A sombre minor key establishes a reflective mood, mirroring lyrics of self-doubt. Chromatic chord transitions elicit a nuanced emotional response, shifting from clarity to complexity. The inclusion of a dominant seventh chord instils a sense of unresolved tension, echoing the longing expressed in the verse. Conversely, a major chord, introduced through modal interchange, brings a resolution, lifting the composition to an optimistic peak in line with the song's narrative arc.
Chord progressions that dance between melancholic minor tones and uplifting major cadences are critical in Japanese popular music. These sequences frequently incorporate elements of traditional scales, such as the Hirajoshi, ensuring continuity with Japan's musical past. The fusion of these musical motifs with the distinctive lyrical nuances of the Japanese language might well be the alchemy behind the nostalgia I feel when listening to music from Japan. At least, this is my attempt to rationalise that ineffable feeling.
In Tokyo, the sounds of Japanese music abound: unobtrusive strains of J-pop fill the air of 24-hour fast-food chains in the early hours, following late nights in the city. The poignant storytelling of Enka music accompanies sake-drinking sessions in venerable old nomiya. Esoteric and minimalist pieces set the stage for installations and interpretive dance performances across the city's art galleries. In Shibuya's loft bars, hip-hop DJs remain in the boom-bap era, spinning tracks as if time stood still in 1993. Karaoke booths reverberate with the belting of high-energy songs across genres, channelling the spirit of Retsuko, the red panda, after a long day at the office.
Barkeepers, kissaten masters, snack bar matriarchs and record store owners curate music to their liking—Japanese or otherwise—in diverse venues citywide. My first encounter with a Tokyo micro bar dedicated to music occurred in the low-rise neighbourhood of Kōenji. With enough counter space to accommodate around eight patrons, this establishment had a proprietor whose unique approach was to eavesdrop on conversations at the bar and select contextually relevant tracks from his vinyl collection, which filled the walls. A symbiosis between conversation topics and the corresponding music selections would unfold, each enhancing the other against a backdrop of steadily served cocktails.
Motivated to have conversations in Japanese instead of English, I experimented with listening to Japanese radio, a strategy often recommended for passive language learning. This is largely ineffective for beginners, although it can be enjoyable and set a listening comprehension target. If you can achieve even a minimal understanding of the rapid-fire voices of professional radio, it becomes a valuable addition to the learning mix. As an unintended consequence, I became acquainted with Japan's current and classic mainstream pop, contrasting with the offbeat cultural immersions described previously. Over time, these melodies followed me into karaoke sessions—Japanese pop hits had infiltrated my song selection.
Around 2014, a colleague with a penchant for Northern Soul, funk, and disco shared an unassuming YouTube link with me. Titled in Japanese and English, it featured a song by an unknown female artist we had yet to encounter. The video had perhaps a few thousand views, no description, and displayed only a still image of a demure teenage starlet in soft focus, imbued with the warmth of film grain yet marred by digital compression. It turned out to be the late Miki Matsubara, and the song, 真夜中のドア / Stay With Me, would, unbeknownst to us at the time, ascend nearly a decade later to become an iconic track within the City Pop genre, reconfigured for the internet age.
As a music lover living in Tokyo, experiences like these left a lasting impression. Yet, it was part of daily existence—I wasn't drawing distinctions between Japanese and non-Japanese music as it blended into my musical preferences. I've come to know band members who express their exasperation at being perennially tagged as a "Japanese band" while on international tours. They are frequently billed at Japan-themed nights and encounter a subtle, albeit persistent, sense of exoticisation in how they are introduced and reviewed. They aspire to be recognised for their artistry and contributions to their genre, irrespective of their origins.
