The adventure.

Tomorrow afternoon, I along with my friend and fellow traveler Matt Sabban will commence a journey of epic proportions, never before witnessed in the history of our study abroad program.

Shikoku, one of Japan’s larger islands south of the mainland, maintains eighty-eight (88) temples along the perimeter of the island. For hundreds of years, adventurers and thinkers have attempted to visit every temple along the island, starting in the northeast and ending around the whirlpools of Naruto city. They call it the pilgrimage of the eighty-eight sacred temples of Shikoku. Matt and I, setting out from Kyoto (on the map linked above, about halfway between Osaka and the northern coast), will mount our bicycles and attempt to visit fifty-nine of these temples. We plan to cycle from the first temple in Tokushima to the thirty-sixth, bike north across the island to the sixty-fifth, and end up at the eighty-eighth, entirely in six days. Is this possible? Is this crazy? Or is this necessary? We’re on fall break, so we’ve decided to ignore the answers.

This is the farthest I have been from the Internet in a while, since my seven-day canoe and hike through the mountains in Maine back at the beginning of high school. In Japan, you are never without a cell phone (if you want to send words of encouragement, reach me at a13x@softbank.ne.jp [no more than 140 characters]), but my primary tools will be a pen and notebook. I suppose I’ll see what results.

(photograph by Alex Leavitt, http://flickr.com/photos/alexleavitt/)

The question.

Dear Internet,

I hope that, at least once, every person is faced with a question or problem that changes his or her life. Last week, I may have been asked that question: Would you like to stay in Japan for another semester? Internet, if you have opinions, please relate them to me. If I stay in Japan, I will basically set aside classes, research, internships, conferences, friends, family. I must still deal with jobs, graduation, and grad school applications. On the other hand, I’ve already taken over a thousand photos, traveled around the country, and lost myself in and out of translation, and reveled in every minute of it.

As with any difficult question, I need advice. And if you’re willing to give it, I’d love to hear it.
Sincerely,
Alex

Previous post here

Lifted from the unkempt desk of Alexander C. Leavitt, Adjunct Professor, Department of Alchemy, 4-273

9 月 30 日 2008 年

The protean weather patterns of the fair city of Kyoto have as of late been lending a pinch of vigor to my lesser health, allowing a brief escape from the minutiae of my daily interactions and distractions around the office to let my mind wander like a Kamogawanian river koi. I have decided to approach once again the fickle topic of cross-culturalization and its implications in the contemporary Japanese nation-state. As recently as recent can ever be, I dissected the captivating subject of Jero, Pennsylvania-born Jerome White turned enka extraordinaire in the grand land of Japan. Having mastered the subtle strands of traditional enka vocalism, this young lad has captivated the minds of old and young Japanese alike, particularly given his American-hip-hop-ified clothing, dance breaks, and music videos. Realizing that I had only grazed the surface in my previous report, I have now set out to reanalyze the musical (or is it visual?) phenomenon known to all modern Japanese citizens as Jero.

From my previous engagement, I would like to reintroduce some important points, to be thrown momentarily into a paper shredder. Direct from Wikipedia’s article on what Japan calls its traditional music, enka:
Enka lyrics… usually are about the themes of love and loss, loneliness, enduring hardships, and persevering in the face of difficulties, even suicide or death.
Enka suggests a more traditional, idealized, or romanticized aspect of Japanese culture and attitudes…

Reuters reports:
Jero is bridging the generation gap.

And to quote my own phrasal abuse:
Basically, as hiphop was remixed in Japan stylistically and culturally, Jero re-remixed the hiphop genre and culture through enka’s respective genre and culture.

Lately, I have been immersed in Ian Condry’s “Hip Hop Japan,” an anthropological look at the Nipponese hiphop clubs and underground scenes, while being bombarded with criticisms from my fellow Japanese Popular Culture colleagues.

