The History and Legacy of Gauge Means Nothing
An interview with Yuichi Kasanuma
This is a translation of an interview between Akihito Mizutani (owner of LongLegsLongArms & Otonashi Records) and Yuichi Kasanuma (Gauge Means Nothing, Still I Regret, Kowloon Ghost Syndicate). Both of them our good friends that I’ve released music with for years now. I can’t think of a better pairing to chat about Japanese Screamo history.
While reading & translating the interview, I found myself learning new things about Gauge Means Nothing and Yuichi’s musical history that I never knew. While Yuichi might best be known for Gauge Means Nothing, he continued making ground-breaking music after and to this day. His approach to and passion for music and life inspires me so much!
Thanks to Mizutani-san for letting me translate and re-post this. Make sure to check out his label: Long Legs Long Arms.
Original Posts (in Japanese): Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3
And, if you want to pick up a copy of Gauge Means Nothing’s first EP on CD, you can do that from me here: https://www.shop.meatcube.com/product-page/gauge-means-nothing-the-absent-trail-cd
The interview was originally posted in three parts on Mizutani’s Note blog in 2016. Personally, I think it makes for a good long-read. So tuck in and enjoy the ride!
Part 1: The 2000s Japanese Screamo Scene and Gauge Means Nothing
One of the many waves of the global emo-hardcore movement that resurfaced around the late 2010s into 2020 came to be redefined as “skramz,” while also gradually deviating from that very label. Within that context, Gauge Means Nothing—a band now being re-evaluated as a cult presence in both the 2000s Japanese screamo scene and the broader skramz world—stands out. (It wouldn't be an exaggeration to call them the most highly anticipated band for a reissue—will it ever happen?)
This is a reprint of an interview conducted in 2016 with Mr. 90s himself, Kasanuma (from Kowloon Ghost Syndicate, ex-Gauge Means Nothing, P.S Burn This Letter, Still I Regret), who was active at the time in Kowloon Ghost Syndicate.
"I thought I was digging into new school hardcore, but somehow I gradually drifted away from it."
Mizutani-san (3LA): Can you tell us about your musical history so far, Kasanuma-san? Today, the music that's now called “screamo” (or “gekijou”, meaning emotional hardcore in Japan) has gone through generational breaks, and there might be people who don't know about Gauge Means Nothing and what you were doing back then. Honestly, I probably don’t know a lot myself either. Could you go over the kinds of things you've done over the years?
Kasanuma (About Gauge Means Nothing): I kind of wanted to start a band back in high school, so I bought a bass, but I didn’t really get serious about it until I entered university. At first I was just doing cover songs with the light music club, but before long, we started talking about writing our own songs. That’s how I started a band called Stand Alone with other club members.
Back then, my favorite bands were envy and Switch Style. Also, in DOLL magazine there was a special feature on “New Skool SxE”—even though it was labeled “new school,” most of the bands introduced were from labels like Ebullition and Bloodlink. So I thought I was digging into new school hardcore, but somehow I ended up going a bit off-track and started listening to bands with a more metallic and emotional vibe.
At the time, the term “screamo” or “emotional hardcore” (gekijou hardcore) didn’t really exist in Japan—we just called all of it “emo,” I think. We released a demo tape under the name Stand Alone around September 2000, I believe.
"It was simply because we had no money, and just wanted to try doing things ourselves."
Then in October 2001, after a lineup change, we took the opportunity to rename the band to Gauge Means Nothing, borrowing the name from a song by Uranus.
Even though we changed the name, we weren’t consciously trying to change our musical style. We kept playing songs that we had originally written during the Stand Alone days. But I think the metallic elements naturally started to fade out over time.
Then in September 2003, we released our very first 4-song CD, titled "The Absent Trail Of An Echo And My Future Plagued By Surrender."
For the recording, we found a public facility in Fuchu that had both lodging and a studio. We brought in our own multitrack recorder (MTR), holed up for around 13 hours a day, and did a kind of recording retreat over three nights and four days.
