This summer I had the pleasure and the honour to travel to Onitsuka Tiger’s hometown of Kobe and interview five of the men responsible for the founding of the brand and its early growth. From the birth of some of our most iconic products to the design of the logo script, I got to hear so many first hand stories about where Onitsuka Tiger comes from, which will hopefully play a big part in where we’re going.

Please take some time to view the first episode of the series we worked on in Kobe, “Roots,” which explores the connection between Onitsuka Tiger and Kobe.

Thanks also go out to Ian Lynam, the team at AQ, Toshiki Senuoe and the ASICS team at Headquarters for helping this come together.

This is why HBO’s Face Off was created.
It takes so little effort to sell a fight when there is so much enmity between the fighters.
If this was scripted drama, all three men would deserve some type of short-form Emmy, that’s how well this 15 minute conversation encapsulates complexity of the rivalry between Miguel Cotto and Antonio Margarito.
I’m challenging myself to think of a more perfectly cast rivalry and I honestly cannot. Nowhere else in sports will you find two men so capable of bringing out the best and worst in each other inside and outside the ring.
While their rivalry isn’t as storied as some of the more revered series the sport has produced, it fulfils the core element that makes any boxing rivalry great; the almost romantic codependence between two men whose personalities and skill sets complement each other to the point of creating a contrast that can create legendary fights inside the ring, and the type of interactions outside of the ring that become part of boxing’s rich canon of lore.
As Max Kellerman states during the interview, their first fight was a modern classic, one of the top-five fights of the last decade and arguably the best big money fight of the last 10 years. At that time, Cotto was a hot undefeated young bull who had ground down a succession of credible opposition in a way that recalled a smaller Jake Lamotta with nimble feet that had grown up dancing Salsa and Bomba in Caguas. Margarito was seen as the sport’s most avoided fighter, standing at nearly 6’ tall, he presented an imposing figure to most welterweights and his granite chin and unbelievable punch output had writers and fighters calling him unbeatable in the division. Unbeatable and Unbeaten met in a classic war that would become a worthy iteration in the lengthy rivalry between Mexico and Puerto Rico.
On that night, despite excellent lateral movement and underrated ring generalship, Cotto–the body punching grinder–was ground down by the larger, better conditioned Margarito, submitting in the 11th round and taking a knee before his trainer and uncle Evangelista Cotto threw in a white towel to save his fighter.
What should have been Margarito’s crowning moment was quickly marred in controversy when in his next fight; the Tijuana Tornado was caught with illegal handwraps by the veteran eyes of “Brother” Nazim Richardson before a welterweight title fight against Shane Mosley where he suffered his first knockout defeat. Banned for over a year, Margarito became a pariah in the boxing community, and the fairness of his greatest victory would now be questioned.
Many, including Cotto, still believe that the hand wraps that were confiscated the night of the Mosley fight were the same ones he used the night of the clash with Cotto, with the pink discoloration on one side suggesting as much, but we’ll never know. Was Cotto’s face shredded, to the point that his late father recalled the tears of blood his son shed in the locker room after the fight, because of legal punches or by the slowly hardening plaster in Margarito’s gloves? Was Cotto grimacing at each uppercut to the body due to fatigue and discomfort, or was there something unnatural about each punch that he could not reconcile?
While we’ll never know what exactly happened the night of their first fight, both men now attempt to gain closure with this second, and maybe definitive chapter of their rivalry. With a new trainer, and a more fundamentally sound technique, Cotto hopes to silence the ghosts of his first defeat, where Margarito hopes to clear his name and reclaim his greatest victory by definitively defeating his Puerto Rican foil.
Even though, when boiled down to its fundamental elements, boxing is a spectacle created when two people are given legal sanction to beat each other to a state of near unconsciousness with complete legal immunity, fights are rarely heated personal affairs. To most fighters it’s a sport, and that’s why much of HBO’s reality-based boxing program can fall flat so spectacularly. The last Face Off was between Manny Pacquiao and Juan Manuel Marquez, two sublimely skilled fighters who just completed the third iteration of their rivalry this past Saturday. Fiercely competitive inside the ring, Marquez and Pacquiao generated so little intensity during their Face Off that Kellerman was reduced to using them as life-sized dolls to teach boxing techniques.
