When Hiroshi Yoshimura died in 2003, he was a footnote in music history.

He pioneered the minimalist genre of kankyō ongaku, or environment music, in the 1980s and '90s — soft electronic melodies infused with the sounds of nature; babbling brooks, steady rain, morning birds.

But his work mostly ended up as background noise in museums, galleries or show homes.

His vinyls became relics of a former age — so rare, in fact, that they were bordering on extinct.

And when he died at the age of 65, it seemed like his work had died with him.

But in 2017 his music started popping up in an unlikely place — YouTube.

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Today Yoshimura's music has been played millions of times, and his re-released albums have been featured in Pitchfork and The Times.

I am one of the accidental fans who have helped him find the global success he would have never thought possible in his lifetime.

Searching for distraction

I first stumbled upon Yoshimura's music when I was studying.

The hours were long, the deadlines were tight, and I didn't have a quiet space to work. To find focus, I turned to music.

I relied on YouTube's autoplay to curate an endless playlist of background music — and that's how I stumbled upon Yoshimura.

I was bemused by the encounter.

Usually, when a recommendation algorithm does something unexpected it feels a little creepy, like the stories you hear about algorithms figuring out a woman is pregnant before her family knows.

But this was different. It was good music. I became a fan.

Scrolling through the comments underneath the video, I realised I had stumbled on a community of people just like me, finding something of an oasis of calm in Yoshimura's melodies.

Digging deeper, I learned Yoshimura's serendipitous second life as an artist came at the crest of a wave of change sweeping across the music industry.

YouTube: The sleeping giant of the music world

The shift has affected the way we listen to music, how we find it, and the role it plays in our lives.

And algorithm-driven platforms are part of the story.

While we tend to hear a lot about Spotify, YouTube is something of a sleeping giant when it comes to music.

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In 2017, 47 per cent of music listened to online was via YouTube.

"This is a huge archive and not only for commercial pop music, but all sorts of styles," says Ariadna Matamoros-Fernandez, a lecturer in digital media communication at Queensland University of Technology.

And with up to 500 hours of content uploaded to the platform every minute, YouTube relies on algorithms to sort and organise everything — much faster than humans ever could.

Dr Matamoros-Fernandez says the key feature that makes YouTube popular is what's referred to as 'recommending algorithms'.

The 'recommending algorithm' When you watch a video on YouTube, the algorithm generates a sidebar to the right of the screen.

When you watch a video on YouTube, the algorithm generates a sidebar to the right of the screen. This sidebar is personalised to each user.

This sidebar is personalised to each user. YouTube collects data on what you watch, and how long for, and then compares it to other users' data to predict what kind of content you'll likely be interested in.

YouTube collects data on what you watch, and how long for, and then compares it to other users' data to predict what kind of content you'll likely be interested in. When the video you're watching ends, YouTube will autoplay the video at the top of this list.

"It takes into consideration things like two videos watched in a similar session. It takes into consideration your watch time," she explains.

"So if you use YouTube to listen to music when you study, it understands you're interested in this."

This is where Yoshimura comes in.

People weren't actively seeking his music — after all, it's impossible to search for something you don't know exists.

But YouTube's algorithm thought people would be interested in hearing it.

It moved Yoshimura's music from the obscure edges of YouTube and dropped it front and centre.

Fellow accidental fan Andy Cush wrote about his journey for SPIN mag.

"I listen to Yoshimura's music almost every day, both because I find it tremendously moving and because YouTube won't stop playing it," he wrote.

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Dr Matamoros-Fernandez says shared viewing patterns influence what you're likely to be recommended.

"The algorithm picks up a new interest and shows you more, saying 'hey, was this temporary or do you want to keep digging?'" she says.

Even users who hadn't shown an interest in Japanese music before found Yoshimura and his peers, including Satoshi Ashikawa and Midori Takada.

Writing in Vulture earlier this year, music journalist Andy Beta pointed out a strange phenomenon of YouTube music fans being redirected to music from Japan.

"For reasons not quite clear, the YouTube algorithm began recommending more and more Japanese music of this sort to anyone adventurous enough to let their autoplay queue up a few selections," he wrote.

"Almost any instance of listening to a rare electronic or jazz album might soon send you to the East."

And for many, myself included, one listen was all it took.

An 'attention economy' where time equals money

When I listen to Yoshimura's music, I often end up spending a lot of time on YouTube.

"It's quite minimalistic, it's calming. It invites you to spend time," Dr Matamoros-Fernandez says.

"YouTube's algorithm recognises this as a genre that is popular among people who stay a long time on the platform."

Time is "really important" for the platform — more time translates to more data it can harvest from users.

This in turn becomes part of YouTube's profit, although its parent company Google is coy about how much they actually make.

"It's an attention economy. They want you to be on the platform interacting and following. They want you to spend as much time as possible on the platform," Dr Matamoros-Fernandez says.

She points out that the relationship works both ways — algorithms can definitely help amplify certain types of music, but the human element can't be ignored.

"Platforms still have a lot of power, especially in terms of content moderation," she says.

"But a lot of times in mainstream media there's a narrative that's dystopian, that [algorithms] are influencing the way we think.

"It's a mutual relationship, users shape the platform. You want to see what's there."

The resurgence of vintage Japanese music originally began with record collectors using YouTube to circumvent the strict Japanese copyright law that has prevented much of the music from appearing on Spotify.

According to Vulture, American collector Spencer Doran started assembling collections of kankyō ongaku in the early 2010s, which helped raise the profile of Yoshimura and his contemporaries.

But when people wanted to find out more, they found it impossible to listen to anywhere but YouTube.

Dr Matamoros-Fernandez says this is pretty common.

"YouTube fills a gap in Spotify's collection. Hiroshi, he passed away, but this music isn't on professional channels. This is curational work amateurs are doing," she says.

Since then, independent label Light in the Attic has been collaborating with Doran and Yoshimura's widow to release his 1982 album Music for Nine Postcards outside of Japan for the first time.

His music is now more accessible than ever before.

Like Yoshimura, I'm pushing back against the roar

I'm glad I found Yoshimura. There is something about his music that I wanted to hear, even if I wasn't searching for it specifically.

Perhaps the story behind the genre can give a clue.

Kankyō ongaku blossomed in a time of massive economic development in Japan. Yoshimura's music was a reaction to this.

Yoshimura's music invokes calming, natural landscapes. ( Getty: Alexander Spatari )

In the roaring boom of urbanisation, his music was quiet and slow.

Like the "furniture music" of Erik Satie in the 1910s, or Brian Eno's Music for Airports in the 1970s, this was music designed to feel like an extension of the space you're in.

Kankyō ongaku artists like Hiroshi evoked the natural world in modern, urban spaces. They viewed nature through the lens of city life.

These vivid and calming soundscapes transported anxious listeners away from the pressures of city life.

When I turn to music recommendations to passively drift away from the hiss of steaming milk or sneezing colleagues, I'm also searching for an escape from the pressures of modern life.

I believe the same can probably be said for many of Yoshimura's other accidental fans.

The artist himself sums it up best on the liner notes for Music for Nine Postcards: "I will be happy if, when you enjoy this album, the surrounding scenery can be seen in a slightly different light."