Clockwise from top left: Martin Rossiter, Tenniscoats, Cate Le Bon, Deerhoof

2012 was a good year for music as far as I’m concerned, not least because I rediscovered my love for it. Possibly as a result of moving to the culture-less UAE in 2009, I have spent a few years in a uninspired wilderness, neither creating anything of my own nor particularly enjoying anything by anybody else. Thankfully, 2012 brought with it a spark – thanks, no doubt, to having moved in next door to my fellow Grizzly Folk member, Jon Nice, and having fitted up my attic as a kind of rough and ready recording room. Together, we’ve explored the stringed limits of the mandola and the ukulele, and I imagine we’ll put them through various pedals and push it out even further in the New Year. I’m looking forward to it.

In tribute to that rediscovered spark, I’ve collected a few sounds that have had me humming over the last 12 months. They’re not necessarily new, but they’re notable for having pulled me from my slumber. May 2013 be a wide-eyed audio fest for all! No snoozing allowed! 

Deerhoof: The Trouble With Candyhands

No band played on my creative impulses more than Deerhoof this year. They may have been around for yonks, but their latest album, Breakup Song, was another entirely fresh and unchartered expedition into the world of avant-pop. They also take the prize for best live act of 2012 – forget avant-pop, Deerhoof onstage worked at a kind of indie-jazz that left me jealous and frustrated by my own limited abilities for weeks after. A must-see band, should you ever get the chance.

I’ve picked “The Trouble With Candyhands” as the most representative of their recent all-embracing, anti-genre output, but it could just as easily have been “Fête D’Adieu“. Both have been stuck in my head almost constantly since August.

Cate Le Bon: What is Worse

While 2012 may have been an exceptional music year, I drew a bit of a blank books-wise. So, having failed to find anything recent that caught my imagination, I returned to my bookshelf and dug out a few old treasures, Will Hodgkinson’s Ballad of Britain proving well worth a second read. The travelogue of a man touring Britain with a Zoom multitrack, attempting to record some of the barely noticed visionaries that dot the British Isles, it’s a book best enjoyed with its Spotify playlist open at the same time. In this way, I discovered yet another unheard Gruff Rhys gem (the man can do no wrong, in my ears), but also the work of Cate Le Bon – a kind of modern Welsh Nico, with a band that occasionally recalls Brighten the Corners-era Pavement.

The song on Ballad of Britain, “Byw Heb Frw” is fragile, hypnotic and best listened to as an antidote to the money mitherings barked across tables on 7.13 to Waterloo every Hampshire morning. However, it’s her 2012 EP, CYRK II that really got me thinking, especially the track posted here, “What is Worse”, which I only uncovered at the beginning of December. I have a feeling that Cate Le Bon may do for me in 2013 what Deerhoof managed in 2012. That’s a tall order, but there – the gauntlet is thrown down.

Tenniscoats: Papaya

I’ve always a little room on my turntable for Tenniscoats, though it’s true that I lost track of them for a few months during my move back from Japan to the UK, and they’re not a band that lets you turn your back for too long. When I finally caught up with them this summer, their discography had two new albums listed – two entire albums in the space of about seven months. Prolific is an understatement.

I’ve yet to explore the second of the two, allowing myself to be consumed entirely by Papa’s Ear, ostensibly the follow up to their stunning 2007 masterpiece, Tan Tan Therapy. The new collection was recorded in the company of the same Scandinavian itinerants, Tape, and it retains much of the warmth and playfulness of its predecessor, permeated by the creeping melancholy that has found its way into many of Saya San’s melodies over the last few years, none more so than on the attached track, “Papaya”, which sounds to me much like the soft farewell to a beautiful but impermanent sunset. Or perhaps I’m just listening too damn hard.

Martin Rossiter: Drop Anchor

Martin Rossiter’s 2012 comeback will surely last long in his memory, though according to this fascinating Drowned in Sound interview, it could be a year of thwarted dreams if he doesn’t shift upwards of 6,000 units (his interviews have read a lot like a one-man reality game show – less than 6,000 votes and he’s off). Either way, I’m sure he’ll be keeping the press clippings. His debut solo album, The Defenestration of St Martin, has rightly garnered little other than out and out love and praise, and I have personally felt hugely inspired by the go-it-alone route he has chosen (been forced?) to take.

The attached track, “Drop Anchor”, comes with ladles of melancholy and longing, and tends to hover around my frontal lobe, my heart and my mood for possibly more time than it’s welcome to. A beautiful piece of music, and one that (if all is fair and just in the universe) ought to mark the return of someone well worth all forms of investment time and again.

Anna Byrne: Easter Weekend

I had the good fortune to work for a lot of 2012 with this talented Anna, and her determination to get out and make London use its ears was a continuous source of inspiration. She has even promised to record with The Grizzly Folk in 2013, though I’m not sure we’re worthy.

The song I’ve included here is intensely sad, and somewhat at odds with the rest of her output, which tends to be quite upbeat, if not utterly withering (if you happen to be the man on the receiving end of her barbed couplets – which I’m not, by the way and thank the heavens). A warning before you listen: like the Martin Rossiter track above, this has the tendency to wrap itself around your innards and give them a mournful but very firm yank. When I posted a link to it during the summer, it had Japanese listeners tweeting back in floods of tears. Proceed at your own emotional risk.

