Pulse.ph : MUSIC + CULTURE
August 24th, 2007
ROCKING ON AFTER RICO’S GONE: THE THREE MEMBERS OF RIVERMAYA ARE RELEASING LOADS OF NEW MATERIAL, AND LOOKING FOR A NEW MEMBER… WHO COULD BE YOU!
August 23rd, 2007
Something for the 80s kids: the Daryl Hall interview on Pitchfork. Nice to see how sunny his disposition is these days. Maybe it’s because, after two or three decades, people have gone from being too cool to admit to liking Hall and Oates to acknowledging that, hey, some of this stuff is pretty good, and actually sort of influential. Daryl Hall on People Who Sample/Mash-Up his Music: “Once I do something it belongs to the world. Now, I like being paid obviously, but other than the credit, financial and — you know, real credit, I love it. Do whatever you want. Mess with me. It’s fair game.” Daryl Hall on Selling Out: “You can be Rod Stewart, and be Clive Davis’ dog, and have a career at the expense of your artistic soul. I have nothing but negative things to say about that, because I respect him as a singer, and I hate what he does. He sold his soul. And I take that personally.” Daryl Hall on Winning: “I’m into the change, I love it. I love the fact that the record companies are all going down. This is a personal triumph for me. I beat the record companies. Sony Music may go out of business, but I’m not going out of business. And Tower Records, I walked down the street six months ago and saw the boards on the walls, and I went, ‘I’m still here, and they’re gone.’”
August 22nd, 2007
WISHING I’M FINE: 10 SONGS FOR HEALING
Sometime in mid-June, my friend Kathy put together a playlist for her friends. I listened to it and felt embraced, comforted, as if it were raining outside and she provided me warmth. I told her it sounded like a playlist for healing and she admitted that it was. I’ve been thinking about healing the past few months, not really because I’m so broken and need to be healed, but because of this playlist. Music is such a strong medium that really brings back memories, so strong that I swear, I experience the exact same ranges of emotion when I hear particular songs. I’ve been broken before—by relationships, by lost career opportunities, by sprained ankles at the height of my dance career—and I’ve been healed by music. Similarly, there are songs that remind me of the hurt and suffering, that send me weeping uncontrollably by making me re-experience all that hurt and suffering again, but who wants a playlist of that? Read more…
August 18th, 2007
Mark, the last of the original Mayas
I’m transcribing Luis’ Rivermaya interview (I owe him money and this is payment in kind, haha) and spewing cola out my nose at this passage: Mike: History lang, si Mark nung pumasok siya sa Rivermaya, 17. So yung pumirma ng kontrata niya… Mark: Mommy ko. 17 ako nun eh, so that was 2001 no? Hehe, so that would make him 23? Yeah, right. I haven’t spoken to Mark in a long time, but listening to him talk on the recording reminds me of my earliest memories of this cute little kid who would hang out with my younger brother. They made a funny pair, Quincy was always getting into trouble (he and Nathan have both told me about this back-of-the-gym fistfight they had where they both won… depending on whoever was telling the story) and Mark was this quiet kid who kept a little turtle in his shirt pocket. I even remember seeing his first public performance, after getting a drum set as a gift two weeks earlier. He totally rocked, as if he didn’t just start drumming two weeks before, and for that holds a place in my heart as one of my favorite drummers of all time. I have to admit, I haven’t been much of a Rivermaya fan post Trip (which is my favorite Rivermaya album ever). But I also have to admit that I’m quite excited for this new turn of events. My brother Quincy is in the States right now, though he’s always bugging me to send him the “new Rivermaya!” The New Rivermaya! I have half the mind to tell him, “Speaking of the new Rivermaya, you should come home and audition…” No, my brother can’t sing worth shit. But wait for Luis’ interview, and you’ll see what I mean. It’s exciting, I tell you.
