The garage on the first floor of Kenichi Kubota’s used car and parts dealership is something of a neighborhood hangout, where children often gather after school. Piles of board games are tucked under a table, and tennis rackets hang on the wall. For those who want to make some noise, guitar amps are available, as well as drums made from old tires the shop has no shortage of.
Things get lively around here every August around the Bon holidays, when a small festival is held along the street facing Kubota’s business in Tatekawa, an area in Tokyo’s eastern Sumida Ward that’s home to dozens of used auto parts shops. On the day of the festivities, a mikoshi, or portable shrine, is hoisted on the shoulders of happi coat-wearing adults and carried through the neighborhood, where food stalls are set up to tempt the locals.
Before dusk, a makeshift bandstand is assembled for the musicians leading the main event: a Bon odori, or Bon dance, traditionally performed to console the spirits of ancestors believed to return to their living families at that time of the year. Many of the performers are youth who have practiced drumming under a program Kubota introduced years ago to revive this particular festival, which was once on the verge of extinction.
“When I first started getting involved with the festival back in 2002, the Bon odori was basically a karaoke singalong party for old folks and nothing like the exciting festivals I remembered from childhood,” says Kubota, a tanned mechanic and father of two. “I have been working to rejuvenate the event by involving local children, and we had been quite successful. That is, until the pandemic.”
The event in Tatekawa is among the hundreds and thousands of matsuri (festivals) held in Japan each year to show gratitude to local shrines and the gods they pay tribute to. They’re the lifeblood of the neighborhoods weaving together the nation’s social fabric, but are also among a growing number of folk rituals that have been struggling to attract participants as community ties fray as the population rapidly ages and shrinks.
For many smaller festivals that lack willing organizers and resources, COVID-19 and the restrictions imposed on gatherings were the final nail in the coffin. The annual Bon odori festival in the town of Tanashi in western Tokyo, for example, has been canceled permanently as of this year. And for those that weathered the health crisis, this summer is the first real test of whether these traditional matsuri — considered a key tourism draw by the government — can have life drummed back into them.
“It feels like COVID reversed a decade of progress we’d made,” Kubota says from his garage, nodding toward a young mother and her toddler walking by in the sweltering heat. “But the children have begun practicing their drums once again in preparation for this year’s summer festival.”
Changing face of festivities
By some estimates, there are around 300,000 festivals held across Japan every year, from major events that draw millions, like the Nebuta Festival in Aomori Prefecture and the Sanja Festival in Tokyo’s Asakusa neighborhood, to much smaller rituals hosted by village shrines and temples. They’re an essential part of the nation’s culture, providing a sense of solidarity and shared heritage among neighborhood associations while being a source of much needed income.
Matsuri are closely associated with Japan’s four seasons. In the countryside, farmers pray for their harvest in spring and give thanks in the fall, while summer matsuri are typically held in urban areas to ward off evil spirits causing sickness. Significant work goes into holding a matsuri, with organizers and participants spending anything up to a year on preparations. Also integral are the craftspeople that make and repair the mikoshi, costumes and ritual paraphernalia that reflect local colors, traditions and motifs.
Some events, such as the Aoi Festival in Kyoto, can be traced back over a millennium, while others, such as the Yosakoi Festival in Kochi Prefecture, are much newer, born as the nation recovered from the devastation of World War II.
“Matsuri are very organic, and have been constantly changing over time,” says Manabu Haga, a professor of sociology at Sophia University. “But from a sociologist’s perspective, a major transformation took place in the 1970s and 1980s.”
That period, Haga says, is when local communities began disintegrating as the number of nuclear families and single-person households grew. Urban dwellers became more individualistic, while graying rural villages suffered from depopulation.
“From around 2000 onward, maintaining community-based lifestyles became difficult, a societal trend that has had a direct impact on festivities,” Haga says. Many matsuri died out, while others adapted and survived.
Tokushima Prefecture’s Awa Odori festival, held during the Bon holiday in mid-August, for example, has a 400-year history. Considered Japan’s most famous dance festival, the style of dancing and accompanying music has drastically changed compared to what it was during the Edo Period (1603-1868), Haga says.
