Karaoke in the Red Light District

It started like any normal evening. After a short afternoon rest at the hostel, I set out to explore a new area of Osaka as the sun began to dip. No plans, no destination. Just wandering, open to whatever the night held.

I walked for nearly an hour before stumbling onto what felt like a market street but instead of shops or food stalls, every space was an izakaya (very small pubs). Each one tiny, maybe 10 seats max, and filled with locals singing karaoke as microphones passed from hand to hand. I’d heard karaoke was big in Japan, but most places I’d seen were private rooms you’d rent with friends. This was different. It was raw and communal. Not a tourist in sight.

For twenty minutes I walked the street, soaking it in. Outside each izakaya stood a smiling woman encouraging me to come in for “just one drink.” It struck me as a bit off, didn’t quite match the buttoned-up introverted culture I had come to associate with Japan. But I kept walking, curious.

Eventually, the noise faded. The lights dimmed. Rats darted above in the rafters. I was about to turn back when I saw, a few blocks ahead, another glow.This one from large lanterns hung lining the street. I headed toward it.

This was me taking a photo before realizing where I was

As I got closer, the people returned. Again, stall after stall but these weren’t selling food, drink,offering karaoke or souvenirs. Instead, each one had a single woman, dressed provocatively under a spotlight, beckoning passersby. Next to her, in each stall, sat an older woman maybe a chaperone, maybe a manager. It didn’t take long to realize I’d wandered into Osaka’s red-light district.

To be honest, I hadn’t even known Japan had something like this. I wasn’t uncomfortable just intrigued. I walked a slow lap around the block. Maybe 30 minutes, 50 or more women.

Almost entirely locals.

Then something shifted.

Heavy bass thumped behind me, loud english rap music, the kind that rattles your chest. I turned to see a sleek red car with blacked-out windows crawling down the walking street.

Odd, since it was clear there was no place for cars. People scattered.

The car rolled up beside me. The tinted window slowly lowered. A man with tattooed arms leaned out , flashed a big smile, and asked in perfect English,

“Where you from?”

Before I could answer, two police officers pulled up on bikes, one on either side of me.

They said nothing. Just stared. Stern. Alert. Nervous.

The man in the car didn’t acknowledge them at all.

Just kept smiling at me, asking questions.

Something in me said this isn’t good. The streets were empty now, and there was nowhere to go.

I answered him briefly, carefully.

Then he said, “Hey man, this is our neighborhood. I run it. I’ll show you around, hop in.”

I shook my head and declined.

He smirked. “Alright man,  I’ll keep an eye out for you. Have fun.”

He drove off.

One officer looked at my tattooed arm, pointed toward my arm and then the car, and asked, “Friends?”

I shook my head, hard. “No.”

The other officer nodded once, pointed again to the car and said with warning “Yakuza.”

Okkk. Time to leave.

I turned back fast. As I got closer to the street I came from, I could hear the bass again in the distance. I picked up my pace until I was back on the karaoke street.

I ducked into the first izakaya I could. Just wanted to get inside and off the street. It turned out to be a gem. All locals. Great energy. As the night went on, a few travelers filtered in. But mostly it was just regulars passing the mic, singing their hearts out.

At one point, I tried ordering a whiskey from the shelf behind the bartender. Each time I pointed to a bottle, she gently motioned: no.

Finally, the guy next to me explained. “Those bottles? They’re not for sale. Locals bring their own and keep them here. See the charms hanging from each one? That’s how they know whose is whose.”

Then spoke to the waitress in Japanese where she brought me what presumably was his personal bottle “It’s Chita. Drink as much as you want.” he said

And we did. All night. Laughing, singing, making friends with the bar.

Eventually, I told him what had happened earlier. As I started describing, he stopped me when I described the car.

“Save that story for when you get home,” he said. 

Fair enough.

That night turned into one of my favorites; unexpected, a little wild, a little sobering, and entirely unforgettable.

Just like Osaka.