Johnny Marr: The Messenger

At the time of writing, only two songs from Johnny Marr’s upcoming, February 2013 album have been made available to the listening public – “The Right Thing Right” and this track, “The Messenger”. On first listen, I heard mainly a spiky variation on the Stone Roses’ “I Wanna be Adored”, and I feared that Marr – one of the few men I’d call my hero without then crumbling into bashfulness – may have failed to live up to everyone’s expectations once again and done another Boomslang. Fortunately, with almost obsessive repeated listening, I’m now all a-twitch in anticipation of what The Master has been up to.

“The Messenger” is one of those great tracks that reveals itself in layers; on the surface, as windswept as the video that accompanies it, but rewardingly textured and varied if you care to give it your full attention. On this evidence, it sounds like the album will be as much a masterclass in production as it will a guitarist’s treasure trove, and I dare say that in the 26 years since he left the group for which he’ll chiefly be remembered, he’s only ever sounded this creative on other people’s records (have a listen to “Dashboard” by Modest Mouse, in the meantime, and remind yourself what the man is capable of). I’ve got tickets booked to see him on his forthcoming tour. Spring can’t come soon enough.

I’m going to end this little missive with a brief hint of things to come. As I said earlier, the result of hearing these sparks in 2012 was the return of my little collective to “the studio”. We’re nothing in comparison to the great and the good on this list, but I’m fairly determined that 2013 will see the release of a new collection of songs by The Grizzly Folk, a collection that has been on the boil now for some time.

Will we make it happen? It depends very much on snatched time and happy circumstance. The track I’ll end this post on, “Hana’s Song”, was the result of a bored afternoon in which Jon and I found ourselves with too little to do. These occur all too rarely, and considering that Jon is about to become a father (hurrah!) and that we intend to record with a bunch of friends in London who also count parenthood as one of their occasional blessings, our chances will prove very slim indeed.

However, the recording of “Hana’s Song”, inspired in some manner by all of the above tunes, brought only joy, and if we could source and put to good use even a cupful of the same again, then we’d be very well off indeed. In the meantime, I’ll be keeping my ear pressed to the walls of the world in the hope of hearing something as inspiring again in 2013. As New Years resolutions go, I think it’ll be a pretty easy one to keep.

Tenniscoats at play. Photo by Jon Wilks

Earlier this year, I flew up to Tokyo to meet Saya, the mercurial vocalist with Tenniscoats. We initially made contact in conjunction with our 4th Tada Sampler, and – truth be told – I’d become something of a Tenniscoats junkie in the interim. Though she’d been delightful in our email correspondence, I found myself vaguely nervous about meeting her in person.

Tenniscoats have become one of the hippest bands on the underground scene, though their legion of international fans probably indicates that the word ‘underground’ is no longer applicable. In which case, it’s a triumph of the internet that a band as avant garde (‘avant pops’, to use their own expression) as this can inspire such a following, especially as they’re hardly household names in their home country. Such renown is helped, of course, by an ability to produce the kind of music that grabs your attention whatever you’re doing. When I first played their latest album to the staff at Tada, they sat in drooling silence. Even the usually unshakable Tada technician was rendered useless. I challenge you to listen to “Baibaba Bimba” (available on Tada Sampler Volume Four) and not fall head over heels in love. Many have tried, many have failed. 

Actually, ‘band’ is something of a misnomer for Tenniscoats. In essence, they are a duo; guitarist Takashi Ueno works with Saya on all Tenniscoats recordings and performances. They collaborate freely and regularly with an eclectic group of accomplices, seemingly incapable of not making music. Swedish soundscape artists Tape (co-creators of last year’s Tan Tan Therapy) have said, “Saya and Takashi literally play and sing themselves to sleep. They catch some sleep here and there, and wake up to musical work again with coffee and cigarettes as their only fuel.” Other past collaborators include Bill Wells, DJ Klock, Kazumi Nikaidoh, as well as many of the artists that they help out on their very own Majikick Label. They’re currently lining up releases with The Pastels and Secai, while Saya completes work on a collaboration with Deerhoof’s lead singer, Satomi. How they find time for it all is anyone’s guess.

Via email, Saya was a charming correspondant. Her English isn’t perfect, but she was keen to do as best she could. When I finally caught up with her in person, she continued this pattern, despite the fact that I spoke to her entirely in Japanese. She only relented after she’d come off stage, tiredness presumably taking its toll. Face to face, she came across less confidently than I’d expected. I mentioned that they’d performed one of my favourite Tenniscoats pieces, adding that it was gorgeous music. “Really?” she responded, almost as though she needed the assurance. “Well, I’m glad.”

Talking to Saya about the origins of Tenniscoats, she recalls meeting Takashi at university in Tokyo, where they were both students of Literature. “At Meidai-Mae Station, where our university was, there was an important music record shop. It’s still there now. It’s called Modern Music, and they run a label called PSF. We discovered Keiji Haino and many other improvisational musicians at that shop.”

Improvisational music seems to have been Saya’s calling from an early age. In Harmonies, a recent film documenting her musical relationship with Kazumi Nikaidoh, Saya recalls her father laughing at her childhood attempts at songwriting. Admitting that she was just thumping the piano, she points out that the sounds she was making were songs to her. While her technique has obviously been refined, much of Tenniscoats’ music – ‘Kimi ni Naritai’, from Totemo Aimashou (2007) springs to mind – is informed by a similar naivety.

I wonder whether they take their lead solely from other improvisational artists. “Ueno is a rock musician,” she laughs. “His birthday is 6.23 – ROKU NI SAN! * “

So what was he listening to in his formative years?

“He liked Jimi Hendrix, the Kinks and the Stooges, amongst others. As for me, I listened to folk, and gradually became interested in punk music.”