It was just as exciting as it sounds.
There were no personal issues brewing between Marquez and Pacquiao, no sense that one had wronged the other. There was no smoldering clash of personalities and no heated words exchanged. This is a sport, one they take immense pride in, but nothing to hold grudges over.
With Cotto and Margarito, you have two fighters evenly matched inside the ring, and diametrically opposed outside of it. Inheriting the legacy of Puerto Rican great Felix “Tito” Trinidad, Miguel Cotto became an instant star on the boxing-rabid island, however his personality stopped him from hitting the transcendent level of fame that Trinidad achieved. Where Tito was as admired for his god-given punching power and fierce instincts as a finisher he was loved for his gregarious personality and cheerful candor. Cotto has always been much more workmanlike in the ring and on the microphone. Taciturn and aloof, Cotto pursued champions and tomato cans with the same dispassionate focus, this was his job, and he did it with the efficiency of a Caribbean Terminator. Uninspired by post fight interviews delivered in a dull baritone that recalls a Spanish-accented Arnold Schwarzenegger, Puerto Rican fight fans never elevated him to the level of their more vocal and charismatic champions.
It seems that the only person in boxing with the ability to bring a note of emotion out of Cotto is Antonio Margarito. Boxing narratives often cast fighters as heroes and villains, and no fighter in the sport today so readily embraces his role as the black hat than Antonio Margarito. A hard man from a hard city, Margarito’s jet black hair, Satanic goatee, and beady eyes evoke the image of a vaudeville villain, and his relentless, physical style in the ring make him an entertaining fighter, but a difficult one to like.
Good villains always display two personality traits. The first is an unshaking belief that they’re actually the hero of their own story. After the hand wrap controversy, Margarito was destined to play the bad guy in every promotion he’s involved in, mainly because he refuses to take any responsibility for the wraps. He vehemently maintains all these years later that he had no idea what was being put on his hands. A prizefighter not knowing what goes into his hand wraps is as plausible as a football player not knowing what goes into his helmet, but Margarito will probably swear to his dying day that he was completely ignorant of the contents of his wraps at the Mosley fight (he’s not above joking about it.)
The other key trait of a great villain that Margarito personifies is the ability to humanize the hero by demonstrating heroic qualities that the white hat lacks. In their first fight, whether by legal means or not, he was able to break Cotto’s will, and give us our first look at the man behind the poker face. In those last few rounds, Cotto appeared distressed, at times afraid and ultimately resolute in his defeat.
He quit.
When asked by Max Kellerman if he was willing to die in the ring, Margarito claimed that he would proudly do so, while Cotto approximated a smile.
Die!? For the fans!? This is my job.
Rationally speaking, Cotto is right, boxing is just his job, and he sees no honour in leaving his children fatherless for the sake of a highlight reel. Unfortunately, boxing is a demands its own rationale and I’m sure many of the fans and writers who lustfully bayed for Margarito’s blood after the hand wrap scandal played out can appreciate Margarito’s dedication to boxing as a blood ritual if not his understanding of the rules.
That’s what makes this type of rivalry so vital to the sport, two fighters who could have lived out their careers as flat archetypes have now turned one another into nuanced characters with enough depth to generate genuine drama. Cotto is the proud champion, wounded by the memory of an unjust loss, who thinks he should be judged by the winces he puts on the faces of other fighters, not the smiles he puts on the faces of the fans but becomes bitter when they fail to cheer him. Margarito is the outcast looking to claw his way to redemption or die trying, having repeated the same transparent lies so many times that they’ve become a mantra.
Cotto’s poise, class and presence make Margarito look like a shifty, barbarian, as he slinks in his chair, venomously dismissing the handwrap allegations. Margarito’s courage and reverence for the legacy of Mexican ring gladiators make Cotto’s workmanlike approach to the sport look indifferent to the point of disrespect.
This is that golden moment when both villain and hero offer fans so much to cheer for, and unlike many other “event” fights this year, Cotto and Margarito will not leave the fireworks at the press conference. They’re bonded in the most important way, equally skilled, equally limited, equally vulnerable, equally fearless, and equally desperate to exorcise the specters of their last encounter.
I can’t wait.

