【古殿唱片音樂故事】「歷史」中的生命史：兩位「灣生」音樂家與兩套跨越冷戰的黑膠唱片

古殿殿主

一個父親，在孩子們人生中最重要的音樂會前夕，突然去世了。

那場音樂會是1969年底在東京。這對姊弟剛剛完成了一套龐大的錄音計畫：貝多芬五首大提琴奏鳴曲，加上三套變奏曲，是貝多芬為大提琴與鋼琴所寫的全部作品，共八曲，六面黑膠，三張唱片。東芝唱片為紀念貝多芬誕生200週年策劃的《貝多芬大全集》第八卷，室內樂部分由他們姊弟擔綱。

錄音剛完成。父親還在等著聽孩子們回到家鄉的首演。

然後他走了。

「去年11月，就在這對姐弟於故鄉舉行首場獨奏會前夕，父親突然撒手人寰，這對兩人而言無疑是最大的痛心之事。」

這段話，是他們在桐朋學園的老師寺西春雄(1920-2003)，在1970年1月10日寫下的。寫在那套貝多芬黑膠唱片的內冊裡。

這套唱片，皮革質感的精裝盒，正面燙著金色的貝多芬親筆簽名。金色標籤，貝多芬肖像居中。三張黑膠，錄音時間：1969年10月至12月，東京文化会館小廳。

這套唱片，我現在才真正理解，同時也是一份獻給父親的遺禮。

這對姊弟叫岩崎淑（Shuku Iwasaki）與岩崎洸（Ko Iwasaki）。

姊姊淑，1937年生。弟弟洸，1944年生。

他們不是在日本出生的。他們出生在台灣。出生在高雄。

他們的父親岩崎千藏，是日本統治台灣時期高雄女中的音樂老師，同時也是一位小提琴家。

在台灣的歷史、乃至日本的歷史裡，有一個幾乎被遺忘的群體，叫做「灣生」——那些在日本統治台灣期間出生於這塊土地的日本人。

1945年日本戰敗，他們必須「回到」一個他們從未真正生活過的祖國。高雄給了他們出生，日本給了他們未來，而兩者之間那道歷史的裂縫，成了他們整個生命的底色。

關於這對「灣生」音樂家的介紹。這件事本身，就是一個需要被補上的歷史篇章。

試著在網路上查詢「岩崎千藏」這個名字。

結果幾乎是空白的。

整個網路世界裡，關於他的描述只有一句話——出現在一個沒有詳細來源的日本娛樂博客上：「父親是小提琴家，曾在台灣的學校擔任音樂老師。」

就這一句。

而那個讓兩位在國際舞台上留下完整紀錄的音樂家成為可能的人，在被後來建構的「歷史」裡，就這樣消失了。

這件事值得停下來想一想。

我們今天所認識的「歷史」，很大程度上是後來被挑選出來的論述所建構的。什麼值得被記錄，什麼不值得；誰進入了百科全書，誰消失在資料庫的空白裡——這些選擇從來不是中性的。它們有一個中心，那個中心決定什麼是「重要的」。一個在殖民地台灣高雄女中教小提琴的日本音樂家，對那個中心來說，顯然不夠重要。

但「岩崎千藏」的生命存在過。不只存在過，還做了一件非常重要的事：他把音樂傳給了他的孩子。淑五歲起由他親自啟蒙，在高雄那個家裡，在那架鋼琴前，父親用小提琴家的耳朵聽著女兒練琴。洸在家裡看到姊姊的同學拉大提琴，說「這個好」，父親隔天就帶著琴回來了——那個立刻回應孩子的好奇心、讓音樂成為家裡最自然的日常的人，是千藏。

他存在過，而且他的存在造成了生命的影響。

那麼，他的歷史在哪裡？

它在那套黑膠唱片的內冊裡。

在寺西春雄1970年1月10日寫下的那幾段文字裡。寺西說：「能將這兩人導向如此理想的發展，甚至支持他們赴海外留學，主要歸功於他們的父親千藏先生。」

「岩崎千藏」的生命歷史，活在那個實體裡。你必須拿起那套唱片，打開那個皮革外盒，翻開那本印刷於1970年的內冊，才能讀到他。

古殿研究歷史的出發點：「歷史不只是過去發生的事件，而是生命狀態。」 事件的歷史，是事後被挑選出來的論述所建構的——那個建構有中心，有邊緣，有被納入的，有被排除的。但生命的歷史，是原本就存在的。它不因為沒有被論述而消失，它只是在等待有人翻開那個實體，重新與它連結。

