I saw Ginger Root live and got my funk spunked//Remember to thank the internet for introducing you to new music - Ginger Root Review

Weebs, dweebs and nostalgics alike piled into Liberty Hall on Sunday evening. Upon entering we were met with the objectively and aurally charming Julian Munyard and Nathan Hawes (KESMAR). It was all very fitting. Both played the part of having been plucked out of the seventies; Skin-tight bootleg jeans, blouses buttoned up to their chins, and dorky striped ties. The pair began the evening with sweet folk acoustics. Groups huddled into the hall wide-eyed and patient. They performed a poignant rendition of 500 miles, and I felt the performing act from then on becoming something more serious. A nod to Greenwich village, an ode to rock and roll, and an homage to its calmer, more rational younger sister: folk-rock. 

After a brief intermission filled with one million muffled voices and barely audible elevator jazz, the stage's screen lit up. Genre switch. A digital mosaic of CRT monitors introduced Ginger Root’s frontman as the ghostwriter for fictional Japanese artist Kimiko Takeguchi. The short film feels like a lost archive stolen from 1983 Tokyo television. The set is comically minimalist, lighting equipment poking out of the makeshift set. You’re watching a performance through another performance. Before even stepping onto the stage, Cameron Lew imparts imperative lore implications; he isn't just the frontman, he’s the support crew, writer and backup; He’s the actor, director and editor of his highly stylised multidimensional universe; He plays himself, a caricature of himself, and a taxi driver. He’s the mastermind behind it all. He is Ginger Root.

Lew tore up the Roland Juno-106 polyphonic analog synthesiser. He mastered the keys all whilst tweaking dials and pushing buttons. He pushed our buttons too. The cameraman zoomed uncomfortably close into faces in the crowd, projecting their humiliated faces onto the stage. Every victim looked as uncomfortable as the last. Their discomfort made us laugh. The marriage of cool and cringe is invigorating. Lew knows this, it’s part of his charm. His fanbase seems to resonate with his deadpan sarcasm. When he teased all the emos (a vast majority), and told the anime-enjoyers (also a vast majority) that they stink—everyone laughed! He worked the crowd like a malleable piece of gum. 

He performed a one-night-only exclusive performance of the song that propelled him into online stardom—Loretta. I wish I could narrate the song to you here and now, but the limitations of the written word forbid me from doing so. I suppose you had to be there. I will try my best. It gives you a stupid childlike cheesiness. You’re winding down Rainbow Road. A speeding toboggan with no brakes. The keyboard is tight, pulsing and pixelated. Filtering and pitch modulation warps the squeaky clean edges, giving rise to a foreign floating feeling. His sound seems like an attempt to bend back through time. Perhaps we only share his yearning for our youth; for analog, for physical media and human warmth. The hissing tape and semi-poor quality is not unlike the vinyl crackle; its proof of its belonging to us. It is no coincidence that the resurgence of City Pop coincided with the resurgence of CD’s, wired earphones and Walkmans. It’s vintage. But it is also tangible. And simple. 

Lew’s whole brand is drenched in longing. Everybody in Liberty Hall felt it— regardless of having lived through the height of Shōwa-era City Pop or not. City Pop injected the chaos of a booming Japanese economy into its pop music; groovy baselines, smooth melodies and rich instrumental layering. Think neon city lights, urban sophistication, bustling shopping districts, and fashion of Harajuku and Shibuya—City Pop was more of a symbol than a reflection of Japan in the bubble economy; the effects of youthful freedom, economic excess, and Western influences were ongoing, but like all popular things, City Pop soon died out and was rediscovered decades later by another young generation, who yearned for the retro-yet-futuristic aesthetic fantasy world that City Pop introduced to them through a small, medium or large screen. Ginger Root has contributed to this revival, giving rise to excessive nostalgia for an era most of us have never actually known. 

He admits to taking inspiration from Haruomi Hosono and Yellow Magic Orchestra. But there are also notes of Anri, Tatsuro Yamashita or Miki Matsubara. His song Giddy Up replicates the feeling of galloping on a horse (naturally) at a staggering 158 BPM. He introduced it as Paul McCartney/DEVO-esque, then did a bizarrely accurate Paul McCartney impression, covered Day Tripper, then shamed those in the crowd who had never heard Day Tripper before. Lew treats the crowd like a friend. He is able to mock thousands of people who paid to see him because he is one of them. He played the cowbell on a few occasions. He acknowledged how strange it is that Loretta carries his career on her back. Then reminded us to thank the mysteriously generated YouTube algorithm for introducing us to new music, for presenting us with the exact video we need at a particular time, and for uniting various groups who share a certain commonality that none could even try to explain.

Thank you, internet.