Just this week, much was to be discussed over the matter of authenticity of image, authenticity of sound, authenticity of culture. My own observations tend toward agreement with [name of source not included, as written document is here illegible], supporting culture as based on habits (read: actions) and subculture as grounded in style (read: impressions). Hip-hop, in just terms, falls under both culture and subculture: the former, through the trends in its music and associated dancing, graffiti, etc.; the latter, by ways of an aesthetic that conducts the masses into a homogenous flurry of caps and chains. Japan’s history of music follows a sinuous, beaten path of meticulous appropriation, ever striving for the pure authenticity of that which had been borrowed (ie. early jazz in Japan). The same seems to follow with image, even in modern times: Gucci and Prada and Coach; cut, dyed, and chemicalized hair; high heels and high-style garb of popular (American? Hollywood?), pleasurable visuals. Four weeks walked on the streets of the old capital accumulate to one word: image.

To emphasize, I must restate that enka as an art form, whether it shares any history with Western music (particularly country and/or folk songs), partakes of the same emotional urges that lead to its moving music and lyrics. “Enduring hardships” and so forth mirror the same sentimentality found in either blues (jazz) or hip-hop, a common area of some musical Venn diagram that led Snoop Dogg to cover Kyo Sakamoto’s Ue o muite arukō on his premiere album (read Condry for more).

The amalgamation of hip hop and enka in Jero’s compositions result in a harmonization of genres that pushes both styles beyond their original expectations, one that brings together modern and traditional, one that can no more contradict the statement that “enka suggests a more traditional, idealized, or romanticized aspect of Japanese culture and attitudes” (Wikipedia, above). In the first video I had displayed, a music store owner comments, “Great voice. Fantastic and tender.”

However, and here begins the dissatisfaction with my previous entirely-positive critical eye toward Jero, the amalgamation of hip hop and enka in Jero’s performances result in a genreal dissonance, both audially and visually. As my astute colleague Christina Xu has pointed out, “One thing I am wondering, though, is what role hip-hop plays exactly in all this. It seems to me that to characterize his music as enka remixed with hip-hop is a bit of a stretch. I listened to Umiyuki… in full, and there’s none of the beats or the flows that you would associate with hip-hop music.” Rewatching the Umiyuki music video, the first five seconds include an introductory phrase of hip-hop, but slowly transition to the electric-guitar-led, conventional enka sounds. As Jero and crew walk down a poorly-lit sidewalk, the pause and subsequent hip-hop break moves clash hard with the Japanese country tunes. As Jero initially begins to sing, his body stays firmly rooted on stage, hands passionately roaming in front of his face in the cliched manner that classical enka singers are known to use. If the music and lyrics were muted, the graffiti-styled lyrics displayed on screen plus Jero’s ghetto getup give the impression of authentic American hip-hop. Sound returned, the lyrics of frozen rain, ocean whitecaps, lost love, and desperate suicide confront the succeeding bridge, during which synchronized dance moves are displayed against a graffiti-covered wall behind a fence reminiscent of a public Bronx basketball court. The strangest transition of song and setting occurs between the first and second sections of the melody (preceding and following the bridge), when during the enka portions Jero stands lit on a stage, removed from the actual “hip-hop locale,” instead now performing enka in its original context. By the end of the song, the music jumps back and forth between the street and theatrical settings, to remind the viewer of the stark contrast between the hip-hop and enka styles, while they are forced together throughout the four-and-a-half minute music video.

Agreeing with Xu, I hold that much of the pleasure behind Jero’s popularity is derived from his foreignness (read: that black American who can sing in Japanese). In interview, although some of the audience comment on his perfected tenor, one woman merely mentions, “I nearly fainted when I first saw him. He’s so cute.” And this comment comes from the young Japanese lady sporting cornrows and a Fubu-style hoodie.

The fascination of image and style in Japan is not a negative aspect of the fashion culture or popular culture of the area by any means. Consequences abound, such as the visual’s penchant to categorize and stereotype. Such an emphasis on the visual merely means that in the battle for authenticity, the subcultural attitudes shine much more brightly against a cultural background. Instead of discovering a new genre or remix, we see Jero as a black mask over a yellow face. In the first photo in the set above, Jero’s profile gives the appearance of an ordinary album cover (one that may or may not typify enka albums); however, the diamond earring stands out as a beacon of the hipo-hop subculture awaiting any listener. In the second photo, we see Jero in his hip-hop-styled attire, but his background dancers were hats, clothes, and a crewcut that disguise the bodies underneath, as if their Japanesenes must be repressed to achieve the authentic American rap style. Finally, in the third picture, more than the microphone or headphones shine a thick ring, watch, and chain — the bling to which younger fans uninterested in the enka will be drawn. Jero certainly bridges the generation gap, but it seems that he sits between the generations, stuck among two conflicting genres, instead of drawing the two eras together.