The cost for both accommodation and studio use was around 3,000 yen per person per day. During the day, we were in the studio recording non-stop, and even after the studio hours ended, we’d go back to the rooms and keep working late into the night using line recording setups. We really gave it our all.
Looking back now, it’s not like we were consciously trying to be DIY or anything. It was simply because we didn’t have money, and we just wanted to try doing it ourselves.
But since we didn’t have much know-how when it came to recording, we couldn’t finish everything in those 3 or 4 days. In the end, we had to continue recording on and off for about six more months—it was rough. Still, it’s a good memory now.
That 12-inch vinyl was released in the U.S. as the first title from a label called I’ve Come For Your Children, started by our friend Ryan. We met Ryan at an envy show back when he was studying abroad in Japan for a short while. He’s been an important friend ever since, and we’re still in touch to this day.
First Overseas Tour, and Japan Tour with My Precious
Then in December 2003, we went on a tour to Malaysia and Singapore with Tiala and Cohol, who had both just recently formed around that time. I had never been abroad before, and it had always been my dream to make my first trip overseas a band tour—so that was a dream come true (laughs).
We stayed for about a week and played four shows. It wasn’t a long tour by any means, but the experience itself was just incredible—truly unforgettable and one of the best memories of my life.
The following year, in December 2004, we organized a Japan tour for My Precious, who had helped us out with booking shows and finding places to stay during our Singapore trip. We played nine shows in nine days, traveling from Niigata in the north to Kitakyushu in the west. That tour was also an amazing experience.
We released a split CD with My Precious during the tour called “missing tom split cdep.” The CDs arrived just in time—on the very first day of the tour. Everyone pitched in to assemble the jackets and packaging while we were on the road. Looking back, I’m just glad we made it in time—but honestly, it was fun how everything came together at the last minute.
Of course, there were plenty of tough moments too, but everywhere we went, people were incredibly kind and supportive. Thanks to that, we managed to get through it all. I’m still grateful to everyone who helped us during that time.
"As we tried to play to everyone’s strengths, our sound ended up drifting even further from emo."
For the recording of “missing tom split cdep”, we used a proper studio—partly because of what we learned from our previous recording, and partly because we didn’t have much time before the tour. By this point, the idea of “metallic” as a keyword, which had been present in our early days, had completely disappeared from my mind.
Also, I think—maybe from the very beginning—what I wanted to do and what the other members wanted or were able to do didn’t exactly line up. So when we tried to lean into what each person was good at, the music ended up veering even further away from emo. It wasn’t until after the recording was done and I listened to the final product that I realized this—but I figured, “well, this is interesting in its own way,” and just kind of rolled with it.
When it came to musical direction, we didn’t really have any concrete guiding principle anymore. We didn’t even have the time to pursue that kind of thing. We went into recording sessions with unfinished songs—like, I’d still be figuring out the vocal melodies as we were tracking. Whatever came out in the end was just... it. Looking back now, it was incredibly improvised and spur-of-the-moment.
Our musical influences hadn’t changed much from before, but I think the bands we all liked in common at the time were things like Kiwiroll, Keep Away From Children, and The T.V. Dinners.
After that tour, it felt like we’d reached the end of something—both musically and in terms of activity. We had achieved the goals we’d set: touring, releasing music, and so on. That sense of completion was present within the band.
So, after some discussion, we decided to disband. Our final shows were on Christmas Eve and Christmas Day in December 2005—Gauge Means Nothing played its farewell gigs and then disbanded.
We had one unfinished song left at the end, so we completed it and recorded it as a standalone track titled “The Last Song.” We burned it to CD-Rs and sold them at the final shows. It pushed the sound from the split CD even further—so much so that it ended up being a really strange song, something totally uncategorizable.
Looking back now, I think that was a fitting final destination for the band.
"It felt so personal, like it was about me—and I was completely fired up."
3LA: These days, I personally see Gauge Means Nothing as part of the early wave of Japanese screamo or emotional hardcore (gekijou), but at the time, were you seen as more part of the new school hardcore scene?
