My uncle passed away a couple of days ago. I came back home earlier today and played tamuke while his funeral was taking place in Japan. Facing north over incense sticks, I sat on the floor and played the piece countless times. (Later, my mother said that the monk's chanting at the funeral was extremely long. So was my playing/praying).
Tamuke has several versions. Someone told me that there are three versions. I know of only two. The most well-known version (perhaps, the only version known in the West) is Watazumi's rendering.
My learning of the piece owes much to the recording of Sakaguchi Tesshin. I notated the music by listening to his recording. Later, I noticed that my teacher's teacher learned the piece directly from Sakaguchi Tesshin, and so I got his transcription.
Tamuke is often said to have come from the Nagoya area. But my teacher's teacher believes that tamuke was composed by Takahashi Kuzan who was actually the teacher of Sakaguchi Tesshin (Sakaguchi's other teacher was Miyagawa Nyozan). The reason for his claim is that he could not find tamuke in the Fudaiji music score book. Besides, he cannot find anyone who played the piece before Takahashi Kuzan.
When I discussed tamuke with my teacher's teacher, he interestingly pointed out that tamuke has much in common with sanya, the myoan "shinpo" version of sanya (three valleys), which is a completely different piece from the taizan-ha sanya. It is played with deep tsu meri and chi meri (in the so-called miyako-bushi scale). I like this version of shinya. It carries some special import and taste. In fact, Katsuura Shozan (the last shinpo-ryu person from Kyoto Myoan temple before Higuchi Taizan took office) loved this piece. It was not just that he loved the piece, but the music was very special to him.
This afternoon, my hands naturally moved too much trying to execute Watazumi-like expressions, as I am also sort of familiar with that style. But for this occasion, the simpler version suited better. I believe that shinpo-ryu sanya also goes well for a funeral. The only problem is that the piece is too long. There is a dramatic expression near the end of the piece. But the audience needs to wait long before getting to that point.
So I did "tamuke" today (tamukeru as a verb). Hopefully, it reached my uncle's spirit before he reached Pearl Gate.
P.S. Some people say that Tamuke actually comes from Yamato or Nara. So there are more than just one homogeneous view about its origin.
Quotes from Loori, J. D. (2004). The Zen of creativity: Cultivating your artistic life. New York: Random House.
Doso didn’t use the highly polished lacquered and well-tuned flutes…. His flute was much less processed and far closer to its natural state. The inside of the section he used still revealed the bamboo guts. Most people, even experienced masters, considered that kind of instrument unplayable. Doso’s music proved that wrong. His playing always touched the very core of one’s being. Sometimes the sound had a tremendous strength, like the driving force of a cascading waterfall. Sometimes it roared like thunder. At other times it was gentle and sweet like birdsong at sunrise. It always seemed to reach me, but not through my ears: It entered my body through the base of my spine, moved upward, and spread through my being. (pp. 171–173)
the ability to be free in his music was the result of Doso’s life-long, unrelenting commitment to the discipline of the breath. He actually wasn’t very interested in the shakuhachi as a musical instrument. He called his flute suijo, which loosely translates as “concentrated breathing tool.” Doso saw himself not so much as a musician or entertainer, but as one who is totally devoted to developing his life force—chi [ki]—by utilizing and strengthening his breath. The bamboo flute was simply a tool for that practice. He said once, “Since I must have some way of knowing how my breath is doing, I blow into a piece of bamboo and hear how it sounds.” (p. 173)
A new CD of Watazumi is now released. This is not a re-release of an older CD. The first seven tracks are a recording of his live performance at "Watazumido wo kiku kai." A LP of this recording existed, and many students repeatedly listened to it. They've been hoping to have a CD version, as their old tapes are so worn out.
1. Honshirabe 2. Shingetsu (performed in two different ways) 3. Tamuke 4. Shishi (Azuma) 5. Tsuru no sugomori 6. Kyorei 7. Koku
He provides some verbal explanation about the pieces and his technique. After Honshirabe, he demonstrates basic components of his expression: Jiki, Ai, Kiri, Chu, Kai, Koku, and Mataiki, and how these can convey his feeling. It blows me away. Track 1 is a must to listen.
This two-hour interview was recorded on October 27 in 1968. He talks really interesting stuff (such as "yabu-garashi," introduced earlier on this blog). I will be translating parts of his interview so that people (especially, my friend who kindly shared the recordings with me) can get a sense of what Tomimori Kyozan was saying.
1 Track 2
Honkyoku has gone through a few hundred years of transformation. The current form of honkyoku is different from its primitive form of origin. Among the oldest pieces are kyorei, murasaki no kyoku (which Ikkyu Zen master is said to have played), and sagariha (which was played during "nenbutsu odori," or chanting dance).