I want to retract my previous statement: “Basically, as hiphop was remixed in Japan stylistically and culturally, Jero re-remixed the hiphop genre and culture through enka’s respective genre and culture.” Remix as it is known contemporarily cannot be used to describe the Jero phenomenon. Instead, Jero’s boon of popularity is caused by an attempt to remix two cultures, the enka musical culture and the hip-hop musical culture, but one that results in the layering over of the style-based hip-hop subculture on the enka musical culture. It is a masque of masks that imitates an amalgamation of genres but one that in reality echos facial make-up or the wrapping of a gift.

Please expect to see more writings soon; I promise I’m working on composing my ideas into solid forms. Next up, probably more on Japanese visual culture in the analysis of Engrish, quotidian philosophies, and the massage of the message. Also, Japanese toilets.

I have been in Japan for five days. Too much to tell.

However, internet culture here exists on a much different plane. No wireless. Most homestay families do not possess internet. Keitai (cell phone) purchases initially will be difficult.

I will not have internet in my room at my homestay, but I hope to write much while I have access at Kyodai Kaikan, my school building.

Even though I’m off to Japan at the beginning of September, which will prove to be an epic and unforgettable experience, I have to deal with news about events, activities, and orgies that I’m missing out on while across the Pacific. Brings a tear to my eye, really (especially those orgies). To be frank, though, I really am bummed about having to skip out on a specific concert to be performed on BU campus in late September: Girl Talk.

Girl Talk, or Gregg Gillis, the engineer-turned-DJ (though he’d rather call himself an artist), remixes clips from a variety of popular songs to create new songs clips of songs glued together by a common BPM. Honestly, it’s nothing special, but there’s something appealingly freakish about it that I’ll keep his MySpace page on loop for a good hour at work. It’s like the nineties joined up with the 00s and drove a car through the panoramic window of my storefront. It’s music improbable to dance to yet so possible that I find myself dancing anyway. You can actually buy Girl Talk’s latest album, “Feed the Animals”, for any price.

Well, Girl Talk’s been all the… talk… on the Students for Free Culture national mailing list for the past week or so. The issue: Girl Talk’s defense of fair use to create his music without having to deal with musical industry copyrights. Tech Dirt explains Girl Talk’s theory: Girl Talk uses a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial license for Feed the Animals, even though the songs on the album were made by using hundreds samples from other artists. Gillis claims his songs are fair use on the basis of being transformative and because the clips used are very short. TechDirt mumbles about the definition of transformative, but Girl Talk is furthering the production of a newly popular, cultural, musical genre and form: remix, also known as the mash-up. The New York Times uses the term collage, which I find fitting.

The problem I have with Girl Talk with regards to copyright license: the copy.

In one interview, Gillis explains the effort required to put together one of his CDs, Night Ripper.

Pitchfork: The samples are very specific– when you listen to a song for the first time do you know which lines you want to pick out immediately?
GG: Sometimes. Anyone can make a mashup in 30 seconds but that record took me– outside of collecting the samples– at least a year of putting everything together. It’s always just trial-and-error, I get all the loops and mix-and-match them on my computer.”

Girl Talk mixes hundreds of fragments of songs together — a process which has been thoroughly documented on Wikipedia, such as on Feed the Animal’s page. The wonderful power of the Internet has even provided the initial play times of every sample included in each track. This last point is the key to unlocking the copy. Well, no, I would consider it to be more the tumblers of the lock.

The ultimate key that moves those tumblers is the creative environment, specifically software. Special thanks to Tim Hwang for helping me realize this (look out for future related awesomeness on his part). The improved availability of software and ever-lowered ability requisite of the user to operate said software will complicate copyright beyond anything we’ve seen yet.

To explain my idea, I’ll ask a simple question: What if you produced an exact copy of a song, but without actually copying and pasting the original music?

