Becoming Hatsune Miku

At the end of the day, I have trouble explaining why I have returned to Hatsune Miku time and time again. ♫ Reboot 19 by JimmyThumbP 20 was the first song to recruit me at eleven years old—it had a striking coming- of-age story with a fully animated music video that played like a short film. I definitely cried the first time I watched it. I fell back in love with Vocaloid again in high school, where I had (and still have) on my iTunes eight different versions of DECO*27's 21 ♫ Ghost Rule 22. I would spend hours poring over YouTube videos with no more than a few thousand views each, alone but cozy in this small corner of the internet. Six years later, within twenty-four hours of landing in Tokyo for the first time, I was on the bullet train some 200+ miles West of Osaka to celebrate Miku’s sixteenth birthday. I watched from the far back corner of a warehouse amongst thousands of fans as a life-sized hologram of a teal-haired anime girl materialized onto stage and began to sing. I sat so far back that Miku was only a blurry figure in my line of vision—much more visible to me was the sea of colored glow sticks that the fans waved to the beat in uncanny unison. This array of lights rose and fell like a singular breathing organism as the crowd chanted select lyrics in one thundering voice. Each song was transformed through this chorus of fans as I reexperienced Miku’s music again for the first time.

That was the first time I had witnessed the Vocaloid community as a physical, embodied presence that overwhelmed a space through sheer mass alone. Growing up Chinese-American in the United States, my interest in East Asian popular media was a lonely one. What I found refreshing about anime 23 came off as strange and pointless to my American peers. I learned to find camaraderie online through forums and YouTube, where Vocaloid naturally lived and blossomed, and I discovered Miku in turn. This time, however, my Americanness was the barrier, as the community thrived most in East Asian circles while the English-speaking community was small and outdated. I won’t belabor the loneliness of a third-culture upbringing, which can surely become an exhausted narrative at times, but I do believe it made finding solace in unfamiliar spaces a survival skill. It’s unsurprising then that I found Miku herself as a companion.

Introduction

Hatsune Miku was created in 2007 by Crypton Future Media Inc. 24 as a Vocaloid, a digital voice synthesizer software that allows users to create artificial singing voices. She represents the voice bank of actress Saki Fujita through the image of a twin tailed 16-year-old virtual idol. Miku’s age is one of only a handful of parameters initially specified about her— the rest of her character, including her background, personality, motivations, etc. are decided by fans through Vocaloid’s unique crowd-sourced model. In other words, fans are the creators of Miku’s 100,000+ songs and 1,000,000 artworks, and have full reign to interpret her image however they want. This network of fan-produced media is at the core of Miku’s popularity and is made possible by Crypton’s custom PiaPro copyright laws, which allow free usage of Miku’s character as long as the user does not profit from it. I While this allows for a creative space relatively untainted by economic incentive, the reality is that the vast majority of fans do not make any money from their creations while Miku herself generates millions in revenue. Such policies enable Crypton to use Miku to secure corporate partnerships with companies like Dominoes Pizza, Toyota, and Google while the labor of developing Miku’s image is outsourced to fans.

Hatsune Miku’s V2 box art

It is no mistake either that Miku’s flexible identity is grounded first and foremost in the image of a cute teenage girl, a reflection of moe 26 aesthetics and marketing power. Patrick W. Gailbraith describes moe as “a euphoric response to fantasy characters” that, while not always the case, often consist of “youthful, innocent girls.”II Characters classified as moe represent a “pure” ideal that is “unpolluted” by reality—they are flattened, two-dimensional surfaces that allow for the elaboration of fantastical desires and virtual possibilities. At the same time, they are passive images that allow for an ideal of femininity that is unthreatening, vulnerable, and devoid of the grossness of flesh. There is ample discussion out there on the gender issues reflected through the moe form as well as the tendency for outside audiences, especially in Western spheres, to overrepresent the most extreme perversions of what is often a platonic desire.III I am more interested here in exploring how Miku’s particular existence as a virtual, malleable form has the ability to subvert the relationships of power that govern her moe image while inspiring similar potential in the lives of her fans and users. Although inevitably subject to the commercial interests of the music industry, Miku’s crowd-sourced model allows fans to project their own desires onto fluid virtual images like Miku. Thus, Miku becomes a digital proxy through which fans can elaborate playful fantasies beyond their own bodily capacities. This creates a space of narrative possibility that overcomes the anxieties of an embodied identity, and in which fans can begin to reimagine their own relationship to hierarchies of control.

