A yōkai who brewed perfect sake

On one of those intoxicated nights, when the moon reflects on the surface of sake in a small ochoko cup, and the sound of the sea waves seems like the laughter of some slightly deranged deity, one might see them dancing on the beach. Clad entirely in red fur, with the blush of eternal euphoria on their cheeks, they sing slightly off-key as they roll barrels of alcohol through the wet sand, perform clumsy pirouettes, and tenderly speak to anxious crabs. They are called shōjō (猩々) — though one could just as well call them patrons of carefreeness, apostles of sake, or Japanese Dionysiuses who decided to abandon spirituality and philosophy altogether. Shōjō is a peculiar, aquatic yōkai, flushed not out of shame but intoxication — and like everything truly Japanese, its story cannot be told in just one tone: it is at once mythical, theatrical, zoological and… philosophical, though in its own peculiar way.

In Japanese, “shōjō” is written with the characters 猩々 or 猩猩 — and that’s where the fun begins. These same characters are also used to describe... the orangutan (which will prove significant...). In China (where it all began), these beings were called xīng xīng or earlier shēng shēng — mythical, ape-like creatures with human faces, living in remote mountain wildernesses and possessing the knowledge of… the names of your ancestors. In the Classic of Mountains and Seas (Shan Hai Jing), it is said that if you leave them a trap baited with sake and snares hidden in straw sandals, they will repay you with an exquisite string of curses and commentary on the ancestors of the would-be hunter. Sound familiar? Yes – this is the original sketch of the shōjō: smarter than it looks, vengeful, hard-drinking, and temperamental. To this day, the term survives in the Japanese language to describe a certain kind of person.

When the first Sumatran orangutan arrived at the Ueno Zoo during the Meiji period, newspapers had no doubts – this must be the shōjō from legend. A society that had known these beings from Noh theatre, folktales, and netsuke carvings suddenly saw them in real life... only they didn’t dance, didn’t sing, and worse still — didn’t offer sake. Shōjō was never entirely real nor completely made up — it is a yōkai born of imagination, linguistic import, rice fermentation, and the national need to find, even in spirits, a pretext to celebrate.

On the beach with the shōjō

The moon hung over the sea’s surface like a suspended lantern, from which pale light dripped, dancing on the waves and the wet sand. The night was silent, but not entirely — for in the distance, where the line of sight faded, strange sounds could be heard: giggles, splashes, the clink of porcelain, and… singing? Yes, it was singing. Slightly off-pitch, but carried through the air with such joy that it was impossible not to smile involuntarily. As if the sea itself was humming a tune after one too many ochoko (お猪口, sake cup).

On this hidden, human-forgotten beach, a peculiar feast was taking place. In a circle of moonlight, amidst seaweed and abandoned shells, danced beings whose sight could make even the soberest fisherman dizzy. They had human-like builds, but their entire bodies were covered in long, glossy, crimson fur. Their cheeks were forever flushed, their gazes dreamy, their movements wild and carefree. Their feet splashed water in circles, their hands lifted jugs and bowls of sake, and their laughter sounded like… a cackle from the afterlife.

They were shōjō – and they were doing what they did best – celebrating.

Barrels of alcohol rolled across the sand like children’s toys. One of them was smashed with flair by an especially excited shōjō, who then stumbled backward, sprawling on the sand, laughing up at the sky. Another spun around on its own axis until it became so dizzy it fell into the sea with a loud splash, only to emerge moments later and toss a bunch of seaweed into the air like confetti. A third sang a serenade to a crab who – uncertain of the situation – slowly backed away, step by step, toward the water.

And yet they were not wild creatures. When a human appeared — a wanderer drawn by the song and the light — one of the shōjō approached him with curiosity. It sat down on the wet sand, flicked its mane, and offered him a cup of sake. It smiled broadly — its teeth like fish scales, glistening in the moonlight — and asked in a velvety tone, as if speaking in a dream:

— Would you like to try? But only if your heart is good.

The man hesitated, looked at the cup, looked at the shōjō – and that was when the question occurred to him, the same one so many had asked before:

What is going on here?

Who (or what) is a shōjō?

A shōjō is the kind of yōkai who looks as though it has spent its whole life on a beach, sipping sake, playing paddleball with crabs, and laughing at the moon. Picture a human-sized, ape-like creature, covered in long red fur, with a face forever flushed — like someone a few drinks in at a party, except that’s its permanent state.

