P.M.SOUNDS — Kyoto’s Vinyl Sanctuary
By Rafi Mercer
New Listing
Venue Name: P.M.SOUNDS
Address: 71-21 Daikokuchō, Nakagyō-ku, Kyoto, Japan.
Website: pmsounds.jp
Instagram: @pmsounds.kyoto
Phone: —
Spotify Profile: —
Kyoto moves at a different tempo to Tokyo. Where the capital thrums with constant signals, Kyoto seems to lean into silence, letting space hold its weight. Down by Kiyamachi, a stretch of town where the river keeps its own rhythm, sits P.M.SOUNDS, a bar that feels like it has been carved out of the night for one reason only: to let music live at human scale. You might miss it if you walk too fast; the glow is discreet, the doorway quiet. But step inside and you realise the understatement is deliberate — this is a place where attention is the currency, not spectacle.
The first impression is intimacy. A bar counter curves into the room, drawing strangers and regulars alike into a shared orbit. Behind it, shelves of vinyl line the wall — jazz records with worn spines, city pop in bright pastels, rock, soul, electronic cuts — each one chosen with care, not to impress but to carry the room. The selection is eclectic yet deeply local in spirit: a reminder that Kyoto’s listening culture has always been about proportion. The owner drops the needle with confidence, the kind of quiet assurance that comes from decades of practice. One side plays, the room exhales, and you notice how everything — glass, voice, chair — seems to fall into time with the record.
Drinks arrive without fuss, balanced rather than showy. A whisky poured with patience, a cocktail simple in construction but perfect in weight. This is not the kind of bar where the menu is the headline; it is where the pour is there to support the listening. And that is the magic of P.M.SOUNDS: the music is not backdrop, nor is it fetishised, but it is central. You feel its presence in every detail of the space.
Kyoto has always rewarded those who move slowly, who listen carefully. P.M.SOUNDS embodies that sensibility. It is not trying to be Tokyo, not chasing the global listening bar wave, but quietly proving why the kissaten tradition matters: because it shapes how we hear each other. Sit for an hour and you will notice strangers beginning to share small acknowledgements, nods to the beat, a soft smile at a record choice. Music does the work of introduction. Step outside again, into the lantern-lit streets, and you carry the resonance with you — less the memory of a song than the memory of how it felt to sit, to sip, to listen in company.
Rafi Mercer writes about the spaces where music matters. For more stories from Tracks & Tales, subscribe, or click here to read more.
