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      in Music

      Japan’s High School Baseball Tournament is the Sound of Summer

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      Created 75 years ago for the country’s prestigious high school baseball tournament, Yuji Koseki’s “The Crown Will Shine on You” stirs memories as it inspires new ones.In addition to being a starting pitcher for the Toronto Blue Jays, Yusei Kikuchi is an accomplished karaoke crooner who is proud of his spirited version of the fight song of his former team in Japan, the Seibu Lions. Asked if he knew the words of a more popular song, “Eikan ha Kimi ni Kagayaku,” or “The Crown Will Shine on You,” during on an off day between starts, the competitor in him took over.Standing in full uniform at the visitor’s dugout in Minnesota, he smiled broadly and began singing in Japanese (loosely translated):As clouds dissipate, sunlight fills the skyOn this day especially, the pure white ball flies highAnswer the jubilation around you, oh our youthWith your smiles of sportsmanshipThe crown will shine on youAs cherry blossoms are to spring, “The Crown Will Shine on You” is the melody of summer in Japan. It was composed by Yuji Koseki in 1948 for the wildly popular National High School Baseball Championship. And on Sunday, as they have for the last 75 years, players from the 49 prefectural champions will march into Koshien Stadium in Nishinomiya to open the single-elimination summer tournament, lifting their knees high and marching to Koseki’s song.“It’s the sound of summer,” Kikuchi said. “For sure, the sound of summer baseball. You don’t just hear it if you’re fortunate enough to advance to Koshien Stadium for the national tournament, it’s played throughout the prefectural rounds as you’re trying to advance to the national stage as a way to motivate you to play your best.”Kikuchi marched into Koshien Stadium as a sophomore and senior. Kenta Maeda, a starting pitcher for the Minnesota Twins, marched in as a sophomore.“It’s a melody that stays in your head,” Maeda said. “I think every Japanese person thinks of the summer baseball tournament when they hear it. For me, it reminds me of my high school years and making it there that one summer, for sure.”Koseki was born in 1909 in Fukushima, a small city 180 miles north of Tokyo. He joined Nippon Columbia, the licensee for the American label Columbia Records, as a composer in 1930. Despite having minimal interest in sports, he dabbled in team fight songs because the marching element appealed to him.He probably did not imagine that his career would become intertwined with Japan’s most popular sporting event.The annual event, which was created in 1915 as the National Middle School Championship Baseball Tournament, was halted for four years during World War II. Play resumed in 1946, and under Allied occupation Japan underwent many social and economic reforms. Among them was a revision of its education system that created a new, three-year curriculum called high school.For the annual summer baseball extravaganza at Koshien, this meant an official name change, denoting it as the National High School Baseball Championship, beginning with the 30th edition in 1948. To celebrate the change, organizers sponsored a national competition for a theme song. Koseki, who was 38 at the time, won.The champions from 49 prefectures compete at the annual tournament.Kyodo News, via Getty ImagesIn his autobiography, Koseki wrote that he drew inspiration from the end of the war — continuation of the tournament meant a continuation of peace. The soothing sounds of batted balls and youthful exuberance would replace the tension of blaring air raid sirens that had become commonplace.He wanted an uplifting, forward-thinking song. He explained his process.“For inspiration, I went to Koshien when it was completely empty and stood atop the mound,” Koseki wrote. “As I imagined what it would be like to be thrust into the emotions of fierce competition, the melody of the song sprung naturally into my mind. Standing on that mound was absolutely the right way to grasp it.”Koseki’s influence at Koshien Stadium goes beyond the tournament as well, because he also composed “Rokko Oroshi,” a fight song for the stadium’s home team, the Hanshin Tigers.Koseki was commissioned to compose the song when a professional league formed in 1936. Originally titled “Song of the Osaka Tigers,” the march has thrived as the longest continuing team fight song in Nippon Professional Baseball and is as synonymous with the Tigers as the team’s black-and-gold pinstriped uniform.“For inspiration, I went to Koshien when it was completely empty and stood atop the mound,” Yuji Koseki said of his inspiration to write “The Crown Will Shine on You.”The Asahi Shimbun, via Getty ImagesThe song has even developed a cultish following akin to Harry Caray’s rendition of “Take Me Out To The Ball Game,” which still has the Wrigley Field faithful clamoring for celebrity renditions during the seventh inning stretch 25 years after Caray’s passing.Countless musicians and celebrities have recorded versions of “Rokko Oroshi,” but perhaps the most famous came from one of Hanshin’s players. Tom O’Malley, a former Mets infielder, spent four years with Hanshin, hitting over .300 each season, but his most lasting impression came off the field.He recorded a version of “Rokko Oroshi” in Japanese and English in 1994. True to Caray, it appealed to the masses for being endearingly off-key. The original recording sold more than 100,000 copies and a remastered digital version was released in 2014, 18 years after O’Malley’s career in Japan ended.Koseki was inducted posthumously into the Japanese Baseball Hall of Fame last month for his musical contributions to both professional and amateur baseball. Twenty years earlier, he had received a far more surprising endorsement from Sadaharu Oh, who is Japan’s home run king and played for the rival Yomiuri Giants. Before the 2003 Japan Series, Oh, then managing the Fukuoka Daiei Hawks, was asked about the song he would once again be forced to hear as an opponent.“‘Rokko Oroshi’ actually has quite a nice rhythm and is a likable song,” Oh told reporters. “Even though it’s the opposition’s fight song, the truth is it inspires all of us. The fight songs Mr. Koseki composed have a way of uplifting all those who play sports.” More

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      in Movies

      ‘The First Slam Dunk’ Review: Style Points

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      A popular sports manga about a Japanese high school basketball team vaults to the big screen in an exhilarating, gorgeous anime.“The First Slam Dunk” is a great basketball movie because it understands what’s great about basketball. When a character catches a pass, drives toward the paint, steps back, squares up and releases a clutch 3-pointer, the movie slows time, drops the sound and homes in on exactly the right detail — the perfect, crystalline swish of the ball passing through the basket and gently grazing the net.Bringing all of the kinetic, over-the-top style of Japanese anime to bear on the granular, technical athleticism of high school ball, “The First Slam Dunk” is a one-of-a-kind sports drama somewhere between “Hoop Dreams” and “Dragon Ball Z.” You’d expect a movie with that title to have some pretty spectacular jams, and you’d be right. What surprised and delighted this N.B.A. obsessive is that it dazzles just as much with passes and rebounding. This feels like real basketball.Based on the long-running and beloved Weekly Shonen Jump manga “Slam Dunk,” and written and directed by the manga’s writer and illustrator, Takehiko Inoue, “The First Slam Dunk” centers on the starting lineup of the Shohoku High School basketball team as it competes for the national championship. The entirety of the film’s two-hour run time takes place over the course of this one game, broken up by flashbacks that give insight into the lives of the players, including the troubled point guard Ryota (Shugo Nakamura) and the self-centered power forward Hanamichi (Subaru Kimura).The flashbacks are well-written and add off-the-court dramatic interest, but it’s the basketball action that is the movie’s claim to excellence. Expertly staged and beautifully rendered using a combination of computer-generated imagery and traditional hand-drawn animation, it’s often so spectacular that I am eager to watch again.The First Slam DunkRated PG-13 for mild language and some dark themes. In Japanese, with subtitles. Running time: 2 hours 4 minutes. In theaters. More

