At the edge of the street, a yellow lightbox sign rests, its coiled cable trailing against the tarmac. Red cursive on an acrylic panel, weathered at the corners, identifies the adjacent shop as a listening bar. Across the road, outside a karaoke pub, a maroon sign leans forward, marked with musical notes and a gold microphone. Its cord is knotted around the frame, while two large PET bottles filled with water weigh it down against the wind. A little further on, beside a wooden izakaya façade, a deep indigo sign lists a phone number in narrow white type beneath vertical kanji calligraphy, its plug thrown loosely over its shoulder.

Electrified freestanding signs like these—technically known as denshoku sutando kanban (電飾スタンド看板)—are part of the broader kanban signage category and a familiar sight in Tokyo’s nightlife districts after dusk. Positioned at the mouths of alleyways or set out along side streets, they signal the presence of bars, eateries, and other after-hours venues. When switched on, their glow permeates the night air, providing both wayfinding and atmosphere. Modest in scale, they are miniature monuments to the city’s nocturnal economy.

Last month, during my week-long walk along the Chūō Line, I often passed through nightlife districts in the late morning or mid-afternoon—yokochō alleyways with shutters down, lanterns unplugged, bars at rest. A complex wiring of cables and lighting laid bare. Without their glow, the alleys seemed caught between functions—like a film set waiting on crew, or the remains of a shuttered theme park.