By Adam Brownstein / January 22, 2024
2023 was a bumper crop year for live concerts. The Fed, in its July print, indicated that the Eras Tour would inject $6.4B into the economy (the latest trailing data indicates it was more). On a personal level, my Baby Boomer father attended Taylor Swift’s sold-out show in San Francisco. He went into the experience somewhat nonplussed and emerged a full-blown Swiftie replete with friendship bracelets on his thick wrists and Evermore on repeat in his classic Bimmer 7-series.
Beyond the Taylorverse, lesser acts delighted audiences big and small, including here in Japan. In October, my wife, pre-teen daughter, pre-pre-teen son and I joined throngs of Charlie Puth fans at the Ariake Arena for a poppy and peppy show. Despite being in the Forest Key nose-bleed seats both my wife and daughter waved aggressively at the pompadoured crooner from his opening number (Charlie Be Quiet) to his finale (One Call Away). In my nearly twenty years of blissful marriage to Megumu, I have come to accept that she waves at handsome singers, actors and athletes, fully expecting them to wave back. Over the summer in Ebisu Station she waved at Redbirds Outfielder, Lars Nootbar. The only issue was he was on a promotional poster for Zoff eyeglasses. So in the end, Lars did not wave back to my wife. She remained undaunted, continuing to beckon him.
Our family 2023 Year in Music was not limited to massive arenas. Right around Passover, we took the Pre and Pre Pre to a small club in Shibuya for an Alec Benjamin show. My son was initially concerned about the fire hazard and other risks associated with being in such close quarters with other humans. But when young Alec Benjamin sauntered on stage strumming his Martin D-18 a cloud of magic fell over our family.
“He sounds just like Alec Benjamin!” my son chortled.
“Yes!” I concurred. “Because he IS Alec Benjamin!”
After the show, we made our way through the back allies of Shibuya for a musical debrief over boba tea. The sweet slugs of tapioca found me waxing nostalgic over the first concert experiences I enjoyed with my parents. The principal at my kindergarten in Riverdale was Mr. Seeger, and every spring his brother, Pete, would come and play for us on the sprawling lawn of Fieldston Lower School. I can still hear the chords of “If I Had a Hammer ” and taste the Jiff and Welch’s PB&J sandwiches we enjoyed for our musical picnics.
When my family made our exodus from Riverdale to Palo Alto, we continued to seek out live entertainment and eclectic venues. Per the latter, my all-time favorite concert as a child was taking in James Brown at the Circle Star Theater. Having previously enjoyed more tame acts like Peter, Paul & Mary on the noval rotating stage, the experience of beholding the Godfather of Soul was next level stuff. The crowd for a James Brown show differed starkly from the shetland sweater clad Peter, Paul & Mary die-hards. After a stirring opening set by Jose Feliciano, we waited what seemed like an hour or so, my parents sipping Circle Star Old Fashioneds and kibitzing with the good folks in our section of the small theater. Finally, a nearly 50-piece band clad in sky blue tuxedos (47 horns plus a drum, bass and guitar) got up and moved the crowd to an almost religious tizzy. After at least 20 minutes of R&B insanity, a procession of men flanked by flood lights began to slowly parade from the entry of the Circle Star down right past our section. In the center was a giant man sporting a slick black tuxedo and white tie. He possessed bushels of swagger and the coolest saxophone (neigh, INSTRUMENT) I had ever seen.
“Is THAT James Brown???” I shouted to my mom.
“No, that’s Maceo PARKER!” my mom retorted. “James Brown’s saxophone player! Buckle up, Aj! This is going to be GOOD!”
Maceo Parker, of course, slayed. He took all the energy in the Circle Star into the impossible next level for another 20 minutes only to have the house lights go dark. From there, an even larger entourage adorned by bigger spotlights escorted a pixie-like figure down to the round stage. James Brown, as I lived and breathed, was crooning and moving before us.
He was an absolute wonder.
Beyond concerts I’ve enjoyed close encounters with famed performers and more. Very often these bump-ins take place in airports where boring business schlubs like me and entertainers both have to go. O’Hare has been particularly lucky for me. I once only peed next to Usher after a short flight from La Guardia. He will be the lead act of this year’s Super Bowl Halftime Show, and I will be eating salty snacks watching him. On the B<>Concourse escalator I encounted George Zimmer, the founder of the Men’s Warehouse. Standing behind the titan of cheap menswear I could not help myself and dispensed with his signature tagline “ . . . I guarantee it!”. Mr. Zimmer issued an approving smile before darting off to catch his connecting flight. Once, going through security I found a gaggle of septuagenarian women casting furtive glances at me. My flattery quickly dissipated as I noticed that Robert Redford was right behind me. He carried only a weathered Hartman briefcase in signature tan, and despite his advanced age still brought a handsome countenance to the security line.
Once, during one of my bi-monthly business trips from Tokyo to New York I found myself on the lower level of the now defunct Hudson Hotel. I had opted to take the service elevator as I was clad in running clothes and wanted to get right out into the Park without the peacocking on the escalator. The first floor was nearly pitch black, and I found myself searching in a kind of “hello Cleveland” pattern for the door to the street. I was joined by a spritely older gentleman sporting a baseball cap. He was likely even older than Robert Redford, but moved with an alacrity that indicated a supreme command of body and spirit. After I finally discovered the door to 59th Street I held it open for my fellow wanderer, the early summer morning light reflecting on his face. I recognized him immediately as Willie Mays and, just like George Zimmer, fell into my awkward pattern of signature phrases.