Kasanuma: I think when you talk about the earliest bands in Japan that were consciously playing “emo,” you’re really talking about bands like envy, Swipe, Kulara, and Wise Up—bands that started out four or five years before us.
At first, I was just completely obsessed with Switch Style, so naturally our sound had a metallic edge. I liked metallic hardcore, but when it came to playing in my own band, I was particular about sticking with regular tuning. I also loved envy, and gradually I started to want to pursue melody more than heaviness—I wanted to write songs that had that kind of melancholic atmosphere.
Also, the fashion, mindset, and tough-guy image often associated with what was considered “new school” at the time didn’t really suit me. I think that’s when I started leaning more toward emo.
Back then, I bought records mostly based on the album art or political-sounding song titles—bands like Groundwork, Struggle, Born Against, Madison, Inside Out, Refused, Unbroken’s And/Fall on Proverb, and the Some Ideas Are Poisonous compilation.
At first, I didn’t always “get” these records just by listening to them once. I didn’t have much money either, so even if I wasn’t sure I liked something, I kept listening because I had already bought it. While doing that, I’d stare at the lyrics and artwork, and somehow, over time, it all started to feel incredibly personal—like it was speaking directly to me.
Back then, I barely knew any English, so slowly reading through the booklets and trying to understand them felt like a personal journey. That process brought new discoveries and helped me feel myself growing. I began to realize, “This is the kind of music I want to hear, this is what I want to do.” And I started diving deeper into those kinds of bands.
Part 2: After the Breakup of Gauge Means Nothing: P.S. Burn This Letter, Still I Regret, and the Label. A Commitment to Music.
"I hadn’t realized it myself, but before I knew it, I was completely absorbed in it." - on P.S. Burn This Letter
Kasanuma: Tiala played at Gauge Means Nothing’s final show, and their vocalist Kakkii came up to me and said, “I can play drums—let’s start a band together.”
At almost the exact same time, a few days before the show, I got an email from Lamar, who used to play guitar in an American band called Box The Compass. He said, “I’m moving to Japan, let’s start a band.” Since the timing lined up perfectly, I figured, “Alright, maybe it’s time to start something new.” That’s how P.S. Burn This Letter began. The band name was something Lamar came up with.
We also invited Miyagi, who used to play guitar in a band called a day, and we started playing shows in January 2007. Eventually, the drummer was replaced by Nakamura from Atari. We stayed active until December 2010, I think. We did casually get back into the rehearsal studio a few times after that, but ultimately couldn’t get the band going again. After talking it through, we came to the conclusion that we wouldn’t continue.
At first, we didn’t have any set direction musically. But Lamar’s guitar playing had this unmistakably “San Francisco” vibe—understandably, since that’s where he had been active. His guitar had a unique quality to it, and we wanted to build around that.
Specifically, we avoided fast rhythms like two-beat and aimed for a more rocking, emotional sound—drawing from bands like Yaphet Kotto, Navio Forge, Fugazi, and State Route 552. That became the foundation of our songwriting.
We had four-hour studio sessions every week, and every member was incredibly focused each time. The sessions were really fulfilling, and writing songs was always a lot of fun.
Personally, I hadn’t even realized it at first, but I was completely wrapped up in P.S. Burn This Letter. I’d get insanely nervous before shows—so much that I’d surprise myself. And during the discussions about whether or not to continue the band, I ended up crying (laughs). That’s how emotionally invested I was.
The two-song single "すべては表現の中に" (Written There For All), which had been sitting unreleased since it was recorded, finally came out in June 2012. It was released two and a half years after the mastering was finished.
The delay happened for several reasons: we hadn’t settled on song titles at the time, we struggled with deciding on the jacket design and overall packaging, and most of all, the band had gone inactive—which was the biggest factor.
Anyone who’s held it in their hands probably understands—it's more like a book than a jacket. We put a lot of care into the lyrics and wanted people to really read them, so we focused heavily on the packaging. We took inspiration from the book DIY Album Art and the Countdown to Putsch release on Mountain Collective, which came as a book-and-CD set.
