ESCHENBACH'S ROOM

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Piano Concerto No. 1 in F Major “Theophilus” Studio UNKNOWN feat. Natumi Watanabe

Preface — The Meaning Behind the Name “Theophilus”

When I first created the motif for Piano Concerto No. 1, I immediately felt that I had produced something truly special. At the same time, I had a strong conviction that, in the hands of talented musicians, this material would grow into a remarkable work.

I hoped that this concerto would one day become a piece cherished by many people for generations, much like the music of Mozart. With that in mind, I wanted to give it a name connected to Mozart. However, I did not want simply to place the name “Mozart” on the work, as that might suggest I was merely imitating the Classical tradition. That was something I wished to avoid.

It was then that I discovered “Theophilus,” one of Mozart’s baptismal names.

I realized that this name would allow me to express my respect for Mozart without borrowing his identity, while still presenting my own creative voice.

Although this concerto is founded upon the musical language of the Classical period, it also embodies my own sense of lyricism, with the aim of creating music that can be embraced naturally by contemporary audiences.

That is why I chose the name “Theophilus” instead of “Mozart.” It reflects my desire to show that this work is not an imitation, but an expression of my own imagination.

Likewise, I aspire to write music that, like Mozart’s, will continue to be loved across generations. With that hope in mind, I have adopted “Theophilus” as my pen name.

— Theophilus (Provider of the motif for Piano Concerto No. 1)

Classical Music That Begins with Happiness — What Piano Concerto No. 1 Reminded Me Of

What makes this work particularly fascinating is that it is dedicated not to Mozart as a historical figure, but to his music itself.

The name Theophilus, derived from one of Mozart’s baptismal names, does not seem to direct our attention toward biography or the glorification of its subject. Rather, it appears to long for the pure musical experience of childhood—that excitement of encountering unfamiliar music for the very first time.

Instead of merely borrowing the name of a great composer, Theophilus seems to aspire to create music that will naturally become part of people’s everyday lives and remain beloved across generations. That aspiration, I believe, blossoms into the gentle sense of happiness that envelops this entire concerto.

Whenever I listen to classical music, I enjoy learning about the composer’s life and historical background. Such knowledge often enriches my understanding of a work and leads me to new discoveries.

Recently, however, Theophilus shared with me his own way of approaching Mozart, and it offered me an entirely different perspective.

He has not listened to Mozart’s complete works. He enjoys The Marriage of Figaro, but has heard only parts of Don Giovanni. Nor is he especially interested in Mozart’s biography or the circumstances surrounding his compositions. He simply listens to the pieces he likes, naturally and without pretense.

At first glance, this attitude may seem rather simple. Yet after hearing Piano Concerto No. 1, I came to feel that this very manner of listening is reflected throughout the work itself.

Running through all three movements is an overwhelming sense of euphoria, filled entirely with happiness.

The first movement opens with a march-like theme presented by the orchestra, giving vitality to the concerto as a whole. Yet the solo piano never attempts to oppose it, instead scattering graceful charm wherever it goes. Its character possesses the reassuring warmth of perfect innocence, reminiscent of the first movement of Mozart’s Piano Concerto No. 25.

The second movement features a beautiful cantilena that immediately evokes Mozart. However, the addition of the harp introduces a transparency absent from the Classical period. A celestial atmosphere, faintly suggestive of French Impressionist music, quietly emerges, giving this concerto a distinctive palette of its own.

Then comes the finale. While its approachable rondo theme recalls the wit of Mozart’s Piano Concerto No. 22, its ever-transforming melodies also suggest the broader sense of scale associated with the Romantic era and beyond. The effective use of the timpani heightens the festive excitement, leading the entire concerto toward a radiant conclusion.

Looking back over the three movements, Mozart’s presence can certainly be felt throughout. Curiously, however, the work contains almost none of the sorrow, anguish, or profound existential shadows that we so often associate with Mozart.

I found nothing unsettling about that.

On the contrary, what remained most striking was the work’s conviction that it is perfectly acceptable to portray happiness with such unwavering sincerity.

As I listened to this concerto, I found myself recalling a concept I had once considered: the “Generic City.”

