Do you feel and see it? Isn’t “Spooky Season” unofficially around us? Whenever a certain air descends on most of us, I entertain certain kinds of records I normally wouldn’t. And in today’s case, on Norihiro Tsuru’s soundtrack to 人魚の傷 aka Mermaid’s Scar, it forces me to revisit a chilling story that really stuck with me. What I’m talking about is the animated adaptation of Rumiko Takahashi’s 人魚シリーズ (Mermaid Saga).
It’s worth noting that I’m far from a manga or anime expert but what I do know about Rumiko’s work is that in widely popular works like Inuyasha and Ranma ½, it was Rumiko who (among many things) revolutionized how shonen manga (“action” manga tailored towards boys and men) didn’t have to silo its ideas from the influence of shojo manga that spoke to the aesthetics of girls and women. Wonderfully prolific, and wildly successful, for good reason Rumiko’s stories and visual design cast a wide net that remains a huge influence today.
As for 1984’s 人魚シリーズ (Mermaid Saga), in hindsight, in Rumiko’s oeuvre it remains a wonderful outlier in her catalog. Mermaid Saga stands out within Rumiko Takahashi’s body of work due to its darker, more serious tone. Diverging from the lighter, more comedic style seen in many of her most known series, such as Urusei Yatsura, Maison Ikkoku, or Ranma ½. While Takahashi’s hallmark blend of humor, romance, and supernatural elements is present in those series, Mermaid Saga leans heavily into horror and existential themes, focusing on the grim consequences of immortality and the human desire for eternal life.
Without giving too much of the story away, 人魚シリーズ (Mermaid Saga), follows the story of Yuta, a man, once a sailor, who gained eternal life after consuming mermaid flesh. It’s that attempt to “fix” something deeply broken in him that made him do that forces him to seek a way to become mortal again. It’s in this surprisingly short series, one Rumiko considers unfinished, that Yuta encounters various characters, including a young woman named Mana, who is also linked to the mermaids’ curse in an equally gripping way. Together, they navigate a world filled with uncertainty and danger, some of it taking place in the aftermath of various wars, exploring themes of life, death, and the consequences of immortality.
It’s not often that one hears about this idea – that of gaining immortality via eating mermaid flesh – and see it translated on screen and on paper not entirely as one pictures it, but better, as something else more personal and impressive (if not entirely different). Two stories from the series 人魚の森 (Mermaid Forest) and 人魚の傷 (Mermaid’s Scar) were chosen by Victor Entertainment and later Madhouse, Inc. to be one of the first animated adaptations and given the hi-res treatment (for its time) as OVA (original video animation) released straight-to-video on the LaserDisc format.
For my cake, I think, the 人魚の傷 (Mermaid’s Scar) episodes captured the certain creepiness that’s unique to this anime. Presenting a twist that I hate to spoil, its soundtrack 人魚の傷 オリジナルサウンドトラック (Mermaid’s Scar) speaks perfectly to what made that specific story so impressive. Subverting the tropes of innocence and pastoralia, the music created by Japanese composer and violinist, Norihiro Tsuru, takes a few iconic leitmotifs of a certain strain of Japanese interest in the music of Satie and Debussy and rejiggers it in a way that’s quite impressive for its underlying darkness.
As a founding member of the Japanese New Age ensemble, Acoustic Café, Norihiro Tsuru is most known for his electric blend of jazz, minimalism, contemporary classical, and exotica — BGM for those raised on the Penguin Cafe Orchestra. Working with others like F/S fave, pianist, Yuriko Nakamura, and cellist, Yoshihiko Maeda, they created gorgeous neoclassical works that positively are begging to soundtrack a romantic evening in some Michel Legrand-orchestrated movie.
As a solo artist, Norihiro, appeared to have the touch with music that an obvious influence, Jean-Luc Ponty, had with it. Although a virtuoso violinist, on albums like his debut, 1989’s 造月者(月をつくった男) (A Man Who Made The Moon), Norihiro’s music was often more ruminative and moodier than his existing audience would imagine. Preferring a mix of electronics and acoustics, aesthetically, it was more tied to that idea of our idea of Japanese ambient music.
It’s that freedom to set aside his proficiency as a performer and go for something more lived-in that works towards Norihiro’s advantage on 人魚の傷 オリジナルサウンドトラック (Mermaid’s Scar). Opening track, “永久なる息吹 (Eternal Breath)”, submerges a tropical-tinged electronic sound through the prism of melancholic impressionism. Just like the manga and video, a certain underlying sadness, despair, or anger, seems to grab a deep hold on the music (no matter how pretty it appears to be).
Tracks like “出会い (Melancholic Encounters)” infuses the themes of Erik Satie’s Gymnopedies with a different kind of haunting specter over it. Dark, Sketches Of Spain-style atmospherics like “死の影なる生 (Life, The Shadow of Death)” reveal another side of seafaring music. And moments of respite, like “祝福の指輪 (A Ring Ringing In Each Heart)” excel in taking you back to certain key points in the story.
For an instrumental soundtrack, 1993’s 人魚の傷 オリジナルサウンドトラック (Mermaid’s Scar), works best when it doesn’t run away from the certain mystical tale inherit in Rumiko’s work. Songs like “永遠の涙 (Eternal Tears)” reveal the uncertain dread hovering in the story with equally eerie musical ambiance. Other tracks like, “Unclosed Fact (あきらかなる時)” touch on neopsychedelic influences – like those of Meddle-era Pink Floyd, that Norihiro explores in bite-sized songs. For 40-odd minutes, just a bit shorter than the animated work’s feature length, you get tracks like “さざ波 (Life Is Ripples)” which oscillate between all those themes I mentioned before – innocence, despair, sadness, anger, and hope – things that you don’t need to see in the feature, but probaly should, to palpably hear in its music.
In this season of suspense, its stories like these, as told through music and/or animation, reveal the universal humanity we find sometimes when we sometimes look underneath the covers.
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