“Matsuri essentially belong to the members of the community; their primary function, to unite the people once a year through excitement and euphoria,” Haga says. “So when lifestyles change, matsuri also need to change, something we can observe in Awa Odori.”
In recent years, the dance has become a major tourism draw, attracting over a million people each year. Dozens of offshoots have sprung up, among them the Awa Odori festival held in Koenji in the west of Tokyo, where over 10,000 dancers perform and well over a million festivalgoers gather.
“These dance-centric festivals, including the Yosakoi in Kochi Prefecture, can be reproduced elsewhere rather easily as long as organizers can prepare the music and costumes — hence their popularity,” Haga says. “But that’s not the case with festivals featuring expensive floats like the Nebuta.”
And for the smaller festivals hosted by neighborhood associations, preserving and maintaining their portable shrines and financing other necessary preparations from a limited budget is a perennial headache.
In the case of the summer festival in Tatekawa, Kubota says the event has been relying on donations, which have been decreasing by about ¥1 million every four years.
“The amount the festival receives has fallen from around ¥8 million in 2006 to ¥5 million in 2018,” he says. “That’s why we’ve been looking for ways to become more self-sufficient.”
‘Mikoshi Guy’
Mikoshi, the shrine carried by parishioners during matsuri, is synonymous with festivities in Japan. They come in all sizes and designs, with prices ranging from several hundred thousand yen to extravagant pieces costing over ¥100 million ($722,000).
To ensure they last, mikoshi need to be periodically repaired by craftsmen. There are some that were constructed during the Edo Period and have been passed down over generations, only surviving thanks to careful maintenance.
Nobuya Miyata has carried hundreds of mikoshi over the years as part of his efforts to preserve Japanese heritage and traditions. He also repairs mikoshi from his workshop in a hilly neighborhood in Yokohama adjacent to the home his grandparents lived in.
“After the war, my grandfather was asked by the neighborhood association here to craft a mikoshi so they could revive the local matsuri for Kasuga Shrine,” says Miyata, a tall, broad-chested karate black belt. “That’s how he got into making and repairing mikoshi, skills I inherited from him.”
Miyata heads an organization called Asitaski, which is aimed at protecting and promoting matsuri, and has recently returned from a tour of Europe, where he helped carry mikoshi in Lithuania, Slovenia and San Marino. He has also been the subject of a documentary film titled “Mikoshi Guy.”
As a youngster, Miyata learned the basics of how to use the necessary tools while visiting his grandfather’s workshop. He graduated from Tsukuba University and spent two years volunteering in the Tohoku region following the Great East Japan Earthquake that pummeled northeastern Japan in March 2011. During that time, he was asked to help revive a matsuri for Shirogane Shrine at Ogatsu, a district in tsunami-ravaged Ishinomaki, Miyagi Prefecture.
“They were looking for someone to repair their mikoshi, as well as people to carry it around during the matsuri,” Miyata says. “I helped out as much as I could, and the joy the matsuri brought to the locals who had suffered immensely was an epiphany of sorts, laying the foundation of what I do now.”
Miyata focuses on working with local matsuri, not the massive cash-cow spectacles that suffer no lack of promotion or tourists. Kyoto’s famed Gion Matsuri, for example, has offered premium seating tickets this year for ¥400,000 each.
Now that most pandemic-related restrictions have been lifted, he has been visiting festivals almost every weekend, lugging around mikoshi with the locals. He invites volunteers to join him to get a taste of the sense of accomplishment and unity felt through the experience.
“It’s essential to get the younger generation involved in these festivities for the tradition to survive,” he says. “Ideally, one day, people like myself won’t need to be supporting these matsuri and they will become self-sustainable.”
Reviving the magic of matsuri
Promoting these local heritages’ appeal to a wider audience, then, is vital for the survival of matsuri.
The city of Hamada in Shimane Prefecture, for example, is known for Iwami Kagura, a type of Shinto theatrical dance featuring fast-paced music, colorful costumes and stories from Japanese mythology. Practiced by dozens of troupes, it shot to national fame when “Orochi,” a program depicting the legendary slaying of an eight-headed serpent, was performed during the 1970 World Exposition in Osaka.