By this I mean creating a cover of a song, entirely self-produced, but one that exactly (read: PERFECTLY) matches the source material. Of course, such a dream is impossible: no garage band will ever replicate the exact twang of a Hendrix guitar or a flawless warble akin to that of Johnny Cash. When we use our own instruments, musical covers will remain covers, ever removed from the classic prototype that retains the value. And according to copyright law, royalties are due to the original musician if you decide to market a cover song.

However, what if you’re provided with the materials, so that you avoid having to reproduce anything? Here’s where the trouble lies.

Girl Talk licenses his latest work with a Creative Commons license that prohibits others from garnering money from the retail of his music. I cannot download his CD and sell it to another person. However, assuming that Girl Talk’s claim to fair use upholds, then I also may use fair use to put any clips of music together to create another song. If I decide to choose the same original songs as Girl Talk to create the same tracks on his CD, then I have not copied or reproduced his work as long as I have personally toiled to put together each song.

Props to the new genre of remix, because musical recognition is simpler than ever before. The recirculation of cultural works (read here: music) into the mainstream (or even tributaries of popoular culture) certainly seems beneficial to a generation branded as “unable to create any new meaning.” Girl Talk mirrors the Internet: he’s making ideas available. If a young kid of this decade listens to Feed the Animals, he’s likely to miss most of the references to the popular songs of an older generation. However, Girl Talk refreshes the material, while at the same time refreshing the genre. Yet even if Gillis were not indirectly advertising music from the ’70s, ’80s, and ’90s, technology has kept up with the pace. A program called Listen on the iPhone will analyze a piece of music and identify the name of the song, its composer, and the track’s album.

With new technologies, composition is also easier than it ever once was. Given the availability of open source software (eg. audio programs like Audacity) and the ease-of-use provided by these new software, it does not take much effort to (re)create Girl Talk’s music while avoiding literally copying and pasting it. In fact, I could probably spend much less time producing my own songs compared to Girl Talk’s “at least a year,” since I have a storyboard for each song on Wikipedia, samples available on Pandora, free editing software available online, and the optimum cheat sheet, Girl Talk’s compilation. If Gillis had decided to sell his CD for the ’90s average price of $12, an unemployed, middle-school-based teenager could spend an afternoon recreating the music, possibly even extending the production to suit his own needs.

This post has been about copyright, but instantly the issue has evolved into a debate over intellectual property. Does Girl Talk have legal rights to protect his idea to mash together a bunch of previously-released songs (down to each second that he switches to a new sample on each individual track)? Or do we have to start from the beginning by ruling Girl Talk’s appropriation of songs as illegal?

Compared to composing an academic essay, obviously we cannot copy the words of another person and claim it as our own. The MLA would kick our ass (I mean, that’s why we’ve been writing citations pages, right? because we’re afraid?). However, I can write a book while quoting other people and still sell my book without paying royalties. If we read music like words, Girl Talk has already plagiarized, although he has created a new idea out of it. So, by creating my own (identical, but personal) version of Girl Talk’s music, I am plagiarizing from the artists’ original songs from which I take the samples, but am I also plagiarizing Gregg Gillis?

Or, to spin these questions another way: what if an eight-year old kid did all of this? Well, not entirely similar, but we’ve already seen some teeth bared.

Awesomeness will be going down in Austin, Texas come March 2009.

I’m putting together a panel on technology in the classroom for an infamous conference called South by Southwest. My presentation’s called “Blackboards or Backchannels: The Techno-Induced Classroom of Tomorrow.” This thing’s BIG. And I’m trying to make it bigger.

I’d love to show the audience the potential and capability of students connected. The Internet is a grandiose machine. So I’m extending a hand to fellow students and friends to get the word out.

If you’re willing to help, go to http://panelpicker.sxsw.com/ideas/view/1123, take five seconds to create an account, and vote on my panel idea. If you want to be more awesome, vote and then leave a comment, to get people talking.

This would be an awesome way to show that students, together, can break the system, be it a simple voting interface or the conventional, old-school methodology of education.

Visit the original Facebook note here and throw it around between your own group of friends.

