Takashi Matsumoto: A Lyricist Who Continues to Challenge Across Genres

I have received various awards in the past, but this one is in a class of its own. When I'm walking down the street, two ladies I don't even know will bow deeply to me (laughs). This might be the first time in my life such a thing has happened. I even received sudden emails from Keio classmates I hadn't heard from in years. My fans were also truly happy for me, as if it were their own achievement.

My debut as a lyricist is officially Tulip's "Natsuiro no Omoide" (1973), but I feel my personal starting point was "Slow na Boogie ni Shitekure" (Yoshitaka Minami, 1981).

At the time, Kyohei Tsutsumi called me and asked, "What kind of work are you doing lately?" When I said I was making a single for Yoshitaka Minami, he got angry and said, "Why are you making something that clearly won't sell?" (laughs).

However, judging from the information I had, I knew this song would definitely sell. It was the theme song for a Kadokawa film, the original story was by Yoshio Kataoka, and of course, I knew both the music and the lyrics. All that was left was to wait for the single to be released. In other words, I was the only one who knew this song would be a hit. Having that kind of time for two or three months is what I call a honeymoon period.

Yes, especially with "Slow," everyone thought it wouldn't sell, but I alone knew it would. That gap makes it feel like a pretty good job (laughs). It was the same with Seiko Matsuda, and also with "Ruby no Yubiva" (Akira Terao) and "Sneaker Blues" (Masahiko Kondo). For "Sneaker Blues," Kyohei-san wrote the music, and we shared that feeling together, so that kind of sensation was interesting too.

No, everyone was reluctant at first. So, I went around persuading them to write. A director named Muneo Wakamatsu, who is a Keio graduate, was an understanding person, and with his permission, I was able to do all of that.

Ultimately, the concept of genre doesn't really exist within me. It seems to be an innate sense; since I was a child, if I was told "you must not cross this line," I would say "oh, okay" and already be stepping over it with my right foot (laughs). Moving smoothly from the hard-edged rock of Happy End to Kayokyoku felt just like that.

And after crossing the boundary, I take the lead in proving that the line has no meaning. Then the people around me notice. They think, "Since he went, maybe it's okay if I go too." To put it nicely, it's like being a conscientious human sacrifice (laughs).

Yes. I was criticized heavily, with people saying I "sold my soul to commercialism." But that was all part of the calculation. I was looking further ahead and thought I was just undergoing a baptism of necessary evil. So I was completely fine with it.

My mother was desperate to get me into Keio. My elementary school was Seinan Elementary School in Minato Ward, which people like Taro Okamoto and Yoko Ono also attended. From there, I went on to Chutobu.

I first became interested in music when I was in the third year of Chutobu. 1964. There was the Tokyo Olympics, and the Beatles debuted. The first time I heard the Beatles was when a classmate brought a single, saying "an amazing new band has come out," and everyone said they wanted to hear it.

In our English class with Mr. Hideo Torii, the teacher had a portable record player, and someone brave went to ask, "Teacher, can we listen to this?" He said, "Sure," and played it for us. We listened to just one song, "I Want to Hold Your Hand." Then the teacher said, "Remember that this 'wanna' is an abbreviation for 'want to'."

Right? So, to put it grandly, that might have been where the seeds of my music blossomed.

My homeroom teacher was Mr. Kojiro Nakai, who taught Japanese and was a disciple of Yasaburo Ikeda. Incidentally, Yasaburo's son was also a classmate. Also, Yasaburo's nephew (Masahiko) was the director for Shinji Harada. We worked together a lot at one point. So actually, I am under an unusually strong influence of the Yasaburo Ikeda color (laughs).

I tricked my parents a little (laughs) and bought a drum set. That was in my first year of high school. But by around my second year, I had already won a national drum contest. Because of that, I was able to perform a drum solo on TBS's morning information program "Young 720." I got permission from my homeroom teacher, saying "I'll be absent in the morning for this reason." But isn't a live drum solo on a morning show amazing? (laughs).

The host was Osamu Kitayama. I thought, "Wow, this person is cool," but later he would become my rival.

Furin Kazan was a concert planning organization, and its core was probably the band "The Fingers" (formed by Shigeru Narumo and others). It was originally an organization created by a senior named Isamu Gobuichi. He was the producer who worked on "Shabondama Holiday" at Nippon TV. However, Furin Kazan ended with my generation. There were various reasons, but I think it was ultimately because I had to do Happy End.

Rikkyo also had a similar organization called SCAP. And from the combination of these two, Happy End was born. Tatsuo Hayashi, Shigeru Suzuki, and Yumi Matsutoya were also there. University circle activities directly became the source of today's J-pop.

Apryl Fool felt like the "step" in "hop, step, jump." We disbanded after just one album, so the actual period of activity was about three months. At the time, we often played at a disco in Shinjuku called "Panic." Many American soldiers returning from Vietnam came there, and I received a direct influence of "America" from them.

Every night they would dance to our performance. Moreover, because they were back from Vietnam, they were a bit off. It was, so to speak, a broken America.