岩崎千藏，就在那套唱片裡等著。

他等了五十多年，在那個黑色皮革盒裡，等待有人打開它，讀到他的名字，然後把他帶回來。

他們進了桐朋學園。在那裡，遇見了寺西春雄（1920–2003）。

寺西是桐朋學園的教授，他同時是日本重要的音樂評論家、日本愛樂交響樂團秘書長，以及日蘇音樂家協會會長——也就是說，他是當時日本與蘇聯音樂界交流的最高窗口人物。他在1970年1月10日替這套唱片寫下的內冊文章，在冷戰的語境下不只是一篇師長序言，而是一份極有份量的公開背書。同年，岩崎洸前往參加柴可夫斯基大賽。

寺西後來這樣寫他們：

「雖然兩人都是非常努力的人，但顯露在外的性格乍看之下卻截然不同。」

姊姊淑，「無論是演奏實踐還是學科理論，她都有一種不把自己分內的事全部做完絕不罷休的韌性。無論詢問哪位老師，她都是班上模範生的首選。」

弟弟洸則完全不同。「對於自己無法認同的事情，即使對方是老師，他也擁有絕不退讓、據理力爭的強度。因此，常能見到他賭氣噘嘴的神情。然而，一旦他理解並信服，他就會像把先前的所有不滿忘得一乾二淨似地，展現出超越常人的積極行動力。」

然後寺西說了一句話，我認為是理解這對姊弟最核心的鑰匙：

「雖然這對姐弟在表面上有諸多不同，但其核心性格卻有著共通之處。他們都是擁有如雜草般強韌生命力的人。」

「雜草」。這個詞用得精準。不是溫室裡的花，不是刻意栽培出的奇葩——而是那種無論種在哪裡，都會頑強扎根、往光的方向生長的東西。

多年後，寺西再度見到他們，留下了這段話。

關於淑——「在校期間，我曾從她的真摯中感受到一抹潛藏的憂愁，但現在她已跨越了那道坎，臉部表情生動地流露出內心的從容與寬裕。或許正是因為她擁有強韌的自我，以此為基礎，才完成了從狹隘固執的『小我』向豁達開朗的『個性』的過渡。」

關於洸——「纖細神經與粗獷膽識奇妙交織的學生，現在我感受到他已成長為具備均衡個性的人。那種充滿野性的活力在洗練感官的支撐下，讓他的全身散發出充實的氣魄。」

這兩段話放在一起，越讀越覺得，它們不只是對兩個人的描述，而是對兩種不同的音樂家成長路徑的精確素描。

淑的成長，是向內的。她對自己的要求極高，那種高要求在年輕時化成神經質與憂愁，是一種持續向內施壓的力量。正因為這個壓力如此真實，當她最終跨越它、不再被它壓制而是駕馭它的時候，那個強韌的自我才真正成形。一個能夠聽懂史塔克(Janos Starker,1924-2013)、托勒里耶(Paul Tortelier,1914-1990)、帕爾曼(Itzhak Perlman,1945-)、麥斯基(Mischa Maisky,1948-)等世界第一流演奏家的音樂語言，在最短時間裡進入不同大師音樂宇宙的人——這種能力的底層，正是那個曾經對自己嚴苛到憂愁的精神結構，在歲月中鍛煉成的理性、穩定與強大。伴奏家不是退而求其次的選擇，而是需要最高度自我整合才能勝任的角色。

洸的成長，走的是另一條路。那個賭氣噘嘴、對老師也絕不退讓的少年，帶著的是一種珍貴的野性——那不是粗糙，而是一種不願意被馴化的生命本能。在音樂裡，這種野性是非常罕見的東西。技巧可以被訓練，野性無法被教授。它只能被保存，然後在洗練的感官與歲月的磨礪之後，轉化為一種充滿氣魄的聲音。

