Listening to Derek Nakamoto’s Fuyu, I can understand why he chose winter to inspire its creation. As he states perfectly in the original liner notes, “Winter is a time of reflection, an opportunity to contemplate our existence.” In essence, how we let go of our past informs how we hold on to the future. Mercurial, personal, atmospheric, and deeply yearning, Fuyu remains his fitting creative testament, bound together as a musical meditation.
Derek’s upbringing, one could say, was the quintessential American story. Born in 1955 in Honolulu, Hawaii, to a Japanese-American family–his father a teacher, his mother a bookkeeper–their modest income afforded him a life free enough to explore his creativity. Growing up in a multicultural city shaped his openness to finding ways of communicating beyond language or shared background.
By the late ’70s, Derek had taken his first steps toward becoming a professional musician, appearing on Hawaiian-made albums like Richie Walker’s Stranger in the Universe and gaining recognition as a gifted multi-instrumentalist. In the early ’80s, he would take his boldest leap yet, leaving behind what seemed like paradise for the untested waters of L.A.’s record studio scene.
It was in Los Angeles where Derek transitioned from a background player for myriad jazz and R&B artists into finding his own creative voice. He befriended Hiroshima founding member June Karamoto and soon joined the groundbreaking Japanese-American group as a multi-hyphenate musician and co-writer. During his tenure with Hiroshima, Derek helped pen iconic songs like “Thousand Cranes” and contributed to impressive records such as Third Generation.
Yet for all of Derek’s success, something lingered quietly in the background—something many hyphenated Americans can sympathize with, myself included: the weight of imposter syndrome.
In 1983, Derek was given the opportunity to work with visionary Japanese-American actress, social activist, and singer Nobuko Miyamoto as both producer and arranger. Unaware of why he carried a persistent sense of not being “enough,” or of being somehow “found out,” Nobuko challenged him to examine the roots of those feelings. While working behind the boards on Best of Both Worlds, Derek encountered a wealth of Japanese and Asian-American history previously unknown to him. As part of the so-called “silent minority,” there was much he had unconsciously internalized and needed to move beyond in order to vocalize his true worth. Finding strength in the shared resilience of other BIPOC communities, he was inspired not to pigeonhole his affinities or talents.
That awakening would usher in Derek’s most professionally fruitful period. He appeared as producer, musician, or writer with artists as diverse as Herb Alpert, Kenny Loggins, and Teddy Pendergrass, while also contributing significant work with Japanese artists like Keiko and Kazu Matsui, Mari Iijima, and Akira Ajimbo as they passed through West Coast studios. In hindsight, it’s a wonder it took until 1995 for Derek to finally put his own name on the cover.
In the liner notes, Derek speaks of coming to this recording with “no preconceived musical ideas.” Recorded on September 5, 1995, in Santa Monica, California–on the very instrument that had once stirred those weighty emotions–he sat in front of the piano and began writing lines shaped by a lifetime of experience. Meditating on winter as the “final season of life,” Derek spent nearly a month crafting this deeply personal record, reflecting on his identity as both an American and someone of Japanese descent, and exploring connections between his Buddhist faith and that of others.
The opening track, “Interlude – Welcome Winter,” introduces the powerful leitmotif to which Fuyu continually returns. Vocalizing words written by his now longtime friend Nobuko, Derek urges us to “dance even as the music slows, let your hair flow,” welcoming winter without fear. Supported by gifted musicians such as Jesse Acuña, Fernando Saunders, Annas Allaf, and Keiko and Kazu Matsui, among others, songs like “The Great Change” straddle the seemingly impossible boundaries of ambient, jazz, and something altogether unplaceable.
Reverend Masao Kodani of the Los Angeles Senshin Buddhist Church once described this kind of music as the “purest form of connection.” On tracks like “Passing Thru Clouds,” that ethos is realized through collective intuition, with each participant following Derek’s direction to feel their way through shifting emotional spectra. Featuring Nobuko’s melismatic vocals and Clay Jenkins’s enigmatic trumpet, the piece captures spirit more than structure. The song is indebted to Mitsue, Nobuko’s mother, whose life inspired its meditation on passage. Elsewhere, tracks like “The Gathering” draw on groove boxes and samplers, assembling fragments of collective memory into a celebration of transition in all its forms.
The nods to Native American culture in “Wanagi Icte Lo,” alongside the dreamy, Asian-inspired atmosphere of “Stone Moving Spirit,” underscore how deeply our shared humanity transcends belief systems and philosophies. “The River Rises” carries that sentiment further, weaving symbolic lyrics that gesture toward the connection between the visible and the unseen.
That unafraid, devotional spirit becomes especially pronounced in the gorgeous ambient ballad “Ocean of Oneness,” a Zen-inspired piece blending ashiko drums and shakuhachi with synths and piano, a reminder that still waters do indeed run deep. Likewise, “Winter Years,” dedicated to Derek’s then 94-year-old grandmother, honors the power in fragility with music that is as gentle as it is profound.
Spanning just over an hour—nearly 71 minutes—Derek Nakamoto’s Fuyu is an album that invites reflection and ultimately commands it through devotion. Surrendering to its longform meditation yields quietly unforgettable moments like “The Nature of the Mind,” offering glimpses of a talent that was always uniquely Derek’s. In the end, what you hear is of a single piece: the peace that exists in the space between winter’s longest, darkest night and the gradual return of spring’s warmer light. In Fuyu’s world, at least for these fleeting moments, it’s okay to hold on to winter.