Using those as references, we eventually arrived at the format we released. We also did all the bookbinding ourselves, so it was extremely labor-intensive and time-consuming. I'm truly grateful to all the friends who helped us out with it.
The title of the two-song single, "すべては表現の中に" (Written There For All), was taken from a book by Deborah Curtis, the wife of Joy Division’s Ian Curtis.
Just like the title suggests, all of us in the band poured everything we were feeling at the time—both musically and lyrically—into those two songs. It truly felt like this was it, like there was nothing else we needed to say.
“Let’s play metallic hardcore in the spirit of Unbroken.” - on Still I Regret
I think it was around November 2009 when Michinoku-san invited me to form Still I Regret, where I played drums. We practiced while I was still active in P.S. Burn This Letter.
Originally, the vocalist Sasaki-san lived in Iwate, so we started the band as a long-distance project. As for drums—I’d only really played casually back in my school’s music club, but I decided to give it a try.
The lineup was: Michinoku-san on guitar, Takashi (who was also playing in Umbrage and Inside at the time) on second guitar, Kitazawa on bass, and myself on drums. Other than Takashi and me, the rest of the members had previously played together in a band called Penance.
When we got together, the idea was: “Let’s play metallic hardcore inspired by Unbroken.” Like I mentioned at the beginning of this interview, we were aiming to channel the vibe of those early bands that had influenced us—like the ones from Bloodlink or Ebullition.
Michinoku-san wrote most of the songs, and after practice we’d often go over to his place, listen to records, and just hang out—that part was honestly a lot of fun (laughs).
We had planned to record our demo on March 11, 2011—the very day the Tōhoku earthquake struck—so of course that didn’t happen.
After some time passed, we ended up releasing the demo in July. In September 2013, Takashi left the band, and then Michinoku-san decided to return to his family home in Iwate. Since then, we haven’t been back in the studio.
Still, I’d like to record something again someday, so I hope we can turn that into reality in some form.
“In the sense that I can’t do it alone, Endless/Nameless isn’t just a label—it’s a collective.” - on Endless/Nameless
3LA: Can you tell us about your label? How do you run it? There seems to be a strong attention to detail, especially with the unique packaging of releases like Still I Regret.
Kasanuma: The main purpose of the label is to release music from my own bands.
When we first decided to put out a Gauge Means Nothing release, no labels were reaching out to us. So I figured—if I do it myself, I can do it exactly the way I want. That’s how it started.
Since then, I’ve also released material from bands other than my own—like Trikorona, the myheadswims x R3-N7 split, and Cease Upon The Capitol. That wasn’t just because their music was cool; I really liked them as friends, too, and wanted to be involved with them from the label side.
I tend to pay close attention to packaging for all the releases. I’ve always liked labels and bands that don’t stick to conventional formats, so I want to do the same with my own work.
Especially in this age where most people listen to music digitally, I feel like it’s important to focus on the physical side—to give people the joy of actually holding the music in their hands. That thought is always vaguely in the back of my mind.
Thinking about that kind of stuff is fun—but actually doing it is really tough. I always end up relying on friends to help.
That’s why, in the sense that I can’t do it all on my own, I don’t consider Endless/Nameless just a label. I see it as a collective.
3LA: We’ve only recently started carrying Endless/Nameless releases at 3LA, but surprisingly, not just Kowloon Ghost Syndicate—your older label releases are getting a great response too.
Kasanuma: That’s probably because 3LA is really strong in the emotional hardcore scene and gave the releases a big push. In the case of Gauge Means Nothing, most of the recordings have been shared online—on YouTube and elsewhere—so I think people heard them there, liked them, and decided to buy them.
I’ve been regularly restocking a few record shops that I have a good relationship with whenever they sell out, and I list stock updates on the label site, so I figured people could still buy them pretty easily. But these days, I almost never get direct email orders anymore.
I mean, for someone used to ordering from online shops and paying by credit card, going through email and bank transfer probably just feels like a hassle.
3LA: That might speak to how older distros and labels haven’t been able to adapt to the new generation of listeners—people who discover music entirely online.