Shōjō are water spirits — not in the mermaid sense with flowing hair and melancholy eyes, but more like chaotic cabaret performers. They dwell along the Japanese coast, especially in places somewhat forgotten by people: little bays, small islands, sandy beaches where no one bothers with haiku about impermanence or paintings about the void of the universe. Shōjō are not philosophers — they are practical, and practically always drunk. One might say they lead a lifestyle worthy of a Stoic from a holiday brochure: no rush, no ambition, no productivity tracking — just sake, dance, song, and the gentle shade of a spreading palm (well, a pine — we’re in Japan, after all).

Their customs? Here you go:
► Singing: sometimes off-key, sometimes as if underwater, but always from the heart.
► Dancing: expansive, wet, wild – the kind that leaves footprints in the sand and broken bottles.
► Drinking sake: sake is not an accompaniment to the feast, it is the feast.
► Life philosophy: see the point above.

And now a word of caution: shōjō are not just a comical vision of drunken yōkai with wet fur. They are beings endowed with a supernatural moral sense. They speak human language (albeit somewhat slurred), are wise (well... in their own way), kind, and their favorite pastime – apart from drinking – is brewing magical sake. This is no ordinary drink: its taste changes depending on the person who drinks it. For someone with a pure heart, it is a drink of ambrosia, illuminating the soul. For someone evil – it is as bitter as guilt and as dangerous as a hangover from discount rice wine.

In the symbolism of Noh theatre, the shōjō is no longer just the funny spirit of the party, but a being deeply connected with the sea, the rhythm of nature, trust, and the reward for simple, honest goodness. Shōjō masks are vividly red, their hairstyles as wild as a storm, and their dance movements – ecstatic.

And although it's rare today to see a shōjō dancing on the beach near Kōchi or Shizuoka (especially now that whisky and cola have become trendy), its spirit still lingers – in stories, in art, in the warm smile after the first ochoko cup.

What does “shōjō” mean?

“Shōjō” is one of those Japanese words that at first glance looks exotic — and at second glance… even more so. It is most often written as 猩々 or 猩猩, a kanji with a very intriguing, even international pedigree — with a mix of mythology, linguistics, and Chinese entanglements.

Let’s begin with the characters. The kanji 猩 literally means orangutan or monkey, but in the spirit of classical Chinese, there’s much more hiding within. We find here:

• 犭 – the radical for “animal” (a must-have for any yōkai, right?)
• and a phonetic component related to sound and… blood-red coloration.

According to some interpretations, this character also refers to a color – intense red (which already suggests the blushing face of the shōjō as well as its crimson fur), and even to “loudness” or “flashiness.” In ancient Chinese texts, this character was also often associated with the ideas of “vitality,” “wildness,” and “excessive expression” — in short, it fits perfectly for a furry creature dancing on the beach with a sake cup in hand and a song on its lips.

But before the shōjō began to shine on Japanese Noh stages and in folklore, it arrived in Japan from China. In the Shan Hai Jing (“The Classic of Mountains and Seas”), one of the oldest Chinese encyclopedias of myth and geography (4th century BCE and onward), mysterious creatures appear called 狌狌 (shēngshēng) – literally “living-living” or “live-living.” It sounds amusing, but according to the text, these were monkey-like beings with human faces, long tails, and white ears. And – listen closely – they knew people’s names. In one story from the Shan Hai Jing, when someone tried to catch these creatures by leaving a trap in the forest consisting of a sake cup and a pair of straw sandals with hidden snares, the beings, having avoided the trap and drunk the sake, would seek out the hunter’s home – and call out the names of that person’s ancestors. They would then deliver a rather expressive string of insults directed at them.

Over time, these 狌狌 transformed into 猩猩 (xīng xīng), which became the more direct ancestor of our shōjō. This word entered Japan as a loan — first literary, then theatrical and folkloric — gaining along the way its own local colors and character. Interestingly, for many centuries in Japan, it wasn’t clear whether this referred to a mythical or a real being — when a real orangutan was exhibited at a zoo for the first time during the Meiji period, many visitors thought it was… a shōjō. They were only disappointed that it didn’t dance or drink sake.

And speaking of sake – in colloquial speech, shōjō is not only the name of a yōkai and an orangutan. It’s also a humorous term for someone with a fondness for alcohol — but in an aesthetic, graceful, almost theatrical way. It’s not about drinking oneself into oblivion, but rather a kind of Dionysian elegance, a state of intoxication that doesn’t destroy but rather unleashes song, dance, and a sense of wonder.

Shōjō is in fact a yōkai that appears rather frequently in spoken language. There’s a variety of Japanese maple known as shōjō no mai (“dance of the red monkey”), as well as a dragonfly called shōjō tonbo (“shōjō-dragonfly”). They all recall the being that came from the mountains of southern China, passed through the Noh theatres and temple legends of Japan, and lives on in modern language and art — always with a gentle smile, a red mane, and an ochoko cup in hand.