一個太溫順的音樂家，演奏會令人舒適，但很難讓人難忘。

洸身上那個從不向不認同的事妥協的強度，最終成了他演奏裡最無可取代的東西。

然後，他們走向了全世界。

1960年，洸16歲，贏得第29屆日本音樂大賽大提琴組第一名特賞。1964年，他以傅爾布萊特獎學金進入茱莉亞音樂學院，師從羅斯(Leonard Rose,1918-1984)，室內樂師從嘉利米爾(Felix Galimir,1910-1999)——那位從納粹維也納逃出、在美國重建維也納室內樂傳統的大師。1965年，他在一場演奏會中感動了在場的 Gerald Warburg 與 Mino Crain 兩位先生，其中 Warburg 是美國知名的大提琴家兼音樂贊助人，他們主動將一把義大利名琴ヴェンタバーネ（Ventapane）相贈——這種事，在音樂史上是對一個年輕演奏家最高的認可形式之一。1966年，他在波多黎各拜在卡薩爾斯(Pablo Casals,1876-1973) 門下。

那一年在卡內基獨奏廳與他並肩出道的鋼琴家，是姊姊淑。

淑的路走的是另一條同樣頂峰的軌跡。義大利奇吉亞納音樂學院（Accademia Musicale Chigiana），師從米開郎傑里(Arturo Benedetti Michelangeli,1920-1995)——20世紀最神秘、最嚴苛的鋼琴完美主義者之一，幾乎不輕易收徒。她在慕尼黑、布達佩斯等國際大賽獲獎，師承線橫跨日本、美國、義大利三個頂尖音樂傳統。

但在那個年代，無論她個人走得多遠，她同時也是弟弟最安心的夥伴。

1969年春天，他們受邀參與日生劇場音樂系列「貝多芬誕辰200週年紀念演奏會」的演出。那場演出

的表現，讓東芝唱片決定邀請他們錄製「貝多芬誕辰200週年日本特別企劃紀念專輯系列」。同年秋天，他們走進東京文化會館小廳的錄音室。

三個月，六面黑膠，貝多芬所有為大提琴與鋼琴寫下的一切。

貝多芬的第一首大提琴奏鳴曲，是他25歲時寫的。岩崎洸錄製這首曲子時，也是25歲。那個金色標籤裡壓著的，是兩個25歲之間相隔170年的對話——一個在維也納寫下的渴望，一個在東京用身體接住的回應。

錄音剛完成，父親去世了。

父親沒有聽見這套唱片。但寺西春雄說：「如今他們能作為『貝多芬誕辰200週年全集』的一員，與海外名家大師並列，親手重新錄製大提琴奏鳴曲全集與變奏曲，這想必是對亡父最好的祭奠。」

這套黑色皮革精裝盒，1970年貝多芬誕生200週年正式發行。那個燙金的貝多芬簽名，是父親沒能親眼見到的孩子的成就。

1970年，莫斯科。第四屆柴可夫斯基國際大賽。

這個大賽從誕生第一天就不只是音樂競賽。蘇聯文化部的創立文件裡明確寫著：「這個比賽將具有重大政治意義。」冷戰高峰期，蘇聯把這個賽事當成文化武器，向全世界展示意識形態的優越性。西方優秀的年輕音樂家前來參賽，本身就是一種政治敏感的行動。

岩崎洸——一個在台灣出生、在日本長大、在美國受訓的26歲大提琴家——坐在莫斯科的賽場上演奏蕭斯塔科維奇。

他的伴奏，是姊姊淑。

大賽結果：岩崎洸，大提琴組第三名（這也是當時日本參賽的最高名次）。岩崎淑，最佳伴奏特別獎。

蘇聯樂界同時認可了這對姊弟，各自頒了一個獎。這不是「姊姊陪弟弟去比賽」。這是兩個人，在同一個舞台上，同時各自站穩了。

蘇聯的回應是立即的。1971年2月，他們受邀訪蘇，在莫斯科、列寧格勒、基輔巡演一個月。Melodiya——蘇聯的國家唱片公司——為他們錄製了一張大提琴奏鳴曲專輯：蕭斯塔科維奇 Op.40，加上蕭邦、葛拉納多斯、柴可夫斯基等小品，作為第三名得主的官方紀念盤出版。

