Recently I came across an article by an interior designer, showing off a bar they opened about two months ago. Intrigued, I tried to locate it on a map of Tokyo, to determine how far or near it was to home. However, the more I tried to find out about the place, the more confused and curious I became. Its name did not deliver any results on the web, nor was it marked on Google Maps. It more or less did not exist outside of the architectural article.

That is, until I found the account of a DJ that plays music there. He had just posted something a couple of hours before, mentioning that he could provide people with  invitations. I tried my luck and sent a message into the void. And despite any expectations to the contrary, he actually came through, sending the location, name of the building and what floor, in one of the quieter parts of Shibuya. 

Indi and I rock up on the curb, both dressed in perfect black from head to toe, slightly nervous about what will happen next. I consider the possibility that this is all a convoluted ruse to harvest our organs. Hopefully not. But the sign that marks occupants of each floor, be they restaurants, studios, or live venues, suspiciously remains completely blank where it concerns the seventh storey. The elevator is the same, the seventh button has no markings. 

Indi and I step out of the mirrored elevator precisely there, as guided by the message. Nothing besides a dark, grey stairwell surrounds us. Barring the elevator that brought us up, the small concrete space only has a single other door, obviously the janitor’s utility closet, certain to hold only buckets and mops. But when we press our ears to this camouflaged entrance, we can hear jazz playing on the other side.

Upon entering, a tall Russian woman with short, bony white hair greets us. She is dressed in translucent black, with a silver cross hanging from her right ear. She smiles her sharp ivory teeth in greeting, a cold sparkle in her dark eyes. Silent, we follow her to our table. A golden glow illuminates the bartender and his collection of exclusive liquors from behind. An equally impressive collection of Japanese jazz adorns the opposite wall, only overshadowed by two enormous speakers hanging from the ceiling, and three turntables set into a custom booth for the DJ. We order a pair of their signature cocktails and learn that the speakers were hand made for this space by a craftsman from New York.

We stay almost two hours, quietly discussing the place, observing the clearly wealthy people at the other tables, taking a closer look at the music equipment, and ordering another set of delicate drinks. Stepping once again through the nondescript grey door, we almost feel like we’ve travelled between dimensions, back into normality, to background characters erased from a movie script that no longer needed them.