Rebirth in Japan: The Heiress Who Conquered the World

In mid-August 1987 the cicadas’ drone had begun to carry a faint note of late-summer fatigue.

On the edge of Shinjuku’s Kabukichō the drab three-storey building still appeared unremarkable from the outside. The roller shutter on the first floor remained tightly closed, bearing a simple sign that read ”Renovations Underway.”

Yet on the second floor an entirely different world had taken shape.

Thick acoustic foam sealed every trace of noise from beyond the walls. Professional mixing consoles glowed with complex indicator lights, and massive studio monitors waited silently in the corners.

This was the newly completed Studio One of S.A. Entertainment.

Sachiko Kamachi stood inside the recording booth behind the glass partition. She wore a simple white T-shirt and jeans, her face free of makeup, her long hair tied casually behind her head. A pair of oversized Sony studio headphones rested on her ears, and her hands gripped the microphone stand with a trace of stiffness. Confusion and nervousness lingered in her eyes.

This was her first official artistic activity since signing the contract.

She had imagined that today would resemble the scenes she had seen on television—stylists surrounding her, helping her try on glamorous stage outfits, or a serious producer presenting a custom-made debut single.

Instead, reality was rather different.

*Clang.*

Itakura pushed open the door of the recording room, holding a stack of sheet music so tall it nearly obscured his view.

”Phew... Kamachi-san, these are today’s tasks.”

Itakura dropped the heavy pile onto the music stand, raising a small cloud of dust.

Sachiko leaned forward to look and was stunned.

The top sheet was Seiko Matsuda’s ”Red Sweet Pea.”

Below it lay Akina Nakamori’s ”DESIRE.”

Further down were Teresa Teng’s ”Seasonal Lover” and several enka songs by male singers.

”This is...” Sachiko looked up through the glass into the control room, bewildered. ”President, am I supposed to cover these songs?”

In the control room Satsuki sat in the large leather executive chair, twirling a ballpoint pen between her fingers. Shuichi occupied the sofa beside her, watching the proceedings with evident interest.

Satsuki pressed the talkback button.

”They are not covers; they are guide vocals.”

Her voice came clearly through the headphones.

”Guide vocals?”

”Yes. We need you to re-record these songs in the most standard, clear, and at the same time most infectious manner possible.”

Satsuki explained.

”You do not need to imitate the original singer’s technique, nor should you display too much personal style at this stage. What you must do is ’guide.’ Allow even those who are tone-deaf to follow your voice and sing the song through.”

Sachiko bit her lip; a flicker of disappointment crossed her eyes.

”So... I cannot debut? I cannot have my own songs?”

She had hoped that once signed she would stand on stage and perform the lyrics she had written herself.

”You cannot.”

Satsuki’s answer was firm and decisive.

”At least not yet.”

She rose, walked to the glass of the console, and looked directly at Sachiko.

”Kamachi-san, listen to what is happening outside the window right now.”

Satsuki pointed toward the soundproof wall.

”That is Tokyo in 1987. The streets are filled with nouveau riche waving ten-thousand-yen bills. Disco halls blast deafening heavy metal. Television screens are crowded with women in padded-shoulder suits and thick eye shadow singing about ’living for the moment.’”

”This era is too noisy.”

”It is filled with the popping of champagne corks and the screams of swelling desires. In such noise your clear, spring-like voice would be drowned out instantly.”

”If we pushed you out now, you would only be packaged as another fleeting idol—forced to wear swimsuits and giggle on variety shows, only to be replaced by younger girls within a year or two.”

Sachiko fell silent.

She recalled her days as a race queen, remembering those greedy stares. That was not the life she wanted.

”Then... how long must I wait?” she asked.

”Until the world grows quiet.”

”Until the party ends, the lights go out, and everyone feels tired, lost, and wants to cry but cannot.”

”At that time they will need your voice.”

”For the next three years you will remain hidden in this box. Sing through thousands of popular songs. Hone your breath control, refine your sense of phrasing, and gather inspiration for your lyrics.”

”I have listened to your earlier recordings. Your current range is not yet wide enough, so I will hire professional vocal coaches and music-theory instructors to train you specifically. Your habit of carrying a notebook to write lyrics is excellent; continue it. From now on focus your writing on creating new songs. Once your foundation is solid, I will arrange for a professional band to work with you so you can gain stage experience in advance.”

”You are to be a sword kept in its scabbard.”

”The day you are drawn will be the day you conquer the era.”

Listening to these words, although the future remained somewhat hazy, the feeling of being both protected and anticipated eased the disappointment in Sachiko’s heart.

”I understand.”

She drew a deep breath, replaced her headphones, and let her gaze settle on the sheet music.

”I will sing.”

Recording began.

Although Sachiko’s voice was still somewhat raw, her natural sense of phrasing and penetration lent even the most clichéd enka a layer of fresh colour.

Inside the control room.

Shuichi poured Satsuki a glass of water and asked in a low voice.

”Satsuki, having her record so many guide tracks—is it truly only for training?”

”Training is one aspect.”

Satsuki watched Sachiko, who was focused on singing, and a businessman’s smile curved her lips.

”More importantly, it is to make money.”

