Nureki Chimuo Archive

To my acchitei master.

Thank you very much for inviting me to Master Kikaku’s gathering.

I heard that my acchitei Master and Miss M-ko will also be appearing as guest performers, so I thought I absolutely had to attend. But when I checked my calendar, I realized that this day happens to be the monthly meeting of our storytelling club.

Currently, I am rehearsing a dialogue-based performance for the silent film “Tokijiro Kutsukake,” produced in Showa 5, with Miss R-ko, whom you also know.

(I mainly play Tokijiro, and R-ko plays Okinu, the wife of Sanzo from Mutsuda.)

While it might be different if I were performing alone, this is a form of art where I must synchronize my timing with my partner, so I simply cannot miss this meeting.

So, as much as I regret it, I will not be able to attend Master Kikaku’s performance.

I am truly looking forward to experiencing Master Kikaku’s artistry again after such a long time. And wouldn’t you know it, the invitation you sent me states that this will be the 156th performance in total.

156 performances! That’s amazing! It’s practically a solo performance series.

I imagine his artistry has been polished considerably since the time he performed at a venue in Hatchobori quite a while ago (I was taken there by my acchitei Master and Miss M-ko as well).

I’m filled with the desire to hear, no, to see you perform again after so long. For a frivolous person like me, who gets bored easily and lacks patience for anything, Master Kikaku is truly a figure worthy of respect.

While “Gohei Bosatsu” isn’t all that special since so many performers do it, I’d very much like to hear the ninth section of “Kan’ei Sanbasutsu” to learn exactly where it fits within the Sanbasutsu repertoire.

Of course, I’d also love to see my acchitei Master and Miss M-ko on stage again after so long. Just imagining it makes my heart race with excitement.

I was reminded of something Master Kikaku once told me: “Once you get a little better, I’ll let you perform at my event.”

Actually, I spent the whole day yesterday at the Bunkyo Civic Grand Hall.

As I’m sure you’re aware, my acchitei Master, there was a folk song competition focusing on songs from Sado and Echigo, and believe it or not, 71 folk songs were performed one after another.

I wanted to listen carefully to a song called “Oiwake-bushi” and etch it into my heart, so I sat in the audience for five hours, starting at 11 AM.

In the second half of “Tokijiro Kutsukake,” which I’ll be performing this fall, Tokijiro, a wondering yakuza who has discarded his long wakizashi and dice, ends up as a street performer, earning a meager living of a sen or two by having Okinu play the shamisen while he sings the “Oiwake-bushi.”

The word “Oiwake” also appears in the dialogue and plays an important role.

However, due to my own lack of preparation, I had never truly listened to that “Oiwake” in the past and hadn’t fully grasped it in my heart.

I’ve seen Shogo Shimada’s portrayal of Tokijiro in Shinkokugeki many times, but he’s just too cool. He simply strikes a crisp, well-formed, stylish pose and mimics singing a bit of “Oiwake.”

But now, experts in folk songs are set to appear one after another and perform a total of twelve “Oiwake” pieces, so there’s no way I can miss this.

The generally accepted theory is that what began as a melody sung by horse-drawn cart drivers on the Usui Pass was transformed into the shamisen song “Oiwake-bushi” by the hostesses of Oiwake, Kutsukake, and Karuizawa, commonly known as the “Three Inns of Asama.”

In other words, what began as a horse-herder’s song sung while leading horses along the Nakasendo Road was set to the shamisen accompaniment of the inn women. This then

spread to Echigo, becoming the “Echigo Oiwake,” and was further carried by ships across the Sea of Japan, spreading as the "Sakata Oiwake” and “Honjo Oiwake,” eventually reaching Hokkaido to become the famous “Esashi Oiwake.”

Perhaps the melody, imbued with a deep sense of sorrow, spread from mouth to mouth because it was passed down by women who lived bearing the burden of an unfortunate fate.

