On a Rainy Day at the Ward Office, I Wondered Whether to Pay for Rakugo Again This Year

There is a municipal ward office on the way from my home to the train station.

On rainy days, I walk through the building. It keeps me out of the rain for a little longer on my way to the station, and at some point it became a habit.

While I am there, I also look at the posters in the hallway.

The other day, I saw a poster for a rakugo show. Rakugo is a traditional Japanese form of comic storytelling performed by a lone storyteller.

I looked at the performers’ names.

I did not recognize any of them.

There must be a great many rakugo performers. The famous ones who appear on television are only a small minority, and to a casual viewer like me, the overwhelming majority are people I have never heard of.

That poster reminded me of a rakugo performance I once saw in a hot-spring town.

It Was Free. And It Was Not Funny

The hot-spring town was holding a free rakugo event.

I had time to spare, so I went in.

It was astonishingly unfunny.

The room was silent.

Except for one person, who kept laughing heartily:

“Ha ha ha ha ha!”

I looked over and saw that he was wearing a kimono.

That was when I realized:

Ah. He is involved with the show.

He was probably an apprentice or something of that sort.

The storyteller said something.

“Ha ha ha ha ha!”

The audience remained silent.

The storyteller said something else.

“Ha ha ha ha ha!”

The audience remained silent.

He was fighting a desperate battle all by himself.

After a while, I became more interested in him than in the rakugo.

Laughter Is Contagious, but It Has Its Limits

Something similar happens on radio shows.

Whenever the host says something, a staff member or co-host nearby laughs loudly.

Perhaps part of their role is to create an atmosphere that says:

“This is where you are supposed to laugh.”

Laughter is contagious.

So the idea of having someone there to laugh is perfectly rational.

But at that day’s rakugo performance, it never spread.

There was a source of infection, but no cluster ever formed.

Apparently, there is a limit to how much laughter alone can rescue something that is not funny.

Even Famous Performers Can Be a Disappointment

Every year, not long after New Year’s, my town holds a rakugo show.

This one features several famous storytellers whom I have seen on television.

I have attended several times.

In a good year, it is genuinely funny.

But even a famous rakugo performer is not funny every single time.

Sometimes the material simply does not suit your taste, and sometimes the performer is not at their best that day.

In short, it is quite a gamble.

And last year, I drew a loser.

It was boring.

If it had been free, I could have shrugged and said:

“Well, at least it did not cost me anything.”

But I had paid for it.

That immediately makes a person far less forgiving.

I simply felt that I had wasted my money.

Now the season for this year’s rakugo show is approaching.

It might be funny this year.

Or I might draw another loser.

As I stood in the ward office on a rainy day, looking at the poster, I wondered whether I should pay again this year.

Rakugo is said to be an art form that finds humor in human desire and foolishness.

Looking at myself still brooding over last year’s wasted money, I had to admit:

Apparently, you do not have to step onto the stage to become a character in a rakugo story.