Though as the crow flies, Siberia isn’t that far from Japan, in terms of making it from there to here as a DJ, Naeba might as well be on the moon. But there was producer Nina Kraviz taking the Red Marquee at 2 in the morning for an emotionally rich, often gorgeous 90 minutes of electronic music. Apparently, Kraviz got into the game in a decidedly unsual way—she actually studied to be a DJ-producer at the Red Bull Academy, after moving from Irkutsk to Moscow, where she formally studied dentistry but mainly fell into the city’s dance music scene. At the Red Marquee she didn’t sing, which she often does on her records, but the music was lyrical anyway—open-hearted even. We wouldn’t call it happy music, like The Avalanches show earlier in the day, but it put us at ease. You danced because it felt good. You couldn’t resist.
Stuck
It was bound to happen, though it also could have probably been avoided. There was a huge traffic jam on the trail linking the Green and White Stages in the early evening that stretched on into the night. The main problem was the Cornelius was playing the Green Stage and then his old music partner, Kenji Ozawa, was on the White Stage a little later. Naturally, it seems that everyone who is a Cornelius fan is also an Ozawa fan, but the White Stage area is much smaller and it couldn’t handle the overflow. In fact, the staff disassembled some of the barriers on the north side of the White Stage area in order to accommodate the extra people.
Man of mystery
Richard D. James has developed an enviable image of a reluctant star in his incarnation as Aphex Twin, and it’s always made sense. Electronica artists don’t need to be faceless, and James isn’t as obsessive about his identity as some people are, but his aim has always been to steer people’s attention to his music rather than to himself. And that music demands extra attention.
Though he’s produced danceable material, he’s also made a lot of stuff that is just plain out there, which is why it’s difficult to explain why he deserves to be a headliner at one of the biggest rock festivals in the world. His set at the Green Stage on Saturday—traditionally the one day of the weekend that is guaranteed to sell out for simply logistical reasons—was an organic, growing thing that didn’t necessarily rely on beats to draw the listener in. It was all shifting textures abetted by complementary visuals (none of him, of course) that would occasionally turn into something stimulating, even exciting, but never remained there long enough to get a dance pulse going.
The highlight, in fact, was when red lasers sketched patterns on the side of the mountain facing the stage. As was true all day, the rain came and went, and about 45 minutes into the set there was a brief downpour that obviously affected people’s relation to the music. People had gotten used to the rain, but it was still a distraction.
Don’t stop can’t stop
Certainly, one of the most memorable shows we’ve ever seen at Fuji Rock was Death Grips after midnight at the Red Marquee back in the early 2010s. Though we were familiar with their material up to that point, the manic energy of the performance was so disorienting that we couldn’t get a handle on the song, but the visceral impact was powerful. We left it shaken and somehow wanting more.
The trio returned this year to the more conventional White Stage during a lull in the rain of the day. Though the group had effectively called it quits in 2014, they somehow kept going, and the White Stage show proved just how far they’d actually progressed since their retirement. MC Ride, the group’s rapper and front man, has always come across as a purely performative figure, an artist whose whole being is invested in the moment, and for one full hour on the White Stage he never seemed to exit his own head. Naked from the waist up, he was the classic hip-hop MC, but with a personal grudge against the universe, inveiling against the social and systemic rules that marginalized him, but since the music itself is so dense and abrupt, it’s almost impossible to understand what he’s saying. But the crowd picked up on the desperation, despite the conventional lack of melody and sturcture. Zach Hill, equally topless, matched DC Ride’s emotional extravagance with drumming that seems almost superhuman in its capacity to keep things going, but it was programmer Andy Morin, who with his bizarre set of evil scientist expression behind the board who kept the set moving forward.