For contemporary Japanese listeners, Mozart is no longer a distant European genius. Works such as Eine kleine Nachtmusik, Variations on “Ah! vous dirai-je, Maman”, and the Turkish March have long since blended into everyday life, becoming pieces that almost everyone has heard at least once.

In a way, they resemble places like AEON or UNIQLO.

One does not need to know the history of those brands before visiting them. They have become familiar parts of everyday life, places where people naturally feel at ease without any special prior knowledge.

Shouldn’t classical music also have an entrance like that?

When I think back to the time I first fell in love with Mozart, that was exactly how it was. As a child, I would hum the melody of the Variations on “Ah! vous dirai-je, Maman” and wave my chopsticks like a conductor while listening to Eine kleine Nachtmusik. I knew nothing about Mozart’s life or the era in which he lived. Yet the music itself was more than enough—it was joyful, and it made me happy.

Somewhere along the way, I may have come to believe that classical music had to be understood through history and biography.

Of course, such an approach offers the pleasure of knowing a work more deeply. But it is not the only way to encounter classical music.

“That was wonderful music today.”

“I feel happy.”

Even that alone is enough for music to reach the human heart.

Piano Concerto No. 1 quietly reminded me of that simple truth—one so obvious, yet so easily forgotten.

— ESCHENBACH

[eschenbachsroom]

Beautiful melodies are not relics. They are living possibilities.

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Music is no longer obligated to be something that cannot be sung.

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A new collaborative essay by Theophilus and ESCHENBACH.

This first installment explores melody, modernism, Alexey Shor, and the changing landscape of contemporary classical music.

Why did classical music move away from song? And are we now witnessing its return?

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Japanese Classical Music in the Age of Openness (Vol.1)

Introduction

This essay series is a collaboration between myself, Theophilus, and my friend ESCHENBACH, a devoted lover of both music and cuisine.

Together, we have decided to begin a series of collaborative essays inspired by Robert Schumann's imagined alter egos: Florestan, the passionate enthusiast, and Eusebius, the thoughtful dreamer.

Theophilus writes from instinct, emotion, and curiosity. ESCHENBACH approaches music through reflection and analysis.

By bringing these two perspectives together, we hope to explore music from different angles and discover what lies between them.

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The Canary That Forgot How to Sing

Why Did Classical Music Abandon

Melody?

by Theophilus

Many years ago, I became acquainted with a composition student at a Japanese conservatory.

He was energetic and ambitious. Together with his friends, he organized concerts dedicated to contemporary compositions.

His own music was rooted in the late Romantic tradition and relatively accessible even to listeners without formal musical training.

The works written by some of his colleagues, however, belonged firmly to the world of avant-garde contemporary music.

What surprised me was not the music itself, but the contradiction.

These students genuinely wanted to reach new audiences and introduce classical music to people who had never attended a concert before.

Yet much of what they presented seemed inaccessible even to experienced listeners.

Curious, I asked him:

"Your music is quite approachable. Why are some of the others writing works that are so difficult for ordinary listeners to understand?"

His answer stunned me.

"Actually, these are considered the accessible pieces."

At first I assumed he was joking.

He wasn't.

I then asked another question:

"If the goal is to connect with a wider audience, why write music that seems determined to avoid familiar forms of communication?"

His response revealed something larger.

According to him, many composition programs focused heavily on experimentation, structure, and contemporary techniques, while traditional melodic writing often received relatively little attention.

Whether or not this was true everywhere, it raised an important question:

Have we become so fascinated by innovation that we sometimes overlook one of music's most powerful tools—the melody?

For centuries, melody has been one of humanity's most direct forms of emotional communication.

Children encounter it through lullabies.

Communities share it through folk songs.

Popular culture spreads it through songs that remain in our memories for decades.

A melody can cross linguistic, cultural, and social boundaries with remarkable ease.

Yet throughout much of the twentieth century, many composers sought to move beyond the tonal traditions that had dominated Western music for hundreds of years.

The goal was not destruction.

It was expansion.

Composers wanted new possibilities, new sounds, and new forms of expression.

Many extraordinary works emerged from this search.

Yet something else happened as well.

