The Haunted Shamisen
Though they may sound incredible and fantastic, I witnessed these unexplainable events. I have encountered supernatural beings that defy explanation. I have encountered mundane humans that also defy explanation. I looked into the very depths of the unknown, and the unknown looked into me as well. I can offer no scientific explanation for what I’ve encountered, for our understanding of the world does not allow for what I have seen. Mankind may forge its way into the heavens with moon colonies and invent wonders of technology that greatly relieve the already miniscule bourdon of modern life, but there remain ancient mysteries that we either fail to understand, or are so careless as to forget entirely. And when these ancient terrors demand our attention, modern man will find himself completely at a loss as to what must be done. Yet I have also found myself struggling with the modern trappings of our society just as desperately as I did with the supernatural. Perhaps these supernatural elements are at a loss to explain why humans do the horrible things they do. Perhaps the forces of the supernatural are so disgusted with mankind that they will have nothing more to so with it. Whatever the case, I have found myself at odds with both the seen and unseen worlds. This story is about the horrors of the supernatural as well as the horrors of man. Yet do not make the mistake of thinking this tale to be a gruesome horrible, for there is laughter in the stupidity of mankind and spirit kind. My friends and loved ones are in this story, as well as the fond memories that will unite us forever. Yet do not think this tale a light romp with the supernatural where I go to another world and leave with the promise that I can come and go between the two as I please. For this story is of the dangers of flirtations between the natural and the supernatural.
My story does not start with my birth, but rather the birth of my love of Japanese music, particularly the Shamisen. I was as student of European art music, yet upon hearing the sounds of the Koto, Shakuhachi, and the Shamisen, I fell in love with this bitter sweet music. Yet it was not until I watched Kabuki that I decided to devote my life to the study of Japanese music. Much to the chagrin of my professors and my family who saw me throwing away a future as a concert musician, I gave it all up to explore the mysteries of Japanese music. Since there were no people in America to teach me what I wanted to learn, I went to Japan. I got a job as an English teacher at a conversation school. For the first month, I spent most of my free time in internet cafes looking for teachers of Japanese music, and soaking up the new environment. My eagerness to learn Japanese music greatly outweighed my aptitude to learn the Japanese language, so I had to find a teacher who could speak English. I could find no Shakuhachi teachers, and I had no interest in learning the Koto, so I searched for a Shamisen school. I immediately found a Nagauta school, Nagauta being the musical basis for most kabuki dramas. This school was unique in that it offered lessons in English. I arranged to study at the school, and they helped me to purchase a Nagauta Shamisen.
I studied there for three years, and I l learned many of the songs from the greatest Kabuki plays. I learned a great deal about Japanese history from these plays, and this music filled me with a deep and profound sense of grandeur and elegance. Yet in my study of the Shamisen, I learned of other Shamisen genres, like Kouta, Hauta, Jidayu, and Tsugaru, of which I became intensely fond. Nagauta and Tsugaru are so different it is hardly within the scope of this story to explain them, yet they will become more apparent as the story gains life. The main difference in basic performance practice is in the way the strings are attacked, for they are not simply plucked, as with a guitar. The strings are plucked violently with a Batchi, which resembles a ginkgo leaf. The body of any Shamisen, for there are as many types of Shamisen as there are genres of Shamisen music, is a drum made of a wooden box covered with a stretched piece of skin. Skin from a female virgin cat is commonly used to make a Nagauta Shamisen, but a dog’s skin is required to make a Tsugaru Shamisen. The difference being that a cat’s skin is weaker than a dog’s skin. With Nagauta, the string is struck and the Batchi beats against the cat skin, making a sharp, percussive sound. A Tsugaru Shamisen is struck with more force, thus the skin must be stronger. I am going to the pains to tell you all of this because I had taken it upon myself to study Tsugaru Shamisen in my third year of living in Japan, and in order to practice, I needed a Tsugaru Shamisen, because I didn’t want to break my Nagauta Shamisen.
In case you don’t know, Shamisen are really expensive. Rather than buy a new one, I decided to scour the antique fairs and flea markets of Japan. Most of my searches had brought me nothing more than a few statues of Benzai Ten, and an Ultraman figure for my brother Tim. However, on a Sunday, I finally found the object of my quest. I found a Tsugaru shamisen for 20000 yen. On inspection, I found the skin to be odd. It was lighter than dog skin, but heavier than cat skin. The wood was also of an odd color. While most Shamisen are either brown or black, this specimen was a beige color. It looked like it had been lacquered in blood. It was remarkably warm to the touch as well, and when I picked it up, it was unusually heavy. When I tried to play it, I had a hard time holding it. It was as if it was trying to escape. It was after my failed attempt at making music that the antique dealer, told me it was an “Oni no Shamisen”, or a Devils Shamisen.
