is named after him—The Lizard. I thought [the song] would make him smile. But then I listened to the words, which say that we should leave a new future for our children. That’s very much like our Sprechchor, “Protect our children,” and “Protect our future.” And I  thought, “I have to play this.” (Noma, interview)

Establishment of the Participatory Sound Demo Style It was a cold day on March 10, 2013, the eve of the second anniversary of the triple disaster and the day of MCAN’s quarterly demonstration in Kasumigaseki (figure 5.3-8). I joined the large crowd following the sound truck while ATS and Akuryō took turns on the microphone and Noma provided the tracks. Some tactics from the July 2012 demonstration had come together as an expected part of the performance. When we passed METI, Akuryō freestyled about METI’s role as promoter of nuclear power and launched into his sing-song call “Keisanshō wa genpatsu yamero,” just as he had done on his second round on the sound truck in the July 29 demonstration; protesters pumped their fists in the air (web figure 5.3-17 ).41 Noma again stopped tracks at the responses of the protesters so that they could hear the power of their calls. Meanwhile, the drum corps alternated between Sprechchor and the “saikadō hantai” rhythm. I did notice a few changes. Both Akuryō and ATS seemed to fall into presentational style, with prepared raps and freestyles, more often than in July 2012. Furthermore, the drum corps seemed to have more people, giving rise to inevitable differences in skill levels. Both may have been consequences of time, as the rappers and the drum corps had had more time to set their routines and try out new things. They may have also been responses to political circumstances: Since the LDP won the Lower House elections in December 2012, the number of protesters at antinuclear demonstrations had been falling.

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Figure 5.3-8  Noma, ATS, and Akuryō at antinuclear demonstration, March 10, 2013. Photo by the author.

While the March 10 demonstration attracted 40,000 people throughout the day, the June 2 demonstration, 60,000, and the October 13, 2013, demonstration, 40,000, these numbers were lower than the 200,000 that had come to the July 29, 2012, demonstration. Similarly, the number of protesters at the weekly Kantei demonstrations had fallen from a peak of 200,000 in June 2012 to about 3,000 by fall 2013. Perhaps this situation pushed the role of music slightly back to attracting attention, so that performances seemed to place a bit more emphasis on the rappers themselves than in July 2012. Such incremental swings in repertoire would be expected to adjust to political circumstances. Changed circumstances also led to a different performance in MCAN’s October 13, 2013, demonstration. With the Ōi reactors shut down for maintenance on September 15, 2013, the country was once again operating without nuclear power, yet awareness of this fact was low: In a recent survey, only 15  percent of freshmen at Osaka University were aware of it.42 In response to this lack of awareness, ECD rapped, “Nando tashikame temo genpatsu zero” (No matter how many times you check, there’s no nuclear power), and called out the names of nuclear power plants that have applied to restart or were under construction (e.g., “Ikata o yamero! Kaminoseki yamero!”). ECD and ATS also shifted the focus of their calls to “Osensui tomero” (Stop the

Evolution of Performance Style in Demonstrations   231

contaminated water), referring to the ongoing leakage at Fukushima Daiichi. The most dramatic performance that day was not in front of METI, but in front of TEPCO, calling on it to take responsibility (web figure 5.3-18 ).43 The accumulated experience also helped protesters voice their own protests. Much of the route on March 10, 2013, was around the perimeter of the Diet Building and the Liberal Democratic Party (LDP) offices, where the demonstrators were not allowed to play instruments or show their placards and flags. At the threshold of this silent area, Misao Redwolf stood on a truck with a megaphone shouting Sprechchor. Not sure what to do, we marched silently for a while up the hill toward the Diet Building, until we passed by a few small speakers set up discreetly along the road; they were projecting a caller shouting Sprechchor (web figure 5.3-19 ).44 Hearing him inspired us to chime in with responses to his calls. Our Sprechchor revived and maintained a certain rhythm, without the benefit of accompaniment or designated leaders. Having regained momentum, we carried on to a side street on which the headquarters of the LDP are located. The protesters spontaneously erupted into the Sprechchor “Abe Shinzō wa genpatsu yamero” ([Prime Minister] Abe Shinzō, quit nuclear power), while shaking their middle fingers (web figure 5.3-20 ).45 The scene echoed Akuryō’s routines in front of the METI offices, closely matching his rhythm and melody, even though neither Akuryō nor any other performer was present. This scene would have been hard to imagine without the protesters having seen and participated in his routine. The accumulated experience of protesting alongside musicians made us go on shouting Sprechchor, even without the benefit of their encouragement.

Conclusion The performances of Akuryō, ATS, ECD, and Noma emphasized participatory practices as outlined by Turino. The rappers made short, highly repetitive calls to which the protesters could easily respond; they kept the rhythm of individual calls constant, facilitating participation. Upon the base of Sprechchor, the rappers built an intensive series of variations, changing the speed of text consumption, pitch, and melody. While the tracks changed every few minutes, they usually retained the groove of the previous track, providing smooth and continuous transitions to the next track rather than the individual pieces that are more typical of presentational performances. The style allowed protesters to shout Sprechchor with more energy and excitement than they likely would have without the music; as ATS explained, “If you call out a Sprechchor with music, it comes back to you in an upsurge of energy.”

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The participatory style, which aims to minimize the gap between performer and protester, required that rappers downplay their individual virtuosity to serve the cause—a seeming contradiction with the braggadocio stereotypically associated with rap. In keeping with this philosophy, the rappers limited their prepared raps to short segments and frequently rotated the microphone, never hogging it. Let us now return to Tilly’s point that changes in protest repertoires are driven by changes in political opportunity structure, available performance models, and connections among actors. In the case of the original sound demonstrations of 2003, the idea of having a truck with a sound system itself was not new, as they had been used in Japan previously in Chance! Peace Walks and LGBT parades. What was truly new was the coming together of Against Street Control, whose members had a more confrontational reclaim-the-streets philosophy of demonstrations compared with World Peace Now; the flavor of these demonstrations was hence sufficiently different to merit a new name. Between those demonstrations and the antinuclear demonstrations of 2011–2013, the purpose of the protest shifted from largely an expression of discontent to a desire to change national energy policies—a social movement seeking specific actions and long-term political changes. Such a movement required the articulation of concrete messages, thereby shifting the predominant genre from wordless techno toward verbally oriented rap. In the beginning, rappers and reggae artists performed more in presentational style, with songs and speeches that were mostly in the diagnostic frame; this style suited the purpose of attracting attention. As time passed, the movement required the building of solidarity and commitment among protesters, orienting the demonstrations toward more participatory forms that involved the shouting of Sprechchor. The aggression of the police toward sound demonstrations prompted a rethinking of the potential roles of music, paving the way to a more participatory model. The blossoming of participatory style grew out of a confluence of factors: the participation of rappers in demonstrations as protesters rather than performers; the presence of Oda’s drum corps, with its participatory philosophy, at many demonstrations, providing a rhythmic base to Sprechchor; and a surge in citizen outrage over the restart of the Ōi Nuclear Power Plant in July 2012, giving them impetus to raise their voices at demonstrations. These performance tactics were hence born of the stage in which the antinuclear movement found itself, when the primary aim of the movement was mobilization of masses. As Futatsugi recounted: After more than a year of participating in demonstrations, everyone has gotten used to shouting Sprechchor, and a few phrases have become established. The rappers know to say them. That makes it possible to do a call-and-response style. It’s a big change: you wouldn’t

Evolution of Performance Style in Demonstrations   233

have been able to do that on April 10, even if you tried. On the other hand, if Mayuri were to play some brilliant techno track now, I don’t think it would have so much impact. In the past year and a half, everyone’s caught on to making a political claim and verbalizing a concrete message. If back on April 10, we had wanted to destroy some murky thing we couldn’t identify, we now know much more clearly who the enemy is, and whom we have to defeat. We all want to say words and shout Sprechchor. ECD, Akuryō, ATS, and Noma take that desire and combine Sprechchor with a live performance. That is a big change. (Futatsugi, interview) Since the peak of antinuclear protests in July 2012, the performance tactics have solidified so that there are some expected routines, yet they are flexible enough to respond to changes in priority, such as the shift in emphasis to the contamination issue and planned restarts in the October 13, 2013, demonstration. This formula has proven to be portable: In 2013, other performers like Rankin Taxi adopted aspects of it on sound demos, and Sapporo and other cities have held sound demos with participatory performances. Furthermore, the participatory style of sound demos has proven to be adaptable to other causes. In 2013, Noma was head of the Counter-Racist Action Collective (CRAC), a group dedicated to countering racist groups like the Zaitoku-kai, a neo-nationalist organization denouncing the “privileges” of ethnic Koreans residing in Japan. CRAC was formerly known as the Reishisuto Shibaki-tai, where “tai,” written as 隊(corps), is a pun for たい (would like to), so that “shibaki-tai” means “the corps that wants to tie up the racists.” Despite its name and rough outward appearance, the group has a nonviolent philosophy. Whenever the Zaitoku-kai stage demonstrations in Korean neighborhoods in Tokyo, shouting “die” and “go home to Korea” at ethnically Korean children, the Shibaki-tai attempt to block their progress by sitting in front of their trucks if necessary. On September 22, 2013, the March against Discrimination took place in Shinjuku; it was a sound demo, with a rap sound truck with Akuryō and ATS, a DJ sound truck dedicated to LGBT rights, and Oda’s marching musicians. Just as they had in the antinuclear demonstrations, Akuryō and ATS took turns shouting the call-and-response patterns, but instead of “Genpatsu yamero” (Stop nuclear power), they shouted “Sabetsu wa yamero” (End discrimination) and “Issho ni ikiyō” (Let’s live together). Meanwhile, Oda’s band played “We Shall Overcome,” its members having learned it from hearing Jintaramūta play it at practically every antinuclear demonstration. Three thousand enthusiastic demonstrators participated, some in traditional Korean clothing. The participatory style of sound demos, centered on rapped Sprechchor to the beats, appeared to be here for the long haul and was now being applied to multiple causes.

CH A P T ER 

5.4

Urban Geography, Music, and Protest

Place matters. As public policy scholar John Parkinson has argued, democracy needs a place where it can be physically performed, even in the age of political discourse increasingly conducted through internet-based social networks (SNS) like Facebook or Twitter. He deduces that for making political claims, a capital city would ideally have open plazas, public meeting spaces, and parks that are freely available to the public and large enough to contain impressive crowds. Furthermore, such gathering places would ideally be near key institutions or areas of national symbolic importance and be highly visible to the public at large, as well as the media, opinion leaders, and decision-makers (Parkinson 2012: 206–207). In his survey on the availability of public space for democratic action in eleven capital cities, he ranks Japan a low ninth, due to the fragmented nature of Tokyo, the lack of large, accessible plazas in front of government buildings, and high levels of policing (Parkinson 2012: 215–216). Rather than monumental public spaces, Japan’s cities have been marked by spaces of kaiwai, the spontaneous appropriation of space by ordinary people for social interactions, like the massive folk guerilla gatherings at the Shinjuku West Exit in 1969 (Sand 2013)—a case of Lefebvre’s lived space. However, police have had the upper hand over the people in controlling public space: They require permits for demonstrations even in public parks, and in 1969, they ousted the Shinjuku folk gatherings simply by relabeling the “plaza” as a “walkway,” thus making it illegal for people to assemble there. Because of the scarcity of public space, Japanese protest organizers attempt to make the best of the available geography to motivate protesters and invite newcomers’ participation. When they set up a marching demonstration, they typically design a route that will maximize the numbers of passersby who will see them; for example, Noma Yasumichi, one of the organizers of 234

Urban Geography, Music, and Protest   235

Metropolitan Coalition Against Nukes (MCAN) and TwitNoNukes, thinks the most effective routes pass in front of busy train stations and intersections (Noma Yasumichi, interview with the author, Tokyo, December 17, 2012). Organizers may also plan routes that pass by buildings of electric power companies, associated ministries, and other governmental offices they are protesting against. Stationary antinuclear protests in front of TEPCO headquarters started occurring regularly a few days after 3.11, while weekly antinuclear protests in front of the prime minister’s residence (Kantei), ongoing since March 2012, grew to include simultaneous protests in front of the Diet and METI. The urban landscape plays an important role in giving (or denying) protesters the opportunities to engage onlookers. In The Ludic City, urban design scholar Quentin Stevens (2007) identifies five types of settings in which playful activities, such as street performances, tend to occur: paths, on which people travel; boundaries, or the edges of urban spaces; intersections; thresholds, or entry/exit points from one space to another; and props, such as statues and fountains. He explains how some configurations encourage interactions among strangers, while others do not. Although formulated for a different analysis, Stevens’s typology bears some resemblance to urban planning scholar Kevin Lynch’s five elements by which people orient themselves in a city, as he outlined in The Image of the City (1960): paths; edges (Stevens’s boundaries); nodes, which are focal points (such as squares) and intersections (Stevens’s intersections and thresholds); landmarks, which would include both monuments visible from afar, as well as Stevens’s props; and districts, defined as medium-to-large sections of a city with a distinguishing identity or character. As I will discuss, protest organizers choose routes in consideration of these elements to increase interaction between protesters and passersby. While it may not be the organizers’ primary consideration in choosing a route, the soundscape of the path greatly affects the action and experience of the protesters and the reception by onlookers. For example, narrow roads, overhead pathways, and tall glass buildings tend to increase or retain volume and increase reverberation.1 The volume increase can make the protest group seem larger and more powerful, exciting the participants and impressing the onlookers. As drum corps founder Oda Masanori notes, “When you play drums at a demonstration, you notice that there are places where the acoustics are good, such as inside a tunnel, or beside a building with a reverberant wall. In such places, the drummers and protesters get excited because of the sound, regardless of the number of people watching” (Oda Masanori, interview with the author, October 19, 2013). Hence, the sonic properties of paths, boundaries, and intersections can enhance or detract from the interaction-enhancing qualities these spaces hold as a result of their places in the urban layout. And

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while the district of the city chosen—whether it be the government district of Kasumigaseki, the youth centers of Shibuya and Harajuku, the more traditional shopping and entertainment district of Ginza, or communities outside the central Yamanote line like Kōenji—depends on the organizers’ objectives, the appropriateness of the music played may also shift depending on the demographics of the likely audience in each locale. This chapter analyzes the impact of urban landscape and soundscape on demonstrations. First, I explain how elements of the city, as categorized by Lynch and Stevens—districts, paths, boundaries, nodes, and landmarks—enter into the planning of protests and affect their performance. Along the way, I discuss the variables that determine the soundscape in these urban elements, as inferred by the acoustic experiments and writings of Kang (2000, 2001, 2006), Blesser and Salter (2006), Okada et al. (2010), and others; these observations are generalized, keeping in mind that variations in building heights and configuration, road dimensions, air temperature, the presence of vegetation and people, etc., will impact sonic effects. Second, I show how the urban landscape and soundscape, as determined by these elements, affect the performance of demonstrations by analyzing two case studies: the TwitNoNukes demonstrations in Shibuya and the No Nukes More Hearts sound demonstrations in the same area. Drawing from the examples of urban soundscape studies by Sakakeeny, Abe, and others, my work attempts to formulate a systematic method for analyzing soundscapes as they relate to a moving performance in an urban environment.

Urban Elements and Protest DIST R ICT

When planning a demonstration route, the first decision to be made is the district in which the protest will take place—a decision that depends on the purpose of the demonstration and the audience the protesters want to influence. The primary aim of some demonstrations is to make their claims known to the decision-makers; these demonstrations take place in front of the decision-makers’ offices, with the intent of making them aware of the reasons for and the extent of opposition. Hence, the first demonstration after the Fukushima accident on March 18—only seven days after the earthquake—took place in front of TEPCO headquarters, where activist Sono Ryōta and two friends stood, yelling criticisms. The weekly Friday protests that sprung up in front of the prime minister’s residence (Kantei-mae) from March 2012 onward are another example of directed claims-making in demonstrations. These protests have been highly successful in attracting participants, with over 150,000 coming on

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each of three succeeding Fridays between June 29 and July 13, 2012 (Noma 2012: 280–281). As the streams of protesters grew, they spilled over toward the Diet Building and the offices of METI and MEXT. Reasons for their enormous popularity included their ease of participation: This central area is served by several subway lines, making it easily accessible; they were held on Friday evenings from 6 to 8 p.m. so that people could stop by on their way home from work; and they did not require participants to march or shout, but simply be present. Furthermore, as the protests were early in the evening, some officials and workers were still in their offices and could hear the protesters. The direct approach made politicians uncomfortable, including the prime minister’s office (Noma 2012: 244–252). On August 22, 2012, Prime Minister Noda met with MCAN’s leaders—the first time in Japanese history that the prime minister had met with protest organizers. These protests were soon replicated across the country in Friday protests in front of local offices of electric power companies and local governments; as of July 2013, there were such Friday protests in nearly 130 locations. 2 Other demonstrations directed at decision-makers and their seats of power include the tent in front of METI (standing since September 2011), the sit-in in front of the Ōi Nuclear Power Plant ahead of its restart in July 2012, and MCAN’s quarterly protests that surround the Diet and pass by other government buildings. As Parkinson has noted, the government district of Kasumigaseki has few places where large numbers of people can gather. In the Kantei-mae protests I attended in summer 2012, the police blocked off the rear and side streets of the prime minister’s residence, obligating me to walk for twenty minutes around to the other side of the building, where protesters had been crammed into the street corner across a large road from the residence (figure 5.4.1). Likewise, the meeting place in front of the Diet Building is a street corner rather than a plaza; although the road approaching the building is lined by parks on either side, they are landscaped as wooded areas rather than meadows, preventing large gatherings and reducing visibility. Given this lack of space in the government district, protest organizers often opt instead to maximize visibility to as many citizens as possible. As most demonstrations are scheduled on the weekends (usually Sundays), they often target shopping districts, which are then at their fullest. A frequent choice is a central area at the nexus of multiple subway and/or commuter railway lines, such as Shinjuku, Shibuya, or Ginza. The choice among these would depend on the social, economic, and demographic makeup of the protesters themselves and/or their targeted audience. The youth fashion and entertainment districts of Shibuya and Harajuku were the site for the sound demos of No Nukes More Hearts (NNMH) and the TwitNoNukes demonstrations. The founder of NNMH, Misao Redwolf,

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Figure 5.4.1  Drum corps, weekly Friday protest across from Diet, October 18, 2013. Photo by the author.

is a graphic designer, while the founder of TwitNoNukes, Hirano Taichi, was then in his twenties. These districts are also favorite haunts of foreigners, who, according to Oda, tend to be more receptive to demonstrations than Japanese, often waving at or joining the demonstration (Oda, interview, 2013). Meanwhile, the more traditional shopping and entertainment district of Ginza, which caters to an older crowd, is favored by more formal organizations like Gensuikin, the antinuclear organization founded in 1965. The vast and diverse district of Shinjuku—the gateway to western Tokyo (with some left-leaning neighborhoods), the seat of the Tokyo metropolitan government, and home to fashionable department stores and red-light districts alike—was a site of large protests in the 1960s. This legacy seems to give it a rougher feel that Oda finds more receptive to demonstrations: Drum corps members say they sense a distance between the road [where protesters are] and the sidewalk [with onlookers] in Shibuya, but not in Shinjuku. The districts differ in character. Shibuya is fashionable and refined, so the people there look as if they would rather go about their own business than see a demonstration. It makes us feel distant from them psychologically. Shinjuku is less refined and more

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casual. It attracts people who are more receptive to demonstrations. They don’t look at us so coldly. It probably reflects on how the people in that district live. (Oda, interview, 2013) Shinjuku has been the site of some protests affiliated with Shirōto no Ran, which has historically staged the majority of its protests in its home ward of Suginami in western Tokyo or the neighboring ward of Nakano. After organizing large antinuclear protests in the central shopping districts of Shibuya, Shinjuku, and Ginza in 2011, Matsumoto returned to being involved primarily in protests near his home district, with a notable exception being a protest in Prime Minister Noda’s hometown of Funabashi in 2012. He explained that the next stage of protests needed to occur at the communities, so that neighbors could see each other at these protests and become more willing to speak out. This vocalization of opinion, in turn, would help influence public opinion and the responses of elected officials (Matsumoto Hajime, interview with the author, Tokyo, February 12, 2012). Indeed, in the first six weeks after 3.11, antinuclear demonstrations occurred nationwide, with only about eighteen out of a total of forty-three demonstrations taking place in Tokyo. During 2012, tour buses were traveling from the regions to Tokyo to join the Friday demonstrations. Since 2013, demonstrations in the regions have become increasingly visible. A few such examples include a 7,000-strong antinuclear demonstration in Prime Minister Abe’s hometown of Yamaguchi on March 8, 2014, to protest the construction of the Kaminoseki Nuclear Power Plant, and a 6,000-strong demonstration in Kagoshima City on March 16, 2014, to protest the planned restarting of the Sendai Nuclear Power Plant. Districts also have their associations with past social movements. Shinjuku was the site of major protests during the antiwar movement of the 1960s, including the folk guerilla meetings in Shinjuku West Exit and the Shinjuku Riot of 1968. Shibuya hosted the first sound demos of 2003–2004, whose Reclaim-the-Street-style demonstrations appealed to youths; it has since been the site of many precariat protests, such as the Nike protests of the early 2010s. Such histories can lend meaning to subsequent demonstrations. For example, flyers for the demonstration surrounding the Diet Building on July 29, 2012, featured photos of a historic demonstration on June 18, 1960, when over 330,000 protesters had surrounded the building. Such historical references have meanings not only for protesters but also for the police. When the Shirōto no Ran demonstration on June 11, 2011, filled Alta Plaza on the East Exit with tens of thousands of participants, it seemed the first time in over forty years (i.e., since the 1968 riot) that the East Exit had been so utterly packed with people. When the subsequent Shirōto no Ran demonstration was announced for September 11, the police were evidently determined not to let

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the protesters take over this space again: Authorities planted flower beds in the plaza, reducing the available space, and the police arrested twelve people at the demonstration. Such historical and socio-demographic associations give each district an affinity for certain musics in a demonstration. Shibuya, which was the heartland of dance clubs, was well suited for sound demos with techno in the early 2000s; Shirōto no Ran’s demonstrations in Kōenji, which is home to “live houses” (live music clubs), featured punk bands, among others; and Ginza has been the site of more “traditional” demonstrations. Hence, as Japan’s lack of open space on the scale of, say, the Washington Mall limits some options for protest, it forces organizers to think through their objectives and pick appropriate districts and pathways. PA T H S

Stevens (2007) has pointed out that the paths that are most inviting for street performances tend to be pedestrian walkways, whereas roads that carry more vehicular traffic tend to discourage play. For Japanese protest organizers, this ideal presents a challenge: The police do not allow demonstrators on the sidewalks and restrict them to only one lane of a multilane road, so that they inevitably share the road with vehicular traffic. As a result, the demonstration can appear small to outsiders, overwhelmed by the rest of the road. On major thoroughfares with multiple lanes, cars may annoy pedestrians and protesters, and traffic noises compete sonically with the protesters. Nonetheless, organizers usually route demonstrations through main thoroughfares for at least part of the way. As Noma explains, “More people are likely to see the demonstration on a large main road than on narrow side streets” (Noma, interview). Furthermore, organizers often target key plazas, intersections, and other nodes that attract many people as part of the route of the demonstration, and a major road is often the most practical and direct way to connect them. To maintain energy levels on long stretches of vehicular roads, demonstrators pick up the tempo of drumming and Sprechchor, vary the content of call-and-response patterns, and rotate the megaphone to others, giving short speeches, among other techniques. While a person can only see what is in front of them, they can hear in all directions; indeed, most onlookers will hear a demonstration before they see it. Hence, an additional benefit to using main arteries is increased sound propagation. Although a main road has competing traffic sounds, a long road with tall buildings forms a street canyon in which the sound from a demonstration can propagate farther and resonate longer than with narrower roads (Kang 2001: 291–292).

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There are some advantages to narrow roads. Futatsugi Shin, who was on the organizing committees of the Shirōto no Ran demonstrations, finds narrow roads, particularly those near train stations, to be effective because they fit a large crowd of people into a small space (Futatsugi Shin, interview with the author, Tokyo, August 2012). Forced to stand or walk closely together, say, within what Edward T.  Hall (1966) calls the intimate sphere (one to two feet) normally reserved for close friends, protesters can feel a kinesthetic closeness with each other (e.g., sensing the heat from another protester’s body). Protesters and passersby are also pressed into the personal sphere (three feet) of acquaintances, so that they are close enough to talk, gesture, or smile at each other; at least, they can see the other party’s faces and sense their emotions. Many side streets in Tokyo are organized into short blocks or plots, increasing the number of intersections; this type of topography also increases opportunities for spontaneous interaction among strangers (Stevens 2007: 69–71), or in the case of demonstrations, between protesters and passersby. Narrow roads also retain sound volume; if surrounded by tall buildings with reflective surfaces (such as mirrors or glass), they can become echo chambers. The resulting sensation of echoing, reverberating, and amplified sound can excite the protesters and build their sense of solidarity. The TwitNoNukes route in Shibuya has such a chamber that serves to build energy among the protesters before they enter the main road (Bunkamura-dōri) approaching Hachiko Square, as I describe later. Finally, organizers need to keep in mind the gradients of the demonstration route. Typically, these routes are about three or so kilometers long, and sharp uphill routes are generally avoided, as they tire out the elderly, families with children, drummers, and less fit people. Downhill gradients, however, can be used for better visibility. The No Nukes More Hearts sound demos approach Harajuku Station, the nexus of youth culture, from atop a slight hill, enhancing their visibility to the crowds milling around the station; the demonstration visibly gains energy during this approach. B O U N DA R I E S A N D   E D G E S

Boundaries separate parts of a physical space, setting limits on what people can see, hear, and do, as well as where they can go. As such, they also provide a structure to social relations. For example, railway tracks and highways often act as boundaries separating neighborhoods of different socioeconomic classes, lending truth to the cliché “wrong side of the tracks.” The iron gates surrounding the Diet Building keep protesters from occupying the plaza in front of the building.

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As Stevens points out, boundaries also demarcate areas where people take on different roles (2007:  114). In Japanese demonstrations, protesters are relegated to the road while passersby are on the sidewalk. In most protests, the police erect additional barriers between protesters and onlookers, placing plastic cones between the road and the sidewalk. The police also usually surround the demonstrators, standing or walking between the sidewalk and the demonstrators and marching en masse behind them (web figures 5.4-1a , 5.4-1b ). Such practices increase the separation between protesters and onlookers, reducing the visibility of the demonstration and making it difficult for people to join; I often had to walk several large city blocks to join a demonstration because either barriers or the police were obstructing any entry. At the anti-Abe protest in front of the Diet Building on July 24, 2015, the police not only erected barricades but also parked police vans back to back along the road, trapping the protesters onto the sidewalk and making it impossible to move from one part of the demonstration to another. Ironically, the police’s effort to reduce the size of the demonstration has a positive side effect for the protesters. As the police push them into well-defined boundaries, they are thrown into close proximity with one another, enhancing the feeling that they are all “in it together.” The enforced intimacy of the protest on July 24 made the protesters all the more passionate and the anger in their Sprechchor all the more infectious. Given the difficulty of crossing these barriers and the threat of being harassed or photographed by the police, people often find it more comfortable to watch the demonstration from the margins. Stevens notes that people often situate themselves on such edges or boundaries of spaces, because they are discreet and protected while allowing people to watch from a safe distance (Stevens 2007: 115). De Jonge (1967) calls this phenomenon the “edge effect.” Many types of people choose this more distant mode of engagement, including inexperienced protesters, the elderly, students anxious about job prospects, and corporate employees. From the safety of the sidewalk, a street corner, a plaza en-route, or (better yet) a pedestrian bridge, onlookers can watch and empathize with the protesters without being officially among them. Many onlookers (often armed with cameras) follow the demonstration over a substantial portion of its course. Sometimes onlookers display their own banners and placards and are cheered by the protesters in return. Pedestrian bridges are a particularly popular vantage point; their position, traversing the wide road at high elevation, allows one to look out over much of the length of the demonstration (web figure 5.4-2 ). Organizers sometimes arrange to approach such bridges going slightly uphill, so that spectators on the bridge can look down over a longer portion of the demonstration. An excellent example of a well-positioned pedestrian bridge is at Jingūbashi: It

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is slightly uphill from Harajuku Station and Omotesandō (arguably Japan’s most fashionable street), providing a long vista in both directions. This position is exploited in sound demos by No Nukes More Hearts; having just performed in front of Harajuku Station, the sound truck proceeds slightly uphill to the Jingūbashi pedestrian bridge for a final cheer before arriving at its terminus in Yoyogi Park. The protesters often become excited when approaching pedestrian bridges: Some wave, while others deliver their Sprechchor in more animated fashion, pumping their fists into the air. The steel beams of the pedestrian bridge can also resonate with the low-frequency sounds of sound systems and drums, creating an exciting, if momentary, sonic effect. Vehicular or railway bridges are larger structural boundaries with acoustics that excite demonstrators. In his study of New Orleans funeral marches, Matt Sakakeeny (2010) noted that marchers got most excited when they went underneath a highway bridge, where the concrete columns amplified the sound through echo and reverberation; in addition, the bridge acted as a boundary, separating a district into two sections. The most common Japanese equivalent is the wide railway bridge, with room for multiple tracks. It is usually unpleasant to walk under such bridges (among other things, the fumes and rumble of car traffic become exaggerated); because of reduced pedestrian traffic under them, such bridges can mark clear divisions in a district. But in the context of a demonstration, the moments underneath a bridge could be among the most memorable, as the voices of the protesters echo, resonate, and amplify against the steel and concrete. Sometimes, the site inspires musicians to give an impromptu concert, as the brass-chindon band Jintaramūta did underneath the Kōenji Station bridge during the first Shirōto no Ran antinuclear demonstration (web figure 5.4-3 ).3 And the act of the protesters traversing this boundary has the symbolic effect of unifying the socioeconomic divisions that the urban layout effects. The buildings, trees, and other objects marking the edges of the roads also have an impact on the soundscape, and hence the feeling, of the demonstration. Experiments by Kang (2000, 2001, 2006) and others have shown that taller buildings tend to project sound over longer distances, retain higher volumes, and have longer reverberation and delay times. Similarly, a continuous series of buildings projects sounds louder and over longer distances than do discrete buildings with spaces between them. In addition, building materials affect environmental acoustics, according to whether or not they are geometrically or diffusely reflective. A  mirror is a geometrically reflective surface, in that it reflects sound as it reflects light. Other building materials, like concrete, have surface irregularities that are not small compared with the acoustic wavelength, so that some of the sound is not reflected like a mirror but scattered in multiple directions; such surfaces are diffusely reflective (Kuttruff 1997). Geometrically reflective surfaces, such as glass or mirrors, generally

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project for longer distances at higher volumes, longer reverberations, and longer decay times than diffusely reflective surfaces like concrete or white marble. Sound-absorbent materials reduce the distance and volume of propagation and reverberation. The absorption coefficient expresses the degree of sound absorption (i.e., the ratio of sound energy absorbed to the incident energy). Given a sound of 1000 Hz (around B5), this measure is 0.03 for glass, 0.07 for concrete, and 0.09 for plywood (Tocci 1997: 1171). Furthermore, the shapes of buildings can affect the projection of the sound; a curve or shell, for example, can enlarge the acoustic arena, or field within which the sound can be heard. Hence, the configuration, shape, and material of the buildings at the edge of the road can momentarily enliven or deaden the sound of a demonstration. Soft materials, including people, trees, and bushes, tend to absorb not only sound generally but also higher frequencies, more so than lower frequencies. Low bass sounds are less absorbed by such materials and travel over longer distances. Hence, the bass-heavy genres often favored by sound trucks—hip-hop and electronic dance music—allow the demonstration to be heard for greater distances (i.e., the bass expands the protest’s aural boundaries). The forced absence of sounds can mark a boundary in a demonstration. Some routes include an enforced quiet zone. In the TwitNoNukes demonstrations, there was a stretch of about one hundred meters in front of a hospital where no instruments or megaphones were permitted, but Sprechchor were. In the August 26, 2012, demonstration in which I  participated, our voices became deeper but remained enthusiastic; without the support of the drums, our Sprechchor grew out of phase between the front and back of the line, lending a certain polyrhythm to the slogans. As recounted in ­chapter 5.3, the MCAN demonstration on March 10, 2013, did not allow for demonstrators to play instruments or use megaphones as we approached the Diet Building; it took the MCAN leaders on megaphones and speakers along the route to revive the protesters into Sprechchor. NODE S, I N T ER SECT IONS, A N D CONCEN T R AT IONS

Lynch defines nodes as “the strategic spots in a city into which an observer can enter, and which are the intensive foci to and from which he is traveling.” He describes two categories of them: (1) junctions in the course of movement, such as intersections, breaks in transportation, and thresholds from one structure to another, and (2) concentrations that attract people, which may be hangouts, plazas, and or other points of focus in a district (Lynch 1960: 47–48). In particular, Stevens identifies intersections as places that raise possibilities for interaction among strangers, as people moving in different directions are brought closer together (Stevens 2007:  99–113). Drawing from Edward

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Hall’s (1966) four zones of interpersonal spacing—intimate, personal, social, and public—Stevens notes that in an urban intersection, people can stand or move within the intimate boundary of 0.5 meters, in which people can touch, smell, hear, see facial expressions, and feel the heat of another person. They may stop at a traffic light, making them captive audiences for a street performance or demonstration. Furthermore, an intersection opens one’s field of vision in different directions. It also increases the aural arena: Sound usually projects more loudly and in more directions (through the main and side streets) at an intersection than at any other point in the road. Hence, intersections are key points in a demonstration: They are where the demonstration can be seen, heard, and even felt by more people in more directions. Protest organizers pick and target them; for example, Noma notes that the route between the Marui City intersection (of Park Avenue, or Kōen Dōri, and Fire Avenue) and the entrance into Inokashira Dōri between the two Seibu department store buildings is an important part of the TwitNoNukes demonstrations: “That area always has such large crowds that you feel you are pressed against other people. You can really feel the roadside… . The police keep asking us not to go through such a crowded area, but we force it through, saying it’s absolutely necessary” (Noma, interview, 2012). Given a greater vista and a captive audience, many demonstrators consciously go into a more performative mode at intersections. As Abe has pointed out, chindon bands often pause at intersections, playing and giving speeches (Abe 2010: 67); indeed, the chindon performer Ōkuma Wataru of Jintaramūta launched into an antinuclear speech during a demonstration on June 11, 2011 (web figure 5.4-4 ).4 Intersections are prime spots for organizers and performers to give speeches, particularly when the demonstration is being stopped by a light or the police (web figure 5.4-5 ). Hirano would explain the purpose of the demonstration to the people waiting to cross; Rankin Taxi would crack a joke based on current events, appealing to the onlookers; and Akuryō would stir up the crowd. Impromptu speeches and performances seem especially common in road intersections in front of train stations or plazas, as these multi-junctions attract large numbers of people who are crossing and waiting. A  prime example of such a multi-junction is Hachiko Square and the contiguous “scramble” intersection in front of Shibuya Station, where as many as 3,000 people cross with each green light (figure 5.4-2). 5 The busyness of this intersection, however, also makes it suboptimal for activists; one occasionally sees the speeches of one group colliding with another, so that neither is clearly audible. Nonetheless, meeting points near major train stations, like Alta Plaza at Shinjuku Station, remain favored destinations for demonstrations. Some intersections in shopping districts sport wider sidewalks in front of major stores, forming a mini-plaza/threshold. At the intersection of Meiji Dōri and Omotesandō in Harajuku, each corner has such a mini-plaza where a hundred people could

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Figure 5.4-2  Shibuya Station, Hachiko entrance, TwitNoNukes demonstration, March 31, 2013. Photo courtesy of Mkimpo.

gather, providing an audience for demonstrators; it is another spot where Hirano of TwitNoNukes would give a speech or where the rappers in a No Nukes More Hearts sound demo would kick into high gear (figure 5.4-3). Even demonstrators without microphones or megaphones are spurred on to perform at an intersection, particularly when many spectators are watching. Such a moment came during Shirōto no Ran’s demonstration in Kōenji on April 10, 2011, when the sound truck turned from a narrow road onto Oume Kaidō, a major boulevard. Playing Joris Voorn’s “Incident,” DJ Mayuri took out the bass and the drums as the truck approached the intersection. When the truck had reached the middle of the intersection (i.e., the loudest point) and had just begun to turn, she returned the bass and drums into the mix, causing the crowd following the truck to cheer wildly (web figure 5.4-6 ).6 A large crowd was watching from atop a pedestrian bridge. Someone on the truck began to wave an antinuclear sign at the protesters, moving it up and down with the beats. One of the protesters spontaneously reacted by yelling “Gen! patsu! Yame-ro!” (Stop nuclear power!) in time with the beats. The crowd, which had only been dancing to the music, began shouting calls and responses of “Genpatsu yamero” (web figure 5.4-7 ).7 It was a pivotal moment in sound demonstrations, which had up until then focused on dancing rather than verbal chants from the audience (­chapter 5.3).

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Figure 5.4-3  Intersection of Meiji Dōri and Omotesandō, Harajuku, TwitNoNukes demonstration, November 24, 2013. Photo courtesy of Mkimpo.

Squares and plazas are often used as a beginning or ending point for demonstrations; their relative spaciousness in a space-constrained city like Tokyo makes them natural gathering points after a demonstration, where a stage can be erected for additional speeches and performances, or people can socialize before going off for a drink. Alta Plaza in Shinjuku—another multi-junction as it serves as a subway exit—was the site of the final rally for the Shirōto no Ran demonstrations on June 11 and September 11, 2011. Volume gets louder in smaller squares, and reverberation times get longer in larger squares; a square enclosed by glass buildings (like many Japanese plazas) has significantly greater volume and longer reverberation than squares surrounded by concrete or wood. L A N DM A R K S A N D SOU N DM A R K S

Lynch defines landmarks as external reference points, typically physical objects, that may either be seen from afar (like Tokyo Tower), or more local identifying objects (like the statue of the dog Hachiko in front of Shibuya Station). From the point of view of demonstrations, key landmarks would include the office buildings of decision-makers in the nuclear debate—the

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Diet, the prime minister, local governments, METI, MEXT, the Nuclear Regulatory Authority (NRA), the LDP, TEPCO and other electric power companies, and NHK, among others—as well as the nuclear power plants themselves. Such buildings—particularly the Diet Building, the prime minister’s residence, METI, and TEPCO headquarters—are favored sites for stationary protests. Some organizers also make them prioritized destinations for mobile demonstrations. TEPCO’s central location—a block from Hibiya Park, two blocks from METI, and just on the other side of the tracks from Ginza—makes it easy for demonstrations in Kasumigaseki or Ginza to pass by it. Demonstrators will often launch into a special performance in front of the building, giving speeches directed at TEPCO, releasing black “radiation balloons,” or yelling out a TEPCO-specific Sprechchor: “Denryoku gaisha wa genpatsu yamero” (Electric power companies, quit nuclear power) (web figure 5.4-8 ). In the demonstration on July 29, 2012, while stopped directly in front of the METI building, Akuryō launched into the taunt “Keisanshō wa genpatsu yamero” (METI, quit nuclear power) (web figure 5.4-9 ). The protesters, excited by the location, the heat, and each other’s proximity, yelled the call at the top of their lungs at the building, raising their middle fingers in an obscene gesture, while their voices reverberated, reflecting off the buildings. Places also have identifying sounds, which Schafer (1993) identifies as keynote sounds, signals, and soundmarks. Keynote sounds may not be consciously listened to and are ubiquitous background sounds that are taken for granted. In contrast, signals are foreground sounds that are listened to consciously, such as sirens or other warning noises. Soundmarks are unique and act as identifiers of a particular community, such as a church bell, a train horn, or waves crashing on a beach. In an urban environment like Tokyo, one can be overwhelmed by keynote sounds, signals, and soundmarks. Standing on Hachiko Square, one is aurally assaulted by advertisements blasting out of three video screens, the latest J-pop tune playing on advertising trucks, the rumbling of traffic, the conversations of thousands of people on their cell phones, and a police truck with a megaphone announcing that “a demonstration is passing by soon! Please pardon the disturbance (web figure 5.4-10 ).” The demonstration needs to compete visually and sonically with this excess of stimuli. The sounds of the demonstration—the Sprechchor, the drums, the beats from the sound truck—are its soundmarks. In particular, the low bass sounds of the sound truck are soundmarks that travel through the streets, allowing the demonstration to be heard before it is seen. As Schafer (1993) points out, low-frequency sounds have an immersive quality because they can be felt as well as heard and cannot be located as easily as higher-frequency sounds. Hence, the low-bass sound of the hip-hop or dance-oriented sound demo can

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act as a sound wall, enveloping the protesters and nearby onlookers. With the properties of both a barrier and a soundmark, the sound truck remakes the city through sonic means.

TwitNoNukes Demonstrations To illustrate how landscape and soundscape contribute to the performance of a demonstration, let us now examine what happened in the course of two demonstrations with similar courses through Shibuya: TwitNoNukes and the No Nukes More Hearts sound demos. TwitNoNukes (Chapter 5.3) was a monthly demonstration held on the last Sunday of the month from April 2011 until mid-2012, after which it has had a more occasional schedule. Its concept is stoic relative to sound demonstrations, concentrating on Sprechchor and often accompanied by percussion instruments. Musical accompaniment became richer over time, adding not only a djembe group and Oda’s drum corps but also an increasing number of brass and wind instruments. TwitNoNukes demonstrations have also been held in Osaka, Nagoya, and other cities. G E N E R A L L A YO U T O F   T H E   R O U T E

I joined the TwitNoNukes demonstration on August 26, 2012, the route of which is shown in figure 5.4-4 (web figure 5.4-11 ). TwitNoNukes demonstrations generally followed this path, with a few variations. It cuts through the major shopping streets of the Shibuya, Harajuku, and Omotesandō neighborhoods. Omotesandō is perhaps Tokyo’s highest-end shopping district, with flagship stores of Louis Vuitton, Gucci, and other top European brand names. Harajuku is the epicenter of teen fashion that inspired Gwen Stefani; it is teeming with teenagers from Tokyo and further afield. Shibuya is a large, more integrated entertainment and shopping district at a major train station, with department stores, cinemas, and clubs, but many of its stores and establishments cater toward younger people. All three areas are extremely crowded on Sunday afternoons, and from my personal experience of having lived nearby for several years, I put the greatest concentrations of people at Hachiko Square (purportedly one of the busiest intersections in the world), Fire Avenue between Marui and Inokashira Dōri, and the Omotesandō-Meiji Dōri crossing; in addition, the crowded narrow streets of Udagawa-chō put protesters in close contact with onlookers. The route connects all these concentrations. Landmarks along the route include major retailers like Tōkyū Department Store in Shibuya Station, Seibu Department Store, Marui, Tower Records, and Omotesandō Hills. It also passes by the Denryoku-kan—TEPCO’s public

Figure 5.4-4  Route of TwitNoNukes demonstration, August 26, 2012. Adapted by the author from TwitNoNukes website.

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relations museum, shut down in May 2011, that promoted nuclear power and electric appliances. Another building on the route is Hello Work, a government service to find jobs for the unemployed that is criticized by some precariats.8 The route is designed to pick up energy as it goes along, gathering latecomers and joiners in the more narrow streets of Shibuya before making grand entrances into Hachiko Square and Omotesandō. Most of these demonstrations began in Miyashita Park, which has its own significance. This park served as the meeting point for the 2003–2004 sound demos and was the site of a large rally in October 2003 (­chapter 5.2). It also became a site of contention in 2008, when the media reported that Nike was planning to buy the rights to rename Miyashita Park for 150 million yen in exchange for renovating it, adding a skateboard ramp and a climbing wall.9 The move was hotly opposed as a global capitalist intrusion on public space for advertising purposes. Artists, precariats, supporters of the homeless, and others staged multiple demonstrations starting and ending in Miyashita Park. After several years of delays, the renovation was completed in 2011. In addition to this starting point, the TwitNoNukes demonstrations shared parts of the routes covered by these previous protests: It replicated the Nike demonstration route (September 26, 2010) down Fire Avenue to Inokashira Street, Tōkyū Bunkamura Street, Hachiko Square, and under the railway bridge. Its walk down Park Avenue also echoed the routes of the Nike and antiwar demonstrations. A L O N G T H E   PA T H

The protesters gathered in Miyashita Park starting around 4  p.m (web figure 5.4-12 ).10 The day before, I  noticed that the demonstration had suddenly been rescheduled to start an hour later than originally planned, which I assumed to be due to a police order; nonetheless, it was a sizeable crowd. The demonstration exited Miyashita Park down a staircase, then turned to pass underneath the railroad bridge; its resonance gave us an energy boost as we entered the heart of Shibuya. As we turned into Fire Avenue, a drummer with a low tom-tom was standing in front of a glass building, amplifying his beats for the whole street to hear. His behavior, entirely appropriate for the protesters’ aims, was the opposite of chindon bands, who avoid playing in front of glass to keep the noise down (Abe 2010). As we passed by the TEPCO museum, there was a roar of angry shouts. The building was fenced off and covered with closure notices, and the police hovered around it, as if to prevent riled protesters from damaging the building. We turned into Yellow Street, past Hello Work, and walked up the incline. The streets here are narrower, at around sixteen meters wide, and the glass and

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hard concrete buildings lent reverberation to the protesters’ Sprechchor. We entered the intersection dominated by the Shibuya Ward Office, a busy intersection opening in five directions with a plaza. It was a good place for Hirano to give a short explanatory speech. The demonstrators who hadn’t yet turned the corner were chanting out of phase with the ones already on Park Avenue, lending a polyrhythmic quality to the chants. Oda’s drum corps launched into the “Tequila”-derived drum pattern for the call “saikadō hantai” (we oppose restarting nuclear power plants); the drumming brought the group back into unison. We went downhill on Park Avenue, and the sound of protesters’ Sprechchor was reverberating on the smooth surfaces of the Apple and Shel’tter stores. The acoustics excited the protesters, and the drummers kicked into high gear, a rhythmic call and response erupting between them and us. Downhill at the threshold of the Marui Store, at the intersection with Fire Avenue, a large crowd was watching, and the volume of the sound excited us further. Cheers erupted and smartphones snapped as the demonstration turned the corner onto Fire Avenue. We quickly turned into Inokashira Dōri at another very crowded intersection in front of the Seibu Department Store. We were momentarily encased by two Seibu Department Stores on either side of the street and the three overhead bridges connecting them, and our voices echoed and reverberated against the glass windows and concrete bridges (figure 5.4-5). Our voices

Figure 5.4-5  Seibu Dept. Store, Shibuya, TwitNoNukes demonstration, July 23, 2011. Photo by Yamamoto Munesuke. Reprinted with permission.

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were amplified, and our bodies were pushed closer together into the narrow street; the sound and the crowding excited us. The echo confused some protesters, and I noticed that the Sprechchor behind us had gotten out of sync. The narrower street projected the intensity and reverberation of our sound for a few blocks ahead of us and helped to maintain our momentum. It also allowed us to get up close to the passersby, and some of us smiled, beckoned, and performed for them. We turned onto an even narrower street, only about seven meters wide. Surrounded by two tall steel-and-glass buildings, we were in a highly resonant tunnel, and our voices echoed and reverberated loudly (figure 5.4-6). The police made us stop here for a while as we waited for the light. The brass players started their scalar ascent, and the drums crescendoed into the “saikadō hantai” pattern. With all the reverberation and echo, it was an impressive cacophony. The light changed, and we turned onto Bunkamura Dōri, a major shopping boulevard that leads into Hachiko Plaza and Shibuya Station; it was extremely crowded, as it always is on a Sunday afternoon. A  police truck drove ahead of us down the street into the Shibuya intersection, announcing loudly over a megaphone: “Everyone! A demonstration will be coming down this street

Figure 5.4-6  Narrow, reverberant road into Bunkamura, Shibuya, TwitNoNukes demonstration, March 31, 2013. Photo courtesy of Mkimpo.

