From VICTOR SJV-1503-6:

On Toru Takemitsu's Music, by Hidekazu Yoshida

Takemitsu's music first came to our attention shortly after the war- at one of the concerts featuring the works of young composers. As I remember, it was presented in the Yomiuri Shimbun Hall in Yûrakuchô. The place was more like a shack with brownish plywood walls on all sides than a concert hall. Along with works of representative composers who had already become familiar to us through a number of compositions, I heard Takemitsu's piano music for the first time. It was a strange piece of music, indeed. Entitled "Lento in Two Movements," it bore the kind of rigor, which was uncompromising and relentless rather than solitary, somewhat reminiscent of the French Impressionist school. There, in his music, the gentleness of tone and a drift toward solitude mingled at one time and were pitted against each other at another, as had never been incorporated into any music before. Furthermore, the music, one lento after another, rebelled against all musical rules. The opposition and the compromise of the two factors were completely independent of physical structure. As if shy of expressing itself, the music delved into itself, and seemed as if it were trying to hide itself even further rather than project itself. As I watched the young small and slim man with his enormous head proceed on stage in response to the applause of the audience, which was not entirely enthusiastic, as I recall, I muttered to myself, "They say that the crab digs a hole according to its size. What a crab is this, which digs still one more hole?" I do not think I understood this composer, Toru Takemitsu. I am sorry to have to admit that I was not then such a keen critic. I was impressed, however, by the strangeness of this young man. Furthermore, I still remember- that particular piece of music to this day, while I have almost completely forgotten other pieces performed on the same evening.

After this event, I occasionally saw young Takemitsu at concerts. We never talked with each other nor greeted each other. I found, then, that his head which looked enormous when he was on stage, had, when seen at closer range, a broad brow and large eyes. Every time I looked at those eyes, I was reminded of "eloquent silence."

There was much to say about this young man. He possessed that quality which Europeans would call "a fiery soul." It may be even more correct to say that he was possessed by such a soul.

Later we had a chance to hear his Requiem for String Orchestra, one of his early masterpieces which almost any lover of Takemitsu's music can readily identify. Along with Bacchanale by Toshiro Mayuzumi, Partita for Flute by Makoto Moroi, Composition for Mixed Voice Chorus by Yoshio Mamiya, Symphonietta by Yoshiro Irino, Symphonic Metamorphosis by Akira Miyoshi and Symphony by Akio Yashiro, which have their own characteristics respectively, this piece of Takemitsu's is highly representative of contemporary Japanese music. Not only that. If Takemitsu had not been endowed with such a rare creative ability, this work might have been treated as his trade mark.

It is based on something so individualistic and yet has succeeded in attaining universal sentiment.

II.

In my opinion, however, it was through his subsequent work that Takemitsu became a creative figure as a composer. The greater part of his work is chamber music mainly for piano solo and the string. Through these pieces Takemitsu gradually started participating in the discovery of entirely new beauty, which is one of the tasks imposed on contemporary arts- not only in music but also in the fine arts and other creative endeavors. It can be called an effort to pursue the meaning of the things surrounding man and the discovery of new compatibility between a creative man and the things which surround him.

Just as it was the merit of the nineteenth century romantic artists to re-interpret the world by dealing mainly with human sentiment and intensified that interpretation, it was the merit of the twentieth century artists to let their relation to those things surrounding them, which at times assault and clash them, and at other times lead them unto a broader and higher perception, start from the primeval rather than the emotional and replace it with a tie which is more comprehensive. In the case of some people, it is practice leading to an intellectual and systematic, and a cold, so to speak, perception, and in the case of others, it is a pursuit of art as the place of free emanation of energy which avoids all forms of stability and is constantly boiling.

In most of his recent works, the tendency is remarkable in that he avoids binding sounds but helps restore them to free movement. They cannot, however, help betraying the ascetic self-sacrifice of the man himself.