I’ll upload real images once I get back to Amsterdam and can upload the photos and video from my camera

Capping off an incredible homecoming weekend, I was lucky enough to attend the second stop of the Watch the Throne tour at the Greensboro Coliseum in Greensboro, North Carolina. Even with the high ticket prices, pretty much everyone I talked to this past week was buzzing about the concert, by bringing together two of music’s living legends on one stage, “The Throne” had created a “be there” moment; either you were talking about what you hoped to see, or what you expected to miss out on.

I wasn’t overwhelmed by Watch the Throne the album, I think it will come to represent a significant change in how hip-hop music is produced, recorded and arranged in years to come, however at times I–like many others–was alienated by the number of luxury rap references and toasts to opulence. That said, I was excited to see how two of rap’s best performers, could bring their deep catalogues and enormous production budgets into a single show.

After an almost 2 and a half hour wait, almost an hour of which was spent in line at “Chick Fry Fry” who employed the time-honoured “keep-them-waiting-for drinks-long-enough-to-convince-them-they-could-actually-use-some-chicken-tenders” business model of concert concessions, the titans finally arrived to the album’s doddering leitmotif, before launching into “H.A.M.” whose blaring strings and powerful drums were in fact hard as a motherfucker.

The first few songs of the set were flawless, as the duo fired off a selection of Watch the Throne’s more energetic cuts, with “Who Gon Stop Me” being the definite highlight. Backed up by an impressive stage set-up that featured video montages of nature films, lasers and smoke machines, the concept looked like it would deliver on the album’s attempt to bring together “high” and “low” art in a way that felt vital despite the obvious calculation.

As the night wore on, Kanye and Jay began to take turns performing mini-sets of their hits, and that’s when the cracks started to appear. As an album, Watch the Throne felt like a Kanye West album laden with Jay-Z features, as a tour–at least in partisan Greensboro–Jay-Z felt like the headliner, with Kanye acting as a sometimes unwelcome guest to the festivities. The generational gap became apparent every time one exited the stage to let the other perform. When Jay took the time to reach deep into his bag of hits, the entire enraptured stadium dutifully raised their diamonds and followed every cue he sent in the audience’s direction. On the other hand, Kanye’s solo sets were hit and miss, and many of his attempts to draw the audience in failed to connect with the masses.

This was most evident when Kanye ascended an LED-lit pillar in the centre of the crowd to perform “Runaway” and “Heartless.” Bathed in red lights wearing a red motorcycle jacket, black leather jeans, black and pink Nike Yeezy 2’s and a grunge-style plaid shirt tied around his waist, an autotuned West crooned and ranted while advising concert goers to appreciate their loved ones in what in sincere displays of emotion that just didn’t resonate beyond his glowing totem pole.

In concert, Kanye seems to relive the moment that each song was conceived as he performs them, and in the right setting, that type of catharsis can be transcendent and powerful, but he is rendered impotent when the audience refuses to join him. Many in the crowd last night were clearly there to see Jay-Z and West’s more emotional moments at times felt like intermissions from Hova’s hit parade, which was a shame.

If the crowd came to party, Jay was more than happy to oblige them as he strung together, hit after hit, and never appeared to be having less than a ball. Hip-Hop’s first truly timeless figure delivered on every front, lyrical street tales (“Where I’m From,” “You Don’t Know”) radio hits (“Big Pimpin’,” “H to the Izzo,”) hits that shouldn’t be hits (“Public Service Announcement,”) and late career highlights (“On to the Next One,” and the surprisingly well-received “Empire State of Mind.”) The ageless God MC was pitch-perfect all night and by the time he returned to close the show with The Black Album’s “Encore,” the breathless crowd chanted his name even when he graciously tried to start a “Kanye” chant. Whether this trend continues as the tour moves forward remains to be seen, but at least on this night, the kilt-clad “Little Brother” deferred to “Big Brother.”