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shortly. We appreciate your patience with this disturbance.” This announcement seemed to undermine our demonstration; some of the onlookers looked annoyed and glared hostilely at us. As we approached Hachiko Square, Hirano gave a speech over the megaphone, explaining: We are individual citizens who have come together over Twitter to express our opposition to nuclear power. The Ōi reactors are the only two nuclear power plants currently in operation. No other nuclear power plants are operating, yet there’s no shortage of electricity. The authorities are trying to restart other nuclear power plants, which we will not accept. There’s no guarantee that these nuclear power plants would withstand another earthquake. We welcome anyone who agrees to join us. He paused momentarily and pointed his megaphone at the glass Q-Front building, causing a sharp reverberation. Despite the cold, discouraging looks from some of the onlookers, the protesters seemed energized by the call-and-response patterns. Some passersby were also excited and snapped photos and videos on their cell phones. At Shibuya intersection in front of Hachiko Square, we competed for attention with video screens and a plethora of other loud stimuli. However, the police stopped foot and car traffic as the demonstration crossed, turning the thousands of people waiting to cross the street into a captive audience. The drums, already playing at a fast pace, kicked into the drum call “saikadō hantai,” and the protesters pumped their fists. Pausing in front of Q-Front, I heard the resonant voices of protesters further up Bunkamura Dōri forming a mish-mash of Sprechchor patterns. We exited Hachiko Square by marching underneath a train bridge. The low-lying bridge (figure 5.4-7), perhaps little more than three meters high, was another resonant chamber; the protesters’ voices sounded loud and resonant, the higher frequencies on the drums and the harmonics on the wind instruments were more piercing (web figure 5.4-13 ). I began to hear several overlapping patterns of Sprechchor again, and I wasn’t sure if they were echoes or if people had become out of sync in the confusion of the sound environment. It was another memorable, energetic moment in the demonstration. With this last bit of sonic excitement, we came into another intersection. The train bridge seemed to divide parts of Shibuya. Unlike Hachiko, this intersection was not inviting pedestrians to linger; a terminus for buses borders it on one side, and cars and motorcycles were whizzing by. The energy coming out of Hachiko and the bridge seemed to dissipate a bit. We began a long (1.3 km), less engaging stretch up Miyamasu-zaka into Aoyama Dōri, one of the main multi-laned thoroughfares of central Tokyo. In my many years of living in this area, I rarely took walks down this road, as it was always full of cars (idling or speeding), and there were more attractive strolling alternatives just behind it, in the little streets of Omotesandō and Harajuku. Unsurprisingly,

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Figure 5.4-7  Monju-kun and demonstrators marching under railway bridge, Shibuya, TwitNoNukes demonstration, April 29, 2012. Photo courtesy of @monjukun.

we encountered few onlookers along this stretch of the route. At a width of about forty-two meters, the street was not reverberant, and our sounds seemed lost in the traffic. The sun was directly overhead, and I felt the full heat and humidity of an August day in insufficient shade. Nevertheless, this stretch was necessary to take in both Omotesandō and Hachiko in the same demonstration, and the charming backstreets, which include residential areas, were out of bounds for demonstrations. Sensing the loss of energy, the drum corps seemed to speed up the tempo from time to time along Aoyama Dōri, laying down a more active groove for Sprechchor. Some musicians turned toward the glass buildings along the route to amplify their instruments’ sounds; others were resting over the long stretch. We approached Omotesandō crossing, the entrance to the tree-lined avenue of Omotesandō—one of Japan’s premier shopping streets, flanked by Chanel, Christian Dior, and other top luxury brand shops and the high-end galleria of Omotesando Hills. Shaded by trees, it was a pleasant place for a

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stroll and was packed with people, including many expatriates, on the weekends. Omotesandō crossing is a multi-junction: Not only is it the intersection with Aoyama Dōri, but it also has an entrance to a subway station. Many people usually pass through this junction, and the generous room on the sidewalk encourages them to mill about. Sure enough, there were onlookers cheering us as we turned here into Omotesandō. Hirano took the opportunity to give another speech. I stepped out onto the street corner and realized for the first time how large the demonstration was. Many people apparently joined during our walk in Shibuya. The demonstration seemed to extend beyond a large city block; perhaps it was as long as 200 meters. I then noticed a second line with another drum corps that was about the same size. I guesstimate that there may have been as many as 3,000 protesters—much more than the usual 1,000 for TwitNoNukes. As I took in the crowd, I saw a number of musicians. The rapper Akuryō, a feature in MCAN sound demos, was leading the Sprechchor on a megaphone, while fellow rapper ATS was not far behind; they were stirring up the crowd. On the other hand, ECD was participating as an ordinary citizen, pushing his younger daughter in a baby stroller. Nakagawa of Soul Flower Union, who was in town for a concert the previous evening, was also marching as an ordinary citizen. On previous occasions, Gotō Masafumi of Asian Kung-Fu Generation and Rankin Taxi had joined TwitNoNukes demonstrations. The sight of well-known musicians—either as agitators or simply ordinary citizens—can help to buoy a demonstration and attract more participants, as excited fans tweet their sightings (­chapter 3). Stopped at a light at the Omotesandō intersection, the drum corps played to the crowd with the saikadō-hantai pattern. As Oda explained, the drummers get excited at stoplights, as it is easier to drum while stationary than while walking. At stoplights, the tempo gets faster, the volume louder, and the Sprechchor more continuous (Oda, interview, 2013). Another pattern emerged toward the back of the line, and as more people turned the corner, I again heard the blending of two different patterns. This crescendo was suddenly brought down as we entered the noinstruments zone in front of the hospital. After Hirano made the announcement not to play instruments, our voices, still chanting Sprechchor, initially became hushed but gained energy and volume over the course of this zone, as we compensated for the lack of drums by punctuating the consonants (web figure 5.4-14 ). Our voices were resonant, reverberating off the glass buildings. Our calls were rhythmic, but I heard shadows of another rhythm behind me; different calls were blending into one another. The quiet area ended past the Emporio Armani store, and we started up again, Oda’s drums now echoing off the glass buildings of Omotesandō. He

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noted, “The acoustics in Omotesandō are quite resonant because there are so many glass buildings, especially around the Hanae Mori building.11 Everyone knows that, so they play with a special enthusiasm there” (Oda, interview, 2013) (web figure 5.4-15 ). It was altogether a friendly vibe:  Drivers on the road beeped and waved at us, and a middle-aged woman offered small cups of water to us as we walked by. The pedestrian bridge overhead had a row of people watching us, and they shouted, “Genpatsu hantai” (We’re against nuclear power) in response as we walked underneath. The drum corps picked up the tempo (as it often did when its members were excited), and we shouted our Sprechchor at a faster pace. We approached the intersection of Meiji Dōri and Omotesandō, another multi-junction with entrances to the Meiji Jingū-mae subway station. A block away from Harajuku, the area was teeming with teenagers visiting from surrounding prefectures, as well as people strolling on Omotesandō. Even though it is the intersection of a busy street (Meiji Dōri), it is a pedestrian-friendly spot, as there are ample sidewalks, and thresholds on each corner serve as mini-plazas. Many people were watching us from these spots; some were waiting to cross the street, while others—particularly the visitors—were excited to see us and were taking videos of us. As we turned the corner, Hirano gave a speech to the audience. Again, there were Sprechchor in multiple phases of time. After the excitement of Omotesandō and the Meiji Jingū-mae intersection, it felt like a letdown to be walking on Meiji Dōri, another wide thoroughfare with much car traffic. The street does, however, have a number of fashionable shops, giving it a steady flow of foot traffic. A  young couple was holding hands, shaking them in time to the Sprechchor. Along the way, a number of glass buildings reflected the sounds of our calls and gave them resonance. As in Aoyama Dōri, the drum corps intermittently played louder and faster here, keeping our energy levels high. I stepped back again to find that the line had grown even further since crossing Omotesandō. Reentering the park, the drum corps played a final flourish, and Hirano gave a speech thanking us. I hung out for a bit and chatted with Nakagawa and ATS before heading home. Hence, the demographics, layout, and acoustics of the urban environment greatly affect a demonstration. Onlookers are more receptive in intersections with good visibility and places to stand comfortably; the fewer cars there are on the street, the greater the interactions between protesters and onlookers. Furthermore, bridge underpasses, narrow roads, glass buildings, and other features heighten the reverberations of protesters’ voices. Protesters and musicians leverage the excitement that this resonance causes. They also compensate for long stretches that sap energy by picking up tempos and increasing the volume.

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Sound Demos and Geography: No Nukes More Hearts How do these performance tactics change when the musicians are on top of a truck with amplifying sound equipment? On top of a truck, rappers and DJs are effectively onstage: They are more visible than ambulatory musicians to both protesters and bystanders and can be seen farther away. These performers draw the attention of both parties in a way that musicians walking alongside the protesters would not. They are onstage not only as performers but also as leaders of the protest, giving speeches (whether in speaking or rapped form), providing the Sprechchor calls, and eliciting the responses. Occasionally, performers find such a leadership role uncomfortable or inappropriate, as they feel everyone, including themselves, should participate as individuals. In such instances, they walk alongside the truck with the other protesters rather than stand on top of it, making them seem more like one of the participants. Rankin Taxi walked alongside the sound truck in sound demonstrations in Suginami Ward on May 6, 2012, and in Tokyo’s Shiba district on June 2, 2013; but he also has performed on top of the truck in several other demonstrations, such as the Suginami Ward and No Nukes All Star demonstrations in February 2012. From an aural point of view, the large bass-heavy speakers allow the performers to project farther and more loudly than would be possible with acoustic drums. Long avenues that may become boring with only acoustic instruments, such as Meiji Dōri, are good venues for sound demos, as they can project a good distance down the street, and performers can switch styles and tracks or otherwise keep the protesters engaged. On the other hand, the tighter spaces that can have such exciting impact in an ambulatory demonstration—particularly narrow roads with glass façades—can become overwhelming with a large sound system. Organizers often steer sound trucks away from such narrow roads, as well as hospital zones, purely residential areas, and other areas that are more subject to local noise regulations. For example, the No Nukes All Star demo, organized by No Nukes More Hearts, ran through much of the same territory in Shibuya and Harajuku as TwitNoNukes, but in the demonstrations that included sound trucks (December 2011 and afterward), it avoided narrow Inokashira Dōri. One sound demo that did take in this narrow stretch was the Shirōto no Ran demonstration of May 7, 2011. At the turn between the Seibu Department Stores into Inokashira Dōri, DJ Tasaka changed the track to a bass-heavy one, which resonated on the buildings and overhead bridges; the crowd cheered.12 Similarly, the crowd cheered underneath the railway bridge, having become excited by the music.13 Hence, the most distinguishing characteristic of an amplified sound system is its sheer loudness and projection over long distances, but a few DJs do exhibit sensitivities to the subtleties of micro-local acoustics.

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In presentational-style performances, some musicians perform as they might in a club; they play songs nearly in their entirety, interspersing them with casual talk to the protesters and onlookers. The immediate geography has less impact on such performances than on an ambulatory drum corps. These artists tend to begin and end their sets with their most familiar songs, as they would in a club performance, and these songs have most impact when the sound truck is near a crowded junction. Musicians play prepared songs in participatory-style performances as well; however, they usually perform these songs as breaks in between Sprechchor and typically perform only one verse or less. They jump into these prepared verses when the energy lags (e.g., in long stretches of road such as Meiji Dōri). When i Zoom i Rockers perform, ECD, Akuryō, and ATS take turns not only with Sprechchor but also with facing different sides of the truck, appealing to passersby on the street. Such rotation, combined with DJ Noma’s constant switching of tracks, helps to keep the protesters going. As with protesters in TwitNoNukes, the sound demo performers play to the crowds at intersections and plazas. Along the route of the No Nukes All Star demos, the largest concentrations of people are at the Park Avenue-Fire Avenue intersection in front of Marui City, Hachiko Square (when it is included in the route), the Meiji Jingū-mae intersection of Omotesandō and Meiji Dōri, and especially Harajuku Station, the entrance of which is usually filled with people. The Harajuku nodes—the station and the Meiji Jingū-mae intersection—are particularly receptive, as they are magnets for youths from near and far; they are excited by the spectacle of rappers on a truck. As ATS described it, “When Akuryō and I were on the sound truck, they came up to see us, chased after us, and waved at us. They were very receptive… . It really made a great impression on me” (ATS, interview with the author, Tokyo, August 11, 2012). Performers have different strategies for dealing with these nodes. Like Hirano of TwitNoNukes, they may give a speech to bystanders, particularly if the truck is stopped at a light. While stopped at the Meiji Jingū-mae intersection during the No Nukes All Star demo of May 20, 2012, Akuryō gave a short speech, saying, “There’s not a single nuclear reactor working at the moment, and there’s no shortage of electricity.” Similarly, when passing by Harajuku Station during the No Nukes All Star demo of July 7, 2012, Hibikilla said, “We might be spreading noise, but that’s not nearly as bad as TEPCO’s spreading radiation!” They may also try to build momentum when going into these intersections. Approaching the Meiji Jingū-mae intersection in the July 7, 2012, demonstration, DJ Noma switched the track to “Fight the Power” by the Isley Brothers. Inspired by this eminently danceable number, rappers Akuryō, ATS, and ECD whipped up the crowd with Sprechchor of “saikadō hantai” (we oppose

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restarting nuclear power plants) and “genpatsu iranai” (we don’t need nuclear power), making the entrance into the intersection more dramatic. Noma periodically cut out the track at the crowd’s response to the Sprechchor, allowing one to hear the full force and volume of their enthusiasm. Stopped at a light at the intersection, he switched to a slower, seductive tune; Akuryō gesticulated to the bystanders, rapping “Minna de arukō!” (Let’s all walk together), beckoning them to join the protesters. Similarly, pedestrian bridges invite showy performances. Sympathetic onlookers carrying banners often stand on the bridge across Meiji Dōri at Miyashita Park. When approaching this bridge in the July 7, 2012, protest, ECD shouted, “Yūkoto kikaseru ban da, oretachi ga” (It’s our turn to make them listen to what we say)—a quote from “Straight Outta 138” that references his 2003 anthem “Yūkoto kikuyōna yatsura ja naizo.” (Chapter 5.2). The protesters and onlookers were excited. The pedestrian bridge over Jingūbashi intersection, with streets heading to Omotesandō, Shibuya, and Yoyogi Park, is another highly visible spot. From this intersection, unobstructed sound can carry down the streets for some distance. Performers sometimes elect to sing their best-known songs at this spot: Rankin Taxi sang the beginning of “You Can’t See It, You Can’t Smell It Either” in the February 2012 demonstration (web figure 5.4-16 ), while Hibikilla sang “Positive Vibes” and Deli sang “One Love” in the July 2012 demonstration.

Conclusion: Acoustics and Landscape Demonstrations must make their presence felt in the urban spaces they pass through; if the police limit their visibility or make them look smaller, they can occupy the streets with sound. Musicians, protesters, and onlookers all respond to the urban landscape and soundscape. The urban elements outlined by Lynch and Stevens, combined with Kang’s studies of urban acoustics, provide useful frameworks for analyzing how urban geography influences the performance of a demonstration. Typically, protesters and performers will become more animated at nodes and edges where people congregate—train stations, intersections, plazas, pedestrian bridges, and stoplights. At these points, callers may begin speeches or whip up the protesters, who may perform for the onlookers; these are the best opportunities for protesters to engage the onlookers and inspire them to join in. Sonically, demonstrations are most exciting when the sound completely fills the urban space, which happens most dramatically in small spaces like narrow streets, small squares lined with glass buildings, or underpasses. Such small spaces, however, are less visible to the public, and if faced with a tradeoff between sonic excitement and better

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visibility, organizers choose the latter, to increase participation and impact on the public. Long stretches of road with vehicular traffic can be unpleasant for protesters, and musicians attempt to alleviate these issues by speeding up the tempo or changing the music. Sound trucks are effective in such stretches, as they can offer sonic variety to the protesters while coloring the street with sound. By responding to the details of the urban environment, musicians can engage onlookers and encourage them to participate, as well as motivate fellow protesters. Matsumoto says, “The sound of a demonstration changes the city.” I’d add, “The cityscape changes with the sound.”

CH A P T ER 

6

Festivals DIFFER ING MODEL S OF COMMUNIC AT ION

Introduction Music festivals have long been recognized as sites of political action.1 As Street (2012) has discussed, events with a specific theme, like Live Aid or Musicians United for Safe Energy’s No Nukes concert (1979), have been credited with raising awareness of issues. On the other hand, events without explicit themes but with an implicit ideology, like Woodstock, have captured the political spirit of their times (Bennett 2004, McKay 1996, Lebrun 2009). Both types of festivals can affect the thinking of their participants. Their influence is partly because of their status as a space and time apart—a heterotopia. According to Foucault (1986), utopias are imaginary, idealized places, while isotopias are constructed out of the patterns of existing places. In contrast, heterotopias are real spaces where processes and acts that are outside of ordinary behavior take place. Heterotopias may create several places at one site, as with a theater or a garden; access different points in time, as in a museum; contain deviants, like psychiatric hospitals, or allow unsanctioned behavior, like brothels. Hetherington has defined heterotopias as spaces of alternate ordering (Hetherington 2000:  40–41). Foucault includes festivals among heterotopias because of their temporary nature, turning otherwise-empty fairgrounds into teeming social spaces for brief periods. Social scientists and musicologists (e.g., Lebrun 2009, St. John 2001) have since applied heterotopias to discuss music festivals, given their temporary nature and their quality as “a space that is other” (Foucault 1984). This otherness of festivals is partly due to marketing, whereby, for example, Smash Japan’s website describes the Fuji Rock Festival in utopian, 262

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nature-friendly terms. But it is also attributable to the immersive nature of festivals. Participants spend a considerable amount of time (perhaps an entire day or several days) there, giving them, as Bennett (2004:  xix) puts it, “an opportunity to temporarily suspend the mundane predictability of normal everyday experience.” Audience members may make a significant investment in time and money to attend, travel long distances to get there, and even camp out on the grounds. Regularly scheduled but infrequent festivals (e.g., annual ones) may seem like a pilgrimage for repeat participants. Given their status as special spaces, festivals offer opportunities for participants to feel a sense of community with many others, engage in behaviors they might otherwise suppress, and envision a world or lifestyle different from their present one. As festivals are often marketed as a lifestyle preference, they bring together people with similar tastes but possibly disparate backgrounds (Bennett et  al. 2014). The Glastonbury Festival is an example of an event treasured for its lifestyle experience:  It sells out months in advance, before the acts are even announced, showing that its brand as a festival experience is the attraction rather than the individual performers. Of course, participants may not actually have so utopian an experience: Lebrun notes that some participants find festivals alienating, and that while festivals construct a “mental image of ‘universal’ community,” participants often don’t venture outside of their preexisting social networks (Lebrun 2009: 148). Nonetheless, music festivals share some characteristics with the carnival as described by Bakhtin (1984), allowing freer interaction among people, less restricted behavior, and parodies of hallowed ideas. Sonoda (1988: 38) notes similar characteristics in traditional Japanese festivals (matsuri), which carry “expectations of a thorough liberation of mind and body, a destruction of the existing order … [and] the casting away of everyday restraints.” Music festivals offer a range of political opportunities for participants. For audience members who already espouse a political view, festivals allow them to renew their commitment to the cause. For the non-committed, they are friendly, less risky environments for considering and experimenting with political ideas. For activists, festivals are an opportunity to raise consciousness about their cause for a large mass of people, who have been drawn by the music. Activists can also mobilize citizens by speaking from a stage to the crowd, chatting with them at an NGO stand, working together with non-activists as volunteers at the festival, or simply mingling with them in the crowd. For musicians, festivals offer the least risky space of the four spaces discussed in this book (cyberspace, demonstrations, recordings, and festivals) in which to engage in activism. The festival is a closed space (in real space, if not in cyberspace), and a majority of the audience likes the artist, having spent the money and allocated the time to see him or her. At a politically themed

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festival, the artist is unlikely to be booed for stating his or her beliefs, as many audience members are attending because they are sympathetic to the cause. Managers may be less strict with artists than they would be at commercial concerts, and artists feel freer to perform songs with (perhaps added-on) controversial lyrics or explain the political nature of their metaphorical lyrics. A musician would also be joined onstage by other musicians with similar views. Nevertheless, performing at a politically themed event can be seen as a public declaration of an artist’s view, and some artists (or their management companies) may feel that appearing at one is risky. In antinuclear events, the organizers have suffered the most backlash compared to the performers and participants. A SPECT RU M OF COM M U N IC AT ION M ET HODS

Festivals can convey their political messages in a variety of ways.2 For example, Sharpe (2008) notes that the Hillside Festival in Guelph, Canada, neither advances its political views through musical performance nor pushes a specific political agenda. Instead, its broad vision statement advocates inclusiveness, community, environmentalism, and peacemaking. 3 The festival expresses its politics in its organizational practices: It contracts with local vendors for food and services (to help the community economically), uses solar and wind energy to power some stages, and takes steps to reduce garbage. I  call such a communicative approach, where the festival provides an immersive experience that enables a participant to envision an idealized future, “immersive” or “experiential.”4 On the opposite end of the spectrum, a festival may be specifically focused on one political position that is explicitly reiterated through various means, such as performances, programs, guidebooks, concession items, video projections, and NGO booths. The No Nukes 2012 concert, described in this chapter, is one such example. I call this communicative approach “informational.” It is akin to the presentational style of music, in that much of the political communication is prepared and presented to the audience. As all festivals are immersive to some degree, and experiential festivals also provide some information on the causes they support, it is more constructive to think of a continuum from experiential to informational, rather than separate binaries. For example, Dowd, Liddle, and Nelson (2004) note that the Michigan Womyn’s Music Festival enacted its political vision of female empowerment through action, where women constructed the stages, cooked meals, took care of refuse, and otherwise ran all the systems of the festival. As these participatory activities helped to build a community around the event, this festival fit more at the experiential end of the spectrum. However, it also

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invited performers who represented “women’s music,” which was partly determined by lyrical content, and it ran workshops on women’s issues. Hence, while largely experiential, it could be considered as more explicitly informational than Hillside. The Glastonbury Festival also has hybrid qualities: It is a large commercial music festival, but it also has a history of association with nuclear disarmament and ecological movements, embodied in the large area of Green Fields, in which Greenpeace has a stage (McKay 2000). The geographical location and its sociopolitical conditions partly determine the communications approach a festival takes; as will be discussed, the sensitivities of the local people discouraged the Project Fukushima Festival from taking an explicitly antinuclear stance. This chapter describes the experiences of three music festivals in post-3.11 Japan: Sakamoto Ryūichi’s No Nukes festivals, the Atomic Café at Fuji Rock Festival, and the Project Fukushima Festival. While No Nukes is at the more informational end of the spectrum, Project Fukushima is more experiential; in fact, it is not billed as an antinuclear festival and takes pains not to state an antinuclear view. Atomic Café is a hybrid. Held at Naeba Ski Resort, Fuji Rock itself is an immersive experience at a commercial festival of over 100,000 participants, while Atomic Café is a politically conscious, informational space within it. I discuss the quality of the experience at the festivals, their political outcomes, methods of conveying their (antinuclear) messages, and the responses of the media and audiences. No Nukes, Atomic Café, and Project Fukushima Festival were all started or revived in 2011–2012 and peaked in 2012; I describe their genesis and philosophies in their initial year, followed by a synopsis of their development in subsequent years.

Precursors to Antinuclear Music Festivals P O L I T I C A L M U S I C C O N C E R T S A N D F E S T I VA L S I N   T H E  19 6 0 S A N D  ’ 7 0 S

Although popular music in Japan has generally been more depoliticized than its Western equivalent (­chapter 3), it meshed with politics more visibly in the 1960s and ’70s, when folk music and rock were strongly associated with the antiwar and student movements. Folk music festivals had been held in Japan since the Seariizu Meeting Here Tonight at Ginza Gas Hall in November 1962 (Maeda and Hirahara 1993:  238); students began organizing festivals in 1964. These festivals, gatherings, and hootenannies gave rise to singers of political songs like Takaishi Tomoya (e.g., “Betonamu no sora,” The Skies of Vietnam, 1966), Okabayashi Nobuyasu (“San’ya Blues,” on the plight of temporary workers, 1968), and Takada Wataru (“Jieitai ni hairō,” Let’s Join the

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Self-Defense Forces, 1968). By the mid-sixties, some concerts were specifically themed against the Vietnam War or the American occupation of Okinawa, and in 1969, the antiwar protest organization Beheiren held lecture-performance sessions with folk musicians. 5 The culmination of these folk-music gatherings was the Nakatsugawa Folk Jamboree (figure 6.1 web figure 6.1 ), which was a multiday outdoor festival held from 1969 to 1971 near the shore of Lake Hana-no-ko in Gifu prefecture; the final festival, held on August 7–9, attracted 20,000–25,000 people. Although it was not staged as a protest event, several musicians sang antiwar songs, such as Komuro Hitoshi and Rokumonsen’s “Genshi bakudan no uta” (Nuclear Bomb Song, 1968). Hard rock musicians, who were largely underground in Japan until around the mid-1970s, performed along with folk musicians in this festival. With so-called live houses (small rock venues) not yet in place in the 1960s, their main performance outlets were university-sponsored festivals (gakuensai), which were organized annually by students at many universities. These festivals often included lectures addressing political issues and modern philosophy, as well as politically tinged rock groups like Zunō Keisatsu (Brain Police).6 This group’s lead singer and guitarist, Panta, recalled that his audiences were the “helmet crowd.” Many university students were involved in leftist movements and identified their allegiances to sects by the colors of their military-style helmets, a style partly born of clashes with the police (Panta, interview with the author, Tokyo, January 8, 2009). Zunō Keisatsu also gave the climactic performance at a politically themed outdoor music festival: the Nihon Gen’ya Sai (Japan Field of Illusion Festival) at Sanrizuka, to oppose the building of the Narita Airport near Tokyo despite the objections of local farmers. The festival, which took place in an open field on August 14–16, 1971, featured a mix of hard rock (e.g., Blues Creation), experimental bands (Haino Keiji and Lost Aaraaf), and jazz bands. However, many in the audience, which numbered over 1,000, were uninterested in the political issue at hand, having simply come for the music; the Asahi quoted one saying, “Why should we have to know anything about Narita Airport? It’s a rock festival!” 7 The unruly crowd rained rocks on the performers and frequently interrupted them in choruses of “wasshoi” (“heave-ho”), a traditional festival callout.8 When local women from the anti-airport movement attempted to lead the audience in an obon dance, naked men and women formed a chain dance in front of them (Aoike 2003). As Tomura Issaku, the head of the Sanrizuka-Shibayama Union to Oppose the Airport, commented:  “There’s no ideology in the festival. Vagrants (fūten) and hippies are playing guitar… . Political conflicts are much harsher than this… . These people must not understand what matsuri traditions or struggles against power are about.”9

Figure 6.1  Nakatsugawa Folk Jamboree, 1970. Photo by Sakai Hōichi. Reprinted with permission.

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This negative image for youthful political activism came to be widespread from the 1970s onward, following the violent actions of extremists. A number of events also damaged the folk movement specifically. In July 1969, the police forced a shutdown of a weekly mass gathering of folk musicians at Shinjuku Station’s West Exit.10 The renewal of the U.S.-Japan Security Treaty in 1970, which allowed for the continued stationing of U.S. military forces in Japan, dampened the antiwar movement that folk music had been affiliated with. In the winter of 1970, the Folk Report, a magazine about the Kansai folk scene, was hit with an obscenity charge after singer Nakagawa Gorō, who had taken over as editor, published a short story advocating the sexual revolution with nude photographs of John Lennon and Yoko Ono. The police not only confiscated the inventory in warehouses and record stores, but it also seized the subscribers’ list and went to each subscriber’s house to collect the magazine. The incident hurt the underground folk scene: Musicians shifted to songs about love, and many youths distanced themselves from the movement. Nakagawa was prosecuted in a court case that lasted ten years and went all the way up to the Supreme Court; he was ultimately fined 50,000 yen (about $460 in 2014 terms; Nakagawa Gorō, interview with the author, Tokyo, January 15, 2009). With protesting less popular, folk in disfavor, and rock increasingly commercialized, popular music in Japan became increasingly depoliticized (­chapter 3). Nevertheless, the events of the 1960s and ’70s left a cultural memory of live music meshing with politics in a combination of song, speech, and community. A T O M I C C A F É I N   T H E  19 8 0 S

Despite this increasingly apolitical atmosphere, a series of antinuclear concerts was held during the 1980s. These concerts were named after the movie that inspired them: The Atomic Café (1982), which criticizes nuclear weapons by cobbling together government propaganda films from the 1940s onward. The film gained a cult following among Japanese working in film and music. In 1983, Ōkubo Seishi, one of the founders of the music magazine Rockin’ On and the long-running organizer of the NGO Village at Fuji Rock, founded the Atomic Café concert series around screenings of the film. These concerts aimed to educate young audience members about both nuclear weapons and nuclear power, which the organizers saw as linked through the nuclear cycle. Ōkubo describes Atomic Café as a movement that differed from traditional Japanese movements, because it was a network of individuals rather than one linked to labor unions and formal organizations. Volunteers were mostly in their twenties, and many were students or employees in the music industry. Several have

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remained active in social movements, such as Keiō sociologist Oguma Eiji, while others have worked with Diet members or the Japan Teachers’ Union. The first Atomic Café Festival was held on August 4, 1984, in Hibiya Park. The events continued for three years until 1987. Large events, like concerts in Hibiya Park, attracted as many as 2,000 participants; smaller ones, like gigs in live houses, attracted about 200–300. The concerts featured some Japanese stars, like Katō Tokiko, Hamada Shōgo, Uzaki Ryūdō, ARB (with the actor Ishibashi Ryō), and Takekawa Yukihide, the leader of Godaigo. It also included some newcomers at the time, like Ozaki Yutaka and punk or new wave-influenced artists like the Blue Hearts, the Roosters, and the Echoes. Foreign acts like Aswad and Billy Bragg also participated, thanks to Hidaka Masahiro, the future founder of Fuji Rock, who was then working at an agency that brought foreign acts to Japan. Following the end of Atomic Café, Ōkubo organized additional antinuclear concerts in 1988 (in Hibiya Park, featuring Joe Yamanaka, among others) and in 1995. According to Ōkubo, record companies and artists’ agencies had more power over musicians in the 1980s than in the 2010s and kept them from taking political stands. At the time, only Hamada and Ozaki had songs against nuclear weapons. Hamada had once dared to sing his antinuclear song at a concert deliberately held close to the Hamaoka Nuclear Power Plant; even then, he did not explicitly articulate his “no nukes” message. As Ōkubo described: We found it extremely difficult to persuade musicians to participate in a [political] event. I would tell them that they didn’t have to put an antinuclear message in their songs or their performance. Their participation in the concert itself would be a political message… . Of the artists I approached, only a fourth to a third participated. Since 3.11, musicians have been more willing; perhaps 60 or 70 percent of them would participate now if approached. (Ōkubo Seishi, interview with the author, Tokyo, October 16, 2013) In order to fulfill the goals of educating young people and prompting debate, Ōkubo and the volunteers distributed a newspaper at each event (figure 6.2). It included articles by antinuclear activists like Hirose Takashi and Takagi Jinzaburō, interviews of musicians with antinuclear views, news from Chernobyl, and information on how to get involved, punctuated by humorous illustrations. Outside of articles penned by activists, Ōkubo and Atomic Café volunteers assembled all the content. Advertisements for records by musicians appearing in the concerts—a tactic enabled by Ōkubo’s job in advertising sales at the concert promoter Rockin’ On—helped to finance the papers and the concerts,

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Figure 6.2  Newspaper distributed at Atomic Café, 1980s. Courtesy of Ōkubo Seishi.

allowing them to go on longer than they would have otherwise (Ōkubo, interview). This tactic of producing informational reading material to be distributed at concerts would be repeated in the No Nukes concerts. In recognition of the fact that concerts were insufficient for discussing complex issues like radiation and nuclear power, Atomic Café also sponsored events combining a lecture-discussion, led by experts like Hirose and activists, with a musical performance (dubbed “talk and live”), at community centers and other small spaces. The largest example of such an event was an all-nighter at the Shibuya Tōei Theater, with talks by Kyoto University philosophy professor Asada Akira, psychiatrist Kitayama Osamu, and education journalist Hosaka Nobuto,11 among others, followed by musical performances by the Blue Hearts and other bands. Other events would feature the film The Atomic Café, followed by performances. Post-3.11, such combinations of talk, film, and music resurfaced at the Atomic Café’s revival at Fuji Rock and the No Nukes concerts.

The No Nukes Series of Concerts On July 7–8, 2012, a two-day rock concert called No Nukes 2012 was held at the Makuhari Messe Convention Center in Chiba near Tokyo.12 The

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Figure 6.3  Sakamoto Ryūichi in New York City, September 2012. Photo by the author.

organizer was Sakamoto Ryūichi (figure 6.3), member of the groundbreaking Japanese techno-pop group Yellow Magic Orchestra (YMO) and an Academy Award-winning composer. Profits from the concert were donated to Sayonara Genpatsu 1000 Man Nin Akushon (Citizens’ Committee for the 10 Million People’s Petition to say Goodbye to Nuclear Power Plants), an antinuclear group that Sakamoto has been backing, along with Nobel Prize-winning author Ōe Kenzaburō and others. The concert featured performances by eighteen groups, including Kraftwerk and YMO—the first time these pioneering electronic groups had appeared on the same bill—as well as the popular rock bands Asian Kung-Fu Generation, Brahman, Acidman, and others. It was the first large-scale concert in Japan with an explicitly antinuclear theme featuring major-label musicians. Before this event, concerts with triple-disaster themes were mainly charity events to raise money for the victims. Among the largest of these was Live Fukushima, a series of six concerts held in various cities of Fukushima prefecture on September 14–19, 2011, with proceeds donated to Fukushima prefecture. Featuring thirty-one artists, the series attracted a total of 22,400 concertgoers and 1.9 million views of its YouTube channel.13 This event, however, was pitched not as a dialogue on the nuclear issue but as a show of support for Fukushima residents, pointing out

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that rumors had compounded Fukushima’s suffering from the tsunami and the nuclear accident. The concerts counted among their sponsors Fukushima powerhouses including local and prefectural governments, broadcasters, and corporations such as Asahi Beer, which operates a plant in Fukushima. The food stands at the concert sold beef burgers, milk, and produce from Fukushima, which many Japanese had avoided since the nuclear accident. Although Saitō Kazuyoshi’s performance of “It Was Always a Lie” was captured on the live YouTube broadcast, antinuclear comments (including this song) were edited out of television broadcasts and the official book commemorating the concerts (see Kōdansha 2011). The Project Fukushima Festival that preceded Live Fukushima, discussed later in this chapter, also avoids taking an openly antinuclear stance. A few concerts with an explicitly antinuclear theme had been held on a smaller scale. The series “Sekai kara genpatsu nakusō concert” (Let’s Get Rid of Nuclear Power Worldwide Concert) took place in Tokyo on July 30 and November 27, 2011, and in Osaka on December 23, 2011, March 20, 2012, and June 22, 2013. These concerts involved the participation of the idol-pop group Seifuku Kōjō Iinkai, folk singers, and players of minyō and other traditional instruments. However, these artists were all independent artists without mass-market name recognition or the backing of major record companies. The No Nukes 2012 concert was thus a trailblazer in gathering together high-grossing musicians under an unambiguously antinuclear heading. In announcing the festival, Sakamoto recounted, “After the earthquake and nuclear accident on March 11, I  thought about what I, as one musician and one human being, should do. I participated in activist events. I thought that I should express my opinions on social issues as a musician.”14 The journalist Kamata Satoshi pushed him to organize a music event; it was put together in half a year (Sakamoto and Shibuya 2012:  90). Sakamoto explained further, “I understand well the circumstances that make it difficult to say, ‘Abolish nuclear power now,’ with emotion. This time, we are making our antinuclear stance upfront and clear. We hope for change to a nuclear-free world, not just without nuclear power but also without nuclear weapons.”15 R A L LY I N G A R T I S T S A N D C I T I Z E N S   A L I K E

The concert was held at an auspicious time. The Ōi Nuclear Power Plant had been restarted just a few days before, and this event had galvanized the public into protesting en masse every Friday in front of the prime minister’s official residence. The evening before the concert, some 150,000 people had gathered there, including Sakamoto. Appearing before television cameras, he said, “I come here as a shimin (citizen). It’s important that we all do what we can, and

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raise our voices.” As one of Japan’s most admired musicians, Sakamoto was using his social capital to set an example for both major artists and ordinary Japanese citizens, many of whom held antinuclear views but had difficulty talking about the issue at work, school, or in social settings. Some were afraid to attend protests because of the heavy police presence and the social costs of being arrested in Japan. By appearing at the Kantei protest as an “ordinary citizen,” Sakamoto was demonstrating that everyone, indeed, should participate. Entertainers had also felt a need to keep quiet. Television continues to be an important means for promoting music in Japan, and the nuclear industry was among the largest sponsors of television programs (­chapter 3). Even after the Fukushima accident, musicians had still been hesitant to openly criticize TEPCO or the government; in 2011, practically the only charting artist who made his stance clear through music was Saitō. As Sakamoto explained, I don’t know how much pressure is being applied from the record companies, but I think there probably is some. Also, the artist management companies are probably discouraging their artists from being involved in antinuclear activities. It’s troublesome for managers and staff when artists speak out or get involved with antinuclear issues. (Sakamoto Ryūichi, interview with the author, New York, September 10, 2012) Noting that entertainers who have spoken out are castigated—most notably Yamamoto Tarō, who was fired from his drama program (­chapter  3)— Sakamoto remarked: They made an example out of Yamamoto Tarō, and several antinuclear writers and journalists persistently critical of nuclear policy have lost their access to major media outlets. Despite surveys showing overwhelming support for reduced dependency on nuclear power, as soon as you said anything antinuclear in a public place, be it large or small, you were bound to be labeled irresponsible and antisocial.16 Some musicians who participated in No Nukes 2012, including Gotō Masafumi (“Gotch”) of Asian Kung-Fu Generation, Toshi-Low of Brahman, and Namba Akihiro, had nonetheless expressed their antinuclear views on Twitter or SNS, or by talking in between numbers during live shows. These forays resulted in heavy criticism and vicious attacks on Twitter, so they found it difficult to speak out.17 Furthermore, the recording industry since the 1970s had been largely apolitical, so that musicians had come to think of their roles as solely entertainers; political commentary was perceived as “uncool” (Sakamoto

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and Shibuya 2012: 91). As Yokoyama Ken said at the concert, “I’d thought it was the role of chindon-ya (street bands) rather than myself to cry out against nuclear power, even though I really wanted to write it out in big letters on a banner.” Hence, most artists on major labels (with some notable exceptions) had not yet spoken out publicly against nuclear power, and much of antinuclear music was recorded by independent artists or contributed anonymously over the internet. Thus, it was left to Sakamoto—a longtime resident of New York who splits his time between the two countries—to spearhead this effort. SE L ECT I NG T H E A RT ISTS

Sakamoto wanted to invite bands that would attract young people in their teens and twenties, as this demographic had shown little interest in politics or demonstrating at that time but “would be shaping the future” (Sakamoto, interview). Noting that “a small number of musicians have been outspoken on social issues, but they tend to be dismissed as radical,” he also sought to invite some nonpolitical musicians to the concert.18 Indeed, while several of the concert’s performers were already known to be antinuclear (e.g., Gotō, Namba, Saitō, and Soul Flower Union), others, such as Hajime Chitose and Yamazaki Masayoshi, had not been so public with their antinuclear views. Finally, he wanted to invite groups that had followings large enough to fill the Budōkan, which has a capacity of 20,000. He realized that there were many musicians who were known to be environmentally conscious, and who tended to play for audiences of 300 to 1,000; however, the budget allowed for only two days at Makuhari Messe. Hence, these criteria were used to choose sixteen to eighteen groups in order to maximize the audience base over this timeframe (Sakamoto, interview). To pick these bands, Sakamoto enlisted the help of Shibuya Yōichi, chairman of Rockin’ On Japan—the music magazine publisher and concert promoter—and longstanding music critic. The two discussed the bands and decided on a lineup (Sakamoto, interview). Sakamoto invited Asian Kung- Fu Generation himself when Gotō interviewed him for The Future Times, his newspaper on current issues. As explained in ­chapter 3, Gotō had long been involved with antinuclear debates. On March 27, 2012, the two of them appeared together to conduct a press conference announcing the concert. Sakamoto also invited Kraftwerk personally, meeting them backstage at their concerts at the Museum of Modern Art in New York City in May 2012. The band had previously participated in the Stop Sellafield Concert, which had advocated for the closing of the British nuclear reprocessing site in 1992. The group was so enthusiastic about the cause that the members all flew economy class to Tokyo (Sakamoto and Shibuya 2012: 90). As artists are normally hesitant to become politically involved, Sakamoto was worried that bands would refuse to participate in No Nukes 2012. He was

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pleasantly surprised when most artists who were approached agreed to participate. Sakamoto recalled, “I wanted to say, ‘Hey! You were antinuclear after all! You should have said so earlier.’ But the atmosphere was still uncomfortable for a lone musician or band to speak out” (Sakamoto, interview). Of those who declined, many declined for scheduling reasons, as the concert was held during the busy summer season, with music festivals held most weekends. One female artist, UA, had moved to Okinawa following the earthquake to avoid radiation and, having recently given birth, she was reluctant to return to the Kantō; instead, she sent a video that was shown at the concert. A few antinuclear artists, such as Hamada Shōgo, declined; some were reluctant to participate in social activism, and others did not want to perform with the proposed lineup of young bands. Only about three or four groups refused to perform because they didn’t agree with the aims of the festival. Shibuya conducted research on the artists beforehand and only invited those who were likely to participate (Sakamoto, interview). COM M U N IC AT ION TACT IC S

The large antinuclear music festival had a few precedents. In 1979, Musicians United for Safe Energy organized five No Nukes concerts in Madison Square Garden, featuring Jackson Browne, John Hall, David Crosby, Graham Nash, Bonnie Raitt, Gil Scott-Heron, and others. Following the Fukushima disaster, the group reformed, giving a benefit concert in August 2011; they sent No Nukes 2012 a message of support.19 A closer model in ambience was the Stop Sellafield Concert in 1992, which was held as a benefit for Greenpeace and featured Kraftwerk, U2, Public Enemy, and Big Audio Dynamite II. However, none of these precedents used the multiplicity of communication tactics that No Nukes 2012 used (Sakamoto, interview). Having brought a mass of people together through music, the organizers of No Nukes 2012 aimed to engage the audience in thinking about different viewpoints in the nuclear debate. In particular, the concert aimed to provide a space in which the pronuclear arguments pervasive in the media could be reframed, letting everyone think about the issues for themselves. As Sakamoto explained, “Our idea was that we would get many young music lovers to come, and in this place, they would learn all sorts of things that would stay with them when they go home” (Sakamoto, interview). This information was conveyed by multiple means. Makuhari Messe was an ideal location for such a themed concert: Located in Chiba prefecture in a far suburb of Tokyo, it was close enough to be an easy day trip from the metropolitan area—the epicenter of the antinuclear movement—but just far enough from the city to be a separate space. As a large

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convention facility with an open layout, it could be reconfigured for many uses. One of Sakamoto’s ideas was to project informational videos: At a festival, there’s slack time between one band breaking down and another setting up. While that’s happening, people go out for a smoke or bite to eat or a drink. The idea was to use that time. Since we have a big screen, I thought, let’s project interviews of experts. So we made several videos. We also put together a book whose content corresponds to the videos. We aimed to use the time as effectively as possible. (Sakamoto, interview) Played before each performance, these videos projected larger-than-life images of Koide Hiroaki, assistant professor of nuclear physics at Kyoto University; Iida Tetsunari, executive director of the Institute for Sustainable Energy Policies; and Murata Mitsuhei, professor at Tokai Gakuen University. Among the arguments they presented were that the nation actually has enough plant capacity without restarting any of the nuclear power plants; that there are viable, environmentally friendly means to produce energy; that the nuclear village, including the nuclear industry, the state, and establishment intellectuals, is interested in its own gains; and that the problems of Fukushima are far from over. Lasting several minutes each, these informational videos took a prognostic frame, presenting counterarguments to the pronuclear views more often conveyed by the mainstream media. The audience received them with enthusiastic applause. Creative videos also showed an antinuclear viewpoint: The German sound-art duo Diamond Version20 contributed a video with the words “You lie, we die” repeated against a TEPCO logo and a radioactive sign; it drew whoops of approval (web figure 6.2 ).21 UA’s video showed mothers in aprons singing Kiyoshirō’s antinuclear version of “Love Me Tender” (web figure 6.3 ).22 As Sakamoto explained in the foreword to the guidebook for the concert, No Nukes 2012: Bokura no mirai gaidobukku, these videos were meant to give audience members “a seed” of something to think about (Sakamoto 2012: 5). The guidebook provided more seeds. Essays by Koide, Iida, Murata, and the antinuclear documentary filmmaker Kamanaka Hiromi reinforced the messages in the videos. Kraftwerk’s lyrics for “Radioactivity,” as performed at the Stop Sellafield concert, were reprinted, along with the alarming statistics the band had posted during that concert (“Sellafield 2 will produce 7.5 tons of plutonium every year/1.5 kg of plutonium make a nuclear bomb”). The book also contained short messages from each of the performing groups, many of them encouraging people to speak up and trust their own instincts. Sakamoto wrote, “Adorno said, ‘Writing a poem after Auschwitz is barbaric.’ I’d like to revise it and say, ‘Keeping silent after Fukushima is barbaric’” (Sakamoto 2012: 60).

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Hosomi Takeshi of Hiatus wrote, “What you have seen with your own eyes, what you have learned from your own experience, and what you have felt in your heart will teach you more valuable lessons than a textbook, no matter how excellent it is” (Sakamoto 2012: 69). Acidman pointed out the need to rethink priorities: “We shouldn’t use technologies we can’t control. There’s no point if you can no longer live on the land; it’s about anything but the economy. We need to aim for a new value system, a redefinition of wealth that has real meaning.” The cover illustration was by popular artist Yoshitomo Nara, whose picture of a girl holding a “No Nukes” sign was duplicated en masse for placards at antinuclear demonstrations that summer. The mobilization of young people to action was another theme in the concert guidebook. It contained two discussions between a performer at the concert—one with Gotō of Asian Kung-Fu Generation, another with Nakagawa Takashi of Soul Flower Union—and activists in their teens and twenties, one of which was Hirano of TwitNoNukes. The discussions emphasized that young people can get involved and that they should speak out and do what they believe to be right for the future. Twenty-something activists were also manning the NGO booths at the concert. The organizers had rented out two adjacent exhibition halls at Makuhari Messe; one hall was dedicated to performances while the other was a hangout area, to which audience members retreated between performances (web figure 6.4 ).23 This area not only included the usual food stalls and concession stands but also booths for environmentally oriented NGOs, where concertgoers could stop and chat with activists (figure 6.4a, 6.4b; web figure 6.5 ). These NGOs included Sayonara Genpatsu, Datsu Genpatsu Sekai Kaigi (Nuclear Free Now), the Atomic Café, Citizen’s Nuclear Information Center, Greenpeace Japan, the solar energy company XSOL, the Namida Project (an artists’ collective opposing the Kaminoseki nuclear plant), Gotō’s The Future Times, and the Tōhoku Live House building project. While some festivals like Fuji Rock host NGOs, antinuclear booths are unusual at rock concerts, and their presence at No Nukes 2012 provided a rare opportunity for these NGOs to reach out to young people, and for young people to approach them. M E SS AG E S F ROM T H E PER FOR M ER S

Perhaps the most powerful messages came from musicians speaking directly to the audience from the stage.24 Some messages were angry; Namba Akihiro railed, “We must recognize that the people are being put in danger for the profits of a few people. Do we change their minds, or do we make a new society for ourselves?” More often, artists—Gotō, Hajime Chitose, Yokoyama Ken, and others—reinforced Sakamoto’s words that every citizen needs to participate

Figure 6.4a  No Nukes 2012, hall of NGO booths and concessions. Photo courtesy of Matthias Jaap, Tokyo Penguin (blog).

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Figure 6.4b  No Nukes 2012, Book Stand. Photo courtesy of Matthias Jaap.

in their own way. Gotō, Acidman, and others called for like-minded individuals to connect with one another and encouraged them to talk about these issues in the workplace and among friends. They talked about the importance of activism: Yokoyama said that the Kantei protests were “a good thing” and read a letter from his friend Ko of the band Slang, which spoke of his protests and charity work in northern Japan. Gotō recounted his experiences as a protester: “Yesterday, I went to the Kantei [protest] in the rain… . Rather than as a musician, I went as a resident who doesn’t approve of restarting nuclear power plants. Only if each and every one of us changes the choices s/he makes every day would the situation be overturned.” Performers also acknowledged their double roles as ordinary citizens and celebrities with the power to inspire action in their audiences. Ōki Nobuo of Acidman (figure 6.5), the citizen, admitted that he (like many Japanese) had been “using electricity without thinking, without knowing anything about nuclear power or having any interest in it. But now, so many people have suffered.” He then spoke of a former label associate from Fukushima who had to leave his town and was having a difficult time. Ōki, the celebrity, then added, “We can’t let such a disaster happen again. Perhaps that’s just a high-sounding statement (kireigoto). But if a musician won’t say it, who on earth will?” These words became a key phrase from the event, repeated by Sakamoto and tweeted by many audience members.

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Figure 6.5  Acidman at No Nukes 2012. Photo courtesy of Rockin’ On. M E SS AG E S T H ROUGH PER FOR M A NCE

Musicians also performed songs with themes appropriate to the event. A few artists played antinuclear songs they had written in the wake of the crisis. Asian Kung-Fu Generation played the song “N2,” which stands for “No Nukes” (­chapter  7). The song tells listeners not to “put your trust” in official announcements and to “search [for their own information] and doubt.” Namba’s song “Level 7” was an expression of unbridled anger: “Don’t wanna live in the fear… . Don’t wanna let them make my home turn into wasteland.” The title refers to the most severe rating for nuclear accidents, corresponding to Fukushima. Saitō Kazuyoshi played both his hit “I Always Loved You” and its antinuclear rewrite “It Was Always a Lie” (­chapter 4), to resounding applause. Visibly delighted, he hinted at the problems he was encountering: “Today, the atmosphere was such that I  thought I  wouldn’t be scolded for playing it. As you know, people will say all sorts of things.” He also performed three antinuclear songs from his 2011 album 45 Stones, all of which use allegorical themes: “Saru no wakusei” (Planet of the Apes), “Ōkami chūnen” (Middle-Aged Liar), and

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perhaps most movingly, “Usagi to kame” (The Tortoise and the Hare), which he introduced as the song he wrote in the aftermath of the crisis.25 As one of very few Japanese mainstream artists who had released antinuclear music, Saitō had gained considerable social capital, which was reflected in the warm reception of his performance. At the concert, people around me were exclaiming, “He’s so cool (kakkoii)!” “What a man!” Saitō’s closest predecessor was the late Imawano Kiyoshirō (­chapter 3), idolized in post-3.11 Japan as a “real rocker” for sticking to his guns over his 1988 antinuclear covers of “Summertime Blues” and “Love Me Tender.” His songs have been played at many antinuclear rallies; there is even a “Kiyoshirō corner,” a tribute to him, at the Friday-night protests in front of the prime minister’s residence. At No Nukes 2012, the late frontman’s bandmate in RC Succession, Nakaido “Chabo” Reichi, led a set playing Imawano’s songs, updating “Summertime Blues” from thirty-seven to fifty-four reactors. The group also played a rockabilly version of Sakamoto Kyū’s “Ue o muite arukō” (Look Up While You’re Walking, 1961), 26 which tells listeners to look up so that their tears won’t fall as they recall the past. The song was often played after 3.11, as it came to be interpreted as simultaneously mourning those lost and encouraging listeners. The session opened with a video tribute to Kiyoshirō, including a 1988 film showing him singing “Love Me Tender” in Hibiya Park. The only non-Japanese band on the program was Kraftwerk, who refashioned “Radioactivity” for the current situation. The original song from 1975 was a pun on “activity on the radio” and “radioactivity”; the band had adopted the latter meaning and the accompanying visuals after Chernobyl (Sakamoto and Shibuya 2012: 95–97). By the Stop Sellafield concert of 1992, they had added the words:  “Chernobyl, Harrisburg, Sellafield, Hiroshima.” For No Nukes 2012, Sakamoto helped Kraftwerk formulate Japanese lyrics and chose the Japanese-character fonts for the screen projections (Sakamoto and Shibuya 2012: 97) (web figure 6.6 ). Chernobyl, Harrisburg, Sellafield, Fukushima Nihon de mo hōshanō There’s radioactivity in Japan, too Kyō mo, itsumade mo Today and forever Fukushima hōshanō Fukushima radiation Kūki, mizu, subete Air, water, everything Nihon de mo hōshanō There’s radioactivity in Japan, too Ima sugu yamero Stop [nuclear power] now The last line predictably drew enthusiastic hollers from the audience.27

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Figure 6.6  YMO performs “Radioactivity” at No Nukes 2012. Photo courtesy of Rockin’ On.

