Is Rakugo's Tachikawa School OODA-Style!? Building Organizations Unafraid of Change.

OODA is gaining attention as a decision-making model that guides solutions to the rapidly changing business challenges of today.

This series shares insights on OODA's appeal and leadership essentials for the future through dialogues with "OODA practitioners" across various industries.

This time, we welcome rakugo storyteller Shiraku Tatekawa as our guest for a conversation with Aaron Zou, author of " OODA-Style Leadership: The World's Most Powerful Doctrine " (Shuwa System).

Rakugo and business may seem worlds apart at first glance, but viewed through the OODA lens, unexpected commonalities emerge.

【What is OODA?】

A decision-making and action process proposed by John Boyd, a former U.S. Air Force Colonel and fighter pilot. The term OODA is an acronym for Observe, Orient, Decide, Act. Its purpose is to consistently take the best course of action in constantly changing, unpredictable situations. In Western business and marketing, OODA is recognized as an indispensable decision-making process alongside the traditional PDCA cycle. ( Learn more here ).

 

Tatekawa Danshi, who disliked "standard repertoire" in rakugo

Aaron: OODA is about rapidly cycling through "Observe → Orient → Decide → Act" to derive the best course of action in rapidly changing or unpredictable situations. When I heard the "makura" (preliminary anecdotes or small talk) in rakugo before the main story began, I thought to myself, "Wait, isn't this actually practicing OODA?" (laughs). Do rakugo performers step onto the stage, observe the audience, and instantly come up with a makura on the spot?

Tatekawa Shiraku (hereafter Shiraku): No, traditionally, the makura is paired with the main story in classical rakugo. For example, a story about Yoshiwara would have this kind of makura, while a story about thieves would have that kind. However, new rakugo pieces don't have fixed makura, so it was common for performers to improvise small talk on the spot.

But my master, Tachikawa Danshi, was active in a wide range of entertainment roles and even spent time in politics. Eventually, he started talking about politics and current events before performing classical rakugo. This went over well with the audience, and other rakugo performers started copying him. Nowadays, it's an anything-goes era, so the content of the opening banter varies widely, including personal anecdotes.

That said, it's not like you can just ramble about anything you want. As with Danshi, the opening banter of popular rakugo performers is genuinely funny. But if an unknown or new performer starts with "Yesterday this happened," the audience just thinks, "Who cares? I'm not interested in your personal life."

Aaron: When I heard Shiraku-sensei's story before, he started off casually with everyday chatter, and the audience burst out laughing. Then he smoothly transitioned into the main story. That really stuck with me. Should the opening and main story not be strictly separated, so the audience enters the main story without realizing it?

Shiraku: Well, that's more stylish, isn't it? However, you absolutely must change the tone between the opening and the main story to shift the worldview. Bad rakugo performers start the main story in the same tone as the opening. Then you can't tell if it's rakugo or something else, right? The setting for rakugo can be the Edo period or the Meiji era, so you have to change the atmosphere to smoothly draw the audience into that world.

Aaron: I see. Do you ever instantly adapt the content of the opening based on the audience?

Shiraku: I might tweak it slightly based on the atmosphere, the audience, or my own energy level at the time. I sometimes think of the opening as being like improvising jazz.

In Tokyo, you tend to get a relatively niche crowd. In regional areas, it's a mix of people who only get to hear rakugo once a year, or folks who happened to see it on TV and got interested – a blend of rakugo aficionados and newcomers. So, watching the audience's reactions, I might deliberately go with a standard opening routine.

But Danshi, whether in Tokyo or the provinces, would just start saying whatever he felt like the moment he stepped onto the stage. If he was in a bad mood, he'd begin by saying, "I'm not feeling great today." If someone laughed at something odd, he'd casually throw things like, "I didn't say anything that funny. If you're laughing at this kind of story, it's going to make me unhappy, so you should probably leave."

When it clicked, the crowd went wild, but of course, sometimes it didn't. There were times when it didn't go well, and Danshi would agonize backstage. Still, by refusing to settle for the standard material, he forged a new form of rakugo.

