Chapter II: Tokyo Midnight, 1971.
The rain has a way of washing the noise out of these old grid streets, leaving behind only the things that were meant to stay hidden.
If you stand long enough under the overhang of a wooden machiya house in Shinjuku, the modern world just… blurs. You stop seeing the steel skyscrapers. Instead, you start noticing the damp concrete, the heavy smell of tobacco drifting from a basement jazz kissa, and the sharp, metallic click of a lighter.
This isn't the city of bright promises. This is Tokyo in the dead of winter, 1971. A place operating on a slower, darker frequency.
We’ve been trying to capture a specific feeling for this second installment of the series. The Japanese call it Sabi—the profound, slightly heavy beauty found in solitude, detachment, and the quiet decay of time.
To bring that atmosphere to life, we let traditional ghosts wander into a smoky 1970s jazz lounge:
The Shakuhachi: Not played with the clean precision of a concert hall, but with those raw, breathy whispers that sound like wind howling through an abandoned alleyway.
The Koto: Cold, sharp plucks that cut through the background hiss like footsteps on wet asphalt.
The Rhythm: A low, brooding double bass that serves as the heartbeat of the night, dragged along by the warm, nostalgic hum of a vintage analog synthesizer.
It’s the soundtrack for a late-night train ride over an iron bridge where you don’t really care where the final stop is. You’re just riding out the dark.
The rain isn't letting up, and the last train has already left the platform. You might as well step inside, pour something stiff, and let the shadows tell you their version of the story.
👉 Step into the mist. Listen to 'Noir in Tokyo 1971' over on YouTube.
