Vinyl Memories: A Journey Through Time in Tokyo
One of my favorite things to experience while traveling is what I call a “wander day.” These are days I spend simply walking through neighborhoods, with no set agenda — just following my curiosity to see where it leads. Sometimes I have a few places in mind, but nothing is set in stone.
Today’s wander took me from Shinjuku to Shibuya. Along the way, I stumbled upon several vintage camera shops, spent a quiet moment at the serene Meiji Jingu Shrine, and soaked up the youthful energy of Takeshita Street. I stopped for lunch at Kitsunezushi, where I had some of the freshest, most delectable sushi I’ve ever tasted. By mid-afternoon, I found myself in the heart of Shibuya, where the choices are endless — shops, restaurants, people, lights.
Then, as I turned a corner, I saw it ... a tall sign glowing in yellow and red: Tower Records. My face lit up in pure childhood delight. I hadn’t seen a Tower Records in decades.
Time for a story …
When I was 14, like most teenagers, music was everything. I’d listen religiously to the “Top 10 at 10” on KUBE radio with Charlie and Ty, eagerly waiting to hear which songs moved up or down the charts — and which new ones debuted. I loved visiting my friend’s house (he had cable TV!) to watch the MTV Top 20 Video Countdown. Those flashy, often cheesy music videos gave new life to the songs I already loved. The lyrics and visuals spoke to my youthful teenage experience in ways nothing else could.
For my generation, MTV was our TikTok, our Instagram, our YouTube!
I’d keep a mental list of the songs and artists I loved so I could find their albums, and there was only one place to go. Every few weeks, I’d catch the bus to lower Queen Anne and make my pilgrimage to Tower Records on Mercer Street. I could spend hours flipping through rows of albums, checking out the names I knew from radio and TV.
With my limited allowance funds, I could typically only afford one album and a couple of 45s. But the store had a listening station — a godsend for a teenager trying to make every dollar count. I’d listen to different songs on the albums before committing to one. Once the choice was made, I’d walk out clutching that bright yellow bag with the bold red logo, holding a new cherished album to add to my collection.
Back in Shibuya, I stepped into this 8-story golden paradise, my heart full of memory and wonder. Each floor offered something different, featuring jazz and classical, J-pop and K-pop. Eventually, I found my way to the sixth floor — the vinyl section. And just like that, the teenage version of me began flipping through the bins, wide-eyed and excited.
I was especially intrigued by the Japanese pop section, despite my limited knowledge of Japanese artists. Then I wandered into the English-language bins, alphabetically scanning through familiar names and long-forgotten favorites. The store speakers were playing Beach Boys songs as a tribute to Brian Wilson, who had recently passed away.
There were dozens of albums I wanted to buy, but as a traveler with a small suitcase and many cities left to explore, I resisted. I made a mental list instead and promised myself a visit to my favorite record stores back in Seattle.
Though I left without any physical souvenirs, I walked away with something richer: the gift of memory, the joy of discovery, and a deeply satisfying journey back to the soundtrack of my youth.