Japan - Exorcising the ghosts

London's Japan charted one of the most compelling paths through new wave. An assorted set of musicians – with the aching vocals of David Sylvian, Mick Karn's hypnotic bass lines, Richard Barbieri's "exotic" keyboards and Steve Jansen's obsessive drumming – would already have been enough to create one of the most spectacular ensembles in rock history. On top of that, there was an equally intoxicating sonic project: fusing the scents of glam with the melodies of romantic-progressive rock, exotic (especially Eastern) sounds with the eccentricity of electronic dandies from across the Channel like Brian Eno, Roxy Music and David Bowie. Filing them under the "new romantic" movement, as many do, is therefore perhaps limiting, just as it is for Ultravox, a pioneering band of this electronic wave, the wayward offspring of punk, bold enough to brush up against the most atmospheric strains of dance music.

My first look was a mask to hide behind. Music was a mask too. I was hiding, desperately trying to be anything else. It was the only way to survive.

(David Sylvian)

Japan formed in 1974 in the suburbs of south London, showing from the outset a taste for decadent aestheticism. The four dandies from suburban London are David Sylvian (born Batt), his brother Steve "Jansen" Batt on drums, bassist Mick Karn (Cypriot-born, real name Anthony Michaelides) and keyboardist Richard Barbieri.

Sylvian – taken from Syl Sylvain of the New York Dolls – is from the start the frontman and the "mask" of the group, helped by his androgynous look: face painted white, with a bleached platinum backcombed mane, he embodies above all the desire to escape the grey desolation of Catford, the working-class neighbourhood where he grew up in a humble family (his father was a pest-control worker) with limited prospects ahead of him. "It was a mask to hide behind," he would later recall. "Music was a mask too. It says nothing about who I was, except that I was hiding, desperately trying to be anything else. I was convinced it was the only way to survive."

A rather ungenerous judgement, this last one, because the music of early Japan contains ideas of genuine interest, revealing in embryo some intuitions that would later be developed more fully over the course of their mature career.

Whatever gets you through the night

⟦Q1⟧

("Adolescent Sex")

Even the critics of the time, however, failed to grasp its value, stopping superficially at the aesthetic surface and branding Sylvian and company as Roxy Music latecomers. "Disco-rock dazzled by a cocaine-filled strobe ball," according to Simon Reynolds' curious description of their debut LP, Adolescent Sex, released in 1978 on Hansa Records.

And yet, in this cauldron of razor-sharp guitars, scarlet lipstick and knowing poses, a few striking numbers emerge, like the overexcited title track, which calls for frantic, non-stop dancing ("Whatever gets you through the night/ ⟦Q1⟧"), or the throbbing funky bass line of "The Unconventional" and "Wish You Were Black" (an anti-racist invective against the National Front), or the seven-minute jam of "Suburban Love", which edges almost into disco territory.

The cover of "Don't Rain on My Parade" is also surprising – a showtune written by the Americans Bob Merrill and Jule Styne for the 1964 musical "Funny Girl" – while "Communist China" has little to do with Maoist themes, chasing hard-rock frenzy instead, and "Television" shows that the ties to post-punk remain strong, between aggressive sounds and finely provocative lyrics ("You've got blasphemy with a smile").

The reference points (Bowie, Roxy Music, New York Dolls) are undoubtedly overbearing, bordering on parody, but amid plenty of naivety, Adolescent Sex showcases an aggressive band eager to carve out space for itself within the tight ranks of new wave. "A mixture of aggression and frustration," as Sylvian would later recall, barely twenty years old at the time of the album's release.

Virtually overlooked in Britain, Adolescent Sex would instead find appreciation in what would become the band's second home, Japan (ça va sans dire), where it reached number 20 on the charts (as well as in the Netherlands, where the title-track single reached number 30).