August 16th, 2007
One of the questions a music writer/ lover/ junkie dreads being asked is: what kind of music do you listen to? Partly because they know the person asking isn’t really interested in what they have to say, and partly because if they do start talking about music, it might take a day and a half and would involve colored-coded flow charts. It’s becoming more and more difficult to put bands into cut-and-dried categories. Rock, alternative, indie. Those genres don’t mean much these days, and are only used as umbrella categories for people unable to find the right words to describe the flavor of the month band. We divide them into new genres like emo, screamo, rap-metal, rap-rock, spaz-rock, spaz-jazz (okay, I made that last one up), but sometimes even that isn’t enough. California natives the Cold War Kids deftly avoid being pigeonholed by musical conventions by changing their sound on nearly every song on their debut full-length Robbers & Cowards. It could have easily been a messy affair, but Nathan Willett’s dramatic and over-the-top vocals tie the songs together. Willett has Jeff Buckley’s soaring voice as well as Jack White’s wailing and a little bit of Rufus Wainwright’s flair. And it’s his voice that’s the centerpiece of the band and sets them apart. Speaking of the White Stripes, it’s obvious that Cold War Kids are fans of the co-ed twosome. “Saint John” sounds like the White Stripes, down to the bluesy and slightly decrepit style. They also seem to be fans of Radiohead, with Willet channeling Yorke, especially on the song “God, Make Up Your Mind.” The best songs on Robbers & Cowards are the hip-shaker “Tell Me in the Morning,” which comes out strong and fun, and “Hang Me Up To Dry” lurches beautifully along with the piano and guitars framing Willett’s grating (but not unlikable) voice. “Pregnant” is Cold War Kids’ version of a lullaby and “Passing the Hat” is a tribute to a Middle Eastern burlesque (if there is such a thing). There’s a feeling though that the Kids probably kick ass when they play live and the record only gives a hint of how dynamic the band really is. Cold War Kids have produced an impressive debut album with an interesting if not an exactly original sound. But then again, if you’re going to copy someone it’s a good idea to copy from the best.
August 15th, 2007
PART FILIPINO, PART INDONESIAN, AND EVERY BIT THE YOUNG, OPTIMISTIC ARTIST, THIS FRESH NEW FACE HAS A GOOD SHOT AT SUCCESS WITH HER RADIO-FRIENDLY POP-ROCK.
August 13th, 2007
KJWAN AND VINA MORALES TRIUMPH AT THE ASEAN IKON FINALS
It’s official: the Philippines rocks. It all came down to three bands and three solo singers from three different countries. After months of local competitions between all the contestants — around twenty established acts from each country — the three countries participating in the first ASEAN Ikon contest sent one artist per category: Jaclyn Victor and OAG from Malaysia, Judika and Tahta from Indonesia, and Vina Morales and Kjwan from the Philippines. Each band and each solo singer performed two songs, and the final scores were determined by judging — there was no voting via cellphone, unlike the earlier stages of the competition. There were four judges for the finale: Mac Chew from Malaysia, Hetty Koes Endang from Indonesia, our very own Eugene Villaluz and Iskandar Mirza Ismail from Singapore. The winners for each category will receive trophies and US$25,000 as prizes. The ASEAN Ikon Finale was broadcast live last night at 9 PM on Channel 9. Unless you’re the sort of weirdo who starts reading an article before they even glance at the headline, you already know who took home the prize. Kjwan got the ASEAN Ikon competition off to a rousing start, being the first band to play. They brought the heaviest sound, with the hard-hitting, intense "Invitation" from their latest album — the other bands tended towards lighter, more pop fare. Tahta from Indonesia reminded me a bit of a J-Pop act, in both looks and sound, while OAG — who had pun-tastic song titles like "Beautifool" — displayed some Britpop influences, especially in their second number. But Kjwan proved themselves versatile as well, when they delivered the bouncy, playful and romantic "One Look" when it was time for their second song. In the end, that versatility may have been the leading factor in the Philippines’ victories last night. Up against Judika, a male solo singer with a repertoire of ballads, and Jaclyn Victor, a singer in the pop-diva style who won the Golden Prize at the 8th Shanghai Asia Music Awards in China, Vina Morales performed a soul-stirring vocal showoff number for her first song ("Pangako Sa Iyo") and a get-up-and-dance irresistible pop number for her second song. We here at Pulse.ph are very proud of the part we played in this chapter in Philippine — and ASEAN — musical history. Great big congratulations to Vina Morales and Kjwan, and to all of the Ikon participants! READ MORE ABOUT IKON PHILIPPINES HERE! Check out other IKON Pictures from the Artist Briefing, The Presscon, The First Round,,The Philippine Finals,The Semi-Finals, and The Post-Asean Win Airport Welcome