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      in Music

      In Rare Move, Japanese Pop Star Comes Out Publicly as Gay

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      “I don’t want people to struggle like me,” said Shinjiro Atae, making an announcement that is extremely unusual in conservative Japan.At first, there was total silence. Then, there were shrieks, wild applause, weeping and shouts of “I love you!”Fans of Shinjiro Atae, a J-pop idol who has been on a nearly two-year performance hiatus, had come to hear him talk about “the challenge of my life.” Standing onstage in a dark auditorium in front of 2,000 fans in central Tokyo on Wednesday night, he revealed something he has kept hidden for most of his life: He is gay.“I respect you and believe you deserve to hear this directly from me,” he said, reading from a letter he had prepared. “For years, I struggled to accept a part of myself. But now, after all I have been through, I finally have the courage to open up to you about something. I am a gay man.”Such an announcement is extremely unusual in conservative Japan, the only G7 country that has not legalized same-sex unions. Earlier this summer, the Japanese Parliament passed an L.G.B.T.Q rights bill but it had been watered down by the political right, stating that there “should be no unfair discrimination” against gay and transgender people.In making a public declaration, Mr. Atae, who spent two decades performing with AAA, a hit Japanese pop group, before embarking on a solo career, said he wanted his fans to know his true self. He also hopes to comfort those who might be grappling with anxieties about their sexuality.“I don’t want people to struggle like me,” he said.Activists said they could not recall an instance when a Japanese pop star of his stature had publicly declared they were gay, because of anxieties about losing fans or sponsors.“I think he has decided to come out in order to change Japan,” said Gon Matsunaka, a director and adviser to Pride House Tokyo, a support center for the gay and transgender community.Mr. Atae, who began dancing with AAA when he was just 14, said he has been preparing for — and fearing — this public coming-out for years.For most of his performing life, “I thought if I was found out it would end my career, and so I couldn’t tell anyone,” said Mr. Atae during an hour-and-a-half interview the day before his announcement at the apartment of his elder sister in western Tokyo, where he sat on a lime green straw mat in a gray T-shirt and baggy black faux leather shorts.Mr. Atae with his stylist and makeup artist during an interview in Tokyo on Tuesday.Noriko Hayashi for The New York TimesThe decision to open up about his sexuality, he said, evolved over seven years of living in Los Angeles, where he saw how freely gay couples could show affection in public and built an extensive support network.“Everyone was so open,” he said. “People would talk about their vulnerabilities. In Japan, people think it’s best not to talk about those things.”Gay and transgender performers who regularly appear on television do not talk explicitly about their sexuality.“Japanese society is not a place where people strictly state their sexuality,” said Satoshi Masuda, a researcher specializing in Japanese popular music at Osaka Metropolitan University. “Rather, it naturally comes to be known.”Mr. Atae, the youngest of three children, grew up in a town between Kyoto and Osaka.His mother insisted that he play baseball until the end of elementary school. Sticking with it, she told him, would teach him “gaman” — the Japanese word for endurance.When he discovered a local hip-hop dance studio, the discipline became an instant passion. “I just thought: ‘This is it,’” he said.His instructors encouraged him to try out for a new pop group. On a lark, he sent in a résumé and auditioned by video though he was still in middle school. After two weeks of training in dance, singing and acting in Tokyo, Mr. Atae was selected by the management company, Avex, as one of eight initial band members.AAA debuted in 2005, with Mr. Atae, the youngest member, forgoing high school. He performed mostly as a dancer, and began appearing in TV series and movies.His sexuality perplexed him. “It was a time when on TV, comedians would say two men kissing was gross,” he said. If anyone asked if he had a girlfriend, he just said he was too busy working.AAA rapidly scored with fans, eventually recording eight top 10 hits on Billboard Japan’s Top 100 chart. But as Mr. Atae wrote in a memoir, “Every Life Is Correct, But Incorrect,” published last year, “my mental state was in shambles.” He said he spent a period with AAA “stuck in a marsh of negative thinking,” frustrated that he was not as well known as other band members.What he left out was that he was terrified that a gossip magazine or fans would discover he was gay.Mr. Atae in Yoyogi Park in Tokyo, where he used to perform at the beginning of his career.Noriko Hayashi for The New York TimesIn 2016, as some of the members of AAA embarked on solo acts, Mr. Atae moved to Los Angeles, where he attended entertainment business classes and studied English on his own.But when he visited neighborhoods popular with the L.G.B.T.Q. community, he ran into Japanese tourists and expats, and feared someone might leak a photo of him at a gay club or out with a male date.“I thought, everything is over,” he said. Then the long-ago baseball lessons from his mother kicked in. “I thought there had to be a way,” he said.Gradually, Mr. Atae made friends he could trust with his secret. He began to plan his public revelation.He would have to tell his family, his mother first. “It was the most nervous I have ever been in coming out,” he said.“I was super surprised, and I had never imagined it,” said his mother, Suzuko, 66, who asked to keep her surname private to avoid harassment.Although she supported her son personally, she balked when he said he wanted to go public. She was anxious about Mr. Atae facing online attacks or discrimination. Now, she said, “I am 200 percent supportive.”On Wednesday night, his mother sat in the back row of the auditorium, across the aisle from her two other children and their families, crying as he broke down sobbing as he told the audience that he once “thought my feelings were wrong.”Even as Mr. Atae started recording solo songs with lyrics like “Pretty girl, I still adore you,” he had started telling more people about his sexuality. His solo career has been modest, with no chart-topping hits.To his friends, the news was often a surprise. But many, including fellow band members from AAA, showed up on Wednesday to cheer him on. “The word ‘diversity’ started becoming more common, but how to take in that word is still a very difficult issue in Japan,” said Misako Uno, 37, a AAA member, in a backstage interview. “I want to be a good cushion” for him.Writing his memoir, Mr. Atae said, was a way to soft-pedal his eventual announcement to fans.“I figured it was not a good idea to just suddenly say ‘I am gay,’” he said.Mr. Atae’s decision, he said, was not political. All he wanted, he said, was to “normalize” being gay.On the day before his announcement, a stylist, a makeup artist, a publicist and several assistants trailed Mr. Atae during a photo shoot where he wore a Céline shirt and John Lawrence Sullivan trousers. He seemed relaxed, despite repeating how nervous he felt.Coming out, he knew, would likely draw criticism. “Whatever you do, there will be haters,” he said. “I can only focus on the people I might be helping.”After the announcement on Wednesday night, Miku Tada, 23, an art student in Tokyo, said her heart broke to think of how Mr. Atae had “struggled on his own.” But now, she said, “I think that he can have a lot of influence on other kids who may be feeling the same way.”Reiko Uchida, 43, a housewife from Saitama, a suburb outside Tokyo, said that normally, she would be taken aback if someone told her they were gay or lesbian. But with Mr. Atae, she said, “I see him as someone whose personality I like and a person that I respect.”The evening closed with a music video broadcast of Mr. Atae’s single, “Into the Light”:“I spent so long being these versions of myself/I forgot who I was, I was somebody else/You give me something I’ve been missing my whole life/I’m coming into the light.” More

