In the book Culture and History first published in 1988, National Artist Nick Joaquin asserts in his essay “A Heritage of Smallness” how our notions of greatness and grandness and complexity, is represented precisely by our seeming inability to even think on that scale:

“Society for the Filipino is a small rowboat: the barangay. Geography for the Filipino is a small locality: the barrio. History for the Filipino is a small vague saying: matanda pa kay mahoma; noong peacetime. Enterprise for the Filipino is a small stall: the sari-sari. Industry and production for the Filipino are the small immediate searchings of each day: isang kahig, isang tuka. And commerce for the Filipino is the smallest degree of retail: the tingi.”

When Mang Nick talked then about our heritage of smallness, he might not have been able to imagine these times for Pinoy music. These times when, for P99 pesos, you can get a prepaid digital album card, much like a prepaid phone card, scratch the back for your PIN, enter that on a website, and get to download four pre-selected songs in lieu of getting the whole CD.

It’s Original Pilipino Music by the tingi.

And you know I can’t even resist something like this, especially when the Odyssey store cashier said: “Bestseller po si Piolo.” And I wanted to say, “Naku Ate, bestseller din siya sa puso ko.” But also it seemed like the perfect opportunity to listen to Piolo’s singing prowess, and his Decades albums—yes, in the plural—where he covers songs from the ‘50s to the ‘90s, was his most interesting singing project as far as I was concerned, but it was a wee bit too expensive for freelancer-critic me.

Ah, but the advantages of the culture of tingi!

Piolo’s singing to me as I write this, across two decades in four songs, and across different genres: Rupert Holmes’ “Terminal” (1974), Mr. Big’s “To Be with You” (1991), England Dan and John Ford Cowley’s “It’s Sad to Belong” (1977), and Savage Garden’s “Truly Madly Deeply” (1997). Granted that these are not original Pilipino songs, but right here is an original Pilipino musician, whose work is made more accessible through Star Records’ prepaid music cards. Here is an ownership of songs that’s being done piecemeal, a sign of the impoverished times for sure, but also proof that there are Pinoy artists being consumed by a mass market, no ifs and buts about it.

On the Star Records website you can even buy each song for P30 pesos. P30 pesos! It’s tingi shopping par excellence.

The market seems even bigger for Juris Fernandez, as her EP If You and Me was released in South Korea in CD and digital formats, and released only in digital in the Philippines. All of six songs in the original EP, Juris’ prepaid music card gets you four of those songs, all covers, though unconventional and less known than the usual. “Altogether Alone” is by Japanese duo Be the Voice, a light happy ditty about love; “Don’t Forget” is by Korean singer Baek Ji-Young, a slow quiet goodbye song; “Wishes” is by Japanese singer Emi Fujita (half of the duo Le Couple), a paean to waiting; and “If You and Me” by Taeyeon of the Korean group Girls’ Generation, a love song of uncertainty.

Now at the risk of stating the obvious, the digital format allows for a bigger audience, though for Juris this has also meant making a name for herself in South Korea—where those two Korean covers are actually translations into English of the original songs in Korean. Then here’s the downside: if you listen to the original Fujita version of “Wishes” and Be the Voice’s “Altogether Alone,” both also available online, it does become clear that Juris’ versions were but poor copies of the originals, with no excuse of translation to fall back on.

Which of course isn’t to say that Piolo’s versions of his set of songs was extraordinary. But Piolo has a voice that’s distinctly his, not brilliant mind you, but one that’s different enough from every other balladeer of his generation (and yes, there aren’t a whole lot of them anyway). Juris falls into the trap of mere copy; Piolo, given the limits of his voice and diction, can really only be himself no matter the song.

But of course the question of talent or originality seems secondary to what these prepaid music cards and 30-peso-per-song downloads actually stand for, and it can only be about these times, yes? When music can only be a luxury, original music even more so. When even the pop artist must be content with having his songs played on the radio and getting some TV time, instead of actually selling and earning from his CDs. When covers are proof not necessarily of a lack of talent, but of the need to ascertain an audience already, before a song is even recorded and put on a CD. When the pretty boy matinee idol can also sing, and by the powers vested in a cultural empire like ABS-CBN Corp., can be made into a voice so familiar and unique, it is difficult not to fall for it to some extent.

When marketing has come to play such a big role not so much in providing access to cultural products, but in generating interest around what is an unoriginal product.

Piolo’s prepaid music card actually gives you what’s called “The Piolo Pack”: a folder with the four songs and the album cover, another folder with high resolution images with lyrics, and another folder with four different Piolo wallpaper options. And while he doesn’t appear topless in any of these images, much might be said about the kind of money spent on giving me different photos of Piolo looking me straight in the eye almost as if telling me to go get the rest of his songs, if not his whole darn discography. Such is the power of a cultural empire knowing to hold its market by the neck.

And such is a version of death for the things we wish for original Pilipino music, for Pinoy cultural productions in a time of crises, where creativity and change are sacrificed for thinking small, because it is easy and profitable.

“Have our capacities been so diminished by the small efforts, we are becoming incapable even to the small things? Our present problems are surely not what might be called colossal or insurmountable—yet we stand helpless before them. As the population swells, those problems will expand and multiply. If they daunt us now, will they crush us then? The prospect is terrifying.”

Oh absolutely, Mang Nick. Enough for me to wanna go get myself a bottle of Pale. (Katrina Stuart Santiago)

Images supplied by the author.

Ten years since Vin Dancel (Twisted Halo), Ene Lagunzad (manager for the erstwhile Dicta License), and their mighty-fine posse of then-marginalized music outlaws decided to take matters into their own hands and book a hugely unpopular hump night at Freedom Bar in 2001 for themselves. There was no murder involved (I guess “taking matters into their own hands” was a bit of a hyperbole) and they—Halo, Dicta, and the femme fatales of Fatal Posporos—didn’t necessarily make a killing at the gate, but they killed onstage, and that at-first-odd gesture of self-preservation is legitimized through the overwhelming love and support showed by people other than the core group and their familiars over the succeeding years. That initial Wednesday nightcap wasn’t so bad an idea, obviously, and Admit One became the grand-daddy of all “production” gigs, no easy feat when it merely tailed at the heels of older series shows such as Sunday Grabe Sunday. It was, in a nutshell, a showcase of the core bands (apart from the ones already mentioned, Sugarfree, Happy Meals, Cambio, etc.) and the friends they met along the way. It also became a matter of live curatorship, if you may, whenever the mercenaries of Admit One would stumble upon a young unsigned band elsewhere and bring them to the stage they have decorated with fine, emerging music. These acts went from well-kept secrets to embraced-by-a-sizable-few to huge-in-their-own-way, and I guess that barometer is still being continuously re-calibrated as we speak. A decade after, these series shows have become the norm somehow; anyone with an Internet connection can make new musical “discoveries” as frequently as they go to the loo; and the need for curators and elder indie statesmen and such is perhaps a thing of yesterday. Some of the indies got signed and no longer need help booking shows; some started mounting shows of their own; kids on the lookout for newer stuff looked elsewhere. They might not know what Admit One is, was, or what it meant, but after the show (dubbed as Admit Once and For All) regaled saGuijo and Freedom Bar audiences for the last two times, they might hear the faint echoes of their ates and kuyas moping and moaning about how there’ll never be another like it. (Aldus Santos)

Image by Adrian Arcega. Meanwhile, for yet another installment of “Pulse + Impulse,” Vin Dancel and Jason Caballa both look back on a decade of Admit One. Music excerpts used with artist permission. “Breakable” and “Miron” by Twisted Halo Philippine Copyright 2003 Guilty Pleasure Records.

