There’s a moment in the middle of Yui Onodera’s conversation where he describes his favorite sound as silence itself: “the ultimate rest, the finest pause.” It’s a revelation that makes perfect sense when considering his final contribution to the Waterworks trilogy, a release that finds beauty in the spaces between sound as much as in the sounds themselves. Working with the engineered confluence of the Kiso Three Rivers, Onodera has created something that feels both ancient and impossibly contemporary.
What’s compelling about Onodera’s approach is how he thinks in systems and connections. He sees the relationship between miso fermentation and spatial acoustics, between the texture of scattered water droplets and the vastness of generational flow. His work exists in that liminal space he describes as “between sound and music,” creating compositions that don’t just fill environments but transform them.
Kiso Three Rivers is out now on Field Records. Listen to it HERE.
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This final Waterworks release focuses on the Kiso Three Rivers and their engineered separation in collaboration with Dutch engineer Johannes de Rijke. What drew you to this particular site and its historical significance?
This album was a commissioned work, and I was initially asked to create a concept album focusing on the Kiso Three Rivers. Before receiving the commission, I knew very little about the area, so I began by conducting research. As I dug deeper, I started to uncover the regionʼs unique environmental history. This plain was once part of the sea; rain that fell upstream became rivers, carrying soil and sand from the mountains, which gradually formed the land. Eventually, the three rivers converged, creating a region where even minimal rainfall could easily lead to flooding.
Since I was unfamiliar with the area, I asked the chef of IZUMO, a members-only Japanese restaurant in Nagoya, to coordinate a fieldwork tour around the Kiso Three Rivers. I had previously produced the background music for his restaurant, a short version of which was released on Anjunachill.
The involvement of the chef from IZUMO in your fieldwork planning is a fascinating detail. Do you see parallels between culinary and sonic composition, particularly in how both involve layering, pacing, and sensory intention?
Absolutely. This is actually an area of great personal interest for me at the moment. In the past, I’ve created many works that engage not just the hearing, but also the sight and smell, drawing on multiple senses. However, taste was a domain I had not previously explored. Just as a dish is presented on a plate, sound exists within a space—space becomes the vessel for sound. The learning that comes from working with professionals in entirely different fields is invaluable. As I spoke with him and learned how he thinks about cooking, I came to realize that, in terms of creative process, it’s not at all unrelated to music. He felt the same way, and we quickly found common ground and began collaborating.
Across the trilogy, youʼve explored water engineering through sound. How did your approach shift or evolve between the previous installments and this one?
Before composing, I listened to some of the other albums in the series and found each to be an intriguing reflection of its creatorʼs individuality. How each artist interpreted and engaged with history and culture was distinct. For my part, I decided to approach this piece using electroacoustic and dub techniques, which are most familiar to me. I incorporated traditional Japanese instruments like the shō (used in gagaku court music), the acoustic sculpture instrument hamon, and various ethnic instruments and percussion.
You described using electroacoustic and dub techniques alongside traditional instruments like the shō and hamon. How do you navigate the balance between technological intervention and cultural memory when working with such historically resonant instruments?
When working with traditional elements, it’s easy to fall into rigid, overly formal modes of expression. While I deeply respect traditional forms such as opera or gagaku, when I create something new, I try not to be bound by existing frameworks. Instead, I aim to treat the materials that make up those traditions in new ways, using methods that are contemporary—whether that means working with current technologies or simply following my present interests.
Thereʼs a complex interplay of nature and human intervention in the story of the Kiso delta. How did you translate that tension into your sound palette?
I wanted to express the passage of time ̶ from the past to the present ̶ associated with the Kiso Three Rivers using ma (spatial pauses) and silence. I aimed to evoke a sense of a place that is neither East nor West, and a time that is neither now nor then ̶ an ambiguous, timeless moment.
Your compositions on the A-side feel like carefully sculpted miniatures, while the B-side is more spacious and immersive. How did you decide to structure the album into these two distinct halves?
Initially, I intended to express the cultural and historical layers of the Kiso Three Rivers through a series of short, diverse vignettes. However, during fieldwork, I was struck by the grandeur and continuity of the riversʼ flow ̶ a lineage carried through generations. To capture that sense of scale and continuity, I realized that I also needed to include longer-form sections.
Can you speak to the field recording process for this release? Were there particular moments or sounds captured near the rivers that became central to the composition?
The field recordings were mainly conducted around the delta area where the three rivers converge. I used a SONY binaural microphone and a Korg DSD recorder. What I found most captivating were the textures of scattered water droplets and the fabric-like surface patterns formed by waves. I tried to keep these recordings as natural as possible, avoiding excessive processing.
In your fieldwork, you mentioned being struck by both the texture of water droplets and the vastness of the rivers. Did you find that these small-scale and large-scale phenomena influenced different aspects of your compositional process?
