Anything but quiet

Natural History, March, 1998 by Samuel Fromartz

Kenny Endo, who grew up in Los Angeles and now lives in Hawaii, has probably taken taiko the farthest among Americans. He composes, runs a school, tours regularly, and plays with musicians in Japan and the United States. His interest took him to Japan for ten years in the 1980s, where he studied taiko and hogaku hayashi - the classical Japanese ensemble for flute and drums found in Noh and Kabuki. He played percussion in the Kabuki theater as a professional and was the first foreigner to earn the distinction of being granted a natori, a stage name that is also an informal license to teach. But Endo previously worked in funk, Latin, and jazz bands, even as he studied with the San Francisco Taiko Dojo. All these experiences show up in his work. "I feel a responsibility and a desire to continue the traditional music, whether it's Kabuki music or festival music," Endo says. "But I also feel a desire, for my own expression, to compose and use taiko in other types of contexts with other people." At the conference's concluding concert, Endo introduced a violist and saxophonist to play with his taiko ensemble. He also played a tsuzumi (an hourglass-shaped hand drum used in Kabuki) with Tanaka's group.

Perhaps the climactic moment came when drummers lined up to take turns on a three-foot-wide drum nestled horizontally on a wooden stand. Two performers at a time pounded at opposite ends, one as soloist and the other in a back-up role. As the sweat flew off their bodies, which in some cases were clothed only in loin cloths, the drummers unleashed a rhythmic frenzy, summoning up a deep roar with mounting intensity.

Following the concert, conference participants partook of food and drink set out by the JACCC in the open plaza outside the hall. But the milling crowd was still reluctant to disperse. After a couple of hours, some of the musicians spontaneously struck up a playful, raucous tankobushi, a traditional song and dance at Obon festivals, then segued into other taiko dance music. Somebody picked up a bamboo flute, another started to tap on a table, and then a couple homed in on plastic garbage cans and turned them upside down for drumming. Surrounded by deserted office buildings in downtown Los Angeles, the plaza felt like a village in the midst of a valley. The musicians formed a huge circle, couples danced in the center, and even Tanaka boogied into the fray to loud cheers. Everyone clapped and laughed long into the night; it was a celebration of rhythmic spirit as old as the taiko drum itself.