It’s really that one day, Ebe, we realized you were gone. There were those grand gestures of goodbye of course—a concert on a rainy evening, the last gigs in the usual spaces—all to lay it on us gently I imagine. But no goodbye would suffice for a voice that had sung of the heartbroken and the downtrodden, one that spoke of loves lost and never had, those that traverse that ambiguous, tenuous line of sort-of-but-not-quite, almost us, unofficial us. But then you decided to kill that self that could take my heart and run away with it. Then we watched you promise nothing. You ended that relationship perfectly.

Much has been said about departures you see, but you’d be the last to fall into cliché. You do us one better and make a whole album. Which isn’t really about leaving, as it is a departure from the usual, a move from a self we’d known all these years, to one that’s different, more removed, in seeming pain, and rightfully so. It seemed we broke up with you and you came back a new person.

And we are not ones to take offense really, but grant us the discomfort: what to do with songs that don’t bank on our memories of loves lost and found and missed, what of an Ebe that just refuses completely utterly totally to speak in the way he always has? What of this self you give us now, and how it almost slaps us awake, away from romance, and down a collision course with real life’s contradictions and struggles, unadulterated uncertainty, some pain to keep us warm?

“Muli” seems like an upbeat paean to change, for example, but really is riddled with more than the idea of starting over: “Kaya ba nating patawarin ang mga sarili/at hilumin ang mga sugat na dulot ng pagmamadali?” Forgiveness, in relation to one’s own healing, given licking one’s wounds, all of which we inflict on ourselves: there is no object to blame; there is no one but us. In “Luha” this pain is more palpable not just given a haunting melody but also because of a voice that’s more anguished: the lack of an object a necessary turning upon the self, with no narcissism as there is almost a knife across the wrist, tears secondary to helplessness to surrender: “‘Di na matanaw ang lupa/Kahapon ko’y inanod na ng luha/Isang milyong pangarap ay nalunod na/at ako’y walang magawa.”

And as with real life, the lack of courage is understandable, the disquiet necessary, and with this new Ebe, there’s no feel-good song in sight. There’s the literal confusion in living in the city in “Probinsyano sa Maynila” for example, but there are songs more complex. “‘Wag Kang Mag-alala,” for example, might assert difference as a valid space, but it does so with a tone that’s barely convincing, one that’s hesitant because it’s premised on faith in oneself, unstable as that is: “Kailangang manalig sa bawat/sigaw at bulong ng iyong puso/Sumayaw sa sarili mong awit/Umindak at ‘wag pasindak/Kung ‘di ka katulad ng iba,/‘wag kang mag-alala.” “Paalam na Kahapon” might speak of a letting go, but it does so with an amount of sadness, like wrapping oneself in the forlorn and foregone, even as one moves forward: “Tila utos ng mundong mabuhay/akong pasulong, at ‘wag paurong/Patawarin mo ako kung/unti-unti akong binago ng mundo.”

You might want to convince us of survival though, a plodding through almost, and just literally and figuratively, taking heart. You speak of an object, now more complex, now not a one-to-one correspondence with your aching heart. These are no easy love songs, though let me excuse “‘Wag na Tayong Mag-Away” in that respect. Because here’s “Hanggang sa Dulo” which is all at once foreboding as it is hopeful, where the object is only as important as one’s ability to be brave if not downright fiery. Even “Ikaw ang Tahanan” which speaks of long distance love transcends precisely this subject by highlighting the lack of choices, the fact of fate deciding on this distance.

And then there’s “Lapit,” which might be closest to what we know about you, Ebe, yet seems new, where love doesn’t seem to be about screaming one’s heart out, or making such grand gestures in song, as it is about making the most conventional promises with a voice so sincere, it seems to already be fulfilled: here’s taking a cliché and taking it to its logical more difficult conclusion.

You make nothing easy here, Ebe, not for you, not for us. It might be said that the confessional that Dalawang Mukha ng Pag-ibig necessarily becomes makes it nothing more than a journal of the aftermath of a ba(n)d break-up. That would be a false conclusion: because what’s here is not yours, as it is mine. There’s the fact of the past intricately intertwined and never lost in the present, the truths that surround struggling just to make life ours, everyday. To want to hold it in our hands and think we are in control. “Pinagpapasahan ng tuwa/at nakakatakot na lungkot/ng galit at pag-ibig ang/ kawawa kong pusong maligalig,” you sing in “Maligalig.” “Dahil ang tanging nais lamang/ay mapakali,” I sing.

I believe we’ve got our hearts back, Ebe, all that we need of it. Just in time. (Katrina Stuart Santiago)

Photos by Aldus Santos.

Sign of the times: Modulogeek, Donna Macalino (Duster, Fatal Posporos), and I walk into a tea place (to have tea, naturally), but are effectively deterred by an ocean of kids who have decided that this is their “thing” nowadays, and that said space will—without their actively meaning to—be theirs and theirs alone. This was perfectly acceptable; after all, I feel nothing but profound happiness for small ventures that succeed, or at the very least, get recognized. But they are businesses, and businesses are predicated on the harmony between supply and demand. Technically speaking, an outrageous demand for something doesn’t necessarily equate to quality; in other words, a popular thing is not always a good thing. But you already know that. We end up at the neighboring joint, a yuppie-variety watering hole, one where people don’t necessarily get smashed, where they instead nurse a single beer for several hours on end while trying to sweet-talk their dates into…well, into whatever. Without hint or preamble, while all three of us start sipping our coffee amidst a sea of beer-guzzling party people, I suggest how indie can never be “laos” (English translations just don’t cut it) because it is not predicated on revenue or mass-scale popularity. I suggest that, though indie is not averse to the idea of money (i.e., survival), it is more concerned with creation (art, if you will, but really, more the idea of producing “work”). In the annals of history, a popular rock band is only as good as its last hit record, while the indies, like Kerouac’s “mad ones”—“the ones who never yawn or say a commonplace thing”—are “good” only as long as they produce work (write, record, self-distribute) against all odds (hmm, mainly financial, but also other things). Of course a lot of the un-policed indies will suck like shit, but luckily for us listeners, we may never even hear of them in the first place (unless we have sadistic friends) and we almost never have to spend a single centavo on them. (Aldus Santos)

For my friends. “(1982) Recording Equipment/Representation” by Andrew J. Pilling, via Flickr Creative Commons. Some rights reserved.

“Bad artists copy.  Good artists steal.”

—Pablo Picasso

“’No reason to get excited,’ the thief he kindly spoke.  ‘There are many here among us, who feel that life is but a joke’.”

—Bob Dylan, “All Along the Watchtower”

Borrow, steal, emulate, mimic, destroy, wash, rinse, repeat. Picasso, Led Zeppelin, Tarantino, Bob Dylan, Warhol.  Essentially, they are all shameless thieves.  But, they are also certifiable mad geniuses who study and devour history then spit it all back out in unimaginable, new, and creative forms.