During the composition process, I didn’t consciously try to differentiate between the scales of the environment. However, the fieldwork did provide an opportunity to reflect on the entire flow of water—how a single drop of rain falling from the sky descends a mountain, eventually becoming a river and flowing into the sea. Looking back, I realize that I may have unconsciously distinguished between scales. For example, K
Your use of negative space is particularly striking. What role does silence or restraint play in your work, especially in a project so tied to natural systems?
I find beauty in music that exists on the blurred boundary between the artificial and the natural. The same can be said for architecture ̶ for instance, Junya Ishigamiʼs work, which exists in that in-between space between architecture and landscape. His buildings embody both the vastness and gentleness of nature. Iʼm always striving to create music that functions in a similar way.
The Kiso rivers are not only sites of engineering but of deep cultural and environmental memory. Did working with this location shift your perception of the landscape or your role as a listener?
I previously released an album called 1982 on ROOM40, which explored the transformation of memory and recording through the use of old technologies like tape, trying to express the in-between of past and present time. Though my approach here is different, I think this project shares a similar essence. Both are rooted in fieldwork, but unlike academic studies, theyʼre more personal ̶ designed to offer intuitive understanding through sound.
And how do you think of the listenerʼs position in a work like this: are they inside the environment, hovering above it, or moving through it?
Sadly, the original soundscape of the Kiso Three Rivers hasnʼt been preserved. But by using the current, real-world soundscape, I hope to generate curiosity and awareness about the regionʼs historical and cultural context. Iʼd be happy if this album prompts listeners to reflect on the long history of collaboration between Japanese people and the Dutch engineers who brought hydraulic engineering techniques to Japan.
Looking back on the Waterworks trilogy as a complete body of work, what threads or questions feel most unresolved, or most clarified, by the final release?
Thatʼs something I would prefer to leave to the listener. As artists, each of us, from our own perspective and method, simply chooses one answer from among many equally valid options.
Has this extended engagement with water systems, engineering, and history changed the way you think about soundʼs relationship to environment?
Iʼve produced many pieces of environmental music ̶ for shops, restaurants, and even aircraft interiors ̶ each closely tied to its own context and environment, while also being designed with attention to psychological and physiological effects on the listener. Sound as environmental design is still an underdeveloped area in architecture, but I believe musicians can play a vital role in enriching spatial experiences.
Recently, I created environmental music for a 150-year-old miso brewery in Nagoya. They also practice a special method of miso production that uses vibrational energy to enhance microbial fermentation, known as “sonic aging.” This project even received an award from Japanʼs Ministry of Agriculture, Forestry and Fisheries and is now being prepared for international presentation.
You spoke about working on music for “sonic aging” in miso production. That suggests a belief in sound not only as art or design, but as a functional agent. How far do you think this idea could be pushed? Can music alter the material world?
Sound is a physical phenomenon—vibrations in the air. Music, too, is sound, though people often associate it more with narrative and emotion. I’ve long been interested in the space “between sound and music”—a place where physical and psychological effects of sound can coexist in balance. In the case of sound environments for fermentation, a miso brewery is a home for microorganisms, but also a workspace for humans. I designed a sound environment and sound system that could serve both purposes.
What excites me most are projects that defy categorization—those that can’t be neatly filed under “art” or “design,” but rather cross disciplinary boundaries. The same applies when I design sound for products or devices. When Brian Eno created the startup sound for Windows 95, I believe he was also striving for a balance between functionality and emotional resonance. I teach at a university in Japan on the theme of “between sound and music,” and that practice begins by questioning the conventional boundaries—asking what it means for something to be both sound and music.
The Kiso Three Rivers project seems to mark a convergence of many threads in your practice: environmental sound, traditional instruments, historical research, and subtle technological manipulation. Has this work pointed you toward any future directions or unanswered questions you want to explore?
Yes, this project was both intellectually stimulating and creatively challenging. I’m deeply grateful to Arjan from Field Records for commissioning the work. It allowed me to combine diverse techniques and develop new experimental processes. I also feel honored to have had the opportunity to present it at the Expo 2025. If the opportunity arises, I would love to continue creating concept albums grounded in fieldwork conducted within specific cultures or regions. This approach feels very architectural to me, and I find it profoundly compelling.
And lastly, I’ll ask the same question I always do to close: What are some of your favorite sounds in the world?
I love the ECM statement: “The most beautiful sound next to silence.” For this album, I was fortunate to record in Japanʼs second-largest anechoic chamber ̶ a space that doesnʼt exist in the natural world unless artificially created. That experience made me realize my favorite sound is silence itself. I might be most interested, as a composer, in designing “the ultimate rest” – the finest pause.
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