Shōjō in art

Despite being by nature averse to planning and likely to forget their stage lines by the second act, the shōjō has taken surprisingly well to Japanese theatre. It has become not only the protagonist of one of the classic Noh plays, but also an inspiration for masks, makeup, dolls, and folk art — wherever joy, red color, and a touch of sake-fueled ecstasy are needed.

Noh theatre: shōjō, the pure heart, and the magical sake jar

The oldest and most well-known incarnation of shōjō in Japanese culture comes from classical Noh theatre, in a play simply titled “Shōjō” (猩々). Its authorship is attributed to Kanze Kojirō Nobumitsu (観世小次郎信光), who wrote during the Muromachi period (15th century). The plot is simple but full of depth, as is often the case in Noh theatre (see here: Chimerical Masks of Noh Theatre – A Form Truer than Content).

The main character is a man named Kōfū, a poor sake seller from a place called Yōzu (modern-day Jiangxi, China). One night, he dreams that if he sells sake with a good heart, wealth will come to him. The dream comes true — he begins to prosper, and his best customer turns out to be a peculiar gentleman who can drink an ocean of sake and never blushes. Kōfū asks his name, and the man replies: I am shōjō, a spirit of the sea. He invites him to the banks of the Xunyang River, where he reveals his true form: red mane, wild laughter, and an ochoko cup in hand. He dances, drinks, laughs at the moon — and then gifts Kōfū a magical sake jar that refills endlessly.

Was it all just a dream? Kōfū wakes up… but the jar is sitting by his bedside.

Shōjō masks and costumes

In Noh theatre, the shōjō has one of the most distinctive masks: intensely red, with wide eyes and a windswept mane of long, colorful hair. It is used exclusively for shōjō roles — because it’s hard to imagine it fitting any other dignified and serious character.

Costumes? A festival of color. The main character — called the nochishite — appears in a rich, embroidered robe, most often red, though sometimes gold-orange. The shōjō dance is midare (乱, meaning “chaos,” “disorder”) – swirling, joyful, seemingly unstructured, yet full of precision and rhythm. A version of this play known as “Shōjō Midare” is an alternative choreography featuring ecstatic spins and whirls, performed to dynamic music.

Kabuki and shōjō

In Kabuki theatre, which favors drama and dynamism over spiritual contemplation, shōjō also appears — though not as a full play, but as a type of kumadori, or theatrical makeup. The actor’s face playing shōjō is painted vividly red, with symmetrical patterns highlighting movement and expression. Red kumadori symbolizes a positive character, but one of great power — the perfect embodiment of a spirit who can brew drinks better than the oldest family recipe.

Shōjō Dolls: A Cure for Smallpox and Melancholy

During the Edo period, shōjō made its way into people’s homes — quite literally. Shōjō dolls, crafted from papier-mâché (hariko) or wood, were placed by household altars as talismans to protect against smallpox. Their red color, according to Japanese beliefs, was meant to ward off disease, while their joyful facial expressions brought luck and good energy. They were especially popular during the Genroku era (1688–1704).

Shōjō in Folk Art: Netsuke, Nara Ningyō, Hariko

In the world of craftsmanship and everyday objects, shōjō also gained fame. It frequently appears as a motif in netsuke — miniature carved toggles worn on kimono sashes. These figurines often depict shōjō with a sake jug, sometimes dancing, sometimes swaying — always in its element.

Sculptures from the nara ningyō tradition (colorful wooden dolls from the Nara region; more about mechanical ningyō dolls here: Karakuri Ningyō of Ancient Japan – Wooden Mechanical Robots That Served Tea, Danced, and Wrote) show shōjō with a wide smile and raised arms — as if it had just heard there was a sale: free sake today.

Red color, fluffy manes, dance, and joy — shōjō in folk art became a symbol of happiness, abundance, and carefree living. A bit like a Japanese Dionysus, only less fearsome and far more… adorable.

Shōjō and the Orangutan

On a summer day in 1898, crowds of Tokyo residents gathered at the gates of the newly opened pavilion at Ueno Dōbutsuen — Japan’s first zoo, founded at the initiative of Emperor Meiji. The reason? A sensation: for the first time in Japanese history, a real yōkai had been brought to the country… that is, an orangutan from Southeast Asia. Newspapers excitedly reported on its “chestnut-red fur,” “human-like gaze,” and... “fondness for sake” (though that last part might have been slightly exaggerated). To many visitors, it seemed only natural: the orangutan was named shōjō.