When they started, The Beatles were basically a British cover band who played blues and R&B songs from America.  Half of the first two Beatles albums are made up of cover songs. Bob Dylan went down the exact same path, mimicking American folk singer Woody Guthrie obsessively. Dylan’s first album contains only two original compositions.

The Eraserheads borrowed massively from The Beatles in songwriting and recording style. The Itchyworms borrowed to the same degree from The Eraserheads. So, by following the history trail, the Itchyworms derived from Chuck Berry and Buddy Holly.  One step forward, two steps back.  There is homework to do, if you choose to do so.

“At ngayon, ‘di pa rin alam kung ba’t tayo nandito./P’wede bang itigil muna ang pag-ikot ng mundo?”

—Eraserheads, “Spoliarium”

The above lyric, taken from the song “Spoliarium,” should be quite familiar to Filipino music fans. It comes from a song that’s a frightening display of lyrical and melodic perfection. While they don’t need much help keeping their legacy alive, the Eraserheads got a nice bump when Imago covered said song back in 2005. Imago’s faithful and reverent version still gets plenty of mileage, and there are no doubt scores of younger post-Eraserheads kids who might innocently assume that the song is an Aia De Leon composition (cue Ely Buendia raising his eyebrows in amusement).

When done properly, covering other artists can and should be beneficial—and educational—for everyone, most of all music fans. Jimi Hendrix covered Bob Dylan; Van Halen covered The Kinks; Jeff Buckley covered Leonard Cohen; Johnny Cash covered Nine Inch Nails; The White Stripes covered Dolly Parton. Sarah Geronimo covered Richard Marx. (Huh? What? Is my head exploding? I digress.) Hip-hop producers and DJs make their living borrowing sounds, songs, and beats. Ask the Black Eyed Peas how they feel about borrowing other people’s music. While the sounds have changed, the methods are static.

“Oh no, not me.  We never lost control.  You’re face to face, with the man who sold the world.”

—David Bowie

The name credited to the above lyric is not a typo. Just so we are all in agreement, that song was not written by Kurt Cobain, no matter what MTV might lead you to believe. And “Knockin’ on Heaven’s Door” is absolutely not written by Axl Rose. It should also be pointed out that covering and performing songs by other artists can lead to a very promising and prosperous career. Just ask Frank Sinatra, or Elvis Presley. And, don’t forget about Jay-R, or any of the endless parade of “artists” singing those painful and silly songs on Party Pilipinas every week.

There have been some recent reports and essays lamenting the supposed demise of OPM. It’s dying. It’s being threatened. For anyone even remotely involved in the Philippine music scene, hearing or reading statements like this has to be amusing. And frustrating, to say the least. First of all, proclaiming the death of OPM is insulting to all of the bands and artists slugging it out every night in the clubs of Manila and everywhere else across the Philippines. The fact is, original music in the Philippines is alive and kicking, more than it has ever been. Anyone who says otherwise should check out the gig schedule at saGuijo or The Collective in Makati. Or 70’s Bistro in Quezon City. Or better yet, pull a search for “Meiday” on Facebook, and see what you find. How in God’s name can OPM be dying when Chicosci, Parokya ni Edgar, Wolfgang, Kamikazee, and the mighty Sandwich are playing in over thirty cities across the country this year in a national tour sponsored by a liquor brand? Even if you don’t like these bands, the growth and current scope of this yearly tour should give us all hope for a better and more rocking future.

It’s just a theory, but maybe when ABS-CBN, GMA, The Philippine Star, and MYX spend less time promoting Kris Aquino’s latest “original” album and Sarah Geronimo’s lack of a boyfriend—and more time promoting artists of actual substance—this whole sordid situation might start to balance out. In the meantime, someone get Chicosci’s Miggy Chavez on the phone. Tell him OPM is dead. And someone get in touch with Urbandub’s Gabby Alipe, and tell him it’s all over.

Is the periodic surfacing of this OPM issue some kind of weird and twisted practical joke? It sure seems like it. Where in the hell is Lourd de Veyra when we need him? He could figure out this mess lickety split. With time to spare. “Gusto ko ng baboy.” Without a doubt. In reality, there is an army of kids with guitars and microphones in their hands, and they are making a lot of noise, whether you like it or not. Listen up, because sooner or later you won’t have a choice. (Jesse Grinter)

Aia de Leon photo by Raymund Asejo (a.k.a. slimfat_joe), via Flickr Creative Commons. Some rights reserved. David Bowie painting by Griggzz, via Flickr Creative Commons. Some rights reserved.

It’s been two weeks since I saw Quark Henares’ Rakenrol. Between then and now, I also played a couple of shows alongside bands who I don’t see a lot these days but who, for me, remain representative of…wait, what do those guys represent? Consider: these people (and some of them have become close friends of ours) don’t necessarily come off as chest-thumping, guitar-wielding revolutionaries; they hardly make ambitious pronouncements about art and society at large (except for perhaps a handful, but then again they do it in private, half-inebriated); and they wouldn’t even strike the regular Juan on the street as “rocker” types. Okay, maybe they don’t represent anyone or anything, not an era, a social class, or a godforsaken musical genre; maybe they’re just breathing reminders of a time in our lives. But this is precisely why Rakenrol is important; it catalogues these aforementioned “reminders” with an obsession that’s almost akin to religiosity.

Written by Henares and Sandwich’s Diego Castillo, the film is, essentially, creative nonfiction; to my mind, a documentary soundly swathed under a romantic narrative, which Jason Abalos and Glaiza de Castro more-than-ably play out. We’ve always pined for a film like this, where our music and culture, our ridiculous obsession with indie-rock ephemera, our opinions on matters we deem of life-and-death gravity (Bamboo Mañalac-as-onstage-messiah versus Rico Blanco-as-Brian Wilson-type-brooding-genius, for instance), are as important as national politics, if not more. We want our Dazed and Confused, our Almost Famous, maybe our own This is Spinal Tap, and, dammit, we want it set in saGuijo.

The bigger love story in Rakenrol, really, does not lie in Odie (Abalos) and Irene (de Castro) alone, but in Hapipak’s journey to not so much be the next Eraserheads, but to belong, all amid “satanic S&M bands, samurai swindlers, narcissistic rockstars, the pretentious Philippine art community, and the freakiest music video auteur ever.” It is, shall we say, a depiction of outsiders by some of local rock’s best-known insiders (who, granted, have not always had it easy). There is a scene in the film that sort of mirrors a moment in Kevin Smith’s Mallrats where Brodie (Jason Lee) gets to meet comic-book legend Stan Lee, who later on gives him love advice; in it, Odie runs into Ely Buendia, who professes to be a big Hapipaks fan, and proceeds to give him yet another form of love advice, where the object of desire is not the girl but staying with one’s dream (i.e., being in a damn band), no matter how silly it may seem to the rest of the world.

