Wednesday, April 25, 2018

Tokyo Part III: Bars

Japan may be a mostly homogenous country, but going to Tokyo reminded me of the history Japan has with the rest of the world. Many Japanese people moved to Brazil during a time when economic prospects looked good in the South American country. When those prospects turned out to be not as expected, many ended up stranded in Brazil, assimilating as best they could into Brazilian culture. Many ethnically Japanese, culturally Brazilian people have returned to their grandparent’s home, along with other Brazilians. Thus, Japan has a history with the Portuguese-speaking country. As a fan of Bossa Nova and Samba, I wanted to find a piece of Brazilian culture in Tokyo. It turned out to be the first Brazilian restaurant in Tokyo. At Saci Perere, I was treated to a set that included the music cover charge, an appetizer sampler, and entree in one special price. I sipped on a Caipirinha, the deceptively simple Brazilian cocktail, while listening to a Brazilian and Japanese duo play some of the most fully orchestrated music I’d ever heard performed by only two people. The singer/guitarist’s Brazilian excitement and lively guitar chording were backed by a drummer with Japanese precision and complexity. It reminded me of the difference between coffee drinking and tea drinking cultures: Coffee drinking countries are upbeat, quick to make decisions, and with an infectious zest for life. Tea drinking countries are more methodical, focused, with a quiet determination to do things perfectly. 
Deceptively Cool Grooves
Hearing Portuguese sung and Japanese spoken made me hyper-aware of my place in history: Here I was, an American with Swedish and Irish great-grandparents, listening to a Black Brazilian man and a Japanese man play music of African, European, and American roots, in Japan. The mix of cultures left me feeling awe-struck. This was something that could only happen right here, right now. I, along with a handful of stylish regulars, awkwardly tried to step in time to the deceptively cool, polyrhythmic tropical grooves being pumped out of a Roland Jazz Chorus amp. I was glad I had just learned the word for “white people”, so I could explain how my genetic deficiency prevented me from dancing perfectly in time. After two courses of Brazilian food, three sets of samba, and an hour of casual Portuguese lessons, I left Saci Perere feeling welcomed in a place that is defined by the exchange of cultures. 





Idols Galore
Tokyo was largely shaped by the economic bubble of the 1980s. As an unabashed fan of 1980s aesthetics, Tokyo was a visual and cultural treat. Much of the architecture and graphic design had a clear 80s style, and I could feel the spirit of the economic miracle emanating out of the bold colored signs attached to sleek metal and concrete buildings. On Saturday night, I donned the new wave white-outlined blazer I had bought that day at Kashiki and hit the town Showa-style. I tracked down a bar that aired music videos of the bubble economy: Glamorous Italo Disco sung by idols and the smooth-jazz-and-funk favored by Japanese yuppies of the time called City Pop. At “Showa Boogie”, portraits of idols plastered the walls and the perfumed sounds of the uniquely Japanese interpretation of American and European music filled the air. After about 20 minutes of simply enjoying the once in-vogue videos, a man next to me struck up a conversation. I learned he worked at a record label, was from the southern island of Kyushu, and loved Prince and Bruce Springsteen. Like me, he was somewhat young to be listening to this music, but he knew it just as well as the middle-aged salarymen seated across from us, who were reliving their glory days. He explained as best he could the significance of each performer, and made comparisons to famous American musicians. At a certain point, the references became farther reaching, but I assured him that I didn’t need an American reference point, that I enjoyed the music for what it was. We chatted about and sang along to YMO, Tatsuro Yamashita, and the eurobeat classic “Dancing Hero” until bar close. I thanked him for the history lesson and headed back to my capsule hotel, walking amongst the ever-bright neon of Shinjuku. I imagined what it would have been like to see this place in its heyday. I imagined being a young professional getting off a hard day’s work at Panasonic or Toshiba, going to a bar playing the same music but at the height of its popularity. I wandered in this false-nostalgia amongst others who were ready to end their nights at the only time Tokyo allows you to rest: Right before dawn. 
Only pic I got of the interior before getting the shaming crossed fingers

On my last night in Tokyo, I realized I had not yet been to Shibuya, one of Tokyo’s busiest districts. However, after two nights in a row of staying out late, I was not looking to do anything too crazy. I decided to spend my last night in a juxtaposition: I went to the busiest intersection in Japan for a photo op, and promptly went to Ginza Panorama Bar, whose website calls it “a healing place for adults”. Ginza Panorama is a bar that features a miniature model of the Ginza district of Tokyo, complete with model trains running in clockwork around the tiny world. Light west coast jazz played as I was welcomed by the owner, a perfect example of Japanese hospitality. Cocktails were all “American style, Japanese-made”: The list read like any cocktail lounge in America, yet there was a great selection of Japanese-distilled whiskey and Japanese sake. Two other patrons were lightly chatting across the miniature world, and soon asked me: “Do you like trains”?. 


