If we were to play a word association game in response to taiko, we would probably get words like rhythmic, driving, animated, powerful. Of course if you’ve ever seen a taiko performance, you know that it is all of those things. But if we were to ask a bit further, we might expect some other words to trickle into the mix: ancient, traditional, raw, authentic.
“Authentic” is a problematic term. It is a word we throw around regularly to describe things that we deem somehow more real or honest than comparable products. Taco Bell is not authentic Mexican food, but the little restaurant on the corner owned by the couple from Sonora is. You’ll find authentic jazz at the Blue Note, not on your local smooth jazz station. Only authentic MLB team jerseys are sold on the team’s official website; anything else is just a t-shirt with the team logo on it.
But the problem with “authentic” is that it has variable definitions. One of the first things you learn as a budding ethnomusicologist is to never, ever describe any kind of music as authentic. Who decides what authentically represents a culture? What kind of discrepancy does it allow for differences between individual, location, context? At what point does something cross the line between authentic and avant-garde?
It is our tendency in Western society to look at an artistic tradition of another culture, see it’s dissimilarity to our own, and label it as authentic. Someone who looks different from us and sounds different from us must be traditional. . . authentic, right?
What they’re really thinking is that it must be old.
So what do we make of a group like Mu Daiko?
They’re chasing each other around the stage! Someone’s wearing a tie! She’s singing!
Is it authentic, traditional, raw enough to be taiko?
It depends on your definition of taiko. And of authenticity and tradition.
What few people realize when they view a taiko show, what they see is very different from the taiko that existed 2,000 years ago. At its origins, taiko is a solo art with perfunctory purpose: relaying messages to villagers, serving in religious ceremonies, ordering soldiers on battlefields. Needless to say, what you find in the 21st century is very different from its ancestry, inspired by a revival of Japanese culture after World War II and infused with modern influences from ensemble performance and martial arts. Does that not make it authentic? A feudal Japanese soldier would probably say no.
In North America, taiko has grown into its own means of expression, an art form around which Asian Americans of all backgrounds—interestingly with women in the majority—can connect with a cultural experience. North American taiko groups have long been inspired by the musical culture of the West, with many ensembles describing themselves as a blend of the taiko drumming of Japan and the popular rhythms and sounds of hip-hop, jazz, techno, and so on. Does that not make it authentic? A member of a rural community taiko group in Japan, where men still far outnumber women in taiko—would probably say no.
What do we call it, then? Who is the ultimate authority on authenticity in taiko. . . or any other artistic form, for that matter? The very nature of art is that it lives, breathes, and changes with the times. We expect it to evolve and surprise us with something new each time we encounter it. We may not always like what we get, but if it hadn’t been for artists in Japan pushing the boundaries of what the drums could do, we wouldn’t have groups like Mu Daiko today.
Maybe we can use “authentic” to describe taiko. After all, variation, experimentation, growth, and change all represent the authentic condition of art in the modern world, no matter what culture it comes from.
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