CHEHON Interview: 25 Years of Reggae, “Midori,” Jamaica and the Human Voice

Translation and timing note: This English edition was translated and edited from a HIPHOPCs interview published on June 30, 2026, ahead of CHEHON’s July 3 KING OF STAGE show at Toyosu PIT. The scheduled date has since passed; this version preserves the pre-show perspective without presenting old ticket information as current. Repetition was shortened, while the speakers’ meaning and first-person framing were retained.

For more than twenty-five years, Osaka reggae deejay CHEHON has built his career through live rooms: from teenage rub-a-dub sessions with only a few people in the crowd to major one-man stages. In this interview with HIPHOPCs director YTG Sam, he discusses his Korean-Japanese roots in Tsuruhashi, the cannabis-coded song “Midori,” a year of training in Jamaica, the limits he faced while under a suspended sentence, and why he still believes a living person is stronger than AI.

Personal identity, legal status, health habits and relationship stories are presented as CHEHON’s own account unless an official source is cited.

Tsuruhashi and growing up as a third-generation Korean resident of Japan

YTG Sam: Please introduce yourself again for readers.

CHEHON: I am CHEHON, a reggae deejay. Thank you for having me.

YTG Sam: You are from Tsuruhashi in Osaka’s Ikuno Ward and have Korean roots. What was childhood like?

CHEHON: Many children in Tsuruhashi grew up as Korean residents of Japan. It was not unusual. I was one of them. Up to my parents’ generation, many people attended Korean schools and continued through that educational system. I think our generation was the third. More of us attended Japanese schools, studied the Japanese curriculum and grew up that way.

The biggest difference was language. People who went through Korean schools could often use both Korean and Japanese strongly. People like me grew up much more heavily in Japanese.

Editorial framing: This is CHEHON’s description of his identity, community and generation. His informal estimate of local demographics is not used here as census data.

From melodic hardcore and hip-hop clubs to reggae

YTG Sam: How did music first become serious for you?

CHEHON: From the end of middle school through my final year of high school, I listened to music until the CDs felt worn out. The people you spend time with and the music you share shape your teenage years. My friends listened to melodic hardcore, ska-core and mixture rock—Rage Against the Machine, Slipknot, Hi-STANDARD, KEMURI, POTSHOT and Dragon Ash.

Then hip-hop became popular, and we naturally started listening. We heard that clubs were where you could experience it, so we went out at night. During the reggae portion of a club night, I thought, “What is this? It feels good.” I later learned it was reggae and became absorbed in it.

At the time, rap often felt hard and fixed around one key. I liked that too, but reggae carried melody. That matched my personality and ears.

Rub-a-dub before recording

YTG Sam: What made you begin performing?

CHEHON: There was no social media, so we pulled flyers from record shops to find events. A club in Sakaihigashi held reggae nights constantly. Artists passed the microphone around and performed their songs—a rub-a-dub, something like a cypher.

Sometimes only five or six people were watching, but to me at sixteen or seventeen it looked incredible. A friend started performing. Once somebody close to you does it, you want to try too. I wrote songs and traveled about thirty minutes by scooter to join the rub-a-dub almost every day.

The first time, I was so nervous I felt as though my eyes would jump out or I would throw up. But that was the first step.

Releasing a record was difficult then. You needed connections, a riddim, lyrics, recording, mixing and several people’s labor. I was not thinking first about putting out a CD. I wanted to win that room, in that moment. Rub-a-dub gave me the nerve to perform regardless of how good the lyric looked on paper.

Reggae deejay, MC, singer and singjay

YTG Sam: Listeners can be confused by the terms DJ and MC across reggae and hip-hop.

CHEHON: It is mainly a difference in terminology. In hip-hop, the person on the microphone is an MC. In reggae, the vocalist who deejays is called a DJ, while someone focused on singing is a singer. In Jamaica, somebody who can sing and deejay is called a singjay—a word between the two.

What rebel music means in his own life

YTG Sam: Reggae is often described as rebel music. What does that mean to you?

CHEHON: In daily life, you feel frustration, anger and the question “Why is this happening?” When I write, I want to resist those things. Sometimes I sing about love; sometimes I sing about frustration. That is my form of rebellion.

The historical level was different. Earlier Black Jamaican artists were responding to colonialism, enslavement and injustice. My frustration is not equal to that. In my own time, rebel music can address pressure in daily life, politics or something in society that feels wrong.

