Mixer
I highly value my own intuition and have non-negotiable aspects, but I also often seek opinions from others. However, I believe it is crucial to consider who I ask for opinions.
There are people who understand music and those who don't, people who can express their opinions straightforwardly and those who don't ─ there are many types of individuals. When casually asking, "What do you think?" we must not forget that the other person may feel pressured.
Within the band, it's something we can bear together, those close staff members who understand the weight of those words will be more cautious. How we digest the conveyed words in our minds influences the originality of our own expression. If we let them listen to a song with complex phrases, they might say, "I want it to be more understandable," and if we present a straightforward demo, they might say, "It lacks a hook." It's unfortunate, but irresponsible feedback is often like that. "Oh, if only it had a stronger flavor" or "It's a bit greasy" ─ those fleeting grumbles that we often feel in our daily lives.
Is being rock mean ignoring everything?
Is being pop about accepting everything?
However, within those seemingly insignificant remarks, there are moments when hints are hidden that can make me even more myself. It's up to me whether I will be tamed or not in response to what is thrown at me. There is a part of me that thinks, "Is it okay to listen to other people's opinions?" in the corner of my mind. But somehow, I have come to verify all the possibilities that should be tried.
I am sometimes asked, "Doesn't your mind become cluttered when you hear various opinions from different people?" Of course, if I listen to just anyone and try to realize all of their opinions, it would result in something that doesn't resonate with anyone and lacks originality, ending up with nowhere to go. I can assert that it would be the worst for anyone who expressed their opinions.
There are times when there is something beyond the limits of the completed work. Instead of perceiving the moment when people interact with my work as criticism that crushes the originality, I strive to make it like a sharpening stone that digs deeper into my music.
While verifying all possibilities and sometimes ignoring opinions, I remember the time when I first encountered music. The music that captivated my ears struck a chord with the listener that was "me," a nobody. I constantly ponder whether I can capture the heart of that past "me" with my current self.
I put everything through the mixer in my mind. Looking back, I met 345, and the president of my current agency started coming to see our live performances. Nakano joined the band, we got a manager, and staff from a major record label joined us. Whether it's just one person or a slightly larger audience, no matter how much I meticulously craft the music alone, there is joy in sharing it with others. The few minutes of time I create may surpass unknown creations. What I want is not the compromise of the lowest common denominator, but the highest point I can reach by pushing to the limit.
Just as I enjoy letting the band members listen to the demos, I also enjoy sharing them with the staff. The choice of sounds for a slight intro, the volume, the words, the flow before and after, and the subtle adjustments can bring about unimaginable changes.
In the past, I participated in a competition for the theme song of an anime. The competition involved soliciting demos from a large number of artists, and the production team would choose their preferred music from among them. However, there was also a more specific type of competition called a "named competition." Even though you are named, it doesn't guarantee your selection. In other words, even if you create a song and write the lyrics thoroughly, you don't know if it will be used. At that time, it was a straightforward one-on-one competition between two artists. It seemed like a rather cruel style, like ordering the same menu at two different restaurants and deciding which one to eat. I believe that this is the purest form of a theme song tie-up, even if you ask your favorite artist, it's still a gamble whether the perfect song for their work will be created.
That anime, compared to what I usually work on, is supported by a broader range of generations, so I felt that they were looking for a more pop aspect rather than something sharp and aggressive. Precisely because it's a well-known work that seems unrelated to me, I felt that an incredible chemical reaction could occur.
While creating several demos, opinions such as "Maybe it should be a little simpler," "The melody is too difficult," "It's too high and hard to sing in karaoke" were expressed. I thought, "If it's difficult to sing in karaoke, why not lower the key with a machine...," but I faced all the opinions once. It may not have been easy to incorporate all the opinions, but after putting it through the mixer, I feel that I was able to express my own sense of pop effectively.
The song received positive feedback from the other party, and the staff involved even said, "It's almost decided." However, even after the initial deadline passed, there was no response.
Amidst the gathering dark clouds, I received the unfortunate message saying, "Your submission was not selected this time." It left me with an indescribable sense of emptiness, wondering if it was due to my lack of talent. The truth is, I have hardly ever experienced a case where my lyrics were written and the song was not chosen. The moment when a song, carefully crafted to fit and understand every aspect of the work, is left hanging in the air, it fills me with an overwhelming sense of frustration.
In the midst of a storm-like schedule, I received a sudden request, and there was no escape route like saying, "I didn't have enough time, so the lyrics are temporary." I understand the desire of the client to make a decision after listening to the final version, and I also understand how agonizing it can be when it becomes a last-minute offer. What artists are expected to endure in order to create a greater impact with their work is naturally demanding. Once lyrics are written, affection for the song and love for the work begin to take root, making the burden of the unchosen piece immeasurable.
Adding fuel to that feeling was the fact that the selected artist was not the other participant we were competing against.
Words like "almost decided" are not spoken lightly, so I suppose those words were true. Even if I sought an explanation, the process seemed oddly opaque, and everyone seemed to sense the presence of some immense force at work. While I appeared ludicrous, struggling to crawl out of an exitless maze, I was simply filled with a sense of unplaceable loss.
I'm writing this in a café right now. A couple, unsure of where to sit, circled the empty seats around me about four times before choosing a counter seat by the industrial staircase. I can now understand how the unchosen seats must have felt. The setting sun illuminates those seats, and they just as bright.
As someone who has spoken so much about the process of creation, it lacks credibility for me to be feeling down. However, by listening to those opinions, or not listening to them, it doesn't change anything. Everything is dissolved in my own purity, so I have no regrets. Even though I fell.
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Thanks for reading!
Photos from “LIFE with Fender | TK（Ling tosite Sigure）”
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