Also, check out these other nibblets of amazing:

Christina Xu’s Behind the ROFLs: Next-Gen Conference Organizing While Broke

Tim Hwang’s The State of the Internet Memescape: 2008-10 and Obsolete?: A World After E-mail

I did it. Went over there. Got a Tumblr.

In some ways, I feel like I’ve conformed to another hipster precedent that I’ve been resisting for too long. And yet even though I’ve finally caved in, I still reckon that I’ve stumbled into a secret cavern lit by candlestick glow. Like an dusty, Victorian house, but one quainter than those along Brattle St.

Anyway, check it out: geno.tumblr.com. The first post goes, of course, to Diana Kimball and her most recent essay, “In the Absence of Fiction,” which put me in such a mood today that I need to write about it soon (possibly tomorrow, secretively, during work). I blame her for getting me started on this compositional adventure. So inspirational, in fact, that she’s unintentionally getting her name out there: “Her writing is passionate, idealistic, reflective, personal and fantastically geeky.”.

In the creation of my new Tumblr, though, I had to come face to face with a situation floating around the skull as of late. Looking to Tim’s predictions, he hovers over the point of ever-increasing movement toward absolute identification (”information consolidation”). Compared to my early days on the Internet, when I engaged with the parental caveats toward personal concealment (even though my first username, Owl6887, clearly emblazoned my date of birth, like every friend at the time), my current Facebook profile prominently displays a full range of contact info and idiosyncratic characteristics. My resume sits on LinkedIn; my website URL remains a monikerized placeholder. I’m certainly not branding myself, but IRL Alex is approaching pure digital socialization. I look back at old usernames in awe of my referential mindset. CollegeBoard still waves Afylite (a misnomer of the treasure-hunting character, Graham Ayflite, from the SNES version of Tales of Phantasia) at me before I can access my financial PROFILE. All those old AIM screen names haunt the occasional memory.

My FC friends still try to retain that creative spark. Sleuth. Diana. Chrysaora. Christina. I could list more if I had an excuse to stay up later, but I’m already tired. But I’ve returned to the username graveyard to lay bouquets on the oldies and picked up Geno at the social security office. It’s homage to my nickname of four years from high school, Gino, but influenced by the fact that the name was taken already. Now, it’s a double salute, the secondary toward this guy from another RPG.

Look for the quotes.

Just see it. Three words are all you need: It. Is. Great. 100 percent. Power level over 9000. A++. And want to know why? Because at 2:30 am, after the midnight showing, everyone in the theater stood up covered in sweat inside a 90-degree house.

My friend the illustrious James Sotis put it this way: “If there’s ever a movie to go out on, this has to be it.” Heath Ledger = win.

On the path to planning panels for South by Southwest next March, I came across a link for ETech 2008, an O’Reilly conference held earlier this year in California. One panel discussion, Really Really Really Intimate Interfaces, caught my eye because on the conference homepage it linked to the panel’s placeholder with the term “sex hacking.” A query for a “hacking” and “sex” combo on Google turns up only the faint whispers of a long-past forum post from HOPE 2006.

There’s life hacking and even school hacking, but can we hack sex? Or, at least follow LifeHacker’s motto and “get things done” with technology when it comes to romping in (or out of) the bedroom.

Explanations aside, today I came across this nifty little item from OhMiBod:

They call it the NaughtiNano — essentially it’s a vibrator powered by your DRM iPod. According to the website, it “vibrates to the rhythm and intensity of the music.” Now good for them if they got the piece of equipment to shake its tail if you turn up the volume. But let’s try to conceptualize: what if the unit pulsated according to a song’s bass, or wavelength oscillation, or any other obscure yet relevant musical factor. It’s already possible for a music UI to produce a visualization of music. But what if an orgasm looked like this…

or this…

(borrowed from TheAlieness GiselaGiardino²³’s Flickr)

Or, a deeper question: can a genre excite us? Can sexual desire derive from accordion-dominant, Louisiana zydeco between 150 and 170 BPM? Would seventeenth century Gregorian chant serve up a stronger pleasurable climax?

OhMiBod also sells a product, monikered as Boditalk, a vibrator that reacts to your cell phone calls, buzzing for the duration of your wireless chat. I’m sure that someone could engineer an idea to combine the iPhone’s GPS and some odd sort of social network with this amusing gizmo.

