The Shibuya City Blues
Here’s to the case of the Shibuya blues.
To the ones missing the last train, with their heads spun around from the work week. The never ending work life. No life. Except the one they see through the bottom of an empty, cheap, foam-filled glass.
In the final seconds of the night, the 13th hour of their social lives, they search for meaning. Angry meaning, happy meaning. Any meaning. Sometimes the meaning comes in the off key, out of tune, hoarse choruses of familiar karaoke tunes. They capture their souls, their former dreams, perhaps of being rock stars even, or models or actresses.
All these people who missed the last train used to want to be something decent. Or remarkable. They wanted to be a person of note. And then at some point, that hope vanished. They saw themselves in the mirror and became indistinguishable to themselves, whether or not they were their coworkers. They adopted the standard reg of a salary man or woman. They morphed their punk haircuts into conservative clean cut imagery.
Their fantasies live on in anime. On the outlandish posters on the train that make caricatures of their lives.
None of them thought to take this night off from social obligations and write a novel, or paint a picture. Their dreams are untouchable in their present situation. They are busy living the responsible life that is nearly killing them. That gives up all personal desire as shoganai. They live for their families, for their companies. They do not live for themselves. They’d consider it selfish. Instead they release themselves in the same way, most nights of the week, that end in them missing the last train. Stumbling for after-hours clubs and bars and the shadier sides of the city.
Some sleep in the alley ways, until the night watchers shoo them along. Some stumble to Yoyogi Park. Some seek the never-ending refuge of these Shibuya streets. Beside the love hotels, in basement level clubs, getting lost winding up nine flights of stairs to some bar that only has room for two customers at a time. That is essential Tokyo. The hidden world, wrapped in buildings built on top of buildings. A post war city, partly ashamed, hiding behind regulations, it’s face buried in a neon tapestry of invented new tradition.
At this hour those traditions are pachinko parlors, video games made real, robbing real seconds, minutes and hours of their patrons lives. Legal gambling. Seedy but out in the open. Unsavory, but featuring cheerful animated characters. There are just too many people here it seems. Or they need more imagination or something. The city is inspiring and unique and full of great surprises. The constant contrast and provocation that comes when old meets new. It’s rarely friendly, and it’s always intriguing.
The temples that bow their heads in the shadows of skyscrapers. The shrines and graveyards that have just refused to be swallowed amidst the unrelenting urban, concrete sprawl. The old ladies who take to the sidewalks to scrub each morning with toothbrushes. There is a lot to love and be fascinated by.
But in the midst of it all, is this Shibuya, after midnight syndrome. As cell phone batteries fade, memories fade, responsibilities fade, but will soon come back strong, as alarm clocks or emails from. Bosses. But until then, it’s Shibuya Jazz, as the players scramble for the alleys. Probing the late night establishments and asking themselves which one is open late just for them.
The dolled up girls check their keitais, most likely reading the blogs of idols who they’ve fashioned themselves after. Getting fashion tips, at one AM. Lost in the Shibuya shuffle. They speak of desperation to marry. Put on them by family, or the idol blogs. But here they sit, stoically in Starbucks, sipping on frapacinnos.
Don’t raise your voice, don’t cause a scene, just stair at your dolled up fingertips. The ones you’ve paid someone to glue fake diamonds and rubies to. The ones you’ve paid someone to glue little miniature barbie dolls to. Stare at those fingernails, maybe your finger dolls have the answer. I’m sure of it. As sure of it as anything I can be at this hour. Sipping a beverage and staring out the window, looking for a new meaning of my own.
Still the jazz piano plays on. Now a lounge singer comes on, and croons in smokey tones about nothing in particular. She’s probably just singing what’s on the Starbucks menu. She croons and be bops and skats about lattes and caramel macciados. She makes jazz fingers as she talks about dusting the whipped cream with cinnamon.
Then a guy walks in that looks like he has a real purpose. I look up at him, we cross eyes, he wonders what my purpose is. I’m typing about you pal. He knows it. Don’t publish that he stares at me. Oh I will. I have made you my purpose. He orders a drink and leaves promptly.
He might be the only soul in Shibuya at this hour with a purpose. There were no wandering steps in his stride. He looked late for something. He was in a hurry. Not for the last train or a cab. But for something or someone profound. You have to respect a sense of purpose when you find it at this hour in Shibuya.
The boy to my right wonders what I’m typing now. But he doesn’t wonder as offensively as the impatient soul did. The boy is just bored. Mind wandering. Caught up in the Shibuya haze. Listening to the music his friends selected for him. Playing the mobile game that his friends told him about. He leads of life of not needing to make decisions. He is a king. He is the new emperor of Shibuya. Life choices spread out before him neatly and guided, like a well constructed choose your own adventure novel, or more likely in his case, a tightly conceived role playing game. He takes a lazy slurp of his iced tea, and waits for any sign from me. But I just keep typing. I have my own mission. In fact I should get going now.
This Shibuya jazz no longer plays for me.