One would presume that it’s this amalgamation of melody, technical know-how (Ueno is a far more complicated guitarist live than you’d ever presume from Tenniscoats records – though his solo stuff is a different matter entirely) and disregard for rules that allows Tenniscoats to stand out amongst the vast ream of musicians getting nowhere in Japan. It’s a tough game to play out here, and it’s refreshing to see that Tenniscoats are happily doing things their own way.

“I like independently active artists and labels, the world over,” she confirms.

Any recommendations, I wonder?

“Recently, I like Eddie Marcon, from Himeji. And of course Secai, Tetsuya Umeda, Yumbo [the current drummer in Tenniscoats live band], and the other Majikick bands.”

Majikick, their homegrown label, began life back in 1995 when Pukka Pukka Brians – a band formed by Ueno, amongst others – needed an outlet for their music. The label has since released a large amount of what Saya terms “DIY music”, including several CDs by Tenniscoats themselves. Other artists in their stable have included, at one time or another, Maher Shalal Hash Baz, My Pal Foot Foot, Yumbo, Andersens and Cacoy. The latter was a collaboration between Saya, Takashi and the man who many observers dubbed “the future of music”, DJ Klock. Sadly, Klock took his own life in April 2007, apparently the victim of unconquerable depression.

“He was our friend from university,” she remembers. “I think he had an independent spirit and led his life his own way.”

“He understood our clumsiness well,” she adds, poignantly. “We lost a best friend.”

Saya admits that Majikick is a pretty time-consuming business that they find increasingly difficult to maintain during their hectic touring schedule. Their DIY nature is reflected in their touring style, meaning that their schedule could find them mixing with The Pastels in Glasgow one day, with Secai in Tokyo the next, before heading to Korea for a brief stop, then a whizz around their native country with the likes of Shugo Tokumaru or Deerhoof. It seems like an exhausting existence, though it occasionally throws up unlikely opportunities. A few years ago, whilst in transit in Sweden, the pair met soundscape artists, Tape, a chance encounter that ultimately led to Tan Tan Therapy, the astounding collaboration they released in 2007.

It’s the opening track of …Therapy that Tenniscoats and Hapna (Tape’s label) graciously offered us for our 4th Sampler. Probably their best-loved track to date, ‘Baibaba Bimba’ has won the band fans the world over, usually off the back of a single listen. Given that its lyrics often confuse even native Japanese speakers, I try my luck at getting the real meaning from the composer herself. No such luck.

“My idea is just “Baibaba Bimba”! I think the song atmosphere is starting to sail.”

So I try a different tack.

How important are lyrics in Tenniscoats music, Saya? With songs like “Moshi Moshi, Ueno Desu” (“Hello, this is Ueno”), I get the feeling you’re trying to be wilfully obscure.

“I can understand Tenniscoats lyrics sound obscure sometimes, but they’re very usual for me. I think it is important to say things clearly, so we can understand easily. Words should be written to explain things easily.”

How about the sounds you use? Do use a lot of synthesizer technology, or are most of your sounds analogue?

“I’m borrowing an analogue synthesizer from my friend at the moment. I think our sounds are very analogue. I don’t have digital technology. We don’t have so many instruments, so we choose the sounds which we can hear around us. Ueno likes to use effects in his guitar playing, and I think his volume style is very unique – although volume playing in itself is not an original thing. In Tenniscoats songs, it sounds like views; like freedom.”

Do you have a method for writing?

“I think the best method is not to plan, just to have a feeling. If interesting things occur, we can make a song about it. But when I miss the chance to write something immediately, it takes a long time to finish a song. I find lyric-writing hard work, as well as mixing.”

Do you have a favourite environment for making music?

“Not especially. Coffee is the most important taste.”

As I leave the venue at the end of the evening, I notice that Takashi – who I haven’t managed to speak to this evening – is enjoying a chat with several admirers. His musical partner, meanwhile, seems more isolated, perhaps comfortably so. Despite their growing fame, I get the impression that life for Saya is hectic, but untroubled by the pretensions and pressures of 21st century entertainment. As long as she has caffeine and music, it seems that the fiercely independent Queen of DIY music will be making music with someone, somewhere.

For now, though, she checks that I have a place to stay and sees me to the elevator doors. She’s still waving as I descend to the Tokyo streets.

*For the benefits of non-Japanese speakers, the joke here puns the pronunciation of the three numbers in Ueno’s birthday (6 – roku; 2 – ni; 3 – san) with the Japanese word for ‘elder brother’: ni-san; Takashi Ueno is Big Brother ROCK! 

This article was written back in 2008 for the short-lived but relatively popular blog, Tada Music. The blog dealt with underground Japanese art and music, and regularly featured a “Tada Sampler” collection of songs by bands the blog had reviewed that month. The article marked my first contact with two of my favourite Japanese avant gardeners, Saya and Takashi of Tenniscoats. I’ve since interviewed and written about them more times than I can recall, and I’ll happily cover them again for as long as they continue to make the bewitching sounds they make. 

Jon Wilks

Download a PDF of my CV by clicking here:
Jon Wilks CV, Oct 2012 

Award-winning online editor and content producer, based in Hampshire & London, UK

+44 7805 342391
wandering.jon.w@gmail.com

SUMMARY

As an award-winning and versatile online editor, I have a proven track record of vastly improving traffic statistics through a combination of eye-catching content, social media know-how and SEO techniques. Over six years of professional editorship, I’ve launched two new magazines, hired and mentored a number of highly productive editorial teams, written and edited an eating out guidebook, and broken a number of in-house sales and web traffic records along the way. I’ve also developed valuable experience as a public speaker, having notched up many hours in product demonstration and brand representation.

