Boats Against The Current, Borne Back Ceaselessly Into The Past: Ayumi Hamasaki and The Price of Fame

If the name Ayumi Hamasaki doesn’t ring any bells, you haven’t been paying attention. Her face looms on billboards, posters and magazines, the giant retinas stuck in a fixed gaze like a feminine, monochromatic Doctor T. J. Eckleburg, its only reflections flat, disembodied camera flashes. Her ubiquitous presence on late night Japanese music programs shows off her latest single, her songs soundtrack rolling credits in historical dramas on giant silver screens and her nasally cadence blares from radios and televisions. Caricatures adorn toys, gadgets, electronics, and accessories and her music videos have become legendary among fans who analyze, appraise, and debase every choice in clothing, hairstyle, makeup, location, and plot.

These music videos have become increasingly technical and detailed: selling over 50 million albums since her first single “poker face” in 1998, she’s gone from swaying gently in front of bare-budget trees, to sailing on yachts over exotic seas and setting Hawaiin cabanas on fire to synchronized choreography. Setting out for fame at the age of fourteen, by the age of thirty she has achieved the fame, fortune, and devotion of millions around the world that became hers all by a chance meeting with now-CEO of Avex, Max Matsuura. She inspires hundreds to dance their hearts out at Velfarre and belt out their loudest in karaoke clubs, secretly hoping to be discovered and initiated into the world of the rich and famous.

Though logically such fanfare would make Ayumi Hamasaki the happiest woman in the world, her lyrics and music videos denote otherwise. Pressure and paranoia seem to have set in for Hamasaki as early as 2001, with the release of her first greatest hits compilation A BEST; since then, Hamasaki has often used her artistry to manipulate and explore the repercussions of fame, embracing both obsession and hypocrisy with the struggle of popularity as the eyes of millions around the world watched, followed, mimicked, and eventually tuned-out her every move.

The beginning of the self-obsession may have begun as early as 1999’s “LOVE ~Destiny,” whose video featured Hamasaki flanked by photographers and brooding in dressing room corners. However, this hardly seems motivated by the type of self-reflection that would plague the intentional symbolism behind later videos, nor heightened by the understanding Hamasaki had yet to achieve creative control over her image (that and the absurd unreality of its depiction of fame as a sort of overwhelming physical alone-ness, where every one following illustrates the paralyzing disability to disengage from the sheer amount of people constantly primping, re-applying, fluffing and straightening). In 1999, Hamasaki was barely tasting the fruits of success and “LOVE ~Destiny” seems more a literal promotion by trickery, posing her as a popular entertainer in order to encourage audience speculation and curiosity.

But the very first instances of Hamasaki turning inward were 2000’s “Fly high” and “SURREAL”: the former pitted her as both performer and spectator, while the latter had her discovering a different, more primal side to herself, an entity that would take literal form as her music morphed from bubblegum pop to moody rock and her glossy, unblemished vocals became aggressive and broken. “Fly high”’s second Hamasaki acts as an out-of-body entity, making sure the Hamasaki on stage performs to the best of her ability, a sort of second spirit that understands the real-life Ayumi Hamasaki must be separated from Ayu, the performer. In a TIMEasia cover story, she ruminates on the creation of her second self: “The ‘Hi, this is Ayu’ person on TV [...] is the person I know they want to see. I understand it’s my role to realize people’s dreams,” she said. As her singles soared in sales and her face made the rounds of the media, perhaps it was comforting to take knowledge in the fact that she could still be herself, even if it was a hooded, dark figure silently imploring the viewer with saddened, wide eyes in the midst of a large crowd ignoring her existence. Real Ayu and Performer Ayu were disconnected, seemingly for good; the only moment when we do see the anima preparing to take on the persona, the camera shakes and several blurry effects skew any substance to the glimmer of materiality.

After the vogue/Far away/SEASONS trilogy, Hamasaki returned to this sense of disconnection in “SURREAL,” when she discovers a different facet of her character buried deep within the jungle of her subconscious. However, she would only be allowed to explore this side of her character in her dreams, away from the prying eyes of the media that expected and worshipped only a certain kind of Ayu. Juxtaposed to the spotty, defiant leopard, the white of her nightgown remains an unsullied representation of the perseverance of her clean public image.

By the release of “evolution,” Hamasaki had reached the pinnacle of fame and success: complete control over her image was accompanied by control over both lyrics and music, which she used as a vehicle in expressing the ambiguity of success. Initially excited by her swift popularity. Her first behind-the-scenes music video for “evolution” depicts Hamasaki as the quintessential diva: she arrives in a limo flanked by security, game to participate in the recorded taping of her acclaimed alter ego. The transition from person to product was complete. One scene depicts her drink being catered to her as she views footage, an important symbolic moment that will be presented differently in “Dearest,” the first honest examination of Hamasaki’s disillusionment with fame. This time, as the maids hand her a drink of water she’s gone to reach for herself, she’s stunned that she’s not allowed to perform the minute task herself.