Does Shōjō Really Exist...?

For Japanese society of the Meiji era (1868–1912), which had only just opened to the world after centuries of isolation (sakoku, more on that here: The Republic of Ezo – A One-of-a-Kind Samurai Democracy), the sight of such a creature felt like stepping into a living myth. For centuries, shōjō had existed in Japan as a yōkai — a whimsical, red sea spirit known from Noh theatre, netsuke carvings, and children’s stories. And suddenly — there it was, sitting in a cage. Eating. Staring. Not dancing at all.

In letters to newspaper editors, such as one printed in Yomiuri Shimbun on October 7, 1875, readers wondered aloud:

“Is this animal they call shōjō really the same spirit sung about in Noh? It doesn’t speak, doesn’t drink sake, has four hands and no tail — surely this is some kind of mistake?”

This collective bewilderment was no accident. The word “shōjō” (猩々) had long been the Japanese term for… orangutan, borrowed from the Chinese xīng xīng (猩猩). But in Japan, due to a lack of real-life contact with the animal, the concept had already fused with folklore. When a real orangutan finally arrived in the country, it didn’t match the myth. Or perhaps — the myth no longer matched reality?

Osada Shūtō and “Shōjōkai”: Poe Meets Yōkai

Riding the wave of this national confusion, a remarkable work was born: Shōjōkai (猩々怪), published in 1899 by Osada Shūtō (長田秋濤) in the literary magazine Bungei Kurabu. It was… a reinterpretation of the classic short story The Murders in the Rue Morgue by Edgar Allan Poe (1841). In the original, the killer is a runaway orangutan brought from Borneo. But Osada, attuned to the Japanese tension between myth and modernity, transformed the tale into a Japanese kwaidan, or ghost story.

In his version, the orangutan is not merely an animal. It is shōjō — a creature of legend that happened to find itself in Europe and committed crimes. For Japanese readers, this interpretation was far more comprehensible than zoological facts: a spirit that had stepped off the Noh stage and onto the rooftops of Paris was more believable than “a mammal from Sumatra.”

Knowledge in Motion: When Science Meets Legend

All this cultural chaos reveals the idea of “knowledge in motion” — a concept coined by historians of science (such as J.A. Secord) to describe how information, rather than being transmitted in a straight line, circulates, mixes, and transforms depending on the social context. Shōjō is a perfect example. In the Edo period (1603–1868), it was a spiritual guardian of sake, a symbol of happiness and carefreeness. In the Meiji era — an exhibit, named with the same kanji character, but from a completely different world.

At the zoo, they even sold “Shōjō-brand toothpaste” (猩々印はみがき), and crowds came daily to the pavilion to “see the yōkai of their childhood.” Animal, myth, marketing product — shōjō was all of them at once.

Only with time, during the Taishō and Shōwa periods, did society begin to distinguish the mythical shōjō from the orangutan in the zoo. But even then, their images continued to intertwine. In the 1930s, in the book Hoeru Mitsurin by Minami Yōichirō, hunters still capture a shōjō by leaving it a barrel of sake — exactly as in the old stories.

What Does Shōjō Tell Us About Japan — and About Ourselves?

Shōjō doesn’t teach through morals, but through laughter. It doesn’t wag its finger or lecture from obscure treatises. Instead, it dances on wet sand, spills sake from an overflowing cup, and spreads its mood — pure, spontaneous, and unburdened by thoughts of tomorrow. It proclaims: life doesn’t always have to be figured out. Sometimes not everything needs to be under control.

Shōjō is a kind of embodiment of presence — of complete immersion in the moment. It is the evening wave washing over one’s feet, the laugh that doesn’t ask for a reason. It cares nothing for tomorrow, nor does it dwell on yesterday. It is a spirit of the now. Japanese culture, which so often glorifies restraint, silence, and discipline (from zen to bushidō), finds in shōjō its counterbalance — a chaotic affirmation of life. And perhaps that’s why shōjō doesn’t stand in opposition to Japan, but rather complements it.

Is it the Japanese Dionysus? Perhaps. Dionysus shatters the boundary between the human and the divine, breaks conventions, brings trance and intoxication. But whereas the Greek god can be wild and fearsome, shōjō is gentle — its ecstasy is not dangerous.

Especially intriguing is the role of sake in the shōjō myth. It is not merely a drink — it is a form of ethical alchemy. Sake brewed by shōjō tastes different to every person. If your heart is pure, you will taste harmony, sweetness, and lightness. But if you harbor deceit, jealousy, or ill will — the drink becomes bitter, unbearable, perhaps even deadly. In this lies a subtle wisdom: what nourishes you depends on who you are. Ethics and sensuality meet in a single cup of ochoko.

