How a 73-year-old Japanese fusion virtuoso was rediscovered worldwide in his old age — and why his colored reissues under Kitty Records are now so sought after and so pricey.
There's a name that has been appearing more and more frequently in recent years during crate digging — that endless search through record bins for sunshine, groove, and that unmistakable Japanese fusion shimmer: Masayoshi Takanaka. For those unfamiliar with him, he is one of the most beloved guitarists Japan has ever produced. And for those who do know him, you'll be aware that his records have become almost impossible to find recently — and that originals can cost you a small fortune.
The remarkable thing is that this global fame only truly reached him at the age of seventy-three. In Japan, Takanaka had been a star since the 1970s, but outside of Japan, he remained a well-kept secret for decades. Until the internet rediscovered him. This is the story of that comeback — and of the reissues that are its tangible proof.
The man behind the guitar
Takanaka was born on March 27, 1953, in the Akabane district of Tokyo, to a Chinese father from Nanjing and a Japanese mother. He was given the name Masayoshi Liu (劉正義) at birth; it wasn't until he was around fourth grade that he was naturalized as a Japanese citizen and adopted his mother's surname: Takanaka.
Music was in his blood from an early age. His parents had records at home, and next to their house was a night cafe where music always played — he remembers falling asleep to the vibrations of "Mambo No. 5." At first, he only knew Japanese music, but when his older brother introduced him to The Beatles and The Ventures around sixth grade, the shift was complete. He asked for an electric guitar and started taking lessons.
His professional career began in 1971, when he — initially on bass, against his will — started playing in the progressive rock band Flied Egg. In 1972, he joined the influential Sadistic Mika Band, the first Japanese rock band to tour the United Kingdom, supporting Roxy Music. They even performed on the British music program The Old Grey Whistle Test, where their performance was praised by none other than Jeff Beck.
When the Sadistic Mika Band broke up — partly due to the divorce of its two central members — Takanaka formed The Sadistics with some of the remaining band members. And in 1976, he took the step that would define his life: his solo debut Seychelles, on Kitty Records. It was one of the albums that helped put Japanese jazz-fusion on the map.
The Kitty Years: the foundation of an oeuvre
From that moment on, one album followed another — often one or two per year, largely original compositions and guitar instrumentals. Throughout the 1970s and 1980s, Takanaka released more than twenty albums, the majority under Kitty Records, where he remained until 1984. He then moved to Toshiba EMI, and in 2000, he founded his own label, Lagoon Records.
It is precisely these Kitty years that form the core of his legacy, and which are now at the heart of the reissue wave. A few highlights from that period:
Seychelles (1976), his tropical solo debut. An Insatiable High (1977), on which he received help from Lee Ritenour, among others. Brasilian Skies (1978), recorded in Rio de Janeiro and Los Angeles, with contributions from Ryuichi Sakamoto and members of Toto — an album infused with Latin American influences. And Saudade, which even reached number 1 on the Japanese Oricon album chart in 1982.
But for many, his magnum opus is The Rainbow Goblins (1981): a concept album based on the children's book of the same name by Italian artist Ul de Rico. It is one of the most distinctive instrumental albums in Japanese music history — with spoken English narration between the fusion pieces — and won an award at the Japan Record Awards at the time. The accompanying show at the Budokan, where the images from the picture book came to life on stage, became a legendary success.
His trademark in those years, and still: dazzling, sun-drenched guitar lines, a gold-colored Fender Stratocaster, and that characteristic "lagoon-blue" Yamaha SG that he plays live. His music is a mix of jazz, funk, rock, pop, and Latin — technically stunning, but always cheerful and accessible. The kind of music where even the instrumentals feel like they are "singing."
The sound: summer on a record
If you had to choose one song that encapsulates everything Takanaka stands for, it would be "Blue Lagoon" — an instrumental track with a smooth, relaxed groove and melodic guitar lines that sound like melted sunlight. It became a staple of city pop, and Japan's Young Guitar Magazine declared it one of the best guitar instrumentals of all time. Anyone who hears it immediately understands why a new generation rediscovered him online: this is music that sounds like a vacation.
That sunny identity is no coincidence. Takanaka's music perfectly aligned with the Japanese surfing movement of the late 1970s, and his records all exude sea, beach, and travel. The titles speak for themselves: Seychelles, Brasilian Skies, "Blue Lagoon," "Tropic Birds." Like no other, he transformed his guitar into an instrument that radiates warmth — clear, shimmering tones, with just enough jazzy refinement underneath to never let it become saccharine.