這張唱片後來越過鐵幕，由日本新世界唱片（Shinsekai）取得授權，委託 Victor 壓片，以鮮紅標籤在日本市場發行，型號 SMK-7739。

一套在日本錄的，一套在蘇聯錄的。一套是貝多芬，一套是蕭斯塔科維奇。一套是皮革精裝盒燙金簽名，一套是冷戰紅標白字Shinsekai(新世界唱片)。

夾在這兩套唱片之間的，是父親的去世，是1970年的柴可夫斯基大賽，是冷戰鐵幕，是一對灣生姊弟在最動盪的人生節點上留下的聲音。

大賽結束之後，岩崎淑沒有選擇成為獨奏明星。

她選擇成為世界頂尖音樂家最信任的那個人。

日本首屈一指的世界級伴奏家。

史塔克來日本，找她。托勒里耶來日本，找她。帕爾曼來日本，找她。之後是吉特里斯(Ivry Gitlis,1922-2020)、麥斯基、克萊曼(Gidon Kremer,1947-)、詹德隆(Maurice Gendron,1920–1990)——幾乎整個20世紀後半葉弦樂世界的頂尖名單，在日本演出或錄音時，鋼琴席上坐的是岩崎淑。

台灣給了他們出生。日本給了他們土壤。美國的茱莉亞給了他們世界標準的訓練。義大利的奇吉亞納給了淑，米開郎傑里的嚴苛；波多黎各給了洸，卡薩爾斯的教導傳承。蘇聯的賽場，給了他們越過鐵幕的入場券。

然而，讓這一切成為可能的根，是一個在殖民地教音樂的父親。一個在高雄女中的課室裡，把對音樂的信仰傳給孩子的人。他沒有來得及聽見孩子的貝多芬在東京文化會館的錄音，沒有來得及知道孩子在莫斯科獲得了蘇聯的認可。

它們加在一起，是一對「灣生」姊弟，用音樂跨越了整個20世紀最動盪的那幾年留下的完整印記。

岩崎千藏的名字，現在也在這裡了。

寺西春雄在1970年1月10日最後寫道：

「無論如何，作為值得期待未來能有紮實發展的藝術家，他們是絕對值得我們關注的年輕人。」

五十多年過去了。那個期待，那個「值得關注」，在台灣這塊他們出生的土地上，幾乎從來沒有人回應過。

我只想說：他們值得被記得。不只作為音樂家，也作為兩個從台灣高雄出發、用音樂丈量了整個世界的「灣生」孩子。

還有那個讓這一切成為可能的父親。

＊＊＊＊＊＊

[Ancient Palace Records: Music Stories] A History of Life within "History": Two "Wansei" Musicians and Two Vinyl Sets Crossing the Cold War

A fathe

r passed away suddenly, right on the eve of the most important concert in his children’s lives.

It was late 1969 in Tokyo. The siblings had just completed a massive recording project: Beethoven’s five cello sonatas plus three sets of variations—the complete works Beethoven wrote for cello and piano. Eight pieces in total, spanning six sides of vinyl across three records. It was Volume 8 of the Beethoven Complete Works series, a grand project by Toshiba Records to commemorate the 200th anniversary of Beethoven's birth. The chamber music section was entrusted to this brother and sister.

The recording had just been finished. Their father was waiting to hear their debut performance in their homeland.

Then, he was gone.

"Last November, on the eve of this sibling duo’s first recital in their hometown, their father suddenly passed away. For the two of them, this was undoubtedly the greatest heartache of their lives."

These words were written on January 10, 1970, by their teacher at Toho Gakuen, Haruo Teranishi (1920–2003). They are printed in the liner notes of that Beethoven vinyl set.

That set—a leather-textured deluxe box with Beethoven’s signature embossed in gold on the front. Gold labels with Beethoven’s portrait in the center. Three LPs, recorded between October and December 1969 at the Tokyo Bunka Kaikan Small Hall.

