Tokyo Shoegazer and the Myth of Japanese Shoegaze
- Kamola Atajanova
- 6 hours ago
- 15 min read
When a dormant band’s decade-old track suddenly goes viral on TikTok, the typical industry playbook dictates a swift, highly manicured comeback. But Tokyo Shoegazer has never really followed the rules. “Actually, I do not watch TikTok. So honestly, I do not really know what is happening now,” laughs drummer Hiroshi Sasabuchi. During their hiatus, their early discography found a second life online. As albums like Crystallize were digitized and distributed on platforms like Bandcamp, a dedicated global following began to gather. International fans digging into the Japanese shoegaze scene were suddenly discovering their music. “We really had no idea what was going on. The members even talked about it like, ‘If it was going to become popular anyway, couldn’t it have happened before we broke up?’”
To Western listeners, Japanese shoegaze often carries an air of profound mystique. Fans
tend to project neon-lit streets, Lost in Translation aesthetics, and late-night urban melancholy onto the genre's massive walls of distortion. The reality of Tokyo Shoegazer is far more grounded. The band—whose Japanese name, 東京酒吐座, originated from a grimly literal joke about drinking alcohol, throwing up, and sitting on the curb—started strictly by accident. Assembled in 2010 as a one-off session group for Sasabuchi’s birthday, they essentially jammed their way into a genre they didn’t even intend to play. “When Tokyo Shoegazer first formed, we were deliberately not treating shoegaze as something sacred,” guitarist Kiyomi Watanabe recalls. “I think we were almost enjoying the situation of outsiders playing shoegaze, as if it were the ultimate act of sacrilege.”
That accidental success eventually bred frustration. Feeling boxed in by having the word "shoegazer" literally in their name, the band fractured in 2013, with the members pivoting to a new project called CQ just to escape the genre's expectations. Yet the gravitational pull of their original chemistry, combined with a swelling international cult following, brought them back together in 2019.
Now, they are releasing Remains, a heavy, cinematic record built entirely on the concept of anger and "bad endings." As their global audience continues to expand—drawn to their distinct sonic texture—Tokyo Shoegazer is finally operating on their own terms. They aren't trying to fulfill a foreigner's romanticized vision of Tokyo. As Sasabuchi notes, they are simply trying to make sure that when everything else disappears, their music is one of the things that remains.
Because that background is deeply ingrained in us, I feel the texture naturally becomes different. It is almost like an inescapable fate. In the past, I sometimes had a complex about the fact that our sensibility was different from Western music, but now I have been able to accept it. That is thanks to the people who feel something in our music and value it.
Describe the first time you came across shoegaze music and realized you wanted to create that kind of music yourself.
Hiroshi Sasabuchi:
I don’t think I ever strongly felt, “I want to do this genre myself.” The vocal melodies can be hard to grasp, and the sound image is blurry. But somehow, it becomes addictive. I think shoegaze is a very twisted kind of music (laughs). That said, I do think that “being loud” is one of the genre’s greatest strengths. It allows you to express emotions through sound itself in a way that other genres cannot. At one point, I joined a band that was already playing shoegaze, so before I knew it, I was already doing it. So, it was not really something I had originally wanted to create myself.
Yoshitaka Sugahara:
When I was a student, I played a lot of covers in my school’s light music club. That was where I encountered music by Radiohead and The Smashing Pumpkins. I also saw the guitar playing of a younger student who loved slowcore bands like Mogwai and Shipping News, and that made me interested in post-rock. Later, after I turned twenty and joined an original band, I went on tour to Osaka and experienced a band playing extremely loud music with an incredibly beautiful sound image. That was the moment I thought, “This is it!” It became the reason I wanted to create shoegaze and post-rock music myself—and it was also my encounter with the Yamaha Magicstomp guitar pedal (laughs).
Kiyomi Watanabe:
I only started wanting to make this kind of music after I joined Tokyo Shoegazer. For some reason, I had owned a CD copy of My Bloody Valentine’s Loveless for a long time, and although I thought the songs were amazing and was drawn to the sound, I was playing in a completely different genre of band. I never felt like I could recreate that sound, or even wanted to try. In the past, I somehow felt like it was something I should not touch.
Before forming the band, what kinds of music were each of you immersed in? Did you all arrive at shoegaze through similar paths, or from completely different scenes?
Hiroshi:
I came from a completely different scene. I was doing session musician-type work, so I listened to a lot of different music. I think I mostly listened to classic rock, fusion, and soul music, such as The Police, Led Zeppelin, EL&P, King Crimson, Stuff, Chick Corea, Marvin Gaye, and so on. Those are only a few examples, but I listened to and studied many different things, and absorbed rhythm into my body. Among them, The Police are definitely still part of my textbook. As I mentioned earlier, I arrived at shoegaze because I joined a band that was playing it for a period of time.
