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CD Taki OchiVlastislav Matoušek
* Shakuhachi and suizen
The shakuhachi flute 1) is now one of the main symbols of the Japanese musical tradition. Yet, till the mid-nineteenth century it was an instrument of religion, not of music, used exclusively by the Fuke-shu (or Fuke) sect of Zen Buddhism. Although they played the shakuhachi most of the time, the komusó (‘monks of nothingness’) of this sect were not considered musicians. The activity, which to the uninitiated might appear to be flute playing, was in fact only another form of Zen – meditation done by playing strange, esoterically handed down compositions, actually breathing and concentration exercises transformed into ‘music’. Together they are now called honkyoku (literally, ‘basic pieces’). This style of playing the shakuhachi, called Fuke, as it has been preserved to this day, particularly in the lines passed on at Myóanji (the temple of ‘Light and Darkness’, also called therefore Myóan ryú 2), is mainly a manifestation of Zen, of its emphasis on authenticity, concentration on the essential, and freeing oneself from externality. With typical Zen concision its basic principle used to be characterized as ichi on jobutsu (reaching enlightenment by means of a single sound). The way of life of the ‘monks of nothingness’ was also highly unusual. As part of their asceticism one of their duties was to do takuhatsu at least three days a month, that is, to beg for alms for their monastery by playing the shakuhachi or sometimes for food for their bare sustenance. They also had the privilege of travelling without hindrance anywhere in Japan. In public they had to wear strange large hats made of rush (igusa); called tengai, they completely cover the face, providing anonymity. When necessary the monks often introduced themselves only by the name of their monastery and, rather than say anything at all, played the shakuhachi. During esoteric evening ceremonies in temples of the sect, the most serious and longest compositions were usually played – for instance, ‘San´ya’ (Three Valleys), ‘Kyorei’ (Empty Bell), ‘Kokú’ (Empty Sky) or ‘Mukaiji’ (The Sound of a Flute over A Misty Sea). Among the representative compositions of this part of the repertoire was ‘Takiochi’ (Waterfall).
Waterfall Asahidaki and Taki ochi
Ryúgenji, the Dragon Temple Ryúgenji of the Fuke sect, was an important centre renowned for suizen (blowing meditation) practised by the playing of the shakuhachi. It once stood directly opposite the well-known Asahidaki waterfall near Shuzenji on the Izu peninsula. Once during a shakuhachi lesson while on my Tokyo study stay in June 1996, my teacher Kifu Mitsuhashi began to tell me a bit mysteriously: ‘The composition “Taki ochi” – Waterfall – was composed there. The temple was later destroyed, and it vanished without a trace. Only the composition “Taki ochi”, which somebody composed there a long time ago, apparently inspired by the magnificent view and, directly, by the sound of the falling water, is still played to this day’. The idea that something as incomprehensible and ethereal as a musical composition could be the only ‘material’ remnant of a famous temple was truly fascinating to me. What’s more, it was a composition that should sound like ‘wind blowing through a bamboo grove’. That is how the mysterious ‘blowing Zen’ or ‘blowing meditation’ suizen practised by the mendicant ‘monks of nothingness’ of the Fuke-shú sect used to be described. What an eloquent reminder of the transient nature of our material world! My teacher then resolutely announced that this was the first composition of Fuke honkyoku (a basic composition in the fuke style) that I would be learning as of today. Here we would play together not only at the anniversary concert of all the teacher’s pupils, but also right at the Asahidaki waterfall itself! It is there that the teacher and his students set out every year to a sort of ‘Suizen’ meeting, part of which consists in playing Honkyoku compositions by the waterfall. ‘Wonderful!’, I said to myself, full of enthusiasm. Two months went by and what had long been a dream came to fruition, though somewhat differently than I had imagined. I wrote in my diary at the time: Saturday, 7 September 1996:8.30 am, awakened, still half in a dream, by the sudden call ‘Get up, get up, get up, Daddy!’, which my five-year-old daughter Veronika had recorded