Having interviewed countless well-known celebrities and luminaries across several continents, from Yoko Ono to Marco Pierre White to the entire Manchester City FC first team (in three minutes flat), I have vast experience in lifestyle, travel and food journalism. I’ve also successfully moved into news reporting, specifically live-blogging; my work covering the earthquake and tsunami tragedy in Japan, 2011, won a Time Out International award for best online feature.

In recent years, I’ve developed a real interest in digital communication, the mechanics of SEO and the effects that social media and live journalism have had on the publishing world. I’m also a keen musician, proficient in songwriting, music production and performance, and a student of international popular culture, based on a decade of work in Japan and the Middle East.

 AWARDS & ACHIEVEMENTS

• Completed 60,000 word script for Language City game in four months (May 2012)
• Online Feature of the Year, Time Out International Awards (Jul 2011)
• Increased unique user traffic on Time Out Tokyo by 270% in six months (Jun 2011)
• Launched Time Out Tokyo as a free magazine (May 2011)
• Increased Twitter followers on Time Out Tokyo from 700 to 17,000 in four months (April 2012)
• Launched Time Out Abu Dhabi as a weekly magazine (Oct 2010)
• Wrote and edited the Eating Out Guide for Time Out Abu Dhabi, covering over 200 restaurants (2010)
• Increased circulation on Time Out Abu Dhabi by over 210% by end of first year (Jan 2010)
• First journalist at ITP Publishing to hit 100,000 page views for a single article in a single day (Oct 2009)

EMPLOYMENT HISTORY

Content Director
Language City
February 2012 – October 2012
London, United Kingdom

• Hired and managed a highly talented team of content creators
• Lead script writer and developer, overseeing 60,000 word script in initial four months of employment
• Oversaw recording of voice overs, as well as production and development of in-game multimedia
• Regularly presented and demoed product for potential partners and investors
• Aided in social media integration, reviewing Google Analytics data to help develop product further

Freelance Editor and Writer
Time Out London, Delayed Gratification, Japan Times, Skywards inflight magazine
October 2011 – February 2012
London, United Kingdom

• Mentor for Time Out London blog and social media, streamlining UX and SEO and editorial style
• Feature writer for Japan Times, Delayed Gratification and Skywards (JAL inflight magazine)
• Editor of Time Out London travel section, using Omniture and Google Analytics to oversee expansion across global network

Editorial Director
Time Out Tokyo
December 2010 – November 2011
Tokyo, Japan

• Planning, writing and editing online content for Time Out Tokyo
• Increased average monthly unique users by 270% over a six month period
• Responsible for the Social Media Department. Increased Twitter followers from 700 to 17,000 in approximately four months
• SEO management
• Responsible for the launch of print edition
• Involved in the development of brand related products
• Contributed to international Time Out brand products

Editor
Time Out Abu Dhabi
January 2009 – November 2010
Abu Dhabi, United Arab Emirates

• Planning, writing and editing content for both print and online versions of Time Out Abu Dhabi
• Oversaw the progression of the magazine from monthly to weekly
• Lead food and drink writer, covering over 200 restaurants per year
• Worked closely with design department to achieve a high standard of visual content
• Staff hiring and training
• Assisting with the development of brand related products
• Contributing, where necessary, to worldwide Time Out publications
• Representing brand at big events, such as the Time Out Restaurant Awards

Editor
Japanzine
January 2006 – January 2009
Nagoya/Fukuoka, Japan

• Planning, writing and editing content for both print and online versions of Japanzine
• Assisting with the development of brand related products
• Created the annual “Gaijin Sounds” cover-mounted CD for amateur musicians
• Staff hiring and training
• Managing contributing editors from around the country

EDUCATION

University of Wales Bangor
Jan 1996 – Jan 1999 ( 3 years )
BA  English Literature  

Solihull Sixth Form College
Jan 1993 – Jan 1995 ( 2 years )
A Levels  English Literature, Politics, Philosophy  

LANGUAGES
Japanese Conversational

REFERENCES

Available on request

"I'm eating yellow slop. What of it!?"

It’s not often I post personal photos, but since I was lucky enough to snap this one at London Zoo yesterday, I felt it only right that I share it with the world. I call it “Aardvark in Gloves and Butterscotch”, and it may be the best photo of an aardvark that I will ever take. 

I’m also of the opinion that it deserves a fantastic photo caption. So far I’ve come up with, “I’m eating yellow slop. What of it!?”, but I’d welcome any other ideas you may have. Kindly add them in the comments below, if you would.

The Hyperbole Beast, thrashed up to 11

Last night, just off Putney High Street, I came across a poignant sight. Walking ahead of me, her head hanging a little low, was a “games maker” – one of those generous people who volunteered help throughout London 2012. She was moving slowly, as if to savour this final journey in her Olympic regalia, and the purple of her branded tracksuit splashed vividly against the dazzling sunset. I can only assume she was returning from the heroes’ parade – the last hurrah for the London Olympics, 2012 – which meant that the comedown had already begun. Tomorrow she was moving back to reality. 

She wouldn’t have known it had she visited Clapham or Waterloo this afternoon. “Oh to be alive in that golden summer of 2012,” ran one headline I saw, “but to be in London was very heaven.” Another simply said “Great Britain”, the first word emphasised against a rippling union flag. Not for the first time, I felt at odds with it all. Not because of what Morrissey predictably called the “blustering jingoism”, but because I don’t think the summer was as homogeneous as they’d have us believe, and to admit to that has felt like a dangerous thing indeed.

