When Ichiko Aoba‘s Windswept Adan was suddenly released at the tail end of 2020, it felt like a spiritual shift. Here we were, music lovers throwing together our collective year end lists during a period where many of us hadn’t had a proper social life for months, international travel borderline impossible, and suddenly this breathtaking, sunny, gentle music swept every other record release that year away. Aoba’s pristine, tender songs seemed so counterintuitive to the experiences we all went through, so valuable, the album transcended discourse and became a generational experience.
It was Aoba’s eighth record in 10 years, and her first to step out of minimalist solo performances to fully embrace orchestral arrangements – broaden the canvas, if you want to go with painterly metaphors. Prior to its release, the Japanese musician was still considered somewhat of a “cult phenomenon”, that had found an audience via the internet, but existed within a vacuum – with Windswept Adan, this wall was broken and Aoba became a household name, soon touring foreign continents and becoming a household name.
I was curious where Aoba would take her musical journey from here. It makes a lot of sense that after the solar, airy predecessor, she would turn towards lunar, maritime atmospheres. Luminescent Creatures does pick up where Windswept Adan left off, returning to the key collaborators of the former album. But where Windswept Adan used additional instrumentation to characterise a peaceful coastal environment, Luminescent Creatures aims for a more contained sound. The underwater imagery that both albums share seems more poignant here, with instruments occurring like slowly ascending water bubbles.
Where Windswept Adan at times still felt like Aoba experimenting with compositional techniques and the quiet alchemy of pairing brief melodic snippets with each other, on its successor these explorations bloom into full songs. Ambience is even more important here, linking the work the Aoba’s stellar field recording experiments on her masterpiece 0. Often, such as on the breathtaking, piano led song “tower”, imagery of nighttime strolls seem to occur naturally – a sacred cosmic poetry that finds geometry in the celestial sky vista. In this way, the album characterises the everyday as peaceful alien landscape, instilling emotions of wonder and immense gratitude within the listener.
Any mention of fellow Japanese transcendentalist musicians seems logical: Joe Hisaishi, Ryuichi Sakamoto, Doji Morita, the avatar of Lily Chou-Chou… also, the constant traveler David Sylvian. But the real parallel seems to reside within the Japanese landscape itself. This is quite obvious within the meta-text of the album, with the second song, a traditional here titled “24° 3′ 27.0″ N 123° 47′ 07.5″ E”, giving the coordinates of the Hateruma island lighthouse.
Any traveler will be able to point out how mystical Japan can be. At one point, strolling down a busy shopping street, you will come across a lone dog shrine. This has to do with a deep appreciation of nature, which expresses itself in form of complex rites of worship, often also an expression of respect: the overall idea that existence originates from a deep balance. Embodiments are just as real as bodies, creating an equal of the world we can see and that which we can only sense, through stories, myths and legends.
Sinking deeper into Luminescent Creatures means exploring Aoba’s relationship with nature – which, ultimately, becomes a reflection of her place within it. Lead single “Luciférine”, for example, uses images of sensory exploration and emotional outbursts (loose translation: “I understand, all the time / A sparkling light in the depths of my heart / This is how I hear it / The dazzling side among us too / The bed of stars is flowing”). The lyrics associate the song with a quest for knowledge that is hard to describe without poetic imagery, a longing for spiritual empowerment.
The slightly psychedelic “Mazamun” goes further, imagining a strange monster that resides on an island, hidden within nature in a sort of symbiotic relationship with insects and the plants. Other songs, like “FLAG” and “COLORATURA” are more descriptive, exploring the relationship of humans to the elements, wind and sea. Emotionally, the most rewarding lyricism comes with “tower”: describing a nighttime vista, Aoba explores the night sky, the sound of feathers and hum of insects, as she opens herself to a love that seems to reside in all things: “What was once called magic / It’s okay if it’s all fake or a lie / If you are here / If tonight is the last time / Dance again / Small light, secret voice / I ask and love you.”
These are translations that many listeners won’t know – or purposefully ignore to explore a more direct poetry within the musical alchemy of Aoba, as if meaning could disrespect the fragile, pristine music. But then, a lot of Aoba’s magic communicates itself through her incredible artistry, her melodic understanding of vocal arrangements and emotive guitar play. This has always been her charm: suggesting emotional depth solely through her performances and compositional genius. Yet, Luminescent Creatures is, strikingly, exceeding expectations.
I’ve pointed out how Windswept Adan often seemed an exploration of sonic essences, at times fully dwelling within the sonic expression of small, repeated melodies through specific instrumentation, whereas this new album feels more songwriting-oriented. Aoba seems to make use of those remnants to underline her key interests within writing, similar to musicians like Brian Eno or Johnny Greenwood. They become new elements of emotional expression, where before she seemed more interested within textures.
Writers will likely feel compelled to speak of perfume and painting to capture these moments – comparisons that, evidently, make a lot of sense aesthetically. But philosophically speaking, Aoba seems to work more expressionistically here than on her early, impressionistic albums. Melodies no longer retain a jazzy emotive quality, they seem to be interwoven with surreal atmospheres and colorful harmonies, as if existing within another element altogether. Listen to the instrumental “Pirsomnia” and you will find yourself in the strange, liminal world of a René Magritte, or among the underwater dance of jelly fish.
Taro Umebayashi, who produced the album and co-composed the orchestration of multiple tracks, deserves credit for this implementation of additional atmospheres, adding electric guitar and synthesizer textures, placing these musical compositions into geographical or imaginary locations, simulating the sound of wind or crystalline structures. Where their previous collaboration on Windswept Adan seemed inherently cinematic, here these structures feel more provocatively imaginary, looser, placing the listener within foreign worlds.
It becomes hard to not dive into full blown hyperbole when writing about Luminescent Creatures. The album feels less predictable, more fully-formed, yet somehow also more sublime and intangible than Aoba’s previous work. It seemingly explores every detail of its structures, often verging on becoming psychedelic, even at its most minimalist, without becoming overbearing or gluttonous. In this, its most direct compatriot might be Sigur Ros’ Ágætis byrjun, but in comparison to the minimalism of Aoba, the Icelandic classic feels almost brutalist.
I wonder if this comes from Aoba editing some of her writing down to the most essential qualities, with Umebayashi using her framework to explore the narrative possibilities in a form of musical dialogue, their sensibilities dancing around each other in blissful harmony. But this is mere speculation. In the end, Luminescent Creatures expresses itself in a harrowingly beautiful way that transcends all physical form. Yes – this is possibly Aoba’s best work. Music incomparable to anything else, beautiful and eternal.
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