Mom and Pops Unite: Taking on a Dry-clean Giant in Fairfax (in National News) State Safety Net for Immigrants in Jeopardy (in Bay Area News) Were Those Bugle Boys You Were Wearing? (in Business) Paying Attention: Remembering the Stonewall Uprising of '69 (in Opinion)

Photo courtesy of Empire Records

20,000 Leagues Under Plastic

By Eunice Park

The disc jockey stands slightly hunched, Quasimodo-style, hands massaging the grooves of his Siamese twin records. The spinning disks have a distinct oily, espresso-black sheen as they revolve on the turntable. He is poised between them, a sonic sun directing his vinyl planets in orbit.

Some have likened DJs to scavengers, piecing together the cast-aside musical scraps of others. Some call them the new composers of the 21st century, recycling and re-innovating their musical predecessors. While recording artists lambast Napster and its counterparts, DJs embrace them, regarding them as infinite treasure troves to sample from at will. In this game of musical evolution, the adaptable DJ seems more likely to survive.

Some DJs now attain the instant recognition of true celebrity, choice examples being Moby and Paul Van Dyk. Asia swarms with its share of aspiring DJs, but only a few have managed to emerge onto the international stage, namely the Fantastic Plastic Machine, a musical construction of Japanese DJ Tomoyuki Tanaka. A little reticent, eyes hidden behind a persistent pair of shades, Tanaka spun to a packed crowd at Ruby Skye, one of San Francisco’s premier clubs, June 8. This engagement was only one of a grueling marathon of performances, all to promote the April 3 release of Beautiful, his third album in the United States.

DJ Tanaka, or FPM as he affectionately calls himself, is perhaps best known as a member of the Shibuya-ku movement, a strain of bubblegum music that has gained quite a cult following in Japan. Echoes of this kitsch can be seen in the U.S. explosion of boy bands and scantily-clad teen sirens, all crooning to heavily-synthesized music. The Shibuya invasion, with its indelible blend of 60s sass and quirky post-modern groove, has spawned an international following for its members, which include Pizzicato Five and Cornelius. But FPM says that “while Shibuya is still the center for Japanese music, Shibuya-ku itself is dead.”

FPM’s music has since evolved away from the light, bubbly bounce of Shibuya into something more complex. His previous album, Luxury, was described by critics as “cute, kitschy, feel-good” and was immediately categorized as lounge music. However, Tanaka states that while the relaxed euphoria of 60s music is still an important influence, “this album is much more than that. It is much more diverse and mature. Comparing my music to a girl, I used to like a cute girl, but now I prefer a beautiful girl.”

The focus of this album is on all things and all aspects beautiful. While creating the album, FPM considered the complete aesthetics of the release as a whole, from the lyrics and music to the artwork and packaging. This multifaceted approach stems from the fact that he is a modern Renaissance man, having been editor of a fashion magazine, host of a popular Japanese national radio show, international DJ, musician, composer, record archivist, and art aficionado, amongst other things. Tanaka says, “I believe that the visual can be seen through sound, and vice versa. I am interested in mixing different materials to create a new sensory experience.”

This amazing assortment of occupations mirrors the eclectic nature of his music, which, labeled indecisively as “new groove,” definitely defies conventional classification.

Tanaka’s genius lies in the fact that he can weave such disparate elements together into seamless harmony. During the course of his set at Ruby Skye, the stream of music flowed effortlessly from psychedelia to bossa nova, morphing rapidly to staccato drum & bass, without hesitation. It would seem that these incongruous styles would create a frenetic schizophrenia, but in his capable hands, they all melt together with sensational ease.

Before the turntables and records (of which he has some 20,000) caught FPM’s fancy, he began as a bass player for the offbeat band Margarine Strikes Back.

FPM began to spin records as one half of the DJ team, Sound Impossible. Sampling became his choice method of musical expression, although some conservatives question its legitimacy as an art-form. Tanaka states that mixing samples together involves the same creative process as composing “new” music. He insists that it is all about reinventing, reconstructing pieces of what already exists into a new entity, the musical equivalent of what a collage-maker would do. He is a musical Duchamp, reclaiming familiar (or sometimes not-so-familiar) items and placing them in a new context.

With a meditative sigh, FPM says, “It’s as much about organizing as it is about creating something out of nothing. If this were a movie, I would be the director. If this were an orchestra or a big band, I’d be a conductor.” The somewhat heavyset Tanaka is retiring, but when he steps in front of the turntables, he has power. His turntable is his baton; his orchestra is his monstrous sea of vinyl, and he plays the quivering strings of his listeners as agilely as any violinist (or bassist). He seems so serious, planted sternly in front of his rotating disks, but then a furtive smile skims across his face. Chuckling, FPM says, “Yeah, I know I look pretty grim, but only because this requires so much concentration. I try to incorporate my sense of humor into all my music.” After all, who else would make his musical nom de plume the title of an obscure, zany 70s film?