Less Talking, More Listening

Over the last six months in Tokyo, one of my favorite things to do is go to a bar. Which is funny because while I love a cold beer after a long day, I really don’t drink much. So, bellying up to a bar for more than one drink is something I haven’t done this regularly since I was in my 20s.

But this particular bar is special because it’s less about talking and more about listening. When you enter, the host greets you and explains that no photos are allowed, and excessively loud talking is forbidden. It’s a gorgeous space with rich, gold-hued indirect lighting, and hundreds of glass bottles of liquor arranged on a scaffolding that winds around and above the gleaming, solid slab of dark wood that spans the length of the long, high-ceilinged space, which was (coincidentally) once a photo studio. Smoking is allowed, which can be hard for a non-smoker to endure, but wow, it adds to the vibe and makes the space look amazing.

The real centerpiece is the sound system — two towering speakers behind the bar from bespoke British brand Tannoy, built in the 1960s and chosen by the owner not because they are the loudest or the clearest, but because they sound “akin to a rainy day in the UK.” Off to the side, in the back corner, are three turntables surrounded by thousands of records stacked in a tightly organized L-shaped grid, maybe 8 feet high and 30ish feet wide. This is where the owner is, carefully curating the songs for the evening.

Taken in as a sensory whole, the place is just magical. As someone who has spent his life making things, I was instantly blown away by this other beautiful thing that someone had built. This thing that did not happen by accident, but by years and years of honing and refining to meet his exacting vision. It’s clear that the owner is uncompromising in his effort to manifest this vision, which I deeply appreciate and respect.

So when people come in, looking at their phones, talking too loud, or — god forbid — taking pictures, the owner notices. In some cases, he comes out from behind the bar, yells at the rule-breaker so everyone can hear, making quite a scene, and throws them out. In six months, I have seen him throw two people out. It’s an intense, uncomfortable thing to witness.

But I also sort of love it.

The reason he forbids loud talking and photos is that he wants everyone’s experience to be about the music. When you’re talking or taking photos, you’re not listening to the music. Loud talking also makes it harder for others to listen to the music. The rules are pretty clear when you enter, and if you don’t want to follow them, you’ll be told to leave — in other words, the customer is not always right. When it comes to creating things, I can get behind this — true artists make work for themselves and no one else. The owner (now in his early 60’s) has spent much of his life building this bar to meet his vision, and he gets to decide how his vision is shared with and experienced by others.

He is a bar owner. He is a DJ. He is also an artist.

So when I go to the bar, I go by myself. I put my phone away, order a beer (Sapporo draft) and a whisky (Glenlivet, rocks), and then sit at the bar and focus on listening to the amazing music flowing out of the speakers. The owner’s knowledge of music is deep and encyclopedic. He weaves songs together in interesting ways, going smoothly (and usually with some obscure context) from Dylan to Radiohead to YMO to Jackson Browne to Aretha Franklin to Hall & Oates to Art Blakey….it’s a sprawling, thoughtful presentation of the greatest music of our time. Apparently, The Beatles are his favorite band, and he owns first pressings of all their albums. So when he plays Abbey Road, you’re hearing it from the original 1968 vinyl pressing, over speakers built in England around the same time. Pretty cool.

Listening intently while seated at the bar, drink in hand, the music playing — somehow both loud and soft — over the gorgeous speakers, I am flooded with gratitude. I feel endlessly grateful for the musicians who made the music. I’m grateful for the owner, who has built a beautiful shrine to the music, and for his dedication to sharing it in a deeper, more intentional way. I’m grateful for this place where there are no phones and loud talking, and we can just share the powerful experience of listening together. I’m also grateful that the owner cares enough to throw out the loud-talkers and photo-takers.

There is too much loud-talking and photo-taking in our lives. There is no such thing as too much listening. We can all use more practice.

I am going to miss this place.