Japan are one of those bands that suffer greatly from being lumped into a musical genre that not only is the constant target for derision by critics and the public alike, but that they didn't have much in common with in the first place. In Japan's case it's the New Romantics, that most insufferable of typically eighties ego-fests. Japan got labelled New Romantics after Duran Duran's Nick Rhodes cited them as a huge influence. It didn't help that the typically New Romantic big hair and make-up look had been lifted from Japan's lead singer, the great David Sylvian.
The fact is that Japan's seminal Quiet Life album, with its melancholic synths, supple, fretless bass and crooning vocals was indeed the blueprint for early eighties mournful, self-obsessed pop. But Japan always did everything better that their peers, and Quiet Life is more a tasteful mix of glam-rock posturing and electronic melancholia than actual synth-pop, and boasts some truly stunning lyrics, unlike anything Duran Duran, Spandau Ballet or Blancmange would ever achieve. 1981's Tin Drum would demonstrate to the entire world that Japan were leagues ahead and head and shoulders above nearly all their contemporaries. Hell, it's still ahead of the pace 26 years later.
It certainly doesn't sound like anything else released in 1981. And I just know that it's one of those albums that I'm gonna struggle to appraise correctly, and will probably end this review with a very lame "just buy it and see for yourself how amazing Tin Drum is". Still, you can't blame a man for trying!
In essence, Tin Drum is something of a concept album, albeit a rather disjointed one, centred around singer David Sylvian's reflections on communist China. It's ironic that a band called Japan, and whose music often borrowed aspects of that country's musical and visual styles should base its magnum opus on China. While some songs only touch gently on these themes, others are steeped in popular Chinese culture, from lyrics dealing with the Red Army and rice fields to the use of Asian instruments, voices and time structures on tracks like 'Talking Drum' and 'Still Life in Mobile Homes'. These themes ensure that, from the off, Tin Drum is steeped in a sort of Oriental mysticism and a profound sense of otherness that is just intoxicating. Even at my first listen, when I was thinking "OK, hang on, what the f#!ck is this?", this sense of being transported to another land, not quite China, certainly not Europe, but rather a sort of Eurasian nether land, fascinated me, and it still does several years later.
Tin Drum is Japan's lyrical and musical triumph. It's audacious from the off, as 'The Art of Parties' kicks things in gear with barnstorming saxophone, polyrhythmic percussion and, of course, Mick Karn's wobbly, instantly identifiable (and I do admit, hard to get used to) bass lines. The instruments are varied and exciting, piled on top of one another in a daring tornado of unexpected sounds that manages to be powerful without getting invasive. Then comes Sylvian's gorgeous voice. Liberated from his Bryan Ferry influences, he sounds confident, in command of his words, which is just as well, as these are some of his most fractured and elliptic lyrics yet. Songs like ‘Talking Drum’ set the context – China, or at least Asia, with traditional percussion (courtesy of Sylvian’s brother, the seriously talented and sexy Steve Jansen) and weird chanting, as well as lyrics relating to Chinese life. Yet on the lush instrumental ‘Canton’, icy synths and a driving pop-rock style yank things into the modern age (indeed, in the Oil on Canvas movie, this song was set to images of Chinese businessmen wandering through neon-lit streets). The Asian sound is still there, but it’s allied to a European sense of romance, and the juxtaposition of these two sensitivities -tradition and modernity; Chinese rural life and the Westernised city- is the crux of Tin Drum. The gorgeous ‘Still Life in Mobile Homes’ starts off as a thoughtful musing on the nomadic lifestyles of Chinese river people. It’s a disjointed rocker featuring Sylvian’s girlfriend Yuka Fuji chanting backed by jerky drums and Karn’s omnipresent outlandish bass. Suddenly, as the instrumental pile-up reaches breaking point, with everyone chiming or bashing or crooning away in unison, Sylvian crashes in with a titanic guitar solo that almost rips the song asunder as he wails about voices screaming from heaven. It comes across as a meteorite of technology, a screaming electric machine, yet the lyrics refer to themes of spirituality and God-like presences and the life inside these ‘mobile homes’. The clash of the modern and the traditional, the old and the new is stirring, and in many ways, Tin Drum is prescient in its portrayal of a post-Mao China struggling to consolidate its past and its new ambitions. As China gears itself up to take assault on the global market in 2007 while coming under scrutiny for Human Rights violation, songs like ‘Cantonese Boy’(with its marching rythms offset by futuristic synthesiser riffs) , ‘Still Life in Mobile Homes’ and ‘Visions of China’ (especially that one) sound more than a little prophetic.
