Owner’s Review: the Ōtsuka Lōtec No. 8
I occasionally have a hard time understanding why some brands are so popular. It’s not that they don’t deserve to do well, but I see brands that don’t seem to be doing anything much different from their peers, let alone special, yet are many times more hyped. Why does one Calatrava-esque watch with Breguet numerals outperform another? But with Ōtsuka Lōtec, I get it. In fact, I don’t just get it, I’ve fallen for it. Then again, Ōtsuka Lōtec isn’t like any other brand.
Jiro Katayama, the brand’s founder and lead designer/watchmaker, works from a different playbook. Where other brands pursue finishing and neoclassical elegance, he seeks beauty in the raw and industrial. Inspired by analog machines, measuring instruments, gauges, and the industrial design of the pre-digital age, there is something rough and unintentional (though completely intentional) about his watches.
Considering he taught himself watchmaking in a workshop nestled in Tokyo, there is a certain logic to this aesthetic. It’s not born in the farm-strewn hills of Jura, but rather in one of the densest cities in the world. Nor is his education from a lineage of tradition. You won’t find perlage or anglage; surfaces are typically raw, brushed metal, and rarely painted, with only the occasional red highlight.
While potentially a love-it-or-leave-it aesthetic, it has resonated deeply with the watch community, touching on a pure joy of mechanics. But, there is more to it as well, as his watches go beyond looks. Built on Miyota movements, each model displays time in an alternative fashion, utilizing in-house-developed complications. These, at times, employ unconventional solutions, such as using a guitar string as a spring. It’s this bit of watchmaking that takes the brand from one with simply a unique design perspective to one with horological prowess as well, all at approachable price points* thanks to the Miyota base calibers. *I’m talking retail, not resale.
Owner’s Review: the Ōtsuka Lōtec No. 8
Stainless Steel
Miyota 90S5 w/ In-House Module
Gray/Open
NA
Sapphire
Rubber
30m
31 x 47.7mm
10.8mm
24mm
Push-Pull
Yes
$6200
This latter point came to a head last year when the No. 9 was announced. A fully in-house creation, the No. 9 featured a tourbillon, a jump hour, rewinding minutes (essentially a retrograde disk), piston power reserve, and a sonnerie au passage (hourly gong). It took fans by surprise by debuting several new features, including a rectangular case, a shaped crystal, a tourbillon, and a six-figure price tag. While an impressive display of creativity and engineering, the concern was that the brand would move upmarket.
Our collective concerns were dissuaded a few months later when the No. 8 was announced. Bearing some similarities to the No. 9, yet also being completely different, it felt as though the lessons from one watch informed the other. Thankfully, however, the No. 8 was back to a Miyota base, thus priced in line with the rest of the catalog and, logically, more available than a fully in-house model.
That all aside, though every model in the Lotec catalog is quite different from the next, and quite radical in general, the No. 8 felt like the greatest departure thus far. Inspired by the analog mixing consoles found in recording studios, specifically the famous Abbey Road studio, it combines an unusual case shape with a striking crystal, a unique set of complications, and a partial dial that feels like it’s growing out of the movement. Though all of Mr. Katayama’s designs are challenging, this felt like the most so far.
As a fan of the brand’s aesthetic to begin with, and an owner of the No. 7.5, I was taken with the design at first glance, but it was when I read about the complications that I knew I had to have one. In one sense, the No. 8 is a regulator, separating the hours, minutes, and seconds displays; something I love. But it goes much further than that. All decentralized, each is displayed by a different method. The seconds are via a disk, which is the most straightforward, though there is more to it than meets the eye. The minutes are retrograde, read via a sliding indicator. Finally, the hours are told with a large hand, but there’s a trick here as well: the hand doesn’t crawl, it jumps at the top of the hour.
The idea of a “jump hour regulator” has been on my mind for a while, but such watches are very rare. Frank Muller made one in the early 2000s, and currently, Klanic has one in the works, as does Interim Lamb, another Japanese indie. While there are likely a couple of others, they are few and far between. The closest I’ve come in my collection is the Habring2 Josef, which is a regulator with jump seconds. Right mechanism, wrong hand. Similarly, watches with different methods of displaying the time per unit are highly uncommon, with the most famous likely being the Chronoswiss Delphis, which claims to have been the first to do so in 1996, featuring a jump hour, retrograde minutes, and traditional seconds.
