Tibetan Blue Air Liquid Band - 1983 - 空中浮遊 = Kūchū Fuyū

Tibetan Blue Air Liquid Band

1983

空中浮遊 = Kūchū Fuyū

01. 楽々々 - Raku-Raku-Raku 5:31

02. 七拍子 - 7 Time 5:42

03. 軽快足踏音曲 - Light Footwork Song 7:03

04. 瀬戸内Blue - Setouchi Blue 4:30

05. 若い娘のハネ踊り - Young Girls' Jumpin' Dance 4:51

06. 空のワレ目 - A Crack In The Sky 3:53

07. エライコッチャ - Eraikoche 5:45

Drums – Cecil Monroe

Electric Bass – Rodney Drummer

Electric Guitar – Kazumi Watanabe

Percussion – Sabu Toyozumi

Trumpet, Producer – Toshinori Kondo

Recorded at Chestnut Studio, Japan, June 19 -23, 1983.

When Jazz Decides to Float Away and Never Come Back

Ah, Kūchū Fuyū. The title translates to "Aerial Levitation" or "Floating in the Air," which is fitting because this album feels like it's untethered from gravity, logic, and sometimes even melody. Released in 1983 on Trio Records/Domo in Japan (with promo vinyls and later reissues scattering like confetti), this is Toshinori Kondo's quirky side project under the moniker Tibetan Blue Air Liquid Band—a name that sounds like a New Age spa treatment gone rogue. It's free jazz meets fusion with a dash of funk, where Kondo's trumpet soars, squawks, and occasionally sounds like it's trying to hail a cab from outer space. Imagine Miles Davis on a vision quest in the Himalayas, backed by a band that's equal parts groovy and gonzo. At about 37 minutes, it's short enough not to overstay its welcome but weird enough to make you question your speakers.

This isn't your grandpa's jazz—unless your grandpa was into experimental Japanese avant-garde in the '80s. It's energetic, improvisational, and hilariously unpredictable, like a polite jam session that suddenly remembers it has a flight to catch. If Taihen was Kondo causing trouble, this is him achieving liftoff.

The Levitating Crew Who Made This Float

Tibetan Blue Air Liquid Band wasn't a "band" in the traditional sense—it was more like Kondo's experimental sandbox, pulling in collaborators for a one-off levitation session. Think of it as a supergroup of niche talents, where everyone showed up with their A-game and a willingness to get weird. Here's the lowdown on the key players, with just enough snark to keep it airborne.

Toshinori Kondo (Trumpet, Producer): The ringleader, born in 1948 in sleepy Imabari, Japan. He picked up the trumpet at 12 in school band (because nothing screams "future avant-garde icon" like brass basics). By university in Kyoto, he was jamming with percussionists and dreaming big. In 1978, he hightailed it to New York, rubbing elbows with free-jazz heavies like John Zorn and Bill Laswell. Kondo's signature? Electric trumpet processed through effects until it sounds like a cosmic banshee. He lived a tri-continental life (Tokyo, NYC, Amsterdam), collaborated with everyone from DJs to Tibetan monks, and passed in 2020 at 71. Here, he's the gravity-defying force, producing and blowing notes that float between jazz and abstraction. Fun fact: His name means "equal rule," but his music follows none.

Cecil Monroe (Drums): The American rhythm anchor, born in 1955 in Woodside, New York. He moved to Japan in 1978 and never looked back, becoming a fixture in the local jazz scene until his death in 2011 in Tateyama. Monroe was a straight-ahead jazz drummer with a funky edge—think solid grooves that keep the chaos from fully unraveling. On this album, he's the guy holding the balloon strings while everyone else floats away. Not much spotlight on him historically (he wasn't the type to hog the mic), but his steady pulse makes the levitation feel earned.

Rodney Drummer (Electric Bass): Ah, the enigmatic bassist—possibly an American expat like Monroe, but details are scarcer than hen's teeth. (Searches turn up drummers named Rodney, but this guy's on bass, slapping funky lines like it's his job to ground the aerial antics.) He collaborated with Kondo in the early '80s, providing the low-end glue that keeps tracks from drifting into pure ether. Think of him as the unsung hero: reliable, groovy, and probably wondering how he ended up in a band named after a mystical fluid.

