Aoki Reibo II in Two Voices

Note: I published this on July 24 2026, but somehow it disappeared entirely from my Substack feed! Posted again, missing some comments posted by readers.

The two translations presented below are separated by nearly a quarter of a century. I have put them together here because they reveal strikingly different rhetorical voices from the late Living National Treasure, Aoki Reibo II (1935-2023). Read side by side, they offer a fascinating opportunity to reflect on how one of the twentieth century’s great shakuhachi masters expressed his ideas at different stages of his life.

The first article appeared in Kikan Hōgaku (Issue 32, Autumn 1982), reprinted from the Reibō-kai newsletter. It captures Aoki Reibo II, then 46 or 47 years of age, speaking directly to members of the Reibō-kai in a highly prescriptive, uncompromising voice.

The second article is an interview with Tanaka Takafumi from Hōgaku Journal (Vol. 241, February 2007). By this time, Aoki was 71 years old. Mr. Tanaka and Aoki Reibo III have kindly granted me permission to publish this English translation.

In addition to addressing different audiences in different eras, the contrast between the two pieces may reflect Aoki’s own development both as a teacher and as a person. It may also reflect his awareness of the decline in the number of people practicing traditional music in Japan. To my mind, however, the contrast offers a glimpse into a broader shift in Japanese traditional music over the intervening decades: from a culture that often emphasised discipline, hierarchy, and uncompromising standards to one in which those same values are often expressed rather differently. I leave it to readers to draw their own conclusions, and I’d be very interested to hear your impressions, interpretations, and relevant experiences in the comments.

I have translated these articles as faithfully as possible while seeking to preserve the rhetorical character of the original Japanese. Any errors are entirely my own.

All of you in training, even those at intermediate and advanced levels: know that it’s easy to become a bad player. If you perform in ensemble or renkanwith people worse than yourself, your own playing will immediately deteriorate. Nothing could be simpler. Progress comes at the plodding pace of an ox, but getting worse takes no effort at all - it’s a headlong descent from the ninth heaven. If you are not properly taking lessons with your teacher, you will inevitably decline.

Unless you’re some extraordinary genius, it’s virtually impossible to improve through your own ingenuity. All young or aspiring professionals must take lessons every month in some form. From now on, pay your monthly tuition by bank transfer. Whether you come to lessons or not, paying your monthly tuition is the minimum necessary courtesy.

A lesson is not just one-to-one instruction. Every fragment of words exchanged with the teacher, appearing in concerts, playing at student recitals, acting as substitute teacher, helping the teacher, writing addresses on envelopes, serving as an attendant, carrying bags, washing the car, sweeping the garden, weeding, house-sitting, answering the phone, massaging shoulders, all of these are individual parts of training for someone who intends to become a professional. Merely tootling away on the shakuhachi does not make it hold together as music. Being a professional is not just about making sound. Lining up sounds is not music.

I absolutely do not want people in our association to become shakuhachi-goro. A shakuhachi-goro is someone who carries their shakuhachi around, wandering in and out of players’ homes, floating from teacher to teacher. It is hard to tell whether such drifters are there for a lesson or are simply treating the place like a café. If they’re only there for the tea and a chat, they should at least have the decency to slap down the proper lesson fee for it.

Whether you’re going for ensemble practice or a shakuhachi lesson, especially in the case of ensemble practice at the home of a string player, once the scheduled time is finished, the faster you pack away your shakuhachi and make your exit, the better. Sitting around vacantly waiting until tea is served is the height of stupidity, the absolute worst.

I especially want young people to hear this. Once the lesson is over, pack away your shakuhachi as quickly as possible, and do not linger one second longer than necessary. Even if someone says, “I’m making some tea, so please wait a moment,” say something like, “I’ve sworn off tea,” and just leave. Staying too long is the worst; being slow to pack or clean up lacks discipline.

In any case, so many people have terrible manners. I think there are far too many young people who shamelessly take advantage of other people’s goodwill. Things that not even a dog would do. If taken to a gathering, they immediately start eating the lunch provided without asking the teacher. Even if the host of the gathering says, “Please eat,” is it really acceptable to touch it without your teacher’s permission? Any decent dog will not touch food or drink without its master’s say so. Bad manners, worse than a dog. It leaves me speechless.

