Fishmans tells the band’s story in painstaking detail

The first time I ever heard of Fishmans was on the appropriately-titled YouTube page Deep Cuts. As part of his Essentials series, host Oliver Kemp was discussing Fishmans’ 1997 masterpiece Long Season, going on at length about the Japanese band’s musicianship and creativity, and everything they were able to accomplish on the album’s single thirty-five-minute track. Curious, I immediately sought out the album—and was astonished. A perfectly constructed, never-ending, and ever-shifting blend of dub, psychedelia, ambient, dream pop, and post-rock greeted me. I was awestruck. Why had I never heard of this band? Was the rest of their discography this incredible? Digging around online yielded dribbles of information, mostly that the band had ended in the Nineties after a band member’s death, but due to the band’s cult status, I quickly resigned myself to the fact that I would never know much about them beyond what their albums and Wikipedia page could provide.

Director Yuki Teshima seeks to change that with Fishmans. Crowdfunded in 2019 and released in Japan two years later, the film received its North American premiere in New York City a few weeks ago. The film is a sprawling, near-three-hour documentary covering every part of the band’s story, from their 1987 formation to their final gig in 1998. Founded by guitarist Kensuke Ojima, drummer Kin-ichi Motegi, and guitarist, trumpeter, and lead songwriter Shinji Sato in college (with bassist Yuzuru Kashiwabara joining shortly after), Fishmans was ostensibly created to play reggae, which Sato was obsessed with. But the band evolved rapidly, incorporating a myriad of other genres in such idiosyncratic ways that, by the time of Sato’s untimely 1999 death from heart failure, they were utterly peerless.

Sanji Sato’s ghost is present from the very beginning of Fishmans. Opening with Motegi visiting Sato’s grave with his mother to pay their respects, the film then follows Motegi as he visits the various clubs, haunts, and studios Fishmans inhabited during the almost fifteen years of their existence. Motegi is delighted to play tour guide, whether visiting old spaces the band used to practice in or playing the band’s first-ever recordings off an old cassette. 

Following him as he moves from haunt to haunt, the Fishmans story gradually unfurls: keyboardist Hakase-Sun joining right before they signed to a major label to record their debut, an uninterested music press that couldn’t seem to understand what the band was attempting musically, and TV deals that never led to any real success. Being in Fishmans was never easy, and it only got harder over time—the departure of various members devastated Sato, and pushed him harder and harder to somehow make his vision into something feasible. It’s a testament to the documentary that every band member, touring member, and contributor is incredibly forthright about both the peaks and valleys of Fishmans—how wonderful it was to play in the band, and also how difficult and exhausting it was when Sato’s musical ambitions moved faster than his bandmates could keep up with.

Sato was to Fishmans what Ian Curtis was to Joy Division, at least in the way both bands talk about their respective frontman:  there’s a clear reverence for Sato’s artistic genius, but also this near pathological refusal to ask about his life or how he made his art while he was alive. This distance would eventually contribute to the downfall of the band. Members mention how ragged Sato ran himself in his last few years. Band manager Akiko Ueta describes a horrible fever he ran a year before he died. Even their label rep feels bad for how hard he pushed Sato. (Finances were almost certainly a pressure point—as beloved as they are now, Kashiwabara wryly points out that while peers sold millions, Fishmans final and biggest show was only to four thousand people.) 

Yet no one seemed able to communicate their concerns to him, either out of a fear of appearing less dedicated to the music than Sato or out of a resigned certainty that he wouldn’t listen in the first place. In a particularly heartbreaking scene, Ueta recalls repeatedly attempting to assure Sato that she will stand by Fishmans no matter how the band does, only for Sato to accuse her of planning to jump ship just like his former bandmates. “He seemed to have put many walls to keep himself from being hurt,” she recalls, the pain still present in her voice all these years later.

That impenetrability extends to how Sato is portrayed in the film. As much as the movie is about him and everything he helped to create, we know surprisingly little about the man by its end—as if Sato did nothing but live and breathe Fishmans since the moment they formed. He didn’t date, didn’t have friends outside the band—or, if he did, they weren’t interviewed for or even discussed by the doc. The only outside glimpse comes near the end of the film, with Sato’s mother going through old photos and confirming he was born for the stage long before the band formed. We also learn for the first time that Sato had a brother. Understandably, Teshima wanted to keep the film simply focused on the band, and diving into any personal history probably would have made the film even longer than it already is. However, considering how much of the documentary is framed around trying to fill in the hole left by Sato’s death, one can’t help but feel the absence of this information.

Similarly, the ending seems unsure of how it should present itself. Nearly every remaining band member reunited in 2005, and they still perform as Fishmans to this day. The last shots of the movie are undoubtedly impactful: Motegi and co. performing, continuing the legacy of the band, keeping the magic and beauty of what their friend made alive the only way they know how, radiating obvious passion as they play and the credits roll. But then, out of nowhere, that feeling is undercut by Motegi getting another set of last words in, with yet another final performance shown. At some point, you need to trust that your audience knows and cares about what this band has accomplished enough to not beat them over the head with it, especially in the film’s final moments. 

Despite these issues, Fishmans is victorious in what it sets out to do: be the definitive story of the band. There are so many behind-the-scenes videos, never-before-seen photos, and details about the band’s existence gathered here that it’s worth watching for the wealth of information alone. I would never have known that Ojima left Fishmans because he felt there was nothing he could contribute to the band anymore, or that the band was disappointed by their own lack of fame, without this documentary. It’s astonishing to watch the band evolve from a scrappy rocksteady tribute act into a master of hulking, ambitious psych art pop, the kind that Sato has to almost physically bend his body to play. Fishmans captures it all in exhaustive, painstaking detail; only someone who is a fan of the band to their core would make something like it. “I believe I’m making music that can change someone’s life, and I’ll keep doing my best so it reaches that someone,” Ueta remembers Sato saying, crystallizing what kept him and Fishmans going despite the rough sales, apathetic press, and shifting lineups. It seems that moment has finally arrived.

David Glickman is a critic whose writing has appeared in Pitchfork, Stereogum, Resident Advisor, Bandcamp, and elsewhere. Formally from Texas, he currently lives in Brooklyn.

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