It’s like owning great tools that you don’t have the manuals for.

One such asset I have is the fact that I am Japanese.  I am completely bilingual, both linguistically and culturely.

There aren’t many successful Japanese rock musicians in US.  There are some Japanese-Americans, a few.  Like Mike Shinoda of Linkin Park and James Iha, formerly of Smashing Pumpkins.  But neither are the “face” of the bands they’re in.

At first, I thought that my Japanese-ness is a detriment to my rock music, not an asset.  It just seems easier, to be a regular Caucasian rock guy.  Being more of what people expect.

I got rid of that idea, but I still don’t know how to use my Japanese-ness to my advantage.  There is a subculture forming, not just US but all over the world, of people appreciating J-Rock.  But typically, they’re focused on a sub-genre within Japanese rock scene — it’s caled “Vis-kei,” or “visual kei.”  It’s referring to bands that are heavily into made-up look, sporting artificial and androgynous surface.  X Japan is considered the godfather of this sub-genre, and they looked like this:

Looks like a take-off on gram rock, doesn’t it?

Well, that’s definitely not me.  I tried approaching sites like J-Rock Revolution, and some J-Rock fans on MySpace — but it’s ultimately a stretch.  At this point, I am more like a Japanese-American than a Japanese.  I was born in Japan, but now I am not from Japan.  I don’t know much about current Japan and its music.  And to be honest, I can’t stomach most Japanese rock. 

A while back, I discovered a band called Heavens Dust.  They were very exciting to me for a short while — because of their brilliant mix of traditional Japanese music into the modern rock architecture.  Unfortunately, their music didn’t grow on me personally, but I still think it was an inspired idea, incorporating our unique cultural heritage into a more universal form.

I relate to their visual image better, too.

That seems more authentically Japanese to me, though still too much influence of typical western rock/punk look.

The problem is that I am Japanese, but I am not Japanese enough to make typical Japanese-born concepts my own.  Like Zen or Karaoke or Anime.

Someone once told me “you’re too wholesome.”  And that’s another asset I’m not sure what to do with.  I eat organic food and humanely raised meat, I don’t smoke and have never done drugs.  I’m more at home at a church than in bars.  I’m a devoted father, but domesticity doesn’t mix well with rock n roll, unless I’m making children’s music.  My wife says I’m bookish, but I don’t relate to the whole nerd or geek outlook — like Weezer (which is a band I do love).

If I were a jazz, classical or even folk musician, I think many of those things make more sense.  It’s easier to make the whole package.  But I am a rock musician.  I make dangerous music.  But I am not a dangerous person, nor do I live a dangerous life style.

In the end, I’m proud of who I am and how atypical I am.  But at the same time, I’m not sure how to incorporate all that into my music, my artistry, my presentation.  I feel rather inarticulate, and that’s frustrating.

But — what can I do?  Derek Sivers says to be “an extreme version of who I am.”  That, I am doing, I think.

I’m a wholesome Japanese rocker.  There, that should be my dot com name.  WholesomeJapaneseRock.com.

What do you think?

And also that’s the reason why so many musicians hate the words like ‘promotion’ and ‘marketing.’

It seems that so much of marketing or promotion is focused on manipulation. The ads on TV, or newspaper. They all try very hard to make you want something. Retail stores, too…. How the products are laid out and presented, are all done with the intention of making you buy stuff. Stuff that you may or may not need, but since it’s within your reach, and it’s so cheap….

On the other hand, promotion can be very creative. I love thinking about branding, images, copywriting, design — it’s all very creative. The goal is to try to create a uniform and well-articulated message about what it is that I have to offer to the world. Which is music, but it’s more than music. The whole concept of an artist, including my interests and causes I champion, my personality, my feelings. I’m trying to tell the world who I am, so people who appreciate who I am and what I do, can help sustain the activity that produces more joy and happiness (even when the music itself is sad, angry or depressing — see my previous post).

But sometimes I am tempted to manipulate. Big time. For example, one of the things we artists are told to present is our “success.” People buy into you more if you’re already a “success.” When they know that many others like you. As if that gives them the permission, or that proves that this music is “good” — I’m not sure.

On one hand, I do believe that I am a success. I am proud of what I made, and I’m not ashamed to tell the world.

But on the other hand, I obviously haven’t achieved the commercial success of some other acts. Trying to compete in the same space as they are, vying for people’s attention, can stir up a lot of insecurities in me, because I am not as “successful” as the next band — and somehow I feel like I need to conjure up success out of thin air, so that I can be as “successful.”

