Cowboy Bebop: Only the Lonely

I used to ponder on the Sinatra album, “Frank Sinatra Sings for Only the Lonely.” I believe there’s salt in that provocative title. Jazz is a genre long since jettisoned from popular music, so I’ll keep my geeky musings to a minimum. Nevertheless, in various junctures in my own life, I have found myself attracted to that idea. In moments of intense loneliness and solitude, I sought solidarity in Sinatra’s sorrowful tones and, more broadly, found comfort in the world of Jazz. I am 'the lonely.' Sinatra sings for me.

It’d be unnecessary to point out the obvious influence of Jazz upon Shinichiro Watanabe’s 1998 series Cowboy Bebop. The title itself is evocative of a punchy, big-band style of jazz, and its opening theme Tank! by The Seatbelts is equally as evocative. Its soundtrack leans heavily on Jazz and its various iterations, from funk to soul to something more obscure. Perhaps for connected reasons, I’ve often considered Cowboy Bebop a remedy for loneliness.

Characters, from left to right: Jet Black (Beau Billingslea), Spike Spiegel (Steve Blum), Faye Valentine (Wendee Lee), Edward Wong Hau Pepelu Tivruski IV, "Ed" (Melissa Fahn).

Set in the year 2071, Cowboy Bebop hosts a universe where space travel is commonplace and lawlessness is law. After the near-annihilation of Earth, the human race has scattered, colonising planets and moons and asteroids. The intergalactic police force is inept, if not apathetic, relying on the work of bounty hunters to make their job easier in exchange for a quick buck – or ‘woolong.’ Among them are Spike Spiegel, Jet Black, Faye Valentine, and the slightly extraneous Ed – bounty hunters nestled on the ship (and their home) the Bebop.

Bebop doesn’t shy away from loneliness. Rather, it simply accepts that it is an inevitable aspect of the human condition. The characters themselves are haunted by the ruins of past relationships gone awry, and in the present, their emotional isolationism is somewhat wilful. Spike, levelled by betrayal at the hands of the only woman he ever loved; Jet, an ex-cop, is likewise jaded by a romance gone sour, and abused trust by a corrupt police force; and the amnesiac Faye, having experienced little but betrayal, has become callous and cynical towards others. The three bounty hunters engage one another with an apparent indifference that guards them from real connection, and the damage that may follow.

Even in the most vulnerable of situations, these emotional walls remain steadfast. Faye, sitting by an injured Spike on the brink of death, hums a tune to herself. Spike recalls a similar moment from his past – a heart string is pulled within him. In an attempt to snuff out the emotional flame, he turns to her and says: “you sing off-key.”

"You sing off-key..."

Indeed, the characters share a fraught relationship. They’re crammed into close proximity out of convenience, yet their dynamic is stigmatised by this wilful rejection of personal connection. When they aren’t bickering, they’re blasé – an illusion of indifference that masks a tumultuous history with personal relationships in each of them.

The universe itself is a place of incredible emotional alienation. From episode to episode, one can’t help noticing the tone of disconnection between Bebop’s inhabitants. Society is stretched thin, plastered over great distance from one colony to the next. Any illusion of community gives way to clusters of people with little-to-no continuity. As one episode concludes and another begins, you quickly realise how characters and spaces rarely recur. With one colony in rear-view and another in sight, there remains a genuine sense of disconnection throughout.

Even within these spaces, alienation persists. As early as episode 1, towns appear dusty and desolate – homelessness is rampant, and the locals simply walk by with their proverbial collar turned. The cities are the true loci of the lonely, though.

My favourite example of this occurs in episodes 12-13, Jupiter Jazz part I and II. The setting is Callisto, a large urban complex constructed from the icy, barren plains of one of Jupiter’s moons. A metropolitan space indeed, yet the streets aren’t bustling and the lights aren’t dazzling. What few citizens have remained in this unwelcoming place encounter others with a distrustful gaze. It isn’t long, even, before one of our protagonists stumbles into an attempted mugging.

The wintery climate and mise-en-scene are striking – an emotional coldness embodied through literal ice and snow. More broadly, the characters suit this climate for it is one of alienation and interpersonal distance. Enter a smoky jazz bar – again, Sinatra comes to mind – the gentle orange glow of its ambient lighting contrasts the harsh white wasteland just beyond the door. Somewhere in this contrast of inner and outer space, you discover a sense of emotional insularity.

Above: Outside Callisto. Below: Faye Valentine, inside Callisto's "Blue Crow" tavern.

Nevertheless, in Bebop’s dysfunctional crew one finds unlikely kinship. For as much as they may hold one another at an arm’s length, their affection for one another is true and unconditional. Their dynamic mirrors a family of sorts; indeed, they bicker – usually over menial rubbish like a broken shower or questionable spending habits, the type of drivel that comes with the territory of sharing a home – but when push comes to shove, they share an understanding.

To explain what I mean by this, I’d like to refer to episode 18, Speak Like a Child.

It goes like this: on a random afternoon, a video tape is delivered to the Bebop, addressed to Faye. In her absence, Jet pays the delivery charges for the tape – charges she refuses to reimburse. Out of pure spite, Jet and Spike set about searching for an appropriate tape player; something rare in 2071.

Eventually, they acquire a player. But before finally uncovering the tape’s contents, Jet bars Faye from entry due to her refusal to reimburse the miniscule delivery charges. This kind of rivalry is stupid and petty in a way particular to close friends or siblings. When they discover the tape’s contents, however, something special happens.

The tape is a time capsule, sent from young Faye to her older, jaded self. When Faye sneaks back in, she’s faced with the brutal realisation that the child on-screen is a stranger.  As aforementioned, Faye remembers nothing of her past, but there’s more to it than that – the years haven’t been kind to her, and regardless of her own memory, the optimistic child on the tape is long-gone. In the face of this, the bickering and the stigma disappears, even for just a moment. As the crew stares into the screen, there’s a real pathos in their faces. When it comes down to it, there exists a kind of mutual understanding between them, like a family.

The same solidarity one might find in Sinatra, one might also find in the complicated but steadfast relationship between Spike, Jet, and Faye.

Cowboy Bebop understands loneliness. It imbues its world with a sense of alienation and colours its characters in shades of isolation and emotional despondence. But it also keys us into a kind of unspoken kinship between a bunch of disillusioned, disenfranchised individuals. If you’ve any intimate familiarity with loneliness, Cowboy Bebop sings for you.