Maybe Rakenrol will make you nod along in recognition of several bits and pieces from your own lives; maybe it won’t. Maybe it will drive you to form your own band; but then, again, maybe it won’t. But you should see it, well, to get reminded, as I always say. (Aldus Santos)

The film premiered on July 23, 2011 for Cinemalaya (held at the CCP). Its regular run starts September 21. New Yorkers may want to see it on August 13 (details here). Press-conference photo by Mads Adrias; this, along with the poster, taken from Rakenrol’s Facebook page.

As far as post-millennial torch singers are concerned, nobody is in Amy Winehouse’s caliber. No one else is able to translate pain into real-as-fuck anthems that never seem to get old. She wrote her own songs based from her tortured, twisted experiences (not to mention her love-hate relationship with ex-husband Blake Fielder-Civil), and, though she was occasionally seen singing while holding a bottle of booze, her performances were always filled with both passion and tenderness. That’s how good she was, and it saddens me that she died at the very young age of 27 over the past weekend. Although Winehouse’s tabloid persona and flirtations with drug and alcohol abuse have somewhat overshadowed the true talent that she truly is, nobody can deny the immense impact she had on popular music in her short eight-year-old career. Pitchfork’s Jess Harvell wrote fondly of the singer’s rare brilliance, saying, “She was one of the great spoonful-of-sugar acts in modern pop, a singer able to turn personal anguish into songs more pleasurable than painful. It was an approach she took from the classic soul and R&B that critics sometimes claimed she appropriated on only a surface level, writing singles that sound buoyant and strong-willed until you unpack the lyrics.”

I remember being smitten by her 2006 sophomore album Back to Black. It didn’t sound like anything of its time; it harks back to the ‘60s girl groups, Motown, and ‘40s jazz. Everything on it was achingly sung and rendered in well-worn, retro musicality. Though it may, in hindsight, sound like another futile stab at Billie Holiday, Back to Black was more than just a throwback reference; it’s a retro-pop gem that documents her life as a troubled woman in love. In it, she rants about how love is a fate resigned. She hated going in and out of rehab and would rather spend time at home with her guy. She sings, “What kind of fuckery are we/You don’t mean a dick to me,” yet continues to keep the man that destroys her. It’s a rare kind of vulnerability and confessional strut that made such songs instant charmers.

Five Grammy awards and overwhelming critical accolades after, Amy paved the way for the proliferation of British soul singers such as Duffy, Adele, Florence + The Machine, and Estelle, all of whom found pertinent chart success. Adele, in particular, who went on to become one of the biggest music acts of late, humbly credited Amy Winehouse’s Back to Black as an influence on her well-received albums, 19 and 21. While I tremendously enjoyed 21 and listened to it on a regular basis, nothing on it—not even its most heart-wrenching moments—can match the sheer emotional impact of the songs in Back to Black. For me, it is just a perfect record to cry to and lean on, despite its troubled singer being brilliant at her most sober. (Ian Urrutia)

Photo by tripwirenyc, via Flickr Creative Commons. Some rights reserved.

The question of supporting Original Pilipino Music (OPM) is one that isn’t simple anymore, not in these times when cultural systems are so intricately intertwined, and television networks and cultural empires are kings. In this series I look at contemporary Pinoy music’s production(s) and unpack the contradictions and discriminations inherent in, and the context(s) crucial to, the fight for OPM as we know it.

It is often said: Original Pilipino Music (OPM) needs more support because it is suffering in the face of piracy, good songs don’t get radio airplay, great CDs don’t sell well in record bars. We talk about globalization and the cheaper foreign CDs it brings; we talk about colonial mentality and the preference for what isn’t local it continues to wreak.

Except that when we say OPM has no chance of winning against the big bad foreign artists, it isn’t really true. Since Sarah Geronimo’s recent CD came out, it’s been in the Top 10 Best-Selling Albums list in most local record bars, battling it out with Lady Gaga, Bruno Mars, and J Lo, recently even topping those lists.

It is in instances of success such as Sarah’s One Heart (Viva Records) that it becomes obvious, these discriminations inherent in the fight for OPM dominance. Because it begs the question: why are we not considering Sarah’s success ultimately OPM’s? And no, Sarah is not the only Pinoy artist on those charts, and yes, I believe it would be unfair to think of all these CDs as nothing but music unworthy of our attention.

Because in fact One Heart is everything we imagine an OPM album should be: filled with all-original Filipino music created and sung by Filipino artists, produced by a homegrown recording company. In fact, One Heart’s first two singles, “Sino Nga Ba Siya?” and “Kung Siya ang Mahal,” are beautiful, heart-wrenching pop songs about betrayal and lost love, reminiscent of old-school Roselle Nava and Rachel Alejandro. It would be unfair to think these songs— both crafted by Vehnee Saturno—as simply cliché, especially since they aren’t.

Go beyond the idea of pop being uncreative, of both these songs being reminiscent of past OPM songs sung by women, and much might be said about the fact that in Sarah’s hands love lost isn’t cloying in its self-pity, but is actually powerful in its insistence on honesty. Imagine the countless young Pinay girls who look up to Sarah and find an amount of power in a line that goes “sa akin ay mabuti pa ang mag-isa” vis-à-vis the fact of infidelity. I can only wish OPM pop had given me that too when I was younger.

This isn’t to say that all the songs here are powerful, or that they aren’t embroiled in the cliché and expected. But much might be said about the fact that many of them are new songs, i.e., done particularly for One Heart, with a number of English songs. It’s in these songs though that creativity is lacking, where English skills become an obvious deterrent in creating more significant songs.

Two English songs stand out, however. Also by Saturno, “One Heart” is a Pinoy pop song in English as we like it, where hope is borne not just of lyrics but also of a melody that’s made for it. Sarah’s lyricism here is also one that must be praised, if only because it drips with a real sense of hope. But probably the best English song here is Louie Ocampo’s “I Miss You,” which was surprising in its anti-pop melody, only made more haunting by Sarah’s quiet, pained singing.

One Heart’s “Handang Umibig Muli” by Raffy Calicdan and Amber Davis, meanwhile, works as a techno dance song, which OPM is rarely able to do with success (not since Viktoria and Rachel Alejandro). But the real gem here is “Bata” by Darwin Hernandez, which Sarah sings with Kean Cipriano, and which has all the elements of a slow-rock hit that deals with new love as uniquely as it has a boy’s raspy voice and a girl’s kilig.

Now this album wouldn’t be complete without its revivals, and here it’s a set of well-chosen original Filipino songs—Agot Isidro’s “Sa Isip Ko”, Louie Heredia’s “Nag-iisang Ikaw,” Jay-R’s “Bakit Pa Ba?,” and Janno Gibbs’ “Fallin’”—not at all about being unoriginal by reviving foreign songs.

So by all counts, given who sings here, who the composers and musicians are, who produced the album, One Heart is original Pilipino music as we would want to define it. The question really is why we refuse to see it as such when we discuss the crisis that is OPM. What informs this refusal to acknowledge pop albums like Sarah’s as the success of OPM as well? What do we gain by asserting the crisis of OPM without considering the locally produced CDs that actually succeed at battling it out with foreign artists?