Since the ritual is primarily featured on the sidelines of festivals, Iwami Kagura events were also muted during the pandemic. But with festivities roaring back to life, “We’d like to attract more tourists to Hamada through Iwami Kagura,” says Akinori Tsukamoto, an official from the city’s tourism department.
“And we’re hoping to get another boost by performing it during the 2025 Expo,” he says, referring to the World Exposition set to be held again in Osaka.
Assisting Hamada’s push is Omatsuri Japan, a startup dedicated to promoting and producing matsuri. Cross Sato, a member of the venture, says they plan on targeting inbound tourists by supplying multilingual guidance to programs and Iwami Kagura-related tours where visitors can check out workshops and try on the elaborate costumes.
“Many of these festivals and rituals harbor strong potential but haven’t been able to monetize their art efficiently,” Sato says.
Prior to COVID-19, the economic ripple effect of festivals in Japan was estimated to be around ¥530 billion annually, according to a study led by the Nikkei.
With the number of international travelers soaring over the past decade, municipalities and tourism agencies have been looking for ways to have them actively participate in matsuri. All Nippon Airways, for example, has what it calls the ANA Omatsuri Tourism Project, through which it introduces the various seasonal festivities Japan has to offer for those looking for events to fill their itineraries with.
But more importantly, nurturing the next generation of performers and organizers is paramount to keeping the tradition alive.
‘Somewhat anxious’
Akira Nagami has been performing Iwami Kagura for three decades, being introduced to the centuries-old art by his father upon returning to Hamada after graduating from college.
“When I first began, there were only around three or four kids taking part in practices,” says Nagami, adding that children can quickly get bored if they don’t have the chance to perform in front of an audience. “Since around 20 years ago, the city has been hosting Kagura festivals for children, which has really helped boost participation, as they have something to look forward to.”
In Tatekawa, Kubota has been taking a similar approach. The district, while traditionally home to merchants, now sees a regular flow of residents leaving and moving in. Many aren’t interested in local festivals, and can’t be bothered to participate, he says.
“When my daughter was born in 2002, I figured I’ll have her and other children get involved so they could eventually take the lead in organizing the festival,” he says. “How should we get them excited? Practicing taiko (drums) came to mind.”
In July 2005, the first rehearsal took place with Kubota’s 3-year-old daughter and three other children of neighborhood association members. They gathered in a room in Tatekawa’s community center to bang on drums.
“They seemed to get a real kick out of it, and began inviting other friends to our practice sessions,” says Kubota. And, in late August, during the festival, the children donned tiny happi coats and joined the adults during a taiko drumming recital.
By word of mouth, the number of children attending Kubota’s taiko rehearsals grew. But the percussion instruments can be expensive, and they didn’t have the budget to purchase more to accommodate all the children. Instead, a local liquor shop donated empty sake barrels that were crafted into drums. And to appeal to the younger audience, the group practiced to the theme song from “Ponyo,” an animated film directed by Hayao Miyazaki.
“By 2010, there were around 40 kids joining our lessons. And you know what happens then? During the festival, their parents, even their grandparents come to watch them perform, doubling and even tripling the turnout,” Kubota says.
In order to fund the operational costs of the festival, the neighborhood decided to seek ¥2,000 co-sponsor fees from parents interested in having their children’s name printed on the chōchin lanterns featured during the event. Meanwhile, other parents, including neighborhood newbies who had children practicing drums with Kubota, began volunteering to help steer the festival.
By the late 2010s, things came full circle as the first group of children who rehearsed with Kubota were old enough to teach the younger ones how to drum. “For the matsuri in 2018, my high school daughter volunteered to lead rehearsals,” Kubota says.
The pandemic forced the cancellation of the festivities, and rehearsals also had to take a hiatus. Kubota was “somewhat anxious, as a three-year gap can be substantial, especially for kids.”
To his relief, however, over a dozen children gathered during the first practice of this season, held on a Wednesday earlier this month. Perhaps not the turnout he was hoping for, but still enough to make some noise.
“We’ve got a few weeks left before the main event,” he says. “I can’t wait.”
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