Wise words from a decent man.

Tokyo is a special city. Exhausted from our whirlwind week in Kobe, I slept most of the 3-hour train ride. When our train arrived at Shibuya station, overwhelmed by bright lights and loud sounds, I felt like I had awoken on an alien planet.

Shibuya Station

Emerging from my red-eyed, sleep-deprived, zombie-like state in the back of a cab I began to see the correlations between Tokyo and New York. Based on my first impressions, I would describe Tokyo as the more humble, more considered wing of the same bird as my adoptive hometown. Where Kobe was very metropolitan and very international, there was still a sense of quaintness exuded by the people; they were sometimes too considerate, too helpful and too nice to be believable as urban dwellers. Tokyo, like New York, seemed to race at the speed of light, and despite the time we arrived it seemed like life was in full swing on the still crowded streets.

I briefly stopped by my hotel in Aoyama, which I later found out was known as the “Beverly Hills” of Tokyo (the hotel I stayed in still hasn’t found out), before leaving to explore Shibuya more thoroughly.

As bright as Times Square but as rebellious as Camden, Shibuya on a Saturday Night was definitely a visual experience, with Goths, Punks, Hip-Hop heads and of course the world-famous “Shibuya Girls” milling from club to club. One thing that surprised me right off the bat was the number of foreigners on the streets of Tokyo: not just the expected tourists, but also Nigerian club promoters, Russian ballet dancers and no shortage of white guys dressed like Japanese cartoon characters.

The next day, I tried to take advantage of the Summer Sale season and visit the extensive list of stores that I got from Kwon (the guy that brought you this, this, and these amongst others.) In addition to the usual suspects like Alife, Supreme and UNDFTD, the deep, deep itinerary he gave me included a lot of homegrown stores like Okura, Silas&Maria and the flagships for Japanese brands like Visvim and White Mountaineering. Each neighbourhood had a very distinct character that was reflected in the character and curation of its stores: Harajuku is all flash, and focused on the new, Daikanyama’s boutiques communicate class and subtlety, and Ueno’s “stores” –like the legendary Mita Sneakers–feel more like stands in a Third World flea market.

I can’t talk about Tokyo without talking about the great people that I got a chance to hang out with who all helped make the experience as comfortable as possible for me.
Thank you to:
My new homegirl Aya for showing me the sites and putting up with me while I played The Ultimate Tourist.

My best friend‘s father, the great Philip Woo for inviting me to the New York Bar of Lost in Translation fame to see you play, then taking me out for sashimi.

The view from New York Bar

Thanks to my friend Takayuki Akachi (also known as this guy), Akiko and the Tangram team, it was great to finally meet you all and I hope we get to work together soon.

Thanks to Takashi and the geniuses at Team-Lab for letting me see your mad scientist laboratory, firehouse burgers and taking me out on my last night.

And finally thanks to Ian, Toshiki, Chris and Micke from the AQ extended family for not only showing me a great time, but also helping make this project happen.

A wrap-up of the final interview to come.

Some photos from around Kobe, taken with my iPhone and Ian’s 5D that he let me borrow. Kobe is the rare type of city that manages to be quaint and cosmopolitan at the same time. The people are extremely polite and considerate, and the shopping, especially the vintage shopping is insane.

The Vinyl Chamber

Bingo Vintage Store

T-Shirts at Bingo!

Lover's prayers at Ikta Shrine

Kobe Manhole

French Fries and Chopsticks

Kobe from Rokko Mountain

More:

Original OK Basketball Shoe from 1950

While I was in Kobe, I got the chance to check out the ASICS Sports Museum, these are some of the pieces on display there, but barely the tip of the iceberg.

