Kids interview Ayumi Hamasaki
by Charactorium · Ayumi Hamasaki (1978 — ?) · Literature · Economics · Performing Arts · 5 min read
Two twelve-year-old students on a field trip have prepared their questions the whole way. In front of them, sitting simply, the Japanese singer Ayumi Hamasaki greets them with a smile. She is touched that children who have come from so far are interested in her life.
—How old were you when you left home for Tokyo?
I was seventeen, my child. Imagine a teenage girl leaving her city, Fukuoka, in southern Japan, with just a bag. No one to accompany me, no family behind me, no adult to guide me. Tokyo is immense, noisy, full of lights. I felt so small in the middle of that giant city. At night, I looked at the streets and told myself: “Here, no one knows you.” It was frightening and exciting at the same time. I didn’t know if I would succeed. But I knew one thing: if I stayed at home, I would never know what I was capable of.
If I stayed home, I would never know what I was capable of.
—How did you manage to eat and pay rent, all alone in Tokyo?
Ah, it wasn’t easy, you know. I did odd jobs, one after another, to make ends meet. Some days, I counted every coin before buying food. I was often tired, sometimes discouraged. And then, in 1997, a music label called Avex Trax noticed me. A label is a company that produces records and helps singers. From that day on, everything changed. But I never forgot the girl who counted her coins. When you’ve known lack, you never forget the value of what you earn. It stayed with me all my life.
When you’ve known lack, you never forget the value of what you earn.
—Is it true your records sold millions? What does that feel like?
Yes, it’s true. In 2000, my album Duty sold over three million copies, very quickly. In my time, music was mostly bought on small discs called CDs. People went to stores, queued up on release day. Three million people walking away with your voice in their hands… it’s dizzying. I became the best-selling solo female singer in Japan. But you know what? The real happiness wasn’t the number. It was imagining a girl, alone in her room like I once was, listening to my song and feeling less lonely.
The real happiness wasn’t the number; it was helping someone feel less alone.
—You broke a record in 1999, right? Which one?
Yes! In 1999, I was the first singer in Japan to place five songs at number one in the same year. This was measured by the Oricon, a big chart that counts the best-selling records in the country. Imagine a giant chart where all the singers of Japan pass by, and five times in a year, your name is at the very top. I couldn’t believe it myself. At that time, people were snapping up the little CD singles, discs that contained only one or two songs. It was the golden age of those objects. And me, a girl from Fukuoka, I was at the top.
Five times in a year, my name at the very top, and I couldn’t believe it myself.
—Did you really write your own songs, the real lyrics?
Every word, yes. I always kept a notebook with me. At night, when everything was quiet, I wrote down my emotions, my sorrows, my hopes by hand. Many singers in my time received lyrics written by others. I refused. One day, I explained to a magazine that I wanted every word to be true, drawn from my own life, not manufactured like a product. My very first album, A Song for ××, already told my own story. You know, a song is like a letter you write to someone you haven’t met yet. If you lie in it, they will feel it.
A song is a letter to someone you haven’t met yet.
—When did you write, during the day? At night?
At night, almost always, my child. During the day, I was in the studio or rehearsing with my team in Tokyo. Lots of noise, lots of people. But when night came, I found myself alone with my notebook. It’s in silence that you truly hear your heart. I wrote slowly, crossed out, started again. Sometimes a single sentence took hours. I drew inspiration from what I had felt: a sadness, a joy, a memory of Fukuoka. Writing by hand mattered a lot to me. Feeling the pencil glide, seeing the words appear on the page. It was like shaping a precious object, patiently, before giving it to the world.
It’s in silence that you truly hear your heart.
—At first you were called an “idol.” What is an idol?
Good question! In Japan, an idol is a young singer chosen and shaped by an agency. She is told how to dress, what to sing, how to smile. She has to stay cute and nice. Many girls started that way. Me too, a little, at first. But very quickly, it felt tight, like a too-small outfit. I wanted to choose my words, my images, my clothes. So I took control of everything: my lyrics, my photos, my artistic direction—that is, everything you see and hear from me. I was one of the first to do that in Japan. I didn’t want to be a doll. I wanted to be an artist.
I didn’t want to be a doll; I wanted to be an artist.
—What were your concerts like? How was it on stage?
Oh, my concerts were real shows! Not just singing standing up, no. I created entire universes. For the album Rock ’n’ Roll Circus, in 2010, I turned the stage into a giant circus, with sets, crazy costumes. I changed outfits five or six times in one evening, spectacular dresses sewn by great designers. Some nights, I sang at the Tokyo Dome, a huge hall packed full. Imagine thousands of people singing with you in the dark, their voices like a single wave. I wanted every concert to be a waking dream, a story we go through together. Music is seen as much as it is heard.
I wanted every concert to be a waking dream we go through together.
—Is it true you had trouble hearing? When did it start?
Yes, my child, and it’s a hard thing to tell. As early as 2000, at the peak of my career, I began to lose hearing in my left ear. A rare disease. Imagine singing in front of thousands of people, but one side of your head gradually becomes silent. I was scared, of course. A singer who can’t hear anymore, can you imagine? But I didn’t stop. I kept composing, going on stage. Later, in 2017, I announced to my fans that the other ear had also gone silent. I told them simply, honestly. Singing, for me, was no longer just about hearing. It was about feeling.
Singing was no longer just about hearing; it was about feeling.
—How do you keep singing when you can barely hear anything?
With your body and your heart, my child. When an ear goes silent, you learn to listen differently. I felt the vibrations of the music in my chest, in my feet on the stage. A hearing aid also helped me. That little device became, without my wanting it, a kind of symbol. Many people living with a disability wrote to me to thank me. It moved me deeply. If I had to leave one thing to children like you, it would be this: your body may betray you, but your courage always belongs to you. People think you have to be perfect to create. That’s false. You just have to not give up.
Your body may betray you, but your courage always belongs to you.
This imaginary interview was generated by artificial intelligence from sources documented in Ayumi Hamasaki's profile. It dramatises what the figure might have said based on what we know about them, but does not constitute attested historical testimony. For primary sources and factual documentation, refer to the full profile.