I am by no means a rich man, and the chance to buy an instrument at this price could not be passed up, so I decided to buy it. I figured I could take it to a temple or a church. Somehow I could beat the Devil. I was not going to let superstition stop me from learning this music, and this Shamisen was essential to my studies. Rather than shy away from the supernatural, I would confront it head on. I recalled a passage from Jel Al Adin Rumi, who said if you meet a boogieman in the graveyard at night, run towards it instead of away from it. It’s what they don’t expect and it will probably scare the hell out of them. So I bought it. Naturally, he didn’t have a case for it, so I had the pleasure of walking around with it while people gawked at me. I took it over to a bench and started to say whatever prayers I know to fight demons. I am by no means a religious man, but I’m superstitious, and I have watched “the Exorcist” more than once, which is a hard thing to do.
So, I held it in my lap. Looking deep into the neck of the thing, I declared “I seek refuge from Satan in God!” The thing shifted in my lap until it almost slipped from my grasp. In grabbing it, I hit the first string, and as if to confound all reason, the thing spoke! It said “I do too you stupid Jackass of a foreigner! Take your hands off of me!” Needless to say, I was at a loss for words. Plucking the first string again, the thing spoke again “You don’t understand English when you hear it? Should I bray like a jackass to reach that sand bag you’re using for a brain! Put me down jackass!” It was shortly after it called me a jackass for the second time in a day that I regained my composure. “You can take that jackass talk and shove it, unless you want me to throw you off that bridge over there to let you spend eternity haunting this filthy lake!” At that, the thing stopped shifting around. It appeared we had reached an understanding. I was not going to take crap from any Shamisen, even if it was a supernatural one.
Growing weary of the first string, I hit the third string. It said “You have to help me! I’ve been taken from all I know against my will! I have been grossly wronged and mistreated! I implore you; take me back to my people! Let me live among my own kind! If you possess a drop of human kindness, nay a drop of any kindness, do not refuse me my dying wish. For it was by the hands of humans that I have suffered so. I pray you; take a lesson from the animals, who only kill for survival. Humans kill for amusement! Humans make toys and trinkets from the skin and bones of those who lack the means to defend themselves. There is indeed no savagery of beast that is not out done by that of man!!” Halfway through this torrent of suffering, I was tempted to cut the third string away from the damned instrument altogether.
It was with the utmost trepidation that I hit the middle string. I was relieved to hear it say “I need your help.” I discovered that the three strings of the Shamisen, being remarkably different in timbre, were also different in temperament. The first string was a complete asshole, the third string was a melodramatic coward, and the second was the only one I wanted to hear from ever again. The problem with the second was that in hitting it, sometimes the third or first strings were accidentally hit. So I asked it “What do you need from me” to which it responded “I need to go to Ebisu. My brother is looking for me, so I need to call him and get him to meet me there at the Becker’s across from the Becker’s in the station. (Yes, such a thing exists). Can I use your cell phone?”
Grateful to be talking to the most reasonable of the three, I readily consented and held the phone up to the thing. After a few seconds, it slipped from my grasp. And upon grabbing it I hit the dreaded first string “You stupid bastard! How am I supposed to dial the damn number?! You don’t have the sense God gave a sack of beans. Dial the number and play into the phone before you die of stupidity and I die of exposure to stupidity!”
After unhooking the first string, stomping on it, and flushing it down the dirtiest public toilet in the area, I got the number, dialed it, and played the second string into the phone. What followed was a short conversation in Japanese that I couldn’t really understand. After it ended I asked “How did you learn English anyway?” to which the thing replied “Your mother taught it to me jackass.” Having developed an understanding from what little I could get out of my supernatural Shamisen, I decided I didn’t need to hear from it anymore to know what to do next. After another trip to the bathroom, I took a haunted Shamisen with no strings to Ebisu.
Though blessedly free from the tyranny of the unholy trinity of attitude problems, I now had to contend with people gawking at me, and stilted conversations in either their bad English, or my hopelessly bad Japanese. The conversation is the same in any language.
Them: “Is that a Shamisen?”
Me: “Yes.”
Them: “Sugoi (great)
Them after a few minutes:” Do you play the
Shamisen?”
