A Pilgrimage to the 2025 Yokohama Hot Rod Custom Show

You smell it before you see it. It’s a specific cocktail of olfactory cues that transcends language and geography—a blend of unburnt high-octane hydrocarbons, stale beer, and burnt rubber (and the distinct, savory smoke of grilled intestines). It’s the universal perfume of the gear-head. 

Welcome to the 33rd annual Yokohama Hot Rod Custom Show. 

To call it a "car show" is like calling the Vatican a "church" or the running of the bulls a "jog." It is a yearly pilgrimage, a hajj for the worshippers of the rusted bolt and the metal flake paint job. For 33 years, this event has stood as the undisputed heavyweight champion of the Kustom Kulture world, a bizarre and beautiful feedback loop where American mid-century excess is filtered through the obsessive, perfectionist lens of the Japanese soul, only to be beamed back to the West as something sharper, stranger, and infinitely cooler.

The theme this year is heavy, almost somber in its reverence: "40 Years of Hot Rodding in Japan." It honors the pioneers, specifically a man named Shun Kasai, who looked at the rigid conformity of 1980s Japan and decided the only logical response was to import a 1932 Ford and chop the roof off.

But to understand the 33rd show, you have to understand the ghosts that haunt the rafters of this place. You have to understand Dean Moon. You have to understand Shige Suganuma. And you have to understand why, in a country where silence is a virtue and conformity is survival, thousands of people gather once a year to make as much noise as physically possible—quietly.

The Geography of Cool

Yokohama isn't Tokyo. If Tokyo is the frantic, neon-soaked brain of Japan, buzzing with the electric anxiety of a Blade Runner set, Yokohama is its heart—or maybe its liver. It’s a port city, gritty and breezy, the place where things arrive. It was one of the first ports forced open to the West in 1859, and it has never quite shaken that influence. This is where jazz first bled into the Japanese bloodstream. It’s where sailors and soldiers and drifters washed up, bringing with them the artifacts of American vice: denim, rock and roll, and horsepower.

The venue, the Pacifico Yokohama, is a massive glass-and-steel structure that looks like a sail billowing in the wind. It usually hosts medical conferences or respectable trade expos about semiconductors. But for one weekend in December, it is colonized by the freaks. And I use that term with the utmost affection.

The dichotomy is jarring. Outside, the Minato Mirai district is a futuristic utopia of high-end shopping malls and Ferris wheels. Inside, it’s a revival meeting for the Church of the V8. You see them walking in from the train station—the "bosozoku" gangs with their pompadours defying gravity, the California retirees in Hawaiian shirts, the tattoo artists from Jakarta, the metal shapers from Finland. They are all drawn to the same magnet.

The Moon Eyes and the Man Who Sold the World

To explain why we are here, we have to talk about the eyes. You’ve seen them. Two cartoon eyes, peering suspiciously to the left, usually plastered on a yellow background. The "Mooneyes" logo is one of those icons that has transcended its origin to become a global signifier of speed.

Dean Moon was a hot rodder’s hot rodder, a guy in Santa Fe Springs, California, who figured out that if you spun aluminum into a disc, it made a car cut through the air faster. He built a temple of speed in the 1950s that became the epicenter of the drag racing universe. But by the late 80s, Dean was gone, and the brand was gathering dust, a relic of a bygone era of greasers and malt shops.

Enter Shige Suganuma.

Shige is the central character in this story, the high priest of the Yokohama show. A Yokohama native with a voracious appetite for American culture, he didn't just buy a brand; he bought a mythology. Along with his partner in crime, Chico Kodama—who runs the US operations from the original "Moon Equipment" shop in California—Shige revived Mooneyes. But he did something more profound than just selling parts. He exported the idea of California to Japan, and then he built a stage to show the world that Japan could do it better.

Sociologists probably have a dry, academic term for what happened next, but I call it the "Cool Feedback Loop."