How do they do it? I mean, playing a full hour without a pause, shifting from one “song” to another with impeccable timing and without acknowledging one another. How do they compile their set lists and memorize them. Is there some instinctual connection that makes it all possible? All I know is that, for the full hour I was complicit in their violence, and unlike the previous night’s Arca show, there was not cynicism evident in their transgressive music. It was as honest as the drizzle that occasionally fell, afraid to interrupt. The best show of the festival, so far.
(Text: Philip Brasor; photos: Mark Thompson)
Tumbling down
The Avalanches were supposed to appear at last year’s festival but cancelled at the last minute, so their showing up this year was a big deal, and Smash made sure they were situated prominently on the Green Stage in the middle of Saturday afternoon, traditionally the busiest day of the event. Unfortunately, this year it was also the wettest day of the event, and while the Green Stage was well attended, there was a soppy, drenched quality to the proceedings.
There was also mystery, and thus some surprise. Given that the two album released by the group—16 year apart, no less—are sample driven and derived, no one know exactly what to expect from the “act,” and thus it was interesting to see six people run out on stage. Of course, the two core members of the band, producer Robbie Chater and multi-instrumentalist Tony Di Blasi—were first and foremost. But who was this female drummer and this rapper and this stylish front woman/female vocalist? Apparently, they are simply the current touring incarnation of The Avalanches.
After that, the crowd could hardly care, because they played all the hits, only in a live group format, with Eliza Wolfgramm handling all the female vocals and Spank Rock handling all the rapping. Though there was some differentiation between the original versions (derived from genuine 45s) and those produced by this lineup, the audience didn’t seem to mind because the show was propulsive and positive. They knew that people were here to dance, regadless of the weather, and they satisfied that desire to the fullest. Occasionally, Wolfgramm’s interpretation faile the original, like on the sample for “Guns of Brixton” and the seminal single “Because I’m Me,” fell short of the original, but the rest of the band make up for the distinction with a rocking beat and a devil-may-care attitude. Though it wasn’t as inspired as the Gorrilaz show the night before, it was just as beatastic.
“Thank you for coming to see us in the rain,” Wolfgramm said at the end of the show, glowing with gratitude. These people, she should understand, know how to party.
(Text: Philip Brasor; photos: Mark Thompson)
Blues are for old people
Probably the oldest group at this year’s festival is The Golden Cups, a band that to most Japanese belongs to that hallowed “group sounds” fad that overran Japanese pop in the 60s in the wake of the Beatles. However, the Golden Cups were slightly outside that manufactured genre. A real bar band influenced by the British blues of the Yardbirds, Cream, and John Mayall, they played the circuit in the 60s, including a lot of American military bases (their name came from the Golden Cup discotheque in Yokosuka, where they often played), where they honed their English along with their chops. Such an education gave them a sort of bad boy cachet that didn’t sit well with the authorities, but nonetheless attracted record companies who were looking for anyone with real ability to play pre-sold compositions. Reportedly, the band hated the bland, predigested pop they were forced to release as A-sides (B-sides were the blues and garage rock they loved).
The men who hobbled out on the Field of Heaven stage in front of a motley bunch of skeptical punters during a steady drizzle didn’t look like the kind of punks the Golden Cups legend sells, and several songs into their set, leader and guitarist Eddie Ban made it clear that they weren’t going to play any of their Group Sounds hits. They stuck mainly to the blues, interspersed with the occasional hard rock original, the kind of song that got them banned in some places in Japan because of the subject matter (usually, loose women). But while they were obviously cruising during the set, their chops remained in tact, and by the end of the 50 minutes, the audience was in their hand, regardless of what they’d come to expect. When they hobbled off the stage at the end, the ovation was sustained and sincere. But they didn’t come back.