Music lets me process stress. If people relate, I am grateful. If somebody tells me my words are wrong, that can teach me too. I am not one hundred percent correct, so I respect other opinions and try to grow into the next song. The more closely an artist’s words match reality, the more persuasive they become.

Why reggae and hip-hop should cross

YTG Sam: You have entered hip-hop battle spaces with a live band and appear at both reggae and hip-hop events. How do you view that crossover?

CHEHON: It is what I wanted. Hip-hop listeners may discover that reggae is powerful, while reggae listeners may become curious about hip-hop. The audience grows in both directions. To me, they are the closest genres.

Some people probably say, “Do not come here.” That is fine. I want to show them something strong enough that they eventually say, “All right, maybe a little.”

The Japanese songs at the root of his writing

YTG Sam: Which songs feel most connected to your roots?

CHEHON: Two songs I later covered: THE BLUE HEARTS’ “1000 no Violin” and KEMURI’s “Ohichyo.” I loved them enough to make my own versions.

They are Japanese songs. When I was young, I did not understand English. Even when an overseas artist sounded incredible, Japanese lyrics struck me more directly. That makes me wonder whether listeners can feel one hundred percent of a song from a country and life they do not know. Many young people now speak English well, but at that time Japanese words naturally influenced me more.

“Midori”: a cannabis-coded song disguised as a woman’s name

YTG Sam: “Midori” has remained one of your defining songs. How did you write it?

CHEHON: Reggae contains many songs that refer directly to ganja or marijuana. I thought it would be interesting to replace the direct word with a woman’s name. That became “Midori.” It was the simple idea of a teenager who wanted to stand out and find a different way of saying it.

When I hear the old recording now, my performance sounds much less skilled than I am today. But the artist I am now has not necessarily surpassed that record. That is what makes music interesting. Technical ability alone does not decide whether a song becomes a hit. Timing, luck, innocence and many other things can meet in one recording.

I mostly write from my lifestyle and the process I am living through. I cannot pretend to be a literary writer with endless metaphors. I have to take the vocabulary I have and push my own life as far as it can go.

Drug-content note: The explanation above describes the song’s metaphor and CHEHON’s teenage creative intent. It is not an endorsement of illegal drug use.

AI and the strength of a living performer

YTG Sam: I recently heard an AI-generated song and could not identify it as AI. That was frightening.

CHEHON: That is frightening. But an AI artist cannot stand in front of people in the same way. A living human being is strongest. There is no question.

The statement is an artistic position, not a technical claim that synthetic performers or virtual stages cannot exist. CHEHON’s distinction is the physical accountability of a person carrying voice, stamina and emotion in the room.

A year in Jamaica and “Yellow Badman”

YTG Sam: What did your period of training in Jamaica mean?

CHEHON: It was the strongest experience. The country felt more dramatic than a manga. Every day carried tension, fear, excitement, anticipation and exhaustion. That year was essential to my life as an artist.

“Yellow Badman” came from asking how far a person with yellow skin—a Japanese performer with Korean roots, singing in Japanese—could go as a deejay in Jamaica. I wanted to perform at events and make records with local artists. I went knowing failure was possible.

The language barrier was real. Jamaican Patois grows from an English-language environment but carries different pronunciation, nuance, slang and rhythm. If you did not grow up inside it, the wall is high. That was one of the limits I confronted.

Sony Music’s official CHEHON profile independently confirms that he spent more than a year training in Jamaica before returning to Japan in 2012 and releasing Seaview Garden.

One hundred shows, constant invitations and an unhealthy schedule

YTG Sam: You have said you perform more than one hundred shows a year. How do you maintain that pace?

CHEHON: I play more than 100 shows in a 365-day year and drink alcohol on roughly 250 days. Somebody invites me somewhere almost every day, and I go whenever I can. Between that, I write and handle private life. The schedule is extreme. I am surprised I have survived such unhealthy habits. I run occasionally—sometimes only to reassure myself that I am doing something healthy.

It is difficult, but being invited is something to appreciate. Some artists protect scarcity and only perform on selected dates. If that works and their audience comes, it is powerful. My personality is different. I take many stages. If I can make somebody happy by showing up, I want to go. It can feel like partial self-sacrifice, but those relationships bring me back each year.

Health note: These figures are CHEHON’s self-description, not independently measured data or lifestyle advice. Heavy alcohol use carries serious health risks.

KING OF STAGE as a Tokyo challenge

YTG Sam: Why finish the one-man run in Tokyo rather than Osaka?

