denbushi | blog

First let me say that I’m listening to Susumu Yokota’s CD Grinning Cat, which is fucking unbelievable. In a good way, of course. It arrived from Amazon yesterday and I’ve listened to it maybe five times all the way through since then. It’s the best CD of September (so far), hands down. It’s weird and sublime and complex and mesmerizing all at once. And there’s a bizarre sample from a Drain CD I have that adds a certain surreal quality to the thing, somewhere around track 7.

Right. Anyway, let me say next that I’m also a little drunk. Not just on the Susumu Yokota, of course, but rather the sake that I’ve been drinking for the past couple of hours. Y’know, these are the kinds of evenings I value more than any other, living here in Tokyo. (Not the drinking part, the next bit.) An out of the blue call from a friend at seven or so to have some food and drinks, then meeting said friend at The Vagabond in Shinjuku for cocktails and other merriment.

We arrive and ask for a counter spot but there are none so we get a table. Instead it’s one of those six-seater tables that will surely fill up with others as the evening progresses, and I ask the waitress/hostess if she’ll be so kind as to sit a smallish person next to me when it becomes necessary to sit someone next to me, considering the very tight quarters and all that.

She smiles without saying anything, leaving me to wonder if my Japanese was right or not. So we talk and drink and eat, my friend and I, and after an hour or so are offered a recently-vacated spot at the bar, which we seize of course without hesitation. It’s elevated seating, which is really best in a place like the Vagabond.

The Vagabond, I should mention, is a Shinjuku institution of sorts, having occupied the same space for 26 years or so and home to a motley crew of salarymen and artists and hipsters and musicians. It’s my favorite Shinjuku bar. It’s the kind of place where a woman plays the piano and sings and dried flowers hang from the ceiling and all the staff are hot twentysomething Japanese women and Matsuoka-san (the owner) occasionally remembers to speak Japanese to you. In short, the Vagabond kicks ass. So does this Susumu Yokota CD, by the way.

So we leave after a while, warmed from drink and music and dried flowers and go for a walk, down or up or whichever way it would be into the heart of Shinjuku and the skyscrapers there. We try to name buildings and watch people and more people and still more people come out of buildings in largish clumps on their way from who knows where–the office or an izakaya or club– moving decisively toward Shinjuku station, home of cheap transportation and kept promises and mispocketed transit passes.

So we go back to our bikes and call it a night, riding off in different directions. I take the scenic route home, stumbling along the way across a yatai doing less than brisk business alongside Koshukaido (a busy thoroughfare) near my place.

I park my bicycle in front and meander over. The two customers there ignore me as I sit then order ramen from the menu of assorted fare that hangs along the upper wall of the mobile yatai cart.

I’m afforded the opportunity to wait for a moment because the fellow on my left has asked for his check, and I survey the o-den ruins. I ordered sake, so I’m thinking that ramen might not be a good idea, and I tell the “master” that I’d prefer o-den. (O-den is a lot of mysterious substances–meat and formed fish paste and vegetables and other oddities) instead. He grabs a smallish bowl, and I do my best to remember what each of the things is called. I only order what I can remember: chikuwa, o-tofu, daikon, hanpen, tamago. Then I point at some other things and order them, too.

I eat and take a break and smoke and think about the evening, which was a lot of fun, frankly. Surprisingly so, even. The remaining guy (to my right) is going on and on about horse racing. He sounds Korean, but he’s speaking in perfect Japanese. I can’t figure it out, but he’s somehow the type that you can’t interrupt and ask about his ethnicity. Or so I think. I find out later he’s from Tohoku, and I’m told that’s just the way people talk there.

Presently a fellow rides up on a compact yellow bicycle, then sits down on my left, ordering (in the military sense of the word) some sake and oden. He’s there for about two minutes before he strikes up a conversation with me.

“Hey. Where are you from, man? America? Not America, then?”
“America,” I say.
“Oh really? Whereabouts?”
“Seattle. West coast.”
“Really? I love Seattle,” he says, and then we’re talking.

We talk for an hour or better. He’s 33, and served in the Japanese Navy. He’s cool and friendly, and patiently explains words that I don’t understand (ensign, frigate, aguilette) with a matter-of-factness I find refreshing. We talk about life on a ship and hearing from old friends that you’ve not heard from in a decade or more and 9/11 and self-emplyoment, and drink sake and eat o-den and chat some more.

These chance meetings and exchanges are trifling, really, but I enjoy them more than anything, and they make me glad to be in Tokyo.

We settle our tabs and climb on bikes for the ride home. We’re in the same general direction, so we talk as we ride, in no hurry and enjoying the now-cool evening air. I remember to ask his name when we part, and he replies with a meishi before riding off into the night on his hundred dollar Yahoo! Auction foldaway bright yellow bike.

“Mata ne,” I say to myself, and weave the rest of the way home.