But perhaps the greatest lesson from shōjō is simply… the wisdom of carefreeness.
In a world of rigid structures, duties, and fears, shōjō reminded us that sometimes it’s worth losing the rhythm. Not because responsibilities aren’t important — but because life is not only responsibility. Sometimes you just have to dance for no reason.

Shōjō is not a guide. Not a coach. Not a YouTube guru. It’s more like an old spirit who knows that the best things in life cannot always be planned, understood, or measured. Not every joy needs analysis. Not every meaning fits into a subordinate clause.

Shōjō Today

Though shōjō no longer roams the beaches with a sake cup in its paw (or does so very discreetly), its spirit hasn’t vanished entirely. It’s hit modern culture like a well-aged sake hits the head. Its red fur and amused gaze still flash at us from a screen, a garden store shelf, and sometimes… from the mirror…

Let’s start with Kawanabe Kyōsai (1831–1889) — an eccentric painter, scandal-maker, and devoted lover of alcohol, who called himself shōjō. In his illustrations, the creature often appears as his alter ego — a drunken spirit with wild hair, surrounded by other yōkai, sometimes with a brush in one hand and a sake jug in the other. Kyōsai knew that shōjō was not just folklore — it was a state of mind. His self-ironic drawings show how this yōkai began to function as a cultural metaphor for the artist who creates from joy, disregarding rules.

Shōjō entered the world of animation in 1997 thanks to Hayao Miyazaki and the film Princess Mononoke. There, we see ape-like forest spirits that many interpreters identify as shōjō — silent, solemn, reddish-brown beings trying to save the forest. It’s a more melancholic version: still tied to nature, but no longer inclined to sing over sake (one can debate whether they truly are shōjō, but there are advocates for this interpretation).

In an entirely different tone, shōjō appears in the American series Supernatural, in the episode “Party On, Garth” (Season 7, Episode 18). Here, it’s a spirit that murders people under the influence of alcohol — drawn more from horror than from Noh. On one hand, it’s interesting that a yōkai made it into a Western TV series; on the other — it’s a bit of a shame that it was stripped of all its philosophical, drunken depth. But then again — spirits are often misunderstood. Especially the Japanese ones, on Western screens.

Shōjō also shows up… in gardens. As mentioned earlier, there is a Japanese maple tree named Shōjō-no-mai (“Dance of the shōjō”) — its red-pink leaves indeed seem to dance in the wind like the flowing hair of the spirit. Another variety, Shōjō-nomura, dazzles with its intensely red hue and carries a name that pays tribute to mythology. Among insects, we have shōjō tonbo (猩猩蜻蛉) — a dragonfly with a bright red body, and shōjō bae (猩猩蠅) — a fly that supposedly has a particular fondness for the scent of sake. It seems that shōjō presides over all things red, lively, and slightly tipsy.

And in everyday language? If someone drinks often and enthusiastically, but doesn’t spiral into ruin (or at least not completely) — one might jokingly say they are a shōjō. It’s a bit like saying someone has the soul of an artist — only with more alcohol and less planning. It’s a light-hearted expression, full of affection — no one takes offense at a shōjō, even if they just finished the last cup.

>> SEE ALSO SIMILAR ARTICLES:

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"Strong Japanese Women"

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    未開    ソビエライ

 An enthusiast of Asian culture with a deep appreciation for the diverse philosophies of the world. By education, a psychologist and philologist specializing in Korean studies. At heart, a programmer (primarily for Android) and a passionate technology enthusiast, as well as a practitioner of Zen and mono no aware. In moments of tranquility, adheres to a disciplined lifestyle, firmly believing that perseverance, continuous personal growth, and dedication to one's passions are the wisest paths in life. Author of the book "Strong Women of Japan" (>>see more)

Personal motto:

"The most powerful force in the universe is compound interest." - Albert Einstein (probably)

  Mike Soray

   (aka Michał Sobieraj)

未開    ソビエライ

 An enthusiast of Asian culture with a deep appreciation for the diverse philosophies of the world. By education, a psychologist and philologist specializing in Korean studies. At heart, a programmer (primarily for Android) and a passionate technology enthusiast, as well as a practitioner of Zen and mono no aware. In moments of tranquility, adheres to a disciplined lifestyle, firmly believing that perseverance, continuous personal growth, and dedication to one's passions are the wisest paths in life. Author of the book "Strong Women of Japan" (>>see more)

Personal motto:

"The most powerful force in the universe is compound interest." - Albert Einstein (probably)

Mike Soray

(aka Michał Sobieraj)

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