Kazue and Tadao Sawai on kotos

A New Decade for Hogaku
From The Japan Quarterly October-December 1990

When I went to my first koto lesson 11 years ago, I had no idea what I was getting into. My teacher had me kneel in front of the simply constructed instrument, a long piece of paulownia wood with 13 strings stretched across the top, and fit three picks onto the thumb and first two fingers of my right hand. Copying her movements, I tentatively played each string, from the bottom to the top, as my instructor showed me. This shouldn't be too hard, I thought. Moichido, my teacher said, and I understood that she wanted me to do it again.

Within 15 minutes my legs were numb, my arm was tired, and my fingers were sore from the bands around the picks. The strings blended together under my gaze, as I repeatedly hit the wrong ones. My teacher adjusted my hand, looked at the music, and pointed. Moichido, she repeated. Thus began my experience with koto. Over the years, I have come to realize that learning the koto affects every aspect of my relationship with Japan. I have found it to be infinitely rewarding not only because developing competency with a musical is satisfying -- and truly exciting -- or because of my ever-increasing enjoyment of the actual sound of the koto (it is harplike, with its own unique aftertone and variety of sound textures), but because becoming a part of the country's musical culture has given me a new level of understanding of Japan. For me, it was the act of participating that added so much depth; no amount of book reading or cultural observation has given me the insight I have gained through the process of learning koto.

The world of koto -- indeed, the world of hogaku, or traditional Japanese music -- can be seen as a miniature version of Japan. For instance, the well-known group concept is a very important element in this world. Private lessons means having one's lessons the same day as everyone else; students arrive throughout the day and listen and watch each other's progress as they wait their turn. As one person learns, the group learns. At rehearsals, everyone arrives and leaves at the same time, whether one's piece is to be played early or late in the rehearsal schedule.

Performances are similar; student recitals often last all day, and everyone is expected to play and listen to each other for the whole day. Rank, as I will discuss in detail later, is another important element, just as the hierarchical nature of Japanese society is inescapable. As a hogaku performer, I have been made quite aware of the pecking order of my fellow musicians and now understand how to act accordingly. Koto music in and of itself provides valuable insight into Japan. The way songs in the jiuta genre are performed is one example. Sung slowly and deliberately to koto and accompaniment, with a melody that calls for the voice to occasionally make sudden dips or rises, they are used to convey very carefully controlled, suppressed emotion; just beneath the voice's surface lie the singer's true feelings. In Japanese society, too, emotion, especially strong, emotion, is held in check behind a mask of formal behavior. The very slowness in melodic movement in these traditional songs reflects a culture that has remained largely unchanged for long periods of time. Even today, this mood can be found in Japan, for although the country has undergone numerous changes on the surface, the tendency to resist deep change in many areas is still prevalent. The way the voice line and instrumental melody in jiuta are woven intricately together, their individual parts moving in a chase-and-follow pattern with only occasional clear-cut parallel movement, can also be compared to the very subtle nuances valued in communication and overall culture in Japan.

Other musical elements also reflect Japanese culture. In danmono works, the melody begins slowly and imperceptibly builds up speed, with nearly the same number of notes in each dan, or section, giving the illusion of happenstance while actually being constructed in a concise, mathematical fashion. Rhythm, while not being constant or logical in the Western sense, is, like Japanese culture, very dependent on context. Many of the rhythmical changes are impossible to convey accurately in written form and can only be learned by developing a feeling for each piece of music. And in both the lyrics and the melody -- understatement. Impact is made through the use of minimized sense of harmony and movement.

There is also the ma aspect of Japanese music; the way silence in music is utilized and interpreted very differently than in the West, just as it is highly valued for its content in Japanese society at large. Because importance is placed on the texture, pitch, and ornamentation of each individual note, time for reflection and appreciation of the musical tones is allowed throughout each piece. For those used to Western music, listening to Japanese music often leaves the impression that something is missing, or that there are too many gaps. If one listens carefully, however, these gaps are not blank at all; the aftertones and silences help to illuminate and emphasize the notes that have been played. One learns to develop an appreciation for these gaps in music, just as one learns to understand the numerous moments of pause, silent head-nodding, and downward glances that are used when communicating in Japanese. Silence, or the concept of nothingness, can have far more meaning that a space filled with words or music. The koto was first brought to Japan from China in the Nara era (710-784) and was at first used exclusively in ensemble court music, called gagaku. The word hogaku (literally, Japanese music) is commonly used toady to describe not one certain style of music but rather any music that is made with traditional Japanese instruments, most of them dating back to the Nara era. The koto, shakuhachi (5-hole bamboo flute), and shamisen (a banjo-like instrument with 3 strings) are the most common, although hogaku also includes traditional drums, a variety of flutes, the biwa (4-string lute), and the sho; and hichiriki, two reed instruments. Other hogaku instruments are the 17-string bass koto, the 20-string koto, and the 7-hole shakuhachi, all designed during this century. Thus, current hogaku music incorporates everything from traditional gagaku to folk songs to popular tunes, arrangements of Vivaldi and Bach, works by avant-garde composers such as John Cage, and even improvisational performances, as long as they are played with hogaku instruments.