In fact Hamasaki’s not allowed to do anything, relegated to a back room while her staff discuss earnings and marketing strategies. She’s left bored and lonely as her clothes change without lifting a finger, she’s hauled around from location to location, and photogs jostle for a picture. This white “purity” of her character is no longer depicted as positive: she shifts from trapped celebrity to free citizen, and breaking away from security during a paparazzi melee, Hamasaki begins embracing deeper and richer colors. The rain pours as a dozen strangers welcome her to the dirty, dark, and impoverished “real” world, a world which she begins to doubt she can ever embrace. Taking in her world with a frown, anxiety and confusion sweeping her features, she still pursues escape from fame, but only into a kind of fantastical, otherworldly realm, the only kind a woman like Hamasaki can live in after experiencing the type of fame she has endured. Performing freely to the open plains without a soul to hear, she preserves the music that has become her passion, but disconnects from all those pesky people who make it so hard to enjoy. For Hamasaki, there was no longer the possibility of the real world as we know it.

“Dearest” was released six months after A BEST, the greatest hits collection Hamasaki vehemently opposed, believing such a collection of hits signaled the death of her career. Suspicious, too, of the record company’s bid to create competition with fellow best-selling singer Hikaru Utada by releasing the album on the same date as Utada’s follow-up DISTANCE, she was not silent in protest. For the first time, it appeared Hamasaki was getting sick of the product-schtick and voiced her discontent by appearing on the cover of the compilation in tears. Wound tightly in a corner of malcontent, the follow-up album I am… became her highest selling album as Hamasaki quietly enjoyed the benefits of popularity by extending her domain over a weekly talk show, kitschy toys and accessories, a clothing line, and a short period film before reconciling the public and personal Hamasakis.

Later, in a special NTV interview, she claimed the reason for the sudden media frenzy (appearing on forty magazine covers and extending her reign to television, fashion, and collectibles) was a result of her preconceived notion of slipping fame, a sort of last hurrah before she believed her time was up. But her popularity only increased, forcing Hamasaki to reappraise her embrace of celebrity to scale the claustrophobia of fame in music videos for “ourselves” and “Because of you,” both released in 2003.

The video for “ourselves” features Hamasaki trapped in an automobile that becomes swarmed by a group of masked critics who begin destroying the vehicle in addition to objectifying her most distinct feature: her large, round eyes, a point of endless discussion among fans and the media. An easy, pervasive symbol for the good and heroic in Japanese cartoons, round, Western-looking eyes have long been an obsession among Asians who wish to appear more American. As for the album cover seen being ripped in half, painted through, and destroyed throughout the video? A BEST, which prominently features her very large eyes outlined in dark black makeup. Literally chained to her fame and witnessing the slow disintegration of her physical form, the strangers begin playing a video game that destroys her face, leaving only the eyes visible. Hamasaki finally lets out a frustrated scream on top of the pedestal she sits on, returning to the original location of the vehicle. Relieved that it was all a dream, she whirls around and sees two masked strangers in the backseat: no matter where she is, then, the paranoia never leaves her alone. As a symbol, physical destruction is about as direct a technique as it gets; Hamasaki would later recycle the approach in “is this LOVE?” (an apartment being blown to bits around her) and “fairyland” (the house where Hamasaki and her friends are dancing is set on fire).

Unique to the approach is the absence of two Hamasakis. It seems eventually the two had become one solidified entity, perhaps around the time Hamasaki filmed a short documentary chronicling her five year ride to popularity, opening up to the media to a bit more about her personal history, though remaining adamant about keeping it in the past. This interview, broadcast in 2004 on NTV, concluded with the statement that she had “faced a past Ayu” by returning to her childhood landmarks. In this way, it seems Hamasaki both confronted her past, one she had lorded over herself by presenting it as a physically separate entity, finally forgave it, and moved on, opening the media more than ever before to her personal life with behind-the-scenes snapshots, Team Ayu posts, and eventually, almost daily blog updates. But before this would occur as the means of saving an anticipated negative trajectory in her career, the concept of fame would be derided further.

Even more unsettling than the disturbing “ourselves” is the music video for “Because of you” which posits fame as a form of prostitution, a practice Hamasaki finds solidarity in with her fellow female dancers, all of whom are interjected in place of her image and partake as the subject of an increasingly demanding male gaze. The significant shots of album covers in “ourselves” are replaced with childhood toys, as if Hamasaki’s innocence has been stolen without consent: though she would title a song “forgiveness” on the same album as “Because of you,” there is none to be had when apologies by the men sought at the end of the video go unacknowledged. Flowers, a timeless emblem of virginity, girlhood, and purity, are offered as an apology, as if they could be restored simply by the giving and receiving of its fabled representation. The token is hurled to the floor and Hamasaki bends down to wistfully contemplate what can never be repaired.