Writing Hybridity Onto the “Blank Page”

Miku’s success traces back to her origins in a community-based culture. Vocaloid software does not require knowledge of sheet music, allowing anyone to create a functional melody within the user interface in minutes. Vocaloid music’s primary sharing platform Niconico 27 functions similar to Youtube in that anyone can create an account, upload videos, and comment. As a result, amateur producers are behind many of Miku’s most popular tracks. Miku’s success also stems from her incredibly diverse range of music. Even if Crypton 28 primarily intended Miku to sing pop,IV many Miku songs fall outside of the genre and push narrative convention. As a character, Miku’s personality ranges from a self-centered brat who considers herself a “princess” in ♫ World is Mine 29 to a meek, pure-hearted girl in love in ♫ Melt 30. She appears in a variety of settings, from the Westernization of Japan during the Meiji Restoration in ♫ Senbonzakura 31 to the computer where she is installed in ♫ The Disappearance of Hatsune Miku -DEAD END- 32 . Miku also sings everything from heavy metal in ♫ Mukuro Attack 33 to opera in the experimental Vocaloid production ♫ THE END 34. Her flexibility as a “blank page,” as described by Crypton’s CEO Itoh Hiroyuki,V is the source of her popularity as creators impose their own interpretations onto her as a character, voice, and piece of software.

As a virtual figure, Miku creates meaning through the flatness of her moe form, which creates space for the elaboration of fantasy. Kyle Davidson describes this as “an indication [she] is not ordinary life . . . but something extraordinary that allows for the possibility of higher orders of abstraction.” He continues:

The closer to reality a representation is, the less opportunity there is for a viewer to reinterpret the sign and create the play fantasy. There are holographic representations of real, albeit deceased, artists like Prince. The representation of Prince has a modality that is high, meaning the hologram is more indexical to its referent. The Hatsune Miku hologram, with a low modality, has a more symbolic relationship to a referent that is an abstract concept (an artificially intelligent, singing, android girl). Play creates a ‘figurative space instantiated by communicative interactions that semiotically shape the evolution of meaning among its participants as learning.’VI

Miku’s virtual, two-dimensional character is the site of potential. Her lack of context creates a surface in which many fantasy forms can exist simultaneously— she is at once a spoiled princess and a shy schoolgirl, a revolutionary leader and a digital artifact. As Galbraith writes, the essence of moe 35 is “a response to the virtual possibilities of characters outside the bounds of reality.” But Miku is also unique from the typical moe form in that the consumers of her image also have a direct role of creating it—the fan-produced fantasy is made true through the lack of a given ‘truth’ to her character. As an embodiment of the narratives of her creators, Miku can thus serves as a digital proxy through which fans can elaborate playful fantasies beyond the capacity of their own bodily and social capabilities. For some, Miku gives a voice to their own sentiments. Popular producer syudou 36 describes in an interview with Crypton 37 how his breakthrough moment with ♫ Jama 38 came from the realization that writing “cute songs, idol-type songs” to fit Miku’s “cute” voice did not resonate with the community. Rather, “if I was honest with myself, Hatsune Miku would come along with me.”VII For others, creating with Miku allows one to access the cultural capital of Miku’s character. When asked about his favorite Vocaloid in another interview with Crypton, producer r-906 39 names Miku, citing: “Hatsune Miku is a massive and universal culture that is already complete. Even people starting new, though, are able to take hold of this great power.”VIII By nature of her crowd-sourced foundation, Miku carries with her the affective traces of an entire collective of people—she is at once “ontological, shifting, multiple, and relational: not the core of the individual, but the engine of relation...”IX With Miku, creators like syudou begin to form “new hybrid identities” as “virtual cyborgs” built from an amalgamate of creator and creation.X Thus, one cannot conceptualize her independent from her community. Miku is as much of a reflection of her fans as her fans create, reflect, and are Miku themselves.