August 10th, 2007
SOMETHING VERY WRONG: ROBERT SMITH AND THE MALADJUSTMENT QUOTA
I arrived in Hong Kong in the perfect state to see a Cure concert: restless, lovelorn, and slightly unwashed. It was a day for an excess of eyeliner and melodrama. Yet after a maze of planes, trains, taxicabs and other logistical considerations, I found myself unsure of what to expect, kind of like when you watch so many previews you forget what movie you came to watch in the first place. I figured that when I got to the AsiaWorld Arena, I’d get swallowed into the atmosphere and all would be well. However, as I followed the line of people heading in the direction of the concert, I noticed something that was trully unsettling. There were no goths here. I looked for one single sign, a lone pair of striped pantyhose, a rosary necklace, something. Where was everyone? I walked into the darkness, following some blonde in cargo pants. I began to get truly excited as I heard the delicious cacophony of “Burn” coming from inside. At this point I broke into a run. Inside, a harsh light was illuminating Robert Smith’s hair, making it look like a miniature winter landscape — through the fog machines it looked like a grove of bare trees on a cold winter day. And while the characteristic gauntness was now padded in the inevitable fat of rock and roll excess, there he was, the slightly aging demigod of conspicuous misanthropy. His voice hadn’t changed. It was still beautifully atmospheric, the faults in its purity like cracks in a tombstone. There he was on stage, and yet — we stood amidst chronically disgruntled yuppies, who were irascibly bickering over seats, complaining when an excited fan stood up and blocked their view, and in general just acting as if this was not, in fact, a concert, and muttering things like “Why can’t people just shut up and behave?” Is this what happens to goths when they grow up, move to Hong Kong, and join the corporate world? Cobwebs are, after all, probably bad Feng Shui. As I took my seat finally I was overwhelmed with the persistence of Robert Smith, of everything that he carries with him. While there is something now a little cliche about the white greasepaint, I couldn’t help but think that there must be something genuine in a guy that has remained in this persona for so many years, someone whose MySpace friends can be counted on one hand in an abject display of anti-socialness, and who has stuck to this band through thick and thin, while the other musicians come and go. As I looked around the half-filled commercial stadium, I had to wonder about this strange irony. How does one, in fact, fill a stadium with songs about alienation? When I think about The Cure, I always associate the music with a dark room, solitude, and a generous helping of mental instability. How did this fit with train stations, yuppies, and a country that is obsessed with shopping? I wanted to know, perhaps unfairly, just how depressed each of these people were, like there should be a maladjustment quota in order to get in the door. If the concert had felt more like a congregation of lost souls, then perhaps there would be some sort of consonance here. But it simply did not. In the middle of “A Hundred Years” my friend took a photo, we smiled, and the usher shone his flashlight menacingly in our direction. Something was wrong. Something was very, very wrong. I realized I needed some sort of depressant to get the full experience, to dull the context and tether myself to the gloomy island of light and sound that was the stage. I waded through the (seated) patrons, outside the bubble of noise and into the well lit lobby, where a lone Carlsberg vendor stood promisingly. As I got closer I heard a chorus of Australian accents complaining about the lack of beer. I settled for a cupful of tepid white wine, knowing that it would not make me nearly intoxicated enough and probably slightly nauseous. I grimaced and decided there was nothing to be done but concentrate, think unhappy thoughts, and make the worst of it. I stepped back inside just in time for the opening notes of “Friday I’m in Love” and the crowd went wild. I realized that here, perhaps, was the answer. Was this simply a bunch of thirty-somethings wanting to remember, with nostalgia, hearing Cure songs on the radio in between Cyndi Lauper and Chris de Burgh? Was this just another 80’s band? Part of me refused to believe it. I could not shake this nagging feeling that perhaps underneath the make-up, the passing phases of darkness, there is something truly lonely and unsure in each of us, something that persists long after we are forced to join the tide of mainstream society, wear sociable clothing and remove all but the most subtle traces of our once affected disaffection — something that can only be tentatively silenced with the new Louis Vitton. Or was I the only one here who had not been cured? Band photo taken from The Cure’s MySpace. Gig photos by Bliss Mabini. Terry Gonzales is an artist and writer recently returned from studies abroad. She is stranger than she looks.