These days people often talk about koku. It is a sophisticated piece. But the initial form of the piece was not that sophisticated. Until the middle muromachi era, the shakuhachi had been 1.6 at longest. It could have been 1.4 to 1.5. Finger holes were also small. Thus, it was impossible to play half tones. There was probably no need to use semitones. The reason for no meri effect in myoan playing derives from that primitive style. In contrast, the kinko music is sophisticated. That's the influence of string instruments such as the koto, kokyu, and also shamisen (after keicho period) of the ensemble context. Hitoyogiri was also used in ensemble with shamisen....
Yes, Shimura Zenpo plays both ji-ari and ji-nashi fairly well. There are probably many professionals who play ji-ari as skillfully as he does. But when it comes to long ji-nashi, he is definitely among the best. (I am referring more to his tones than his musicality).
Other Japanese players who handle both are Izumi Takeo and Kobayashi Shomei (known more as a ji-nashi maker who is starting monthly ji-nashi "playing" lessons at Mejiro). It wouldn't be so convincing if someone who only plays either ji-ari or ji-nashi says "playing ji-ari and playing ji-nashi are two different things."
One of these people said, "The difference is not that complex. It's just that you can play ji-ari well without using the abdomen, but not ji-nashi."
In his dissertation exploring the features of vintage shakuhachi flutes from the Edo period and performers’ bodily experiences of playing them, Shimura conceptually distinguished a group of shakuhachi practitioners who pass down and practice a repertoire of honkyoku music on the ji-nashi shakuhachi—-those belonging to what Shimura describes as the “first world”—-from other practitioners in the “second world” who play a variety of music, ranging from classical music to pop music, using the ji-ari (ji-nuri, ji-mori) kairyo shakuhachi.
In the first world, the meaning of practice is determined and acquired by experiencing the spirit of komuso shakuhachi tradition through performing honkyoku music. While the emphasis of practice in the second world is often placed on enhancing one’s musicality, the practice of the first world is characterized by its spiritual orientation, often explained through the notion of ichion-jobutsu (“one tone, enlightenment”) in which the practitioners play music for their own self-cultivation.
Shimura argues that there is no distinction between professional and amateur players in this first world. Nor is there an audience who pay admission for a professional performance. The participants practice from a sense of community; this compels them to share, acknowledge, and uplift their spiritual experience of music, like how people experience at kensokai music offering events. Often, teachers in the first world possess a strong sense of responsibility to inherit and transmit traditional forms and thus provide austere lessons.
In contrast, the second world consists of institutional, school-based groups of practitioners, in addition to independent-minded musicians, that are characterized by such ranking as shihan (teaching license) and dai-shihan (great master license). In this world, performing with other established koto and shamisen groups is also an important aspect of their activities. Shimura, though quite implicitly, contrasts the epistemological differences of the two worlds and argues that the value system of one world is not easily understood from the perspective of the other.
Shimura demarcates these two worlds in order to underscore the value system of the first world, which is mistakenly labeled as “old” and “unmusical.” His distinction (between musical and the spiritual orientations to shakuhachi playing) seems more useful than the separation between the ji-ari and ji-nashi shakuhachi. For, many of the self proclaimed ji-nashi players, despites their use of ji-nashi flutes, actually belong to the second world, in which the musical result is an important determining factor. Besides, their choice of the ji-nashi flute in the second world is often based on functional reasons (e.g., volume, pitch, playability of the instrument) rather than spiritual ones. The former is associated more with the “external” dimensions of music, and the latter with the “internal” ones.
Where do you belong? What's your value? If you come across someone from the first world, you are lucky, as most players in Japan belong to the second world these days. Hopefully, there are still a number of practitioners in hiding while practicing the spiritual shakuhachi.
This is what I heard from one of Nishimura Koku's students.
One day, Nishimura happened to sojourn at the hotel where Watazumi (Fumon) was also staying. These two players were somewhat similar in what they did: Both played long ji-nashi flutes. They named their own flutes and styles of playing, "kyotaku" and "watazumido," respectively. Also, both embodied great influences of the last komuso Tani Kyochiku. Whereas Nishimura was thought of as the master of shakuhachi in the West (western Japan), and Watazumi was considered as the master in the East (eastern Japan). [Just ignore the fact that Watazumi was also from West Japan originally].
