Daisuke Tobari is one of Japan’s most mysterious and influential lo-fi musicians. Emerging from the 1990s Kansai underground, his homemade cassette works and his cult-classic album Guitar became legendary for their dreamlike sound, raw intimacy, and refusal to fit any genre. With almost no interviews, rare live performances, and minimal public presence, Tobari’s music has spread entirely by word of mouth—yet continues to inspire younger artists and collectors today. This article explores his elusive career, the enduring power of Guitar and “Untitled 4,” and why his physical releases remain so highly sought after.

In an era when almost every piece of music is streaming somewhere, there are still records that refuse to become “content.” They live on cassettes, CDs, and vinyl, traveling hand to hand between people who really want to hear them.
The music of Daisuke Tobari is one of those rare cases.

Barely any official information exists about him. There are no social media accounts, almost no interviews, and only a few scattered articles and forum threads. And yet, among underground listeners in Japan and abroad, his name is spoken with a kind of quiet awe. His first album Guitar (1999) has slowly become a cult classic — a lo-fi, dreamlike work that feels both fragile and strangely eternal.

From Kansai lo-fi / scum scene to cult legend

Tobari first appeared in the mid-1990s Kansai underground, around venues like Namba Bears. At that time he was associated with the so-called “lo-fi / scum” scene: harsh, raw, often chaotic performances where noise, improvisation, and accident were welcome guests.

Early live recordings show him sitting with a guitar, spinning out sitar-like improvisations and then suddenly breaking into wordless yells. On paper it sounds almost comical, but the atmosphere is oddly sacred — as if something is being summoned and then immediately hidden again.

Around the same period he began releasing homemade cassette tapes. One of them, a tape called Fantasy, was sold only at a couple of record stores such as Forever Records in Osaka and Los Apson in Tokyo. The circulation was tiny, but it reached the right ears: underground musicians and critics picked it as one of the standout releases of the mid-90s, and a small legend began to form around this mysterious solo artist.

Guitar (1999): an album that refuses to be labeled

The legend truly solidified with the release of his first full album Guitar in 1999, on Bumblebee Records (run by Masahiro Naoe of Carnation and others). The record collects material from earlier cassettes together with new recordings, for a total of 22 tracks.

None of the tracks have official titles. Fans simply call them “Untitled 1,” “Untitled 2,” and so on, which already gives the album a slightly ghost-like feeling. You can’t search for a favorite song by name; you have to remember it as a mood, a melody, a moment.

Musically, Guitar is hard to pin down. There are obvious elements of folk — voice and acoustic guitar, simple chord progressions — but they are wrapped in a warm, grainy, almost broken recording quality. At times it hints at acid folk, private-press singer-songwriters, or experimental music, but none of those labels really fit. The songs feel like fragments of a dream captured on an old cassette deck, intimate and unpolished, full of small noises that become part of the music.

Many listeners describe Guitar as deeply nostalgic. Because the songs have no titles, they can feel like nameless childhood tunes, or memories you can’t fully place. One description that often gets repeated is that his music sounds like “a hum that lives inside your head but is almost impossible to bring outside.” That idea fits Guitar perfectly — it feels less like an album that was written and more like something that has always existed somewhere in the background of your mind.

The quiet power of “Untitled 4”

Among the 22 tracks, one in particular has become iconic: the fourth song, usually referred to as “Untitled 4.” At its core, it’s a straightforward ballad — a simple, unforgettable melody sung in a plain, slightly hesitant voice over lo-fi guitar.
On a technical level, nothing about it is flashy. And yet, for many listeners, it hits like a memory they didn’t realize they had.

The lyrics (never printed in the booklet, passed around by fans who listen closely) carry a mixture of awkward honesty, emotional conflict and tenderness. It feels like someone trying their best to say something important, without the usual protection of clever words or cool poses. The result is both vulnerable and strangely universal.

“Untitled 4” has been covered several times, most famously by Yoshie Nakano of EGO-WRAPPIN’ on her solo album. Hearing a well-known singer reinterpret this obscure lo-fi song revealed just how strong Tobari’s songwriting really is. Stripped of its tape hiss and room noise, the song still stands up as a heartbreaking, beautifully constructed piece of music.

