I watched A Complete Unknown many times. With each viewing, even the briefest scenes moved me deeply. A young man, still unknown to the world, takes up his guitar and begins to sing. The audience listens through the lens of “folk music,” yet every part of it—the lyrics, the melodies—feels utterly different. And still, the words cut straight to the truth.
Eventually, he became famous. And once that happened, what people wanted was his past songs. But the songs he wanted to sing were the ones ahead of him, alive in the present.

In 1988, I went to my first Bob Dylan concert in Los Angeles. Honestly, it was disappointing. In 1994, I saw him again at Todai-ji Temple in Nara, in a grand event that brought together Joni Mitchell, Jon Bon Jovi, Ry Cooder, and from Japan, Koji Tamaki, Tomoyasu Hotei, even X JAPAN. Still, my main reason for going was Dylan. And again, I left disappointed. I saw him several more times after that, but each time he seemed to drift further from the Dylan I wanted. Back then, I was not so different from the booing audience in the film.

It took years for me to understand. What I longed for were the songs from those old albums. But Dylan, never one to stop evolving, was simply doing what he wanted in that moment.
There is beauty in sticking stubbornly to a single style—the reassurance of instantly knowing whose song you’re hearing. That too has its charm.

But what about me?
Since founding TRUCK in 1997, I’ve spent nearly thirty years chasing what I wanted to make. I’ve never wavered. In fact, I’ve only added more and more detail along the way. That process has been joyful, and I still love it. Yet about ten years ago, I began to feel a pull back toward the simplicity of the early days. It wasn’t a whim. It came naturally, shaped by encounters with new music, new clothes, the openness I felt in Los Angeles. My interests didn’t shift—they widened. I still love my coveralls, but sometimes a linen jacket feels just right.
The loft I rented in LA, the cafés I frequented—there was a kind of “lightness” there that I realized I needed. I built a new house with that air, and new furniture followed. At first, I called it “adult TRUCK.”

A close friend in LA, Stephen Kenn, gave me words I’ll never forget. He said, “When you restore an old truck you’ve driven for years, you leave the weathered exterior as it is, but swap in a new engine. That engine is your new curiosity, your inspiration, your passion for design. But it’s still the same old, beautiful truck—just running smooth again.”

From Stephen’s words came the name Same TRUCK, New Engine.

In December 2024, I transformed the old workshop on the first floor of TRUCK into the S.T,N.E. showroom. And this November, I’ll bring everything from Osaka to Tokyo for Same TRUCK, New Engine Exhibition Tokyo in Minami-Aoyama. I want people to see who I am now.

To be honest, I’m nervous. I’m not strong enough to face a wave of boos the way Bob Dylan did.
But I’ll step forward anyway.