At the hotel, both Nishimura and Watazumi were informed that two great shakuhachi masters were staying there. It was Watazumi who took action first. He sent a messanger to Nishimura and asked Nishimura to visit Watazumi for greetings (maybe, more like salute). Nishimura, as older than Watazumi, became quite disgruntled. Eventually, these two great masters didn't see each other and never encountered again in their lives. According to Nishimura's student, Nishimura was mokkosu, which means "stubborn" in Kumamoto dialect. Kumamoto people are known as being mokkosu.
Both Nishimura and Watazumi established philosophies of shakuhachi "do" or way of life. Both are great. To me, one major difference between Nishimura and Watazumi, apart from their performing styles, is the degree of influences they left on their students. Whereas Watazumi's influence is identified in his students' musical dexteriority, Nishimura's students always talk about their memories of Nishimura - beyond musical impacts - and we can easily tell what Nishimura means to their lives. Their bonding was formed around Nishimura's spiritual influences.
Nishimura's students emphasize that studying with Nishimura was more about life learning and becoming a true human being. Even now, after Nishimura’s death, playing the shakuhachi for them is a reminder of Nishimura’s teaching. For many of Nishimura's students, the connection and bonding with Nishimura has been central to their shakuhachi learning experiences. While students of other well-known teachers tend to speak of the “musical” influences of their teachers, Nishimura’s students tell me that their music-life integration has been achieved by respecting, adoring, and worshiping Nishimura.
I am always impressed to discover how one person, a music teacher, can make such a deep influence on people.
[Here, I am exclusively referring to Japanese students. I know that Nishimura had some foreign students. But I don't know them personally.]
There is always something to learn from history...
The piece "kumoi-jishi" (a festive song in the kumoi scale) was once called "yabu garashi" (killing or sneaping bush) in Fukuoka. Komuso monks typically strolled in town in two as a group. They often stop by houses, especially in front of rich people's residences. When Komuso monks were unhappy about the amount of a donated alm, they often brought more monks and played "yabu-garashi" in front of the house. Disturbed, the head of the house eventually gave more money instead of saying "get away." He probably got more embarrassed than annoyed. Because these komuso's playing was so loud (and out of tune?), it was felt as if it could destroy a bush planted at the gate of the house.
This explanation corroborates with the conventional rule of when "kumoi-jishi" should be played. It's been said that this piece is not supposed to be played in the morning. People don't want to wake up with a cranky feeling.
Not many people have achieved this level of proficiency that komuso monks aimed at. Do more robuki, cultivate a beautiful spirit, and disturb your neighbors.
You may also want to check more "formal" explanations of the piece: http://www.komuso.com/pieces/Kumoi_Jishi.html http://www.komuso.com/pieces/Kumoi_Jishi_(Taizan_Ha).html
To me, to say "Watazumi Doso" is like to say he is my great teacher. Doso (道祖) means founder of a school or originator of a practice (way). Equivalent notions may be shuso (宗祖, or founder of a sect), soke (宗家, or founder of a school), and iemoto (家元, or head of a school). But we don't call "Kurosawa Doso" or "Nakao Shuso" (a family name followed by "doso," "shuso," or whatever). It's not impossible to say "Kinko-ryu shuso" or "Tozan-ryu soke", but we normally don't say like that because these two schools are too large and have many subgroups like other hogaku groups (e.g. Miyagi schools). We surely say "Chikuho-ryu soke" or "Seien-ryu iemoto" as these schools are small enough to form groups (ryu or school is a bounded system).
I often say "Watazumi Fumon" instead of calling him "Watazumi Doso." (Of course, this doesn't mean I don't respect him). Before he became famous, he introduced himself as Tanaka Fumon. So it won't be so strange to call "Fumon ryu," like "Kinko-ryu" or "Tozan-ryu" (a first name followed by "ryu"), instead of "Watazumi-do."
Whether Yokoyama's style should be called Watazumi-do is another question. It's beyond the matter of language. Some people carefully avoid using the term "Watazumi-do." I personally enjoy calling it "Wadatsumi-do Yokoyama-ha" (modeled after "Myoan-ryu Taizan-ha"). Just a language game.
Based on my interview with an experienced shakuhachi player-scholar in Japan.
1. Kobayashi Shizan (the 36th Abbot of Myoan temple)
In his book Shakuhachi Higi, Kobayashi Shizan writes the shakuhachi should be played with accurate pitches. Meri should be as deep as possible. At least, that's what he preached in his book. However, in reality he was not very particular about pitch. He often said no meri should be added to "tsu" in the chi-chi-u-tsu phrase. That's the myoan way. When he played, his meri was not deep at all.
Today, many people criticize this "myoan" way of playing, especially the degree of meri. Drawing on Kobayashi Shizan's book, Mr. Sakurai in Echigo Nagaoka goes on to say that meri should be as deep as half tone. He claims that Tanikita Muchiku (the 37th Abbot) is to blame for shallow meri rendering.