YMO played their own bluesy version of “Radioactivity” and projected the words “No Nukes/Yes Life/More Trees” and the original words to “Radioactivity” (“it’s in the air for you and me”) (figure 6.6, web figure 6.7 ) onto the screen in colorful letters. Musicians also played protest songs with related themes. Hajime Chitose called attention to Japan’s tragic history with nuclear weapons through a moving rendition of “Shinda onna no ko” (The Girl Who Died), based on a poem by the Turkish poet Nâzım Hikmet; the song is narrated by the ghost of a seven-year-old girl swallowed up by the flames of Hiroshima and reduced to “just a fistful of ash.” Soul Flower Union performed Victor Jara’s anti-Vietnam War song “El derecho de vivir en paz” (The Right to Live in Peace), which he had translated in the 1990s and Ōkuma Wataru had made into a standard at antinuclear demonstrations.28 Yamazaki Masayoshi sang Bob Marley’s “Redemption Song.” YMO played “Solid State Survivor” for the first time in thirty-two years, prompting the music critic Mita Itaru to reflect on its message of survival.29 Antinuclear sentiments were also expressed sartorially. Many artists wore T-shirts with “No Nukes” messages and sold their own No Nukes T-shirts at the concession stands. Many audience members joined the nonverbal protest by buying these T-shirts and wearing them at the concert. The antinuclear

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character Monju-kun, who was roaming around the concert floor in his stuffed costume, observed: The “No Nukes” T-shirts were adopted as the fashion of this festival. It happened naturally. I’d never seen a scene like it before; it was new and refreshing… . Some people might find it difficult to say “No Nukes” out loud, but they could spontaneously wear a T-shirt or a button and say “No Nukes” through merchandise. It may be modest, but it’s one way to express one’s stance. 30 Artists also held up antinuclear signs. Soul Flower Union held up a placard saying “Genpatsu hairo de eejanaika” (So what if they decommissioned nuclear reactors)—a reference to the eejanaika (“so what”) protest tradition that dates back to the Edo Period and remains a popular call-and-response pattern in protests. Performers also led call-and-response patterns reminiscent of demonstrations. Namba led a call and response, prodding the crowd with “Can’t hear you!” until everyone was screaming and pumping their fists into the air. Soul Flower Union finished its set with familiar protest calls, which ended with an earthy twist on the 1960s saying “Make love, not war”: Genpatsu iranai! We don’t need nuclear power! Saikadō hantai! We oppose restarting [nuclear reactors]! Wasureru na, Fukushima! Don’t forget Fukushima! Wasureru na, Tōhoku! Don’t forget Tōhoku! Kodomo o mamore! Protect the children! Otona ga mamore! Adults, protect them! Kaku yori oppai! Breasts, not nuclear! Oppai, oppai, oppai! Breasts, breasts, breasts! For the grand finale, Monju-kun, looking gigantic in his stuffed costume, joined YMO and Yokoyama Ken onstage to dance to “Rydeen” to the delight of the crowd. R ECEP T ION

The concert was attended by 14,224 people, with over 8,500 attending on each of the two days. 31 Contrary to 2channel reports, which claimed that the hall was empty (­chapter 4), the performance hall looked quite full to this author by mid-afternoon, with crowds largest for YMO and Saitō’s performances. The audience was diverse in age, from the greying, to parents with young children,

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to twenty-somethings and students. Some audience members had traveled from as far as Nagasaki, over 800 miles away (Shibuya 2012: 164). With antinuclear messages presented in multiple ways, the concert seemed to be stimulating for the participants, as it provided a space that allowed them to discuss nuclear issues openly. (Indeed, perhaps because of the lack of open dialogue, many people looked as if they had come to the concert by themselves.) As Monju-kun tweeted, “It was an environment where everyone could wear a No Nukes T-shirt and discuss nuclear issues in a relaxed way… . I realized that many people thought as I did” (@monjukun, Twitter, July 9). In particular, the sight of young people enthusiastically talking about nuclear power “as if a weight had been taken off them” affected him. 32 Sakamoto remarked, “The audience was more positive and conscious about the issues than I’d expected. Whenever we put out an [antinuclear] message, they supported it warmly” (Sakamoto, interview). While the concert may have been preaching to the converted, it did inspire some non-activists in attendance. One audience member said, “I came here because artists I liked were on the program. I had thought there was little I could do. From now on, I will do what I can, little by little.” The concert also seemed to achieve Sakamoto’s goal of encouraging artists to speak up. He remarked, “All [the performers] said, ‘It gave me a lot of courage.’ Even when musicians are at their own concerts, it’s hard for them to discuss nuclear power. After all, the audience hasn’t come to hear that.”33 He was particularly happy to have been able to speak with younger musicians, sharing opinions and responding to each other’s positions. Some bands that had been actively antinuclear told him that they had seen a few fans drift away, but not many; on the other hand, they discovered a firm cohort of fans that supported their antinuclear activity. With all musicians performing for free, the concert raised 11,024,247 yen ($140,860) for Sayonara Genpatsu, which distributed the money to four nonprofit organizations dedicated to protecting the health of children in Fukushima. 34 In addition, some musicians, such as Acidman, donated all the profits from selling their merchandise at concession stands to relief in Fukushima prefecture. R E ACH OU TSI DE OF T H E CONCERT H A L L

To increase the reach of the concert, Sakamoto featured it on his radio show on J-Wave on July 9, which included interviews with the participating artists and concertgoers, as well as clips from the performances. It was significant that an antinuclear event received such a long airing on a major radio station; certainly Sakamoto stature (and having a regular show) helped to pull it off.

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The concerts were also streamed live over the internet on Ustream. This version showed some of the musical performances, the videos shown at the festival, and interviews not shown at the concert itself. More than 310,000 viewers saw the concerts this way; the feed was accessed over 542,000 times over the two days of the festival (KAB, email communication, July 2012). The maximum number of people connected at any one time was 31,000, during YMO’s performance on Sunday evening, showing the value of the group’s star power for the cause. The internet broadcast inspired an active stream of commentary on Twitter and SNS, many of them excited by what was happening on stage. Several fans tweeted the underlying message of the festival:  to think for oneself, and do what one can, wherever one is (@bcxxx, July 8, 2012; @sayonara_atom, July 7, 2012). Some fans thanked the musicians for telling it straight: Music is great! Musicians are great! They are the world’s foremost truth-tellers. They will definitely help bring change. (@ishii_maki, July 8, 2012) We need your help so that the government and mass media will learn. (@jin_black, July 8, 2012) As often occurs, however, some audience members wanted to keep music separate from politics: Even if the music was simply wonderful, it was a bit hard to bear for those of us who don’t completely agree with “no nukes” activism. Honestly speaking, I’d rather not see entertainment tied to political movements. (@trent900, July 7, 2012) Activists took advantage of the high level of Twitter traffic on the No Nukes 2012 hashtag (#NN2012Live) to advertise demonstrations and initiatives, including the Friday protests in front of the prime minister’s residence, Friday protests around the country, and the Sayonara Genpatsu petition to abolish nuclear power. Thanks to this effort (and a dedicated booth at the concert venue), the number of signatures on the petition also increased by 30,000. By far, the most Twitter traffic was generated over the video of an interview by film director Funahashi Atsushi with Idogawa Katsutaka, then mayor of Futaba, one of the host towns of the Fukushima Daiichi Nuclear Power Plant. Breaking down in tears, Idogawa recounted the harrowing story of Futaba, whose residents heard the plants explode, saw irradiated rubble fall out of the sky, and had since lived as evacuees in Saitama prefecture. He claimed that

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TEPCO had not paid adequate compensation, offering only half the requested amount. What most incited the Twittersphere, however, was Idogawa’s comments about Professor Yamashita Shun’ichi, the radiation health advisor in Fukushima, who not only told Fukushima residents that they wouldn’t be affected by radiation if they smiled, but also sent written memos to hospitals telling them not to examine residents “without symptoms.” Questioning aloud whether the government considered the Futaba townspeople as equal citizens of Japan, Idogawa said, “Neither television nor the newspapers will pick up these sorts of stories. I’m happy to be able to talk today.” Due to popular request, the No Nukes 2012 organizers made the video permanently available35; the interview was transcribed and published in a special issue of Sight dedicated to the concert (Shibuya 2012). The interview gave the audience a direct, emotionally wrenching view of the plight of evacuated host towns and the consequences of a nuclear accident. This deed did not go unpunished: Four days after the pronuclear LDP had taken back power in the Lower House election of December 2012, the town council passed a no-confidence vote against Idogawa, and he resigned as mayor two months later. His bids to return to elected office—for the Upper House of the Diet in July 2013 and for governor of Fukushima prefecture in 2014—have been unsuccessful. SU BSEQU EN T NO N U K E S CONCERTS

No Nukes 2013

Sakamoto held his next No Nukes concert after the 2012 Lower House election that put the LDP back in power, which marked a negative turning point in the antinuclear movement. Taking place on March 9–10, 2013, the concert was a lower-key affair: It was held in Zepp Diver City, a concert hall in the Odaiba district bordering Tokyo Bay, with a smaller capacity than the No Nukes 2012 venue at about 2,500. Without the extra exhibition hall at Makuhari Messe, there was space for only a handful of tables, which were given over to the antinuclear group Sayonara Genpatsu and Let’s Dance, a group calling for the revision of the Entertainment Law. Audience members constantly exited the subterranean hall for the bright, spacious food court in the adjoining mall, which compromised the aura of the concert as a special space. The event also lacked the elaborate programs of the original No Nukes 2012 concerts. Furthermore, the timing of the concert, on the weekend before the second anniversary of the disaster, made it conflict with antinuclear events, such as the 40,000-strong MCAN demonstration in Tokyo on March 10. About 2,830 people attended the event and about 40,000 watched it on Ustream over the two days. Nevertheless, the event retained much of the character and devices of the first concert. Several of the performers had also appeared in the 2012 concert,

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including Saitō Kazuyoshi, Asian Kung-Fu Generation, Acidman, Ōtomo Yoshihide, Cornelius (Oyamada Keigo), Hajime Chitose, 9mm Parabellum Bullet, and the three members of YMO (Hosono Haruomi, Takahashi Yukihiro, and Sakamoto Ryūichi), who performed in their own bands and together as YMO. As with the 2012 concert, videos with messages were played between acts, including Hiramatsu Akiko’s animation “Genpatsu ga nakutemo denryoku wa tariru” (Even If There Were No Nuclear Power, There Will Be Enough Electric Power), which made counterarguments to the reasoning that nuclear power was necessary (web figure 6.8 ). Several excerpts from the documentary Nuclear Nation (dir. Funahashi Atsushi), about the plight of evacuees from Futaba, were also shown.36 Monju-kun again walked around the concert hall and danced onstage, providing concertgoers with photo opportunities (figure 6.7). The muted nature of the time was perhaps best captured by Gotō of Asian Kung-Fu Generation as he talked between songs: I know people come to listen to rock and forget about daily life. I don’t want to kill the mood, so I’ve stopped saying antinuclear things during gigs. It’s gotten difficult to say antinuclear things. Slowly but surely,

Figure 6.7  Monju-kun at No Nukes 2013. Photo by the author.

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little by little, we’re forgetting what’s happened and ignoring what’s happening. Some people say my newspaper, The Future Times, is Asian Kung-Fu Generation’s antinuclear newspaper, when I’m actually just trying to think about the future. It’s made me wonder if I’m weird. But somebody has to keep voicing antinuclear views. We have to keep saying it two years, five years, ten years or more. If you do nothing, and nuclear power fades out as a topic of conversation, it will never go away. By the time I’m a grandfather, I want nuclear power to have disappeared. (Gotō Masafumi, No Nukes 2013, March 9, 2013) A standout moment in the concert was Japanese rap pioneer and novelist Itō Seikō’s improvisatory poetry reading of “Rojō no hana” (Flowers along the Road), which he had previously performed at Shirōto no Ran’s demonstration in Shinjuku on September 11, 2011. While the beat-boxer Afra and Sakamoto Ryūichi improvised a jazzy hip-hop groove, Itō repeated “Decommission [the nuclear reactors]! After decommissioning, plant flowers at the site! Step out of the suggested path. We have a future! We must change the future!”37 It was one of the most moving performances of the concert, with audience members tweeting, “Itō Seikō’s powerful voice asserted that hip-hop and [political] agitation were like twins” (@mymypetoron, March 10, 2013), and “A sense of unity gradually seeped through and spread through the entire hall” (@yo_66, March 10, 2013). Having motivated protesters back in 2011, Itō was urging them to hold on under discouraging circumstances.

No More Fuckin’ Nukes

Sakamoto also gave younger musicians a model for holding their own events. With his blessing, punk rocker Namba Akihiro organized the No More Fuckin’ Nukes concert. Featuring Namba as a guest on his radio show on J-Wave, Sakamoto quipped, “… each musician, each band, should independently hold [antinuclear] events—the old guys with the old, the young people with the young, in various places and times of year. We should make them multiply rapidly.”38 In another show of support, he gave Namba a video in which he played a brief composition ending with him pumping his fist in the air and saying, “No more fuckin’ nukes”; it was shown several times at the concert. The concert took place on July 14, 2013, at Shibuya AX, a historic rock venue near Yoyogi Park in central Tokyo. Tickets sold out almost immediately; 1,600 attended, with an additional 40,300 watching it on Ustream. The mechanisms surrounding the concert were similar to Sakamoto’s No Nukes concerts. It used the same promoter, Rockin’ On. Like No Nukes 2012, the proceeds were donated to antinuclear protest organizations, in this case, Sayonara Genpatsu and the Metropolitan Coalition Against Nukes. Several of

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the musicians—Brahman, Yokoyama Ken, Namba, Soul Flower Union—had appeared in the No Nukes 2012 concert; they were joined by punk rockers Sambo Master, Slang, and Tsune Masahiko. 39 Like No Nukes, it was simulcast on Ustream, including parts of performances and interviews with musicians and activists. Informational videos were again played between sets. Monju-kun greeted concertgoers, as did another antinuclear character in a stuffed costume, the Zeronomics Bear. NGO booths were set up in the outdoor lot of the venue so that both concertgoers and passersby could visit them. The NGOs represented included those involved in Tōhoku relief (like Punk Aid for Fukushima, a charity-goods store set up by Namba, and Ko’s NBC Sakusen; ­chapter 3), antinuclear protest groups (TwitNoNukes, MCAN), and renewable- energy-related groups. In keeping with its principles, the concert was powered not by electricity from TEPCO but by solar energy, as had been the case with the No Nukes concerts. While the structure was essentially the same as No Nukes, No More Fuckin’ Nukes was more explicitly political than its predecessor. Purely by accident, the concert took place a week before the Upper House election. Every artist urged audience members to vote (­chapter 3), and antinuclear Diet candidates Yamamoto Tarō and Miyake Yōhei, antinuclear activist Misao Redwolf of MCAN, and renewable-energy expert Iida Tetsunari each spoke onstage for a few minutes. More so than they had at No Nukes, the artists also spent time onstage talking about their antinuclear positions and activism. Their song selection also had a more political bent: Namba sang songs like “Wake Up,” “Stop the 54 [nuclear reactors],” and “Level 7.” Sambo Master, whose lead singer Yamaguchi Takashi hails from Fukushima prefecture, sang “I Love You and I Need You, Fukushima.” Yokoyama Ken added political meaning to the song “This Land is Your Land” by introducing it as follows: We’re not saying we should abandon nuclear power because we don’t like the people who work for electric power companies. We’re saying we should abandon it because it’s dangerous… . When I say this, I’m told I’m crazy, or I’m not thinking about the economy, but it doesn’t matter. What’s best is to say what you think. I’m thinking about Japan in my own way! … Why shouldn’t we think for ourselves how we want our own country to generate electricity? This is our country.40

No Nukes 2014

In an interview with Monju-kun, Sakamoto professed a desire to make a bigger splash with the No Nukes concert for 2014 (Monju-kun 2014: 88). However, he announced on July 10, 2014, that he had pharyngeal cancer and would be taking time off to recover. The following day, Rockin’ On announced No Nukes

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2014, a series of concerts from September 29 through October 1, at Zepp Diver City in Tokyo. Rockin’ On president Shibuya Yōichi blogged that Sakamoto felt strongly that the event must go on without him and that he remained the “primary engine” behind the event. Several artists who had played in previous No Nukes concerts—Asian Kung-Fu Generation, Saitō Kazuyoshi, Namba Akihiro,41 Brahman, Acidman, and the Hiatus—announced their participation. They carried on what Sakamoto had started. Antinuclear ex-prime ministers Koizumi Junichirō and Morihiro Hosokawa appeared onstage to open the first concert with a discussion; citing the recent eruption of Mount Ontake that killed dozens of hikers, Koizumi noted that the unpredictability of natural disasters in Japan made it risky to operate nuclear reactors.42 A total of 6,800 people attended the concerts.43 S U M M A R Y:   N O N U K E S C O N C E R T S

Sakamoto’s No Nukes concerts allowed major-label musicians to go public en masse with their antinuclear views. They also laid out a prototype for an informational political concert, with the audience receiving information from a variety of sources—programs, books, NGO booths, videos between performances, activists’ speeches, and musicians’ onstage chatter and performances. This multipronged format of performances coupled with written and visual material had a Japanese precedent in the original Atomic Café; both this 1980s series and the No Nukes concerts were produced by members of Rockin’ On. It was replicated in subsequent No Nukes concerts and Namba’s No More Fuckin’ Nukes concert. These multiple media delivered prognostic arguments (e.g., for renewable energy) that are typically too complex to discuss in musical performance, as well as diagnostic and motivational messages. Although the information was mostly presentational, audience members participated by engaging in call-and-response patterns, speaking with NGO staff, and wearing “no nukes” T-shirts from the concert. Most importantly, the concerts created a separate space where audience members could feel comfortable expressing their antinuclear views and exploring avenues for activism. The concerts were also made available on Ustream, allowing those who could not attend to participate online, sharing their thoughts in real time on Twitter and the Ustream comment board. The events seemed most effective in affirming people who already had antinuclear views and in mobilizing them to further action, but it is unclear how many citizens they converted because most audience members seemed to be already sympathetic to the antinuclear movement. More experiential models of political music festivals may have greater attraction for the unconverted.

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A Political Corner at a Large Festival: Fuji Rock and the Atomic Café The Fuji Rock Festival is a mixture of the experiential and informational models for communicating political messages at music festivals. Of the festivals discussed here, it is the one closest to the multiday, immersive, special-site outdoor rock festival in the spirit of Glastonbury, on which it is modeled.44 Unlike No Nukes, however, Fuji Rock is a commercial festival, and the organizers are mindful of the many corporations with which they work. Although I  feel it has an alternative vibe, the festival is a more muted affair, politically speaking, than the one that inspired it. As Ōkubo Seishi, the director of the NGO Village at Fuji Rock, explains: Glastonbury uses the festival to take a direct political stance. At Fuji Rock, the only direct political message we make is that we recognize the importance of renewable energy sources. We don’t put out more explicit political messages, like “No Nukes,” at the festival as a whole. It’s to avoid various forms of intervention. You know, in Japan, you have to pay heed to the companies that are working with you. It can’t be helped that you make some accommodations. (Ōkubo, interview) As one accommodation, Fuji Rock has created a separate space where political statements can be made openly: the Atomic Café, held on the Gypsy Avalon stage at the festival site, and the contiguous NGO Village, a site with NGO booths. With this alternative area and the general atmosphere of Fuji Rock, festivalgoers can both immerse themselves in an environmentally friendly lifestyle—itself a political message—and take in the explicitly stated political message: against nuclear power and for renewable energy. In this section, I first describe the general atmosphere of Fuji Rock, followed by a description of activities on the Atomic Café stage and in the NGO Village since 2011 and their reception. T H E SCE N E AT F U J I ROCK

Started in 1997, Fuji Rock is recognized as the first of the large-scale outdoor rock festivals in Japan that have proliferated since the late 1990s; it remains one of the largest, attracting as many as 140,000 in 2012.45 It is a three-day event, featuring more than 200 musical acts from Japan and around the world, in a luxuriant mountain valley at Naeba Ski Resort in Niigata prefecture. Its duration, location, and logistics make it an experience far away from the lives

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of festivalgoers, who mostly hail from Tokyo or other cities. Naeba is reasonably accessible to Tokyo, yet far enough away that most attendees prefer to stay overnight. The trip involves a ninety-minute shinkansen (super-express train) from Tokyo, followed by a forty-minute, festival-sponsored bus ride, and a ten-minute walk to the site. Including the time it takes to catch the shinkansen, it would take over three hours for most Kantō residents and more for those coming from Chūbu or the Kansai to get there. Another incentive for staying overnight is that the top acts play until nearly midnight, and other bands and DJs perform until 5 a.m., which is a big part of the fun. About 17,000 festivalgoers camp on the surrounding grounds, while many others stay in dormitory-style tatami rooms at nearby inns. After sharing quarters, baths, and breakfast tables with the same people, one starts to feel a sense of community. Tickets are also very expensive—17,200 yen per day or 40,900 yen for all three days (in advance), as of 2014 ($170 and $404 at then prevailing exchange rates)—so that those attending are making a sizeable commitment in money as well as time. Given the expense, festivalgoers tend to be regularly employed and over thirty, and have come to the festival to escape their usual environments. By ensconcing a large gathering of people in an isolated, idyllic location for three days, the festival is an immersive experience with the potential to place attendees outside their usual comfort zones. A large percentage of festivalgoers are repeat participants, and couples who met at Fuji Rock return with their children (Ōkubo, interview). Fuji Rock founder Hidaka Masahiro was inspired to start the festival in Japan after having attended Glastonbury, and references to it abound. The names of Fuji Rock’s stages—for example, Green Stage (reminiscent of Green Fields) and Gypsy Avalon (after Field of Avalon)—pay homage to the British performing arts festival. Both festivals emphasize their alternative values and separateness from the outside world on their websites. Glastonbury describes itself as “another country” and a “freer” space, with Green Fields set aside for the demonstration of environmentally friendly technologies and debates on environmental, social, and moral issues.46 Similarly, Fuji Rock is envisioned as a separate space in which participants can immerse themselves in nature and experience an eco-friendly lifestyle. Its website frames the festival as “the perfect place to enjoy music, meet new people and open your mind. High up in the mountains, far away from city life and daily grind, you’ll love this festival and it’s [sic] unique atmosphere… you may find festival life a new experience… . Remember: ‘Independence,’ ‘Cooperation’ and ‘Respect of nature’ are the keys to fully enjoy this festival.”47 In keeping with its theme of “harmonious coexistence with nature,” Fuji Rock has promoted environmental consciousness, conducting a tree-planting campaign and calling for a shift to natural energy. Its Gypsy Avalon, Orange

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Court, and Field of Heaven stages are powered by biodiesel fuel and solar energy (Ōkubo, interview). As Glastonbury has supported the Campaign for Nuclear Disarmament, Greenpeace, and Oxfam (McKay 2000), Fuji Rock has provided a venue for activists: Since its third year of operation, it has maintained an NGO Village with booths for ten to twelve NGO groups. NGOs receive time slots of a few minutes to speak from the largest stage. These groups have included activists working on issues such as global warming, human rights, peace, poverty, and understanding across borders. It also screens topical films; in 2014, it showed Shing02’s short Bustin’ about the Entertainment Law (fūeihō) that has been closing dance clubs around the country. Festival attendees can thus engage with issues while experiencing an alternative, eco-friendly lifestyle. The organizers of Fuji Rock have placed the Green Stage, the largest stage for headlining acts, a relatively close fifteen minutes from the entrance; the next largest venue, the White Stage, is another ten minutes further; the mid-sized stages for niche tastes, Field of Heaven and Orange Court, are another fifteen to twenty minutes further (web figure 6.9 ). The Gypsy Avalon Stage (Atomic Café) and NGO Village (figure 6.8) are located on a detour path between the White Stage and the mid-sized stages. A  festivalgoer could pass by them on the way to and from these stages, and they are a

Figure 6.8  NGO village area. Photo by the author.

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short uphill walk from the Field of Heaven. However, Gypsy Avalon and the Village are somewhat distant from the main stages. It normally takes about twenty minutes to walk there from the Green Stage and about ten minutes from the White Stage, but with heavy crowds, this time can double. Ōkubo estimated that each year, about four to five thousand festivalgoers visited the NGO Village, a substantial number but less than 5 percent of the total audience at Fuji Rock. He also believed that the NGO Village attracted more solo festivalgoers and women relative to the festival as a whole, and that repeat visitors accounted for half of those (Ōkubo, interview). Once there, the area is an attractive alternative space, somewhat segregated from the rest of the festival, with a hammock rest area in the forest and an organic market on the hillside (figure 6.9). This segregation has the advantage of leaving the festival open to people of all viewpoints (and letting those who simply want to enjoy the outdoors do so), while providing a safe space for festivalgoers to engage politically if they so choose. An uncommitted but curious individual could also visit the area without the risks of going to a demonstration. Some festivalgoers come into the area to see a show on the Gypsy Avalon Stage or buy food at the stands, and then wander into the NGO Village. Given its support of environmental causes and Ōkubo’s prior history, Fuji Rock provided a natural venue for antinuclear activists following the

Figure 6.9  View from organic market to Gypsy Avalon stage. Photo by the author.

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Fukushima accident. Again acknowledging the influence of Glastonbury, which had promoted the Campaign for Nuclear Disarmament in the 1980s, Hidaka announced the revival of the Atomic Café at Fuji Rock 2011 to “support the cause of natural energy and promote the shift of attitudes in society.” He tied opposition to nuclear power to the festival’s goals of environmental conservation, saying, “Japan uses too much electricity … and doesn’t try to save,”48 and he expressed concerns about spent nuclear fuel and lax safety standards. His intent was to present festivalgoers with alternative viewpoints on energy.49 Since the 2011 festival through this writing in 2015, the Gypsy Avalon stage has hosted performances and discussions by antinuclear musicians and activists. In 2011, the musicians included Soul Flower Acoustic Partisan (the acoustic Soul Flower Union), singer-songwriter Katō Tokiko, and the Mannish Boys. YMO appeared as surprise guests, attracting a crowd of about 2,000, well over capacity for the venue. Sakamoto Ryūichi noted that in claiming that no one has died from nuclear power, the nuclear village was ignoring the deaths and injuries from the accident at the Tokai plant. His bandmate Hosono Haruomi said he carried his Geiger counter everywhere, as he sensed the officially announced radiation figures were too low. 50 Tanaka Yū of the Mirai Bank Partnership, Ban Hideyuki of the Citizens’ Nuclear Information Center (CNIC), and antinuclear documentarian Kamanaka Hitomi also spoke. The NGO Village also set up an Atomic Café booth, with an open microphone, and the CNIC providing information on nuclear power. Booths sold radiation-tested food from Fukushima prefecture. Relief organizations recruited volunteers for work in the earthquake- and tsunami-affected regions. Two NGO booths, Energy Shift Parade and Renewable Energy Promoting People’s Forum, were dedicated to renewable energy. Antinuclear voices were also raised outside the confines of the Atomic Café. Antinuclear activists were given five-minute slots to speak on the arena-sized Green Stage. On the White Stage, Saitō Kazuyoshi sang his antinuclear song “It Was Always a Lie.” On the Orange Stage, Miyake Shinji sang RC Succession’s antinuclear version of “Love Me Tender.” The words “Datsu genpatsu” (Abolish nuclear power) were shown on the monitors of the White Stage (@megaten_pixy, July 31, 2011). Some artists expressed their antinuclear stances offstage; from the audience, DJ Dr. Ihara unfurled a flag with the message “Say No to Nuclear Energy.”51 Audiences at Atomic Café in 2011 were receptive to hearing artists speak about their antinuclear views. One audience member tweeted, “Katō Tokiko was amazing. I could have cried if I wasn’t watching myself. Perhaps it’s her presence or her intellect, but her talk on the nuclear issue was very convincing” (@s_atoeochi1030, July 30, 2011). Another commented, “People are listening [to Katō] intently. It’s a good atmosphere. We don’t need nuclear power. No

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Nukes!” (@guwashideath, July 31, 2011). Some festivalgoers stopped by the NGO Village afterward to find out about antinuclear demonstrations. The venue was packed over capacity on the last day, with the audience excited to see the Mannish Boys—Saitō Kazuyoshi and Nakamura Tatsuya— “doing and saying whatever they want, making antinuclear, anti-TEPCO comments in a barrage of words banned from broadcasts” (@soccerugfilez, July 31, 2011). Saitō sang both his original song “I’ve Always Loved You” and his antinuclear cover version “It Was Always a Lie” to an over-capacity crowd. The entire field of festivalgoers joined him in the chorus: “I think this grand chorus came out of everyone’s antinuclear feelings. I want it to be so” (@simba2290, July 31, 2011). Another commented, “I cried at a live show for the first time. It was all so wonderful” (@good_night_haru, July 31, 2011). Nonetheless, there were a few that were put off by the collective fervor: “At the Atomic Café, it was easy to stir up an audience saying antinuclear things. Am I the only person who felt out of place at the excitement there?” (@oiron2010, August 2, 2011). The festival succeeded in raising consciousness about the nuclear issue among some festivalgoers. As one commented, “This year’s Fuji Rock Festival was particularly memorable. On the last day, the organizer said, ‘Fuji Rock is an extraordinary time, but now, our everyday reality has become extraordinary.’ I agree. Let’s start by thinking about the issue of energy and nuclear power as our own problem” (@tkwka, July 31, 2011). Another commented, “… as one who took everything for granted without thinking, I’m not in a position to say anything. But the last day at Atomic Café got me thinking again about a lot of things. It touched both my heart and my mind” (@nekoppachi330, August 1, 2011). While the Atomic Café clearly had an impact on the festivalgoers, the media response was more muted. Part of this difference was the size of the stage. In a festival of 200 acts including the likes of Coldplay and the Chemical Brothers, the Atomic Café is hardly the primary attraction of Fuji Rock. The Gypsy Avalon Stage is relatively small—its seating capacity is 1,000 compared with 40,000 for the Green Stage, 15,000 for the White Stage, and 5,000 for the Red Marquee, Orange Court, and Field of Heaven. In 2011, all three music groups performing at the Atomic Café also played on larger stages at Fuji Rock at another time, giving them a chance to appeal to a larger audience, and the less political festivalgoer a chance to see them on neutral territory. Hence, the mainstream media inevitably treated the Atomic Café as a footnote to the extensive coverage devoted to the largest stages at the festival. While the festival is broadcast annually on Fuji Television, local television, and cable stations, these broadcasts have generally not featured the Atomic Café. Editing also minimized the antinuclear message: When Fuji Television showed the three members of YMO, they cut out their antinuclear speeches; one viewer commented, “These pigs [at Fuji TV] don’t broadcast the truth… .

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Festivals are best live” (@dimmion, September 21, 2011). Nonetheless, Saitō’s performance at the Atomic Café did appear in a short feature about him on Nippon Television. J-Wave and Inter-FM radio also featured the venue and interviewed Ōkubo. Kyōdō News, Tokyo Shimbun, Asahi Shimbun, and even the conservative Yomiuri (August 4, 2011) acknowledged Atomic Café’s existence. Hence, the media did accord the Atomic Café some mention to the broader public, though not extensive or primetime television coverage. Hence, Fuji Rock addressed the nuclear issue in some informational ways: talks on main and specialized stages, performances by antinuclear musicians, pamphlets, and conversations with activists at booths. These verbal messages were combined with the pre-figurative experience of being in a natural setting at the festival, making festivalgoers think about excess energy consumption in their urban lives. In addition to raising consciousness on the nuclear issue, the festival also collected donations for Fukushima prefecture, amounting to 9.8 million yen in 2011 and 6.8 million in 2012 ($128,000 and $115,000).52 A T O M I C C A F É , 2 01 2–2 014

Atomic Café was held at Fuji Rock each year through this writing in 2015, as well as at Smash’s other outdoor festival, Asagiri Jam. Fuji Rock 2012 as a whole was a great success, with tickets selling out, attendance at a record high of 140,000, and sunny weather all weekend. The Atomic Café hosted performances by Katō Tokiko and Frying Dutchman, the latter known for their antinuclear song “Human Error” (­chapter 4). New-wave band Hikashū performed a show entitled “Godzilla-Radiation-Hikashū”—a suite of themes from Godzilla movies, a cover of Kraftwerk’s “Radioactivity,” and Hikashū’s songs. Makigami Kōichi of Hikashū and Gotō Masafumi of Asian Kung-Fu Generation gave talks, and the journalist Tsuda Daisuke engaged Monju-kun in a skit (web figure 6.10 ). 53 Again, the audience responded well to the performances: Frying Dutchman’s over-thirty-minute version of “Human Error” moved one listener to tears (@yokosuka22, July 27, 2012), while another lauded Katō Tokiko as a “true activist” who could show the connections between the nuclear crisis and other historical movements (@MobilesuitGundu, July 27, 2012). The atmosphere continued to be supportive; Sayonara Atom, who had a booth in the NGO Village, tweeted her delight at having spoken with many antinuclear people (@soraoto, July 30, 2012). The festival continued to raise consciousness; one attendee tweeted, “There is so much you don’t know about nuclear power! Yet again, I’m learning lots of things for the first time” (@takuya0080, July 28, 2012). At the Atomic Café in 2013, punk rocker Namba Akihiro played acoustic versions of his antinuclear songs “Level 7” and “Stop the 54 [Nuclear

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Power Plants]”; reggae singer Likkle Mai, joined by Kogure Miwazō and other members of Jintaramūta, sang a Japanese-language version of “El derecho de vivir en paz,” which they always played at antinuclear demonstrations. Monju-kun performed a skit with the Absolutely Nuclear Heroes’ Suinshinger—a superhero parody by Okometakeru no Ichiza, with three men representing TEPCO, METI, and the mainstream media in skintight leotards. 54 Suinshinger bullied Monju-kun to work, reflecting the nonworking status of the Monju Fast-Breeder Reactor. He started crying, and the “sodium” of his tears caught fire, causing Suinshinger to flee; this scene recalled the sodium-induced fire at the Monju reactor. Tsuda joined Monju-kun onstage, mentioning the LDP’s plans to restart twelve “genpatsu friends”—anthropomorphized nuclear reactors—all of which Monju-kun named, reminding the audience of the large number and geographical spread of these proposed restarts. Monju-kun gleefully reported that the NRA forbade restarting him because the JAEA had failed to conduct safety checks on 10,000 pieces of equipment. Monju-kun finished the skit by dancing to his signature song “Monju-kun ondo.”55 These comedians and characters discussed the dangers of nuclear power and recent events in a way that was enlightening and enjoyable for adults and children alike. A young child was overheard asking his parents, “Is nuclear power unnecessary?” (@MobilesuitGundu, July 28, 2013). Information on the nuclear accident was printed on the trash bags distributed to all festivalgoers, thanks to the initiative of A Seed Japan, an NGO (@monjukun, July 26, 2013). While the Atomic Café was well attended, Fuji Rock’s antinuclear orientation received more negative comments in 2013 than in the previous two years, reflecting the shift in the kūki since the LDP victory the past December. Some wanted to keep politics out of the enjoyment: I’d looked forward to coming to Fuji Rock to enjoy music, fresh air, and the natural atmosphere. But here and there, there are messages of, “We oppose nuclear power!” “Toward a society without nuclear power!” Of course, it’s an important issue, and it’s necessary to aim for a society without nuclear power. Nonetheless, I feel it’s a bit out of place at a music festival. (@tmgeg, July 28, 2013) When a Smash employee gave a speech at the pre-festival concert lamenting the LDP victory in the recent elections, an annoyed observer tweeted “I’m antinuclear too, but does he have to say that here?” (@velvets78, July 27, 2013). A controversy flared when CNIC staff invited festivalgoers to don radiation-protective suits at its booth and take pictures of themselves in front of a photograph of the troubled Fukushima Daiichi No. 4 Reactor (@

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CNICJapan, July 26, 2013). They intended for festivalgoers to experience the discomfort in which workers at Fukushima Daiichi must work, but not all participants understood the message. Some festivalgoers saw it as a photo opportunity with odd costumes and posed playfully, which sent an entirely different message. A  barrage of tweets—mostly from non-festivalgoers—ferociously panned the setup as cosplay (costume play) that made light of the disaster (@ undergroundwork, July 28, 2013): “It’s the same as taking a photo standing in front of a heap of tsunami debris, with your hands in a peace sign”56 (@_ Heliophila_, July 28, 2013). They criticized Fuji Rock for having allowed such a booth on its premises (@foolhardy1218, July 27, 2013). CNIC attempted to clarify its intentions by tweeting “By trying on this clothing, which doesn’t allow your body to breathe, you can experience how harsh it is for the [nuclear plant] workers to labor in the heat of the summer. You would sense how important it is to improve their working conditions and provide proper compensation for them” (@CNICJapan, July 27, 2013). But the damage had already been done. As one festivalgoer commented, “Fuji Rock was a lot of fun, but thanks to an antinuclear booth around Avalon, it’s being treated on the internet as a suspicious gathering. Give us a break! It’ll make it difficult for us to go next year” (@s_Balder, July 27, 2013). The incident was a reminder that the festival experience could no longer be restricted to those at the event itself but was open to those experiencing it through social media. In addition, comments from festivalgoers themselves were symptomatic of movement exhaustion, with implications for how the antinuclear issue could be treated at a large-scale festival. Admitting to this change in atmosphere, Ōkubo commented: I don’t know how much longer we can continue with the “No Nukes” message at Fuji Rock. With every passing year, it fades some. We have to offer customers something that would catch their interest, or they won’t come. We are sensing this difficulty. It’s not that they’re tired of the nuclear issue. Rather, it’s that with the present government, things are not going to change yet… . If the nuclear plants are restarted, people will wonder what all their protesting was for. This happened in the 1980s. We’ll probably arrive at this moment again in the post-3.11 movement. Many people had just begun to participate in social movements with the antinuclear issue. When that moment comes, how would they take it? (Ōkubo, interview) At Fuji Rock 2014, the NGO Village seemed subdued about the antinuclear theme, with only the Atomic Café booth directly related to debates

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on nuclear power. Nonetheless, the Atomic Café stage continued; the most tweeted-about performance was the Ese Timers (Timers Look-A-Likes). This all-star band featuring Gotō of Asian Kung-Fu Generation, Hosomi of Hiatus, Toshi-Low of Brahman, and Tsune of Hi-Standard is a homage to the Timers, Imawano Kiyoshirō’s alter-ego band. Like the original Timers, they sang an antinuclear cover of “Summertime Blues” (web figure 6.11 ), but their repertoire also extended into songs against the Abe government (a reworded “Let’s Live for Today”) and discrimination (The Blue Hearts’ “Aozora”; Manabe 2014b). One of its members, Toshi-Low, also gave a separate solo performance to a standing-room-only crowd. He read a letter written by Imawano Kiyoshirō at the time of the Kobe earthquake, in which he asked, “What is this country doing? Where is help [for the victims]?” These words have also applied to post-3.11 Japan. After playing Kiyoshirō’s version of the antinuclear war song “Eve of Destruction,” he joined rocker Yamazaki Toe to sing “Goodbye,” which Yamazaki had written in memory of his deceased wife; Toshi-Low sang it for a former girlfriend who died on 3.11. As for speakers, eighty-year-old journalist Tahara Sōichirō had a spirited discussion with Tsuda Daisuke about his decades of covering the nuclear industry and battling Dentsu. Tahara said that Japan could teach the world how to deal with nuclear accidents, but to do so, it needed to expose the truth about the accident rather than hiding the data, which, he claimed, has been the accepted practice. Hence, the Atomic Café at Fuji Rock provided a middle ground—an immersive experience in a faraway mountain resort, with an informational corner delivering messages through talks, skits, songs, and NGO booths. Not every guest was as forthright as Tahara. Ōtomo Yoshihide refrained from voicing a stance on nuclear policy itself, instead focusing on dealing with the aftermath. He said that the first Project Fukushima Festival was meant to bring attention to the authorities’ need to settle problems at Fukushima before considering policy changes. He claimed, “At first, it wasn’t even all right to measure radiation levels by yourself. By saying we’re holding a festival, we justified measuring them.”

Project Fukushima Festivals: Shifting Focus to the Plight of the People Ōtomo’s Project Fukushima Festivals belong to a third type of post-3.11 festival that consciously avoids an explicit antinuclear message; nonetheless, it can invoke that message by virtue of the place in which it is held and its ambience. Held in Fukushima City, the capital of the prefecture, these festivals provide

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a reason to go to Fukushima for non-Fukushima residents, so that they can experience firsthand what it is like to live in the aftermath of a nuclear accident. However, the proximity to the site of the accident makes the topic of nuclear power extremely sensitive to address, necessitating other frames for the festival. M O T I VA T I O N F O R   T H E F E S T I VA L

The idea for the festival was hatched on April 4, 2011, when Endō Michirō (b. 1950), lead vocalist in the punk band The Stalin, and a Fukushima native, met with Ōtomo Yoshihide (b. 1959), a noise musician and composer who grew up in Fukushima, to discuss what they could do to support the area. Endō suggested having a concert in Fukushima, but not another charity concert: “Everyone was saying ganbare (hang in there). But for the people in Fukushima, it was like, ‘What, hang in there? Are you kidding?’” (Ōtomo and Endō 2011: 38). Going to Fukushima a few weeks after the disaster, Ōtomo realized that “everyone was very depressed and they had lost hope” (Ōtomo and Endō 2011: 39). The two concluded that in such desperate times, when no one seemed to know how bad the radiation would get or what its impact would be, the people of Fukushima needed more than simple encouragement: They needed a matsuri (festival) to recover psychologically. Ōtomo then floated the possibility of a festival with Fukushima residents, some of whom responded with disbelief:  “How can we possibly think of gathering a crowd here? We need to concentrate on decontamination, not music” (Ōtomo Yoshihide, interview with the author, April 16, 2015). But the father of Wagō Ryōichi, the Fukushima poet with whom the pair would collaborate, urged him to do it, saying, “Nothing is going to improve if things continue as they are” (Ōtomo and Endō 2011: 40).

Not an Antinuclear Festival, Per Se

Neither Endō nor Ōtomo intended the festival to be an antinuclear one. Endō originally suggested that it be titled “Genpatsu kuso kurae” (Eat Shit, Nuclear Power), with “nuclear power” including not only nuclear power itself but also antinuclear activists (Endō 2011: 166). It was not that he was pronuclear; on the contrary, he said, “If there were a national referendum on nuclear power, I’d vote against nuclear power, no question” (Endō 2011: 173). However, he objected to antinuclear activists who were speaking of Fukushima as if the nuclear disaster were its only characteristic (Endō 2011:  166). Ōtomo was also apprehensive about the attitude of some antinuclear activists toward people in Fukushima. He thought that some of them were exaggerating radiation figures in Fukushima prefecture, which were higher than what individuals

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on the ground were measuring themselves. By repeating the higher figures, these activists were making the fallout from Fukushima Daiichi seem more dangerous than it really was, thereby strengthening their antinuclear arguments. Moreover, they were telling everyone in Fukushima to evacuate, which Ōtomo found hysterical and unhelpful:  Fukushima was neither completely safe [as pronuclear factions were saying] nor completely uninhabitable [as some antinuclear activists were saying]. Neither is entirely true; there are plenty of places where you can live safely in Fukushima prefecture. It doesn’t help the people in Fukushima to say, “It’s safe,” or “It’s dangerous.” Instead, I want us all to think about it calmly. The people in Fukushima are thinking seriously about ways to reduce the risks of radiation. It’s inappropriate for outsiders to tell them what to do. It just wounds them. The questions of whether or not to have nuclear power, and whether or not to evacuate, are two separate issues (Ōtomo, interview). Indeed, Ōtomo believed that antinuclear activists were alienating the people from Fukushima: “The more the antinuclear faction tries to tell the people in Fukushima what to do, the more they hide themselves away… . They think, ‘How would those guys know anything about us?’ and dismiss them like that, and the rift between them widens.” This rift put Ōtomo in a delicate position, making him hesitant to say anything that asserted an antinuclear stance: “If people [from Fukushima] perceive that I’m speaking from within that [antinuclear] movement, I will lose my ability to persuade them. As an outsider, my goal is to put myself in the place of those who live in Fukushima and see what I could do for them” (Ōtomo 2011: 250–251). Hence, while both Ōtomo and Endō preferred Japan to be without nuclear power, they maintained some distance between themselves and the antinuclear movement. Although they abandoned the controversial title, they aimed to offer a different perspective—that of Fukushima residents who had decided to stay. As Ōtomo added:  I felt that we had to find a way to connect Fukushima with the rest of the country. That was our primary motivation for starting the festival. We wanted people to see the reality of Fukushima and meet its people. They could then think for themselves about nuclear power. But we weren’t telling people to oppose nuclear power. Anybody seeing the situation with his or her own eyes would figure it out (Ōtomo, interview).

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The Metropolis/Region Polarity

A contributing factor to this rift between the antinuclear activists and the people of Fukushima was the preexisting polarity between the metropolis (chūō, e.g., Tokyo, Osaka), where many antinuclear activists live, and the regions (chihō). In the postwar era, the biggest metropolises—particularly Tokyo—drew people in search of employment opportunities and cultural life away from regional areas. Meanwhile, many regional towns like Fukushima had been in long-term economic decline, particularly as some industries crumbled or moved their manufacturing bases overseas. As Ōtomo put it, this situation led to the “colonization” of outer regions like Fukushima prefecture, which are coerced to take undesirable facilities benefitting the central cities. Corporations are part of this colonization, as regional employers are often subcontractors to large Tokyo-based companies (Ōtomo, interview). This power gap also led some regional inhabitants to harbor inferiority complexes toward metropolitans. According to Ōtomo, people from Fukushima think that Tokyoites discriminate against them; they also tend to be shy and downplay themselves (Ōtomo and Endō 2011: 42, 57). He himself admitted that, growing up, he had felt superior to the Fukushima residents around him because he was originally from Yokohama, near Tokyo (Ōtomo 2011:  251). Furthermore, Fukushima is less than two hours away from Tokyo by bullet train, and the proximity makes it even harder for its residents to maintain a distinct identity. Indeed, Endō said that Fukushima harbored a loser’s complex that was ritualized in his hometown of Nihonmatsu:  At the annual Kikuningyō festival, the town stages a play reenacting the defeat of the local teenage samurai squadron (Nihonmatsu shōnen-tai) by the imperial forces in the Boshin War (1868; Endō 2011: 175). Ōtomo attributed the proliferation of nuclear power plants in Fukushima to this combination of its fragile economy and its citizens’ sense of inferiority compared to the metropolis (Ōtomo, email to the author, 2013). The Fukushima nuclear power plants did not produce electricity for Fukushima prefecture or the Tōhoku region, but for Tokyo. This sense of inferiority was aggravated by the nuclear accident, as Fukushima residents blame themselves for having supported nuclear power. As Ōtomo explained, … I  asked people what they thought about [Endō] Michirō wanting to sing, “Fuck nuclear power plants!” at a festival, and they said, “Please don’t mention the power plant.” Isn’t this shocking? You’d think that the people in Fukushima are enraged about the power plant, right? Well, they’re angry, of course… . But there’s also a mood that prevents them from saying anything. Anyone who’s grown up in Fukushima would understand, but Fukushima has its particular

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circumstances. And people feel inferior about the fact that they’d been promoting nuclear energy… . 57 These complex feelings are reflected in Endō’s own antinuclear song “Genpatsu Burūzu” (Nuclear Power Blues) (web figure 6.12 ).58 Written after a powerful aftershock and first performed in Hitachi City, about sixty miles from the stricken plant, on April 1, 2011, it is a raw expression of the desperation of the time. It begins with a blunt acknowledgment of the nuclear meltdown before TEPCO had admitted to it: Ore no genpatsu, merutodaun   My nuclear power plant had   a meltdown. Hōshanō o maki chirasu   It’s spreading radioactivity. Ore no kotoba de minagoroshi da   I’d call it a massacre. From the first line, Endō stresses that it is “my nuclear power plant”—a nuclear power plant that he had internalized, a part of himself. He explained, “Nuclear power was symbolic of postwar economic boom and prosperity. I’d grown up and lived in that prosperity; nuclear power was part of my being. The disaster shattered that image” (Endō Michirō, interview with the author, Tokyo, July 26, 2015). The song paints several vignettes of life in Fukushima after the accident. Noting that the authorities are “pretending not to know” when “in reality, everything is dicey,” he complains that his girlfriend has abandoned him and describes everyone around him fleeing, just as many local residents voluntarily evacuated to avoid radiation:  Everyone, everyone, everyone around me Is running away, running away, Until finally, I’m the only one left. Meanwhile, those left behind are desperate and desolate:  There’s no electricity to put on the lights There’s no motivation to light up my heart It’s pitch dark as I’m in self-destructive despair. He then embodies the nuclear power plant itself, his brain exploding in fission, his testicles part of the meltdown:  Ore no genpatsu, merutodaun Nōmiso ga kakubunretsu Wake no wakaranai koto o kuchibashiru Roshin yūgō, kintama mo toke dashita

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My nuclear power plant had a meltdown. My brain is in nuclear fission. Blurting out gibberish, Reactor-core fusion, my balls have melted too. By imagining the nuclear accident as occurring in his own body, Endō vividly illustrates the importance of nuclear power to the image of Japanese prosperity and to Fukushima’s identity. Nuclear power was associated with Japan’s fast postwar economic growth, and he, along with many Japanese, had embraced the image of nuclear power as forceful, advanced, and masculine. The people of Fukushima had allowed nuclear power plants to be built and had benefitted financially from them; they were embedded into the life of the prefecture. As the sociologist Kainuma Hiroshi has noted, nuclear power-themed displays are commonly found alongside the local sake in train stations, and shopkeepers happily name their establishments Books Atom, Atom Sushi, or Atom Tourism, not because they are affiliated with the nuclear industry, but because the atom is part of their regional identity (Kainuma 2011: 112–118). Under those circumstances, the nuclear meltdown is a betrayal, a violent denial of cherished myths, and a meltdown of one’s life essence. Endō thus expresses not only the anger he and many Fukushima residents felt about the accident but also the loss of identity and sense of shame that came from having been a nuclear power center and bought into the dream of nuclear power-led prosperity. He explains, “Most antinuclear songs say, we can’t have nuclear power, stop messing around, like Kiyoshirō’s. But in ‘Nuclear Power Blues,’ that comment—stop messing around—is aimed at myself. It’s a double-edged sword” (Endō 2011: 167).

Damage from Rumors

For Fukushima residents, a plethora of rumors regarding radioactive contamination compounded their problems as a new kind of discrimination emerged. Rumors f lew that people from Fukushima disembarking at Tokyo Station were being tagged, that cars with Fukushima license plates were being scratched or turned away at gas stations, that communities were brushing away evacuees from Fukushima, and that women from Fukushima would give birth to deformed babies (Endō, interview; Ōtomo and Endō 2011: 43). A woman from Kōriyama committed suicide when her fiancé broke their engagement based on the assumption that she could not bear healthy children unaffected by radiation (p.c., 2013). The organizers hence wanted the festival to be a space where people from outside the prefecture could experience Fukushima themselves, meet the residents, and see how they live, instead of dismissing it as an irradiated place with untouchable people.

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Change “Fukushima” to a Positive Word

Fukushima residents were also disheartened that the word “Fukushima” had become shorthand for nuclear disaster. While they understood that the protest chant, “No More Fukushima,” meant nuclear disasters, they were still uncomfortable hearing their homeland, and by analogy themselves, being called in such a way (Endō, interview). Ōtomo felt that if Fukushima continued to be saddled with this “infamous baggage,” its people would continue to feel ashamed of it, and it could become an isolated place, ignored and avoided. He wanted to see “Fukushima” turned into a positive name, just as “Hiroshima” had become associated with the peace movement. 59

A Symbolic Date

Endō suggested that the festival be held on August 15, the anniversary of Japan’s surrender in World War II. He saw the date as marking the beginning of postwar Japan, with the fast-paced economic growth that rationalized the building of nuclear power plants. It was also the beginning of democratic government in Japan, which Endō saw as constrained by the U.S.-Japan relationship (Endō 2011: 168). The date falls during obon, when people traditionally return to their families’ hometowns to commemorate their deceased family members. The year 2011 was a particularly poignant obon in Fukushima and Tōhoku, as so many had died. Endō’s own family had been affected:  His cousin’s son was swept away by the tsunami and never found, and his devastated cousin later died in evacuation housing. Endō wished for the festival to commemorate these victims (Endō, interview; Endō 2011: 177). ST RUCT U R E OF PROJ ECT F U K USH I M A

Project Fukushima was announced at a press conference in Fukushima City on May 8, 2011. Wagō Ryōichi, who had gained attention for his poetic tweets that gave an on-the-ground, emotional account of the crisis as it unfolded in Fukushima, joined Ōtomo and Endō as an official organizer. Ōtomo articulated their aims as follows: 1. To create a reason for people to go to Fukushima, so that the region would not become further isolated. 2. To set up a forum through which differing opinions could be aired. To promote understanding of the region through friendships. 3. To construct systems by which people who can’t come to Fukushima could still participate.60

Figure 6.10  Ōtomo Yoshihide Conducting Orchestra Fukushima, 2011. Photo by Fujii Hikaru. Courtesy of Ōtomo Yoshihide.