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      in Television

      How Netflix Plans Total Global Domination, One Korean Drama at a Time

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      As “Squid Game” showed, success with audiences around the world can come from a laser focus on local taste.They met in a 20th-floor conference room in Seoul named for one successful project with Korean talent — “Okja,” a 2017 film of one girl’s devotion to a genetically modified super pig — to discuss what they hoped would become another hit.Quickly, the gathering of Netflix’s South Korea team became an unhappy focus group, with a barrage of nitpicks and critiques about the script for a coming-of-age fantasy show.One person said the story line pulled in too many fantastical — and foreign — elements instead of focusing on character and plot. The creative components struck another person as too hard to grasp, and out of touch.Finally, the executive who was championing the project offered a diagnosis: The writer had watched too much Netflix.Inspired by the streaming service’s success in turning Korean-language shows into international hits, the writer wanted this show to go global, too, and thought more far-fetched flourishes would appeal overseas.The fix, the executive said, was the opposite. The script needed to “Koreanize” the show, ground it in local realism and turn some foreign characters into Korean roles.Netflix wants to dominate the entertainment world, but it is pursuing that ambition one country at a time. Instead of creating shows and movies that appeal to all 190 countries where the service is available, Netflix is focusing on content that resonates with a single market’s audience.“When we’re making shows in Korea, we’re going to make sure it’s for Koreans,” said Minyoung Kim, Netflix’s vice president of content in Asia. “When we’re making shows in Japan, it is going to be for the Japanese. In Thailand, it’s going to be for Thai people. We are not trying to make everything global.”Front, a robot doll from the show “Squid Game.” Back, Minyoung Kim, Netflix’s vice president of content in Asia, who brought the show to the world.Chang W. Lee/The New York TimesNetflix’s 2023 Emmy nominations — a respectable if not record-breaking haul for the streaming service — tell one story of its ambitions: It received nods Wednesday for its prestige drama “The Crown,” its comedy-drama “Beef” and its reality shows “Love Is Blind” and “Queer Eye.”In addition to that wide spectrum of English-language programming, Netflix’s ambition is to grow in relatively untapped regions like Asia and Latin America, beyond its saturated core markets in the United States and Europe, where subscriber growth is slowing. It is allocating more of its $17 billion annual content budget to expanding its foreign language programming and attracting customers abroad.But the company is also betting that a compelling story somewhere is compelling everywhere, no matter the language. This year, Netflix developed “The Glory,” a binge-worthy revenge saga about a woman striking back against childhood bullies, which cracked the top five most-watched non-English-language TV shows ever on the service. Before that, at one point “Extraordinary Attorney Woo,” a feel-good show about a lawyer with autism, was in the weekly Top 10 chart in 54 countries. Last year, 60 percent of Netflix subscribers watched a Korean-language show or movie.The overseas content has also taken on greater significance with the Hollywood writers’ strike, in which Netflix has become a focal point of frustration for the ways streaming services have upended the traditional television model. In April, before the writers went on strike, Ted Sarandos, one of Netflix’s co-chief executives, said that he hoped there wouldn’t be a strike and that he would work toward a fair deal. But he also promised, “We have a large base of upcoming shows and films from around the world,” adding that Netflix had to “make plans” for a worst-case scenario.In building an audience abroad, Netflix has a head start on other major streaming platforms, although Disney and Amazon have announced plans to build their catalogs of international content. In many Asian markets, Netflix is also competing with a local streaming option — often created by broadcasters wary of ceding control to foreign media giants.Asia, Netflix’s fastest-growing region, is a key battleground because customers watch a higher percentage of programming in their native tongues. Netflix already has shows in more than 30 Asian languages.That’s where Ms. Kim, 42, comes in.Ms. Kim joined Netflix in 2016. Her job is, essentially, to help Netflix do something that has never been done before: build a truly global entertainment service with shows in every market, while selling Americans on the appeal of foreign-language content. If she is daunted by the demand, she doesn’t show it.She is chatty and direct, with an almost encyclopedic knowledge of Korean television dramas. But perhaps most importantly for her task, she is the woman who gave the Netflix-watching world “Squid Game.”‘Don’t expect miracles’In 2016, Netflix rented Dongdaemun Design Plaza, a Seoul landmark and futuristic exhibition space, for a red-carpet affair featuring the stars of one of its biggest shows at the time: “Orange Is the New Black.”The hors d’oeuvres were served, on theme with the show, on food trays meant to mimic prison. Netflix was arriving in Korea’s entertainment industry with a big splash. But the tongue-in-cheek humor felt inhospitable and culturally out of touch, according to industry people who attended. It left the impression of an American company that did not understand Korea.It was a clumsy start. A few months later, when Ms. Kim began in her role as Netflix’s first content executive in Asia with a focus on South Korea, she warned the company’s executives: “Don’t expect miracles.”Ms. Kim said she needed to make Netflix feel less foreign and sell creators on why they should work with the company.She traveled to visit producers at their offices instead of summoning them to see her. She arranged regular boozy dinners with producers — the custom in South Korea — knowing that it was difficult to gain their trust until they got drunk with her.Over lunch, where she had a steaming bowl of beef offal soup, she described her strategy.“Here, you first have to build a relationship,” Ms. Kim said. “At the time, I think the way we approached things felt very transactional and aggressive. When it comes to Asian partners, oftentimes it’s more than just the money we put on the table.”The 2021 show “Squid Game” became the most-watched show ever on Netflix and spurred interest in more Korean shows and movies.Noh Juhan/NetflixEarly in her tenure, she came across a movie script called “Squid Game” by Hwang Dong-hyuk, a respected local filmmaker. He had written it a decade earlier and could never find a studio to finance it. She said she immediately loved the irony of a gory “death game” thriller based around traditional Korean children’s games. She thought the concept might work better as a TV show, allowing for more character development than a two-hour film.But it seemed like a strange choice for one of her first big bets. Similar titles were in the young-adult genre, such as “The Hunger Games” or “Battle Royale,” a Japanese cult film in which a group of students fight to the death.“Who wants to see a death game with poor old people?” she recalled being asked by a member of her team.But after she saw the set designs, she was convinced that it would be a big hit in Korea. Netflix decided to change the English title to “Round Six” to appeal to an international audience. Near the release date, Mr. Hwang asked to change the title back because he felt that “Squid Game” was closer to the show’s essence.Much to everyone’s surprise, “Squid Game” garnered an enormous number of views in South Korea and across the world. It was a sensation that broke into the cultural zeitgeist, complete with a “Saturday Night Live” skit and Halloween costumes. And Netflix finally threw the right kind of party for the show’s Korean cast: an after-party, after dominating last year’s Emmy Awards.“Squid Game” changed everything. It became the most-watched show ever on Netflix, and it spurred interest in other Korean content. In April, to coincide with a visit to the United States by South Korea’s president, Yoon Suk Yeol, Netflix said it was planning to invest $2.5 billion in Korean shows and movies in the next four years, which is double its investment since 2016.After decades of Hollywood’s delivering blockbusters to the world, Netflix is trying to flip the model. Mr. Sarandos said that “Squid Game” proved that a hit show could emerge from anywhere and in any language and that the odds of success for a Hollywood show versus an international show were not that different.“That’s really never been done before,” he said at an investor conference in December. “Locally produced content can play big all over the world, so it’s not just America supplying the rest of world content.”