Starting line
In 2003, during a time when I had no leisure time to feel the summer due to part-time jobs and practice, I received an email. It was around the early days when Ling tosite sigure had just started their activities in the indie scene.
"Please reserve tickets for the next live."
At that time, live performances were still experimental, and the number of audience was small. Selling 10 tickets was considered good, and sometimes only a few friends who happened to have free time would come.
In the midst of this, the sender of that email, who identified himself as "Momose," stood out for an unusual reason: his email domain was "movingon.jp." It wasn't the popular "hotmail.com," nor "yahoo.co.jp." During those days when we were eager to seize any opportunity to make a living through music, having an original domain name held a special allure.
If I remember correctly, the first venue where Momose came to see us was "Akasaka L@N," a live house that no longer exists. I distinctly recall their feedback on our demo recordings, his ticket reservation, and his inquiry about the location of "Akasaka L@N." At that time, when our band name wasn't even a topic of conversation in the industry, it was interesting and somewhat challenging that someone who stumbled upon our website couldn't find information about the venue. Looking back now, it might have been a remote interview to assess the navigational skills.
Back then, it was customary for band members to handle merchandise sales themselves, and by that time, we had a rough understanding of the several customers who regularly made reservations. However, Momose never showed up in person, only sending emails with feedback and reservations. The emails contained mixed messages of praise and criticism, and the image of Momose remained shrouded in mystery, visible only through the emails on the SOTEC computer monitor. I never proactively asked them anything, and Momose never revealed his identity. For a while, he was just one of those "customers who make reservations but never show up to watch the live performances."
The exchange of emails continued for about a year. Then, one day at a live performance at "Ikebukuro Chop," when I opened the soundproof door leading to the floor to watch a guest band before our set, I saw a person who looked completely out of place in a live house. He had a stylish and formal appearance, wearing a black hat and a dark-colored jacket with a casual flair, standing against the wall with his arms crossed and remaining silent. Among the audience that day, he stood out with a distinctly unusual atmosphere, and I had an intuitive conviction that this person was Momose. While I had suspected he was someone from the music industry based on the email domain name, it had never been mentioned, and our communication had maintained a certain distance. It was the first moment when this person, who had engaged in email conversations with me while keeping their identity a secret, appeared before me visually.
He stood in the darkness, blending in as he sent sharp gazes toward the stage, carefully scrutinizing the bands performing. Conscious of his piercing gaze that felt as if it could penetrate through, I continued singing and playing the guitar.
After the performance, Momose didn't approach us or say anything, and by the time I realized it, he was gone. I didn't even know for sure if that person was Momose. However, at that moment, I vividly remember my heart leaping at the sight of the "most record company-like person" I had ever encountered. I thought to myself, "That person must be from the original domain."
Eagerly playing my guitar, I relentlessly pursued breakthroughs while accumulating live performance experience, hoping to make contact with indie labels, agencies, and record companies. I had never seen anyone who looked as "record company-like" as that person, and without any confirmation if it was Momose, I excitedly shared this uncertain information with the band members, refraining from gossiping about it in magazines. We were hungry for a place where our music could reach. From that time until now, every moment our music opens up even by a millimeter has been filled with brilliance.
With each subsequent visit to our live performances, Momose started adding more detailed feedback to their reservation emails.
"The MC at that time..."
"The intervals between songs could use some improvement..."
"It's ending up too self-indulgent..."
Various advice and criticisms arrived from this mysterious person whom I hadn't met yet.
"But wait, who is he?! "
I still find it strange that I didn't have such thoughts back then, but I compared Momose's observations with what I wanted to express.
It is my habit to consider every opinion after passing it through my own filter. It is important to preserve and break oneself, and I have the choice in my hands.
Nevertheless, why did Momose only convey his opinions to me without revealing his identity? It wasn't that I felt discomfort from receiving criticism. I didn't understand his intentions at that time. However, the mystery would finally be solved.
One day, out of the blue, Momose invited me to have a meal along with a brief self-introduction email. It was the moment when the person who had only been observing from afar, the "Momose-like person," was confirmed as the "Momose of the music industry."
"Don't worry, I didn't bring any contracts with me."
Although his statement felt slightly assertive and somewhat like a joke, the first words I heard from Momose remained consistent with his enigmatic aura, still wearing the black hat and jacket, never straying from his suspicious atmosphere like the protagonist in a certain black comedy manga. The words were natural, and he carried an aura that made it difficult to respond with questions. He could be interpreted as both "I have no intention of signing a contract with you" and "I won't suddenly bring up contract discussions, so rest assured."
