On October 1, 2026, I attended the Osaka Philharmonic Orchestra’s special concert, “Rachmaninoff Cycle—Eternal Romance III,” at The Symphony Hall.
The conductor was the Osaka Philharmonic’s Music Director, Tadaaki Otaka.
The piano soloist was Benjamin Grosvenor.
The first half featured Rachmaninoff’s Piano Concerto No. 2 in C minor, Op. 18, followed in the second half by his Symphony No. 3 in A minor, Op. 44.
The solo encore was Max Reger’s piano arrangement of Richard Strauss’s song “Morgen!,” Op. 27, No. 4.
It would be no exaggeration whatsoever to describe everything performed that night as historic.
My seat was in the front rows at the centre.
It was a position from which I could see the musicians’ expressions and movements directly, but it was not necessarily the ideal place from which to hear the piano and the entire orchestra in the finest possible balance.
Nevertheless, the performance effortlessly erased that acoustic disadvantage.
The power of the music itself transcended the limitations of the seat and brought an immense world into existence before my eyes.
If I remember correctly, it was last year when I first heard the Osaka Philharmonic in a concert hall.
I immediately felt that this was an orchestra with exceptionally beautiful strings.
That beauty did not merely mean smoothness or refinement.
There was warmth within the sound, there was song, and there was a weight cultivated over many years.
But the greatness of the Osaka Philharmonic is not confined to its violins.
Its cellists are themselves truly outstanding.
The cello section does far more than provide the orchestra with a lower foundation.
It sings with depth and warmth, at times speaking more eloquently than the human voice and reaching the listener directly from the very centre of the music.
In Rachmaninoff’s music in particular, the cello is one of the most important voices, carrying nostalgia, love, loss and prayers that cannot be expressed in words.
Every individual sound was rich, yet the entire cello section breathed and sang like one immense instrument.
There were the lustrous violins, the eloquent violas, the deeply singing cellos, and the double basses that gave the music solid ground.
The quality of this string section alone demonstrates that the Osaka Philharmonic is one of the world’s leading orchestras.
Yet its excellence extends far beyond the strings.
The flautists and other woodwind players combine the presence of individual soloists with the sensitivity required to merge into the orchestra as a whole.
The flute sometimes rose above the orchestra like a ray of light and sometimes spoke of the music’s inner life with the warmth of a human voice.
The oboes, clarinets and bassoons retained their distinctive colours while forming a single great breath.
The horns, trumpets, trombones and the rest of the brass possess a nobility that cannot be reduced to volume or sheer power.
When strength is required, they release enough energy to shake the entire hall.
When the music must sing, they produce a gentle sonority that embraces the strings and woodwinds.
The harp is not merely ornamental but shines as an essential light that transforms the music’s colour and space.
The percussion section does far more than emphasise the outline of the score.
With a single stroke or resonance, it moves musical time forward and decisively sets the life of the entire orchestra ablaze.
Violins, violas, cellos, double basses, woodwinds, brass, harp and percussion.
Every section contains outstanding musicians, and their individual abilities crystallise into a single musical expression.
The Osaka Philharmonic is not an orchestra sustained by only a handful of distinguished players.
The entire orchestra breathes, sings and sometimes roars like one immense musician.
I immediately felt that this was one of the world’s leading orchestras.
The performance on October 1 proved once again that my first impression had not been mistaken.
In Rachmaninoff’s Piano Concerto No. 2 during the first half, Benjamin Grosvenor did not play the work in order to display his technique.
Every note entered into the breathing of the orchestra, and rather than confronting one another, the piano and orchestra breathed as a single immense living organism.
Tadaaki Otaka’s conducting did not artificially inflame the work’s passion but allowed it to arise naturally from within.
The Osaka Philharmonic’s rich lower strings, lustrous violins, deeply singing violas and cellos, lucid flute and woodwinds, noble yet powerful brass, and the colour and pulse created by the harp and percussion surrounded and supported Grosvenor’s piano, at times lifting its sound towards distant heights.
After the concerto, Grosvenor’s performance of Richard Strauss’s “Morgen!” must have reached the heart of every listener.
There was nothing ostentatious about it.
There was neither display nor contrivance.
The hope, love, farewell and prayer contained in the word “tomorrow” quietly became gentle sound and filled the hall.
Placed after such a large-scale work, this brief and tranquil music completely transformed the atmosphere.
It was not an appendage called an encore, but another historic performance engraved at the very centre of the evening.
Rachmaninoff’s Symphony No. 3 in the second half was likewise a magnificent performance that revealed the full excellence of the Osaka Philharmonic.
Within this symphony are the memories and nostalgia of a composer who had lost his homeland.
Yet it contains far more than sentimentality.
There are incisive rhythms, freely changing colours, sudden expanses of light, and a powerful will to move forward even while looking back upon the past.
