Live From Tokyo

Live From Tokyo takes the viewer through the back streets in Shinjuku, the intersections in Shibuya, the alleys in Koenji, and all over Tokyo, as it highlights the innovative musicians that create the multi-faceted underground music scene. Welcome to a world where ideas and genres are pushed to their ex tremes, with the general sentiment that there is new music waiting to be created. The film explores this eccentric music culture set within the back¬drop of the modern Japanese megalopolis.

R                        Tigerbite Photograph

End of the Day             Tigerbite Photograph

Mushroom Visions        Tigerbite Photograph

They’re a popular underground band in Koenji. Sadly, I’ve forgotten their name.

BB Outtake   Tigerbite Photograph 「タイガバイト写真」

This is a photo I took for Bottled Blond but decided it wasn’t really good enough to be in the book.  I ran into her at Shibuya.  When I approached her, she gave me a sinister look and an air of “get the fuck away”, but the moment I asked for a photo, wow, immediate transformation. She lit up, relaxed and posed for the shot.  Would have been better to get the “get the fuck away” shot, haha. She’s Korean by the way, I can differentiate between accents in Japanese, it happens after living there for four years.

The boy& The girl      Tigerbite Photograph  「タイガバイト写真」

しぶや　日本

The Ton-Up Motors

I saw these fools perform in Tokyo, via the Kichijoji area.  Today feels like a Ton-Up Motor kind of day.

Lanterns                                        「タイガバイト写真」

Lights at a shrine along Meiji Dori in Harajuku. 

Taken with no flash at 2.8 f-stop

Cool Cats　　　　　　　    　タイガバイト写真

Going through the past year of photographs, some work so well with one another, and some don’t. This one did not make the cut. Love her leather jacket.  When you find a leather jacket that fits you like a glove and feels like heaven, buy it.

原宿　日本2010

The Bakery                Tigerbite Photograph

渋谷駅

The frantic noise, the smell, the smell of something slightly rancid, the ant-like humans rushing by, maneuvering between other identical humans and their man-made obstacles. When I’m here, in Shibuya, it just seems so nauseating, scuzzy, or vile. I’m unsure why this area is so attractive and tantalizing for them and them. It may have something to do with consumerism, apparently there are fashionable shops here. Since I’ve rejected consumerism in the last year or so, there is nothing here for me to care about. Maybe, sometimes, I do enjoy the frenetic energy, but mostly I don’t care for it. The first time I arrived in Japan many years ago, Shibuya was the first place I visited…I was not impressed then, and still, I am not impressed. Not to say it is not impressive, this is the area that boasts of the busiest crosswalk in the world -but I don’t know what kind of meaning or achievement that really comes to. Maybe it means, as a business owner, you should come here to open your business. Perhaps I should read some more into the history of Shibuya, I am more impressed by the history or the story behind something than actually seeing the thing or place itself. Hm. Concrete cities have never held my emotions, so I could never understand the romanticism people profess over Tokyo or for New York City. I don’t find these cities romantic, I don’t think of them as my lovers, or as if I am in a relationship with them, I do not feel attraction. It is perhaps, best described as my playground, or as my enemy, as I struggle to survive, or a place of memories I can’t remember, but it is not ever my love. If I can survive the day without being killed by the city, or having killed myself by my own hands, then, I continue this meaningless cycle of recycling of life to find some meaning in the meaninglessness of it. Why am I here? Only because I mean something to someone, not voluntarily I tell you, unconditionally it is for my mother, well, I would rather not hurt or cause her pain by jumping off the falls today or stepping in front of the train tracks tomorrow. How can I express myself truly? Only the most genius of artists are capable of that, and in not so many words or in any words at all -that is their enviable skill that is innate to them. Well, I am not an artist. If I were, I would have gone to Art School to be manufactured as one, although I think all artists would be better off going to business school. What am I saying, I am going off on a tangent. Well, here is the real story, the real story is that I was in Shibuya for a reason I no longer remember, and as I crossed the street towards Shibuya Tower 109, I noticed a girl by one of the shops. She was folding some clothes in a wire bin. I would photograph her. I went up to her and asked for permission to take her photo. She didn’t smile, in fact, her face remained vacant, yet I could sense something vulnerable under that immobile expression. If only I had the ability to bring that vulnerability out, but you see, I don’t. If that is one purpose of photography, to capture the human essence, I have not done that, I’ve only captured the robotic visage. I couldn’t understand her, I asked her twice, three times if I could take her photo, but she mumbled mumble mumbled. Finally, she said, “tondemonai”, which I thought meant, “no”. So as I was about to walk away, suddenly she asked in a tiny hopeful voice, “Do you really want to take a photo of me? Really, like this? But I am nothing amazing…” She DID indeed want her photo taken. I quickly took the snapshots I wanted, and although it was not necessary to verbalize it at all, as the photograph had already done the job, I told her sincerely she was a very cute girl indeed. I walked away, somewhat surprised at the power of photography and what it brings out in people. To be photographed, is to mean something, to be of value, to be remembered, to be immortalized even after you’ve died or killed yourself.

