The Japanese quartet returns louder, faster, and fiercer, tearing through 18 hilarious and ferocious songs in 20 minutes.
In John Waters’ 1994 domestic satire Serial Mom, a perfectly coiffed Kathleen Turner murders criminals of etiquette with household objects—a telephone, a leg of lamb. One of her victims has an unfortunate encounter with a plummeting AC unit; another is run through with a fire poker. On their new album Super Champon, Japanese rock quartet Otoboke Beaver make similar munitions of the mundane, weaponizing petty jealousy, maternal conventions, and feminine duties to blistering effect. Louder, faster, fiercer than their 2019 LP Itekoma Hits, the 20-minute, 18-track Super Champon goes down like a tart smattering of face-scrunching, neon candy.
The word “champon” is a Japanese noun that suggests a hodgepodge or jumble. It is also apparently a soup—a Nagasaki-born ramen made with hunks of seafood, pork, and veggies. Otoboke Beaver interpret the word through their maximalist songs, which change direction as abruptly as a thwacked pinball. The band—comprising lead vocalist and guitarist Accorinrin, guitarist Yoyoyoshie, bassist Hirochan, and drummer Kahokiss—have said that “champon” also relates to their “genreless” music. There are components of speed metal, butt rock, riot grrrl, and even pop, but to classify this record as anything other than punk seems like a reach. Still, with titles like “You’re No Hero Shut the Fuck Up You Man-Whore” and “Dirty Old Man Fart Is Waiting for My Reaction,” these ferocious blasts—some under 20 seconds long—are rousing contortions of the style.
Super Champon is crammed with noise: Hirochan sprints up and down her fretboard, Kahokiss punishes her drum kit, and Yoyoyoshie discharges endless rounds of screeching riffs. The lyrics, fired off in quick, sharp bursts, are both menacing and hilarious. On the two-part “Do You Want Me to Send a DM,” Otoboke Beaver turn a familiar action into a ticking time bomb. “Do you want me to send a DM to your girlfriend who knows nothing?” the band warns in unison. “Direct mail direct trouble… Screenshot I make it visible.” Their omission of what exactly is in these messages makes the threat all the more sinister. Could it be nudes? An active dating profile? A particularly incriminating Google search history? Otoboke Beaver know that when it comes to both punk songwriting and blackmail, less is often more.
The turbocharged couplet of “Leave Me Alone! No, Stay With Me!” and “I Checked Your Cellphone” are similar spoofs on toxic affairs. The former is frantic and cyclical; Accorinrin shouts the title over and over, her repetition mimicking the emotional volleying of a codependent relationship. “I Checked Your Cellphone” presents this behavior in overdrive. Propelled by Kahokiss’ machine gun drumming and Yoyoyoshie’s sawtooth guitar, Accorinrin flails through her compulsions. “I don’t know why!” she shrieks. “I couldn’t help looking into/And he found a match on a dating app!” It’s at once a condemnation and endorsement of paranoia: Should you really punish yourself for peeking if your instincts were spot-on? Otoboke Beaver think not: Accorinrin would rather hurl a “full lineup of household goods” at her shady boyfriend instead.
On the hopped-up “I Am Not Maternal,” Otoboke Beaver skewer reproductive obligations, proclaiming their preference for dogs over babies. The song is a celebration: so bouncy it’s carnivalesque—something the Six Flags guy might listen to if he was a street punk. “I Won’t Dish Out Salads” is another refusal of societal norms. In Japan, the serving of salad—in social or professional dining scenarios—is a gesture often handled by a female subordinate. Here, Otoboke Beaver reject the chore, lampooning it as paltry and tedious. “What are you good at?/Wow great! You can dish out salads!” the band teases. “Distribute the dishes for salads to dish out salads!” The song decelerates and then ramps up like a pull-back plastic race car. Otoboke Beaver have called this album their “masterpiece of chaos music,” and they thrive in this high-octane tangle of notes. For them, every social nicety is teetering on a ledge, looking down into mayhem. Super Champon is the sound of Otoboke Beaver shoving them over, one by one.
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