Only now do I truly understand: this set was also a final gift to their father.

The siblings are Shuku Iwasaki and Ko Iwasaki.

The elder sister, Shuku, was born in 1937. The younger brother, Ko, was born in 1944.

They were not born in Japan. They were born in Taiwan—specifically, in Kaohsiung.

Their father, Chizo Iwasaki, was a music teacher at Kaohsiung Girls' High School during the Japanese colonial period, as well as a violinist.

In the history of Taiwan, and indeed the history of Japan, there is a group that has been almost forgotten called the "Wansei" (灣生)—Japanese people born on Taiwanese soil during the colonial era.

When Japan was defeated in 1945, they had to "return" to a motherland they had never truly lived in. Kaohsiung gave them their birth; Japan gave them their future. The historical rift between the two became the background color of their entire lives.

The story of these two "Wansei" musicians is a chapter of history that needs to be restored.

The Invisible Father

Try searc

hing for the name "Chizo Iwasaki" online.

The results are almost blank.

In the entire digital world, the only description of him is a single sentence found on a Japanese entertainment blog with no detailed source: "His father was a violinist and served as a music teacher at a school in Taiwan."

Just that one sentence.

The man who made it possible for two musicians to leave a complete record of their artistry on the international stage has effectively vanished from the "history" constructed by later generations.

This is worth stopping to think about.

The "history" we know today is, to a large extent, constructed from narratives selected after the fact. What is worth recording and what is not; who enters the encyclopedia and who disappears into the blanks of the database—these choices are never neutral. They have a "center," and that center decides what is "important." A Japanese musician teaching violin at Kaohsiung Girls' High School in colonial Taiwan was apparently not important enough for that center.

But Chizo Iwasaki’s life existed. Not only did it exist, but he did something profoundly important: he passed music down to his children. Shuku was initiated into music by him at the age of five; in that house in Kaohsiung, in front of that piano, the father listened to his daughter practice with the ears of a violinist. When Ko saw his sister’s classmate playing the cello at home and said, "This is good," his father brought a cello home the very next day. Chizo was the person who immediately responded to a child’s curiosity and made music the most natural part of their daily life.

He existed, and his existence had a life-altering impact.

So, where is his history?

It is in the liner notes of that vinyl set.

It lives in those few paragraphs written by Haruo Teranishi on January 10, 1970. Teranishi wrote: "The fact that these two could be guided toward such ideal development, and even supported in their studies abroad, is primarily thanks to their father, Mr. Chizo."

Chizo Iwasaki’s life history lives within that physical object. You have to pick up those records, open that leather box, and turn the pages of that booklet printed in 1970 to read about him.

This is the starting point of how I study history: History is not just about past events; it is a state of life. The history of "events" is a narrative constructed by later selections—it has a center, a periphery, things included, and things excluded. But the history of "life" exists fundamentally. It doesn't disappear just because it isn't narrated; it is simply waiting for someone to open the physical object and reconnect with it.

Chizo Iwasaki is waiting in that record set.

He has been waiting for over fifty years inside that black leather box, waiting for someone to open it, read his name, and bring him back.

The Resilience of Wild Grass

The siblin

gs attended Toho Gakuen, where they met Haruo Teranishi.

Teranishi was a professor at Toho Gakuen, a major Japanese music critic, the Secretary-General of the Japan Philharmonic Orchestra, and the Chairman of the Japan-Soviet Musicians Association. In other words, he was the primary gateway for exchange between the Japanese and Soviet music worlds at the time. The liner notes he wrote in 1970 were not just a teacher’s preface; in the context of the Cold War, they were a heavyweight public endorsement. That same year, Ko Iwasaki went to participate in the Tchaikovsky Competition.

Teranishi later wrote this about them:

"While both are extremely hardworking individuals, their outward personalities seem diametrically opposed at first glance."

Of the sister, Shuku: "Whether in performance practice or academic theory, she possesses a tenacity that refuses to quit until every task is complete. No matter which teacher you ask, she is the first choice for a model student."