Creators use Miku to explore a range of messages through their music. On one hand, they can be unapologetically playful—♫ PoPiPo 40 is a near-nonsensical yet wildly popular song about drinking vegetable juice: its absurd premise, repetitively catchy lyrics, and corresponding dance have spawned countless covers and memes that place it in the Vocaloid Hall of Legends 41 (for songs exceeding 1,000,000 views on Niconico).XI By contrast, many other songs use Miku as a medium to discuss more serious themes. ♫ Slow Motion 42 is an upbeat, cheerful song with a music video (MV) full of bright pastel colors—despite this, its lyrics reflect on a life of regret while grappling with the inevitably of death. In an interview with the creator of Slow Motion, Pinocchio-P 43 describes his interest in Miku’s non-human nature as something with “expressive potential,” adding, “since I often write lyrics from an outside perspective, this really suits this kind of lyrics.” When the interviewer follows up with a question about Pinocchio-P’s often “cynical and pessimistic lyrics,”XII Pinocchio-P responds that his intention with such lyrics is not to be cynical merely for the sake of it, but rather to spark conversation on more serious topics that he finds “interesting” (omoshiroi).XIII The fact that many mainstream songs like Slow Motion deal with such darker subject matter behind energetic melodies may speak to the resonance of these themes among fans, such that they can exist plainly in a catchy, popular beat. To Pinocchio-P, Miku’s non-human nature offers a sort of neutrality that allows him to express more abstracted, “bird’s-eye” (fukanshi) claims as opposed to reflecting the personal emotions of an individual. This, as well as the sweeping popularity of Pinocchio-P’s works, suggests the earnest truth of many darker themes in popular Vocaloid tracks as well as Miku’s capacity to carry these cultural subtexts. When asked about using Miku as a form of expression, Pinocchio-P continues:

If I had someone else sing, I would probably adjust things to suit them. I think this would put the brakes on the lyrics. So, I think it is really true that I would not have been able to express myself if VOCALOID did not exist.XIV

Transcending Biology Through the Virtual Body

Many fans also find expression through the digital capabilities within the Vocaloid software itself. It is worth noting that Crypton 44 officially specifies Miku’s preferred vocal range as A3–E5 and preferred tempo as 70–150 BPM,XV parameters not unsimilar to those of a skilled human vocalist. In stretching the Vocaloid software beyond these limits, one begins to find cracks in the technology through which glitches and imperfections offer moments of unpredictability that offer possible subversions to Miku’s original intended usage. ♫ The Disappearance of Hatsune Miku 45 uses such glitches within Miku’s voicebank as digital artifacts to express the precarity of Miku’s virtual existence. In the same song, Miku sings as fast as 240 BPM, or around 12 syllables per second, exemplifying her inhuman capabilities. Many fans resist the pursuit of a more “human” sound and embrace Miku’s distinctly digital nature as part of her unique appeal, as is also true with Miku’s expansive range. In the song ♫ High Pitch Addicts Vocal Range Test 46, Miku’s software is pushed to sing as high as C7.XVI Her voice can also be tuned so low and adjusted in timbre within the Vocaloid software that it begins to take on masculine traits. This low-range Miku has spurred fans to create a “genderswap” persona Hatsune Mikuo 47 who endures as one of the most popular fan-made Vocaloids today.XVII Thus, Miku’s identity is not restricted to the high-pitched, feminine voice traditionally associated with her feminine presentation. She has the ability to transcend the image of a subordinate, docile symbol of girlhood. By containing a spectrum of masculine and feminine vocalizations, Miku challenges producers to think of gender outside of binary terms and instead as “a fluid process rather than an essential identity…one of any number of narrative possibilities that can be assembled.”XVIII Like clothing, hairstyle, or personality, gender becomes another malleable aspect of Miku that can be shaped beyond strict notions of “male” and “female.” This allows her to overcome marketable gender binaries enforced by the rules of the free market.