The two most famous koto masters, Yatsuhashi Kengyo and Miyagi Michio, were both blind. Yatsuhashi, who was born in 1614 and died in 1685 (the year Bach was born), is known as the father of modern koto. He changed the koto from an elite court instrument to something for the masses to enjoy. He also wrote innovative pieces that set the pattern for koto music in the following decades. Miyagi Michio (1894-1956) was the first person to incorporate Western musical concepts into koto music; many of his pieces are still quite popular today. Born into poverty, he wrote the ground breaking virtuoso koto piece Mizu no Hentai (Water Transformations) at the age of 14. This work completely changed the accepted notion of the koto's potential as an instrument; its incredible range of technical diversity and speed was like a bolt of lightening in the world of quiet aftertones. In 1921, he created the now-popular 17-string bass koto. Over the years, he developed many new performance techniques; virtually each and every one of his 350-odd works offers something new. He was a master of creativity, and his music formed a vital bridge between old and new during Japan's crucial period of change from the Meiji era (1868-1912) to the Taisho period (1912-1926), then on the the Showa era (1926-1989).

Before World War II, virtually every well-bred young woman know how to play the koto. It symbolized cultural refinement and feminine sensitivity, virtues sought after in a good wife. In the countryside, men and women played folk music on shamisen. Shakuhachi was played (and used as a weapon) by wandering Zen priests and would-be priests, called komuso? and had grown to be an oft-heard instrument. During the Edo era (1603-1868), these three instruments enjoyed much popularity as a trio in sankyoku music. Many of the masters of these instruments were blind; they were recognized as having finely tuned hearing. Moreover, as one shamisen master explained to me, since the blind were useless in the fields, and to work meant using one's hands, the blind in the countryside took up shamisen. Today, there are approximately 200,000 koto players registered as members of various schools. However, Hogaku Journal editor Tanaka Takafumi estimates that less that half of that number actually play. About an equal number play shamisen accompaniment to nagauta songs, and a mere 100,000 people play shakuhachi. This is a dramatic difference from the situation of the not-so-distant past, who, in some form or another, hogaku was a part of the daily life of nearly every household. There are various reasons for the drop in hogaku's popularity. In Japan, there is very little government or organizational support for the traditional arts; they are supported through what is called the iemoto system (ie means family/household and moto means base). The iemoto system is the framework employed to govern the various traditional arts -- music, tea ceremony, dance, calligraphy, archery, etc. -- to see to it that they are run by established conventional standards. Masters of each art pass down the craft of their speciality, following the teachings of the masters before them. Let us take a look at the koto world, the one I am most familiar with, as an example. The two main koto schools, or ryuha, Ikuta and Yamada, were founded at the end of the 17th and 18th centuries, respectively. The main difference between these two schools is the shapes of their picks; Yamada uses rounded picks, and Ikuta uses square ones. Also, the music notation is written differently. Today, Yamada emphasizes singing and traditional works while Ikuta emphasizes more contemporary works, although there is some overlap. Breaking the system down further, within the Yamada and Ikuta schools are sub schools (kai), each with their own iemoto leader. These are individuals who have branched off from the main schools for various reasons, perhaps as a result on an artistic or political difference in views, or simply as a way to make their own name in the music world. These individuals may devise their own type of music notation, have a certain style of playing they wan to emphasize or develop, or compose their own works. Their students, then, are members of their school, which is itself a part of either the Ikuta or Yamada schools. Some of these branches were founded over 100 years ago and are now headed by second-, third- or even fourth-generation descendants (either natural or adopted family members); others started more recently are headed by their founders. There are several dominant schools and numerous smaller ones. The school I belong to, for instance, was founded in 1979 -- a recent addition to the 100-plus existing koto schools in Japan. It is called the Sawai Koto School and is run by founders Sawai Tadao and Sawai Kazue. Starting with the students the Sawais have taught directly and now growing to include the student of their students (magodeshi), in the space of 10 years its membership has grown to over 2,000. Each separate school, then, has a different personality or reputation. One may be known for music of the Edo era and another for its emphasis on the works of a certain composer. Each school also has its own rank-licensing method, which is an integral part of the iemoto system; rank is as important in the arts as in every other part of Japanese society. The ranking system has many functions: It gives students concrete goals to achieve; it makes the level of mastery relatively clear; and, most important, it is a source of income for the schools' teachers. The licensing payment system works like a pyramid (something that is not necessarily viewed as having negative connotations in Japan), with parts of the payment being given to the teacher, the teacher's teacher, and so on.

