Echoes of Ryuichi: A Reflection on His Final Performance of "Merry Christmas Mr. Lawrence"

[Note: The legendary cassette book "Avec Piano," which brought Ryuichi's talent as a pianist to global attention, was documented by the editor in charge at the time on his blog. This occurred at January 2023, shortly after the editor watched Ryuichi's piano solo broadcast on television, fully aware that his life was nearing its end. Below is my complete English translation of the essay. Please note that this is my personal translation.]

I was really shocked and flustered. I had remembered the broadcast date as the 15th and had planned to set up a recording for the 5th. But just as I was about to do that, the piano piece suddenly started playing on TV, and the atmosphere inside me shifted overwhelmingly. It was as though something had seeped deeply into my body… no, it felt as if a chasm had opened within me, allowing a gentle breeze to drift into the space.

The first time I met the musician was in a meeting room at a publishing company. At the time, I was working at an editorial production company. We didn’t have a publishing code, so while we could edit books, we needed to partner with a publisher to actually publish them. Our company had collaborated with a certain publisher, but eventually, they lost interest in our activities. In their place, a publishing house called Shisakusha became interested in working with us. This new partnership excited us. The young CEO of Shisakusha was the son of a legendary publishing producer who passed away in June 1982. After inheriting the publishing house, he became visibly passionate about its future. His father had not only run Shisakusha but also led a production company, publishing record books and art collections in collaboration with other major publishers of the time, achieving significant milestones. A well-known figure in the publishing world, he was even considered a rival to Kadokawa's charismatic CEO, a major publishing house. The new CEO aimed to surpass his father's legacy by launching a multimedia strategy. Among Shisakusha's assets were the Japanese publishing rights for Laurens van der Post’s novel "The Seed and the Sower." Several years earlier, the renowned filmmaker Nagisa Oshima had approached them with a proposal to adapt the POW novel into a movie and had made efforts to realize it.

As an introduction to him, the musician chosen to create the film's soundtrack, I offered several back issues of a cutting-edge art and literary magazine we published through Shisakusha. Glancing over them, he selected a few and said, "I’ll take just these," then added with a smile, "I already have the rest." Through various twists and turns, "The Seed and the Sower" evolved into the film "Merry Christmas, Mr. Lawrence." Around that time, the young and ambitious CEO of Shisakusha began envisioning a record book that would combine the novel and the soundtrack.

The CEO of Shisakusha had instructed me to secure the publishing rights to the soundtrack so it could be sold in bookstores. (I assumed he had already tried and failed.) I was surprised when I visited the recording studio, Onkio House, to try negotiating with the musician. It was my first time seeing a professional music recording room, with its massive 32-track mixer. The mixer was so wide that I couldn’t reach across it. The studio room, which cost 60,000 yen per hour to use, was where he worked daily, eating meals and giving interviews as if it were his private office.

I quickly realized that securing the soundtrack rights would be challenging. When I asked if it was possible, he suddenly replied, "How about a cassette book instead?" A cassette book? Our production company, Peyotl Studios, had collaborated with an avant-garde musician to release a cassette book in March 1983, beginning with 200 handmade copies that eventually sold 5,000 through book distribution. When I mentioned, "The sound quality on a cassette isn’t great," he responded confidently, "If his cassette book sold 5,000 copies, I’ll sell 50,000. So, if it’s on a cassette book…" A soundtrack on cassette? Could it really work? "I don’t think it’s feasible," I admitted, genuinely at a loss. Trying to shift the mood, I asked, "Could I go inside the booth?"

The moment I entered the recording booth, a tinge of a magazine interviewer's curiosity sparked within me. "Um... that POW camp was supposed to be set near the equator, right? There was a scene in front of the chapel where you, playing a Japanese officer, walked with the British officer... it looked like snow was on the ground, even though it was supposed to be tropical…" "Ah, the film crew spread white sand in place of snow for me," he explained. "In the film, I played Yonoi, the commandant of the POW camp. I always imagined him as another Asahi Isobe, one of the young army officers who participated in the February 26 coup against the government. Those officers, driven by the nationalism, were outraged by the cabinet that upheld Western alliances despite the suffering of the Japanese people."

"I asked Oshima to structure that scene to evoke the memory of that snowy coup," he continued. In that scene, Captain Yonoi reveals to Lawrence that he is a survivor of the Feb 26 Coup. "I really like the sound sequence in that scene," I offered. "Me too," he replied. "That's my favorite scene. I put the best sound in it. I acted Yonoi while imagining what it would be like if my father were the Emperor," he muttered. This still leaves me wondering if it was Isobe’s spirit inhabiting Yonoi, or if it actually reflected Ryuichi’s own political views. Yukio Mishima had held Isobe’s prison diary in high regard, writing an essay titled "The Logic of a Moral Revolution" about the final testament of Isobe in a 1967 issue of a prominent literary journal. I’m certain Ryuichi’s father, Kazuki Sakamoto, had been editor-in-chief of this journal from around 1962 to 1964, and while he wasn’t editor by then, it was well known that Kazuki had pushed young Mishima to write his debut novel, "Confessions of a Mask." I imagine Kazuki Sakamoto might have had some connection to Mishima’s essay on Isobe. It’s very likely that Ryuichi, then in middle school, internalized this web of connections as part of his formative years.

