Songs From Another World

When I finally got my driver’s license in my early 20s and raced my mother’s bright red Seat Ibiza through the streets of my hometown, crisscrossing back and forth, there was no hip hop, no techno, and no Britney Spears blaring from my speakers. No, it was the then-new single by a Japanese pop musician. Kumi Koda was her name. Butterfly was the song. My girlfriend at the time, huddled in the passenger seat, was ashamed of me as we drove past the local ice cream parlor, the school, and the outdoor pool. With Butterfly at full volume. Of course, it makes absolutely no sense that I listen to Japanese music. I’m, surprise, surprise, not Japanese after all. Wow.

With songs like First Love, Secret Base, and Rewrite, I can weave together my own stories in my head. Imagine my own personal closing credits. Fantasize my life on the other side of the world. J-pop exudes the same kind of magic you had as a kid, listening to foreign songs on the radio and not yet having to understand what nonsense was being sung about. Japanese music is melodic, emotional, and has an intangible power that can otherwise only be experienced by accidentally standing between sweaty weebs armed with two to seven Canon SLR cameras and a sixteen-year-old girl dressed as Rem from Re:Zero at some random anime convention.

Japanese people like Swedish indie bands, American rappers, and British DJs. But J-pop songs are the anthems of my own little screwed-up world. The Japanese music industry doesn’t care if I listen to their songs, adore the stars, and watch the music videos. I don’t exist for them. J-pop is a huge personal playlist. Just for me. I can dance to it. Laugh. Cry. I’m fully aware that with the revelation that I love J-pop, I have lost any chance of future sexual intercourse with another human being. Forever. So I sit here, close my eyes, and listen to Perfume, Kyary Pamyu Pamyu, and Babymetal. As they confidently sing about sekai, dokidoki, and hanabi. And I’m happy.