Free Lost Japan by Alex Kerr Page B

single object on the Kabuki stage recognizable to young people today. When stage chanters sing of fireflies or autumn maples, such things are now almost mythical subjects in this land of vast cedar plantations.
    Actors such as Jakuemon or Tamasaburo spend hours with the kimono dyers discussing the precise shade of purple a certain kimono should be, what color the actor Kikugoro VI (‘the Great Sixth’) used, what is chic or not chic by standards of the Edo period. Certain older attendants, who came in from outside and therefore can never achieve major roles, have amassed incredible knowledge about such Kabuki arcana. In many cases, these men, not the actors you see onstage, are the true standard-bearers of the tradition; they know by heart not only what Kikugoro VI used, but what was used before him.
    An example is Tamasaburo’s old retainer Yagoro, now in his eighties, whom Tamasaburo inherited from his adoptive father Kanya. Yagoro performed major roles in his youth as a member of the small troupes that used to travel the countryside. As the tide of Westernization swept Japan after World War II, these smaller troupes disappeared or were gradually absorbed into one large troupe. The ‘Grand Kabuki’ we see today consists of several hundred actors (and their assistants), all based in Tokyo. ‘Grand’ though it is called, it is actually the shrunken remnant of a larger Kabuki world which once numbered thousands of
performers spread throughout the provinces. Yagoro belongs to the last generation who knew that larger Kabuki world.
    Yagoro will come into the room backstage after a show and sit there with a smile on his face. Then Tamasaburo will say, ‘What do you think, Father?’ (actors address each other as ‘elder brother’, ‘uncle’, ‘father’). Yagoro will say, ‘The Great Sixth used a silver fan, but that was because he was short and it accentuated his height. For you it would be inappropriate. Use gold, like the former Baiko did.’ This is how their knowledge is passed down.
    But what use are all these refinements when you are performing to an audience whose familiarity with the kimono is about on a par with that of Americans? Fine details tend to be lost, and the audience goes for the obvious crowd-pleasers, like
keren.
    Another problem is the generation gap. The training of actors, including those of Tamasaburo’s generation, used to be fierce. Intense dedication was required. Jakuemon told me how he used to memorize
nagauta
(long narrative lyrics) by chanting them on the train on his way to the theater; one day, the train suddenly stopped and he found all the other passengers staring at him as he chanted loudly in the ensuing silence. In those days, Kabuki was more of a popular form, and less of a formalized ‘traditional art’, so audiences were more knowledgeable and demanding. A bad actor would find the
omuko
shouting, ‘
Daikon!
’ (‘big radish!’), to his everlasting humiliation. Now there are no calls of
Daikon!
, and audiences sit reverently with their hands in their laps, no matter how good or bad the actor might be. The younger actors, born into privilege because of their family names, have it easy. Tamasaburo once said, ‘Communism in Russia was a terrible thing, but it produced great ballet dancers. In order to be great you need a Moscow in your background.’
    After I began watching Kabuki, I discovered Nihon Buyo (Japanese dance) and Shinpa (Meiji-style drama) as well. I realized that ‘Grand Kabuki’ is just the tip of the iceberg – the arts connected to Kabuki are vigorously active in their own right. There
is a constant round of recitals, called
kai
(gatherings), of Nihon Buyo, flute,
nagauta
(long lyrics),
kouta
(short lyrics),
samisen
, and more.
    While one invariably sees foreigners at Kabuki theater, I have found it extremely rare to see another foreigner at any of these recitals. But given the diversity of Nihon Buyo, which includes dozens of styles, tens of thousands