The Gods of Bali and the Album Gunung Kawi | Vol.1
Journalist: Hello, François Du Bois, and thank you for welcoming us into your home once again (ref: previous article).
François Du Bois: It’s my pleasure.
J: We’ve organized this interview to mark the fifth anniversary of the release of your bestseller, now in its ninth edition, “The Science of Composition”, published by Kodansha in their scientific Blue Backs collection. We’d like to learn more about the album included with the book, initially intended only for readers: Gunung Kawi.
Why this topic, you might ask?
Because we've heard about much mystery surrounding the creation of this music, events bordering on the supernatural, which you’ve never publicly discussed, and about which you’ve agreed to give us an exclusive today.
FDB: You’re well-informed (laughs). Yes, indeed, I’ve always wanted to keep the events linked to the creation of this album secret, partly out of modesty, but also because I didn’t know how to talk about them.
J: And today, you feel ready?
FDB: We’ll see.
J: What was the first step in this creation?
FDB: My mother’s passing. It was early January 2018, my mother, 89 years old, had been in a coma for two months in France. I was receiving regular updates from my sisters, but it seemed that her condition wasn’t improving. I had to leave for Bali. I should mention that Bali isn’t a place of relaxation for me but a place of retreat and artistic activities like traditional dance, which I practice.
Just before I left, I had a phone conversation with a Dutch friend Erika, who resides in Bali and happens to be a Hindu monk. She asked me to speak to my mother, who, according to her, was hesitant to let go, and to share my thoughts on the matter. I then spoke to my mother during a prayer and roughly said this:
"Mom, if you have the strength to wake up and come back to us without any lasting effects, I would like you to return. But if you don’t have, or no longer have, the strength to come back without being a burden, without suffering, which you hate above all else, you can go with a light heart. You’ve already done so much for me and for everyone around you."
Then, I find myself on the plane to Bali with Aya and Emi, who are part of my close circle. That evening, in my room in Sanur, I feel deeply uneasy; the atmosphere is heavy. During the night, the phone rings several times, but there’s no one on the other end of the line. In the morning, I receive a message from one of my sisters: "Mom has passed away."
My sister tells me that the ceremony date is too soon for me to travel. My dance teacher, Mamik, who also happens to be a medium, suggests organizing a ceremony that will take place at the same time as my mother’s cremation in France. It will be at night. We prepare the offerings and head to the seaside for the ritual.
In the house, before we head to the sea, just a few dozen meters away, the atmosphere is unbearably heavy; we are sad, overwhelmed. Then we leave with the flowers and offerings when Mamik says to me:
"Be careful, you must be strong, joyful, and not cry. It’s important that your mother’s soul feels that she’s not leaving behind sadness and desolation. She must continue her journey without regret; otherwise, she risks staying behind as a lost soul."
There are five of us on the beach: Aya, Emi, Mamik, a mutual Balinese friend, and myself. Mamik comments and tells me that my mother’s soul is traveling back and forth between France and Bali, that she’s happy to visit Sanur, that everything is going well, and that finally comes the ultimate moment when their soul sets sail, heading toward the ocean while rising to the heavens.
"She is happy," Mamik tells me.
I didn’t cry. I’m not saying it wasn’t difficult, but I didn’t do it, following the instructions. We returned to the house, and to our great surprise, the atmosphere was light. We even had wine to celebrate my mother’s departure to a better future. You have to believe it or feel it; otherwise, only sadness remains.
J: This story is incredibly moving. Is that when you began writing
Gunung Kawi?
FDB: Absolutely not. At that time, I had never heard of the place, because yes, Gunung Kawi is primarily a temple. Erika, who hadn’t been able to attend the ceremony, or maybe didn’t want to (in Bali, everything is mysterious), came to visit me a few days later. She suggested taking me to see a strange, unique place unlike any other: a place where the powerful, in the 10th and 11th centuries, chose to own nothing and prepare for the next stage of their journey after death.
A few days later, Aya, Emi, Erika, Mamik, and I found ourselves at the entrance of the temple, now a national treasure classified by UNESCO. We were dressed in religious attire, as it’s not possible to enter the site without this type of clothing.
Surprisingly, in many countries around the world, it’s customary to build palaces or temples on hilltops, so everyone can see them. But here, it’s the opposite: we begin by descending. The path is narrow, lined with small merchant stalls offering us drinks and beautiful works of art.
All around us, terraced rice fields. We descend further, and suddenly, two large walls appear, with a small opening at the end, and we’ve arrived. I am immediately struck by this place. I instantly understand what the architects were trying to achieve. There are small caves carved into the rocks everywhere, and further to the left, like in Monument Valley in the U.S., tall statues are sculpted into the stone. It’s awe-inspiring.
We retrace our steps, cross a very active, turbulent river, and to the right, there’s a stone staircase. We climb a little, and there it is—the official entrance, I assume, to the temple.
We enter a space that, I must admit, resembles a traditional Hindu temple, nothing new. But as we pass through a small doorway, we discover what will forever seal an invisible bond between me and this temple.