I decided to write this post mainly as a reminder – a memoir that I can refer to in the difficult years to come. Because the truth is, there won’t be a comedown. Sure, we may feel briefly startled and anticlimactic to find that Eastenders is the most exciting thing on TV again, but after that, the summer of 2012 will become more powerful than you can possibly imagine. We only need look at the summer of ’66 for proof. Anyone who was there, my father excepted, will tell you that it was God’s own summer, that the sun shone everyday, that England ruled on the field of play, and that nobody turned off a Kinks’ record without asking permission from the Queen first. My father, uninterested in sport, has nothing to say about the halcyon days of ’66. To him, they’re just another part of the 1960s, a period about which he once claimed, “If you can remember them, you were there. If you can’t, you probably made them up.”

That’s not to say I was completely absent from the London Olympics 2012. I had my good days. Jessica Ennis was something special, and there will always be a glowing place in my heart for Ronson-Johnson-Thompson, if only for her spectacular name. In truth, once the lacklustre closing ceremony blew out, I was ready for normality again. This had already been a long summer of hearty cheering, after all, what with Chelsea’s improbable succes in Europe, the jubilee, the Euros and a series of laughably quiet concerts that turned Hyde Park into an impressive quagmire. Paul McCartney made more appearances than anyone thought healthy, and I fully believed it when somebody on Twitter announced that closing ceremony security guards had shoot-to-kill orders should they spot him within a mile of Olympic Park.

By the time the Paralympics rolled around, I was done. I was especially exhausted by the hype; the refusal to criticise an opening ceremony that was largely baffling; the unwavering belief that this was the Best Thing Ever. In my limited experience, you were hard pressed to find anyone outside Stratford who had the energy left to care. And yet the media continued to thrash the hyperbole beast so rabidly that anybody who didn’t go along with it was best advised to go about their business very quietly indeed, lest they get a different kind of thrashing altogether. When Channel 4 pushed Jimmy Carr in front of the cameras prior to the Paralympics closing ceremony, he looked as though he’d been pumped so full of happy juice that his head no longer functioned properly. With the widest eyes possible, he blurted, “I think the Paralympics are the new weather. They’re all anybody is talking about these days!” He’d obviously not spent much time in my office – or reality at all, for that matter.

In the interests of level-headedness, the weather is worth a further mention here. After all, the Golden Summer of 2012 was also the wettest Britain has experienced in 100 years. The flash floods that tore up chunks of Shropshire in mid-July had more of a muddy tinge to them than anything medal-like, and an abiding memory for me is a soggy day in the middle of a mud pool-cum-campsite in summery Purbeck. Again, I’m stating this not to be a party pooper, but because I think I ought to get that hellish day with the wellies, the bored kids and the leaking tent down on record before someone airbrushes the whole damned lot out again.

Heaven forbid the games maker I encountered in Putney should have any of her memories even slightly altered. These were the people who really did perform wonders, painting a big purple smile onto London’s lips every one of those mostly moist mornings. Unlike my curmudgeonly father, she was there, and I hope she can say she remembers it clearly for many years to come. However, as much as the media would like me to, I can’t pretend that her summer was anything like mine. When my grandchildren ask me what the Golden Summer of 2012 was really like, I shall douse them with brown water and force them to listen to “Hey Jude” until they agree to wave the union flag at the required speed. The truth must out, after all.

Members of our hard working creative team (courtesy of Language City London and Mindshapes)

Getting a job as a game designer, tester or writer is the big dream for so many people, and yet I work with these talented but lucky buggers every day. Quite how that happened is a bit of a mystery. They worked hard to get to where they are and, quite rightly, they’re proud of themselves. Heck, I’m proud of them too, though I’m not sure they could say the same for me. I ended up working in the games industry without ever having intended to. Far from working my arse off trying to get the job I have today, I kind of woke up one morning with the words “game writer” on my CV. For a man who, a year ago, didn’t know an RPG from an SUV, it’s been quite an intense six months.

Passed Out. Photo by Tristan Scholze

I wrote this guide to Japanese hangover cures for Japanzine way back in April, 2006. My memories of writing it are hazy, largely because – in my pre-teetotal days, when I was fully embarked upon a successful drinking career – I merrily put myself through the research described in detail below. I’ve re-written this article on a couple of occasions since, though never with quite the same grizzly authenticity.

For the lucky few, the heady highs of New Years Eve are a fond and distant memory. Most of us came through it battered and bedeviled, but ultimately unscathed – and eager for more liver abuse the following weekend. For others less robust, your harrowed correspondent included, the experience was a disturbing one. As the years pile up and each weekend blends into the next, hangovers become less a medical problem than an existential crisis.

Happy news, then, that hanami season is just around the corner, a period when “I’m sorry, I’ve got work tomorrow” holds no sway whatsoever. True, there’s always the oolong-cha option, but seriously, who amongst us is really that strong? Once the atsukan starts flowing, all hope is lost. It’s every man for himself. Last one with a necktie round his head’s a whoopsie. Look, mama! I’m dancing!

They say the only effective way to fend off a hangover is to indulge less. They also say that uncooked chicken causes salmonella. Neither statement is likely to go down well at a hanami party. While you may favor the age-old remedy of rehydration and bounteous sleep, it is more than likely that the young, bright red guy next to you will have seen off a nijikai, a sanjikai, and a night flat out on a station platform before you see him next. But while you call in sick and prepare for a day under the covers, he’s already bounding around the office as though he never touched a drop in his life. What’s his secret?

