In a Tokyo record store, I watched my sons become themselves
A visit to Tokyo’s famed Tower Records during a family holiday becomes something more than a stop for music – it turns into a quiet moment of discovery, as a father watches his sons reveal themselves through the records they choose
A Messenger notification popped up – an article link shared by Zakir Kibria, a close friend since boyhood. The headline read: "17 Record Stores You Should Visit Before You Die."The list featured must-visit record stores across the globe. As I scrolled through it, only one looked familiar: Tower Records in Shibuya, Tokyo. I replied to Zakir: "Been to only one out of the 17."
He responded instantly: "16 more to go!"
I closed the link, but not before the memory of that one store – the only one I had visited – pulled me back to a cold evening in Tokyo. It is a city that has a way of turning brief encounters into lasting memories. We had travelled there a few years earlier on what remains one of our most cherished family holidays.
That evening we walked through the great scramble of Shibuya Crossing – a moment in Tokyo that cannot quite be understood unless you stand there when the traffic lights turn green. A giant screen above flashed a neon-green commercial, its glow spreading across the faces of people crossing from every direction. The winter breeze slipped through our thick jackets as my wife and our two sons walked beside me.
Keep updated, follow The Business Standard's Google news channel
From the crossing, it took only a few minutes to reach Tower Records. The building rose eight storeys high, with basements below – all packed with music in physical formats: CDs, vinyl records, audio cassettes, even books.
When we stepped inside, the first sensation was warmth, followed by the low hum of music drifting through the floors. We paused at the entrance for a moment, trying to get our bearings.
Each floor was devoted to different formats and genres. In the first few minutes we felt slightly adrift, the escalators carrying us up and down like waves through different seas of music and discovery.
Jazz drifted from one of the upper floors – was that the trumpet of Miles Davis from In a Silent Way?
On the second floor, the aroma of coffee drew us to a corner table. A double-shot espresso felt almost necessary for me – the only serious coffee enthusiast in the family – before beginning our proper exploration of the store.
While we waited, the background music shifted to Nat King Cole. My anticipation rose; I found myself hoping the next track might be "South of the Border".
During that trip I had bought Haruki Murakami's South of the Border, West of the Sun, inspired by that very song. I wished for the small magic of coincidence – but the song never came. Somehow, that felt perfectly fine.
After finishing our coffee, we moved up to the sixth floor – where a vast world of vinyl awaited us, particularly my two sons. Visiting the vinyl section had been one of the highlights they were looking forward to during our short stay in Tokyo.
I knew they were carrying long lists of LPs. They had not shown them to me – perhaps it was meant to be a surprise.
Standing there, however, it was not the sheer extravagance of records that captivated me. What held my attention was watching my sons.
They bent over the crates, searching through rows of vinyl as if digging for diamonds – or something even more precious. The space stretched out like cultivated land, with neat rows reaching towards the back wall. Music lovers moved slowly through the aisles, their heads tilted, their hands carefully turning each record sleeve.
I stepped back, setting aside my own intention of buying a few albums, and simply watched.
It struck me that we often reveal ourselves most clearly through the things we choose instinctively. Music, perhaps more than anything else, carries the outlines of our longings, our temperament and the way we see the world.
Standing there, I sensed that this moment was about more than browsing records. Something deeper was quietly unfolding.
Across the aisle, I noticed Ahnaf, 20, holding up a pristine copy of Ennio Morricone – 60 Years of Music. He did not turn to show me. He simply held it at eye level, studying the cover as if memorising it.
I know he is deeply in love with cinema. Perhaps he was wondering whether this collection of scores might shape the rhythm of his own worldview.
A few rows away, Rawan, 17, had pulled out a rare Japanese pressing of a Bob Dylan album. He did not lift it up. Instead, he stood there reading the liner notes with quiet concentration. After a moment, he tucked the record under his arm and moved on to the next row.
They were not merely searching for albums from their lists.
In that moment, I saw reflections of their inner worlds – their curiosities, their happiness – in the music they chose.
I realised I was not just watching them find records.
I was watching them discover the people they were already becoming.
Warisul Abid writes about subjects close to his passions – music, coffee, photography and the emotional meanings hidden in everyday life. He is an HR professional based in Dhaka, Bangladesh.
Disclaimer: The views and opinions expressed in this article are those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the opinions and views of The Business Standard.
