12

‘12’ is not an album to take lightly. It is an album to listen to intently as often as you can. With each listen you learn something about what it takes to be a great artist, Ryuichi Sakamoto is a great artist, but it also teaches us not to take things too seriously because one day it could all be over.

Sakamoto has made a workaday logbook into something transcendent, partly because of its intimacy. Whether it's one of his major works is a question for future historians, but coming amidst an ongoing struggle with cancer, its bravery is defiant and splendid, the sound of an artist's soul laid bare.

As much as these graceful and meditative pieces became threnodies for Sakamoto's condition, 12 is also something of a personal and creative victory for the composer. [Mar 2023, p.30]

While their tonal depths speak to undiscovered worlds, they’re grounded by the sound of Sakamoto’s breath, audible on every piano track. The palpable humanity is moving, and Sakamoto’s ease with melodic phrasing remains astonishing. ... Would these stark, simple pieces be as moving and filled with meaning for newcomers to his work? Perhaps not, but becoming an understanding receiver of work is one of the great privileges of longtime listening. [Feb 2023, p.45]

Unlike albums such as David Bowie’s Blackstar or Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds’s Skeleton Tree, both of which confront death head-on, 12 is decidedly more reserved in its reckoning with human impermanence. Yet, even if it’s less forceful in its execution, Sakamoto’s poetic, metaphysical approach—a paradoxically delicate yet fearless plunge into the unknown—is equally as daunting and devastating.

The methodical way in which the album has been put together is surprisingly artful and induces touching moments of real beauty.

Rarely does an album this understated say so much.