The Joy of Kissa

Just before a recent visit to Japan, essential reading arrived at home in the form of Philip Arneill's book Tokyo Jazz Joints (reviewed by Ian Patterson).

Well, we all know that jazz is big in Japan, right? Certainly, jazz is a common backdrop to many everyday experiences in that country. You hear it in elevators, hotel lobbies, and department stores everywhere. And for the most part it isn't faux-jazz, smooth jazz, or easy listening: as you stroll across the lobby toward the elevator, you are more likely to hear savage bebop licks than, say, Kenny G.

The live jazz scene is vibrant too, Tokyo boasting at least two of the world's finest clubs—the Blue Note in Minato City and the Shinjuku Pit Inn—as well as numerous tiny bars where musicians gather to jam.

And then there are the jazz kissa—the subject of Arneill's book. These are small, often tiny, cafés where you can enjoy a cup of coffee or a glass of whisky while listening to vinyl records on seriously expensive audio systems. Kissa are usually tucked away on back streets or above other business premises. Usually, they are run by men of a certain age, who have dedicated their lives and billfolds to collecting records, mortgaging their futures in the bottomless pit of high-fidelity sound equipment.



As Arneill points out, the term kissa is short for kissaten, or "tea-drinking shop." Despite the title of his book, kissa also exist way beyond Tokyo. For example, down a side alley in eastern Kyoto, there's Jazz Spot Yamatoya. In decor and size it's a throwback to your grandparents' living room, except this one houses literally thousands of jazz albums from floor to ceiling. In Kanazawa on the west coast, behind a fence down another side alley, you may stumble across the Bokunen Jazz Bar. With 14 people inside, the place is full, and the owner has to turn latecomers away. In Matsumoto, in the center of the country, there's Eonta, up a flight of stairs above a restaurant. This kissa is so pocket-sized that with just ten people inside, it is full to bursting, but well worth seeking out for the selections from ECM Records and recent tracks by the likes of GoGo Penguin. Owner Kazuki Kobayashi has reserved the front section for those who wish to listen to the music in silence: conversation is strictly forbidden.

The intimacy of these spaces is to some extent unavoidable: 73 percent of Japan's landmass consists of heavily-forested mountains, so 125 million people are crammed into the land that remains. As a result, bars, diners and cafés are often shoehorned into spaces too small to park your car. But no trip to Japan is complete without visiting a kissa, these charming little jazz dives, in all their unvarnished glory: the hand-written signs, the ancient, peeling gig posters, the old-time lamps and wallpaper, the comfortable chairs, but also the classic turntables, amplifiers, and speakers, and most of all the beautiful, contemplative vibe. If you have no prospect of experiencing kissa culture in person, you have only to turn the pages of Arneill's book: you can almost hear the music.

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