When that happens, I have to slow myself down, and accept where I am. Yes, I do emphasize successes over mundane. I don’t discuss my dirty laundry here. It’s information that really doesn’t help me convey my message. But that doesn’t mean that I am a liar or I am being dishonest. I am not communicating something that is not true. I am just choosing not to show the whole truth — just selective bits, pieces that make more cohesive whole than perhaps what the reality is.

I am not a persuader, or a convincer. I am not comfortable in that role. I make music, I tell stories, I let people know what I have to offer. If someone doesn’t like it, that doesn’t devalue what I do. If someone does, that doesn’t make me magically “more successful” either. My success, I define in my head.

How the world values my offering, is not up to me to decide. I just need to accept, whatever the response is.

I do want you to know, that I am very grateful to everyone who has shown interest, took time to communicate, to listen, to connect — precisely because I can’t make you do that. I am trying to communicate, but you are here because you decided to take interest.

That is a marvelous gift to me. So I thank you.

Tightly.

I also have a habit of not straightening my back. My back is always curled. I am afraid that it’s going to be stuck that way, when I’m old and my body is no longer flexible.

Neither of those things are comfortable for me to do. Well, I take it back. They are comforting, though not comfortable.

I’m just used to doing them. So I do, when I’m not thinking about it, or when I need comfort.

When I went to college, I was a music major. Except all I had up to that point was 6 years of private piano lessons and 2 years of classical guitar. Hardly an adequate preparation for pursuing rigorous and competitive classical music program at St. Olaf College.

The worst part of all was that I had no significant performing skills. Every time I say that I’m a music major, people would ask “what do you play?” which is a reasonable assumption. Most musicians pursued the major because they were good at playing something (or singing).

To that, I answered “uhh, I’m a composition major.”

Among the music majors those studying composing were definitely the most diverse bunch. Because composition was primarily about what we can think up. There were minimum performance requirements, but those were not that rigorous — so those of us without Significant Performing Skills could still major in music. There were a handful of us like that, in a department made up of dozens and dozens of amazing singers and players.

And they all played in one of the three concert ensembles: the choir, the orchestra, or the band.

And needless to say, I was in none of them. I was in a choir, but not the concert one.

I got good grades in classes — even won a distinction — but I always felt that I didn’t belong there. I was an outsider looking in, unable to find a place in the social circles of “the music major.”No matter how successful I was in the classroom, where it really mattered — the performance — I was not good enough. I didn’t like it, but I got used to that.

And that’s how I thought of myself for 10 years after that.

For better or worse, we get used to things. And we find comfort in what we’re used to. Even when what we find comfortable is hurting us.

Habits are hard to break, but it’s worth spending time and effort to break bad habits. Good habits may be harder to instill, but when you make yourself do it and get used to it — you can enjoy the build up of its benefits for years.

We become what we’re used to. So, make a choice — what do you want to be?

“Japan’s government has long battled to contain the country’s alarmingly high suicide rate. A total of 32,155 people killed themselves in 2006, giving the country the ninth highest rate in the world, according to the government.

Suicides first passed the 30,000 mark in 1998, near the height of an economic slump that left many bankrupt, jobless and desperate.

The government has earmarked 22.5 billion yen ($220 million) for anti-suicide programs to help those with depression and other mental conditions.

Last year it set a goal of cutting the suicide rate by 20 percent in 10 years through steps such as reducing unemployment, boosting workplace counseling and filtering Web sites that promote suicide.”

We are developing, but many are developing the wrong way. This must be corrected. Now.

But the way to do is not being anti-suicide. It’s pro-living.

In concealing what’s inside.

Some days I feel that I must be so good at it. I have this inpenetratable surface — hard and shiny, slick and never-changing — that clearly states to the world “I’m fine and dandy, the same as yesterday.”

Other days, I fear that I am as transparent as an open journal. Naked and lonely, exposed and vulnerable, and people poke at my skin, just to see it bruise and bleed, because it’s so easy.

One of the books I read in college, the one from Counseling Psychology, started with this parable (I may have told this before): you gather a room full of people, and ask each of them this one question: what do you want?

And the room fills with yearning, desperate cries of people, carrying hidden unfulfilled desires and unfinished businesses.

Some of us are better than others, at concealing them.

Some days, I show up at work, and wonder if the reason all of us work, and work so hard, is because our day jobs, ultimately, are so inconsequential. Office politics, pleasing our clients, getting evaluated for their standards, not yours…. We rather do this than to deal with the real, heavy issues, that list of must-do-before-die that get buried deep, deep beneath the pile. It’s simply easier.

But below the cover, there is a huge, dark cavern, in which all kinds of creatures and treasures hide. Good and bad, beautiful and repulsing.

Waiting for the moment to come out, and be revealed.

This is why I make music.