While I empathise with this perspective, I'm unsure how realistic it is. In my observation, however vigorously artists attempt to detach from their inherent cultural backdrop, they seldom achieve complete separation. To do so, the music would have to merge with global uniformity to the point that identity vanishes altogether. "Japanese music" became a specific area of interest for me after returning to Britain, possibly driven by nostalgia for Japan. I began organising my CDs, vinyl records, and MP3s, researching their stories, and revisiting tracks whose details I had forgotten. My search for Japanese music involved scouring for second-hand CDs, exceeding my luggage allowance with Disc Union acquisitions during visits to Japan, and circumventing the restrictions of Amazon Japan through VPNs, among other endeavours.
2016 marked the moment when Japanese music publishers formed partnerships with Spotify, inaugurating an era where an expansive array of Japanese music became legally accessible overseas. Collectively, renditions of 真夜中のドア / Stay With Me now surpass 100 million views, according to some estimates. This figure excludes its proliferation in brief video snippets; Matsubara's voice, echoing from four and a half decades past, serves as the soundtrack for a perpetual stream of Japan travel tips and holiday photo dumps, like a ghost in the machine. A significant portion of Japan's music is not only accessible for streaming but also legally permissible for use in short videos of specified durations. This paradigm shift is stark compared to the efforts required to obtain Japanese music less than a decade ago.
The situation appears fragile and transient. Amidst a deadlock, Universal Music Group directed TikTok to remove all compositions authored or co-authored by its associated songwriters, citing insufficient remuneration for artists and an absence of safeguards against the detrimental impacts of AI on human creators. A swath of TikTok videos were silenced after a contractual agreement between the entities expired in January. The issue presents conflicting perspectives: TikTok criticises the directive for harming artists, inside and outside Universal's roster.
Despite the uncertainty, I find intrepid joy in pairing visuals of Tokyo with the under-explored rhythms of Japanese music to share with individuals of similar taste worldwide. Each week, I release short video spots teasing the upcoming newsletter dispatch and usually receive at least a few messages with the query, "What's that track?". In response, I've created a playlist featuring songs from every newsletter issue thus far. The Spotify playlist links are at the bottom of the page for those interested.
My process centres around writing and bursts of video shooting, editing, and photography. Occasionally, I loop video clips with different pieces of music to discover the most harmonious match, but usually, my selection is predetermined. For various reasons, a certain song might resonate with the theme I'm contemplating, and I'll play it on repeat as I write. This repetition contributes to a flow state whilst revealing more of the track's intricacies. These pieces transcend mere suitability for video synchronisation; they emerge as soundtracks for me.
Naturally, presenting the playlist without sharing the essence of its selection felt incomplete. Thus, I invite you to explore these musical choices further.
#1 Tokyo Arrivals
Hannah Warm • Purple
In her room, enveloped by lingering smoke, Hannah Warm drifts into sleep beside her phone, awaiting a call that never comes. Awakening, she finds the city under a deep purple twilight and ventures out, seeking someone or something. The understated rhythm of Purple captures the atmosphere of Tokyo around nightfall pleasingly. It is a search for connection: the English refrain, "I've been looking for you," anchors the song, intertwining with the Japanese verses in call and response. This duality made it the selection for Tokyothèque #1, at which point the search for those interested in my writing had just begun. So, please accept my sincere gratitude for reading today.
As an artist, Hannah Warm merits the 'underrated' designation; a glance at her social media reveals a modest following, metrics that belie her multifaceted talent in songwriting, production, design, and videography. She grew up in Tokyo in a music-loving home, surrounded by the sounds of Tatsuro Yamashita and Mariya Takeuchi from a young age. Herein lies a link to the analogue influences that are part of Hanna's contemporary digital compositions.
#2 A Tokyo Neighbourhood Walk
Lisa Ono • あの日に帰りたい [Ano Hi Ni Kaeritai]
On occasion, when tuning into French public radio, a contemporary Japanese bossa nova cover version of a 1970s Nyū Myūjikku (New Music) hit saunters through the airwaves. It is an experience not commonly replicated on public radio in many countries, including Japan. Nevertheless, one evening, as I cooked a meal, the radio station FIP played Ano Hi Ni Kaeritai, a Yumi Matsutoya song performed by Lisa Ono. Ono's rendition is a delicate take on the original, employing a sparse arrangement where the lyrics, concerned with a yearning for the past while wandering through the city at dusk, achieve a resonant impact as they meet the chord changes.