‘Green-light rigor’Global expansion requires a guiding principle. For Ms. Kim, that’s “green-light rigor,” a mind-set she brought to Netflix’s office in the Roppongi district of Tokyo, where she moved last year to oversee the content teams in Asia-Pacific except for India. In some Asian countries, she explained, Netflix has a more limited budget, so the company has to select only the “must-haves” and pass on “nice-to-haves.” Green-light rigor also means not pandering to what Netflix imagines viewers across the world want.How that discipline played out in practice was on display when the Japanese content team met to discuss whether to option a book for a show in late January.The book in question was a love story set in a dystopian world with elements of science fiction. A data analyst said that based on the show’s projected “value,” he wondered whether Netflix would recoup its investment because of the sizable budgets usually required for science fiction.Kaata Sakamoto, who heads the Netflix Japanese content team, said the company had helped creators working in their own countries in their own languages reach a global audience.Chang W. Lee/The New York TimesKaata Sakamoto, who heads the Japanese content team, said he worried about the mismatched expectations of viewers who might come expecting a romance drama and then find themselves in hard-core science fiction.“It’s like someone who goes into a restaurant and they are served food that is different from what they want to eat,” he said. “If this is a ‘Romeo and Juliet’ tale, do we need a big sci-fi world setting? It feels like mixed soup.”The executive pitching the project said the writer watched “a lot of Netflix” and was aware of what was popular. So instead of a pure love story, he wanted to infuse elements of dystopian science fiction — a popular genre on Netflix.But Mr. Sakamoto, who played an active role in producing some of Netflix’s hits from Japan, seemed unconvinced.“My question is what is it about this project that is uniquely Japanese?” he asked.Netflix’s Tokyo office exudes an American vibe, but very little English is spoken in the creative meetings. This was the case when Mr. Sakamoto met with Shinsuke Sato, creator of “Alice in Borderland,” a science-fiction survival thriller that was Netflix’s biggest hit in Japan, to discuss a coming project.It was a free-flowing discussion that touched on minute details of the project, from character development to plot twists to which scary animals would work best in computer graphics — reptiles could be easier than furry creatures, suggested Akira Mori, a producer who works with Mr. Sato. (“Maybe an alligator?”)Later, Mr. Sakamoto said that in the past, a lot of talented Japanese who were successful in Japan had struggled to break through in Hollywood because they didn’t speak English well.“But what Netflix has allowed is that creators can make work in their own countries in their own language, and if the storytelling is good and the quality is there, they can reach a global audience,” he said. “This is a major game changer.”“Physical: 100,” a gladiator-style game show in which contestants fight for survival and a cash prize, was in the Top 10 of non-English shows for six weeks. NetflixVision come to lifeThe increased expectations are apparent throughout Netflix’s high-rise office in Seoul. The meeting rooms are named after its prominent Korean movies and shows. In the canteen, a human-size replica of the doll from “Squid Game” looms over a selection of Korean snacks and instant noodles.Ms. Kim’s vision of creating a diverse slate of Korean shows has come to life. “Physical: 100,” a gladiator-style game show in which contestants fight for survival and a cash prize, was in the Top 10 of non-English shows for six weeks. This year, at least three Korean shows have been among the top-10 foreign language shows every week.“It’s exciting, but I’d be lying if I said I didn’t feel the pressure,” said Don Kang, Netflix’s vice president of content in South Korea, who has succeeded Ms. Kim in overseeing South Korea.Mr. Kang, who is soft-spoken with a baby face, joined in 2018 after heading international sales at CJ ENM, a Korean entertainment conglomerate. When he started, Netflix was still operating out of a WeWork office.He said that before Netflix, he thought there wouldn’t be much international interest in Korean reality shows or shows that weren’t romantic comedies.“I was very happy to be proven wrong,” Mr. Kang said.Netflix’s slate of Korean programs runs the gamut from romantic comedies to dark shows like “Hellbound,” an adaptation of a digital comic book about supernatural beings condemning people to hell. Yeon Sang-ho, the director of “Hellbound,” said such niche content wouldn’t be made by Korean broadcasters because the audience wasn’t big enough to justify the budget.Yeon Sang-ho, director of the Netflix show “Hellbound,” said such niche content wouldn’t be made by Korean broadcasters because the audience wasn’t big enough to justify the budget.Chang W. Lee/The New York Times“Netflix has a worldwide audience, which means that we can try more genres and we can try more nonmainstream things, too,” Mr. Yeon said. “Creators who work with Netflix can now try the risky things that they wanted to do but they weren’t able to.”Netflix’s success has reshaped South Korea’s entertainment industry. TV production budgets have increased as much as tenfold per episode in the last few years, said Lee Young-lyoul, a professor at the Seoul Institute of the Arts, and there is growing concern that domestic broadcasters will struggle to compete.Production companies need Netflix’s investments to hire top writers, directors and actors, creating a “vicious cycle of dependency,” according to “Netflix and Platform Imperialism,” an academic paper published in The International Journal of Communication this year.The extraordinary success of “Extraordinary Attorney Woo” highlights the tensions.AStory, the show’s production company, rejected Netflix’s offer to finance the entire second season, because of its previous experience with the service. AStory made “Kingdom,” a hit Korean zombie period show, as a Netflix original, meaning Netflix owned all the show’s intellectual property rights in exchange for paying the full production costs.“While it’s true that Netflix helped the series get popular, our company couldn’t do anything with that,” said Lee Sang-baek, AStory’s chief executive. “There are lots of regrets there.”Mr. Kang said that Netflix had a good relationship with AStory and that the situation was complex. He said Netflix had been “very, very generous” in compensating creators and actors but emphasized the need to grow in a “sustainable” way.“You do sometimes hear those types of concerns: Is Netflix taking too much from our industry? But you can’t be in this business and operate that way,” Mr. Kang said.The production company AStory made “Kingdom,” a hit Korean zombie period show, as a Netflix original.Juhan Noh/Netflix‘Too Hot to Handle’ around the worldOne by one, Ms. Kim rattled off the unique traits of audiences around the region. Korean audiences prefer happy endings in romance. Japanese dramas tend to portray emotion in an understated way. Chinese-language viewers are more accepting of a sad love story. (“The Taiwanese staff always says a romance has to be sad. Somebody has to die.”)Ms. Kim understands that local stories share universal themes, but the key to Netflix’s work is to understand these cultural differences.When Netflix’s “Too Hot to Handle,” a tawdry reality dating show with contestants from the United States and Britain, did well in South Korea and Japan, the company decided to make its own shows in the respective countries. But instead of programs replete with sex and hooking up, Netflix’s versions in South Korea (“Singles Inferno”) and Japan (“Terrace House”) were more suited to local sensibilities: only hints of romance with minimal touching or flirting.Storytelling can also differ. Impressions of the first episode of “Physical: 100” were divided by geography. Ms. Kim said she found that in general, American audiences thought the extensive back stories about the contestants slowed the show. Korean audiences liked the back stories because they wanted to know more about the contestants.Ms. Kim recalled how Netflix’s U.S. executives asked her why the first Squid Game contest did not come until the last 20 minutes of the first episode. She was puzzled, because this was fast for Korean audiences — but not fast enough for American sensibilities. In South Korea, the action often does not start until the fourth episode because shows often follow the cadence of a story arc suited to a 16-episode broadcast TV schedule.Ms. Kim said she thought that audiences would tolerate work that defied their expectations or values when it was foreign, but that it must be authentic when it was local.So far, that philosophy has been successful. “Squid Game” proves that. But it also shows the new challenge that awaits Netflix — once something is a global hit, there are global expectations.Leonardo DiCaprio is a fan, and Mr. Hwang, the writer-director, even teased that the Hollywood A-lister could join the “games,” a boost that most people chasing global domination might find hard to resist. But Netflix did manage it — for now.Last month, when the cast was announced, it featured all Korean actors. More

