An'archives Новости

Morikawa Seiichirou, vocals, bass
Yamagiwa Hideki, electric & classical guitar
Takahashi Ikuro, drums & percussion

je prie pour que la goutte ne tombe pas
(I pray that the drop does not fall) is the first international release by Japanese trio Chi To Shizuku. While they have released five albums and a 7” in Japan, their spectral, haunted rock songs haven’t yet reached a much wider audience overseas. With this album, then, a live recording taken at Koenji HIGH, Suginami, Tokyo on 23rd November 2021, the unique, quartz-like character of Chi To Shizuku’s music is writ large, the bleak bliss of their songs carved onto twelve-inch vinyl.
Perhaps the best-known member of Chi To Shizuku, at least for audiences with an ear turned to Japanese psychedelia, is drummer Takahashi Ikuro, known for his membership of almost every group worth a damn from that scene – Fushitsusha, Nagisa Ni Te, Ché-SHIZU, Kousokuya, High Rise, Maher Shalal Hash Baz, LSD March, the list goes on. But the core of Chi To Shizuku’s music is the collaboration between vocalist, bassist and lyricist Morikawa Seiichirou, and guitarist and arranger Yamagiwa Hideki. Morikawa is a member of long-running punk/goth group Z.O.A., and has also played with YBO , Zzzoo, and as collaborator with Takeshi and Atsuo of Boris in A/N; he’s also recently been performing with Mitsuru Tabata. Yamagiwa’s history takes in stints with Katsurei and Cock C’ Nell, and he also recently guested with la scene 裸身.

All this contextual information does relatively little, though, to prepare you for the unique vibration of Chi To Shizuku’s lustrous songs. They shimmer in the same half-light, perhaps, as Shizuka and the quieter moments of LSD March, sharing a similar poise and classicism, and there’s a tenderness and wracked poetry to Morikawa’s voice that reminds of the emotional intensities both of traditional Japanese folk, and of British folk music: on “Musuu No Nemuri No Naka De Kumo Wo Tukamu”, the combination of his singing, backed with gorgeously plangent guitar, reminds of no-one so much as it does The Pentangle or Spriguns Of Tolgus. Chi To Shizuku’s love for the ballad as form gifts their music an archaic, sometimes arcane resonance, and from what you can hear on this album, it’s clear they’re in love with graceful melancholy.

But this is not a folk album, by any means; it just shivers with the same eternal spirit. There are also hints of prog rock, and you can catch some passages of scratchy, distended free rock, on the extended spirit invocation of “Nanhito Hanhito”. je prie pour que la goutte ne tombe pas is an extraordinary album, a melancholy surprise, that reminds dedicated listeners of the seemingly bottomless well of great music to be found via the Japanese underground in its many forms. Perhaps Michel Henritzi says it best, though, in his liner notes, when he writes, “Chi To Shizuku’s music reminds us that our life is a dream that lasts only a season, and that oblivion will follow.”

Recorded at Koenji High Suginami, Tokyo, 23 November 2021
Mix & Mastering: Taku Unami, photography : Noriko Akiyama
Liner notes by Jon Dale Printed by Alan Sherry

Spiral code is the second album released on An’archives by the Japanese trio archeus, after 2023’s Kusōzu: Nine Death Stages, and their seventh release altogether. It’s also the most staggering evidence yet of the single-minded pursuit of group-sound explored by Keiko Higuchi (voice, drums, percussion, trombone), Shizuo Uchida (4 strings), and TOMO (hurdy gurdy). For two tracks, “awakening, beyond recurrence” and “where points and lines intersect”, they’re joined by Kiyotaka Moriuchi, an improviser who’s played with the likes of Shoko Numao and Ensemble Shippolly, on percussion and darbuka (a goblet-shaped drum played widely across South East Asia).

Always able to scour magic from both their relationships with their instruments, and their non-idiomatic interplay, on spiral code they’ve widened their net further; the results oscillate from humid and claustrophobic blocks of noise to rivulets of tone coursing across post-volcanic landscapes, and on into simple gestures suspended in arctic space. Spiral code was recorded in a single day, on March 20 th 2025, at a studio in Koenji, Tokyo, the morning session with the original trio, and afternoon and evening session with Moriuchi – the first time archeus have played with a guest musician.