“Say hey???” I beckoned.
The Say Hey Kid winked at me, pointing a knowing finger my way and said “You got it!”
When I first moved to Tokyo I found myself rubbing elbows with many almost famous people. My favorite place to do so was a shochu joint masquerading as a sushi bar called Iwaji Sushi. Housed on the second floor of a five story walk-up overlooking the Ebisu Shrine, Iwaji was commandeered by a nimble punk rock maniac known affectionately as Gan-chan. Gan-chan had cut his teeth fixing nigiri in London in the 80’s, and rumor had it that several members of The Clash were loyal patrons.
When Gan-chan returned to Japan in the early 1990’s he opened his little spot to the makers and shakers of slow fashion. The shoppe masters of Evisu’s Daikanyama flagship store used to hold court there. Rumor had it that Margaret Howell and Nigel Cabourn once enjoyed a steaming hot bowl of oden on a winter trip to Japan. Isamu “Sam” Sugure, President of Margaret Howell Japan and Nigel Cabourn International was a regular at Iwashi, and Sam-san took me under his wing early on in my Tokyo tenure. He advised me on all things Japanese, especially the best places to travel. This was before the OTAs really got a hold of inventory in Japan, so my reservation process involved the phone, a game plan of the dates that I wanted and a steady nerve.
Upon Sam-san’s advice I secured a reservation for a late Spring getaway at Gajoen in Kagoshima. Nestled on the high, leafy banks of the sanguine Amori River, the gorgeously weathered ryokan featured whimsy and wonder. Each morning I selected my freshly laid egg for tamago yaki, and each afternoon the innkeeper would shepherd me in a golf cart to the majestic “tenku” onsen.
The weekend I flew down to Kagoshima was especially enticing in that it featured an unplugged concert with a living legend in the Japanese rock scene. Kiyishiro Imawano, the former front man for the super group RC Succession, would be playing an acoustic set before an intimate audience in the shoku-do of Gajoen. He was known as one part David Bowie and one part Neil Young, mixing a frenetic on-stage glam with lyrics that stirred the conscience. If you asked anyone born after the war about the biggest rockstars in Japan Kiyoshiro Imawano’s name would undoubtedly come up. He was semi-retired at this point, spending much of his time on long cycling trips and occasionally playing shows with his guitarist Reichi “Chabo” Nakaido. Every spring, Kiyoshiro Imawano peddled 550 kilometers on a tour that started in Hiroshima and concluded with the “Onsen Concert” at Gajoen.
Prior to the concert I was happily kicked out of my quarters; the cheerful crew of roadies needed a place to test cables, tune guitars and sip tea. Pleased with myself for “helping with the set up” I made my way to the small bar located on the main path of Gajoen. Clad only in a cotton yukata adorned with the local patterns of Kagoshima, I ordered a large bottle of Asahi Super Dry to slake my post-hotspring thirst.
A hen waltzed past me (perhaps she was my egg supplier for breakfast earlier in the day), and I observed her sauntering down the path of the inn. My gaze fell back to the bottle of beer which now sweated beads of moisture in the late afternoon heat. Having looked at the bird, I had failed to see that another person had joined me at the bar . . .
. . . Kiyoshiro Imawano.
He sat right next to me as the small thatch-roofed bar had just two low wooden stools. Clad also in Yukata, he glanced at my bottle and ordered one for himself. My suite now converted into a green room for the concert of the very man I was sitting with, I had nowhere to escape to and an ample amount of beer yet to drink.
Lucky for me Kiyishiro Imawano was a mensch. He possessed an impish cheerfulness that radiated all around him, and he was a fine conversationalist. He pointed to my watch, the iconic blue Polar 610i favored by so many endurance athletes of the day. Spying my timepiece, he asked me if I was a runner or a cyclist. I explained that I was a very slow runner. He then took a swig of his Asahi and lifted his opposite wrist. He too was sporting a Polar 610i. Henceforth we had an inside joke to work with as the foundation of our budding friendship, the rock legend and the nebbish from Tokyo.
I had played our chat well up to the very end when, in my broken Japanese, I queried if he would be attending the concert that night. I had gotten into the habit of asking each guest at Gajoyen that question, and my pattern had now betrayed me. Kiyoshiro Imawano smiled at me and noted that it was his plan to attend.
The show was an absolute treat. It featured raucous anthems and tender ballads. The crowd, clearly a group of RC Succession loyalists judging by their t-shirts of past tours and mastery of the lyrics, was whipped up into a frenzy for more than two straight hours. At the conclusion, Kiyoshiro Imawano belted out “Ameagari No Yozora Ni”, a hormone-infused number that sent the crowd from the tatami mat up onto their feet.
In the aftermath the innkeeper and her husband hosted a sumptuous dinner of local sukiyaki and vegetables harvested from the Gajoen farm. My offer to take my meal back in my room was emphatically protested by Kiyishiro Imawano and his band. So I settled into the post-show feast alongside the talented musicians and amazing voice that had made the evening so special.
At the end of our close encounter, bancha tea was dolled out into the earthenware cups so prized in Kyushu. And before I made my way back to my quarters Kiyoshiro Imawano lifted up his wrist and with a kind smile pointed to his watch.
The Tokyo Yenta 