What if we acknowledge the success of OPM albums such as Sarah’s? Does that mean there is no crisis for the rest of OPM? The answer of course is not at all, but the only way to begin a relevant discussion of OPM is if we start to consider albums like One Heart as a crucial part of it. Maybe the first step is to respond to these questions: what do we think of Pinoy pop, really, and why has there been a tendency to ignore its successes? More importantly, why is it silenced in the task of discussing OPM? Then ask the same questions about Pinoy novelty (i.e., Willie Revillame albums).

Yes, these are hard questions. Not unlike Sarah’s love songs in One Heart, the way to creating a powerful argument for original Pilipino music has to begin with a great amount of honesty. (Katrina Stuart Santiago)

“Sarah Geronimo Record Breaker 1” by Dragon_Ryu888, via Flickr Creative Commons. Some rights reserved. Video embedded from Sarah Geronimo’s official YouTube channel.

Because in the end, film editing is king, and that split-second splitting-hairs call matters as much as a thousand-worder on a glossy print-spread. Because in the end, though music is all we’ll ever need, video does help things along in the reminiscence department. The best rock music, they say, is measured in “sincerity units”; to illustrate, no one’s expecting much by way of authenticity from, say, Rebecca Black, but everyone’s expecting Bono to be some sort of faultless Gandhi. And, in an ideal world, music filmmakers would facilitate the highlighting of these pockets of sincerity, warts and all. Though audiophiles may bemoan the utter ridiculousness of moving pictures depicting not even sound but the personalities (both physical and psychical) behind its creation, the fact remains that the rock film has gained traction throughout the years, coming a long way since D.A. Pennebaker’s Don’t Look Back (1967) and Michael Lindsay-Hogg’s Let It Be (1970). The latter was, arguably, The Beatles’ de facto farewell document, along with its audio companion; in lieu of a sit-down with the press or a full-page ad explaining their tragic dissolution, the fans were given a documentary: a more outward demonstration of the very necessity of this disbandment. For, despite such magic moments as the mythic rooftop performance, some other things happened as well, such as “the quiet Beatle” (Harrison) snapping like a twig.

Over the past couple of months, I found myself feasting on such last(ing) documents. Some of them weren’t originally meant to function that way, however, such as the White Stripes’ tour diary Under Great White Northern Lights (2010), directed by Emmett Malloy. In it, Jack and Meg White go on an ambitious tour of Canada that involves not arenas and football stadiums, but town halls and little backyard-type places, in true troubadour style. The vitality of the duo in the film, the very appearance of life and unbridled creativity, makes this last glimpse even more poignant: they make surprise appearances in random lots, play American country music to Inuit elders, and stun audiences through “one-note shows,” i.e., lightning-speed gigs that last—you guessed right—all of one note. And though the entire feature may be deemed lovely by the hyperventilating Stripes fan, this one overdriven chord is as metaphorical as any, mapping what Jack, in particular, perhaps wanted to be as an artist-creator: a lone in-your-face statement.

On the polar opposite, meanwhile, are reunion films that ironically only mark the divide between former bandmates and incumbent strangers, as with the emotional, beautifully shot, but ultimately safe Blur docu No Distance Left to Run (2010), and the more realistic, fly-on-the-wall-perspective Pixies film loudQUIETloud (2010). The Albarn-Coxon rift is depicted, nay, hinted at, but alas not seriously dissected in the former. Though the same may be said of the depiction of the acrimonious history between Charles Thompson (a.k.a. Black Francis, a.k.a. Frank Black) and Kim Deal (a.k.a. frontwoman for The Breeders), docu directors Steven Cantor and Matthew Galkin, I guess, were more incisive in their display of dramatic tension. Deal was a great source of this friction as she attempts (and eventually succeeds) to stay away from the bottle. What were intended to be nostalgic reunion pieces concurrently serve a tragic second purpose: a mere retelling of a death.

You can edit, mix, and EQ your music all sorts of clever ways, but a rock film would still paint a thousand more words, it appears. (Aldus Santos)

“Pixies Fillmore Auditorium November 16 2009” by Lori W. (aka_zoe), via Flickr Creative Commons. Some rights reserved.

The question of supporting Original Pilipino Music (OPM) is one that isn’t simple anymore, not in these times when cultural systems are so intricately intertwined, and television networks and cultural empires are kings. In this series I look at contemporary Pinoy music’s production(s) and unpack the contradictions and discriminations inherent in, and the context(s) crucial to, the fight for OPM as we know it.

We say it often, and truth to tell in these shores it is true: many of our less talented singers have albums, and many of our more talented musicians are without jobs. But what of the non-singer, someone who doesn’t sing at all, gathering a strong enough following for her CDs that she’s now on her fifth (count that!) solo album—and yes, that’s not counting the one she did with her son, and another about the rosary.

Welcome the celebrity CD! At the center of which is Kris Aquino. Judy Ann Santos began this kind of production with Ang Kuwento ng Buhay Ko (2007) where her TV show and movie theme songs were interspersed with her recorded thoughts about particular times in her life. This album had an all-Filipino, all-original set of songs that still made it original Pilipino music (OPM) by all counts, over and above Judy Ann.

But Kris, unlike Judy Ann, began this enterprise not to do a retrospective on her life, which would’ve meant just planning one CD. Instead, tied as the industry of celebrity is to selling the personal, Kris immersed herself in doing self-help albums, which is what most of these are. But unlike self-help albums done by experts in some form of counseling or other (think Dr. Phil on CD), most of Kris’ albums are only about her: when she came out with first CD Songs of Love and Healing, there was soon after a public marital crisis and pregnancy difficulties; when her mother Cory died she did The Greatest Love (2008), a tribute album; when her brother Noynoy was running for president she came out with Blessings of Love (2010), which was filled with nationalist and campaign songs.

Also, each CD isn’t straight-out self-help because it uses music to represent the different aspects of Kris’ life. And with most of these CDs hitting the gold if not the platinum mark for sales, with the most recent one My Heart’s Journey (2011) staying in the Top 10 list of most record bars the past two months, this kind of production obviously can’t be ignored. Especially not in light of the fight for OPM.

Why? Because if we insist on saying that people aren’t supporting our music, our CDs, our cultural products, we must consider the ones that actually have an amount of and consistent following.

Granted that it’s easy to state that Kris is no singer, she is still a Filipino who is coming out with music CDs. And while it might be easy to dismiss these albums as filled only with revivals of mostly foreign songs at that, the question has to be what of those CDs that include original Filipino songs? How does that fit into the discourse of the struggle for OPM?

Particularly for the tribute album to her mother and the campaign CD, Kris chose and spoke of classic Pinoy songs such as “Uguy ng Duyan” and “Iingatan Ka,” as well as an original Filipino campaign song “Hindi Ka Nag-iisa” and the Jose Mari Chan original “I Have Fallen in Love (With the Same Woman Three Times)” alongside foreign songs.

And then there’s the fact that while Kris isn’t the one singing in these albums, she only hires original Filipino singers to record her chosen songs. It’s difficult to fight with the fact that Gary Valenciano, Zsa Zsa Padilla, Christian Bautista, Jed Madella, KC Concepcion, and Toni Gonzaga are local singers, ones who must also stand on the side of original Filipino music. Add to that the local musicians who are part of these CDs’ production, and the local recording company (Universal Records), and to some extent we’ve got to grant these CDs OPM status, yes?