My brain was on the verge of a lead error, spinning at full speed, as I engaged in a conversation with Mr. Momose, who would throw comments about past live performances and future prospects with his unique choice of words. I was desperate to gauge the true meaning behind each conversation, fearing misinterpretation would result in an error. It was a completely new sensation for me.
After going through several stages such as meals and meetings, as well as experiencing the departure of our drummer and Nakano's support joining, I was invited to a certain Italian restaurant in Shinjuku.
As I climbed the narrow staircase where our belongings rubbed against each other, as soon as I took my seat, if my memory serves me right, I was asked "What do you want?"
"Well, even though I was invited, you're asking me a question right off the bat...?" Little TK whispered in my mind, but I immediately responded, "I want to release a CD." The tension remained, reminiscent of a scene from "Slam Dunk," as we finished our meal without the relaxation of the atmosphere. I hardly remember the taste of the Kumamoto ramen I was invited to after being full.
Before officially joining the agency "Moving On" headed by Mr. Momose, the director taught me the know-how of CD production in detail. However, it came with the condition of "I'll lend you the know-how, but I won't provide the funds for the master (recording expenses required for CD production)." In other words, it meant, "Record it yourselves, pool your own money, sell the CD while taking the risk. I'll teach you the necessary knowledge."
Being ignorant, I must have seemed like an inexperienced youngster to the director, who had many years of experience. The director calls that time the "闘魂塾 Fighting Spirit Dojo(School)," but he doesn't like to talk about it. So, I pray that this book doesn't reach the director's hands.
I was rigorously taught various ways to approach things and the mental aspect. Within the 闘魂塾Fighting-Spirit school where only I was always called, I felt like I was constantly comparing my own thoughts with what I wanted to express. Even in ignorance and the unknown, how I could digest the given information would change the course of my life.
With the bright carrot of "releasing a CD" dangled in front of me, I was running forward, focusing solely on what was ahead.
However, that didn't mean we had money. We carried out the recording in a community center near Nakano's residence or at the studio where I worked.
Although we managed to complete the recording through trial and error, we stumbled at the stage of "mixing," which involved blending the recorded audio materials into a CD. In my previous band, we had mixed using a simple machine called an MTR, but this time, it was a work to be distributed in the indie market, and I didn't think that would suffice. In a way, the stage of recording our performance was like buying the necessary vegetables and meat for cooking. However, I had no idea how to cut, sauté, season, and create the dish. It was almost like being in a state of having only made instant ramen before.
In my despair, someone from the live house who had been taking care of us approached me with the offer, "There's an assistant who recently started working at Sony and is looking for material to mix. He might do it for free." I ended up having that assistant take on the mixing job, as he wanted to accumulate experience by handling as many projects as possible. We sneaked into the Nogizaka Sony Studio late at night, exchanged opinions multiple times, and continued the mixing work.
However, just before the delivery deadline approached, I suddenly lost contact with that engineer.
Emergency contact somehow sounds urgent and rushed amidst the silence. I received a strange call from an acquaintance at an odd hour, informing me, "He had an accident on his motorcycle and is hanging between life and death. It's also difficult to retrieve the data from the mixing work in progress." Without time to be dumbfounded, I realized that I had no choice but to complete it myself.
It was like cooking with very little knowledge. No Cookpad or recipe book. Nevertheless, the burden was too heavy for someone with nothing, but that dish was brought forth in the form of a "first album."
The debut album contains moments of touching a song for the first time. And it also contains moments of creating sound for the first time. That's how we accomplished everything on our own, resulting in the first album 『#4』.
Ideally, that freshness would now feel painfully awkward for my present self, but I take pride in the fact that the vivid scars have remained as an unbeatable radiance.
After the release, I received news of the engineer's safety, which brought relief. Little did I expect that we would meet again at Sony Music Associated Records, where we had transitioned to become a label staff member after several years. I had never imagined that.
And now, we go to the Sony studio where we used to sneak in, properly booked for recording. It's a place where I always sense the remnants of that time, a special place where I can approach recording with a unique sentiment.
After the first album gained some recognition in the underground scene, we officially joined Moving On. Until our major debut in 2008, the director taught me not only about production but also numerous guidelines for navigating this world and the way of life I needed.
In these 20 years, I don't know how many times I've been scolded, but that encounter and the feeling of potential it gave me have led to everything I have now.
I wasn't guided; the teaching of "create it yourself" continues to pave my way. That gratitude will always remain with music.
Original content in japanese from ddnavi (Japan IP only)
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