Chapter 1.7: To die or to create / Beyond Impulse - Active -

To die or to create

After meeting the director, we created new songs to perform live and gained the method of distributing them to CD shops and other outlets. Shortly after the release of our first album #4,

as the nationwide tour began, that slight sense of accomplishment started to heat up.

During the meetings for the next release, the director unexpectedly pointed out several improvements for the first album that I had mixed. In a café filled with miscellaneous sounds, I focused solely on the director's words, to the extent that it seemed like I was wearing noise-canceling headphones.

I was aware that imitation had its limits. Coming from the director who had witnessed many musicians taking on their own projects and failing, it might have appeared that I was taking that crucial first step. I was given the conditions to improve the points where the voice was hard to hear and to primarily leave recording and mixing to professionals. On top of that, I would be able to officially release the second CD as part of the agency after joining them.

Being officially signed and having a CD released is different from the production process of our self-produced first album. Self-production meant that we had to cover all the costs of recording ourselves, including jacket design, CD cases, and pressing expenses. Contracts, of course, varied greatly, but being signed meant being able to focus on music production without doing part-time jobs and having the agency cover all the expenses involved in creating the CD. It was what people commonly imagine as the state of a "normal" band.

For us as band members, the dream of being able to make music without doing part-time jobs was a dream within a dream. Many people may not know, but even in small live houses, we were placed under conditions known as "quotas" where we had to sell a certain number of tickets, usually priced at 1500 yen, in order to perform. In other words, if we couldn't bring in an audience, we would have to pay out of our own pockets to perform live.

From my perspective, I knew how difficult it was to maintain and manage a live house, and I still consider it natural, but it surprises many people when I talk about it. Only when the live house's desire for us to perform outweighs the band's desire to perform does the quota disappear, and it transforms into offers to perform. With few exceptions, that's what everyone aims for in the first place.

After one of the live performances, perhaps it was when I parked the Honda car we used as equipment transportation in the parking lot in front of my house, which was covered in enormous gravel. I murmured, "I wonder if I can perform without paying quotas someday." It's strange how I vividly remember Nakano-kun's convincing response "You can do it!"

Signing a contract with the agency brought a continuous stream of new experiences. The presence of recording engineers, the sight of large consoles I had only seen in magazines referred to as SSL, and neatly arranged instruments. For us, who had been recording in community centers and practice studios, recording in a professional studio was a series of first-time tasks.

The second mini-album was recorded in a studio located in the residential area of Jiyugaoka. The sound emanating from the large speakers was incredibly solid, and I was excited to hear the raw playback at a high volume.

Meanwhile, behind the scenes, the director tirelessly working to obtain permission to include the song "セルジオ 越後 Sergio Echigo" in the upcoming mini-album, following my desire to use the original title. Ultimately, out of consideration for us, who had no influence at the time, they graciously accepted the Romanized title "Sergio Echigo." Although I was repeatedly encouraged to change it to a different title, I was glad that I persisted and settled on this form.

Even the director, who had previously been the manager of L'Arc~en~Ciel, probably never imagined having to obtain such permission in his life. I sincerely apologize, and thank you.

Within me, there is occasionally an unwavering obsession that cannot be shaken. Perhaps no one can understand this small obsession, which lacks logical certainty or the ability to bring about change. Only the person experiencing it at that moment can see what absolutely must be, even within the smallest differences that may not be comprehensible upon reflection. If I myself cannot understand it upon retrospection, there is no way the people around me caught in that vortex can understand it. That's why I make sure not to lose touch with my own senses.

It resembles the way lyrics are structured. The arrangement of those words, which takes a considerable amount of time, can appear to be valid in any order.

Sometimes, I even find myself questioning the reasons behind my own decisions from the previous day. I have had that sense since the first album. If there were reasons that anyone could readily grasp, surely everyone would easily empathize and resonate with them. However, I don't need something ordinary and circular.

After several days of recording basic rhythms, overdubs and vocal recordings in the studio, I finished the sessions. Looking back, it might have been the first and last time I recorded all the songs in an external studio.

The problem arose afterward. The final adjustments of the sound, known as mixdown, didn't quite match the image I had in my mind. As the recording progressed, I had been consistently feeling a discrepancy between the sound on the CD-R given to me on that day and the sound I heard in the studio. The sounds that had motivated me in the studio seemed to diminish and become timid when played on my home stereo system.

This is a realization of the discomfort I felt even with the mix by the engineer who had helped me during the first album. It didn't match the sound I heard from the Sony large speakers in the studio when I sneaked in late at night. Could this be a phenomenon similar to when someone who looks cute (cool) in a dimly lit bar you've been to before doesn't look the same when they leave the establishment...? No, that's not it. Or perhaps it's similar to when you buy a perfectly sized TV from an electronics store and it feels completely different in size once you bring it home...? No, that might be a case of mistaken confirmation. The only sensation I could recall was when I listened to a CD at a Tower Records store, and the combination of the player and headphones created a subtly distorted and bewitching sound that captivated me, leading me to impulsively make the purchase, only to find that it sounded completely different at home... It seems that the bar analogy isn't too far off when I write about it like this.

During the basic recording phase, the parts I thought would improve in the final mix didn't undergo much change and were completed as they were. This wasn't the fault of the engineer; it was because I couldn't effectively communicate my ideal sound image, or rather, the sound that I thought was cool. I didn't have the means to convey it to the professionals. In Kagerou, I particularly emphasized the sense of drive in the drums, but I couldn't express it properly. The tracks that underwent several revisions and were deemed as completed still didn't match the sound image of Kagerou that I was seeking.

One day, I was in a coffee specialty shop near the north exit of Ikebukuro Station. The smell of cigarettes permeated the store, and since I couldn't yet drink black coffee, I probably ordered some drink with milk in it.

The director had arranged this meeting to offer me a helping hand, and along with a slight scolding, he threw in the words, "If you're willing to die for it and release it with the same sound, then go ahead and redo it yourself." It was a strict yet gentle suggestion in response to my plea to redo it. In any case, I immediately made the decision to redo it myself.

I didn't want to subject anyone else to that feeling of despair I had when listening to it on my small home stereo. By mixing it myself, I chose to drive the songs with the sound I liked, regardless of how the balance of the audio turned out. I apologized sincerely to the engineer for taking on the mixing of just two songs and hurriedly worked on them amidst the approaching deadline.

The finished sound went through the final adjustments by a professional known as a mastering engineer, completing the mastering process that creates the flow of the CD. After fine adjustments between songs, the second album was finally completed.

I hadn't informed the mastering engineer that I had mixed only two songs, but I remember them casually mentioning that those two songs had "imbalanced balance." At that moment, I thought to myself, "Professionals truly have an understanding" and at the same time, I deeply realized that there were things that only I could see. Without thinking that way, I wouldn't have been able to continue.

The speed and distortion I sought at that time were not meant to maintain balance. I truly believed that many people could be pierced by expressions that could only be conveyed through sharp and incisive elements.

Something I couldn't compromise on, even in death—that's what is packed into our second album "Feeling your UFO". The unidentified flying object that invaded in 2006 was something unquestionably real.

* According to the credits on CD, the songs that mixed by TK is 想像のSecurity (Souzou no Security) & 感覚UFO(Kankaku UFO).

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