It was in 1961, as I recall, that Stravinsky, who was then visiting Tokyo, listened to Takemitsu's music. The Russian was amazed how such a small man could compose such austere works. This is a well-known episode. I still believe that Stravinsky was especially impressed, not so much by the freedom with which the sound materials were used in his works, as by the rigor with -which the composer controlled himself. It is suggested that those interested study this by listening to Piano Distance, Le Son Calligraphic, Nos. 1 and 3, etc. Those who hear these works may also notice that the rigid control that Takemitsu imposed on himself has resulted in intensifying the expression through condensing it. I have once called this dialectic process in Takemitsu's works "esthetics of tranquility."

Neither at the time I first heard it nor at the present moment do I think it to be an esthetic attitude peculiar to the Japanese. This is not unrelated to the esthetics of a group of American composers, including John Cage, and a group of European composers including G. Ligeti. My guess is that Takemitsu himself is already keenly aware of this.

III.

It is true that Takemitsu is an unusually gifted artist. His works, however, are far from being a free expression of his talent. While, an artist of a very modern type, Takemitsu does not progress exclusively from his own creative energy, but rather constantly enriches himself by absorbing much from the tradition in which he was brought up. In this respect he is considerably different from the type of artists known as avant-garde. He consciously tries to absorb the creative energy inherent in Japanese music, and yet is not at all governed by national or racial sentiments. He is always ready to tackle artistic problems common to the contemporary world. My statement may sound paradoxical. Those who listen to his music, however, will understand that it is not and will be persuaded that it is an extremely orthodox attitude of a creative artist in present-day Japan.

At the same time, I do not deny the fact that, despite all this, he is an extremely unique artist. It may be more proper to say that the very fact that he is going his way all by himself is symbolic of the uniqueness of the contemporary Japanese musical world.

Takemitsu's subsequent orchestral pieces demonstrate his keen perception of the progress of contemporary world music and the inseparable relation of Takemitsu's even more intensified consciousness as an artist resulting in his progress as an artist to his effort to re-discover Japan. To substantiate this, one may point to his Music of the Tree, Coral Island, and Textures in which one almost inevitably perceives the reflection of the "tonal mode" as advocated by the Polish composer K. Penderecki and G. Ligeti. More attention should, however, be paid to the fact that the dynamic technique of climax is strictly non-Western. Western artists make a thorough and deliberate calculation before they construct the climax. Bach and Beethoven are the most classical examples of this. Such contemporary composers as Webern, Stockhausen and Boulez are no exceptions. In Japanese music, however, it is not seldom that one brings out the climax, which is supposed to be the most cardinal element in the work concerned, very abruptly and without any preparation, or suddenly cuts the climax. This is perceived in such theater arts as the Noh and the Kabuki.

In Japanese painting, the center of the picture is set in a unique way. Very often, as in the case of scroll paintings, the centers are deliberately distributed horizontally. Or, as in the case of geniuses of ukiyoye such as Hokusai and others, bold attempts were made in a number of works (in which one can but guess their pleasure) to destroy the balance and harmony. This traditional sense of beauty of the Japanese has been revived in a very vivid way in Takemitsu's work. I do not think this is something which was done unconsciously. This is the reason why a piece, which at first may sound monotonous and lack in compactness of structure, leaves one with a generally fresh memory after one has listened to it. This structure is different from the traditional esthetics of the West, so that it may appear to be odd and incomprehensible to the ear which has become used to and has been nurtured by the former. The ear, however, once having taken notice, will clearly identify it as not being a superficial mystification.

Takemitsu's recent works have been marked by the use of traditional Japanese instruments as in the case of Eclypse for the Shakuhachi and Koto, or the music in the film, Kwaidan (Ghost Stories), which includes extremely original concepts. Here again, the motive of composition seems to seek through these instruments special effects which otherwise could not be obtained. And it is true that he has until now been so successful that one could not expect more. It seems as if it were aimed at producing an interminable dynamic drama from the succession of the momentary sounds from the hand and the mouth of the musician. This is the quality very akin to that which realizes infinite freedom at the very moment of heightened tension as in the case of Japanese calligraphy and the tea ceremony.

IV.

I did not mean to write this in order to interpret Takemitsu's art. I must admit, however, that we music critics find it almost impossible to resist the temptation to attempt an interpretation of what is so unique by itself and yet is connected with. what is universal, what is modern and still absorbs so much from the traditional. I, for one, am very seldom impressed by contemporary Japanese musicians.