1. Phase One: American GIs bring hot rods and motorcycles to Japan in the post-war era.

2. Phase Two: Japanese kids, obsessed with the forbidden fruit of rebellion, start copying the styles. They study grainy black-and-white photos in imported magazines like archaic texts.

3. Phase Three: The Japanese trait of shokunin (master craftsmanship) kicks in. They don't just copy the bikes; they perfect them. They fix the oil leaks the Americans learned to live with. They polish the engine cases until you can see your own soul reflected in the aluminum. They take the "chopper"—a fundamentally sloppy, dangerous American invention—and turn it into a piece of precision engineering.

4. Phase Four: The Americans notice. By the early 2000s, builders in California are looking at Japanese magazines to see what's cool. The "Japanese Style"—narrow, bobbed, vintage tires, zero extraneous bullshit—becomes the dominant aesthetic globally.

The Yokohama Hot Rod Custom Show is the particle accelerator where this collision happens. It is where the student becomes the master, and the master comes to take notes.

The 33rd Annual Show: 40 Years of Deuce Factory

Every HCS has a theme, a specific flavor to guide the curation. For 2025, the theme is "40 Years of Hot Rodding in Japan." This is a significant pivot. In the past, the themes often lionized American history. This year, Shige and the Mooneyes crew are looking inward, celebrating their own homegrown heroes.

The spotlight is on Shun Kasai and Deuce Factory Japan.

If Shige Suganuma is the promoter of this circus, Shun Kasai is its chief engineer. For four decades, Kasai has been the guy keeping the flame of the 1932 Ford alive in Japan. The "Deuce"—the '32 Ford—is the blank canvas of hot rodding. It is the Alpha and the Omega. In a country with some of the strictest vehicle inspection laws on the planet (the dreaded Shaken system), keeping a 90-year-old American hot rod road-legal is not just a hobby; it’s an act of civil disobedience.

Kasai didn't just build cars; he built a culture. He imported the parts, he taught the fabrication skills, he navigated the bureaucracy. The 2025 show floor features a special exhibit of Hot Rods ranging from the Model T era (1908) to 1934, all curated to honor Kasai’s legacy. These aren't just cars; they are survivors. They are machines that have survived the rust of the American Midwest, the shipping container ride across the Pacific, and 40 years of Tokyo traffic.

The Guest List: Royalty Arrives

The guest list for HCS2025 reads like a roll call for the modern masters of metal. Mooneyes flies these builders and their machines in from the States, treating them like visiting dignitaries. And in a way, they are. They are ambassadors of the torch and the grinder.

Dave Shuten and the Galpin Speed Shop

Dave Shuten is a guy who understands history. He runs the restoration program at Galpin Speed Shop in California, the place that famously restored Ed "Big Daddy" Roth's creations. Shuten is bringing a 1932 Ford Roadster.

I watched an interview with Shuten recently. He has that thousand-yard stare of a guy who has spent too many nights sanding body filler. "Japan," he said, "is the only place where people actually look at the car. In the US, people walk by, snap a photo for Instagram, and keep moving. In Yokohama, a guy will kneel down and stare at a suspension linkage for twenty minutes. They want to know why you used that bolt. They want to know the thought process."

Shuten’s Roadster is a masterclass in traditional styling. It’s not trying to reinvent the wheel; it’s trying to remind you why the wheel was beautiful in the first place. It represents the preservationist wing of the culture—the idea that these cars are historical documents that need to be treated with reverence.

Gary Royal and the ".38 Special"

Then you have Gary Royal from Beware Choppers. Gary is bringing a 1938 Harley-Davidson UL, a flathead motor that sounds like a tractor and pulls like a freight train. He calls it the ".38 Special."

Gary won the "Invited Builder" award at the Born Free show in California, which is basically the golden ticket to Yokohama. "I spent a year in the garage," Gary says. "Breathing grinding dust, ignoring my family, bleeding on this bike. And now I’m shipping it to Japan. It’s terrifying. The Japanese fans know more about 1938 Harley UL motors than I do. If I used the wrong washer, they’re going to know."