Seeing these concepts come together not just in a single watch, but one that is wholly unique in its design, by an indie brand, and one that is not European at that, makes the No. 8 a unicorn, at least in my book. Of course, strange complications and aesthetics are all well and good on paper or in a social media post, but how are they in person? Well, I’ve been lucky enough to have been able to add a No. 8 to my collection, and in the last few weeks, I’ve hardly taken it off, so here’s what I think.
Case
There is nothing conventional about the No. 8, starting with the case. Measuring 31mm wide and 47.7mm lug-to-lug and 10.8mm in height, the No. 8 is a long and flat, yet somewhat narrow rectangle, at least from above. From the side, the unique shape is visible. Rather than being a box, the areas of the case above and below the dial opening taper down toward the wrist, creating large, solid metal surfaces that eventually lead to small lugs. The entire case is brushed vertically for an even sheen all around.
An immediate point of departure: though rectangular watches have had a bit of a resurgence in recent years, they are typically traditional and dressy in appearance. Yet, there is something blunt and purposeful about the shape of the No. 8, evoking the machinery that inspired it. Furthering this, the top edges of the case are rounded with a large radius, giving the feel of sheet metal molded over a form.
The most eye-catching feature of the case is the crystal. A wide rectangle that takes up most of the flat area of the top of the case, the left side ends as one would expect, with some material between its edge and the case’s side. The right side, however, doesn’t just end; the crystal takes a turn, creating a radiused corner that matches the case’s, then drops a couple of millimeters, ending about 40% of the way down the case’s side.
This is a very complex crystal. It’s sapphire, which shouldn’t be a surprise, but given the shape, it must have been milled from a single block. Additionally, because it doesn’t rest on a flat surface, sealing it is likely trickier, which could explain the 30m water resistance. With that said, as a visual feature of the watch No. 8, it truly stands out, adding to its overall exotic appeal.
Finally, the crown of the No. 8 is found coming out at an angle on the right side, attached to a tube that passes into the case. Once again, very industrial in its aesthetic, the crown features a knurled edge for grip and an undercut that makes it easy to grasp while also creating clearance between the crown and case. While functional and a necessity, given the angle and the way it breaks from the case’s clean, straight lines, it is a bit jarring. Of course, Ōtsuka Lōtec watches are some of the few for which “jarring” isn’t necessarily out of character, but I can’t help but want to see a version with a hidden crown.
Dial
“Dial-space” is quickly becoming a new bit of go-to jargon in my writing and thinking. Rather than just describing surfaces, it talks about the three-dimensional realm in which the “dial” typically sits. As movement and dial begin to merge, what counts as “dial” becomes more abstract and must be considered from angles beyond straight down. It also has to include objects that might not typically be considered part of a “dial” at all. Regardless, when I see a watch that requires the term “dial space,” I get excited, as it generally means there will be a notable level of complexity. Perhaps “dialrama” would be a term as well…
This digression is all to preface that the No. 8 doesn’t feature a typical dial. Rather, the “dial-space” features significant elevation, three-dimensional indicators, and a view into the module, which includes thematic elements as well as gears, screws, etc. Clearly, about 75% of the space is covered by a surface, but rather than feeling like a classic dial set atop a movement, it feels integrated within the movement.
There are a few factors at play here: first, the surface connects to only one edge of the opening and does not fully cover the module below. The top and bottom edges are set a couple of millimeters from the side, exposing components, and there are four large screws that appear to both attach the dial to the movement directly and serve as standoffs. Finally, on the right side of this surface is part of the minute index, a semicircle that sits at a higher level, attached with additional screws.
It all comes together to feel gauge-like, not as an aesthetic cover but as a necessary output from the contraption underneath. Furthering this technical aesthetic, the surface, which is a neutral gray tone, almost like primer, is over-crowded with numerals, lines, and characters in both Kanji and English. This is an example of that “unintentional” aesthetic at play. It’s chaotic and busy, but in the context, exactly what it should be.
The exposed module composes the remainder of the dial space. Not your typical open-dial, the menagerie of plates, gears, screws, and other mechanical elements creates a dense, industrial cityscape. Had this been another brand, those components would likely have been finished in a typical fashion: brushed surfaces, polished edges, etc. On the No. 8, they appear raw, with visible tooling marks. Going a step beyond just exposing these components, the nifty crystal design allows light in from the side, further illuminating them. Additionally, one gets the rare view of the side of some of these pieces.