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To encourage participation, the project also included School Fukushima, which held workshops on poetry, music, and basic information regarding radiation. To increase reach beyond Fukushima, the festival was to be streamed live on Dommune Fukushima, an internet video station broadcasting from Fukushima City, allowing anyone with an internet connection to see the festival. Dommune Fukushima was run by Ukawa Naohiro, who already ran the existing internet broadcasting station Dommune. The organizers also encouraged people in other parts of Japan and the world to conduct simultaneous events affiliated with the project (Isobe 2011). P R O J E C T F U K U S H I M A F E S T I VA L I N  2 011

The Event

The first festival was a great success, attracting 13,000 participants (over 20,000 by Ōtomo’s count), who were evenly split between those from Fukushima prefecture and outsiders. Festivalgoers hailed from Hokkaidō to Kyūshū, and many were from the Tokyo area. An additional 250,000 people saw it streamed on Dommune Fukushima.61 Three stages were set up in Shiki no Sato Park and the nearby Azuma baseball field, and performances were given by twenty groups, including Ōtomo, Endō Michirō’s group The Stalin 246,62 Sakamoto Ryūichi, 1960s and ’70s rockers Endō Kenji and Zunō Keisatsu, Nanao Tavito, U-zhaan, Mukai Hidenori of Zazen Boys and Shibusashirazu, and groups from Fukushima. Ōtomo regarded the maximization of participation to be a distinguishing characteristic of the festival. As he put it:  Most festivals, which are run by large companies, have a clear separation between the performer on the stage and the audience. I wanted to change that structure. At Project Fukushima, the audience doesn’t pay to enjoy the music. Everyone participates in putting the festival and the stages together— both audience members and the performers. So the concept of Project Fukushima is completely different from an ordinary festival (Ōtomo, interview). Indeed, many festivalgoers actively participated in the performances and organization of the festival, cultivating a community among them. About 220 people played in the Project Fukushima Orchestra (figure 6.10, web figure 6.13 )—a gathering of musicians where anyone of any skill level, playing any instrument from violins to frying pans, could participate. In the Fukushima Ongaku Kaihō-ku (Fukushima Music Liberated Zone), sixty groups of performers, both professional and amateur, played in various places around the festival

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area.63 Wagō led a reading in which forty participants—some in tears—read the poems they had written in School Fukushima. Ninety affiliated events were held in fourteen countries.64

Precautions against Radiation

Given the uncertainties regarding radiation, the organizers hired Kimura Shinzō, a radiation expert and associate professor at Dokkyo Medical University, as a radiation consultant. Kimura had constructed a map of radioactive contamination in Fukushima prefecture; he found that radiation levels in Shiki no Sato were lower than averages around Fukushima City. He was also granted the power to cancel the festival if radiation at the venue was at dangerous levels. On the day before the festival, he measured radiation at Shiki no Sato to be 0.58 to 0.69 microsieverts/hour near the surface. He announced that although these levels were “not low,” a day spent exposed to these levels would not have adverse impact on the human body (Isobe 2011: 220). As an additional precaution against radiation on the ground, a dai-furoshiki (giant wrapping cloth; figure 6.11) of 6,000 square meters was laid on the lawn at Shiki no Sato where audience members would be sitting. This furoshiki was another initiative by Ōtomo, who invited people to contribute patches to be sewn together, similar to the NAMES Project AIDS Memorial Quilt. In addition to reducing radiation exposure from the grass, the furoshiki prevented radioactive materials from getting on participants’ shoes and being spread to other regions. People from all over Japan sent in furoshiki patches, writing or sewing messages on them to the people of Fukushima. Several dozen

Figure 6.11  Dai-furoshiki, Project Fukushima Festival, 2011. Photo by Fujii Hikaru. Courtesy of Ōtomo Yoshihide.

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volunteers sewed them together at Ōtomo’s family home, a former factory. (Isobe 2011: 76). It was another way for people who could not attend the festival to participate in it. Official festival food stalls openly displayed radiation levels, with the intention of demonstrating that there were produce and meats from Fukushima that were safe to eat. The festival office tested the food beforehand; when radioactive substances were found, the impact of internal radiation was clearly shown at the stall, even if the levels were lower than government limits. The actual measurements were shown side by side with Japanese safety limits and the more stringent ones operating in post-Chernobyl Ukraine. Such displays were apparently not sufficient to put festivalgoers at ease. A local farmer measured 23 Becquerels per kilogram (Bq/kg) of cesium 134 and 137 in his peaches, a Fukushima specialty. These figures were well below the Japanese government limit of 500 Bq/kg and the Ukrainian limit of 70 Bq/kg. Yet few people, if any, bought the peaches, even though the farmer repeatedly called out that this year’s crop was especially delicious (Isobe 2011: 224). The NHK documentary on the festival featured the story of the farmer, his evacuee son, and the peaches; the film made a great impression on viewers. As the activist Banchō commented two years later, “Watching Ōtomo’s festival on television, I  was really shocked that the festival audience, which was supposed to have gathered in the spirit of ‘Hang in there, Fukushima!,’ wouldn’t even touch those peaches, although the Becquerels had been properly measured and presented. I  still remember it” (@bcxxx, October 13, 2013).

Wagō’s “Resolution”

Toward the end of the day, Wagō recited poems from his collection Shi no tsubute (Pebbles of Poetry, June 2011), with Ōtomo and Sakamoto improvising a restrained accompaniment on guitar and piano. As Yamagishi Seinoshin, a member of the executive committee for Project Fukushima, described, “For 50 minutes, several thousand listeners held their breaths, barely moving as they listened. Perhaps moved by the music, Wagō looked less at his notes, and he began to improvise.” 65 The high point of the performance was “Ketsui” (Resolution, 2011), which Wagō had expanded for the performance (Iwata-Weickgennant 2014). It expresses Wagō’s love of Fukushima by relentlessly repeating the word “Fukushima” (web figure 6.14 ): Fukushima wa watashi desu Fukushima wa kokyō desu Fukushima wa jinsei desu Fukushima wa anata desu

Fukushima is me Fukushima is my home town Fukushima is my life Fukushima is you… . (Wagō 2011)

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In a newly added section, Wagō acknowledged the accident simply by saying that “There was a disastrous earthquake/ There was sad news [of deaths].” He then built a crescendo by repeating, “Let’s have faith”—in the sea, the skies, and in Fukushima itself. In the climax of the performance, he raised his clenched fist and yelled: Kono nihon o torimodosō! Kono sekai o torimodosō! Watashitachi ga ikite iru kono sekai o kono nihon o kono Fukushima o torimodosō!

Let’s take back this Japan! Let’s take back this world! Let’s take back this world, this Japan, this Fukushima in which we live!

The performance was received with much applause. Isobe felt that it brought the audience together, and some people to tears (Isobe 2011, 230; Ōtomo 2011: 263). According to Yamagishi, it made Fukushima residents reflect on their hometowns post-3.11, while it made nonresidents feel the pain of the people of Fukushima.66 There were also less positive interpretations. R E C E P T I O N O F   T H E F E S T I VA L

The festival received much positive media coverage—far more than No Nukes 2012 or Fuji Rock’s Atomic Café. The day after the festival, the Fukushima Minpō ran a front-page article featuring a photograph of Wagō and Sakamoto in performance. Three weeks later, Asahi Shimbun published an article about it, including a short interview with Sakamoto.67 On September 10, 2011, TBS television aired a special (Hōdō tokushū) about it. On October 9, the ETV program, which airs documentaries at 11 p.m. on Saturdays on NHK television, featured a documentary of the festival. Both programs were the fruits of initiative and shared views: Ōtomo had approached TBS, while Yamagishi Seinoshin, an executive committee member of Project Fukushima and a Fukushima native, had spoken to ETV; the staff members of both TBS and ETV were sympathetic with the project’s aims (Ōtomo, interview). Cameras had been rolling since the early planning stage.68 Project Fukushima!, a documentary feature film by Fujii Hikaru, made the rounds of the art-house cinemas. Two books on Project Fukushima, by Ōtomo et al. (2011) and by music critic Isobe Ryō (2011), were soon published. The event seemed to accomplish the goal of bringing people from outside Fukushima together with its residents. Endō noted that during a burst of rain early in the festival, everyone sought shelter underneath the tents, where they began to talk to each other (Endō 2011, 171). Participatory schemes like the Fukushima Music Free-Zone, the giant furoshiki, and the Project Fukushima

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Orchestra also encouraged interaction. Through impromptu conversations, visiting festivalgoers began to understand the fears, isolation, and conflicting feelings that the people of Fukushima were living with (@nonomurax, September 10, 2011). The festival provoked “many feelings that couldn’t be easily worked out” (@zeedee1971, August 15, 2011). Both visitors and natives of Fukushima felt this way: From the outside, it may look like it was just sightseeing. I don’t deny that the media and commentary are treating it that way. It was one movement, occurring from the inside. I’m glad I  came to Project Fukushima. I thought a lot, and I cried. (@kurodasan, August 15, 2011) Even after a night’s rest, Project Fukushima was so amazing that it seems like a dream… . I can only express my gratitude to everyone who came all the way to Fukushima to participate. There were many out-of-prefecture license plates in the parking lot. I feel that the festival couldn’t have been any better. (@masawataslumber, August 15, 2011) Web commentary suggests that those watching the festival through the NHK documentary were similarly moved by the poetry readings, as well as the images of people living with fear and uncertainty. The peach farmer and his family, whom NHK interviewed, especially moved the viewers. The son had evacuated his wife and children to Hokkaidō, leaving his elderly parents behind; feeling ambivalent about the move, he had returned to help his father harvest the peaches that no one would buy (@ozorashirakumo, October 10, 2011; @class_b0804, October 10, 2011).

Criticisms

As the most visible organizer, Ōtomo had repeatedly emphasized that people should check radiation levels and decide for themselves whether to come or not. He had also suggested that people not bring children from outside the prefecture. Nonetheless, some who had not attended the festival severely criticized it for bringing people to a highly contaminated area and exposing them unnecessarily to radiation.69 One person commented, “NHK’s program was a campaign to say, ‘Let’s stand up to radiation!’ Unfortunately, you can’t win against radiation. It looked like a deranged concert and dance” (@r_isotope, October 9, 2011). The volcanologist Hayakawa Yukio said, “Outsiders find a 0.7-microsievert place in the western outskirts of Fukushima City, amass a large crowd there, and lift people’s spirits that Fukushima City is still inhabitable. It’s incredibly irresponsible” (@HayakawaYukio, October 11, 2011). Locals also questioned the safety of the site: “In June, my device measured 50

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microsieverts/hour on the grass in the baseball field at Azuma Athletic Park. The level fell a lot after cutting the grass, but no one besides myself had measured Azuma at that time. They held an outdoor event right there!!” (@shunsoku2002, October 9, 2011). Skeptical viewers thought that behind the hopeful message, there was denial of reality. “To what extent did they discuss how to avoid radiation?” asked one observer. Quoting Wagō’s performance, he added, “It was just ‘Fukushima, Fukushima.’ But there will eventually be actual harm to health. Music and poetry will be ineffective” (@kentarotakahash, October 10, 2011). Another commented, “I’m worried that the message, ‘Let’s hang in there with hope,’ encourages one to look away from the dangerous present that one can do nothing about” (@kuutyist, October 9, 2011). Such comments seemed counter to Ōtomo’s stated intentions; on the day before the festival, he had blogged that he’d like for people outside of Fukushima to come, adding, “It’s not that I  want to stage a show saying Fukushima is this strong (genki) or this safe (daijōbu). Nor do I want to say that Fukushima is this dangerous. I just want people to see the reality of it… . Here, the pre-3.11 Japan doesn’t exist anymore.” Ōtomo later explained: What was the first thing people needed? I didn’t think it was a scientific explanation or something to believe, like a religion. We needed to stoke their basic motivation to keep on living. For that reason, we needed a festival, something we couldn’t explain but was fun… . It was not to gloss over reality, but to live through the harsh reality with open eyes and a critical mind… . 70 Some observers objected not to the festival itself but to the tone of the NHK/ ETV documentary. Even those who held antinuclear views, like the bass player Sawada Jōji, tweeted, “The NHK program felt like propaganda, making it seem that Fukushima was safe and that it wasn’t necessary for children to evacuate” (@jyoji_sawada, October 9, 2011). An alternative-energy worker commented, “I didn’t like the ending [of the documentary], whose framing gave the illusion that the nuclear accident was over” (@liquid7r, October 10, 2011). Another commentator was more emphatic: “What struck me most about the ETV program was that they’re trying to sweep it under the rug” (futa o shiteru; @oo0praline, October 9, 2011). Some observers expressed apprehension at the focus on Fukushima:  “By repeating only the name of Fukushima over and over, the atmosphere of the festival separated Fukushima from other regions, ignoring the radioactive contamination of Ibaragi, Tochigi, Gunma, the capital, and Tōhoku. That made me apprehensive” (@cavu311 October 9, 2011). The repetition of the

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word “Fukushima” reached its most relentless point during Wagō’s impassioned rendition of “Resolution,” which could be seen as “giving birth to a post-disaster Fukushima nationalism” (Isobe 2011: 114). This regional pride, combined with the fear that it was overriding the recognition of existing problems, led some viewers to fear that history was being repeated: “It seemed as if the old-time essence of the Japanese people, who’d stand firm against the wind and confront fighter planes with bamboo spears, hadn’t changed” (@r_isotope, October 9, 2011). Such criticisms greatly wounded Ōtomo, who was often singled out in these attacks. Despite the fact that both Fukushima City and Fukushima prefecture had given grants for the festival, there was a mutual understanding that the festival would not proclaim Fukushima to be safe, and Project Fukushima had complete freedom in operating the festival (Ōtomo 2011; 259; Ōtomo, interview). Furthermore, the festival was not devoid of antinuclear voices. After all, Endō Michirō had performed both his “Nuclear Power Blues” and “Azarashi” (Seal) at the festival. In this latter song, Endō uses the word for seal (azarashi) as a contraction for the word for a thalidomide victim (azarashi shishō) and uses the latter as a metaphor to describe a helpless person, for whom it is “no use crying, shouting, laughing, or running away”—hardly an uplifting topic. In this performance, he substituted “Fukushima” for “azarashi” (Endō 2011: 167). P R O J E C T F U K U S H I M A , 2 01 2 O N WA R D S

In March 2012, Ōtomo was awarded the Minister’s Prize in Artistic Promo­ tion (Geijutsu senshō monbu kagaku daijin shō) from the Agency for Cultural Affairs of the Ministry of Education, Culture, Sports, Science and Technology (MEXT). The official announcement credited him as follows: Since the earthquake, [Ōtomo] has painted a positive image of the future in his hometown of Fukushima. In order to create a new culture in Fukushima, and with the cooperation of local people and various artists, he launched Project Fukushima and developed various artistic activities. He attracted the attention of the world to the true picture of Fukushima and gave courage to the people of Fukushima. In addition, he has been exceptional in his artistic activities for earthquake recovery. In his actions to lend strength to the people of Fukushima, he has made a great contribution.71 Many of Ōtomo’s fans sent congratulatory tweets, expressing delight that the noise musician and composer had finally gotten some official recognition. Some, however, thought he should decline the award because it was

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from MEXT—the government ministry that was charged with informing the public about radiation yet had failed to publicize the SPEEDI radiation data in the crucial first days of the crisis. Ōtomo noted, however, that the staff of the Agency for Cultural Affairs held different views (Ōtomo, interview). In addition, behavioral science professor Hosoma Hiromichi expressed concern that the contradictory feelings of the event were being swept away to recast it as being solely focused on “supporting Fukushima.” He also wondered why neither Wagō nor Endō were mentioned in the award, even though they were co-organizers of Project Fukushima, for which the prize was being awarded (@kaerusan, March 16, 2012); it is assumed that Ōtomo was being acknowledged as the primary organizer. Nevertheless, Endō himself encouraged Ōtomo to accept the award, which he did. The Project Fukushima Festival was held on a grander scale in 2012, based on the theme of flags across borders. The giant furoshiki was cut and resewn as flags. This event was a twelve-day affair beginning on August 15, with performances all around Fukushima and other cities. After some controversy among the staff of Project Fukushima (given the policy not to have an explicit antinuclear stance), Ōtomo invited Monju-kun to appear at the opening ceremony and walk around the grounds in his stuffed costume as a nonverbal reminder of the nuclear issue. This soft-pedaled approach was well received: He was a hit in downtown Fukushima, where he danced to the Project Fukushima Orchestra. He described the scene as follows: Everyone in Fukushima City seemed really excited. “Hey, it’s Monju-kun!” People came over smiling, hugged Monju-kun tightly, and took photos with him… . Afterwards, I checked Twitter to see how people were writing about it. There were one or two comments like, “I was disappointed that a thing like Monju-kun was there.” But you’d expect that… . It was a much warmer reception than I expected. (Monju-kun, interview) The closing ceremony included a curiously named “Mushroom Requiem,” as if to recall the mushroom clouds of nuclear explosions or edible mushrooms, which easily absorb radioactive contamination. For 2013, the theme of the festival was centered on a bon dance, a traditional summer festival dance. The idea came from Endō, who had performed bon dances and minyō (traditional folk songs) at a music festival for the evacuees of Namie at their request (Endō, interview). For the occasion, Ōtomo composed an ondo, a dance and song style originally associated with bon dances, with lyrics forwarded by members of the Project Fukushima team. To increase participation, the Strange Kinoko Dance Company developed a simple dance, and a video of it was circulated on the internet in advance of the festival; furthermore,

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workshops were held to teach participants the dance. In keeping with the spirit of bon dance, the furoshiki flags were re-sewn as yukata (summer kimonos). According to Ōtomo, the “Eejanaika Ondo” was intended to be political, a point which is signaled by the refrain of eejanaika (what the hell) (web figures 6.15, 6.16 and ). Eejanaika were wild dance festivities-cum-protests held on the eve of the Meiji Restoration, when sociopolitical conditions were changing rapidly (Wilson 1992); since then, they have been common protest refrains and have been heard in post-3.11 antinuclear protests in Matsumoto, Ehime, and Tokyo. As Novak (2013) has noted, the “Eejanaika Ondo” presents the antinuclear message subtly through kakegoe (call-and-response interjections) and subsumes it by the jollity of the community dance. I call attention to the third verse, which references the problems of the regions through common sayings (underlined). Kirei na hana ni wa toge ga aru Do-don ga don, do-don ga don Toge nado nai to damashi damasare Eraikoccha, eraikoccha Kusai mono ni wa futa o shite Doku o kurawaba, doku o kurawaba Doku o kurawaba, sara made mo. A beautiful flower has its thorns Do-don ga don! Don-don ga don! “There are no such thorns!” We were thus tricked. Oh no, we’re in big trouble! Put a lid on things that stink [i.e., Cover up problems] If you eat poison, if you eat poison, If you eat poison, eat the dish, too [i.e., Once you’ve started, go the whole hog] While the most easily understood interpretation for these common Japanese sayings is Fukushima Daiichi and its problems, they could just as easily be applied to any aspect of the regions as “colonized” by the metropolis. The flowers with thorns are nuclear power plants or any other undesirable facility pushed on depressed regions. “Things that stink” are covered-up scandals, such as the messy aftermath of the Fukushima disaster, while “eating the dish” may refer to the host towns’ acceptance of multiple reactors and a second nuclear plant site. Furthermore, ondo and bon dances were traditionally associated with specific towns and can recall them with nostalgia for a bygone past. One verse lists many place names, both in Fukushima prefecture and far away, and insists, “Once you

Figure 6.12  Bon dance, Project Fukushima Festival, 2013. Photo by Jibiki Yū ichi. Courtesy of Ōtomo Yoshihide.

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live in a place, you’ll come to like it”—plaintive words of consolation for the many Tōhoku residents who have lost their hometowns. By expressing political ideas through common sayings, the song is open to many possible interpretations, leaving the door open for it to be broadcast. In 2013, Ōtomo entered into mainstream consciousness after composing the music for Ama-chan, the NHK television drama that was the year’s biggest hit. The ideas for the show were spawned when its future staff participated in the Project Fukushima Festival.72 Nonetheless, he and Project Fukushima still come under occasional criticism. In April 2014, the philosopher and activist Yabe Shirō likened the people of Fukushima to Sisyphus, hearing repeated calls for “recovery” in the middle of radiation-related contamination that cannot be removed. He accused Project Fukushima of participating in the media spectacle of “recovery” (cf. Guy Debord’s Society of the Spectacle, 1967)—a spectacle that hid real problems by extolling Fukushima’s “beautiful” scenery and “delicious” produce while dismissing “rumors” of radiation and ignoring the plight of evacuees (Yabe and Yamanote-sen 2014). Hence, Project Fukushima’s restraint regarding its stance on nuclear power, combined with its support of the people from Fukushima, was in line with the preferred media narrative and helped bring acclaim to the festival and its organizers. Its openness to multiple interpretations also made the festival vulnerable to misunderstandings of its intentions and meaning.

Conclusion Music festivals are a space apart from daily life, where one can immerse oneself in new ideas while enjoying the ambience and music. Being separate spaces, festivals can be less risky environments for both musicians and audience members to engage in political ideas. Festivals, however, are mediated environments, so that they serve multiple audiences: the one physically at the festival, the one experiencing it in real time on Ustream or Twitter, and the one watching it after the fact in a documentary or YouTube video. These multiple audiences make the reception of festivals a multilayered, multi-temporal experience that can elicit radically different reactions that are hard for organizers to control. While people attending the festival often feel they are part of a community, those watching it on the web or in playback are physically outside of it, and this physical alienation seems to elicit a psychological rejection. Just as Noma saw onlookers reacting negatively to carnivalesque demonstrations, some web or television audiences feel alienated by the fun others are having at a festival they didn’t attend, and they attach negative opinions to the events portrayed and the messages conveyed.

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I have described three models of political messaging at festivals: the informational model of the No Nukes concerts, with explicit messages via multiple means; the space-within-a-festival of Atomic Café at Fuji Rock, combining the experiential aspects of a large festival with an informational, political corner; and the experiential model of Project Fukushima, where participants could immerse themselves in activities in the shadow of a nuclear accident, but where openly antinuclear messages were avoided. The No Nukes concerts and Atomic Café engaged festivalgoers with presentational arguments in diagnostic, prognostic, and motivational frames; at Project Fukushima, where more festivalgoers participated in the performances and organization, the emphasis was not on arguments but on feelings. In an environment where the nuclear village still exerts much influence over the government and media, and in which antinuclear statements have been taboo, the media and government lauded Ōtomo for Project Fukushima but ignored and castigated Sakamoto for No Nukes (­chapter 3). As a result of these biases, the media gave little coverage to Atomic Café and the No Nukes concerts, so that they had less impact than they could have had. This is in contrast to European and American events like Live Aid, Live 8, Farm Aid, and Rock Against Racism, which the media supported and legitimized (Street 2012). Even without media coverage, however, the No Nukes concerts and Atomic Café had an impact on the real world. The No Nukes concerts gave moral support to younger musicians, inspiring them to use festivals for political action. Namba Akihiro organized politically themed concerts with Miyake Yōhei and others. In addition, both No Nukes and Atomic Café gave support to individual audience members, who felt validated for their antinuclear beliefs in a crowd of like-minded people—a space separate from their everyday lives, where they could say what they really thought.

CH A P T ER 

7

Recordings A LLEGOR IES, METAPHOR S, A ND METON Y MS

Commercial recordings on major labels have a different tone from those released independently or over the internet: They are generally more oblique, and necessarily so. The same artist could take varying approaches. In his YouTube sensation “It Was Always a Lie,” Saitō Kazuyoshi ranted directly against the nuclear village and captured the spirit of the time; nevertheless, Victor Entertainment decided not to release it commercially. The same artist’s commercial album that year—45 Stones—was filled with references to the nuclear issue, but through allegories and metaphors. Some artists have simply not addressed the nuclear issue in their recordings on major labels; while Zeebra has participated in antinuclear songs released independently as King Giddra (“Apocalypse Now”) and in collaboration with DJ Honda and others (“Don’t Believe the Hype”), he has not released one as a solo artist through Sony.1 This reticence is because the recording and broadcasting industries have both explicit limitations on content and implicit ones that discourage political expression. As noted in c­ hapter 3, entertainers have a disincentive for discussing nuclear power because they need the media exposure, and the media benefits financially from companies and governmental bodies associated with the nuclear industry. As of 2015, this censorship was driven not by the government but by the recording and broadcast industries, and much of it was self-censorship by the artist. Nonetheless, as Abel (2012) and Cather (2012) have noted in their studies of literary, film, and manga censorship, systems that induce such internalization can destroy more avenues of thought than explicit censorship. On the other hand, the existence of constraints can lead to creative responses. Recording artists find indirect ways of expressing their antinuclear stances while avoiding explicitly antinuclear statements. This avoidance 320

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extends not only to lyrics but also to interviews with the media, in which they usually minimize or avoid expressing their opinions on nuclear power. Such reticence is common even among major-label artists who make their antinuclear stances clear in their blogs, Twitter feeds, or by their activism. In this chapter, I  present several techniques used by leading Japanese rock musicians to address the nuclear issue in major-label recordings. Abel (2012) mentions allegory, metaphor, and ellipsis among the literary devices used to avoid censorship—techniques one also finds in lyrics of antinuclear recordings. Children’s allegories seem to be particularly favored: Saitō Kazuyoshi’s songs “Usagi to kame” (The Tortoise and the Hare) and “Ōkami chūnen” (Middle-Aged Liar) are based on Aesop’s fables, while Acid Black Cherry’s concept album 2012 is built around his own original fairytale about the Fukushima accident. Songs can also be derived from a single metaphor or metonym:  Quruli’s “Sōma” evokes the natural beauty of a seaside town ruined by its proximity to the Fukushima plant; by referring to a place name that has become an index of nuclear fallout, it reminds the listener of the consequences of the accident without ever mentioning them. Antinuclear songs use all three types of signs, as categorized by Charles Peirce in relation to their objects:  icon (resemblance), index (coincident relation), and symbol (interpretative convention; Peirce 1955). Some methods obfuscate, as when musicians string together fleeting metaphors and metonyms in (deliberately) confusing chains. Artists also misplace word accents or mispronounce lyrics to sound like subversive homonyms or harmless English interjections. Musical resources, like quotation and instrumental timbre, complement these text-oriented methods. Tonal or melodic structures may exemplify musical metaphors, as described by Hatten (1994) and others. Music theorists have related many musical metaphors to Mark Johnson’s concept of the image schema, which he defines as a “recurring, dynamic pattern of our perceptual interactions and motor programs that gives coherence and structure to our experience” (Johnson 1987:  xiv). Schemas are based on direct physical experiences tied to spatial motion, force, balance, etc.; they function like abstract images that connect a wide range of ideas. Using this construct, Saslaw (1996), Brower (2000), Zbikowski (2002), Larson (2003, 2011), Moore (2012), and others have tied musical patterns to image schemas of verticality, containment, cycles, paths and goals, forces like inertia, and other patterns. In the analyses that follow, I note the ways in which musical metaphors tied to such image schemas inform the (often mysterious) lyrics of these songs. My purpose here is not to philosophically debate about the frameworks these theorists have proposed as much as observe the presence of these schemas in songs with metaphorical texts. I begin with an explanation of self-censorship in the industry.

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Controls in the Music Industry Like many countries, Japan has a long history of censorship, and much of it is internalized. Censorship regulations have been in place since the beginning of commercial publishing in the 1600s (Hutchinson 2007). Publications had been subject to inspection since the beginning of the Meiji Period (Publication Ordinance of 1869); audio recordings had been subject to similar inspections since 1893. In response to a burst of leftist activity and publications following the Tokyo earthquake of 1923, the Peace Preservation Law was passed in 1925, outlawing actions “against the kokutai” (national polity). The incidence of censorship skyrocketed shortly thereafter, but as Jonathan Abel (2012) notes, the restrictions became internalized and self-imposed as publishers and writers attempted to anticipate what would be banned. During the postwar Occupation, the Allied Powers censored publications and recordings, particularly in regard to anti-American sentiment or the atomic bombings of Hiroshima and Nagasaki.2 Since the end of the Occupation, the Japanese record industry has been keeping vigilance over its own output. In 1952, the Record Industry Association of Japan (RIAJ) formed the Recording Industry Ethics Regulatory Commission (Rekōdo rinri shinsa-kai, hereafter “Recorin”), charged with inspecting the lyrics of records before release (Dorsey 2013: 81–83). Noting music’s “powerful influence on the psychological state, spirit, and behavior of the nation’s people” and its tendency to spread quickly over media and be played repetitively, Recorin’s standards as of 2013 prevented the release of recordings that (1)  “disturb the national or public order” or “promote bad habits”; (2)  are disrespectful of life or justice, or make drug use or antisocial, criminal behavior look appealing; (3) hold individuals in contempt or are discriminatory on the basis of circumstances, beliefs, sex, nationality, occupation, or psychological or physical handicaps; (4) damage the honor of a nation, ethnicity, or organization or international goodwill; (5) are sexually obscene; or (6) have a negative impact on youth. 3 Furthermore, the National Association of Commercial Broadcasters in Japan has an even more detailed set of guidelines than Recorin, with eighteen headings and 152 points. As any record needs television and radio for promotional purposes, major labels generally heed the broadcasting guidelines, as well as their own. In addition to echoing the general concepts of the Recorin standards, the “Laws and Politics” heading of the broadcasters’ guidelines includes a prohibition against attempts to “disgrace the authority of the Government or its agencies” and says that topics under national deliberation shall be handled “prudently,” in a way that would not “interfere with nor

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influence deliberation.” Under “Human Rights,” it notes that “the dignity of individuals and groups shall be respected.” While this statement is a prohibition of slander, the general practice within the record industry has usually been to avoid naming individuals or companies in songs in general. The Japanese equivalent of Neil Young’s classic song about the Kent State shootings, “Ohio” (1970), which begins with “Tin soldiers and Nixon coming,” would most likely be withheld from release at a major Japanese label. Each record released by a major label is inspected two to three times. First, the producer or director of the record would usually check the lyrics. Some record companies like Universal distribute information concerning songs that Recorin has rejected to all directors, pointing out the types of lyrics that are seen as problematic. Second, producers submit the recording and lyrics to a committee within the record company in advance of a release (at least fifty-five days at Victor Entertainment). Following the company’s inspection, the recording and lyrics are submitted to Recorin. If Recorin finds a problem, it is discussed among Recorin’s members, the recording director, and the record label staff, and a top executive from the record company writes a response to Recorin. Unresolved issues are brought to Recorin’s monthly inspection meeting. In 2012, eighteen recordings (out of 9,256 subjected to inspection) were discussed at these meetings, of which six were judged to be inciting drug use or expressing discrimination. The record companies involved were required to rerecord vocals and/or change the lyric sheets and other CD inserts.4 Such changes are potentially expensive, and most record companies seek to avoid them. These multiple inspections, the threat of scrutiny from top record executives, and the expense of revisions prod artists and producers to censor themselves. According to Universal Music executive Kubota Yutaka, the company distributes information on lyrics that have been censored, prompting young directors to seek consultation and change lyrics before completing recordings; their preemptive self-censorship can be even more restrictive than the stated rules. As Victor A&R administration manager Sukegawa Hitoshi explained, “It’s not at all that we only approve innocuous lyrics, but there is a tendency toward toeing a safe line. We encourage lyrics with originality that vividly capture the times. But we say no to lyrics that hurt someone or promote illegal activities. As long as they follow those rules, they can sing whatever they like.”5 Nevertheless, the system has encouraged self-censorship that errs on the conservative side. Rather than official Recorin rules, dramatic precedents serve as better indicators of the ramifications for speaking out. As mentioned in ­chapter 3, Toshiba EMI refused to release Imawano Kiyoshirō’s Covers (1988) because of the inclusion of his covers of Eddie Cochran’s “Summertime Blues” and Elvis

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Presley’s “Love Me Tender,” both of which he had rewritten with antinuclear lyrics in Japanese. Similarly, Katō Tokiko’s “Genpatsu Gypsy” faced censorship by the record company. Originally recorded in 1982 as “Kage no jipsii” (Gypsy of the Shadows), Katō Tokiko had rerecorded the song, about subcontracted workers who go from nuclear plant to nuclear plant, as “Genpatsu Gypsy” for her album Utsukushii mukashi: vol. 02 Tokiko Cry (1997). After its release, Sony halted its sales and changed the title to “Yami no naka de” (In the Darkness), saying that the word “gypsy” was discriminatory,6 and the song was forbidden from broadcasts.7 The following year, Katō was no longer on the Sony label (Suzuki 2011: 16). In 2011, Victor decided against releasing Saitō Kazuyoshi’s “It Was Always a Lie,” despite its obvious money-making potential (­chapter 4), and Yamamoto Tarō lost his status as a popular television actor because of his activism (­chapter 3). Ōkubo Seishi, the director of Fuji Rock’s NGO Village and the Atomic Café, claims that even with such intimidations, the current situation is more open than it was in the 1980s: Although still few in number, more musicians are speaking out and recording antinuclear songs than before, because record companies have less power over their artists in the face of falling CD sales (Ōkubo Seishi, interview with the author, Tokyo, October 16, 2013).

Personal Preferences Some musicians have developed a preference for elliptical writing; one example is Gotō Masafumi (“Gotch”) of the alternative rock band Asian Kung-Fu Generation (AKG). As editor of the alternative free newspaper The Future Times, co-announcer of No Nukes 2012 with Sakamoto Ryūichi, and frequent participant in demonstrations, he has been one of the most active popular musicians in the antinuclear movement (­chapter 3). Such visible activism is relatively unusual for a major-label artist:  AKG records under Ki-oon, a sub-label of Sony Music—one of Japan’s largest record companies. The group is very popular, particularly with young fans, with all seven of its studio albums (2003–2012) ranking in the top five on the weekly Oricon charts and its best-of album (2012) ranking number one. Despite his passionate beliefs, Gotch draws a line between political expression in civic action and AKG. He says, “I show my political stance [in The Future Times], so I try to remove that aspect from AKG. I don’t want to remove it completely, but there needs to be a balance… . I try not to talk about the kind of things I write about in The Future Times during a tour. We’re not touring for the purpose of saying, ‘We don’t need nuclear power.’” This preference for avoiding explicit political statements during band business extends to

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songs: “Instead of talking about the reality right in front of you, I’d rather aim more for its roots” (Rockin’ On, March 2013: 64). In explaining the song “N2” in his blog, he wrote, “Somehow, I felt a resistance to singing, ‘Oppose nuclear power!’ directly. I can’t write lyrics where you settle everything with a single phrase… . Depending on the venue, I could also feel nervous. There’s a gap between music and political expression, making one hesitate.” He continues: You can’t immediately understand what I mean, right? I’m consciously writing the words this way. Part of me would prefer not to sing about this topic, but I  also feel that I  must… . I  think it’s better to pick words that make the listener wonder, “What are they saying?” There are some wonderful songs where you can’t mistake the message in the lyrics when you read them from end to end. But instead of that, I’d like for the listeners to think, to get into the crux of the song—where, if you take just one step closer, the landscape opens up… .8

Allegories In such an environment, allegories provide a convenient framework onto which an artist can graft various ideas. Both the visual-kei9 rocker Acid Black Cherry and the rapper-singer Coma-chi have created concept albums, with songs constructed around their own allegorical stories. The stories are explained in illustrated books that come with the CDs. A C I D B L A C K C H E R R Y ’ S  2 01 2

Acid Black Cherry—the solo project of Yasu, the lead vocalist of the visual-kei band Janne Da Arc—is a major act, with all of its fifteen singles having ranked in the top five and all of its albums in the top seven on the Oricon charts10 ; its record label is Avex, Japan’s second-largest record company. Following the usual sales practices at the company, Acid Black Cherry released seven of the songs from the album 2012 as singles before the album itself. The concept for the album solidified around November 2011 in the midst of these releases.11 Released in March 2012, the album was a success, debuting at number one on the Oricon chart. Acid Black Cherry’s allegorical tale is about an angel who sings to make children happy. One day, a man persuades the angel to bring down a sphere of light (a source of all energy that is dangerous if misused) to earth. Man uses the sphere to make life more comfortable, but he also uses it to make bombs. Groups start fighting over the sphere. One day, an earthquake and tsunami occur, causing

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widespread deaths. The men lose control of the sphere, which breaks open and emits black smoke. Black rain falls causing death and disease; it stains the angel and causes him to lose his voice. Some people believe the end of the world is near and engage in wanton behavior; others heroically try to stop the black smoke; others sell farm products they know to be contaminated in order to feed their own families. The angel meets a girl who has been blinded by the black rain. When she dies, he plunges into despair. His spirits are lifted by a butterfly, which he sees as a sign that the earth is regenerating. Clean rain falls; the angel is cleansed and regains his voice. A child is born; laughter and life return. The sphere of light is an obvious metaphor for nuclear power, with references to its energy-producing powers, potential for making bombs, and black rain. Referenced also are the real-life predicaments of Fukushima nuclear plant workers and farmers. Fans on comment boards have speculated that the angel, who temporarily loses his ability to sing, represents Yasu himself since, like many artists, he found it difficult to compose or perform for a while after the triple disaster. According to staff, Yasu intended this sphere to be interpreted as a metaphor for nuclear power; he said he put more heart and thought into this album than any other previous work (p.c., March 2, 2012). Nonetheless, in keeping with usual practices among entertainers, Yasu has assiduously avoided any mention of nuclear power in interviews with the press. He has only admitted that he approached the album with “great caution” because it could be taken to “include quite a delicate issue.” He continues: … when the earthquake happened, we felt fear and uneasiness… . How could you not say anything? … I  didn’t think people would want to hear a ganbare (“persist”) song from a rebellious person like myself. So I wanted to put something together that would give people courage and lift their spirits in some form, other than a cheerleading song.12 On his tour in 2012, he refrained from staging an enactment of the story and played straight concerts instead. Yasu has singled out four songs as central to this plot:  “Fallin’ Angel,” “Sono hi ga kurumade” (Until That Day Comes), “Doomsday Clock,” and “Shangri-la.” “Fallin’ Angel,” the first full song on the album, describes an angel falling to earth and declares that the end of the world is beginning, hence fitting the plotline. According to Yasu, “Until That Day Comes” forms the core of the album, making its unified concept possible. The first song he wrote after the earthquake and tsunami, it expresses his shock at the destruction and empathy for the victims rendered “powerless, unable to do anything but look at their [broken] hometowns.” The rousing chorus asks, “Could words of love

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reach all over the world, over the skies, to your origins?” The song is placed at the middle of the album, corresponding to the angel’s lamenting the girl’s death. To emphasize its centrality, the opening track, “~until~,” derives its name from the first word of the English translation of the title, while the final track, “~comes~,” refers to its final word; the song itself is preceded by a short instrumental track entitled “~the day~.” Musically, the first track, an introduction, plays the opening melody of “Until That Day Comes” (in another key) with fragments of its sung track, while the last track is a largely instrumental coda reprising the pre-chorus to the song. “Shangri-La,” a song of renewal and hope, immediately precedes it as the last complete song on the album. “Doomsday Clock” refers to the symbol used by the Bulletin of the Atomic Scientists to express how close humankind is to catastrophic destruction. Midnight represents this Armageddon, and the scientists determine the clock’s position, in minutes until midnight, in consideration of global threats including the proliferation of nuclear weapons and the lack of proper oversight systems for nuclear power plants. On January 10, 2012, the scientists set the clock forward from seven to five minutes to midnight, citing the Fukushima accident among other reasons.13 Yasu heard the news and incorporated it into the narrative. The clock is also shown on the CD cover, with its hands at five to midnight.14 In the song, he plays on the five-minute figure (“tick-tock, tick, tick, tick, tick/You only have five minutes left”); he also points out that “2, 0, 1, 2 adds up to five,” tying the Mayan myth of global destruction in the year 2012 to the Doomsday Clock (web figure 7.1 ). Indeed, the song’s fast tempo, oscillating-octave chromatic figure (G-A ♭-F- ♯ -G) in the opening, and emphasis on the tritonal ♯4ˆ in the melody and accompaniment communicate a sense of urgency and anxiety. Aside from its premise, however, the song refers to nuclear power only once in the song text, by mentioning black rain. While the work mentions actual events in thinly veiled terms (such as the accident and radioactive contamination), it is less about diagnosing the problem or proposing solutions than a personal, emotional response to the crisis (web figure 7.2 ). C O M A- C H I ’ S T O W E R O F   T H E   S U N

A similar, original allegorical story is used by Coma-chi, one of the few female rappers in Japan. After cutting ties with her record label (Pony Canyon) and management company (Jazzy Sport), she released the antinuclear song “Say No!” on YouTube in April 2011,15 in which she not only criticized the government and the media but also Japan’s materialistic lifestyle focused on conveniences and possessions, which has led to high levels of energy consumption. Asking if “these pleasures are really necessary,” her lyrics advocate growth in renewable energy sources like solar and wind power.

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She elaborates on this anti-materialistic, pro-natural viewpoint in Taiyō o yobu shōnen (The Boy Who Calls the Sun, 2011), a picture book accompanied by an extended-play CD, which she released independently (web figure 7.3 ). In this allegorical story, a boy named Adama lives in a large city, where everyone works hard for their luxuries. His parents work from morning to night, leaving him alone most of the time. One morning, Adama finds his parents completely unresponsive. The doctor tells him that they are infected with a germ called the American Dream, which empties the soul. He sends Adama to the Northern Village to consult with the Tower of the Sun, purported to be an all-powerful god. The Tower of the Sun tells Adama that it is only a tower, and that only the real sun could save his parents. Adama goes to the Southern Island, where he finds dark-skinned people dancing at a festival. He consults an elder, who teaches him a drum pattern for calling the sun. Adama returns to the city to find most of the population immobile with American Dream disease. Black rain falls and intensifies as Adama drums. Finally, the sun comes out, melting the city and tanning Adama’s skin dark. Passing out, he wakes up on a pristine beach and meets his parents, whose skin has also turned dark. “We have no money or jewelry, but we’re happy,” they say. “We don’t need those things anymore. Let’s build a house and grow our own food.” With this idealization of a return-to-basics lifestyle, Coma-chi imagines an alternative universe that values nature and relationships over the materialistic one that Japan’s focus on economic growth—the “American Dream”—had created. She lays out these universes in a “Northern” (i.e., United States) vs. “Southern” (i.e., tropical or global south) dichotomy. According to Coma-chi, the story shows the world returning to its origins, and as humankind began in Africa, she pictures Adama and his family turning from white- to dark-skinned at the end of her story. She chose the name “Adama,” which is the Hebrew word for “earth” and the source for the name “Adam” in the Bible, as another play on this theme of returning to origins (Coma-chi, interview, Tokyo, March 30, 2012). Her narrative reflects both an admiring idealization and an essentialist “Other” stereotype of Afro-Caribbean and African culture as “earthy,” “natural,” “warm,” and “real,” terms I have heard some Japanese reggae musicians and fans commonly use to describe these cultures.16 Her music also reflects her America-Africa dichotomy: the songs “Goodbye, American Dream” and “Taiyō no tō” (Tower of the Sun) are set to (American) jazz and blues, while “Endless Rhythm,” the soundtrack to Adama’s drumming, has the rhythmic textures of Trinidadian soca. Within this anti-materialistic story, Coma-chi embeds an antinuclear message. She explained that the Tower of the Sun is a metaphor for nuclear power: It seems to have the power of the sun, and it’s said to have all the powers of the world, but it doesn’t. It’s unnatural, a falsehood—just as we

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took for granted that nuclear power would solve all our problems. Adama has to call on nature’s sun, which is the real power. (Coma-chi, interview) Her model for the tower is Okamoto Tarō’s sculpture of the same name, built for the Japan World Exposition in Osaka in 1970 (figure 7.1). The exposition, titled “Progress and Peace for Mankind,” was intended as a celebration of Japan’s technological and economic advancement. It was also a showcase for nuclear power at its beginning: Electricity for the expo was provided by two nuclear power plants that had just begun operating that year, and the fateful Fukushima No. 1 Nuclear Power Plant started operations in November 1970.17 In contrast, Okamoto believed that the spirit of humankind was regressing as business and technology were progressing; at the time, the public was in an uproar over industrial pollution and associated health problems. He purposefully designed the tower as an absurd monstrosity (berabō), piercing through the roof of the tent that housed it, with the intention of shocking visitors out of complacency (Lockyear 2007).18 Another shock awaited visitors inside the tower, which housed an exhibit that included, among other things, photo-collages of the atomic bombing of Hiroshima and scenes of industrial pollution. Hence, the Tower of the Sun could be read as a symbol warning against blind faith in technological and economic progress. However, it is also

Figure 7.1  Okamoto Tarō, Tower of the Sun, at Expo Commemoration Park. Photo courtesy of Gregg Tavares.

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an index of the expo itself and, through this association, a symbol of Japan’s growing strength in technology and reliance on nuclear power at that time. In Coma-chi’s story, the Tower of the Sun takes on the former significance of mistaken hope. Okamoto’s tower has three faces: two in the front, representing the present and the future, and one in the back, representing the past. The tower in Coma-chi’s story also has front and back faces, but it is the back (past) face that bears an iconic resemblance to Okamoto’s face representing the present (figure 7.2). This ambiguous symbol, with its ties to nuclear power, is embedded within a larger anti-materialist allegory (Coma-chi, interview, 2012).

Figure 7.2  Coma-chi, Tower, The Boy Who Calls the Sun. Art by Tokio. Courtesy of Coma-chi.

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Metaphors In addition to being embedded into allegories, metaphors can take many forms:  extended metaphors over the course of a song, fleeting metaphors strung together, and musically expressed metaphors. An example of an extended metaphor is Saitō Kazuyoshi’s “Sakura rapusodii” (Cherry Blossom Rhapsody, 45 Stones, 2011) (web figure 7.4 ).19 This song describes a jammed highway, where “you go around and around, but you end up again at the same place,” yet no one heads for the exit. It serves as a metaphor for Japan’s nuclear policy, which never seems to change. He is told to “dig here and there,” only to realize that he is digging his own grave. The music supports this image of stationary traffic with its static harmonies, which stay stuck on A (I) for eight measures (0:34–0:56), then on E (V) for another eight (0:57–1:19), except for the G-D turn at the end of every fourth measure; the cyclical, repeating guitar riff (0:00–0:04ff, example 7.1) is also onomatopoeic of spinning wheels. Example 7.1  Saitō Kazuyoshi, guitar riff, “Sakura rapusodii,” 45 Stones.

Saitō’s lyrics also play on the various meanings attributed to the word “flowers.” The song appears to have been written in 2011 during spring, which is usually associated with cherry-blossom viewing; however, citizens had been discouraged from this celebration that year in “self-restraint” during a time of suffering. The words “the cherry blossoms are crying” could refer to the lack of viewers for the cherry blossoms, the general absence of merrymaking, or the famed cherry blossoms near Fukushima Daiichi that could no longer be visited. He also plays on standard Japanese expressions using sakura to reference current events: “cherry blossoms you can’t even see for three days,” analogizing the fleeting nature of these flowers with a rapidly changing world, and iwanu ga hana or “It’s better (literally, a flower) not to say anything.” In a nod to Baudelaire’s Les fleurs du mal, the first line of the chorus is “the flowers of evil are blooming.” Asian Kung-Fu Generation’s “A&Z” (Landmark, No. 4 Oricon ranking, 2012) also extends a metaphor over the course of a song through textual and musical means (web figure 7.5 ).20 The intended meaning of the title is “A to Z,” but Gotch changed the preposition to the Japanese to (“and”) because “the

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message was too heavy.”21 The song is in AA’B form, with a verse (A) followed by a pre-chorus-like quatrain in the same harmonic scheme (A’) and a contrasting chorus (B). In the verse (in F♯ minor, 0:21), the lyrics count off the entire Roman alphabet in threes, adding Japanese homonyms to account for some letters (e.g., eichi, “wisdom,” for H; eru, “get,” for L). The narrator finds that he has run out of letters and must return to ABC. This alphabet motif can be interpreted as a metaphor for circularity, which, in turn, is a metaphor for unchanging political policies (on energy and trade). In the second verse, Gotch suggests that political apathy is partly to blame for this lack of progress. He continues with the three-letter motif to voice his doubts about TPP trade negotiations and to comment on apathy: Can you go on living [literally, eating] without knowing about TPP?22 Are you better off just watching CPZ [a popular porn website]? The pre-chorus (0:57) extends the metaphor of circularity: Standing at the entry point of a maze, The sad dance of experimental mice. Standing in a maze without exit, [We] are going to keep dancing, so as not to stray. “A&Z,” Words and Music by Kiyoshi Ijichi and Massafumi Goto. Copyright © 2012 Sony Music Publishing (Japan) Inc. 22

Here, the circularity is redefined as entrapment, in this “maze without exit.” The “experimental mice” could be interpreted as a metaphor for the Japanese people; some residents of Fukushima have described themselves as “guinea pigs” for testing the effects of radiation, having been asked to wear Geiger counters without any explanations of the results.23 One wonders if the words odori tsuzukeru (“continue to dance”) are a substitution for odorasareteru (“being made to dance”), a Japanese expression for “being manipulated.” Hence, both the alphabet and the maze are metaphors for an exit-less entrapment. The harmonies, which are the same for both the verse and pre-chorus, tie these metaphors together; furthermore, the harmonies themselves are a metaphor for this entrapment, with both of these sections set on a circular bass motion (F♯m-D-E) prolonging the initial F♯ bass note. The chorus (1:18) tries to break out of this harmonic confinement. The tonal center moves to A major (via D), and the voice breaks into a falsetto that reaches C♯5, far higher than the A3 of the verse or C♯ 4 of the pre-chorus, as the lyrics call out to the “voice that penetrates through the blinds of the road.” However, this hopefulness is immediately negated by “the event that’s like The End” (1:32)— “the event” meaning 3.11, and “The End” meaning the end of the world. This

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negation is driven home sonically by Gotch’s pronouncing “road” (e-N-DO-O) as a homonym with “End” (E-n-do), and by his placing these words at the same initial points of the musical phrase. (Morae, the shortest prosodic units in Japanese equivalent to short syllables, are separated by “-,” and pitch accents are capitalized.) The next line of verse, “the atomic particles that slip through,” seems to be a reference to radiation. The end of the chorus dovetails with the beginning of the verse again on F♯ minor, suggesting that the breakout has failed. Hence, both Saitō Kazuyoshi’s “Sakura rapusodii” and Asian Kung-Fu Generation’s “A&Z” combine textual and musical metaphors to portray a trapped citizenry.

