Harajuku Sunday (24 page)

Aoyama Studio, from the outside, does not betray its purpose.
 
It's a brown-wooden building with a stacked-log facade ornamented solely by a pale back-lit sign illustrated with the "Blue" and "Mountain" Chinese characters and "Studios" spelled out in calligraphy katakana.
 
Up and down the streets are similar buildings, low-traffic and private-purpose establishments.
 
But only tonight, here, the place to be; music.

"But getting back to Netta's car-r-r-r-r/

I remember going there but not too far-r-r-r-r/"

The immediate interior is still traditional with tokonoma, genkan, the Japanese style entranceway, but a staircase lit by a single bare bulb with an open door leads to a basement the young artists have appropriated for themselves, the walls scribbled with colorful spraypaint.
 
Loud alt-rock music blares up from the basement, to which I trundle down, awkward and hesitant, yet conscious of the rules of sophistication.
 
There's a cooler full of beers in one corner of the light-strand lit interior packed with fashionable young Tokyo-ites and hipsters.
 
I recognize nobody; nobody seems to recognize me.
 
Settling into a convenient corner, I listen to the live music, and then run into Herrera, the guy from
New York
, who I have not seen in years.

"Oh hey, what´s up man?
 
Cool band tonight."

"Yeah pretty good. You still spraypainting?"

Herrera takes a gulp from his cold beer.
 
"Yeah, man totally.
 
They were talking about giving me a scholarship to university in
New York
, but I didn't want to commit four years of my life."

"NYC?
 
And you said no?"

"Hard to explain, bro. It was like, I could spend four years of my life preparing for something else, or I could just put on the backpack and actually live life."

"You'll have to show me some of your work, sometime."

"See some right there."
 
And he points to the wall.

Herrera shows me a section of the wall he`s done, and I find myself impressed, and tell him so, and he brings me over to another street art-friend of his who does photography-paint street-art hybrids, and who as we approach I realize is speaking to Julian.
 
It's gratifying that Julian gives a little flinch when he turns around and recognizes me.
 
It's as if his subconscious brain is aware that he was completely out of line during the whole Soren fiasco and that I would be justified in punching him right then and there.
 
But Herrera is already introducing his buddy, completely oblivious of what is going on, and I refrain from causing a scene.
 
Instead, I meet this friend of both
Antony
, who is also, incidentally, depicted on a number of photographs framed on the wall lolling about naked on a bed, and we clink beers and talk about art.

"So the agency is talking about using me on some prints ads, maybe some CM work," says
Antony
.

"Modelling."

"A lot of people do at least a little for pocket cash, but the real question is whether you can get steady work.
 
I actually might do something tomorrow.
 
I probably shouldn't drink too much."

The band breaks out into what I later learn is their signature single and there's a roar from the crowd that prevents conversation from continuing.
 
We drink our beers and do not react to the passing by of a videographer, who with his large shoulder camera and lamp sweeps by, panning the audience, or the uniquely attired “artistes” inhabiting this party space.
 
I like the music, but then I catch sight of Melanie across the room, so I clap my hand on the back of Herrera and his friend and tell them I'll catch them later, which they seem to be able to hear.

"Hey, Melanie, Melanie!"
 
I manage to catch her right before she's about to ascend the stairs again, with her clipboard in one hand and her usual look of worry.
 
When she recognizes me, she looks relieved.

"Ritchie, was trying to reach you.
 
Look we have a problem—the people visiting from
Kyoto
?
 
They got lost, and they're only just passing by
Yokohama
.
 
When they get in, they'll need at least one extra place to crash—aren´t you in Shinjuku?"

"Oh sure, Melanie, no problem at all.
 
Did they have a chance to eat?"

"A couple of us might be going out to a Shirokiya; we'll see what happens when they get here."

"Okay. Don't forget to cut loose, it's your time to relax too!"

She smiles suddenly, abundantly affectionately.
 
"No worries, Ritchie, I'm having a great time."

I rejoin the crowd and find some other people to talk to, but before I know it, the new arrivals are thirty minutes out and Melanie is looking for me again.
 
"And have you seen Julian?
 
People who haven't had a chance to had dinner want to go to Shirokiya now."

"Yeah, he's definitely around."

We round up a good-sized crowd, including Melanie and Julian, and head out to the Shirokiya, where we are lucky to land a table that somebody cancelled on.
 
As the plates, heaped generously with noodles and salads and prepared meats, arrive, we hear about the driving error that resulted in the arrivals' going in circles for four hours, an encounter with a deranged hitchhiker at a rest stop, and then, with ice-cold steins of beer, we welcome their safe arrival nonetheless.
 
At my end of the table, the conversation turns to Julian's films.

"So Ju-ree-an, yuu are making new film,” says one of the
Kyoto
guys.

Julian looks sullen. "No, I'm taking a little break."

"But everry-body love 'Bleak of Dawn.'"

He shrugs.
 