However, the two tracks that stand out the most from Tin Drum are the epic ‘Sons of Pioneers’, and the single, ‘Ghosts’. The first is a deeply evocative song of travel. Sylvian conjures up images of Mao’s Long March, of green hills and barren deserts, of ranks of troops and lonely villages; and also of the desperate solitude of these pioneers. A master of melancholy, Sylvian delivers on ‘Sons of Pioneers’ a wondrous vision of a wandering soldier, as vivid as any novel or film. No wonder he later collaborated with Japanese star Ryuichi Sakamoto for the Merry Christmas Mr Lawrence soundtrack. In ‘Ghosts’, his European sensitivities kick in. It’s a more personal song, the heart-felt portrayal of a man plagued by shattering doubts, set to mournful synths, creepy xylophone and peculiar sound effects, and remains the band's most memorable track.
It’s also another deeply prophetic song, although not for the same reasons as the rest of the album. ‘Ghosts’ was the song that finally delivered Japan into the big time, as it became a top 5 hit in the UK. After so many failures, Japan finally seemed to be getting the success their talents deserved. Instead, even as they performed ‘Ghosts’ on Top of the Pops, they were already geared up for a split. Sylvian’s doubts appeared to have taken hold, and he no longer felt satisfied with the group format. In 1982, Japan disbanded, and David Sylvian embarked on a luminous solo career.
Never mind, because on Tin Drum, Japan attained musical perfection, one that few bands can compare with. It’s lush but fiery, mystical but strangely groovy, intellectual without being snobbish. It's a genre-defying album, the kind that elevates pop music to a similar level as its rock and jazz cousins. Every listen opens up new aural delights and reveals new insights into Sylvian’s peculiar lyrics. Once again, words just don’t do justice to the depth and range of this album, so all I can do is recommend you go and get yourself a copy and listen to it for yourself.
See, I knew I was going to do that!
The fact is that Japan's seminal Quiet Life album, with its melancholic synths, supple, fretless bass and crooning vocals was indeed the blueprint for early eighties mournful, self-obsessed pop. But Japan always did everything better that their peers, and Quiet Life is more a tasteful mix of glam-rock posturing and electronic melancholia than actual synth-pop, and boasts some truly stunning lyrics, unlike anything Duran Duran, Spandau Ballet or Blancmange would ever achieve. 1981's Tin Drum would demonstrate to the entire world that Japan were leagues ahead and head and shoulders above nearly all their contemporaries. Hell, it's still ahead of the pace 26 years later.
It certainly doesn't sound like anything else released in 1981. And I just know that it's one of those albums that I'm gonna struggle to appraise correctly, and will probably end this review with a very lame "just buy it and see for yourself how amazing Tin Drum is". Still, you can't blame a man for trying!
In essence, Tin Drum is something of a concept album, albeit a rather disjointed one, centred around singer David Sylvian's reflections on communist China. It's ironic that a band called Japan, and whose music often borrowed aspects of that country's musical and visual styles should base its magnum opus on China. While some songs only touch gently on these themes, others are steeped in popular Chinese culture, from lyrics dealing with the Red Army and rice fields to the use of Asian instruments, voices and time structures on tracks like 'Talking Drum' and 'Still Life in Mobile Homes'. These themes ensure that, from the off, Tin Drum is steeped in a sort of Oriental mysticism and a profound sense of otherness that is just intoxicating. Even at my first listen, when I was thinking "OK, hang on, what the f#!ck is this?", this sense of being transported to another land, not quite China, certainly not Europe, but rather a sort of Eurasian nether land, fascinated me, and it still does several years later.