His influence also extends much further than you might think. His track "Penguin Dancer" from 1981 was sampled by Grimes in 2015 on her song "Butterfly." And his jazz-fusion style is often cited as an inspiration for the soundtracks of classic video games. Not bad for a guitarist who was barely known outside Japan for decades. There's even humor in his legacy: if you play "Star Wars Samba" from Brasilian Skies on Spotify, your playback bar turns into a lightsaber — an Easter egg that perfectly captures his playful spirit.
The guitars: a surfboard on stage
No story about Takanaka is complete without his guitars, which have achieved as much cult status as his music. Besides the gold-colored Stratocaster and the rainbow Yamaha SG, there's one instrument that surpasses all: his surfboard guitar. In 2003, Japanese luthier Takeda Yutaka secretly built a guitar from a real surfboard — he hollowed it out and installed a Yamaha neck and pickups. At its unveiling during a live show in 2004, the audience went wild. The surfboard was initially light blue but was later repainted to the iconic bright red we know today. It is perhaps the perfect symbol for his music: a real piece of the beach, transformed into an instrument that creates sunshine.
The city pop revival: a second life
For decades, Takanaka was virtually unknown outside Japan. That changed when global interest in Japanese music from the 1970s and 1980s exploded — the so-called city pop revival. Fueled by YouTube algorithms and TikTok clips, and aided by the American label Light in the Attic, which began licensing Japanese music for the West, a new generation of listeners discovered his sunny, optimistic sound. His instrumental track "Blue Lagoon" became almost the calling card of this entire movement.
The revival continued spectacularly in 2026: at seventy-three, Takanaka embarked on his first-ever world tour, with shows in London, Brooklyn, Chicago, San Francisco, Los Angeles, Sydney, Melbourne, and Auckland, among others. Almost all dates sold out almost immediately. The most striking detail: while the audience in Japan consisted mainly of people in their fifties, sixties, and seventies, the venues in the West were full of twenty-somethings. "I was actually planning to let my career fade out," Takanaka said in an interview. "But now it feels like a second life."
For record collectors, this renewed hunger meant one thing: the hunt for vinyl was on.
Why Takanaka specifically?
One might wonder why this particular guitarist became such a collecting phenomenon, and not one of the dozens of other Japanese fusion artists from the same period. The answer lies in a happy coincidence. First, his music is immediately accessible — you don't need to be an expert to appreciate "Blue Lagoon"; it works instantly. Second, his oeuvre is as visually appealing as it is musical: the covers, with their tropical scenes and colorful illustrations, are desirable on their own to have in one's collection. And third, he fit seamlessly into the algorithmic era: his sunny, nostalgic sound is exactly what works well as background music for the endless stream of city pop compilations and lo-fi mixes on YouTube.
Moreover, physical ownership plays an increasingly important role in how fans express their love for music. In an age where everything can be streamed, owning a tangible, beautiful, limited-edition record becomes more valuable — not as a carrier of music, but as an object, a statement, something to hold. Takanaka's colored reissues are the perfect embodiment of this: they sound good, they look beautiful, and they are scarce enough to be proud of.
The originals: scarce and pricey
Original Kitty pressings from the 1970s and 1980s are rare. A first pressing of, for example, Seychelles or An Insatiable High, complete with OBI — that narrow Japanese paper strip around the sleeve with title and information — has seen a significant price increase on the secondary market. It is precisely the OBI that makes the difference: a copy with it is rarer and considerably more valuable than one without, as the strip was lost from most records over the years.
Anyone looking for a neat original pressing in good grading — the standard by which collectors assess the condition of the record and sleeve, from Mint to Poor — will now easily pay many times what such a record cost ten years ago. A still sealed copy, unopened in its original factory packaging, is worth its weight in gold. The city pop revival has relentlessly driven up these prices, and with each sold-out tour date, demand only seems to grow.
