Formation
During my first year of university, I met Miyoko, the bassist and vocalist of the band Ling tosite sigure. We met as members of a copy band for GO!GO!7188, our favorite girl band at that time.
( Ling tosite Sigure with GO!GO!7188 )
Since I didn't have any music companions around me, I had an intense desire to find someone with whom I could play music and create sounds together. Rather than playing others' music or imitating someone else, I had a pure desire to produce something from my own fingertips. I remember we introduced ourselves and shared past recordings with 345 friends, and that's how the copy band was formed.
I don't remember it clearly, it might be because I didn't have many copy recordings at that time. So, I gave her an MD recording of B'z's "calling" which I made with my high school friend who had a good singing voice. She looked surprised, maybe because it was unexpected to receive B'z's recordings when we were supposed to gather under the premise of doing GO!GO!7188 covers. Whether it was the impressiveness of the high school demo or the unexpectedness of receiving B'z's recordings, I'm not sure.
After a GO!GO!7188 concert, all our members met for the first time. The band consisted of three female members, and being used to having an older sister, I didn't feel any discomfort being the only male. We talked about our favorite music and the music we wanted to play. Beside the sociable bassist, there was a quiet girl who played guitar and sang. She appeared quite different from the image of a band member that I had in my mind — reserved and unassuming. That girl turned out to be 345. My initial impression of her as a "reserved and supportive type" hasn't changed much even now, but I had an intuition that she possessed an unwavering strength at her core.
I played guitar, 345 played guitar and vocals, the friend of 345 played bass, and then we officially added another friend of the bassist, a powerful senior who played drums. The band performed live shows of both cover songs by female vocal bands and original compositions, and we continued our activities for nearly two years. However, the drummer chose to start working and the bassist graduated from junior college, it was decided that we would disband. I still vaguely remember the apologetic expressions and atmosphere of the girls when they told us that they couldn't continue the band.
Surely, even if it wasn't a band, there is a fleeting moment that always appears in the coexistence of different timelines. The helplessness felt when faced with an inevitable divergence point that cannot be stopped but must be respected, no matter how one looks at it. One may mistakenly perceive that time flowing within oneself is flowing in the same way as for others. The concept of a single second surely differs from person to person, and somewhere along the line, it must have shifted slightly. The time we spent laughing together and playing with music suddenly disappeared, leaving behind a feeling of being abruptly left behind.
"I still want to continue playing music."
Are the moments that determine one's life destined to emerge so naturally and effortlessly? Although we had two more years of university life ahead of us and 345 agreed, we needed to find new members. It was very difficult to find a drummer at that time, especially since I didn't have many music companions around me. Considering the effort required to find two additional members, I was hesitant. So, I suggested 345 to switch to bass and said, "We just need one more person, a drummer."
"If you can play guitar, then playing a bass is just losing two strings, so you can surely do it."
Even with my audacious suggestion that would anger any bassist, 345 accepted it without a single complaint. It's a little strange to think that she was so reluctant to search for additional members that she didn't mind changing her own instrument. 345 can make bold decisions that go beyond my expectations. The fact that she didn't say, "Well, the strings get thicker when you lose two!" perfectly captures the essence of 345. It wouldn't have been strange if she had actually thought that. I'm truly sorry for that time.
At the same time, although we were a twin vocal duo, I ended up becoming the main vocalist. It was a determination born from the realization that my voice was necessary for the music I created, even though I had distanced myself from singing since my elementary school days of singing at karaoke.
I have talked about the early days of our formation in many interviews, but there is a mismatch between the difficulty of finding new members and the reason why I ended up being the vocalist. It was fine for 345 to switch to bass and become a three-piece band, but I never expected that I would want to sing. It seems strange and almost miraculous that two people who hadn't even found their own singing voices took on the form of a twin vocal duo.
Around the time when it was decided that we would continue as a duo, I was working on a song called "Vivid Murder." I programmed the drum parts using a newly learned MIDI sound source. I created the song based on what I wanted to do and then recruited someone who could play the drums by saying, "I need someone to play these drums."
"Which band do you like?" is the foundation when forming a cover or original band, but each band has its own expressions and limitations of time. In the midst of that, I wanted to eliminate the time spent meeting and creating music, rubbing each other's preferences against each other. Perhaps I was feeling impatient toward the inspiration within me.
Although I didn't set a specific deadline, I must have been aware of the upcoming graduation in about two years. How far could I go with the music I created? I don't remember at all how "Vivid Murder" was born, which I created along with my modest interest. However, while copying someone else's music and aligning our musical values, I keenly felt that time was running short for creating original songs in our previous band. I wanted to create something that I wanted to play. And ideally, someone who could feel something in it would join us.
Not being the type to assert own opinions, and not standing out much in class — both in those aspects, 345 and I were somewhat similar. Despite attending different universities, we were drawn together in our precious two remaining years of student life, driven by a pure and strangely strong conviction to "do music." We believed that a drummer who could walk with us in the same direction would appear, so we waited for the contact.
Before long, a drummer who said he wanted to play my songs appeared. We became a three-piece band and decided on the band name 凛として時雨 (Ling tosite sigure). The first songs I wrote 鮮やかな殺人 (Vivid Murder) and TK in the 夕景 (TK in the UK), were both dramatic compositions that often received comments like "Did you grow up listening to progressive rock?" because of their intricate and technically sound structure. Although I had never listened to the progressive rock genre, suddenly like rain that comes and goes, I incorporated the texture of that cold sound into the band name. We had numerous rehearsals and frequently held meetings until late at night at the "Gusto" near the studio.