Apologies for the unannounced blog vacation (my euphemized term for outright, down-to-earth, human, carnal, base, heart-felt, summer-induced indolence). The metal tick has kept on ticking, yet the physical tock never really kicked in, but that only means that I have a lot to write about in the coming days. So, let us begin…

When I was younger, I liked to brag a lot, until one day I realized I was gradually turning into “that kid,” which propelled me into a slow process of self-exoneration and forced-realization of the humble. But I’ll take a moment to plug two upcoming talks that I’m hosting at Connecticon in Hartford, CT, from 1-3 August, entitled “R-R-Remix! The Mashed Up Culture of Anime Fandom” and “State of the Otaku 2008.” I mention these because I have been reading through a book by one of my favorite beach-babe-turned-Harvard-professors, Chris Kelty, called Two Bits: The Cultural Significance of Free Software, for a Harvard Free Culture mini-group project, which will henceforth be known as 2B2P for short, or the Two Bits Processor Project for long. This post will be a reaction and modulation of/against/for Chapter 1, Geeks and Recursive Publics, of Part 1, The Internet. I apologize in advance for this article’s long, rambling nature. If you comment, it’ll help me to organize my thoughts for the future.

Free software… to hormone-crazed, socially-bungling Japanophiles? Where’s the segue? On one hand, I could say the Internet (the title of Part 1, hey hey, coincidence?, I think not!) and only be half right. On one foot, I could say geeks, and become a tad closer to the answer. Doing a handstand, though, if I uttered “recursive public,” I just hit the bullseye. And on the topic of recursive publics is where I will tie in my latter, Connecticon-bound presentation. I want to bring in the demographic of fans of Japanese animation (also known colloquially as otaku), unrelated to any matter in the book, as an experiment in modulation: instead of responding directly to Kelty’s content, in this post I will try to flesh out, squish, and redefine the idea of recursive publics while applying the concept to another relevant population of geeks.

To begin, let’s simplify this notion of recursive public. Kelty’s definition essentially boils down to a population that deals with a content through a form, yet the content and form are the same thing. To develop it slightly further, a recursive public works through the form to protect the content mediated by the form. Kelty uses the Internet as his example, being the form that geeks use and through which geeks mediate. Geeks want to foster the Internet by coding the Internet to their own specifications (bounded by the geek moral order). Very meta indeed. Putting a quote against my simplification, “A recursive public is a public that is constituted by a shared concern for maintaining the means of association through which they come together as a public” (Kelty 28).

Recursive publics are not limited to geeks or the Internet. Kelty does not provide examples of branches. One possible example: American Republicans and Democrats might be considered inclusive to the recursive public scene. Political subtleties aside, both parties exist as part of the government — the medium through which they operate and the content on which they focus their operations. Government also is the medium that allows the parties to “come into being in the first place” (28).

But there’s more to recursive publics, in fact another element entirely. Kelty discusses the concept of “layers,” regarding which he says geeks can identify and connect to create new structures to operate the form. He writes, “[Geeks] express ideas, but they also express infrastructures through which ideas can be expressed (and circulated) in new ways” (29). This second element ties in with the idea that recursive publics “argue through” their medium(s)” (29). Kelty highlights the combination of Napster and network connections to form a miniature scale of the Internet at large. The layering process then provides additional support for the population of the recursive public to develop and protect the medium.

Otaku are part of a recursive public. However, the demographic of anime and manga fans interacting with their medium fundamentally challenges Kelty’s notion of the recursive public. Why: the anime fandom’s medium is, obviously, animation. However, most anime fans do not have the technical expertise or sometimes even amateur aptitude to interact with the animated medium. For anime fans, it is easy to “express ideas” yet difficult to “express infrastructures” (29).

I’ll step away from that difficulty for a moment. First, I want to tackle the ideology of the recursive public. In a long-winded explanation, Kelty basically argues that recursive publics operate through a type of morality, one that structures the goals of the community. To reiterate, geeks of the recursive public participate in “writing and publishing and speaking and arguing” but also make software for “circulation, archiving, movement, and modifiability” of those forms of rhetorical communication. In total, arguments and the methods employed to sculpt those arguments evolve into a sense of morality which will govern future arguments and methods. It’s all very cyclical, but “the circularity is essential to the phenomenon. A public might be real and efficacious, but its reality lies in just this reflexivity by which an addressable object is conjured into being in order to enable the very discourse that gives it existence” (48).