Or not. Which is to say we should begin redefining our terms here: does “OPM” cut across all CD productions by local musicians/singers/artists? Or do we have a set of requirements for calling something OPM? Can local artists with all-revival CDs claim OPM status? Or do their albums need to have all-original Filipino music, including revivals, for these to be called OPM?

It seems tedious to create a list of rules, but, also, it might be the only way to gather a following for the fight for original Filipino music. Ignoring productions that make money, that actually have a following, point to a failure at considering audience, but more importantly, it fails to look into the kind of media system musical productions fall within, a media system that we all fall within.

And are up against. It’s this media system that allows for albums like Kris’ to exist and practically ascertains that these make money. This is a media system that creates celebrities whose talents might be questionable, but whose ability at selling themselves and their lives mean cultural productions that are profitable: from movies that become box-office hits, to TV shows that have high ratings, to countless product endorsements, and, yes, to CDs that sell well. Which is to say that all of these are intertwined: when you have a TV celebrity like Kris, a CD is promoted practically every day, mentioned every chance she gets, is played on her network’s radio stations and on her TV shows, and gets media mileage like no other. A celebrity CD in fact has every chance of winning, in much the same way that celebrity biographies, no matter how superficial or talentless their subjects are, actually become bestselling books.

The next questions are painful to ask: how does OPM as we’d like it to be known, as we imagine it to be great art, fare in light of this media system? When a system is dependent on the superficiality of celebrity, how do we even begin to talk about art and craft, musicality, and originality? The fact that OPM as original Pinoy art doesn’t fare well within this system is our crisis. What it requires is a creative response to at least battle it out with the local celebrity who makes music her business, and bestselling CDs a part of her credibility, no matter that she is talentless.

Which is to say this: when we know how to handle Kris Aquino’s CDs, then we can move on and face the struggle with the foreign artist. We battle with one demon at a time. (Katrina Stuart Santiago)

Cover art for My Heart’s Journey, Ms. Aquino’s latest, from the Universal Records Philippines site.

Not simply a relic for Nirvana fans to drool over. A strict narrative, yes, but more importantly, a glimpse into the serious musician’s psyche (a psyche that incidentally involves a good measure of villainy, even to closest friends). Hardly a self-directed pat on the back; the band already has oodles of hangers-on doing that for them. One can argue, as a matter of sheer mathematics, that the Foo Fighters has gotten way bigger than the N band, Dave Grohl’s previous (who really only has three proper studio albums under its belt, and, to my recollection, hasn’t filled Wembley to capacity in its short incumbency). It wasn’t an easy-breezy ascent, however, and Grohl knows it. What the Foos have eventually become isn’t dictated by entries in an unseen rock ‘n’ roll handbook; corny as it may sound, it’s life—their kind of a life at least—and not some sort of rockstar pageantry. In my early years as a music journalist (the late ‘90s), whenever the convo screeches to an awkward halt, I resort to asking one silly question: “What advice can you give young musicians?” It’s not so much silly because it’s been asked to death; it’s silly because, when music isn’t in your marrow, it isn’t in your marrow. Back and Forth, in a nutshell, tells one about a musician’s life and how to live it—logic, health, and relationships be damned. I will not tell you how it depicts focal points in the band’s long, storied career (you’re online right now anyway), but rather, what you can glean from the feature-length docu.

How to recover from a suicide. Grohl confronted his friend-cum-frontman’s death the best way he knows how: through music. The resulting product of his passive (nay, evasive) mourning was a cassette demo recorded at a studio down the street from his home. People’s death-recovery programs invariably involve substance abuse, but Grohl’s involved, yeah, music. He cut the entire record all by himself (vox, guitars, bass, drums), and it became the debut Foo record. “Much of what I know about music,” he says, “I learned from being in a band with Kurt Cobain.” He had to endure being told off by people for what looked like an ill-timed endeavor (“How dare you,” etc.), but hey, songs had to be written. And while we’re at it, there’s also the matter of preventing drug-related fatalities. When Taylor Hawkins fell to a coma for a good week or so, it was like KC in Rome all over again, and Grohl was in tears.

How to choose your friends and co-workers. There is, of course, that Nick Hornby edict that goes, “It’s really about what you like, not what you are like.” You can audition people all you like, but if you pick a guy who’ll turn out to have the entire Kenny G. discography stashed away with his family’s heirlooms, you won’t be too cocky about your judgment. When Grohl found himself in a club watching the farewell gig of a band called Sunny Day Real Estate (who has since reunited, by the way), he also found himself his first rhythm section: bassist Nate Mendel, who’ll stay on forever, and drummer William Goldsmith, who would tour with them shortly but sadly wouldn’t perform on any record. Musicians don’t go to the hairdresser’s or the neighborhood Starbucks to find a potential best friend; they catch buzz-worthy punk-rock shows and form bands with the people onstage.

How to fire people (or drive them to leave their jobs). The sad thing really—though not necessarily a tragedy—is the fact that you can be the nicest Joe in your particular postal district but still get fired from your job, or be forced to quit (like William Goldsmith, who would find out that Grohl has pretty much redone all of his drum tracks for The Color and the Shape). Meanwhile, it was a déjà vu of sorts for Franz Stahl: Grohl was in his old band, Scream, but would later dump them for Nirvana; when Pat Smear pulled the rug from under Grohl’s feet and left, Grohl would giddily ask Stahl to jump in, only to get the boot almost as quickly as he’d been asked. I’m not trying to paint an ugly picture at all; needless to say, Grohl wasn’t happy about this, but he also wasn’t happy about the music being produced with Stahl on board. “You don’t want to see someone disappear out of your life. […] I feel bad about the bad things; I feel good about the good things,” Grohl narrates.

How to honor your past. The look on Dave’s face when he harmonizes with Bob Mould (Hüsker Dü, Sugar) on “Dear Rosemary.” The cheerful, almost tensionless return of Pat Smear several years after he left the band. Krist (gasp!) Novoselic walking in to jam on bass and (gasp!) accordion on “I Should Have Known,” off of new album Wasting Light. Freaking Butch Vig producing. The Foos know that, no matter how many tickets they sell or charts they top, they shouldn’t forget those old telephone numbers. (Aldus Santos)

“Foo Fighters rock Düsseldorf” by Rongyos 1997; image of Dave Grohl and Chris Shiflett by Scott Barlow, both via Flickr Creative Commons. Some rights reserved. For more information on the film, go to the official website. Trailer below (via Quakeowner on YouTube):

O Diyos sa kalangitan

Hari ng sangkalupaan

Diyos na walang kapantay,

Mabait lubhang maalam

At puno ng karunungan.

For centuries during Holy Week in the Philippines, these words had filled the air, recited in what is known as the pabasa, a verse-form narrative about the life and sufferings of Jesus Christ. The pabasa, according to the National Historical Commission of the Philippines (NHCP), incorporates the compilation of text and verses on Jesus’ life known as the Pasyon, and renders these verses into recognizable music. The verses are structured in five-line stanzas, with each stanza containing eight syllables.

