Silent Sunday
Bar Shiru
Oakland
Feb. 18, 2024
“Just a reminder… once the needle drops, the talking stops.”
You might not expect a bar that calls itself “the Bay Area’s first hi-fi listening bar” to promote a regular event called “Silent Sunday,” but it’s a bit of a misnomer. The only silence involves the patrons. And they’re silent because they’re listening — deeply, thoughtfully, in reverence to — the beautiful, ambient sounds of analog music.
That’s vinyl in all its ASMR glory, with the satisfying hiss and crackle of the needle on the record, the thrumming, resonant tones amplified through a meticulously arranged sound system, and even the dulcet, soothing sounds of the DJ quietly prepping the room beforehand.
Think of it like a relaxing sound bath, but with the option of alcohol, and in a bar that looks more like my dream living room — bamboo accents, walls washed in dark colors, minimalist, mid-century decor, soft lighting, and a massive wall of vinyl records.
Japan has a certain affinity for specialty bars centered on the deliberate activity of listening to music. The venues can be hyper-focused, but that’s what I love about them. Listening bars are often dedicated to playing specific genres or certain bands — shoegaze music, say, or songs and bands influenced by the Beatles or Paul Weller. They come with great sound systems and record collections meant to appeal to the niches, not the masses. It’s where a clientele can connect in a more meaningful way. Bar Shiru’s owners, Shirin and Daniel, were just as enchanted by Japan’s listening bars when they traveled the country in 2015, and opened their bar in Uptown Oakland four years later to celebrate “the connective and transcendent power of music” in the same way.
Already primed by the intimate environs for feeling luxuriantly relaxed, I swore I could smell the salty air of Japan’s famous hot springs inside the bar. I sipped on a yuzu-flavored Japanese beer as others whispered in soft tones before the start of the event, ordering “drinks we can make QUIETLY” (as directed in the event description) and finding the few remaining seats to settle into. A diverse clientele of couples, groups, and singles came out; everyone seemed welcome, though a sign at the entrance said that groups of six or less only are allowed in the bar. There are plenty of bars in Oakland for watching the big game or celebrating a birthday in a drunken rager, like next door’s Cafe Van Kleef, but this isn’t that place.
As soon as the album listening was underway, all other sounds stopped. The two featured albums that night were the perfect complement to the mood: Surround by Hiroshi Yoshimura, described as an “environmental sound masterpiece,” and, after a brief intermission, Harold Budd’s The Pavilion of Dreams, produced by Brian Eno. The second album in particular echoed the languorous mood. Enveloping the quiet room with a serenity only an Eno-related work can achieve, I felt supremely at ease, engaged in an unspoken social contract to worship at an altar of solemnity and somnolence in sound. The soft, low hum of the bass rumbled gently through the room; atonal whispers of sound lulled us into a collective, grateful stupor. I closed my eyes and smiled.
The experience was like finding my new favorite spa. As soon as the needle lifted from the longplayer, soft conversations started up again. “I did doze off a little bit,” a stranger next to me admitted. “It was so relaxing.” Another patron agreed. “That was like getting a massage.”