Me: “Yes”
Them: “Sugoi (great)
Them after a few more minutes: “Most Japanese
people can’t play the Shamisen. I’ve
never seen a Shamisen.
It’s unusual for a foreigner (or gaijin,
or Gaikokujin) to play the Shamisen.”
Me: “I know. You’re the fifth person to tell
me that since I got on this train”
Them: “Eh??”
I don’t know how many times I’ve had that conversation, but after a long train ride, I finally got to blessed Ebisu. I went to the Becker’s across from the Becker’s in the station. The Becker’s in the station is always crowded, trash always piles up around the trash cans, and it’s always loud and obnoxious. Nobody seems to know about the one across the street and around the corner, because its always half empty, with smug bastards grinning into their cheeseburgers because they have outsmarted the entire world by finding a Becker’s near the station that isn’t crowded. I ordered my two cheeseburgers to grin into and sat in my little corner, with my silent adversary stewing in mute anger at me, when some dude in a flashy suit sat right next to me in spite of the sea of empty tables were drowning in. With a grin that would test the test the love of his own mother, he asked me, “Is that a Shamisen?”
After I watched the remnants of my restraint commit seppuku, I responded. “No, it’s your idiot brother, or sister, or whatever the hell it is. I’ve about had my fill of Shamisen calling me a jackass, crowded trains, gawking strangers, and I’ve already had enough of your crooked smile. I know you’re a fox spirit, I know this Shamisen is made out of some idiot of a fox spirit you must have the shame of being associated with, and I know I’ve wasted most of my Sunday playing mind games with this moron of a haunted Shamisen!” I screamed.
“And just how did you reach such a fantastic conclusion?” he asked.
After catching my breath I responded, “The first Kabuki play I ever watched was about a fox spirit haunting a princess because she was playing a drum made out of its mother. The fox almost drove her crazy until some samurai caught the fox and threatened to kill it. It ended with the guy playing the drum while the fox danced around for a good ten minutes. Maybe I should beat the body of this Shamisen like a drum and watch you dance for me. Might wipe that sickening smile off your face.” I replied.
“I assure you the smile on my face is only caused by the relief of learning of the welfare of my poor sister, for it is indeed my sister that was captured and made into a Shamisen. I believe that particular model is a Tsugaru Shamisen. Though it appears to be well made, I feel my sisters hide will make a poor Tsugaru shamisen, as her skin is not strong enough to withstand the intense beating used in that style. If you but give me the Shamisen, I would reward you handsomely for your troubles.” he said.
“I know enough about your kind to fall for that. If you give me money it will turn into leaves once you get out of my sight. I expect compensation for my troubles, at least enough to cover what I spent on that monstrosity of a Shamisen, and a bit extra to buy enough alcohol to wipe this travesty of a Sunday from my memory forever. And you seriously need to wipe that smile off your face if you don’t want to do a little dance recital for the good patrons of Beckers.” I said with simmering anger.
“If my smile seems insincere, it is only because I am not accustomed to meeting foreigners with such a vast knowledge of Japanese culture. How did you learn so much about our beautiful country?” he said.
“I came to Japan to study Nagauta. I’m really interested in Kabuki, so I study Nagauta here in Ebisu. .” I said.
“A student of Nagauta nonetheless! I am indeed in esteemed company! Who knew an American mind could be so inquisitive. I am right in assuming you are American? If you are wondering why, let me remind you are eating two cheese burgers and you have the most charming accent. So you come all the way to Ebisu every week to study Nagauta. I assume you do not life in Tokyo. If you did, you would probably be dressed in a different manner. Not that your dress is not presentable. It would have never occurred to me to match a pair of black cargo pants with a faded black T shirt with a Jazz musician on it. With black shoes too! Simply charming. I assume you live in Saitama?” he said as if asking me about a skin disease.
“I indeed have that honor.” I said with as much arrogance as I could muster. Saitama is a city built like a giant shopping center. It’s a town for house wives, their bratty kids, and cheap English schools. Very uncool.
“You must be a dedicated student to come all the way from Saitama! Tokyo being so big and exciting, I hope you do take care of yourself. Tokyo people are not as simple as people from Saitama. When I say simple, I don’t refer to intelligence, for Saitama people are not without intelligence relative to living in a place like Saitama. I’m sure they know what’s on TV every night of the week and they know where the best Ramen shops are in their quaint little âÂ?¦.towns, if that’s what you want to call them.” he said.