Otaka did not arrange these elements as though explaining them one by one.
He united them as an inevitability within one great breath.
The Osaka Philharmonic responded to that breath with its entire being.
Not long after the Third Symphony began, a phrase appeared that sounded to me as though Rachmaninoff had clearly conceived it as a song to be sung.
The violas and cellos began to sing that melody with extraordinary depth and richness.
At that moment, my own body naturally began to sing as well.
I was not merely following the melody in my mind.
Breath rose from deep within me, joined the sonority of the violas and cellos, and I found myself singing together with the orchestra.
Although I was hearing the work for the first time, my melody, intonation and breathing were in complete accord with the strings.
The many years I had spent singing with piano accompaniment in Kitashinchi—spending enough money there to have built several mansions—had not been in vain.
Of course, I was not singing at a volume that could disturb the people seated in front of me, behind me or on either side.
The voice was almost inaudible to those around me, yet it resounded unmistakably within my own body.
It caused not the slightest disturbance to anyone nearby.
If anyone noticed, rather than being disturbed, they must have wondered how someone hearing the symphony for the first time could sing in such complete accord with the violas and cellos.
I did not consciously decide to begin singing.
The violas and cellos of the Osaka Philharmonic awakened the song that had accumulated within me over many years.
Tadaaki Otaka and the Osaka Philharmonic released the song that the composer had sealed within the notes, and my body, having received it, responded by becoming an instrument itself.
This is the kind of miracle that only a live performance can create.
There were the lustrous violins and the eloquent inner voices of the violas.
Above all, the deep and warm singing of the cellists delivered Rachmaninoff’s nostalgia and prayer directly into the hearts of the audience.
The cellos did not merely support the lower part of the orchestral texture.
At times they sang like human voices.
At other times they took upon themselves the emotions concealed within the work, fulfilling a role that could be described as the soul of the entire symphony.
Beneath them, the double basses built an unshakeable foundation.
Above them, the flute soared like light, while the oboes, clarinets and bassoons created the work’s shadows and nostalgia.
The horns sang as though awakening distant memories, while the trumpets and trombones gave the music majestic power as it moved towards its climaxes.
The harp cast light into the depths of the orchestral sound, and the percussion became the heartbeat that propelled the entire work forward.
No instrument sought merely to advertise itself, yet every note contained the personality and intention of the musician producing it.
Everyone played in the service of one immense musical vision.
That is the defining quality of a great orchestra.
At the instant the symphony ended, enormous applause erupted from the capacity audience.
The applause did not readily cease.
The audience knew that it had witnessed an exceptional performance.
It was a truly wonderful night.
I want to tell music lovers throughout the world that the Osaka Philharmonic is not merely an orchestra with beautiful strings.
There are its lustrous violins, eloquent violas, deeply singing cellos and unshakeable double basses.
There are its flutes and other woodwinds, its brilliant and noble brass, its harp that brings light into the music, and its percussion that creates its living pulse.
Every section is outstanding.
It is an orchestra with world-class musicians in every section, all breathing together in the service of a single musical purpose.
It is one of the world’s leading orchestras.
At the same time, however, I could not help thinking, as I so often do, about the inadequacy of a country that remains unable to deliver such historic performances swiftly to the world.
A paid stream would be perfectly acceptable.
A proper system should be created in which audiences pay a fair price and the proceeds are returned to the musicians, the orchestra and the hall.
This is the age of the internet.
With suitable recording and streaming facilities, it is no exaggeration to say that the sound quality can surpass that experienced through a CD.
At the very least, there is no longer any need to wait for months while physical CDs are manufactured, stocked and distributed.
We live in an age in which a concert can be delivered to listeners throughout the world the following day, or within several days.
Yet in Japan, historic performances remain confined to the memories of those who were present in the hall that evening and eventually disappear.
Could there be a greater cultural loss?
I cannot understand the idea that CDs alone should remain at the centre of musical distribution.
The problem is not the people who love CDs.
The problem is the inertia of those who refuse to change a twentieth-century system under which nothing can be released until a CD is completed.
I understand that there are questions involving copyright, contracts and recording costs.
But these are problems to be solved, not reasons for burying great performances in silence.
Recordings and streaming cannot replace the experience of live music.
But they can preserve the miracles created by live performance and carry them to the world and into the future.
A concert may properly occur on only one night.
A great performance, however, must not be allowed to exist for only one night.
The music created on October 1 by Tadaaki Otaka, Benjamin Grosvenor and the Osaka Philharmonic does not belong only to the audience that was present.
It is a part of Japan’s cultural heritage and should be passed on to future listeners.
Now, while the applause of that capacity audience still seems to be ringing, this performance should be sent out into the world.
And the world should know that an orchestra of such extraordinary quality exists in Osaka.