“Forbidden Colours” is a song steeped in quiet beauty, longing, and existential melancholy - an exquisite collaboration between David Sylvian and composer Ryuichi Sakamoto that has become one of Sylvian’s most cherished works. Originally composed as the vocal version of Sakamoto’s theme for the 1983 film Merry Christmas, Mr. Lawrence, this iteration, included on the 1987 reissue of Secrets of the Beehive, feels right at home within the album’s introspective, chamber-pop aesthetic.
The song title requires some explanation. It refers to the movie's relationship between a young Japanese prison camp commander and an Australian prisoner who fascinates him. The japanese word for colour is jiki, but it also denotes erotic love. Compounded with the modifier 'kin' meaning ilicit, you get kinjiki, which can be translated either as Forbidden Colours, or equally well was Forbidden Sexuality - in it's latter sense the word is used as a euphemism for homosexuality.
Right from the first few notes, “Forbidden Colours” casts a spell. Sakamoto’s haunting piano motif is minimalist yet emotionally expansive - its delicate chord progression as fragile as porcelain, yet carrying a deep undercurrent of sorrow. The arrangement on this version is more sparse and intimate than the original 1983 single, aligning more closely with the soft orchestral textures that define Secrets of the Beehive.
Sylvian’s voice is central to the song’s emotional pull. Smooth, resonant, and utterly controlled, his delivery is almost prayer-like: detached and reflective, yet steeped in feeling. His lyrics are elusive and poetic: “The wounds on your hands never seem to heal / I thought all I needed was to believe.” The themes of suppressed emotion, spiritual yearning, and internal exile resonate throughout, embodying a kind of noble sadness that became a hallmark of Sylvian’s solo work. There’s a sense of resigned grace here - of accepting pain not with despair, but with dignity.
Musically, the track blends ambient minimalism with classical elements, echoing the emotional landscapes of both Japanese and European art music. The restrained instrumentation (piano, strings, and soft electronic textures) creates a space that feels both sacred and private. There’s no excess here; every note breathes.
Compared to the earlier version, this Secrets of the Beehive track strips the song down to its bare emotional essence. It trades cinematic sweep for confessional intimacy, and in doing so, reveals a deeper vulnerability. It feels less like a soundtrack and more like a whispered confession in a candlelit room.
This version of “Forbidden Colours” (as featured on Secrets of the Beehive) is a gorgeous meditation on love, loss, and quiet endurance. David Sylvian’s restrained yet emotionally charged performance, paired with Sakamoto’s achingly beautiful composition, makes for a song that feels timeless and soul-stirring. It’s a fitting finale to an already introspective album, encapsulating the ache of beauty and the stillness of sorrow with breathtaking elegance.
Right from the first few notes, “Forbidden Colours” casts a spell. Sakamoto’s haunting piano motif is minimalist yet emotionally expansive - its delicate chord progression as fragile as porcelain, yet carrying a deep undercurrent of sorrow. The arrangement on this version is more sparse and intimate than the original 1983 single, aligning more closely with the soft orchestral textures that define Secrets of the Beehive.
Sylvian’s voice is central to the song’s emotional pull. Smooth, resonant, and utterly controlled, his delivery is almost prayer-like: detached and reflective, yet steeped in feeling. His lyrics are elusive and poetic: “The wounds on your hands never seem to heal / I thought all I needed was to believe.” The themes of suppressed emotion, spiritual yearning, and internal exile resonate throughout, embodying a kind of noble sadness that became a hallmark of Sylvian’s solo work. There’s a sense of resigned grace here - of accepting pain not with despair, but with dignity.
Musically, the track blends ambient minimalism with classical elements, echoing the emotional landscapes of both Japanese and European art music. The restrained instrumentation (piano, strings, and soft electronic textures) creates a space that feels both sacred and private. There’s no excess here; every note breathes.
Compared to the earlier version, this Secrets of the Beehive track strips the song down to its bare emotional essence. It trades cinematic sweep for confessional intimacy, and in doing so, reveals a deeper vulnerability. It feels less like a soundtrack and more like a whispered confession in a candlelit room.
This version of “Forbidden Colours” (as featured on Secrets of the Beehive) is a gorgeous meditation on love, loss, and quiet endurance. David Sylvian’s restrained yet emotionally charged performance, paired with Sakamoto’s achingly beautiful composition, makes for a song that feels timeless and soul-stirring. It’s a fitting finale to an already introspective album, encapsulating the ache of beauty and the stillness of sorrow with breathtaking elegance.