Lisa Ono was born in São Paulo, Brazil, in 1962 and relocated to Tokyo with her family at age ten. From then onwards, her year was split between Japan and Rio de Janeiro. Despite her relatively brief residence in Brazil, she emerged as an ambassador of Brazilian popular music in Japan and is commonly credited with introducing the genre to a broader audience. Upon settling in Japan, Lisa's father established a Brazilian restaurant, which became the stage for her early performances—the discerning radio DJs of FIP were astute in scheduling Lisa Ono at dinnertime. Her music, evocative of warm afternoons transitioning into the evening, is also the ideal accompaniment for long strolls through Tokyo's dense low-rise neighbourhoods.
#3 Tokyo's Vertical Streets
Naoko Gushima • Candy
Despite their prodigious abilities, certain artists seem to fall just outside their destined time: Naoko Gushima's debut album, Miss. G may have been seven or eight years too late. The record, released in 1996, gained critical acclaim but little commercial success. Gushima began playing the piano at age four and was absorbed by the music industry early on as a session musician and commercial writer. Listening to Miss. G, I hear an eighties starlet, made for vinyl, trapped inside a nineties R&B jewel case. The situation has been rectified to some extent, with Naoko Gushima picked up en route by the City Pop resurgence—a stray from the mid-90s.
The lead track from Miss. G, Candy, was covered by Tokimeki Records, a producer known for reviving and popularising lesser-known songs from the past. Gushima's voice wavers like ripples between the swaying mellow beat and ambient keyboards on the original '90s recording, with its addictive quality. The song's lyrics revolve around a protagonist who visits somebody referred to as "Candy" in their lonely room to offer companionship during the night. The mood resonates with the romance of Tokyo's neon-lit streets and the mysterious affairs of zakkyo buildings covered in Tokyothèque #3. Since Universal Music owns the publishing rights to Candy, I used the Tokimeki Records version for the TikTok spot, which, incidentally, features vocals by Hannah Warm.
#4 Tokyo Under the Rain
死夢VANITY • True Love
The kanji character 死 (shi) translates to death, while 夢 (mu) signifies dream. To my knowledge, the combination of these characters does not yield a word recognised by dictionaries. It is befitting of Vaporwave, the genre within which the artist 死夢VANITY operates. Vaporwave distinctively employs kanji and kana, unanchored from their meanings, as a deliberate stylistic choice. 死夢VANITY remains an enigma. All we have to analyse are the glistening fragments of audio they leave scattered across the internet in their wake.
True Love features on the inaugural compilation album from the Japanese netlabel Local Visions. The track comprises a bed of soft synths and piano phrases interspersed with bell trees, sirens, and handclaps with a pronounced delay that reverberates through the mix like echoes in a deserted skyscraper district. It's challenging to discern which elements are samples and which are created by the artist, but the overall sound shimmers with expansiveness and depth. True Love looped as I wrote my meditation on Tokyo in the rain. It is unavailable on streaming services and can only be heard on Local Visions' Bandcamp page, which is linked at the end of the newsletter.
#5 Expressway Shakkei
Ryuichi Sakamoto • Andata
Andata is the opening track from the late Ryuichi Sakamoto's penultimate studio album, Async. Sakamoto died of cancer just over a year ago. He was a composer, producer, and actor who was often introduced on Japanese television as "sekai no Sakamoto Ryuichi." This term, translating to 'of the world,' signifies an individual whose influence transcended Japan's borders, earning global recognition.
