TADAAKI TONEGAWA

AUDIOPHILE

"Post Meridiem"

In the heart of Kyoto, Tadaaki Tonegawa’s PM Sounds is less a record bar than a living tribute to analog sound and the joy of discovery. Born from passion rather than profit, it’s a place where generations gather and time slows. After years of perfecting his sound at home, Tonegawa opened PM Sounds to share that warmth, trading the quiet fade of retirement for the chance to create something lasting. With vintage equipment carefully curated and an atmosphere that feels both intimate and open, the bar has become a haven for music lovers, artists, and audiophiles. Here, the goal is not simply to hear, but to truly listen. In a world consumed by digital distractions, PM Sounds offers a rare pause. A reminder of richness found in presence, community, and sound.
PROLOGUE
In Japan, vinyl culture lives on in record bars, listening cafés, and private collections where music is treated as ritual. Curators and audiophiles preserve rare pressings and foster spaces for deep listening, anchored by vintage sound systems. More than nostalgia, these gatherings offer continuity and presence—a slower rhythm in a fast world, where music is not just heard, but felt. Vinyl here represents continuity: a devotion to craft, patience, and presence in a society that values subtlety. In an era of streaming and speed, Japan’s record bars offer something rarer—a slower rhythm, a shared silence, and a reminder that music is not only heard, but felt.

In a narrow street in Kyoto, tucked behind weathered shutters and a modest sign, there’s a room where the past hums with precision.

“I’ve been an audio fan for over 50 years.”

PM Sounds began not with a business plan, but with a moment. A feeling. The kind of warmth only analog playback can deliver—when the needle drops and a familiar melody blooms with a richness digital formats can’t quite touch. But it also began with a question Tonegawa couldn’t shake: what does retirement look like, if it doesn’t shrink you? “In Japan, so many people grow quiet after they retire,” he reflects. “They get small. They ask how much pension they’ll get, and then they just… fade.” But during six years spent in the United States, Tonegawa saw another path: people savoring life after work. Starting new things. Staying curious. “It was inspiring,” he says. “I didn’t want to disappear. I wanted to build something. I’ve been an audio fan for over 50 years. One day, I finally got the sound just right—at home. And I thought… maybe someone else should hear this too.”

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“One day, I finally got the sound just right and I thought… maybe someone else should hear this too."

So he built PM Sounds—a bar, a listening room, and an intergenerational gathering space. The equipment is meticulously chosen: high-end vintage components arranged into what he calls three “design systems.” But there’s no tech snobbery here. What matters isn’t specs—it’s experience. “I just wanted to share good sound with people. That’s all.” And in doing so, Tonegawa did something more: he created a community. Designers, musicians, sound engineers in their 30s and 40s stop in. They bring ideas, swap records, contribute to the atmosphere.

“Yesterday a young designer dropped by,” he recalls. “We talked for hours. That’s the joy of it.” At PM Sounds, it’s not unusual to see a mix of regulars: an old friend from the neighborhood, a 22-year-old crate digger, a foreign audiophile with a map in hand. What unites them is the music, of course—but also the space itself. It’s warm, wood-lined, and sincere.

“I wanted to share the joy of great sound and I wanted to enjoy myself, even as I got older.”

There are no distractions. No apps. No algorithms. Just sound—chosen by hand, played with care, and received with the reverence of shared libations. Asked what keeps him going, Tonegawa laughs. “It’s two things,” he says. “I wanted to share the joy of great sound. And I wanted to enjoy myself, even as I got older.”

Simple, maybe. But in a world that moves faster than ever, PM Sounds offers something radical: a place to slow down and listen.

Not just to music—but to the richness of what a good life can still sound like. Within its walls, time stretches, and each record played becomes a shared moment of presence. What lingers is not just sound, but connection—between people, memory, and the enduring warmth of analog.

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