The cost of licenses varies with the school, the art form, and the rank. Licensed status is recognized as something achieved within a particular school, with mutual respect accorded people with comparable ranks from different schools. It is still considered somewhat vulgar to discuss licensing costs openly; I have been reprimanded by people I did not know who felt I had clearly gone too far in two articles I wrote that included information about the cost of licenses. But at the risk of a scolding, and in an effort t give some perspective on the system, let me say this: A beginner certificate for most of the Ikuta schools will cost around Y5,000 and will usually be followed by two or three high-level (and higher-priced; usually a jump of Y5,000 to Y10,000) certificates. There is a leap in price when the teaching-certificate level is reached. A koto teacher's license, for example, will run from about Y300,00 to Y600,000. I think this is reasonable for those who have studied hard and developed the expected skills; it is less reasonable for those who do not intend to use the license professionally. (Some schools have overseas branches, and overseas students are sometimes charged less.)

The iemoto system is a direct reflection of Japanese society. In Japan, a clear-cut ranking system can be found in schools, businesses, and even the birth order of family members. It is yet another example of the importance placed on hierarchical groups. Thus, while one is expected to remain unquestioningly loyal to one's master (in particular) and to one's school (in general), there are very few cross-group activities. In other words, members of different schools perform together only very rarely. For the most part, their relationships are limited to polite recognition of each other. From and American viewpoint, this can be somewhat distressing. With more exchange, would not the whole of the hogaku world benefit? Should not artists be exchanging ideas, sharing their discoveries and developments? In recent years, in order to change this pattern of behavior, efforts have been made, mainly by younger artists, to break down the exclusive attitude that is inherent to the iemoto system. These younger artists have tried to make their own way outside the system, holding joint concerts and the like. However, the general attitude among more established musicians remains largely unchanged. For a student struggling to make a name for himself or herself, or a student who wishes to change schools or study at more than one school, a loyalty system that stresses hierarchy can have some painful repercussions. Once one has become a member of a group, it is very difficult to leave, or to alter any part of the group's strictly ranked structure. By definition, becoming a member or a group also implies rejecting, at some level, other groups. This is true in the iemoto system and in the many other groups that makeup Japanese society. Mention the word iemoto and Japanese will respond with the one word everyone in this country can relate to: Expensive! By way of a defense of the system, everything here seems overpriced from an American viewpoint. People somehow are able to come up with the money to pay Y6,000 for a melon, Y100,000 for designer handbags Y200,000 and up to get a driver's license. It is not unusual for concert tickets -- from rock to jazz to opera -- to cost upwards of Y10,000 apiece. Yet sell-out performances are common. But any system structured like the iemoto system is susceptible to abuse. This is one aspect which, unfortunately, it is known for; rumors abound of teachers arbitrarily raising prices, students being pressured into ordering licenses (virtually buying their status), and people being expected to pay all kinds of hidden costs. For all the teachers who have selflessly devoted themselves to the daily hard work of developing and sharing their skills (and there are many), there always seem to be a few who simply see a high-status business opportunity and take advantage of the system. It is this aspect of the conventional iemoto system that makes many would-be hogaku musicians reluctant to get involved with Japanese music. People are as wary of the financial commitment as they are of the psychological commitment. I recently had to reassure a Japanese friend to whom I had given a complimentary koto concert ticket that he would not be suddenly expected to pay some hidden cost when he got to the door, so convinced was he that nothing is free in the hogaku world.