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      in Theater

      The Female Artisans Honoring, and Reinventing, Japanese Noh Masks

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      ONE OF THE world’s oldest surviving theatrical arts, Japanese Noh grew out of various forms of popular entertainment at temples, shrines and festivals, including seasonal rites offered by villagers giving thanks for a bountiful harvest. During the Muromachi period (1336-1573), those varied productions were codified into an elaborately contrived entertainment for military leaders, some of whom, like the 16th-century warlord Toyotomi Hideyoshi, also acted in Noh. Presented using minimal props on a stage comprising a roof, four pillars and a bridge way, the plays dramatize myths and tales from traditional Japanese literature with monologues, sparse bamboo flute melodies, periodic percussion and tonal chanting. Often, supernatural beings take human form. The pace can be almost hypnotically slow, with the colors and elaborate embroidery of the actors’ costumes indicating their characters’ age and status.But perhaps the most distinguishing feature of Noh is the carved masks worn by performers. Of the hundreds of masks produced during the Muromachi period, about 40 to 50 form the archetypes for the masks made today, says the historian Eric Rath, who specializes in premodern Japan; many represent different characters, depending on the play. Master mask carvers have long been celebrated for their ability to create a static face that seems to come alive, its expression changing with the angle of the performer’s head and the way the light hits its features. While many Japanese people today have never seen a live Noh performance, the white visage and red lips of a Ko-omote mask (one of a few denoting a young woman) or the bulging golden eyes of the horned Hannya (one of the most famous of the demon masks, representing a wrathful, jealous woman) are both intrinsic to Japan’s visual culture.Nakamura in her Noh-inspired mask “Okina” (2022).Before World War II, only men were allowed to perform Noh professionally; now, some women play leading roles. But until recently, mask making, in which blocks of hinoki cypress carved in high relief are hollowed out, then primed with a white mixture of crushed oyster shells and animal glue — with mineral pigment for lips and cheeks, and gold powder or copper to give the teeth and eyes of masks depicting supernatural beings an otherworldly glow — was a craft largely handed down from father to son.THAT’S CHANGED SOMEWHAT in the years since the Kyoto-based Mitsue Nakamura, 76, started learning the craft in the 1980s. When she began, she knew of only one other woman in the field, but this year, all four of her current apprentices, some of whom study for as long as 10 years, are female. Some adhere to the traditional archetypes and techniques, while others radically reinterpret them.For purists, Nakamura says, a true Noh mask is never entirely decorative: It has to be used onstage, and its maker must hew precisely to a narrow set of centuries-old parameters. Today, Nakamura says, actors prize masks that are antiques or appear to be. Her pieces, each of which takes about a month to complete, often look older than they are thanks to the shadows she smudges into the contours of the face, or a weathering she achieves by scratching the paint with bamboo.Nakamura wearing her mask “Ikkaku Sennin” (2020).In 2018, the Kanagawa-based playwright and screenwriter Lilico Aso, 48, came to see Nakamura’s process firsthand because she was interested in developing a character who was a Noh mask carver; instead, she became a mask carver herself, drawn, she says, to the idea of being “both a craftsman and an artist.” She’s been studying with Nakamura ever since and, last fall, in a show titled “Noh Mask Maker Mitsue Nakamura and Her Four Disciples” at Tokyo’s Tanaka Yaesu gallery, she exhibited a series of four masks called “Time Capsule” inspired by celebrities and fictional characters. Rihanna became an earth goddess with pearlescent blue lips and eye shadow. Ariana Grande morphed into the moon princess Kaguya, who, in an ancient tale, rejects all her mortal suitors and returns to her lunar home; in Aso’s rendering, she has the high, soft eyebrows of a Noh beauty.For some female Noh artisans, subtle changes to traditional forms emerge from a deep personal connection. Keiko Udaka, 43, who also works in Kyoto, grew up steeped in Noh, with a father who was both a performer and a mask maker. She began studying with him when she was a teenager; in 2021, after he died, she took over an unfinished Noh play he was working on, commissioned by a town in Ehime prefecture, on the island of Shikoku. While one of her brothers completed the script, Udaka created a mask for the main character, a folk hero who starved to death while cultivating barley for future generations, imbuing it with the features of their late father. Such homages aren’t an uncommon practice among Noh artisans, and the allure is obvious: As Udaka says, a painstakingly crafted carving is more indelible than a photo. “Memories can be recorded too easily in many places now,” she says, “and they don’t remain in our minds.”Nakamura in her “Ryoshuku no Tsuki” (2022) mask.While Udaka’s departures from tradition are subtle, those of the Tokyo-based Shuko Nakamura (no relation to the Kyoto mask maker), 34, are unignorable. Inspired by Noh history, folklore and her own imagination, she makes masks out of modeling clay and paper rather than wood. One mask depicts an old woman, a crown of blue-black crows circling above her forlorn face, alluding to the ubasute story — which appears in both folk tales and Noh — of an elderly family member abandoned in the forest. With deep smile lines, a long horsehair beard and bushy pompom eyebrows, another mask honors the form of Okina, a spirit who appears as an old man. A gnarled pine tree sprouts from the mask’s head in place of hair; at the roots nestle a pair of turtles. The conifers and reptiles, she says, are references to the characteristic illustrations on the fan Okina holds when he dances.Out of respect for the ancient art, Shuko Nakamura refers to her creations as “creative masks” rather than Noh masks, but the tribute is clear. And even a traditional mask maker like Mitsue Nakamura sees the place for works that expand the boundaries of Noh’s conservative culture. “Of course, the best masks are those used onstage,” she says, “but I think we should also make Noh masks that can stand on their own.”Photo assistants: Megan Collante, Orion Johnson More

