On Saturday, Oct. 5, the Swarthmore community welcomed taiko legend Eitetsu Hayashi and his ensemble Fu-Un no Kai in the Lang Performing Arts Center’s Pearson Hall Theatre, for their concert “Sonic Bodies.” The concert is the final event of Hayashi’s stay at the College. During his week-long residency, he led multiple workshops and lectures discussing his experience with taiko at length.
As I sat in McCabe pondering the structure of this reflection, my mind traced back to one of Hayashi’s talks, in which he was asked about the universality of taiko. In reply, he answered that part of taiko’s beauty lies in its ability for everyone to associate the art being presented to them with their own past, to feel the drum as if their very own heartbeats, and to recollect a universal experience that traces back to the womb. As someone who does not have much prior knowledge of taiko, it is far from appropriate for me to comment on the technical aspects of the concert. Nonetheless, what I can do is use this opportunity to record the rare, raw, emotional reaction I felt upon attending my first live taiko performance. I hope this article could be of some insight to those, like me, who are new to the art of taiko, but would still like to take a small peek into its boundless charm.
I arrived at LPAC on Saturday night almost half an hour earlier than the performance time, and still, a queue could be seen from afar. Inside the theater, various groups of taiko performers from across North America were already preparing for the first piece of the performance: “Sen no Kaikyo,” translating to “One-Thousand Echoes of the Sea.” The piece, commissioned by the Office of Kobe 21st Century Reconstruction Memorial Premiere and composed by Hayashi, commemorates the fifth year of reconstruction work after the 1995 Hanshin-Awaji Earthquake, which devastated the city of Kobe. Upon hearing the performance, which features more than 72 artists, I immediately associated it with the force of turbulent seas. I was struck most of all by a back-and-forth response between the Odaiko, the largest type of taiko, and the rest of the ensemble, which seemed to echo the struggle between the compelling might of waves and the human strength that persists despite all odds. Then, the drum beats accelerated and a booming rhythm filled all voids of the room. The sudden intensity reminded me of war and conflicts, which traces back to taiko’s rich history. Although taiko has been revolutionized by Hayashi, the instrument was historically used in the military arena and in the Buddhist and Shinto religions. I started to wonder about contemporary taiko’s relationship with its history. How does it draw inspiration from and reconcile with its past?
The answer to this question is perhaps addressed in the following pieces of the performance. “Itsutsu no Koukei,” or the “Five Scenes,” composed and choreographed by Hayashi, is a solo performance with uchiwa daiko, a handheld fan-shaped taiko that derives from Japanese Buddhism, and foot-rhythm. Taiko solos could not have been imagined in ancient times, yet they provide the performance with a certain versatility that allows room for rich improvisations. The adrenaline rush, however, really came during “Monochrome,” a minimalist contemporary piece composed by Maki Ishii, but inspired by Hayashi’s arrangement of “Yatai Bayashi.” The current version that includes Western orchestral elements is known as “Monoprism,” which premiered with the Boston Symphony Orchestra back in 1976. “Monochrome” was perhaps the simplest of all pieces performed at the concert in regards to composition, but I was stunned by its control of sound in terms of both volume and speed. The work evoked a unique sensation, a near-ethereal experience, where peace and fear were somehow mish-mashed together. I felt adrenaline pumping through my veins as if my heart was trying to jump out in response to what sounded like a war cry, but at the same time a tranquility seemed to persist under all the noises above. This returns to the theme that taiko’s beat resembles the heartbeat.
Dance Department Chair Joe Small ’05 and Myles Farall ’24 joined in the penultimate piece called “Shichisei,” or “Seven Stars.” The center drum represents the “North Star” while the other drums are split into four groups, all playing their own rhythms. Featuring seven Odaiko, it is one of the major highlights of the concert since it is rare to even observe one during a performance. “Shichisei” is a physically challenging work, with performers having collapsed in previous concerts. “Shichisei” tells us with its physicality that taiko is equally about the body movement as it is about the music itself. The strength of a concert’s message relies indispensably on the performers’ abilities to skillfully master both physicality and musicality.
“Mio no Hasu,” or “A Lotus on the Water Channel,” answers the question I raised at the start of this reflection: can taiko resonate with a universal audience? “Mio no Hasu” tells the life of a Japanese forestry engineer, Takumi Asakawa, who loved Korean people and culture. His actions were in stark contrast to the Japanese Colonial Occupation of Korea and Manchuria in the early 20th century that brought destruction to local cultures. Remembered by the Korean people, Akawa symbolizes solidarity during difficult times when hatred aims to separate people. The taiko work inspired by his life portrays his goal for unity through sound.
Walking out of LPAC, amazed, I know that there are a lot more details I need to digest. The concert has offered me perhaps the best opportunity there is to enter the realm of taiko and appreciate its beauty.