Burn stuff
We should probably stop going to the Red Marquee, because as soon as we show up it starts pouring rain outside. Once again, the artist who was playing under these circumstances was rewarded with a capacity audience, as we mentioned yesterday, but in this case they really acted as if they were happy to be there. The young British guitar band the Amazons is the kind of act who are immediately pleasing to the kind of people who come to Fuji Rock: straight ahead hard rock based on juicy riffs and with song titles like “Black Virgin,” and an attitude that likes nothing better than to burn shit up. (The background image was a limo on fire)
And that’s pretty much what they did for 40 minutes, enough time to go through their impressive debut album and win a truckload of new fans, who were so impressed they kept singing the wordless chorus of the final song even after the band had left the stage. They were so amazed, in fact, they had to come back out and record it, because, naturally, who would believe it back home? Screw the rain.
(Text: Philip Brasor; photos: Mark Thompson)
Uke’s good
Ukelele master Jake Shimabukuro held forth on the Green Stage just after lunch to a dedicated fan base that hung on his every plucked and strummed note. Personable and open, Shimbukuro has cultivated a nice little career in Japan, with extensive, sold-out tours every year. This was his fourth Fuji Rock appearance and he came off as the kind of seasoned pro who feels right at home.
Though he plays pretty much anything, his metier is progressive rock. He can really shred, and while the bulk of his material is original and poppy, he also did impressive versions of “Bohemian Rhapsody” and “While My Guitar Gently Weeps” that zeroed in on those tunes’ lyricism. (Fun fact: George Harrison was an obsessive ukelele collector) And his version of a Hawaiian traditional folk tune was practically metal. His stunted Japanese stage patter just made him that more endearing to his female fans, but the guy would be a guitar god if that’s the instrument he played. Size matters, but not really in this case.
Drizzlejazz
It rained steadily during the night and by the time the festival was up for Saturday a fine drizzle was falling. Most people were fully prepared so it wasn’t a problem, though negotiating those hazardous mud puddles is always a chore. Fortunately, over the years, most of the paths have been paved to a certain extent, but the Orange Court is still a big pig wallow.
We decided to take in some jazz. The piano trio H Zettrio was playing the White Stage in front of a respectable crowd who seemed to know their material, which was invariably fast, pounding, and flashy. The band’s playful demeanor is broadcast by the clown makeup they wear, though in person they come across more like a skater crew, relaxed and a bit irreverent with the canonical aspects of jazz. Their original music is basically variations on very simple but incisive riffs, and the leader H Zett M, occasionally switches to keytar when he really wants to get crazy.
Kyoto Jazz Sextet, who opened the adjoining Field of Heaven to a much smaller set of people, is a more traditional jazz outfit, but their leader and major domo is Shuya Okino, who has a club music background and stands to the side acting as emcee and spiritual counselor as it were. The music is definitely groove-oriented, but the solos can get really out there. At times the music dived straight into the avant garde only to swirl back around to an agreeable cocktail vibe. Martini music for people in galoshes.
Difficult
Alejandro Ghersi’s midnight DJ set at the Red Marquee didn’t seem to channel much from the records he releases as Arca. Though the music was denser and bassier than his recorded hip-hop, it was equally challenging, and didn’t seem overly personal. He didn’t sing—though he did a lot of talking and there was certainly a diva quality to the performance. In other words, it wasn’t your usual DJ show, though he did manage to play music that people could dance to, at least every so often, but there was almost a begrudging quality to it. Arca would often leave his equipment and come downstage, strutting back and forth and vocalizing in various modes, but always sounding desperate. At times he seemed to be egging the audience on, but toward what?
Co-billed AV artist Jesse Kanda, who sat onstage to the left, had the whole back screen to himself and he really used it. The images, mostly of animals in some sort of distress, were extremely difficult to watch at times, and he would keep repeating them over and over, as if he were obsessively picking at a scab. Sometimes, he would throw in footage from the award-winning documentary, “Leviathan,” about a fishing boat in the Atlantic, and it was a welcome respite from the body horror. Combined with the darker shades of Arca’s selection and the DJ’s confrontational attitude, the visual portion completed a performative trifecta that was fascinating without necessarily being enjoyable. And it went on for a long time.
(Text: Philip Brasor; photos: Mark Thompson)