Also, when they receive some sort of honorarium, they do not even mention it. This is genuinely annoying. If they don’t mention it, I can only assume they received nothing. As the teacher, how am I supposed to know that I should thank the other party? If you’ve accompanied your teacher to an event, surely the proper form is to first hand the envelope straight to your teacher, and then let them decide what you may keep. Maybe I’m old-fashioned for thinking like this, but I say this here for you to consider.

When I was young, my father told me, “You must absolutely not accept any honorarium.” His point was that my art was not yet at a level worthy of receiving an honorarium. Things are different now. Commuting is expensive, food is expensive, and we occupy a difficult realm. I think it is acceptable to receive something modest. However, I want you to clearly understand that, fundamentally, your art is still not something for which you should feel free to accept payment.

Going back to the original topic, the same applies to ensemble lessons: if you believe quality is worth paying for, then you should pay a commensurate lesson fee when you have the opportunity to play with a skilled person who can help you improve. In Japan these days, those who have mastered their art are not necessarily well off; most live in difficult financial circumstances. Money used judiciously has real value; it is money well spent. Cherish the spirit of the poor person’s single lamp.¹ It is a precious thing.

Above all, shakuhachi lessons are the foundation. If you do not take shakuhachi lessons seriously and devote yourself only to performing, you will become what is called namako-buki² or funagi-buki: a spineless shakuhachi player lacking substance and discipline. Take your shakuhachi lessons seriously. I want you to become shakuhachi players with a core, with backbone. You must absolutely not become a flimsy, fluttering, flattering shakuhachi player. Always uphold the artistic integrity of the shakuhachi.

Teachers, too, must teach with the resolve and unwavering discipline demanded by the task; otherwise, even the most accomplished instructor will find their own art adversely affected. One must approach teaching with a deep sense of the responsibility it carries. It must be so. Lesson fees exist for a reason.

Everyone, receive proper instruction and become orthodox players of dignity and refinement. Do not become a shakuhachi-goro. Let us become a group consisting only of players who embody the highest elegance and dignity. This is exactly what artistic refinement means.

At the National Theatre, Aoki Reibo II will perform Shinkyorei, a piece associated with enlightenment. Yet Reibo quickly dispels that notion. What emerges instead is the unadorned reality of a shakuhachi player.

“Shinkyorei isn’t one of my favourite pieces. It’s a bit plain. I prefer pieces like Shika no Tōne, Kokū Reibo, or Hōshōsū.”

That caught me off guard.

Since the opening of the National Theatre, the Sankyoku no Kai concert series has continued there uninterrupted. To commemorate its 40th anniversary, Aoki Reibo will give a solo performance of Shinkyorei. I thought he must be deeply invested in the piece. Apparently not.

Shinkyorei is one of the ‘Koden Sankyoku’ pieces of the Kinko school, played with Banshikichō as a prelude. It occupies an especially important position as a piece associated with enlightenment.

“I’ll play it on this nine-sun flute that has been passed down through our family for generations. Probably from the Edo period. The black wrapping is whale baleen.”

He played for me. The sharp attack is unmistakably the sound of Aoki Reibo.

“Play a big sound on shakuhachi. Not some little piro-piro noise, but really make it go bō-bō-. That’s where it’s at, isn’t it.”

Are you practicing for the performance?

“If it’s a piece I can’t play without practice, I won’t play it,” he laughed. “Still, if you don’t play your shakuhachi for a while it gets rusty, so you have to at least let it make some sound.”

Is playing shakuhachi enjoyable?

“No, not at all.”

Which is more enjoyable, honkyoku or gaikyoku?

“Well, sankyoku ensemble performance, of course.”

Do you modify your playing style between honkyoku and gaikyoku?

“It’s all the same to me, whether it’s honkyoku, jiuta-sōkyoku, or modern hōgaku. That’s been my principle.”

Do large-scale pieces tire you out?

