In 1968, at the age of 13, Akikazu Nakamura began playing electric guitar. A few years later, he discovered that one of his favorite bands, King Crimson, counted contemporary classical music among their influences. Intrigued, Nakamura pursued this thread and soon discovered "November Steps" by the composer Toru Takemitsu, an album that features the shakuhachi in a modern context. Nakamura was so blown away by this instrument that he kissed his electric guitar goodbye and embraced the shakuhachi in its place.

"That was a big turning point," Nakamura recalls gleefully at his office in Tokyo while giving me a shakuhachi demonstration. "I thought 'Oh, this instrument has much more possibility than the electric guitar. It's noisier. It has more overtones,' " says Nakamura, a compact, smiling bundle of energy.

Nakamura may have swapped instruments and mastered traditional Japanese shakuhachi music, but he has yet to sell his rock 'n' roll soul. In fact, one of his projects, a trio called Kokoo that includes two female koto players, released "Super Nova" in 2000, a CD of rearranged rock tunes by Led Zeppelin, Frank Zappa and Jimi Hendrix, among others. Added to this, Nakamura often uses tone-altering effects common to the electric guitar.

"When I play with an electric band, I use a headset microphone and the sound goes from here," he indicates the top of the shakuhachi, "to some effects -- overdrive, reverb, chorus or a MIDI converter."

Over the past 25 years, Nakamura has steadily built an international reputation for traditional music and as a composer of new music. He has toured 30 countries, playing traditional shakuhachi, jazz and what he terms "cross-genre collaborations." He has been embraced by the Art Ensemble of Chicago, jammed with Elvin Jones and Akira Inoue, and regularly receives commissions as a composer for work both in Japan and overseas. His 1999 CD, "The World of Zen Music: Saji," was awarded the prestigious National Arts Festival Prize for Outstanding Entertainment as well as the Columbia Golden Disc award.

Perhaps most amazing of all is Nakamura's unique method of circular breathing, which is unlike that used for didgeridoo, saxophone or any other wind instrument.

"Circular breathing for the saxophone is much easier than for shakuhachi," he explains, turning one of his instruments in his hands. "The shakuhachi is more difficult because there is no pressure [from the mouth] on the instrument, so we have to use a lot of air."

He places his lips just above his instrument and blows a breezy note.

"[In circular breathing], usually we exhale with the cheeks while we inhale with the lungs." He puts his shakuhachi in position again and as his cheeks rhythmically bulge and squeeze, they push air through the instrument. At the same time, he is flexing and relaxing his diaphragm to replenish his lungs with air, all the while producing an unbroken, if slightly wavering tone.

Referring to the bulge-and-squeeze motion, Nakamura says: "For the saxophone, this movement doesn't influence the sound. But for the shakuhachi, if I move my cheeks, this movement influences my embouchure."

Embouchure refers to the way a musician flexes his lips and facial muscles when blowing an instrument. A change in embouchure can alter the tone, and in the case of circular breathing, the bulge-and-squeeze caused Nakamura's tone to waver beyond his control.

"So I invented my own way. I exhale from here," he points to the area below his jaw, where some people grow a double chin, and says, "like a frog."

Nakamura puts his instrument in place again, adjusts his embouchure and as his cheeks remain calm he conjures an extended tone that remains steady as it blooms and fills the room with a calming, woody resonance.

Nakamura puts the shakuhachi down and laughs. "I can keep playing like that for an hour. From pianissimo," he says, waving his arm like a conductor, "to fortissimo." This method took him five years of daily practice to master, and he knows of no one else in the world who can do it.

Although Nakamura developed his breathing style to hold notes for long periods of time, he says the shakuhachi is also responsive to a fast attack. He readies his instrument and then blows a barrage worthy of Charlie Parker. As he does this, I realize that although the instrument has just five finger-holes, Nakamura is producing a chromatic scale, which is 12 tones. How?

He indulgently points to the first hole and says, "This is A," then points to the second hole, "and this is C." Making three quick, precise adjustments with his pointer finger over the first hole, he says, "A, B flat, B natural." On the other holes, he displays similarly fine-tuned fingering and lays out the 12 tones of the scale, demonstrating not just a good ear but phenomenal manual dexterity.

Nakamura then grows enthusiastic about the pleasures of meditating on the harmonics of a single note, as he does so remarkably on "The World of Zen Music."

"In Japanese music, we enjoy the tone color or changing of the overtone," he says. "So if I play just one note, we can get much more information on that note." I ask for a demonstration, and he patiently reaches for his instrument again.

As he purses his lips above the shakuhachi, a tone as pure as a sine wave rises somewhere at the edge of what sounds like a large field. As the tone approaches, it slowly distorts, wrapping itself in a windy white noise. Nakamura's face remains lined with concentration as the gauzy beauty of the note lingers just a moment before the wind picks it up and whisks it away. After the tone has passed by, the white noise fades and the pure tone dominates once again until it slowly turns itself around, slides up an octave and heads back. When the tone is upon me a second time, it dances between two registers, offering a leisurely look from many angles until coming to rest on the lower octave. Surrendering one last time to the white noise, the tone recedes again until all that remains is the wind across the field and that, too, gently fades.

Nakamura puts his shakuhachi down and laughs. "It's like a small orchestra is in this instrument," he says, looking at the idle piece of bamboo as if he, too, were bewildered by the world that was just emanating from it.