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So, this one joint, right, down by the docks—heard a tale, swear it’s true. Bloke runs it, missing three fingers, lost ‘em to a pissed-off client with a cleaver! Fella still grins, toothless, like it’s a badge. Made me laugh, then gag—bloody mess, that. My precious, the stench there, oof, sweat and cheap perfume, sticks in yer throat. Gets me mad, y’know? Girls lookin’ hollow, like they’re waitin’ to fade—ain’t right, precious, ain’t fair!

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Unlike the renowned red light districts of Shinjuku, Ikebukuro, or Roppongi, Machida's red light areas are subtle and less conspicuous.

After that, I’m feelin’ inspired, so I head to a café on the corner of Machida and Tamagawa. Grab a coffee, and it’s like liquid gold. I sit down, pull out my guitar, and start strummin’ a few chords. Suddenly, this lady comes up, all excited. She’s like, “Are you a pro?” I’m like, “Nah, just a dude with a dream.” But she’s all, “You should play at the festival!”

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