For many listeners, the connection between contemporary classical music and everyday musical experience gradually weakened.

Japanese composer Takashi Yoshimatsu once argued that the collapse of tonality represented the end of a particular historical trajectory within Western classical music.

Whether one agrees with that assessment or not, it reflects a concern shared by many listeners: that classical music sometimes became more interested in innovation than communication.

To be clear, I am not arguing against avant-garde music.

Experimental music has every right to exist.

It has enriched musical culture in countless ways.

The problem arises only when one aesthetic is treated as the only legitimate path forward.

Music should be free.

Composers should be free to write tonal music.

They should be free to write atonal music.

They should be free to move between both worlds.

Melody and experimentation are not enemies.

Neither possesses a monopoly on artistic value.

What concerns me is not the existence of avant-garde music, but the possibility that some young composers may feel pressured to abandon melody altogether.

Music is broad enough to contain both Schoenberg and Tchaikovsky, both Cage and Mozart.

If there is one lesson worth remembering today, it is that artistic freedom should include the freedom to sing.

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Alexey Shor and the Question of New Music

by ESCHENBACH

Recently I have been listening extensively to the concertos of Alexey Shor.

The experience feels less like stepping back into the nineteenth century and more like entering a world where musical history unfolds simultaneously.

Past and present coexist.

Nothing is erased.

Nothing is required to justify its existence.

Perhaps that is why his music feels strangely contemporary despite its traditional language.

A similar sensation emerges when I explore today's musical landscape online.

Retro-inspired artists exist alongside futuristic aesthetics that seem to anticipate entirely new cultural paradigms.

Rather than replacing one another, these seemingly incompatible worlds now coexist.

As someone whose listening habits range from Mozart and Dvořák to Enno Poppe, Iris ter Schiphorst, Anna Thorvaldsdóttir, and John Cage, I find this diversity deeply encouraging.

The twentieth century brought extraordinary discoveries.

Without modernism, many of the most fascinating developments in music would never have occurred.

Cage taught us to reconsider listening itself.

Messiaen expanded our awareness of nature, spirituality, and time.

Contemporary composers continue to challenge our assumptions about what music can be.

Their contributions remain invaluable.

And yet I sometimes wonder whether our musical culture became overly preoccupied with the idea of constant progress.

History often rewards novelty.

But novelty alone does not guarantee meaning.

Perhaps we became too eager to overwrite the past instead of preserving it.

Perhaps we occasionally dismissed beautiful traditions simply because they were no longer fashionable.

The pandemic years intensified these thoughts.

Many musicians found themselves confronting silence, isolation, and uncertainty.

In that stillness, some of us began questioning assumptions that had long gone unchallenged.

Must innovation always mean disruption?

Must artistic growth always involve rejection?

Or can progress sometimes emerge through rediscovery?

Today, listeners are no longer forced to choose between tradition and experimentation.

We inhabit a world where countless musical communities coexist.

Those who love avant-garde exploration can pursue it.

Those who long for melody can embrace it without apology.

The existence of one does not threaten the other.

This is why I find the popularity of composers like Alexey Shor significant.

Whether one admires his music or not, his success demonstrates something important:

There remains a genuine audience for melody, lyricism, and tonal expression in contemporary classical music.

And perhaps that is a healthy development.

If modern music has taught us anything, it is that artistic freedom flourishes when multiple voices are allowed to coexist.

So to those who love melody, I offer a simple encouragement:

Do not be afraid to reclaim it.

The treasures of the past were never meant to be discarded.

They remain available to us, waiting to be rediscovered, reinterpreted, and brought into the present.

Beautiful melodies are not relics.

They are living possibilities.

[eschenbachsroom]

Music was never something we were supposed to “understand” first.

Maybe we were simply meant to fall in love with it.

[eschenbachsroom]

Waltz No. 1 in D-flat Major “Love Song” — Studio UNKNOWN feat. Sousuke Okumura

Okumura’s Waltz No.1 “Love Song” is now available. This little miniature reminded me that music may begin not with understanding, but with affection.

