Literature for Sheep

Japanese music is a collection of anthems for my own little messed-up world. Whether it reminds me of sad anime episodes, the churning background music in video games, heartbreak, or my first few moments at Narita airport, stepping through the Welcome to Japan banner into an universe of cultural, technological, and human wonder, J-pop and J-rock are always there for me. They plug a little of the constant melancholy in my small, perpetually annoyed and bored heart. The energetic music of bands like Indigo la End, King Gnu, and Asian Kung-Fu Generation is a frequent soundtrack to my thoughts, worries, and desires. And so are Hitsujibungaku.

For decades, rock music from the Land of the Rising Sun was in a creative crisis. There was little sign of anarchy, change, or revolution. Artists in the genre seemed content to strum away as a copy of a copy of a copy, delivering a run-of-the-mill sound that, for good reasons, didn’t resonate outside Japan. They were simply too tame, too dull, and too boring, like rebels without hate - or even drugs. Hitsujibungaku, however, also don’t aim for destruction, decline, or chaos - but that doesn’t really matter. Celebrated by the Japanese press as a smooth whirlwind, Hitsujibungaku, roughly translating to literature for sheep, quickly made their musical breakthrough.

Hitsujibungaku’s songs speak of the search for happiness, dancing in the moonlight, and dreams of an endless summer. When I hear Moeka Shiotsuka’s voice, accompanied by Yurika Kasai and Hiroa Fukuda, I know they mean what they play. In a world full of unknowns, even if you pretend to be smart, you’ll still get hurt, she sings. At some point, you became focused on avoiding failure, giving up what you really want, without even knowing what that is. Not seeing it, overlooking it, becoming skilled only in despair. It’s a bit too early to decide it’s already too late. If anything is worth preserving in our superficial world, it’s this kind of emotional sincerity.