( Gusto is one of the largest chain family restaurants in Japan that serves affordable foods, mainly focus on Western cuisine. )
By the time we had gradually accumulated a few original songs, we took a demo tape to a new live house called 池袋手刀 (Ikebukuro chop) that caught our attention by chance. It was a live house located near the north exit of Ikebukuro that was established shortly after our formation in 2002. It was an area we wouldn't usually approach, but we chose it simply because it had an interesting name and seemed clean since it was new.
As I had imagined, in a small room in an apartment, tables were lined up, and the staff with dreadlocks and tattoos quietly accepted our tape and listened to it on the spot. It was a far cry from the programmed beats of the initial demo, and we didn't even know if we were able to reproduce it properly. I still vividly remember feeling a silence in the office where the music should have been playing. It seemed as if our demo couldn't be heard by anyone, to the point where I thought, "Maybe it's completely silent here."
After listening to it, the dreadlocked guy calmly said, "I find it interesting." The temperature of the word "interesting" felt less present, almost dry. I thought he had given us kind words despite his appearance, but when I asked about that time years later, it seemed like he truly sensed a fragment of some possibility. Afterward, that dreadlocked guy, Mr. Hori, called various local live houses and booked gigs for us, going on multiple tours with us while working at the live houses. By the way, most of the Ling tosite sigure stickers you see at live houses across the country were put up by Mr. Hori. Thanks to him, at that time, I often heard people say, "I saw your stickers!" He was also the one who created the mysterious sticker that said "スクール水着３４５" ("School Swimsuit 345").
I will explain in detail later, but it was by suddenly raising my melody line by one octave that the current piercing high-pitched vocal style was established. However, in the actual process, it was a continuous series of setbacks, and I still didn't know if it was musically valid. I went to the studio multiple times, recorded and checked how close it was to my imagination. Even if many things changed, my habit of rigorously judging whether it is what I am aiming for in relation to the sound produced remains unchanged. When I am able to get even a little closer to my ideal, my heart trembles, and when I can't, my brain endlessly repeats and ponders what is causing it. Two microphones hanging above the small rehearsal studio are connected to a mixer placed beside them, and the sound of our practice is recorded on tapes or MDs. Only that ambiguous recording of the sound resonating in the space served as the sole barometer to measure ourselves at that time.
The speed at which we transformed from the initial image we had into Rin Toshite Shigure, created alongside the music, felt very slow compared to the amount of practice we went through repeatedly. Precisely because the starting line was oddly clear to me, I was tormented by a sense of impatience towards the deadline as a student. It was a struggle just to crawl up to the level of the demos of the first songs we made, with no one's performance serving as the axis.
It wasn't just a matter of time; there was also confusion in simultaneously processing singing and playing the guitar in my mind. I struggled to consciously process them simultaneously, but my hands, feet, and mouth were all on the verge of overflowing. I was convinced that it was myself who was creating the sense of urgency and flaws, so the time it took for me to become "1/3" as a guitar-vocalist was terrifyingly long, and I continued to struggle even though I couldn't easily flip my complex over.
Even though all three of us were pushing our limits, there was a constant sensation of being nowhere near the ideal.
Amidst the rapid intertwining of part-time jobs, school, and rehearsal studios, we went from our first live performance at "Ikebukuro Shuto" to appearing in various live houses.
As we continued to perform live, our desire for the sound of the three of us became more real. It became so fulfilling and yet elusive, to the point where I couldn't tell if we were following gravity or defying it. Climbing a few steps, I would confirm the view of the three of us from that spot and aim higher, even higher.
Was our greed at that time abnormal? Around one year after our formation, we had finally reached "1" from "0," but it was clear that we started stagnating from there. Like a blank sheet of paper swiftly absorbing water until it unexpectedly became full, we reached a point where we couldn't absorb anything anymore and started overflowing. At least, that's how it appeared to me.
Music alone couldn't fulfill the form of music, the joy of music being created, and after numerous discussions, the drummer decided to leave. I think it was a decision made with a lot of pain, undergoing multiple cycles of death and rebirth over time. There were no guarantees that things would work out after a member's departure, but I felt intensely that my music was not waiting for me. Intertwined with intense interactions with people, music, and the crossroads of my own life, both my thoughts and heart were on the verge of falling apart.
I tried to believe in myself, in my belief in my own music. It was all I could do to rely on intuition, instinct, and simply grasp the truth right in front of me.
Before the departure, I contacted the organizer of an event that had already been arranged and apologized for the sudden cancellation of our appearance. Nakano, whom I had been in contact with as the organizer, offered, "Then let me play drums." It was Nakano, who had suddenly sent me an email and appeared at the "Roppongi Y2K" live, wearing a strangely large duffle coat, and cheerfully approached me while I was still cleaning up on stage.
As if it were destiny, the preparations for the new lineup started progressing. The first rehearsal took place in the studio where I worked. We were shocked by Nakano's incredible skill and speed. The impact gradually subsided as he spun the sticks with a fresh play style.
Although we were probably still somewhat unbalanced as a triangle at that time, it was a moment when a light shone through that couldn't be found even if we searched. It seemed that the miracle had more in store for us.
Nakano, who effortlessly manipulated the drumsticks, received the name "Pierre Nakano" after 345 exclaimed in awe, "Like a clown (pierrot) !" The piece that determined the resolute and piercing sound of the band was suddenly drawn to us.
( Pierre ピエール pronounced similar to Pierrot ピエロ )
ddnavi / Yureru preivew in japanese:
Comments