When he mentioned that he’d put “the best music in it,” a thought struck me. “What instrument do you use to compose?” I asked. “The piano,” he replied. “Then, since you wrote the motifs for the soundtrack on piano, why not release a cassette book with solo piano performances of those pieces?” He pursed his lips, then answered decisively, “That’s a good idea.” "Our cassette books are practically live documentary recordings in one take, and they capture that spontaneous atmosphere," I added. Before I’d even finished my offer, he turned to the piano, immediately starting to adapt his synth compositions into piano pieces. In just about ten minutes, he’d completed the first score and sat down at the piano for recording. For the next six hours, he continued drafting new scores and playing them in single takes. "I’ll finish the rest of the scores at home," he said, then left, taking a seat in the back of the car for him.

The next day’s session progressed even more swiftly, and I was awestruck by his talent. His skill at the piano was impressive, and watching him write scores with such ease was captivating. Since each recording was a single take, it picked up various noises, with the most frequent being the soft thunk of shifting sheet music. This led to complaints from some listeners after the cassette book was released.

"What should we title it?" I asked. He mused, "'On Piano'... No, in French, let’s go with 'Avec Piano.' It has a more elegant ring." The cassette book’s packaging was designed by someone other than the usual designer for YMO album covers, which was refreshing and met my expectations perfectly. Avec Piano sold nearly all 50,000 copies of its first run and was reprinted once. About six months later, it was re-released as a record titled "CODA," which also became a hit. Unlike YMO’s albums, which sold in the millions, his early solo album "Thousand Knives" had sold only around 5,000 copies. But after the success of "Avec Piano," his records began selling in the tens or even hundreds of thousands. Another behind-the-scenes tidbit: he had also partly contributed to the indie cassette book from the avant-garde artist released by our productions, and at the same time, another album from a different label featuring the same artist had the same recording director as "Thousand Knives."

In the 2023 TV interview, I heard him say, "From childhood, I never thought I’d be a pianist. It’s just that, to express my music, the piano is the most direct way. It best represents my sound." His words took me back to a piano recording session, where I once said to him, half-amused, "You’re good at synthesizers because you’re such a great pianist," acknowledging how skillfully he played them in YMO’s live performances. He just laughed and replied, "I’m not a pianist. I’m a composer." Watching the TV interview, I realized that this perspective has remained unchanged over the years. His approach of distilling a film soundtrack into a simple cassette was, I think, a very composer-like approach.

"I’m getting worse with age," he uttered in the interview. "But maybe that roughness has its own charm. I did my best to make it the best performance I could, but I wish I’d done better."

Though I can’t claim to have a discerning ear for piano skills, to me, his latest performance of "Merry Christmas Mr. Lawrence" on TV sounded marvelous. I’ve probably listened to that piano piece more than any other. When I worked on "Avec Piano," I heard it so many times that I can’t recall any other piano pieces. Now, whenever I hear it—even subtly in the background or played on a different instrument—my ears instantly recognize it. Hearing him play it on TV felt like he was playing for each listener individually, which made it deeply comforting.

In the "Avec Piano" recording, the transition into the measures with that iconic melody felt slightly abrupt, almost forceful. But in his latest performance, that transition was gentler, as if the sound quietly sank into the space, filling every crevice like flowing water. I can’t explain it well, but it was very reassuring.

"When I was hospitalized," he said on TV, "I can’t say I was physically and mentally able to make music. But I’d listen to the rain or gaze at the scenery instead. When I got home after each discharge, I’d feel drained. But as I recovered enough to want to make music again, I’d sketch a lot. I’d compose for piano, synths... I had other work to do too, even while recovering. But the sketches I did for myself, like a musical journal, really helped me heal." He added, "I find myself more and more drawn to an austere world, rather than a glittering one. When it rains, I open the window and just listen quietly, or I go to the bamboo forest and listen to the wind through the trees. I love it."

Ah, this is why the piano music he plays now feels so close to the listener. In the outskirts of Kyoto, there is a vast bamboo grove, and within it, a beautiful wooden Japanese-style mountain villa with a garden. Laurie Anderson once came here, taken by the place, and recorded an outdoor performance. For an art event, I once set up a tea room in this bamboo grove, imagining it as an open-air theater. The trees themselves became the posts of the floor, with the bamboo serving as pillars, no ceiling, and no walls. When you have tea there early in the morning, you can hear the sound of droplets falling from the bamboo leaves. A well-known avant-garde dancer, who lived nearby, once danced in this natural theater. The body became the ear, and we, the audience, felt the resonance. Ryuichi’s latest piano performance was just like that. Even if you don’t understand Western music, you can experience this commonality. His piano playing, the sound it produced, carried with it his body and breath. It was a clear tone of human life principles. That is why his present self entered my body.

Thank you for reading my humble writing.
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