Someone's got to be the first.

Photo credit: www.projecthappiness.com

Every San Jose obon we have an early-morning discussion session between some members of SJT and the collegiate groups playing over the weekend.  One of the questions asked in my group was how to write a song that was different to the group's current style, in terms of mood/energy.

My answer was that someone has to "be the first" to do it.  Someone has to be the first to push the limits, stretch the boundaries, test the waters, etc.

If no one writes a song that goes a little outside what's "normal", then what happens to the repertoire of songs in 5, 10 years?  More and more and more of the same, to a point possibly where songs are hard for the audience to distinguish between.

If no one solos with different patterns than everyone else in the group, or with different motions than everyone in the group, then again, how will people in the audience distinguish between them all?

Stepping a little outside what's expected, what's "accepted" can cause friction or discomfort, sure.  But it can also cause growth, can also trigger new ideas.  You can learn what's off-limits in theory vs. in actuality.  Without trying, the boundaries are all hypothetical.

Going too far at first is not always a good idea, however.  You could actually turn people off to the idea because it's too extreme, reaching too far, etc.  It's like asking for a cookie before dinner vs. asking for an entire cake.  One is reasonable, the other is not.

You might find the group votes your idea down.  It's possible.  But it's up to you whether or not that ends your attempts, or you mark it up as experience.  Personally, I have done countless things that were remarked on, some that were actually explicitly forbidden later (amusing but don't do that again) and some were highlights of my solo history.  I've written things where people had to do something out of the norm, and some of those things became key points the song while others make me shake my head when I think back to.  Without trying those things, I wouldn't have the experience, creativity, or willingness to do some of the things I do now.  And I feel like there's still SO much more I haven't even thought about yet!

You don't have to be groundbreaking or revolutionary (I mean, it's not bad if you are), but you can be intentionally curious and exploratory if you want to be.  After all, someone's got to be the first...

Those little voices.

Photo credit: http://healthyeatingandliving.ca/

As human beings, there are these little voices that chatter in our heads that do nothing but cause self-doubt.  It's especially common in composers, because composition is such a personal thing and often takes many months of work and re-work to achieve one new piece.

Thinking of a new song idea is often one of the most exciting things a person can experience.  The inspiration, the potential, the visuals, the expression, all of it can come together and be a very powerful, empowering feeling.  Until those voices come in...  Then it's about how the idea isn't original enough, not interesting enough, requires too many drums, is too difficult to play...  Next thing you know, the idea is tossed in the trash.

But you have to fight those voices, because you won't be able to shut them up completely.  Get your ideas down, somehow, somewhere.  Scribble the notes, the patterns, the movements, the moods, the poses, get it documented in some way.  That way, if the voices do win the battle, you're not completely defeated.

Another way to look at it is being able to come back to your idea later on, with a different perspective.  Maybe you get that sense of the initial thrill you had, maybe you think of new directions to take it, maybe you have no idea what the hell you were trying to get at, but it's making you come up with new ideas!

For me, I have notation software that I use to put down patterns that come to me, use Western notation when I can, or even use primitive hash marks if I need to.  I have a folder with just under 100 "things" to listen to, from simple 1 to 4-bar phrases to several minutes' worth of patterns.  Every couple of months I'll browse the library and see what stands out.  It keeps the wheels spinning and I'm adding new stuff a couple of times a month.  Those little voices in my head have certainly had their fair share of victories, but what I've got in my archives are never going away.

My last point is that composing is not easy.  If you can't get past those little voices, you'll never get past actual people complaining and critiquing your work, which is bound to happen.  The more you compose (not just how many songs you write, but how much time you spend composing), the easier things will get.  If you give up too easily, then those voices are going to win over and over again...

San Jose Obon 2016!

So it's Monday and I'm writing this in advance because I'm going to be beyond tired come this blog post.

