♪ [Essay: Papa and I] The Mysterious Shop

It has been several years since Papa passed away.
He was an intense person.
I have never written an essay before, but
I think I will take this opportunity to write one.

Papa's hobby was building vacuum tube amplifiers
to play music as he pleased.
He would publish them in a commercial monthly audio magazine every few months as construction articles along with circuit diagrams.

He had a mysterious charisma, and only eccentric people gathered at the shop.

Jazz lovers.
Classical music lovers.
People whose hobby was building amplifiers.
Musicians.
Readers.
Surfers who came to play at the nearby beach.
Geeks

However, the locals,
unless they were truly tough,
would not even try to open
the door to this mysterious shop.

When a lost traveler would wander in, they would see Papa's bearded face and
"Oh, I've walked into a dangerous place"
they would stiffen their face and quietly close the door. Many people did this.

Is there really such a shop?

Well, since it was Papa's hometown,
it's not like there weren't people from the city who came because of that connection.

But surely, that first-time customer,
even while thinking, "Oh, I made a mistake,"
seemed to have made eye contact with Papa.
Like a frog stared down by a snake, they gave up on escaping
and wobbled over to the counter.

Their eyes were darting around completely.

It was lunchtime.
The first-time customer ordered a "hamburger steak."

"Hey, I'm cooking rice right now, so wait a bit."

Is it really okay for a restaurant owner like this to exist?

Opening time is 11:00.
Papa must have overslept a little.
The first-time customer put on a fake smile, saying "That's no problem at all,"
and took out a cigarette with trembling hands.

Papa's eyes lit up.
Mama, who usually manages Papa's cigarettes, is not in the shop.

"Hey buddy, give me a cigarette."

Where else would you find a shop owner who begs for cigarettes
from a customer who isn't even a regular, someone who just arrived for the first time?

Papa, having gotten his morning cigarette behind Mama's back, was in a good mood.
"I'll play whatever song you like."
The owner begs the customer for a request.
The customer's shoulders jumped in surprise.
"I... I'm not really that knowledgeable about jazz... I'm sorry."
The customer's voice trailed off, trembling.
( I'm-going-to-be-killed)
Perhaps that thought was crossing his mind.

"Oh, well then, you must know this one."
Papa chooses a song on his own and lights up his prized custom-made amplifier.
The first song of the day was

"Hitorizaki" (CHAGE and ASKA)

The tone of the vacuum tube amplifier and the familiar lyrics made the customer feel relieved.
It's a jazz cafe, but this is Papa's castle.
Jazz, classical, rock, enka, or pop songs—whatever he feels like.

If he likes a song, he will repeat it twenty times without a care.
If a customer happens to be there, they are forced to go along with Papa's mood for the entire meal.

Even I gave up on "Isso Serenade" (Yosui Inoue) on the thirteenth time.

It's a good song, Papa.
But please, spare me from the fourteenth time.

That's why, in the end, only customers who can put up with
the whims of this intense master remain in the shop.

Because it's my castle, after all.

Papa was a poet.
It was unprecedented to mix poetry into circuit diagram articles in an audio magazine.
I heard that many readers and fellow builders condemned him, saying, "How outrageous!"
But Papa stuck to it.

My regular column in the trade magazine lasted for over forty years.
Along the way, I heard that another creator had apparently asked the publisher, 'Can I post my poems too?'
But I also heard that they were turned down, with the publisher saying, 'Papa is already doing that, so it would just be a rehash.'

I wonder if Papa was happy living life exactly as he pleased.

To keep on writing.
To pursue the sounds he desired.

Perhaps that was a more grueling life than I ever imagined.

But now, as jazz cafes are slowly disappearing,
it doesn't seem so bad to share my memories of Papa in a corner of Japan's note.

Well then, for the finale, here is one of Papa's poems.