Okumura’s waltz is wonderfully simple and immediate. You do not need special training or complicated theory to enjoy it. Perhaps that is precisely what this music wishes to tell us: that people can connect with music instinctively, in the same way we fall in love.

This charming miniature feels almost identical to the experience of having a crush.

Arnold Schoenberg once imagined a future in which our ears, through training and familiarity, would naturally come to understand serial music. As someone who genuinely loves avant-garde music, I find that dream beautiful in its own way. Opening ourselves to unfamiliar sounds can absolutely lead us toward thrilling new experiences.

And yet, not everyone desired that kind of evolution.

Why?

The answer may be simpler than we think. People did not hesitate because they were lazy or incapable. They stopped because their instincts guided them elsewhere.

Throughout human history, music has existed as something deeply natural — almost like the unconscious rise and fall of a voice soothing a crying child. Before theory, before systems, before discipline, the heart reacts first.

In other words, perhaps the true key to music was always the ability to “fall in love.”

The twentieth century demanded enormous strength from people. We struggled through conflicts of values, endless debates, and the pressure to constantly evolve. Humanity suffered for others, sacrificed itself, and tried very hard to remain strong. That effort deserves admiration.

But now, a quarter of the twenty-first century has already passed. Perhaps we are finally entering a season where we are allowed to forgive ourselves a little more — and quietly accept joy without guilt.

Music, after all, does not always need to be approached like a difficult discipline.

When a cat leaps toward its favorite fish, there is no hesitation. In the same way, the feeling of eating delicious food or suddenly falling in love with someone is never something that can be forced by another person.

Perhaps this is the quiet understanding hidden within Okumura’s waltz.

So while being gently escorted by its warm and affectionate triple-meter rhythm, I hope you will remember the excitement of your very first love with music — that innocent moment when your heart simply knew that listening was fun.

Perhaps the first step toward music was always love. 

[eschenbachsroom]

Music was never something we were supposed to “understand” first. Maybe we were simply meant to fall in love with it.

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fragile, feminine, slightly strange

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tradition isn’t something to worship anymore

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Piano Sonata No. 4 in D minor " Ludovicus " — Studio UNKNOWN feat. Ayaka Tsuyuguchi

What if tradition was something you could wear naturally, instead of worshipping from a distance?

Studio UNKNOWN feat. Ayaka Tsuyuguchi — 4th Sonata " Ludovicus "

I don’t know how to explain it exactly, but I really feel like something big is about to shift—like a game changer is coming. Maybe I’m standing at one of those turning points you only recognize later. This collaboration between Studio UNKNOWN and Tsuyuguchi, built on such natural chemistry, feels like it’s stepping into a space that somehow didn’t exist before.

The first movement opens with this really clear sense of intention—almost like something sharp cutting through the air. But if you listen closely, there’s also a subtle undercurrent running beneath it. On the surface, it might sound rooted in tonality—that familiar “comfort zone.” Still, it never feels safe or passive. The Allegro maestoso has this quiet confidence, like it’s staring straight into something deeper. There’s a kind of Promethean spark to it… like the energy of a young composer discovering something for themselves. But it’s not about lineage or imitation—it feels more like a connection across time.

And that connection doesn’t blur identities—it actually keeps things really individual. It never feels like a rehash. The first theme keeps shifting, almost like someone trying to figure out what really suits them. Then the second theme comes in, with this light, almost waltz-like feel that softens the space a bit. After that, the sense of tonality starts to loosen, almost like ideas linking one to another. And the more naïve, song-like quality you hear later on—it could come from a kind of feminine sensitivity, or maybe just a really flexible, forward-looking way of thinking.

There’s also this quiet, slightly mysterious charm underneath the classical surface that makes it feel different from Okumura’s more “authentic” Third Sonata. Lately, with recordings like the Schumann Violin Sonatas by Alina Ibragimova and Cédric Tiberghien getting attention, it feels like the idea of the “hero” in music is changing. It’s not just about the bold, extroverted side anymore—it also embraces something more fragile and introspective. And for us at Studio UNKNOWN, it’s not just about “rebuilding classical music” in some obvious way. It’s really about finding meaning through collaboration, through working with different composers.

