Who Originally Used Sound The Gong In Anime Openings?

Ever notice how some anime openings start with that slow, resonant gong that feels like a curtain being drawn on something important? I’ve dug into this kind of sonic shorthand for years, and honestly, there isn’t a single credited creator who first put a gong into an anime opening—it's more like a convergence of traditions and practical broadcast habits that coalesced in early television animation.

Historically, Japanese theater forms like kabuki and Noh used percussive instruments—kane, hyoshigi, and temple bells—to mark scene changes and signal moods. Those theatrical cues were already part of the cultural soundscape when animation producers started borrowing staging and dramatic techniques. At the same time, early cinema and radio in the West used gongs and struck bells as attention-getters and transitions, so there was an easy precedent for using a single, punchy hit to announce something. When television anime began to form its own language in the 1950s and 60s, studios naturally pulled from both wells.

Studios such as Toei and Mushi Production (the latter behind 'Tetsuwan Atom') popularized cinematic, theater-informed openings—big, immediate audio cues that grabbed viewers who were switching channels or tuning in after school. Producers and sound directors liked the gong because it signaled the start of the show with a weighty, ritualistic moment: it’s short, universally recognizable, and it cuts through other sound. Over time, composers and sound designers used the gong as a shorthand for gravitas, suspense, or ceremonial entrance—especially in samurai, historical, and mecha genres where a single metallic strike can imply tradition, war drums, or massive scale.

So: nobody single-handedly invented the gong-in-opening trick. It emerged from theatrical practice, film/radio cues, and the practical needs of early TV production, then got codified by production houses and composers who liked how it read on-screen. Today it’s a stylistic choice—sometimes literal, sometimes sampled or synthesized—but its roots feel ancient and modern at the same time. I kind of love that blend: it makes those old openings feel ceremonial every time the strike hits, like the show is calling the audience into a story that’s been told for generations and is brand-new in the same breath.

Listening to the way a gong drops into an anime opening always gives me a goofy little thrill, and I spent a long time poking at where that sound came from. The short version is that it’s not really one person who started it, but a lineage: traditional Japanese theatrical percussion (think the metallic strike of a 'kane' or the low boom of a 'dora') mixed with broadcast-era cues from radio and early TV. Those temple bells and stage instruments were already shorthand for solemnity and drama in Japan, so early sound directors and composers borrowed that emotional shorthand when crafting openings and title cards. In practice, studios in the 1950s–1970s — the early TV anime era — adapted those percussive hits to make a single sonic punctuation that felt ceremonious and immediate.

Beyond the cultural root, there was a strong influence from cinematic sound design. Western films used gongs and cymbal crashes to mark turning points, and Japanese studios translated that into a smaller, punchier hit for TV. You can hear the technique across a lot of classic and later shows: early big-studio productions and even some of the more theatrical openings like 'Space Battleship Yamato' or retroized cues in 'Lupin III' owe their dramatic punctuation to this mix of traditional instruments and modern broadcast practice. I love that tiny echo of ritual every time a title card slams on screen — it’s like the show ringing a tiny bell and saying, 'Pay attention.'

That gong hit at the start of some anime openings always reads to me like a little ritual—part theatrical cue, part broadcast habit. If you trace the sound’s lineage, it’s not the invention of one person but a gradual borrowing from theatre (kane, hyoshigi, temple bells) and early film/radio conventions where a single metallic strike marked transitions.

When TV anime was finding its voice in the 1960s, studios leaned on those familiar audio cues to grab viewers immediately. Producers and sound directors liked the gong because it’s instantly noticeable and carries a ceremonial weight. Over the decades it stuck as a shorthand for gravitas or drama, popping up in various genres whenever creators wanted an almost ritualistic kickoff.

So, in short: no single originator—just a mix of traditional performance practice and practical TV production choices that became a trope. I always smile when it appears; it feels like a respectful nod to older storytelling traditions while also saying, 'Hey, pay attention—this is the moment.'

There’s a neat, simple reason gongs got used so much in openings: they work as an instant punctuation. In my older-than-most-friends voice I’d say the tradition is basically a cocktail of temple and theatre instruments ('kane', 'dora') plus the broadcast habit of signaling program starts with chimes. Early studios borrowed that clarity and gravitas for title cards, and sound directors kept the convention because it was effective.

Beyond function, the gong carries cultural weight — it evokes ritual, ceremony, or a dramatic reveal — so it’s aesthetically useful. It shows up across decades because it’s cheap to place, immediately understandable, and gives viewers that tiny shiver of anticipation. To this day, a well-timed gong still feels like the show tapping you on the shoulder, and I kind of love that familiar tug.

Feeling like I’m mapping out some tiny part of pop-culture history is oddly satisfying, so here’s how I’d tell the story over coffee. The gong-like hit in many anime openings grew from a few overlapping habits: the use of ceremonial percussion in Japanese performance arts, the practical needs of TV (a big sonic cue to mark a transition), and the creative taste of sound directors who wanted an instant emotional hook. Early television borrowed from radio and newsreels, where a chime or bell announces beginnings and ends; anime producers translated that into something more dramatic for their title screens.

On a more concrete level, the folks who actually put those gongs into openings were usually studio sound directors and composers rather than a single famous composer. They worked in the sound department and chose a strike, sampled it, layered it with reverb, and edited it to snap right on the beat with the visuals. Tracks by composers like Yuji Ohno for 'Lupin III' emphasize percussion hits, and big-name studio openings from the 60s and 70s show how the technique spread. It became part of the language: a quick aural marker that read to viewers as 'this is important' or 'get hyped.' I still grin whenever an opening nails that moment with a perfectly timed clang.

Listening to the way a gong drops into an anime opening always gives me a goofy little thrill, and I spent a long time poking at where that sound came from. The short version is that it’s not really one person who started it, but a lineage: traditional Japanese theatrical percussion (think the metallic strike of a 'kane' or the low boom of a 'dora') mixed with broadcast-era cues from radio and early TV. Those temple bells and stage instruments were already shorthand for solemnity and drama in Japan, so early sound directors and composers borrowed that emotional shorthand when crafting openings and title cards. In practice, studios in the 1950s–1970s — the early TV anime era — adapted those percussive hits to make a single sonic punctuation that felt ceremonious and immediate.

Beyond the cultural root, there was a strong influence from cinematic sound design. Western films used gongs and cymbal crashes to mark turning points, and Japanese studios translated that into a smaller, punchier hit for TV. You can hear the technique across a lot of classic and later shows: early big-studio productions and even some of the more theatrical openings like 'Space Battleship Yamato' or retroized cues in 'Lupin III' owe their dramatic punctuation to this mix of traditional instruments and modern broadcast practice. I love that tiny echo of ritual every time a title card slams on screen — it’s like the show ringing a tiny bell and saying, 'Pay attention.'