One of the wonders of digging into history is realizing how life has a way of shaking out differently than you expect. Right now, as I’m ingesting all this information outlining Mari Hamada’s 編む女 (The Knitting Woman), I’m starting to see how it all digests into capturing a bit part in her creative career. Now more widely known for her acting work in countless Japanese movies and dramas, there still remains that slice of her life when, as a different kind of pop singer—one at the intersection of pop and glitch—Mari pointed toward new directions other music creators could take.
It was in the late ‘80s that Mari began her rise to fame—not as an actress, but as the lead vocalist and guitarist for a band whose work now seems lost to time: Sunaba. Based in Osaka, close to Mari’s native Kobe, the group never quite made it out of the underground. As a New Wave artist fresh out of high school, Mari soaked in all the free-flowing spirit coursing through the Kansai region. On stage and on TV, Mari would adopt the style of a fushigi-chan (a “strange girl”), distancing herself and playing a character of sorts for audiences—speaking in what would become her sort of trademark: a high-pitched koneko-chan voice and pigtails, a playful put-on for the camera.
Although Mari’s original band disbanded, she caught the eye of Kuniaki Yakura. Not to get too lost in the Hyogo weeds, but he had just founded a bizarre, weirdo, experimental, Osaka-centric alternative music group: Monmon Club (もんもんクラブ). Its evolution—or de-evolution, depending on who you ask—Modern Choki Chokies (モダンチョキチョキズ), was born in 1989 from the idea of dragging what makes Osaka “Osaka” into the overground. Yakura tasked this large—and I mean large—collective with fusing genres like avant-garde, ska, dodonpa, and enka, all through the unique filter of Kansai comedy and performance art. The band/troupe was known for its eclectic style, blending musical genres and theater in a way few others dared. By the early ‘90s, Mari had taken on a leading role, serving as the main vocalist in a group whose membership was always in flux.
By the mid-‘90s, Mari’s growing presence in the band—and the pull of creative notoriety, whether as a TV personality or actress—pushed her to strike out on a solo path. Signing with Sony’s Ki/oon sublabel, Mari turned her focus to the expanding Japanese alternative music scene. And in 1995, she released her debut フツーの人 (or “Normal Person”), a title that marked a distinct break from her past.
Taking on the role of producer, Mari assembled a cast of collaborators including Tamio Okuda, Kyoko Endoh, ECD (of Major Force), and Maki Fujii to create a genuinely leftfield slice of Japanese pop. Entertaining ideas drawn from hip-hop, electronica, and J-Alt rock, フツーの人 was a risky proposition for someone previously orbiting more mainstream fare. But in hindsight, tracks like “透き夜”, “わたし いのしし”, and “愛されますよ” now appear like hors d’oeuvres for what would unfold over the next two years.
It was during the recording sessions for フツーの人 that Mari Hamada fell under the spell and influence of one of her contributors: Maki Fujii of Soft Ballet. Maki, having just emerged from the dissolution of his band, pursued a romantic and creative collaboration with Mari, hoping to restart his life—and sound—elsewhere. Together, they ventured into sonic territory they had once hesitated to embrace.
For Maki, it was his early dabbling in IDM and techno that spurred him to see whether Mari would be game to fuse that experimental sound with her solo career. Surprisingly, she was—and together, they convinced Polystar to back a new project that followed these impulses into unknown territory.
Through mutual friend Miwako Yamaguchi of Nav Katze, they recruited unlikely, far-flung collaborators: Autechre, Dominique Brethes (of Schleimer K.), and James Towning of Fact Twenty Two—all of whom contributed music and production, even if they weren’t sure how Mari and Maki would reimagine their work. From Japan, seasoned artists like Masami Tsuchiya of Ippu-Do and electronic wizard Yuji Sugiyama joined the effort, each helping recontextualize “pop” music in a glitchier, hyper-digital age.
To close followers of Japanese pop, it might’ve seemed inevitable that a record like 編む女 was coming—if you were paying attention. Two of Mari’s collaborators, Yuji and Miwako, had released Gentle & Elegance in 1996, a year earlier, creating a kind of proto-template for what Björk might’ve called “glitch pop,” reimagined through a Japanese lens. In the same year that Radiohead asked us to get “Fitter, Happier, More Productive,” and fear computer-controlled future Mari’s take on postmodern pop felt less about the machines themselves and more about herself—as a songwriter leveraging their strengths with hers. In a strange way, this “less human-sounding music” became her most human musical statement.
編む女 reminds me of albums like Nobukazu Takemura’s Child and Magic—records that function as universal, approachable versions of what could be very navel-gazing music. In “Baby Blue,” we hear honest-to-goodness melodies rise from the noise, coalescing into warm, complete songs instead of mere experimental showcases. On the opener, it’s Miwako and Yuji who bring out this dreamier side of IDM, perfectly paired with Mari’s vocal strengths.
Masami Tsuchiya’s contribution, “氣愛 (Ki-Ai),” brings a mood that recalls the Bristol scene—Massive Attack, Portishead, that whole atmosphere. Strangely enough, it’s Autechre’s credited track, “アイレ可愛や,” that travels the furthest, historically and musically. A reimagining of Ryoichi Hattori’s enka classic, Mari inhabits a world many struggled through on Tri Repetae, channeling a nostalgic mood atop a soundscape dissolving into the future.
Likewise, Yuji Yoshino (of Japanese neofolk-turned-electronica group Vita Nova) and Kyoko Endoh deliver “馬とおじさん,” a track that strikes just the right balance of fantasy and futurism—anchoring a non-electronic song into the broader themes of the album. On “Lucky Charm,” Maki and James unleash some gnarly industrial rock, and Mari somehow rides the chaos with grace, not breaking a sweat.
Despite its compact runtime—just under 35 minutes—編む女 is proof of what’s possible when an artist is given freedom to explore. “214” stretches out those darker Bristol vibes and pushes back against the unfair perception of Mari as timid or constrained. “It’s My Love(r)” is an unlikely but perfect entry point for broader audiences to access slippery, underground ideas. On it, Maki bends time and sonic space to craft a glitch ballad surprisingly tender in its brevity. No wonder a version of that song became the album’s sole single.
When I hear “涼しい私,” I’m reminded of how commonplace this kind of sound is now. In its bounce, I hear the early seeds of artists like FKA Twigs, Arca, Lorde—and a whole generation of hyperpop heirs. And yet, Mari’s music wouldn’t continue in this form. Her fame would blossom in a different artform, as this one failed to take hold. Still, here I am, feeling a little nostalgic for that brief moment when this risky proposition landed quite softly.
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