Metonyms Place names and associated objects can become powerful indexes of the nuclear issue, which the alternative rock band Quruli exploits in its chiastically named album Rutsubo no borutsu (Voltage of the Melting Pot, 2012, No. 5 Oricon ranking). The band emerged from the Rock Commune music club at Ritsumeikan University, from which the three founding members—Kishida Shigeru, Satō Masashi, and Mori Nobuyuki—graduated. From 1998 to 2013, the group released twenty-seven singles, ten original albums, and three compilation albums. They have a strong following: Their last seven original albums ranked in the top five in weekly sales on the Oricon charts. The band records under Speedstar Records, a sub-label of Victor Entertainment—the same label as Saitō Kazuyoshi. While the lineup and support members have changed frequently, Kishida and Satō have remained in the band, and Kishida is the primary songwriter. For the 2012 album, Fanfan, a female trumpeter, keyboard player, and vocalist, and Yoshida Shōnen, a guitarist and cellist, joined the band, giving the album a different feel from Quruli’s previous ones. Kishida began blogging frequently about nuclear power soon after 3.11.24 He quickly became suspicious of “things wriggling in the unseen darkness behind the pronuclear factions” (April 11, 2011). He was critical of the government’s response to the crisis, bemoaning its vagueness about evacuation zones, its raising of the annual radiation limit, and its insufficient explanation for the restart of the Ōi Nuclear Power Plant in July 2012. Above all, Kishida felt much sympathy for the people in the affected region: What do the people, the children of Fukushima—the people who evacuated and are now living at the site of a former school in Saitama, the people who ran shops of delicious dried fish on the road along the shore, but could no longer conduct business and were forced to close—what do they think of TEPCO, of Tokyo, of Japan? (June 11, 2011)

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This sympathy was deepened by the group’s firsthand contact with the affected region and its people. Quruli gave several concerts in earthquake- and tsunami-stricken cities, beginning as early as May 2011 in Miyagi prefecture. On June 26, 2011, Quruli gave an acoustic concert in Iwaki, Fukushima prefecture, where the group had filmed the music video for “Bara no hana” almost ten years earlier. Remaining in contact with the region, Kishida became acutely aware that many municipalities that were technically outside of the thirty-kilometer radius from Fukushima Daiichi, within which evacuation was recommended, were “suffering from the dread of radioactive substances” (June 15, 2012). As he blogged in September 28, 2011: Nursing volunteers from Minami-sōma, which sits right close [eighteen miles] to the Fukushima Daiichi Nuclear Plant, said that the town in which they were born and raised is the most miserable town in all Japan. There’s no place to work, no place to farm, little progress in restoring the town after tsunami damage, a deterioration of the public peace, the emergence of various new forms of discrimination. It’s difficult to make educational progress, raise children, or rely on anyone… . Without any improvement at all in these problems, they fear they are being consigned to oblivion, to continue on an uncertain path of deterioration… . In Minami-sōma, many people are second or third-degree victims of 3.11, including those among the people who helped us make badges and the giant fishing banner for our stage… . “ S O M A”:   A N O D E T O   T H E   R E G I O N

These feelings of sorrow and sympathy for the losses of Fukushima and Miyagi residents saturate “Sōma” (Rutsubo no borutsu, 2012), an ode to a beach town about thirty miles north of the damaged Fukushima Daiichi nuclear power plant (web figure 7.6a ). This proximity meant that it suffered from high doses of radiation on top of severe damage from the earthquake and tsunami of 3.11. Thirteen days into the crisis, Minami-sōma mayor Sakurai Katsunobu uploaded an impassioned plea for help and supplies on YouTube.25 Afterward, the area was in the news so often that many Japanese associate it with the nuclear accident and its consequences; the place names “Sōma” and “Minami-sōma” (literally, South Sōma) could be considered metonyms of the triple disaster. Kishida, who had visited the area with the band in the early 2000s and in August 2012, intended the song as a tribute not only for Sōma and Minami-sōma, but also for the communities nearby that had become no-go zones since the Fukushima Daiichi accident. He also said that he had written it for an acquaintance in the Sōma region.

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The sense of loss is presented at the outset, the narrator noting, “My memories already seem about to fade.”26 This tentativeness is underlined by the bass, which, after beginning the first and second verse on the fundamental of the tonic (G ♭ major), generally avoids this reassuring position in the song, particularly on strong beats. The verse follows an aa’bb’ structure, with each letter made up of a four-measure phrase. In aa’, the narrator conjures up a vision of the lost homeland, with its “blue skies, clouds here and there.” As he recalls “the voice of the sea, the sound of the waves whirling up high” in bb’ (­example 7.2), his voice leaps a major sixth to E ♭4 (on the italicized words), the highest melodic note thus far, in correspondence to the rising waves in the lyrics). The thinner timbre brought on by the change in register lends the voice a plaintiveness. In addition to the words, the instrumentation calls up images of the sea. Underpinning the voice is a pedal steel guitar, the timbre of which, in Japan, is historically associated with Hawaiian music and hence the sea; furthermore, some Japanese musicians associate the steel-guitar sound with the melancholy of wide-open space, which, in Japanese terms, can be the ocean (Kevin Fellezs, p.c., January 2014).27 This wide space is also evoked in the instrumental interlude by the trumpet, with high, long-held notes that seem to depict the never-ending blue skies. The cymbal rolls that sound like crashing waves are directly onomatopoeic, as are the large piano chords. The gently rising and falling bass lines of the first eight measures of each verse (0:24–0:48) are also evocative of the approaching and receding waves. The last verse returns to the theme of loss, where the narrator points out to his son the road that leads to the beach and his place of birth. The word yuku (“go,” m. 2 in example 7.3) is set on a diminished chord resolving to vi rather than I, as if to suggest the impossibility of returning to the way things were. The tone of Kishida’s voice, which sounds as if he is crying in the first two measures of example 7.3, adds to the emotionality of this passage. While many numbers on the nineteen-song album have been well received, “Sōma” appears to have gotten the most positive reactions, judging from online comments; frequent guest drummer Araki Yūko has also singled it out as her favorite. Several fans commented that the song effectively paints the landscape: “I’ve never been to Sōma, but hearing the song, I can picture its scenery” (@akanemrk, Twitter, September 19, 2012). The timbre of the trumpet was “powerful and tender at the same time, as if it’s reaching far into the distance of the blue skies” (@kineokun, Twitter, September 12, 2012), while Kishida’s voice projected feelings that “soaked up one’s heart” (@takuma8823, Twitter, September 19, 2012). Several listeners said the song made them cry: “Listening to ‘Sōma,’ sure enough, my tears started to fall. My nose was running too. I didn’t even notice until after the song was over, I was listening so intently”

Example 7.2  Quruli, “Soma” (2012), first verse, bb’, voice and bass (0:47–1:12). Courtesy of Bad News, Co.

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Example 7.3  Quruli, “Soma,” third verse, a’, voice and bass (2:48–2:59) (web figure 7.6b ). Courtesy of Bad News, Co.

@liberty2235, Twitter, November 5, 2012). Perhaps the most moving comments were from the area’s natives themselves: My parents’ home is in Minami-sōma. Both our home and grandmother were swept away. It’s very painful. But I’m happy that Quruli was able to create such a wonderful song for us. Next week, I’m going back to my home to visit the family grave. Thank you. (@rereremo, Twitter, September 12, 2012) By invoking the beauty of the landscape through words and music and communicating the sense of its loss, the song leads listeners to think about the personal costs of nuclear accidents without explicitly mentioning them. As one listener commented: Listening to “Sōma” not only conjures up the landscape, but it also makes me sad that this country’s government apparently does not have the will to protect its people. I want to protect this sort of peaceful scenery in Japan. (@ume3739, Twitter, September 19, 2012)

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This focus on an uncontroversial premise in post-3.11 Japan—that of honoring lost people and communities—makes the song easy to like, while at the same time it provokes thought on government policies. “C R A B , R E A C T O R , F U T U R E ”

Just as place names can evoke thoughts about events that took place there, well-known objects can conjure up thoughts about their places of origin. Such is the impact of the middle section of Quruli’s “Crab, Reactor, Future” (2012), perhaps the most explicitly antinuclear song on Rutsubo no borutsu. The song is in ABA form (table 7.1), with the B section having a different time signature, tempo, and chord progression from the A  sections. This dramatic change captures the listener’s attention, highlighting the change in tone of the text that follows. In section A, the text refers to the tundra around the Onkalo spent nuclear fuel repository, described later. The scenery shifts abruptly to Japan in section B, where the narrator takes on the role of an electric power-related official. Delivering English-language lyrics in a cynical tone, he informs the listener that he is “transmitting electricity for your poor guitars,” while he is enjoying gifts of Echizen crabs sent to him by a mayor bribing him to site a reactor in the town. The narrator’s delight is captured by Kishida’s exclamation on the word “crabs,” musically stressed by its placement on the downbeat, on a relatively long (dotted-quarter) and high (D4) note. Sound effects recall the Table 7.1  Quruli, form of “Crab, Reactor, Future.” Courtesy of Bad News, Co. Section

Time

Meter Tempo

A

0:14

4/4

♩=152

0:39 B

0:52

6/8

♩.=88

Chords

Lyrics

G: G-F/G

Maybe there’s a plastic paradise …

″

Atomu no yume mita taiyō

G: Em-C-G-D

1:03

″

I am transmitting electricity …

1:25

C—E

I’m waiting for the people …

1:48

E: A-E-BC ♯ m-A-A ♯o-B

It is not easy to tell …

G: G-F/G

Maybe there’s a plastic paradise …

C-D A

2:10

4/4

♩=152

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aerating bubbles of aquariums, in which live crabs would be kept at higher-end seafood restaurants. Echizen crabs are a famed specialty identified with Fukui prefecture. During the winter fishing season, tourists come, braving the cold, to dine on freshly caught crab. Reputed to be the best in the nation, the crabs bear tags on their right claws attesting to their authenticity, just as good wines trumpet their terroir on their labels. Fukui is also the prefecture hosting the highest concentration of nuclear reactors in Japan—fourteen along a distance of about forty miles along the north central coast.28 The crabs are hence metonymic of Fukui, which the song connects in turn to nuclear reactors, as per the song title. This crabs-for-reactors chain is musically reflected in the circular harmonic progression repeated in the first two lines of verse, Em (vi)–C (IV)–G (I)–D (V) (web figure 7.7 ). In the lines that follow, the narrator confirms this exchange: C (IV/G) E (VI ♯/G) I’m waiting for the people will [sic] forget about this C    E Then, finally my brain feels locked completely E Cmaj7 E For future, reactor, taste of crabs Cmaj7 E (=V/A) For future, reactor

(Courtesy of Bad News, Co.)

The first line of verse refers to the nuclear industry’s wish that the local and metropolitan protesters will grow tired of opposing the new plant or forget about it. In the following two lines, the official expresses his determination to build the reactor for the nation or the municipality’s future, in exchange for gifts of Echizen crabs. The harmonies mirror his immutable game plan, as the chord progression locks itself into alternations of C and E, like a musical metaphor for the crab-reactor exchange. In the lead-in back to the A section, the official crows, “It is not easy to tell, even for a crab expert,” suggesting that this gift is not his first and that he has made the rounds in Fukui and nearby prefectures. The text is a criticism of the prevalent custom of entertainment and incentives between local officials and the nuclear industry to ensure sites. It also makes it clear, however, that the locals also want the reactors to secure their economic future. In addition to the shifts in meter and harmonies, section B is set off by the fact that it is written completely in English.29 As Kishida admitted, “If I’d sung

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that message in Japanese, it might have become a comic song. Since I’d started by writing the lyrics in English, the point of view became mysterious, specific, and ironic.”30 Hence, the example illustrates the efficacy of using English to address controversial matters: Not only may it receive less scrutiny from record company and industrial oversight committees, but its distance from everyday Japanese communication allows for freer, more direct expression.

Chains of Metaphors and Metonyms “C R A B , R E A C T O R , F U T U R E ,” S E C T I O N   A

In the A section of “Crab, Reactor, Future,” Quruli employs a different tactic: stringing together a chain of metaphors and metonyms in a more abstract message that could be interpreted in a number of ways (web figure 7.8 ). The first couplet refers to a “disposing facility,” located in a “frozen world” in a temperature of “minus 10° C.” This facility seems descriptive of the Onkalo spent nuclear fuel repository in Eurajoki, Finland, where nuclear waste is to be buried some 500 meters into granite bedrock and kept for 100,000 years. A documentary about it—Into Eternity (dir. Michael Madsen, 2010)—had made the rounds in Japanese art cinemas in 2011 and 2012, and was still being shown in 2014. Thus Onkalo—the “disposing facility”—is a metonym for the problem of nuclear waste. The second couplet is as follows, presented as Kishida wrote it. I have added “/” to mark downbeats, “//” for the beginnings of four-bar musical phrases, and “_” for vocal rests on the downbeats. I show the translation of words within their measures, as well as the line of verse as a whole. //_アトムの/夢見た太陽/照らす 向日/葵の //_種持って /永久凍土から/飛び出せ/プルートゥ // of Atom /dreamed the sun /shine, /of sunflower //seeds carrying /from permafrost tundra /break out /Pluto The sun that dreamed of Atom shines on sunflowers. Carrying the seeds of those sunflowers, break out of the permafrost tundra, Pluto. (Courtesy of Bad News, Co.)

Each of these word groups has significance in nuclear discourse. “Atom” refers to the manga and anime character Tetsuwan Atomu (Astro Boy in North America), the boy-robot whose heart was a nuclear reactor; he could be representing the optimism of a nuclear-powered future. In the language of flowers, sunflowers signify brightness, radiance, and warmth, like the sun that they follow, but they can also mean false wealth. Sunflowers are also an international symbol for nuclear disarmament; atomic bomb survivors sprinkle their seeds

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at ceremonies at Los Alamos, and sunflowers surround the Atomic Café stage at Fuji Rock. Finally, sunflowers were thought to remove radioactive isotopes from the soil, causing people to plant them in Fukushima with the hope of decontaminating the land; the Ministry of Agriculture, Forestry and Fisheries reported that this practice is ineffective. 31 Pluto has several possible interpretations. Its spelling in Japanese suggests that it was meant to stand for Pluto, the powerful robot in Tetsuwan Atomu that fights the seven greatest robots in the world, including Astro Boy. Originally featured in two episodes of the first Tetsuwan Atomu television anime series (1963–1966), Pluto is the main character in a manga-series remake by Urasawa Naoki (2003–2009), in which he is shown to love flowers. Pluto’s name may refer to the god of the underworld or plutonium, as a link to Atom. Together, the references to Atom and Pluto could be interpreted as a comment on the prevalence of nuclear-friendly names in entertainment media.32 The music may support this view: Its texture (e.g., its syncopated guitar-strumming pattern, vocal harmonies, hand claps, cheesy organ) is reminiscent of pop music of the mid-1960s, when Astro Boy cartoons were at their peak popularity in Japan. Another character that Pluto recalls is Pluto-kun, JAEA’s public-relations character that personifies plutonium and whose image still greets visitors to Atom Plaza in Tsuruga, Fukui prefecture. In either of these cases, the couplet begins and ends with references to (nuclear-powered) cartoon characters, giving it some symmetry. Finally, Pluto also recalls plutonium itself (which is named after the dwarf planet) and will be among the substances buried at Onkalo (referred to as the “permafrost tundra”). While the second line of verse sounds like a lighthearted collection of nuclear references, it might express concern as to whether Onkalo could be absolutely secure, or whether plutonium could somehow “break out” of it. These multilayered references to nuclear power, waste, reprocessing, and Fukui prefecture set up the song for the middle section on crabs and reactors. “E V E RY BODY F E E L S T H E S A M E”

Similarly, names of people and places stand for events in the history of nuclear policy in “Everybody Feels the Same” (Quruli, Rutsubo no borutsu, 2012),33 which was released as a single and reached number ten on the Oricon weekly charts (web figure 7.9 ). In the second verse, Kishida speaks the following lines: KAKUEIが作った上越新幹線に乗って SPEEDIなタイムマシーンは新潟へ向かう 2012年の冬 悲しみは吹雪の向こうから Riding the Jōetsu Bullet Train that Kakuei built, the SPEEDI time machine heads toward Niigata. Winter, 2012. The sadness comes from the other side of the snowstorm.

342   Spaces of Protest

“Kakuei” refers to Tanaka Kakuei, the former prime minister who shifted energy policy decidedly from thermal to nuclear power from the 1970s onward. By referring to him by his given name rather than his very common family name, there is no mistaking his identity. By spelling it in Roman capital letters, Kishida leaves it open to reinterpretations by applying different characters; for example, another spelling of “kaku” is 核 (nuclear), which would turn his name (角栄) into “nuclear prosperity.” Tanaka was responsible for pushing through the Jōetsu Shinkansen (bullet train) from Tokyo to Niigata, his home prefecture; it is a metonym of his immense political power. Meanwhile, the music’s fast pace and driving rhythm seem to be metaphoric of the train. Riding on it, the narrator enters a mental time machine, thinking back on Tanaka’s deeds. Responding to the oil shock in 1974, Tanaka had pushed through the Dengen Sanpō, the three laws that set up the system of large subsidies for host towns of nuclear power plants. They laid the groundwork for the building of the giant Kashiwazaki-Kariwa Nuclear Power Plant near Tanaka’s hometown in Niigata prefecture. Some citizens saw the shinkansen itself (and the many construction jobs that came with it) as part of the compensation for the nuclear plant. Hence, Kakuei is an index and metonym for nuclear policy and the pork barrel that supports it. The mental time machine also allows the narrator to think back from winter 2012, when the song was written, to the aftermath of 3.11. SPEEDI refers not to the speedy shinkansen, but to the System for Prediction of Environment Emergency Dose Information. This system predicted where the radiation would spread following the Fukushima nuclear accident, but the data were not shared with the Japanese public until nearly two weeks after the accident. It indexes the bureaucracy’s lack of responsiveness to citizens. Meanwhile, he invokes the image of the snowbound mountains of Niigata prefecture to comment on the nuclear problem. “The other side of the snowstorm” refers to Fukushima, on the other side of the mountains from Niigata. In the “climb” section34 to the instrumental break the line “the whiteness of the snow that won’t melt until the future” appears. The snow appears to be a metaphor for plutonium, which is silvery white and has a half-life of 24,000 years; it may also be a reference to radioactive isotopes in general. The line prompts the listener to rethink the meaning of “snowstorm” in the previous line as the storm of radiation that blasted out of the exploding nuclear reactors at Fukushima Daiichi. Hence, in four compact lines, Quruli leads the listener to think about the pork barrel-laden history of nuclear power, as well as what happened after 3.11: the withholding of crucial information from the public, the long-lasting nature of radiation, and the tragedy of the triple disaster on the other side of the mountains. At the end of the song, Kishida cries out the names of the world’s most populous cities. He could be saying, “Everybody [everywhere] feels the same,” as in the song title, or calling attention to the demands that megacities

Recordings  343

place on resources and the environment. All of the mega-metropolises mentioned are in countries that have nuclear reactors. 35

Musical Quotations Short quotations of preexisting songs are another tactic that musicians use to imbue meaning. Playing at the No Nukes 2012 concert, Gotch identified “N2” (Asian Kung-Fu Generation [AKG], Landmark, 2012, No. 4 Oricon weekly) as standing for “No Nukes.” The “2” also refers to U2, for the song contains a variation of the introductory riff to “Vertigo” from their album How to Dismantle an Atomic Bomb (2004; example 7.4) (web figure 7.10a ). 36 AKG’s near-quote occurs in the instrumental bridge to the last chorus (2:19–2:32; example 7.5). It serves as a hint to the meaning of the song. Example 7.4  U2, “Vertigo,” introductory riff (web figure 7.10b

).

Example 7.5  Asian Kung-Fu Generation, “N2,” instrumental bridge (2:19) (web figure 7.11 ). Words and Music by Kiyoshi Ijichi and Massafumi Goto. Copyright © 2012 Sony Music Publishing ( Japan) Inc.  All Rights Administered by Sony/ATV Music Publishing LLC, 424 Church Street, Suite 1200, Nashville, TN 37219. International Copyright Secured, All Rights Reserved. Reprinted by Permission of Hal Leonard Corporation.

The song itself is based on a variation of AKG’s version of U2’s riff, simplified as single notes (rather than power chords) of D-E-A-B, with B substituting for G. Each note is repeated three, four, four, and five times respectively, and this repeated articulation of inertia seems reflective of the narrator’s irritation and restlessness (example 7.6). This motive is looped continuously throughout the song, except for the instrumental bridge shown above and the brief ending, which is a chromatic descent from A to F. Unlike “Vertigo,” which is in E mixolydian

344   Spaces of Protest

mode, “N2” is harmonically ambiguous: There are no strong cadences within the circular pattern, and the notes played by the solo guitar only add to the ambiguity. Example 7.6  Asian Kung-Fu Generation, “N2,” introduction, guitars (web figure 7.12 ). Words and Music by Kiyoshi Ijichi and Massafumi Goto. Copyright © 2012 Sony Music Publishing ( Japan) Inc.  All Rights Administered by Sony/ATV Music Publishing LLC, 424 Church Street, Suite 1200, Nashville, TN 37219. International Copyright Secured, All Rights Reserved. Reprinted by Permission of Hal Leonard Corporation.

Recordings  345

Upon this riff, Gotch sings a pentatonic melody that is centered primarily on G and secondarily on B, and spells out the E-minor triad when the guitar and bass are on E; hence, when the voice comes in, the tonic sounds like E minor (example 7.7). Nonetheless, the circular pattern feels static and the tonic uncertain. This ungrounded musical accompaniment is apt for the feelings of uncertainty, distrust, and entrapment expressed in the words. Example 7.7  Asian Kung-Fu Generation, “N2,” voice (web figure 7.13 ). Words and Music by Kiyoshi Ijichi and Massafumi Goto. Copyright © 2012 Sony Music Publishing ( Japan) Inc.  All Rights Administered by Sony/ATV Music Publishing LLC, 424 Church Street, Suite 1200, Nashville, TN 37219. International Copyright Secured All Rights Reserved. Reprinted by Permission of Hal Leonard Corporation.

The lyrics can be translated as follows: Verse 1 Behind the wall deep inside, Don’t put your trust. With urgency, search and doubt. Words without substance, As if in a dream, they call out, “It’s safe.” Rain falling.

346   Spaces of Protest

Verse 2 Behind the wall deep inside, Don’t put your trust. With urgency, search and doubt. The crematorium of capitalism, As if in a spell, they say, “Not to worry.” Chorus [It’s a] delusion. Climb down, get off. Doubt, Homes, the locality, health, A high-interest prison. So we pray for good fortune. Let’s stop it. Climb down, get off. Doubt, Homes, the locality, health, If it will last forever, Our regrets will accumulate. “N2,” Words and Music by Kiyoshi Ijichi and Massafumi Goto. Copyright © 2012 Sony Music Publishing (Japan) Inc. 37

The first few lines of verse take advantage of conventional Japanese metaphors. Hei (wall) and oku (inside) evoke an image of exclusion, an enclosure hiding an inner circle—a metaphor for Japan’s oligarchical rule. The third line, ya no youni, is a Japanese expression that connotes “with urgency” but literally means “like an arrow,” conjuring up an image not only of speed but perhaps also of aim. That aim is applied to “search,” which, in the Japanese transliteration saachi, usually means searching on the internet. This line is a reminder that, while the mainstream media, particularly television, has stuck to official views, the internet has reflected information and opinions from many angles. Gotch describes these official statements as “words without substance,” using the common metaphor hone nuki (literally, deboned). Hence he urges people not to put their trust in official announcements and to search for their own information. The subject matter is made clear by quoting what TEPCO and government officials repeatedly said after the accident: “It’s safe,” “Not to worry.” Gotch points out their disconnect from reality, likening their view to a “dream,” “spell,” and “delusion.” “Falling rain” is a metonym for radiation, whose levels rise after rainfall; the phrase “if it will last forever, regrets will accumulate” is also a likely reference to radiation and the harm it inflicts. He also notes the things made vulnerable by the nuclear accident: homes, localities, and health.

Recordings  347

Hence, in “N2,” the musical quotation is developed into the basis for the entire song; the lyrics, composed of metaphorical expressions and metonyms of the accident, match the meaning behind the quotation. Saitō’s “Sakura rapusodii” contains a large-scale near-quotation: The song’s key, static tonic chord, reverbed-guitar texture, and sliding vocal delivery are reminiscent of the Verve’s “Gravity Grave” (1992), with which it shares the textual themes of graves and spinning around aimlessly. At the beginning of its coda (3:23), Saitō mimics the spirit and timing of the Beatles’ exasperated good mornings from “Good Morning Good Morning” (Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band, 1967)38 to question the veracity of the morning news. Declaring that “Official statements contain nothing but lies,” he uses the word Daihon’ei [happyō]—a term that originally stood for announcements from the Imperial Headquarters Office during the Pacific War. As Japan’s military losses accumulated, these announcements strayed increasingly further from the truth, to the extent that defeats were reported as victories. Today, the word stands for a completely unreliable announcement. Its use here not only refers to biased media coverage of the nuclear issue but also compares it to a particularly dark period in Japanese history that was associated with severe limits on speech and thought. Quruli’s “Glory Days” (Rutsubo no borutsu, 2012) uses quotations in a more sentimental manner (web figure 7.14 ). The lyrics note that nothing stays the same and encourage listeners to accept change. At the end of the song, Kishida bids listeners to “dry your tears and move forward.” In keeping with this theme, the song quotes several early hits by the group. The promotional video was made in Iwaki, Fukushima prefecture, on the same beach where the group had filmed the video for “Bara no hana” (Rose Flower) twelve years earlier; in a nod to this video, each group member is shown holding a single rose in his or her hand. In the outro (5:07), Kishida sings couplets from the group’s early hits “Bara no hana,” “Rock and Roll,” and “Tokyo” (web figure 7.15 ); while the melodies and words are the same as before, they sound transformed, as they are sung over the unchanging chord progression of “Glory Days.” The idea of distance is compounded by the heavy reverb applied to Kishida’s voice, making it sound far away and blurred. The effect is like that of reminiscence themes in operas or musicals, where the recurring theme of a character or idea invokes different feelings as the plot progresses. Several fans have remarked that these reprises remind them of their own lives at the time the songs were released and make them reflect on how their own situations have changed.

Obfuscation Recording artists also mispronounce Japanese words so that they are misheard as other words. One method is to misplace pitch accents so that they sound like

348   Spaces of Protest

another word. The Japanese language consists of pitch (rather than stress) accents, where the pitch is higher either in the first mora (short syllable) or the second. There is only one pitch change in the word (i.e., for a four-morae word, the pattern is either HLLL, where H is a high pitch and L is a low pitch, or LHHH, LHLL, or LHHL).39 Many Japanese songwriters observe pitch accents (to some degree) by setting pitch-accented morae (or the morae on the boundaries between low and high pitches) on relatively higher pitches, or alternatively, metrically accented longer notes. If pitch accents are ignored, it is easy for listeners to mishear the text, as the Japanese language is full of homonyms (Manabe 2009b). “Shangri-la,” the final song of hope on Acid Black Cherry’s 2012, takes advantage of homonyms (web figure 7.16 ). At the end of the chorus, he sings: Kiseki no kaze ga fuku shima e [1]‌ To the island where the miracle wind blows The phrase “fuku shima” (the island [where the wind blows]) can easily be misheard as its homonym “Fukushima” (the prefecture); hence the phrase sounds like: [2] The miracle wind heads toward Fukushima. Fans have picked up on this wordplay, noting on blogs that the song must have been meant as an ouen (encouragement) song for northeastern Japan. Avex staff confirmed to me that Yasu had intended it to be heard as “Fukushima.” Indeed, the names of two other tsunami-hit northeastern prefectures are also embedded in the lyrics: “Miyagi” in the phrase “awaremi ya gizen” (pity and hypocrisy), and “Iwate” in “ai wa te ni” (love in one’s hand). The text setting makes it easier to hear these alternative readings. Example 7.8 shows the pitch-accent patterns of these three embedded place names against the melody, with the pitch-accented morae shown in capital letters. Because the B in the penultimate measure is accented by length and its position as an anticipated downbeat, it is easier to hear the prefecture names “MI-ya-gi” and “I-wa-te” than the original meanings. Another tactic is to contract words, either by pronouncing compound vowels normally pronounced as two morae (e.g., e-i, o-u, a-u) as one syllable, or cutting out the final morae so that they sound like English words. Such techniques are part of Gotch’s performance in “N2,” which adds another layer of meaning to the words. He pronounces the word “he-I” (塀, wall) as one syllable, such that the accent incorrectly sounds to be on the first mora; this pronunciation makes it sound like “HE-i” (弊, evil custom) or the English interjection “hey.”

Recordings  349

Example 7.8  Acid Black Cherry, “Shangri-la,” vocal melody, fragment.

Gotch also contracts the three-morae “KO-u-u” (rain falling) into a single syllable, making it sound similar to the preceding “KO-o-ru” (call) and obscuring its subversive message (radiation). The repeated two-morae word “i-E” (home) sounds like “yeah, yeah.” Furthermore, the words GEN-chi (現地, locality) and ka-RA-DA (身体, body) are set rhythmically so that “gen” and “chi” in “genchi” are separated, while “chikara” is put together (example 7.9): Example 7.9  Asian Kung-Fu Generation, “N2,” perceived settings (1:12). Words and Music by Kiyoshi Ijichi and Massafumi Goto. Copyright © 2012 Sony Music Publishing ( Japan) Inc.  All Rights Administered by Sony/ATV Music Publishing LLC, 424 Church Street, Suite 1200, Nashville, TN 37219. International Copyright Secured All Rights Reserved. Reprinted by Permission of Hal Leonard Corporation.

350   Spaces of Protest

While the written lyrics are the only sensible interpretation, this rhythmic isolation of “gen” from “chi” in “genchi” can lead one to mishear “chikara” as a separate word meaning “power” (力). Meanwhile, “GEN” in isolation could be the first character for “nuclear” (原). The singer’s deliberate timing of these words to disaggregate the morae from their words leads to ambiguity in hearing. Returning to the written lyrics, one’s health (“body”) and hometown (“locality”) are both things that are damaged by radiation; both these words and their mishearing (“nuclear,” “power”) resonate with the following line, “high-interest prison,” which refers to the burdens of nuclear power. As quoted previously, Gotch purposefully writes lyrics that are hard to understand. He has also said that he “choose[s]‌words to fit the sound of the song” (emphasis mine),40 and the choice of words that sound like English interjections would be in keeping with this approach. The muffled timbre of the voice in the production further obscures the words. Hence, Gotch’s performance plays on these potential ambiguities in the sounds of the words to obscure their meanings.

Conclusion In a recording industry that censors itself and does not allow the sale of explicitly political material, artists have found a number of ways to express themselves. They may build albums around allegorical stories, base their songs on a single metaphor or metonym, string multiple references together in a chain, or play with homonyms of words. These metaphors and metonyms run the gamut from conventional (e.g., mazes and prisons as metaphors for entrapment, or falling rain for radiation) to unconventional (e.g., alphabets as a metaphor for constraint, or Echizen crabs as a metonym for the nuclear village’s incentives). These textual metaphors and metonyms are accompanied by music and sounds that invoke appropriate imagery, such as Quruli’s musical depiction of the wide-open sea in “Sōma.” In some cases, the music itself is a metaphor that fits under Johnson’s image schemas of containment, paths, and cycles. Many of the songs have themes of entrapment and, accordingly, the harmonic progressions are circular (e.g., “A&Z,” “N2,” “Crab, Reactor, Future”) or largely static (“Sakura rapusodii”). Escape is signaled by modulations and changes in vocal register (“A&Z”), while a change in scene is suggested by alterations in tempo, meter, and harmonic progression (“Crab, Reactor, Future”). The messages of the text, storyline, and music combine to invoke feelings of anger and sadness about the nuclear crisis, sympathy for its victims, and solidarity among like-minded fans, who share their reactions on social media.

Recordings  351

The techniques outlined have also been observed in political songs from other countries. Allegories and metaphorical texts are common in countries under dictatorial regimes, such as Argentina during the Dirty War of the 1970s to 1980s (Favoretto 2010) and Brazil from the 1960s to 1980s (Perrone 1989). Furthermore, the musical metaphors the Japanese musicians have used are also found in political music elsewhere. For example, the Cuban singer-songwriter Silvio Rodríguez, who employs an extensive harmonic vocabulary, tends to use cycles of double-plagal cadences41 and circular melodies to depict frustrating, never-ending situations, much like Asian Kung-Fu Generation and Quruli use circular progressions for themes of entrapment. In “Sueño con serpientes” (1974), Rodríguez recounts a dream where he kills one serpent, only to have a larger serpent appear. In “Reino de todavía” (1994), where he uses the same harmonic scheme, he describes a Cuban nation in a constant struggle to maintain control over its fate. Like Quruli, Rodríguez also uses shifts in rhythm or harmonic progressions to signal a change in speaker or stance, as he does in “Ese hombre” or “Debo partirme en dos” (1969). As with Gotch in “A&Z,” Rodríguez uses vocal leaps to signal optimism or escape, as he does in “Al final de este viaje” (1970); both cases are examples of the vertical image schema, where “up” is positive and on a higher pitch (Manabe 2006b). Hence, the kind of musical image schema that several theorists have proposed can be observed in popular songs (in Euro-American idiom) of different cultures, and they may shed light on the meanings behind political or metaphorical lyrics.

CH A P T ER 

8

Conclusion PROTESTING UNDER (A ND AGA INST) CONSTR A INTS

Musicians under Constraints Despite the romantic notion of musicians speaking truth to power, commercial or societal pressures often restrict musicians in what they can express. This book has analyzed the constraints that they work under—the structure of the media industry and the hegemonic properties of their performance spaces— and considered the ways in which musicians address political issues in those spaces, sometimes reconstructing them in the process. First, musicians are perhaps more affected by the flows of money in the media industry than by the rules governing record companies per se. As musicians are given the widest exposure through television, they must be sensitive to network sponsors, which include the corporations that advertise as well as the advertising agencies that arrange and benefit from this advertising. Musicians are not as vulnerable to industry pressure as television actors, because they also derive revenue from sales of recordings and concert tickets, which are ultimately paid for by individual fans. Nonetheless, they are still affected, as media conglomerates own or exert economic influence over artist agencies, record companies, concert promotion, and distribution. Furthermore, as record sales have declined, musicians are more financially dependent on appearances (including those in advertisements) than they have been before. Most Japanese musicians work within the constraints that the media industry imposes. They submit to the rules of the Recorin, record companies, and agencies by redacting political lyrics, not writing political songs, or not saying anything political at all. The few that do write political songs do so in allegorical or metaphorical terms, avoiding words like “nuclear power,” or 352

Conclusion  353

they couch their songs in vague language that could easily be interpreted to be about everyday life. Some feel freer to make political commentary in live performances, where direct censorship is not possible. Nonetheless, pressure from their managers or an unreceptive atmosphere can intimidate them from speaking out. The uproar over Kuwata Keisuke’s performance on New Year’s Eve, 2014, is a stark reminder of the consequences of political commentary. As one of the most popular and influential entertainers in Japan and the leader of the popular rock band Southern All-Stars, Kuwata might have been considered above industry castigation. However, in a live show—broadcast as part of the Kōhaku Uta Gassen, the annual NHK variety program on New Year’s Eve and one of Japan’s most widely watched programs—he appeared sporting a fake mustache that resembled Hitler’s. Such makeup could easily be interpreted as mocking Abe, given that protest iconography commonly features pictures of Abe with a Hitler moustache. Kuwata sang “Peace and Highlight,” a song widely seen as advocating for a reckoning with history and peaceful coexistence with other Asian ethnicities; meanwhile, the disputed Senkaku/ Diaoyu Islands were projected on the screen behind him. He also took his Purple Ribbon Medal, which the emperor had conferred on him, out of his pants pocket—a gesture that was seen as highly disrespectful. Following an uproar on the internet, criticism in the media, and a protest in front of his agency, Kuwata apologized on his radio show.1 This incident is a cautionary tale for other musicians who might otherwise follow his path to political commentary. To alleviate such pressures, musicians have asserted themselves as individual citizens. Under this guise, Sakamoto Ryūichi, Gotō Masafumi, and many others have participated in demonstrations. They have also turned to their own SNS accounts and blogs, written informational websites (Shing02), edited their own newspapers (Gotō), and formed their own NPOs (Ko). They have recorded outside their mainstream labels, as in Zeebra’s going outside Sony to participate in King Giddra’s “Apocalypse Now” and DJ Honda’s “Don’t Believe the Hype.” Musicians contracted by major labels usually limit their performances to recordings officially produced by their record companies or well-produced concerts and festivals, and they typically don’t perform in street demonstrations or in unofficially produced recordings in cyberspace. Nevertheless, they have sometimes broken out of their usual spaces for political reasons: Saitō Kazuyoshi’s home video of “It Was Always a Lie” was released on YouTube to become the best-known song of the antinuclear movement; the Ese Timers have performed antinuclear and antiwar songs at antinuclear rallies. But in both cases, they were (nominally) in disguise: Saitō attempted to hide himself behind sunglasses, while the Ese Timers, though well known,

354   Conclusion

performed as alter egos. Pseudonymity has also served as a cloaking device for musicians like Scha Dara Parr to release antinuclear songs in cyberspace. Independent musicians, who are under fewer restrictions than major-label artists, play in all four spaces of cyberspace, demonstrations, festivals, and recordings. In distinction from major-label artists, they do perform in demonstrations, helping to attract attention and participants. They are freer to release material on Soundcloud, YouTube, or other internet venues. Although they do not have the mass-market visibility of major-label artists, they usually play a bigger role in the day-to-day activities of the antinuclear movement. Avocational musicians also play in the uncompensated spaces of demonstrations and cyberspace, and like independent musicians, they fill essential roles. Many protesters credit the constant beats of the drum corps for keeping them marching on a hot day or chanting in long protests.

Working within and without the Space Musicians and activists must also work with the constraints that surround the spaces of performance. Japanese demonstrations in particular are circumscribed:  The lack of large public spaces inhibits protests, and the rules and directives imposed by the police reduce their visibility (e.g., limiting demonstrators to one lane of a street or breaking up a mass of protesters into smaller, separated groups, etc.). Within these constraints, musicians and activists seek to disrupt everyday life through loud sounds that penetrate inside the walls of buildings or move down and around the street, beyond the field of vision. They also engage in eye-catching performances with colorful costumes, unusual props (like a moving stage or steel drums that look like nuclear waste containers), and danceable tracks. They take possession of space in front of TEPCO, the prime minister’s residence, nuclear power plants, and the Diet. In the summer of 2012, protesters occupied the entire government district of Kasumigaseki as 200,000 of them repeated: “We don’t need nuclear power.” Demonstrations are relatively frequent events, with many cities continuing to host (as of March 2015) weekly antinuclear demonstrations in front of key public buildings, and MCAN holding large demonstrations about once every three months. As such, they are worlds of their own, with recurring practices (e.g., the weekly demonstrations in Tokyo have a family area with musical performances, a makeshift café, and a Kiyoshirō tribute; protesters listen to speeches, shout Sprechchor, and find spaces where they feel most comfortable). Similarly, street demonstrations have congealed into a block format, with separate blocks for sound trucks, drummers, families, and union members. Festivals, on the other hand, are under the temporal constraints of once-a-year events; the particulars of the festival space, which is often

Conclusion  355

far from metropolitan centers, engender a sense of a separate, special space. Organizers shape this space to guide the experiences of audience members, and they can do so in ways that suggest different modes of thought or encourage political engagement. In the No Nukes concerts, the concert hall became a presentational teaching space, while the rest area, with its NGO booths, was a discussion space. At Fuji Rock, the natural beauty of the mountain valley provided the backdrop for audience members to think about the environment and nuclear power. At the Project Fukushima Festival, Tokyoites experienced Fukushima and its everyday difficulties for themselves. The surrounding community places constraints on the organizers; Project Fukushima refrained from asserting an antinuclear statement and worked to engage the community. Organizers also conceive of the space in districts that carry different vibes and functions, together with a conceived flow of participants. Fuji Rock created the Atomic Café stage in a deliberate attempt to stimulate debate. The organizers put this stage and the NGO booths on the way to the alternative stages, away from the mainstream ones, tucked into a rest area on a forested hill; for this writer, the area had a more relaxed feel than the other stages, making it conducive to conversation. Cyberspace has redefined the geographical and temporal limits of these spaces. When television stations repeatedly failed to broadcast antinuclear protests, citizens took it upon themselves to twitcast them in real time or upload videos and photos of them, creating an extensive archive. Cyberspace greatly expanded the reach of these protests, allowing people to participate in them from other places and observe them at another time in playback. Similarly, the No Nukes concerts and Project Fukushima were webcast live, allowing people who couldn’t attend to experience the festivals. On the other hand, because of cyberspace, festivals are no longer the separate environments they once were; through Twitter, people outside of the festival site have a view into the events and performances and can criticize or attack artists, audience members, or the festival itself. The simultaneity of cyberspace makes festivals a less safe space for artists to voice controversial opinions or for audience members to try out new identities. Although anonymity in cyberspace allows citizens to be more open about their political views, the disembodied nature of cyberspace also causes people to behave in a more brutal manner toward others. Seeing vicious attacks in cyberspace or simply sensing that others are no longer commenting on the nuclear debate because of such attacks could force people into silence. Some citizens have already removed the videos and comments they made at the peak of the antinuclear movement in 2012, erasing parts of the archive. As for the messages conveyed in music, the majority of songs in the antinuclear movement have been in the diagnostic frame—a tendency particularly true for prerecorded music in cyberspace and on records. Compared with

356   Conclusion

these repository spaces, live-performance spaces like demonstrations and festivals provide more opportunities for music in a motivational frame—a natural tendency, as many audience members are participating in some fashion. Music performed at such gatherings can take on motivational overtones that did not originally exist in the music, as in chants of “Saikadō hantai” (We oppose restarting nuclear power plants) that sometimes accompany Jintaramūta and Likkle Mai’s renditions of “The Right to Live in Peace.” The luxury of time at concerts, festivals, and rallies allows musicians to take a prognostic frame, presenting counterarguments to pronuclear ones or proposals for broader use of renewable energy. Such arguments can be given in the form of the NGO booths and informational videos of the No Nukes concerts, or in the humorous skits of Monju-kun at Fuji Rock. Concerts and festivals are good spaces for such parodic and ironic performances, as the face-to-face nature of live performance reduces the potential for misinterpretation.

Participation across Multiple Spaces Social movements need to get people to participate actively so that they feel invested in the movement and unified with fellow protesters. Music is an effective inducement to participation, as it both attracts people to events and involves people in activity. In live events like demonstrations and concerts, audience members react in real time to the music, dancing and clapping with everyone else; at Project Fukushima or in street demonstrations, they may also participate directly in the music-making. Some festivals like Project Fukushima involve audience members in running their operations. In demonstrations or festivals, simply being present with a large crowd can make one feel that one is participating. The moment of participation in a live event is fleeting and needs to be recreated, but the memory of unity can stay with participants for a long time. In contrast, participation in a recording is a step removed from the original object. Protesters may sing along to a recording, produce cover versions or remixes of a song, or comment on them on Twitter. Even though these interactions do not coincide with the original, commentators with similar opinions or remixers of the same song can feel an affective affinity with others. The playing of music in multiple spaces, particularly cyberspace, stimulates and reinforces musical participation. Protesters familiarized themselves with “It Was Always a Lie” and “You Can’t See It, You Can’t Smell It Either” on YouTube and sang along during demonstrations. Similarly, protesters memorized a drum pattern by watching it on YouTube and played it at a subsequent protest. A fragment of “Meltdown Blues,” played in a rural protest, became the

Conclusion  357

theme song of demonstrations in Tokyo. Fans became familiar with an antinuclear song at a concert, bought the CD, and absorbed it more fully at home by reading the lyrics and listening repeatedly to it.

Time and the Flow of Protest Music Protest music changes with the stage of the movement, including the spaces in which it is performed. As with recent movements worldwide, cyberspace was the earliest venue for antinuclear music after Fukushima Daiichi, with “It Was Always a Lie” becoming a virtual hit that was then picked up in demonstrations. These initial songs in cyberspace were directly worded gut reactions, quickly put together by setting new lyrics to an existing song or remixing an existing track. Commercial recordings that were antinuclear, like Saitō’s 45 Stones, Asian Kung-Fu Generation’s “N2,” and Quruli’s Rutsubo no borutsu, came in the second period (October 2011–December 2012) or later, more than six months after 3.11. 2 This time lag was necessary to compose original songs, record them for commercial release, and inspect them, let alone gauge what the public reaction would be. For similar reasons, large antinuclear festivals took some time to be organized. As Atomic Café was enveloped within a larger festival, and the Project Fukushima Festival of August 2011 was not pitched as an antinuclear festival, it was more than a year after the disaster before the first large-scale antinuclear festival—No Nukes 2012—took place. Given this delay in antinuclear commercial recordings and large festivals, major-label artists were more active in the antinuclear movement from the second period onward. The framing also shifted slightly over time: Although antinuclear songs were almost exclusively in diagnostic frames in the first six months, more songs in prognostic and motivational frames came out in the second stage as the focus shifted toward increasing participation. The kinds of participation also changed over time. Music in demonstrations shifted from primarily presentational performances to more participatory ones with time, in line with a shift in focus to increasing participation in the movement. Furthermore, musical performances showed continuities with previous practices. The sound demonstrations of 2003 drew on preexisting practices, in Japan and in the West, of sound trucks in LGBT parades, Reclaim-the-Streets tactics, and radical marching bands. The antinuclear demonstrations of 2011 onward continued these practices, with sound trucks, a carnivalesque air, and drum groups espousing open membership. The changes to performance practice were incremental—a shift from techno to rap, and from presentational to participatory performance.

358   Conclusion

Impact of the Antinuclear Movement on Protest Music The practices developed in the Japanese antinuclear movement carried over into subsequent movements and evolved, establishing themselves as part of protest culture. From late 2013 onward, many residents demonstrated against the Abe administration’s policies, in particular the Secrecy Law, the reinterpretation of the Constitution to allow Japan’s military forces to defend its allies (called collective self-defense), and the Security Bills that enable the deployment of forces even if Japan itself is not under attack. Following Charles Tilly’s theory, the performances in these protests changed incrementally from antinuclear sound demonstrations of 2011 and 2012. The anti-Abe movement borrowed the symbols, slogans, T-shirt logos, banners, lyrics, and songs from previous movements. For example, the “Public Enemy” protest placard, which showed the TEPCO logo in crosshairs in its antinuclear incarnation, sported a photo of Abe in crosshairs in these protests. Several banners and placards were holdovers from the 2001–2003 antiwar protests. The placard, “Give Peace a Chance,” referenced the antiwar song by John Lennon and Yoko Ono and recalled the theme song of the Chance! antiwar protests of 2001, while the “Korosuna” banners recalled both the Beheiren antiwar logo and Illcommonz’s antiwar protest group in 2003 that adopted it (­chapter 5.2). Such references to past movements not only kept their spirit alive but also implied similarities between historical and current problems. A significant change between the antinuclear protests of 2011–2012 and the anti-Abe protests of 2013 onward was the participation of university and high school students. Students had long been politically disengaged due to fears that protesting would affect them negatively in the job market. Their increased involvement in the anti-Abe demonstrations reflected their fear that a more aggressive military would directly affect youths like them. In addition, protesters were outraged over Abe’s disregard of public opinion, which opposed not only nuclear power but also the Secrecy Law, collective self-defense, and the Security Bills. The most visible student group was the Students Against the Secrets Protection Law (SASPL), a network formed in late 2013 out of study sessions held at Meiji Gakuin University, International Christian University, and other universities shortly before the passing of the Secrecy Law. The group held its first demonstration on February 1, 2014, in Shinjuku. Sporting a sound truck with hip-hop beats and several college-age rappers, it attracted about 500 student protesters and drew the attention of the Asahi, Mainichi, Tokyo, and other newspapers. The group held a second demonstration on May 3, attracting a similar number of people as well as newspaper and overseas media coverage.

Conclusion  359

When the Abe cabinet was about to pass a reinterpretation of the Constitution to allow collective self-defense, SASPL teamed with Tokyo Democracy Crew (composed of former members of MCAN and Noma’s anti-racist group CRAC) and the youth-oriented group Civitas to organize a protest in front of the prime minister’s residence and the Diet Building. An estimated 40,000 protesters gathered on June 30, and 60,000 protested the following day3 The groups coordinated again to organize the Bulldozer demonstration in Shibuya on August 2, 2014. SASPL’s performance in demonstrations owed much to the format i Zoom i Rockers had pioneered in 2012 (­chapter  5.3). Like their predecessors, the SASPL sound truck (figure 8.1, web figure 8.1 ) featured pairs of rappers trading short call-and-response patterns with protesters in participatory style, to the beat of music ranging from Curtis Mayfield to Utada Hikaru. Several of their Sprechchor were one-word alterations from antinuclear Sprechchor (Table 8.1). For example, instead of “Genpatsu iranai” (We don’t need nuclear power), SASPL rapped, “Fashisuto iranai” (We don’t need fascists), and “Kenpō mamore” (Protect the Constitution) became more common than “Kodomo o mamore” (Protect the children).

Figure 8.1  SASPL sound car, Bulldozer demonstration against Abe’s policies, Shibuya, August 2, 2014. Photo by author.

360   Conclusion

Table 8.1  Similarities between antinuclear and anti-Abe Sprechchor Antinuclear

Anti-Abe

Genpatsu iranai

Fashisuto iranai

We don’t need nuclear power

We don’t need Fascists

Noda wa yamero

Abe wa yamero

Noda, resign

Abe, resign

Genpatsu yamero

Dokusai yamero

Stop nuclear power

Stop the autocracy

Kodomo o mamore, inochi o mamore

Kenpō mamore, inochi o mamore

Protect our children, protect life

Protect our Constitution, protect life

I say “Genpatsu,” you say “yamero.” Genpatsu (yamero), genpatsu (yamero)

I say “Abe,”you say “yamero.” Abe (yamero), Abe (yamero).

I say “nuclear power,” you say, “quit.” Nuclear power (quit).

I say “Abe,” you say “quit.” Abe (quit), Abe (quit).

