A FEW GOOD PLACES IN TOKYO
THIS CITY IS MADE OF GOLD
A Few Good Places In Tokyo
By Kris Hartrum
TOKYO, December 10th, 2011…
THE DAUNTING CROWDS walk at varying paces past the bronze statue of the once loyal Akita dog below exit number five of Shibuya train station in the thick, Tokyo evening air. I’m waiting for friends near an old green train car as nearby youth burn down cigarettes, beer and cocktails. A young man wearing thick rimmed glasses and a tiny dress dances and sings a poorly practiced karaoke in a tree until two eerily calm police officers gently ask him down, the crowds of eclectically dressed night-hawks clapping and hollering unintelligibly at his departure.
Recently, I was asked why I love the city of Tokyo. What is it about this giant machine of peculiarity that keeps me here, constantly reinvigorated by its many charms? Something more than cool, I think. Like most modern cities, the efficiency of Tokyo is as dazzling as it is nauseating. Over 39 million people live and work in the Tokyo prefecture which, by most standards, makes Tokyo the largest metropolitan area in the world. People have uttered things like “a blend of old and new,” and other catchy (overused) ways to try and build a simple mold of what makes this city so fine. The question is full of traps… what makes the beating heart of a true megalopolis pump its hot blood through the streets, and its (often) disenchanted people?
Now it’s just before midnight in Shibuya on Saturday night. People, young and old, scurry through the streets like so many of the well fed rats that live as kings through the garbage along the sidewalks and back alley shadows of the night.
After wasting plenty of time standing around and cracking wise, myself and a few friends walk through the busiest crossing in the world: a five way “scramble” crosswalk beneath massive 2-story video screens blaring neon-lit advertisements, marking the entrance to Center Gai. A path used by locals and tourists alike, the lively Center Gai is one of the major veins through which to reach some of Shibuya’s most idiosyncratic late-night delights. A four story video arcade stretches up ten floors next to a photo booth shop where girls dressed in school uniform and fake tans drink lemon Chu-hai (cocktails) on the steps. People sit and stand along the curbs, drunk, passed out, shopping and scamming one another until there’s nothing left, which rarely seems to be the case.
We stop at a convenient store called for beers, opening them in the street. As an American, I consider it one hell of a luxury to drink in public without being hassled, ticketed or worse.
“I’d get my head busted open for this back home,” someone says.
Two young men approach us and offer a deal on karaoke.
“All you can drink,” he says.
I ask him how much. It’s 3,000 yen for 2 hours…everything included.
“Not tonight,” I tell him. We’ve decided to skip the ceremonial singing to reach a party at a place called Echo. I’ve never heard of it.
I am reminded of our usual nights at karaoke: 4-10 people pile into a tiny room and pass around an electronic remote, irrationally belting out Springsteen, Queen, Bowie and plenty more in a disillusioned stupor of rock n roll glory and too much cheap booze.
A big rat scurries out from under some garbage past my foot, dragging a greasy wrapper back to nowhere. We continue up the road, passing high-end places, western pubs and yaki-tori stalls. There is no shortage of hustlers doing their best to get you inside anywhere and everywhere that costs a buck.
We reach the evening’s destination: a tall building near an oddly placed Outback Steakhouse. There are maybe ten or more pubs, cafes and hostess bars stacked on top of one another, all the way to the roof. Everything is crammed and smashed up against the next. There is no surplus of physical space. We take the stairs to the second floor. A man named Kato-Man runs two places. One is a small 12 seat bar called Beat Cafe, and the other is Echo: kind of a private party room with a small but adequate dance floor, a short bar and dark ceilings. There is nothing marking it’s location save a piece of torn notebook paper with the words “ECHO” written in green highlighter taped to a large, square door. We pay the 500 yen entrance fee to a man at a round table near the door.
The inside is wallpapered in reflective gold. The ornate vinyl floor is sticky and adorned with attractive patterns of blue and white, cigarette butts scattered about at random. Two Americans mix old soul and rockabilly classics. People stand at the bar and take shots. A pretty Korean girl in a aquamarine skirt and cream blouse snaps pictures of a couple sucking tongues on the sofa. Kids from New Zealand, Australia, America, Korea, China and Japan drink, dance and shout about nothing over the sound of the music.
One of the DJ’s approaches me. He has long, blond hair and he’s wearing a white t-shirt marked with perspiration.
“Where are you from, man?” he asks.
“States,” I say.
“Me too.” He says that he’d first come here planning to stay for a year. That was seven years ago.
“Same old story,” he says. “Met a girl just before I was supposed to leave. Now I don’t know what the hell’s going on.”
I head upstairs to Beat Cafe for a quieter drink. It’s a narrow 12-seater with plenty of character. I’m told these kind of tiny places are quite common in Tokyo. It’s the kind of atmosphere you would expect: warm, relaxed and intimate. Kato-Man is running the bar and choosing songs from his laptop. A muted Ziggy Stardust concert plays on a television at his back.
“You know my friend, huh?” I ask him as he pours my beer into a plastic cup.
“Who’s your friend?” He asks.