“WellâÂ?¦..” I stammered.
“When I refer to our lack of simplicity, I refer to a refinement of culture that one finds in Tokyo. Tokyo being the seat of power in Japan since Tokugawa Ieyasu molded an unstable group of clans into the great country you now inhabit. In many ways, Kabuki was one of the greatest products of this era, as you more than likely know. Kabuki could very well represent the stability and refinement of the Tokugawa era. Not that Saitama is without its traditional culture. My mind draws a blank, but exactly what culture has ever come out of Saitama?” he asked.
“WellâÂ?¦ there is Min Yo.”
“Min Yo? Folk singing? Every part of Japan has Min Yo! Surely Saitama has some traditional culture. Well, I guess it is not in the scope of your vast expertise of my country to know about the part of it you are living in. Tell me my American friend, when did you start to take such an interest in Kabuki?”
“I guess it was when I watched that play I told you about, with the chick who had that drum made out of that fox. I didn’t like the bit at the end when the samurai dude played the drum for ten minutes and the fox dude dances around. It seemed like a bit much.” I replied.
“How fitting that you find yourself in the very Kabuki play that brought you all the way to Japan to study Nagauta. We are lucky to have an American who has taken such an interest in our culture. Do you happen to know the name of this Kabuki play that had such a profound effect on you, that brought you all the way to Japan, and that has brought you into the realm of the supernatural? Did you happen to remember the name of that play about the ‘chick’ and the ‘fox dude’ as you so charmingly described it?” he asked.
“I think it was KitsuneâÂ?¦.something. I can’t really remember.” I said.
“I see. I think the play you referred to earlier was Yoshitsune senbon Zakura, but I do not share your vast expertise. Yoshitsune, or the ‘samurai dude’ as you probably remember him, was possible the greatest hero in Japanese history, and there is a wealth of Kabuki plays written about him. Perhaps you know Kanjin-Cho? he asked.
“Yeah, I learned that one two months ago.” I said.
“Did you learn the whole song, or just the title?” he asked.
“The song you jackass! I might not know the title of every Kabuki play I’ve ever watched, but at least I have enough sense to keep my skin on my body. Now we could either talk about your upcoming dance solo, or my upcoming compensation. Either way you can take your crooked smile and your smug attitude to hell for all I care!” I said.
“And you can take your compensation strait to Saitama for all I care.” he said.
“Good one.” I admitted
“As far as my sister loosing her skin, rest assured that has yet to happen. My sister did not get killed and made into a Shamisen, as in Yoshitsune senbon Zakura. My sister suffers from a sickness that my kind has not the means to cure. Quite simply, she is a blithering idiot. She changed herself into a Shamisen, and she lacks the whit to change herself back. I would change her back myself, but she will just change himself into something worse the next time.” He explained.
“Tragic.” I replied.
“Indeed, you have the heart of a Buddhist saint to feel compassion for the suffering of my poor sister. I am indeedâÂ?¦”
“When I said ‘tragic’, I was referring to how I wasted my Sunday on this depressingly stupid bastard of a haunted shamisen.” I said.
“Take heart my American friend! It is still early and soon we will have a king’s ransom on our hands. If not that, then a wayward fox spirits ransom on our hands and you can get very drunk on that much, rest assured. Do not worry about my wayward sister. I will see to her welfare. I guess Ill just have to store her away until she learns her lesson. Or anyone’s lesson for that matter. She’s really quite hopelessly stupid. But first, let us address those two cheese burgers. And after that, let us drink beer in the spirit of fellowship and brotherhood between fox kind and jackass kind!”
“You can help yourself to a burger, but keep your fellowship, cause I have no use for it. And you can call me by my name, which Ishmael before you call me Jackass again, cause I won’t stand for that. Now Ill drink with you because it will be good for laughs, but all I want out of you is my money, and some good stories about Kitsune (fox spirits). I figure I’ve earned it, and its no skin off your back to give it to me. Pun intended, in case you didn’t know.” I said.
“Then lets make our way to the Ebisu Beer station. I shall be your Ahab, and the escalator shall be our Pequod as we plow through a sea of people wandering through Ebisu station, for that’s the quickest way to get to our destination. I shall strike into the very heart of our White Wale, and we shall feast on its gore! Come, dear Ishmael!”
“Don’t give me any of that Moby Dick crap either. I’m just a guy studying music. I don’t have any White Wales to kill.” I said.
“That remains to be seen, dear Ishmael.” he said with that smile I hated so much.