Tin Drum is Japan's lyrical and musical triumph. It's audacious from the off, as 'The Art of Parties' kicks things in gear with barnstorming saxophone, polyrhythmic percussion and, of course, Mick Karn's wobbly, instantly identifiable (and I do admit, hard to get used to) bass lines. The instruments are varied and exciting, piled on top of one another in a daring tornado of unexpected sounds that manages to be powerful without getting invasive. Then comes Sylvian's gorgeous voice. Liberated from his Bryan Ferry influences, he sounds confident, in command of his words, which is just as well, as these are some of his most fractured and elliptic lyrics yet. Songs like ‘Talking Drum’ set the context – China, or at least Asia, with traditional percussion (courtesy of Sylvian’s brother, the seriously talented and sexy Steve Jansen) and weird chanting, as well as lyrics relating to Chinese life. Yet on the lush instrumental ‘Canton’, icy synths and a driving pop-rock style yank things into the modern age (indeed, in the Oil on Canvas movie, this song was set to images of Chinese businessmen wandering through neon-lit streets). The Asian sound is still there, but it’s allied to a European sense of romance, and the juxtaposition of these two sensitivities -tradition and modernity; Chinese rural life and the Westernised city- is the crux of Tin Drum. The gorgeous ‘Still Life in Mobile Homes’ starts off as a thoughtful musing on the nomadic lifestyles of Chinese river people. It’s a disjointed rocker featuring Sylvian’s girlfriend Yuka Fuji chanting backed by jerky drums and Karn’s omnipresent outlandish bass. Suddenly, as the instrumental pile-up reaches breaking point, with everyone chiming or bashing or crooning away in unison, Sylvian crashes in with a titanic guitar solo that almost rips the song asunder as he wails about voices screaming from heaven. It comes across as a meteorite of technology, a screaming electric machine, yet the lyrics refer to themes of spirituality and God-like presences and the life inside these ‘mobile homes’. The clash of the modern and the traditional, the old and the new is stirring, and in many ways, Tin Drum is prescient in its portrayal of a post-Mao China struggling to consolidate its past and its new ambitions. As China gears itself up to take assault on the global market in 2007 while coming under scrutiny for Human Rights violation, songs like ‘Cantonese Boy’(with its marching rythms offset by futuristic synthesiser riffs) , ‘Still Life in Mobile Homes’ and ‘Visions of China’ (especially that one) sound more than a little prophetic.
However, the two tracks that stand out the most from Tin Drum are the epic ‘Sons of Pioneers’, and the single, ‘Ghosts’. The first is a deeply evocative song of travel. Sylvian conjures up images of Mao’s Long March, of green hills and barren deserts, of ranks of troops and lonely villages; and also of the desperate solitude of these pioneers. A master of melancholy, Sylvian delivers on ‘Sons of Pioneers’ a wondrous vision of a wandering soldier, as vivid as any novel or film. No wonder he later collaborated with Japanese star Ryuichi Sakamoto for the Merry Christmas Mr Lawrence soundtrack. In ‘Ghosts’, his European sensitivities kick in. It’s a more personal song, the heart-felt portrayal of a man plagued by shattering doubts, set to mournful synths, creepy xylophone and peculiar sound effects, and remains the band's most memorable track.
It’s also another deeply prophetic song, although not for the same reasons as the rest of the album. ‘Ghosts’ was the song that finally delivered Japan into the big time, as it became a top 5 hit in the UK. After so many failures, Japan finally seemed to be getting the success their talents deserved. Instead, even as they performed ‘Ghosts’ on Top of the Pops, they were already geared up for a split. Sylvian’s doubts appeared to have taken hold, and he no longer felt satisfied with the group format. In 1982, Japan disbanded, and David Sylvian embarked on a luminous solo career.
Never mind, because on Tin Drum, Japan attained musical perfection, one that few bands can compare with. It’s lush but fiery, mystical but strangely groovy, intellectual without being snobbish. It's a genre-defying album, the kind that elevates pop music to a similar level as its rock and jazz cousins. Every listen opens up new aural delights and reveals new insights into Sylvian’s peculiar lyrics. Once again, words just don’t do justice to the depth and range of this album, so all I can do is recommend you go and get yourself a copy and listen to it for yourself.
See, I knew I was going to do that!
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