The Kyoto-ites smile, perhaps mostly out of embarrassment, but don't press the issue. "We are rooking forward your nextu film."

"Thank you. I'll be sure to send out an email when I put something together."

By the end of all-you-can-eat, most of the new arrivals as well as a few of the
Tokyo
crowd including Melanie are just ready to crash.
 
But one of the Kyoto girls, a little tiny Japanese girl about 5'1" is game to hit the town, and so she, Julian, and I exchange text messages from Herrera's friend Antony, the model, and we agree to go to SugarHigh in Shibuya.
 
Melanie, unfortunately, is totally exhausted and needs to go crash at her apartment.
 
"But what about people crashing for the night?
 
You're sure you're okay with three people?" I ask Melanie, as we all find our way outside the restaurant.

"Yeah, I just texted some people still at the studio and looks like we have three or four people passed out there, so looks like there's no worries after all."

"Peace."

"And you have my number if anything turns up."

"Definitely.
 
And thanks for the invitation, Melanie.
 
It's a great night."

"Thanks."
 
She goes over to Julian.
 
"Night, Julian.
 
Don't forget about the packing tomorrow."

"Good night, Melanie."
 
They kiss.
 
She goes down to the subway just as
Antony
shows up from the studio party.

"So what was the thinking behind SugarHigh, anyway?" I ask, as we cross over to our side of the subway.

"Well, there's a hip-hop floor and a pop/trance floor so you can listen to whatever you want," replies
Antony
, who holds himself, unconsciously, in a type of pose.

"There are cheap places to sleep there as well," says Julian, who's already skipping down the steps.

"Ok, sounds good."
 
In silence, we enter the subway station, and one of the last trains of the night shuttles into the station.
 
We board.

The carriage is clean and controlled.
 
It's almost hospital-like, an aseptic atmosphere in the subway as we quietly are hurtled onwards, and our fellow passengers, this late night Friday (or rather very early Saturday morning) are similarly quiet.
 
The trip, in any case, is quite short, and soon we pull into Shibuya Station, where, conversely, heavy crowds are waiting to board the last trains of the night.
 
All trains end by 1am, so there's that crazy, hopeless moment when you arrive in Shibuya or Roppongi station at 1am, and you're committed—the crowds and crowds are going home, but you and your pals will be here until 5am unless you find some love hotel, pay seventy U.S. for a taxi, or discover someplace in which to sleep.
 
All crowds are heading homewards.
 
We push against the dominant flow, amidst the crowds of variously dyed hair and exotic fringe subculture-types to find our way to SugarHigh up almost the way to Dogen-zaka, the love hotel hill.
 
Here, "Fred, yo Fred," says
Antony
to the bouncer and we are let in for 2000 yen a head.
 
As promised the second floor is all trance and pop, and the third all hip-hop; we tumble into the second and grab space around the bar, getting a first round of drinks down as we fight the first wave of sleepiness.

At the bar, I find myself rationalizing the all-nighter mostly out of camaraderie.
 
To my right, an Irish English teacher, a two-year vet, talks to me a bit about his wife and life, and I have to listen to Julian telling me in a drunken haze that "you'll never be an artist as you haven't really suffered," and now something comes off a bit annoying about Antony's complaints.
 
It almost seems like every foreigner in the country is either in honeymoon-lala phase or in terminal decline, and
Antony
is in the latter.
 
"I'm definitely going downhill," he recognizes, in drunken candor, and talks about wanting to go run off to
Dubai
, where easy money is making things ridiculous.
 
He decides to outside for a cigarette, then, and we take turns keeping him company outside when he says he wants fresh air, until the point where says we can go back in.
 
Otherwise, we're just drinking and chit-chatting and occasionally going out onto the dance-floor, where Japanese b-boys show off well-practiced moves.

"Come on, let's dance," says some random foreigner girl, and we go out and jump around a bit to the beat.
 
The night tears on, and by four or so, it's down to just
Antony
and me from Aoyama and the last remnants of the crowd.
 
Or so I think. Sitting on the steps now myself, I am too drunk to react especially when Julian and the small Japanese girl (Eiko, was it?) turns out to be here after all, or rather, just on the way out, coming down the steps.
 
I am not too drunk to mildly notice that it's unnecessary for Julian to say whatever it is he says, but something that indicates I should clearly just sit there, which is my intent in any case, or something about finding a cab for the girl.
 
"See you later," I say, and he nods, and they're off.
 
I smoke a cigarette and return back to the club, and within the hour, the staff is turning on the lights and saying, "Thank you very much!"

The music dies.
 
We stand around blinking at each other in the sudden light and then look for our bags.
 
Antony
sees me and comes over.
 
"Did you see Julian?"
 
I say something noncommittal.
 
Antony
looks thoughtful, and then says, "I think he went home with the Japanese girl."

"Oh yeah, something like that.
 
I think he said he was going to find her a cab or something, I don't quite remember."