Field recordings from New York City, Tokyo, Kyoto, and Paris, captured on Sakamoto's smartphone, form the auditory foundation of Async. During a phase of creativity that he felt might be his last due to his cancer prognosis, Sakamoto sought inspiration from the naturally occurring sounds outside of the recording studio. Life on earth is constantly producing incidental combinations of sound, which, when captured and played back, become compositions of their own. These sounds bring musicians who engage with them closer to the essence of the medium they work within. I selected Andata's pensive mood to accompany my thoughts on the unexpected urban composition of a tiny playground adjacent to the elevated Shuto Expressway.
#6 Tokyo’s Hanamachi Parisienne
Duo Gadjo • Sous Le Ciel De Paris
Under the Sky of Paris, an enduring chanson dedicated to the French capital. Since being performed by Jean Bretonnière in the 1951 film of the same name, for which the song was written, innumerable artists have recorded it. Of the modern versions I have encountered, Duo Gadjo's uncomplicated arrangement—comprising guitar, melodica, and emotive vocals that pay tribute to Juliette Greco—might be the most evocative.
I hesitated to pair a video of Kagurazaka's streets with this song—the sight of noren curtains and yokochō alleyways doesn't immediately suggest "Paris". The juxtaposition of a French chanson against a backdrop of Japanese urbanity presents a pronounced contrast. Sous Ciel De Paris carries a subdued patriotic sentiment, and indeed, I received messages from Parisians stating that I'd gotten this one wrong—this is nothing like Paris. Yet, I argue that when emigrating 9,700 kilometres from one's motherland, the subtlest details can strongly elicit a feeling of home: overhearing your native language spoken on the street or encountering a café run by a fellow national. Though Kagurazaka does not visually mirror Paris, among French expatriates in Japan, there's a sentiment that, here, one can indeed feel under the sky of Paris.
#7 Kissaten at the Kōsaten
Hibari Misora • Take the “A” Train
The album Jazz & Standards gathers a selection of Hibari Misora's recordings from the 1950s. Misora is a crucial artist, better known for Enka music and revered as Japan's queen of popular song. This compilation showcases her dynamic range, spanning jazz, swing, blues, chanson, and film soundtracks, all while featuring Japanese lyrical embellishments. I heard Jazz & Standards playing over coffee in Kissaten New Prince in Nakanobu and knew a track from the record would complement a future exploration of kissaten culture.
I selected Take the 'A' Train, a city-centric jazz standard written by Billy Strayhorn about travelling across New York by locomotive to reach Harlem. An upbeat shuffle backs Misora's version, which showcases her timeless vocals and impressive scat singing abilities. She takes liberties with the Japanese lyrics, rewriting the 'A' Train as a romance train. It prompts speculation—could the Odakyu Romancecar, the limited express service connecting Shinjuku with idyllic destinations like Hakone, have been inspired by Hibari Misora?
#8 Heartbreak Laundrette
Mariya Takeuchi • 届かぬ思い [Todokanu Omoi]
I was drawn to Mariya Takeuchi's Variety on vinyl, primarily to secure a physical copy of the record featuring Plastic Love. Alongside 真夜中のドア / Stay With Me, this track stands as a cornerstone of City Pop's resurgence from the 2010s. However, it's improbable that Takeuchi and her production team envisioned their work under the genre during its creation. Plastic Love has also become a foundational piece within the future-funk genre, inspiring numerous remixes and re-edits. It is a veritable banger, to be sure.
Not every song on Variety registers as an evergreen hit, though. Plastic Love, as the centrepiece, is situated among several tracks that might be described as "filler"—a term originating from the album era. It denotes tracks perceived as lesser quality, included primarily to meet the requisite number of songs for a release to be classified as an album. The merit of each track is subjective, but my copy of the record is a 1984 pressing on which several loud pops during Plastic Love imply heavy rotation and perhaps a shared sentiment by its former owner.
