Living in a 100-year-old Japanese farmhouse is like stepping into a time capsule. Every corner holds remnants of the past—weathered beams, delicate fusuma, and the lingering scent of history woven into the tatami. But some discoveries are truly unexpected, like the day I stumbled upon an old, dust-covered black case in the kura (storehouse). At first glance, it looked like a sturdy old suitcase, but something about its weight and design told me there was more to it.
With cautious excitement, I lifted the worn leather handle and placed it on a low wooden table. The clasps creaked as I pried them open, revealing an astonishing sight: an HMV 101 Gramophone, likely from the Taishō to early Shōwa period. The inside of the lid bore the iconic His Master’s Voice logo—Nipper the dog attentively listening to the phonograph. Despite the dust and signs of age, the craftsmanship was unmistakable.
Echoes of a Westernized Past
The existence of this gramophone in my home suggested something intriguing about the house’s original owners. It must have belonged to a family with a taste for Western culture, likely influenced by the rapid modernization following the Meiji Restoration. By the Taishō era (1912–1926), affluent families were embracing Western music, dance, and fashion. Owning an imported gramophone wasn’t just about enjoying music—it was a statement of sophistication, a bridge between old Japan and the new world.
But the real treasure was yet to come. Alongside the gramophone lay a stack of 78 rpm records, their fragile paper sleeves tattered with age. Some bore the Columbia Records label, others had Kanji-scrawled titles hinting at old Japanese ballads or Western jazz tunes. One particularly caught my eye—ムギワラ帽子 (Mugiwara Bōshi or Straw Hat), a song that must have echoed through this house nearly a century ago.
Reviving the Past
I gingerly wound the handle of the gramophone, hoping it still had some life left in it. The mechanism resisted at first but eventually gave in with a satisfying click. Placing the brittle record onto the turntable, I carefully lowered the needle. A few scratches and pops crackled through the metal horn, and then—music.
A warm, nostalgic melody filled the room, carrying with it the ambiance of a distant era. I imagined a scene from the past: a summer evening in the 1920s, a family gathered in their traditional Japanese home, sliding shoji doors open to let in the evening breeze as they marveled at their Western-style gramophone. Perhaps a woman in a meisen kimono swayed gently to the tune, a cup of tea in hand, while a child gazed wide-eyed at the spinning record.
A Living Museum
This discovery reinforced a feeling I often have living in this house—it’s not just a home, but a living museum. Every object tells a story, and every forgotten artifact breathes life into the past. The gramophone, once a prized possession, had been tucked away for decades, waiting for someone to bring its melodies back to life.
As the last notes faded into the air, I sat in silence, touched by the thought that after a hundred years, the music had finally returned home.