My interviewee is wise enough to say, "that kind of criticism is fine. It is true that myoan playing often sounds out of pitch. But that shouldn't devalue its essence."
2. Koizumi Ryoan (the 38th Abbot of Myoan Temple)
Koizumi often said "that's fine" even when his students didn't play well after his demonstration. He never said "that's not right" to the face of students. Later, Koizumi had decayed teeth and didn't play well. His students then imitated his decayed performance. Kojima Kansui (the current Aboot) studied with decayed Koizumi. After retiment, Koizumi visited Tokyo (where his son lived). My interviewee played honte choshi in front of him with chi meri. Koizumi responded: "I've taught you only a few times, but you still remember chi meri. You also played tsu meri (as in tsu-ro) right. All of my students don't do well with meri. Without meri, it doesn't sound right."
[To be fair, the degree of chi meri in Honte Choshi varies in Myoan: Played as an independent piece, chi is normal. However, when played as a prelude to Kyorei, Koku, or Mukaiji, chi needs to be meri. That's how I learned from my teacher.]
Not many people know how well Koizumi played before he got weak. After he became ill, his playing changed a lot. Sakai Shodo studied with Koizumi when Koizumi was not doing well. However, Sakai Shodo plays well. So does Shimura Satoshi (Zenpo).
You will find a picture of komuso (around 4:51). Not sure if they were real komuso monks. They were dressed in colorful kimono, which actually looks nice, not as scary as spy-like komuso in black.
The monk: Is it yamato choshi? We: No. This is shingetsu.
Later, we realized that shingetsu is Watazumi’s rendering of yamato choshi. It is one of the many pieces that Watazumi “composed” by adding his own personal flavor to the existing honkyoku pieces. In so doing, he changed the titles of the original pieces.
We often come across honkyoku pieces that sound identical but have different titles (and different pieces with the same title).
Change of the title and ownership was loosely defined. Tomimori Kyozan (1899–1975), a well-respected shakuhachi player and scholar, clearly stated that changing the title is acceptable:
Today, the piece ajikan is played quite differently compared to how Miyagawa Nyozan [the composer] played the piece. Although the shape is the same, the level of spirit is different. Nyozan’s verve is no longer carried by today’s players…. The reason why many people today play ajikan in such a way is that many people learned ajikan from Tani Kyochiku who used 2.5 long shakuhachi. That’s how it became a dull, dark song. Miyagawa Nyozan played it on 1.8…. Miyagawa’s playing of ajikan actually sounded quite rough. But he had subtle expressions. Nobody could imitate his level of frantic playing…. This is what is missing in today’s performance. Only the shape is imitated. People simply drag the song and extend the form…. Tani Kyochiku’s playing of ajikan also carries some sort of taste and import. However, Miyagawa Nyozan kept saying, “I wonder where he [Tani] learned it [ajikan] from? If it is Miyagawa Nyozan’s ajikan, it would be troublesome.” I think it would be fine to have Tani Kyochiku’s ajikan. But in order to do so, he should have changed the title of the piece.
Tomimori suggests that playing a piece in a different way without changing the title is rather problematic.
People say two important books to read about shakuhachi are those of Hisamatsu Fuyo and Kobata Suigetsu.
Kobata (1951) wrote:
None of the today’s shakuhachi schools are perfect in themselves. You should not be obsessed by just one school but experience a few different schools. Otherwise, you cannot achieve the ultimate way of shakuhachi playing. For example, let’s assume this person studies shakuhachi in a school in which the emphasis is placed on entertainment shakuhachi playing. Reaching a certain age, this person will feel that something is missing in his or her study and eventually get bored of playing the shakuhachi itself. Conversely, if a vigorous young person starts fuke zen shakuhachi music in his or her youth, he or she would be intimidated by its dark, non-musical nature. This person may draw a hasty conclusion that nothing can be more brutal than shakuhachi music.
When I met one of Fujita's students in Tokyo, I had a chance to play some of his self-made flutes. It was not easy to get sound out of them partly because I was not used to playing large bore flutes. But the main reason was, unlike modern jinashi makers, he did not narrow the space and control the shape of utaguchi bore using a piece of bamboo or applying tonoko with superglue. It was just a huge piece of bamboo. Then, he asked me "do you put your tongue under/behind the lower lip?" That was my first time to come across this blowing method. The function of this is to fill the space between the chin and the flute by pushing the tongue forward.
