Sound is measured in decibels (dB). Rustling leaves measure around 20 decibels. Normal human conversation is between 50 and 65 dB. New York City street noise averages 73.4 dB. 120 dB is the threshold for discomfort, and 130 dB is actually painful. Kyoto is a comparatively quiet city. But, even here, it can be difficult to find real peace, especially during peak tourist seasons. The most serene locale is frequently interrupted by the banal chatter of people, a distant car motor, an unexpected helicopter or even your own stupid thoughts. After the Golden Week commotion, I decided to go looking for quiet. Actually, I knew exactly where I was going: Daihikaku Senkoji (大悲閣千光寺). It had been some time since I visited this little temple high above the Oi River (aka Hozu River) in Arashiyama. It was, as I had hoped, completely empty. Just me and the lone attendant monk. There is a narrow veranda that encircles the main hall like a halo some 15 meters (49 feet) off the ground. Here I sat enjoying the spectacular view of the surrounding mountains and the city far in the distance. But more than the view, I was enjoying the absolute quiet. The most deafening sound came from the bamboo water spout dribbling into a tsukubai (washbasin), and the the Goshikimaku (Buddhist flag) twirling in the gentle breeze. My meditative stupor was broken sometime later by a trio of young tourists. 5 minutes was their limit. Smartphones came out and mindless chitchat molested the tranquility of the afternoon. An hour of noiseless bliss was all I was afforded, but for this I was grateful. It seemed a long time since Kyoto was so wonderfully quiet.
Nishinari Ward in Osaka is widely considered the most dodgy district in all of Japan. This 4.5 square kilometre (2.8 square mile) ward is populated by yakuza, prostitutes, drug dealers, transients and homeless. It is famous for its doyas (cheap rooming houses), its red-light district, illegal gambling dens, frequent riots and the highest rate of tuberculosis in Japan. Oh, and there is a zoo too. So why, you might ask, would I go to such a place? Well, amid all this shady activity are some respectable music venues, and my friend Madoka Kimura was performing at one called Nanbaya. The temporary home of Nanbaya is in a long, dim shotengai (shopping arcade), the faded remnants of another era. Like most of these covered shopping streets in Japan the majority of the shops are shuttered. There are however dozens of barber shops, kissaten (coffee shops), and karaoke bars open for business, as well as a few suspect jewellers. The customers are mostly old men. There is no indication of an imminent hipster revolution here, of slow-cooking gentrification or any sort of redevelopment. It is alive, just barely, but with a future as dim as the lighting. Nanbaya is not gritty or beat as one would expect of a blues club. There is nothing cool or even kitsch about the space. It is over-lit with harsh fluorescents and smells of grease. Were it not for the musical instruments and flyers for upcoming shows taped to the wall I would never guess this was a music venue. The staff are curiously unfriendly. I listen to them explain to another patron unapologetically that there is very little to eat.
Madoka-san brightens things up when she takes the stage, wearing a midnight blue swing dress, evening gloves, rhinestone mules and hair in an up-do. She has the voice and swagger of a blues singer, her style both sultry and buoyant. She and guitarist Haruyuki Tanaka work there way through a list of blues standards for the small but appreciative crowd. The music invites some passersby over for a peek. The blues is a music born of struggle. It has always lived on the fringes. It's no surprise really that I would find it in a place like Nishinari-ku.
