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Tokyo Weekender
07-07-2025
- Entertainment
- Tokyo Weekender
Tokyo's Lost Showa-Era Nightlife Club Scene
There was a time when people in Tokyo not only worked hard, but also partied just as hard. From the mid-1970s through the 1980s, even the asphalt streets seemed lacquered with possibility. The economy was booming, and the nights stretched endlessly, glittering with neon signs, alcohol, rhinestones and fantasy. This was a city intoxicated by its own potential. And the high — while it lasted — was electric. List of Contents: Tokyo's Decade of Excess Sunday School at the Shinjuku Disco The Rise of Host Clubs Where Queer Tokyo Survived Roppongi and the Rise of Bubble Glamor Juliana's Tokyo and the Death of an Era The Afterglow Related Posts Flamingo Bar in Roppongi, opened 1985 Tokyo's Decade of Excess In the 80s, nightclubs shimmered like Tokyo's answer to the Jazz Age — a playground for the newly rich, where money flowed as freely as the Dom Pérignon. The engine behind it all was the bubble economy — a dizzying surge of real estate speculation, loose credit and inflated stock prices that made office workers and landowners rich. Land in Tokyo's Ginza cost more than in Manhattan and banks threw loans at anything with a pulse. To party in Roppongi was to believe in the illusion that the boom would never bust. That beauty could be bought. And that desire had no cost. Sunday Disco at BIBA (c. 1984) | Obata Hitoshi/Hagamag Sunday School at the Shinjuku Disco It wasn't just adults filling the dance floors. By the early 80s , a bizarre phenomenon had taken over: daylight discos packed with junior high and high school students. In Shinjuku's Kabukicho area, the towering Daini Toa Kaikan building became ground zero for this youthquake. Clubs, including BIBA, operated across four floors. What began as late-night dens for delinquent teens evolved following a 1982 murder involving two junior high school girls who were picked up at a Kabukicho disco and later attacked in Chiba, one of them killed. Afterwards, curfews were imposed, leading to a full-blown daytime party movement. 1984, BIBA opened at noon on Sundays. Lines of uniformed teenagers wrapped around the stairwell. The bathrooms were the only part of the building with windows, which made it easy to forget it was still daylight. The scene led to routines such as the Bump , a battle-like choreography between two boys, and the Step , a group dance for girls. There was even the Jenka conga line to ' Can't Take My Eyes Off You .' The Rise of Host Clubs Beneath Toa Kaikan's booming floors, another form of theatrical nightlife emerged: host clubs. These were male equivalents to hostess bars — young men in sharp suits, rhinestones and stage names who sold conversation, attention and illusion to women in Kabukicho. Host clubs trace back to the late 1960s . By the 80s, the number of these clubs had increased significantly, with roughly 50 establishments in Shinjuku alone. The format soon became highly competitive as hosts earned commissions on drink sales and attempted to climb up the rankings. Where Queer Tokyo Survived A few blocks from Kabukicho's neon dazzle lay another revolution — Shinjuku Ni‑chome, Tokyo's queer quarter since the late 1940s . After the 1956 passage of the Prostitution Prevention Law, as red-light districts were restructured, a different kind of nightlife began to flourish. By the 80s, Ni‑chome hosted hundreds of intimate bars catering to gay men, lesbians and trans patrons. Spaces were coded — specialized for butches, femmes, bears, drag — accessible by referral and loyalty. This nightlife was defiant and political. It was as much survival as it was spectacle. Juliana's Tokyo (c. 1995) Roppongi and the Rise of Bubble Glamor Meanwhile, Roppongi's nightlife turned excess into art. Discos such as Turia, King & Queen and Area catered to a new kind of elite: people who were fashion-forward, image-obsessed and flush with cash from the bubble economy. One venue, Turia, was designed to look like a spaceship crash-landed in the area. Created by space designer Kotetsu Yamamoto and run by Layton House, the club embodied the architectural absurdity of the time. However, it ended in tragedy. On January 5, 1988 , a massive lighting fixture fell onto the dance floor, killing three. For some, it felt like the final curtain call of the disco age. The Showa era would officially end just one year later. Turia, Roppongi: before and after the tragic light fixture incident in 1988 Juliana's Tokyo and the Death of an Era Even after Japan's Bubble Economy burst in 1991, triggering a decade-long financial slump and what would later be called the 'Lost Decade,' glamour didn't die overnight. The markets had crashed, property values plummeted and corporate excess began its slow unraveling. On the dance