What increasingly sets amazarashi apart is their refusal to offer comfort for comfort’s sake. Over more than 15 years, frontperson Hiromu Akita has written songs that layer his inner world without softening its edges—never rushing to romanticize pain or promise easy hope. Instead, they lay bare the most intimate contours of emotions, exactly as they are. That quiet, unwavering commitment to honesty has, in turn, reached listeners who have grown guarded—worn down by life, hesitant to open themselves up. And somehow, it has allowed those defenses to loosen.

Ahead of their upcoming show at Olympic Hall in Seoul this April, Akita spoke in a written interview about the starting point of his creative process, his approach to live performance, and what he’s feeling now—offering a perspective as direct as it is unvarnished. “What I hope for now is something much simpler—just being able to smile today.” In that brief line lies the reason amazarashi continues to resonate as one of the most honest voices of this moment. Rather than promising grand salvation, their music lingers because it asks something quieter: to live through today, together. That, more than anything, is what defines amazarashi.

This marks your third performance in Korea. How do you look back on your experiences with Korean audiences over the past two years?
amazarashi: Performing in Korea is something we have wanted to do for a long time. But as with any new place, we did have our doubts at first—whether audiences would truly accept us. Once the show began, though, the response was incredibly warm, and it quickly became a deeply memorable experience for us. As you get older, opportunities to step into a completely new environment and present yourself as you are become increasingly rare. So even now, more than a decade after our debut, being able to have experiences that still feel this fresh means a great deal to us.

This April, you’re set to headline the Olympic Hall in Seoul’s Olympic Park. Having performed in Korea multiple times now, do you find yourselves approaching this show with a different perspective—or trying anything new? And what feels most important to you about this performance?
amazarashi: As this will be our third show in Korea, we want to take the stage with a sense of trust in the audience. We’re no longer looking to second-guess ourselves or hold anything back. Instead, we want to show who we are as amazarashi right now—bringing together both older songs and more recent ones. We’ve already begun working on our next project, but before moving forward into what comes next, this show feels like a moment to pause and say, this is who we are. It’s something we hope to share with the audience—and to reaffirm together.

In Korea, “僕が死のうと思ったのは” has steadily gained a following and is now considered one of your defining songs. It’s rare for a track to resonate this deeply purely on the strength of its message and emotional weight, without being tied to a specific project or moment. What did you feel when you first saw that kind of response? And why do you think this song, in particular, connected so strongly with Korean listeners?
amazarashi: That’s thanks to Mika Nakashima. We were honestly surprised—and really happy. It was unexpected. The song came from a very personal place. It was one of several tracks we had sent to her, and to be honest, I didn’t think this one would be chosen. That said, I did believe it was a strong song. What I’ve come to realize through working as amazarashi is that even the most personal perspective can become something universal. When people try to make songs that will sell widely, the message and lyrics often become simpler—they’re searching for the broadest possible point of connection, the lowest common denominator. I think that’s true of pop music in any country. Our songs move in the opposite direction. We describe very personal experiences from a deeply individual point of view. And still, for those it reaches, it resonates in a real way. Beyond that, I don’t feel the need to over-explain it. For me, it’s enough to create what I want to create—and to know there are people who stand behind it.

Language and message have always felt central to your music. When you performed in Korea, you also provided Korean subtitles—something that seemed to extend that thinking. When you’re sharing your work with audiences who speak a different language, what matters most to you in conveying those messages?
amazarashi: Lyrics are certainly important to us, but when we perform overseas, we don’t dwell too much on the language barrier. That’s because we place just as much trust in the music itself. Much of the music that influenced me was in languages other than my own, and more often than not, I was listening without fully understanding the meaning. Subtitles can be helpful—especially for those encountering our work for the first time—but we don’t see them as anything more than that. In the end, our approach isn’t so different from performing in Japan. We simply want to deliver strong performances and let the songs speak for themselves.

You’ve likely seen firsthand how audiences abroad connect with your music in their own ways. In those moments, did it change how you think about your work—seeing it take on new meanings beyond your original, personal intent? And has that experience influenced your songwriting or live performances going forward?
amazarashi: One song actually came out of our Asia tour–“どうなったって,” from our most recent album. For me, the biggest takeaway is always when a song is born. It means something has moved us deeply enough to take shape in that way. It also brought me back to something from early in our career, when we first started performing outside our hometown. I remember being struck by the realization that there were so many people out there who shared the same feelings. The Asia tour felt like an extension of that moment—just on a much larger scale. We also receive letters from overseas, and when I read them, I’m often reminded that the concerns people carry aren’t all that different. That realization gives me a great deal of courage. And I hope that feeling comes through in our music as well—that when people listen, they can feel they’re not alone.

