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Story #2 : more shops ! Record digging adventures in Tokyo
Another Plexus Story* with the second part of Guillaume's first trip to Japan.
Published on May 25, 2023
By Plexus
* What are these Plexus Stories ?
Have a coffee, spin a record, sit back and enjoy this article : Plexus shares his memories, anecdotes and record store secrets...
Getting lost in Tokyo is a never-ending game
Discovering the residential districts by foot, stumbling across restaurants that are forgotten by the tourist guides, being attracted in shops and lost in this maze made of buildings...
Trying to figure out which floor or basement a mysterious sign on the edge of a small dead-end street corresponds to, walking through the business districts without understanding which activity takes place there...
Each stop at a record shop is like a milestone, or rather a predefined goal to set markers on the gigantic map of Tokyo. As the days go by and I learn the name of various subway stations, as well as the neighbourhoods through these dig sessions.
Koenji, Ikebukuro, Takadanobaba, Ochanomizu, Mitaka, Nakano, Jimbocho, Shimokitazawa… Each station, each neighbourhood will always be associated with a specific record shop, with unforgettable finds and hours and hours of thorough research.
An imaginary map of the city emerges in my head, to quote Julien Gracq, evoked by Manuel Tardits in the magnificent book "Tokyo, Portraits & Fictions".
Speaking of atypical shops...
Jerome explains to me that the man always behaves in this way : this boss's mood is somewhat surprising and I end up believing that we are really bothering him and that he would prefer us to leave. Before closing time, I approach the cashier counter and signal that I want to pay. He sighs again and starts counting, shows me the final ticket and points to a discount line, even though I didn't ask for it.
I pay him, and this time he lets out a discreet smile and quietly returns to his duties before closing up.
Jérôme had become friendly with the owner, and they always exchanged with a certain complicity, despite the language barrier. A trust was establishedbetwenn Mister Oh Yeah (because he always finished his sentences like that) and us : he was used to keep some records aside for Jérôme, knowing his tastes as he bought them.
After a few trips and visits to his shop, he even ended up recommending records to me : he kept them preciously behind his counter, awaiting my next visit.
He introduced us to Japanese jazz and city-pop favourites - long before the hype hit these references - which he played with great care on his Denon turntable with its dusty edges, equipped with a tired DL103 cell, with its shrill highs, but still as charming.
The atmosphere was the opposite of the cold, impersonal feel of most Tokyo shops. It was one of the few record shops with whom we had managed to have any kind of dialogue. Here again, I didn't have enough time to really realize how lucky I was, because this warm atmosphere and these precious exchanges are not common in Japan.
A few years later, when we had started to notice that our friend didn't really seem like himself anymore, Jerome found the shop empty and its doors closed. All this complicity stopped overnight...
Several months after this event, he met Mister Oh Yeah in random streets of Tokyo. The erratic and not very coherent speech coming of our friend did not allow Jérôme to really exchange with him nor to know the reason of his closing.
Sadly, we have never seen him since, and will probably never know what happened to him.