Even with us at 3LA, I assumed everyone already knew about Gauge, so I only stocked a small number initially—but we got a way bigger response than expected.
I actually think this kind of thing probably happens more than people realize—there are still a lot of people who would want to know about this stuff but aren’t hearing about it. So it’s a communication issue—an issue with the scene, the bands, and labels not getting the word out well enough.
Kasanuma: Yeah, I totally agree. I used to assume that young people would reach out and order by email the same way we used to—but the reality is, they don’t.
Even in everyday life, barely anyone uses email anymore. As long as there’s stock, I do want to keep trying to get the music out there. I’ve even started thinking—maybe it’s time I finally set up a Base.in shop so people can buy more easily.
3LA: Sometimes people assume, “If it’s stocked at 3LA, it’ll sell,” but that’s not how it works. If something won’t sell, it just won’t sell. And if it does sell, we want it to sell the right way.
When older releases still resonate today as “great records,” it’s really rewarding. I actually love when non-new releases sell—it shows they still mean something.
Kasanuma: That’s good to hear. I tend to think the past gets romanticized or overvalued, so I still really hope new releases will sell.
But it’s also true that there are so many great records from the past that never got the recognition they deserved. So it’s great that 3LA is giving those kinds of works a place to be seen and sold.
On secondhand prices and collector culture
Kasanuma: Changing topics—let me ask you a question now: what do you think about inflated secondhand prices?
Personally, if something I released is selling for more than it did when it was new, I feel like maybe it should be reissued, or at least released digitally.
Of course, I know that reissues aren’t easy. But the price of a record doesn’t always reflect the content, and I’ve always thought the way value is assigned is kind of strange.
On the other hand, when I hear people say, “I hate seeing my band’s record in the bargain bin for 100 yen,” I don’t feel that way. I’m proud of the work I’ve released, but like I said, the price doesn’t equal the quality.
If someone finds my record for 100 yen and gives it a listen, I think that’s a good thing. I’ve discovered so many amazing records that way myself.
But I’ll admit—if I see my stuff being shared on file-sharing platforms, that feels… a little different.
Maybe this is just me being a grumpy old guy (laughs), but I’m fine with people sampling things that way. Still, if you like it, I’d want you to hold the physical copy, appreciate the artwork and lyrics too.
Hardcore has always been made with that full-package mindset. I believe that when people absorb not just the music, but everything around it, that’s when it becomes something more than music. That’s what that phrase really means to me.
3LA: I both agree and disagree, in a way. I don’t personally have a problem with premium prices. In fact, I think it’s a legitimate way to value art.
When something has “value beyond content,” that’s exchange value. When it’s being judged only by what it offers functionally, that’s use value.
In the world of exchange value, a 1,000-yen record might sell for 100 yen—or 10,000 yen. It’s fluid, and that system is interesting in itself.
As long as something is priced based on its use, it’s treated like a disposable item—like a pencil or eraser. New = retail price, used = lower price. That’s cost-based pricing.
But when demand exceeds supply, or the band becomes more important, or the record gains meaning within the music scene, exchange value rises. It takes on a significance beyond just the music—and I think that’s not a bad thing.
Of course, I’m against gimmicky limited pressings that exist only to inflate scarcity. But…
There are some works that retain their value even after being reissued—and that, I think, marks something truly original. For both artists and business people, there’s something deeply meaningful about creating works like that.
Nowadays, almost everything is accessible in data form. Even rare recordings are on YouTube. If you just want to listen, you can. But hardcore isn’t like that. It’s the sound and the lyrics and the artwork and the atmosphere.
That extra layer of care—what can’t be digitized—is what takes you somewhere new. And no matter how good a release sounds on Bandcamp, you can’t get all of that from a stream.
So I believe original physical releases will always have value. If they’re reissued, that reissue will carry its own kind of value. I think that whole system is fascinating.
And yeah—finding a 100-yen record that no one else noticed and discovering value in it yourself? That’s one of the most creative acts of all.
Kasanuma: That makes sense… A lot of '90s releases had things like “Pay No More Than $5” printed on the jackets, and I was really influenced by that kind of culture.
