Before my kids came along, I admit I spent far too many late nights in Shimokitazawa back alley tachinomi bars, one in particular called Namazu, or Catfish, which was a little community of artists, poets, musicians, dancers and performers of all varieties. Every night about 20-30 people would gather in a space that could hold about 6 and we would drink $3 beers, stumble through barely understandable conversations, laugh and cackle, play guitar and sing til the wee hours of the night. Every now and again, we would impress ourselves with a little camping outing, a mini-festival, or even a wedding or two, that we’d shoe-string together with this band of friends. I was really lucky to find that haunt, make it my own, and become their honorary photographer for a spell (before everybody had a camera in their pocket).
Among so many characters I befriended at Namazu was fellow record-loving fashionista Tabo, who on one particularly crowded night where we were both chatting but also struggling to get the attention of barkeep Yachin, suggested we ditch out and go to another place he knew of. I followed along and he led me to the entrance of a building right in the heart of Shimokita that I had walked past 100s of time and never really noticed, and then up a 4-story staircase, a floor or two past any business or residence, as if we were headed to the rooftop. We had reached the end of the now completely dark staircase and he flipped on the light to reveal a nondescript door, unlocked it with his own keys, and led me into an even tinier bar, perhaps the smallest I’d ever seen. It was as if I had stepped inside an antique fortune-teller machine replete with beads, trinkets, and treasures, buttons, thimbles, and other curios …and records galore, it seemed to be a 1-person bar. Tabo crawled through a little tunnel and appeared behind the bar, like Zoltar himself, placed an oxblood Vivian Westwood mountain hat on my head and poured me a drink, threw on a record, and we carried on as if nothing had really changed except for the scenery. I should have been blown away, and I’m sure I was, but this is eventually what you come to expect in Tokyo.
Tabo’s no-name, secret penthouse record-listening, 1-man bar/shop became my regular nightcap place (if I could catch it while he was there) until kids eventually came along, as did sobriety. Months become years and years became a decade since the last time I had visited Tabo, when one day outta the blue I was driving right past the old place, when I spotted Tabo outta the corner of my eye, he was dressed to the 10s, as he always was, but a more mature classic style, which really complimented his good looks and many tattoos. “Holy Moly! TABO! Jeez man! It’s been ages! You’re not still up on the 4th floor are you?!” He insisted I come up and have a look which I was thrilled to do. Back up the top of the building we went, past the little dimly lit hanging pendant light and into the little clubhouse, which was both exactly how I remembered it but just more beautiful. More dried hanging flowers, more collectible records, better whiskies, and he’d opened up the back area into a little tailor shop and place to host sewing-club (did I mention Tabo is a suit-making seamster?), a lush balcony garden, and even a little piano in the corner for mini Jazz sessions. It’s the ultimate little treehouse and I was really blown away. Well done, Tabo. It’s people, places, and passion like this that make this city what it is. Now that I know you’re still here, I’ll drop by for a nightcap …but make it decaf – we’re getting old.
More Tokyo Record Style on the way!