San Jose Obon is such a huge event, starting (for me) Friday night with the potluck full of collegiate players, friends of SJT, and SJT itself.  There's probably about 250 people who attend, and about 95% of them either play or have played taiko.  We eat, we rehearse Ei Ja Nai Ka, we clean up, and we rest for the weekend!

Over the weekend there's six taiko performances, 4 collegiate groups (2 each day) with SJT playing at the end on both days.  Then there's the dancing a few hours later; we had over 1200 odori dancers last Obon Saturday and I want to say around 900 on the Sunday?  With even more people around, watching.

Add all the food, games, crafts, and other entertainment, and it's like a 2-day block party/carnival right outside our door.  Literally, like 50 feet from my doorstep.

I'll be taking and posting pics of the collegiate taiko and dancing as I normally do to post later in the week.  If you've never been to SJ Obon, I highly highly recommend it, as it's the largest in North America, has a lot of taiko to enjoy, and is in the heart of SJ Japantown!

By the time you read this, I'll be recuperating, so I hope you were able to attend, but if not, come over in 2017!

Question Everything: Song names

I've seen a lot of taiko pieces, and one thing I've noticed is a lot of them have Japanese names.

Surprising, I know.  An art form that came from Japan has people giving new compositions Japanese names?  Wow.

But for all of those songs written outside of Japan, by people of non-Japanese decent, why give it a Japanese name?  There's nothing inherently wrong with that, mind you, but why?

I wonder why, especially in North America where there are a lot of European and non-Japanese Asian taiko players/composers, there aren't more non-Japanese song titles.  Where are the Gaelic, Mandarin, Tagalog names?  I've really wanted to use something Gaelic (I'm part Irish) like "Saoirse" or "Aoibhneas" but I'll feel sorry for people trying to pronounce them...

I've written about eight pieces now and the only one with a Japanese name was a co-composition where I let my partner name the piece.  A Japanese name never occurred to me with the others.  Maybe future compositions will inspire one?

Sure, a Japanese title might really capture the essence of a song the way you - or a composer - wants it to feel.  But was it because it "sounds better" in Japanese?  Sounds "more authentic"?  Are you picking a Japanese title because the words speak to you and what you want from the piece, or because it's the "default"?

Here's a list of random non-English, non-Japanese words that (probably) don't have a counterpart in other languages.  Can you imagine how a song would sound or look with these as a title?  Would you be able to capture these well in Japanese?  Or any other language rather than their own?

- Mamihlapinatapei (Yagan, South America) "implying a wordless yet meaningful look shared by two people who both desire to initiate something but are both reluctant to start."
- Wei-wu-wei (Chinese) "a deliberate, and principled, decision to do nothing whatsoever, and to do it for a particular reason."
- Duende (Spanish) "the mysterious power of a work of art to deeply move a person."
- Pålegg (Norwegian) "anything — ham, cheese, jam, Nutella, mustard, herring, pickles, Doritos, you name it — you might consider putting into a sandwich."
- Gumusservi (Czech) "moonlight shining on water."

After writing this blog, I think I'm going to hunt for something really nifty to inspire my next piece.  Who needs English when you can say shemomedjano which means "you can't stop eating even after you're full" in Georgian?

Thanks to stephenliddell.co.uk for the awesome words!

Soloing and improvisation

Been thinking about the difference between soloing and improv lately....

In taiko, I hear these terms used interchangeably, but it's really not a big deal.  People seem to understand the meaning based on context.  It's important to realize, however, that these are two different skills that can be totally independent of each other.

A solo generally means one person has all the attention.  The easiest example is being the only person on stage, but it could be a stage full of people where one person is the only one moving around or playing something.

Soloing requires the ability to "sell it".  All eyes (and maybe ears) are on you!  It might be a prescribed pattern that's dictated by the song or you could be improvising stuff, but in those moments, you represent the song, the group, and yourself.  No pressure!

To improvise (improv) is to make things up on the fly, out of the blue.  It doesn't mean you can't have done it before, just that it wasn't something set.