So when I see punk and hardcore records with inflated prices now, it kind of feels like authority, and I think that’s where my discomfort comes from.
But like you said, in an age where you can easily hear the music digitally, the extra value is really what’s contained in the physical record.
If I know of a cheap record that’s really good, then maybe it’s my job to help introduce it to others. I think I’ll write a little about that on note. I’m planning to keep sharing more in the future.
Part 3: On Kowloon Ghost Syndicate
This interview was conducted in 2016, when Kasanuma-san was active with Kowloon Ghost Syndicate. I didn’t just want to hear about Gauge Means Nothing and the past—I also wanted to hear about the “present” at that time.
And now, even that “present” has become part of the past.
3LA might still have a few Kowloon Ghost Syndicate releases left in stock.
#3. Unceasing Challenges – Kowloon Ghost Syndicate
After being part of many bands, Kasanuma takes on the role of lead vocals only in Kowloon Ghost Syndicate, marking a new chapter in his ongoing history.
3LA: Tell us how Kowloon came together, and if there’s a shared vision within the band.
Kasanuma: We formed in January 2013—well, that’s when we had our first studio session. The origin was that guitarist Ando started the band with drummer Shikata, and I was invited to join as vocalist. So the first session was just the three of us. The band name was already decided from the beginning.
After that, we set out to find a second guitarist and a bassist. We invited Matsuda on guitar and Shoji on bass, completing the full lineup in June 2013. Until the bassist was settled, I was filling in on bass myself. Our first show was in September 2014, and we recorded our demo in August—just before that show—and released it at the same time. In October 2015, Ryuzaki took over on bass from Shoji.
As for the vision… musically, Ando has always driven things. He writes about 80% of the songs, heavily inspired by Ottawa and Left for Dead. Sometimes we play his songs as-is; other times we tweak and rearrange things.
If there’s a common thread, it’s that the sound is generally fast, metallic, full of blast beats with occasional sludge parts—that kind of vague direction.
Another feature—like in all my past bands except Shikata (our drummer), everyone in the band takes on vocal parts and writes lyrics. Usually, I decide the theme for each song and write the first draft. Then I assign vocal sections and ask each member to write lyrics for their part.
Since I already have a sense of what everyone’s thinking through our everyday conversations, I make sure the themes don’t stray too far from their values. I’ve always loved dual or shared vocals—Switch Style was a huge influence—and I was also heavily inspired by Unicorn (the Japanese band), where not just Okuda Tamio but all members sing and write. That variety gives songs more depth, and I wanted to bring that into my own bands.
3LA: So it was Ando-san who started the band. He hasn’t really been in many bands before, right? I’d love to ask him what made him want to start one at this point.
Kasanuma: Yeah, before Kowloon Ghost Syndicate, he played guitar in a band called Soon. But I don’t think he had ever played in a band that made it to the live stage before that. Since he joined Soon mid-way, I imagine he wanted to start a band from scratch and build it himself.
3LA: This is your first time doing a one-mic, standalone frontman role. Why did you go with that style? It’s also quite a departure musically—much more metal/hardcore-oriented than your previous bands.
Kasanuma: Well, it started because they asked me to be the vocalist. At the time, I was in a phase where I wanted to challenge myself with things I hadn’t done before. I’d only ever done vocals while playing bass, so I figured this was a good chance to try something new.
But at first, I had no idea how to sing that way. The technique is completely different. You use different muscles, a different part of your body. When singing while playing bass, there are limitations—you're working within a framework—but when that’s gone, I didn’t know what to do. I was really thrown off.
Now, I think I’ve gotten the hang of it. Plus, it’s great being able to go to shows or rehearsals empty-handed. Being a one-mic frontman is awesome (laughs).
Musically, I just followed Ando’s vision. I was already into bands like Ottawa and Left for Dead, and I used to buy and listen to Coke Bust, Dead in the Dirt, and other fastcore/grind stuff through Michinoku’s distro. So it was never really a stretch for me.
