Recorded in September 2022, just six months before his passing, Opus feels less like a farewell and more like a quiet conversation between Ryuichi Sakamoto and his listener. Stripped down to just Sakamoto, a piano, and the weight of his presence, it’s a final gift to his devoted fans—intimate, unadorned, and unmistakably him.
Accompanied by a black-and-white film, the album opens with a tender rendition of “Lack of Love.” Its Chopin-like melodies immediately set the somber, reflective tone that is to run the course of this disc. Even on a song like “Tong Poo,” first recorded with Yellow Magic Orchestra in 1978, Sakamoto slows things down, trading its original, restless energy for something more elegiac—less about movement and more about memory. Two new pieces, “BB” and “for Jóhann,” honor lost collaborators Bernardo Bertolucci and Jóhann Jóhannsson. Both feel like prayers, their sparse chords heavy with grief, love, and finality.
You can hear the fragility in the recording itself. On “Andata,” Sakamoto’s soft breaths blend with the notes, and the creaks of the piano bench and pedals remind you there’s a body behind the music—frail, but still reaching for something beautiful. Even in his final months, Sakamoto’s playing feels deliberate and full of emotion, proof that his creativity never dimmed.
Opus doesn’t feel like a grand goodbye. It’s more personal than that. It’s a celebration of a life spent making art—an album that finds beauty in vulnerability and meaning in every note. It’s not perfect, but it doesn’t need to be. Its power is in how fearless and honest it feels, right to the very end.