First, we remove our shoes, and then… troglodytes everywhere. It’s clearly a living space, without any comfort, nothing human, lunar even, everything a "normal" human would try to avoid: no flat surfaces to walk on, no doors, nothing—absolutely nothing.
And when you imagine that this is where King Udayana and his court, the Warmadewa kingdom, once lived! It was incomprehensible, but for me, it spoke directly. After all, at the time of our departure from this world, we’ll take nothing with us—except perhaps, if we are powerful, the sadness and frustration of not being able to take anything with us.
I immediately connected this to my mother’s passing. I realized in that place that beings of incredible spiritual evolution had once lived here.
J: These are fascinating experiences. You now have your source of inspiration. How will you go about creating music from these elements and transcribing it into scores?
FDB: That will take some time. After these intense experiences and my return to Tokyo, I entered what I’d call a process of digestion. I went through several stages. For many years, I had been purchasing Balinese musical instruments in large quantities during each of my trips and storing them in Tokyo—especially gongs, large and small. In Yokohama, I had commissioned a Japanese artist to build racks for hanging all this equipment. My home was filled with them, which led one of my students to ask, "What are you going to do with all this?"
I replied, "I don’t know, but I’m sure it’ll come in handy someday."
And there we were—it was the awaited moment.
J: It’s as if you anticipated something when buying all those instruments, as though you somehow knew without knowing at the time of acquisition. Like a form of inspiration.
FDB: That’s exactly it, and it even shocked me. It was as if everything had been prepared beforehand.
J: So, you had everything in front of you and began composing.
FDB: Yes, but very quickly, I realized that I was still missing some elements. I needed a continuous bass for one of the compositions, but I couldn’t find anything in Balinese musical culture that resembled that.
J: What exactly is a continuous bass?
FDB: To put it simply, it's an instrumental bass part that repeats throughout a musical piece and helps support a solo instrument or voice, for example. You find this system as early as the invention of opera in Europe, but it’s also present in traditional music, such as Indian music, for example.
In my case, I wasn’t looking to support a melody with this continuous bass; I wanted to use this system with other elements.
At that point, I was both writing the music and thinking about recording it as soon as the writing was done. Additionally, I needed the main mantra for another composition, one that is heard three times a day all over Bali at very specific times.
J: It’s like in the Arab world, the call to prayer? That’s quite surprising.
FDB: You’re absolutely right. Indonesia is a Muslim country, but Bali is Hindu. It was the capital that asked the island’s authority to issue this call to prayer for more coherence across the country. The broadcasts happen across all media—TV and radio—at 6 a.m., 12 p.m., and 6 p.m.
J: Did you manage to find a solution for the mantra?
FDB: Yes, in the end, it was quite easy to obtain the necessary permissions. I wasn’t worried while writing. I eventually managed to record the mantra with the help of Balinese friends, but that’s in the future—we’re still far from that stage.
The writing of the piece containing this mantra, to return to that time, was an essential step in composing the album. Repetitive and hypnotic, it became the foundation of the track titled "Play with me". It was crucial to incorporate this deeply spiritual and cultural element into my music while respecting its significance and meaning.
Thus, with all these elements coming together, the inspiration for the album Gunung Kawi began to take shape. For this piece, and for the entire album, I immersed myself in the writing process, aiming to capture the mystical essence of the temple and the deep, inspiring emotions surrounding it.
It was both an inner and artistic journey, a way to honor my mother and transform grief into creation. At the same time, as I mentioned earlier, the idea of recording this album within a relatively short timeframe began to take root in my mind.
FDB: At that moment, one of the main challenges for me was finding something that could serve as the continuous bass.
J: And what solution did you lean towards?
FDB: Regarding the continuous bass, since I couldn’t find a solution, I decided to set that idea aside for the moment and focus on writing the rest of the piece’s structure, with the thought of adding the bass once I had found the right instrument.
J: That seems quite incredible from the outside—to compose without including a part that might be crucial to the piece. It’s disorienting.
FDB: Absolutely, especially considering that once the continuous bass is introduced into the composition, it may alter the balance and steer the piece in another direction. But there are moments when you have to move forward, even if you don’t have all the elements yet.
J: But there seems to be too much challenge in this story! (laughs)
FDB: From my perspective, when a project is already a bit crazy, you might as well go all in. When you’re creating, you shouldn’t hold back on any aspect of the creative process, no matter what stage you’re at. In short, I did my best, and by March, I was back in Bali.
I still hadn’t found a solution for the continuous bass, so I spoke to Mamik, who said, “Why don’t you use the Suling?” I replied that the Suling was a high-pitched flute and that I was looking for deep, bass sounds—that we were far from what I needed. But she insisted, “Yes! You’ll see, try it—it will work!”
J: I imagine you must have been completely thrown off. What did you do?
FDB: You know, I was in Bali, sitting across from my dance teacher who is also a medium. I thought to myself, this is crazy, but let’s give it a try. I was still deep in thought when she suggested introducing me to a young suling player who could teach me how to play the instrument.
