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.”
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.