August 8th, 2007
Art has always served as a towering figure on the landscape of rock-and-roll; musicians young and old have occasionally moonlighted as writers, actors, and, most prevalently perhaps, visual artists: Leonard Cohen, David Bowie, and Kurt Cobain are but a few among hordes of others. Incidentally, some of the best visual artists also happen to be some of the biggest rock fans—Andy Warhol, anyone?—often finding kindred spirits in their broken, guitar-slinging counterparts. Last July 26, 2007, the Metropolitan Museum of Manila unveiled what could be deemed as a crossroads between these two cultures. The exhibit, dubbed as Rocked Age: Images of Loud Music Culture, promised to present rock music “beyond the […] music,†with works by National Artist Ben Cabrera, erstwhile Yano-head Dong Abay, Late Isabel frontwoman Wawi Navarroza, Romeo “Wild Thing†Lee, TV host Howie Severino, rock photographer Mari Arquiza, and the ever-interesting Syjucos (Cesare and Jean Marie), among others. The exhibit opened, naturally, with a rock show featuring Joey “Pepe†Smith, the aforementioned Abay, Marcus Adoro (billed as Markus Highway), and the sandata-wielding Elemento. For one night, at least, the pristine, hush-hush Met openly played host to rock-style rebellion. The exhibit is a visual smorgasbord for rock fans everywhere. Mostly boasting photo-realist depictions of rock personalities — international and local, classic and current alike — one ends up quizzing himself as to who the transmogrified figures are. The roll call of personalities is basic, 101-level fare: Beatles, Presley, Dylan, and Cobain on the one hand, Pepe Smith, Freddie Aguilar, and the former Eraserheads on the other. However, the more encyclopedic among us may drool incessantly over the inclusion of more off-center figures like Frank Zappa, sitar-man Ravi Shankar, Stooge-master Iggy Pop, Banshee Siouxsie Sioux, and that “charming man†Morrissey. Interestingly enough, most of the photo-realist paintings—a little over a whopping thirty—are done as “interaction pieces†(mostly acrylic and oil on canvas) with artist Jose Ibay, who therefore has the distinction of having the most credits to his name. Ibay’s joint pieces—peaking perhaps with a collaboration with folk bard and painter Heber Bartolome on a piece depicting a young Lolita Carbon—run the gamut of classic singer-songwriter (James Taylor, Cat Stevens, Neil Young), infallible rock royalty (Elvis the Pelvis and the Fab Four), Pinoy stringmen (Aguilar, Bartolome, Florante), and pretty much everybody else (Bono and, you know, those guys). Other pieces also make their mark. The blown-up reproductions of Mari Arquiza’s gig photos, for instance, give the Pinoy hall a more contemporary air. Photos of ex-members of the Eraserheads in their respective new projects modestly adorn one wall, beside in-action poses of Juan de la Cruz’s Wally Gonzales and Mike Hanopol, The Dawn’s Jett Pangan, Kapatid’s Karl Roy, and Bamboo’s Bamboo. Wawi Navarroza’s prints (“The Late Isabel†and “The Dollhouseâ€), meanwhile, provide the Byronic brood lacking in the more colorfully vibrant Warholian pieces around them. “Elvis†concert series producer Romeo Lee was also able to show his visual side via oil in canvas (though most would probably argue that he is the visual piece, and that his tattered punk wardrobe is a mini-exhibit in itself, but that’s another discussion altogether). However, I think it would be safe to say that—hands down—the most recognizable piece would have to be Bencab’s original charcoal-and-pastel sketch of Joey “Pepe†Smith jamming on his guitar atop a stool, generously loaned out to the Met for the duration of the exhibit. In a way, most of the paintings of the rock personalities are exercises in “found†art, in that the visual inspiration is culled from Western rock photography, album sleeve design, and other such “found†or available sources. The perspective comes in the form of color selection, texture, and the occasional touch of mixed media, as with the dangling electronic circuitry in Hermisanto and Ibay’s Jimi Hendrix portrait. And, while we’re at it, let me just say that the three-dimensional installation pieces were also a feast for the senses. The Syjucos’ brand of mock-commercial slogan-as-art is smart and astounding, especially in their use of light display to highlight key lyrics in John Lennon’s “Imagine†(in a piece called “The Gospel According to Johnâ€), as well as to muse poetically about the very nature of rock—“pulse, rock, tremor, reverberateâ€â€”in a piece called, ehem, “Pulse.