Once upon a time, for just ¥3,000, lust was accessible to anyone who crossed the threshold of this abandoned strip club in the heart of Japan. Today, amid its peeling walls and faded neon lights, only a psychedelic echo of the 1970s remains: a time capsule filled with retro relics, like the remains of a New Year’s Eve party that no one ever cleaned up.
A forgotten theatre in the mountains
Tucked away along a narrow mountain road in Okayama Prefecture, the complex looks like little more than a pile of corroded blue sheet metal and steel. At first glance, there is nothing to suggest that dancers once performed here for an adult-only audience.
Online sources place the theatre’s opening between the 1970s and 1980s, while its closure remains shrouded in mystery: some say 2001, others as early as 1976.
Today, there is only one way to enter: a metal staircase covered in green tarpaulin. My trusty exploration partner, the same one with whom I visited the dragon park, and I decide to continue.
The reception area: the first glimpse of decay
Inside, time seems to have stood still. The walls, covered with yellow wallpaper featuring geometric patterns, are peeling off in large strips. Torn lanterns swing from the damaged ceiling, while a cracked lucky cat stares at me from a small table like a forgotten guardian.
The floor is a mosaic of rubbish and memories: tickets, Otafuku masks, giant dice, garlands, and broken glass.
Room 1: the main show
Behind the reception area is the large hall, the heart of the club. The magenta walls, artificial garlands, and backdrop painted with mountain landscapes convey a pop and sensual aesthetic typical of Japanese clubs in the 1970s.
In the centre stands a circular stage connected by a catwalk, around which are crowded a hundred red stools, arranged a few inches apart. Further back, 45 folding chairs offer a raised view, perhaps for those who wanted to stay in the shadows.
In the dim light, the room still seems to vibrate with music and laughter. I take a few photos, trying to imagine the scene amid smoke and strobe lights.
Room 2: an echo of the past
The second room follows the same layout as the main theatre, but on a smaller scale. The circular stage is decorated with a painted swallow flying over forests and hills: a curious symbol, perhaps of freedom or rebirth.
The floor is covered with hundreds of matchboxes illustrated with smiling pin-ups.
The upper floors: traces of life
As you climb the stairs, the place takes on a more intimate and disturbing tone. The rooms on the upper floor preserve remnants of everyday life: photo albums, makeup, colourful linens, and small personal items.
Each dressing room is a treasure trove of memories: cracked mirrors, mouldy furniture, faded perfumes. Off to the side, I notice a small, greasy kitchen and, not far away, an office filled with paperwork.
In a rather unstable room, I find a screening room with scattered videotapes. Perhaps promotional films or private recordings of performances were shown here.
The view and the final sign
A final iron staircase leads to the roof. From here, the view opens onto the valley and the rusty sign bearing the words Kanko Gekijo — “Panoramic Theatre.”
Under the sun, that name seems to evoke the promise of a show that will never return.
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