Summer in Japan is loud.

It is not enough for the air to become hot, wet, and vaguely hostile. The entire country must also begin humming, buzzing, chiming, shouting, and attacking roadside vegetation before breakfast. Some of these sounds are charming. Some are necessary. Others make me briefly understand why ancient people wandered into the mountains and became hermits.

Here is my ranking of Japanese summer noises, from mildly atmospheric to active assault.

6. The Cicada Chorus

The cicadas are the official sound of summer in Japan. The moment they start, the season feels fully underway. Every tree begins vibrating with a wall of buzzing so loud that it seems less like an insect call and more like the electrical grid is preparing to fail.

Different cicadas have different calls, but when several species are screaming at once, the result is a solid block of noise from sunrise onward. It follows you to work, fills quiet residential streets, and provides the background soundtrack for every summer anime ever made.

Still, I cannot hate them completely. They spend most of their lives underground and emerge for only a short time to sing, reproduce, and alarm pedestrians by suddenly launching themselves out of bushes.

At least they are not in my house.

Usually.

5. Furin

Furin, or Japanese wind chimes, are supposed to make summer feel cooler. The breeze catches the paper strip hanging beneath the bell, producing a delicate little chime associated with open windows, shaded verandas, and the possibility that the air might move at some point.

One furin is lovely. It is light, nostalgic, and peaceful.

After several hours, however, the repeated tink, tink, tink can begin to feel less like a gentle reminder of the breeze and more like a very small ghost trying to get your attention. Nagano even holds a festival featuring large numbers of furin. They are beautiful to look at, and I am sure the atmosphere is magical. I also suspect that standing among hundreds of them on a windy day would give me a headache almost immediately.

4. The Hum of Air Conditioners and Fans

In summer, every building develops a mechanical heartbeat.

Outdoor air-conditioning units hum beneath windows. Electric fans rotate from side to side. Ventilation systems rattle. Somewhere nearby, an ageing appliance makes a noise that suggests it is either cooling the room or preparing to explode. The sound is constant, especially at night. Once you notice it, the whole neighbourhood seems to be vibrating.

Still, these machines are keeping everyone alive. Japan’s summer humidity makes air conditioning feel less like a luxury and more like essential life-support equipment. I cannot sincerely complain about the noise produced by the only thing standing between me and becoming a damp Victorian invalid.

The air conditioner may hum, click, and drip all night. It has earned that right.

3. Old People Doing Rajio Taiso at 6:00 a.m.

There is something wholesome about community radio exercises.

Rajio taiso consists of short calisthenic routines broadcast with cheerful piano music and extremely calm instructions. Groups gather in parks, school grounds, and apartment courtyards to stretch, bend, and move together before the day becomes too hot.

This is admirable.

It is less admirable when it happens directly outside your apartment at six in the morning.

First comes the music. Then the bright voice from the radio. Then the soft shuffling of several highly disciplined retirees who have already completed more physical activity before breakfast than I am likely to achieve all day. I lie in bed listening to an entire community improve its cardiovascular health beneath my window.

Their joints are mobile. Their posture is excellent. My peace is gone.

2. The Dawn Weed-Trimmer Offensive

Summer vegetation in Japan grows with terrifying ambition. Leave a patch of ground unattended for several days and it will attempt to become a forest. This means that summer mornings belong to the weed trimmers.

The attack usually begins shortly after sunrise, when someone decides that the strip of grass outside your bedroom window has become an urgent threat to public order. The engine sputters to life, followed by the unmistakable high-pitched scream of spinning machinery.

The operator is usually being sensible. Starting early means finishing before the worst heat arrives, and roadsides, parks, schools, and apartment grounds genuinely need maintenance. I understand all of that. I simply do not understand why the weeds directly outside my home must always be defeated at 6:30 on a Saturday morning.

The noise moves closer. Then farther away. Then closer again. You begin to think it is over, only for the engine to restart with renewed purpose.

The weeds never stood a chance. Neither did your sleep.

1. Political Campaign Vans

Nothing else comes close.

During election season, political campaign vans travel slowly through residential neighbourhoods with loudspeakers mounted on top. Campaign workers wave from the windows while repeatedly announcing the candidate’s name and thanking everyone for their support.

Nobody outside has visibly offered support. Most people are simply trying to eat lunch or conduct an online meeting. The vans rarely explain much about the candidate’s actual policies. Instead, they rely on repetition.

“Tanaka! Tanaka! Please support Tanaka! Thank you for supporting Tanaka!”

I now know Tanaka’s name. I know it against my will.

The vans appear while you are working. They pass during phone calls. They arrive on the one morning you hoped to sleep late. Sometimes they circle the neighbourhood, giving you just enough time to believe they have gone before returning from the opposite direction.

At least cicadas are looking for mates. The people doing rajio taiso are improving their health. The weed trimmer is performing a useful public service.

The campaign van is simply shouting a surname at my house.

I support democracy. I support informed political participation. I do not believe either requires acoustic warfare.

The Sounds of Summer

Japan’s summer soundtrack is exhausting, but it is also unmistakable. Cicadas, fans, wind chimes, morning exercises, and distant machinery all become part of the season.

One day, I may even feel nostalgic when I hear them.

Not the campaign vans, though.