When asked about the music archeus makes together, TOMO is quick to isolate the singular characteristics of their collaboration: “we are trying to explore some new, unknown musical vocabulary every time we play. And what we are trying to achieve from every session is something unique, an interesting chemistry or, I should say, alchemical reaction among the three of us.” You can certainly hear that alchemy in the dynamic arc of their performances, the way they seem to be able to switch on a dime and push the music into unexpected terrain, all while sounding intimately archeus. “We have been playing for many years,” TOMO continues, “so I think that among three of us, we can telepathically sense, feel and understand what each of us is trying to express while we are playing.” It’s telling that guest musician Moriuchi fits so effortlessly into the archeus soundworld, able to hitch a ride on the intimate telepathy of Higuchi, Shizuo and TOMO; “I think he gave us some fresh air to our music,” the latter smiles. But that telepathy extends, even, to the name of the album itself, with all members pointing toward spiral imagery when naming the title track, whether TOMO’s evocation of Kundalini serpent imagery and Caduceus, to the spiral shape of DNA, what TOMO calls “the code of life.” It’s certainly deeply entwined music: spiral code is a helix of sound, a cylindrical coiling of possibility.

Futaishitsu Souzou is the first vinyl album released by Japanese duo la scène 裸身, a duo of Saya on vocals and bass, and Eiji on guitar. They’ve been an understated but deeply impressive presence on the Japanese underground for the best part of a decade now, having self-released a debut album, Ten No Sekido, in 2018, which saw them co-producing by Atsuo of Boris, who also worked with them on the following year’s Corridor EP. The mystery and magic of their songs, which vibrate in a curious space between psychedelic rock, acid folk and slowcore, is at its strongest on Futaishitsu Souzou.

la scène 裸身 have long been interested in art that’s stripped back to its simplest, most elemental form, much as their name represents the Japanese word ‘rashin’, which means naked body. There is something unadorned about the three songs on Futaishitsu Souzou; Saya’s becalmed, unhurried vocal delivery reflects the gentle intensity of the simple, gem-like chord changes strewn through songs like “Futaishitsu Souzou” itself, and the bittersweet, folkish lament of “Reiyou”, a song inspired by the loss of the band’s friend, Gazelle.

Futaishitsu Souzou is steeped in melancholy, but it is not resigned to this emotional state; there are threads of rebirth and transcendence woven through the album’s three lovely, slowly enveloping, and deeply moving songs. Often, you can hear that transcendence in the soaring, sky- burning guitar playing that cleaves these songs in twain, from guest guitarist Hiroshi Kurosawa (of Asylum). At times, the music here recalls the drift-like psych-rock of the Paisley Underground; elsewhere, it explodes with vibrant intensity, swarming with noise and feedback, that runs alongside similarly delirious examples from the Japanese underground.

And yet, la scène 裸身 is entirely its own thing, a unique, singular vibration, a oneiric manifestation of hermetic visionary art.

妖精の通る道 (The Path Where Fairies Pass) is the debut vinyl release by Reimaki, the duo of Rei Yokoyama (Triggers Flowers, Stakaidan, Lapiz Trio, 新井薬師自警団, and Fujio, Chiko Hige and Rei), and Maki Miura (Tsubamegami, Les Rallizes Dénudés, Shizuka, Fushitsusha, Ohkami No Jikan and Katsurei). The duo has been an understated presence in Tokyo, playing occasional under-the-radar shows and self- releasing a few CD-Rs, but they’ve recently started to break cover, with a recent cassette on UFO Creations, released in support of a late 2024 tour of China. It’s also a welcome reappearance on the scene for both musicians; Miura’s musical history, in particular, is being reevaluated thanks to a recent string of welcome Shizuka reissues.

But the music Reimaki make together is a different thing entirely, much as it shares some psychological and aesthetic interests with both Miura’s and Nokoyama’s other projects. Their sound is split between two main interests – an extension of glacial, deoxygenating psychedelic improvisations, and a deep interest in medieval European music. They’ve also been known to cover compositions by English prog/improv musician Fred Frith. These various elements of the Reimaki aesthetic are all present through 妖精の通る道, from the fragility of the opening “Novel Amor” through to the smeared, hazy textures of the three extended pieces that comprise the album’s flipside.

