High High High

Tatsuro Yamashita earned his title as the king of Japanese pop through records like this one — arrangements of such layered complexity that repeated listens keep revealing new detail, yet the overall effect is pure, uncomplicated joy. The track rises from the first beat with a kind of inevitability, as though it has been approaching from a long distance. The production is dense and warm: horns stab in just the right places, backing vocals weave around the lead in intricate patterns that recall American soul music filtered through a Japanese sensibility for precision and craft. The rhythm has a bounce that sits somewhere between funk and gospel, physical and communal at once. His vocal performance is exceptional — Yamashita's voice has always been a high, slightly reedy instrument, but he uses it with such technical control and emotional commitment that it becomes something larger than its parts. The song is about euphoria, the specific condition of feeling so good that ordinary language fails and repetition becomes the only honest response. High, again, higher, as if the word itself is trying to reach the feeling. This is music that rewards both dancing and listening — you can move to it, or you can sit very still and let it fill the room. It belongs to the late 1970s into the 1980s, a moment when city pop was at its most expansive and Yamashita was at the center of it all, making records that sounded like the future of joy.