Brilliant Trees (David Sylvian)

 

 

“Brilliant Trees”, the title track from David Sylvian’s 1984 solo debut, is a haunting, contemplative journey through abstraction, spirituality, and sonic experimentation. It closes the album with a sense of spaciousness and unresolved tension that lingers long after the final note fades, acting less as a conclusion and more as an open-ended question.

Musically, “Brilliant Trees” is a sparse, ambient soundscape, weaving elements of jazz, avant-garde, and art rock into a slow-burning meditation. The track is built on minimal percussion, languid trumpet lines - courtesy of Jon Hassell - and subtle, fractured textures that drift in and out of focus. These sonic brushstrokes evoke a dreamlike, almost sacred atmosphere, one that defies easy categorization.

Sylvian’s vocals are subdued, restrained, and yet quietly commanding. He doesn't so much sing as intone, letting his deep baritone drift over the track like smoke. His lyrics are abstract and poetic, filled with philosophical inquiry, elusive imagery, and spiritual undertones. Lines such as “When you come to me / I'll question myself again” suggest inner conflict and a search for meaning, echoing themes of identity and transcendence that run throughout the album.

Unlike more conventional songs, “Brilliant Trees” resists structure. There’s no hook, no chorus - just a gradually unfolding sense of introspection. In this way, it resembles a piece of visual art or a meditative poem more than a traditional track. It asks for patience, but rewards deeply.

As a finale to his debut album, the song encapsulates Sylvian’s move away from the New Romantic aesthetics of Japan toward a more personal, experimental vision. It hints at the ambient and spiritual directions he would fully explore in his later collaborations with artists like Holger Czukay and Robert Fripp.

“Brilliant Trees” is a quietly arresting piece of ambient art-pop that exemplifies David Sylvian’s unique voice in the post-rock landscape. It’s not an easy listen, but for those attuned to its mood, it’s an immersive and profound experience - an aural meditation on the ineffable.

Forbidden Colours 1987 (David Sylvian)

 

 

“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.

Orpheus (David Sylvian)

 

David Sylvian’s “Orpheus” is a haunting, meditative piece that stands as one of the most emotionally resonant moments in his solo career. Featured on Secrets of the Beehive, his 1987 album often praised for its stark beauty and introspective depth, “Orpheus” captures the melancholic grace of Sylvian’s artistry in its purest form.

The song is loosely inspired by the myth of Orpheus - the poet and musician who ventures into the underworld to retrieve his lost love. But rather than retelling the tale literally, Sylvian uses it as a metaphorical framework for a meditation on loss, longing, and the elusive nature of salvation. His lyrics are poetic and impressionistic, evoking more than they declare: “Standing firm on this stony ground / The wind blows hard, pulls these clothes around.” There’s a sense of both vulnerability and endurance that runs through the song.

Musically, “Orpheus” is understated and achingly beautiful. The arrangement is spare, with piano, subtle strings, and atmospheric textures that drift like mist. Ryuichi Sakamoto’s orchestral arrangements lend a cinematic sensitivity without overwhelming the delicate structure. Sylvian’s voice - deep, hushed, and full of yearning - sits front and center, not as a declaration but as a confession.

The song's slow tempo and contemplative nature may challenge impatient listeners, but for those who surrender to its mood, “Orpheus” offers a profoundly moving experience. It’s a song that doesn’t just tell you something - it inhabits a quiet emotional space and asks you to meet it there.

“Orpheus” is an elegant, sorrowful jewel in David Sylvian’s catalog. It captures the essence of Secrets of the Beehive: music as quiet revelation. Profound in its restraint and poetic in its melancholy, it remains one of Sylvian’s most enduring and affecting works - a meditation on beauty, impermanence, and the fragile line between presence and absence.