“You’re dating her, I say. Roz, right?”
He shakes his head up and down affirmatively.
“These are some real good places. My friends are having a lot of fun,” I say.
“Thanks.” He smiles big and goes back to the music.
I drink my drink and head downstairs. Night blurs into morning and we’re back out in the streets as the glorious rising sun comes up over the metallic buildings, smashing out the darkness and into daylight.
We’re stumbling through Yoyogi park. It’s early morning and I’m holding a flat, warm beer. I’ve no idea why we’re in the middle of park. Kids in their early 20’s are asleep next to a public toilet on the ground. It’s the beginning of a possibly beautiful day, but I’m destroyed so I hail a cab back to Shinjuku, climb the steps to my old apartment building alongside shit side of Kanda river and fall to sleep on my flat, floral patterned futon.
Sunday, July 11th…
It’s around three o’clock in the afternoon. I’m sitting on the Maruonochi subway line towards Koenji from Nakano Sakue station. I feel useless after the previous night’s minor bruising. I’m out in search of a comforting, easy-going atmosphere and slightly greasy delicacies.
Koenji is part of the Suginami ward of Tokyo. Just 3 stops from West Shinjuku, it is host to a sort of alternative living style from the modern, forever accelerated fashion and club scene of Shibuya. Koenji was born from the effects of the Kanto earthquake of 1923 when people moved outward from center city to escape the ruins. I’ve been told that it was famous for it’s tea houses in the 1950’s 
and is credited as the birthplace of the Japanese punk-rock scene of the 70’s. It’s without a doubt, one of the most uniquely enjoyable areas of Tokyo City. Because Koenji came out of the war unscathed, the streets and shops seem to buzz with a genuine warmth that one finds few places in a city with a reputation for being (occasionally) sterile.
We exit Higashi-Koenji staion, making our way up Ome Kaido, one of the main roads connecting major wards in the city. Immediately I am struck by the amount of strange, seemingly useless shops: like a store dedicated entirely to selling old hot-wheels brand toy cars, the flaming logo splashed across the top of the roof. Next-door a girl wearing pink doll-inspired dress stands smiling behind the counter of a shop specializing in second-hand toy lunchboxes and teenage mutant ninja turtles trading cards from the early 90’s.
Near the main train station, we walk down a side street and find ourselves immediately upon the locale red-light district. Big colorful posters of scantily clad anime characters dressed as nurses, maids advertise PINK SALON in large, appropriately pink letters. The characters are drawn to playfully beckon the male passerby down the narrow staircases bordered with photos of the “virtuous” young girls who run the place.
“What is Pink Salon?” I turn and ask my friend Megumi. She seems to be a bit of an expert on Koenji. Her English is ability is admirable, as is her knowledge of the seedy, underground sex industry.
“It’s a blowjob parlor,” shei tells me with a straight face. “You pay to sit in a booth and get a blowjob.”
“Sounds like quite the time,” I say.
Nearby, we head into a cafe called Indian Summer. It’s a sort of bar/restaurant/lounge tucked between various eateries and affordable vintage clothing shops. Up the stairs, we are met by Hiyori, a young woman who serves us 400 yen happy hour beers and a 
bowl of edamame (steamed and salted soy beans). She tells us the place hosts regular party nights, and also doubles as a record label under the same name. The beers are cold and the beans are warm, but the music reminds me too much of some new age easy listening or bad jazz fusion. Overall, Indian Summer is comforting and attractive but too clean for my tastes, so we’re off again and in search of something grittier.
Megumi suggests a place called Hanbei, which we find just past a donut shop around the corner from the pink salons. Supposedly inspired by the Showa period of post war Japan, Hanbei is full of old movie posters from the times, excellent grilled chicken on a stick and black and white episodes of Astro Boy on 20 year old television sets. We order chicken skins, and breast meat on skewers (yaki tori) and dip fresh chopped cabbage into sweet miso sauce over short beers. The waitress is a pretty young thing with bleached blond hair.
I notice that almost all of the workers have piercings, tattoos and dyed hair, chopped in far-out directions. It clashes beautifully with the advertisements from the early 1900’s. It’s oddly appropriate. I tell the waitress I like her hair. She smiles and hands me the tab.
We pay and venture farther from the noise of central Koenji to a side street past some pachinko parlors. I see a simple door adorned with the names of some of my favorite American and Brittish rock bands from the 80’s and 90’s. The sign above simply reads October. Inside it is dark. A Pavement record spins on the turntable. I am immediately comfortable. Shelves of pristine rock and pop vinyls sit beneath rows of framed indie movie posters leading all the way to a lone, see-through cooler of beers from the four corners of the world. I order a cold can Sapporo beer and ask the bartender how long October has been around. He changes the record to an old pop song from the 80’s I cannot place.
“For ten years,” he says.
“What’s your name?”
“I’m Hiro.” He lights a cigarette and changes the record again.
“Why did you name it October?” I ask.
“At the time, I was really in love with U2’s second album. It’s called October.”
“I see.” I buy a pack of cigarettes. He lights it for me. What a guy.
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Sounds like the kind of place a fallen star would get lost in.