Untalented
When it comes to creating a work, you can spend as much time as you want on the creative process until it surpasses your own imagination. However, when it comes to actually reproducing it, that's a whole different story.
As I mentioned before, I'm not particularly skilled at singing or playing the guitar. This is not false modesty; it's just that from my perspective, the microphone and guitar frets seem like very confined spaces, desperately trying to free myself. I strive to reach the cockpit without being consumed by the monstrous creation I have brought to life. I maximize what I have and expand it to the fullest, trying my best to incorporate it into the music.
I have been told, "It must be fun to play like that during live performances." Ah, I see. So there are people who perceive it that way. It's the same feeling I get when I see other musicians around me.
If that's the case, perhaps those people who see it that way also experience a sense of loneliness or confinement, with walls that only they can understand and overcome.
There are moments when I momentarily achieve the ideal voice or guitar sound. I always feel that the invincible moment lies just beyond the present, and I keep striving for it. Revolutions and awakenings don't just come from nowhere; they occasionally arise from collisions with something.
Just completing one song is a significant accomplishment in itself. Even considering that my songs may be somewhat challenging, it's not easy to find someone who carries the same level of tension.
When the time comes to satisfy everything with my preferred pressure, tone, and melody, the performance will reach a level that cannot be surpassed by any climax. I wonder if ideals become higher over time, but sometimes I wish they would become lower.
The high ceiling that probably pierces through two floors, the greenery and garden visible from the large windows. The lobby of the hotel where I'm writing this now has a pleasant ambient noise. The constant ringing in my ears feels slightly more tolerable. This is not a subjective experience; it's a symptom of hearing loss.
I'm in the middle of a tour for the album I released in 2018. One day, the ringing in my ears, which used to stop the day after a live performance, became persistent. Although my hearing had been questionable at times, I immediately went to an ENT clinic. However, the symptoms of tinnitus haven't changed much to this day. I was even given bitter herbal medicine to drink for several weeks.
Now I've become quite accustomed to this ringing in my ears. Whether I want to hear certain sounds or not, it seems like my brain decides, and I can't hear them when I'm focused on something. But when I find myself alone in a quiet space, it suddenly appears and fills my eardrums. After a live performance, I'm enveloped in an even louder ringing. It becomes so intense that I can't even hear the pre-existing tinnitus.
There is no negative feeling that makes me feel like I'm sacrificing my body. Even if I could go back to the day when the ringing in my ears started, I would still choose to have the same live performances. I've never wished to go back to the Nagoya live performance where I received a permanent scar on my face or the Hiroshima live performance where my nails got gouged out. Even if there were a time machine, it might have rusted away.
However, I often forget that my body is the most important instrument for manifesting my music.
In the questionnaire at the ENT clinic where I regularly go for throat examinations, there are oddly perceptive questions like "I feel like my life has been lost due to my voice" and "I don't know what kind of voice will come out until I speak." It's interesting that even though I have gained so much, I still feel like I've lost something, but I didn’t check those boxes.
I don't remember if I have publicly spoken about it, but I don't have tonsils. When I was young, my tonsils were enlarged and I couldn't breathe properly, so I had them removed through surgery. Recent advancements in antibiotics and such seem to have made their removal unnecessary, but there's a theory that not having tonsils makes you more prone to catching a cold. It's true that I easily catch a cold when there are people around me who have it, but I've never had any major issues with my throat while singing in this manner. Sometimes I lose my voice due to the effects of a cold, but I've never developed polyps or nodules, which is quite miraculous.
The instrument that exists within the body called the voice is incredibly mysterious and precious. When I saw my vocal cords through a fiber camera and realized that those small folds vibrating on the left and right are creating a part of my life, I felt it for the first time. At that moment, I almost checked "I feel like my life has been lost due to my voice," and I apologize for that. The vocal cords are working so hard. If you ever get the chance, I want you to see how your vocal cords vibrate and produce your intentions, projecting them out of your body when you're speaking.
The location may change each time, but I've actually been attending voice training for a long time. However, it's not primarily for improving my singing voice; it's training to get closer to my ideal. There was a time when I questioned the effectiveness of training based on the quality of the band, but it's not about doing vocal exercises to make my voice sound thicker or anything like that. It's about listening to rehearsal recordings where small weaknesses that no one else notices are exposed and investigating their causes. It's easy to focus only on the parts that don't work well, but surprisingly, the cause often lies just before that particular spot. I bring in practice recordings where things aren't going well, like my self-imposed public execution.
The voice as an instrument produces feelings of inferiority and imperfection in abundance, but at the same time, it holds an overwhelmingly dominant position in music. It has the power to move and inspire people, reaching the brain faster than any other sound.
The voice that suddenly came into my life, even though I wasn't supposed to sing, is still bewildering.
I don't need any talent that others envy.
While screaming as if scratching something away,, I just want to be honed in my own sound.
I am aware that I have the perseverance not to give up in order to create a good piece of work, but I don't possess a booster called "talent" for it. However, I have only two things: the endurance to keep going no matter how much time it takes, and the judgment to recognize when I have reached the destination. Although I have a vague confidence that says, "In the end, I will create something good," I believe that when it comes to the process of getting there, I'm not much different from a novice musician. I may have a slight ability to play the guitar and lightly play the piano, but I don't have any outstanding qualities. Still, I believe that I can gather small glimmers and somehow present something that shines, even if I don't know if it's a gem or not.
Sometimes I imagine that if I had talent, I might be able to produce more works. But even creating the image of myself thinking that I don't have talent is still me. Such feelings of helplessness and inferiority are probably not understood by those around me. They may say, "No, it's okay," or "You'll be fine during the performance," but I know best that I'm not okay. In reality, although it may sound fine to others, I feel intense stress myself. Nowadays, musicians use earphones to monitor the sound of each instrument, and compared to playing while listening from speakers on the floor, they can hear even the smallest details. When everyone listens to music, the nuances should be completely different between listening from speakers far away and listening with earphones. What reaches oneself through the air and what reaches directly to the eardrums are completely different.
I understand that this allows for various things, such as delicate singing and synchronization with hard disk materials. However, in my case, when I monitor the sound inside my ears, I end up doing live performances while constantly feeling the frustration of how much sound is not coming out or not going well. The role of the person called the "monitor man" who creates the sound inside the ears is very important. Even if some leakage of sound occurs, the sound they create carries the entire sound of the live performance for that day. If the sound that enters my ears is very soft due to some mistake, I will perceive that my sound is weak and put more effort into the performance. The balance adjustment is very delicate and difficult when something is too loud or something becomes difficult to hear. The more I realize the current situation where even what I created cannot be properly reproduced in the ears that hear it so directly, the more I am aware of the greatness of others.
Even if they are not recognized as divas or guitarists who demonstrate astonishing performances, there are many moments when I discover something that I cannot do. Although I am sometimes praised for singing while playing intense guitar, in reality, I'm rather laid-back. The things I can do appear as "something that anyone can do," and I know that the people around me have many things that I cannot do.
When someone praises someone else, it is often difficult for third parties to understand. For example, when an actor praises another actor's performance, those of us who are not deeply involved in acting cannot grasp fundamentally what makes it impressive. Something that may appear as a performance similar to others to an ordinary person can be understood only when seen from the perspective of reaching that level. It is then that you realize that in this particular flow, such acting wouldn't be possible or that tears couldn't be shed at that timing.
I started from a state that truly feels like zero, or rather, even negative, and I have been struggling to build myself up. That's why, perhaps even more so, I tend to admire the people around me who achieve the same things normally, and I end up feeling that I lack talent.
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