Yoshitaka:
As I mentioned above, I was into shoegaze and post-rock from a young age, but my foundation was a love for the dark atmosphere of UK rock. In addition, when I was a student, I played covers of Tool and Dream Theater, which exposed me to progressive music. From there, I became deeply into Pink Floyd, and that also became one of the origins of my current guitar sound.
Kiyomi:
I started with new wave, post-punk, and industrial music, and continuously listened to bands like Ministry, Nine Inch Nails, Depeche Mode, The Cure, Tool, The Smashing Pumpkins, and later nu-metal such as Deftones and A Perfect Circle. From the UK, I listened to The Prodigy and Radiohead as well. If I listed everything, it would never end, but most of the bands I listened to were not directly related to what I do now. I was also listening to Mogwai around that time. Post-rock was also thriving in Japan then, so I admired bands in that scene too. But I was playing in a completely different heavy rock band.
Tokyo Shoegazer has become one of the defining names in Japanese shoegaze. Looking back, how did the band first come together, and what initially connected all of you creatively?
Hiroshi:
Originally, the band started as a session band for my birthday live event. We were only supposed to play one show and then end it, but after that first live show, we started receiving offers, and it naturally continued from there. If those offers had not come in, I think the band would have ended a long time ago (laughs). At the time, we did not have a clear direction like, “Let’s make this kind of music.” We made songs by jamming in the studio. In that process, songs with a shoegaze-like atmosphere happened to appear, and I remember that our current style developed naturally from there.
Kiyomi:
Before the band formed, Hiroshi had been playing as the support drummer in a band I was in. That band ended up falling apart, and afterward, he invited me to join a session band for his birthday event. That was the beginning. Of course, I knew Hiroshi, and the other members were all familiar band friends, but I had no idea what would happen. But once we got together and started playing, Hiroshi was a professional musician, and everyone was the bandleader of their own bands, so everything went incredibly smoothly. I remember feeling really happy and moved that the band could move forward creatively like that.
Your name, Tokyo Shoegazer (東京酒吐座), features a clever play on words in Japanese involving "liquor" and "vomiting." Can you tell the story of how you came up with it?
Hiroshi:
At the time, the members drank a lot. Once we had songs and were going to play live, we needed to decide on a band name. Then someone said something like, “When you drink alcohol, you throw up, right? And when you throw up, you sit down, right? Then why don’t we just apply that to the name?” It was decided through a really stupid flow like that (laughs). I’m sorry to anyone who expected a cooler origin story, but that is the reality.
Kiyomi:
As Hiroshi said, the members often met at after-parties for each other’s bands and drank together until morning, so maybe it was inevitable that the character for “sake” would be included. The fact that we did not originally start because we especially wanted to play shoegaze is very typical of us. But we have all grown up now, and these days we do not drink nearly as much as people might think.
You’ve experienced the full cycle of the band—disbanding in 2013 and then reuniting in 2019. How did that period apart change your perspective on the project, and what has been the biggest shift in the way you approach emotion or songwriting now compared to your first era?
Hiroshi:
A lot of things happened with Tokyo Shoegazer, and I got tired, so I wanted to make a different kind of band. That new band became CQ. The goal was to move as far away as possible from our previous shoegaze sound and to make music based on elements like 1980s new wave and heavy rock. To put it simply, because the word “shoegazer” was in the band name, I felt restricted by it, and I wanted to get away from that.
Yoshitaka:
I think it was significant that we consciously changed our musical approach through CQ. In terms of songwriting, my approach has not changed much, but during that period, my range as a listener expanded, and the scene itself changed in various ways. I think those things influenced me without me even realizing it.
Kiyomi:
During the blank period after the breakup, Tokyo Shoegazer felt like a thorn in my side. We had already started CQ, and my feelings had clearly shifted toward that band. After Tokyo Shoegazer broke up, the first album and “Bright” started gaining attention, and I honestly did not like that—or rather, I had complicated feelings and could not simply be happy about it. Looking back now, I think it just took time for the music to spread. When Tokyo Shoegazer first formed, we were deliberately not treating shoegaze as something sacred. I think we were almost enjoying the situation of outsiders playing shoegaze, as if it were the ultimate act of sacrilege. But after the reunion in 2019, and also through CQ, I gained more knowledge and more musical vocabulary related to shoegaze. I may have also gradually become more conscious of what listeners were looking for.
Your new album, Remains, has just arrived. Could you tell us about the core concept or story behind this record? What does the title "Remains" represent for the band at this stage of your journey?