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      in Music

      Yukihiro Takahashi, Pioneer of Electronic Pop Music, Dies at 70

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      A drummer and singer, he was best known as a member of Yellow Magic Orchestra, one of Japan’s most successful bands and a major influence on hip-hop, techno and New Wave.Yukihiro Takahashi, a drummer and vocalist whose wide artistic range and gleeful embrace of music technology made him a leading figure in Japan’s pop scene for nearly 50 years, most prominently with the Yellow Magic Orchestra, one of his country’s most successful musical acts, died on Jan. 11 in Karuizawa, Japan. He was 70.The cause was aspiration pneumonia, a complication of a brain tumor, his management company said in a statement.Mr. Takahashi and Yellow Magic Orchestra, which he founded in 1978 with the musicians Ryuichi Sakamoto and Haruomi Hosono, were often ranked alongside the German electronic group Kraftwerk as pioneers in electronic music and significant influences on emergent genres like hip-hop, New Wave and techno.Yellow Magic Orchestra was among the first bands to employ in live shows devices like the Roland TR-808 Rhythm Composer and the Moog II-C synthesizer, which they used to complement Mr. Hosono’s funky guitar and Mr. Takahashi’s tight, driving drums.Unlike their German counterparts, who leaned into the avant-garde nature of electronic sound and referred to themselves as automatons, Yellow Magic Orchestra found ways to bend it toward pop music, blending in elements of Motown, disco and synth-pop.In a 1980 appearance on the television show “Soul Train,” the band performed a souped-up version of Archie Bell and the Drells’ “Tighten Up,” after which a bemused Don Cornelius, the show’s host, interviewed Mr. Takahashi. Kraftwerk, it might go without saying, never appeared on “Soul Train.”Mr. Takahashi “was remarkably skilled at taking what were obviously artificial, technologically mediated sounds and using them to build songs that sound fully and organically human,” Michael K. Bourdaghs, a professor of Japanese literature and culture at the University of Chicago, said in a phone interview.The band and its tech-inflected sound arrived at just the right time. Japan had long since remade itself as a postwar economic engine, but by the late 1970s it was becoming something else: a global emblem of techno-utopianism and futuristic cool. Sony released the Walkman in 1979, just as Kenzo Takada and Issey Miyake were taking over Paris fashion runways with their playful, visionary designs.Yellow Magic Orchestra’s eponymous debut album, released in 1978, sold more than 250,000 copies; its 1980 sophomore release, “Solid State Survivor,” sold some one million. Six of the band’s seven studio albums reached the top five in the Japanese pop charts, and all of them provided fodder for covers and samples far beyond Japan.Afrika Bambaataa, 2 Live Crew, J Dilla and De La Soul were among the many acts who borrowed liberally from Yellow Magic Orchestra’s archive. Michael Jackson remade its song “Behind the Mask,” though his version was not released until 2010, after his death.The band’s music also inspired composers of early video game soundtracks who were looking for electronic sounds that could remain compelling even after hours of play. Yellow Magic Orchestra titled the first track on its debut album “Computer Game ‘Theme from The Circus,’” and Mr. Takahashi later wrote music for several games.He and his bandmates were already established musicians when they formed Yellow Magic Orchestra, and they continued to release solo projects during the group’s six-year run. Mr. Takahashi released some 20 albums during his career, not counting numerous remastered reissues and live recordings.Neither he nor the band ever sat still artistically. His first group, the Sadistic Mika Band, brought glam and prog rock to Japan in the early 1970s and was among the first Japanese acts to achieve success outside the country — it toured Britain with Roxy Music and played on the BBC.Mr. Takahashi’s 1978 solo album, “Saravah!,” produced by Mr. Sakamoto, drew on bossa nova and reggae influences, while the album “Yellow Magic Orchestra” later that year tweaked Orientalist stereotypes, most notably in a cheeky cover of Martin Denny’s tiki-inspired “Firecracker.”Yukihiro Takahashi, in hat and shades, performing with Yellow Magic Orchestra in New York City in 1979.Ebet RobertsBoth before and after Yellow Magic Orchestra, Mr. Takahashi was a frequent and eager collaborator, forming bands on the fly and bringing in friends to play on individual tracks. He often worked with the British guitarist and singer Bill Nelson, as well as Andy Mackay and Phil Manzanera of Roxy Music.Mr. Takahashi wrote much of the music played by Yellow Magic Orchestra; he also played drums and sang lead vocals, though many of their songs were instrumentals.His voice was rich and louche, strikingly similar to that of Bryan Ferry of Roxy Music, especially on early hits like “Drip Dry Eyes” (1984). He sported a pencil mustache and, in later years, a fedora and thick-rimmed eyeglasses. Like Mr. Ferry, he came across as effortlessly cool and ever-so-slightly world-weary, a hipster who believed in better days to come.“We had hope for the future, unlike now,” Mr. Takahashi said in a 2009 interview, seated between Mr. Sakamoto and Mr. Hosono. “We used to say we will make music that’ll be a bridge to the future.”Yukihiro Takahashi was born on June 6, 1952, in Tokyo. He began his music career early, playing drums with college bands while still in junior high school and starting as a session musician at 16.He is survived by his wife, Kiyomi Takahashi; his brother, Nobuyuki Takahashi, a music producer; and his sister, Mie Ito.He studied design at Musashino Art University in Tokyo, but did not graduate. During the 1970s, he developed his own clothing line, Bricks; he often designed the outfits worn by Yellow Magic Orchestra, including a striking trio of bright red Mao suits.Yellow Magic Orchestra broke up in 1984, its members citing musical differences. All three went on to successful solo careers — Mr. Sakamoto won an Academy Award for his soundtrack to Bernardo Bertolucci’s “The Last Emperor” (1987) — but they remained close, and occasionally reunited. They released an album in 1993, “Technodon,” and appeared at a 2012 benefit concert to oppose nuclear power.“We followed a rock band path, so we stopped” playing as Yellow Magic Orchestra, Mr. Takahashi said in 2009. “But on second thought,” he added, nodding toward his bandmates on either side of him, “I couldn’t think of anybody I respect more.”Miharu Nishiyama More

