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Kansai Chiharu ❲720p❳
Kansai Chiharu’s sound is often categorized as sophisticated jazz-pop. Her appeal lies in three main pillars:
Meeting Chiharu is difficult. She has no publicist, only a fax machine at a combini in Namba. When we finally meet in a tachinomi (standing bar) that smells of fried tofu and disinfectant, she is nursing a highball. She wears a faded Hankyu Braves jersey and flip-flops.
Interviewer: You’ve been called the “Björk of Osaka.” How does that feel?
Chiharu: (Laughs, revealing a chipped tooth) Björk has a label budget. I have a bicycle and an overdraft. But fine. Let’s say I’m the Björk of people who cry on the subway but hide it behind a manga. Kansai Chiharu
Interviewer: Your music is very sad. Are you okay?
Chiharu: (She stirs her drink with her finger.) In Kansai, we have a saying: Warau kado ni wa fuku kitaru—Fortune comes to the laughing gate. But nobody asks what’s behind the gate. Behind my gate? Just a lot of unpaid bills and a cat who hates me. That’s the music.
Interviewer: What is next?
Chiharu: A concept album recorded entirely inside a sentō (public bathhouse). The reverb is incredible. Also, I want to make a song using only the sound of a pachinko parlor closing at 11 PM. That sound… that is the sound of dreams losing.
She finishes her drink, bows slightly, and walks out into the neon rain without an umbrella.
Visually, Chiharu is an anthropomorphized wabi-sabi. She refuses makeup artists. Her stage costume is always a vintage kimono or noragi (workwear jacket) from the Showa era, often visibly mended with uneven, colorful stitching (a practice she calls boro boro, meaning “tattered”). When we finally meet in a tachinomi (standing
During her legendary live show at the Osaka Geijutsu Hall, she performed the entire second half of her set sitting on a broken washing machine. Midway through a song about her deceased grandmother, she stopped singing, pulled out a needle and thread, and spent three minutes silently sewing a tear in her sleeve. The audience of 2,000 people did not move. They wept.
“In Kansai,” she explained later, “we fix things. We don’t replace them. A crack in a teapot is history. A crack in a voice is truth.”