The band's Japanese affinity is built into its very identity, and not only because of the name they chose. Sylvian and company, in fact, began weaving a close dialogue with the Land of the Rising Sun, where they travelled often, forging ties with several important local musicians, such as guitarist Masami Tsuchiya's Ippu-Do, Akiko Yano, and Yellow Magic Orchestra's keyboardist, his majesty Ryuichi Sakamoto, who would prove so important both for the band's subsequent path and (above all) for the solo career of its frontman.

But it was a period of great productivity for the young Japan, who that same year immediately released their second album, Obscure Alternatives (1978), which straight away unveils a gem called "Rhodesia", an extravagant portrait of the last outpost of postcolonial white power set to funk, flavoured with Caribbean touches flirting with reggae. A hybrid so bold that it already showed, for all to see, an undeniable certainty: Japan feared nothing, neither prejudice nor boundaries. For now, they were simply ahead of their time, but it would only take a quick shift in the wind (namely, the explosion of New Romantic aesthetics) to make fascinating what, just a moment before, had been considered hopelessly démodé.

Sylvian, meanwhile, has no hesitation in flaunting his most brazen, arrogant side on “Automatic Gun”, propped up by a fistful of glittering guitars, while the dark, atmospheric title track and the murky “Love Is Infectious” (with a jarring piano cutting through an orgy of guitars) reveal the side of their fiery post-punk that leans closer to art-rock, still, however, searching for a defined direction.

It seems so artificial

Why should I care?

Oh ho ho

Life can be cruel

Life in Tokyo

(“Life in Tokyo”)

But it's a year later, with their third album, Quiet Life (1979), that Japan complete their transformation from out-of-time glam-rockers into romantic prophets of a synthetic future. The New Romantic turning point of 1980 is already looming, with London, the Blitz and its eccentric nights, Steve Strange and Rusty Egan, Visage and the ever-present “Fade To Grey”. And it's precisely a neo-romantic-leaning synth that works its way into the grooves of the new Japan album, further embellished by Karn's peerless fretless bass and Sylvian's languid vocals, increasingly at ease in his role as charismatic frontman, able to hypnotise audiences with his aristocratic poise and his Bowie-esque aestheticising poses. Also contributing to this shift in sound is the production of John Punter, who had already worked alongside Roxy Music on their masterful second album, “For Your Pleasure“.

The title track is an example of refined, elegant synth-pop, but the sound also grows more layered and complex, flirting with the most ethereal ambient music and chamber jazz, taking an almost avant-garde approach. More immediate – though no less spectacular – is the propulsive “Fall In Love With Me”, which would practically serve as the cornerstone for the entire career of Duran Duran, who, for that matter, never denied their deep devotion to Sylvian and co.

The atmospheres grow tenser too. The instrumental “Despair”, the intense ballad “In-Vogue” and the final swoon of “The Other Side Of Life”, where Sylvian pines away amid airy arrangements and gentle piano chimes, are all pervaded by a subtle neurosis, while the cover of “All Tomorrow’s Parties” by Velvet Underground probes the darkest recesses of their dreamlike universe.

Success is now just one step away, and it arrives that same year, thanks to a single, “Life In Tokyo”, which features the hand of none other than the disco-music wizard Giorgio Moroder. A splendid track of atmospheric, sensual dance music, full of sequencers and electronic arrangements, coiling around a relentless rhythm, with Sylvian taking the pulpit to warn just how dehumanising and cruel life can be in the Japanese megalopolis (“Somewhere there’s a sound of distant living/ Welcome in high society/ It seems so artificial/ Why should I care?/ Oh ho ho/ Life can be cruel/ Life in Tokyo”).

Here am I alone again

A quiet town where life gives in

Here am I just wondering

Nightporters go

Nightporters slip away

(“Nightporter”)

Proof of the formidable rapport Sylvian and his bandmates had by now achieved comes with the following album, Gentlemen Take Polaroids (1980), which showcases the potential of one of the most ambitious lineups of musicians of the era. Musically, it's a consolidation of the formula honed on the previous album, with greater emphasis on arrangement, harmony and “space”.

