September 23, 2024

Translation: Morocco (Shinichi Mori)

Maybe the collected works of Takashi Matsumoto, like the live catalogue of the Grateful Dead, are something you can make more manageable by discussing it year by year. "In 1972, Takashi ruled all the world." "He was still awesome in 1975, though." "But 1983, geez..." "Granted, but then there was the '86 revival, after the Happy End reunion show!" And the real heads can get into it tour by tour. "Yes, yes, the entirety of 1972 is fantastic, but do you know the spring of '76?!" (I can vouch for 1972 at this point, the rest are still just guesses.) 

I'm a stubborn person, so I've been seeking out Takashi songs from 1983 precisely because the first two I translated were dishearteningly rough going. Morocco (Tsutsumi/Matsumoto) is better, if not great. There's more character to it, but it remains Takashi by-the-numbers. It's too easy for him to write a set of lyrics like this one.

Since Kyohei Tsutsumi is involved, the music and the words meld quite well. Enka singer Shinichi Mori, for whom the Hosono/Matsumoto team wrote a couple of songs that year too (both on the 20th Century Box), croons the "sensitive tough guy" sentiments to life. I was wondering whether there is a less unpleasant way to render the word "bitch" (おばずれ), but the harshness seems intentional, and in-character. Listen to how Mori himself shies away from the word.



:::



Get me a double scotch with ice.
Man, this city has become such a wasteland.
Say, do you know the woman in this picture?
I mean, it's a really old one, I'm sure she looks different now...

Right outside the window is the desert,
and up above the coconuts, the blue moon.
Even though she was a bitch,
she was like an oasis to me.

Hey bartender, pour me another glass.

It's strange, but I dream about her all the time.
You know how people never age in dreams?
We had a tryst once in a hotel up the road,
but when I stopped by the place earlier,
the only thing left was a vacant lot.

Right outside the window is the desert.
A human heart is like a desert too.
It doesn't matter how far you walk,
all you'll ever find is emptiness.

Well now, bartender, I've talked your ear off
with yet another dismal story.

Right outside the window is the desert,
and up above the coconuts, the blue moon.
Even though she was a bitch,
she was like an oasis to me.

Say, bartender... 
after I've drunk myself unconscious,
do me a favor
and toss me out into the desert.


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