To return to the otaku: these geeks too share a moral ideology based in the medium of animation. Examples include the cease of the distribution of fansubs (subtitles added to the original Japanese animation, distributed for foreign audiences) once an animated series is licensed by a US company, or doujinshi (comic book remixes of series) that do not copy the original series but build upon it [this latter topic is discussed in Chapter 1 of Lawrence Lessig's Free Culture]. This morality, then, continues on to affect what Kelty calls “changing relations of power and knowledge” (29). Japanese animation, particularly dealing with fans in the US, has challenged the current production market and copyright itself, particularly regarding Free Use. And although barely developed as that of the culture of free software, the power and authority in otaku culture continues to change, led by greats such as Toshio Okada and Takashi Murakami.

But I must return to and address the problem of the formulation of infrastructures when animation is the medium. Can a recursive public exist when a technical boundary is inherently set up in the public’s system? Let’s examine a possible route to the solution: topical and metatopical spaces. Kelty recognizes that geeks of free software do not congregate in topical spaces, meaning assembly in the physical arena, but instead “[knit] a plurality of spaces into one larger space of non-assembly” (39). Anime fans in the US, contrarily, began in so-called topical spaces (also known as mom’s basement), eventually immigrating to the Internet where the fandom now continues to thrive. Is it possible that because the culture of free software began online that its followers automatically shared the prowess necessary to participate fully in both argument and creation, and they shared such knowledge and capabilities between each other, while otaku might not possess these technical traits because they did not mature in the presence of the medium (layman’s terms: they weren’t animators, so should we expect them to animate?).

That’s certainly a pressing question to Toshio Okada, co-founder of Gainax (one of the original major Japanese animation production companies) and self-proclaimed Otaking. So pressing, in fact, that he has declared, “Otaku are dead.” What can he mean, when thousands of American anime fans are running around with their heads cut off at hundreds of conventions across the United States yearly. Just that: with their heads cut off, today’s fans have no direction.

In a public talk, recorded by Otaku2.com, Okada answered the following question:

You mentioned that there is a gap between fan generations, or yours and that of today. Can you elaborate on this?

Okada: I think there is a big difference that is clear in what is popular. Take manga, which is selling in the mainstream, and series popular with maniacs, which are not selling. “Clover and Honey” is a good example. Some people just buy it, some are fans and only a few are maniacs who really dive into the series, so it fails to move the masses. The manga becomes nothing but a topic of discussion among older men who compete on who read it more properly. When with others, these tangents don’t go well and a discussion never takes off. The media can’t talk about otaku as one anymore because we aren’t. There is no core literature or readership. I don’t think I can explain this well enought to convince you, but anyway.

Okada is famously known for his participation on the infamous otaku commentary, Otaku no Video, a major yet sardonic commentary on the state of otaku in Japan. As a producer, though, Okada exemplifies the paragon leader of the otaku recursive public: one who comments on and comments through the form. He sees, though, a major change in generations of otaku, which leads to his harsh declaration. Describing his own generation of anime fans, Okada said at MIT in 2003: “These were fans who were so passionate and enthusiastic about anime that they became vocal and informed critics.” Speaking of the modern anime fanatic, he stated, “Unfortunately… the latest generation of anime viewers in Japan are not true Otaku. They may be anime fans, but they lack the deep, passionate connection to the medium, and many of them seem to have taken up anime fandom because it’s cool or “fashionable.” Rather than being active critics of anime, they are content to be customers, or consumers.” Okada is right about many viewers even five years later, today, as teenagers attend anime conventions with nothing short of shoutouts to Naruto and Bleach. Still, there are some fans that put their critical eye to work to uphold the name of otaku, but cannot argue for anime through the infrastructure of animation. How should they be considered in a culture that began as a recursive public yet has in recent times reverted to a mere consumer culture? A younger Okada, seeing no good animation after the end of the original Gundam series way back when, participated in the creation of two original animated shorts, Daicon III and Diacon IV (the latter of which, if you watch it quickly, contains a homage to Star Wars of all things). The importance of these novelties remains the fact that the recursive public protects the content by arguing through the form. Okada’s message to young fans rings with Keltyism: “Just make your own anime, in English, by yourself.”