Yūkoto kikaseru ban da oretachi ga

Yūkoto kikaseru ban da kokumin ga

It’s our turn to make them listen to us

It’s the people’s turn to make them listen to us

The rap performance style also differed. In antinuclear demonstrations, rappers tended to deliver Sprechchor on-beat, even if they syncopated their freestyles or improvisations traded with other rappers. This tendency was likely due to the origin of Sprechchor rapping in antinuclear protests:  They grew out of rappers Akuryō, ECD, ATS and others’ regular participation in TwitNoNukes, in which Sprechchor were shouted to steady drum beats. These Sprechchor thus retained a martial cadence, with a continuous flow of morae emphasizing the first and third beats of a 4/4 measure. On the other hand, SASPL’s Sprechchor-raps had no such history; their cadences had the loose, syncopated rhythms characteristic of hip-hop and much of African-diasporic musics. As shown in Example 8.1, most of their rapped Sprechchor contained an abundance of rests, breaking up morae and making the flow of morae discontinuous and irregular. For example, space was created in the placements of “Tokutei himitsu hogo hō hantai” (m. 1, beat 3) and “get up, stand up” (m. 17–18). Strong beats were left empty, e.g., on the downbeat (“Minshushugi tte nanda,” m.  9)  and third beat (“Don’t give up the fight,” m. 19). Downbeats were also elided (“Shūdan teki jieiken wa iranai,” m. 6; “This is what democracy looks like,” m. 14). Ushida also

Conclusion  361

Example 8.1  SASPL’s rapped Sprechchor.

swung his delivery so that the words were in triplet rhythm (e.g., mm. 1–2), a characteristic also seen in the flow of many African-American rappers. Even the calls they shared with the drum corps swung because of their faster tempos and occasionally triplet responses (mm. 21–22). This looser flow gave the Sprechchor a more danceable rhythm, enhancing the cool

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Example 8.1 (Continued)

image that SASPL wanted to project to attract greater student participation (Manabe 2014b).4 Indeed, SASPL’s aura of coolness came not only from its musical choices but also its eye-catching posters and videos, often featuring their female membership. These women frequently took the microphone in SASPL’s protests, giving impassioned speeches about the need for political involvement. Their presence helped to dispel the image of politics as the bastion of unattractive and unfashionable extremists. Reorganized in 2015 as Students Emergency Action for Liberal Democracy (SEALDs) with regional branches, the student activists led demonstrations against the Security Bills. Continuing the tradition established by the antinuclear movement, they organized weekly demonstrations in front of the Diet Building. As the Security Bill headed toward passage, the number of protesters swelled to 100,000 on July 15, 2015, and 70,000 on July 24. They continued to call out the same Sprechchor, with some variations, to cool dance beats. Attending the July 24 protest, I  was struck by how deafeningly loud the protesters’ responses had become. Demonstrators had come a long way from the silent marching and hesitancy to voice Sprechchor that I saw back in early 2012. I witnessed this phenomenon again at a demonstration in Shibuya organized by the high-schoolers’ group T-ns Sowl on August 2. Teenage boys and girls in school uniforms stood on top of a truck, trading SEALDs’s calls (and a few of their own) with thousands of uniform-clad youths to Daft Punk’s “Get Lucky” and “One More Time.” Again, the calls were enthusiastic and

Conclusion  363

deafening. This practice of rapping Sprechchor to beats in an improvised and participatory manner, as developed in the antinuclear movement, had become an established cultural practice. It not only made it easier for people to voice their opinions: It had become cool, engaging previously apolitical youth. Music stars have also continued to engage in politics through referencing past practices. The Ese Timers are a homage and tribute to the original Timers, in whose guise Imawano Kiyoshirō sang antinuclear songs and songs critical of the government (­chapter 3). The Ese Timers play covers of “Imagine,” “Summertime Blues,” and the Monkees theme, among other songs—just as the Timers had done—with rewritten lyrics that update political concerns of today (e.g., peace, nuclear power, ethnic discrimination) (web figure 8.2 ). 5 In visual references to the original Timers, Gotō sports a helmet and sunglasses as Kiyoshirō had done, while Toshi-Low plays an acoustic double bass, like the Timers’ bassist. At the Atomic Café at Fuji Rock in 2015, Toshi-Low and Hosomi played a cover of “Let’s Join the Self-Defense Forces,” the sarcastic 1960s antiwar song that had been rediscovered in the antinuclear movement and had gained even greater relevance with the Security Bill. These are but a few examples of musicians rediscovering and repopularizing songs from the past due to political circumstances—an idea I develop further in another monograph (Manabe forthcoming). As in the SASPL/SEALDs case, the Ese Timers illustrate that musical protest in Japan remains very much alive, even though forces in the media industry and society constrain it. The music draws on a history of protest practices that push against the confines of their spaces. In doing so, it helps the Japanese to voice what they cannot ordinarily express in words.

SELEC T ED I N T ERV IEWS BY T HE AU T HOR

Akuryō, Tokyo, August 15, 2012 ATS, Tokyo, August 11, 2012 Coma-chi, Tokyo, March 30, 2012 Deli, Tokyo, June 5, 2012 Dengaryū and Young G, Tokyo, December 21, 2012 ECD, Tokyo, December 29, 2008; Tokyo, December 22, 2011 Endō Michirō, Tokyo, July 29, 2015 Futatsugi Shin, Tokyo, August 18, 2012; Tokyo, October 19, 2013 Hashimoto Mika (Seifuku Kōjō Iinkai), Tokyo, December 21, 2011 Hunger, Sendai, June 29, 2008; Tokyo, December 16, 2011 Ippanjapanese, via Skype, January 21, 2012 K Dub Shine, Tokyo, July 27, 2005; Tokyo, August 21, 2008; Tokyo, August 2014 Matsumoto Hajime (Shirōto no Ran), Tokyo, February 12, 2012 Monju-kun, “Tsuruga,” October 15, 2013 Nakagawa Gorō, Tokyo, January 16, 2009; Tokyo, July 28, 2012 Nakagawa Takashi, Tokyo, August 26, 2012 Noma Yasumichi, Tokyo, December 17, 2012 Oda Masanori (Illcommonz), Tokyo, August 16, 2012; Tokyo, October 19, 2013 Ōkubo Seishi, Tokyo, October 16, 2013 Ōkuma Wataru and Kogure Miwazō (Jintaramūta), Tokyo, July 18, 2012 Ōtomo Yoshihide, New York, April 17, 2015 Panta, Tokyo, January 8, 2009 Peter Barakan, via Skype, December 24, 2011 Rankin Taxi, Kyoto, May 16, 2008; Tokyo, December 19, 2011 Sakamoto Ryūichi, New York, September 10, 2012 Shing02, Tokyo, June 24, 2008; Tokyo, December 25, 2011; Yokohama, August 15, 2014

365

NOTES

Chapter 1









1. “Yoron chōsa—shitsumon to kaitō (3 gatsu 15, 16-nichi jisshi),” Asahi Shimbun Digital, March 18, 2014. 2. Before the post-3.11 protests, the largest post-1970 protest was in response to the rape of a twelve-year-old girl in Okinawa, in which 85,000 protesters gathered in Okinawa on October 21, 1995. See “Japan: Up to 85,000 Okinawans Participate in Biggest-Ever Protest Against U.S. Bases on the Island,” ITN Source, October 21, 1995, http://www.itnsource.com/shotlist//RTV/1995/10/21/605240776/?s =sparks. 3. The book discusses broadcasting in the context of what content is broadcast (e.g., ­chapter 6) and the restrictions that broadcasting practices impose on artists (­chapters 3 and 7). Broadcasts over the internet, which are subject to fewer restrictions, are addressed in ­chapter 4. 4. Takanarita Tōru, “Shinsai kara yonen, jikan jiku de wa naku seikatsu jiku de kangaeru fukkyō,” Asahi Digital, March 11, 2015, http:// webronza.asahi.com/politics/articles/2015031000003.html. 5. In July 2014, however, news sites and the Twittersphere criticized NHK for not reporting on a man’s self-immolation in the middle of Shinjuku in protest of the reinterpretation of the Peace Constitution (e.g., Jeff Kingston, “Shinjuku Self-Immolation Act Protests Abe’s Democracy Hijack,” Japan Times, July 5, 2014, http://www.japantimes. co.jp/opinion/2014/07/05/commentary/shinjuku-self-immola tion-act-protests-abes-democracy-hijack/). That same month, Friday magazine ran a story saying that the producers and host of an NHK

367

368   Notes











interview program were made to apologize to the Abe administration for posing difficult questions to the defense minister (“Kuniya kyasutaa wa namida shita: Abe Kantei ga NHK o dogeza saseta ichibu shijū,” Shūkan Friday, July 11, 2014). 6. King Giddra is K Dub Shine’s group with Zeebra and DJ Oasis, credited for pioneering rap style in Japanese with “Sora kara no chikara” (1995; Manabe 2006a). The original version of “911” can still be heard on the album Saishū heiki (2002). Another record company, Avex, made K Dub Shine change the lyrics to his solo piece “Saigo no yūyo” (2000, on Ikiru), which criticized the trivial content of other rappers and the music industry (K Dub Shine, email). Although Condry (2006) discusses “911 Remix” (the edited track), he does not mention the incidents of prerelease censorship. His book does discuss one incident of restriction after the fact: Defstar pulled King Giddra’s single “F. F. B.”/“Driveby” (2002) off the shelves because of its offensiveness to the gay community. “F. F. B.” was rerecorded with new lyrics before inclusion on the full album (Condry 2006: 159–160). 7. In Japan, terrestrial television networks remain the most effective way for musicians to gain exposure. Diffusion rates for cable or satellite television, as well as radio listenership, are lower than those in the United States (Manabe 2008, 2014). 8. In addition to these books, several case studies of music and social movements have appeared, including Drott’s (2011) monograph on the responses of different genres to late-1960s France; many others are listed in the bibliographies compiled semiannually by the web-based journal Music and Politics, itself a treasure trove of media-rich articles. Many anthologies of case studies in protest music have also appeared, including Garofalo (1992), Peddie (2006, 2012), O’Connell and Castelo-Branco (2010), and Kutschke and Norton (2013), among others cited elsewhere in this volume. 9. A separate monograph, Revolution Remixed: A Typology of Intertextuality in Protest Songs (Manabe, forthcoming), deals with the frequent use of references in protest songs in the Japanese antinuclear movement and other movements. 10. The LDP, in power since 1955, lost power briefly between 1993 and 1994, and between 2009 and 2012. 11. My monograph Revolution Remixed (note 9) analyzes the intertextuality in protest songs in greater detail. 12. See Tsujimura (1999) on morae and accents. 13. See ­chapter 3 of Manabe (2009b) for a summary of songwriting treatises of the 1920s–1930s by Yamada, Motoori, and other composers.

Notes  369

Chapter 2











1. See Samuels (2013: 123–125) for a selection of quotes. 2. The term “genshiryoku mura” was used in print in the early 1980s when it appeared in a series of articles titled “Genshiryoku mura ni giron o, okore!” for the nuclear industry magazine Genshiryoku Kōgyō. It came into more common parlance after 3.11; the Mainichi newspaper (April 21, 2011) credited the term to Iida Tetsunari, a former nuclear industry scientist-turned-renewable energy proponent, citing his article “Genpatsu gyōsei wa haisen makki no yōsō: mosaku suru genshiryoku mura no hitobito,” Ronza (February 1997). 3. Okinawa Electric Power is the only power company without a nuclear reactor. The electric power companies serve the regions they are named after, give or take a few neighboring prefectures. Hokkaidō is the northernmost island of the four main islands. Shikoku and Kyūshū are the two main islands to the south. On the largest island of Honshū, Kantō includes the cities of Tokyo and Yokohama and the seven prefectures that encompass and surround them; TEPCO serves these prefectures, plus Yamanashi and part of Shizuoka prefecture. Tōhoku consists of the six prefectures to the northeast (including Fukushima prefecture and the city of Sendai) and was badly hit by the tsunami. Tōhoku Electric Power covers these prefectures and Niigata. Hokuriku is the three prefectures in the center of Honshū, along the Sea of Japan. To its south, and to the west of Kantō, is Chūbu, containing the cities of Nagoya and Nagano. Kansai is to the west of Chūbu, containing the cities of Kyoto, Osaka, and Kōbe. Chūgoku is to its west, containing the cities of Okayama, Hiroshima, and Yamaguchi. 4. They are also aligned with foreign interests in the nuclear business: Hitachi with General Electric, Toshiba with Westinghouse (of which it owns an 87 percent stake), and Mitsubishi with France’s Areva. 5. Fujimori Kamome and Murayama Osamu, “Former Kansai Electric Power Executive Reveals 18 Years of Secret Payments to Prime Ministers,” AJW, Asahi Shimbun, July 28, 2014, http://ajw.asahi.com/ article/behind_news/politics/AJ201407280041. 6. Examples include collections of essays by Jeff Kingston et al. (2012) and Richard Hindmarsh (2013); historian Yoshioka Hitoshi’s (2011) update of his 1999 book; Kainuma’s (2011) monograph on Fukushima host towns; Richard Samuels’s (2013) comparison of the impact of 3.11 on security, energy, and local-government policies; Noma Yasumichi’s (2012) firsthand account of the weekly protests in front of the prime minister’s office; Oguma Eiji’s (2013) collection of essays from key

370   Notes

















participants in the antinuclear movement; books by the antinuclear character Monju-kun; many academic articles (Dusinberre and Aldrich 2011; Nakamura and Kikuchi 2011; Asia-Pacific Journal); foreign news sources such as the New York Times; the Japanese newspapers Tokyo, Asahi, and Mainichi Shimbun; independent journalism by Tanaka Ryūsaku (tanakaryusaku.jp) and Iwakami Yasumi (iwj.co.jp); Japanese magazines such as Shūkan Tōyō Keizai, Shūkan Kinyōbi, and Bessatsu Takarajima; and blogs such as Fukushima Diary. 7. “Kidorui no sankabutsuka: ‘Hiroshima’ ima ya mottomo kyūshiki,” Asahi Shimbun, March 17, 1954, morning edition. 8. David Eisenhower, “Atoms for Peace,” Address to the 470th Plenary Meeting of the United Nations General Assembly, Tuesday, December 8, 1953, the International Atomic Energy Agency (LABA), http:// www.iaea.org/About/history_speech.html. 9. In his discussions in the Diet, Nakasone explicitly said that nuclear-powered ships and submarines would be allowed (Nakasone 1999: 111). 10. Reiji Yoshida, “Japan Considered Developing Nukes: Nakasone,” Japan Times, June 19, 2004, http://www.japantimes.co.jp/2004/06/19/ announcements/japan-considered-developing-nukes-nakasone/. 11. Takuya Suzuki, “Nuclear Leverage: Long an Advocate of Nuclear Energy, Nakasone Now Says Japan Should Go Solar,” AJW, Asahi Shimbun, July 21, 2011, http://ajw.asahi.com/article/0311disaster/ analysis_opinion/AJ201107214814. 12. Tahara Sōichirō, interview by Daisuke Tsuda, Atomic Café, Fuji Rock, July 27, 2014. 13. Onishi Norimitsu and Ken Belson, “Culture of Complicity Tied to Stricken Nuclear Plant,” New York Times, April 26, 2011, http://www. nytimes.com/2011/04/27/world/asia/27collusion.html. 14. Ibid. 15. Ishida Takashi et al., “TEPCO Orchestrated ‘Personal’ Donations to LDP,” Asahi Shimbun, October 8, 2011, http://ajw.asahi.com/article/ behind_news/politics/AJ2011100813755. 16. Ibid. 17. METI, “The Strategic Energy Plan of Japan—Meeting Global Challenges and Securing Energy Futures,” June 2010, http:// www.meti.go.jp/english/press/data/pdf/20100618_08a.pdf. No longer available on METI website. See http://climateobserver.org/ wp-content/uploads/2015/03/strategic-energy-plan.pdf. 18. Tanaka Ryūsaku, “Hoan’in: ‘12 nin no iin ga genpatsu meekaa, denryoku gaisha kara hōshū’ no jijitsu kōhyō; shūwai wa hitei,”

Notes  371

















Tanaka Ryūsaku Journal, February 13, 2012, http://tanakaryusaku. jp/2012/02/0003673. 19. Yamashita Go, “New Regulatory Commission to Exclude Those with Close Ties to Nuclear Industry,” Asahi Shimbun, July 3, 2012, http:// ajw.asahi.com/article/0311disaster/fukushima/AJ201207030034. 20. After the Fukushima Daiichi accident, advertising by the electric power companies (without associated agencies) fell 35 percent in 2011 over the previous year and a further 31 percent in 2012. Nikkei Advertising Research Institute, http://www.nikkei-koken.gr.jp/research/ researchTop.php#No1. 21. Cordula Meyer, “Japan’s Nuclear Cartel: Keeping the Media Sweet,” Spiegel Online, May 27, 2011, http://www.spiegel.de/ international/world/japan-s-nuclear-cartel-atomic-industry-too -close-to-government-for-comfort-a-764907-3.html. 22. An example of such a commercial would be “Moritaka Senri, Kyūshū Denryoku, CM2,” YouTube video, 1:00, from televised commercials in the Kyūshū area, posted by “linux2001” on June 22, 2006, http://youtu. be/61dQI8xHIDE. 23. “Otsuha CM, Denko no denki nikki: ‘Enerugii jikyū ritsu’ hen,” YouTube video, 0:31, from televised commercials in the Kantō area, posted by “fitone10001” on December 24, 2009, http://youtu.be/ wOTuafkP-RY. 24. “Tōkyō Denryoku CM: Fukushima Genpatsu Daiichi Daini, jikomae,” YouTube video, 0:33, from televised commercials in the Kantō area, posted by “konej7” on May 8, 2011, http://youtu.be/r3AU1hbKELw. 25. “AC Japan, ‘Ima watashi ni dekirukoto, yobikake’ shū,” YouTube video, 1:30, from televised Advertising Council Japan commercials, posted by “cmuper51” on March 29, 2011, http://youtu.be/V_fmBV1cf18. 26. “Higashi nihon daishinsai, nanika shitai: Asahi Shimbun yoron chōsa,” Asahi Shimbun, December 30, 2011. 27. BS stations are mostly run by subsidiaries of major broadcasters and are free to anyone who has a television with BS capability. CS television is a paid subscription service offering multiple channels and pay-per-view programming; the biggest operator, SkyPerfect TV, had 3.8 million subscribers as of January 2012. Cable television services, such as Jupiter Telecommunications (J Com) offer channels similar to SkyPerfect’s. Cable subscribers numbered 28.7 million households in March 2012. J Com Factbook 2010, Jupiter Communications, http:// www.jcom.co.jp/corporate/aboutus/library/pdf/JCOM_FB2010. pdf; “US Pay-TV Penetration on the Wane,” IPTV News, March 17, 2011, http://www.iptv-news.com/iptv_news/march_2011/

372   Notes

















us_pay-tv_penetration_on_the_wane; Japan Satellite Broadcasting Association, http://www.eiseihoso.org/data/past_ydata.html, accessed March 2, 2012; Regional Broadcasting Promotion Office, “Keeburu Terebi No Genjō,” Ministry of Internal Affairs and Communications, Japan, July 2015, http://www.soumu.go.jp/main_ sosiki/joho_tsusin/pdf/catv_genjyou.pdf. 28. In addition, Fuji Television is affiliated with the Sankei group, which publishes the Sankei (1.62 million units). 29. Sekine Shin’ichi, “Nuclear Safety Inspectors First to Flee Stricken Fukushima Plant,” AJW, Asahi Shimbun, June 3, 2014, http://ajw.asahi. com/article/0311disaster/fukushima/AJ201406030026. 30. Kyōdō, “U.S. Forces Given SPEEDI Data Early,” Japan Times Online, January 18, 2012, http://www.japantimes.co.jp/news/2012/01/18/nati onal/u-s-forces-given-speedi-data-early/. 31. Tabuchi Hiroko, “Radiation Understated after Quake, Japan Says,” New York Times, June 6, 2011, http://www.nytimes.com/2011/06/07/ world/asia/07japan.html. 32. Okazaki Akiko, “Seshium hōshutsu 4 kei bekureru: Jūrai suikei no 2 bai, Kishōken,” Asahi Shimbun, February 29, 2012, http://www.asahi. com/special/10005/TKY201202280824.html. 33. “Unbelievable Comment by Mr. Yamashita,” YouTube video, 3:14, from a collection of Yamashita Shun’cihi’s public speeches, uploaded by “sievert311,” July 2, 2011, http://www.youtube.com/ watch?v=UOgaBUDFeb4. He later tried to explain what he meant to Der Spiegel (“Studying the Fukushima Aftermath: ‘People Are Suffering from Radiophobia,’” Spiegel Online, August 19, 2011, sec. International, http://www.spiegel.de/international/world/ studying-the-fukushima-aftermath-people-are-sufferingfrom-radiophobia-a-780810.html). 34. Asada Mai, “Purometeusu no wana: Ishi, zensen e: 20 ‘Yō sozai shinkō da,’” Asahi Shimbun, November 7, 2013, digital edition, http://digital. asahi.com/articles/TKY201311060676.html. 35. Watanabe Tetsuji, “Koe: Hangenpatsu demo, naze hōjinai no ka?” Asahi Shimbun, April 20, 2011, morning edition. 36. “TEPCO Knew of Tsunami Danger in 2008,” AJW, Asahi Shimbun, August 26, 2011, http://ajw.asahi.com/article/0311disaster/ fukushima/AJ201108267781. 37. “Genpatsu ‘herasu/yameru’ 41%: Asahi Shimbun yoron chōsa.” Asahi Shimbun, April 18, 2011, http://www.asahi.com/special/08003/ TKY201104170324.html.

Notes  373

38. “Shōrai teki ni ‘datsu genpatsu’ sansei 74%: Asahi Shimbun yoron chōsa,” Asahi Shimbun, June 13, 2011, http://www.asahi.com/ special/10005/TKY201106130401.html. 39. Datsu genpatsu kei ibento karendaa, accessed February 29, 2012, datugeninfo.web.fc2.com. 40. “Ōi genpatsu saikadō ‘hantai’ 54%: Asahi Shimbun yoron chōsa,” Asahi Shimbun, May 21, 2012, digital edition, www.asahi.com/ special/08003/TKY201205200432.html. 41. Watanabe, “Koe: Hangenpatsu demo, naze hōjinai no ka?” 42. Sakurai Hitoshi, “Naze, masu media wa ‘datsu genpatsu’ to ienai no ka,” Asahi Shimbun, May 10, 2011, digital edition, http://www.asahi.com/ digital/mediareport/TKY201105100181.html. 43. “9.19 genpatsu ira nai demo sanka hōkoku to NHK no shūaku na hōdō shisei o tou!,” Hibi tantan, last modified September 19, 2011, accessed March 2, 2012, http://etc8.blog83.fc2.com/blog-entry-1200.html. 44. There were two additional articles for regional editions—one in Kyoto and one in Saga prefecture. 45. “Shinsai sanka getsu, kakuchi de genpatsu hantai demo ya ibento,” Yomiuri Shimbun, June 11, 2011, http://www.yomiuri.co.jp/ feature/20110316-866921/news/20110611-OYT1T00718.htm. 46. “Datsu genpatsu demo de 12 nin taiho, kidōtaiin bōkō nado de,” Yomiuri Shimbun September 12, 2011, http://www.yomiuri.co.jp/ feature/20110316-866922/news/20110912-OYT1T00004.htm. 47. The search was done on the Kikuzō II Visual database. A simple search on “genpatsu” (nuclear) and “demo” brings up almost 400 articles, some of which mention demonstrations briefly (which I did not include) or pertain to demonstrations outside of Japan. 48. “Higashi nihon daishinsai, nanika shitai: Asahi Shimbun yoron chōsa,” Asahi Shimbun, December 30, 2011. 49. Kyūen Renraku Center, http://qc.sanpal.co.jp/tendency/2008/, accessed February 21, 2012. 50. In February 2012, surgical masks were being worn by many citizens because of a flu outbreak and seasonal cedar pollen. This pollen, which blows from areas including Fukushima, was shown by the Forestry Agency to contain radioactive cesium, although the government also announced that the amount likely to be inhaled would not harm health. 51. Nonetheless, as of 2014, younger people, including students, have become increasingly active in demonstrations against revisions to or reinterpretations of Article 9 in the Constitution, which forbids Japan from waging war for reasons other than self-defense.

374   Notes

52. “Higashi nihon daishinsai, nanika shitai: Asahi Shimbun yoron chōsa,”Asahi Shimbun, December 30, 2011. 53. “Tōden osen mizu ryūshutsu ‘kaiji osoku ikan’: Motegi Keisan-shō ga hihan; Fukushima Daiichi Genpatsu,” Asahi Shimbun, July 23, 2013, evening edition, society section. 54. Yoshida Reiji, “Tepco Tech Chief Disputes Abe’s ‘Under Control’ Assertion,” Japan Times, September 13, 2013, http://www.japantimes. co.jp/news/2013/09/13/national/tepco-tech-chief-disputes-abes-un der-control-assertion-2/. 55. See “Information on Contaminated Water Leakage at TEPCO’s Fukushima Daiichi Nuclear Power Station (Ongoing Topics),” Prime Minister of Japan and His Cabinet, June 3, 2015, http://japan.kantei. go.jp/ongoingtopics/waterissues.html, for latest updates. 56. Kyōdō Tsūshin, “Genshiryoku kisei-i no jinji: Genshiryoku mura to kankei fukaku saikadō e jinsen kijun ‘mushi,’” 47 News, June 11, 2014, http://www.47news.jp/47topics/e/254312.php. 57. Kyōdō, “Genshiryoku kisei-i no jinji.” 58. Koike Ryūta and Kawada Toshio, “Genpatsu 30-ki, saikadō miezu, 13 ki wa kijun tekigō kon’nan: Asahi Shimbun chōsa,” Asahi Shimbun, March 12, 2014, morning edition. 59. Saito Mari, Aaron Sheldrick, and Hamada Kentarō, “Japan May Only Be Able to Restart One-Third of Its Nuclear Reactors,” Reuters, April 1, 2014, http://www.reuters.com/article/2014/04/01/us-japan-n uclear-restarts-insight-idUSBREA3020020140401. 60. “Only 20% of Municipalities Will OK Reactor Restarts: Poll,” Japan Times Online, March 2, 2014, http://www.japantimes.co.jp/ news/2014/03/02/national/only-20-of-municipalities-will-ok-r eactor-restarts-poll/. 61. “Fukui Court Blocks Oi Nuclear Reactor Restart, in Landmark Ruling,” Japan Times Online, May 21, 2014, http://www.japantimes. co.jp/news/2014/05/21/national/fukui-court-blocks-oi-nuclearreactor-restart-landmark-ruling/; “NRA Approves Restart for Third Nuclear Plant,” The Japan Times Online, May 20, 2015, http://www. japantimes.co.jp/news/2015/05/20/national/japan-approves-th ird-nuclear-plant-restart/. 62. “Plaintiff Group against Ikata Nuclear Plant,” Kyōdō News, June 24, 2014. 63. “108 Gikai ‘himitsu-hō haishi o’ iken-sho kaketsu; chihō, nezuyoi hihan,” Asahi Shimbun, April 5, 2014. 64. “82% Call for Revision, Abolition of Secrecy Law: Kyodo Poll,” Kyōdō News, December 9, 2013.

Notes  375

65. Assessment by Shimizu Tsutomu, criminal defense lawyer and representative of the Japanese Federation of Bar Associations. Jake Adelstein, “Japan: Even The Secrecy Bill Briefing Is Secret; Abe-Gumi Pushes Ominous Secrecy Bill Towards Law,” Japan Subculture Research Center, December 5, 2013, http://www.japansubculture.com/japan-e ven-the-secrecy-bill-briefing-is-secret-abe-gumi-pushes-ominous-s ecrecy-bill-towards-law. 66. “Tokutei himitsu hō: Seifu kanshi e kaisei kokkai hō seiritsu,” Asahi Shimbun, June 21, 2014. 67. “Government without Oversight,” Japan Times, December 6, 2013, sec. editorial, http://www.japantimes.co.jp/opinion/2013/12/06/ editorials/government-without-oversight/#.UqH_4eIR0u0.twitter. 68. “Ahead of Secrets Law, Information Concealed on Nuclear Facilities,” AJW, Asahi Shimbun, April 29, 2014, http://ajw.asahi.com/article/ behind_news/social_affairs/AJ201404290064. Chapter 3



1. “Top 100 Japanese Pops Artists,” HMV Online, November 30, 2003, http://www.hmv.co.jp/news/article/311040091/. 2. “Sayonara genpatsu Sakamoto Ryūichi supiichi 120716,” YouTube video, 6:06, uploaded by “cowanosky,” July 16, 2012, http://www. youtube.com/watch?v=EiKFO190IEw. Transcription by Nishi Ken’ichi, “Sayōnara genpatsu 10 man nin shūkai de no Sakamoto Ryūichi-san no supiichi zenbun,” Route24Web, July 18, 2012, http:// www.route24.jp/archives/15628. 3. Sankei Shimbun, July 21, 2012. The original online article has disappeared from Sankei’s website and is unavailable in Factiva, although it persists in hard copy. Readers can see it quoted in full by @natsume_yuuki, “7-gatsu 21-nichi [Sankei shō] no hankyō matome o tsuika (2012. 07. 22): Sakamoto Ryūichi-san ‘takaga denki’ hatsugen e no san’i to hanron de ōsawagi na TL tsuīto matome (2012. 07. 16),” begun July 17, 2012, http://togetter.com/ li/339754?f=tgtn. 4. Mie Hirokazu, “Henshū-chō kara,” Shinchō 45, September 2012, http:// www.shinchosha.co.jp/shincho45/editor/20120818/. 5. Sakamoto Ryūichi, “Ima, bokuga omou koto. Hontou ni iitakatta koto wa,” Sankei Shimbun, September 23, 2012, http://sankei.jp.msn.com/ entertainments/news/120923/ent12092318000010-n1.htm. The potential impact of this article, relative to the original editorial, was undercut by its placement on the entertainment pages and the inclusion

376   Notes

















of an announcement of Sakamoto’s upcoming concerts, making it seem like promotional activity. 6. Yokoyama Ken, “Rokku myūjishan to mirai,” interview by Gotō Masafumi, August 8, 2012, http://www.thefuturetimes.jp/archive/ no03/kenyokoyama/; Namba Akihiro and Miyake Yōhei, talk at Nippon Artists Union (NAU), Tokyo, March 9, 2014. 7. Ōki Nobuo, “Sekai to mirai,” Future Times, interview by Gotō Masafumi, December 4, 2013, http://www.thefuturetimes.jp/archive/no05/oki/. 8. Meyer and Gamson point out that while celebrities can attract attention, they also do not want to alienate their fans and can depoliticize and universalize issues. They may also deflect attention away from activists and issues. Thrall et al. note that even the most famous celebrities cannot sustain high levels of media interest for too long, particularly if the issue is declining in popularity. 9. Komori Atsushi, “Anti-Nuclear Novel by Bureaucrat Exposes Chummy Relationship between Politicians, Industry,” AJW, Asahi Shimbun, February 28, 2014, http://ajw.asahi.com/article/0311disaster/ fukushima/AJ201402280061. Hayashi Yuka, “Fukushima Watch: Who Wrote the New Anti-Nuke Novel?” WSJ Blogs, September 19, 2013, http://blogs.wsj.com/japanrealtime/2013/09/19/fukushima-wa tch-who-wrote-the-new-anti-nuke-novel/. 10. “Asian Kung-Fu Generation Gocchi-shi ga ‘NO NUKES’ tii-shatsu chakuyō de Fuji Terebi ‘Bokura no ongaku’ ni shutsuen,” posted by “bcxxx,” last modified January 21, 2012, http://togetter.com/ li/244721. 11. “Asian Kung-Fu Generation no terebi/CM jōhō,” Oricon geinōjin jiten (Oricon Style), accessed August 10, 2014, http://www.oricon.co.jp/ prof/artist/306885/products/tv/. 12. “Sakamoto Ryūichi,” Oricon geinōjin jiten (Oricon Style), accessed August 10, 2014, http://www.oricon.co.jp/prof/artist/211108/ products/tv/p/1/. 13. RIAJ, “2013-nendo ongaku media yūzā jittai chōsa,” Tokyo, March 17, 2014, http://www.riaj.or.jp/release/2014/pr140317.html. 14. He was also asked to drop his covers of “Secret Agent Man” and “Money” to make a seven-song mini-album. The former references the terrorist bombing of Korean Air Flight 858 and features the voice of Kim Hyon Hui, the survivor of the two North Korean agents who planted the bomb. “Money” has lines that could be interpreted as being anti-government. 15. “RC no ‘han genpatsu rokku,’ Tōshiba EMI ga totsuzen no hatsubai chūshi,” Asahi Shimbun, June 23, 1988, morning edition.

Notes  377

16. Shino, “Bukimina han genpatsu rokku hatsubai chūshi (anguru),” Asahi Shimbun, June 30, 1988, evening edition. 17. Izusan Juri, “Hangenpatsu rokku, naze chūshi,” Asahi Shimbun, July 3, 1988, morning edition. 18. The remaining major nuclear engineering firm, Hitachi, had the major label Nippon Columbia in its keiretsu (industrial group) until 2001. 19. “FM kyoku mo hangenpatsu rokku hōsō jishuku (media inside),” Asahi Shimbun, July 5, 1988, evening edition, entertainment section. 20. Epic is a sub-label of Sony Music, which is not directly related to the nuclear industry. 21. “FM kyoku mo hangenpatsu rokku hōsō jishuku (media inside),” Asahi Shimbun, July 5, 1988, evening edition, entertainment section.. 22. “Imawano Kiyoshirō: Nani o utattemo jiyū da (isai mendan),” Asahi Shimbun, December 22, 1988, evening edition, entertainment section. 23. See “Taimaazu no teema FM Tōkyō Deidoriimu biriiībaa,” from a performance on Yoru no hitto sutajio, October 13, 1989, YouTube video, 12:00, uploaded by “Syamisenyarow,” July 5, 2014, https://www. youtube.com/watch?v=oTGPui-xJu4. “FM Tokyo” starts at 2:23. 24. Ōkubo Seishi of Fuji Rock maintains that the discussion with Seifuku Kōjō Iinkai had not been with Smash, which manages Fuji Rock, but with an intermediary, and that the discussion had been about a corporate-sponsored booth, not one of the major stages of Fuji Rock (Ōkubo Seishi, interview with the author, October 16, 2013). 25. Chindon are Japanese street bands, typically with Japanese-style drums and wind instruments, used for advertising local establishments. See Abe (2010). 26. “Opareeshon kodomotachi sandōsha messeeji: Yamamoto Tarō 02,” YouTube video, 7:37, posted by “opkodomotachi1” on May 14, 2011, http://youtu.be/IVGKRPoyyf Y. 27. “ ‘Sarariiman Yamamoto Tarō’ no iwakan,” Nikkan Gendai, April 18, 2012. 28. Ian Thomas Ash, “Documenting Ian, Blog: Censorship? Self-Censorship?” Documenting Ian, Blog, March 14, 2015, http://ianthomasash.blogspot.jp/2015/03/censorship-selfcensorship.html. 29. Barakan himself has denied that his antinuclear views were connected with the termination of the show, and that it was simply the fate of a freelancer (Peter Barakan, Facebook, September 17, 2014). His contract as an executive director of Inter.FM expired in June 2014. 30. Illcommonz, “[Kyūshoku-Chū] (tsuiki Ari),” Irukomonzu no futa, November 20, 2013, http://illcomm.exblog.jp/19980944/.

378   Notes

31. Gotō Masafumi, “Tsuiki,” Vo. Gotch no nikki, September 27, 2009, http://6109.jp/akg_gotch/?blog=93105. 32. Gotō Masafumi, “Kokyō de no raibu,” Vo. Gotch no nikki, December 6, 2012, http://6109.jp/akg_gotch/?blog=283876. 33. Ōtomo Yoshihide, “The Role of Culture: After the Earthquake and Man-Made Disasters in Fukushima,” lecture at Tokyo University of the Arts, April 28, 2011, translated by Isozaki Mia, http://www. japanimprov.com/yotomo/fukushima/lecture.html. 34. Ko, “TRASH-UP!!×OTOTOY, message from underground, dai 2 kai: KO (SLANG) intabyū,” Ototoy, interview by Taeko Endō, May 2013, http://ototoy.jp/feature/20130614001. 35. Akuryō, “TRASH-UP!!×OTOTOY, message from underground, dai ikkai: Akuryō intabyū,” interview by Endō Taeko, April 16, 2013, http://ototoy.jp/feature/index.php/2013041600. 36. Ōkuma Wataru, “TRASH-UP!!xOTOTOY, message from underground, dai yonkai: Ōkuma Wataru,” Ototoy, interview by Endō Taeko, March 2014, http://ototoy.jp/feature/20140311/. 37. Sakamoto Ryūichi, “Zero Landmine,” Site Sakamoto, March 18, 2001, https://www.sitesakamoto.com/update/zerolandmine.html. 38. The Kokusuikai merged with the larger Yamaguchi-gumi in 2005. 39. The blue light of the title refers to the blue flash (possibly from Cherenkov radiation) that one of the technicians saw at the time of the accident. 40. Pictures by Morizumi can be seen at “Save the War Children,” accessed March 26, 2014, http://www.savewarchildren.org/morizumi.html. 41. Gotō Masafumi, “Tsuiki,” Vo. Gotch no nikki, September 27, 2009, http://6109.jp/akg_gotch/?blog=93105. 42. Notable exceptions include the aforementioned idol-pop girls’ group Seifuku Kōjō Iinkai, who sing their “Get Out of Nuclear Power Song” in a style ironically similar to commercially popular idol groups like AKB48. 43. Exceptions include the No Nukes EP by Gotou Seiya and “No Nukes” by OMB. There are also several remixes of Kraftwerk’s “Radioactivity” on YouTube by Japanese musicians (e.g., Tomozō Hokanko’s remix of Kraftwerk performing in Japanese at No Nukes 2012, http://www. youtube.com/watch?v=kFnU32G0MLs). 44. Most hip-hop performances also take place at these all-night clubs on different nights. While some rappers are politically minded, the majority of hip-hop repertoire (including that of more conscious rappers) tends to be nonpolitical—a characteristic shared with

Notes  379

















American hip-hop. Common topics include personal relationships, fun with one’s friends, and encouragement. 45. Miyake Yōhei, Katō Tokiko, Namba Akihiro, et al., NAU Program, a Ustream talk show in Tokyo, March 9, 2014. 46. Ōta Arisa, “Za tokushū, Sawada Kenji-san ni ai ni yuku: ‘Shinsai,’ ‘Datsugenpatsu’ e no omoi, jibun no kotoba de utaitai,” Mainichi Shimbun, March 8, 2012, morning edition. 47. “12.7.6 Shusō kantei mae demo Sakamoto Ryūichi tōjō shuzai jin ōsawagi,” YouTube video, 7:06, from antinuclear protest in front of the prime minister’s residence, posted by “channeljodan,” July 6, 2012, http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EizjjYr0_gs. Sakamoto’s speech at 3:21. 48. There are a few pronuclear musicians. The late producer Sakuma Masahide posted stories on Facebook that questioned the reasoning of antinuclear camps. It has been more common, however, for pronuclear entertainers to deemphasize or eradicate any evidence of their pronuclear stance post-3.11. 49. Shing02, “Boku to kaku,” 2006, accessed March 2, 2014, http://www. e22.com/atom/index2.htm. 50. Shing02, “Boku to kaku 2012,” 2012, accessed March 2, 2014, http:// www.e22.com/atom2/page00.htm. Table of contents at http://www. e22.com/atom2/index2.htm. 51. A kotatsu is a communal table with a blanket draped over its legs and a space heater underneath it. During the winter, families gather around the kotatsu to keep warm. It is a common feature of older-style Japanese homes, which often lack central heating or adequate insulation. Quote from Gotō’s talk with Miyake Yōhei and Sakamoto Ryūichi, Peace on Earth 2014 concert, Hibiya Park, Tokyo, March 9, 2014. 52. Ōtomo Yoshihide, “REVIVE JAPAN WITH MUSIC, dai ikkai: Ōtomo Yoshihide,” interview by Niichirō Ida, June 17, 2011, http://ototoy.jp/feature/2011071800. 53. Akaban, “Kuwata Keisuke no raibu ni itte kimashita,” Iromegane, June 26, 2011, http://akaban1008.blog118.fc2.com/blog-entry-179.html. 54. Yonjii, “Kuwata Keisuke,” Genpatsu Ginza kara ai o komete (With Love from the Nuclear Ginza), October 8, 2012, http://ameblo.jp/mahi3iku/ entry-11374053039.html. 55. “2014.03.09 genpatsu zero dai tōitsu kōdō: Sakamoto Ryūichi-san (Hibiya Yaon shūkai, 1/15), YouTube video, 11:45, posted by “The River,” March 9, 2014, http://www.youtube.com/ watch?v=vDCMLFiHEBI.

380   Notes

56. “Higashi nihon daishinsai ni tai suru Amuse Group no torikumi ni tsuite,” Amuse, September 14, 2012, http://www.amuse.co.jp/ torikumi2011/amuse_bokin/. 57. Futatugi Shin, “Dokyumento hangenpatsu demo (6): Human Recovery Project,” Webronza, April 3, 2012, http://astand.asahi.com/magazine/ wrnational/special/2012040200011.html. 58. Ko, “The Future Times Talk & Live @Klub Counter Action,” interview by Gotō Masafumi, December 11, 2013, http://www.thefuturetimes.jp/ archive/no04/ko/. 59. Miyake Yōhei, “Sanin’en: Miyake Yōhei to senkyo fesu,” Nikkan Saizō, August 26, 2013, http://www.cyzo.com/2013/08/post_14313.html. 60. Miyake Yōhei, quoted in “Shasetsu: Mō hitotsu no sanin’en: Sanka to taiwa no seiji o hagukumu,” Asahi Shimbun, July 31, 2013, morning edition, opinion section. 61. See Manabe (2013) for a discussion of Dengaryū and this song. 62. For example, see articles in The Independent (June 21, 1992), The Sunday Times (June 21), and The Irish Times (June 22), regarding U2’s surprise demonstration in front of Sellafield on June 20, 1992. 63. “Business Domains and Strengths,” Dentsu Annual Report for the Year Ended March 31, 2013, accessed March 27, 2014, http://www.dentsu. com/ir/data/annual/2013/bds/index.html. 64. “Zero Person,” News Zero (NTV, October 20, 2011). Available on YouTube as “Zutto Uso Datta, Saitō Kazuyoshi, Sono Omoi,” YouTube video, 3:02, from aforementioned broadcast, uploaded by “lovelypartizan,” October 25, 2011, https://www.youtube.com/ watch?v=g2ctIBq0uX8. Chapter 4





1. Meek (2012) and Wellman (2001) prefer the term “cyberplace” over “cyberspace.” Wellman notes that communities of people interact with each other over the internet in a similar way as they might in physical places. Meek adds that these interactions are embodied in space and time, connoting a place, whereas cyberspace is disembodied. As illustrated in the examples that follow, I am considering cyberspace as having some embodied qualities, including the experienced, conceived, and lived qualities described by Lefebvre and Harvey. 2. “Japanese Nuclear Propaganda Cartoon,” YouTube video, 10:54, from 1993 Dōnen (JAEA) public relations film, uploaded by

Notes  381





















“WHENDASHTF1,” August 28, 2013, http://www.youtube.com/ watch?v=sOFg8oWMHRM. 3. Fans have re-uploaded several versions of the video, including “Zutto uso datta (kashi keisai),” YouTube video, 4:26, posted by “rocknroll jonathan” on April 7, 2011, http://youtu.be/HmxFUEPoPfU. 4. “Zutto uso datta, Hyōgo Shinji no rokku no yodan,” Rockin’ On, April 7, 2011, http://ro69.jp/blog/hyogo/49661. 5. “ ‘Zutto uso dattandaze!’ Aatisuto Saito Kazuyoshi no genpatsu hihan songu ga YouTube ni,” Nikkan Saizō, April 7, 2011, http://www.cyzo. com/2011/04/post_7004.html. 6. A video of Saitō’s performance on Ustream at the time of the crash, as well as the excited comment feed, can be seen at “Ustream de ‘Zutto uso datta’ o taibō suru hito tachi,” YouTube video, uploaded by “Tacahico Nemotto,” April 8, 2011, http://www.youtube.com/ watch?v=Z-9jsOOAOAA. 7. “Hibiku, han genpatsu rokku, Saitō Kazuyoshi-san hon’nin ‘kaeuta’: ko Imawano Kiyoshirō-san kyūsaku fukkatsu,” Asahi Shimbun, April 27, 2011, evening edition, society section. 8. “Shiseidō in and on CM 15s,” YouTube video, 0:15, uploaded by “FILAtrilogy,” April 29, 2011, http://www.youtube.com/ watch?v=bOthrknA2xE. 9. “Saitō Kazuyoshi, ‘Zutto usodatta,’ 2011.4.10 ‘Kōenji Genpatsu yamero demo!!!!!!,’” YouTube video, 2:55, posted by “2011catharsis” on April 10, 2011, http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tuwXz2WoxzI. 10. “Hibiku, han genpatsu rokku, Saitō Kazuyoshi-san hon’nin ‘kaeuta’: ko Imawano Kiyoshirō-san kyūsaku fukkatsu,” Asahi Shimbun, April 27, 2011, evening edition, society section. 11. The concept of intertextuality in protest songs, as well as these and other specific examples of kaeuta, hip-hop remakes, and mash-ups, is discussed in detail in Revolution Remixed: A Typology of Intertextuality in Protest Songs (Manabe, forthcoming). 12. “Tōden ni hairō,” YouTube video, 6:00, uploaded by “jk290518q,” April 3, 2011, http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8_Fg3j1jgWw. 13. “Viva! Nuclear power (That’s What Japan’s Like),” YouTube video, 6:01, posted by “ippanjapanese,” with English subtitles, November 25, 2011, http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1hQPP5TbUCM. Japanese version at http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rCiJi4IgMh8. 14. Ippanjapanese had read an article in the magazine Shūkan posuto, July 22–29, 2011, regarding MITI’s failed attempt to deregulate the distribution of electricity in 1999, and the high turnover of

382   Notes















bureaucrats that followed this attempt. MITI is the predecessor to METI. 15. The term “sheeple” also appeared in Japan resident Debito Arudou’s Japan Times (May 3, 2011) article, “Better to Be Branded a ‘Flyjin’ than a Man of the Sheeple,” his complaint regarding Japanese criticisms of foreigners (gaijin) who left Japan in the early days of the Fukushima nuclear crisis. See http://www.japantimes.co.jp/community/2011/05/03/issues/ better-to-be-branded-a-flyjin-than-a-man-of-the-sheeple/. 16. Comedian and freelance journalist Oshidori Mako claims that TEPCO underreports deaths related to plant work (“Japanese Journalist: Fukushima Workers Die Suddenly but It’s Not Reported, Says Nurse at Plant—Gov’t Agents Following Me for Surveillance (VIDEO),” ENENews, March 21, 2014, http://enenews.com/ japanese-journalist-fukushima-workers-die-suddenly-but-itsnot-reported-says-nurse-at-plant-govt-agents-following-mefor-surveillance-video). The blog Fukushima Diary keeps a log of some worker deaths (e.g., Mochizuki Iori, “5th Fukushima Worker Died, ‘Acute Myocardial Infarction,’” Fukushima Diary, August 23, 2012, http://fukushima-diary.com/2012/08/5th-fukushima-worker-died-acu te-myocardial-infarction/). 17. “RANKIN TAXI—Ikura anzen demo gomenda [1988],” YouTube video, 1:44, from Fuji TV television program FM-TV, 1988, posted by “kool5” on Mar 12, 2011, http://www.youtube.com/ watch?v=FitqUZ97W0I. 18. The song has been uploaded onto YouTube by “MyAnnonymouse” at https://youtu.be/uDar14RafMg. 19. The Showa emperor had just passed away in January 1989. As many Japanese still regard the emperor with much reverence—he was officially viewed as a descendant of gods from the 1880s to 1946—the reference is daring. 20. Recruit is a company that was then at the center of an insider-trading scandal, which implicated Nakasone and many other prominent politicians. 21. In Japanese pronunciation, Takashi and Taxi (takushii) are very similar. 22. The Dub Ainu Band fuses Ainu instruments and voices with Jamaican dub. Oki has played for antinuclear events including Sakamoto Ryūichi’s No Nukes 2013 concert. 23. “Rankin & Dub Ainu Band ‘You can’t see it, you can’t smell it either,’” YouTube video, 4:28, posted by “darenimomienai2011” on May 11,

Notes  383















2011, http://youtu.be/Z_Tg3sW9ElU; with English subtitles on http://youtu.be/mF12h19h5uo, posted May 16, 2011. The song is also available for downloading at DIY Hearts (http://www.diystars.net/ hearts/), with all profits donated to the Japanese Red Cross for Tōhoku disaster relief. 24. Literally, in the game rock-paper-scissors, putting out one’s hand late, after everyone else has shown his or her hand. 25. For example, Dan Grunebaum, “Japan’s New Wave of Protest Songs,” New York Times, June 30, 2011, http://www.nytimes.com/2011/07/01/ arts/01iht-JAPANMUSIC01.html. 26. “Recording Report Hangenpatsu REMIX ECD,” YouTube video, 4:29, posted by “ISHIDA2001,” April 18, 2011, http://www.youtube.com/ watch?v=z04k_DBI1j4. 27. ECD, “Bebii kaa to purakaado,” Soundcloud audio file, 2:23, December 2011, https://soundcloud.com/ecd-1/ecd. 28. The original video is at “FRYING DUTCHMAN humanERROR,” YouTube video, 17:04, uploaded by “mosquitons,” November 16, 2011, http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ENBV0oUjvs0. Lyrics can be found on the artists’ website at http://fryingdutchman.jp/lyric.php. 29. This award has been given every year since 1984. Nominations are collected from readers of The Encyclopedia of Contemporary Words; the winner is chosen by a committee. In 2011, there were seventeen words related to the nuclear crisis, with many more related to 3.11. “Shingo ryūkōgo taishō,” Yūkyan shingo ryūkōgo taishō,” 2011, http://singo. jiyu.co.jp/. 30. The English-subtitled version is at “FRYING DUTCHMAN humanERROR,” YouTube video, 19:46, uploaded by “mosquitons,” January 16, 2012, http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Q5p283KZGa8. English lyrics are at http://fryingdutchman.jp/lyric.php#fragment-2. 31. “humanERROR pareedo zenkoku issei 100 man nin demo,” Frying Dutchman, accessed July 6, 2014, http://fryingdutchman.jp/lyric.php. 32. nonukesnyc, “Nonukesnyc March 11, 2012 6:11 PM,” Union Square, New York City, 2012, http://www.ustream.tv/recorded/21043472. Brown Rice has a Japanese member. 33. Sakamoto Ryūichi et al., Stop Rokkasho, accessed July 7, 2014, http:// stop-rokkasho.org/. 34. Sakamoto Ryūichi, “ODAKIAS,” Soundcloud.com, July 1, 2012, https://soundcloud.com/ryuichi_sakamoto/oi-protest-rs. 35. Shing 02, Ryūichi Sakamoto, and Tokimonsta, “ODAKIAS,” Soundcloud. com, July 1, 2012, http://soundcloud.com/ryuichi_sakamoto/odakias.

384   Notes

36. The Japanese services Nico Nico Dōga, a YouTube-like video site, and Nico Nico Namahōsō, a Ustream-like live video streaming site, are also venues for videos from demonstrations. They differ from YouTube and Ustream in that they allow viewers to input comments at the point in the video the comment is referring to. It is not unusual for comments to overwhelm the video itself. Nico Nico Dōga and its live-streaming site seem to be more popular with the Zaitokukai and other groups associated with the right wing than the more left-leaning segment of antinuclear activists. 37. Akiyama Rio’s YouTube channels are “rioakiyama” and “noxxx710”; “ken23qu” is a YouTube handle. Mkimpo’s webpage is http://www. mkimpo.com/diary/index.html. While I have corresponded with “mkimpo” and “ken23qu,” I have withheld their real names over concerns for their privacy. 38. “Merutodaun buruuzu,” YouTube video, 4:51, written and performed by Hamada Yūsuke, uploaded by Hiroto Aratama, April 11, 2011, http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=u-zk5iWxq1Y. Hamada, a professional singer-songwriter in the 1980s, believes he was blackballed then for singing antinuclear songs. Illcommonz, “Shimantogawa no han genpatsu deruta burūsu,” Illcommonz no futa (blog), July 17, 2012, http://illcomm.exblog.jp/16393894/. 39. Nakajima Hisato, “7-gatsu 29-nichi no datsu genpatsu demo kokkai dai hōi de nagareta merutodaun burūsu no genryū o sagutte: ‘Datsu genpatsu Shimanto kōdō’ no naka de no ayumi,” Tōkyō no ‘genzai’ kara ‘rekishi’=‘kako’ o yomitoku—Past and Present (blog), August 5, 2012, http://tokyopastpresent.wordpress.com/2012/08/05/. 40. “7.14 Datsu genpatsu demo ‘Datsu genpatsu Shimanto kōdō in Nakamura getsurei demo,’” YouTube video, 7:10, from demonstration in Shimanto, Kōchi, uploaded by “rioakiyama,” July 15, 2012, http:// www.youtube.com/watch?v=3im0T2bR8Yg. 41. “Antinuclear Demonstration in Front of Diet Building, July 29, 2012, Meltdown Blues Improvisation,” YouTube video, 2:45, uploaded by “protestrsearch,” August 2, 2012, http://www.youtube.com/ watch?v=KjuwKgE12GY. 42. “2012.08.18 Suginami bon dansu (6) Merutodaun burūsu,” YouTube video, 3:45, uploaded by “nuka book,” August 18, 2012, http://www. youtube.com/watch?v=3MSpmIkh_SM. 43. Demonstrators on the right, such as the Zaitokukai and Shuken, also tend to perform for the camera for the YouTube audience (Yamaguchi 2013).