Aaron: That idea of avoiding the standard material is fascinating. I'm involved in new business development for various companies, and lately, relying solely on tried-and-true business models that guarantee profits is becoming less viable. Companies sensing this crisis are starting to pioneer new ventures that break from the norm.

Shiraku: Danshi disliked rakugo performers who stuck solely to guaranteed-hit standard material, not just in their opening banter but in their main routines too. But the rakugo world is conservative, so Danshi's approach was incredibly unconventional. Following my master's teachings, I also strive to perform material other rakugo performers rarely do, rather than thinking "this routine will work in Tokyo" or "this is standard fare in regional areas."

Acting rationally, free from convention and common sense

Aaron: If Master Danshi was a maverick, then the Tachikawa-ryu organization itself must also differ from traditional rakugo groups.

Shiraku: It was different. Danshi disliked the opaque system of the rakugo world, so he left the Rakugo Association and founded the Tachikawa School. He declared that anyone with talent—entertainers, intellectuals, politicians—should become his disciple. And indeed, he took on disciples like Beat Takeshi and Ueoka Ryutaro, among many others.

Aaron: There were no other masters in the rakugo world who did that, right?

Shiraku: Yes, the promotion system was different from other groups too. In rakugo, you start as an apprentice, then advance to maezō, nitsume, and finally shin'uchi, becoming a master. But it's actually based on seniority. You typically move from maezō to nitsume in about five years, then take another five to ten years to become shin'uchi. This doesn't necessarily reflect improvement in rakugo skill. To put it bluntly, even if you only master one or two routines, you can become a master performer just by accumulating years of experience.

Thinking about it that way, other industries are much stricter, right? For example, only the very best players make it onto a professional baseball team's first squad. Lawyers and doctors also have to pass extremely difficult national exams to qualify. It's not like someone who studied medicine diligently for ten years gets to become a doctor just because they've put in the time.

Aaron: What was the promotion system like in the Tachikawa school?

Shiraku: There were clear standards: to advance from apprentice to second-level performer, you had to perform 50 rakugo sets; to become a master performer, you needed 100 sets. There were other challenges too, but as long as you met those criteria, you could advance regardless of how long you'd been with the school. In that sense, it was very rational and merit-based. Of course, the challenges Danji set were extremely tough, so clearing them wasn't easy.

Aaron: I see. So the Tachikawa School was a revolutionary organization that drastically changed the established practices of the rakugo world. You could call it an OODA-type organization, couldn't you?

Shiraku: Tanji was simply an iconoclast. Back in the day, people in Osaka used to say, "Tokyo performers aren't funny. They talk too fast; you can't understand a word they're saying." When Tokyo rakugo artists performed, many audience members wouldn't even bother to listen from the start.

And since Danshi was seen as the symbol of Tokyo rakugo performers, when it was announced, "Next up is a Tokyo entertainer, and what's more, a celebrity politician! They're just full of boring nonsense, let's get out of here!" Half the audience would leave. Danshi would watch this intently and say just one thing: "Now I'm going to show you the kind of art that's truly considered good in Tokyo. If you're not interested, leave." Then, half the audience would leave again. And sometimes, in front of the few remaining people, he'd give the performance of his life.

Aaron: That's incredible. It's the same in the business world – new things often struggle to gain acceptance at first. Even with new business development, until it takes shape, people around you might say, "What on earth are you doing? I don't get it."

Shiraku: Looking at it another way, if you pander to the masses from the start, you probably can't create anything truly innovative. It's not about ignoring the audience entirely, but how much you can stay true to your art is crucial.

Aaron: It takes tremendous courage to ask customers who don't appreciate your art to leave, focusing only on those genuinely interested. Yet, this mindset might be crucial in today's business world too. Precisely because values are diversifying and the future is increasingly uncertain , we need to collaborate with those who share our vision and future aspirations to achieve results. I think this attitude is essential when challenging new things.

What starts as a sub-genre becomes the mainstream when recognized by the masses

Aaron: Within the Tachikawa school, known for its distinctiveness, could you share something Master Shiraku himself practiced?