Fujita's student explains this in his website with pictures. The first picture demonstrates the embouchure in kinko and tozan styles. The third picture captures his jinashi blowing. He explains this way of blowing relaxes the body, release the tension, allows you to blow with least effort, and enjoy playing. it's good especially for older people who started playing myoan. This style is particularly good for making meri tones: It maintains the kari blowing position for meri and thus makes brighter, large-volumed sound even if it is meri. He indicates that he also learned this blowing technique from Okamoto Chikugai who was the president of Komuso Shakuhachi Study Group (komuken) and a mentor of many shakuhachi practitioners including Okuda Atsuya.
Shall we try this?
(Correction: This person Maeda Kogetsu was directly a student of Okamoto Chikugai. Whether he studied with Fujita Masaharu was doubtful. To be sure, they met a number of times with each other.)
Recently, I found this website dedicated to the memory of Fujita Masaharu. Fujita was an extraordinary shakuhachi player/teacher. As was often the case with shakuhachi players of his time, he studied multiple shakuhachi traditions: He began with tozan and studied jiuta and nagauta. Later, he became interested in myoan shinpo. He visited many shakuhachi teachers across Japan and studied/collected many honkyoku pieces. Among those legendary teachers was Yamaue Getsuzan in Saga (my home town!) who was a student of Katsura Shozan and one of very few successors of myoan shinpo tradition. Fujita visited Yamaue in a very rural part of Saga from Yamaguchi prefecture where he lived over 100 times.
I was fortunate to have met one of Fujita’s students in Tokyo. He played some shinpo-ryu pieces for me. Shinkyorei was particularly memorable -- the purest shakuhachi sound that I’d heard.
His students attest in this website that Fujita played long flutes (as long as 3.6 with straight finger holes) with much breath strength. He used to be an athlete. Fujita’s students also make their own flutes (of course, jinashi).
The entire chapters of Fujita’s book are available on the website. They are all in Japanese. You may still enjoy some parts just by browsing, especially Chapter 9 on jinashi making. There is not much information about jinashi making. But there are many pictures of his self-made jinashi.
He composed about 60 pieces, made over 500 jinashi flutes, left 450 scores (collected and transcribed pieces) in 50 volumes, and left recordings. In this website, you can download some of his recordings and scores (including his own compositions). You may need a PDF software that allows for Japanese fonts to appear.
Fujita passed away on May 14 in 2002 at the age of 86.
I found this part of Shimura Zenho's (along with Christopher Yomei's) interview quite interesting. It's in the 4th clip of 6 youtube clips. To translate roughly,
The interviewer: Is the muscle employed for jinashi playing quite different from the one you use for the jiari?
Shimura: When playing wind instruments we use muscles that are hardly observable from the outside. So we cannot really tell how muscles work for each type of the flute. But I've experienced this: A flute (jinashi) didn't sound well initially. But as I used it for a year, it started sounding well. In a few years, the tones that initially didn't come out easily became vibrant. As Chris said earlier, the shakuhachi - be it jiari or jinashi - can make beautiful tone colors. So if you listen to these two different types of shakuhachi on recordings, you may not notice the differences of sound. If you listen to them in a live setting, you may be able to notice the differences slightly. The differences can only be that much. However, those are the sounds heard as a product. In reality, the process of the player becoming able to make a jiari or jinashi sound must be different. I believe the instrument develops the player. Therefore, the body of a jinashi player is the one that was formed through the jinashi shakuhachi. A jiari player develops a body that plays jiari well. You cannot attain both. Of course, you can pursue both and ultimately achieve certain levels. But there are more contradictory things than commonalities [between playing jiari and playing jinashi]. That's how I feel.
The interviewer: So the body developed for each type is incomparable from each other...
Yomei: Shakuhachi, koto, shamisen, and other instruments necessitate the use of the body. Without being aware of the corporeal domain and able to handle the body well, you cannot play good music. Western instruments have developed in the way that they have been distanced from the body, like piano, and synthesizer in particular, you use your brain to make music. It's important to feel the instrument through the body. Jinashi is the one that you need to play with the body. It's as if you play through the air hole coming from the inside of the body.
(END)
Parts of Shimura and Yomei's performances are uploaded here (thanks Jeff for the links!): http://www.ustream.tv/recorded/2272484 http://www.ustream.tv/recorded/2272282 http://www.ustream.tv/recorded/2272475
If you read Japanese, here is the program of the event. (Pasted from http://asianimprov.at.webry.info/200910/article_1.html) The interviews were conducted prior to the concert.
Part of my commitment to the shakuhachi world is to introduce hidden knowledge that is not easily accessible from the outside. I met many shakuhachi people in Japan during my fieldwork. Their insights are too precious to be buried. Somebody needs to write them down.
Live recordings