Notes  385

44. Rankin Taxi performed at the Natsu Datsu Genpatsu demonstration in Osaka in August 2012, the Japan Peace Conference in Tokyo in November 2012, and several regional demonstrations. To my knowledge, his first performance in a Tokyo-based demonstration since the incident was on No Nukes Day on June 2013. 45. “Makuhari de yatteru hangenpatsu fesu ga garagara sugi warota wwww,” posted July 7, 2012, at 13:02, accessed February 23, 2014, http://engawa.2ch.net/test/read.cgi/poverty/1341633723/l50. 46. See “yamadayama,” “Datsu genpatsu ongaku fesu ‘No Nukes 2012’ wa hontō ni gargara dattanoka shirabete mita: Naver matome,” November 4, 2013, http://matome.naver.jp/odai/2134166257986106901, for photos and times posted. Chapter 5.1



1. In Jamaican music, a riddim is an accompaniment track, often looping and instrumental, over which dancehall deejays sing and improvise. Riddims develop name recognition of their own as multiple deejays use them to make their songs. Wayne Smith’s “Under Mi Sleng Teng” (1985) is considered a landmark in Jamaican riddims because it was one of the first to be made from digitized keyboards (Manuel and Marshall 2006).

Chapter 5.2







1. At the other end of the political spectrum, right-wing groups frequently drive vans through Japanese streets, playing gunka (wartime marches) and spewing ideology. These vans differ from sound demonstrations in that they tend not to be scheduled demonstrations, with protesters marching behind the truck. They are more likely to drive through an area, stop at a target (such as the Russian Embassy, where they shout demands to return the Kuril Islands), and move on. 2. Uchiyama Takashi, Kainan Yūko, Shiba Rei, and Ribon Yamamoto, “CHANCE! (Heiwa o tsukuru hitobito no nettowaaku),” interview by Katō Umezō, Loft Project, February 2002, accessed July 20, 2013, http://www.loft-prj.co.jp/interview/0203/05.html. 3. Mitsumasa Usui, “Peace Walk Step 7 ni tsuite,” December 6, 2001, accessed July 22, 2013, http://www.freeml.com/bit-station/2440. 4. “2003 nen 1 gatsu 18 nichi WORLD PEACE NOW,” YouTube video, 10:40, from a demonstration in Tokyo on January 18, 2003, posted by

386   Notes

















“VIDEOACTsince1998,” March 18, 2013, http://www.youtube.com/ watch?v=r0KDmGLAsfE. 5. Simon Avenell (2010) has charted the evolution of the shimin concept from ethnic nationalism to “new citizen,” with modes of activism shifting from confrontation to cooperation with state and corporate actors from the 1970s onward. It is this latter definition and stance to which Oda is referring. 6. See “2003 nen go gatsu dankai de no ‘CHANCE! heiwa o tsukuru hitobito no nettowaaku’ shidō bu to kōan to no yuchaku mondai nitsuite,” Ashura, last modified November 12, 2004, accessed July 22, 2013, http://www.asyura2.com/0401/up1/source/236.txt. 7. Mitsumasa Usui, “Peace Walk Step 7 ni tsuite,” December 6, 2001, accessed July 22, 2013, http://www.freeml.com/bit-station/2440. 8. Noma Yasumichi, interview with the author, December 17, 2012, Shinjuku, Tokyo. 9. However, a number of organizers in ASC were not aware of what the Reclaim the Streets movement entailed until after the first demonstrations had already taken place. 10. “Nenshū 150 man en’ no jakunen sō ga kyūzō! Kyōfu no ‘kiritsume shakai’ ga tōrai !” Takarajima, posted June 1, 2012, accessed July 22, 2013, http://blog.takarajima.tkj.jp/archives/1747212.html. 11. “Hiseiki shain hiritsu 38 .2%, Danjo tomo kako saikō ni,” Nihon Keizai Shimbun, posted July 13, 2013, accessed July 22, 2013, http://www. nikkei.com/article/DGXNASFS1203R_S3A710C1EA1000/. 12. “Heisei 15 nen han kokumin seikatsu hakusho,” Cabinet Office, Government of Japan, published May 30, 2003, accessed July 22, 2013, http://www5.cao.go.jp/seikatsu/whitepaper/h15/honbun/index.html. 13. “Dai 2 setsu: Jakunen sha koyō no fuantei ka no gaikyō,” Chūshō kigyō hakusho, last modified January 28, 2007, accessed July 22, 2013, http:// www.chusho.meti.go.jp/pamflet/hakusyo/h18/H18_hakusyo/h18/ html/i3320000.html. 14. Ibid. 15. See also Hayashi and McKnight (2005) for discussions on the multiple meanings of “state of emergency” and surveillance. 16. “Rojō no kurabu? Jii kōdō? Hansen uttaeru `saundodemo,’ Tōkyō Shibuya,” Asahi Shimbun, October 7, 2003, morning edition. 17. “Shibuya de ‘hansen,’ tekuno dai onkyō (shita): Shisō naikedo rojō wa shin kūkan,” Tokyo Shimbun, October 13, 2003. 18. Ibid. 19. Noiz put the attendance at 500 (Noiz 2011).

Notes  387

20. For an example, see “9.23 Peace walk,” September 2003, accessed July 15, 2013, http://amanakuni.net/terro/923peacewalk.html. 21. Beheiren, “Stop the Killing! Stop the Vietnam War!,” advertisement in Washington Post, April 3, 1967. 22. They can be seen on “Korosuna demo graphics,” Korosuna website, 2003, accessed July 24, 2013, http://www.tententen.net/ korosuna/001/flag.html. 23. “030321 Korosuna demo,” YouTube video, 5:53, from a World Peace Now demonstration in Shiba Park on March 21, 2003, posted by “mos99,” April 14, 2011, accessed July 24, 2013, http://www.youtube. com/watch?v=BzdrVuOQAzM. 24. “Korosuna,” Korosuna website, 2003, accessed July 24, 2013, http:// www.tententen.net/korosuna/001/exhibition.html. 25. “Korosuna demo in Mito Geijutsukan 2003,” YouTube video, 5:55, posted by “exilcommonz,” November 11, 2009, accessed July 22, 2013, http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Jn3XnVqZjW4. 26. “T.C.D.C.,” YouTube video, 6:50, from demonstrations in Tokyo in 2003, posted by “exilcommonz,” June 16, 2009, accessed July 24, 2013, http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EBj7pPuMYck. 27. “It is forbidden to forbid” is reminiscent of Caetano Veloso’s Tropicália-era song “É proibido proibir.” 28. Mkimpo, “Shibuya Street Rave = Sound Demo, 03.7.19,” Also Sprach Mkimpo Kid: Galleria Kamex, last modified March 26, 2008, accessed July 25, 2013, http://www.mkimpo.com/diary/2003/rave_03-07-19. html. 29. ECD found the recording on a compilation CD of songs from commercials. This song was used in an advertisement for Japanese clothing maker Renown. 30. The track can be heard and downloaded from the Ototoy website, accessed July 27, 2013, at http://ototoy.jp/_/default/p/7416. 31. Many Japanese rappers consider matching vowels to be sufficient as rhymes, although some rappers also seek matching or phonetically similar consonants (Manabe 2006a). 32. Katō was one of the founders of the avant-garde performance group Zero Jigen, which was active in the 1960s and ’70s. 33. Dame-ren included those who couldn’t (or wouldn’t) work or maintain relationships or family, making them dame (useless) in the eyes of society. It advocated a free and creative lifestyle that was the antithesis of a capitalist, consumption-oriented society. The group arose in the 1990s with the growth of the freeter population (Mōri 2003: 169–179).

388   Notes

34. The performance can be seen at ,”SET_BUSH_FIRE_pt.2,” from demonstration on October 5, 2003, YouTube video, 9:50, uploaded by “exillcommonz,” June 4, 2010, http://www.youtube.com/ watch?v=MkuC_ JwSVQ8. 35. KY, “ ‘Taiken’: 10/ 5 Saundodemo to Sandoitchi Kisei to Sashidashinin,” Chance! Forum, October 7, 2003, accessed July 27, 2013, http://www.freeml.com/chance-forum/16113. 36. Some ASC members put together an additional sound demonstration on December 24, 2003. 37. “8.3 guruguru Dōtombori demo sono 2,” Rojō kaihō reibu demo (saundo demo) shashinshū, August 2003, accessed July 28, 2013, http://www.oocities.org/tousousyouri/guruguru030803_2.html. 38. “Shirōto no Ran to iu na no omise,” accessed January 1, 2015, http:// trio4.nobody.jp/keita/index.html. 39. “Kochira tokuhō-bu: Saundodemo: Naze tekihatsu (shita): ‘Kubi komaru’ kishuku kōka mo; Kyōbō-zai sudeni kinō shite iru mo dōzen; Bōto-ka kenen de sente?” Tokyo Shimbun, May 22, 2006. 40. intellipunk, “Nobi nobi Irukomonzu demo no yobikake,” Riot Love Letter, July 11, 2008, accessed July 29, 2013, http://www.rll.jp/hood/ action/20080711034259.php. Chapter 5.3









1. Earlier demonstrations after March 11, 2011, included those in front of TEPCO headquarters from March 18 onward; by the Zenkoku Rōdō Kumiai Kōryū Sentaa (National Trade Union Exchange Center) in Shibuya, Tokyo, on March 20; by Gensuikin in Ginza, Tokyo, on March 27; in Kasumigaseki, Tokyo, on March 31; and in Fukuoka on April 9. There were demonstrations in several cities on April 10, including Kamakura, Nagoya, Sapporo, and Toyama, as well as Shiba Park, Tokyo. 2. Some major-label musicians have performed on sound trucks. DJ Tasaka, who records on the Ki-oon (Sony) label, performed in the May 7, 2012, Shirōto no Ran demonstration. However, it is more typical for one to perform in an after-party rather than the demonstration itself. 3. Futatsugi Shin, “Rensai [dokyumento han genpatsu demo (3)]: ‘Tsuittādemo’ to Sayonara Atom,” Webronza (Asahi newspapers), March 5, 2012, http://astand.asahi.com/magazine/wrnational/ special/2012030200020.html. 4. “Datsu Genpatsu demo Shinjuku 6.11 ECD sono 1 saundo kaa,” YouTube video, 14:28, from the Shirōto no Ran antinuclear

Notes  389



















demonstration in Shinjuku, June 11, 2011, uploaded by “29te2,” June 14, 2011, https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Zj41NJZlgNY. 5. Ibid., beginning at 6:02 on the video. 6. Ibid., beginning at 11:15. 7. “Datsu genpatsu demo Shinjuku 6.11 ECD, sono 2: Saundo kaa,” YouTube video, 9:40, from the Shirōto no Ran antinuclear demonstration in Shinjuku, June 11, 2011, uploaded by “29te2,” June 14, 2011, http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Lp1G7MU2gGU. Song begins at 0:25. 8. “2011.4.10 Kōenji Genpatsu yamero demo, Rankin Taxi no DJ,” YouTube video, 5:16, from antinuclear demonstration in Kōenji, uploaded by “mnrokd,” April 10, 2011, http://www.youtube.com/ watch?v=wdEuIJzfT2M. The segment starts around 2:24. See also “Koenji hangenpatsu demo – 3 (2011/4/10)/Anti Nuclear Power Plant Tokyo,” YouTube video, 1:35, uploaded by “juichinoguchi,” April 10, 2011, http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CgGXq3LAyzc. 9. “6.11 Shinjuku Hangenpatsu demo, Ishida-san to Shinco,” YouTube video, 8:49, from antinuclear demonstration in Shinjuku, June 11, 2011, uploaded by “wwwzubarjp,” June 13, 2011, http://www.youtube.com/ watch?v=iK-ape9SldU. Call-and-response pattern begins around 1:23. 10. “410 Kōenji hangenpatsu demo ichibu shijū daijesuto,” YouTube video, 9:58, from antinuclear demonstration in Kōenji, April 11, 2011, uploaded by “ekkyocenter,” April 10, 2011, http://www.youtube.com/ watch?v=NkqDGkXneqE. 11. In Germany, Sprechchor had been popular in the drama and literature of the workers’ movement of the 1920s and was appropriated later by the Nazis (Von Wilpert 1989: 878–879). 12. “Hangenpatsu demo, 4.10 Kōenji, DJ Mayuri,” YouTube video from antinuclear demonstration in Kōenji, April 10, 2011, uploaded by “wwwzubarjp,” April 10, 2011, http://www.youtube.com/ watch?v=JU8hdWbOK9c. Sequence begins at 1:02. 13. “2011-04-10 NO NUKES! DEMONSTRATION @TOKYO JAPAN,” YouTube video, 4:22, uploaded by “420herbal420,” April 10, 2011, http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DXisN_Vj9zo. 14. “5/7 Genpatsu yamero! Demo Shirōto no Ran @ Shibuya DANCE Bloc (DJ Tasaka),” YouTube video, 3:27, from antinuclear demonstration in Shibuya, May 7, 2011, uploaded by “kunpy0905,” May 8, 2011, http:// www.youtube.com/watch?v=XgurkrAZd6E. 15. Tanaka Ryūsaku, “Shinjuku Aruta zen kakoikomi, ‘9 11 datsu genpatsu demo’ ni sonae,” Tanaka Ryūsaku Journal, September 10, 2011, http:// tanakaryusaku.jp/2011/09/0002881.

390   Notes

16. A map of the changed route and a video of the proceedings can be seen at “9.11 Shinjuku Genpatsu yamero demo!!!!!!,” accessed May 2, 2014, http://911shinjuku.tumblr.com/?og=1. 17. “911 Shinjuku genpatsu yamero demo, Taiho no shunkan, Minamiguchi Kōshū Kaidō/11,spt,2011,” YouTube video, uploaded by Wattan Walid, https://youtu.be/gwzyPqyDc28?t=1m10s. 18. “2011. 9. 11 Shinjuku Genpatsu yamero demo ECD saundo demo!” YouTube video, 16:45, from antinuclear demonstration in Shinjuku, uploaded by “2011catharsis,” September 11, 2011, http://www.youtube. com/watch?v=f0OqKfMWh8Y. 19. See demonstration web page at http://911shinjuku.tumblr.com/. 20. The Communist Party of Japan has held a small number of seats in the Diet for decades. It has consistently backed workers’ causes and opposed nuclear power. Currently, it is seen as a liberal party rather than one advocating a centralized communist system. 21. Matsumoto, “Zendaimimon,” Matsumoto Hajime no nobi nobi daisakusen. 22. Futatsugi, “Rensai,” Webronza. 23. Ibid. 24. Shirōto no Ran also published a guide to demonstrations on the web. 25. “Doramu saakuraa no Morishita Kōen,” YouTube video, 0:29, uploaded by “nikepolitics,” May 16, 2010, https://www.youtube.com/ watch?v=UIjN5N-619A. 26. For example, see “1.29 hangenpatsu demo @ Shibuya. Harajuku TwitNoNukes,” YouTube video, 11:36, uploaded by “rioakiyama,” January 30, 2012, https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JrdBp0bvO-c. 27. The actual quote is, “If a man does not keep pace with his companions, perhaps it is because he hears a different drummer. Let him step to the music which he hears, however measured or far away” (Thoreau 1904: 251). 28. The first time was before the demonstration on March 11, 2012, the one-year anniversary of the disaster, when the group wanted to exhibit mournfulness. The second was for the Datsu Genpatsu Suginami demonstration on May 6, commemorating the shutdown of all nuclear reactors in Japan for maintenance, when the group wanted to be celebratory. The third was in August 2012, when the group had been invited to participate in a bon dance in Kōenji, prompting it to put together an ondō-rhythm version of “Meltdown Blues,” an improvisation popularized in demonstrations in July 2012.

Notes  391

29. “2012.7.6 Doramu-tai no shusō kantei-mae genpatsu saikadō hantai demo,” YouTube video, 10:42, from an antinuclear protest in front of the prime minister’s office, uploaded by “nvdataisuke,” July 6, 2012, https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ugt7uHkFHWc. 30. While TDC continued to maintain an open membership with a strategically amateur philosophy, without repertoire or specific divisions of roles for players, spinoff groups requiring greater musical skills formed. In 2013, some members of TDC who wanted a more musical way of protesting formed the brass marching band Nora Brigade. As of October 2013, the band had about fifteen members including Oda. He believed all the members had some connection with TDC, with some members continuing to play in both groups. The repertoire included songs played by the Infernal Noise Brigade. In addition, a samba-style drum group called Samba Planeta (as of early 2014, reorganized as Samba na Rua) was also participating in antinuclear demonstrations; this group was formed separately from TDC. Oda continued to espouse TDC’s open format to attract new members, and he expected that members who wanted to play more challenging music would form spinoff groups (Oda Masanori, interview with the author, October 19, 2013). 31. Akuryō, “Akuryō: 311 kara no kotoba,” interview in Bmr, accessed July 8, 2013, http://bmr.jp/feature/60138. 32. The September 19, 2011, demonstration did not feature a sound truck, although the drum corps participated. All other No Nukes All Star demos had sound trucks. 33. Akuryō’s “No Nukes” can be heard at http://www.youtube.com/ watch?v=XHEuSy0egkE; “For Children” can be heard at http://www. youtube.com/watch?v=f6UaabMdAn0. 34. “2012/5/20 Tokyo/Yoyogi Kōen No Nukes All Star Demo 4_3,” YouTube video, 42:36, uploaded by “@Free_ Journal,” May 20, 2012, https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yGvHAGWEyJM. 35. For the May 2012 demo, Noma played break beats of Fela Kuti, reggae, and dub; at the demonstrations of July and later, he added rock and funk. In December, he began using Ableton Live, which arranges prerecorded clips along a grid and allows DJs to pick which ones are played in real time (Noma, interview with the author). 36. “2012.07.07 NO NUKES! ALL ST☆R DEMO 5《5/7》Saundo kaa kōshin,” YouTube Video, 1:13:26, uploaded by “ken23qu,” July 7, 2012, http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=E-86MPCs8GA. 37. i Zoom i Rockers, with ECD, Akuryō, and ATS, “i Zoom i Rockers Antinuclear Demonstration July 29 2012 Round 1,” Mixcloud, uploaded

392   Notes













by “nmanabe,” March 2014, http://www.mixcloud.com/nmanabe/i-z oom-i-rockers-antinuclear-demonstration-july-29-2012-round-1/. 38. “2012.07.29 Datsu genpatsu kokkai dai hōi, 3/4, Saundokā by Akuryō ta,” YouTube video, 26:04, from antinuclear demonstration in Hibiya, uploaded by “ken23qu,” July 29, 2012, http://www.youtube.com/ watch?v=iryE3UXJAo4. 39. Ibid., at 14:14. 40. Ibid., at 19:00. 41. Akuryō’s March 2013 performance can be seen at http://www.youtube. com/watch?v=1zPPwFotNTY. His July 2012 performance can be seen at https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fiN41nvuUTI. 42. “Genpatsu kadō zero’ to kotaeta gakusei wa tatta 15%—handai ichinensei e no ankeeto de,” Alterna, accessed October 21, 2013, http:// www.alterna.co.jp/11771. 43. “ATS in Front of TEPCO, W/ ECD, I Zoom I Rockers, October 13, 2013 Antinuclear Demonstration,” YouTube video, 1:38, uploaded by “protestresearch,” October 20, 2013, https://www.youtube.com/ watch?v=A_dHqCT9jzI. 44. “3.10.2013 Antinuclear Protest, MCAN, Tokyo, Use of Speakers,” YouTube video, 0:56, uploaded by “protestresearch,” September 18, 2013, https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8rwdoE_rppE. 45. “3.10.2013 Antinuclear Protest, MCAN, in Front of LDP Offices,” YouTube video, 0:46, uploaded by “protestresearch,” September 18, 2013, https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FKbkoQzTxIc.

Chapter 5.4





1. Reverberation is defined as “the repeated reflection of a sound from hard surfaces” (Gorse et al., “Reverberation,” A Dictionary of Construction, Surveying and Civil Engineering, Oxford University Press, 2013, http://www.oxfordreference.com). In an enclosed space, reverberation is the accumulation of reflections from previously articulated sounds (Blesser and Salter 2006: 23). It can be heard as a prolongation of the original sound. 2. “@demo_jhks Datsu genpatsu-kei demo jōhō kakusan,” accessed July 9, 2013, http://demojhks.seesaa.net/. 3. “Kōenji genpatsu yamero demo!!!!! 03: Gaado-ka to ekimae de kanade rareta merodi,” YouTube video, 8:23, from a demonstration in Kōenji, Tokyo on April 10, 2011, posted by Shimada Akira, April 10, 2011, http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xn0QsxUg8nk.

Notes  393















4. “6.11 Genpatsu yametemo ee ja nai ka/ Jintaramūta + chindon yūshi,” YouTube video, 3:12, from a demonstration in Shinjuku on June 11, 2011, uploaded by “JazzArt2011,” June 13, 2011, https://www.youtube. com/watch?v=hsugsQ_qVqM. 5. “Shibuya Sentaa-gai webusaito,” accessed May 6, 2014, http:// center-gai.jp/info/. 6. “2011-04-10 NO NUKES! DEMONSTRATION @TOKYO JAPAN Kōenji hangenpatsu demo 02,” YouTube video, 4:22, uploaded by “420herbal420,” April 10, 2011, http://www.youtube.com/ watch?v=DXisN_Vj9zo. 7. “Hangenpatsu demo 4.10 Kōenji DJ Mayuri,” YouTube video, 3:23, from a demonstration in Kōenji, uploaded by “wwwzubarjp,” April 10, 2011, http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JU8hdWbOK9c. 8. The name “Hello Work” has been appropriated by rap groups Scha Dara Parr, Sly Mongoose, and Robochū for their combined unit. 9. “Tokyo Shibuya-ku, Miyashita Kōen, Naiki ni Meimei-ken baikyaku keikaku,” Pinpon! (TBS Television, June 12, 2008). 10. A good digest of this demonstration can be seen at “8.26 Hangenpatsu demo @ Shibuya/ Harajuku—TwitNoNukes,” YouTube video, 10:51, from the August 26, 2012, TwitNoNukes demonstration, uploaded by “rioakiyama,” http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6cWqXi8kfDE. 11. The Hanae Mori building was demolished in 2010, with reconstruction completed in early 2013. The new building, which houses Emporio Armani, has a glass exterior, as did its predecessor. 12. “5 gatsu 7 no ka Shibuya hangenpatsu demo: DJ TASAKA no DJ,” YouTube video, 5:57, from a demonstration in Shibuya on May 7, 2011, uploaded by Kosaka Ryouji, May 7, 2011, http://www.youtube.com/ watch?v=PON_-F0b1sA. 13. “5/7 Genpatsu yamero! Demo Shirōto no Ran @ Shibuya, DANCE Bloc (DJ Tasaka), YouTube video, 3:27, from an antinuclear demonstration in Shibuya, May 7, 2011, uploaded by “kunpy0905,” May 8, 2011, http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XgurkrAZd6E.

Chapter 6



1. Writing on music festivals and politics includes Garofalo (2005) and Street (2012) on mega-events like Live Aid; Dowd, Liddle, and Nelson (2004) on the intensity of experience and boundary-setting in music festivals; Arcodia and Whitford (2006) on social capital and music festivals; Bennett (2004) on Woodstock; Bennett, Woodward, and

394   Notes













Taylor (2014) on festival culture; and Okada (2003, 2004) on Japanese rock festivals. 2. See McKay (1996, 2000) for a discussion of several politically themed events in Britain that expressed politics through the lifestyle or culture of the event. 3. “Vision and Mission Statement,” Hillside Festival, accessed April 16, 2014, http://www.hillsidefestival.ca/vision-and-mission-statement. 4. Not all music festivals are idyllic: See Johnson and Cloonan (2009) for an account of violence at the 1999 Woodstock Festival. 5. For example, “Purotesto Songu Taikai: Betonamu to Okinawa to Wareware jishin no tame ni” (Protest Song Convention: For Vietnam, Okinawa, and Ourselves) took place on March 20, 1969, at Osaka Sankei Hall, featuring Takaishi, Okabayashi, Nakagawa Gorō, and Takada. A Beheiren event, “69 Hansen fōku to tōron no tsudoi” (1969 meeting of antiwar folk and discussion), took place on January 11, 1969 (Maeda and Hirahara 1993: 244). 6. The group is named after the 1966 Frank Zappa song, “Who Are the Brain Police.” 7. “Uta to odori to ronsō to: Sanrizuka no hansen matsuri,” Asahi Shimbun, August 15, 1971, society section. 8. “Gen’ya: 71 Nihon gen’ya-sai jikkyō rokuon ban,” Yajū Densetsu (blog), January 25, 2004, http://www33.ocn.ne.jp/~shinma/musics/ musics031.html. 9. “Uta to odori to ronsō to: Sanrizuka no hansen matsuri,” Asahi Shimbun, August 15, 1971, society section. 10. See Mitsui (2013) and Dorsey (2013) for background on the folk movement. 11. As of early 2014, Asada was dean of the Graduate School at the Kyoto University of Art and Design. Hosaka was a member of the Lower House of the Diet and is currently the mayor of Setagaya Ward. 12. See website at nonukes2012.jp. 13. “Live Fukushima: Kaze to rokku sūpa nomaoi,” BS Nippon Television, November 6, 2011, http://www.bs4.jp/guide/music/live_fukushima/. 14. “Sakamoto Ryūichi, datsu genpatsu fesu: ‘Negai wa hikaku-ka desu,’” NTV News 24, March 27, 2012, http://www.news24.jp/entertainment/ news/1622067.html. 15. Ibid. 16. Sakamoto Ryuichi, “2013 nen e! Sakamoto Ryūichi no genzai,” interview by Suzuki Masafumi, GQ Japan, January 16, 2013, http:// gqjapan.jp/2013/01/16/sakamotoryuichi2013/.

Notes  395

17. Sakamoto Ryūichi, “Sakamoto Ryūichi-san, dōshite ongakuka nano ni datsu genpatsu nan desu ka?: Zenpen,” interview by Monju-kun, Blogos, December 28, 2012, http://blogos.com/article/53085/?axis=b:36649. 18. Edan Corkill, “Sakamoto Gently Rallies the Troops for No Nukes 2012,” Japan Times, July 5, 2012, http:// www.japantimes.co.jp/culture/2012/07/05/music/ sakamoto-gently-rallies-the-troops-for-no-nukes-2012/. 19. “Message from MUSICIANS UNITED FOR SAFE ENERGY,” YouTube video, 2:57, posted by “NoNukes2012Official,” July 20, 2012, http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=k29ijfewujs. 20. Diamond Version is a band formed by Byetone and Alva Noto. The latter often collaborates with Sakamoto. 21. Diamond Version, “Statement for ‘No Nukes’ Japan 2012,” YouTube video, 0:46, posted by “DiamondVersionTV,” June 28, 2012, http:// www.youtube.com/watch?v=5fTWS7WBKgA. 22. “Katsupōgi-zu ‘Love Me Tender,’” YouTube video, 6:06, posted by “TidanowaTidanowa,” May 14, 2012, http://www.youtube.com/ watch?v=DKQlL6QWmjs. 23. An area map of the event can be seen at http://nonukes2012.jp/ areamap. 24. Photos from the concert can be found at “NO NUKES 2012 Quick Report,” Rockin’ On, July 2012, https://ro69.jp/quick/nonukes2012/. 25. These songs are discussed in detail in Manabe, Revolution Remixed: A Typology of Intertextuality in Protest Songs (Oxford University Press, forthcoming). 26. The song gained fame in the United States under the name “Sukiyaki”; it rose to No. 1 on the Billboard charts in 1963. 27. The performance can be seen at “Kraftwerk: Radioactivity (No Nukes 2012, Tokio, Japan),” YouTube video, 6:38, from No Nukes 2012 Concert in Tokyo, July 7, 2012, uploaded by “Kraftwerk CZ,” July 28, 2012, https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IWsQ gmq-fNs. 28. This song is discussed in Manabe, Revolution Remixed. 29. Mita Itaru, “(Hyō Ongaku): Ierō Majikku Ōkesutora: Keikai-sa ni hisomu datsu genpatsu no omomi,” Asahi Shimbun, July 23, 2012, evening edition, culture/arts section. 30. Sakamoto Ryūichi, “Sakamoto Ryūichi-san, dōshite ongakuka nano ni datsu genpatsu nan desu ka?: Zenpen,” interview by Monju-kun, Blogos, December 28, 2012, http://blogos.com/article/53085/?axis=b:36649. 31. “NO NUKES 2012 kaikei hōkoku,” No Nukes 2012, accessed October 2, 2013, http://nonukes2012.jp/earningscall.

396   Notes

32. Sakamoto Ryūichi, “Sakamoto Ryūichi-san, dōshite ongakuka nano ni datsu genpatsu nan desu ka?: Zenpen,” interview by Monju-kun, Blogos. 33. Ibid. 34. The money was split evenly between Fukushima Pokapoka Purojekuto, Kodomo-tachi o Hōshanō Kara Mamoru Fukushima Nettowāku Hoyō Bumon, NPO Hōjin Idō Hoiku Purojekuto, and Okinawa Kumi no Sato. 35. “Futabamachi Chōchō + Funabashi Kantoku Kara No Messēji Kara Bangumi Shūryō Made,” No Nukes 2012 Ustream Channel, July 8, 2012, http://www.ustream.tv/recorded/23851105. 36. These and other clips can be seen on the No Nukes 2013 website at http://nonukes2013.jp/movie/. 37. The text and video for Itō’s performance in the September 11, 2011, demonstration can be found at “Hairo seyo hairo seyo hairo seyo: Itō Seikō-shi ×DUB MASTER X ‘9 11 genpatsu yamero demo’ de no poetorī rīdingu,” Associations.jp, September 14, 2011, http:// associations.jp/archives/488. 38. “Sakamoto Ryūichi and Namba Akihiro, ‘No More Fuckin’ Nukes 2013’ nit suite rajio de kataru,” Rockin’ On, May 1, 2013, http://ro69.jp/ news/detail/81688. 39. Tsune Masahiko is a trio of punk drummers: Tsuneoka Akira (Hi-Standard and Cubismo Grafico Five), Murakami Masato (Hellbent), and Hiko (Gauze). 40. Koike Hirokazu, “No More Fuckin’ Nukes @ Shibuya-AX: Hōgaku raibu repōto,” Rockin’ On, July 14, 2013, http://ro69.jp/live/ detail/85316. 41. Namba and his band cancelled their appearance due to an injury. 42. “Ex-Prime Ministers Call for Nuclear-Free Japan at Rock Festival,” Japan Times Online, September 30, 2014, http://www.japantimes. co.jp/news/2014/09/30/national/ex-prime-ministers-call-nuclear-f ree-japan-rock-festival/. 43. See http://nonukes2014.net/earningscall. 44. See McKay (2000) for the history, political orientation, and ambience of Glastonbury. 45. Okada claims that after the rock festivals of the 1960s and ’70s (Okada 2004), there was a thirty-year hiatus until Fuji Rock (Okada 2003). Nonetheless, there were other popular music festivals: Japansplash, a reggae festival organized by Takion from 1985 to 1997, attracted an audience of 50,000 and featured eighty Jamaican artists in its final year (Katō Manabu, president of Takion, interview with the author, Tokyo, January 8, 2009). As of 2014, Rock in Japan in Hitachinaka

Notes  397



















City, Ibaragi prefecture, which attracted 177,000 people in 2013; and Summer Sonic, which has acts alternating on different days in Osaka and Tokyo, are among the largest festivals. The many regional festivals include Rising Sun in Hokkaidō, which attracted 57,000 in 2013; Arabaki Rock in Tōhoku; and Monster Bash in Shikoku. Rock festivals that include NGO booths include Rising Sun (which includes only Hokkaidō-based NGOs) and Summer Sonic. 46. “Glastonbury Festivals—Information—The Festival’s Objectives,” accessed September 23, 2013, http://www.glastonburyfestivals.co.uk/ Information/what-is-glastonbury/the-festivals-objectives. 47. “What Is Fuji Rock? Enjoy the Festival!” Fuji Rock Festival ’13, accessed September 22, 2013, http://www.smash-uk.com/frf13/about.html. 48. Hidaka Masahiro, “Taishō ni totsugeki intabyū! Ima, doushitemo kiite okitai koto!,” interview by Rika, Fuji Rockers Blog, June 15, 2011, http://fujirockers.org/11/?p=1088. 49. Hidaka Masahiro, “Ki ni naru hanashi ga moridakusan, taishō intabyū, kaijō-hen,” interview by Kondō, Eriko, fujirockers.org, 2012, http:// fujirockers.org/12/?p=1271. 50. Nagata Natsuki, “Atomikku Kafetōku [Sakamoto Ryūichi, Takahashi Yukihiro, Hosono Haruomi, Katō Tokiko, Sawai Masako, Hani Kanta],” Fuji Rock Express, July 31, 2011, http://fujirockexpress. net/11/5630.html. 51. Dr. Ihara, “Dr. Ihara interview: Shutsuensha to shite, fuji rokkaazu to shite,” fujirockers.org, interview by Nishino Taiki, 2012, http:// fujirockers.org/12/?p=1904. 52. “[Benefit for NIPPON]—Fuji Rock’s Project to Support Recoverey [sic] from Japan Earthquake,” Fuji Rock Festival ’11, accessed September 20, 2013, http://www.smash-uk.com/frf11/news_pickup.html#env. 53. See Monju-kun dance to “Monju-kun ondo” on this subtitled video: “Monjukun ondo with English subtitles,” YouTube video, 2:24, from performance at Fuji Rock Festival in July 2012, uploaded by “protestresearch,” July 29, 2015, https://youtu.be/KPo1MtE6Q4c. 54. See their video, a parody of an introductory sequence for a television show, at “Zettai genshiryoku sentai Suishinjaa,” YouTube video, 2:24, uploaded by “akafunndosi,” January 14, 2012, http://www.youtube. com/watch?v=0AcQ JE_R0iw. 55. An audience member’s video can be seen at “Tsuda Daisuke, Monju-kun, Okome Takeru no Ichiza @FUJI ROCK FESTIVAL’13,NEW POWER GEAR Stage / Gypsy Avalon,” YouTube video, 28:47, uploaded by “sakai satoru,” July 30, 2013, https://www. youtube.com/watch?v=RE8MVuVFr7A.

398   Notes

56. The “peace” hand gesture is a standard photo-taking pose in Japan. 57. Ōtomo Yoshihide, “The Role of Culture: After the Earthquake and Man-Made Disasters in Fukushima,” lecture at Tokyo University of the Arts, April 28, 2011, translated by Isozaki Mia, http://www. japanimprov.com/yotomo/fukushima/lecture.html. 58. “Za Sutaarin 246—Genpatsu buruuzu @ Sekai dōji tahatsu fesutibaru FUKUSHIMA!,” YouTube video, 5:21, from a performance at Project Fukushima festival, August 15, 2011, posted by DAX-Space Shower Digital Archives X, October 21, 2011, http://www.youtube.com/ watch?v=pJgmncdkDfw. 59. Ōtomo Yoshihide, “The Role of Culture: After the Earthquake and Man-Made Disasters in Fukushima.” 60. Ishii Kizashi, “ ‘Purojekuto FUKUSHIMA!’ kara kangaeru,” synopsis of talks by Ōtomo Yoshihide and Mōri Yoshitaka, Tokyo Bunka Hasshin Project, Tokyo Art Research Lab, December 19, 2012, http:// www.tarl.jp/cat_report/5526.html. 61. Ōtomo Yoshihide, “Atarashī nichijō,” Ōtomo Yoshihide no JAMJAM nikki (blog), September 11, 2011, http://d.hatena.ne.jp/ otomojamjam/20110911. 62. The number 246 stands for the time of the earthquake on 3.11 (2:46 p.m.; Endō, interview) 63. Yamagishi Seinoshin, “Repooto Purojekuto FUKUSHIMA! Purojekuto shidō no ikisatsu,” Project Fukushima, 2012, http://www. pj-fukushima.jp/page/report2011_05.php. 64. Ibid. 65. Ibid. 66. Yamagishi Seinoshin, “Repooto Purojekuto FUKUSHIMA!,” p. 5.    67. “Muryō natsu fesu, shusshin aatisuto ga tezukuri natsu no ensō, Fukushima waku” Asahi Shimbun, September 5, 2011, http://www. asahi.com/culture/news_culture/TKY201109050094.html. 68. Moriguchi Hideshi, “[TV] ETV tokushū: ‘Kibō o Fukushima no chi kara: Purojekuto fukushima! no chosen,’” Multi Culture Review (blog), October 10, 2011, http://yui-planning.asablo.jp/blog/2011/10/10/6144714. 69. A collection of Twitter comments can be seen at http://togetter.com/ li/198726. 70. Ōtomo Yoshihide, “Monju-kun no ‘Zubari kikimasu dayo!’ Dai 4 kai: Zenhen: Jeje! Ōtomo-san, ‘Ama-chan’ wa 2011 nen natsu no Fukushima kara hajimatte ita, tte dōiu imi desu ka?” interview by Monju-kun, Blogos, August 9, 2013, http://blogos.com/ article/67859/?p=5.

Notes  399

71. “Heisei 23-nendo geijutsu senshō jushō-sha oyobi zōshō riyū,” March 13, 2012, http://www.bunka.go.jp/ 72. Ōtomo Yoshihide, “Jeje! Ōtomo-san, ‘Ama-chan’ kara ‘chūō to shūhen’ no mondai o kangaeta, tte dō iu koto desu ka?” interview by Monju-kun, Blogos, August 11, 2013, http://blogos.com/article/67909/. Chapter 7

1. Since 3.11, Zeebra has released one double album (Black World/ White Heat, 2011) and one full-length album (25 to Life, 2013) on the Sony sub-label Ariola Japan. On those two albums, the only song that makes any reference to nuclear issues is “Fire feat. Zeebra (No Nukes Rebirth).” However, the lyrics are not about nuclear power at all, but rather about the lameness of current commercial rap. Zeebra invokes the imagery of the atomic and fire bombing of Japan during World War II as a metaphor for clearing out bad rappers and starting anew (“I’ll drop you nuclear bombs of music continuously from an aerial bomber. Shall I completely burn it down one more time?”). 2. See Cather (2012) for case studies on obscenity lawsuits in literature, film, and manga in the postwar era. 3. RIAJ, “Rekōdo Rinri Shinsa-Kai’ ga hatashite kita yakuwari,” Record, vol. 645, August 2013, 3–6. 4. Ibid., 4. 5. Ibid., 6. 6. “Fukushima han-nen: ikikata kaeru yūki o,” Nishi-nihon Shimbun, September 15, 2011, quoted in Nakamura Ryūichi, “Minna de genpatsu o yameru doryoku o, ikikata o chenji suru yūki o: Katō Tokiko,” Kaze no Tayori, September 15, 2011, http://www.windfarm.co.jp/blog/ blog_kaze/post-6510. 7. The track listing for the album can be seen on the discography of Katō’s website, at http://www.tokiko.com/discography/disco_1990/ disco1990_tokiko_cry.html. The album also contains the songs “Chernobyl” and “Hiroshima,” making her antinuclear stance clear. 8. Gotō Masafumi, “Randomaaku zenkyoku kaisetsu: ‘N2,’” Vo. Gocchi no nikki, January 11, 2013, http://6109.jp/akg_gotch/?blog=288026. 9. Visual-kei is a subgenre of rock with a heavy emphasis on visual presentation, involving elaborate makeup, costumes, and (usually) androgynous aesthetics. Its musical style draws from heavy metal and glam rock. It became popular in the 1990s with bands like X Japan. See Inoue (2003).

400   Notes

10. “2011 nen ongaku sofuto shijō: AKB ga nenkan shea ichii—King Rekōdo ga Top 5 hairi,” Oricon, January 20, 2012, http://www.oricon. co.jp/news/rankmusic/2005933/full/. 11. “Natarii Power Push—Acid Black Cherry: Ima shika dekinai arubamu 2011,” interview by Mori Tomoyuki, Natalie, March 21, 2012, http:// natalie.mu/music/pp/acidblackcherry. 12. Ibid. 13. “Doomsday Clock moves to five minutes to midnight,” Bulletin of the Atomic Scientists, January 10, 2012, http://www.thebulletin.org. 14. This cover art can be seen in the Amazon.co.jp entry for the CD, at http://www.amazon.co.jp/gp/product/B006ZSTJNU/ref=as_li_qf_ sp_asin_tl?ie=UTF8&camp=247&creative=1211&creativeASIN=B00 6ZSTJNU&linkCode=as2&tag=uprise-22 15. “Coma-Chi—Say ‘NO’!” YouTube video, 3:11, posted by “ahomako908” on April 29, 2011, http://youtu.be/54quNUPHCD4. 16. See Sterling (2010) for a discussion of Japanese idealizations of Jamaican culture. 17. Kabuki Masao, “Okamoto Tarō to genpatsu to ‘Tohō mo nai seimei ryoku,’” Mainichi Shimbun, July 17, 2011. 18. Ōsugi Kōji (curator, Okamoto Tarō Museum of Art), “Tokubetsu kikō Taiyō no Tō ni tsuite kangaeru koto,” Gekkan okonomi kaki, June 2000, http://homepage1.nifty.com/okonomigaki/200006/top1.html. 19. The Japanese lyrics can be found at http://j-lyric.net/artist/a000db4/ l02689b.html. 20. The Japanese lyrics can be found at http://j-lyric.net/artist/a0006b7/ l029f0b.html. 21. Gotō Masafumi, “Randomaaku zenkyoku kaisetsu: ‘A to Z,’” Vo. Gotch no nikki, January 15, 2013, http://6109.jp/akg_gotch/?blog=288534. 22. All lyrics are translated from the original Japanese by the author unless otherwise noted. The Trans-Pacific Partnership is believed to be disadvantageous to Japanese farmers, who don’t have the economies of scale that farm holdings in the United States and other countries enjoy. Words and Music by Kiyoshi Ijichi and Massafumi Goto. Copyright © 2012 Sony Music Publishing (Japan) Inc. All Rights Administered by Sony/ATV Music Publishing LLC, 424 Church Street, Suite 1200, Nashville, TN 37219, International Copyright Secured All Rights Reserved. Reprinted by Permission of Hal Leonard Corporation.   23. Monju-kun, “Fukushima kara no otegami,” http://monjukun. com/20120819otegami.html.

Notes  401

24. The blogs were under the “Diary” section of Quruli’s website at http:// www.quruli.net/diary/ until the group set up its own management company in 2015. 25. “SOS from Mayor of Minami Soma City, next to the crippled Fukushima nuclear power plant, Japan,” 11:12, uploaded by “p4minamisoma,” March 26, 2011, http://www.youtube.com/ watch?v=70ZHQ--cK40. 26. The Japanese lyrics can be found at http://j-lyric.net/artist/a000786/ l02a039.html. 27. Strictly speaking, the pedal steel guitar is being played in a Nashville style. Nevertheless, the Japanese association of the steel-guitar timbre with the beach is strong, as Fellezs found in his ethnographic work with Japanese steel-guitar players (p.c.). 28. This high concentration of nuclear reactors in Fukui would be meaningful to the members of Quruli. They are all native of Kyoto prefecture, which is next to Fukui. Antinuclear activists believe that an accident at a nuclear reactor in Fukui could endanger Biwa Lake, the freshwater supply to much of the Kansai region. 29. Translations into Japanese were provided in the liner notes. 30. Kishida Shigeru, Quruli on Web: Diary, September 7, 2012, http://www. quruli.net. 31. Inoue Keiichirō and Sugimoto Takashi, “Sunflowers next to Useless for Nuclear Decontamination,” Asia and Japan Watch, Asahi Shimbun, September 17, 2011, http://ajw.asahi.com/article/0311disaster/ fukushima/AJ2011091710916. 32. The artist Tezuka Osamu himself, however, was antinuclear. See Tezuka Osamu, “Boku mo genpatsu ni hantai desu,” Zusetsu kiken na hanashi: Fushigi de fuan na genshiryoku hatsuden no koto, 1989, http:// www.laputa-jp.com/school/teduka.html. 33. A shortened video can be seen at “Everybody Feels the Same,” 2:16, Quruli, July 13, 2012, http://www.youtube.com/ watch?v=oaPf418e_AU. 34. This section has many of the characteristics of a pre-chorus (such as building momentum) but it is not followed by a chorus. At the end of the song, its chords are used for a refrain comprised of words from the title. 35. Kishida has said that he became aware of the existence of nuclear power plants in these countries after the song had been completed. Quruli, “Premium Interview Quruli,” Space Shower TV, September 13, 2012. 36. Gotō Masafumi, “Randomaaku zenkyoku kaisetsu: ‘N2.’”

402   Notes

37. The Japanese lyrics can be found at http://j-lyric.net/artist/a0006b7/ l027022.html. Words and Music by Kiyoshi Ijichi and Massafumi Goto. Copyright © 2012 Sony Music Publishing (Japan) Inc. All Rights Administered by Sony/ATV Music Publishing LLC, 424 Church Street, Suite 1200, Nashville, TN 37219. International Copyright Secured, All Rights Reserved. Reprinted by Permission of Hal Leonard Corporation. 38. The spirit is mimicked, but not the actual notes or intervals. Lennon spans a fourth (ˆ8-/ˆ6 -ˆ5, / marking the strong beat); Saitō, a minor third (ˆ5-/ˆ5-ˆ3). 39. See Haraguchi on “Accent” and Kubozono on “Mora and Syllable” in Tsujimura (1999). 40. Gotō Masafumi, “Randomaaku zenkyoku kaisetsu: ‘N2.’” 41. Dubbed by Walter Everett (1999, 2001), the double-plagal cadence is comprised of two successive plagal cadences (i.e., ♭VII-IV-I, in G, F-C-G). It is heard in the Beatles’ “With a Little Help from My Friends.” Chapter 8



1. “Kuwata Keisuke, toshikoshi raibu ni tsuite rajio de setsumei to shazai,” Natalie, January 18, 2015, http://natalie.mu/music/news/136438. 2. Recordings by independent artists, like Rankin Taxi’s “You Can’t See It, You Can’t Smell It Either” and Rumi’s “Jaaku na hōshanō,” were released in the first period (March–September 2011), but as downloads for donation on DIY Hearts, rather than as commercial recordings. 3. Hōdō Suteeshon (TV Asahi, June 30, 2014). 4. SASPL’s performance can be seen at “SASPL Car, pro-Democracy Demonstration, Tokyo, Shibuya, August 2, 2014,” YouTube video, 0:57, uploaded by “protestresearch,” August 8, 2014, https://www.youtube. com/watch?v=JZPht5A-6po. 5. A performance at the Peace on Earth Concert on March 8, 2015, can be seen at “Ese Taimaazu Raibu [Peace On Earth 2015] 2015.3.8 @Hibiya Kōen,” YouTube video, 47:53 uploaded by “shu chu,” March 8, 2015, https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TqqtjfUC6O4.

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Discography A-Musik. 1984. E ku iroju. Zeitgenössische Musik, DI-830. Acid Black Cherry. 2012. 2012. Avex, AVCD-32202, https://itunes.apple.com/us/ album/2012/id508680332. Asian Kung-Fu Generation. 2012. Landmark. Ki-oon Records, https://itunes.apple.com/us/ album/landmark/id566030309. The Best of Godzilla, 1954–1975 Gojira. 1998. GNP Crescendo. Cicala-Muta. 2004. Ghost Circus. Little More Records, TLCA1011. Coma-chi. 2011. Taiyō o yobu shōnen. Queen’s Room, QRCD 1001. Dengaryū and Young-G. 2012. B kyū eiga no youni 2. Mary Joy Recordings, https://itunes. apple.com/us/album/bkyu-eiga-no-youni-2/id514293249. ECD. 1989. “Pico Curie.” Major Force, 10MF009; File Records, YGAS-71. Endō Michirō. 2015. Fukushima. Hokkyoku Bakuteria, NB1016. Gotch. 2014. Can’t Be Forever Young. Only In Dreams, ODCP-006. Inoue Makoto. 1982–84. Gojira densetsu. King Records. Jintaramūta and Likkle Mai. 2012. “Heiwa ni ikiru kenri.” MK&RM, MKRM-2012. Quruli. 2012. Rutsubo no borutsu. Victor Entertainment. https://itunes.apple.com/us/album/ voltage-of-melting-pot/id557529633 Rankin Taxi. 1989. Kajidaa. Vivid Sound, VSCD5444.

Bibliography  417 ——— . 1996. Wa ta ting. Media Remorasu. MRCA-10048. ——— . 2011. “Dare mo mienai, nioi mo nai.” DIY Stars, http://www.diystars.net/hearts/ DL0031.html. Saitō Kazuyoshi. 2011. 45 Stones. Japan Victor, VIZL-545, https://itunes.apple.com/jp/ album/45-stones/id467340934?l=en. Scha Dara Parr. 2011. 3000. Melody Fair, SDP-001. Scott-Heron, Gil. 1971. Pieces of a Man. Flying Dutchman Records, FD 10143. Shing02 and Hunger. 2011. “Kakumei wa terebi ni utsuranai.” Empire22, http://e22.com/ notv/.

Videography Aoike Kenji. 2003. Nihon Gen’yasai—Sanrizuka. DVD, vol. FLPB-001. Tokyo:  Flying Publishers.