Marathon Tabi from 1953

Delegation shoes for the Japanese athletes at the 1952 Melbourne Olympics

Kenji Kimihara's Silver-Medal-Winning Magic Runner from the 1968 Olympic Games

Sakaguchi-san's pride and joy: Nylon wrestling shoe from 1955

The LIMBER LEATHER, the first sneaker to feature the now-famous Tiger Strike

Shoes worn by Yukio Kasaya on his Gold medal ski jump at the 1972 Sapporo Olympics, combination leather/rubber sole

Legendary Finnish runner Lasse Viren's Gold Medal winning RUNSPARKS from the 1976 Olympics

GEHRIG Baseball Spikes from 1974

Astronaut Training shoes inspired by traditional Japanese Tabi

Donnis – All I Need (Produced by DE DE MOUSE & Luke Walker) by Nippon Sounds

I’m extremely, extremely proud to present the first song from our upcoming Nippon Sounds project. From the first time the idea was put on the table, we were faced with a lot of challenges and considerable amount of controversy, the least of which was engineering a collaboration between two artists from opposite sides of the world who didn’t speak the same language. Internally, there was a considerable amount of fear that we were presenting an idea of Japan and Japanese creativity that was too far from common ideas about Japan. On the one hand, we had Donnis, a rapper from Atlanta who speaks and raps in heavy drawl and on the other we had DE DE MOUSE, a DJ who describes his style as breakcore, and uses fragments of samples and lightning fast drums to create sound beds that are somehow both jarring and soulful.

Beneath the surface, one thing–maybe the only thing–these two very different artists have in common is fact that their identities as artists are inseparably tied to Japan. Donnis got his start as an MC in Japan, recording on a US Army base while stationed outside Tokyo as an airman, and in his own words, “Tokyo, Japan is the reason why I’m making music. Tokyo was somewhere that opened my eyes and allowed me to fully find out who I was.”

DE DE MOUSE, a veteran of the Roppongi scene probably DJ’d at some of the parties that opened Donnis’ eyes in Japan. Mysterious and fairly eccentric, nothing about the man or his music could be called ‘accessible.’ That said, the singularity of his focus on his art, and the obvious, maybe anal, attention to detail on display in his manipulation of sounds shows a uniquely Japanese type of craftsmanship.

To me, putting these two together was kind of a no-brainer, Donnis brings exuberance and big choruses, where DE DE MOUSE brings edge and a sense of avant garde innovation. By letting the two artists reinterpret each other’s work, we got a clear window into how they work, how they think about music and how they see themselves as artists.

All I Need is Donnis’ take on DE DE MOUSE’s Baby’s Star Jam the airyness and eery sample remain, but Donnis turns the record into a triumphant of platform to reflect on his accomplishments and the material accouterments that accompany them.

In a week you’ll be able to see how DDM reinterpreted Donnis first hit Gone as well as hear new music from Donnis produced by Joe Iron and Taku Takhashi when Nippon Sounds drops on July 4th. A couple of days later, DE DE MOUSE and a special guest will be joining us at Family and Friends in Berlin for an event that will be filled with sneakers and surprises.

For those that don’t know, my full-time job is working on the Digital Communication team at ASICS Europe. Specifically, I work on digital strategy, production, and content distribution for Onitsuka Tiger, our lifestlye brand. Onitsuka Tiger is defined by its Authentic Japanese identity, and Japan-inspired creativity is a consistent motif in all of our campaign ideas.

That said, I must confess with some shame that I have never actually been to Japan, and that most of my ideas about Japan have been gained vicariously through friends and coworkers here at ASICS. Truthfully, my first memory of Japan was Mr. Fuji calling Bob Backlund a Honkey on some Saturday-morning wrestling show.

Not exactly Norwegian Wood.

I’m planning on taking a trip to Japan sometime this summer to start to build my own perceptions of the often-misunderstood island. I plan on shedding my preconceptions and allowing myself to experience Japan without too much skepticism or expectation.

That said, I will make sure to report back if I see any Hawaiian-born Japanese-Americans throwing salt in white people’s eyes while assaulting them with racial epithets.

Pictures from my trip home for my baby’s birthday.