From Harajuku to Shibuya: Crowds and Youth Culture in the Yamanote’s West

At the Center of Japan’s Youth Fashion

The last stretch of my walk around the Yamanote Line starts in Harajuku, arguably Tokyo’s foremost youth playground. Little has changed since 1992, when I moved to Japan. The only glaring exception is the station building. Built in 1924, it was the city’s oldest wooden station. It survived earthquakes, fires, and the Pacific War fire-bombings, but it proved powerless against redevelopment. Apparently, it did not meet fire-resistance standards.

The stations on the Yamanote line stations loop. (© Pixta)

The new building, completed in 2020, is all glass and straight lines. It is bigger, more spacious, and better equipped to handle the endless human traffic arriving at one of Tokyo’s more popular tourist destinations. It is also a further contribution to the trivialization of Tokyo’s look. Luckily, for once, cultural conservation and financial interests have reached a compromise: The old building will be reassembled as part of a new commercial facility scheduled to be completed in 2026.

The new Harajuku Station is a far cry from the much-loved wooden building that preceded it. (© Gianni Simone)

Thirty years ago, I spent most Sundays in the area’s Hokōsha Tengoku, or Pedestrian Paradise. Part of Omotesandō Avenue was closed to car traffic, and indie rock bands, break-dancers, and street performers used the free space to jam, dance, and gather crowds. It was a kind of wild, spontaneous cultural festival, and a rare case of unfiltered creative expression in Tokyo. Needless to say, it was suspended in 1998. Today, weekend pedestrian-only zones—with a decidedly more consumerist tone—can be found in Ginza, Shinjuku, and Akihabara.

The survivors of the Harajuku scene can be found at the entrance to Yoyogi Park, where leather-clad biker wannabes and their beehive-haired companions shake their behinds to the rhythms of original 1950s rock and roll—and their Japanese aural copies—while being stared at by a growing crowd of foreign tourists. One of them, a grizzled 60-something lothario, occasionally pauses to catch his breath, then starts again, probably dreaming of Route 66, American blue jeans, and holidays in Graceland, USA.

To be sure, consumerism is alive and well in Harajuku, and there are plenty of chain stores. Yet, whereas youngsters in other countries follow the lead of large chains, many teenagers in Tokyo set their own fashion courses. Rather than being the followers, they create the trends, borrowing from and altering traditional and Western styles.

The deeper one dives into the maze of narrow backstreets, the more one discovers self-contained enclaves, like the one just south of tacky, tourist-choked Takeshita Street. The elegant Brahms Path, complete with a bust of the German composer and a couple of stone lions, features a mix of restaurants and boutiques. Nearby, Mozart Street, adorned with a relief portrait of the young musical genius, boasts hair stylists galore (I count five or six in a 50-meter stretch). This alley stands out for its European-inspired architecture and a fountain at its center—hence its alternate name, Fountain Street.

Not far from the madding Harajuku crowd, Fountain Street is a quiet alley with a European touch. (© Gianni Simone)

In Japan, sacred and profane often go hand in hand. When Meiji Jingū, Tokyo’s most important Shintō shrine, was built in 1920, Omotesandō became the main approach to the shrine. However, like similar pilgrimage routes around Japan, it attracted vendors of all kinds. Then, after the Pacific War, the area now known as Yoyogi Park became a US military housing complex called Washington Heights, leading to many Western-style facilities and stores lining the area. Today, Omotesandō competes with Ginza for the largest number of designer stores.

Skyscrapers and Swarms of Humanity

Heading south from Harajuku, I pass the Tange Kenzō–designed Yoyogi National Gymnasium, built for the 1964 Summer Olympics after Washington Heights was returned to Japanese control. In 1963, NHK moved its headquarters next to the gymnasium site in order to stay closer to the Olympic action. The move had a considerable influence on our next destination, Shibuya, as other related businesses—publishers, video companies, and more—followed. In 1968, Seibu opened a department store near Shibuya station, followed in 1973 by Shibuya Parco.

The Yoyogi National Gymnasium is one of the most visually striking mementos of the 1964 Olympics. (© Gianni Simone)

Located in Yoyogi Park, this building housed the Dutch athletes during the 1964 Olympics. (© Gianni Simone)

With its bright and glamorous image, Shibuya Parco, in turn, had a big impact because it completely redefined what a shopping center could be. By mixing retail with art galleries, theaters, and event spaces, and embracing street fashion, it helped establish Shibuya as a leading youth culture center.

When I finally arrive in Shibuya, the last stop on my circular pilgrimage, I can barely recognize the place. At first glance, the area around the station looks like a scene from the H. G. Wells classic The War of the Worlds, with red-and-white striped Martian machines patrolling a devastated landscape. Fortunately, they are just some of the cranes that perpetually dot Tokyo’s skyline.

The area around Shibuya Station has become a huge construction site. (© Gianni Simone)

For the last few years, Shibuya has been a massive construction site. The building over the station, which housed a Tōkyū department store, is temporarily gone, while across what used to be the bus terminal now stands the new Tōkyū Plaza. The moyai statue—a stone face resembling the Moai figures on Easter Island that used to compete with Hachikō in popularity as a meeting point—now sits all alone, nearly forgotten amid the chaos.

The moyai statue in Shibuya, once a popular meeting spot, now sits all alone. (© Gianni Simone)

During my walks around the Yamanote Line, I witnessed the change taking place in Tokyo in many subtle and major ways, but nothing compares to what is happening here. Now the statue of the loyal dog is literally surrounded by new high-rises, the visually striking symbol of Shibuya’s once-in-a-century urban redevelopment.

Nonbei Yokochō is one of the few spots in Shibuya that has survived redevelopment. (© Gianni Simone)

The recent changes have also helped redefine Shibuya’s character. While young people are still shopping at Parco and Shibuya 109, many of the new establishments now cater to older demographics. Many of the shops in Hikarie and Scramble Square, for instance, are geared to a more mature clientele. Then there’s the IT crowd, as digital companies are increasingly moving to the area.

And let’s not forget the locals. Shibuya’s residents usually prefer to keep to the district’s quieter corners, far from the madding crowd, but in the fall come out of their posh homes to take part in the local Konnō Hachiman Shrine Festival. To be sure, all those old mikoshi (portable shrines) parading in front of Shibuya 109 make for a rather surreal scene, but Tokyo is built on such contrasts.

Mission accomplished, I take refuge in a second-floor café from where I can see the world-famous scramble crossing. The red and green lights alternate every 60 seconds. It’s a seemingly short wait, fitting for a quick-paced city like Tokyo. However, in those short 60 seconds, up to 2,000 people gather around the crossing. Then the walk signals turn green again (or blue, as the Japanese say), and everybody steps forward, leaving the safety of the sidewalk and heading into the surging human waves coming from every direction.

You steel yourself for the drama ahead. You can almost see people bouncing off each other.

But nothing happens. No swearing, no broken bones. Miraculously, everyone silently glides through the human maelstrom, looking straight ahead past each other—through each other—toward their destination.

It’s a strange scene. Then again, Shibuya—indeed, Tokyo as a whole—is a place where different people coexist without ever merging. Rather than blending together, they seem to coexist side by side.

This is Tokyo in a nutshell: millions of people sharing the huge city’s cramped spaces every day, yet rarely interacting in a meaningful way. They don’t talk to strangers unless they have to. They never hug. And yet, they come—from all over Japan and the world—drawn by the city’s bright lights.

(Originally written in English. Banner photo: Tourists on rental go-karts wait for the crowds to finish traversing Shibuya’s scramble crossing. © Gianni Simone.)