Review Summary: Cha cha cha cha cha cha cha champon
Do Japanese riot grrrl four-piece Otoboke Beaver still warrant an introduction? Mood. They blew up back in 2019 with their debut
Itekoma Hits, fostering a degree of online attention, critical acclaim and international touring traditionally beyond the scope of Japanese hardcore acts with roots far more in line with their local Kansai scene than wherever the hell true blue Anglosphere parallels are supposed to be found today. It was a big deal. Curse of the follow-up, their New Record
Super Champon is also a big deal, though it will live and die for different reasons. Given that
Itekoma Hits was essentially a compilation of their repertoire as a primarily live act with a full decade in the underground behind them, this is Otoboke Beaver’s first record of original material crafted under vague time pressure for an audience equal parts domestic and international. Yikes. How many boxes have you ticked today?
It’s easy to scrutinise this brief for elements of compromise, and a modest amount of it can indeed be found. The band tone down the off-kilter pentatonics that made such a mark on the likes of “S’il vous plait” and “Bakuro Book” in favour of more Western-adjacent root-fifths and diatonic licks, as per the opener “I am not maternal”. This isn’t necessarily a bad thing; “…maternal” is a blast thanks to a humongously catchy chorus, but Otoboke Beaver’s instantly recognisable multi-part vocals now carry a little extra weight as far as factors of instant recognisability are concerned. You’re not going to confuse them for anyone else, though. The band still boast exemplary chemistry and precision in their performances, but their attention is trained on the apparent core of their sound: ultra-compact diatribes that drop an infectious series of back-and-forth refrains around a small handful of great hooks and get out of there as soon as their mark is made.
To this end, they shy away from the tearaway composite structures that once made the likes of “Introduce Me To Your Family” and “6 day working week is a pain” such sensational highlights. “I don’t want to die alone” is the closest thing to that kind of centrepiece track, but
Super Champon declines to tie its 21-minute runtime to the standout value of any individual song, opting throughout for a streamlined model of songwriting. At best, they’re a tighter band than ever: “PARDON?”, for instance, is one of their funnest and fiercest songs to date, blitzing its leading
I don’t know what you mean to a furious peak against a series of deliciously incensed
SHUT UPs, its tempo climbing to the perfect level of manic. However, their newly fat-free approach borders on overwhelming at points; I question how much more memorable any one of these feral earworms might have been were it not delivered alongside 17 further instalments of its approximate speed and savagery.
This accentuated sense of focus also goes for Otoboke Beaver’s thematics, now more prominent than ever. As will come as no surprise to
Itekoma Hits veterans (or, really, anyone capable of hearing this music beyond
Asian women making shrill noises over loud guitars), Japan still hosts some of the most pervasive sexism of any first world country. Otoboke Beaver are still less than pleased with this: in classic riot grrrl fashion, we get several repudiations of male entitlement and intrusion (“You’re no hero shut the f*ck up you man-whore”, “Dirty old fart is waiting for my reaction”), but these girls know themselves too well to mistake these for full self-realisations. A large proportion of the album occupies nuanced territory, negotiating their ideals of fulfilled femininity with the instant disadvantage that their traditional desires encounter within a patriarchal playing field. “Leave me alone! No, stay with me!” catches the upshot of this in a nutshell, but “I don’t want to die alone” is perhaps the most striking unpacking, its uneasy title sentiment shattered over a queasy opening barrage before juggling independence and romantic loneliness. I also catch a fair bit of uncomfortable self-admonition in “I checked your cellphone”’s look-what-you-made-me-do routine (even if the narrator’s distrust in her sleazy partner is ultimately vindicated). This record may be firmly on the feminist path, but it’s shrewd beyond confusing this for an easy one.
Super Champon’s genius lies in the way it brings this relatively complex subject matter down to a set of laser-sharp bangers, all supported with just enough English to resonate either side of the Anglosphere frontier. Otoboke Beaver see it off with a hefty dose of good humour and a performance style too damn fun to be overbearingly aggressive - those who have caught their blast of a live show can attest to this; you’ll spend more time grinning than moshing. In this sense, little has changed:
Super Champon is an unambiguous bombardment of everything Otoboke Beaver stand for, a firm foundation where
Itekoma Hits minced through eclectic possibilities. As a mission statement, it’s loud and clear; beyond that, I struggle to consider it either their finest work musically or a full glimpse at their potential as a studio act. It’s a consolidated snapshot of their appeal, and fuck me [first-class side-guy] if that ain’t cause enough for excitement.
