Sept. 22: Tokyo

Today started with a “breakfast set” downstairs. I see that they offer 20 each day which are all-organic, and much more expensive, which seems a bit weird, but this one was perfectly okay, even the “corned beef hash” which looked like refried beans but tasted just fine. Been a while since I’ve had that one; memories of Duke’s at the Tropicana.

I decided that I should get a paper after breakfast, so I headed into the subway to go to Shinjuku to get it, and was on my way down the stairs when I saw that the lady at the kiosk there had IHTs in her selection! Amazing, I’m not in Kansas -- or Kanazawa, or, for that matter, Berlin -- any more. But I’d bought a ticket for Shinjuku and figured it should have something going on at 10:30 in the morning. They were setting up for some sort of street fair when I got there, and one of my goals, Tower Records, was closed until 11, but I noticed that some of the electronics shops were up and running. I went in one and figured out that there were 5 floors, so, seeing an employee in an elevator, I got on. He started shouting at me. I indicated that I didn’t understand, so he shouted louder. This has happened on a number of occasions here, and gives the lie to the well-crafted myth of the polite Japanese. Sure, they bray their hellos and goodbyes when you enter a shop, and it’s all surface polite, but I’ve been hit when people wanted me out of the way (to catch a train), knocked on the head the other day in the subway, jostled aside by a hefty schoolgirl at a convenience store, and, of course, yelled at for being an uncomprehending barbarian, as I had been here: customers have to use the stairs.

So I decided fuck that shop and went into the one next door, figuring that now I knew the drill, I could do what I needed to do. And I did: walked the stairs from floor to floor and was amazed at how little interested me. It may be due to the fact that these shops are packed so tightly with stuff, and I’m just not seeing it all, of course, but the fabled wild gadgets just didn’t seem to be on display. I went to several, and, while one had a huge selection of mysterious Game Boy Advance games (all labelled “for sale and use only in Japan,” which second part is mysterious enough) and a Game Cube on display (great graphics on the demo, but what’s it play like?), and another had several sizes of that remarkable 3/4” thick Sharp TV (complete with a picture of a traditionally-dressed housewife carrying it, showing that it was so light that even women could pick one up), there was nothing particularly mind-blowing. Of course, I haven’t been to Akihabara, the real electronics wonderland yet, and Calton says that’ll be the place. Hope he’s right.

Anyway, this easily burned up the 30 minutes I had to burn, so I went to Tower, and headed to the top floor, which had a great, if odd, selection of books and magazines. I got a New Yorker and the latest Wired, just to have something to read on the plane on the way home, and noted a wide selection of beat literature, which must have some fascination for their core customers. This was also the DVD floor, and while waiting for the elevator I watched a bit of a film called Battle Royale, which appeared to be a gangster movie starring schoolgirls. During what I saw, one blew the head off of another with a MAC 10, in what seemed to be home ec lab.

Downstairs was the classical, jazz, world, and avant-garde/new age floor. The jazz section gave me fits until I realized that it was filed by first name. Thus, John Coltrane and John Scofield shared space, Don Cherry and Don Redman, and so on. Somehow, filed in with the Coltrane records was one by some guy surnamed Pontiac, recorded in a mental hospital in Michigan, and with encomia from everyone from Iggy Pop to John Lurie. (Of course, I found later that it was John Lurie on some elaborate jape). I didn’t think to bring my Palm to jot down notes, so I’ll probably forget most of the other stuff I saw. I picked up an old favorite, Don Cherry’s Mu Parts One and Two, and then headed over to classical, where I was confronted with seven versions of Messaien’s Turangalila Symphonie. Shoulda figured that’d be a local favorite. Avant/new age was interesting; there was a CStone section, and it was empty, and labelled like I typed it. Picked up a cheap copy of Monteverdi’s Orfeo here, just to have something to listen to.

Now I thought I’d go back to the hotel and figure out what to do next, and maybe find a place to read my e-mail. Calton reported nobody calling in for dinner, but I kept my hopes up. Read the paper, and realized this fine, cool day was going to waste, so I inquired about an internet cafe downstairs and they pulled out a sheet of paper for a Yahoo! Cafe just off of tony Otomesando. It turned out to be over a Starbuck’s, a truly Satanic marriage of American institutions, and you had to register first (they wanted a passport), and the sheet they handed you said they suggested strongly that you use Yahoo’s e-mail. I handed it back and decided to go to Kinko’s, but a girl working there said that it was only a suggestion, so finally they processed me and I was given an USB key. I was also told that I could only use it for 20-30 mintues. I was, in fact, told this about every two minutes as I sat there. It was extremely annoying, especially the first time when I was busy reading something and the girl said it in Japanese, I indicated I didn’t understand, so she yelled at me. Goddam it, I should see if Air France has earlier flights. In fact, I needed to check their website anyway, but thanks to the constant interruption, I forgot.

I left, got my registration card, which I will never use again, and proceeded down Omotesando, which was an orgy of conspicuous consumption. At Meiji-dori, it was a sea of teenagers. Some in colorful Afro wigs were hyping Macy Gray (wonder if she knows about this charming marketing strategy), and as I walked back up to Aoyama-dori, there were various other marketing crews out monitoring the teens. I finally got back to the hotel, feeling too old, too big, too foreign and very angry, and called Calton, who said nobody had checked in still. So I called Noda-san and set up a meet at Shibuya to go see Otomo’s jazz group.

He had me meet him at the statue of Hachiko, the faithful dog, at Shibuya Station. I don’t have any idea how he manages to find people in a mass like that. The sheer numbers were overwhelming, even at 7 in the evening. Two huge screens blared music videos and commercials, and there was another in the middle which seemed to be advertising cellular service. But he found me, and we set off for the club, Quattro, part of a chain with locations in a couple of other cities. Turned out there were three other bands plus a DJ on the bill, but we got there in the middle of the second band, Boat. This was one of those bands with no idea what they were doing -- although it turned out they have something like five albums to their credit. (I found out later that this was their last gig, and they’d broken up because their label had dropped them, which really seems to indicate that they weren’t interested in what they were doing in the first place). Boring jams, all of which seemed to fit the same pattern, melodically and rhythmically. We walked out and went to the lobby and waited them out. Next up was Dr. Funk, which consisted of three Japanese guys and a Westerner with a Flying V, a bunch of effects boxes, and no discernable talent for doing anything but making random noise. The other three pounded away stiffly at a mechanical funk groove of sorts, while this jerk showily made noise, sometimes putting the guitar on the floor. They were, hands down, the worst band I’ve seen in about the past five years, unless I’m mercifully forgetting someone else. Again, they had a couple of CDs out, for sale downstairs. I was getting angrier and angrier. Since the DJ was next and only then would Otomo appear, I tried to make Noda understand that I used to do this for a living, but had since sworn that I’d never do it again, and I’d also never stay around bad music when I had an opportunity to go elsewhere. I had him convey my apologies to Otomo, and, in fact, the nine-piece group he was in seemed intriguing, but I just felt I’d been through this too many times.

Back at home base, I went to an Indian vegetarian restaurant I’d seen in my peregrinations. It was good enough, expensive given the very small portions, North Indian in style, but they sat me right under a speaker which was blaring alternating filmi and operetta. Anyway, the dinner wasn’t bad, and the chef was sitting by the cash-register while I paid, and I asked him in English if he were from the north. He glared at me. I asked the cashier-waitress (who did speak English) if he did, so I could compliment him, and she said no. Fuck. He’s probably Afghani. (Robb Satterwhite thinks this place is owned by a cult, and I can, in retrospect, see how he could think this).