Fujimoto is a Japanese artist and musician whose work
has been championed by Norwegian artist/musician Kim
Hiorthøy and his debut release appears on
the same label Hiorthøy
records for, Smalltown Supersound. Fujimoto’s
visual work, which can be seen on his website, is typified
by a delicacy and strength of observation that catches
small, charming details that might otherwise be missed
in the rush of everyday life. For example, a small tree
branch with green leaves fallen on the grey tarmac of
a road, a notebook seen through a window with a pair
of spectacles placed open upon it.
Joy is perhaps played on a thumb piano by a
precocious child (perhaps in between her Suzuki violin
lessons). It’s hesitant, but delightfully so.
The sound of children playing in the background underlines
the innocence of what might be the interlude between
two parts of a story. Little Sunset is surely
a lullaby, its notes slow, almost somnambulant as though
inevitably drifting off to sleep. It’s difficult
to tell what the instrument is – perhaps it’s
a xylophone, whose edges are slightly slurred. Whatever
it is, it takes careful, charming footsteps as though
stepping across an icy pavement. Slow Boat
lives up to its name, its guitar seeming to become slower
and slower – as if negotiating a path into eventual
silence. It’s a little reminiscent of Ogurusu
Norihide in its melodic simplicity and pendant pauses.
This is calmness personified. Small Mountain’s
rhythm is traced out on filtered piano shadowed by tinkling
xylophone like a friendly stray following somebody in
hopes of finding a home. This time the association is
with Kim Hiorthøy’s music, there’s
the same childlike innocence.
See Water begins in the same appealing territory
as its predecessors until it acquires a sort of digital
scurvy that up to this point has hovered in the background.
By seventh track, Kujira, the distortion of
the sound, particularly when twinned with awkward chords
and sharp notes becomes something of a painful trial.
Its cessation provokes relief. Sometimes returns to
prettier territory, partway through joined by birdsong
and children's voices... and is that a frog? The
Book sounds for its first half like a field recording
made outside a church containing a particularly enthusiastic
congregation, then it’s a piano recital by a serious
child who plays with stabbing fingers. The recording
sounds like it's a fourth or fifth generation tape,
perhaps copied from proud grandparent to auntie to cousin
and so on.
Komorebi is a slight work made up of sketches
and vignettes, whose very slightness is one of its most
attractive qualities. Using the adjectives ‘pretty’
and ‘charming’ about the first half of Komorebi
might provoke images of carefully manicured gardens
in English villages (at least to some). However Fujimoto
discovers, and reveals to the listener, the beauty in
the everyday. The distortion resulting from deliberately
lo-fi recording techniques is as much a part of the
work as the melodies themselves. Komorebi is
an unspoken argument for taking time, looking around
and appreciating – if it’s possible –
the incidental and the positive.
Colin Buttimer
4.5/5 |