I’m not depressed. The phrase “All is not lost” is too drastic to use, yet it would encompass a little bit of the situation. But only a little, because the situation is improving. Paul “Otaking” Johnson recently published on YouTube a criticism of the online fansubbing community, a five-part video series which begins here. It’s just one example of the recursive public finally taking a stand once again. In an interview not too long ago, he stated, “If a job’s worth doing, it’s worth doing well. My video was free and I got paid nothing, but it didn’t stop me researching translation theory for a year or hand drawing and animating the cut scenes just to grab people’s attention (they certainly wouldn’t stick around for my voice, that’s for sure!),” which exemplifies exactly what Okada wanted out of the new otaku generation. Other models include Makoto Shinkai, who animated his own story, Voices of a Distant Star and went on to produce a number of other anime, or even the father of Japanese animation, Osamu Tezuka, who copied Disney’s style to form the foundation of what would compose anime fandom today, who animated for entertainment yet still included his own acute commentary on post-war Japan.

Back to the issue, though: What happens when a fan simply can’t do this sort of high-caliber work?

Layers. The second element in Kelty’s concept. What does Japanese animation become when applied to new intrastructural models? Doujinshi. Anime music videos. Cosplay. Fansubs. Remixed comic books. Reworked animation set to music. Dressing up as characters. Subtitling original show material. All these examples are miniature structures of the animation scene at large, yet do not require the ultimate technical expertise vital to the production of genuine animation. But Kelty does not approach the potential for layers to avoid manifestation as the actual infrastructure (eg. Internet) and instead form new forms of the infrastructure. Unfortunately, for free software in relation to the Internet, no new form of the infrastructure exists, because there is only one Internet. For anime, though, animation exists as media with many offsets. Anime fans congregate in topical and metatopical spaces. Otaku participate as much as possible as the true nature of the recursive public has begun to resurface over the last decade. Hopefully as technology advances fans will be provided a more accessible platform to evolve the recursive public and resurrect the name of otaku.

Please comment on this second post in the Two Bits Processor Project, and please visit the blogs of my friends who are participating with me on this most excellent project:

Tim Hwang, blogging at The U.S. Bureau of Fabulous Bitches
Christina Xu, blogging at ComPromise
yours truly, blogging at DianaKimball.com
Mike Wolfe, blogging at Machinations
And me, Alex Leavitt, blogging here

Instead, this is a small catalogue of books that I recently bought, borrowed, or brought to a close.

Convergence Culture: Where Old and New Media Collide, Henry Jenkins (finished) - A mashed potato of a book that works much better if you separate the chapters and read them as essays. Pretty much an anthology of modern, cool changes in media. Recommended. Will blog (hopefully) multiple times about this at a future date.

Personal, Portable, Pedestrian: Mobile Phones in Japanese Life, Mimi Ito, et. al. (borrowed from the BPL, just started) - If I had the linguistic skills, I’d definitely do some further research on mobile culture in Japan when I’m abroad in Kyoto in the fall and early winter. Reads sociologically, meaning interesting yet dull language.

Free Culture: The Nature and Future of Creativity, Lawrence Lessig (recently bought) - I figure that I need to start reading this, since I’ve firmly entrenched myself in this free culture thing for years to come.

The Wealth of Networks: How Social Production Transforms Markets and Freedom, Yochai Benkler (recently bought) - Yochai laid the smackdown on Cass Sunststein at a forum/lecture that I attended via MIT’s Comparative Media Studies program. This is my thanks to him.

The Future of the Internet and How to Stop It, Jonathan Zittrain (recently bought) - After Berkman@10 and two riveting JZ talks, I had to pick up this book. Besides, it’s at least a bit relevant.

Other relevant books that I want to read:
Everything is Miscellaneous: The Power of the New Digital Disorder, David Weinberger
Hip-Hop Japan: Rap and the Paths of Cultural Globalization, Ian Condry

Have you read any of these seven titles? Tell me what you think about them. Comment, btchz.