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Shinjuku district, Tokyo, Japan.BirgerNiss

Sometimes things don't go as planned – and those moments often make for the best stories. Tripping columns offer readers a chance to share their wild adventures.

Walking the small alleys and streets surrounding Yurakucho Station is an act of exploration and choosing a bar is no easy task. Until I spot an English sign stating, "Heaven Rock Bar."

I like rock music. Its presence is reassuring in an otherwise confusing district. As long as there is rock music and cold beer, I figure, how bad can it be?

Ducking below low-hanging pipes, I head to the second-level basement, but I don't hear any rock music, and begin to experience a feeling I have become familiar with during my time in Japan: the nagging sense that I shouldn't be here.

Just as I'm about to turn around, a man emerges and motions for me to follow him inside. As I stand in the doorway, the talking and laughing of six Japanese men awkwardly stops; I have a feeling they didn't expect anyone tonight.

Cigarette smoke lingers in the air and the paranoid face from King Crimson's 1969 album cover dominates one of the small walls, reflecting my own emotions.

I'm ushered to the end of a well-worn couch and offered a drink. With a cold beer now in hand, I begin to feel a little more settled and start take in the room.

This "bar" is no larger than your average basement, with a maximum capacity that seems to be exceeded by the addition of myself. Opposite the couch is a stack of amplifiers. Beside the amps sits a full drum kit book-ended by more amplifiers and a wall-mounted PA system. Guitars are sitting in stands in the small amount of space left in front of the drums and microphones. It's hard to decide if this is the best bar I've been in, or the worst.

Without a word, three of the men take up instruments, immediately jumping into the Bryan Adams hit Summer of '69. The vocalist sings in English, but I get the feeling he doesn't quite understand what he is saying. The syllables and melody are more important to him than the meaning, or so it seems. A number of classic rock hits follow. During Paranoid by Black Sabbath, the guitarist plays directly at me, with blistering solos and the accompanying and necessary theatrics. This first set comes to an end and I welcome the silence: The speakers are mere feet, maybe even inches, from my ears.

After 30 minutes of disjointed conversation, assisted by Google's wonderful translator app, the band once again takes the stage. Songs by Cheap Trick, Guns N' Roses, Thin Lizzy; you name it, they could play it. But I couldn't make it through this second set. My eardrums felt as though they had been placed under a jackhammer, and I was beginning to worry just how much the drinks were going to cost.

Little did I know my real concern should have been the hidden "performance fee," a $100 charge owed to the bartender. Tourist scam? Maybe. But two storeys underground, surrounded by a tight group of friends, one resembling a prototypical Japanese mobster, I wasn't about to argue. I paid the bartender, and squeezed back through the narrow doorway, making my way back into the maze that is Tokyo.

You never know what you will find in this city. You never know how much it will cost, either, but you need to explore and take chances. What's the worst that can happen?

Send your wild tales from the road to travel@globeandmail.com.

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