floors of Tokyo, though, denial still glittered. That same year, Juliana's Tokyo opened in the Shibaura waterfront district. It quickly became a national sensation. Gyaru in skin-tight bodycon dresses danced atop glowing otachidai (raised pedestals), while techno throbbed and strobe lights sliced through the smoke. Office workers and college kids flooded in nightly, waving feathered Juri-sen fans like battle flags. The chant 'Julianers, Tokyo' became a euphoric war cry for a generation refusing to surrender to the coming recession. Though it closed just three years later, Juliana's remains one of the most iconic nightspots in Tokyo's history. It symbolized the last gasp of Showa-era glamor — an opulent fantasy defiantly staged in the shadow of economic collapse. And when it closed, the lights didn't just go out on the dance floor. They dimmed on an era. One of Juliana's rave-night CDs has been digitized here — complete with pounding beats, screaming synths and the iconic chant itself. The Afterglow Today, many of the old disco buildings are gone. Toa Kaikan still stands, but the music has long since stopped. Juliana's became a sports shop, then an ad agency. Turia's site is unrecognizable. Velfarre, once the jewel of Roppongi, was demolished in 2007. The lights, however, haven't truly gone out. City pop, which encapsulates the smooth optimism of this era, has returned with global fervor. Vintage flyers circulate online. In Shinjuku's backstreets, aging bartenders still line up worn laser discs, and some hostess clubs haven't changed their carpet since 1984. Even today, you'll find 20-somethings lining up for Juliana-themed club nights, feathered fans in hand, dancing to the ghost of a beat that refuses to die. Tokyo hasn't forgotten. It's just dancing in other costumes now. Related Posts 10 Surprising Facts About Japanese City Pop Icons The Timeless Nostalgia of Casio Digital Watches Iconic City Pop Songs Covered or Sampled by Overseas Artists | List of 7
Yahoo
04-06-2025
- Entertainment
- Yahoo
I Thought Dating Women Would Free Me of Unrealistic Beauty Standards—So Why Do I Suddenly Hate the Way I Look?
Welcome to The Afterglow by 'Cosmo' beauty editor Beth Gillette. In her new column, Beth explores the relationships between beauty, queerness, and modern dating through a zillennial lens. 💋 Back in March, I met a girl on Instagram who was, legitimately, flawless. There wasn't a single pimple or blackhead upon her soft face. Her manicured, clean hands showed off just enough rings to signal she was probably gay. Her hip bones, long legs, and sharp jawline in every photo felt like a personal attack. When she, by the grace of all things holy, wanted to go on a date with me, I embarked on a four-day-long spiral, preparing myself to look even close to halfway decent. I did approximately three face masks the night before to look super glowy, used my LED device to help prevent surprise breakouts, and even took a last-minute pilates class to feel toned. Then, she canceled a few hours before. I'm probably just not pretty enough for her, I thought to myself. I'm not new to days-long pre-date routines. But I am new to dating women. At 28 years old, I'm finally out, but instead of feeling the excitement and queer joy I anticipated, I'm more self-conscious about my appearance than I ever was while dating men. I thought that dating women was going to be this sweet thing, where my flaws were adored and I finally felt freed of the patriarchal ideas of how my body and face are supposed to look. So why do I suddenly hate the way my smile turns down, or notice every single pore on my face? Is this increased discomfort a normal part of the process? Is hating how you look when you first come out an unfortunate universal sapphic experience? Or am I alone here? The male gaze is simple. Just follow the rules: Don't use too much makeup—just enough to cover up any acne or dark spots, give your lashes some length, and make your lips pillowy-soft and glossy. Keeping your hair long is preferred, but only if your extensions aren't noticeable. Absolutely, under no circumstances should you wear any lipstick color other than nude or red. You must shave. Everything. Nails should be groomed—not too long, not too short. And don't be fat. Obviously. These standards are frustrating and impossible, but also everything I trained myself to adhere to since childhood. The male gaze is so tied to traditional beauty standards that succumbing to it becomes second nature. I hated how I looked as a teenager because I never thought I was good enough for the boys I was surrounded by. But at least I knew what they wanted and understood the steps to achieve those ideals. I (wrongfully) assumed dating anyone who wasn't a cisgender man would be uncomplicated and effortless. A beautiful woman would see me across the room, tell me she liked my