Radio in Japan

Driving my little delivery truck around Shikoku in the afternoons I would sometimes search for some music on the radio, but never with any luck; there were five channels with clear reception, but all were filled from morning to night with endless chat. Private local stations, the national channels, AM, FM and probably shortwave too, it made no difference; not a tinkle, not a note, just egotistical bores chuntering on at each other, apparently unaware that the mikes were switched on. What did they have to talk about? Absolutely nothing, as it turned out, but that didn't stop them. Here is a sampler of dialogues from various spots on the dial. First off, an afternoon 'information variety' programme (these descriptions are all from Japanese newspapers, and highly misleading. I once tuned in to a ballsachingly boring drone which turned out to be about 'Onions and how to deal with them' though its title was 'Action Focus').

"Hellloooo! This is Kobayashi!"

"Helllooo! This is Ueda! Welcome to 'Exciting Afternoon'!"

"Mr Kobayashi!"

"Yes?"

"It's getting really hot these days, isn't it?"

"Yes it is, isn't it?"

"We can say it's pretty well summer now, can't we?"

"Yes, that's right, isn't it?"

"Mmmmmm...there is a lot of really good food we can eat in summer, isn't there?" 

"Yes there is, isn't there? You mean things like cold noodles, don't you?"

"Cold noodles, yes! I really want to eat cold noodles, you know!"

"Because it's summer?"

"Mmmmmm, yes, that's right, isn't it?"

At this point the truck lurches and swerves as I punch the station switch, swiping at the dashboard like Mike Tyson. There's a baseball game on the next channel...

"Live from the Tokyo Dome, this is the Giants versus the Tigers and we're at the bottom of the sixth with Kuwata at bat. He's had two strikes and has two runners on base!" (So far so good).

"Our guest this afternoon is the former pitcher for the Giants, Mister Sasaki. Mister Sasaki!"

"Yes!"

"Kuwata is really looking good today, isn't he?"

"Yes he is, isn't he?"

"Why do you think that is, Mr. Sasaki?"

"Well; it could possibly be because he's very fit, don't you think?"

"Aaaahhhh...that's right, isn't it? Because he’s fit....I see! He certainly is very fit, isn't he?"

"Yes he is. That's probably because he's been training, isn't it?"

"Aaahhhh.. is that right? Now I understand! He's been training, eh? No wonder he looks fit. Thank you mister Sasaki! That was Mr. Sasaki, the former pitcher with the Giants! He said that Kuwata is fit, because he’s been training!"

Oh lord. What's on NHK, the Japanese government station?

"Here on 'Traditional Japanese Culture Hour' we are going to receive the honor of learned comment from Miss Suzuki, who is the honorable holder and thirty-four-time winner of the sublime All-Japan Traditional Flower-Arranging Championship trophy. Good afternoon Suzuki - teacher."

"Good afternoon"

"Please honor us with your comment this afternoon."

"Please tolerate my ignorant presence on your famous program."

"First of all: there are many kinds of flower arranging, aren't there."

"Yes there are, aren't there."

"And you have done many of them yourself, haven't you?"

"Well I have, haven't I, but of course any miserable effort of mine has been but a pale imitation of the illustrious work of my great teacher Professor Harada."

"Aaahhh....Professor Harada. He was a great flower-arranger, wasn't he?"

"Yes he was, wasn't he?"

A brief pause while I extricate the truck from a ditch. My eyes glazed over and I dozed off at the wheel. We'd better try something a bit racier; there's a 'popular variety' show on the local AM channel.

"Ok, let's get on the phones! We're calling Takamatsu City today!"

Beep - boop - beep - bip - boop - beep -boop - bip - bip!

Neeeeeeeep. Neeeeeeep. Neeeeeeep. K'chack!

"Hello?"

"Hello! This is Crazy Takahashi from Radio Amazing!"

"Oooooh! Mr. Crazy! Gosh! Ooooohhh!"

"Please honor us with your participation!"

"Please honor me with your valuable air-time!"

"What are you doing right now, Mrs. Ueda?"

"Well, I was just cleaning my bathroom, wasn't I?"

"Were you? Aaahhh... I see!  What are you going to do today?"

"Well, I'm going to finish cleaning the bathroom, then I really ought to go shopping, don't you think?"

"Yes! That's right, isn't it! You know, it's really hot outside today, so be careful!"

"Aaaahhh.. is it? It must be summer, then!"

"Yes, many people are saying it's summer, aren't they?"

"Oh really, are they?"

"Yes they are!"

" Mmmmm. OK, then, I'll be careful outside!"

"Thank you!"

"Thank you!"

We used to have this stuff on British local radio too, interspersed with records by the likes of Val Doonican and Engelbert Humperdinck. A whole generation of punk rockers, bikers and heroin addicts emerged as a direct result. On Japanese daytime radio, however, there are no records. There are also no solo sports commentators; a minimum of two are needed to generate the necessary level of harmony for true understanding of complex, arcane events like Wimbledon and when it comes to really hard-to-grasp sports like Sumo, which has one rule, four or five experts team up to ensure the sound man has no chance to pause for breath. The goal is never to have a second’s silence, and with essentially soundless sports like golf this means the commentators have to drone on uninterrupted for the entire afternoon. Given a match featuring the national team, though - any sport, from soccer to marbles - they wheel on the Mad Bloke. The Mad Bloke specialises in adding as much extra tension and excitement to the brave efforts of the Japanese team by going mental. In the final stages of the marathon, game, match or whatever, his already terse and nervous delivery speeds up as the clock winds down. Slobbering into the mike, he eventually abandons sentence structure and even words themselves in his frenzy. Here is the Mad Bloke in the last minute of a basketball match, Japan versus Somewhere :

“One minute! One minute! Come on Japan! Two points! Fifty seconds! Two points! Come on Japan! Gold medal! Forty seconds! COME ON JAPAN! The Somewhere team shoots! NOOO!!! Four points! Come on Japan! Thirty seconds! Come on Japan! Four points! Not impossible! Twenty seconds! Come on Japan! JAPAN! PERSEVERE! DO YOUR BEST! COME ON! PLEASE! AAAAAARRRRRRRGGGGGGHHHHHH!!!!!!!

The Mad Bloke sadly never kills himself, though from the volume of the screaming you’d think he was trying to, possibly with a fruit knife. It amazes me that none of the other people in the commentary box, whose ears must be ringing as if at a Motorhead concert, lean over and whack him with a bat.

A sporting moment. In the little factory where I spent a year, all radios were tuned to the High School Baseball Championship from Koshien stadium near Kobe. This is a genuine, 24-karat national tradition, dating from 1915 (as opposed to the soccer World Cup – during which the Mad Bloke herniated himself – which is a new and horribly popular phenomenon). Teams from high schools all over the land vie to scoop the trophy; all wear white outfits, shave their heads, bow to the other team and generally behave like ideal citizens. They then play desperate baseball, stealing bases, running like Carl Lewis and swinging at anything. The victors are magnanimous, the losers blub like five-year-olds, and everyone scoops up a handful of dirt as a souvenir. What could be wrong with all this? Well, one year I got to watch the opening ceremony. The teams file into the stadium in square formation, do a lap and then line up in regiments below a podium. A strapping young lad with the obligatory kiwi-fruit haircut then takes the stand, and, with one arm raised at a steep angle, recites the code of honor and ethical play to the hushed hordes. Watching this, I suddenly got a strong jolt of déjà vu. It took a moment, but eventually I got it. The marching, the speech, the salute - it’s a carbon copy of the opening of the 1936 Olympic Games. The ones Hitler organised.