The brief said 'Pokémon'. Nothing more. No instruction on what Pokémon should sound like. No directive to match the bright chimes and cheerful loops of the Game Boy titles that had sold tens of millions. Just: make music for this game. The year was 2003. Tsukasa Tawada was thirty-eight years old.
He had been making music for games since 1987, when he joined Jaleco as a Famicom composer. Jaleco was not a famous name — it made mid-tier arcade conversions and action games, the sort of work that filled shelves but not headlines. Over a decade, Tawada scored dozens of titles, working within the severe constraints of 8-bit sound chips that allowed only a handful of simultaneous channels. He learned to build atmosphere from almost nothing. When the Famicom era ended and Jaleco's fortunes dimmed, he moved on. His next major credit would not appear for years.
When Genius Sonority called, Tawada had been away from the spotlight. The studio was small, founded by Manabu Yamana, a former Nintendo programmer. They had secured a contract to develop console Pokémon spin-offs — games that would exist outside the core series, free to take risks the main titles could not. The first project was Pokémon Colosseum. It was set in Orre, a desert region far from the familiar towns and routes of Kanto and Johto. There were no wild Pokémon here. No cheerful professors handing out starters. The story revolved around stolen Pokémon, underground crime syndicates, and battles fought not for badges but for survival.
Tawada's task was to score this world. He thought about deserts — dry, sparse, empty. He thought about danger that does not announce itself, tension held in silence. In his own words, he aimed for a 'dry, yet cool-sounding theme' that would thread through the game's various tracks. The result was a score built from electric guitar riffs, synthesized percussion, and minimal melody. It felt closer to a Western action game than a JRPG. It was not the sound people expected from Pokémon.
There were no violins swelling to heroism. No uplifting chords signaling victory. Battle themes were tense, repetitive, mechanical. Town themes were quiet, almost uneasy. The music did not comfort the player. It reminded them they were in a place where trust had been broken, where Pokémon had been turned into weapons. It was a darker atmosphere than the series had ever offered, and Tawada enjoyed it. He said so in an interview years later — that he liked the darker tone, that it gave him space to explore sounds the franchise had not touched before.
The game released in Japan on November 21, 2003, and in North America on March 22, 2004. It sold well. The music was noticed. Tawada stayed with Genius Sonority for the sequel, Pokémon XD: Gale of Darkness (2005), which deepened the Orre setting and introduced Shadow Lugia, a corrupted legendary consumed by darkness. The score followed the same restrained approach. He also scored Pokémon Trozei! (2006), a puzzle spin-off, and Pokémon Battle Revolution (2006) for the Wii. By the end of that run, he had become the defining composer of Genius Sonority's Pokémon output — the person who gave those spin-offs their sonic identity.
Since then, Tawada has maintained a quieter presence. He uploads piano arrangements of his Pokémon compositions to YouTube, revisiting tracks from Colosseum and XD with solo performances. The arrangements are careful, unhurried, performed without commentary. They are the work of someone who knows the music intimately and does not need to explain it.
Most Pokémon games tell you that the world is bright, that friendship wins, that danger is temporary. Tawada's games told you something else — that even in familiar worlds, there are shadows worth walking into. That silence, when used correctly, sounds like tension. That a soundtrack does not have to comfort you to move you. The question he left behind is not about what Pokémon should sound like. It is about whether you are willing to step into a world where the music does not hold your hand.