Last June, even in the rush of foreign artists flocking to Korea, one news stood out: SEKAI NO OWARI would finally come back after six years. I don't usually get attached to artists, but they have always felt special to me. At a time when Japanese music barely drew attention here, they found an audience and gave me a chance to show an affection I had long kept hidden. Back when streaming was not yet the norm, I felt the shock of hearing “Earth (2010)” by chance at Shibuya Tower Records. I still remember the wonder of their set at the Jisan Valley Rock Festival, when Japanese musicians rarely came to Korea. For those of us who grew up quietly as J-pop kids, SEKAI NO OWARI pulled us into the light. Few longtime fans would deny that.
I ask myself what allowed this band to bloom in such barren soil. Their look was the first hook. Despite being a band, they had no bass or drums—only two guitars, a piano, and a DJ booth. One member even wore a clown mask. Curiosity about their appearance soon led to curiosity about their music. Listeners then discovered a sound far from convention and began a closer kind of communication with the group.
Two early tracks set the template. “虹色の戦争” wraps a lyrical piano line in a house rhythm. “スターライトパレード” presses longing and grit into rhythm-driven electronica. Together, they stamped the band’s identity as a creative collective that refused genre. Inside melodies that sound almost beautiful, they ask, “Does the song of freedom you killed still echo in your heart?” They face the world’s end and cry, “It is like the night sky stolen by our civilization.” In that moment, you are pulled straight into their vast world.
Their early albums “Earth”, “Entertainment”, and “Tree” share one realm: a SEKAI NO OWARI–style fantasy that bends abstract ideas, interpreting them freely yet sharply through a megaphone of self-awareness. The force behind that message is their frontman, Fukase. Born with ADHD, he struggled to control his emotions, was expelled from high school, and moved to the U.S. During that year abroad, his illness grew worse. He returned to Japan and was hospitalized, placed under 24-hour surveillance, and given heavy medication. The treatment brought extreme mental and physical pain, and his weight dropped to 40 kilograms. Bound in his hospital room, he despaired of his own future and felt the world had ended. That experience gave birth to the name The End of the World(世界の終). Fans know this story well.
When his condition improved, Fukase turned to music to survive. He had sung since childhood, started writing songs and playing guitar in middle school, and had already taken early steps in music while in the U.S. Convinced there was nothing else left, he gathered friends and even went into debt to convert a basement into a rehearsal space. That basement became Club EARTH, the live house that launched their growth. There, he built a circle of longtime companions: Saori, his kindergarten friend; Nakajin, his elementary school friend who helped him with his entrance exams; and DJ Love, his high school classmate who completed the band’s sense of mystery. Their beginning was rooted in absence and hardship. That very narrative multiplied the impact of their music many times over, pushing them to carve a new line in Japanese pop history.
Their originality could not be copied. It came from two forces: the creativity of building almost everything themselves and the persistence of chasing new sounds. Apart from DJ Love, all three members write and compose. They also take on engineering, concert production, music video direction, and album art. That ability to be nearly self-sufficient has long been a point of pride for the band. From early on, they also sought out exchanges with overseas artists, bringing a global energy into Japan’s domestic market. Their collaborations with Epik High, Owl City, Nicky Romero, Clean Bandit, and R3HAB kept them ahead of the curve. Even years after their debut, these ties helped preserve their edge. Under the name End of the World, they released “Chameleon,” an album that stands as a meaningful attempt only this band could have made.
In their early years, gossip about the band’s image and anecdotes fueled attention. But now, sixteen years in, they stand as veterans. Where once tension came from balancing relationships and work, today their drive rests squarely on music and performance. The breakthrough of Habit showed this strength most clearly. The track twisted their familiar band sound into a dance tune, pairing it with bold choreography that felt almost radical for them. It proved its impact, pulling in 230 million YouTube views, close to the 250 million of “RPG.” It also won the Grand Prize at the 64th Japan Record Awards and Video of the Year at MTV VMAJ 2022. Once again, they pulled the trend line of the music scene toward themselves.
In recent albums, SEKAI NO OWARI have set aside fierce self-assertion, choosing instead to be a comforting companion rooted in everyday life. With every member but Fukase now married and settled in a family, the imagined romance once speculated between him and Saori no longer has a place. Fukase’s sharp words remain, though their frequency has clearly dropped. The songs trace this shift. “Silent” is a Christmas number following “イルミネーション.” “周波数” carries the atmosphere of a storybook and unfolds into a more evolved form of hybrid music. “最高到達点” shows what kind of chemistry emerges when the songwriting of “Tree” meets today’s band. “サラバ” was written after breaking through a long, dark tunnel, turning even failure into a seed of hope. These layers of change, built up over the years, are why longtime fans look forward to the Korean live show more than ever.
People say time changes everything, but sometimes it feels powerless. A new SEKAI NO OWARI song proves it. The moment the intro plays, it becomes a time machine, collapsing the years into a single horizon: the thrill of Shibuya Tower Records in 2011, the blazing Jisan Valley Rock Festival in 2012 and 2016, the Korean shows of 2017 and 2019, and Summer Sonic in 2023. The band that once chose music simply to survive now sings about ordinary emotions, yet their voices still carry the depth of those who have seen the end of the world. True change, perhaps, is not becoming someone else entirely but maturing without losing your essence. Listening to them today, I remind myself to do the same—to change while staying true. As they once sang, even at the place you thought was the end, there is always a new beginning.