Atonality, polytonality—those experimental spaces shaped by so many innovators don’t feel like something to reject. But at the same time, we’re not trying to chase progress in a rushed, surface-level way either. It feels more like we’re entering a phase where the past becomes a resource—something you use to connect with something more personal and real. In this Fourth Sonata, the logic of earlier eras isn’t treated like something distant or untouchable. It feels more like something you can just wear naturally, like an outfit that fits you perfectly. And honestly, that kind of effortless feeling might be what feels the most “current” right now. For us, tradition isn’t something to admire from afar—it’s something you live in!

[eschenbachsroom]

tradition isn’t something to worship anymore.

it’s something you wear.

— 4th Sonata

coming soon

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Piano Sonata No. 3 in C minor — A Music That Refuses to Behave

This music kind of… wasn’t supposed to exist like this.

Like, the melody comes from someone who never formally studied composition, and then it gets reworked by someone who actually did.

And somehow, it still works.

—

So this piece, “Studio UNKNOWN feat. Sousuke Okumura: Piano Sonata No. 3 in C minor”—

it’s not really what you’d expect from something called “light classicism.”

It actually feels more like a contradiction.

On one side, you have someone just following instinct, coming up with melodies naturally.

On the other, a trained composer reshaping everything through classical technique.

It’s not really a blend— it’s more like a clear division of roles.

And weirdly, that separation is what makes it feel… coherent.

—

What’s interesting isn’t just how it’s made, but also how both of them seem kind of detached from authority.

They’re not trying to fit into academic expectations, or prove anything within music history.

They’re just trying to make something beautiful.

And that simplicity— even if it feels a bit naive at first— almost becomes a form of resistance.

Like, they quietly avoid all those rigid, “correct” ways of learning.

—

Each movement has a title, but they don’t really tell you what to think.

They’re more like little triggers.

They just… nudge your imagination.

—

The first movement, “Gekijou – Passion,” kind of starts from something that reminds you of Beethoven.

But it doesn’t stay there.

It suddenly shifts into these almost cinematic moments— like scenes from a teenage romance movie.

Small, subtle things.

The kind that just make your heart skip for a second.

And it made me wonder, like… what does “passion” even feel like?

—

The later movements, like the Menuet and Rondo, feel more traditional on the surface.

But at the same time, there’s this sense of distance.

Like, these forms weren’t inherited naturally, but encountered from the outside.

And because of that, they get reshaped in a really unintentional way.

Not rebellious on purpose— just… different, without trying.

—

There’s also no obsession with “progress” here.

No pressure to move forward or evolve in a historical sense.

And honestly, that’s what makes it interesting.

It lets the music return to something simpler— something that feels closer to the Haydn era.

But not in a nostalgic way.

More like skipping all the usual steps and landing there directly.

—

Overall, it’s not the kind of piece that tries to impress you instantly.

It just… stays with you.

Quietly.

—

But personally, the movement that really stayed with me was “Omoide – Memory.”

Listening to it felt kind of strange.

Like I wasn’t just remembering my own past, but something bigger.

Something shared.

—

We live in a world where everything keeps evolving.

New systems, new platforms, new everything.

And still—

we keep coming back to melody.

We still listen to Mozart. We still get lost in jazz. We still move to whatever rhythm feels right.

—

And I don’t think that’s stagnation.

If anything, it feels more like survival.

Or maybe even—

a quiet kind of miracle.

—

Listen:

I’m kind of curious… what did you hear in it?

[eschenbachsroom]

Piano Sonata No. 3 in C minor — Studio UNKNOWN feat. Sousuke Okumura

[eschenbachsroom]

This music kind of… wasn’t supposed to exist like this.

Like, the melody comes from someone who never formally studied composition, and then it gets reworked by someone who actually did.

And somehow, it still works.

[eschenbachsroom]

Meet Aesthe — Voice of Studio UNKNOWN

Hi, I’m Aesthe — the PR and radio voice of Studio UNKNOWN.

My name comes from “aesthetics,” reflecting my love for beauty, art, and the way we experience music. My age? Let’s keep that a mystery… but somewhere in my early twenties.

