Is Tokyo really a heaven?

It is late 2026, and somehow, many music fans like myself are still obsessed with unearthing old Japanese music, particularly jazz and City Pop. When it comes to the latter, the groovy music is the main draw, of course, but that alone doesn't explain its evergreen status. After all, you can find incredible grooves in similar movements like Brazilian MPB. What truly makes City Pop stand out (and allowed it to birth vaporwave) is the complete package: the nostalgia-drenched sleeves and the tantalising evocation of Japan's economic bubble.

People constantly argue online over which obscure album officially counts as City Pop, but my litmus test has always been simple: if it makes you feel submerged in the 1980s neon glare of Tokyo, you can safely slap a City Pop stamp on it. Besides, City Pop was never an actual genre to begin with – it was just a marketing buzzword (link).

If you look at the most recommended City Pop albums, female artists usually dominate the genre. The standard explanation is just that "women sold better." But showbiz is a murky business, and the Japanese entertainment industry was built on a rigidly patriarchal and hierarchical system, long shadowed by rumours of deep Yakuza ties. The horrific Johnny & Associates scandal finally exposed the absolute, unchecked power wielded by agency bosses, and it is likely just the tip of the iceberg. It begs the terrifying question: what did the young women behind these catchy, breezy anthems actually have to put up with to build a career?

If you want an insightful, sharp look at that reality, look no further than Shinji Somai’s 1990 cult classic, Tokyo Heaven (東京上空いらっしゃいませ). Coming out just as the economic bubble was violently bursting, it is a beautifully filmed surreal comedy that doubles as a satire of the idol industry.

The premise is bonkers. A 17-year-old "campaign girl" named Yu dies in a car crash, but gets a temporary pass back to the land of the living – on the strict condition that she doesn't return as herself. Naturally, she cheats, comes back in her own body, and has to dodge everyone she knows. For the first time in her life, she feels free and herself. And for the first time, she is actually having fun.

This encapsulates a brutal, uniquely Japanese irony: she can only truly enjoy life, be herself, and mess around after she is dead. Themes of loneliness and isolation are a staple of Japanese pop culture, but Tokyo Heaven takes it to another level. When she was alive, Yu was miserable. She only became a “campaign girl” because she was bored at school, but the job turned out to be a different sort of purgatory, acting like a robot at public events, trotting out lazy, mechanical answers in all her interviews. She tells us she actually prefers being squashed on packed commuter trains simply because the crush of bodies means she doesn't have to think.

Somai doesn't hold back on the sleaze she was trying to avoid thinking about, either. After a PR event, Yu's bosses tell her to spend the evening with an executive, which was referred to as "the usual." None of the higher-ups want to deliver the ultimatum, so they force Fumio, the lowest rung on the corporate ladder, to do the dirty work. "You won't make it big in this business if you only do what you like," he warns her. She caves, gets into the exec's car, but refuses to sleep with him – a choice that directly leads to her fatal smash.

Fumio isn't just a messenger, though; his subplot captures the sheer collective exhaustion of the Japanese everyman. Crushed by the pressure to work for his family business, he trudges through his days as a salaryman. His only genuine solace? Jazz, this is the bubble era, after all. Playing the trombone at a jazz club in the evenings is where he can truly breathe. It is the only time he gets to experience the joy that Yu was entirely robbed of.

The real kicker of the film is how Yu's agency reacts to her death. At first, they try a cover-up. Then the penny drops: a tragically dead, beautiful young girl is a marketing goldmine. They pivot, expose the story to flog the campaign, and even milk her death by planning a tribute film. It couldn’t be darker, mostly because it exactly mimics how showbiz operates in reality.

Yet, for all its pitch-black cynicism, Tokyo Heaven remains a visually ravishing, surprisingly tender film. Somai shoots with elegantly choreographed long takes that perfectly capture the exact romanticised Tokyo we are all imagining when we stick on a City Pop record. When the melancholic jazz rendition of Yosui Inoue's Kaerenai Futari plays live near the end of the film, it leaves you utterly winded. It is a mesmerising sequence, dripping with equal parts romance and heartbreak.

It is the ultimate paradox of the era – or perhaps of all beautiful things produced by a hyper-capitalist machine. Beneath the veneer of glittering beauty and charm, there is always a rotting skeleton somewhere. But hey, enjoy the music. We only live once, and with AI and climate change, the world might end before the record finishes spinning anyway.

Bonus: A 1989 TV advert for JR Tōkai featuring both Riho Makise (the actress playing Yu) and the music of City Pop's poster boy, Tatsuro Yamashita.

Irasshaimase! You're welcome.