Every platform at Shinjuku plays a different song when a train pulls in. There are sixteen platforms. The system started in 1989 with twelve.
A man called Minoru Mukaiya wrote about 170 of these. You haven't heard of him and that's fine, neither had I. He's 69, he's a jazz keyboardist, and he's the only composer still making new ones.
Most of this music will be gone within ten years. I tried to record what I could before it goes. Press play anywhere on the page.
I'd been hearing this music for years before I knew it had been written by someone. I think most people are like that. You stand on the Yamanote at Ebisu and there's a little tune, and you assume it's, what, a jingle. It isn't. Someone sat down with a piano and wrote it. There are about five hundred of these. They were not supposed to exist.
What happened is this. In the eighties Tokyo's platforms used the same noise every commuter station in Japan used: an electric buzzer that fired when a train pulled in. At Shinjuku, with twelve platforms running every two minutes, that's a lot of buzzers. JR East got complaints. So they called Yamaha and asked for something less awful. An engineer named Ide Yoshiaki wrote six pieces, seven seconds each, for piano and harp and bells. The math mattered: he tuned them so two stations next to each other wouldn't clash. Shinjuku and Shibuya went live on March 11, 1989. hear the 1989 archive
And then it stopped being about noise. I keep coming back to this part. People started recognising stations by the song. Not consciously. You'd doze off on the train and wake up because Mejiro doesn't sound like Sugamo, and your body knows. The thing JR had paid for to fix a noise problem was now doing something else entirely. It was telling you where you were.
By 2003 or so every Yamanote station had its own piece. There were five or six studios writing for the network now, possibly more, I lost track when I tried to count. No central commission had organised any of this; it just spread. Japanese has a word, oto fūkei (音風景) — it means something like "the way a place sounds." Tokyo had one of those by accident.
Mukaiya · Taipei, 2008
Ex-Casiopea fusion-jazz keyboardist. Has been writing Tokyo station melodies since 2009. Still working.
Mukaiya is a jazz keyboardist by trade. He joined Casiopea in 1977, which was a big deal in Tokyo at the time. They were probably the most successful jazz-fusion band Japan ever produced. He played the keyboard solos. If you've heard any Japanese eighties pop on the radio you've heard the sound he had a hand in: synths, bright, very clean, slightly silly in retrospect. Anyway, that was his day job for twenty years.
He started his own studio, Ongakukan, in 1985, and for a long time it did soundtrack work and product themes. The station commissions are a late chapter, not an early one. He wrote a piece called Tabidachi (Departure) for the Keisei Skyliner in 2009. Then Tokyu Toyoko, the line that runs between Shibuya and Yokohama, asked him for two pieces when they opened a new underground platform in 2013. He's gone back to that line every few years since. hear his 2025 Toyoko return
The thing that changes the field is 2015. Mukaiya goes to Tokyo Metro with an idea nobody had asked for. Instead of writing one station melody, what if he wrote two, in related keys, one for outbound trains and one for inbound. When two trains pull in at the same time, which on the Tozai Line happens often, the pieces harmonise. The platform becomes a duet, basically. Tokyo Metro said yes. He's now done twenty-three stations like that. hear the chain-song
And the commissions keep coming. Fukutoshin, bits of the Kyushu Shinkansen, the full Tokyu Meguro program in 2022, and last November a new one at Toyoko which is where he started. He's 69. I don't know how much longer he's planning to do this. Nobody else is.
He's the only major composer in this catalogue still writing new ones. When he stops, the catalogue stops growing. And when JR East finishes converting its lines to one-man operation without a platform attendant, most of the JR side of the catalogue stops mattering.
Once you've listened to enough of them you realise there aren't five hundred unique sounds, really. There are seven. Each one is the house style of a specific studio, and after a while you can guess the studio from the first second. Click a card to filter the map. Press play to hear what I mean.
I thought, going in, that the melodies were per-station. They aren't, mostly. They're per-line. Ride the Yamanote and you're hearing one studio for thirty stops; switch to the Tozai and you're inside a Mukaiya program. The station is just where the song lives. The line is who chose it.
My favourite category, though, is the stations that refuse to be neutral. Instead of a Yamaha piece they play, say, the Astro Boy theme, because Tezuka Productions is up the road. Or the Crayon Shin-chan opening, because the show is set in Kasukabe. The Japanese for this is gotochi (ご当地), which means "of this place." There are about forty of them in the Tokyo area. They're the ones tourists notice; they're also, often, the most beloved.
Here is the thing that is killing all of this, and it's worth being specific about it. The Japanese call it wanman, "one-man." A train run by the driver alone, no conductor. Tokyo Metro has run one-man operation for decades and the melodies on those lines still play, because Metro kept platform attendants or installed platform screen doors. The threat is specifically the way JR East is rolling it out from 2025 onward. No conductor, and no platform attendant either. Under the old two-person system, when a train pulled in the conductor stepped down onto the platform, waited for it to clear, signaled the driver to depart. The melody played during that wait. That was always its function: the song the conductor stood in. Cut the conductor with no attendant taking the role, and the song has nowhere to live. The driver doesn't get out. A short tone plays from the train's own PA instead, identical from station to station. The platform speakers stay bolted to the wall, wiring fine, hardware fine. Someone flips a setting on the network. That's all it takes.
No farewell concert. No press release. The song plays for the 11:47 train, somebody hits a switch at 11:48, the 11:50 arrives to a generic chime. That's it. A piece of music has just ended. Maybe thirty years it was running. Nobody on the platform looks up. The composer, if there is one, hears about it weeks later, from a fan.
If you're in Tokyo in the next few years and you care about hearing any of this, here's where I'd actually go. Not the famous stations. These.
I don't think you can really preserve a city's sound. A recording isn't the same as standing on the platform at 7:14 in the morning while it does it to you. The best you can do is show up while it's still happening.
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