The Last TrAIn Club

Above the rain-swept streets of a reimagined Tokyo, the late-night conductor sounds the final call for the last train home. Nestled beneath the train-line pillars in Asakusa, the doors of The Last Train Club finally open, and those left behind shuffle into the dimly lit, smoke-filled jazz and blues bar
.Lonely salarymen and the homeless are welcomed, as are the shut-ins who log in to watch the livestream as gaijin musicians climb the stage and warm their instruments. Like aliens from another world, different shapes and colors, yet it’s the strange music that draws the audience in — songs from distant lands, written long before the great digital awakening and the reign of binary code.
Mournful stories about the fallibilities of flesh and bone, unrequited love, and of the fragile memory of human frailty drift across the room. The crowd sits mesmerised, listening to musical testimonials passed on from on high, bearing witness to parables of another world.