To PERFORM or to CONFORM?

In lieu of a license system like Tokyo's Heaven Artist, accomplished Kansai street performers endure police interference and encroach-ment by untalented amateurs. KS investigates.

After the dragon-breath finale, after the sarariman and couples clap and bow and throw ¥1000 notes and lesser tokens into the bucket and the throng disperses, the story begins. No one sees her walk into a nook, gargle and spit water to rinse the kerosene. At first it seems that here is a glimpse of the person behind the performer. Later it becomes clear that the person is the performer.

Her name isn't “Yoko” or “Maki.” It isn't your girlfriend's name. It's “Kisala”— it goes with her red plaid outfit like a brand. Aged 20 years--she lives alone in Osaka. Behind her smile are street smarts that would have been more common in post-war, pre-Keroppi Japan. This is the life of a daidogeinin (street performer); Kisala says she wouldn't want it any other way.

"Three years ago I was inspired by a street performer,” she says. “When I saw his act, I knew it was what I wanted to do. I began training, and he became my mentor; he taught me his skills."

She bought a rickety trunk for props and a dolly to haul it all, then practiced juggling fiery batons in a park for three months before her first performance. Soon she built a repertoire: the diabolo, or Chinese yo-yo, which looks like two bowls stuck together in a bow-tie shape and rides along a string, and gets tossed high in the air and caught by its skillful practitioners; the rolla bolla, a balancing act consisting of a flat platform on a moving cylinder; and the kerosene mouthwash.

Umeda Station, Sannomiya Station, and other places around Kansai — Kisala scoped out the choice spots and made enough money to pay rent and buy rice. She performed at festivals, such as Shiga's Natsu Matsuri. She made balloon poodles for kids. She performed unhindered; people loved it; she was appreci-ated; life was sweet for more than two years.

It still is, mostly, but the climate is changing. Daidogei, a legal privilege for a couple hundred performers in Tokyo, has become more difficult than ever in Kansai.

Weekend night in front of Umeda Station — can't hear traffic or conversation, can't hear Kisala announce.

"Daidogei was very popular at Umeda and Namba,” Kisala says, “but now it's difficult because loud bands play in the performing spaces. Audiences can't hear the street performers.”

Teenagers (in spirit if not chronology) haul their drum kits and amps onto the overpass in front of Umeda Station and other conspicuous locations. The din of these upstarts has compelled increased police activity.

“The bands have become more common over the past two years,” Kisala says. “Police usually stop them; they [the police] aren't useless, but now they interfere with me, too.”
This year, she says, the police have halted about one in 10 performances. At two or three per weekend, that's about one show a month. And it seems to be increasing. As a result, she says, she has been discouraged, performs less often, makes less money.

“The police say I'm disturbing people, but I'm not forcing anyone to watch. They say it's dangerous, but no one has been hurt-none of my daidogei friends have hurt anyone. The police use these excuses, yet they rarely bothered me before the loud bands came.”

Trouble with the police is an experience common to street performers. Even an old hand like Mr. Okuchi is not exempt. Authorities have been interrupting his performances for nine years at Umeda Station.

But not elsewhere. He has official permission to perform at Tenpozan and Universal Studios. And Osaka Castle is a haven for him and other daidogeinin.

Making the rounds 10 to 30 times per week, Mr. Okuchi says, he collects enough money in his hat to support himself and his family. Dressed Victorian, his exaggerated motions are Chaplin-esque.

A whistle is his only voice as he juggles rings and presti-digitates and hocus-pocuses.

“It's better that I don't speak,” he says. “A lot of foreign tourists watch my performances.”

Dexterous body language communicates every idea to the audience. At one point during a Tenpozan show in late July, he pantomimed his desire for an audience member's cap. Cap in hand, he retrieved a lit cigarette, tucked the cap into his fist, ashed into the cap, watched the owner's exasperation, tucked the lit cigarette into
the cap, watched the owner's dismay, and opened his hands. The hat was fine, of course. What makes the performance worthwhile is the physical humor Mr. Okuchi delivers.

“I like to see people's smiling faces while I'm performing,” he says. “The more the better. That's why I continue doing this.”

As an alternative to starving, he began performing 10 years ago while penniless in New Zealand. Upon returning he attended a performing school in Osaka where he honed his talent for several years. Today his act would overfill the trunk Kisala uses; he hauls his sound system, stools and other props in a car.

Even though Mr. Okuchi is a veteran, his predecessors span generations. Daidogei has existed for ages. During Edo Japan (c. 1603 - 1868) balancing stacks of teacups, or spinning them on umbrellas, juggling rings, and dancing while wearing a lion mask — all facets of daikagura — became popular entertainment throughout Japan. In Kyoto men performed the incipient art of Kabuki at riversides. Then, during the American occupa-tion, the public discovered modern diversions and lost interest in traditional arts.

Today, Heisei Japan is host to the Daidogei World Cup, held annually in Shizuoka's Sumpu Park and other areas around town. The four-day buskers' festival attracts hundreds of mimes, acrobats, dancers, and magicians from around the world and swells Shizuoka's population to four times its non-festival size.

Aside from this and a few smaller celebrations, daidogei is rarely embraced in Japan. Tokyo's Heaven Artist system, established two years ago and based on a similar program in New York, grants performing licenses to successful applicants. Currently more than 200 acts out of more than 800 applicants have gained the legal right to perform at parks, train stations or other facilities around the city — 50 venues total.

Critics argue that even though the system has validated daidogei as an art form and provided performers increased recognition, it restricts performance to a bureaucratically determined time and place whether or not an audience is available.

Kisala says she is glad Osaka doesn't have a similar set-up.
"It's good that Tokyo is allowing artists to perform,” she says, “but it's only some of them. Besides, Heaven Artist forbids the use of fire and knives. I think that takes a lot of the fun out of it. Without fire, I would be out of job.”

She seems younger in pictures than in person. Upon scrutiny the wary demeanor becomes apparent, as does the big scar on her hand. A work-related injury?

"It's from middle school,” she says. “I've never hurt myself performing." But if she does burn herself or break a bone, "I will wait and wait and wait in my room until I'm better. Then I will perform again. I don't know what the future will bring, but I hope it always will be performing."

Text: Joseph Allen
Photos: Fujiwara • KS • Studio Okuchi