Released at the tail-end of the apex of her popularity, the music video expresses the most carnal and direct representations of fame, implying Hamasaki’s dissatisfation with the business, a sense of violation, and a tormented future predicated on dealing with the consequences. (And again, the obsession with her eyes is externalized in the flashes of sparkling anime optics over her own.) Sexuality would once again be used as a medium for her agony when Hamasaki played a pole dancer in 2006’s “1LOVE,” frolicking to a screaming, masked crowd (the faceless multitude of fans whom she never really meets) who throw loads of money at her antics and enthuse her gilded-cage gyrations.

By 2005, fame was nothing but a glorified, work-a-day trope: in “alterna” she’s the quintessential every girl who is promised fame and concedes through naivete and innocence. A marionette, her strings are finally cut but she is relegated to immobility when turned into a leg-less doll whose only movement is the turning of her head and the blinking of her still very large, animated eyes. This Ayumi Hamasaki is replicated in a factory where dozens like her are created and set up in circuses around the world before backlash sets in and the model performers infest dumpsters in broken, disjointed pieces. In other shots of the video, parts of her body are objectified in magnified lenses while the rest of her body is literally “whited out,” blending in with the scenery for the more intense, vivid scrutiny of the viewer. If Hamasaki was fearing the inevitable backlash once again, “alterna” could prove as good an omen as any: by the release of (miss)understood in 2006, internet downloading could no longer be the sole cause of plummeting sales and waning interest.

The hypocritical stain of her human condition forced Hamasaki to expand her borders outside of Japan and into the rest of East Asia, beginning with Asia Tour 2007: Tour of Secret. To promote the tour, Hamasaki staged another short film featuring her two newest songs, “glitter” and “fated,” set in Hong Kong and featuring actor Shawn Yue. Once again, the music video depicts Hamasaki as an uber-celebrity who falls in love with one of her bodyguards, becomes engaged, and finds the love of her life dead on their wedding day. Over the top, dramatic, and utterly devoid of reality (meta or otherwise), the music video did little to evoke sympathy and instead showcased the almost bizarre dependence Hamasaki had begun to form on her fame despite her constant ridicule of it. Unable to live with it, but unwilling to live without it, fame had become a touchstone, and like “LOVE~Destiny,” employed to once again to trick the public into believing Hamasaki’s fame was still at an all-time high. This time, however, the trick was entirely on Hamasaki.

Of course some of these interpretations of the videos may be a bit liberal; for example, “Because of you” never explicitly alludes to celebrity or fame at all until the brief seconds she’s depicted on television screens. But the increasingly paranoid interpretation of this recurring theme begs the examination of Hamasaki’s very personal reactions. In the TIMEasia interview, she states that she may have to be whatever the public wants her to be, but her songs are hers and serve a very open outlet for personal and emotional experiences. It wouldn’t be far-fetched to make the connection to her music videos, a medium rarely interpreted by Hamasaki herself.

So where does this leave Ayumi Hamasaki, a living, breathing icon whose life depends on the fame she has spent living most of her life? There’s a desire somewhere to wonder if this is for the best: if Hamasaki reacted, at least in part, so negatively about fame, perhaps returning to a semblance of normal life is her due. But after a life like Hamasaki’s, a “normal” life by any definition outside of the public eye, is impossible and the unspoken rules of Japanese society dictates a permanent throne for its Empress of Pop, if she so chooses. You just can’t say no to a vintage entertainer who at one point earned the highest percentage of income for her record company. Like dozens of Japanese entertainers before her, she’s almost guaranteed a spot somewhere in the weekly Top 20 on name alone, a ranking that now says more about her popularity than the quality of her work, which has increasingly rode the bandwagon of up-and-coming musical acts and trends, without taking into account those other acts’ longevity or lasting power.

Flanked by an entourage of dancers, hair stylists, and publicists, she probably hasn’t heard an argumentative word since Duty, when she was just getting the hang of taking control, pulling her straight out of reality and into the same sort of aura as Jay Gatsby, whose followers never deigned to utter a critical remark to his face as long as they could attend the lavish parties. That said, not one of Gatsby’s friends showed up to his funeral. In a 2009 interview for ViVi, Hamasaki states, “No matter how I write my lyrics, I would somehow think things about current issues. I don’t like it when everybody was talking about the worst recession ever in 100 years; they lost their sensibilities of hopes and wishes. I wanted to say that, even in times like this, there must be some hopes and dreams left in peoples’ hearts. I felt this is my duty to remind people of such, and that’s why the cover for NEXT LEVEL had also used bright colors.” Hamasaki is a pop star not of this world, and as a victim of fame (no matter how many times she has tried to claim it), no longer attached to the realities of life (her ignorance and refusal to acknowledge real world events in lieu of her new album ). Her hope-inspiring bright colors and millions of dollars have her ill-prepared for the lonely aftermath. As a consolation, we’ll always have I am….