As for the actual telling of time, while there is some disorder to get used to, everything is clearly displayed. The hour index takes up the bulk of the gray surface and is impossible to miss, thanks to the oversized “knob” hand. One of the literal elements of the watch, should you care to see it this way, is the hour hand, which is a reference to the knobs found on the vintage audio equipment that inspired the overall design. In the context of this little machine, there is also a narrative to be had, with this serving as a kind of selector.
I don’t really think about that when looking at it, though. For me, the large, sculpted metal form is just a unique and coherent design in the context. And given that you can’t miss it, it highlights the coolest complication the watch features: the jump-hour hand. Always perfectly aligned with one of the lines leading to an hour numeral, it’s impossible to misread.
The minutes are then read on the right side via a “fader” selector that is on a retrograde track. A very odd indicator, you can actually read it on two indices, one on the raised semi-circle mentioned before, and the other just beneath. Given that this crams 60 minutes into a relatively small 120-degree arc, it’s easiest to read to the nearest 5-minute interval, with some estimating in between. It’s novel, and it’s functional enough, though it lacks the obvious precision of the jump-hour.
Finally, a small seconds disk is visible through a notch at the top of the gray surface. With black lines on a silver surface, it’s hard to see, but it only indicates that the watch is running. Despite being nearly invisible, the disk has some curious elements. First, it’s running counterclockwise, and second, it makes one rotation every 90-seconds. The former you can see with your eyes in good lighting, the second is impossible to perceive, as there is nothing marking a start/end point.
The final element worth mentioning is the flywheel in the upper-right corner of the module, evoking a tape reel. This component is part of the retrograde complication. The reel turns ever so slightly throughout the hour as the retrograde mechanism builds up energy, releasing it with a dramatic rotation. Like the hour knob, this is a detail you can see as either a reference to audio equipment or simply a unique design.
There is actually more to talk about, such as the micro bearing that cuts through the “3” numeral, and acts as, I believe, the pivot point of the minute hand. The world’s smallest bearing at 1.5mm, it’s really only observable with a loupe, but the fact that it’s there is cool enough. There is also a slightly larger bearing at the center of the flywheel. It’s a lot to take in and in a relatively compact area, but it works. The No. 8 doesn’t look like it’s trying to be something it isn’t, even if it’s inspired by something else. Perhaps this is because it wasn’t an aesthetic applied to an existing layout, but a module that defined a layout that created the aesthetic.
Movement
It’s one thing to have a custom module made for your watch, but it’s another to create your own (to be clear, the former is still impressive). This is Ōtsuka Lōtec’s special sauce, so to speak. Jiro Katayama designs and engineers the Ōtsuka Lōtec modules in his own workshop, which are then manufactured by Precision Watch Tokyo, a company founded by the esteemed Japanese watchmaker, Hajime Asaoka. It’s the matchup of Katayama’s ingenuity and Asaoka’s pedigree that gives the watches an X-factor of horology that is hard to come by at the price point.
As far as the No. 8 goes, like the other models, save the in-house No. 9, the base movement is a Miyota, specifically the relatively thin 90S5. The module itself comprises 62 components, including the two ball bearings already mentioned. In my experience thus far, the watch has kept accurate time. Of course, this isn’t a watch you really read to the minute, so it allows for looser accuracy. The reason I even mention this is the two mechanisms in the module and how they might affect the watch’s accuracy.
The brand has already noted that the power reserve is 32 hours, down from the typical 42 hours. Jumping and retrograde mechanisms require additional power to function, and depending on how that energy is built up and released, they can cause sudden power, amplitude, and accuracy drops. This is why watches like the A. Lange & Söhne Zeitwerk utilizes remontoirs to store the power required for the instantaneous jumping of its disks, as well as feature constant force escapements.
In terms of operation, the No. 8 is standard, except for one caveat: set the time forward only. This is not uncommon on watches with jump and/or retrograde complications. While it’s easy enough to do, there are some drawbacks. As the power reserve is low, I have found myself resetting it often, and if the hour is off by only one or two, you have to cycle through the rest to get back to the desired time. Once again, not a big issue, but it’s annoying, and I can’t help but feel like the module is more fragile than your average watch, so I don’t want to press my luck (this is likely just paranoia).
The Experience
There is something strange about wearing watches with jumping or retrograde indicators. They appear incredibly still, building literal and figurative tension. You find yourself looking at the watch, not to tell the time directly, but to gauge how long until the energy is released, when the animation that is otherwise lacking occurs all at once. Of course, you can’t always catch this moment since it is instantaneous, leading to a cycle of amusement and mild disappointment.