The brother, Ko, was entirely different: "Regarding things he cannot agree with, even if the other person is a teacher, he possesses an intensity that refuses to back down, arguing his point to the end. Thus, one often sees him with a pouting, stubborn expression. However, once he understands and is convinced, he shows a proactive drive beyond the ordinary, as if he has completely forgotten his previous dissatisfaction."

Then Teranishi said something that I believe is the core key to understanding these two:

"Though these siblings appear different on the surface, their core characters share a commonality. They are both people who possess a life force as resilient as wild grass."

"Wild grass." The word is precise. Not flowers in a greenhouse, not exotic plants cultivated with care—but something that, no matter where it is planted, will stubbornly take root and grow toward the light.

Two Paths of Mastery

Years later

, Teranishi saw them again and left these reflections.

Regarding Shuku: "During her school years, I sensed a hidden sorrow within her sincerity, but now she has crossed that hurdle. Her facial expressions vividly reveal an inner composure and abundance. Perhaps it is because she possesses such a strong self that she was able to transition from a narrow, stubborn 'small ego' to an open and bright 'personality.'"

Regarding Ko: "A student in whom delicate nerves and rugged boldness were strangely interwoven, I now feel he has grown into a person with a balanced personality. That wild vitality, supported by refined senses, allows his entire body to radiate a sense of fulfilled spirit."

Reading these two passages together, they feel less like descriptions of two people and more like precise sketches of two different paths of musical growth.

Shuku’s growth was inward. Her demands on herself were extremely high, which in her youth manifested as nervousness and sorrow—a continuous inward pressure. Because this pressure was so real, when she finally transcended it—not suppressed by it, but mastering it—her resilient self truly took shape. Her ability to understand the musical language of world-class performers like Janos Starker, Paul Tortelier, Itzhak Perlman, and Mischa Maisky, and to enter their diverse musical universes in the shortest time possible, is rooted in that mental structure that was once so harsh on itself. For her, being an accompanist was not a secondary choice, but a role that required the highest level of self-integration.

Ko’s growth took a different path. That pouting boy who wouldn't back down even to his teachers carried a precious "wildness"—not coarseness, but a life instinct that refused to be domesticated. In music, this wildness is rare. Technique can be trained, but wildness cannot be taught. It can only be preserved and, through the refinement of the senses and the passage of years, transformed into a voice full of spirit.

A musician who is too docile might give a comfortable performance, but they are rarely unforgettable. The intensity in Ko that never compromised on things he didn't believe in ultimately became the most irreplaceable element of his playing.

From Kaohsiung to the World

They eventua

lly took their places on the world stage.

In 1960, at age 16, Ko won first prize in the cello category of the 29th Music Competition of Japan. In 1964, he entered the Juilliard School on a Fulbright Scholarship, studying under Leonard Rose and chamber music under Felix Galimir—the master who fled Nazi Vienna to rebuild the Viennese chamber music tradition in America. In 1965, his performance moved Gerald Warburg and Mino Crain; Warburg, a famed American cellist and patron, presented Ko with a fine Italian instrument, the Ventapane. In the music world, such a gesture is one of the highest forms of recognition for a young performer. In 1966, he studied under Pablo Casals in Puerto Rico.

The pianist who debuted alongside him at Carnegie Recital Hall that year was his sister, Shuku.

Shuku’s path followed a similarly elite trajectory. She attended the Accademia Musicale Chigiana in Italy, studying under Arturo Benedetti Michelangeli—one of the 20th century’s most mysterious and demanding piano perfectionists, who rarely took students. She won prizes at international competitions in Munich and Budapest, her lineage spanning the top musical traditions of Japan, the US, and Italy.

Yet, in those years, no matter how far she went personally, she remained her brother’s most trusted partner.

In the spring of 1969, they were invited to perform for the "Beethoven 200th Anniversary Memorial Concert" series at the Nissei Theatre. Their performance was so remarkable that Toshiba Records decided to invite them to record the "Beethoven 200th Anniversary Japan Special Project Memorial Album Series." That autumn, they entered the recording studio at the Tokyo Bunka Kaikan Small Hall.

Three months, six sides of vinyl, everything Beethoven ever wrote for cello and piano.

