The phone above sits in a small sushi restaurant down a narrow alley that leads from the neon hinterland of Shibuya. The restaurant is owned by a married couple. He cuts the fish with magnificent aplomb to deliver mouthfuls of ocean that you would never have imagined. She fills drinks with a cool warmth to counter whatever season you left outside the sliding door. They speak no English. I speak no useful Japanese. I don’t know their names, nor they mine. We are friends. Kyoko says he speaks with an intonation that is specific to the men of downtown Tokyo. The older generation. A pattern of honour that defies emotion.
The phone is a relic of a past age. Only marginally older than the air of an unknown Tokyo that still hangs thick in the smoky bar today. It is left in place as a memorial to the Emperor Hirohito who died in 1989. In this magical den of fish, beer and intrigue the telephone stands testament to the passing of the Showa age. A beautiful anachronism that bursts alive with a shrill ring to punctuate the end of the evening.
[Flash 10 is required to watch video]
[Flash 10 is required to watch video]
Couple days ago I put the song ‘Regret’ by New Order on here. Most of the films are about Joy Division but I grew up with New Order. They mean something to me. I don’t remember Joy Division. I went to clubs not gigs. I remember fractal printed hooded tops with lilac sleeves and the way John Barnes danced. My mate Balwinder’s got the impression on lock.
This morning I’m eating a breakfast buffet on top of a hotel in Tokyo. That’ll do for starters. I tried to keep it tidy but ended up folding. On my way back in I spot him. Peter Hook is stood there surveying the scrambled eggs. On my life. I bottle it and swerve back to the coco pops. Sneak a couple of glances through the fruit bowls. Then he’s gone. It’s a funny old game if you’re paying attention.
[Flash 10 is required to watch video]