Like any country, Japan has old wives and apothecaries in abundance, each one eager to espouse the wonders of their favored wisdom. There’s also the ever-present combini with its limitless stock of wonder-cure drinks. Doctors say they shouldn’t work; the workforce swears by them. Some look medically authentic, others like they could fuel a light aircraft. With so much choice, how could you possibly know where to begin? In the interests of public safety, Japanzine undertook a five-day tour of Japan’s most recognized hangover cures.

Day 1
The Electric Bathtub
Benjamin Franklin would probably have something to say about this. Anyone who paid attention in physics class will recall that humans, electricity and water are a bad combination. Yet the elderly gentlemen of Japan swear by it, especially as a remedy for hangovers.

Trembling violently after a suitably heavy night, Japanzine headed to the local hot spring, fending off irrational thoughts all the way (“hang on… this is an onsen, right? I haven’t just stripped in front of my obachan class, have I?”) Descending into the water beside a spasmodic geriatric, it took about two minutes to get the answer I came for, and another twenty-four hours to shake the resulting galvanized headache.

Quite why an electric onsen should suggest itself as an ideal hangover cure has yet to be ascertained. Common sense (if such a phrase can be used in this situation) would suggest that it has something to do with being shocked back into normality. Japanzine didn’t stick around long enough to find out. In fact, we’d go so far as to insert a sturdy disclaimer here – follow this lead up at your own risk. Onsens and alcohol have a notorious relationship. Dehydrated bodies do not take kindly to being submerged in hot, sulfuric water. That woozy, light-headed feeling you get? That’s a warning.

Hangover combatant: -10
Safety element: 3

Day 2
Go For It Mr. Liver! (and other hangover drinks)
Genki dorinku products can be comfortably grouped together as part of that transient, twilight zone known as Japanese youth culture. There are hundreds of them, and they tend to vanish within weeks of appearing on the market. So while you may feel spoiled for choice, sorting the SMAP from the crap could save you a lot of money in the long run.

Through the noxious haze, and trying not to breathe sake fumes over the pharmacist, Japanzine found its way to the futsukayoi section of a neighborhood drugstore, only to be greeted by a confusing array of potions. Names likes “Real Gold” stirred the warmth of familiarity, but shockers like “Go For It! Mr. Liver!” only added to the absurdist quality of the experience. Prices ranged from vending machine coins to the frankly ridiculous, with more expensive products coming in gift-wrapped presentations, complete with liver hydrolysate tablets (apparently prepared from “bovine extracts”).

Judging the book entirely by its cover, Japanzine staggered to the counter with a bottle of “Hepareeze Drink VB15″, presuming that any name that played on its vitamin content had to be taken more seriously than Mr. Liver. Neither the pharmacist nor his wife could make out the ingredients, but they enthusiastically agreed that it was safe and slammed 420 yen into the cash register.

After a vomitous start and a sudden onslaught of wind, Hepareeze VB15 settled into the same effects as a mild caffeine rush. As any serious drinker knows, caffeine is a diuretic, meaning that it will only prolong your hangover. Since there seems to be no trace of caffeine (or anything else) in Hepareeze VB15, Japanzine can only conclude that it finds some other method to serve up the kick that tricks you into favoring a cup of black coffee. Highly recommended.

Hangover combatant: 8
Safety element: unknown

Day 3
Gingko Seeds
A preventative rather than a remedy, gingko biloba dates back to ancient China – approx. 2800 BC – as a popular pre-binge nibble. That’s worth bearing in mind next time someone tries to push it as an authentically Japanese cure. It’s also used in Eastern medicine to treat varicose veins, asthma and bronchitis. Recent studies show that it acts as a metabolic stimulant on alcohol, meaning that your body processes the booze a lot faster in its presence. Diarrhea and restlessness are known side effects.

Known as ichou in Japan, Japanzine’s “research” did little to suggest that this was worth the miserable hours it took to track down. For all the hype, we’d as soon have had a cup of green tea and headed back to the basin. A disarming morning of bilious discomfort ensued. I’ll tell you what you can do with your gingko seeds…

Hangover combatant: 5
Safety: 7

Day 4
Pocari Sweat
It would be very easy to make an argument for Pocari Sweat as the modern equivalent to green tea, based around the Japanese notion that there is nothing it cannot cure. Concocted by doctors who favored IV fluid as a form of refreshment, today it serves as the Japanese equivalent of Gatorade or Lucozade. It is regularly prescribed as a cold remedy, and heavy drinkers swear by its phenomenal battling power in the hangover trenches.

These isotonic drinks also suffer heavily at the hands of fashion, so Pocari Sweat or Aquarius are wise choices if you’re looking to get addicted. Japanzine’s drinking accomplice, taking over from your semi-delirious correspondent for a day, favoured “Bionic Lifeguard” so strongly that he suffered minor withdrawal symptoms when it vanished from his local combini a few days later. When questioned on his level of dependency he confessed that it never did much for his hangovers, but could coax up a stonking, hour-long erection within moments of consumption.
Sexual issues aside, isotonic drinks relieve hangovers by replacing the minerals and salts lost through heavy drinking. Despite its fearful name, most long-term gaijin swear by a bottle of ice-cold Pocari Sweat first thing on a desperate morning.

Hangover combatant: 7
Safety: 10
Sex aid: 11 (Bionic Lifeguard only)

Day 5
Daikon and Other Farm Produce
The drinking classes in Japan swear by two homegrown ingredients: the persimmon and the dreaded umeboshi. The first of these goes up against a hangover with the same weapons as an orange, essentially fructose, minerals and citric acid. These help to speed up the metabolism and break down the toxins in the body, in much the same way that the pyric acid in umeboshi stimulates the liver, breaking down the remaining alcohol. Umeboshi is also said to do wonders for an upset stomach, though never having held one down for more than a few seconds, Japanzine isn’t qualified to pass comment.

