 In
the Japanese underground, collaboration reigns supreme. Pick any
prominent musician, and they're likely to be one or two degrees of
separation from any other prominent musician, assuming they haven't
worked with them directly (which, it should be noted, would be very
likely.) It's tempting to call it incestuous, but considering the
plethora of collaborations that are also indulged in outside the
underground, it's perhaps more appropriate to call it initiative, a
tireless drive to explore and challenge.
YBO² was a major hub of this kind of activity, boasting an ever changing roster who's membership is impressive even for the underground: Tatsuya Yoshida (Acid Mothers Temple, Ruins,) Masami Akita (aka Merzbow,) Michio Kurihara (Ghost, White Heaven, Boris,) KK Null (Zeni Geva,) Tabata Mitsuru (Boredoms, Acid Mothers Temple,) and Hiroshi Hasegawa (C.C.C.C, Galax.)
Whew. This orgy of notables, however, shouldn't obscure Masahi
Kitamura, the man who started the fanzine "Fool's Mate," which
eventually grew into the band that captured the attention and services
of the above laundry list of participants. His band's challenging,
sinister blend of punk energy, prog ambitions and bizarre tangents led
to a discography as well regarded and confounding as its roll call.
"Starship" was the band's final studio release, just before their
initial breakup in 1990. It's an impressive, sophisticated work:
polished without being slick, dark without being gloomy, catchy without
being poppy, grandiose without being pompous. It's as easy to grasp as
it is difficult to pin down, going through many different moods and
styles without ever truly diverging from it's own sound. The most
appropriate comparison I've heard would be London's This Heat, although
"Starship" has a high production sheen that limits that comparison
considerably. "Worn Out Music" sounds like its title, an exhausted Neil
Young style blues dirge with Bowie-esque vocals that explode into a
mellotron driven chorus that would have fit quite comfortably in
Bowie's Berlin period (Takashi Asanuma's Fripp-y guitar solo doesn't
exactly hinder the comparison.) That's all well and good, but
when a noodly, spacey keyboard solo comes parachuting in from some
mid 70s ELP album, it's difficult not to do a double take. The
progressive influence reaches an unlikely climax with "Round Dance,"
which actally sounds quite a bit like "Duke" era Genesis (!) without
the commercial prospects, thanks to a huge, stadium ready keyboard
sound that would come off as pomposity incarnate in lesser hands. Here,
it's more queasy than grandiose, an uneasy ending to a challenging
album.
No review of "Starship" would be complete without mentioning
"Precious," "Canon" and "自転車男" ("Bicycle Man,") tracks that strongly
anticipate the cartoonish Zheul flavored insanity of drummer Tatsuya
Yoshida's Ruins, which would debut the following year. The blueprint is
all here: time signatures so disorienting they barely merit the term,
surreal, acrobatic yodelling, and bouncy, circular riffs. "Canon" in
particular is intruguing, moving from a very Ruins opening blast into
gentle, piano driven verses that are every bit as beautiful as the
opening is playfully manic. It's a good encapsulation of what YBO²
was about in that moment of time: elaborate song structures, odd
contrasts, flawless musicianship, ghostly heartbreak, delicate
progressive rock breakdowns, sudden beauty from unexpected places. It
would be a pop song if it weren't all so damned complicated, but its
kitchen sink approach makes it something more. And when the final,
climactic guitar solo carries us through the home stretch, it's
impossible not to get caught up in the moment, not in spite of its
fleeting existence, but because of it.
Ultimately, once the surface comparisons and instrumental gymnastics
lose their novelty, that's what "Starship" has to offer: a dense parade
of tiny, beautiful moments, easy to miss in the tsunami of activity
that simultaneously surrounds and bolsters them. It's not a one play
album, but a grower, a deceptively subtle work that initially comes of
like a freight train. It was also the band's initial swan song, at
least until Kitamura resurrected the band in 2000 with it's ever
changing roster, this time bringing Tabata and Merzbow into the fray,
releasing the live "Deijchu-Ling." Sadly, Kitamura died in 2006, at the
way too young age of 49. His band left a legacy that echoes strongly
throughout the ever changing Tokyo underground, even today.
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Available at Amazon Japan
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