Sometimes, it feels like all it takes is a blink to miss something important. I say this because just weeks ago, on Dec. 30, in between major holidays, news trickled out of the untimely death of a Japanese enka giant. It was Aki Yashiro – that mainstay of all sake-loving drinkers – who succumbed to rapid progressive interstitial pneumonia, a product of her quiet battle with anti-MDA5, a lung disease that sidelined her latest rebirth: as a jazz singer. And in her death, it made me reflect not on her life – which I’d struggle to properly capture in one post – but on a brilliant moment, her 2001 album, MOOD (ムード), an unlikely, little-heralded masterpiece that (I think) encapsulates what made her special.
Born Akira Hashimoto, Aki hailed from Yatsushiro, Kyushu, in the far west of Japan, in one of the famous castle towns of the area. Part of the post-WWII baby boom era, Aki was part of that Showa-era generation growing up inspired by the introduction of western music. However, unlike many girls of her age, Aki felt the spirit move her enough to put herself out there, to become a singer.
Growing up listening to her father’s record collection, Aki became enthralled by his jazz section. It was in the music of Julie London, that Aki felt this affinity to an idea and a voice, that of a different, more mature way to sing, and of the idea that a singer existed to sing in places she only heard whispered of in hushed voices. At that tender age, she resigned herself to begin by performing in singing competitions.
As was parlance for the time, Aki quit school just as soon as she could to work and help her family make a living. At the age of 15, Aki found herself working as a bus guide, an affair that lasted just as quick, convincing her father to let her move to Tokyo (where all the famous singers were) to take music lessons in a more serious way.
In Tokyo, was where Aki would start that long trajectory that would take her to become a leading light in its cabaret scene. Absconding from her studies, Aki turned her attention to earning a living by singing. Adopting the stage name of Aki Yatsushiro (in homage to her hometown), she sang to patrons in Ginza bars, until in due time, she was discovered and signed her first record contract with Japan’s Teichiku Records in 1971.
Her first single, “愛は死んでも”, lit up the radio, introducing Japanese audiences to this young, husky-voiced, enka singer that seemingly updated that artform with a bluesy-jazzy contemporary phrasing. By 1973 hit songs like “なみだ恋” begat Aki’s star-making 1973 debut. And the rest, as they often say, was history. Aki would go on to a long career, spanning multiple decades, updating what was once a “folksy”, rural-driven genre of music, into one that could speak to an urban audience.
It was Aki’s soulful voice, with its background in jazz, bossanova, and western pop styles, that could give voice to ballads outlining drunken nights of revelry, sad stories of infidelity, and the larger struggle of a rapidly stratifying, modernizing Japan. Aki’s enka was the enka we now understand, as heard in mass culture, as seen in NHK’s totemic Japanese song show, 紅白歌合戦 (otherwise known as Kōhaku Uta Gassen) serving as a touchstone of just what Japanese pop music could be.
All of that exposition we now know makes what we don’t – 2001’s MOOD (ムード) – that more special. 30 years into her career, Aki had nothing to prove and owed nothing to anyone. Yet, 30 years into her career, Aki had something to prove to herself and an album that she owed to herself.
In essence, Aki always remained ever elusively attuned to the contemporary. 40 years before, before she was a singer, Aki was a painter, a calling her father wished she’d follow. Yet, in honor of her father, it wouldn’t be until the year 2000, that she’d turn back to painting to rekindle her creative inspiration. Then, a year later, to celebrate her 30th anniversary as a singer, she’d parlay that personal renaissance, into creating music that could speak to a modern generation who’s own version of the locale to air their emotions (the drinking bar) had morphed into one of revelry and working one’s emotions out elsewhere: the club dance floor.
Aki would decamp to the recording studio to work with an impressive crew of Japanese pop artists – artists like Yoshitaki Minami, Taeko Ohnuki and Yoshiyuki Ohsawa, to name precious few – and dance producers like Tomoki Hasegawa, Tomofumi Suzuki, and Ray Hayden, who hovered around acid jazz, neo soul, and house music scenes. Original songs would be created that honored the influence she had on those artists, covers would be reimagined as fascinating rewrites, and original songs she created like the iconic, “舟呗”, were breathed new life.
Just imagine what her audience might have experienced when they first heard the first four bars of “爱を信じたい”. That audible shutting of the door led to Aki singing to us in that still powerful voice but in a style that appeared hovering beyond her past, into one that decidedly updated enka for a new generation. As audacious as it appeared, it seems that Aki’s mood was to assure us that her well-spring of ideas hadn’t run its course.
Impressive takes on electro-bossa nova make songs like, “イン ザ スターライト” more than genre exercises. One of Aki’s personal favorites, the pop standard, “Fly Me To The Moon”, inspires a fiery hip-hop reinterpretation that slots perfectly into the early Y2K pop milieu of Usher, Shakira, and more. Those of even older vintage, like Hiroshi Ikura’s “おいしい水”, add a certain sexy bounce to Aki’s haunting jazz-influenced phrasing. Somewhere, in the history of Aki’s story on MOOD (ムード) you could hear what she was capable of creating (if giving her charms to other ideas).
There’s the windswept charms of her take on bossa nova, on “Fusigi”. There’s her vocal powerhouse cover of The Righteous Brothers’ “Unchained Melody”. However, what really takes the cake on this album, are songs like, “舟呗”. In the original, a classic of all heart-torn Japanese listeners, the pouring of a sake cup quite literally puts the weight of the world on every sip. Here, younger audiences are able to imbibe in its atmosphere, transforming this boat song into a passionate epic 2-step drama for those newly “lonely at night”. In an album full of highlights, Aki’s own still holds quite the spotlight.
What’s to say of songs like “Sweet Love”? While others may shudder at Ray Hayden’s use of Auto-Tune on it, I absolutely love and appreciate that Aki found her footing in such a sensual song, imbibing her personality into this experimentation with UK Soul. In the chorus of the song, you can almost feel her implying a double meaning to the lyrics. If you want to understand her, you have to get with this, too. Gorgeous songs like “My 30s Love~ひとりの时も恋が私を幸せにしてくれる~” and or dreamy ones like “Don’t Cry” or “Aki’s Holy Night” underline that point – that a certain past doesn’t have to forever remain static and there. Aki’s strength had always been in finding ways to guide any story forward.
With her gone from this earth, perhaps, there’s further room to explore just where this kind of music can take us. In this season of change, it’s always nice to know Aki lives on.
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