This was a story about #street photography #approaching people #their reaction being photographed.

It smells here, the usual smell, of drunk people, izakayas, piss & dirt and cigarettes.  It’s bustling and overcrowded in Shibuya, -the neon lights illuminate the entire intersection and cast an alien glow. The girls and boys with their dyed brown gel-caked hair and tacky fashion rush by hastily -going off to do whatever it is teenagers do here. Now, I’m reminded of four 13 -14 year old school boys with angel faces, their black hair swept neatly to the side, white shirts fastidiously tucked in, awkwardly having their first cigarette.  They were trying their best to look cocky with the cigarettes hanging crookedly from their lips and their eyebrows furrowed in concentration,  …I wished I had my camera to take their picture. Well anyway, that description did not happen in Shibuya. What happened in Shibuya? Once, twice, three times and well, nearly every time I’m there, I’ve been invited for “beer” or a “meal” by young Japanese college men.  I often wonder if they are influenced by the stories of perhaps Soseki or more recently Murakami? I wonder how many girls they ask and end with failure, or how many they win? I am sure they mistake me for a high school or college girl.  If they ask my age, I usually say that I am exactly that.  Well, that’s not the story I wanted to tell.  What happened in Shibuya, is that I met an Okinawan stranger.  Like most meetings, it was a random meeting.  I was in Shibuya to celebrate Kanako’s birthday.  Kanako is a scientist, a scientist who also plays percussion.  She asked us to dress up for the occasion, so I wore a fancy outfit along with my vintage diamond shoulder padded brown ‘gorilla’ cardigan(it’s as ugly-fantastic as it sounds).  I was there early, so I passed the time by browsing the book store in Tower Records.  I picked up a glossy book, flipped through it, set it down, and repeat.  For no particular reason, I stopped, glanced up, and straight across from me, a doe-eyed stranger was staring at me.  Normally I would’ve looked away, …but I froze -my heartbeat quickened and my muscles stiffened involuntarily.  We stared wide-eyed at one another for longer than what is permitted between strangers.  His dark eyes widened in surprise, then swirls of confusion formed as the eye contact prolonged.  His friend muttered to him, ‘Do you know her?’ and continuing to hold my gaze, he said ‘no’.  Realizing how strange and rude I was being, I got over my nervousness and I quickly walked towards him to ask if I could take his picture.  His friend walked away snickering.  Overcoming the initial shock he gave me a shy but warm smile and nodded ‘yes’.  I took some quick snapshots. He still looked a bit dazed and humbled…and I suppose dazzled by me apparently(no conceit intended here, just telling the story).  A conversation began as I wrapped up the shots.  He was originally from Okinawa.  I had a hunch he couldn’t be from Tokyo, he did not have the dull gaze, and cold impervious, constrained demeanor as normal Tokyo people do.  He was very young still, his brawny flesh a healthy tan, and his face fresh and expressive.  He gave me an agonized look as he lamented of how difficult life in Tokyo is -how all he does is work and work.  I didn’t know what to say to that, that is the life of everyone here in this city. I gave him a sympathetic smile.  I quietly hoped his work was not worse than what I had to endure in my last job -I had entertained the thought of suicide then.  His friend returned and I had to go.  As I left them, I could feel their eyes following me.  I found it somewhat amusing to be considered attractive while wearing my ‘professor’ glasses(as I call them), but the fishnet stockings and heels may have been the selling point.

This was a story about #street photography #approaching people #their reaction being photographed.