Back to Seattle after three years away, and not much has changed. The economy is worse and rents are down, but it’s basically the same as I left it. Except for the sports stadiums, of course. I joked with friends about going back to recharge my “cynicism batteries” among Seattle’s notoriously disaffected and angst-ridden population, not knowing at the time that I would end up doing so whether I intended to or not.

I spent most of my time on Capital Hill, which once seemed kind of hip in an alternative, anti-establishment way. Gay couples strolling hand-in-hand, lots of tattoos and piercings, colorful hair and friendly people all held a certain anti-cool appeal for me when I lived there following my stint as a student in Tokyo.

This time around, though, the friendly charm was still there, but the strongest impressions I had as I looked around was that Seattle really has a problem with Being Cool. It manifests itself in what I think of as the Anti-Cool Ethos, the adherents of which work as hard as they can to minimize any visual component–hair, dress, gait, etc.–that might be considered attractive or “cool” in the mainstream, popular sense of the word. As a consequence men crop their hair to half an inch or shave it off altogether, women eschew completely, ear piercings with quarter-sized grommets are common, and the only acceptable colors for clothing are blue-jean blue, black and gray.

What’s more, the Anti-Cool aesthetic is de riguer no matter what people happen to be doing; shopping for used clothes, having a drink, dining in an upscale restaurant, or working on the car. I kept trying to figure out why looking attractive or classy could be such a bad thing, and why theme parties seemed to be the only place you could wear a suit or a nice dress or even, say, primary colors.

I suppose the easy answer is that Seattlites pride themselves on being above all “that,” choosing instead to invest their time/money/energy in more meaningful preoccupations, while at the same time rejecting social and commercial pressure to conform or follow trends or consume the “right” things. Old Navy and Nike may be well represented downtown, but the anti-cool would never shop there. I appreciate that, of course, but I think they’ve gotten a bit carried away. Take a look at San Francisco, for example, and you’ll find no shortage of stylish and attractive people who somehow manage to avoid the consumer drone stereotype so despised by Seattlites.

Tokyo is the same way, and it’s what I’ve grown accustomed to these three years. Frankly, I like to wear a suit and tie and enjoy dinner at a fine restaurant, or spend an afternoon strolling around Harajuku and sipping white wine at a sidewalk cafe in something other than jeans or cutoffs. I like watching people pass to and fro on the sidewalk in front of me, stylin’ without guilt in that imitable Tokyo Style which now enjoys the full attention of all of Asia and much of the rest of the world as well. In other words, I appreciate fashion, and I like seeing people dress cool. In Seattle the only cool (as in cool cool, not anti-cool cool) and stylish people I saw were either gay or Asian or both. Go figure. And what does that say about me, then? I guess I must be Asian.

Anyway, the grungy charm for which Seattle is perhaps best known (after Starbucks, of course) was lost on me this time around, and I was able to confirm with certainty where I really want to be right now. Thankfully, I’m already here.

But it was, all things considered, a good week. I spent time with friends and shopped and hung out in cafes and enjoyed a bit of Bumbershoot, the largest annual music festival there. Modest Mouse performed a listless afternoon set that would have benefitted from about 50 more decibels, and I finally got to see Blonde Redhead live for the first time. (Kazu Makino is HOT!) We also spent some time out on a friends almost-yacht, tooling around Lakes Union and Washington, even veering over to gawk at Bill Gates’ palacial pad.

Many of my friends seem to have settled down a bit since we met last, which i probably to be expected now that we’re all thirtysomething. Were I still in Seattle I might as well, but Tokyo has a way of keeping you, I dunno, restless. Anyway, everyone seems well, and that makes me happy.

I’m particularly indebted to long-time friend Michelle for putting me up (putting up with me?) and showing me a wonderful, nostalgic time in Seattle. Thanks to you others as well–Lea, George, Chris, Neil, Justin, Troy, Carmel, Matt, Jenn, Jess, Pat, Barbara and even Tyrone–for hanging out and other kindnesses. Till next time…

I have to say, this is working out to be one of the best Summers in years. I’ve spent the weekends mostly out of the city, traveling to music events like Solstice and Fuji or heading off to the beach. This weekend I joined a group of friends for a night of drumming and dancing in Shonan at a great, isolated beach bar/club/cafe situated some fifty meters from the surf. Sputnik has events scheduled on most days throughout the Summer, and this evening we were happy to find Kaoru Inoue and Kentaro Iwaki spinning tunes for their Floatrive event. It was a great mix of house, seventies funk and assorted beach grooves.

 
But be warned! The APT moves around a lot because they never get permission to play the same venue twice. The shows are infrequent due to the huge physical and psychological toll each performance takes on the each of the members. They don’t advertise, and they damn sure don’t post flyers. What I’m trying to say is that, in addition to being painfully hard to listen to, they’re also fucking hard to see. But keep your eyes open. Listen to that whispered conversation at the table next to you. Look for subtle signs. The APT will be playing nearby sometime soon. Experience it once for yourself.