What’s in a Name
There are times where I’m concerned about my lack of curiosity. For example, it didn’t occur to me to ask, why Baikyoku? Baikyoku IV was the name I was given at my debut back in ’88. It’s another name that’s been in the family for generations, starting with Hanzaburo (my great-great-grandfather), and it’s where things tend to get confusing.
Hanzaburo I; Baikyoku I; Kodo II; Chikuo I • 1823 ~ 1908
Professional names are deeply entrenched in the Japanese arts—stick around long enough and they can really start to stack up. For instance, Hanzaburo (the 1st) was named Baikyoku (梅旭), which means Plum Blossom in Morning Sun; then Kodo, after the death of his instructor Toyoda Kodo; and finally Chikuo (竹翁, literally The Old Man of Bamboo) when it was time for his son, Shinnosuke, to take over the Kodo Shakuhachi Guild.
Araki Atsumu (third from left); Araki Shinnosuke (center)
People often told me I was mistaken when I said I was Baikyoku IV — my grandfather’s student Iwami Tsuna was named Baikyoku V. You see, I’m the fourth Araki Baikyoku. My father was never Baikyoku because his father, Atsumu, a.k.a. Kodo IV, passed away at such a young age that they never played at the same time, sadly. So it skipped a generation. (It is a bit confusing after all.)
I don’t present as Japanese—especially in Japan—and Hanzaburo is an old name not in favor in modern Japan. In the States, my surname isn’t automatically associated with Japan either. Hanzaburo was never going to go over well in 1970s public schools (or with my poor Irish grandmother) so an abbreviation was inevitable, which is how I ended up “Hanz.” I don’t present as Dutch or German either so it did me no favors.
I was at this amazing Japanese-style bakery in Boston picking up some bread (pro tip: Japanese baked goods are superlative). When I handed my card to the woman behind the counter, she did a double-take of the name and said Hanzaburo?? What, were your parents like, samurai?! This was a Japanese woman who was meant to live in Boston.
Hanzaburo (半三郎) literally means ½ the third son. I suppose it’s kind of cute given that my older brothers are twins. It was just coincidence that I was named after my legendary shakuhachi playing great-great grandfather and became a shakuhachi player myself, especially considering that I’m the youngest. It was in doubt I would end up anything other than a championship underachiever given my misspent and misguided youth.
Tatsuya Kodo Araki on my birthday, Middlesex Hospital, 1970
By the time my dad retired and took the name Chikuo II and named me Roku-daime Araki Kodo (Araki Kodo the Sixth), he wasn’t in the best frame of mind. In fact, he didn’t bother telling me, and the entire ceremony where all this took place happened without my knowledge. Being Araki Kodo didn’t seem to mean anything to him at that stage. For his entire life, he was never interested in accolades; he was only driven by his own mastery, an illusive level he could never attain because he could always find room for improvement.
My father was a professional musician when he was still a small child, age 12. Once he had kids of his own, he vowed he would never force or even suggest either of my two brothers, my sister, or me to play music. He only agreed to teach me after I approached him and he reserved the right to cut me off if I was late to lessons or didn’t show promise. When we started playing together, it was like suddenly discovering a rudder, whereas I had been utterly adrift to that point.
Professional names are important in Japanese arts and are handed down for generations, but rarely do they stay within a bloodline. It’s unromantic to say, but musicians are salespeople. The worst part is that what we’re selling is ourselves, and I’ve been trying to sell myself based on the strength of my family name and lineage for most of my life.
To be clear, I don’t think that having the name Kodo excuses me from doing the work, or gives me a license to produce shitty art. I work very hard at my craft because of the name. It’s a lot to live up to, and a heavy burden to carry. Failure means a lot more when your name is attached to a legacy, even if it’s associated with such an obscure art form.
My father didn’t give me this name because I’m his son. I have and will continue to give everything I have to be a player that deserves to be called Kodo. Because the name means something to me. As it happens, I will be the last Araki Kodo. By the way, the translation of Kodo (古童) is Ancient Child.