Japan
Tin Drum

THE REVIEW

A (failed) attempt at a 'small bonsai review.'

It was a Tuesday afternoon. I had just turned off the small mental television that broadcast images of deer in the green of the Aosta Valley. Then, in an attempt to rewind the tape, drying the remaining damp thoughts in the sun of a naive optimism, I found myself in my trusty small but cozy music store. My personal Rob Fleming from 'High Fidelity' was busier than usual with a fair line of customers. In front of me was a tall, relaxed man, joyfully turning over the requested vinyl in his hands.

The platinum and androgynous man, in an incredible and plastic pose, was eating Chinese rice under the stern gaze of Mao. 'Tin Drum' by Japan. I often wondered about the meaning of that cryptic cover, so full of fascination in my eyes: the glamorously flaunted androgyny of the futuristic dandy David Sylvian, the insinuating voice like a serene and mystical mountain stream, seemed as related to China as Christmas in August. Sylvian had a participatory awareness when referring to scenes of life, landscapes, and folklore of Canton; and the audacity to do it with a band called 'Japan.' Like making a film about the Warsaw Jewish ghetto in '42 and signing as Leni Riefenstahl. In short, Nick Rhodes seemed like the faux-dumb cousin of the made-in-Japan David, but he stayed calmly in the corner, behind the small keyboard. He hadn't idealized exotic and distant scenarios (perhaps superficially in some music videos, with Simon and his fun-loving company), the inclination for protagonism and a strong fascination for Eastern culture certainly did not concern him closely.

'Tin Drum', thin drum, great wall of sounds, colors, and visions between us and them, East and West, new-wave and the first cries of that strange hair-sprayed movement called 'new-romantics.' The rhythm was defined, elevated by the magnificent funky bass lines, precise and round, of Mick Karn, a soft rubber ball bouncing sinuously between the walls in the listener's room. An uninterrupted pulse with the square and geometric path of Steve Jansen's drums (brother of the pale Sylvian), and the keyboards of another big name, Barbieri, embroidering spices, intense aromas of ancient conquests in 'Visions of China', 'Cantonese Boy', or the vivid memory in a festive land of the instrumental 'Canton'. The avant-garde pop, syncopated and chilly, of 'Talking Drum' and the wild atmospheric dance in the opening manifesto 'The Art of Parties'. The skeletal electronics, restless and indeed spectral, of the ballad 'Ghosts', evoked by David Sylvian's nocturnal singing and a grim synth lifting notes like fog among the woods. Finally, the epic and solemn journey of the extraordinary 'Sons of Pioneers': the sound, personal and unique, of Japan is all encapsulated in the eight tracks of 'Tin Drum'; where exoticism, funky rhythms, and intangible, ethereal melodies combine remarkably. A work that managed to enhance the style and inspiration of the distinguished predecessor 'Gentlemen Take Polaroids,' released the previous year (in 1980) and still heavily indebted to the electro/wave Bowie of 'Low' (but with great tracks like 'Nightporter' and the title track).

So, that furtive glance at the vinyl purchased by the towering being in front of me had led me, as usual, to digress while I investigated the satisfied expression of the shopkeeper, likely due to the good evening's takings. With that thick beard and glasses, he looked like a young Francis Coppola. A bit of technicolor chatter, a goodbye to those present, and a tiny certainty accompanied my grumpy walk out into traffic. Nick Rhodes, perhaps, has never really been to China.