PER MISSIONS

Ikura anzen demo gomenda Words and Music by Rankin Taxi Reprinted by Permission from Rankin Taxi Dare ni mo mienai, nioi mo nai Words and Music by Rankin Taxi Reprinted by Permission from Rankin Taxi Yūkoto kikuyō na yatsura ja naizo Words and Music by ECD Reprinted by Permission from ECD Genpatsu burūzu Words and Music by Endō Michirō Reprinted by Permission from Endō Michirō Soma Words and Music by Kishida Shigeru Reprinted by Permission of Bad News Co. Crab, Reactor, Future Words by Kishida Shigeru, Music by Kishida Shigeru and Yoshida Shōnen Reprinted by Permission of Bad News Co. Everybody Feels the Same Words by Quruli, Music by Kishida Shigeru Reprinted by Permission of Bad News Co. 419

420   Permissions

A&Z Words and Music by Kiyoshi Ijichi and Massafumi Goto Copyright © 2012 Sony Music Publishing (Japan) Inc. All Rights Administered by Sony/ATV Music Publishing LLC, 424 Church Street, Suite 1200, Nashville, TN 37219 International Copyright Secured, All Rights Reserved Reprinted by Permission of Hal Leonard Corporation N2 Words and Music by Kiyoshi Ijichi and Massafumi Goto Copyright © 2012 Sony Music Publishing (Japan) Inc. All Rights Administered by Sony/ATV Music Publishing LLC, 424 Church Street, Suite 1200, Nashville, TN 37219 International Copyright Secured, All Rights Reserved Reprinted by Permission of Hal Leonard Corporation

INDEX

2012 (album). See Acid Black Cherry 3.11. See triple disaster of March 11, 2011 Abe administration, 12, 51, 61, 63, 64–65, 358–359, 367n5. See also anti-militarization movement accents, pitch. See pitch accents Acid Black Cherry, 321, 325–327, 348–349 Acidman, 71, 88, 95 and No Nukes concerts, 271, 277, 279–280, 284,  287 acoustics of sound trucks, 161–162, 248–249, 258–260, 261,  354 of TwitNoNukes demonstration (August 26, 2012), 251–257 of urban spaces, 235–236, 240–241, 243–244, 247, 260–261,  354 advertising. See media industry: advertising Afghanistan, antiwar protests and. See antiwar movements: of 2001–2004 Against Street Control (ASC), 158–161, 163–166, 170–171, 232, 386n9, 388n36. See also urban space: reclaiming Akiyama Rio, 142–143, 196 Akuryō, 85, 87, 88 in demonstrations, 195, 202, 229–230,  256 of July 29, 2012, 206–220, 224–228, 248 sound demos, 91, 203–205, 231, 233, 245 and participatory style, 201, 231–232, 233, 259–260 rap style of, 178, 224–226, 228–229,  360 allegories, 10, 29, 32, 129, 280–281, 320–321, 325–330, 350–351, 352 Alta-mae Plaza (Shinjuku), 173, 188, 239, 245, 247 amateurism, 163, 200, 391n30

Anamizu Masahiko (of Pinprick Punishment), 91, 100, 179 Anpo jōyaku. See U.S.-Japan Security Treaty anti-Abe movement. See anti-militarization movement anti-militarization movement, 12, 27–28, 60, 61, 129, 358–363 demonstrations of, 65, 170, 231, 242, 358–363,  373n51 and entertainers, 25, 81, 103–104, 300,  353 and students, 60, 358–363,  373n51 antinuclear movement in Japan, 51–66, 197, 299 before triple disaster, 36–37,  41–44 challenges to, 56–62, 146 (see also censorship; police) incentives to protest,  81–91 mothers in, 46, 84, 138, 226,  276 music in, 3–4, 11–27, 28–29, 32–33, 271–272, 352–357 and other protest movements, 12, 27–28, 61, 86–87, 358–363 periods of, 27–28, 29, 357,  402n2 and relief efforts, 8, 99–101, 106,  271 results of, 61–62, 237, 358–363 spaces of,  15–27 See also cyberspace; demonstrations; festivals; framing; Fukushima prefecture; media industry:  coverage of antinuclear events; musicians; nuclear village; radiation antiwar movements of 1960s and 1970s, 41, 56–57, 61, 86, 121–122, 155–156, 158, 164, 172, 197, 238, 239, 265, 268, 363,  394n5 of 2001–2004, 10, 87, 155–159, 169, 181, 187, 251,  358 See also anti-militarization movement

421

422   Index

Asahi newspaper, 36, 48, 76, 77, 117, 266, 311, 358 coverage of antinuclear events, 54, 55–56, 148, 171,  297 on nuclear power, 40, 42, 50,  64,  65 surveys, 48, 51, 56,  59 Asian Kung-Fu Generation (AKG), 74, 82, 100, 324–325. See also Gotō Masafumi “A&Z,” 331–333 “N2,” 280, 343–347, 348–350, 351,  357 at No Nukes concerts, 147–148, 271, 274, 280–281, 287,  290 Astro Boy (Tetsuwan Atomu), 116, 340–341 Atomic Café Festival (1980s concerts), 268–270, 290 Atomic Café, The (1982 film), 268, 270 Atomic Café (at Fuji Rock Festival, 2010s), 291, 295–300, 319, 341, 357, 363 and antinuclear activism, 91, 295–297, 299–300 communicative style of, 265, 300, 319,  355 reception, 295–297, 311,  319 as separate space, 293–294, 300,  319 See also Fuji Rock Festival; Ōkubo  Seishi ATS (Hashimoto Atsushi), 85, 88, 102 and participatory style, 178, 187, 231–232, 233, 259–260 at sound demos, 91, 205–206, 206–219, 221, 224, 229–231, 233,  259 and TwitNoNukes, 196, 360,  256 Avenell, Simon, 158, 386n5 Barakan, Peter, 81, 135–136, 378n29 Benford, Robert, 29, 93, 109. See also framing “Boku to kaku” (The Atom and Me), 93–95 boundaries, 235–236, 241–244, 260 Brahman, 98, 100, 271, 289, 290. See also Toshi-Low broadcasting. See media industry; radio; television call-and-response patterns and cyberspace, 137–138, 142–144,  148 prevalence of, 182–183, 185–186, 203, 232–233, 283,  359 in songs, 124, 131, 184,  316 See also Sprechchor Castells, Manuel, 17–18, 110, 114–115 censorship avoiding, 29–32, 116, 119–121, 321,  324 by government, 8, 268, 320,  322 by media industry, 4, 8–11, 24, 32, 75–80, 90, 119–121, 273, 320, 322–324, 350,  368n6

and self-restraint, 8, 9–11, 24–25, 65, 71, 77, 90, 113, 320, 322, 323,  331 Chance! Peace Walks, 155–158, 162, 171, 175, 232, 358 charity efforts. See relief efforts Chernobyl and antinuclear activism, 43, 71, 75, 77, 84, 87–88, 129–130, 132, 269,  281 and triple disaster, 7–8, 50, 130,  310 chindon bands, 86–87, 91, 99, 150, 153, 156, 176, 186, 245, 251, 274, 377n25. See also Jintaramūta cities. See urban space Citizens’ Nuclear Information Center (CNIC), 41, 295, 298–299 Cloonan, Martin, 8–9 collective self-defense. See Abe administration Coma-chi, 101, 325, 327–330 concerts. See festivals Constitution, reinterpretation of. See Abe administration cyberspace, 109–149 access to, 110, 114,  142 as alternative to media industry, 31–32, 109–110, 113–114, 119–121, 142, 148–149,  346 anonymity in, 4, 25, 115–116, 122–123, 148–149,  355 and copyright, 121, 148,  149 and demonstrations, 137–140, 141–145, 149 and information distribution, 129–137,  148 mobile nature of, 141–145,  148 music in, 3–4, 116–137, 148–149, 356–357 participation in, 28, 137–145, 148–149,  356 and real space, 4, 32, 110–111, 141–142, 148, 356–357 risks of, 25–27, 111, 145–148, 149,  355 as space, 17–18,  19–20 Datsu Genpatsu Suginami, 52, 176, 197, 204, 390n28 demonstration of February 19, 2012, 58, 150–153, 192–194 Deli (rapper), 98, 101, 120–121, 145, 149, 203, 260 Democratic Party of Japan (DPJ), 27, 34, 35, 56, 62 demonstrations, 150–261, 354, 388n1 acoustics of (see acoustics) block format of, 181, 191, 193,  354 coverage of, 114, 145, 147–148 excitement in, 187, 241, 242, 362–363 and framing,  356 music in, 4, 153, 163, 177, 186–187, 206–229

Index  423 and noise regulations, 202, 231, 244, 256,  258 onlookers at, 193–194, 242, 253, 254,  256 participatory style in, 32, 176, 177–178, 183–186, 195–196, 198–206, 221–223, 224–226, 229–233, 259, 357, 359, 363 presentational style in, 32, 176, 177–178, 181–183, 186, 202–203, 206, 226–228, 229, 231–232, 259,  357 risks to protestors, 25–27, 56–62,  98 routes of, 237, 240–241, 245,  248 speeches at, 227–228, 245,  252 outside Tokyo, 144–145, 171–172, 178, 192–194,  239 and urban space, 16, 153, 234–261 See also anti-militarization movement; antiwar movements; Datsu Genpatsu Suginami; Metropolitan Coalition Against Nukes; police; Shirōto no Ran demonstrations; sound demos; TwitNoNukes; urban  space Dengaryū, 90, 103 Dentsu (advertising agency), 43, 105, 146, 300 Diet Building, protests outside of, 27, 197, 231, 244, 248 in anti-militarization movement, 65, 242, 359,  362 drum corps at, 202,  238 on July 29, 2012, 27, 53, 143, 205,  239 origins, 197, 235,  237 Sprechchor at, 231,  244 and urban space, 197, 237, 241, 242,  354 districts, 235–240, 355. See also Tokyo DJ Mayuri, 89, 99, 161, 164, 178, 181, 185, 194, 203, 233, 246 DJ Tasaka, 89, 185, 258, 388n2 drum corps, 142, 143, 162–164, 174, 175, 178, 181, 198–202, 229, 232, 238, 252–257, 354, 357, 391n30 at TwitNoNukes demonstration (August 26, 2012), 252–257 See also Oda Masanori Drums of Fury, 197, 198, 201–202 ECD, 84, 85, 90 and antiwar protests of 2003–2004, 87, 158–159, 164–165,  170 on drum corps, 163, 201–202 and participatory style, 178, 181–182, 184, 231–232, 233, 259–260 “Recording Report:  Hangenpatsu Remix,” 137–138, 182, 184,  226 and sound  demos performance in, 91, 205–206, 206–221, 224–226, 228, 230, 231,  233

thoughts on, 58, 186–187, 189, 190–191, 191–192 at TwitNoNukes demonstrations, 197, 256,  360 “Yūkoto kikuyō na yatsura ja naizo” (We’re not the kind of guys who’ll do as we’re told), 166–170,  387n29 economy, Japanese collapse in 1990s, 85,  160 and job market, 59–60,  358 and nonpermanent employees, 159–160 and nuclear power (see under nuclear  power) and protest, 171, 172–174, 328–330 Edano Yukio, 49, 66, 139 edges. See boundaries EDM (electronic dance music), 89–90 eejanaika, 84, 88, 283, 316 “Eejanaika Ondo,” 316, 318 “El derecho de vivir en paz,” 150, 179, 282, 298 Endō Michirō on Fukushima prefecture,  303 “Genpatsu Burūzu” (Nuclear Power Blues), 304–305 at Project Fukushima Festival, 17, 308, 311, 314,  315 and Project Fukushima origins, 84, 301–303, 305,  306 energy nuclear (see nuclear  power) renewable, 51, 126, 138, 289, 290, 291, 295, 327, 356,  369n2. Entertainment Law, 61, 87, 90, 286, 293 Ese Timers, 25, 300, 353, 363. See also Gotō Masafumi; Toshi-Low; Hosomi Takeshi experiential model, 32, 264–265, 290, 291, 319. See also informational model Eyerman, Ron, 12–13 festivals, 262–319 of 1960s and 1970s, 265–268 communication methods at, 264–265, 290, 319 as conceived space,  16–17 constraints of, 23–25, 354–355 and framing, 319,  356 opportunities of, 98, 263–264 and participation, 28, 308–310,  356 risks of, 263–264,  318 as safe spaces, 98, 294,  318 as separate spaces, 262–263, 290, 299, 318,  319 See also Atomic Café (at Fuji Rock Festival); Fuji Rock Festival; No Nukes 2012; Project Fukushima Festivals

424   Index

Flacks, Richard, 12, 93 folk music in demonstrations, 151, 153, 176,  195 and politics, 71, 72, 88, 104, 122, 265–266,  268 Foucault, Michel, 262 framing, 29, 34–36, 93, 106, 109–110, 139–140, 154, 232, 276, 319, 355–356, 357 freeters, 159–160, 169, 172–174, 175, 387n33 Frying Dutchman, 103, 138–140, 297 “Human Error,” 7, 138–140, 149,  297 virtual parade, 4, 28,  140 Fuji Rock Festival, 265, 291–300 and activism, 17, 25, 277, 291, 292–300 antinuclear, 294–300 communicative methods of, 265, 291, 355,  356 reception, 295–297, 298–299 as separate space, 16–17, 262–263, 291–292, 294, 355,  356 and sponsors,  17,  79 See also Atomic Café (at Fuji Rock Festival); Hidaka Masahiro; NGO Village Fukui prefecture, 64, 98, 339, 341, 401n28 Fukushima Daiichi Nuclear Power Plant accidents at, 7, 36, 42, 43, 48, 128, 231 (see also triple disaster of March 11,  2011) allusions to, 98, 121, 132–133, 147, 281, 298–299, 316, 331,  342 and communities, 4, 6, 17, 60, 80, 100, 101, 133, 147, 285–286, 303, 321, 334–338 operation, 41, 46–47, 65,  329 Fukushima Nuclear Accident Independent Investigation Commission, 7, 45 Fukushima prefecture, 6, 17, 60, 84, 100, 133, 285–286, 303, 305, 369n3 allusions to, 89, 281, 283, 310–311, 313–314, 316–318, 325–327, 331, 332, 335–337, 341, 342,  348 people of, 6–7, 17, 60, 80, 81, 83–84, 96–97, 99, 101, 106, 150, 271, 285–286, 300–306, 311–312, 318, 332, 333–334 radiation in, 49, 80, 81, 83–84, 96–97, 101, 281, 305, 309–310, 312–313, 318,  334 and relief efforts, 8, 17, 271–272, 284, 289, 297 (see also relief efforts) stigma against, 6–7, 8, 84, 101, 271–272, 301–303, 305–306 See also Fukushima Daiichi Nuclear Power Plant:  and communities; Futaba; Project Fukushima Festivals; relief efforts;  Sōma “Furusato” (Hometown), 4

Futaba, 6, 133, 285–286, 287 Futatsugi Shin in antiwar demonstrations of 2003–2004, 158, 162,  163 on music at demonstrations, 183, 185, 187, 232–233 on routes of demonstrations,  241 in Shirōto no Ran demonstrations, 58, 152, 178–181, 185, 187, 188–190,  191 Future Times, The. See under Gotō Masafumi gay and lesbian rights parades, 155, 194, 232, 357 “Genpatsu Burūzu” (Nuclear Power Blues), 304–305 genre, 9, 72, 88–90, 104, 154, 180–182, 194–195, 232. See also EDM; folk music; punk; rap; reggae; rock music; sound demos: and music genre; techno Gensuikin, 130, 195, 238, 388n1 Ginza, 52, 54, 143, 157, 179, 195, 236, 237–239, 240, 248 Glastonbury Festival, 263, 265, 291, 292–293, 295 Gotō Masafumi (Gotch, of Asian Kung-Fu Generation), 5, 83, 88 “A&Z,” 331–333, 350,  351 and activism, 25, 92, 100, 103, 297,  324 as citizen, 25, 91–92, 97, 197, 256, 279,  353 in cyberspace, 81,  273 Future Times, The, 95–96, 274, 277, 288,  324 “N2,” 280, 325, 343–347, 348–350 at No Nukes concerts, 274, 277, 279, 287–288 reception, 71, 74, 105,  273 See also Asian Kung-Fu Generation; Ese Timers Gypsy Avalon stage. See Atomic Café (at Fuji Rock Festival) Hachiko Square, 103, 241, 245, 246, 248, 249, 251, 253–254, 255, 259 Hajime Chitose, 274, 277, 282, 287 Hall, Edward, 241, 244–245 Hamada Shōgo, 269, 275 Hamada Yūsuke, 142–143, 384n38 Hangenren. See Metropolitan Coalition Against Nukes Harajuku, 174, 236, 237–238, 241, 243, 245, 247, 249, 254, 257, 258, 259 hardcore. See punk Harvey, David, 15, 18–22, 23, 380n1

Index  425 Hashimoto Atsushi. See ATS Hashimoto Mika, 54, 56, 60, 84. See also Seifuku Kōjō Iinkai. heterotopias, 262. See also festivals: as separate spaces Hibiya Park, 65, 98, 156, 205, 221, 248, 269, 281 Hidaka Masahiro, 269, 292, 295 hikokumin, 56, 126, 150 Hillside Festival, 264, 265 hip-hop and antinuclear music, 79,  125 and copyright, 121,  149 as personal expression,  90 and politics, 88–89, 90, 104, 180, 288, 379n44 in sound demos, 99, 101, 153, 179, 180, 244, 248–249,  360 See also rap; Scha Dara  Parr Hirano Taichi, 53, 95, 195, 238, 245–246, 277 at TwitNoNukes demonstration (August 26, 2012), 252, 254, 256, 257,  259 Hirose Takashi, 50, 88, 126, 130, 269 Hiroshima, 306 bombing of, 4, 6, 34, 38, 126, 322,  329 and protest music, 133, 182, 281,  282 protests in, 38,  196 Hitachi, 35, 40, 44, 46, 60, 105, 369n4, 377n18 homonyms, 30, 32, 183, 321, 333, 347–348, 350, 382n21 Hosomi Takeshi, 277, 300, 363 Hunger (rapper), 60–61, 83–84, 120 Hydrangea Revolution, 27, 53. See also prime minister’s residence, protests outside of Idogawa Katsutaka, 285–286. See also Futaba Iida Tetsunari, 96–97, 276, 289, 369n2 Illcommonz. See Oda Masanori image schemas, 321, 350, 351 Imawano Kiyoshirō, 75–79, 88, 90, 119, 150, 276, 281, 295, 300, 323–324, 363, 377n14 information, lack of protests against, 127, 132–133, 135, 137, 152, 342,  346 and restrictions, 11–12, 47–48, 127, 129,  148 in triple disaster, 48–51, 66, 113–114 See also Abe administration; censorship; Secrecy  Law informational model, 32, 264, 290, 291, 319 internet. See cyberspace intersections. See nodes intertextuality, 29, 121–122, 343–347, 381n11. See also quotations

Ippanjapanese, 82, 382n14 “Viva, viva genshiryoku” (Long Live Nuclear Power!), 122–129,  149 Iraq War. See antiwar movements: of 2001–2004 Isobe Ryō, 158, 311, 314 Itō Seikō, 82, 288 Itō Yōichi, 112–113 i Zoom i Rockers, 99, 205, 206–231, 259, 359. See also Akuryō; ATS; ECD; Noma Yasumichi JAEA. See Japan Atomic Energy Agency Jamison, Andrew, 12–13 Japan Atomic Energy Agency (JAEA), 35, 47, 116, 298, 341 Japanese language, 30, 224, 347–350. See also morae; text setting Jasper, James, 82–83 Jintaramūta, 79–80, 91, 99, 150–151, 179, 233, 243, 298, 356. See also Kogure Miwazō; Ōkuma Wataru Johnson, Mark, 321, 350, 351 Kanegon, 129 Kang Jian, 236, 240, 243, 260 Kan Naoto, 34, 43, 49, 51 Kantei-mae protests. See prime minister’s residence, protests outside of Kasumigaseki, 53, 143, 144, 195, 202, 205, 206, 229, 236, 237, 248, 354, 388n1 Katō Tokiko, 82, 86, 90, 140, 269, 295, 297, 324, 399n7 K Dub Shine, 9–10, 91, 98, 101, 103, 368n6 KEPCO, 35, 45, 130 Kimura Shinzō, 96, 309 King Giddra, 10, 100, 320, 353, 368n6. See also K Dub Shine; Zeebra kisha (press) clubs, 8, 47–48, 55, 105, 113, 114 Kishida Shigeru. See Quruli Ko (of Slang), 85, 87, 95, 100–101, 102, 279, 289, 353 Kōenji, 52, 54, 118, 131, 142, 172–173, 174, 180, 188, 198, 236, 240, 246, 390n28 Kogure Miwazō, 79–80, 91, 298. See also Jintaramūta Korosuna (Do Not Kill), 87, 162–164, 166, 358. See also Oda Masanori Kraftwerk, 86, 140, 148, 271, 274, 275, 276, 281, 379n43 kūki, 69, 110, 112–113, 114, 117, 148, 298 Kuwata Keisuke, 98, 99, 353 Kyoto, 38, 40, 95, 118, 138–140, 145, 156, 171–172, 373n44, 401n28

426   Index

labor force. See economy; freeters; workers, temporary landmarks, 226–227, 235–236, 247–249 Lefebvre, Henri, 15–18, 234, 380n1 Let’s Dance, 286. See also Entertainment Law LGBT parades, 155, 194, 232, 357 Liberal Democratic Party (LDP), 62–65 activism against, 61, 102, 103, 229, 231 (see also anti-militarization movement) and nuclear industry, 35,  62–63 plans to restart nuclear reactors, 4,  63–64 return to power, 27–28, 61, 62–63, 66, 102, 229, 286, 298,  368n10 See also Abe administration Likkle Mai, 83, 84, 88, 90, 91, 99, 100, 203, 298, 356 Live Fukushima, 118, 271–272 Lizard, 229 “Love Me Tender” cover by Imawano Kiyoshirō, 75–76, 77, 281,  324 covers of, 276,  295 Lynch, Kevin, 235–236, 244, 247, 260 Mainichi newspaper, 42–43, 48, 55, 56, 76, 81, 148, 358, 369n2 Mannish Boys, 295–296. See also Saitō Kazuyoshi Matsumoto Hajime, 52, 61, 172–174 on music at demonstrations, 183, 186–187 on protest participation, 56,  57–59 and Shirōto no Ran demonstrations, 52, 150, 172–174, 179–180, 189, 191,  195 outside Tokyo, 144, 192–194,  239 See also Shirōto no Ran demonstrations matsuri, 144, 164, 170, 187, 263, 266, 301. See also festivals Mattern, Mark, 11, 13 Mayuri. See DJ Mayuri MCAN. See Metropolitan Coalition Against Nukes media industry advertising, 45–47, 105, 113–114,  352 alternatives to, 50, 109–110 concentration of, 48, 73, 113–114 coverage of antinuclear events, 5, 12, 53–56, 66, 142, 148, 272, 296–297 criticism of, 135,  138 and nuclear industry, 7, 35, 105,  320 and political restraint, 105, 111–113 pronuclear bias of, 7, 40, 105, 276,  347 and relief efforts, 8, 99, 104–105 as space,  23 See also censorship; nuclear village “Meltdown Blues,” 142–144, 148, 356, 390n28

messaging techniques, 14, 17, 29–30, 264–265, 319, 350–351, 352. See also allegories; intertextuality; metaphors; metonyms; quotations; text setting metaphors, 10, 14, 29, 32, 320, 331–333, 340–343, 350–351 musical, 321, 331–333, 339, 343–345, 350–351 textual, 123, 126, 314, 321, 326, 328, 331–333, 340–343, 346, 350–351 METI. See Ministry of Economy, Trade, and Industry metonyms, 10, 29, 32, 321, 333–343, 346–347, 350 metropolis, 84, 106, 303, 316, 342–343. See also Kyoto; Nagoya; Osaka; Tokyo Metropolitan Coalition Against Nukes (MCAN) demonstrations by, 31, 53, 99, 102, 143–144, 146, 177, 178, 197, 205, 206, 229–231, 237, 244, 256, 354,  359 and No Nukes concerts, 286, 288,  289 MEXT. See Ministry of Education, Culture, Sports, Science, and Technology Michigan Womyn’s Music Festival, 28, 264–265 Minami-sōma, 100, 114, 334, 337 Ministry of Economy, Trade, and Industry (METI) and nuclear village, 35, 36, 43, 44–45, 46,  51,  63 protests against, 52, 83, 123, 125, 144, 195, 197, 205, 221, 226–227, 229, 231, 235, 237, 248,  298 Ministry of Education, Culture, Sports, Science, and Technology (MEXT), 46, 106, 197, 237, 248, 314–315 Ministry of Trade and Industry (MITI), 41–42, 44, 382n14 Misao Redwolf. See Redwolf, Misao MITI. See Ministry of Trade and Industry Mitsubishi, 35, 40, 46, 60, 77, 85, 105, 130, 369n4 Miyagi prefecture, 60, 334, 348 Miyake Yōhei, 91, 96, 98, 102–104, 289, 319 Miyashita Park, 161, 170, 171, 198, 251, 260. See also Nike Monju fast-breeder reactor, 44, 63, 116, 124, 127, 131, 133, 298. See also Monju-kun Monju-kun, 82, 116, 255, 287 at the Atomic Café, 297, 298,  356 and cyberspace, 18, 116,  149 on “It Was Always a Lie,”  106 at No Nukes concerts, 283, 284, 287,  289 at Project Fukushima Festival,  315 morae, 30, 135, 348–350, 360. See also rap: techniques; text setting

Index  427 Mōri Yoshitaka, 160, 162, 166, 168 music, genre of. See genre musicians, 67–105 as activists, 6, 12, 69–73, 85–91, 101–104 avoidance of politics, 69–70, 72–73, 79–82, 268, 269, 273, 274, 320–321, 324–325, 326, 352–353,  379n48 as celebrities, 97–99, 104–105,  279 as citizens, 4, 11, 25, 31, 91–93, 97, 256, 272–273, 279,  353 constraints on, 352–354 as educators,  93–97 as entertainers, 266, 273, 285,  298 independent vs. major-label, 14–15, 81–82, 90–91, 153, 180, 274, 290, 320, 353–354, 357, 388n2,  402n2 and relief efforts, 99–101 (see also relief efforts) “N2,” 280, 325, 343–347, 348–350, 357 Nagasaki, 7, 133, 284, 322 Nagoya, 38, 40, 118, 171, 196, 249, 369n3 Nakagawa Gorō, 268 Nakagawa Takashi and activism, 71, 85, 87, 93,  277 and demonstrations, 88, 92, 140, 197,  256 and relief efforts,  100 See also Soul Flower  Union Nakasone Yasuhiro, 36, 38–40, 43, 370n9, 382n20 Nakatsugawa Folk Jamboree, 266, 267 Namba Akihiro, 71, 90, 93, 105, 180, 273 in antinuclear rallies, 91, 98, 104, 297–298,  319 motivations, 83, 84,  87–88 and No More Fuckin’ Nukes, 288–289 in No Nukes concerts, 273, 277, 280, 283,  290 See also No More Fuckin’  Nukes newspapers, 40, 44, 47, 48, 75, 76, 105, 114, 132–133, 286, 358 coverage of antinuclear events, 54, 55, 148,  171 See also Asahi newspaper; Mainichi newspaper; media industry; Sankei newspaper; Tokyo Shimbun; Yomiuri newspaper NGO Village (at Fuji Rock Festival), 17, 291, 293–294, 295, 296, 297, 299–300 NHK. See Nippon Hōsō Kyōkai Nico Nico Dōga, 109–110, 114, 122, 146, 384n36 Nihon Genya Sai (Japan Field of Illusion Festival), 266 Niigata prefecture, 17, 55, 62, 83, 291, 341–342 Nike, buyout of Miyashita Park, 198, 239, 251

Nippon Hōsō Kyōkai (NHK), 38, 48–49, 52, 65, 66, 106, 318, 353 coverage of protests, 54–55, 65, 173,  367n5 on Project Fukushima Festival, 310, 311–312,  313 NISA. See Nuclear and Industrial Safety Agency Noda Yoshihiko, 51, 53, 143, 204, 237, 239, 360 nodes, 221, 227–228, 235–236, 240, 241, 244–247, 257, 259, 260 Noiz, 157–158, 159, 162, 164–165, 171–172, 387n19 Noma Yasumichi and Counter-Racist Action Collective (CRAC), 233,  359 and participatory style, 231–232, 233,  259 on routes of demonstrations, 234–235, 240, 245 and sound  demos performance in, 205–206, 224, 226, 228–229, 230, 231, 233, 259,  260 thoughts on, 179, 180, 186, 194–195, 197, 203–204,  318 and TwitNoNukes, 195–197 No More Fuckin’ Nukes, 98, 102, 145, 288–289, 290. See also Namba Akihiro No Nukes 2012, 82, 86, 270–286, 290, 291, 319, 357 aims of, 275, 276,  289 broadcast of, 145, 284–286, 289,  355 as informational, 264, 265, 270, 276–277, 290, 319, 355,  356 location, 16, 17, 275–276, 277,  395n23 reception, 71, 147–148, 283–286, 311,  319 as separate space, 91, 98, 119, 284,  319 T-shirts, 5, 71, 74, 81, 282–283, 284,  290 See also Sakamoto Ryūichi No Nukes 2013, 145, 286–288, 290 No Nukes 2014, 289–290 No Nukes All Stars Demo, 202–206, 258, 259 No Nukes More Hearts (NNMH), 53, 83, 176, 177, 178, 197, 202, 204, 246 routes of demonstrations, 53, 237, 241, 243, 246, 258,  259 See also  Metropolitan Coalition Against Nukes NRA. See Nuclear Regulatory Authority Nuclear and Industrial Safety Agency (NISA), 35, 43–44, 45, 49, 50, 63 protests against, 120, 125, 139, 227,  229 See also nuclear village nuclear industry advertising by, 7, 41, 42–43, 45–48,  371n20 companies of, 34–35,  369n3 critiques of, 125–127 and government employees,  44–45 See also nuclear power; nuclear village

428   Index

nuclear power, 4, 34, 36–41, 342 and economy, 34, 42, 46, 62, 66, 68, 84, 124–126, 128, 303–305, 306,  339 and environment, 46–47, 65, 291, 295,  355 establishment support for, 38–41, 152,  342 symbolism of, 116, 303–305, 326, 340–341 as taboo subject, 7–8, 73–81,  119 as unnecessary, 193, 230, 254, 276, 287,  298 and weapons, 38–39, 66,  272 See also antinuclear movement in Japan; energy:  renewable “Nuclear Power Blues,” 304–305, 314 nuclear reactors and local communities, 41–42, 44, 60, 83, 128, 316, 339, 342,  401n28 plans to restart, 4, 28, 63–64, 197, 254, 276, 298,  299 See also Fukushima Daiichi Nuclear Power Plant; Ōi Nuclear Power  Plant Nuclear Regulatory Authority (NRA), 28, 42, 45, 63–64, 66, 298 Nuclear Safety Commission (NSC), 43, 63 nuclear village, 27, 34–36, 41–45, 51, 65, 66, 147, 319, 369n2 criticism of, 82–83, 123–125, 133–135, 138–140, 276, 295, 320,  350 nuclear weapons and nuclear power, 38–40, 66,  272 protest movement against, 36–37, 75, 82, 88, 93–94, 133, 163, 268–269, 272, 276, 282, 322, 325–327, 329,  340 Oda Masanori (Illcommonz), 81, 162–164, 174, 198–201 and antiwar demonstrations of 2003–2004, 158–159, 171,  358 on cyberspace, 144, 145–146 drum corps (see drum corps; TCDC;  TDC) and Korosuna (Do Not Kill), 162–164,  358 and “Meltdown Blues,” 142–144,  356 on participation, 181, 198–201 on routes of demonstrations, 235, 238–239 on sound demos, 156–157, 161, 191,  198 at TwitNoNukes demonstration (August 26, 2012), 252, 255–257 Ōe Kenzaburō, 52, 67, 97, 271 Ōhashi Hirotada, 45, 50, 125 Ōi Nuclear Power Plant, 51, 254 protests after restarting of, 27, 53, 64, 67, 98, 141, 187, 197, 204, 226–227, 232,  272 Ōki Nobuo (of Acidman), 95, 279. See also Acidman

Ōkubo Seishi, 91, 98, 268–270, 291, 294, 297, 299, 324, 377n24 Ōkuma Wataru, 86–87, 91, 99, 179, 245, 282. See also Jintaramūta Olson, Mancur, 35, 82 Omotesandō, 243, 245, 247, 249, 251, 254–256, 257 Operation Kodomotachi, 80, 101. See also Deli Oricon sales charts, 15 Osaka, 38, 40, 57, 61, 118, 145, 171, 385n44, 394n5, 396n45 Ōtomo Yoshihide and antinuclear movement, 61, 96–97,  106 awarded, 106, 314–315,  319 criticism of, 106, 312–315,  318 “Eejanaika Ondo,” 316,  318 and Project Fukushima 2011, 84, 106, 300–304, 305–306, 308, 309–310, 312–315 and Project Fukushima after 2011, 315–316 on stigma against Fukushima, 7, 303–304, 305–306 on television, 105,  106 See also Project Fukushima Festivals Pacific War, allusions to, 126, 347 Panta (of Zunō Keisatsu), 156, 203, 266 Parkinson, John, 234, 237 participation, 24, 28–29, 356–357. See also participatory style; presentational style participatory style, 13, 24, 176, 177, 201, 231–232. See also under demonstrations paths, 235–236, 240–241 Peace Constitution, reinterpretation of. See Abe administration peace walks. See Chance! Peace Walks Peirce, Charles, 30, 321 performance, parameters of, 23–25 pitch accents, 30, 224, 321, 347–348. See also pronunciation plazas as gathering points, 234, 244, 245,  247 and protest routes, 16, 221, 240, 245, 247, 259, 260,  354 See also nodes; Alta-mae  Plaza Pluto-kun, 116, 341 plutonium and health, 45, 50, 116,  125 and music, 132, 133, 341,  342 reprocessed, 70, 93,  116 stockpiles, 39, 66, 93,  276 and weapons, 39, 66,  276 police arrests by, 25, 57–59, 168, 170–171, 174, 175, 188–191, 194, 240,  273

Index  429 in demonstrations, 152–153, 164–166, 170–171, 188–191, 232, 248, 253–254 restrictions set by, 157, 170–171, 175, 181, 190, 197, 202, 234, 240, 242,  260 power companies. See nuclear industry power plants. See nuclear reactors precariats, 172–174, 239, 251 presentational style, 13, 24, 176, 177–178, 264. See also under demonstrations prime minister’s residence (Kantei), protests outside of, 5, 27, 65, 178, 248, 281, 354, 359 attendance at, 195, 230, 235, 236–237 drum corps at, 198, 200,  202 musicians at, 91–92, 176–177, 272–273 origins of, 53,  197 reception, 55, 142,  279 and Twitter,  285 Product Safety Electric (PSE) Appliance and Material Law, 61, 173 Project Fukushima Festivals, 17, 84, 306–318 and avoidance of antinuclear stance, 84, 265, 272, 300–304, 318, 355,  357 as experiential, 28, 265, 308–310, 311–312, 319, 355,  356 furoshiki (wrapping cloth) at, 28, 309–310, 311–312, 315,  316 motivation for, 84, 106, 300–302, 305–306 reception, 311–314,  318 See also Fukushima Prefecture; Ōtomo Yoshihide pronunciation, 30, 32, 183, 321, 333, 347–350, 382n21 protests. See demonstrations PSE Law, 61, 173 punk and hardcore as political, 72–73,  88–89 and relief efforts, 100–101,  131 in sound demos, 99, 153, 171, 173, 178, 179–181, 187,  195 See also Anamizu; Endō Michirō; Ko; Namba Akihiro;  Noiz quiet zones. See demonstrations: and noise regulations quotations, 321, 343–347. See also intertextuality Quruli, 15, 81, 92, 100, 333–343, 350–351, 401n28, 402n35 “Crab, Reactor, Future,” 338–341,  350 “Everybody Feels the Same,” 341–343 “Glory Days,”  347 Rutsubo no borutsu, 333–343, 347,  357 “Soma,” 321, 334–338,  350

radiation and children, 50, 80, 81, 84, 96, 101, 129, 284, 312–313 exposure limits, 50, 80, 94,  333 fallout, 36, 38, 49, 77, 301–302,  321 and food, 49, 51, 60–61, 75, 83–84, 101, 117, 119, 272, 295, 310, 312,  333 and health concerns, 50–51, 84, 94, 96–97, 101, 113, 117, 128, 129, 182, 305, 313, 332,  373n50 official information on, 48–51, 96–97, 286,  295 and protest music, 75–76, 117–120, 123–138, 182, 281, 312, 340–342,  346 See also Fukushima prefecture; nuclear power; plutonium; SPEEDI radiation  data radio, 5–6, 10, 77–78, 81, 135–136, 284, 288, 318, 322, 353, 368n7. See also media industry “Radioactivity” (song), 276, 281–282, 297, 379n43. See also Kraftwerk Rankin Taxi criticism of,  147 in demonstrations, 91, 99, 131, 145, 170, 197, 203, 245, 256, 258,  385n44 of April 10, 2011, 178, 182–183 of February 19, 2012, 150, 152, 153,  260 as educator, 32–33, 93, 129–137,  149 “Genpatsu gakkari ondo” (Song of Disappointment about Nuclear Power), 147,  152 motivations, 84, 87–88, 132–133 and participatory style, 183–185, 201–202, 203,  233 and protest music, 71–72,  87 and relief efforts,  100 “You Can’t See It, You Can’t Smell It Either,” 32–33, 79, 87, 129–137, 149, 183–185, 260, 356,  402n2 rap as genre, 9–10, 88–89, 178, 181–182,  232 participatory style of, 32, 178, 181–182, 202–205, 206, 226, 231–232, 233, 357, 359,  363 presentational style of, 182, 226–227,  229 techniques, 125, 168–169, 221–229, 231, 360–363, 387n1 (see also text setting) See also Akuryō; ATS; Coma-chi; Deli; Dengaryū; ECD; Hunger; Ippanjapanese; K Dub Shine; Rumi; Shing02;  Zeebra RC Succession. See Imawano Kiyoshirō Record Industry Association of Japan (RIAJ), 14, 24, 29, 32, 74, 119, 322

430   Index

recordings, commercial 320–351 and antinuclear music, 320–321,  350 guidelines on, 24–25, 26, 322–323 and participation, 28,  356 as space, 18, 21–22,  23,  24 See also allegories; censorship; intertextuality; media industry; metaphors; metonyms; musicians; quotations; record  labels record labels, 9–10, 14, 76–77, 90, 105, 116, 117, 269, 273, 320, 323, 324, 333, 353, 377n18, 377n20. See also media industry Recorin (Recording Industry Ethics Regulatory Commission), 9, 24, 76, 119, 322, 323, 352 Redwolf, Misao, 53, 176, 202, 203, 205–206, 231, 237–238, 289 reggae at demonstrations, 91, 153, 156, 178, 179, 180, 192, 232,  391n35 and politics, 71, 72, 79, 88–89, 104,  180 See also Likkle Mai; Rankin  Taxi regions of Japan, 84, 106, 171–172, 191, 239, 303, 316, 369n3. See also Fukushima prefecture; Tōhoku relief efforts, 8, 72, 79, 83, 99–101, 131, 271, 279, 284, 289, 295, 301, 383n23. See also Project Fukushima Festivals RIAJ. See Record Industry Association of Japan “Right to Live in Peace, The.” See “El derecho de vivir en paz” rock music, 72, 76, 79, 399n9 and demonstrations, 92, 205,  226 and festivals, 266, 277, 291,  396n45 and politics, 71, 72, 76, 79, 88–89, 104, 265, 266, 268, 277, 287–288 Rockin’ On (concert promoter), 269, 274, 288, 289–290 Rodriguez, Silvio, 70, 351 Rosenthal, Robert, 12, 93 Rumi, 85, 87, 91, 99, 100, 101, 178, 181, 183, 189 safety myth, 34, 82, 124–125, 135 “Saikadō hantai” chant, 141, 143, 200–201, 204, 221, 229, 252, 253, 254, 256, 259–260, 283, 356 Saitō Kazuyoshi 45 Stones, 119, 280–281, 320, 331,  357 at Fuji Rock Festival, 295,  296 “It Was Always a Lie,” 3, 82, 117–120,  121 at events, 150, 295, 272, 280, 296, 356,  357 and framing,  29 reception, 24, 70, 105, 353, 356,  357

release of, 105, 117, 320, 324,  353 at No Nukes concerts, 279, 280–281, 287,  290 and protest songs, 81, 87, 90, 121,  273 reception, 24, 70, 105–106, 148,  283 “Sakura rapusodii” (Cherry Blossom Rhapsody), 331, 333, 347,  350 on television, 5, 105–106, 272,  279 “Usagi to kame” (The Tortoise and the Hare),  321 Sakamoto Ryūichi, 4, 67–70, 84, 86, 91, 98–99, 100, 270–279, 290 antinuclear activity of, 5, 67–70, 70–71, 81–82, 84, 92–93, 95, 98, 103, 140–141, 270–279,  284 as citizen, 92–93, 97, 272–273,  353 at Fuji Rock Festival,  295 and No Nukes 2012, 81–82, 265, 270–279, 281, 284,  290 and No Nukes concerts after 2012, 286–288, 289–290 and Project Fukushima, 308, 310–311 reception, 25, 68–70, 72, 74, 104–105, 147, 311, 319,  376n5 and Sayonara Genpatsu, 52, 67,  81,  97 and Stop Rokkasho, 70–71, 93, 140–141 Zero Landmine project, 86, 104–105 See also No Nukes 2012; Yellow Magic Orchestra Sankei newspaper, 42, 48, 68–70, 75, 372n28, 376n5 SASPL (Students Against the Secret Protection Law), 358–362, 363 Sawada Kenji (Julie), 78, 84, 91, 93 Sayonara Genpatsu (Goodbye Nuclear Power) demonstrations of, 27, 52–53, 67–68, 81, 97–98,  191 and No Nukes concerts, 277, 284, 285, 286,  288 Scha Dara Parr, 15, 82, 121, 149, 182, 354 schemas, 321, 350, 351 Science Council of Japan, 37, 39–40 SEALDs (Students Emergency Action for Liberal Democracy), 362–363 Secrecy Law, 5, 11–12, 64–65, 66, 358–363. See also Abe administration; anti-militarization movement Security Bills. See Abe administration; anti-militarization movement Seifuku Kōjō Iinkai, 60, 79, 156, 272, 377n24, 378n42. See also Hashimoto Mika self-restraint (jishuku). See censorship: and self-restraint Shibuya, 52, 95, 101, 103, 157, 160–162, 164–166, 179, 195, 202, 236, 237–238, 239, 240, 245, 249–257, 258, 359, 362 Shibuya Yōichi, 274, 290

Index  431 Shing02, 85, 87, 88, 93–95, 120, 140–141, 293, 353 “Boku to kaku” (The Atom and Me),  93–95 on political music, 56,  72,  89 and Stop Rokkasho project, 71, 140–141 Shinjuku, 27, 52, 55, 155, 166, 173, 179, 182, 195, 204, 233, 234, 237, 238–239, 245, 247, 268, 288, 358, 367n5 arrests in, 188–189, 190, 202,  205 Shirōto no Ran (Revolt of the Layman) demonstrations, 27, 52, 99, 176, 178–194, 195 and cyberspace, 52, 118,  138 by  date April 10, 2011, 52, 54, 99, 118, 131, 142, 178–179, 180–181, 183–185, 198, 232–233, 246,  388n1 May 7, 2011, 179, 185–186, 258,  388n2 June 11, 2011, 53, 55–56, 142–143, 179, 182, 188, 239, 245,  247 September 11, 2011, 27, 55, 58, 188–191, 239–240, 247,  288 media coverage of, 27, 54, 55,  173 and music genres, 180–182,  183 origins, 52, 99, 172–174 participatory style at, 118, 131, 138, 183–186 police at, 188–191, 239–240 presentational style at, 182–183 and urban space, 243,  258 Shōriki Matsutarō, 40 Slang (band). See Ko Snow, David, 29, 93, 109. See also framing Sōma, 334. See also “Soma” “Soma” (song), 321, 334–338, 350 Soul Flower Union, 87, 93, 100, 274, 282, 283, 289, 295. See also Nakagawa Takashi sound demos (demonstrations), 155–195, 202–233, 258–260 before antinuclear movement, 161–166, 170–174 criticism of, 161, 187, 192, 194–195 DJs, 89, 155, 181, 185–186, 187, 198, 228–229,  258 of July 29, 2012, analysis of, 206–229 and music genre, 153, 156, 170, 180–182, 194–195, 198, 205,  232 participatory style in (see under demonstrations) precedents, 155–158 presentational style in (see under demonstrations) outside Tokyo, 144–145, 171–172, 178, 192–194 risks of, 190–191

See also acoustics; demonstrations; police; Shirōto no Ran demonstrations; sound trucks; urban  space soundmarks, 248–249 sound trucks, 150–151, 155–156, 161, 164, 171, 174, 258–260, 261 restrictions on, 163, 175, 188,  191 as soundmarks, 161, 244, 248–249,  258 See also acoustics; sound  demos spaces, 15–27, 356–357. See also cyberspace; demonstrations; festivals; recordings; urban space SPEEDI radiation data, 49, 65, 315, 341–342 spiral of silence, 4, 110, 111–112, 114, 146, 148 Sprechchor, 185, 187, 197, 231, 232, 233, 244, 354, 389n11 of anti-Abe demonstrations, 359–363 and i Zoom i Rockers, 203–204, 205, 206, 221–224, 228,  233 at TwitNoNukes demonstrations, 196, 201–202, 252–260 squares. See plazas Stevens, Quentin, 235–236, 240, 242, 244–245, 260 Stop Rokkasho, 71, 86, 93, 140–141 Stop Sellafield concert, 274, 275, 276, 281. See also Kraftwerk Street, John, 12, 69, 72–73, 91, 104, 262, 319 students movements of 1960s and 1970s, 5, 41, 56–57, 78, 86, 145, 155, 172, 265, 266,  268 movements of 2010s, 59–60, 358–363,  373n51 See also anti-militarization movement; antiwar movements; U.S.-Japan Security Treaty;  youth Students Against the Secret Protection Law (SASPL), 358–362, 363 Students Emergency Action for Liberal Democracy (SEALDs), 362–363 “Summertime Blues” cover by Imawano Kiyoshirō, 75–76, 77, 78, 119, 150, 281, 323–324 covers of, 281, 300,  363 Taiyō o yobu shōnen (The Boy Who Calls the Sun), 328–330 Takaishi Tomoya, 161, 265, 394n5 Tanaka Kakuei, 35, 41, 42, 341–342 Tasaka. See DJ Tasaka TCDC (Transistor Connected Drum Collective), 162–164, 175, 198. See also drum corps; Oda Masanori TDC, 162, 198–201, 391n30. See also drum corps; Oda Masanori

432   Index

techno, 89, 155, 156, 161, 164, 180, 181, 185, 192, 195, 232–233, 240, 357 television, 5, 48, 113–114, 368n7, 371n27 and advertising, 46, 73, 80,  273 and antinuclear views, 5, 7–8, 53–55, 71, 74, 80–81, 105, 296,  355 and music industry, 74–75, 322,  352 and self-censorship,  10,  71 See also censorship; media industry; Nippon Hōsō Kyōkai; nuclear village;  radio TEPCO. See Tokyo Electric Power text setting, 30, 118, 124, 135, 168–169, 347–350, 387n31. See also rap: techniques Tilly, Charles, 13, 154, 174–175, 176–177, 182, 232, 358 Timers, 78, 128, 300, 363. See also Ese Timers; Imawano Kiyoshirō “Tōden ni hairō” (Let’s Join TEPCO), 121–122, 123 Tōhoku (region) and relief efforts, 99–100, 289,  383n23 and triple disaster, 6–7, 113, 303, 306, 313, 316,  369n3 See also Fukushima prefecture Tokyo, as urban space, 16, 160, 234, 241, 247, 248. See also Alta-mae Plaza; Ginza; Hachiko Square; Harajuku; Hibiya Park; Kasumigaseki; Kōenji; Miyashita Park; Omotesandō; Shibuya; Shinjuku Tokyo Electric Power (TEPCO) and accountability, 7, 34, 50, 133,  231 advertising by, 7, 45–47,  114 and information on Fukushimi Daiichi nuclear disaster, 7, 34–36, 49, 51, 62–63,  66 and nuclear village, 36, 43, 45, 54, 60, 63, 77,  369n3 in protest media, 120, 121–125, 127, 130, 135, 142–143, 151, 259, 273, 276, 296, 298, 304, 346,  358 protests at buildings of, 52, 54, 118, 144, 195, 197, 227, 231, 235, 236, 248, 249–251,  354 response to disaster, 126, 286, 333,  346 and safety inspections, 43–44,  382n16 sōteigai defense, 7, 34, 50–51,  66 See also nuclear industry; nuclear village Tokyo Shimbun (newspaper), 31, 50, 56, 171, 297 Toshiba and nuclear power, 35, 46, 60, 105, 130,  369n4 and record labels, 75–78, 323–324 Toshi-Low (of Brahman), 95, 102, 273, 300, 363. See also Brahman Tower of the Sun, 328–330

Trans-Pacific Partnership (TPP), 112, 332, 400n22 triple disaster of March 11, 2011, 6–8, 34–36, 45, 47, 48–51, 56, 334. See also tsunami tsunami of March 11, 2011, 6–8, 34, 48–49, 51 areas damaged by, 60, 83, 84, 98–99, 100, 306, 334,  348 See also Tokyo Electric Power:  sōteigai defense Turino, Thomas, 13, 28, 154, 176, 177, 201, 231. See also participatory style; presentational style TwitNoNukes demonstrations, 52, 53, 176–177, 178, 195–197, 246, 247 of August 26, 2012, 244, 249–257 at No Nukes concerts,  289 participation at, 196–197, 198, 201–202, 256,  360 routes of, 235, 237–238, 241, 244–245, 246, 249–251,  259 Twitter, 18, 28–29, 109–110 anonymity on, 115–116 commentary on, 68, 70, 74, 110, 117–118, 145–147, 234, 273, 285, 290, 315, 355,  356 information on, 18, 92, 109–110,  114 mobilization on, 52, 54, 110, 117–119, 195–196, 254,  285 U2, “Vertigo,” 343 United States protests against, 85, 87, 170,  266 relations with Japan, 36–39, 40–41, 152, 268, 306,  322 weapons testing,  36–37 See also antiwar demonstrations:  of 2001–2004; U.S.-Japan Security  Treaty Universal Music, 323 urban space, 234–261 acoustics (see under acoustics) cyberspace as, 18,  19–20 and democracy,  234 and demonstrations, 16, 153, 234–261 elements of, 235–236 (see also boundaries; districts; landmarks; nodes;  paths) and festivals,  17–18 reclaiming, 16, 143, 153, 159, 160–164, 166, 171, 174, 181, 190, 232, 249,  354 recordings as, 18, 21–22,  23 See also Against Street Control; police; spaces;  Tokyo U.S.-Japan Security Treaty (Treaty of Mutual Cooperation and Security between the United States and Japan, Anpo jōyaku), 5, 41, 56, 61, 158, 164, 172, 268

Index  433 Ustream, 109, 318, 384n36 demonstrations on, 114,  145 live performances on, 117, 140, 145, 285, 286, 288–289,  290 Victor Entertainment, 117, 320, 323, 324, 333 Wagō Ryōichi and Project Fukushima, 84, 301, 306, 309,  315 Shi no tsubute (Pebbles of Poetry), 18, 310–311, 313–314 war. See antiwar movements; Pacific War; World War II workers, temporary, 59–60, 85, 87, 159–160. See also economy; freeters World Peace Now (WPN), 156–158, 162, 232 World War II, allusions to, 56, 78, 123, 126–129, 306, 399n1 Yamamoto Tarō, 80–81, 102, 103, 126, 140, 273, 289 Yamashita Shun’ichi, 50, 96, 125, 286, 372n33 Yasu (Hayashi Yasunori). See Acid Black Cherry Yellow Magic Orchestra (YMO), 67, 81–82, 86, 92

at Fuji Rock Festival, 295, 296–297 in No Nukes concerts, 147, 271, 282, 283, 285,  287 See also Sakamoto Ryūichi Yokoyama Ken, 95, 102, 273–274, 277, 279, 283, 289 Yomiuri newspaper, 40, 42, 48, 51, 55, 76, 138, 297 youth activism by, 57, 60, 155, 160, 174, 196, 239, 259, 268, 274, 277, 284, 358–363,  373n51 and employment, 59–60,  160 and Tokyo locations, 160, 236, 237, 239, 241,  259 See also freeters; students YouTube and commentary, 110, 137,  384n36 and demonstrations, 4, 131, 137–138, 142, 143, 148, 153, 184, 201, 356,  385n43 and journalism, 103, 114,  142 and mobilization, 80, 110, 114, 138–140,  334 as music platform, 81, 105, 117–118, 120, 131, 143, 153, 184, 320, 327, 353–354 and performances, 272,  318 Zeebra, 15, 101, 320, 353, 368n6, 399n1 Zunō Keisatsu, 156, 266, 308. See also Panta