You are not here
I don't fully understand the sensation of "liking to sing." Contrary to that, I have many memories of singing during my youth. Back in those days, I often wondered what I was thinking and why I was singing.
My parents were fans of J-POP, and whenever we went out as a family, songs from the golden era of folk music, Southern All Stars, and Tatsuro Yamashita would play from the cassette deck in the car. Undoubtedly influenced by my parents, I also came to like J-POP.
During my elementary school years, our family inexplicably went to karaoke almost every week. Perhaps it was my father who suggested it. While driving towards the karaoke establishment that stood out conspicuously along the main road, my father was already humming a Southern All Stars tune.
In the small room surrounded by flashy patterned wallpaper, I often sang Southern All Stars' "You're not here when I wanna see you(Aitaku Natta Toki ni Kimi wa Koko ni Inai)" and Tatsuro Yamashita's "Christmas Eve." My father harmonized with my soft voice, making sure not to interfere with my singing, and sometimes he held the microphone and sang along. My mother and sister, flipping through the songbook, chose the next song to sing as if they were on a treasure hunt. Although we never fought over the microphone as a family of four, somehow we always ended up extending the initially planned two-hour stay.
During my junior high school years, I sang 猿岩石 Sano-Iwaishi's "白い雲のように Just like the white cloud in the sky(Shiroi Kumo no You ni)" and even recorded it on a cassette tape with multiple tracks. And for some reason, I intended to show it to my sister.
Why I chose Sano-Iwaishi and why I showed it to my sister, everything is shrouded in mystery. However, despite not remembering the reasons, I vividly recall that afternoon when I recorded it. In a room that was somehow connected to my sister's room, I set up a cheap microphone connected to a stereo system placed on a bookshelf that blocked the passage.
I'm not sure if it was the joy of layering or my growing interest in singing, but "singing" gradually became a natural act incorporated into my being, as simple as breathing.
Duplicating from cassette to cassette, I faintly felt the pleasure of layering my own voice as a chorus. I remember well the peculiar sense of satisfaction I obtained, to the point that I didn't care about my sister's indifferent comment, "Ah, isn't it fine?" The Aiwa stereo system, which effortlessly handled microphone recordings and duplications, was an unbeatable partner.
One day, my mother asked me to perform a song at a relative's wedding.
By this point, it might have seemed like I enjoyed singing, but I actually felt resistance when it came to singing in front of anyone other than my family. I can count on one hand the number of times I went to karaoke with friends (the only memory I have is accompanying a friend singing Metallica's "Battery" in junior high), and during music class, I purposely sang poorly during the test where they selected someone to sing in front of the whole class, so as not to be chosen. Despite not being particularly good, I had a strong aversion to singing in public.
It's hard to believe that I obediently followed my mother's request, but in any case, we decided on singing "Kimi ga Iru Dake de(With just you here) by Kome Kome Club (米米CLUB の「君がいるだけで」), and I started practicing. I sang repeatedly while listening to the cassette tape in my room until I memorized the lyrics. I also sang it numerous times at karaoke outings with my family.
However, on the day of the wedding, the venue didn't have a karaoke track for "Kimi ga Iru Dake de." Back then, online karaoke services were not as prevalent as they are now. I remember thinking, even as a child, "Wait a minute, you should have checked that beforehand."
"Can't you sing another song?"
My mother suggested, but I refused. Perhaps because I couldn't sing just anything, I wanted to present something that I had prepared properly. That feeling existed even back then.
"I can't sing a song I haven't practiced."
In the end, I couldn't deliver a celebratory song to the two people in the midst of happiness. And I, myself, was enveloped in a deep sense of loss.
米米CLUBの「君がいるだけで」
"Kimi ga Iru Dake de(With just you here)? You are not on the song list..."
In my heart, I had the desire to sing Southern All Stars' "You're not here when I wanna see you(Aitaku Natta Toki ni Kimi wa Koko ni Inai)"
What does "singing" mean to me?
Honestly, I have never thought about it or understood it until now. I started playing the guitar because I liked it, but I never imagined that I would become a vocalist with the guitar in the future.
The relationship between what I like and sharing it with others takes shape within me, creating a sound that cannot be separated.
A long time ago, there was a girl I was dating during my student days who made a dish for me but then threw it in the trash herself and said, "Let's go to a family restaurant!" For a moment, I didn't understand what had happened, but perhaps something becomes a "work" regardless of its size or significance when someone is involved in it. Looking back now, I understand the feeling of wanting to discard something half-hearted.
At some point, I find that switch within me turning ON as well. Songs that I could happily sing when I'm alone activate a "Scouter" like from "Dragon Ball," questioning whether it's a song that should be shared once there's someone to listen.
A boundary formed within myself rejects offering it to others. It creates a significant barrier in my musical life, but it's also a beloved and troublesome element that gives birth to the music we have now precisely because of that thinking. Sometimes, no one empathizes with it, and there are people who understand it painfully well, but for the most part, I'm dismissed as a "complicated person." The path to the ideal in creation is a lonely one.
The emptiness I felt from not being able to sing at the wedding that day is still engraved in my heart. The option of "not reaching" that was born within my young self continues to give a sharp and distorted light to my music, as I, more than anyone else, strongly yearn to "reach." I believe in that.
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