It was in 1703, during the Spanish occupation of the islands, when the first Pasyon, written by printer Gaspar Aquino de Leon, was published. Entitled Ang Mahal na Pasion ni Jesu Christong P. Natin na Tola (The Sacred Passion of Jesus Christ Our Lord in Verse), it was soon followed by other versions, including various editions for the country’s many languages. Historians note that the verses were first read by members of the ruling class (or principalia) as a way of continuing the propagation of Catholicism, and were later sang, becoming popular with the masses.

The pabasa then evolved into one of the prominent features of Holy Week in the Philippines. Up to the last century or so, Filipinos have been singing their lungs out, expressing verse after verse of the Pasyon text. In various localities all over the country, a cornucopia of voices—the loud and the not-so-loud, the nice and the unpleasant, the sintunado and the disintunado—could be heard, seemingly challenging one another for the best rendition. Grandparents and grandchildren, sons and daughters, and parents everywhere all participate, a testament not just to the Filipinos’ religiosity, but to their innate musicality as well.

During the last decade, however, the pabasa voices have been fewer, and Holy Week, Pinoy-style, is becoming quieter and quieter. Some infer that Filipino Catholics today prefer a more meditative Lent. Others, however, say that the pabasa has outlived its usefulness, and, in the context of “creative destruction,” is giving way to more modern forms of retelling the life of Jesus, like in films or in other media like the Internet. Still, others claim that it has become a private affair—sans microphone—where the Pasyon is read as a form of family prayer in many homes.

Scouring the Lenten news about the pabasa, it can be said that the tradition is not yet in the realm of the extinct. In many provinces, the microphone still rules, and the old monophonic rhymes still fill the air. Some younger pabasa singers, on the other hand, are trying to incorporate their kind of music in the custom, as can be seen in rap/hip-hop renditions.

As for the pabasa in the future, we really can’t tell. Maybe it will, just like other traditions, die a natural death. Maybe it will find other ways of transforming itself so that it will survive. The fact, however, remains that many Filipinos grew up with the haunting rhymes of the pabasa. For them, a Holy Week without a pabasa is like Christmas without simbang-gabi and an All-Saints Day without candles. If the pabasa later on belts out a swan song, their Holy Weeks will never be the same again. (Juan Alvin Tiamson)

“For You” by Eli Braud (oneselfsacrifice) via Flickr Creative Commons. Some rights reserved.

Hello, reader. Not that it matters a great deal, but today marks the first year of my editorship of this humble site. Thank you for clicking on most days, even to just look at photos or speed-read through our polysyllabic diatribes. I’m proudest of our small pool of contributors, and even prouder of you guys who make Pulse.ph your cup of coffee, your cigarette, your snack-time chatter. This act of articulation, of course, is not so much a note-to-self regarding mortality or time itself (or our futile attempts at marking it). This very utterance, this self-conscious display, is an expression of sincere surprise, “surprise” because (and only because) we don’t look at the mirror as a matter of routine or daily survival; we do so as a matter of—ehem—reflection (pun absolutely intended). Let me use a less obtuse example. Take a person’s fluctuations in weight. A friend who this person only sees once or twice a year will notice these changes more readily than, say, that person’s own mother. This nameless acquaintance may be pesky as shit, but, in that moment when he minds the person’s weight, he serves as a requisite random reminder. Of what, you ask? Well, of the world we live in, and life in general (thank you, Depeche Mode). Distance is indeed the best judge.

I personally am not much for self-assessment, especially in areas of my life that I deem bud-sized as of yet, such as, for instance, my speck-like, close-to-nothing dot in the sphere of local music (as creator, commentator, and occasional rah-rah girl). But I do get reminded of it from time to time, at least tangentially. All I need to snap into full-on introspective mode is a potent symbol. And if you’re going to talk local-music iconography, which better personality than Joey “Pepe” Smith, correct? Mr. Smith’s myth does precede him (and sadly precedes his music, too, at times), but perhaps this myth—the very idea of him: broken yet alive, downtrodden but with a swagger—is enough contribution to culture as we know it (heck, it’s more than enough for me). I go through life, from one crummy phase to another, without much ceremony (droid-like math geek to brooding writer type, bedroom guitar player to independent gigging musician, blissfully single to even-more-blissfully married), and, luckily, random mementos present themselves to me in various forms. And one such memento is Pepe.

Off the top of my head, these encounters: in 1996, with a portable Marshall (an MS-2 or an MS-4) clamped to his belt buckle, a Stratocaster in his hand, an array of sari-sari-store-variety liquors on the table, a couple of manong friends, and me, a college freshman in Diliman, asking for an autograph on my journal; in early 2004, on account of an invitation from Joey Dizon and/or perhaps Vernon Go, the awesome people of Pulp, chatting while he’s in costume and in the presence of a very naked Myles Hernandez; in 2005, covering Global Battle of the Bands (through the kindness of Tita Susan Arcega), in his (then-)home in Baguio, letting myself and my then-girlfriend chill in his man-cave for several hours, playing my most-rudimentary blues with a man who grew up with it basically; this year, maybe around New Year’s, at the mall of all places, and you could tell he’s trying to recall your face, though you could see his eyes light up when you introduce yourself again. I saw Pepe play again at that big Araneta show last year, and, though he was still very much in his element (easily the most riotous, most animated among the seniors, really), his physical presence, I emphasize, takes the cake.

Last weekend I caught a glimpse of The Smiths, the new reality show vaguely patterned after The Osbournes and Gene Simmons: Family Jewels, starring Pepe and his grown kids. A doctor was annotating Pepe’s x-ray results for him, saying his lungs were more elongated than usual, and that this wasn’t good. Emphysema was hinted at, though not confirmed. There was a subtle drop in Mr. Smith’s face, and a daze in his eyes. “Okay, okay…” he kept saying, nodding along, as if to say, “That’s peanuts.” When he broke the news to his kids at home, there was silence, a palpable sadness (Sanya broke down), and some sense of relief (i.e., that it’s nothing serious). The old man was slightly upset that he is being made to quit smoking, his only remaining vice he said (“‘Yun na nga lang bisyo ko, eh”). When interviewed on-cam, he was darker yet more optimistic than ever, “‘Di ko alam kung kailan ‘yun, pero kung kailangan ko mang umalis, ‘yung mga maiiwan, ituloy niyo. Rakenrol!” I’m sure he’s okay, or at least he will be. In the meantime, as with past encounters in the flesh or on the stage, from a distance, he remains precisely this: a reminder. If a man that old could jump around like a twenty-year-old, doing mock-barks and a Jagger-Iggy strut, playing slide guitar like in his peak years, somehow—I just know it—it would all be fine. (Aldus Santos)

Photos by my wife.