Kazumi Watanabe (Electric Guitar): The Japanese fusion wizard, born in 1953 in Tokyo. He started piano at seven but switched to guitar at 12 after a Ventures obsession, then went full jazz at 15 thanks to Wes Montgomery. Debuting at 17 with Infinite, Watanabe became Japan's guitar prodigy, blending rock, jazz, and everything in between. He's versatile, technical, and influential—think a smoother, more melodic counterpart to Kondo's wildness. On Kūchū Fuyū, his riffs add sparkle and sting, like fireworks in a floating parade.

Sabu Toyozumi (Percussion): The free-improv pioneer, born in 1943 in Yokohama. He started in a school marching band, formed a pop group in the late '50s, then dove into free jazz in the '60s. Toyozumi was part of Japan's first wave of improvisers, collaborating with globals like Peter Kowald and Tristan Honsinger. Known for his "erhu drum" (a custom spike-fiddle hybrid) and boundless energy, he's still active in his 80s. Here, his percussion adds exotic rattles and shakes, making the album feel like a levitating ritual.

Producer Kuniya (Kenny) Inaoka rounds out the team, a jazz impresario who helped shape Japan's scene.

How They Engineered the Float

Recorded over five dreamy days (June 19–23, 1983) at Chestnut Studio in Japan, mixed at Tamco Studio. Engineered by Masahiro Terada. Original release: Vinyl LP on Trio Records (AW-25035), promo versions on Domo. Reissues galore—Polydor vinyl in 1984, CDs in 1990, 2001 (Absord Music Japan), and a remastered paper-sleeve edition in 2004 on PJL. Analog warmth with '80s flair: stereo, no fancy digital tricks yet.

Does It Float or Flop? (Spoiler: It Soars, Sort Of)

Kūchū Fuyū kicks off with "Raku-Raku-Raku," a laid-back groove where Kondo's trumpet glides over Monroe's steady drums and Drummer's bass thump. It's fusion-lite—funky bass, Watanabe's guitar twinkles, Toyozumi's percussive flourishes—like a chill levitation tutorial. Then "7 Time" throws in odd rhythms, with everyone trading solos like they're passing a hot potato in zero gravity.

"Light Footwork Song" is the longest, building from light steps to full-on improv frenzy: trumpet squeals, guitar stabs, percussion clatter. It's danceable if your dance involves floating. "Setouchi Blue" gets melancholic, evoking the Seto Inland Sea blues—Kondo's horn melancholic, Watanabe adding soulful licks. "Young Girls' Jumpin' Dance" bounces with youthful vim, funky and fun, like a jazz party on a trampoline.

"A Crack In The Sky" cracks open the abstraction: eerie, spacious, with sounds that feel like peeking through clouds. Closer "Eraikoche" (a playful nonsense word?) erupts into joyful mayhem, everyone piling on like they're defying physics one last time.

Humorously, this album is what happens when free jazz tries yoga: relaxed yet intense, structured yet free-falling. The fusion elements keep it accessible, but the improv keeps it unpredictable—like ordering sushi and getting a side of fireworks. Strengths: Infectious energy, stellar playing. Weaknesses: Occasionally drifts too far, alienating casual listeners. But that's the point—levitation isn't for everyone.

A Cult Float That Didn't Make Waves

Upon release, Kūchū Fuyū was a niche darling in Japan's jazz underground—appreciated by fusion fans but ignored by the pop masses. No Billboard storms, but Discogs users love it: 4.67/5 from a handful of ratings (high praise for obscurities). YouTube full-album upload has a modest 3,671 views, 81 likes, and comments like "Nice" (understatement of the decade). Blogs and jazz archives hail it as peak early Kondo, but mainstream reviews? Crickets. Reissues keep it afloat for collectors, with vinyl fetching $35. In 2026, it's a hidden gem for avant-garde diggers.

The Float That Influenced the Fringe

As Kondo's pre-IMA project, Kūchū Fuyū bridged his free-improv roots with fusion accessibility, paving for Taihen and beyond. It spotlighted Japanese avant-garde on the global map, influencing free jazz and fusion scenes. Scaruffi notes it as a key entry in Kondo's wild discography. Reissues ensure it levitates on—proof that weird jazz endures. Not earth-shattering, but a delightful "what if jazz could fly?" artifact.

If you're into floating fusion (fans of Weather Report or early Kondo, strap in), grab a reissue. It might leave you ungrounded, but in the best way. Highly recommended—with a parachute and a grin.