Review Summary: Fermata, and then...
The awareness of nonbeing is unique to humans. To face life authentically, is, in a very real way, to confront one’s own eventual nonbeing. Some of the great acts of creation have been borne out of the recognition of human finitude, the frailty with which we pass in and out of this life in the span of a cosmic instant.
Greatness isn’t always apparent. The self-penned elegy that was Blackstar was met with both acclaim and bemusement over the space of a weekend, until its creator revealed his final bow to be one of his great acts as an artist, the work unveiled a second time. 12 isn’t like that, although its greatness isn’t always apparent. Foremost, it’s not an elegy. It’s too concerned with being, with the present moment for that. And its unveiling is within itself.
The collection of pieces presented here are titled simply with the date of their creation, presented in chronological order. It is a document of time’s passage and that with which a solitary man with life in mind can fill it.
In the space between notes, one hears Sakamoto’s breathing, a document of a life in passage, a statement of human presence, of life persisting. A field recording of music, more than an album in the conventional sense. I believe that to hear this as a conventional album is to miss much of its substance.
The music on 12 isn’t overdubbed or multitracked. On much of the album, one hand plays the piano, one hand the synthesizer. The musician breathes. These minutes of solitude, clearly denoted, filled with sound, which the composer has elected to share with us.
The prevailing mood of 12 is one of acceptance and serenity, and a quiet joy. Everything is stripped to its barest essence, as though Sakamoto is seeking out and savoring each moment, reducing it to a single element, holding it up to the light to be admired as each approaching second appreciates in value, out of increasing scarcity.
Greatness isn’t always apparent. The possibility that a collection of deceptively simple pieces for piano and synthesizer could reflect greatness is tied intimately with its creator’s place in the world at its conception. To separate art from artist is to kill the soul of both.
Ryuichi Sakamoto has battled cancer for almost a decade now, and his artistic output has increasingly entangled itself with this battle, with this theme of mortality and of confrontation with it.
The composer Alfred Schnittke’s gravestone is marked simply with the musical notation for a fermata, a pause of indeterminate length, above a whole rest, to be played at triple forte. A deafening silence. It may be that 12 is Sakamoto’s attempt to deny that silence, and to reflect upon it.
The chimes that are the album’s coda, musical sounds removed from the hands that created them, sounds that resonate through time independent of their creator, speak to the theme of recording as document. This album will sound its own chimes long after Sakamoto has left us, though it’s hoped that they will persist together for many years.
As I finished these thoughts, my children, having just finished breakfast, climbed onto my lap. We began flipping through the many family photos we’ve taken on my phone while 12 played, an iridescent murmur in the background, a document of a life, a document made into a gift. For just a few minutes the stress and care that entangles this life fell away into reflection, into the stillness of the present instant. There are moments in life the joy of which could make me weep. This was one of them.
Thank you, Mr. Sakamoto.