Hiroshi:
The theme is “anger.” There are many kinds of anger, but I think what waits beyond it can only be either a happy ending or a bad ending. This time, we focused especially on the “bad ending.” In life, there are always moments when things are not only good—moments when you get hurt, feel frustrated, or feel sad. And someday, everyone will disappear. Even so, if something remains in this world, whether it is memory, emotion, or music, I made this album hoping that Remains could become one of those things that continues to remain.
Within Remains, do each of you have a personal favorite track? What was it about the creation of those specific songs that made them stand out to you during the recording process?
Hiroshi:
For me, it would be “Pulse” and “Remains.” “Pulse” has a beautiful melody over a steady, restrained world, and I think it is a song that feels quite like us. On drums, I used a lot of marching-style phrases. I actually wanted to overdub the snare and make it feel like a large number of people were playing together, but due to time constraints, it settled into the current form. As the very first sound of the album, I wanted the song to give a sense that “something is beginning.”
With “Remains,” I have the image of a movie’s end credits in my mind. The outro is longer than the vocal part, and I wanted that outro to have a classical music-like atmosphere. During recording, I shared that image with the members while we built it. I originally came from a wind ensemble background, and I was naturally exposed to marching and classical music, so maybe those elements appear somewhere in the song. Because we are an independent band, I feel like we were able to leave those personal feelings and impulses in the work exactly as they were.
Yoshitaka:
I have strong feelings for “Wisteria” and “Remains,” which I composed, but my favorite is “Vega.” I am satisfied with my own effective guitar sound, and I really love the dynamism between the loud parts and the quiet parts. Regarding the writing and recording process, the development of the outro in “Remains” was composed during recording, and there were parts that came to me almost miraculously. I am very satisfied that I was able to realize the image Hiroshi was looking for.
Kiyomi:
Rather than one particular song, I love this album as a whole. It is packed with the things I wanted to do. If I had to mention something, “Pulse” was a song that came from an order from Hiroshi. Usually, I try not to take orders because sometimes I cannot go beyond the image already inside myself. But when Hiroshi and I went to see a certain band live, he suggested an idea like, “What about a song like this?” and I was able to shape it relatively smoothly.
Also, “Vega” existed before Moonworld Playground and had once been recorded, but it was part of a limited release, and there were parts I was not satisfied with at the time. So, I asked the members if we could include it on this album as a kind of revenge. We were able to arrange it in a way we could not back then, and I think the result turned out well.
Outside of shoegaze, what artists, films, literature, or visual art continue to inspire the band?
Hiroshi:
I think each member has very different tastes and interests, but recently I may have been listening a lot to music that is called “City Pop” overseas. I especially like Haruomi Hosono of YMO, and I often listen to the works he has made or produced. Two years ago, Linda Carriere’s album, which he produced in 1977, was officially released for the first time in 47 years, and I have been listening to that album a lot.
Yoshitaka:
I really love Japanese music from the 1970s, and Miyuki Nakajima is one of my favorites. In terms of sound, I like the dark sonic atmosphere of Carmen Maki & OZ’s 1970s progressive rock. The amp sounds of Hiwatt and Sunn also had a big influence on this album.
Kiyomi:
Personally, I love The Texas Chain Saw Massacre because of the power and energy it has—the story, editing, shots, and music all feel timeless and transcend old and new. I am also influenced by the originality of Japanese manga, and although this is from a little further back, the quality of animation represented by Evangelion. Every time I watch those works, I feel that I must not lose to, or run away from, the pain, hardship, and fear of creating something new. Rather than an influence on my style, it may be more of an influence on my creative spirit.
Japanese shoegaze often feels emotionally different from its Western counterparts. Do you think there’s something uniquely “Japanese” in the way the genre is interpreted there?
Hiroshi:
I am not that deeply knowledgeable about shoegaze. But I think every kind of music has something like a “core,” and I naturally try to be conscious of that. I feel that many young Japanese artists today are not necessarily making music because they think, “Let’s play shoegaze,” but rather because they are simply drawn to that tone and texture. Because of that, maybe the uniquely Japanese way of expressing emotions and sensitivity naturally becomes its own interpretation.
Yoshitaka:
I had never noticed it objectively myself, but after we played overseas, someone told us, “Maybe the detailed structure and clarity of your sound image come from the fact that you are Japanese.” I have thought that might be true.
Kiyomi:
Rather than this genre specifically, I think Japanese music itself has its own interpretation and sensibility. I belong to the generation that grew up with kayōkyoku, Japanese popular songs. It was not a matter of whether I liked or disliked it; that kind of music was simply everywhere on TV and radio when I was a child. Japanese music also has the concept of the “sabi,” or chorus, and there are many structural patterns designed to lead toward that chorus. Because that background is deeply ingrained in us, I feel the texture naturally becomes different. It is almost like an inescapable fate. In the past, I sometimes had a complex about the fact that our sensibility was different from Western music, but now I have been able to accept it. That is thanks to the people who feel something in our music and value it.
