By Emily Mahoney.
Years ago, on one of my 4-hour voyages through the black hole of Spotify’s recommended for you section, I stumbled across an artist called Taeko Ohnuki, a Japanese pop singer and songwriter from the 70s. Her song じゃじゃ馬娘 (Jajauma Musume), the first track on her 1978 album Mignonne, stirred a peculiar curiosity within me that I had not felt for quite some time. I immediately knew that whatever genre of music this track belonged to, I was in. Despite not speaking a single word of Japanese and, subsequently, not having a clue what she was singing about, the rise and fall of her soaring vocals, accompanied by the funky synth and an incredible guitar solo, created such an intense feeling of nostalgia within me, nostalgia for an era in which I was not even conceived.
Hooked on the distinct feeling that her record gave me of intense melancholy, coupled with wanting to dance my arse off, I searched for more, coming across a plethora of Japanese songs from the 80s categorised as ‘City Pop’. I came to discover that this music was the soundtrack to Japan’s economic boom in the 1980s, and was somewhat influenced by American rock, soul and R&B, perhaps why it seemed so unheard yet so familiar. The genre as a whole gave me the feeling of glimpsing through a window into the past, with many of the songs energies seemingly capturing the atmosphere of the 80s, the synthy and upbeat instrumentals creating the perfect backdrop to a good boogie.
Despite my propensity for a good dance, what I found the most enthralling about City Pop were the melancholy undertones that seem to lurk in the background of every track, creeping through the discography that I poured over and giving the tracks dimension. Underlying emotions of heartache seemed to seep through hidden cracks in each song, itching a part of my brain that I didn’t know existed. The juxtaposition between the catchy hooks and cheery sounds and the lyrics that speak of regret, lost love and gloom help to create that sense of nostalgia, and within me, summon the feeling of looking back at time passed and love lost.
This is perhaps why Tomoko Aran’s 1983 hit Midnight Pretenders pairs so well with the toxic and regretful lyricism of The Weekend’s discography today, particularly on his 2022 album Dawn FM, in which his track Out of Time samples the song. In the chorus and it’s repeating phrase ‘Say I love you girl, but I’m out of time’ The Weekend’s dreamy tenor, both distinct and versatile, seamlessly intertwines with arguably two of the most important elements of City Pop, the melancholy lyrics and the groovy, nostalgic instrumental. The Weekend’s undeniably incredible vocal performance makes the song an instant hit, shining a light on the genre of the sample.
Overwhelmingly, however, the topic of the song interlaces perfectly with the melancholy sentiment of many Japanese City Pop songs. The Weekend proclaims his yearning to rekindle a relationship, despite the fact that he knows his efforts are meaningless and that he must accept that he is ‘Out of Time’ to show her his love. Patrick St Michel, a Japan-based music writer asserted that Out of Time, is “the most mainstream example of any older Japanese music being introduced to a wider audience”, and I am thrilled that people all over the globe have been able to experience the same mind-melting groove that gave me chills back in 2019.