12.07.2006
TOP 10 PINOY ROCK LYRICISTS OF THE PAST DECADE
FROM ELY BUENDIA TO AIA DE LEON, FROM JACK SIKAT TO VIN DANCEL: HERE ARE THE POETS OF PINOY ROCK, THE ONES WHOSE WORDS MAKE US LAUGH, CRY, FUME AND RUMINATE
by Aldus Santos
Stumbling upon an article by Michael Faber in Product on lyrics, I was compelled to once again hear Mass and sing my first confession in twenty-odd years—I have sinned. I have limblessly, spinelessly succumbed to the “poetry” of much of rock music, the format that is finger-pointed as the sole harbinger of auditory literature. The poesy inherent in guitar-based music, after all, has been taken as a given and embraced as what some sociologists might call a “taken-for-granted reality.” Paul Simon, or, more seriously, Leonard Cohen and Patti Smith, to illustrate, have been hailed as poet laureates of vinyl. Faber, however, valorously questions these “usual suspects” of American rock-cum-verse, undressing people like Jim Morrison—who, anyway, likes undressing, period—and Bob Dylan as only occasionally comparable to published poets such as Robert Frost or Dylan Thomas (from whom, incidentally, Robert Zimmerman took his adopted stage-name).
In a dwarfish effort to approximate Faber’s gargantuan piece, I will attempt not to embarrass myself by drafting my own Pinoy version. Now. I do not harbor delusions that this is going to be the list to consult. In the first place, there are limiters: people who play in the umbrella “rock” (pop, punk, experimental, or otherwise) format, people who have released records from the mid-Nineties (maybe 1995) to the present, people who are unpublished in book form (for reasons of insisting on the gulf separating published poetry and its more temporal blood relative, rock lyrics; hence the absence of, say, Lourd Ernest de Veyra, who has two brilliant books of poems out, Subterranean Thought Parade and Shadowboxing in Headphones), and, perhaps the biggest limiter of all: I’m not necessarily Michael Faber or Simon Frith, nor am I Isagani Cruz or Jimmy Abad. What remains clear to me, and, I hope, true for most rock fans of this era as well, is that the glorious past decade is not lacking in stellar versifiers. Here are the ten lyricists I admire the most, those that rise above the muddle of mere wordsmiths, in no particular order but my own approval (which basically amounts to a hill of beans):
1.
Ely Buendia. The output of the Nineties’ unsuspecting pop-rock Messiah is a fine mixture of linear narrative (“Magasin,” “Ang Huling El Bimbo”), gobbledygook (“Kananete”), and breezy lyricism (“Hula,” “Palamig”). Though range is not everything, Buendia negotiates these alternate modes quite effectively, tearing down walls and walls of rock-lyric canon behind him. Though often flawed and awkward in his syntax, the ex-Eraserhead’s penchant for phonetic play (“Napa-este ang peste/ nagkanda-letse-letse”—“Kananete”), street-cred (“Hanggang kailan maghihintay, ako ay nabuburat na”— “Pare Ko”), vague referents (“Akala ko’y pumasok, sablay”—“Maselang Bahaghari”), as well as moments where his Dadaist prose takes hold (“Pagdating ng panahon,/ buksan mo ang iyong kahon/ ng hula”—“Hula”; “Ako’y sinasabon,/ at siya’y bumubula,”—“Bulakbol”) make his words an aural poetry that is far from natural, hardly spiritual, but is very well-grounded in reality.
2.
Cynthia Alexander. The lyrics of this fine singer-guitarist, when portrayed on the printed page, will perhaps come closest to being considered text-book poetry—and I only mean that in the best manner possible. Equal parts Marianne Moore, Elizabeth Bishop, and Joni Mitchell, Alexander’s verse is simultaneously
casual and
causal, hinting at a well-studied submissiveness to the value of ambiguous and replaceable meaning (“On the island of my senses,/ you have lost your shape./ The shadow of leaves fallen./ A bed of limbs in stalemate./ A crash of muted waves/ in diminishing dimension”—“U & I”; “A fragile pair,/ we are beyond compare:/ a breaking glass,/ a cactus chair”—“Malaya”). Alexander’s lyrics are reminiscent of Imagist poems, where clarity of expression is relayed through precise visual objects. Keep your copies of
Rippingyarns and
Comet’s Tail in a warm, dry place. They will be your armor against the devil when he comes, clutching pogi-rock records.
3.
Dong Abay. Abay’s strength, when he was still in Yano, was clarity—and the commentary that comes with his spunky clear-headedness. His anger made us throw fits, his pent-up surrender made us rise up in arms. Rhyme does not come off as a cheap, backwards tool with Abay, and his lexical precision is enviable (“Una akong naligtas/ noong kami’y ma-teargas/ Buti’t nakaiwas/ sa mga ahas at mga Hudas”—“Tsinelas”). Irony, however, is Abay’s
coup de grace (“Ang bigat-bigat ng trabaho./ Ang gaan-gaan ng suweldo”—“McJo”; “Ako ay Virgo, siya ay Scorpio./ Ako ay baboy, siya ay unggoy./ Magkakatuluyan kayo/ ng kasintahan mo./ Ang kaarawan ninyo,/ kompatibol ang numero”—“Hula”). The former Yano/Pan singer, who has now since gone solo, is hardly unaccustomed to the literary world, though. The postgraduate writing background, however, and needless to say, is mere cherry. Abay has really got a gift, and that’s putting it lightly.
4.