Shiraku: In the 1990s, I incorporated many elements of manzai comedy and skits into classical rakugo. Since this deviated from the classical rakugo world, many people told me, "That's the kind of thing done by rakugo research clubs or amateurs. Don't do that." But Danshi affirmed me, saying, "You'll conquer the world with that art someday."

Because of that, I was constantly told from a young age, "Your rakugo is too niche." I even received advice like, "If it's too niche, only a small group will support you. You should make it more accessible." But I stuck to being niche all along.

This isn't limited to rakugo; it applies to other performing arts like manzai comedy too. Even an art form initially dismissed as a minor trend and poorly received can eventually become mainstream once its appeal resonates with the masses. As more people support and imitate that art, it reaches its peak. In other words, a niche artist can conquer the world and become a charismatic figure in that realm. My art was constantly called niche, but the technique of adding modern twists to classical rakugo is now practiced by all popular young and mid-career rakugo performers.

Aaron: The idea of a subgenre becoming mainstream has numerous examples in the business world too. On the other hand, you have to be careful not to become a subgenre that only excites a small circle of friends.

Shiraku: That's right. That's the scariest part. You gather 20 or 30 familiar faces, throw in some gags, do something completely unexpected, and get huge laughs right there. But if you take that same act to a big hall, it falls flat. That happens all the time. If you get satisfied just because it works for a niche group of enthusiasts, you're done for. Ultimately, it's only when you can make it resonate with the general public that your approach gains real value.

Aaron: Hearing you say that really makes me sit up straight (laughs). Even if you come up with an idea that's funny to a niche audience, it won't be recognized unless it actually delivers solid business results.

Shiraku: You can't just end up with a "toy for enthusiasts," but you also can't aim for mass appeal from the start. Striking that balance is tricky, but I think the most important thing is to stick with what you believe in.

Aaron: At the same time, as long as you belong to an organization, you can't push through everything single-handedly. Personally, I can challenge new things because I have a boss who understands what I'm doing. Even Shiraku-sensei's art, which was called niche, was able to be pursued because Danshi-sensei recognized it, right?

Shiraku: That's right. Humans are weak creatures; if you had no supporters, you couldn't keep going.

Aaron: I agree. By the way, in most companies, you can't really choose your boss, but rakugo performers can choose their master, right? What criteria do you use to choose?

Shiraku: For someone aspiring to be a rakugo artist, choosing a master is a decision that can shape your entire life. For me, the deciding factor was whether I was captivated by their art.

I wanted to become a disciple of Master Kanbaraitei Basho, whom I'd adored since childhood, but he passed away when I was in college. I wondered what to do then, but I absolutely didn't want to become a disciple of Tachikawa Danshi. He seemed scary, rough, and you had to pay tribute money (laughs). But when I heard Danshi's rakugo, it was breathtakingly amazing. The deciding factor was, ultimately, the art itself. In fact, since it's such a demanding world, I felt I couldn't keep going unless I went to someone I truly admired from the bottom of my heart.

Aaron: So you fell in love with the art and chose your master. In that sense, while you can't choose your boss in business, actively connecting with people doing things close to what you want to do, and getting opportunities to work alongside them, might be one secret to staying true to yourself. I'm curious about how Master Danshi selected his disciples.

Shiraku: As a Japanese virtue, there's that custom where you ask to be a disciple, get rejected at first, then keep visiting the master daily until you're finally accepted, right? But Danshi never did any of that. His philosophy was: since he was going to take disciples anyway, he'd take everyone from the start, train them rigorously, and let those who quit, quit.

Aaron: That's quite rational too. Master Danshi's approach as a rakugo performer and the essence of the Tatekawa School may seem unconventional at first glance, but it feels deeply rooted in the core principles. Rather than being constrained by existing customs or common sense, the Tatekawa School operates like an "OODA Loop organization" – unafraid of change and constantly evolving toward something better. We gained many valuable insights from it for building businesses and organizations. Thank you very much for today.