“I’ll contact him tonight, and tomorrow, he can come over with his flutes.”
I agreed, and that’s how I began practicing the suling.
J: Had you ever played the flute before? At school, perhaps?
FDB: Never! I was starting from scratch!
At first, it was very disorienting. I couldn’t manage to properly cover the holes with my fingers. However, the freedom to move and change directions while playing was something new and very appealing to me. With the marimba or piano, you have to stay in front of the instrument, no chance of moving across the stage. With the flute, you can move around and search for spots with better acoustics. I had forgotten about my compositions for the time being—I just wanted to master this new instrument as best as I could.
J: And were you any good?
FDB: Absolutely not, I felt awful. On top of that, my teacher wasn’t even 20 years old and kept making me repeat the same passages that I couldn’t play correctly.
J: But that’s pretty normal, right? It sounds like your pride took a hit.
FDB: Of course, it’s normal. But with my background in music, I didn’t think I’d be back to square one, so to speak. You’re right—my pride definitely took a hit (laughs).
J: And did you go back to Gunung Kawi?
FDB: Of course, it was one of the main objectives of the trip. I was very excited as I entered the first part of the temple, where the large statues are carved into the mountainside. I was eager to get to the living quarters to be as close as possible to my original source of inspiration.
Once we were in front of the King’s meditation cave, Mamik, who had told me during the previous visit that no one was allowed inside, suddenly said, “Go in!”
I was really surprised. When I asked her to come with me, she replied, “No, I don’t have permission. Go in, and I’ll give you instructions from outside!”
J: What were you feeling—curiosity, fear, excitement?
FDB: I was a little apprehensive, to be honest, about going inside. From the outside, it’s pitch black, and you have no idea what you’ll find in there...
J: And you went in.
FDB: Yes, and once inside the room, I stood still at the entrance, letting my eyes gradually adjust to the darkness. The light from outside barely reached these secret places. Slowly, I began to explore the interior of the cave. A sense of serenity washed over me, and a deep relaxation settled within. It was a modest yet infinitely vast space.
At the center was a low table, seemingly covered with drapes so soft it felt impossible to place anything on it. I felt wonderfully at ease, as though I had stepped into a majestic hall. I had entered with incense burning, and I cautiously circled the room. Every step was deliberate, as if afraid of making a wrong move. I noticed cushions arranged around the space, inviting me to relax, yet I remained standing.
After exploring every corner, I returned to where I had entered and surrendered to an effortless meditation. My mind felt as though it was soaring. A deep peace enveloped me, releasing all inner tension, akin to the sensations described by those who’ve had near-death experiences.
I felt welcomed, at home here. The thought of leaving no longer crossed my mind.
J: But you did eventually leave. This experience must have been pivotal for your work, right?
FDB: Absolutely. This total immersion in a place so full of history and spirituality gave me an extra layer of inspiration that would later help me complete my compositions. From that moment, I truly understood the direction my work needed to take. Gunung Kawi was no longer just a destination or an album title; it had become the beating heart of my musical creation.
J: That sounds intense, listening to you describe it. How did the others waiting outside react, and how did you feel afterward?
FDB: For them, it was as if it were completely normal. Mamik simply said, "I wanted to tell you to circle the incense around the table clockwise, but I believe you did it. You know what to do!" In reality, she hadn’t given me any instructions at all.
Afterward, we went to another part of “Gunung Kawi” where there was a small stilted temple dedicated to prosperity. Mamik suggested I climb up and perform a ceremony, which I did.
J: Did you know how to proceed with that ceremony?
FDB: More or less—I did what I could and expressed my gratitude (laughs). After that, we returned to Sanur.
I continued my studies in flute and dance for a few weeks, then I returned to Japan in mid-April. I began to work diligently on my compositions to refine them, and I discovered that the suling perfectly suited my vision. It didn’t create the exact balance I had envisioned with the bass notes of a continuo, but rather with the high notes of an inverted continuo.
Thanks to Mamik, I explored this avenue and ultimately realized that it worked! Of course, during my suling training in Bali, I had a vague idea of what I might do with it, but it took my return to Japan to confirm my impressions.
Creators—not just composers—can sometimes become trapped in their certainties, preventing them from stepping off the beaten path. This is true for music, but also for fashion and gastronomy. One must dare to question preconceived notions to avoid limitation.
J: It's like Coco Chanel, who wanted to hide women's knees because she found them ugly!
FDB: Exactly! She held that idea, even though I find women's knees quite charming (laughs).
J: And your recording plans?
FDB: It all happened very quickly. Aya, who is also the president of our company, D-Project, scheduled the recording for the first week of June, just three weeks after my return from Bali. I had no intention of dragging my feet (laughs).
J: But you had far too much to do in such a short time: finding musicians, rehearsing, finalizing arrangements, booking a venue, hiring a sound engineer, and above all, securing funding. How did you manage all this in such a brief period?
To be continued…
