Kohaku Becomes an Oshi's Big Stage: How a National Program Has Changed

NHK's New Year's Eve song contest, Kohaku Uta Gassen, grew out of a 1945 radio program and became the show that symbolized the end of the year in the television era. According to Video Research, the 14th edition in 1963 hit 81.4%. Most households with a TV were watching the same songs at the same time.

Even when tastes differed within a family, everyone could share one show: Kohaku. "National" didn't mean everyone loved the same singer; it meant everyone gathered in the same place.

Gathering around one screen also meant hearing about songs you didn't know from other family members. When you choose the songs yourself, it's hard to step outside your preferences, but a long broadcast lets you stumble on performers of different generations and genres. Kohaku didn't simply line up popular songs; it was also an edited program in which people at home introduced music to one another.

To recreate that shared quality today, there's no need to ask everyone to watch the same way. What matters is that someone who only watches their oshi's slot and someone who watches to the end can talk the next day about the same stage. Leave a shared marker people can join the conversation through, rather than a shared watching time.

The experience of watching at the same moment has almost disappeared. In an age without recording or streaming, if you didn't watch right then, you could never see it again.

That's why the talk carried over to the next day. The assumption that nobody had missed it is what made the conversation possible.

The joy of being chosen to appear, the memory of watching the broadcast together and the songs you met for the first time are different kinds of value. A change in ratings shows only one side of how people connect with the show; a single number can't settle what it means to fans.

From the late 1980s onward, Kohaku's ratings declined over the long term. Music genres multiplied, and so did the ways to watch what you like: video, satellite broadcasting (BS and CS), the internet and smartphones. The very assumption that everyone watches the same show changed.

Conclude only that "Kohaku is finished" and you misread what's in front of you. A double structure emerged: the overall number falls while the value stays high for particular fans.

Evaluating a show takes more than the average rating. Look separately at the reaction after the lineup announcement, the scenes that drew attention during the broadcast and what people who first learned of a performer did afterward. A big number shows breadth, but one figure can't capture the depth of fans who wait, talk and later go back to the songs.

It's just as risky to treat buzz on social media as the only measure of success. Some viewers don't post, some households watch by recording, and some people enjoy the music quietly. The premise for understanding a national program today is not mistaking easily measured reactions for the whole audience, and reading several ways of taking part side by side.

Even Kohaku's framework needs explaining by today's sensibilities. Splitting singers by gender was based on the common sense of the time when the show began.

Another factor behind this change is that almost no shows are watched by the whole family together. More and more time is spent with each person on a separate screen.

In that setting, time spent watching the same thing in the same room has become precious. The value has moved from the numbers to that rarity.

Reading the drop in ratings as decline is too simple. With more programs to choose from, it's natural for the number per program to fall.

What we should look at is whether appearing still means something. Even if the numbers fall, the value doesn't disappear as long as people want to appear.

Today's viewers don't necessarily watch the whole show from start to finish. They check their oshi's appearance time, watch that scene live and share their impressions on social media. Kohaku has become an "oshi's big moment" that fits this behavior.

First-time appearances, comebacks, special segments and collaborations are milestones where fans take stock of a year of activity. An appearance isn't the goal but a ritual in which fans celebrate the year, which is why the heat lasts from the announcement to the broadcast.

The lineup announcement is also a doorway to earlier concerts and works. Guide people who see the name for the first time to signature songs, and longtime supporters to the year's track record. Don't concentrate information on the few minutes of the performance; prepare paths before and after the announcement, and interest born on the big stage leads to the next viewing.

In some years overseas artists appear, and the show's character is gradually changing. It's no longer a framework aimed only at the domestic audience.

Simultaneous streaming has pushed this change along too.

The meaning of appearing has changed too. It used to be a place to gain name recognition; now it's a place for people who already have support.

For fans, it's a chance to witness their oshi on the big stage. It feels closer to going to see that one act than to watching a show.

Posts during the broadcast, hashtags, cheering illustrations and fans' explanations for one another create another viewing space outside the show. Television is no longer a one-way screen but an event fans respond to.

Of course, the speed of posting and the race for trends can become a burden. Leaving room to enjoy the show even for people who don't take part and providing official photos and catch-up information puts fans at ease.

Official material for live commentary isn't meant to force fans to post; it's a guide line so that people who want to share their thoughts don't get lost. With clear show and performer names, photos that can be checked after the broadcast and consideration for spoilers, people who can't join in real time can enter the same conversation later.

Your reason for watching is completely different in a year your oshi appears and a year they don't. Fewer people watch the whole show, and more watch only the one act they came for.

The spread of clips has strengthened this trend too.

How performers are chosen reflects this change as well. It's not only the year's track record; people who became a talking point that year get included.

A lineup that changes every year is also a way of keeping the show fresh.

Kohaku doesn't need to return to the old 81.4%. Even if some generations don't know the current performers, the occasion for family and friends to watch together can be preserved. Pairing new singers with classic songs of the past is editing that passes memory on to the next generation.

A big program's value can't be measured by peak ratings alone. Kohaku's strength is that it can create a doorway to a new oshi and a milestone for looking back on the year at the same time.

In editing that connects generations, older songs shouldn't be placed only for nostalgia; the show should convey why today's performers are singing them. Conversely, new forms of expression reach unfamiliar generations more easily with a short introduction or the reactions of fellow performers. Build bridges to each other's contexts instead of making one a backdrop for the other, and the same stage becomes a dialogue.

The scale of the staging is growing year by year too. Even if each act's time is short, the effort that goes into preparation has increased.

"National event" may no longer suit the current situation. Still, the show is there at the end of the year, even now.

Even if the form changes, there's meaning in the fact that it continues.

Even if everyone has a different reason for watching, being able to talk about the same stage at the end of the year is Kohaku's breathing room.

Kohaku Uta Gassen is no longer a place where the entire nation loves the same songs. Instead, it has become a place where each generation's oshi stand on the same stage and fans lay their own year over it. The show's future depends on balancing the size of the average with each person's heat.

Even if fewer people watch, it keeps its meaning as a stage as long as there are people who want to stand on it.

The real question may be less about the show itself than about whether the time of watching something together at year's end will remain.

Seen through oshi-katsu, this is one kind of stage. As long as it means something for your oshi to stand there, the show will be needed.

In an age of more choices, a single show can no longer unite everyone. There's no need to call that decline.