Envy and Switch Style both started out playing fast. Still I Regret wasn’t fast, but it was still metallic hardcore.
3LA: A big moment for the band was your tour with Yumi, who had previously done a split with your old band. Were you still in touch with My Precious members all this time?
Kasanuma: Yes, we’ve kept in touch on social media. Back in the day it was MySpace and LiveJournal, and when those faded, everyone moved to Facebook.
We’d see each other every few years—sometimes they’d visit Japan, or I’d go to Singapore. I even saw them in Hong Kong once. And they toured Japan again in 2010, so I’d say we’ve kept a consistent connection.
3LA: How was the tour? It seemed to be really well received.
Kasanuma: The tour with My Precious was nine days, but the “Rise of the Yellow Peril” tour with Yumi was just four. So it was less than half the length.
Still, it was the first tour I’d done with my own band since then, and it was a lot of fun. It was less physically and mentally draining, too, so I think we made the most of the time we had.
We did this unusual tour format: Yumi used the Japan Rail Pass (which gives foreigners unlimited access to the JR system, including bullet trains), and Kowloon Ghost Syndicate traveled by car. I was their main liaison, and we spent a lot of time together, so we got really close.
Everyone in Yumi was relaxed and respectful—no crazy antics—so from a tour manager’s perspective, it was very smooth.
The shows were great too. I kept thinking, “More people need to see this band. They deserve more attention.” Their performances were full of passion and dynamism—just incredible. I was really inspired.
My biggest concern was turnout. Even though Yumi had released a split with heaven in her arms, that was quite a while ago and likely not widely distributed in Japan. Plus, Kowloon had just played our debut show three months before the tour—zero name recognition.
So I tried to promote hard. We did weekly Facebook posts with interviews of each Yumi member and wrote detailed introductions for the Japanese bands on the bill. I don’t know how much that helped, but the page views were good, and several bands told me they appreciated the write-ups. For longer tours it might be hard, but I think that kind of direct engagement is really worthwhile.
A major regret is that Yumi's new album was released just before the tour, so it didn’t make it to Japanese stores in time. We tried to sell it at the merch table, but the shipment didn’t arrive until after the tour. Big lesson learned.
Financially, it was a massive loss. We never expected to break even, but I still wish we could’ve given Yumi more back.
Still, they told me touring Japan was a dream come true—and that meant everything. And we had a great time too.
3LA: About the screamo scene—does it even still exist? Or has it lost its freshness for you? It seems like even foreign bands coming to Japan no longer feels rare.
Kasanuma: Hmm… I’m not sure how to even define “the screamo scene” anymore.
Personally, everything I’m involved in still feels fresh and like a challenge. If I go to a show and it’s boring, I just won’t go see that band again. That’s kind of how I look at it.
Even if people aren't musically aligned, if you gather with people who share your values, something unified can emerge—and that’s interesting.
At the same time, while it’s great that friends always come to shows, I strongly feel that we also need to reach new people.
We recently helped organize a show for Boom Boom Kid from Argentina during their Japan tour. We had Deepslauter and Your Pest Band play, too.
To be honest, all the bands were probably playing to a somewhat “cold” crowd that didn’t already know them. But everyone brought it. And Boom Boom Kid's set was incredible. The vibe was just perfect.
What struck me most was the joy on people’s faces—that was unforgettable. That wasn’t something born from a “scene,” but from each band creating something special on the day.
That’s the kind of environment I want to keep creating—where people push each other and leave a strong impression.
Boom Boom Kid – Argentine punk icon dubbed “The Maradona of Punk” returns to Japan after 5 years, touring nationwide from 10/30!
3LA: Tell us about Kowloon’s plans going forward.
Kasanuma: We already have a few shows lined up for 2016, and we’re planning to record in the spring. If we manage to release something, I’d love for us to go on tour again somewhere.
We want to write cool songs and put on shows that really leave an impact on the audience.
That said, we’re still a band that’s just getting started, so we want to build things up steadily, step by step.
Even though each of us has been playing in bands for a long time, there are still new things to discover.