Also, someone claiming to be a correspondent for the American magazine "Rolling Stone" said they wanted to interview us, but no one believed he was the real deal (laughs). We thought he was just someone hanging out and drinking every night. Then, we actually ended up featured prominently in the magazine. I think we were probably the first Japanese band to do so. It was the brief glory of Apryl Fool.

Yes, it was just the right timing for a lockout (laughs), so I could hardly enter the university during my first year. There was also the Shinjuku Riot in 1968. Compared to that, today's students are truly quiet. They should be a bit more rowdy. If they are too quiet, they won't be able to change anything, and I think that's boring.

At the time, there was a momentum where, if left alone, English might have truly become the primary language. Places like Singapore chose English and abandoned their own languages. There was a sense of crisis that Japan might become like that too.

But around me, there were many people who wanted to do rock in English, and there was even a trend of English supremacy. Even now, classical music is German-centric, isn't it? Jazz is also English-centric.

That's why Japanese jazz perished. Even in classical music, as a result, Japanese people can only play supporting roles in opera, for example. Japan has music colleges and universities of the arts, and it's strange that no matter how many years you study there, you can only play a supporting role. I think that's the limit of imported culture. Even after graduating, you can only become a school teacher.

Witnessing that, when it came to rock, I thought we had to assert some ideas in our own language. We did that with Happy End, and it was accepted. I believe we were able to protect rock. By protecting rock, J-pop was born from it, which means the current music industry was also protected.

But conversely, some people say it would have been better if Matsumoto had lost that controversy (laughs). Some people think that if rock had become English-based, they would have had more chances.

If all Kayokyoku were sung in English, English would eventually become the primary language. Business would be in English, and schools would start teaching in English. If that happened, the Japanese culture accumulated over the past thousand-plus years would vanish in an instant. I really wanted to avoid that. I don't know what is right, but anyway, that's what I said to Yuya Uchida.

That dialogue felt like being summoned to the teacher's office. Toyo Nakamura was the editor-in-chief of a major magazine, and Yuya-san was the person called the boss of rock and roll. Since I was speaking my mind boldly there, I think the 20-year-old me was quite impressive (laughs).

In a way, I'm a bit disappointed in Tokyo. I feel there are too many vested interests. In particular, I thought it was unthinkable to suddenly demolish the National Stadium. There was no vision, and they didn't listen to a single word of the local residents' opinions, did they? The relocation of the Tsukiji Market is the same. Everything moves based on vested interests, and to be honest, from my perspective, it's being done by "outsiders." So, I thought this city doesn't have much of a future.

In Kobe, a free wind is blowing. It's originally a port town, and it's a town that was once destroyed by the earthquake. Everyone seems relaxed, but it's a relaxation after having seen a great tragedy. No one says it out loud, but the people of Kobe have seen hell once. Yet, the fact that they are relaxed is very intriguing to me as a poet.

Kyoto has also seen hell many times in history, but it's a city that understands the importance of "preserving" for the time being.

Tokyo's biggest flaw is that it lacks a culture of "preserving." It's been that way since the Meiji government. They destroy everything. They repeat the cycle of destroying and developing, and each time, vested interests gain flesh and blood and become like monsters. In a sense, it's a city like Godzilla. It really loves destroying and being destroyed. I think it's a strange city.

"Kazemachi" was originally an antithesis to that kind of Tokyo. I tried to construct a city in memory that would never be destroyed.

Of course, Tokyo is very wealthy and vibrant. There's no other city as crowded as Shibuya. But looking down from a high-rise hotel in Shibuya, I don't feel any planning in this city. All the buildings I knew are gone, replaced only by buildings with strange designs. I wonder if they can't build more ordinary buildings (laughs).

The other day, I had an errand and took the Toyoko Line from Daikanyama to Shibuya for the first time in a while. Shibuya is my hometown, so to speak, where I lived for a long time. But when I got off at Shibuya Station, I didn't know how to get to the surface (laughs). I really think it might be a city that's a bit off.

It's the same; I think there are too many vested interests. It's not the music the public wants, but what the people who want to make money want to sell. The public has no choice but to buy it, so it's tapering off.

The overall sales themselves probably haven't decreased that much, but there are no hit songs, are there? It's an unnatural situation now, but I believe a backlash will come eventually. It won't stay like this. In a sense, I believe in the innate goodness of people, so I think we just have to leave it be.

This received the Excellent Album Award at the Japan Record Awards and ranked second for the year in the J-pop category of "Music Magazine." I thought that even after 15 years, I can still ride a bicycle once I've learned how. Though drums would be tough (laughs).

Writing lyrics is a task that uses the brain, so I can't make that many once I'm over sixty. But since God gave me a flexible brain, I want to work a little harder.

I will release a modern colloquial translation of Schubert's "Swan Song" this spring. It's the last of a trilogy following "The Fair Maid of the Mill" and "Winter Journey." I definitely want people who aren't fond of classical music to hear it. It's quite an amazing thing: "Heine's poetry + Takashi Matsumoto's translated poetry + Schubert." The singer is a tenor named Jun Suzuki, and he is incredible. Something deep and lofty was created, the likes of which even I have never heard before.

Actually, it's my first time writing a school song. This is also a new challenge. I'd like to write a fight song for Keio again, too. One that everyone can properly sing at games.