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      in Television

      ‘Modern Love’ Goes Global in New Television Series

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      The latest iteration of the “Modern Love” franchise, “Modern Love Tokyo,” begins streaming on Oct. 21.Times Insider explains who we are and what we do and delivers behind-the-scenes insights into how our journalism comes together.Daniel Jones, the senior editor of The New York Times’s Modern Love column, remembers when, a dozen years ago, it was just him selecting stories from a stack of nearly a thousand monthly submissions and editing each one for the essay series. “It was kind of lonely,” he said.This week, he has plenty of company. He is in Japan to attend the premiere of the television series “Modern Love Tokyo,” the latest installment in Amazon’s global “Modern Love” franchise. The seven-episode show will begin streaming on Amazon Prime Video on Oct. 21. The episodes are set in Tokyo, feature the work of actors, of directors and of a creative team from Japan, and are based on essays published in the column that were reimagined to make them more familiar to Japanese audiences. (In a “Modern Love” first, one of the episodes will be animated.)“I love that the process includes all these other talented people who are interpreting stories and amplifying emotions, putting in music,” Mr. Jones said in an interview last week. “It’s just exploded the job into a whole new realm.”Since the original “Modern Love” show was released on Amazon in October 2019, three international spinoffs have debuted in three languages: “Modern Love Mumbai,” in Hindi; “Modern Love Hyderabad,” in Telugu; and the Tokyo series, in Japanese. A fourth series, “Modern Love Chennai,” in Tamil, is forthcoming, and a fifth, “Modern Love Amsterdam,” offered in Dutch, is set to be released in mid-December.Mr. Jones reflected on the television franchise’s expansion abroad, on the process of adapting American stories for each series and on the longevity of the Modern Love column. Read the edited interview below.When did the idea to create international versions of the show come about?The original series, set in New York City, came out in 2019, and pretty soon after that, we started talking about other cities around the world where we might be able to do versions of it. Of course, then the pandemic hit, which made everything harder and a little delayed. And so the international versions we began talking about several years ago are just now coming out.What is your role on the series?I’m a co-producer on all the international versions. I see the episodes as they’re being edited; I read the scripts. I try to maintain a sense of what Modern Love is and has been for more than 18 years now, meaning realistic love stories, not sweeping romances. No overt sex or Bollywood plots or anything that would push the boundaries and make it seem outside what the column does. But the people working on this at Amazon Studios know this and get it. In fact, that’s what they value most about these series and what makes the work distinctive in these markets. We’re all on the same page.Also, the Modern Love archive is enormous — it’s 900-some essays at this point. While the teams in different countries who are picking content completely reimagine the stories for their audiences, the shows’ creators often stick close to the plot, so I’m helpful to them if they want a certain kind of story; I know the archive better than anyone. But I’ve been so impressed with the local teams’ approach and research and passion for this project.Daniel Jones attending the “Modern Love Tokyo” premiere. Phoebe JonesHow does the process of adapting an American story for an audience in another country work?For one of the Mumbai episodes, the creative team in Mumbai took an essay about a woman in Brooklyn who had separated from her husband and who was feeling down in every way — she was in bad physical shape, emotionally wrung out. And she now needed to get herself to work by bicycle.She started riding across the Manhattan Bridge, but she didn’t have the stamina to go all the way up, so the story was about the empowerment — both physical and emotional — of building herself back up. It was a very New York story, but when they took it to Mumbai, they made her character a domestic servant in a wealthy family, highlighting the class divide there. There’s a bridge in Mumbai, called the Flyway, that goes from a gritty area to the gleaming city center, and it was the same basic process of her building herself back up. It speaks to the universality of these conflicts — you can get a divorce in Mumbai, and you can get a divorce in Brooklyn. The emotions and struggle and all that can be so similar.All of the versions of the show are available to stream on Amazon Prime in the United States, right?Yes. Now, with the success of series like “Squid Game,” it’s become clear that subtitles are not a barrier. I hope people check out the versions set in the other cities, too.What’s been the most exciting part of working on the international versions?When these teams discover stories that I’d long forgotten about in the archive, and then reintroduce me to them in a new way. It’s great to have other people look at the archive with fresh eyes, find such gems and see how to reimagine them for the screen.What’s next for the “Modern Love” television franchise?Our fifth international series, “Modern Love Amsterdam,” premieres in mid-December. Beyond that, stay tuned, because we have ambitions for all over the world. More

