06.12.2007
MY LIFE IN GIGS
FROM MUSIC FESTIVALS IN THE UK TO PRODUCTION NIGHTS IN TINY MAKATI BARS, MARGARITA GOMEZ TELLS US ABOUT HER LOVE OF GIG-GOING
HUMBLE BEGINNINGS
I am horrified. All this time, I thought that the first gig I ever went to was the now-legendary Ultra Storm at Araneta Coliseum back in 1987, featuring The Rage, The AMO, and The Dawn. No. It all went down a year before, when my sister took 12-year-old me to Kalesa Bar for a night out with her gal pals. My first experience of live music was at the hands of a show band. I lost my gig-virginity to Side A.
Neither of these shows changed my life. I’d like to claim that watching Teddy Diaz play triggered an unquenchable need to fill my nights with electrifying musical performances. Not at all, though that was completely my fault: I was too busy worrying about whether or not my blind date liked me to pay much attention to the band. The music didn’t stand a chance.
POP GOES THE GIRL
It took me years to form my own musical identity. First, I had to get past the music of my dad and my sister. Second, I had to get over pop radio. My big-deal live music moment of these years was the Swing Out Sister concert. Swing Out Sister, for God’s sake! I was singing along to EBTG and Basia when, a few kilometers north of my sheltered college ass, a little band called the Eraserheads was writing “Ligaya.” Sadly, it took me over a decade to even realize that.
The Sting concert in 1994 coincided with my eighth month of pregnancy. Fuelled by an early obsession with The Police, I queued for hours to get into the stadium. I perched my whale-self atop a rickety rattan chair for a better view. I got contractions from the volume of the bass. I briefly considered naming my son-to-be Gordon. I wept uncontrollably at the end of the concert. This was it. This was what live music was supposed to do. But I dismissed that night as a one-off, one of those once in a lifetime moments you tell your kids and grandkids about.
MAD FOR IT
In 1996, my default emotion was anger, and I wasn’t alone. Radio and MTV were flooded with snarling post-grunge music. My then sister-in-law introduced me to Weekends Live at The Atrium in time to catch the end of Karl Roy’s turn with Advent Call and the early days of Razorback. I’d go home from these gigs with ringing ears and whiplash, but I embraced the pain like a nun cuddling up to her hair shirt. It was over all too soon. I think they shut the place. Maybe sis-in-law started raving and I wasn’t brave enough to go find a new rock club without a guide. I contented myself with listening to music way too loud and engaging in self-destructive behavior. Smart.
My musical world exploded when I moved to London in 2000. There was world music at jazz clubs, symphonies performed in the parks. There were buskers in the underground. Radiohead played a two-and-a-half hour concert in a tent in Wales. Bands I only ever dreamed of watching were lined up to play the summer festivals where we were all stoned and muddy and incredibly happy to be with 25,000 likeminded people. I had never felt so free. The music was all around me. Lamp posts and walls were papered with posters for concerts. CD stores carried an incredible variety of artists. And I had finally met people who loved the music like I did. Nights were spent sitting on the floor in a mess of CDs, drinking rum and trading animated stories about songs and albums and concerts. It felt like home.
COMING HOME
But that ended too. I returned to Manila at the end of ’01, heartbroken. I had lost my musical tribe among other losses. I floated around, friendless for a while. And then I met the most wonderful and exciting people (you know who you are). They were passionate, no, rabid about music. Many wonderful conversations and mix CDs later, they introduced me to the blistering local music scene.
I was like a woman possessed. A missed gig was an irreplaceable loss. I guess I was assuming that, like many things in my life, it wouldn’t last. I’ve calmed down a lot since then.
Three years have made for some good stories. I won T-shirts and tiaras, sang forehead to forehead with rock royalty, found my name in liner notes. I met the man I want to spend the rest of my life with. One thing is certain, after running the gig-going gamut, I can honestly say that nothing excites me like a live set in a small packed bar—feet away from my musical heroes, heart bursting with emotion, throat sore from singing, feet aching from dancing. I lost myself to the local music scene. I only regret that it took me so long.
Admit One Prom Night pic by Gani Garcia. All other pictures by Bernie Sim, taken from the Ninja Kiss site.
Margarita Gomez is an editor extraordinaire, frequent gig-goer and sometime bass player. Regulars of the Admit One production night know her as Prom Queen from the Blast Prom di Past: Mga Kantang Pang-Mirrorball gig.