The album benefits from Sakamoto's collaboration, who helps arrange the title track and co-writes the splendid “Taking Islands in Africa” with Sylvian. The skilled John Punter, meanwhile, helps sharpen the electronic dimension. Sylvian and Barbieri's slowed-down vocals and delicate keyboards, Karn's “funk” bass lines, and Jansen's murky drumming create a collage of exotic textures and disorienting effects in which the guitar is relegated to the background.

The result is some of the most refined electronic songs of the decade: the decadent title track, released as a single ahead of the album, and the sinuous “My New Career”, embellished by a violin solo from Simon House; the propulsive “Methods Of Dance”, which takes flight on an irresistible rhythm, with Karn also on sax and a voluptuous female voice in the coda; the fairy-tale melancholy of “Nightporter”, built around a prodigious melody for piano and chamber orchestra; and the avant-garde instrumental “Burning Bridges”, with a sinister, spectral atmosphere reminiscent of Eno. Rounding out the album's exotically sophisticated scenario are a cover of “Ain’t That Peculiar” (Marvin Gaye), reworked in an electro-world vein, and a “Swing” that winks at the sly Bryan Ferry of “Stranded” and “Manifesto”, amid off-beat rhythms, synthetic horns and tribal accents.

Sylvian sings with a decadent, Bowie-esque fatalism, while at the same time acting as the shaman of an Eastern liturgy, able to melt into draining ceremonial passages and climb paths of near-Zen asceticism. His sonic miniatures build a bridge between the London suburbs and Japanese lotus gardens, between the smoky pubs of Mitteleuropa and the rice paddies of Canton, in an ever more mystical and visionary crescendo. The band backs him tirelessly, and every musician manages to leave his mark, starting with that bass legend named Mick Karn.

Gentlemen Take Polaroids is a treasure chest of pure, rarefied sounds, built with meticulous attention to detail and painstaking melodic craftsmanship. A sequence of exquisite compositions that combine Oriental sounds, funky rhythms and ethereal melodies, showing how avant-garde experimentation could be applied to the song form without overstepping its boundaries. It would earn unanimous praise from the British press and even enjoy a fair amount of commercial success, cracking the UK Top 50.

At the start we were a mix of aggression and frustration. Then, album after album, we evolved technically until we arrived at 'Tin Drum', which I still consider a near-perfect album.

(David Sylvian)

The formula is reaffirmed on the following, equally striking Tin Drum (1981), on which the quartet deepens its exotic (including African) leanings and manages to blend electronic beats perfectly with the timbres of acoustic instruments, such as the African flute and the dida, played by Karn. However, the originality of the sound lies above all in the extraordinary cohesion between drummer Steve "Jansen" Batt's often syncopated rhythms, keyboardist Richard Barbieri's ambient soundscapes, and Karn's virtuoso fretless bass playing. Karn's bass has a glissando sound and often defines the character of individual tracks, frequently functioning as the hook itself, as happens, for instance, in the hit single "Visions of China", whose energetic, driving rhythm, fuelled by the power of the closing percussion, represents a meeting point between African and Oriental music. Another standout single is "Ghosts", a bleak ballad built on a harmonic bed of minor synthesizer chords and dominated by spectral noises. The ghosts Sylvian sings of, however, are inner ones, the kind that can haunt a person precisely when everything seems to be going well ("Just when I think I'm winning, when I've broken every door, the ghosts of my life blow wilder than before", he sings in the chorus).

Sylvian's voice, forever anguished and world-weary, heightens the evocative, unsettling atmosphere of most of the tracks. The multicoloured "Still Life In Mobile Homes" is built on vigorous syncopated patterns as well as Karn's intricate slap bass; the middle section brings a shift in rhythm, while the backing vocals of Japanese singer Yuka Fujii, Sylvian's former partner, blend with brief, matching flute flourishes; afterwards Sylvian lets loose with a noise-rock guitar solo. The gorgeous instrumental "Canton", meanwhile, is an even more eloquent nod to China, both in its percussion and in its keyboard-driven melody.

