Ikyunakana

We shuffle up on stage behind a half-drawn red-velvet curtain, propped up by just enough mic-chords and other wires to break the illusion that the stage is not yet a stage. I take my seat, second row center behind a line of grade-schoolers putting forth a valiant effort through sheer force of will to be both taller and blonder than I am in order to shield me from the crowd down below. They fail on both counts, but I appreciate the effort. I pick up my Shamisen, run my hand over the synthetic snakeskin, and rest my little bamboo plectrum on the middle string. I look over at Hiroki, my teacher and friend, and wink at him. He responds with a beaming grin, and all I can manage to think before the curtain rises is: "Got me again Kikai, you ambush-happy bastards."



Her name is Naomi. Instruments need names, otherwise they're just tools. Name it, and you acknowledge that it's a partnership. That in some fashion, it is an extension of you, or that it embodies part of your soul, if you are of the type who is partial to the belief in souls. Naomi is named after a character in a Japanese novel, a young girl who is taken into the home of a wealthy man, after he falls in love with her, and decides he is going to mold her into a proper woman. She goes on to evolve into a scheming, manipulative dominatrix, and absolutely crushes him. What can I say? I wanted my Shamisen to have spirit.

I started taking lessons a month, month and a half ago. Originally I used an old, flaking shamisen I was borrowing from the guy who runs the dive shop I frequent (licensed now, by the way. I'll throw up something once I can get the fantastic photo of my first solo dive). It sounded more or less like it looked, emitting a sort of muffled spongy thud rather than the crisp twang my teachers', and prepubescent classmates' instruments produced. For an hour every Friday I would sit around in formal Japanese seiza posture, slowly going numb with a smile on my face, and pretended to play along with some of my favorite 10-year old ruffians, and an increasingly senile old man who invented island shamisen music. Sometimes Hiroki, the grandson of the family, and heir to the shamisen throne, shows up and I actually learn things. Perhaps it is because he my age, or because he speaks Japanese instead of Kikai-go, but I can spend 40 minutes as an utter disappointment to my family and country with the group, then go bang it out perfectly in the next 20 when it's just Hiroki and I dicking around. He also has a wonderful habit of picking up my ticks in English.

Naomi arrives eventually, and we get along swimmingly. She sounds great, looks beautiful, and unlike most of the other Japanese instruments I meet these days she has sass. We go home together and sit up all night, drinking coffee and getting to know one another.

Week after week we show up together at the Yasudas' house, and set to work. Yoishima, Ikyunakana, Honenbushi, names becomes songs, this one bouncy and festive, the next somber and mournful, the final fast and sharp. Progress is made, walls are hit, funny faces are made at inappropriate times. I'm no prodigy, but I have a good ear, and as long as I can avoid taking it to seriously I'm enjoying myself.

But then, oh you black-hearted ambushing islanders. It's 2 weeks ago, and I can maybe play 2 songs in parts, though haven't gotten the familiarity to string it all together yet. The matriarch informs me that there will be some sort of festival coming up, and I'm going to play Ikyunakana with the kids. Oh neat, that sounds fun. You do know I can't play that right? Oh, you do. You say it's not a problem. Well, I suppose if I'm up there with other people one song isn't going to kill me, and I have some time to practice still.

Wait, what's that you say when you finally get around to telling me the actual date? It's on Sunday? Oh, well that's still ok, it's over at the dinky little elementary school up in the hills with 14 kids. It'll be like, what, 30 people tops, assuming they bring their extended families? I can look foolish for one song, I've certainly done more embarrassing things since I got here.

I show up to an auditorium of about 300 or so, including my boss, and most of the principals on the island. About half way through tuning up, it becomes readily apparent that I will be on stage for all three songs, including the one I've never even heard before. Oh Kikai, when will I learn?

It actually went alright. I faked my way through it well enough that unless you were both familiar with how to play the songs, and looking at me the whole time, you probably didn't even notice. I like to pretend that the entire audience being native islanders over 60, and myself being the only tall blonde man on a stage of short, black-haired girls, do not almost guarantee this state of affairs. But I survived it, scoring even more unstoppable bad-ass points. Stuck around for the rest of the festival and to watch Hiroki play the twangy dance-hall version of island shamisen...


...annnnd also maybe flash some of my newly acquired bad-ass points to flirt with one of the younger teachers. But that is neither here nor there.