Young Americans are in New York, singing Anri.

"I can't stop the loneliness..."
"Why... I can't stop the sadness..."

They are singing along in the original Japanese.

It is a curious sight.
And yet, I somehow understand.

They are not simply listening to old Japanese music.
Nor are they feeling nostalgic for 1980s Japan.
They did not live through that era, of course.

Even so, they find something there.

City Pop was the music of the metropolis.

The metropolitan expressway at night.
The road along the coast.
FM radio.
Glass-walled buildings.
Clothes styled to look a little older than one's years.
The end of summer.
A room alone.
The end of a romance.
A lingering sense that something is about to begin.

It was also the music of a consumer society.
But it was slightly different from the consumer society we have now.

There was more negative space.
The warmth of human skin still remained.
The night felt more like the night.

Today's world is simply too fast.

Everything is optimized.
Everything is quantified.
Everything is absorbed into algorithms.
Even the things we may love are recommended to us before we can love them.
Even sadness is turned into content.
Even loneliness becomes a profile.

In such a world, young people may simply be tired.

Intense messaging.
Intense self-expression.
Intense anger.
Intense success.
Intense righteousness.
Intense speed.

After being surrounded by all of this, listening to City Pop lets you breathe a little.

In it, there is a metropolis that does not demand attention.
There is a refinement that has no need to win.
There is a sadness that does not scream.
There is a loneliness that blames no one.

"I Can't Stop the Loneliness" does not solve sadness.
It does not analyze sadness.
It does not overcome sadness.

It simply sings that sadness cannot be stopped.

That is its grace.

Perhaps sadness is not something to be stopped,
but something that deserves, at times, to be sung.

People visiting Japan from abroad often say something similar.

That things lost elsewhere in the world still remain in Japan.

I believe this refers to more than just shrines, temples, or historic streets.

The glow of a convenience store.
Train departure melodies.
An old kissaten coffee shop.
Alleys at night.
The shuttered storefronts of a shopping street.
A train carriage where no one raises their voice.
The glass of water served silently by an owner.
A slightly aged signboard.
Seasonal decorations.
A fragile, yet still functioning, micro-order.

These are not tourism resources; they are the resonance of daily life.

The world has become convenient.
But it has lost its presence.

Of course, much is being lost in Japan as well.
Rural areas are hollowed out, shopping streets close, old buildings are demolished, and towns grow increasingly uniform.
Therefore, this is not a narrative of national exceptionalism.

It is quite the opposite.

It is precisely because things are on the verge of disappearing that we begin to see them.
Because they are about to fade, they emit such a compelling fragrance.

I believe the same is true of City Pop.

In the 1980s, Japan was heading toward the future.
Yet, looking back from today, that future was somehow pastoral.
It was urban, refined, and consumerist, yet it had not yet completely outpaced human rhythm.

Cars are running.
Buildings are glowing.
Lovers are parting.
Music is playing.

But inside all of it, silence still exists.

American Gen Z singing Anri in Japanese is not a story of Japanese culture conquering the world.
I believe it is a much quieter phenomenon.

The things the world dropped in its rush to accelerate,
they have rediscovered in old Japanese urban music.

Perhaps it is negative space.
Perhaps it is human warmth.
Perhaps it is the depth of the night.
Perhaps it is a nameless loneliness.
Or perhaps it is the poise to hold sadness just as it is.

"I can't stop the sadness."

In today's world, these words feel slightly outdated.
Yet within that very oldness, there lies a forgotten freshness.

To stop sadness, the world accelerated.

More convenient.
Faster.
More correct.
More efficient.
Happier.

Yet, no matter how much we accelerated, sadness could not be stopped.

And so, people pause.
They listen to old songs.
They learn lyrics in a foreign tongue.
They walk through nighttime streets.
For no reason at all, their chests ache a little.

And then, they sing.

Sadness cannot be stopped.
Yet, the world remains somewhat beautiful.

The things the world dropped along the way
surely still remain somewhere.

In old songs.
In nighttime alleys.
In the voice of another.
And in places that do not yet have a name.

© SHIRO & Co.

First published: 2026-05-21