However, this applies mainly outside Japan. Because anyone who visits Japan knows that it's a completely different story there. In second-hand shops and at markets — from the legendary Disk Union branches to the Book Off chains and the record districts in Shibuya and Shimokitazawa — Japanese pressings are often found for a fraction of the Western price. There are even entire bins of records for a few hundred yen, and a copy in good condition sometimes starts around four hundred yen. What is a sought-after and expensive collector's item here is simply a common second-hand record there, because it was very normal to own vinyl in Japan at the time, and the print runs were enormous. The true rarities — mint condition, complete with OBI and inserts — can also be quite pricey there, but for common titles, a trip to Japan is almost paradise for the digger. It immediately explains why prices in the West have risen so much: it is partly a matter of geography, not absolute rarity.
The colored reissues: beautiful, more affordable, and immensely popular
Here's the good news for those who don't want to shell out hundreds of euros for an original. A reissue — an official re-release of an older record, often newly remastered — offers a solution. To celebrate Takanaka's half-century as a solo artist, Kitty Records and Universal Japan have embarked on a large-scale reissue campaign: his most popular works from the Kitty years, repressed on limited, colored 180-gram pressings — colored vinyl in the most literal sense.
And these are no ordinary represses. They have been remastered from the original master tapes by Alex Wharton at the renowned Abbey Road Studios in London — a careful mastering that makes them interesting for audiophiles, not just for the eye. Each album also gets its own color, which the colored vinyl collector naturally cannot resist:
Takanaka (1976) was released on clear red vinyl. Brasilian Skies (1978), with its delightful Latin American flair, came out on blue. An Insatiable High (1977) on gold — fitting for an album that beat the American soul-fusion circuit on its own turf. Jolly Jive (1979) on yellow. Saudade on pink. And The Rainbow Goblins (1981) appeared as a purple 2LP in gatefold — the flip-out sleeve that opens like a book, with psychedelic artwork inside. Even Alone (1981) received special treatment: blue vinyl with a bonus red 7", mimicking the original flexidisc of "White Lagoon."
What makes these reissues so sought after is the combination: the music is timeless, the sound quality has been carefully handled, the colors are beautiful, and they are released in limited editions. This is precisely the recipe that collectors respond to — and the reason why many of these editions sell out rapidly and must be pre-ordered, sometimes months in advance.
And there's a fascinating catch here, which we observe closely from the trade. The wave of reissues mainly picked up in 2024 and 2025, and continues unabated this year. On the OBI of such a reissue, a fixed retail price is printed — often around 4,400 yen, which translates to a very normal record price. But as soon as an edition sells out, the second-hand price skyrockets: people sometimes pay many times that 4,400 yen for a colored pressing they missed.
And then something happens that turns the market upside down. A year after such a sold-out release, a new repress regularly appears — often under the exact same barcode as the previous one. We are seeing this now, for example, with Seychelles: the 2024 reissue rose sharply in value, and a new pressing will be released again in July. The same applies to The Rainbow Goblins, whose 2025 edition also increased significantly in price and will be repressed again this year, under the same barcode. For the buyer, this is confusing: because the barcode is identical, it's almost impossible to tell from the outside whether you have a first pressing or a later repress — while that distinction means everything to a collector. And the ironic thing is: these new, affordable represses often sell out again in no time. Demand is simply so great that even a generous repress cannot satisfy the market.
It's a good lesson for anyone jumping in: if you pay an exorbitant price for a sold-out edition, be aware that a new pressing might appear next year for a fraction of that amount. Patience is sometimes rewarded with Takanaka — but being quick also pays off, as the represses are flying off the shelves too.
Original or reissue?
The eternal question for the collector. If you want the real, historical object — the Kitty pressing from the seventies or eighties, complete with OBI, color insert, and original inner sleeve — then you'll hunt for the originals, and you'll have to dig deep into your pockets. Their prices continue to rise as the city pop revival progresses, and a scarce title in top condition is certainly no bargain anymore.
If you want the music in top quality, on beautifully colored vinyl, without spending a fortune, then the recent reissues are a gift. They sound excellent thanks to the Abbey Road remastering, they look stunning on the turntable, and they bring back Takanaka's sunny fusion as it should be: warm, joyful, and full of life.
What both categories have in common: they are selling out. Whether you're hunting for an original or want to get a reissue before the edition runs out — with Takanaka, more than ever, you have to be on time. An artist who wanted to let his career fade out has started a second life. And his records are the shiny, colorful proof of that.
Do you already have a Takanaka on your shelf? A rare original with OBI, or one of the beautiful new colored reissues? Let us know in the comments.
Luister