CHEHON: I had performed in Osaka many times and knew I could deliver there. Tokyo was a different place—no longer my hometown—and Toyosu PIT had a larger capacity. I wanted to test how far I could go. Maybe I had leaned on the comfort of Osaka. The Tokyo show required a tighter mindset.

YTG Sam: Why Toyosu PIT specifically?

CHEHON: I asked the production team to find a venue for more than two thousand people. At the time, I was still under a suspended sentence. I was told that many large halls operated by listed companies would not rent to me under their rules. We asked Zepp several times and were turned down. Namba Hatch and Toyosu PIT were among the venues that would work with us.

Legal and contractual framing: The suspended-sentence status and venue discussions above are CHEHON’s statements at the time of the interview. HIPHOPCs has not reviewed court files, booking correspondence or each venue operator’s policy, and does not present the explanation as a general rule applying to all venues or artists.

Toyosu PIT’s official schedule confirms that CHEHON ONEMAN LIVE 2026 “KING OF STAGE” was scheduled for July 3, 2026.

A suit, no costume changes and a voice that lasts

YTG Sam: What kind of stage did you want to build?

CHEHON: I wanted people to be moved. Nobody cries fake tears at a live show. The artist who makes somebody think, “I want to return” or “This person is extraordinary,” wins that moment.

Because the title was KING OF STAGE, I looked for a crown and cape, but the affordable ones looked like costumes. A real crown covered in gold and diamonds would destroy the budget. One week before the show, I realized the sharpest answer was a suit.

I did not plan costume changes—maybe I would remove the jacket. Some performers sell fashion, beauty or visual transformation, and changes make sense for them. I sell the earthiness of the songs and the life behind them.

The larger test is keeping the voice alive for roughly twenty-five songs. Starting too hard can destroy the throat early. If the audience thinks your final song is the strongest vocal of the night, they recognize a professional. I aim to hold eighty-five to ninety percent quality across the whole performance: songs, speech, volume, articulation and movement.

SHINGO★Nishinari and the artist he calls real

YTG Sam: Who represents a real artist to you?

CHEHON: SHINGO★Nishinari. He is the coolest. Sometimes I call and ask him to take me to eat. When I arrive, he has a bicycle ready for me, and we ride together to kushikatsu shops and other places.

I admire the unpolished way he lives. We may not speak for six months or a year, but just before my one-man show a short message arrives: “Go tear it up tomorrow.” He was paying attention without making a display of it. I love that understated, old-school strength.

Relationship note: The private exchanges above are CHEHON’s recollection.

The legacy he wants is immediate: “I want people to decide to go”

YTG Sam: What legacy do you want to build?

CHEHON: More than a fixed monument, I want somebody who learns about a CHEHON show that same day to think, “Then I will go.” There are not many people who sit somewhere in your mind and, when their name appears, make you want to see them immediately. I want to reach that point.

I care strongly about live performance—analog, like records. My way of living is analog too, and I do not dislike that. I feel fans constantly, even when somebody recognizes me on a terrible hangover and I wish they had chosen another moment. In the end, I still feel grateful.

What younger artists need beyond money and technique

YTG Sam: What do younger artists lack?

CHEHON: Hunger and the willingness to commit. Technology may make it easier to go from zero to one hundred alone, but the final question is whether the person is compelling. You cannot buy that with money. It comes from how you live, how you treat people and whether you avoid becoming a terrible human being.

Before being an artist, be a person. If everybody reached that level, the Japanese scene would become extraordinary.

Lyrics first, then melody

YTG Sam: When you write, does melody or flow come first?

CHEHON: Lyrics come first. I write the words, then add the melody. That is my basic method.

People who ask that question may secretly want to become artists. They want to write but do not know how to begin, so they wonder which element established artists create first.

YTG Sam: After twenty-five years, what still moves you forward?

CHEHON: It is like a craftsperson who has repeated the same work until it enters the body. The profession is completely inside you; living and doing the work become the same thing. Maybe it is the only thing I want to do or can do. I follow that fate.

Official context and further reading

• Sony Music: official CHEHON profile
• CHEHON on TuneCore Japan
• Toyosu PIT: official CHEHON ONEMAN LIVE 2026 event page
• Rap Atlas: Osaka hip-hop and the city’s cultural geography
• More HIPHOPCs exclusive interviews in English
• More Japanese rap coverage in English

Interview: YTG Sam / HIPHOPCs
Japanese-edition photography: Yohei Nagata; studio: BushmanStudio; additional live images supplied by CHEHON
English edition artwork: original HIPHOPCs editorial design