†My personal favorite, though, would have to be Lirio Salvador’s sandata installations. Salvador, of Elemento fame, has created a variety of musical instruments using day-to-day implements—bicycle gears, drain cleaning springs and stainless steel tubes—producing what could somehow be literally called “heavy metal guitars.†Dong Abay’s postmodern, slogan-rich, de-strung acoustic guitars are also a delight to see, as well as the lone TV documentary in the exhibit—Howie Severino’s “Pepe’s Myth,†which was originally aired on GMA-7’s i-Witness, and displayed here on a loop. All in all, Rocked Age: Images of Loud Music Culture is quite successful in relaying noise without actually being noisy (well, except for opening night). You could go and play a round or two of Name That Rockstar (uhm, that’s a made-up game), or be amateur detective to the abstractions around you. “Learn the different world of rock music with artworks that feature its beginnings, icons, fashion and lifestyle,†the online catalogue promises, but be prepared for more. Don’t worry—you won’t be graded. Rocked Age: Images of Loud Music Culture runs from July 26 to October 26, 2007. With acknowledgements to Peter Natividad and May Cruz of the Metropolitan Museum of Manila, as well as to co-exhibitor Mari Arquiza. Photographs by Grace Mirandilla. For more information on the Met, visit their website. For more of Aldus’ ramblings, go here.
August 2nd, 2007
It’s rather ironic how we only realize how serious a band was throughout its musical career when listening to their greatest hits compilation. Or rather, it’s ironic when the band in question is Parokya ni Edgar. Up ‘til recently, I actually saw Parokya as the leaders of novelty rock—not pioneers, as that would discount the true pioneers Tito, Vic and Joey, Yoyoy Villame and Jun Urban, who don’t necessarily play rock but without whom novelty rock, for better or worse, probably wouldn’t exist. No, I mean leaders, as in they took the genre by the balls and dragged it all the way to kingdom come. In their wake, they spawned copycat, er I mean, similar bands, such as Kiko Machine, Kamikazee and Giniling Festival, but although Kamikazee did come close at times, Parokya still stood a long way away, giving them that indulgent Drunken Master "Waht, teeahch yu kung fu?" grin. However, listening to Matira Matibay, their compilation of singles from 1994 to 2007, I can’t dismiss them as mere novelty rock. There are actual songs in this album, great songs, at that. Maybe not entirely somber, but serious enough for valid recognition. There’s the schoolboy anthem "Maniwala Ka Sana," the award winning "Harana," the poignant "Para Sa Yo," and my all time personal favorite, "Halaga," slightly discordant guitar riff notwithstanding. That a serious Parokya song is my all time personal favorite Parokya ni Edgar song should have clued me in to how serious this band was at being a band, but you also have those other songs in the album: the now classic "Buloy," the now classic "Picha Pie," the now classic "Inuman Na," and the rest of the obviously funny songs and song spoofs, soon-to-be classics themselves. Those were the songs that really gave Parokya ni Edgar their massive popularity. Much as I wanted to take them seriously, I couldn’t while listening to them sing "Hoy hoy hoy, hoy hoy hoy…" behind fake slick mustaches. I must admit of course that they’re also serious at being funny. There are songs Chito Miranda has written that I consider quite brilliant. I mean, everything about "The Yes Yes Show" was so on the money, from the phrasing, to the styles in which Chito, Vinci Montaner and Dindin Moreno delivered their raps, to what they were actually saying. And no matter how ridiculous, they sure are catchy. I mean, I still can’t eat at a restaurant without singing "Pwede bang mag-order? Waiter?" under my breath as I peruse the menu. While I believe they should have put in "Trip," their version of Radiohead’s "Creep" about the "siopao na special," the album is a clear testament to Parokya ni Edgar’s importance as one of the biggest bands in local music history. Seriously.
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