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      in Music

      Les Rallizes Dénudés: Unraveling One of Rock’s Deep Mysteries

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      The Japanese band that emerged in the late 1960s was known for its rumbling rhythms and ear-shredding feedback — but almost nothing was known about its leader, Takashi Mizutani.Makoto Kubota is still amazed by the continuing appeal of his old band, Les Rallizes Dénudés.An accomplished producer and bandleader in Japan, Kubota spent just a few years in the early 1970s playing with the Rallizes, which by the usual measures of rock success barely made a blip. Led by the enigmatic Takashi Mizutani, the band emerged in the late-’60s haze of psychedelia and radical student politics with a scorchingly loud sound, though it ceased performing in 1996 and the handful of raw recordings the group released went out of print long ago. Yet decades later, younger musicians now press Kubota for any information about the band, and fans around the world who likely cannot understand Mizutani’s cryptic Japanese lyrics declare on social media that his music has changed their lives.“I never thought this could touch foreigners’ hearts so deeply,” Kubota said in a recent interview from his home in Tokyo.Les Rallizes Dénudés — known to insiders and acolytes as the Rallizes (pronounced “rallies”) for short — have long held a peculiar place in the annals of underground music as a group more heard about than actually heard, its reputation resting more on legend than fact. Through bootleg live recordings with rumbling rhythms and ear-shredding sheets of guitar feedback, which have been pored over and cataloged by fans, the Rallizes have come to symbolize both the sonic extremes of rock and the ways that online communities can nurture and amplify even the most obscure corners of global culture.David Novak, an associate professor at the University of California, Santa Barbara, and the author of “Japanoise: Music at the Edge of Circulation,” describes the band’s influence by referring to an oft-misquoted remark by Brian Eno that relatively few people bought the Velvet Underground’s albums at the time, but each of them (seemingly) formed a band.“The Rallizes are like that, except there was no record to buy,” Novak said. “There was just this fantasy of some incredibly abrasive, mysterious group that created this wall of impenetrable noise. The power of that story drove a huge renaissance.”Now, after decades of intrigue — and almost three years since Mizutani’s death — Les Rallizes Dénudés are getting the archival treatment. Earlier this year, “The Oz Tapes,” a set of recordings from 1973 that were part of a compilation celebrating Oz, a short-lived venue in Tokyo, were remastered by Kubota and reissued by the American label Temporal Drift. “Oz Days Live: ’72-’73 Kichijoji,” an expanded version of the original compilation, with tracks by the Rallizes, Masato Minami, Acid Seven and others from the same scene, is coming out this month.Later this fall will come long-sought reissues of three CDs from 1991, the only albums the Rallizes released during their existence. And Kubota, working on behalf of Mizutani’s estate, has spent months combing through what he called “a suitcase full of master tapes” from Mizutani’s personal archive.The wave of new releases, and related curatorial work by Temporal Drift — “Oz Days Live” comes with a 112-page book with an oral history of Oz, a CBGB for Tokyo’s early psychedelic scene — offer a chance to contextualize the Rallizes for new listeners. They can also fill in the gaps for longtime followers who have subsisted on scantily labeled bootlegs and digital bread crumbs from fan sites.BUT GETTING A full picture of the Rallizes and its reclusive leader may be impossible. Mizutani, usually pictured in a uniform of black shades and black leather, almost never spoke to the media, and some former bandmates still adhere to an unspoken omertà. Maki Miura, a guitarist, declined an interview request about Mizutani and his former band with a statement that said: “During his lifetime there was a silent understanding that no one would ever talk publicly about him. Honestly, it makes me wonder if Mizutani is pissed off.”Still, interviews with former Rallizes members and other associates of Mizutani paint a picture of a man singularly devoted to his art, and perhaps just as obsessed with cultivating an aura of inscrutability. Even the meaning of the band’s name is obscure. It may be an inside joke about suitcases, or perhaps a reference to William S. Burroughs. Kubota said he never asked about it, but that the name was understood to mean something like the Naked and Stoned. “It’s too embarrassing to say,” he said, and laughed.The band was founded in 1967 at Doshisha University, an elite institution in Kyoto, by Mizutani and other students who were members of the school’s Light Music Club. At the time, Japanese rock was evolving beyond its Beatles-inspired “group sounds” era, and Kubota said that Mizutani’s influences in those early years included the Velvet Underground, Blue Cheer, the Grateful Dead and the avant-garde rock and jazz of the New York label ESP.Mizutani was also heavily involved in the student protest movement of the time. By 1970, the Rallizes gained notoriety that would last for decades when its original bassist, Moriaki Wakabayashi, was part of a Marxist group that hijacked a Japanese passenger plane and flew it to North Korea. After that point, any political dimension to the Rallizes’ music, or Mizutani’s public persona, largely disappeared.Kubota in July. The onetime Les Rallizes member has been working on behalf of Mizutani’s estate, combing through what he called “a suitcase full of master tapes” from Mizutani’s personal archive.Hiroyuki Ito for The New York Times“The Oz Tapes” — with Kubota on bass, Takeshi Nakamura on guitar and Shunichiro Shoda on drums — is a rough blueprint for the Rallizes’ sound, which would develop over years of shifting lineups, with Mizutani as the only constant. Songs like “Wilderness of False Flowers” and the 11-minute “Vertigo Otherwise My Conviction” are built over jagged, repetitive grooves that swell and recede as Mizutani plays long solos that resemble Neil Young crossed with Sonny Sharrock. Like the Velvet Underground, the Rallizes can toggle between modes of paint-peeling noise and surreal quiet, as in “Memory Is Far Away,” a mournful ballad with ambiguous lines about a lost love (“The flames of betrayal burn eternally/The shadow of redemption keeps chasing me”).“It’s almost like the people there were brainwashed by his vibrations,” recalled Minoru Tezuka, the proprietor of Oz, who went on to become the group’s manager.In time the group’s style grew more extreme, with peals of feedback, lasting 20 minutes or longer, that can be hypnotic or painful, though sometimes with intriguing reference points. In “Night of the Assassins,” those screaming guitars are juxtaposed with a bass line that closely resembles “I Will Follow Him,” Little Peggy March’s bubble-gum hit from 1963; whether Mizutani meant that as a joke, we may never know.EVEN TO HIS bandmates, Mizutani was a cipher. “Mysterious but lovable,” Kubota said.Acid Seven, a bandleader and prankster who was a regular at Oz, recalled Mizutani interrupting his stoic silence at jam sessions only to utter existentialist riddles. He described Mizutani once taking a drag from his ever-present cigarette and proclaiming, “The smoke coming out of my mouth is extinguishing my ego,” with no further explanation offered.By being totally uncompromising about the band’s sound, Mizutani effectively exiled himself from the Japanese music industry. Shime Takahashi, who played drums with the Rallizes in the mid-70s, recalled the band once working in a professional studio, only to find that the engineer never pressed record because he thought it was still rehearsing. Mizutani had been playing with the Rallizes for more than 20 years before releasing its three albums in 1991 — two sets of early recordings, and another double-CD live set of the band at its noisiest.“It’s that determination not to be commercial, to remain underground, which is the one constant the group had throughout its history,” said Alan Cummings, a professor at the School of Oriental and African Studies in London and a longtime chronicler of Japan’s underground music.Yet that stance bolstered the Rallizes’ legend, making the band a sort of early inspiration for the so-called Japanoise scene of the 1980s and ’90s — a catchall for a range of aggressive and noisy rock and electronic music that flowered in Tokyo, Osaka and elsewhere — and a symbol for the perseverance of music that was anti-commercial at its core.“You might assume this is just Orientalist reverie on the part of American fans,” said Novak, of U.C. Santa Barbara. “But it’s not, because that sense of mystery is shared by so many in Japan. Rallizes came to symbolize the unknowability of the underground music scene in Japan, for Japanese fans too.”Still, the lovable side of Mizutani comes through in some of his colleagues’ recollections. Kubota remembers him cooking Nagoya-style noodles when they got the munchies in their student days. The dour eminence of noise rock could even break character at times. Kubota sounded stunned when he relayed the story of his friend inviting the Orange County Brothers, a Tex-Mex-style Japanese rock band that Kubota worked with, to spend the night at his parents’ house while on tour.“This is like the Velvet Underground having a party with Dr. Hook & the Medicine Show,” Kubota said, referring to the goofy 1970s country-rock group that sang “The Cover of Rolling Stone.”Les Rallizes Dénudés onstage in 1971.Kyo Nakamura, via The Last One MusiqueTHE LEGEND OF Les Rallizes Dénudés was arguably kept alive through bootlegs — unauthorized recordings, mostly of live concerts, that circulated among fans online and sparked new interest in the band in the 2000s. The source of these tapes has long been a curiosity, with some insiders speculating that Mizutani, or at least someone very close to him, may have been involved, given the high audio quality of some of them.To Temporal Drift, founded by two former employees of the reissue label Light in the Attic who worked on its Japan Archival Series, the popularity of those tapes proves the existence of a broad international fan base, and a potential market for new releases.“The obsession that Rallizes fans have for the band is pretty incredible,” said Patrick McCarthy, one of the label’s founders. “They’re people that are extremely dedicated, in ways you see with the Grateful Dead, where they have to have every article, every version of every bootleg.”The road to the new releases began in 2019, when Kubota traveled to New York to help with a documentary about an old friend, the Japanese folk singer Sachiko Kanenobu, who was playing in Central Park. “Everybody who was there — musicians, radio people — they asked me about the Rallizes. So I said, ‘OK, something is happening. I’ve got to contact Mizutani.’”After leaving the Rallizes in 1973, Kubota went on to a successful career with his bands Sunset Gang and the Sunsetz, and as a producer. But he had not spoken with Mizutani in almost 30 years before that summer. To his surprise, his old bandmate said he wanted to do a “last tour.” Kubota said that Mizutani also denied any involvement in the bootlegs, and expressed a desire to finally release the Rallizes’ music officially. The two had frequent conversations for a month or two, Kubota said, before their text chain went cold that fall. Later, he learned that Mizutani had died in December 2019, at age 71.Kubota then began working with Mizutani’s estate to sort through Mizutani’s archive of recordings; he declined to identify who controls the estate, saying only that it is someone who had been close to Mizutani for many years.Around the same time, he began working with Temporal Drift; Yosuke Kitazawa, the label’s other principal, said that when they began work on the project, they had no idea that Mizutani had died. In October 2021, an official Rallizes site appeared on the internet, announcing that Mizutani had died almost two years before and that a new entity, The Last One Musique — named after a Rallizes epic — had been formed to represent the Rallizes’ music rights, and would begin releasing Mizutani’s work “with far more alive and striking sound than the bootlegs that have been circulating over 20 years.”In a series of interviews this summer, Kubota said he had been working for months to sort through Mizutani’s collection, including numerous studio and live recordings.“Now I have received the material for four full concerts and started working on it,” Kubota said. “It will be monstrous.” More