Improv can be in the movements, in the notes/patterns played, in your kiai, even in your expression and energy.  I'm guessing a lot of taiko players see improv as the thing they do during a solo, if they want to make things up.  But improv can happen outside of soloing, too!

When and what you kiai is often improvised, no?  Sure, some songs have it written in, but otherwise, you kiai when you feel it's right.  That's improv.  And in some songs, say something like Matsuri or a more casual piece, if you embellish what you play on narimono or assorted percussion (like chappa, kane, chekere, etc.), that's improvised.  Same if you do it on a shime or any other instrument, really.

A lot of taiko players seem intimidated or nervous when it comes to doing solo work or drills.  Partially I think that stems from not having a large repertoire of things to pull from, but also from the pressure of thinking "I need to make things up on the spot".  But realize that a solo doesn't mean you have to improvise, and you're probably already doing a lot of improvisation you hadn't realized in songs you've been playing!

Play a pattern from a song that fits the ji you're soloing in.  Pressure gone.  Embellish a bit, expand on it a bit.  What can you do from that?  Next thing you know, you're improvising more and more and hey, it's not such a big deal!

Stand in front of a mirror and just look.  Make faces.  Pose.  Move around, but keep looking.  There's your biggest critic, and you're doing ok, right?  If you can "sell it" to yourself, then you can "sell it" to the audience.

It may still not be easy to solo AND improvise, but at least you can look at them as two different skills, two things to work on at your own pace instead of one big insurmountable problem.

Drill: Lights out

I might be wrong, but I would guess that the most active sense when playing taiko is the sense of sight.  There's so much visual input to take in and keep track of, even for those who wind up staring at the drums!  And then there's all that tactile, physical feedback from hitting and feeling the drum when you strike it.

But what about what you hear?  How much are you hearing?  What are you hearing?

If you ever get the chance, try playing with your eyes closed.  Especially your solo!  Now obviously you don't want to do this if your song involves a lot of movement, I'm not trying to get you hurt.  But if you can play parts of it (or the whole thing) while stationary, it will be a very different experience, trust me.

You can't see anything, so that frees up a lot of processing power.  At first, sure, you'll be a bit nervous, so this isn't something you just do once or for three minutes and get much out of it.  You need to get past the worry and get to the point where you can hear yourself.  And then, listen!  Really listen.  If it helps, don't play so loud at first.  Then add volume once you're convinced you're not going to kill yourself or the drum.

Does one hand strike louder than the other?  Are they the same tone or is one striking a different part of the drum than the other (in other words, is one hitting the center while the other strikes near the edge)?  Is there consistency to the sound and volume?

Here's the fun part.  If it sounds okay, make it *not* sound okay.  Change one hand position just a little and see if you can tell the difference.  Maybe you won't at first, maybe the drum head isn't sensitive enough, but you should be able to, eventually.  Now make it "better" again.  Experiment with this to train your ear to hear differences in sound, differences that you might not have noticed before.

To me, when I play shime and find the right spot to make my notes sound the same, it's such a rewarding feeling.  When it's not even, it's like an itch I can't reach or a smudge on my glasses.  The ability to adjust quickly and remain steady for an even sound is underrated and often overlooked.  Hitting the same tone on one drum with two bachi elevates how that player sounds.  Two different sounds, even moderately different, and it will never sound as clean, as polished.

So if you get the opportunity, I suggest trying this out.  I realize it's not always easy to get alone time on a drum, but at least be aware that this skill is something worth pursuing!

Physician, critique thyself

What if you got as much critique as you gave, in the manner you gave it?

Would there be a lot?  Would it be easy to take?  Would it be about the details or the generalities?  Would you find the suggestions clear or ambiguous, personal or professional?  Would you want less?  More?

Questions like these help you see yourself from the outside, less about what your intentions are and more about the outcomes.  There is no perfect teacher for everyone, nor can one person give the best feedback all the time, but if we're aware of how we ourselves come across to others, we can then choose to change, to grow, to get (and be) better artists.