Gary’s bike is a "farm-fresh" chopper. It looks like it was discovered in a barn in 1968, but if you look closer, the fabrication is aerospace-grade. It’s the paradox of the modern chopper: it takes thousands of hours of work to make a bike look like you just threw it together.

Ryan Grossman and "Two Timer"

Ryan Grossman represents the NorCal style—long forks, high bars, skinny tires. He’s bringing a 1946 Knucklehead called "Two Timer." The Knucklehead is the holy grail of Harley engines, produced from 1936 to 1947. It’s a leaky, temperamental, beautiful piece of cast iron that looks like a clenched fist.

Grossman is a fabricator’s fabricator. He builds his own frames, his own forks, his own tanks. In a world of bolt-on parts, Grossman is forging his own path. His presence at HCS2025 signals that the "chopper" isn't dead; it’s just getting weirder and better.

Shinya Kimura: The Monk of Metal

And then there is Shinya. Shinya Kimura is, for my money, the most important motorcycle builder alive. He started Zero Engineering in Japan in the 90s, creating the "Zero Style"—low, gooseneck frames, springer forks, raw metal. He moved to Azusa, California, to open Chabott Engineering, seeking a quieter life where he could just build.

Shinya is bringing a 1983 Harley-Davidson XL1000 named "Rayo Negro."

Shinya doesn't build "show bikes." He builds living organisms. He hammers the aluminum fuel tanks by hand, leaving the hammer marks visible. He wants you to see the pain that went into the metal. "The show is a harmony," Shinya says, in that quiet, Zen-like way of his. "It is not about being the loudest. It is about how the machine fits the rider. To ride 'Rayo Negro' into Pacifico is to return home. My body is in California, but my spirit is always on the road to Yokohama."

Shinya’s inclusion is poetic. He is the bridge. He is the Japanese builder who conquered America, returning to the show that helped launch him, bringing a bike that merges both worlds.

The list goes on.

• The Neefus Brothers (Red Clouds Collective): Bringing a 1951 Triumph called "Golden Hour." This bike won Best in Show at Born Free. It’s a British bike, built in America, shown in Japan. Globalism at its finest.

• Jared Weems (Weems Motor Co.): Bringing a 1952 Triumph named "Ultor." Weems is obsessed with obscure British parts. He’s the guy hunting for a magneto cover from 1948 at 3 AM on eBay.

• Mike Davis (Big Chief Vintage): A legend in the vintage parts game, bringing a 1950 Triumph "The Pollywog."

The Zen Koan of Hot Rodding: Shizukani

Every great religion has its commandments. In Yokohama, the first commandment is: Shut the hell up.

This is the central tension of the HCS. Hot rods and choppers are, by definition, loud. They are machines designed to disturb the peace. But Japan runs on Wa—harmony. You do not disturb your neighbors. You do not cause a scene.

In 2013, the show almost died. The residents of the Minato Mirai district, tired of thousands of straight-pipe Harleys rattling their windows, filed complaints. The police stepped in. The venue threatened to pull the plug.

Shige Suganuma faced a crisis. He could have moved the show to some godforsaken parking lot in the countryside. Instead, he launched the most Japanese PR campaign in history: "Be Calm, Not Loud" (in Japanese: Shizukani).

It was a plea to the community. "If you love this culture," Shige said, "you must protect it by being quiet."

They banned motorcycle parking at the venue to discourage ride-ins. They lined the streets with staff holding signs that read SHIZUKANI and bowing to riders, asking them to kill their engines and coast in. And miraculously, it worked. The wildest, loudest, most rebellious bikers in Japan... listened. They respected the Wa.

