As culture fractures into a thousand algorithmic niches and madeup genres, it feels like there’s barely anything that hijacks everyone’s brains at once. In the 2020s, we’ve only gotten a few feeble shreds of musical monoculture in the US, like the Kendrick/Drake war and the near-universal outcry against The Idol. And these were often focused more on circumstances surrounding the music (see: moral panic about Lil Nas X giving Satan a lap dance) than singular musical “events” like in the days before trends hit warpspeed, when the idea of a global music hit felt fresh.
Overseas, though, something’s bubbling. People are betting that the next song capable of uniting the world isn’t a future-shocking radio anthem or a crossover K-pop smash—it’s actually “YAJU&U.” On first listen, there’s nothing immediately hooky. There are standard-fare drums, strings, and piano, played like a cheesy showtune for a Disneyland cafe that serves misshapen chicken nuggets. A robotic voice chirps in, singing about a romantic scenario with occasional grunts.
This song has totally taken over in Japan, racking up 34 million views on YouTube alone and soaring to the top of Spotify’s Viral 50 Japan chart in April, staying at #1 for multiple weeks. The track was made with Udio, an AI platform that generates music based on text prompts, per tags on the clip. But the real reason it has spread like an untreatable rash is because the lyrics (“Come on my chest… sorry to keep you waiting, I only had iced tea…”) are almost entirely themed after an infamous gay porn video from the 2000s. The song’s cover features the face of a man nicknamed Yaju Senpai, also “The Beastly Senior,” who plays the villain in the porno, plotting a sexual assault of a heterosexual swimmer from his high school. He acts in episode four of a series called A Midsummer Night’s Lewd Dream, which has been immortalized in Japanese digital culture on sites like Nico Nico Douga. It circulated widely partly because one of the film’s actors, Kazuhito Tadano, was a professional baseball player, and it became a scandal.
“YAJU&U,” made by a pseudonymous figure named mochimochi, isn’t the first song themed after this infamous porn scene. But it has become the most popular by far, only accelerating as its reach widens; on the YouTube upload, new comments appear every half-minute. The song blew up partly because people devised a choreography for it, and a user deployed AI to make The Beastly Senior wiggle to it. Dance clips infested Nico Nico Douga and fans outlined the steps so everyone could bop along. Then some diehards had the idea to organize a campaign to bring it over to TikTok. The song leaked beyond the realm of people in on the joke to curious outsiders; it’s been co-signed by celebrities like J-pop singers Kohmi Hirose and Ano. There’s even a popular acoustic “YAJU&U” cover video posted by a high school chemistry teacher. (He seems to have set the video to ‘Unlisted’ after he discovered the real contents of the song.)
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It’s hard to tell how serious people are about enjoying the song—if they really think it’s a masterpiece powerful enough to MK Ultra a population into worship or it’s all a doofy gag. One person said the song made them realize the government was correct to call John Lennon a political threat for the power that music can have on people. Others say the song has really spilled into the physical world, soundtracking school graduation parties and cafeterias across the country. Many say they’re frustrated because the song is so hooky that they’re helpless to resist replaying it. “I seriously think it started a revolution in the world of erotic dreams, and I listen to it every day and worship it,” says one comment with over 3,000 likes. “I hope this song will be passed down as a symbol of peace 1000 years from now due to some mistake,” another wrote. “A friend of mine from high school—who didn't know anything about inmu or internet slang— started singing this song outside,” wrote one person in a comment with over 7,000 likes. “And it was scary because it felt like a monster gradually becoming part of everyday life.”
After hearing “YAJU&U” dozens of times before I could leap to mute it in the process of writing this story, it must be stated that this song is horrendous, a queasy husk of a fireside singalong made for the worst summer camp ever. Without the lyrics and the pornographic context, there’s nothing funny here. You could file it into the ever-growing canon of “Dogshit AI Music” next to modern classics like “I’m Rubbing One Out On My Living Room Floor” and this reggae song about how Trump and Elon Musk are saving the stock market. English-language creators have also puked out a torrent of AI musical erotica, but nothing that plays on a piece of cultural heritage that’s been memed to oblivion as much as A Midsummer Night’s Lewd Dream. (A Western equivalent would be if an AI-remixed Ram Ranch or 2 Girls 1 Cup hit the Billboard charts, maybe?) Decades ago, Quincy Jones won a Grammy for his rendition of Chas Jankel’s “Ai No Corrida,” the title of which came from an erotic Japanese arthouse film from the 70s. But that was a real song—with thought and care put into the vocals, instruments, and lyrics.
It’s easy to see tech overlords heralding this as a sign of AI’s unstoppable genius, an indication of how these tools will soon be inextricably woven into the creative process and spawn megahits. And that’s indeed already happening, probably in insidious ways that aren’t publicly disclosed. But “YAJU&U” is unique because of how singularly lackluster it is, with apparently just enough cutesy charm to ensnare innocents who find themselves unconsciously humming the hook. It’s a song that was initially driven by shock and disbelief—what if a meme porn song went global?—and then Trojan™ Horsed into a wider audience that just finds it sweet and endearing.
Its middling earworm quality reminds me a little of “Timeless,” another megahit that some have accused of being partly AI-generated. That song doesn’t try to reinvent the wheel or explode with energy; it coasts on a low-effort, tolerable glide that seems like a hint of what’s to come. Streambait pop has already lowered the bar so far that people are content with what’s effectively limp sonic wallpaper; AI will likely only lead us further down this path of tastelessness. Just like how the ChatGPT invasion has led to wide-scale cheating and a future of illiterates who can’t bear to read or write, some listeners will no longer require even a modicum of humanity as long as the music hits their amygdala in the right spot—making them laugh, cry, feel emotions. Maybe they’ll even come to crave the low-stakes inferiority of AI, the slanted simulacra of artistry it provides. The goofy novelty of AI making adequate songs out of taboo subjects will fade, but millions bending the knee to robotic mediocrity isn’t going away anytime soon.