It is also said that the place name “Oiwake” originated from a point where a highway splits into two paths, or from the practice of driving cattle down separate paths at a fork in the road.

Come to think of it, there used to be a place called Oiwake even in Shinjuku, which has since become a bustling commercial district.

The Tokijiro Kutsukake portrayed by Denjiro Okochi in silent films was not the excessively dashing, pretentious street performer, often played by leading men like Kin’nosuke Yamanoya or Raizo Ichikawa, or on stage, who hid his face behind a half-open fan. Instead, he was a down-and-out, beggar-like door-to-door performer with a pitiful, unkempt stubble. He was short, with short legs.

I feel that is precisely the Tokijiro depicted by Shin Hasegawa, and it is with that mindset that I am currently rehearsing.

Since this twelve-song “Oiwake” suite is the final item on the program at the Civic Grand Hall, I’ll be sitting through five long hours of live song and dance, from the prologue to the finale.

deal.

However, in the end, it was a tremendously inspiring experience, and I learned a great

Each and every one of the singers and dancers radiated the brilliance of a soul deeply devoted to their art.

Watching the performance by the studio of Hamo High School in Niigata, even someone like me, who’s usually jaded when it comes to the arts, found myself moved to tears.

More than twenty high school students, both boys and girls, played the shamisen, beat the taiko drums, blew the flutes, and sang and danced to folk songs such as “Kogi Okesa,” “Aikawa Ondo,” “Schichihama Jinku,” and “Sado Okesa.” Even in the tips of their fingers as they danced, there was a pure, earnest, and passionate young spirit completely immersed in the charm of traditional performing arts.

I experienced the same kind of exhilaration and ecstasy, the same resonance and harmony, that I feel when listening to a fine performance of Rakugo.

Even without the intricate storytelling found in Rakugo, I felt a power that penetrated deep into my heart, filled with rich emotion that went far beyond any simplistic narrative. Realizing the unfathomable depth of the charm inherent in traditional performing arts, my heart trembled.

It was a day where I learned what is most important for both those who appreciate the art and those who perform it.

Another performance that moved me to the core was a sumo jinku sung by a man who used to be a sumo wrestler.

The sense of sorrow he conveyed as he sang with such volume and emotion was several times more poignant than modern rakugo. I was truly overwhelmed. I was deeply moved. Once again, I found myself in tears.

It was also a surprise to see Kanju Kobayashi-san, who is said to be 80 years old, serve as the sole MC for the entire five-hour marathon without a single break (the content of his MCing was rich and very educational). He stood and spoke nonstop the entire time, and midway through, he even performed the Yagibushi piece “Kokutei Chuji” himself for about fifteen minutes, singing with a powerful voice and full of emotion.

Come to think of it, this was the first time I’d ever listened to a genuine 15-minute performance of the Yagibushi piece “Kokutei Chuji.” I was truly amazed by the intricate lyrics and melodies.

Kanju Kobayashi-san mentioned that telling the entire story would take over thirty minutes, but I definitely hope to hear it someday. Whether it’s sumo jinku or Yagibushi, the authentic versions are incredible. Truly incredible.

I learned firsthand that the performances of those who are diligently and steadily training in traditional arts in the provinces are far more moving than the routines performed by entertainers in Tokyo who have simply grown accustomed to their craft.

Come to think of it, a few days ago I saw Hisashi Inoue’s “Yuki ya Konkon” at the Kinokuniya Southern Theater. When the lead actress, Junko Takahata, who plays the head of a women’s sword-fighting troupe, stripped to the skin while performing a spirited tanka, the frailness of her bare shoulders and arms was so jarring that I almost wanted to cover my eyes.

Those were the shoulders and arms of a TV personality desperately dieting to stay thin. The shoulders and arms of a travelling female troupe leader should be much more robust and commanding, having withstood wind and snow.

Ahh, I’ve completely gone off on a tangent. I apologize once again for being unable to attend, despite your kind invitation.