Sushi Mixtape
Japanese lessons were supposed to be practical. What I actually got was six hours a week of legitimacy to spend scrolling through websites made entirely of pixel art and an endless rotation of smiling cats. I was already doing this anyway, but now I could call it self-improvement.
What kills the hours between lessons? J-pop. I got knocked sideways by a Sailor Moon soundtrack years ago and I haven’t recovered. My Japanese extends to maybe five words—thank you, goodbye, the basics. Everything I understand about these songs comes from melody and feeling, which means I’m 100% convinced they’re all profound emotional masterpieces. By the time I’m fluent enough to realize some of them are probably about pizza or something, I’ll be way too attached to care.
Scandal, Ikimono Gakari, Ai Otsuka, Abe Mao. Shiina Ringo especially. Asian Kung Fu Generation, Kaela Kimura, Stereopony, Spitz, Orange Range, Maaya Sakamoto, Utada Hikaru, the brilliant green. They’re all on the same shelf in my head now, the same dark room where I keep things that feel true without needing to make sense.
There’s something perfect about loving something in a language you can’t speak. All the feeling gets through without the weight of actually knowing what anything means. The songs work better this way—mysterious, invulnerable, mine in a way they wouldn’t be if I could parse every word.
I probably know half these songs phonetically by now. I still couldn’t tell you what they mean. I’m not sure I want to find out.