Fan-made image of Hatsune Mikuo

For fans, Miku’s flexible identity can help them create tangible alternatives to traditional expectations of gender within themselves. One prominent subculture within Vocaloid involves human vocalists who cover Vocaloid songs, or utaite 48. These vocalists often challenge themselves to replicate the technical achievements of Vocaloid software through their own voices—one running joke within the community even ties an utaite’s popularity to their ability to hit high notes. Popular male utaite Mafumafu 49 is known for his soft voice that often takes on feminine qualities with a range that rivals Miku’s. In his cover of ♫ Alien Alien 50, he successfully hits C7 in the final chorus. Mafumafu also produces and sings a number of original works including the widely discussed ♫ I Wanna Be a Girl 51, which has spawned interpretations ranging from a celebration of “girly” things to a personal coming-out.XIX 96Neko 52 is another popular female utaite known for her husky timbre that allows her to switch easily between convincing masculine and feminine voices. She will often display her versatility through duets with a male and female part, such as in her ♫ Ib 53 cover of ♫ E? Aa, Sou. 54, where she sings both Mary and Garry’s parts herself. This type of style has become so popular within the utaite subculture that it has become its own category—ryouseirui 55 (lit. “both vocal types”) is a label to describe utaite who have the ability to sing with both masculine and feminine-sounding qualities. In this way, the fans themselves become new interpretations of Miku, creating a cycle of relation where fan and Miku mingle, intertwine, and combine. The result is a hybrid identity between human and machine that deprioritizes and transcends the materiality of the body.

Unproductive Consumption and the Voice of Resistance

After growing up around Miku’s music, I saw her perform live for the first time during Magical Mirai 2023 56 in Osaka. These concerts are large, high-energy events where a hologram of Miku is projected onto an invisible pane of glass onstage. This Miku alternates between singing and speaking directly to the audience while a live band performs as support to the side. Many concerts also come with an accompanying exhibition hall where fans can buy Miku-related merchandise from a variety of vendors, including anime figures 57, plushies, apparel, and other paraphernalia. These embodied experiences and physical collectibles serve as tangible manifestations of Miku’s abstract digital existence. And while these events provide moments of collective, in-person celebration, they also make increasingly clear the commercial interests that underpin Miku’s character.XX Crypton's 58  use of Miku builds from a “bottom-up fan production” model in which fans create music, participate in discussions, and enrich the community of Miku while Crypton maintains intellectual property rights over the character.XXI As such, many of the fans that engage and create with Miku do so out of their own passion and joy rather than any economic incentive. Some creators that get hired off of their fame even express regret toward tainting their own fan practice with money.XXII Having one’s music performed at large-scale concerts like Magical Mirai becomes an honorable form of recognition from Crypton. Fans are at once consumers and producers of the affective labor they channel into Miku—labor that is driven by personal desire and creativity. All of this reinforces Crypton’s ability to leverage Miku’s brand as a revenue generator while her image and subsequent popularity remain a product of the labor of fans. Perhaps nowhere best exemplifies these unequal motivations than in Miku’s ad collaborations. In one such ad for Google 59, a video celebrating the thousands of producers, artists, and fans in the Miku community segues into a promotion for Google Chrome as a way to “start your own web,” where the affective labor of these thousands of creators is at once condensed, neatly packaged, and resold back to them.XXIII

Yet, by operating largely outside of economic incentive, these fans can also begin to reimagine their relationship to capitalism through refusal of notions of productive consumption. The term otaku 60 describes fans of anime, game, and related subcultures like Vocaloid—it carries with it associations of perversely excessive interest, social reclusion, and general lack of “common sense.”XXIV A study by Thiam Huat Kam interviewed Japanese students on their reasoning behind judging certain people as otaku. He writes:

The students I interviewed condemn as distasteful and unhealthy, and hence label as ‘otaku’, those people whom they perceive to be engaging in idle fantasy or possessing trivial knowledge – the forms of imagination and knowledge that are not productive of capital. On the other hand, the people these students do not label are precisely those whose imagination, knowledge and collection are productive: they are wage laborers (e.g., cosplayers who work as maids in maid cafes) or entrepreneurs (e.g., collectors who intend to make a profit from their collections).XXV

Thus, financial motivations seem to dictate whether or not one’s interest is viewed as socially acceptable, implying that this interest could not reasonably be justified through any other means. Yet, because most fans of Miku engage without the intention of profit, they produce “nothing (but self satisfaction).”XXVI This has the potential to open a space where “imagination, knowledge, and desire” can instead be used to build alternative modes of thought that resist the logic of capitalism’s exploitation.XXVII

Within Japan, this exploitation manifests in part through the cultural taboo of discussing it in the first place. Karoshi, or “death-by-overwork,” describes the phenomenon of workers either dying from incurred health problems or committing suicide due to the stress of work. This is due to the intense social pressures of the workplace which strongly reward those who overextend themselves to take on additional work. Performance-based-pay is a common practice that normalizes “service overtime,” or overtime without pay, by adding a financial penalty to behavior perceived as self-centered or uncooperative.XXVIII As a result, workers are both financially and socially incentivized to prioritize the interests of the workplace over their personal wellbeing and subject themselves to exploitation. Despite this, many people are inhibited from seeking help due to a culture of shame where social reputation and appearance, rather than internal judgements, tend to drive behavior.XXIX This in turn fuels Japan’s strong conformist culture which discourages people from voicing opinions perceived as going against the norm. Because the Vocaloid space operates largely online, Miku is not subject to the same cultural taboos and social ramifications of speaking out. This allows creators to channel sentiments disobedient to capitalism through Miku while maintaining a certain distance from the anxieties of associating those sentiments with their real-world identity. At the same time, creators can realize these sentiments more easily through the psychological distance of disembodying them from themselves and attaching them to Miku. This metaphorical decapitation is made possible through the slipperiness of identity in virtual spaces and the capacity of these spaces for anonymity. Despite the range of musical genres within Vocaloid music, the prevalence of darker themes throughout songs that reflect some “hard truth” of contemporary social reality is undeniable, speaking to the power of Miku’s digital voice as an alternate avenue of expression independent from the claustrophobia of capitalism’s manifestations.

Official box art for Kasane Teto

Conclusion

At the time of writing this, I will have known Miku for a decade. I have changed throughout the years, but part of what has made Miku compelling to me is her ability to have grown with me—as the community evolves, so does her music, and I find through that a companion that is affected by the same world I live in and responds to it. This comes at a time when some of the producers I admired years ago have become increasingly watered down, trading musicality and passion for production deals. As Miku and her image become increasingly corporatized, alternative images like UTAU 61 Kasane Teto 62 have gained popularity for what Miku used to represent—Miku’s V4 voicebank costs hundreds of dollars while Teto’s voicebank has remained free.

This is especially relevant now as Vocaloid’s global popularity wanes and its fanbase becomes more vulnerable to corporate interests—since Miku’s peak popularity in the early to mid 2010s, Niconico 63 has slowly lost traffic to Youtube, and many famous Vocaloid producers have since moved on from the community. Within these new dynamics, the subversive power of Vocaloid’s participatory culture is ever more relevant as the internet becomes increasingly centralized. Figures like Miku, who are rooted in fan creation, have the potential to carry political implications as an expression of the people. Thus, one must look past Miku’s inevitable commercialization and interrogate how the unique relationship between creator and creation lends power to the idea of unproductive consumption. Doing so mobilizes virtual space as a site of resistance despite the ubiquity of capital within online communities, allowing Miku to transcend the limitations originally imposed upon her.

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