”Make money from covers?” Shuichi looked puzzled.

”I went to considerable trouble to sign her. I must maximise the return on investment.”

”Father, do you remember those ’garbage plots’ we purchased in Meguro, Shinjuku, and Ikebukuro?”

Satsuki withdrew a blueprint from her bag and spread it across the mixing console.

It showed a design for a modified shipping container.

The container had been cut open and fitted with soundproof glass doors. Inside were a sofa, a coffee table, a television, and karaoke equipment.

”Karaoke Box.”

Satsuki pointed at the blueprint.

”Currently, if Japanese people wish to sing they must go to snack bars or nightclubs. Those are public places where one must endure the stares of strangers, and each song costs several hundred yen—it is expensive.”

”Young people, especially shy otaku, students, and couples, have nowhere suitable to go. This is a massive untapped market, and no one is developing it yet.”

”We are going to place these containers on those oddly shaped plots where proper buildings cannot even be constructed.”

”One box equals one private room. Charge by the hour, not by the person. No strangers; they may sing however they wish.”

Shuichi’s eyes brightened.

”This... this is truly a brilliant idea!”

He immediately grasped the business logic.

Those ”garbage plots” were either too small or irregularly shaped, making them unsuitable for conventional development and leaving them idle. Yet for containers even ten square metres would suffice.

Moreover, containers were considered ”temporary structures,” so approval was simple and costs extremely low.

”But what does this have to do with Kamachi-san?” Shuichi asked.

”Current karaoke equipment provides only backing tracks, without original vocals,” Satsuki explained. ”For many people who cannot carry a tune, failing to find the melody is painful.”

”So we will introduce a ’guide vocal’ function.”

She pointed at Sachiko behind the glass.

”When a guest presses the ’guide’ button, Sachiko’s voice will emerge and lead them through the song.”

”Imagine, Father.”

”Over the next three years, whenever young people across Tokyo—or even all of Japan—sing inside these boxes, they will hear this voice.”

”Even though they will not know her name or have seen her face.”

”Yet this voice will be etched into their subconscious, becoming part of their youth.”

”Three years later, when ZARD officially debuts and Sachiko Kamachi stands before a television camera for the first time...”

”Everyone will feel a sense of familiarity, as though thinking, ’Ah, it is her.’”

”This is called auditory occupation.”

Shuichi looked at his daughter and felt a chill run down his spine.

The plan was profound.

The garbage plots could serve as collateral for bank loans—land values were soaring in this era—while also functioning as cash cows through the karaoke boxes. The boxes themselves would nurture talent in Sachiko, and Sachiko would lay the groundwork for future cultural influence. If successful, these boxes could spread across Tokyo, providing yet another excellent promotional channel where advertisements could be inserted at will.

Link after link, not a single chess piece was wasted.

”S.A. Entertainment...” Shuichi murmured. ”It seems President Itakura is going to be very busy from now on.”

”He will be busy and happy.”

Satsuki glanced at Itakura, who was staring at Sachiko with the wide-eyed admiration of a fanboy.

”After all, he now holds the fate of the future national diva in his hands.”

”That is not enough. We must also arrange an exclusive manager for the national diva. How can a piece of fine jade be left unpolished?”

Meanwhile.

Shibuya, Seibu Department Store, first floor.

The prime space originally reserved for an Italian luxury brand was now completely sealed behind hoarding.

A massive, gold-embossed logo adorned the barrier:

S-Collection

Coming Soon...

Inside the hoarding, renovation workers carefully installed a large Swarovski crystal chandelier.

The floor was covered in pure-wool carpet five centimetres thick; the walls were panelled with walnut imported from France. Even the display racks had been handcrafted from brass.

Every inch of the space radiated the unmistakable scent of money.

Architect Ando, wearing a hard hat and holding blueprints, directed the workers on lighting angles.

”Warmer! It must feel like the lobby of a high-end hotel!”

”Use tea-coloured glass for those mirrors! Making customers feel their skin looks flawless is the bare minimum!”

In the shop’s warehouse hundreds of exquisite packaging boxes were stacked neatly.

Inside those boxes were actually T-shirts, belts, and accessories produced at low cost. Yet with this luxurious packaging and the prestige of the prime location, their price tags already bore bold figures: ”30,000 yen” and ”50,000 yen.”

This was another net cast by Satsuki.

A net designed to capture the vanity of the present.

In the underground studio in Shinjuku, Sachiko sang ”Seasonal Lover” with her clear voice, preparing to soothe future scars.

In the prime display window in Shibuya, S-Style was donning its glamorous attire, preparing to harvest the madness of the moment.

Two nets—one in the light, one in the dark; one virtual, one real.

In this sweltering summer of 1987 the great ship of the Saionji family was slowly sailing into the deep sea of gold and bubbles.

”That is enough; this take is good.”

Satsuki’s voice came through the headphones.

Sachiko breathed a sigh of relief, removed her headphones, and wiped the sweat from her forehead.

Through the glass she saw the little girl giving her a thumbs-up.

Although she did not yet know what the future held, Sachiko felt that singing inside this small box was not so bad.

At least it was quiet here.

There was only music and the sound of dreams quietly taking root.