Another reason for hogaku's drop in popularity is the current educational system. Information about hogaku is almost non-existent in Japanese schools. When music was introduced to the Japanese school curriculum with the educational reforms of 1947, it was Western music. Hogaku was thought to have no place in modern Japanese education. Thus, although children learn do-re-mi and basic Western musical concepts, they are, for the most part, no more than dimly aware of the existence of hogaku. Unless they are lucky enough to have a music teacher with a personal dedication to hogaku, they are taught only a few important facts and figures, to be store away in the "miscellaneous" file. As a result of this education, mention the word koto to an adult Japanese and the names of three pieces, Sakura, Haru no Umi, and Rokudan, will be recited, as though reciting a multiplication table. (These three works are played incessantly at New Year's for about three days.) Say shakuhachi, and as if on cue the average adult will nod knowingly and say with a proverbial air, It takes three years to learn to move your head correctly. (kubifuri sannen). If you say shamisen, the response is Only three strings, with the option of adding, That's what makes it so hard to play.

This is the extent of what is generally known about hogaku. The media, so influential in forming our knowledge and tastes, has followed the this is boring approach to hogaku music; television and radio present it (when they do present it) with a somber attitude usually reserved for funerals, in such a manner that even I, an enthusiast, find dry. The one radio station that carries it seems to go out of its way, in between suppressed yawns, to cut off pieces, usually right before the tempo picks up in the middle section. This is partly due to the fact that the programs are so short they do not allow enough tie for the full development of the piece. When Emperor Showa died in 1989, I quickly turned on the radio, because I had heard that three days of traditional music would be played in his honor. I was greeted with Mozart. Even for the emperor -- the symbol of time-honored Japanese culture -- this was what traditional meant. I am personally convinced that it is because of this attitude, and the virtual elimination of hogaku from the lives of young people, that the extent of interest and appreciation is confined only to the small minority who are directly involved with performing hogaku. If baseball, for example, were to be introduced as something meaningless and boring, with games cut off before the first batter reached first base, and its more exclusive qualities continually emphasized, it would be viewed in much the same way. Hogaku, in short, is generally presented as something that has nothing to do with reality, certainly nothing to do with the new, hip (i.e. Westernized) reality Japan has been striving for. This has resulted in an interesting paradox: Although most Japanese feel a strong affinity with orthodox culture, few people are directly involved with the traditional arts, and many know next to nothing about them. After three months of basic koto study, I knew more than most of my Japanese friends and English students about Japanese music and had heard much more live hogaku performed during that brief period than most of them ever had.

For myself, as a hogaku musician, the loss is not so much that people do not have enough information about Japanese music; that is relatively superfluous to the music itself. The loss is that no relationship has been allowed to develop, so there is no enjoyment, no chance to feel anything about or from this music. Because of the nature of sound and the human element of music, it is perhaps the most ephemeral of all the arts. We develop a friendship with it that is constantly moving, expanding. As a listener or as a player, building a meaningful relationship with any kind of music takes time. Exposure is the key. Like all art, it affects each of us differently, to a degree far deeper than the intellectual. Hogaku music is rich in more than tradition; it is rich in emotion, in a beauty and harmony that is all its own. It could be made relevant to our lives today if it were given the chance. What hogaku has been needing is a new manager, to make it relevant to the 1990s -- and I think it may have found one.

Enter world music, or ethnic music, as it is called in Japan. Suddenly, the West is looking to the East for sound. And a lot of new sounds are being discovered and incorporated into the Western music world. Composers are searching for something unusual; musicians are interested in exploring the world beyond the keyboard and guitar neck. Africa is being discovered, and musical element of India, introduced to meditating peace-lovers by the Beatles, are now being listened to by everyone from yuppies to housewives. Colleges are adding ethnomusicology courses to their general catalogues. Best of all for hogaku lovers, Japan's music is being discovered. It can make quite a contribution with its own myriad sounds, rhythms, and musical approaches. These sounds from many countries have no borders; they are being mixed and combined with each other, regardless of their background, to form fresh combinations of textures, moods, and rhythms. The current world attitude, with the rapidly increasing breakdown of real and psychological walls, is being reflected in music. The energy from this stimulating experience of restructuring the world into a more all-inclusive unit can be directly felt in the music that is being created. Now is the chance for hocgaku to make a breakthrough, to be a part of the new decade, not just a leftover from the past. During the last three years, I have come across the sounds of hogaku, especially koto and shakuhachi, in various musical groupings more often than I did during the previous eight. And this is just the beginning of innovative musical exploration.