Perhaps the most powerful of all Japanese hangover cures comes in the form of a vegetable broth known, through lack of a better name, as Dr. Tateishi’s Soup. Made up of vegetables and herbs selected for their relationship to the five elements, Kazu Tateishi claimed that his soup had the power to cure last-stage cancer, cataracts, brain tumors, hangovers, and to slow the aging process. He quickly offloaded 800,000 cans of his elixir before someone noticed that he wasn’t a doctor at all, rather a taxi driver, and had him locked away. Kumamoto University ran some tests and declared his claims “insane.”

Insane or not, his soup is rammed with amino acids and carbohydrates, essential to the relief of a hangover, and all in natural form. Tateishi’s claim that his soup could “stop the worst hangover dead in its tracks” is actually fairly accurate. The only downside is that, with the good doctor languishing in jail, you have to knock the broth together on your own: not a pleasant prospect with a severe hangover. Japanzine’s week-long-suffering wife was fairly miffed at the state of the kitchen when she got in from work, not to mention the quivering wreck of a husband lying at the center of it.

Hangover combatant: 9
Safety: 10

Japanzine undertook these trials over a weeklong period in January 2006. We are pleased to report that the one-man research team has since emerged from his initially critical condition, and is now capable of passing solids without too much discomfort. For all the abuse his body tolerated, he is delighted to have discovered Dr. Tateishi’s Soup, and looks forward to a long and cancer-free existence, once the dementia has cleared up.

Tricky in concert, not performing Maxinquaye

On Twitter, they’re baying for the artist’s blood – or a hauling over the coals for violating the trade discriminations act, at the very least. The offence? Announcing the performance of a much-loved album, and then doing as little of it as possible on the night.

With hindsight, this weekend’s series of onstage car crashes should have been spotted well in advance. The latest nostalgia trend, in which artists past their prime look back on kinder royalty cheques and agree to wind back the years to perform their best selling album in its entirety, is exactly the kind of thing you’d expect from The Charlatans or Oasis (Liam has the Morning Glory anniversary tour pencilled in for 2015). 

It’s an odd practice, in some ways reminiscent of the tribute bands boom in the mid-to-late ’90s. While the Bootleg Beatles and the Australian Doors celebrated acts gone by, these concerts mark the passing – and the mourning – of a sorely-missed art form: the album. The emotional involvement fans had with a particular long player, from purchase to scrutiny of the sleeves to the track listing itself, is something the iTunes revolution killed off almost entirely, and nostalgia tours of this nature obviously pander to a real sense of something sadly departed.

While the album is still an art form Tricky respects (he’s about to put out a triple album), he has never been the kind of artist to return to the same idea, continually looking forward regardless of whether his audience is following him or not. For the most part, over the last decade, they haven’t been, thanks largely to the zeal he put into shaking them off in Maxinquaye’s unexpected aftermath. The “coffee table” audience he picked up along with the accolades seemed to offend him in some inexcusable way. This weekend’s catastrophic gigs almost seemed deliberate, as though he’d lured the Maxinquaye crowd back in order to exact some terrible revenge on their sensibilities.

The crowd at London’s O2 Indigo were certainly of a type; largely white, apparently middle class males, mostly now in their mid-30s – probably not the crowd that the young Adrian Thaws ever imagined himself playing to back in his Wild Bunch days, but very much the crowd that his debut solo album appealed to 17 years ago. They stood patiently as Tricky, now 44, led his band onstage, stripped off his hoody to reveal a ripped torso in permanent boxing crouch, and cajoled his guitarist into a hypnotic number that they may or may not have worked up during soundcheck. 

It was clear from the get-go that his three-piece rock band was ill at ease. The majestic and entirely unique Martina Topley-Bird, with whom Tricky recorded Maxinquaye (and had a child), stood to the side, glancing back at the headliner as if looking for hints. The hints came in the form of fingers pointed and arms waved, Tricky playing his musicians in the way he might a mixing desk, dropping in a guitar loop here, cutting out a vocal line there. It may not have been Maxinquaye quite yet, but it was fairly riveting stuff. Tricky is nothing if he’s not about tension.

And then, after a brief apology for the diversion (“Sorry, I know it’s not Maxinquaye, but that’s all so long ago” – more of a warning shot, with hindsight) came the first notes of the album itself, the stuttering samples of “Ponderosa” daubing a twisted line beneath the Topley-Bird’s sublime vocals. An abrupt ending prompted a look of surprise amongst the musicians, not at the nature of the song’s collapse but at their synchronization. Almost immediately a Tweet began circulating; Martina Topley-Bird had admitted on Twitter that rehearsals for this tour had lasted all of one day.

It didn’t take much longer for the doubts to set in. It has been pointed out by annoyed fans that Tricky appeared to be forgetting his lines, but this was in keeping with the album itself. He rarely gets through a song in its entirety on Maxinquaye, gifting the album to Topley-Bird, who he has said represents the voice of his dead mother, and it’s the combination of the mesmeric vocal melodies and the stoned croak of the producer himself that lends the album much of its intensity. The worry on Friday night at the O2 Indigo was that he kept leaving the stage and ignoring his vocal duties altogether. Those nearer the front could see that he was more interested in chatting with family members and friends in the wings, a collection of people who began spilling onto the stage as though they were at some unusually situated cocktail party. The man was clearly uninterested.

