When Sen Morimoto tried to swallow the sobering realities of pursuing music as a full-time job, he almost quit songwriting entirely. The Chicago multi-instrumentalist was keenly aware that the industry thrives on exploitation—of trauma, identity, and naivete, to start—to sell records. Loath to conform to capitalist models but aware that concessions must be made, Morimoto found himself overwhelmed and undervalued, navigating a confusing balancing act of caring deeply and learning when not to. On his third album, Diagnosis, he abandons that tightrope walk with one big trust fall—into the arms of his collaborators, his ideals, and, ultimately, a more unguarded version of himself.
Diagnosis sounds both liberated and stressed—but then, Morimoto’s music has never been reducible to a single sound or mood. Born in Kyoto and raised in Massachusetts, he grew up studying jazz before trying out hip-hop and playing in punk bands. In his solo music, he alternates between crooning and rapping while juggling guitar, saxophone, synths, drum programming, and Wurlitzer, among other instruments. Previously, he dreamed up songs with acid jazz, doo-wop harmonies, and lo-fi beats while scrubbing plates as a dishwasher. Now, after quitting that job to focus on music, Morimoto restructures those impulses into breathable grooves with jazz flourishes and slow songs built around romantic rhythm sections.
For a self-proclaimed anti-capitalist like Morimoto, the hardest part of pursuing a music career is accepting the need to play the game. He’s found new ways to rethink his values without sacrificing intent, like starting a podcast to confront “industry bullshit”; after five years of self-releasing on his own label, Sooper Records, he has partnered with City Slang to bring out Diagnosis. He works through his ambivalence on “Diagnosis,” a mutating pop-rap ode to the Catch-22 of participating in a system you’re fighting against. Facing down the businesses and politicians that offer a false choice between money or life, he shouts a warning loud enough to wake someone from a daze: “Don’t let them choose/They won’t think twice.”
And when he tries to go with the flow, the doubt sinks in anyway. “When it was real, how did you know?” Morimoto asks in “Pressure on the Pulse,” imposter syndrome biting at his heels. He rifles through trash cans for an established artist’s checklist to success: Which pen did they use? How do they tie lyrics into a bow? Most importantly, what transforms a person who makes art into an artist? In “Surrender,” he manipulates moods to illustrate the battle of head versus heart. Morimoto spits out each word in the phrase, “Please don’t give up now,” while manic keys spiral out of control. When backup vocalists coo, “It’s killing me,” their voices warm and satiny, a single saxophone note oozes seductively beneath like a siren song.
As on his self-titled album from 2020, Morimoto navigates the growth process best when he rotates his anxieties and paranoia until they lock into place as upbeat songs. Lines that could read as scolding or resigned become downright jovial in the context of “Bad State,” a burst of light guitar and sparse funk rhythms, like an indie Bruno Mars. He sounds cozy lamenting his numbness on the stripped-down “Feel Change,” with its autumnal guitar and angelic vocals; “What You Say” uses tight drumming and Radiohead-esque guitar arpeggios to regulate his compulsive overthinking. Friends and collaborators from Chicago’s local music scene—drummer Ryan Person, bassist Michael Cantella, and vocalists KAINA and NNAMDÏ, among others—offer a sense of security; their presence suggests that while there’s no easy answer to ethically navigating a career, staying grounded in your community is the next best bet for sanity.
Morimoto’s strongest skill is his meticulous production, which makes commonplace instruments like synthesizers or saxophone sound unique to him. Throughout his discography, he’s carved out a distinctly plumy sound—one that pulses softly and hypnotically, like an LED light strip rotating through the color spectrum. When “If the Answer Isn’t Love” swerves through blown-out horns and thick grooves, you immediately recognize it as Morimoto’s work, the same way a fellow overlooked producer, Sufjan Stevens, uses hyper-soft banjo plucks or fluttering piano to make familiar instruments sound like one-of-a-kind models reserved for his inventory. The strength of Morimoto’s production on Diagnosis speaks to the fact that while surrendering control is a worthwhile exercise for self-growth, so is refusing to abandon the gut instincts that got you this far.