A career that moves in long, quiet intervals

After Guitar slowly spread by word of mouth and became a long-selling underground favorite, many people expected Tobari to become more active. Instead, he kept his distance from the usual music industry patterns.

In 2000, members of the American experimental/psychedelic band Carolina Rainbow brought his tape back to the U.S. and released it there under the title Till the End of the Dream, introducing his music to a new circle of overseas listeners. But even as his cult reputation grew, Tobari himself remained almost entirely out of view.

It wasn’t until 2009 — a full ten years after Guitar — that he released a second album, Drum, again on Bumblebee Records. Like Guitar, it’s a deeply personal, home-recorded work that seems to exist outside of time. Around the same period, a very limited CD-R release called Drum’n’Bass appeared under the name Miyuki Tobari, using the name of his sister as a kind of alter ego.

Later, in 2019, Guitar finally appeared as a 12" LP with a bonus 7" single containing a newly recorded track and a live recording. In 2022, a cassette edition arrived, completing a strange circle: the album that first lived on CD finally returned to the tape format that suits its sound so well.

Between these releases, Tobari has reportedly played only a handful of live shows in the 21st century. Stories from those rare appearances describe a shy figure, announcing a new release almost apologetically, then breaking into a wide, surprised smile when the crowd cheers. It’s easy to imagine that someone with this level of self-doubt might feel that “occasional activity is enough,” even while fans are desperately waiting for more.

Music that feels like a private memory

What makes Daisuke Tobari’s music so enduring, even with such a small catalog and so little public activity?

Part of the answer lies in the sound itself. The recordings are lo-fi, but never in a gimmicky way. Tape hiss, room noise, slightly out-of-tune guitars and uneven dynamics are all present, yet they feel natural, like the texture of an old photograph. Instead of polishing those elements away, Tobari lets them become part of the emotional weight of the songs.

Another part is the way his music balances light and darkness. Some tracks feel like gentle folk songs or casual guitar pop, almost cheerful on the surface. But there is often a shadow underneath — a sense that something painful is being carried quietly in the background. It’s like listening to someone who smiles and jokes with you while still holding onto an old sadness they never fully explain.

Critics and fans have called him “a man chosen by sound and by music,” which sounds dramatic, but after spending time with his albums it doesn’t feel like an exaggeration. There is a sense that these songs weren’t designed for a market or a scene; they simply had to exist, whether they reached ten people or ten thousand.

No streaming, just tapes and discs

In an age when even the most obscure bedroom projects often appear on streaming platforms, Tobari’s catalog remains mostly offline. His albums circulate as physical objects: original CDs, later reissues, cassettes from small overseas labels, and limited LP editions.

For some listeners, this makes his music feel even more special. Discovering Guitar or Drum isn’t just clicking a playlist; it’s finding a tape in a small record shop, or scrolling through a secondhand listing and recognizing a name you’ve only seen on message boards.

At the same time, this scarcity has created a growing demand. Younger musicians — including modern home-recording artists and singer-songwriters — have covered his songs and cited him as an influence. His work appears in lists of great Japanese albums chosen by overseas listeners, sitting quietly alongside artists with far bigger discographies and public profiles.

Why Tobari still matters

Daisuke Tobari’s music is not the kind that dominates charts or algorithms. It doesn’t try to compete with high-definition production or viral hooks. Instead, it offers something increasingly rare: a world that feels completely personal, fragile, and honest, where the distance between the performer and the listener is almost zero.

For fans of lo-fi, acid folk, private-press obscurities, or simply people who like music that sounds like a memory, his albums are an endless source of quiet obsession. You might put on Guitar out of curiosity and find yourself returning to “Untitled 4,” or some tiny instrumental fragment, again and again — not because you can’t get it out of your head, but because it feels like it has always been there.

If you’re curious about this elusive figure and want to experience his world for yourself, seeking out his physical releases is still the best (and often the only) way.

 

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Japan Music Vinyl Japanese Lo-Fi

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