A relaxing time with a miniature world
Three hours later, I had learned that one was the son of a diplomat who grew up in Switzerland and had spent most of his young adult life in privilege, jumping between Tokyo and Kyoto. The other man was a systems engineer who worked with the Japanese Self Defense force, who in turn work with the American military. They were very interested in my Americanness, and our conversations centered around mutual understanding. They explained confusing aspects of Japanese culture to me and reassured me that I was doing very well navigating Japanese culture, which was difficult for even them as men of privilege. I tried to explain the complexity that is race in America, and taught them the difference between race and nationality. The owner stayed open an extra hour and a half for us to talk, and the conversation ended only after he politely reminded me that the last train to Shinjuku would be leaving soon. We parted with the Japanese phrase wishing each other to take care. I think both parties left feeling that they had learned something about each other. My reflective headspace after this experience allowed me to ignore the insanity of being crammed into the Yamanote Line with a gaggle of teenagers at Shibuya Station. It allowed me to float through the soon-to-be-hungover party district of Golden Gai, past the male exotic dancers tiredly consuming a late night convenience store meal and last cigarette of the night. I went to bed with the same feeling of the other nights: These experiences could only happen to me, in Tokyo. Tokyo is vast and overwhelming, but it’s because it’s clamoring to cater to everyone. I found the sliver carved out for me, and left feeling satisfied by what I was served. 

Sunday, April 1, 2018

Tokyo Part II: Shopping

Shopping in Harajuku

Many Japanese products seem perfectly designed for me: They are built or made for the average Japanese person, who is usually 5’ 7”, skinny, and possesses a neurotic attention to detail. For me, “Made in Japan” is analogous to high quality, deliberate design, and well-tailored. Naturally, shopping in Tokyo brought many pleasant surprises.
Tokyo is a vintage aficionado’s heaven. Japan imported boatloads of vintage clothes from America in the 1980s, and several neighborhoods in west Tokyo are jam-packed with immaculate old clothes. Prices are reflected accordingly, but the quality and uniqueness are well worth the price. My favorite store was Keshiki Menswear, located on the 3rd floor of an office building away from the teen-spirit of the rest of Harajuku. The owner of Keshiki had seemingly curated a perfect store for me: Classic menswear, both formal and casual, from the 1960s-1980s as well as more modern pieces. Bowie-esque suits, smart oxfords and loafers, 60s white levi’s, loud-yet-tasteful 70s shirts, and classic monotone tees were neatly arranged in this tiny shop. The only thing that prevented me depleting half the stock was my bank account.
This look brought to you by Keshiki

*Insert bleeps and bloops here*
1980s music was largely shaped by the Japanese. Affordable and innovative Japanese instruments changed how people made music worldwide. Groundbreaking instruments like the Yamaha DX7, 
Roland Juno series, and Roland TR-808 drum machine were all made in Japan. Tracking down remnants of this time proved to find some interesting spaces. FiveG, a synthesizer repair and retail store, was like walking into a museum of Japan’s greatest musical innovations. I had never seen so many vintage synths in person, let alone in immaculate condition. Shelves of Yamahas, Rolands, and foreign instruments from Oberheim and Sequential Circuits lined the walls, patiently waiting to be explored. I had only seen a real 808 once in my life, and it was through a glass window. I couldn’t believe one was out in the open for anyone to play. 




Shred, but not too shred
While I struck out on Tokyo’s famous Ochanomizu guitar street (most shops were small and only stocked new guitars), I found TC Gakki, a secondhand store stocking the best of Japanese affordable-vintage guitars: 1980s and 90s Fender Japan, 70s “lawsuit era” Gibson photocopies, and 60s mod/surf guitars. In the back corner, I stumbled upon the most natural addition to my guitar collection: A Fender Japan Stratocaster from what I’d call the “post-shred” era. The late 80s and early 90s saw guitar companies in a time of change. The gaudiness of hair metal and guitar virtuoso acrobatics was on its way out, yet grunge had not yet brought back the earthy rawness of the 70s back. Technical innovations for shredding had reached a peak, where companies, especially Japanese ones, knew how to make the perfect “Super-Strat”- a Stratocaster hot-rodded for speed, power, and performance. Yet the aggressive, sharp edges of these guitars were falling out of favor, probably due to the resurgence of vintage Stratocasters brought on by Stevie Ray Vaughn, Eric Clapton and other white blues-lawyers. The strat I found was a perfect example of this time period: It had the usual super-strat features (louder, humbucking pickups, a locking tremolo bridge for Van Halen divebombs, a flatter/thinner neck for speed), but also took away the sharp, weapon-like lines in favor of the tried-and-true Stratocaster body and headstock shapes. My music aspires to this take on the 1980s: Take the parts that made it such an innovative time period, yet leave behind much of the gaudiness, questionable visual aesthetics, and cock-rocking masculinity that defined aspects the era.


Would you look at that!
Before I left TC Gakki, I saw a 90s reissue ’69 Fender Thinline Telecaster, the same make and model as my first real guitar. I was reminded of how much Japan has influenced my life and how American and Japanese cultures have influenced each other after World War II. Japan and I share a love of many things: Fender guitars, synthesizers, Levi’s, jazz, Snoopy, vintage clothing, striped t-shirts, coffee. They love the Americanness of these things, and I love the Japanese take on them. It is that unique connection our countries share that will have me forever attached to this place. While I hesitate to call it a second home, I see Japan as a place that will always be there for me to get inspired by. We share enough commonalities that while fundamentally different, myself and parts of Japan will be able to give each other a knowing nod. It’s a relationship defined by overcoming deeply ingrained differences in cultural norms, spoken and body language, and expectations for life. Those differences are overcome by meeting in the middle, sharing things we both like, where neither is totally comfortable yet not uncomfortable. I may never call Japan home; Home is a place of comfort and safety. Japan is more like an alma mater: A place where I was challenged, where I met many kinds of people, where I was allowed to explore possibilities. It’s a place I got lost, but learned to leave a trail to come back to. It’s a place I can return to with fond memories of being young and not knowing what I was doing yet. It is a place with room for growth, even in a tiny capsule hotel room.