True, it is not always pure hogaku that we are hearing. But we have to keep our concept of pure in perspective; much of what is pure Japanese music was actually extensively borrowed from China, and what we consider traditional was, at the time it was composed, new. Music, like culture, has to be allowed to develop and change if it is going to remain alive (without, of course, forgetting its roots). Hogaku's new role as a member of a rock, pop, new age, or symphonic group is as valid as its past developmental stages. I have a feeling that, experimenters and innovators that they were, Miyagi and Yatsuhashi would be combining sounds with the best of them if they were alive in the 1990s. There is a new type of iemoto leader emerging, too. The Sawais are excellent examples. Neither of them comes from iemoto family backgrounds; Sawai Tadao began to draw much attention as a composer and performer during his studies at Tokyo National University of Fine Arts and Music, and Sawai Kazue was a direct student of Miyagi and has played a major role in having the 17-string bass koto accepted as a versatile and multi-faceted instrument. Although their school follows a conventional licensing system, it does not include the tradition of natori, taking on a new name when a certain rank is reached. This leaves the students with their own identity intact, rather than being tied to the school in name as well as in spirit, as tradition would have it. The Sawais are representative of a new breed of iemoto as musicians, too. Without losing their traditional flavor, Sawai Tadao's works are, in keeping with Miyagi, creative and dynamic pieces for listeners and performers both inside and outside Japan, and Sawai Kazue's efforts to expand the world of koto and bass koto and to combine koto with diverse Western instruments, from saxophone to jazz drums to computers, is contributing to the changing course of koto music.

Foreign performers, too, have had their impact. I am one of a handful of musicians who have become accepted as professionals in the hogaku world. Our persistent presence on the scene has changed the attitudes of many Japanese regarding how much a foreigner can understand and appreciate Japanese culture and music. I was recently pleasantly surprised when I submitted an original composition to a well-known publisher and was met with appreciation for my efforts. Not only have I been able to have my music published in koto notation, but I am being encouraged by both the Japanese publisher and fellow musicians to write more. A May 28, 1990, concert in Tokyo sponsored by the Agency for Cultural Affairs brought together 11 professional hogaku musicians -- all of them non-Japanese. I understand we were invited largely because of our previous activities as performers, which have made us highly visibly. But we are each aware of the growing number of people currently taking and interest in learning hogaku instruments. We are only the tip of the iceberg.

Hogaku, then, is in the process of being rediscovered. It is interesting that Japan, which still harbors obvious traces of an inferiority complex to the West, would begin to reassess its hogaku music as the West discovers it and gives it cultural status, thus validating it for the Japanese. Japan's recent economic growth is also making its people reevaluate the importance of their own culture. It has been just a little over 100 years since the start of the Westernization of Japan, and many Japanese are beginning to search for an identity they can call their own. And the attitude of the West -- Americans, at least -- has unquestionably changed. When I began studying the koto, it was a quaint, exotic pursuit that received only cursory attention from my American friends. But these people view Japan differently now. Thus, the koto has come out of its dusty corner in the tokonoma toshare a bit of the spotlight that has become focused on Japan.

More important, whereas until recently hogaku performances in the United States have tended to be limited to an audience of Japanese-Americans and/or people with some previous connection to Japan, the genre is now reaching beyond that. Two years ago, I had the opportunity to perform as a member of the Sawai Koto Ensemble in New York's Bang on a Can music festival. The audience of largely first-time listeners responded with the most enthusiastic cheering that we had ever encountered. This year, we were invited back as featured guests at the festival, and the reaction was the same. One afternoon, we even took our instruments outdoors to Washington Square to play -- and found the passersby to be fascinated with the music. Removing hogaku from its usual confines changes the preconceptions of the listener, allowing for a wider range of appreciation. Based on my experience, separating the koto from its usual Japanese aura and its rather academic music role is a tremendously successful way to expose hogaku to those people who would not otherwise have had the chance to experience it. From the standpoint of someone like myself, who is committed to erasing the Sakura limitations on the kotos image, performances of this sort are an important turning point. They are proof that one does not have to be an expert on Japan to be able to enjoy elements of its culture. Whether a person's initial interest in Japan is based on economics and business (as some artists complain) is essentially irrelevant. The important point is this: People are listening with new ears. For Japanese and non-Japanese alike, this is a significant change. When people listen with an open mind, a mental state has been developed that allows for new input, new levels of understanding and appreciation. This attitude creates an evolving expansion of culture on both a micro and macro level. Within Japan, hogaku is being appreciated anew. (Hoaku Journal editor Tanaka predicts that while the number of high-level performers will drop in the future, the number of ;listeners will grow. I agree with his evaluation.) Outside Japan, it is being welcomed by people ready for something new, who are willing to listen without cultural preconceptions or limitations. Hogaku instruments such as the koto are again beginning to be heard, no solely as esoteric ancient instruments, or out of a sense of duty to tradition, but as instruments in their own right.

They are worth nothing less.

© Elizabeth Falconer, 1990