There’s a beautiful sympathy in these performances, and a generous simplicity, too; you can sense that this music is informed by decades of finding just the right way to say the right thing in the clearest manner possible. Yokoyama and Miura never overstate things; make the statement, play the song, let it hang in the air for a while, and then move on to the next essential expression. The music is unburdened by self- consciousness. Their take on medieval music cuts to the core of melody and melancholy; their psych- improv side is blurred and drifting without ever lapsing into rote generic gestures.

There’s some shared space with other artists who suspend the timeless within the kaleidoscopic possibilities of the psychedelic – Kendra Smith & The Guild of Temporal Adventurers; Emmanuelle Parrenin; Rosina de Peira – and a tangled folksiness that might put listeners in mind of Jan Dukes De Grey, Comus, Current 93, and Tower Recordings. Accompanied by beautiful photography from street photographer Takehiko Nakafuji, who was also personally chosen by Mizutani to document Les Rallizes Dénudés, 妖精の通る道 is a most unique and necessary trip.

An’archives presents 'sensitive', a new album, and the first solo vinyl release, by Japanese keyboardist and synth player, Mitsuhisa Sakaguchi. A deftly assembled suite of glistening electronic tonalities, 'sensitive' is the latest in a lengthy run of excellent, idiosyncratic albums by Sakaguchi. A low-key yet productive artist, Sakaguchi has released banks of solo titles via his own Bandcamp page, and is also an in-demand improvisor for electronics: see, for example, recent collaborations with Yoshiki Ichihara ('TO(R)RI INFRANTA', 'Ftarri', 2025), Tatsuhisa Yamamoto ('non equal mad', self-released, 2020), and the - trio with Yamamoto and Uchihashi Kazuhisa ('self-titled', Modern Obscure, 2023).

'sensitive' is a startling album for many reasons, not least its rich attention to detail. Sakaguchi’s ear is sensitized to the complexity of electronic sonority, something he’s developed through decades of performance and improvisation, though he’s not limited to that language. “I mainly use multiple synthesizers and process the sounds with effects,” he clarifies, detailing his approach to his music. “I also use a lot of acoustic sounds such as field recordings and percussion; sometimes I also use sounds such as prepared piano.”

Indeed, you can hear this see-sawing balance between the electronic and acoustic written across 'sensitive' – see the activated cymbals that twist and stutter through the first half of “metatoxic”, which are soon replaced by a similar stream of burbling synth-flow. The opening “sensitive rot” folds field recordings into Sakaguchi’s electronic kit to such a degree that the differing forms dissolve into each other; on “green shrine”, the field recordings are more present, yet still poetically framed, taken as they are “from the mountains of my hometown, Yawata City, Kyoto,” Sakaguchi explains.

The tender balance achieved by Sakaguchi as he moves between practices, tonalities and temporalities helps manifest the guiding conceptual force behind 'sensitive', where Sakaguchi explores a cleansing reverie. “What I wanted to portray with this album was to create an album of sounds that shattered and reassembled my current ‘sense’ and ‘toxins’,” he nods, “along with the ‘nature’ around me. Electronic sounds, our bodies, the environment around us, and nature all blend.”

From there, Sakaguchi attempts a transformation, or transmutation – an alchemical process of exchange. “I am attempting to explore whether it might be possible for the sounds to come closer to each other,” he concludes, “or perhaps even to interchange places.” On the five pieces that comprise 'sensitive', you can hear this fusing and exchange. Inhabiting similar spaces as the music of Nuno Canavarro, Asmus Tietchens, Omit, and other like-minded visionaries, 'sensitive' traverses curious, quixotic terrain between electronic composition, electro-acoustics, and improvisation.

Onna Last Live 1983 includes the final performance by the original line-up of Onna, the psych-rock project of revered Japanese manga artist, Keizo Miyanishi. Onna’s legend has largely rested, until now, on one self-released and self-titled seven-inch from 1983. Reissued by Holy Mountain in 2009, its rediscovery, along with several archival live and studio sets that leaked out across the 2000s, signalled to a wider audience the power of Miyanishi’s strikingly hypnotic songwriting. With Onna Last Live 1983, though, we hear the group’s perfect line-up performing at its peak.

