Ryuichi Sakamoto’s Opus is a meditation on impermanence—a final, intimate conversation with his listeners. Recorded in September 2022, just six months before his passing, Sakamoto revisits key moments from his storied career. Yet this is no nostalgic victory lap; Opus strips familiar pieces to their bare essence, leaving only Sakamoto, a piano, and a profound sense of presence.
There is no perfectionism here, only raw humanity. The album opens with a measured rendition of “Merry Christmas, Mr. Lawrence,” where the familiar melodies arrive like distant memories, deeply softened by time. On “Tong Poo,” originally recorded with Yellow Magic Orchestra in 1978, Sakamoto slows the tempo, transforming its once-kinetic energy into something elegiac, a reflection on all that’s passed. The two new pieces, “BB” and “for Jóhann,” honor lost collaborators Bernardo Bertolucci and Jóhann Jóhannsson. These works resonate like prayers, sparse chords conjuring grief, love, and the weight of finality.
The recording feels alive in its quiet details. On “Andata,” you can hear Sakamoto’s breathing softly woven into the mix as if every note demands physical effort. Subtle creaks of the bench and the movement of pedals remind us of the body behind the instrument, struggling but still creating. It’s these sounds—so human, so fragile—that make opus so powerful. Even in frailty, Sakamoto remains full of ideas, and his playing is considered yet emotionally boundless.
By the time the final notes fade, Opus feels like a perfect farewell. It’s not mournful, but celebratory—a document of a life devoted to art, where beauty was wrung from every last breath. The result is Sakamoto’s masterpiece: not in its perfection, but in its fearless intimacy.
