very american
randomly walking around on my day off, i recognize a small neon sign. it’s pointing to a bar i had previously marked on google maps. sorry, no authentic backstory here, just plain interneting. this catch would reveal itself as a lucky one. underneath the sign i find a schedule and am happy to find out there will be music tonight, starting in half an hour. the stairs leading up to the bar are so narrow and steep you lose all sense of space. when i arrive at the top my orientation is messed up. am i on the second, fifth, or third floor? i realize it is not uncomfortable but rather a pleasant confusion, and i open the door. sorry, no smoking inside. fine, i leap down the wormhole and light the cigarette at the bottom of the stairs. a young suited businessman joins me, an electric cigarette in his hand. very popular in japan right now (i think they smell like fart). we smoke in silence and enjoy the entertainment. a group of high schoolers plow out of a restaurant next door. one of them is simulating stomach cramps to justify his early departure. the night has just begun and the others are trying to get him to stay. two are pulling on him, trying to stop him from going. everybody else starts to simulate and scream in imaginary pain. the two smokers leave for upstairs. i take a seat by the wall and study the menu. very american. the kitchen offers hotdogs. i place my order and lean over to my neighbor, also very american—pacific northwest, seattle area. he tells me how this place hasn’t been discovered by social media kids and asks how i ended up here—up here. he looks me in the eyes, makes a face, and hisses: i dare you to keep this place a secret. he laughs—it’s a joke, but i can feel he would appreciate closure. the drink arrives at my table as the musicians of the first set take the stage. the small bar has filled up by now. most people have guitar cases on their backs—it’s blues jam night. i catch whiffs of chili and tomato sauce as some order a snack. the aroma of toasted rolls, cumin, and onion starts vibrating in the air. the first set is played by the bar’s staff on guitar and bass, a regular on drums, and an old guy on piano. he’s a pro and i should watch him, the american advises me. the piano plays the solo and the american was right—fingers like spider legs, moving on the keys as if it were his own web, never getting stuck nor lost in the maze of possibility once.
ability is oozing out of the limbs of the musicians—I feel very small with big ears.
next set. a japanese cowboy with a tin ammunition box replaces one of the guitarists. he bows down to pick his weapon of choice—a harmonica in g—and starts playing. he draws the notes like sabers and daggers: some quick with short, sharp blades; others hefty, heavy, slow, like wielding a seven-foot edge. whatever he does, everybody is stuck to his lips. to recover, everybody orders a second or third round. the pianist devours a hotdog at the bar. a small group leaves for some fresh air downstairs. behind me comes a man of about sixty down the stairs—jeans, jacket, small round glasses. very american, and apparently texan. he starts telling his stories to the group, brushing his long gray hair back with his right hand, the left holding the cigarette and emphasizing the beat of his words. he was a photographer for the u.s. military before becoming a freelance musician and meeting his wife—a japanese woman who took him to this particular bar for their honeymoon in 2001. since then, every time he comes to japan, he plays here. he goes on about how he plays every style of guitar music and how great the blues is. “you can find the blues all around the world: chicago, dallas, new orleans, or japan.” yes, the whole world. the next set is his, and it’s going to be dallas blues, he announces and heads upstairs. i follow. the salesman joins the texan and takes the first solo. the tie is gone and he’s taking off like a rocket, breaking the atmosphere with speed and entering space to slow down. he turns around just in time to touch down back on earth. with the same precision with which earlier forms were filled and emails answered, now strings are pressed and struck. it seems like he worked every day of the week for these twelve bars. applause.
lets see what happens next ~ kunde