While Miyanishi was the core member and conceptualist of Onna, the other members of the group would also go on to make significant contributions to the Japanese underground. Guitarist Michio Kurihara would eventually be known for his membership of YBO2, Ghost and White Heaven, and collaborations with the likes of Boris and Damon & Naomi. Drummer Ken Matsutani formed Marble Sheep & The Run-Down Sun’s Children and The Mickey Guitar Band, while also running the Captain Trip label. Joined by the late bass player Yasui Yutaka, to whom the album is dedicated, this quartet only performed live in 1983; the live set here was recorded at Silver Elephant.

It’s a different line-up to the Onna duo that’s documented on their single. After Miyanishi and fellow manga artist Mafuyu Hiroki recorded that material, Miyanishi decided he wanted to start playing gigs; Hiroki left, and Kurihara, Matsutani and Yutaka joined soon after. This line-up allowed Miyanishi to significantly expand Onna’s powers, leading to a sound that Kurihara once described to Ptolemaic Terrascope magazine as “repetitive and heavy, yet quite orthodox.”

The songs here are simple yet deeply effective in their repetitive power, generally revolving around two or three simply strummed chords for guitar. Bass and drums repeatedly lock into mantra-like grooves as Kurihara’s guitar scales the walls, with Miyanishi’s consumptive moans and sighs sent torquing through FX. The cumulative effect of the seven songs here is very heavy indeed; if the prologue “Always…” drifts beautifully through five minutes of placid, beseeching melancholy, the epilogue, “Never Seen A Light Like This”, spirals out into sixteen minutes of glazed-over psych-rock, completely monomaniacal and thrilling in its slow-motion tumult.

Throughout, you can hear Miyanishi and co. reaching for something ineffable, something beyond and between the notes. It’s a phenomenal performance; it’s also no surprise that the group disintegrated after this show, given its intensity. Matsutani and Yutaka left after the Silver Elephant show, with Miyanishi and Kurihara continuing through the first half of 1984 firstly as a duo, and then a trio with new drummer Yoshiki Ueonyama. Kurihara left soon after. But Onna Last Live 1983 is proof plenty of the powers of the original Onna quartet, sending their Rallizes/Velvets dream-mantras off into darkened, stormy skies.

An’archives presents Kagome Kagome, the first collaboration between France’s Delphine Dora and Japan’s Ayami Suzuki. Curious listeners might know Dora from the string of lovely, idiosyncratic albums she’s released over the past two decades, most recently for labels like Modern Love, Morc and Recital; she’s also worked with the likes of Michel Henritzi and Sophie Cooper. Suzuki’s performances, predominantly for voice, place her within a tradition of Japanese improvised music – see the music she’s made with artists such as Takashi Masubuchi, TOMO and Leo Okagawa – but her approach also takes in folk song, ambience and claustrophobic drone.

On Kagome Kagome, Dora and Suzuki play to their many strengths: a gentle, free-willed folksiness; long, aerated drone constructs; ghostly, time-warping explorations for voice. They met on Dora’s May 2024 tour of Japan, though they’d been in touch beforehand, with Dora proposing the collaboration to Suzuki, developed around “concepts of ‘otherworldliness’ and ‘impermanence’,” the latter says, “and explored the relationship between ‘the invisible’ and sound in Japanese culture – a common interest we share.”

They recorded across several days that month, with the sessions for Kagome Kagome taking place in Kanumi, in Tochigi prefecture, at a space named Center. “I was particularly looking forward to seeing Delphine encounter the vintage 104-year-old harmonium from Nippon Gakki Seizo Co. that had just been repaired at Center,” Suzuki recalls. “It was as if the harmonium had been waiting for Delphine to draw sound from it. I felt it was a beautiful relationship where they could guide each other.”

Indeed, there’s something channelled about the music that Dora and Suzuki made together in the session that constitutes Kagome Kagome. Dora’s harmonium might be the spine of the album, but Suzuki’s free- floating voice, and gaseous, muddied banks of electronics, wrap around the wheezing, ancient tonality of the harmonium beautifully – they, too, sound as though they were just waiting to be willed out of the daytime air. Their voices nestle together beautifully – “when we sang together in a tunnel,” Suzuki says, “there were times when we sang the exact same melody without planning. It happened so naturally that the boundaries between us became blurred.”