vibe, and we'd live happily ever after. The rigid conventions of attractiveness wouldn't apply if men weren't part of the equation. With that, my walls would come down and my crippling fear of rejection would tumble with it. My reality couldn't have been farther from this idea. The female gaze feels different. Scary, even. There's no conventional set of norms to follow. And men have such a macro view of the female body, but women? We notice the small stuff. When you also exist within that body, everything is magnified. You catch uneven eyeliner. You see the grown-out gel manicure. You notice the zit brewing under the skin. I've had hormonal acne thanks to PCOS and endometriosis since I was 11, but never in my life have I been more adamant about getting rid of it since I started exclusively dating women and nonbinary people. My breakouts are all I can think about when I'm standing face-to-face with someone I think is hot. I've tried any and everything in the name of clearer skin—bacteria-zapping high-frequency wands, painful and pricey pore-shrinking lasers, and I've even considered Accutane. When my skin is really flaring up, I'll stay home and swipe on Raya from the comfort of my bedroom. When the night ends with no matches, a familiar pang of shame in my stomach creeps in. Is there something inherently so off-putting about how I look that the women of the internet can see that I don't? I look down at my stomach. It was the most 'obvious' flaw I could find: My weight. I wonder, are all people who aren't cisgender men actually more attentive to my flaws? Or am I just projecting my own anxieties? Many people I spoke to while writing this story noticed an onslaught of new worries—acne, height, hair length, body hair, etc.—when they began queer dating. 'I carried this carefree 'take it or leave it' attitude with dating men, because let's be real, they aren't usually noticing chipped nails or unblended foundation—getting ready was low-pressure,' says Jamie, a 31-year-old DJ I met at a queer prom. 'But with women, my brain goes into hyper-aware teenager mode all over again,' she adds, noting that she becomes overly conscious of these self-perceived imperfections and worries someone she's dating will notice them too. Like me, my queer friend Ellison worried that women and nonbinary people would notice the 'imperfections' that she doesn't like about herself. But once she started hooking up with people, she realized 'no one cared—even a little bit.' In fact, she says that she feels so beautiful now queer dating, because while her dates don't necessarily notice her 'flaws' more than cisgender men, they certainly do appreciate when she shows out in an outfit she likes or a tries a new beauty look. Queer dating for the first time has an emotional component that can lead to self-doubt too. 'I was attracted to and had deep feelings for the people I was talking to for the first time, which caused me to be deeply insecure and question nearly everything about myself and my actions out of fear,' says Lux, a 23-year-old in Ohio who came out as a senior in high school after knowing she was gay since childhood. Similarly, Amanda, whom I've known since high school, told me that early in her current relationship, she noticed herself doing a lot of self-monitoring and worrying if she looked 'too gay.' 'I had gotten so used to separating myself from my bisexuality, and I appreciate that, through dating my girlfriend, I have a supportive person to cheer me on,' Amanda says. You have to develop confidence from within, she reminds me, but having someone see her as she is in her sexuality helps build it up even more. If I'm being honest, I kind of hate this "finding confidence from within" advice for myself, because it's so difficult to implement. But everyone I spoke with, who has far more experience dating queer people than I do, agrees: Finding what you love about yourself within, not through another person, is key here. For me, that started with showing up for myself in queer spaces, which is the most accepting and open community I've ever been apart of. But that doesn't make them perfect. When I'm in a room full of other gay people, I'm forced to put aside my self-doubt if I want to feel comfortable. It would have been easy for me to walk into a queer party and immediately turn around because I was terrified of putting myself out there or being rejected. But I remember that this is part of the process. I'll never feel more reassured if I walk away. People have also encouraged me that these feelings start to dissipate over time. Lux noticed her self-esteem went up when she finally started having relationships with queer people. She and her partners often shared insecurities, so they understand what it's like firsthand. 