I'm going to put myself on the line here and let you know that this collection of people, continuously alternating over the years from between six to 18 active participants, are together (and individually) one of the most infuriating groups I've had to deal with in 15-odd years as a hack music journo.
But as a schlock musician, especially being an expat from Australia for eight years now, based in the same city as them (Tokyo), they're an absolute blessing and a continual breath of fresh air against my tendency towards cynicism.
The TTAK kids--and their more recent spin-off, TTAKredefined--are more underground than Mole in The Wind in the Willows, and bear perhaps an unwitting ideology that reminds me of the Luddites (they hate technology, and refuse to set up a website or go anywhere near MySpace, Facebook or Twitter).
Yet they bend the rules at electronic gear, in particular of the analogue variety, and at any one small gig they throw around the fringe of the Tokyo traps, you're more likely to see dusted down 303s, 808s, Jupiter 4s and 606s, than anything like a contemporary laptop.
Why they often invite me to play and put up with my own antics, very much laptop-oriented, is beyond me. Maybe they know I'd prefer to spend my hard-earned cash on classic beer rather than classic vintage gear?
TTAK was kick-started in Japan, here in Tokyo, in around 2002--though no-one seems quite sure sure of the exact date--by a group of people that included Yusuke Abe, Kana Masaki, Koji Matsumoto, and Aki Hamamocho.
"We were bored of the commercial clubs and the boring commercial music they played," Masaki says now.
Masaki makes music under several aliases including Clean Hands, and recently as one half of Veronica du Lac with myself.
There's a lot of her music that's never even made it onto Discogs.
She also spins obscure experimental vinyl (she doesn't touch CDs or mp3s) as DJ Kana Kani, and in her sets is as likely to drop Throbbing Gristle and NON as she is Plaid or Merzbow. "It needs to grab me," she says of music in general."
"It also needs to mean something," adds Abe, her long-time partner. "Music is the story of life. We want our lives to have a deeper meaning than simple dance."
The idea of thus remaining obscure and sticking by principles some people might call old-fashioned has had its share of problems.
Some artists have objected to the equal share of sales of TTAK records when one particular release is more successful than others, and there was a schism two years ago which led to the closure of TTAK, and its rejuvenation as TTAKredefined.
"Two of the musicians changed their mind," Abe muses. "They wanted to find success and sell their music, and they wanted TTAK to follow that path. The rest of us refused. We stopped operations temporarily, then restarted under the new name. We're united now."
"It's healthy to start over," Masaki agrees.
One problem with TTAK releases are their availability--they're released only in Japan, and distribution is done via gigs and networking between friends. Their support network and sales is astounding, given the kinds of obscure, sometimes abrasive techno/noise these people are pushing through.
But what cuts it even more for me are their parties: Exceptionally unpromoted, usually in holes-in-the-wall in obscure places, and furnished around a majority of live performances. They're mad, crazy events rammed full of people there for the music rather than any inclinations toward substance abuse.
This is the Tokyo that's real for me, rather than the major clubs and the bigger-name DJs and producers, as talented as some of those people are.
Sad to say, I think it's me who drinks the most at the bar each time.
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