And that title? It’s drawn from a Japanese children’s song, and the song titles themselves constitute the song’s lyrics, in alternating Japanese (Romanized) and French language. Urban legend connects the song “Kagome Kagome” to the Nikko Toshogu Shrine, nearby Center, that Suzuki and Dora visited while they were in Kanumi. “The mysterious lyrics of ‘Kagome Kagome’ and its puzzle-like connection to Nikko Toshogu were a perfect fit for this mysterious album,” Suzuki reflects, “which I think has its own kind of puzzle-like elements.”

A deep album of prayer and magic, of divination and ritual, Kagome Kagome’s sense of serious play, its rich beauty, feels somehow dislocated from our time. If you’ve ever enjoyed the music of Nico, Kendra Smith, Charalambides, or other channelers of ghostly mystery, its eerie otherness will, somehow, feel oddly familiar.

A reissue of a cassette that was originally released on Uramado in 2020, this is the first time this live session appears on vinyl. The performance, featuring Kudo on piano and 3C123 on clarinet, was recorded on October 18, 2009, at the Uramado venue in Shinjuku. A beautiful and quixotic forty-minute set, that reconnects both Kudo and 3C123 with various musical histories, including those of classical composition and free improvisation.

The performance documented on Tori Kudo & 3C123 is a curious one. While they both appear to slip into improvised ruminations at times, for the most part, Kudo performs pieces by Erik Satie on the piano, over which 3C123 teases an excoriating stream of improvisation from the clarinet. His playing here is wild in its poetry: sometimes lushly nestly alongside Satie’s melodies, elsewhere loosing Ayler-esque squalls from the instrument, it’s a bravura performance that is matched, in an indirect manner, by the poise and pacing of Kudo’s generous, fluent recital.

When asked about the thinking behind the performance documented here, Kudo explains by describing the historical juxtaposition of Satie with Takehisa Kosugi’s improvised violin as “an essence of the Japanese art of collective improvisation.” The playing here, as within Japanese collective improvisation, is about sitting ‘alongside’ each other, not necessarily in direct (or even indirect) reference, but rather sharing the space; “just being there together,” Kudo says, and letting go of the need for performers to engage in interplay.

Tori Kudo & 3C123 is certainly part of that tradition, and this is where its curious poetry resides; in that ‘third space’ that sits in between, but not directly connecting, the two performers. Kudo makes an analogy with Fluxus, which is appropriate. But you can also hear their shared history here, somehow, as Kudo and 3C123 have known each other since the eighties, when they shared a house in Kunitachi City, Tokyo. Their musical paths have been multiple – Kudo, of course, best known perhaps for his Maher Shalal Hash Baz ensemble; 3C123 as a member of Vedda Music Workshop, and with other Japanese musicians like Koichiro Watanabe.

Chita, the third album proper by Japanese guitar pop trio Usurabi, is their most elegant, stylish confection yet. Over the past four years, Toshimitsu Akiko (vocals, guitar), Kawaguchi Masami (bass) and Morohashi Shigeki (drums) have been recording, playing live, and releasing songs of rare melodic warmth, centring Toshimitsu’s unique musical vision, where melancholy and joy can co-exist, a split-second flick of her wrist switchblading the guitar from languorous sweetness to overloaded rock action.

Chita expands on the smartly sculpted pop and rock songs found on their previous albums, Remains Of The Light (2021) and Outside Of The World (2023), while infusing the music with more of the rough- housing energy that also coursed through the live CD, Once In A Red Room, they self-released in January 2024. There’s still a through-line, of course, that connects the music here to Toshimitsu’s earlier groups, Doodles and Animone, but Chita feels more deeply like a sussed, sharp take on the crumbling edges of sixties psychedelic folk and rock: the harmonica that blasts through the opener, “Bansho”, is pure Dylan in effect.