Your music often begins with a deeply personal confession, but it ultimately opens out into something more universal—a question of what it means to live. It also feels as though your work begins from a place where you don’t hide that underlying anxiety, but bring it into the open. For you now, is making music closer to a form of self-expression, or a process of trying to understand yourself?
amazarashi: Right now, I think music is closer to a form of self-expression. That said, I’ve more or less let go of the idea of fully understanding who I am. In some ways, I’ve become bolder—and at the same time, maybe a little more numb. It’s a change I chose for myself. It could simply come with age, or it might be the result of everything I’ve experienced as amazarashi. Early on, I was trying to prove a kind of hypothesis—that the weakness everyone carries could actually become a strength, something that could completely turn things around. But at a certain point, it started to feel off to keep positioning myself as someone who represents that kind of weakness. Of course, I am a weak person. But I’ve also received more support than I ever expected—enough that it no longer felt right to keep treating that weakness as a kind of weapon. I wouldn’t call myself a hugely popular artist, but I’m not someone who has nothing, either. So now, I see it this way: continuing to make music in a way I can genuinely enjoy—that, in itself, feels like the final piece in proving that original idea.

When you write songs, do they tend to begin with words, or with sound—like melody or texture? And have you noticed that the starting point shifts over time?
amazarashi: More often than not, our songs begin with lyrics. But over the years, we’ve continued to experiment with different approaches, and quite a few also start from melody. The process itself varies—we might write at the piano, or build something out in a DAW (digital audio workstation). From experience, I’ve found that the strongest songs tend to come when we’re clear about what we want to express before we begin. That said, getting to that point usually involves a long process of piecing things together—working through the puzzle of melody and lyrics until everything finally clicks.

You’ve written songs for other artists—Mika Nakashima, Masaki Suda, LiSA, among others—including “僕が死のうと思ったのは.” But in a past interview, you said something that stood out: that you don’t consider yourself to have the talent of a professional songwriter (音楽作家の才能は無い). What did you mean by that? And do you still feel the same way now?
amazarashi: We have someone very close to us—Dewa (出羽), who handles arrangements for amazarashi—and he’s a professional composer. Watching him, I’m constantly reminded that being an artist and being a professional songwriter are completely different disciplines. People like him can write dozens of pieces—sometimes close to a hundred—just for the score of a single film or drama. And when I ask him to arrange a song, it can come back completely transformed, almost as if by magic. It feels like the kind of “muscle” they’ve developed is fundamentally different. Of course, if I’m asked to write something, I’d be happy to take it on. But if the expectation is to meet that kind of professional standard as a songwriter, I don’t think I could fully live up to it.

Your music often begins from something deeply personal, yet at the same time, it feels attuned to the mood of the times—the broader social atmosphere around it. Is that perspective something you consciously try to expand into, or does it emerge more naturally as you express your inner world?
amazarashi: I think that when pop music aims for universality, elements like social context or a sense of time are often the first things to be stripped away. So I wouldn’t say that I consciously try to incorporate society or the times into our music. At the same time, I think there has always been a subtle kind of antithesis within me toward that kind of universality in pop. Recently, hip-hop has become increasingly prominent, and we’re seeing more and more hit songs that directly reflect social and cultural realities. But I grew up surrounded by what you might call “bleached” music—music where those kinds of colors had been removed. So in that sense, I think this perspective developed naturally.