And this is definitely my experience thus far with the No. 8, but other watches as well, like the Bel Canto, and No. 7.5. When you look at the No. 8, only the minute indicator shows that time has elapsed, but as it’s moving across 120 degrees, there is less travel than on a standard watch, thus motion. If you’re very perceptive, you might be aware of the positioning of the reel, which is slowly rotating. I’ve yet to really notice it. Technically, there is constant motion coming from the seconds disk, but it really is quite difficult to see, especially in harsher lighting.
Wandering hours, like those by Urwerk, suffer a similar predicament. You often see animations showing them at many times normal speed to illustrate their complex motions, but in real time, they are largely still. This certainly qualifies as a champagne problem. Nevertheless, with the No. 8, there is a moment of dramatic action to catch every hour. The hour hand jumps to the next hour, the minute indicator flies back to zero, and the flywheel does a quick spin. It’s actually hard to take in all at once, as focusing on any given element can take your attention from another. And should you miss it entirely and be in a quiet space, you will hear a sort of slide-and-click from the retrograde minutes, alerting you that you’ll have to wait another hour.
As for wearing the No. 8, I have to say I am pleasantly surprised by how enjoyable it is. I don’t have any other rectangular watches in my collection, and I only briefly had an Orient Masquerade many years ago. The challenge with rectangular cases is that their dimensions simply don’t translate to their equivalent on a round watch. So, having only seen a handful of images of the No. 8 on wrists prior to ordering, I had no idea how it would wear. And given that it measured 31mm wide and 47.7mm lug-to-lug with 24mm lugs, the latter dimension being the most concerning, I accepted the fact that it might be odd.
Luckily, it fits my 6.75” wrist quite well. 31mm sounds small, and as a diameter, it is, but for a rectangle, it comes off fairly wide. Combined with the 24mm lug width, something I typically dread, it creates an appealing line around the wrist. Just as an aside, I am very sensitive to lug widths both in terms of proportions and the resulting feel of the wide strap/bracelet. To me, 22mm lugs don’t belong on watches under 42mm, and 24mm straps don’t belong on watches under 44mm. Apparently, this rule (ok, idiosyncrasy on my part) is only true for round watches. Though wide, the 24mm lug balances well with the 31mm case, especially given the design’s industrial ruggedness.
The 24mm rubber strap, which quickly becomes 20mm via a sharp taper, was a good choice, and since I have no other 24mm straps, it’s also my only choice. Though I prefer leather to rubber for comfort, the rubber works with the materiality of the case and dial. It has also been comfortable enough so far, though I’ve yet to wear it on one of NYC’s scorching summer days (when, frankly, everything is uncomfortable).
Ōtsuka Lōtecs aren’t easy to classify by the categories we’re often limited to. Thanks to their materials and finishes, they most closely align with sports watches, yet they aren’t meant to be. Clearly, they aren’t dress watches either, though I dare say, wearing one with a suit would make a statement. I’ve found that, aesthetically, they most closely align with vintage watches, given their rawness, and the style that goes with them, which is convenient given the number of chore coats, pairs of jeans, and leather boots I own.
Conclusion
The Ōtsuka Lōtec No. 8 is priced at ¥990,000, or about $6,200, making it the priciest model other than the six-figure No. 9. $6,200 is not a small chunk of change, and it’s certainly the most expensive Miyota-powered watch I am aware of. A Miyota 90S5 costs under $100, the watch doesn’t feature laborious hand finishing, or artisanal elements like an enamel dial. Yes, there is a complicated module, but what could that really cost in manufacturing and assembly? If you are looking for a watch where the price is clearly linked to the sum of its parts, this isn’t it. With that said, I happily, and without hesitation, purchased it.
A watch like the No. 8 must be viewed as a work of art, and buying it means owning a piece of art and supporting the artist (for a great read on the idea of “patronage” in watch collecting, check this out). This isn’t for the spec warriors and value propositionists (real word?) out there. It’s a watch whose value is in its design, engineering, uniqueness, and the ingenuity of its creator. And there is another element as well: supporting a sort of “outsider indie” culture (you saw it first here).
The watches of Ōtsuka Lōtec are so striking because they don’t seem to directly reference the world of horology we readily consume. There are no mid-century or neoclassical queues, no typical techniques to measure against, and not even categories to classify them by. They are the creations of someone who is self-taught, and while I dare say we’ll start to see watches following in his footsteps, they are, at this moment, completely distinct. Ōtsuka Lōtec
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