Takemitsu's music intoxicates us. That intoxication, however, does not affect only our emotions. This wine lures us toward a clear perception of what lies even further from us. It is probably not only because it is merely beautiful but also because it is music which tells the truth.

While in Europe, I introduced Takemitsu's chamber music and Requiem for String Orchestra several times along with the works of other artists. On every occasion, I observed the quiet but lasting impression created among the audience as this austere and taciturn music came to an end. What could I add to this except, to say that his music, in the contemporary world, is very creative and. can impress utter strangers to it? I have witnessed how his music left a latent passion with audiences used to a dynamism, which is intense and explosive as well as clearly planned and prepared.

"Having such a musician for my contemporary," I have. often said to myself, "it is my real pleasure, honor and privilege to introduce him to the general public who have been nurtured in the long and refined cultural tradition."

Nothing would make me happier and more honored, if I could do something similar to this for fellow countrymen. I am not very well versed in the production of phonograph records, so that my guess is that so far no similar ones have ever been produced. Aside from all these questions, however, I cannot help but express my support for an elaborate plan to introduce all phases of Takemitsu's music, including solos, chamber music, musique concrete as well as large-scale orchestra pieces. I have been asked to be an editor for this series. Frankly I have never had this kind of experience. I would never have accepted this assignment, had I not borne a constant love and admiration for Takemitsu and had I not known beforehand about this splendid project. It is my great honor, indeed, since the greatest among all these works to be included. Arc for Piano and Orchestra-Six Movements, is going to be published in its entire form for the first time. It was completed only because of this project. This masterpiece may turn out to be the one which our posterity will recognize as the most significant and monumental work of the Twentieth Century. I honestly admit that I would like to be a man who enjoys listening to these records again and again. 

Translated by George Saitô


From RCA LSC-3099:

Toru Takemitsu, the leading figure among Japan's proliferating contemporary composers, is a short, reed-slender man of middle years whose name, translated, combines Fire and Water. To the world he presents the face of a Zen-Buddhist monk who has learned the supreme disciplines of mind and body. The features are an ageless mask, with hooded eyes (spaced widely beneath a high forehead) that seem to see at the same time All Things and Nothing. When he does speak, in a multilingual, soft voice that belies little formal education, Takemitsu is polite, laconic, articulate, apparently guarded if not entirely withdrawn. Observed carelessly (in his presence only the crude could be casual), he seems in body and strength to be fragile, preoccupied with inner voices not only calling to him but draining him by their incessant demands for attention. He could be, in western eyes, a prototypal Oriental-except that, evident even to sentient strangers passing him on the street, he projects an inner radiance and resilience.

No ordinary mortal, this Takemitsu. How extraordinary he is- this man who composes not merely for a livelihood but from an atavistic need to release creative energies-can be learned only from personal acquaintance, or from hearing, rehearing and then hearing again and again his expressively contracted, precisely calculated music. Rather quickly evident in spite of concealment, if one is privileged to have him extend the hand of friendship, is much grievous suffering in his life, which began on October 8, 1930-between the morning hours of 4 and 5-in Tokyo. Yet any efforts at interrogation are gently, and in the same breath firmly, parried. His past, before the age of 18 especially, remains a secret forge in which the private creator and the public figure were tempered. His remarkable command of English he acquired in his mid- teens as a busboy at an American officers' mess in postwar Yokohama. His comprehensive command of the entire musical vocabulary, from pre-Christian modes to the latest innovations no matter where in the world, he taught himself almost completely. Official biographies name Yasuji Kiyose as his composition instructor-a senior-generation composer, fondly regarded by his pupil, whose music even in Japan has suffered undeserving neglect.