as an alarm on my Psion 3a. My wife Klárka quickly braided a single, long tuft of hair in the back of my head, and I set out to the ‘Kifu-kai annual trip of dedicating shakuhachi music’. (That’s the official name of the event on the leaflet, made also in Japanese English especially for me.) After changing trains at Shinjuku, this time without getting lost, I took the orange JR express to the Tokyo station. My ‘fellow-pupil’ of shakuhachi, the architect Yasuo Kobayashi, who beforehand showed a willingness to be my guide, reached the agreed place shortly after me. We easily made the next express train, this time to the Mishima station near Shuzenji on the Izu peninsula. Here, at the station, after getting off the train, is where we all got together for the first time. One of my older ‘fellow-pupils’ immediately dazzled me with a real monk’s mushroom-shaped hat. Fantastic! First we go together with the teacher and his women admirers for traditional Japanese noodles. Then three taxis take us to the Rógenji (“Temple at the Waterfall”), which is a bit farther away. We set out for the shrine in the rocks near the famous Asahidaki waterfall, in front of which once stood the legendary temple where ‘Taki ochi’ is said to have been composed. What I had imagined, something monumental like Niagara Falls, was quickly put into proper perspective. I saw an unassuming, narrow, black cliff, a few-dozen-meters-high, over which, with almost a gentle murmuring, ran water, before flowing away as an inviting little brook. I then imagined, however, what a mad torrent a little brook must become during the monsoon rains, and I began to look at Asahidaki with all due respect. The young priest of the temple, who led us to the place, rings a hand bell, and sings sacred texts for several minutes. Then, from memory, we all play ‘Chóshi’, the most basic of all the basic Honkyoku compositions. I noticed that several fellow-pupils had on their sleeves inconspicuous crib notes of the music. Well, well, well. Then, in the main hall of the temple, after repeated singing accompanied now by the striking of the temple bowl and the roughly forty-centimetre-long mokugyo (‘wooden fish’), we play for another two hours or so. Again ‘Chóshi’, and then finally ‘Taki ochi’, ‘Hifumichó’, and, without me, ‘Taki otoshi’ (see note 7). I enthusiastically take photographs and make sound recordings! We then play ‘Darani’, too, and eventually my master, Mitsuhashi-sensei, on the deeply-pitched flute called the nishaku yonsun (‘two feet, four inches’) plays ‘Reibo’ (Yearning for the Bell), among the most important Honkyoku pieces, said to have formerly been played especially at evening ceremonies in the temples of the Fuke sect. I recorded it all together with the fabulous sounds of Nature. One of the semi cicada even seemed for a moment to be trying to join in with the playing flutes or compete with them. The spiritual charge was extremely strong, and beautiful. In the middle of the session we all go a few hundred meters away to another, smaller temple, where we play ‘Chóshi’. In euphoria I photograph the splendid ancient altar. Then again we move back to Rógenji, and continue playing. Ultimately everybody rests, drinks tea and fortify themselves with supplies they have brought. In the meantime I go alone to the Asahidaki waterfall; something is irresistibly drawing me there. I install a microphone beneath the falls 3), and press ‘Record’ on my MD Walkman. I climb up twenty meters higher to another shrine in the rocks. About midway up the falls there is a plateau with a magical small lake. I wade up to my knees in the water and play ‘Kyorei’ (Empty Bell), said to be the earliest koten honkjoku composition. I’m carried away by the scenery, and wonder what will be on the recording. It should mainly be the murmuring of water, together with natural sounds, especially the voices of the semi cicada and perhaps, from the distance, lots of my still not quite fully practised ‘Kyorei’.
After my return, I couldn’t resist and chatted with that
nice priest. His name is Shinjo Yoshino and he’d apparently once been to
Prague! He eventually invited me to visit to the temple and even sojourn
there, telling me I could stay and meditate as much as I liked, without any
worries or expenses. A wonderful prospect! I’m really curious whether it
will come to fruition.’
Taki ochi
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