Beethoven wrote his first cello sonata when he was 25. Ko Iwasaki was also 25 when he recorded it. Pressed into those gold labels is a dialogue across 170 years between two 25-year-olds—a longing written in Vienna, caught and reflected by a body in Tokyo.

Just as the recording was finished, their father passed away.

He never heard the records. But Haruo Teranishi wrote: "Now that they can stand alongside world-renowned masters as part of the 'Beethoven 200th Anniversary Complete Works' and have personally re-recorded the complete cello sonatas and variations, this must be the best possible offering to their late father."

Crossing the Iron Curtain

1970, Moscow.

The 4th Tchaikovsky International Competition.

From day one, this competition was never just about music. The founding documents of the Soviet Ministry of Culture stated clearly: "This competition will have great political significance." At the height of the Cold War, the Soviet Union used this event as a cultural weapon to showcase ideological superiority. For elite young Western musicians to participate was, in itself, a politically sensitive act.

Ko Iwasaki—a 26-year-old cellist born in Taiwan, raised in Japan, and trained in America—sat on the stage in Moscow playing Shostakovich.

His accompanist was his sister, Shuku.

The results: Ko Iwasaki, Third Prize in the Cello category (the highest rank for a Japanese contestant at the time). Shuku Iwasaki, Special Prize for Best Accompanist.

The Soviet music world recognized them both simultaneously, awarding each a prize. This wasn't a case of "the sister accompanying the brother." These were two individuals, on the same stage, both standing their ground.

The Soviet response was immediate. In February 1971, they were invited to tour the USSR, performing for a month in Moscow, Leningrad, and Kyiv. Melodiya—the Soviet state record company—recorded a cello sonata album for them: Shostakovich’s Op. 40, plus pieces by Chopin, Granados, and Tchaikovsky, published as the official commemorative disc for the third-prize winner.

This record eventually crossed the Iron Curtain. Licensed by Japan’s Shinsekai Records and pressed by Victor, it was released in the Japanese market with a bright red label, catalog number SMK-7739.

One set recorded in Japan, one set recorded in the Soviet Union. One is Beethoven, one is Shostakovich. One is a leather deluxe box with a gold-stamped signature; the other is a Cold War red-label "Shinsekai" (New World) release.

Sandwiched between these two sets are the death of a father, the 1970 Tchaikovsky Competition, the Iron Curtain, and the voices of two "Wansei" siblings recorded at the most turbulent juncture of their lives.

The Root of the Soul

After the comp

etition, Shuku Iwasaki did not choose to become a solo star. She chose to become the person the world's top musicians trusted most. She became Japan's preeminent, world-class accompanist.

When Starker came to Japan, he looked for her. When Tortelier came, he looked for her. When Perlman came, he looked for her. Later came Ivry Gitlis, Mischa Maisky, Gidon Kremer, Maurice Gendron—nearly the entire roster of the string world’s elite in the latter half of the 20th century. When they performed or recorded in Japan, the person at the piano was Shuku Iwasaki.

Taiwan gave them their birth. Japan gave them their soil. Juilliard in America gave them world-standard training. Chigiana in Italy gave Shuku the rigor of Michelangeli; Puerto Rico gave Ko the lineage of Casals. The stage in the Soviet Union gave them a ticket across the Iron Curtain.

However, the root that made all of this possible was a father teaching music in a colony. A man in a classroom at Kaohsiung Girls' High School who passed his faith in music to his children. He didn't live to hear his children's Beethoven recording in Tokyo, nor to know that they received Soviet recognition in Moscow.

Together, these records are the complete imprint of two "Wansei" children who used music to measure the most turbulent years of the 20th century.

The name of Chizo Iwasaki is now here, too.

Haruo Teranishi concluded his notes on January 10, 1970, with these words:

"In any case, as artists whose future development we can expect to be solid and profound, they are young people absolutely worth our attention."

More than fifty years have passed. That expectation, that "worth our attention," has almost never been answered in Taiwan—the land where they were born.

I only want to say: they deserve to be remembered. Not just as musicians, but as two "Wansei" children who set out from Kaohsiung, Taiwan, and measured the entire world through music.

And the father who made it all possible.