Keiji Haino detests the frivolous. As a teenager in the late ’60s, the songs he heard about love and peace seemed facile, like they didn’t contain a genuine message. “What I wanted to do and how I wanted to do it was totally different from The Beatles and their ilk,” he said in 1997. Central to his self-described outsider status was something beyond adolescent edginess: a craving for something new. Years later, he explained that his artistic endeavors and lifestyle are one and the same: “I want to live each and every moment at its best and to the fullest. And I think that to regret is to repeat.” It can be odd to hear about such mutability, as the Japanese avant-rock and free-improv maestro has a vast back catalogue that can be consistently described as volcanic, punishing, and relentlessly brutish. But U TA, his new LP with composer Shuta Hasunuma, is a true anomaly: Haino only contributes vocals, and the music is resolutely soothing.
U TA was recorded in a studio after Haino and Hasunuma performed an iteration of it live in 2021. The goal, however, wasn’t to recreate what they’d previously done. Haino arrived with only lyrics in hand and, without knowledge of what Hasunuma would play, reacted in real time to the latter’s bevy of soft instrumentation. U TA opens with “Sky,” a gorgeous track defined by graceful piano melodies and atmospheric synthesizers. Haino begins by whistling, the sound like a comforting breeze, and then offers poetry: “Broken pieces of me/becoming dust of light/Falling upon/the earth below.” There are so many details that stand out: the way a word reverberates in the ether, but remains perceptible when listening closely; the sudden wavering of his voice, occasionally breaking the speaking/singing boundary; the intimacy of hearing him clearing his throat. Haino’s voice has often sounded mystic or violent, largely because he approaches singing as an extension of the surrounding music. Hasunuma forces him into a different realm, one that’s gentle and genteel.
Throughout his decades-long career, Haino has created profoundly beautiful albums that tap into primal emotions. The key is in isolating the listener: His music can sound apocalyptically desolate, or like being thrown into a whirlwinding cyclone, or like you’re staring at an empty sky while taking a long drag of a cigarette. This album feels very different: It’s inviting and personal. Especially stirring is “Number,” where Haino patiently sings, stretching each phrase across an expanse of glossy, electronic sputters. Its endearing simplicity and naivety recalls Ryuichi Sakamoto’s collaborations with Alva Noto, or Nuno Canavarro’s Plux Quba. If there’s an overarching feeling achieved across U TA, it’s that of warm vulnerability.
The following two tracks magnify each member’s role: “Pause” is a ruminative ambient piece ornamented with birdsong, while “Drops of overflowing smiles are falling” is a sound poetry exercise recalling Henri Chopin and Niikuni Seiichi. On the latter track, Haino repeatedly utters variations of the titular phrase, his voice layered until it congeals into pure texture. Interestingly, Haino largely avoids extended vocal techniques (something that characterized his a capella album Un autre chemin vers l'Ultime) throughout U TA, ensuring that these pieces stay in the realm of songs instead of formal exercises. It’s why the LP is most successful when the two musicians keep things light and remain in total lockstep, like on the Harold Budd-esque “People,” where Haino even says, “I want to bring our powers together.” Beautifully, his breath and Hasunuma’s crystalline piano chords periodically fade out in dreamy fashion.
Hasunuma hasn’t released an album like U TA either. While he’s collaborated with numerous artists—from Foodman to Jeff Parker to Arto Lindsay—his music is usually cartoonish and cute, if not insufferably saccharine. Haino’s presence adds a necessary prickliness. “Latency,” for example, would be trite and aimless without any vocals. Hasunuma matches his energy on “Finger,” creating a cavernous space for Haino’s voice to echo quick, pained bursts. “Gush” is a more unwieldy affair, with Haino warbling amidst white noise, metallic clangs, handclaps, and other percussive accoutrements. The most shocking moment on the album arrives partway through “Rest,” when pinging synths dot the track and feel entirely out of place amidst soft harpsichord-like melodies. In that moment, Haino is unfazed and continues singing, grounding the entire piece. It recalls what he once said about his music: “I sing because I want a sense of becoming one with someone outside of myself.” For Haino, music is the great connector, a chance to take part in something authentic.