Rico Blanco. Though given to occasional moments of clichés and reasonless rhymes, Rivermaya’s head honcho remains a memorable hookster. Blanco has mastered the art of the sing-along chorus, and, moreover, what kind of language to use along with it. Stronger songs hint at an organic unity that is safe yet inviting, and his loyalty to guiding metaphors is immense (“Ika’y matutumba./ Ika’y masasawi.// Mabibilangan ka,/ ngunit babangon kang muli”—“Alab ng Puso (Tagumpay)”; “Malapit na akong matunaw/ sa init ng iyong ulo.// Muntikan pa ‘kong masugatan/ sa talas ng pagtitig mo”—“’Wag na Init Ulo, Baby”). For his concise lyricism that’s as memorable as good ad copy, one can forgive Blanco’s few sins (read: “A Love to Share” and “Sunday Driving”).
5.
Aia de Leon. In her English pieces, the Imago singer is phrasal and impressionistic. In Filipino, de Leon becomes a lady-bard with the upright confidence of a pretty doomsayer (“Tama bang aminin na nating may taning/ ‘tong pag-ibig natin?// Dakila man, walang kasaysayang kakapit/ sa bulag na pag-ibig”—“Taning”). Her coded writing is sumptuous, giving much and holding back at the same time. De Leon’s verses are, arguably, only a stone’s throw away from being a teenage Anne Sexton (“You can finger laces on your curtains./ Finger your prints on the wall./ You can do anything./ But you can't do me”—“Do”). “Taralets,” it should be noted, is another dimension altogether. It’s a different animal that’s lost in the wrong zoo. Anne Sexton took breaks, too, you know.
6.
Vin Dancel. Mr. Indie’s legacy remains despite the dissolution of Twisted Halo. The elder Dancel’s handle on vagaries (i.e., random change) is rich and overpowering, typically starting off tender and progressing into madness (“Falling, breaking into pieces./ I’m drowning./ I’m choking on the thesis”—“Breakable”). His handle on suspended animation, moreover, is comparable to hymns or sung prayers (“Minsan pa, hagkan natin ang umaga—/ paraisong nakabinbin sa isang sulok ng dilim”—“Hiram”). Dancel’s bouts with sentimentality are also doggedly masculine, repressing the painful literal and resorting to shaded references for emotional survival (“It stains the sheets but pays the rent./ Is it bad?// Touch me./ Touch me, please”—“36”).
7.
Jack Sikat. Sikat may perhaps appear as a surprise inclusion, even a questionable one, being a staple figure of Eighties punk.
Dekada, Ethnic Faces’ mainstream outing, however, came out in 1995, which is right up this list’s alley. Anyway. Sikat’s deadpan baritone is a perfect vehicle for his dry word-choice and terse statements (“Bigyan mo ‘ko ng buhay./ Patay na naman ako”—“Ubos-Oras”). His attempts at metaphor are invariably left suspended, unresolved, resulting in an almost-comical dead-end (“Kumbaga sa bowling, ikaw ay ten-pin”—“Bowling”) that proves to be anything but “funny.”
8.
Jazz Nicolas. The jolly big-boned man behind the Itchyworms’ drumkit is a balladeer of the highest order. I guess it’s necessary to say that by “ballad,” I mean “a rhythmic saga of a past affair, which may be heroic, romantic, or satirical, and almost inevitably catastrophic” (thank you, Wikipedia). Now, I don’t fully understand what Longinus’ theory on The Sublime was (I periodically dozed off in literary theory class), but I’ll go ahead and say this anyway: Nicolas’ lyrics approach The Sublime in practical—and almost comical—oxymorons (“Naninikip ang tiyan,/ nakatingin sa buwan.// Malayo ka’t wala nang magawa”—“Buwan”). Age-old paradoxes are also given a palatable “pop” spin in Nicolas’ hands, as with his reworking of the idea of
chiaroscuro (the play between light and dark) in “Antipara” (“Huwag kausapin kung ‘di kilala./ Paano mo malalaman kung wala/ kang antipara?”). If Beelzebub can disguise himself as a freshly powdered baby, genius could hide modestly behind a veneer of lyrical hilarity.
9.
Raimund Marasigan. The Marikina punkster began as an Eraserhead prankster, perfecting the tongue-in-cheek lyric until the insides of his cheeks were sore (“Lumapit-lapit para pagmasdan ang iyong bakuran./ Nagunaw ang planeta ng mga gintong halaman”— “Sino sa Atin?”). These days, as Sandwich hooligan, Marasigan, despite favoring the declarative over the figurative, is still lyrically exciting, employing, as always, his choice tool: the
kanto vernacular (“Sumayaw na parang asong ulol/ sa baho at tambol na lumilindol”—“Sugod”).
10.
Basti Artadi. I own the basic (read: popular) metal curriculum (Metallica’s
Metallica, Pantera’s
Vulgar Display of Power; etc.) but metal has not exactly been my cup of tea. Artadi’s lyrics for Wolfgang, however, made me stick it out with local metal and hard-rock for a bit (“And I see the opening before me,/ the womb to be no longer my home.// Toward the unknown contradictions,/ propel me.// I am kicking inside:/ feel me”—“Weightless”). Artadi approximates the subject at hand (the referent), pokes it with a ten-foot pole, moves back a couple of steps, squints at the carcass, and decides to leave things unsaid and merely hinted at: the oldest trick in the poetry chapbook, maybe, but used quite charmingly.
Again, subjectivity is in full throttle here. Your list—if you have one—may be totally dissimilar to mine. Heck, if I’d written this a day later while suffering from a debilitating hangover, Lito Camo might have made it.
Photos by Eric Fernandez and Richard Garcia.
Aldus Santos is the singer and chief songwriter of The Purplechickens. His first book of poems, Vocalese
, is out now from Likhanan, Inc. Please visit here for more details.
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