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.