But Takemitsu in fact studied with Kiyose only two years. It was during a slow recovery from tuberculosis in his 18th year that the young man decided finally to become a composer, the interest stemming from his response to live musical performances heard for the first time only two years earlier. Once exposed he became incurably addicted. Not in the sense, however, of an armchair devotee content to experience, secondhand, the self-expression of others. With the same precision that characterizes his manuscript scores (for performers, an astounding clarification of prodigious complexities), Takemitsu educated himself in greater part. His first acknowledged work, composed as recently as 1950, was Two Lentos for piano. By 1956 he had completed major works for magnetic tape, including Vocalism Ai. A year later he ventured for the first time into the realm of orchestra, producing Requiem for strings, premiered in Tokyo and introduced in North America by Thor Johnson at the University of Wisconsin, with the Fine Arts String Quartet as first-chair players. More recent music, painstakingly composed, has covered the spectrum of performer-possibilities, from solo and chamber works (including Eclipse and November Steps for the biwa and shakuhachi) to film scores for Hara-Kiri, Woman of the Dunes, Kwaidan and, his latest, Face of Another.

Already in 1951, with colleagues of his own age group, he had organized Tokyo's Experimental Workshop-a modest beginning when measured against Orchestral Space, which he, Seiji Ozawa and Toshi Ichiyanagi created in 1966 as a forum for international contemporary music. It is essential for Takemitsu, however, that he compose first and proselytize second, preferably in a mountain retreat northwest of Tokyo, close to nature-which is inseparable from music in his ethic as the substance of daily life. This daily life, as opposed to public life, is characterized by a self-discipline, gentleness and courtesy already legend, coupled with a wit that cuts across all national boundaries. Almost compulsively, he is a semanticist whose creative juices are caused to flow most freely by some pre-determined verbal association. If, in the instance of Asterism, this verbal association seems at a glance arcane, he nevertheless intended all three dictionary meanings of the word- quoted in the full score from the American College Dictionary published by Random House-to appertain:

"Asterism: 1. (Astronomy) a. a group of stars, b. a constellation. 2. (Crystallography) a property of some crystallized minerals showing a starlike luminous figure in transmitted light or, in a cabochon-cut stone, by reflected light. 3. three asterisks placed before a passage to direct attention to it. (from Greek 'asterismos' derived from 'asterizein' = mark with stars.)"

Commissioned in 1968 by RCA Records and "respectfully dedicated to Yuji Takahashi and Seiji Ozawa," Asterism is scored for conventional forces, with an explicit number of strings plus a much expanded percussion section instructed, among other departures, to rub the spine of a hard-rubber comb across a suspended cymbal, to draw a double-bass bow across one of three pitched Chinese gongs and to use two beaters against a tam-tam during the crescendo that is the anguishing, ultimately ecstatic climax of this music. Asterism was given its world premiere by Seiji Ozawa, Yuji Takahashi and the Toronto Symphony on January 14,1969.

Green (November Steps II) was written in 1967 on commission from N.H.K., the Japanese national broadcasting system, concurrently with November Steps that the New York Philharmonic had requested for its 125th anniversary season. Takemitsu was studying Debussy's Jeux-"from a wish to enter into the secrets of Debussy's music, which never ceases to exert a strong influence on my music." He has called Green "an intermezzo... a very peaceful piece ... music for children, dedicated to my daughter and to the daughters of my friends." The title derives not as some have supposed from Debussy's song but from the foliation of spring as he composed the two November Steps of buds into young leaves. Green was introduced to North America on October 29, 1968, also by Ozawa and the Toronto Symphony.

-ROGER DETTMER, Music and Theater Editor, Chicago Today 

YUJI TAKAHASHI is a composer as well as a pianist. Born in Tokyo in 1938, he studied at the Toho School of Music and in 1961 made his debut, unexpectedly, as a last-minute substitute for an indisposed soloist at the Nippon Broadcasting Company's Modern Music Festival. His performance created a sensation, and overnight he emerged as one of Japan's leading exponents of contemporary piano music. Between 1963 and 1966 Takahashi was in Berlin, where he became Yannis Xenakis' only pupil; he then came to New York on a grant from the J. D. Rockefeller III Fund to compose music using electronic computers. In addition to the Toronto Symphony, he has been soloist with such orchestras as the Boston Symphony, New York Philharmonic and London Symphony, and he has given solo recitals in New York, Los Angeles, Stockholm, Athens and Paris.