The Soul of Roppongi

I wake to a polite chime,
A message appears on the flat screen, notifying me that my airline-lost guitar has been delivered.
Dammnit.

On the way back up from the lobby I stop to check out the 8th floor pool, unzip the flimsy gig bag expecting wood splinters and spilled electronics after the Fender’s twisted journey.
But no, all seems good, the thing is still in tune even.
I zip it back up, my plans for buying an absurdly shaped guitar with Kanji lettering on the headstock suddenly unjustified.

The lads all got in late, wide eyed and shell shocked from their own trans Pacific journeys.
I walk them next door to the tiny gyoza tavern and fill them with plump dumplings while we each take turns complaining about delayed flights and LAX traffic, our aching knees and backs.
We sound like a group of grumpy retirees bitching about a blowout back nine while tallying golf scores, too busy kvetching to notice the Great Egrets sunbathing in the Florida sunshine.
But then we take a moment to realize we are on yet another grand adventure, courtesy of that rascal punk rock.
We touch glasses, say kanpai , and smile to each other that we are -finally, actually-goddamned here.

We’re all up at an ungodly hour, our circadian rhythms still cued to middady So Cal.
But it is tourist day, so we take advantage of the early start and hit the Oedo line.

We wander the Tsukiji Outer Market, navigating the other hungry gaijin swarming through the crowded alleys.
And though the actual business of dawn maguro auctions seems to have relocated, leaving only a touristy maze of food stands, we find decently priced sashimi bowls and a few yatais shilling the good stuff:
You know: Gizzards and hearts, livers and tailmeat.
Stuff bound for the compost bin back home, here gloriously transformed through spice and glowing embers to something miraculous.

After taking the mandatory shots of the Shibuya scramble we take a moment to consider the heartwrenching tale of the loyal Akita that waited upon this spot for years .
Forever denied his deceased master’s return.

The thought of such canine loyalty leaves Ant and Nick weepy, already pining for their beloved pups back home.
I console them by promising to buy them each a wee toy-whatever you want kiddo! -and set them wild in the wacky capsule store.

And then it’s back to the Shibuya guitar club, where we ogle some gorgeous vintage axes, smirk at the nutty 8 stringed jobs, their bodies shaped like an amoeba caught in the act of binary fission.

The Harajuku side streets remind me of Camden market, though the crowd is infinitely more stylish and far better behaved. 
We remark once again on the cleanliness of the streets.
Indeed, there is not even a trash receptacle to be found for our emptied Red Bull cans, as the people here would never dream of doing something as barbaric as consuming food or drink while walking amongst their fellow man.

It’s back to the APA for cat naps, and then back down the subway.
The car is packed with red faced salarymen, helpless to a mandatory night of drinking with the boss.
Tiny women in outrageously heeled shoes  stare at their phones, oblivious to the men hovering over them.

Perhaps on the late night train ride home, the leers will linger longer, the drunken guys will brush up against them a moment too long.
But for now, at least, everyone is fucking cool. Courteous, silent.

After a dinner of Udon and, yes, more of them chicken gizzards, we wander down the back alleyways of Roppongi.
I am guided by Google maps and a memory from decades back.

For I recall a tiny bar down this street-or was it that one?– that I visited with my sister back in the 90’s.
Finally a red sign appears out of the darkness, and I nod to the fellows to follow me up a short stairway to the second story door.
We found it.
We’re at Soul Bar George’s.

I see the same Motown stocked 45rpm jukebox sitting in the corner, the walls plastered with signed 8×10’s of American soul greats.
The tiny haven claims to have been established in 1964, and has hosted a galaxy of stars at the tiny counter.
It is quiet on this night, 11pm on  a Tuesday.
Only the smiling bartendress behind the bar, and one gray haired old gent a few stools down.

Nick gets up to feed the Juke with his remaining 100 yen coin.
The Floaters’ Float On comes on then, and the old guy nods his head.  He raises his glass of Suntory in approval of Nick’s choice.
And by the time Larry introduces himself (..and I like a woman who loves everything and everybody…!) he is grooving to the song, shoulders swaying along to the beat.

We examine the signed photos along the wall, amazed at the people who have made pilgrimage (or at least sent in a signed promos) to this delicious little dive.

There’s the expected stars, Thelma Houston and James Brown, Harold Melvin along with all the Blue Notes.
But Sammy era Van Halen?
I look up and see who but Keith Richards stapled to the ceiling, grinning down as if from Heaven.

The song ends and the bar is once again silent.
Oji-san gets unsteadily to his feet and goes over to the jukebox then, one hand already in his poket fishing for change.

He stands at the juke now, feeding the slot as if dropping coins into a hopeful fountain, wishing only that his wife were still alive and waiting for him in his cold dark room.
By the time he sits back down it’s the opening cheers of Otis Redding live in Europe, Try a Little Tenderness, and we are all in now.

We sing along to those pleading lyrics, eyes closed under raised eyebrows, hands raised in surrender.
I look down the bar and grandpa is grooving too, shaking his gray head and dipping his shoulders as the horns kick in.
Then I notice his slender fingers, tapping along the bar top, a practiced code only he and the worn oak can understand.

And though it may well be just the muscle memory of his five decades behind an IBM Selectric as a low level clerk at the Ministry of Foreign Affairs, I prefer to think it is a soulful Fender Rhodes that he is now playing.
I can see him now, the only cat in Roppongi who could play in the pocket.
The go-to session guy for the Motown greats who dared tour Japan in the 60’s and 70’s, called up once again to lend his tasteful keys behind the wailing legends.
He opens his eyes then, and looks up.

And it is not the dusty bottles lining the back bar he sees now, but the silhouette of Al Green center stage, backlit by a halo of spotlight..
His point of view recalled from those glorious days, holding the line with the musical giants, all of them now gone.

But he, he’s still here, and good god! – he plays on.