Walking towards the venue in 2025, you still see the signs. You see grizzled bikers pushing their 800-pound machines the last block to avoid making noise. It’s a surreal display of collective responsibility. It proves that the "outlaw" biker image in Japan is often just cosplay; underneath the leather, there is still a deep-seated respect for social order.

The Ride-In: The Sound of Freedom

The highlight of the show—the moment that justifies the ticket price—is the Ride-In.

At 9:00 AM, the doors open. The lights dim. And then, the sound starts. Despite the "Be Calm" rule outside, inside the hall, the guests are encouraged to make noise.

Shinya Kimura fires up "Rayo Negro." It coughs, sputters, and then settles into that uneven, loping idle that sounds like a heartbeat skipping. He rides it down the center aisle, the crowd parting like the Red Sea. The smell of exhaust fills the hall instantly. It’s visceral. A custom bike is just a sculpture until you hear it run. When it moves, it becomes a living thing.

Gary Royal follows on the ".38 Special." The flathead motor has a different tone—deeper, flatter, more guttural. He revs it, and the sound waves physically hit you in the chest.

This is the communion. This is why we came. To feel the vibration in the floorboards. To see the smoke rise to the ceiling. For a few minutes, the Pacifico Yokohama isn't a convention center; it’s a drag strip in 1955.

Into the Night: Sho, Noge and the Aftermath

The show ends at 5:00 PM. The awards are handed out. The "Best of Show" winners are crowned, usually followed by confused bowing and awkward handshakes. 

In the underground parking garage in the belly of the Pacifico convention centre we run into Sho Nagasaki, a retired product designer who has focused his keen eye for form on his 1939 Ford Roadster hot rod. It's incredibly clean. Matte black onto of blood red leather interior. Just the basics. Nothing showy. Which matches his effortless cool energy while he sucks on some Marlboros.

We leave the shiny façade of Minato Mirai and head for Noge.

Noge is the drinking district. It’s a warren of narrow alleys, lantern-lit izakayas, and bars that seat maybe six people max. This is where the builders go to decompress.

I find myself in a small joint specializing in Horumon—grilled offal. This is "nose-to-tail" eating before it was a hipster trend. We are grilling pig intestines, liver, and hearts over charcoal. The smoke in the restaurant is thicker than the smoke at the car show.

I’m sitting next to a builder from Australia and a pinstriper from Nagoya. We drink Highballs—whisky and soda—from frothy mugs. We eat the rubbery, savory intestines dipped in spicy miso garlic sauce. It is glorious.

"The thing about Yokohama," the Australian says, gesturing with a skewer of liver, "is that it ruins you for other shows. You go to a show in the States or Europe, and it feels... sloppy. Here, everything is considered. Even the dirt is curated."

We stumble out of the Horumon shop and into a Jazz Kissa—a listening bar. The walls are lined with thousands of vinyl records. The bartender, a man in a vest who takes his job very seriously, is playing a deep cut of Miles Davis. The volume is perfect. The lighting is low.

This is the connection. Jazz and Hot Rods. Both are American inventions that were taken by the Japanese, deconstructed, studied, and elevated to high art. In this tiny bar in Noge, sipping Japanese whisky, listening to American jazz, after a day of looking at Japanese hot rods, the circle feels complete.

The Comedown

Why does this matter? Why fly 5,000 miles to look at old cars?

Because the Yokohama Hot Rod Custom Show is a reminder that passion still exists. In a world that is increasingly digital, automated, and sanitized, HCS is a celebration of the analog. It celebrates things that are difficult. It is difficult to build a chopper. It is difficult to drive a 1932 Ford in Tokyo traffic. It is difficult to pinstripe a helmet by hand.

But the Japanese builders—and the international guests who join them—do it anyway. They do it because it feeds something in the human soul that an iPhone app never will.

The 33rd Annual Yokohama Hot Rod Custom Show wasn't just an event. It was a statement. It was a declaration that as long as there is gasoline to burn and metal to bend, there will be people crazy enough to turn it into art.