All credit to Topley-Bird, then, who – in the absence of her partner – preceded to prove once and for all that Maxinquaye was, and always will be, her album. Between songs she disappeared from stage, trying to persuade Tricky to return and fulfil what he said he was going to do, but usually returning to perform alone. And in some ways things were all the better for it. “Pumpkin” was sad and tinged with yearning, sung alone in the spotlight with the audience’s full and undivided attention. When Tricky seemed to be tiring of “Hell is Round the Corner”, after all of a verse and a half, Martina stormed the stage and, over a barrage of distortion and thrashed drums, gave the performance of the evening.

During the applause that followed, Tricky gave up altogether and the evening descended into banality. Over the “Bad” riff that formed the backing track for “Brand New You’re Retro”, he introduced his younger brother Marlon, who took the stage with a few of his Bristolian cronies and preformed a track from Tricky’s 2010 album, Mixed Race. All well and good if you’re at a normal Tricky gig, but not – as the now-departing audience mumbled – what people paid the best part of £40 to see. Martina returned briefly, attempted to get things back on course, and retreated after Tricky terminated another Maxinquaye track only 8 bars in. It was the last we saw of the evening’s true star, forced to hand over what was rightfully her evening to a man who was clearly bored of himself.

As half of the club emptied, Tricky gathered fans from the front rows onstage to dance with him. This is almost tradition at his regular shows, but it doesn’t make it any less dull for the onlooker. As 40-odd people danced a merry jig on Maxinquaye‘s grave, Tricky handed the microphone to a large and hairy rocker, complete with the heavy metal t-shirt he’d probably been wearing since 1995, who apparently believed himself to be Eddie Vedder and barked long and loud as though his life had been leading to this very moment. Once he was done, he passed the mic over to a woman who sang as though she was auditioning for The Voice, culminating in a long and uncomfortable vocal orgasm. We could only hope that Martina Topley-Bird was a long way from the venue by this point, such was the ignominy.

The evening ended with a return to the opening jam – hypnotic, earlier; now just repetitive. I’ve since read that this lasted 30 minutes in itself, but I’d had enough by the fifth minute and joined the queue at the taxi rank. Nostalgia may be an unavoidable human trait, but recreating memories is never a good idea. At least we still have Martina’s album.

Tom Waits: Not a hypnic jerk, but a bluesman nonetheless

It sounds like a dance craze, perhaps something based on a Joy Division performance. The hypnic jerks are spasmodic and unpredictable; they tend to grab you in your least dance-friendly moments, just as you’re drifting off to sleep, and shake you back to confused consciousness again. Like an infantile practical joke that you’re playing on yourself and aren’t getting bored of anytime soon, they’re not big and they’re not clever. They seem as though they’re designed to annoy, to be weary of, and – in vulnerable moments – to possibly even fear.

Of course, the hypnic jerk is nothing to be afraid of. I’ve searched around and I’ve yet to come across an example of someone hypnic jerking themselves to death. Like most bullies, they never amount to much more than the dull ache of boredom. It’s through boredom that I’m writing this, in fact,  just waiting until I feel sleepy enough that they lose interest and do something else. In my case they’re boring enough to be entirely predictable; have a stressful job, have a stress-related syndrome. It’s by lifting yourself above this kind of thing, separating yourself and observing it in the cold light of the humdrum, that you move past it.

Late night and almost entirely Wikipedia-based research suggests that the hypnic jerk is not fully understood, but seem to be the dubious prize of people given to anxiety and worry, possibly in high-pressure jobs, fond of caffeine or, somewhat jarringly, heroin. They can manifest in a variety of ways – some describe a sense of falling that ends in a sudden jolt, others sense their pulse racing and believe they’re experiencing the onset of a heart attack – but they always involve a sudden start that prevents you from slipping off into the nightly ether. These are common enough symptoms for most people, but the ol’ hypnic jerk blues can become cyclical if you’re not careful, and some hypnics (I’m not going to call them jerks) find they suffer nightly with them for years.

In my case, they manifest as sudden jolts that knock me into an upright position, where I sit and catch my breath and wonder where I am for a few minutes. I get them repeatedly over three or four hours at the beginning of a night’s sleep, leaving me feeling overly tired the next day. As you might expect, hypnic jerks feed on themselves (which suggests to me that they’re more a mental conundrum than a physical), so I’ll find myself suffering the same problem the following night, and then the next night again. This continues until I step in and take control, usually by stumbling into another doomed jogging regime or, more recently, spending a bit of time doing 20 minutes of what you might call meditation.

The latter is a relaxing pre-bed exercise, really – I’m certainly not trying to attain any form of enlightenment. Very simply, I attempt to concentrate on the actual experience of breathing – trying to feel the air going in through my nose, into my lungs, and noticing the expansion and collapse of my sizeable belly – for as long as I possibly can, hopefully until the mental clammer of work and the residual noise of the commuter life subsides. If it’s true that you are what you think, then essentially I’m trying to ignore myself for 20 minutes. I can highly recommend ignoring me for 20 minutes to anyone reading this. It’s really something special.

The ol’ hypnic blues never affect me for more than a week at most, and then I inevitably fall back into the pre-self-improvement lifestyle that got me here in the first place, and a year later I find myself internally staring at my belly again. It used to be an autumnal thing, though for the last two years it’s been a springtime occurrence, which is kind of nice because it means I can get it out of the way early. Whenever it takes place, however, I’ve learnt to put it in the box labelled ‘befuddlement’ and try and observe it with a sense of detachment. Best not to get too closely involved with the bullying community, I find.