a short recording of an early morning…

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 enthusiastic about its possibilities? Considering the question, I’m surprised at my lack of creative response. 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 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 life-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 others walk through the busiest crossing in the world, a five way “scramble” cross-walk 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 120 foot long Center Gai is one of the major veins through which to reach some of Shibuya’s most idiosyncratic night-time 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 Family Mart 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 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 man at a round table near the door.

The inside is mostly 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 young 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 DJs 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. The place has around 12 seats in total—narrow and dark. 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 rolling can drink mayhem into day.

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.

SHORT REGARDS………………………………………………………………………………………………….

With a weekend spinning down like a dying star, I sit with a cup of coffee, healthy as a broken horse and genuflect at having been blessed with my surroundings—living and inanimate.

A kubuki man moves in color through unnatural directions as the sound from the back of his throat rings in a high yodel –the dangerous, cutting sound birthed from the ill-behavior of wild ronin turned bird-painted ninkyō dantai (noble organization).

Dreams like these are cloudy and stick to me like rough peanut butter to the underside of a dry tongue. There are new waves always approaching. New writing and new art = NEW BOOK. Collect yourselves, and we’ll be sure to do the same.

-K