Ping-pong.
“Yabai!” I shouted, running down the hall, the half-tied obi flailing behind me. “Gomen, T, can you answer the door?”
“Ii yo,” he said, heading toward the genkan as I went back to the business of finishing my obi. Tapping the left side of the screen three times, I picked up where we left off.
One comment I often hear about old Japanese houses is how cold they are in winter. This is true. Built by hand with natural materials, traditional houses lack the airtight, energy-saving precision of modern construction, resulting in a drafty home that can be costly to heat and cool. However, wearing kimono, I’ve noticed how warm they actually are. If you add a haori, that makes four layers of clothing—suddenly, the lack of central heating isn’t much of an issue. This is particularly nice when working in unheated areas like the barn or the kura. Although, I’ll admit, you still need a mask and gloves because of the dust. Lol.
It’s the windows that I love best in the barn. The old, beautiful single-paned glass with its wooden frames adds so much charm to the space. The aesthetic of the house remains unchanged here, untouched by time. With our barn renovation just weeks away, I’ve finally started sifting through some of the old records that have been sleeping here for nearly a hundred years.
Among them, I found two remarkable treasures: a 1932 original pressing of Chiyoko Kobayashi’s 今晩愛して頂戴ナ and a 1937 recording of 愛馬の別れ. Holding these in my hands, I couldn’t help but think about the music scene in pre-war Japan and how these records once played on gramophones, filling rooms with their melodies long before the world changed with war.
Chiyoko Kobayashi and the Music Scene of the 1930s
Chiyoko Kobayashi, a soprano singer active in the early Showa period, was known for her elegant voice and dramatic stage presence. 今晩愛して頂戴ナ (Konban Aishite Chōdai na) was released in 1932 and became one of her most well-known songs. This was a time when Japan was experiencing rapid modernization, and music was no exception. Western influences, particularly jazz and tango, were merging with traditional enka and kayōkyoku, creating a unique and vibrant music scene.
In the early 1930s, gramophones were still a luxury, but by the mid-Showa era, their presence had grown, and record shops became common in major cities. While radio broadcasts allowed music to reach wider audiences, it was the 78 rpm records, often played on beautifully crafted wind-up gramophones, that preserved and spread these songs.
Kobayashi’s 今晩愛して頂戴ナ is a playful yet wistful song, a reflection of the Showa-era sentimentality that was woven into many kayōkyoku songs of the time. Her voice, light yet rich with emotion, captured a generation enchanted by modernity yet nostalgic for tradition. It was recorded in an era when Japan still saw itself as invincible, unaware of the war clouds gathering on the horizon.
愛馬の別れ and Japan’s Changing Music Scene
By 1937, Japan had already begun its military campaigns in China, and the mood of the nation was shifting. 愛馬の別れ (Aiba no Wakare), meaning Farewell to My Beloved Horse, was a melancholic ballad that reflected themes of departure and longing—perhaps unintentionally mirroring the anxiety of an era where war was no longer just a distant possibility.
Musically, 愛馬の別れ still carried the melodramatic yet lyrical qualities of earlier kayōkyoku, but the themes of nostalgia and farewell were becoming more pronounced. The growing influence of state censorship meant that songs during this period often had to align with national sentiments, either emphasizing patriotism or reinforcing the idea of perseverance in difficult times.
Listening to the Past
As I place these fragile records on the turntable, their crackling sound fills the barn. I imagine the original owner of this collection—perhaps a young woman, much like myself, living in a traditional house, listening to the same melodies while adjusting her own obi.
Music has a way of transcending time. In the quiet of this old barn, with dust swirling in the air and the winter chill seeping through the wooden walls, I feel connected to a past that exists only in fragments—fragments held together by these delicate records.
What songs will we leave behind for future generations to discover? And when they listen, will they hear echoes of us the way I hear echoes of them now?
Bonus Track: