Written by: Elijah Polance
Over spring break, I found myself in the biannual hassle of getting ready for the dentist. I was up earlier than I wanted to be to go off to a place that I didn’t want to be — a relatable feeling for many, I’m sure. As I was getting up, I saw a notification on my phone: the release of the song “Marginalia #218” by Masakatsu Takagi.
Eager for an early morning boost, I put the song on before leaving and was immediately greeted by a refreshing wave of various birds chirping and lightly flowing water. The thrum of piano notes drifted in soon after, along with sounds of a young child playing joyously. The delicate, airy singing of a melody wove around the sonic details, accentuating the piano’s driving force.
Fully enveloped by the sounds of spring, I quickly forgot about the dentist and where I was standing in my house. I was mentally transported across landmasses and oceans to a place nearly most 7,000 miles away, taking in the resonance of Takagi’s rural home in Japan where he lives and records music. And record music, he does.
Masakatsu Takagi is a Japanese musical and visual artist whose been releasing music since 2001. While some of his earlier releases explore experimental electronic compositions, he later fixated on more ambient, piano-centered music. He’s most known for creating the soundtracks for two of Mamoru Hosoda’s animated films: Wolf Children, released in 2012, and The Boy and The Beast, released in 2015.
I first discovered Takagi when I stumbled upon his 2015 album Kagayaki somewhere online in my second semester of college. It’s another one of his more discussed works, and while somewhat ambient, it adds chamber folk elements to the mix as well. Lush plucked and bowed string instruments, flutes, and even small choirs embellish these tracks with enough warmth that the album has become synonymous with my idea of spring and summer. It makes for a pretty good listen while trying to get schoolwork done, too.
After Kagayaki, I started to familiarize myself with Takagi’s Marginalia series, which began in 2017, and as of writing this, boasts over 200 song entries. They feature improvised piano alongside field recordings from nature outside.
Takagi’s Bandcamp page and website preface each Marginalia release with an artist statement of sorts, explaining that he recorded each song in the series in his mountain-surrounded studio in Hyogo, Japan.
“I opened all the windows to welcome the sounds of nature and played the piano without any sort of preparation: no overdubbing, no writing, no editing, no fixing…just as it is,” part of the statement reads. “I love to think that nature might also listen to my piano. The nature is the melody. The piano is the harmony.”
Most song entries are between three to seven minutes long, though some are lengthier and push past the eight minute mark. The piano keys and environmental noises come together peacefully, presenting duets with flowing water, symphonies with cicadas and birds, and clashes with intense wind and thunder.
Takagi occasionally sings as well, amplifying the serene atmosphere with his vocals, uniquely frail and high-pitched. While I cannot understand Japanese, he seems to switch between definitive lyrics and simply humming along with the tune. The sounds of his children laughing and household work also occasionally creep their way in, offering a deviant flair from the otherwise organic compositions.
It’s hard to put the power and impact of Takagi’s Marginalia impact into words. Regardless of where I am or what I’m doing, it always induces a sense of calm and stillness. Even though listening requires the use of some digital device, I still find that the abundance of field recordings bring nature’s intimate presence to me. And while I try not to listen to music while walking outside in nice weather, I’ll make occasional exceptions for Marginalia, letting the music’s ambiance blend with whatever outside sounds seep through my headphones.
Sometimes I’ll actively listen to each song, other times I’ll put it on in the background while getting work done. It’s light and unobtrusive enough to accompany casual reading or writing, and I’m sure it could work for meditation or art activities, too. I’ve found I much prefer the lack of structure of Takagi’s piano playing, which feels like a slow drift through an environment, to classical music’s precision and rigidity.
The release of each song is another part of the project’s magic. While there are seven numbered Marginalia collections as albums, and two more miscellaneous Marginalia compilations, Takagi first releases each song as a single, not long after it was initially recorded. They each come with unique cover art as well, often a creative still-life shot of nature or domestic objects. I never know when I’ll see a new entry pop up, and each time one does, I take it as an invitation to pause what I’m doing for a few moments and just relax.
I’ve been relatively caught up with each new Marginalia installment since the 170s or so, but I still have only heard around a third of the compositions. Despite having a lot of blind spots, I’m happy with the amount I’ve heard and don’t plan on increasing my slow pace of working through them anytime soon.
And I have my highlights, of course. “Marginalia #2” begins piano-heavy, but Takagi’s singing eventually emerges and becomes the focus after a few minutes in mesmerizing fashion. “Marginalia #26” is the only track I’ve heard with a different instrument, beginning as more of a traditional folk song with singing and an acoustic guitar or similar stringed instrument being played. My absolute favorite is “Marginalia #167,” one of the first ones I heard that sees Takagi playing and singing in the melody of “Rama,” a 12-minute song he initially released in 2003.
While I do gravitate toward the songs with vocals because of how they stand out, others bring their own specialty to the table. “Marginalia #5” feels especially light, with Takagi resonating through the keys in dainty bursts. And “Marginalia #200,” another one of my favorites, repurposes the melody of “Amamizu,” a track off of Kagayaki that I consider one of the happiest-sounding songs I’ve ever heard. Sometimes it’s the environment that brings the biggest appeal, like “Marginalia #212,” where the wind sounds so intense that I’ll think it’s from the weather when I’m outside.
One of the nicest things about Marginalia is that there’s no “right way” to listen to it. You could take them in as they release as I do, or you could progress through each album collection. He even has two playlists for them on Spotify, one that lists them in chronological order from #1 onward and one that lists them the other way around.
Takagi’s websites can be hard to navigate, but the Japanese version lists each track in order of when they were recorded by date and another list sorts the recording times by the time of day. It also details the main natural elements he recorded with each song and whether or not the melody came from music Takagi released before, a fun supplement for the listening process. Alternatively, the English version of his website provides some of Takagi’s thoughts about the more recent Marginalia releases.
Regardless of how you listen and what you play the music for: a morning walk in spring through the brisk air, a cozy night painting in the comfort of your bedroom, or a last-minute study session before an exam, Marginalia is sure to offer you something you can enjoy.
Featured Image Caption: Japanese musician Masakatsu Takagi, known for his ambient Marginalia series.