Produced by sound engineer Steve Nye, manager of the Penguin Cafe Orchestra, Tin Drum seals the final arrival point of a sonic quest of undeniable originality, at the crossroads between modern Western electronics and Eastern allure.

"We were amateurs who unwittingly started playing and writing music," David Sylvian would recall. "In that sense ours was an approach similar to punk, a mix of aggression and frustration. Then, album after album, we evolved technically until we arrived at 'Tin Drum', which I still consider a near-perfect album." But having reached perfection, a crisis inevitably followed, arriving right on schedule after the release of the excellent live album Oil On Canvas (1983) and the compilation Exorcising Ghosts (1984).

Sylvian, who had already recorded "Forbidden Colours" with Sakamoto, the theme for Nagisa Oshima's film "Furyo" (starring David Bowie), was tempted by a solo career. Karn too drifted away from the band, turning to sculpture, collaborations with Midge Ure ("After A Fashion") and Gary Numan, and a solo project, "Titles". The tensions between the band's two creative souls became irreconcilable: for Japan, it was time to split up.

But four musicians of that calibre couldn't stay idle for long. Karn would go on to juggle solo projects, a stint in Dali's Car (with Peter Murphy of Bauhaus) and a successful career as a session man. Barbieri would join Porcupine Tree and, together with Jansen, release one album under his own name and one as the Dolphin Brothers.

Blackwater

Take me with you

To the place that I have spoken

Come and lead me

Through the darkness

To the light that I long to see again

(“Blackwater”)

So, in short, everyone goes their separate ways until, in 1991, the unthinkable happens. A sort of disguised reunion, under the name Rain Tree Crow, brings together all the members of Japan: Sylvian, Karn, Jensen and Barbieri. The recording process, however, is anything but a happy family get-together. Virgin wants to impose the Japan name on the project, but the musicians strongly oppose it. With no label budget to continue the sessions, it's Sylvian who puts up the money, which in turn gives him a kind of despotic control over the whole operation, to the point that by the end it will feel almost like one of his solo records. Phil Palmer, the guitarist chosen to flesh out the album, will later recall a tension that was far from positive, made worse by the fact that it played out among people bound by deep mutual esteem and friendship. So, according to those involved, the result is an unsatisfying record, undermined by obvious personal and artistic clashes.

And yet Rain Tree Crow (1991) has a charm all its own – hushed, understated, deeply melancholy and autumnal – born of a band raised on electronics suddenly finding itself grappling with an acoustic dimension, a shift that only deepens its sense of yearning and depth. Verses and choruses are never forced, but move in perfect balance. And the sound, so spacious and ethereal, almost seems to anticipate the emerging post-rock movement, not unlike “Spirit Of Eden” by Talk Talk.

Among the tracks, the majestic beauty of the single “Blackwater” stands out, all acoustic caresses and slender melodies, but so does the dreamy “Pocket Full Of Change”, the delicate “Every Colour You Are” – a song to which Sylvian would later give plenty of room in his live sets with Robert Fripp – and the dizzying “Blackcrow Hits Shoe Shine City”.

Elsewhere, a sense of disorientation prevails, of wide-open experimentation, at times frayed and uneven, in line with the jazz-world-ambient territory Sylvian was exploring at the time in cahoots with Holger Czukay, the former leader of Can.

With the troubled experience of Rain Tree Crow behind them, the former Japan members each go their own way, but all of them will, in various ways, support David Sylvian on tour, as he embarks on an ambitious solo career, enlisting some of the most refined intellectuals in rock history. Above all, once again, one name stands out: Ryuichi Sakamoto, the very man who had inspired Japan's fascinating saga.

Contributions by Michele Camillò ("Tin Drum"), Davide Sechi ("Rain Tree Crow")

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