It’s been nearly a year since “ゴースト” was released. The album seemed to grapple with ideas of past mistakes, living with their weight in the present, and whether it’s possible to begin again. Lately, though, it feels like the question of whether someone can be forgiven—or allowed to start over—is increasingly shaped by social judgment, rather than something resolved within the individual. Looking back on the time when you made the album and now, do you sense any shift in how ideas like guilt, forgiveness, and starting over are perceived?
amazarashi: I don’t think the way amazarashi has expanded its reach over time could really be called straightforward. In some ways, it might even look like something closer to a clumsy kind of ambush. And because of that, there’s a certain sense of guilt in me—an awareness, almost, of having caused harm. At the same time, I’ve lived for a long time with the feeling that I haven’t been forgiven by the world—almost as if my very existence carries a kind of guilt. I don’t really know why. It’s just something I’ve always felt. Those feelings, along with a certain aggressiveness within amazarashi itself, became intertwined. And somewhere along that line, the person I am now came into being—not someone who can simply say they have nothing. That’s where “ゴースト” began. I don’t see “ゴースト” as a story about good and evil. But if you were to frame it that way, it’s a narrative told entirely from the perspective of “evil.” What matters isn’t how society judges it, but how I, as I am now, come to terms with who I was—and what choices I make from there. Whatever judgment may follow, I believe I made a choice I won’t regret.

You’ve mentioned that the reflections and lessons you took from “朗読演奏実験空間 新言語秩序”—a project that actively invited audience participation—carried over into “電脳演奏監視空間 ゴースト.” Looking back, what limitations or concerns stood out to you at the time? And how did you try to address or expand on them in this new project?
amazarashi: It really comes down to how the performance is structured. I strongly felt that the spoken narration between songs needed to be more concise, so we reduced the amount of text as much as possible. To support that, we set the performance within a closed space—a ship. That helped justify a smaller cast and allowed us to keep the focus more contained. In the process, I stripped away anything unnecessary from my writing and worked with a professional screenwriter to ensure the ideas came across more clearly. Above all, because this work is centered on the music, I wanted the surrounding narrative and messaging to remain as simple and direct as possible.

Your performances often feel like more than just live shows—they come across as fully realized spaces, where a distinct world and narrative unfold. For you, is a performance closer to a place where a finished work is reproduced, or part of an ongoing process in which the work continues to take shape?
amazarashi: Ideally, I think of it as a fully realized work—one that includes visuals and lighting—within which our performance enters almost like a variable, creating tension in the moment. It might not fully come across unless you experience it in person, but our live performances are actually more physical than people might expect—we really push ourselves on stage. And I hope that sense of energy can still carry through, even when experienced through video—whether that’s on DVD or platforms like YouTube.

A live show is also one of the most direct ways an artist and an audience meet. As you’ve continued performing and playing more shows over time, how has your sense of that relationship—with your audience or listeners—changed?
amazarashi: For me, the very fact that an audience is there already carries meaning. That alone changes the energy of a performance. I used to carry a lot of anxiety, but now I trust the audience—I no longer feel that same uncertainty. I see myself as someone who offers something. And if I can sing with everything I have, and lose myself completely in the music, that in itself feels like the best possible moment.

The “電脳演奏監視空間 ゴースト” performances have since expanded into the “生活の果てに音楽が鳴る” tour across Asia. What would you say is the core theme that carries through both projects? And at the same time, what has shifted or evolved between them?
amazarashi: At first, we wanted to take the “電脳演奏監視空間 ゴースト” concept on the road as it was. But technically, that proved difficult. So while the setlist is centered around songs from “ゴースト,” we shaped it in a way that could connect more closely with everyday emotions. At its core, though, it still comes from my own feelings—so in that sense, nothing fundamental has really changed.

Your music doesn’t seem to offer direct salvation, but rather creates space for listeners to confront their own lives. In a time where anxiety and disconnection feel more pervasive than ever, what do you hope your music can be for people going forward? And what does “hope” mean to you now?
amazarashi: I’m not aiming for anything that grand. I simply do what I want to do, and if that resonates with someone, that alone makes me happy. Of course, if my music could save someone, there would be nothing better. But if you begin with the intention of saving people, I think it inevitably becomes less interesting. What I hope for now is something much simpler—just being able to smile today.

It feels like amazarashi’s body of work has, in many ways, been a sustained attempt to hold onto that question—what it means to live—without letting it go. With that in mind, what kind of mindset are you moving forward with now? And what do you hope your music can come to mean for people living in this moment?
amazarashi: Right now, we’re in the middle of a production period, so I’ve been spending a lot of time reflecting. But I don’t believe in living for the sake of making music. For me, music feels more meaningful when it emerges naturally. As long as I can hold onto what I’m feeling in the present—without letting it slip away—I believe the music will come on its own. In that sense, I’m already looking forward to what kinds of emotions I might encounter in Korea.