How has living in Tokyo shaped the emotional atmosphere of your music?
Hiroshi:
If you ask whether Tokyo is a city constantly overflowing with music, I personally do not really feel that way. Of course, there are many people who love music and play instruments, but I do not feel strongly influenced by the city itself. Rather, the scenery of my hometown in Hokkaido may have a bigger influence on me. The sea and nature were close by, and I often used to look at those landscapes and think, “If I were to put music to this scenery, what would it sound like?” So, the emotional atmosphere in my music may come less from “Tokyo-ness” and more from the landscapes and memories that remain inside me.
Yoshitaka:
For me too, it is not really because it is “Tokyo.” However, compared with other regions, Tokyo is full of entertainment, and I feel that only a small number of people actually choose to go to live shows. In regional cities, there is less entertainment, so from the time people are students, live houses can be one of the natural options for going out. When we play in those places, I get an impression similar to playing in Europe. I sometimes think Tokyo might change more if it had that kind of culture.
Kiyomi:
Tokyo is always busy and overflowing with people. Maybe because every day is like that, music becomes a place where I can concentrate and make everything feel like slow motion. But it is not something I consciously think about every day while making music (laughs).
Your fan base in the West has grown exponentially through the "meme-ification" and TikTok resurgence of the genre. How does it feel to know that a new generation of listeners in the US and UK are discovering your 2011 tracks like "Bright" for the first time today?
Hiroshi:
Actually, I do not watch TikTok. So honestly, I do not really know what is happening now (laughs). When “Bright” suddenly started spreading back then, we had already broken up. We really had no idea what was going on. The members even talked about it like, “If it was going to become popular anyway, couldn’t it have happened before we broke up?” (laughs). So even now, it feels strange that young generations in America and the UK are listening to our music. But I am very grateful that it is reaching people across time and across countries.
Yoshitaka:
Oh, is that what is happening? (laughs) Whatever the reason may be, we want to deliver our music to the entire universe, so I am truly happy that a new generation is accepting it. That said, our music is not something that is fully conveyed through just one song. It is music that is experienced through an entire album or a full live show, so I can only pray that people do not get bored by the length of the songs and hit the skip button (laughs).
Kiyomi:
Of course, I am honestly happy. At the same time, I also feel the reality that, even with the spread of the internet and the evolution of social media, it can still take more than ten years for something to spread. So, it reminds me how important it is not to think, “We are not selling, so let’s quit,” but instead to keep believing in the music and continue sincerely without becoming bitter.
Are there any bands from Tokyo or elsewhere in Japan that you think more people should know about right now?
Hiroshi:
There are many good bands in Japan, so rather than me talking about them, I think it is better for people to actually listen and feel it for themselves.
Yoshitaka:
I agree with Hiroshi. Japanese indie bands are easy to listen to through streaming services now, so I really hope people will search and discover good bands. There are also many Japanese bands that we do not know, so it would be really exciting to encounter those bands overseas and play together with them.
Kiyomi:
There is no particular reason, but I do not really listen to Japanese shoegaze bands that much. There were some in the past, but I have forgotten the names. That said, I do have an impression, close to respect, that young people today are very skillful in the way they express this music.
If you had to describe the perfect Tokyo "shoegaze moment" to a foreigner—a specific neighborhood, a time of day, and a specific feeling—what would it be?
Hiroshi:
I would actually like to know that myself (laughs). Tokyo is always moving busily, and for someone like me who comes from the countryside, it can also be a tiring place. So, I have not really been conscious of something like a “Tokyo-like shoegaze feeling” myself. Maybe people from overseas who come to Tokyo are better at finding those moments than we are. If anyone has seen a landscape or moment and felt, “This is Tokyo shoegaze,” I would like them to tell me. I would use it as a reference (laughs).
Yoshitaka:
This is the hardest question (laughs). I think some listeners may imagine Tokyo and shoegaze through the film Lost in Translation, so I would love for them to listen to our music in places like Kabukicho or the Shibuya crossing and tell us whether they were able to experience a shoegaze-like moment there (laughs).
Kiyomi:
Maybe Odaiba in the early morning or evening, where buildings, Tokyo Tower, Skytree, and the seaside all coexist, or empty city streets in the early morning or late at night. It would be something filmed with an 8mm camera or an instant camera. If there were a cat there, that would be perfect. A little while ago, I privately went to Tokyo Tower at night for the first time in a long time, and I once again felt that it was a wonderful place that really represents Tokyo. At the same time, I felt proud of it. I hope we can become that kind of presence too.