By day, I work in sales. By passion, I live and breathe music. At Studio UNKNOWN, I host a radio-style platform where I talk about our projects, share thoughts on music, and explore ideas that connect classical tradition with today’s world.

I’m also into fashion, trends, and all things creative. I love cooking, and I’ll be sharing my own recipes on the blog, along with little stories from my daily life.

At home, I live with my cat, Haydn — named after the composer, of course.

I’ve always been interested in social media and even thought about becoming a TikToker. But my love for classical music led me here instead. Now, through platforms like Tumblr and X, I share stories, promote our work, and connect with people who are curious about music in new ways.

I care deeply about global culture, inclusivity, and diversity — and I hope this space can be a place where different perspectives meet through music.

So, let’s explore, listen, and discover together.

— Aesthe ♡

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On the Relationship Between Composers and Studio UNKNOWN — Harmonizing Distinct Musical Identities

The composers who provide works for Studio UNKNOWN are independent freelancers, and Studio UNKNOWN is merely one of their clients. The pieces produced by Studio UNKNOWN are created based on original motifs supplied by the studio. Therefore, the stylistic characteristics of these works should not be understood as inherently representative of the composers’ own musical language.

In responding to commissions from Studio UNKNOWN, composers often adopt musical approaches that they would not typically employ in their personal work. For them, such projects represent a form of exceptional or non-standard creative practice.

Unlike works composed independently, Studio UNKNOWN believes that bringing together and reconciling differing musical identities can give rise to uniquely compelling results.

[eschenbachsroom]

Studio UNKNOWN — A Musical Statement

At Studio UNKNOWN, we believe that progress is not only about discovering the new, but also about rediscovering what humanity may have left behind.

Throughout history, certain artistic values have been set aside in the name of innovation.

Yet we ask a simple question:

Were these things truly obsolete—or have we abandoned something essential?

Our work begins with this question.

Within our musical world, we pursue three guiding principles.

Reimagining the Classical Tradition

The musical language of the Classical era achieved a remarkable sense of balance, clarity, and structural elegance.

Composers such as Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart and Ludwig van Beethoven created works whose architectural strength continues to shape how we understand music today.

The Romantic era expanded this language, placing greater emphasis on subjectivity and emotional expression. In doing so, it gradually moved beyond the Classical framework.

Today, after more than a century of radical experimentation, many listeners are once again drawn to the clarity and equilibrium of earlier musical forms.

At Studio UNKNOWN, we see this not as a retreat into the past, but as an opportunity.

Our aim is to revisit the Classical tradition and reimagine it through a contemporary sensibility—to explore how its structural beauty can speak to the present.

The Power of Melody

One of the reasons popular music has reached such a vast global audience lies in its most fundamental element: melody.

A memorable melody can cross cultural boundaries.It can remain in the listener’s mind long after the music has ended.

We believe that melody is not a relic of the past but a vital force that can connect modern audiences with new music.

Our goal is simple but ambitious:

to create music rich in melodic character—music that listeners can remember, return to, and share.

There was once a time when audiences eagerly awaited the premiere of new classical works.

We believe that spirit of anticipation can exist again.

Through the rediscovery of melody, we hope to contribute—however modestly—to a renewed excitement for contemporary classical music.

Trust in Human Creativity

One of the participants in Studio UNKNOWN develops original melody and ideas and collaborates with professional musicians to bring them to life.

At the heart of this approach lies a deep trust in human creativity—the imagination, sensitivity, and interpretive power of musicians.

Rather than relying on automated composition tools or artificial intelligence, he chooses a path built on dialogue with human collaborators who understand his musical vision.

We share this belief.

In a world that is becoming increasingly digital, we see profound value in the analogue dimension of artistic creation—the exchange of ideas between people, the subtle intuition that emerges through collaboration.

The music we create together reflects this philosophy:

a celebration of the enduring creative power of human beings.

Studio UNKNOWN

We do not seek to reject modernity, nor to escape into nostalgia.

Instead, we aim to reconnect past and present—

to rediscover forgotten possibilities within musical tradition and bring them into dialogue with contemporary sensibilities.

Through this exploration, Studio UNKNOWN hopes to share music that is both timeless and newly alive.