“Playing shakuhachi is like going for a walk. Like casually taking a lap around the neighbourhood, ton ton ton. I’m not forcing it with effort. It’s the same as breathing. The tiring part is just physically holding the instrument. I’m thinking of inventing something to hold it from above. Then all you’d have to do is put your mouth on it and move your fingers,” he laughs.

The conversation had become almost Zen-like. If Shinkyorei is truly a piece of enlightenment, then somehow it suddenly seemed perfectly suited to the Reibo before me now. Pushing on, I ask about the essence of performance itself.

What about ma?

“It emerges naturally. If you try to create it, it feels contrived. No matter how skilfully you play, you must allow space for repose for the listener. This isn’t something you can teach or be taught. You steal it from great masters who are desperately giving their all on stage.”

He fears that such masters are disappearing.

“My aunt, the younger sister of the first Reibo, was Ōta Satoko, a student of Kawase Satoko. And Abe Keiko too. Kawase-sensei played unbelievably slowly. Us shakuhachi players would end up taking three breaths inside a single note and freezing up. Gorō [Yamaguchi] and I would strategise together: ‘Let’s cut here.’ Abe Keiko produced such a huge sound you thought the shamisen might break.”

His animated gestures as he imitates the old masters have not changed at all.

“Have you ever heard Itō Kosen? Incredible voice, enormous. ‘AUAUAUAU…!’ So powerful, everyone used to say, ‘Ah, the fire engine’s running again,’” he laughs. “She was also a student of Kawase Satoko. In that sense, Kawase-sensei was really remarkable. Everyone had completely different personalities, and she accepted that. Abe Keiko’s voice was so loud the shakuhachi would lose against it. Then we’d respond with TSURE~! and fight back.”

Who are the great masters of shakuhachi?

“Araki Kodō III was probably the single greatest contributor to the shakuhachi world. The fourth Kodō was excellent too. Then there was the first Aoki Reibo, my father, and Notomi Judō I. My father played Kokū Reibo constantly. Once, NHK told him, ‘Sensei, you played that last year,’ and he snapped back, ‘What’s wrong with doing it every year!’

“Yamaguchi Shirō excelled in Yamada-ryū repertoire. Gorō belonged to the same Kinko tradition as me, but rather than rivals we were like brothers. Whenever performances ended we’d praise each other. “Amazing, wasn’t it?” When he died, I just couldn’t stop crying.”

And in modern hōgaku?

“Sakai Chikuho, playing Moroi Makoto’s works, he was amazing. *Kakka-kakka-kakka, bishuuu!* Sawai Tadao was a genius among geniuses. No matter what I played, he could turn it into music. The Sanbonkai was the greatest experience of my life. Maybe it was a destined meeting. Both Yokoyama Katsuya and Yamamoto Hōzan talked endlessly…”

As I listened, I noticed that his usual fierce criticisms and exhortations toward younger players were strangely absent.

“I don’t do that anymore. That was long ago. Back then I used to yell like an idiot,” he says with a laugh. “Now I’m just grateful if people play shakuhachi at all. Even if they’re terrible.”

I asked why he thought the audience for hōgaku was shrinking.

“I’ve never really thought about it. Things that aren’t any good naturally get eliminated, and that’s fine. But if an extraordinary master appears…”

He doesn’t deny being a master himself, and carries the Aoki Reibo name with pride.

Born in Shinjuku in 1935, he was the eighth of nine siblings. His older brother Michio both played and made shakuhachi, but fell ill. At the time, Shizuo [Reibo II’s birth name] was studying teaching at Waseda University. Yet because he had loved shakuhachi since childhood and was always playing it, the path was effectively decided for him. It resembled the circumstances through which his father had inherited the instrument from another elder brother who had also become ill.

Was he rigorously trained by his father?

“Not really. He used to say, ‘Don’t play too much or you’ll get tuberculosis.’ So I grew up secretly listening to his performances from behind shōji screens like a little thief.”

Finally, I ask about the future.

“At my age, being asked about the future…” he says. “Still, next February 3rd we’ll hold the Reibo-kai centennial commemorative concert at the National Theatre. I want everyone to know about its hundred-year history.”