While Variety may not present a unified masterpiece that fulfils the anticipation set by Plastic Love, it still features some moving songs. Among those, Todokanu Omoi stands out to my ears with its intriguing melody and poignant lyrics that convey the pain of unexpressed emotions. These elements sail over chords strummed on what sounds like an exquisite vintage Martin acoustic guitar. Chorus-effected electric guitar flourishes, and steady power ballad drumming completes a fine tribute to the 1970s folk-rock era. Its calm, spare aura encapsulates the essence of subdued longing, aligning with the narrative of the coin laundromat’s urban solitude we explored in Tokyothèque #8.
#9 Tokyo Standard Time
Tokyothèque • Ginza 4–Chōme
Tokyothèque #9, a musing on the passing of time in the city, was set not to music but instead to a layered field recording of sounds appropriate to the theme: the rhythmic piyo piyo of a pedestrian crossing and the chime of the Seiko Clock Turret atop the Wakō Building in Ginza. The recording is at the bottom of the page. I record Tokyo in various media—on days when the challenges particular to photography and video are unappealing, the handheld audio recorder stands ready to let the auditory senses take over.
Standing at a busy intersection holding a microphone with a windshield is a less conventional activity than photography to partake in publicly. Still, if you can overcome that discomfort, it becomes a mindful, almost restful process. The sounds of the city flow, and there isn't much you can do to alter its course; there is no framing of desired elements or cropping of others. A cacophony of sounds enters the microphone, leaving the recordist to embrace stillness in observation. This art form remains niche; most can appreciate a good photograph, but fewer will listen to the city's sounds similarly. I think about Ryuichi Sakamoto recording the cities he loved while contemplating the passing of time and the shortness of life. Of course, he transformed these modest field recordings into an album that ascended to the Billboard Japan Top 20.
#10 All Along the Shotengai
Anzen Chintai • 悲しみにさよなら [Kanashimi Ni Sayonara]
To conclude, a track that rings of 1980s Tokyo more than any other, in my view. Anzen Chitai was one of Japan's most successful rock bands of the decade. Kanashimi Ni Sayonara, rooted in classic rock with a backbeat and guitar foundation, is softened by intricate backing vocals and nuanced with Roland synthesisers, taking the sound into synth-pop territory. It plays in my mind when I turn Tokyo street corners to find long-standing restaurants, still upholding erstwhile standards, from whence tipsy conglomerates of businesspersons tumble into taxis, retreating to their suburban homes. A bartender I met who ran a bar in Tokyo during the Bubble Era (1986—1991) recalled how it had been barely necessary to greet customers with an irasshaimase (courteous welcome) before ¥10,000 bills were lavished—the notion of awaiting change, an afterthought.
Setting aside the nostalgic allure of Japan's Asset Price Bubble, Kanashimi Ni Sayonara represents the pinnacle of Anzen Chitai's musicality, enriched by the lyricism of collaborator Gorō Matsui. Matsui, dubbed the "sixth member of Anzen Chitai," credits the song with changing his life. Koji Tamaki, the band's lead, describes it as the realisation of a style the band had aimed for throughout previous releases. The origin story goes that Matsui would make trips to the beach with Tamaki and actress Mariko Ishihara, who were rumoured to be romantically involved. Their visits were confined to nighttime when the beach lay deserted to escape media scrutiny. Moved by the couple's plight, Matsui wrote the lyrics for Kanashimi Ni Sayonara, meaning 'farewell to sadness'. Indeed, it is the song whose emotive chord movements I described at the start of today's newsletter.
I hope you enjoy these musical selections and their stories, whether through your earbuds as you walk the streets of Tokyo or as an audio gateway to Japan from anywhere in the world. Ordinarily, this newsletter analyses and contemplates specific aspects of Tokyo to understand the city better. Today's format is a reflection that has allowed me to recharge my energy for future in-depth writing. If you've enjoyed reading over the past ten weeks, you can help me to keep going on Ko-fi. If this is your first newsletter, a venture into the earlier editions listed above will serve as a primer on what we do here.
Until we meet in a city-view karaoke booth in Tokyo,
AJ