'I felt heard and validated for hating every outfit I tried on, taking an hour to get ready, not liking the way my thighs looked in a certain pair of shorts, and feeling insecure about a blemish,' she says. It's taken me months to come to recognize this, but embracing the parts of me that might not feel ripe for public consumption is part of the vulnerability it takes to find love in the first place. Right now, I don't necessarily feel 100 percent confident in how I look. My chin's covered in acne and my clothes feel tight against my stomach some days. But for the first time, I'm not running away from being myself because of it. I'm not hiding in the closet because I'm afraid of rejection. I feel so proud and excited about being a lesbian, finally. And that (plus lots of therapy) is what's pushing me through. You Might Also Like Here's What NOT to Wear to a Wedding Meet the Laziest, Easiest Acne Routine You'll Ever Try
Cosmopolitan
04-06-2025
- Entertainment
- Cosmopolitan
Coming Out as a Lesbian Made Me More Self-Conscious Than Ever
Welcome to The Afterglow by 'Cosmo' beauty editor Beth Gillette. In her new column, Beth explores the relationships between beauty, queerness, and modern dating through a zillennial lens. 💋 Back in March, I met a girl on Instagram who was, legitimately, flawless. There wasn't a single pimple or blackhead upon her soft face. Her manicured, clean hands showed off just enough rings to signal she was probably gay. Her hip bones, long legs, and sharp jawline in every photo felt like a personal attack. When she, by the grace of all things holy, wanted to go on a date with me, I embarked on a four-day-long spiral, preparing myself to look even close to halfway decent. I did approximately three face masks the night before to look super glowy, used my LED device to help prevent surprise breakouts, and even took a last-minute pilates class to feel toned. Then, she canceled a few hours before. I'm probably just not pretty enough for her, I thought to myself. I'm not new to days-long pre-date routines. But I am new to dating women. At 28 years old, I'm finally out, but instead of feeling the excitement and queer joy I anticipated, I'm more self-conscious about my appearance than I ever was while dating men. I thought that dating women was going to be this sweet thing, where my flaws were adored and I finally felt freed of the patriarchal ideas of how my body and face are supposed to look. So why do I suddenly hate the way my smile turns down, or notice every single pore on my face? Is this increased discomfort a normal part of the process? Is hating how you look when you first come out an unfortunate universal sapphic experience? Or am I alone here? The male gaze is simple. Just follow the rules: Don't use too much makeup—just enough to cover up any acne or dark spots, give your lashes some length, and make your lips pillowy-soft and glossy. Keeping your hair long is preferred, but only if your extensions aren't noticeable. Absolutely, under no circumstances should you wear any lipstick color other than nude or red. You must shave. Everything. Nails should be groomed—not too long, not too short. And don't be fat. Obviously. These standards are frustrating and impossible, but also everything I trained myself to adhere to since childhood. The male gaze is so tied to traditional beauty standards that succumbing to it becomes second nature. I hated how I looked as a teenager because I never thought I was good enough for the boys I was surrounded by. But at least I knew what they wanted and understood the steps to achieve those ideals. I (wrongfully) assumed dating anyone who wasn't a cisgender man would be uncomplicated and effortless. A beautiful woman would see me across the room, tell me she liked my vibe, and we'd live happily ever after. The rigid conventions of attractiveness wouldn't apply if men weren't part of the equation. With that, my walls would come down and my crippling fear of rejection would tumble with it. My reality couldn't have been farther from this idea. The female gaze feels different. Scary, even. There's no conventional set of norms to follow. And men have such a macro view of the female body, but women? We notice the small stuff. When you also exist within that body, everything is magnified. You catch uneven eyeliner. You see the grown-out gel manicure. You notice the zit brewing under the skin. I've had hormonal acne thanks to PCOS and endometriosis since I was 11, but never in my life have I been more adamant about getting rid of it since I started exclusively dating women and nonbinary people. My breakouts are all I can think about when I'm standing face-to-face with someone I think is hot. I've tried any and everything in the name of clearer skin—bacteria-zapping high-frequency wands, painful and pricey pore-shrinking lasers, and I've even considered Accutane. When my skin is really flaring up, I'll stay home and swipe on Raya from the comfort of my bedroom. When the night ends with no matches, a familiar pang of shame in my stomach creeps in. Is there something inherently so off-putting about how I look that the women of the internet can see that I don't? I look down at my stomach. It was the most 'obvious' flaw I could find: My weight. I wonder, are all people who aren't cisgender men actually more attentive to my flaws? Or am I just projecting my own anxieties? Many people I spoke to while writing this story noticed an onslaught of new worries—acne, height, hair length, body hair, etc.