One of the many smart things about Usurabi, though, is that they never feel beholden to the historical moment. Soon after “Bansho”, we encounter “TurnOff”, a lush pop song that turns on a dime, with Toshimitsu tearing fuzztone notes from six strings that are like a more folk-reverent Kaneko Jutok. And there’s something about the guitar and bass riff that doubles through the thrilling two-and-a-half minutes of “Hakanonaka” that’s a dead ringer for the Only Ones. Flip the record, and things get more expansive, the spindly jangling of the title song spiralling ever inwards, before the sweet, sugary rush of “Kanata” resolves to the martial rhythms that pulse through “Aseranai”, winding the album down to its poetic, becalmed resolution.

Kata No Wadachi is the latest album by Banetoriko, the solo noise project of Tamaki Ueda. Her first release both on An’archives and on vinyl, it follows several albums for the Neurec imprint – 2017’s Beside the Sluice and 2022’s Yorioto Hogiokuri – and several other cassettes and CD-Rs. With Kata No Wadachi, the Banetoriko world, inspired by the Yokai (“strange apparitions” – supernatural figures, ghosts, spirits) of Japanese folklore, is at its most resonant yet.

Recorded across 2022 and 2023, the three tracks on Kata No Wadachi have Ueda performing in a particularly elevated manner. Her sound is highly tactile and grittily sensuous, the better to capture the ritualistic repetitions, and hypnotic methodologies, core to Banetoriko. The scrape and scratch of Ueda’s self-made metal instrument, the Banetek, gives these improvisations a unique throb, even as their mood, of introverted focus and elaboration of minutiae, gestures towards broader histories of noise and abstract art. Kata No Wadachi evokes, to some degree, the urban ritual noise of the likes of The New Blockaders, Organum, or Ferial Confine; elsewhere, the abraded, rough-housing textures bring to mind the eighties tape works of Hands To and John Hudak.

Ueda embraces the dream evocation that’s possible when loops of blurred texture collide with the gnaw and groan of energised metal, while mantric, dissociated vocals, and the oppressive weight of deep breath, gather around these compositions like a ghost’s shroud. While she’s been making noise for some time, since the nineties, Banetoriko was formalised as a project in 2011, while Ueda lived in Los Angeles. Relocating to Osaka in 2021, she’s carved out an utterly unique space for herself in Japanese noise, and her music contains an absolutely elemental vibration. Framed beautifully with poetic liner notes by Aurélien Rossanino, Kata No Wadachi is an oppressive, yet quixotically blissful trip.

With the release of Sweet Inspirations At Muon, the first appearance on vinyl of Tori Kudo’s mythical early ‘80s primitive rock gang Sweet Inspirations, another piece of the seemingly endless puzzle of the Japanese underground has fallen into place. Recorded some time in 1982 at Yokohama venue Muon – precise details are sketchy – we’re now given another chance to discover what was going on in Kudo’s mind just before he formed the group he is now best known for, the ragtag gang of pro and amateur musicians that was Maher Shalal Hash Baz.

Sweet Inspirations were one of several groups formed by Kudo around this time. He’d already released the visionary naïve-art album, Tenno, in collaboration with Reiko Omura, in 1980, and a trip to New York the following year led to the recording of Atlantic City, under the name La Consumption 4. Returning to Japan, Kudo first formed Guys’N’Dolls with Jun Yoshiwara (bass) and Kiyoaki Iwamoto (drums); Yoshiwara carried over into Sweet Inspirations, who existed for a few years, their membership, at various times, featuring Asahito Nanjo (High Rise etc.), Jutok Kaneko (Kousokuya), Yoshio Kuge (Les Rallizes Denudes etc.), 3C123 and many more.

The material here was originally released, without permission, by the Cragale label on CD-R in 2000. It was one of a sudden wave of archival CD-Rs that Cragale pumped out that year of material recorded at Muon, which was owned by Kohei Iehara, who co-founded Cragale with Tamotsu Hongo. In the context of the recent unleashing of material from the Kudo archives – the 9CD At Goodman set, the reissue of the first two Maher Shalal Hash Baz cassettes and the Noise LP, and the tantalising glimpses of other historical gems via Tori’s own Bandcamp page – hearing Sweet Inspirations with such clarity fills in a significant piece of the puzzle; here is Kudo, just before Maher, channelling the rough conceptualism of Red Krayola and the glinting, staggered rhythms of Syd Barrett into extended blooms of ragged glory, sketching out future classics like “Manson Girls”; A bonus CD includes a cover of a song by legendary South Korean rock group San Ul Lim.