—when they began queer dating. 'I carried this carefree 'take it or leave it' attitude with dating men, because let's be real, they aren't usually noticing chipped nails or unblended foundation—getting ready was low-pressure,' says Jamie, a 31-year-old DJ I met at a queer prom. 'But with women, my brain goes into hyper-aware teenager mode all over again,' she adds, noting that she becomes overly conscious of these self-perceived imperfections and worries someone she's dating will notice them too. Like me, my queer friend Ellison worried that women and nonbinary people would notice the 'imperfections' that she doesn't like about herself. But once she started hooking up with people, she realized 'no one cared—even a little bit.' In fact, she says that she feels so beautiful now queer dating, because while her dates don't necessarily notice her 'flaws' more than cisgender men, they certainly do appreciate when she shows out in an outfit she likes or a tries a new beauty look. Queer dating for the first time has an emotional component that can lead to self-doubt too. 'I was attracted to and had deep feelings for the people I was talking to for the first time, which caused me to be deeply insecure and question nearly everything about myself and my actions out of fear,' says Lux, a 23-year-old in Ohio who came out as a senior in high school after knowing she was gay since childhood. Similarly, Amanda, whom I've known since high school, told me that early in her current relationship, she noticed herself doing a lot of self-monitoring and worrying if she looked 'too gay.' 'I had gotten so used to separating myself from my bisexuality, and I appreciate that, through dating my girlfriend, I have a supportive person to cheer me on,' Amanda says. You have to develop confidence from within, she reminds me, but having someone see her as she is in her sexuality helps build it up even more. If I'm being honest, I kind of hate this "finding confidence from within" advice for myself, because it's so difficult to implement. But everyone I spoke with, who has far more experience dating queer people than I do, agrees: Finding what you love about yourself within, not through another person, is key here. For me, that started with showing up for myself in queer spaces, which is the most accepting and open community I've ever been apart of. But that doesn't make them perfect. When I'm in a room full of other gay people, I'm forced to put aside my self-doubt if I want to feel comfortable. It would have been easy for me to walk into a queer party and immediately turn around because I was terrified of putting myself out there or being rejected. But I remember that this is part of the process. I'll never feel more reassured if I walk away. People have also encouraged me that these feelings start to dissipate over time. Lux noticed her self-esteem went up when she finally started having relationships with queer people. She and her partners often shared insecurities, so they understand what it's like firsthand. 'I felt heard and validated for hating every outfit I tried on, taking an hour to get ready, not liking the way my thighs looked in a certain pair of shorts, and feeling insecure about a blemish,' she says. It's taken me months to come to recognize this, but embracing the parts of me that might not feel ripe for public consumption is part of the vulnerability it takes to find love in the first place. Right now, I don't necessarily feel 100 percent confident in how I look. My chin's covered in acne and my clothes feel tight against my stomach some days. But for the first time, I'm not running away from being myself because of it. I'm not hiding in the closet because I'm afraid of rejection. I feel so proud and excited about being a lesbian, finally. And that (plus lots of therapy) is what's pushing me through. Beth Gillette is the beauty editor at Cosmopolitan, where she covers skincare, makeup, hair, nails, and more across digital and print. She can generally be found in bright eyeshadow furiously typing her latest feature or hemming and hawing about a new product you "have to try." Prior to Cosmopolitan, she wrote and edited beauty content as an Editor at The Everygirl for four years. Follow her on Instagram for makeup selfies and a new hair 'do every few months.