More than hit songs, an audience’s loyalty to an artist has to do, I think, with that artist’s mythology. What has transpired in the marginalia, so to speak, becomes as compelling a hook as any memorable verse or chorus. See: Kurt Cobain and his gun (despite his assertions that he doesn’t have one in “Come as You Are”); Ian Curtis and his noose; Mark David Chapman (John Lennon’s gunman) standing outside the Dakota with his yellowing copy of Catcher in the Rye, among other totems of musical culture. In the same fashion, Scott Weiland’s bouts with drug use have become an object of both ridicule and (unspoken) awe. (I mean, he’s still standing, isn’t he?) I remember the day I heard about the death of Alice in Chains singer Layne Staley of drug-related reasons (his corpse was found two weeks too late in his apartment). I was on my way home to my folks after another week of soiled laundry, and, more than sadness, I felt a renewed sense of alarm for people of Staley’s ilk. More specifically, I thought of Weiland, whose increasing physical frailty then (for an unspecified, protracted period of time) only served to fan the flames. More than the missed artistic opportunities, I was actually worried for this man, a total stranger on the other side of the equator. When At the Womb’s Miggy Matute reported that the singer missed his flight to Manila (slated for a Tuesday-night arrival), there was, no doubt, some head-scratching (“Jesus, he’s at it again”); when he did arrive the next morning on the day of the Araneta show, there was relief indeed that, yes, we may proceed in reliving our collective teenage lives in the ‘90s. STP’s seventeen-song set, suffice it to say, redefined their myth (challenged it, if you may). In the here-and-now, when it really matters, when personal mythologies melt in with created, idealized ones, those four-minute, riff-heavy songs that once lived over NU107, over LA105, and spooled in our cassette decks, were once again put to the test.

And then the San Diego, Californians responsible for these musings walked in. No fanfare, no fancy lightshow—they just, you know, walked in. Weiland: decked in a suit, a scarf, and shades; the De Leos (Robert and Dean): both looking like they haven’t aged at all (especially Robert, who looks classy-thuggish, like he can be a gangster in something like Boardwalk Empire); Eric Kretz: still sort of sporting a 1994 hairdo. A couple of tracks off of Core—“Crackerman” and “Wicked Garden”—served as apt starters: like collateral, like a money-down guarantee that suggests, no, we won’t get cheated, and, yes, we will be treated to a memory-lane stroll with these songs that are as broken and sublime as the best Beat poems. Fuck, I can imagine how puzzling these numbers may sound to the Linkin Park generation, but they are our soundtrack (cliché as saying that has become). After the opening salvo, Weiland engaged the Araneta crowd in some banter, sharing that the band arrived “fairly recently” (no mention of him being a day late), and that he couldn’t tell whether it’s day or night. He paused for effect, silently surveying the sea of black-shirt-clad non-kids, and posed a challenge: “So, it’s up to you now to show the spirit of the night.”

And, like I said, it was a night of rethinking old perspectives. “Vasoline,” for one, proved to be more than a mere two-note riffer; it is now (to my ears) an exercise in compactness, slips in the performance notwithstanding. And then there’s the fairly new material—“Heaven & Hot Rods” from No. 4; “Between the Lines” and “Hickory Dichotomy” from Stone Temple Pilots (a curious move nomenclature-wise, by the way; does this suggest self-acceptance, but only this late in the game?)—songs that tell us that, after the requisite dicking-around with neo-psychedelics and mock-Iggy Pop punk, a hard rock band will always show its true skin in the end: as a Les Paul-loving, megaphone-wielding pack of arena animals. However, it was personally the Purple part of the gig that got my motor running: “Still Remains” and “Silvergun Superman” were especially surprising, mainly because they showcased Weiland’s character crooning, instead of his lethal husky-screamy attack. Meanwhile, the lone cover of the night (their version of Zep’s “Dancing Days,” off of Encomium), was several notches up its recorded counterpart. At some point, Weiland muttered into the mic and addressed their sound tech to “Turn up the volume a bit on this one,” and you just sort of figure it out for yourself: you were going to hear the cream of the STP discography: “Big Empty,” “Interstate Love Song,” and the ridiculously popular “Plush” (their “Smells Like Teen Spirit,” if you want). Also, the more agro stuff (“Huckleberry Crumble,” “Down”) thrown in for good measure, along with set-closer “Sex Type Thing” (which the band began with some jazz- and fusion-tinged noodling, and with Scott singing some lines from The Doors’ “Break on Through the Other Side”). Naturally, the real show-enders—“Dead and Bloated” and “Trippin’ on a Hole in a Paper Heart”—were no lightweights either.

I’m not going to kid you; it wasn’t perfect at all. Weiland’s voice breaks from time to time; Kretz slows down on a few songs (the big screw-up for both was during “Big Empty”). There is nothing to fault the De Leos with, though, really, especially Dean, who shows us how Les Pauls should really be played (check out his ‘90s rig here, a rig he probably still uses). Mere mortals, yes, but I’m still voiceless from all the screaming. (Aldus Santos)

Stock photographs (1) and (2) both from the band’s Facebook page.

Not since BB Gandanghari do we know of murder as acceptable, as really just a matter of absence at its most concrete. Because the essence of Rustom Padilla is there, but he ain’t with us anymore. BB has killed him.

Yes, I find humor and hyperbole in the face of the heart-wrenching.

But this is beyond that, because tonight I was to witness a murder: a heaviness in the pit of my stomach, probably the heaviest it’s felt about something extraneous to me, in the years of all my sadnesses. Sugarfree was killing itself tonight, and yes, it can only be as violent as it sounds.

Because there is nothing pretty here, nothing beautiful to speak of. Murders—real and imagined—must necessarily leave a bad taste in the mouth, and that searing pain that only real palpable endings can bring. Throughout the night, frontman Ebe Dancel kept introducing songs with “For the last time…”

Under the rain that wouldn’t stop, it felt like a slap on the face, or a blunt object to the head, both making me look to the friends I was with, and seeing the same kind of tears being kept in with the bite of the lower lip, a drag of that cigarette that was surviving the rain.

Our eyes, tearless as they mostly were, could but speak of how we felt. We were forgiving this evening of horrid production values, obviously a rushed concert as this was. We could imagine Ebe being forgiving as well, knowing as we do his demands on sound quality in every performance, regardless of where. We cringed at the horrid video of each member of the band, thanking the audience and their fans, because it was of such poor quality, it removed from what each member was saying.

The point was that we were there, and we stayed standing for close to three hours, half the time with the hope that they would sing our favorite song, the other half just wanting to see how it would all end.

It did in the most inappropriate way: in the hands of a DJ who didn’t know how exactly to end the show, screaming the band members’ names after their bow and forgetting Bodgie dela Cruz who played guitar the whole evening. She obviously hasn’t listened countless times to that Sugarfree Live album, where Ebe himself gives Bodgie credit, and you feel like there’s some real love and friendship there.

Here, tonight, we were stuck with a DJ who didn’t know what she was doing, and who shouldn’t have been there at all.

Please know to use lights out. It’s the best ending for anything.

That is to say that there are good, better, best endings out there. Maybe the ones where we can blame a girl, any girl, for a band’s demise. Maybe ones that are about someone dying, or just plain leaving. Maybe ones that are about a clean, steady fading away.

Anything other than this one, where memories are very clear: going to 70s Bistro for the launch of the “Hangover” video, sitting outside with Kuya because it was way too full inside, watching Ebe and the band doing the rounds of fans, Ebe sitting with us on the sidewalk, saying goodbye to Kuya who was leaving the next day for The Hague.

Ebe mentions a friend whose job it is to herd sheep in New Zealand. We all wonder what kind of peace that life brings.

As there has to be some peace here, too. There has to be quiet after all in endings such as this one, where the only clear reason is time taking its toll on people. Maybe that is our problem, that we forget that bands are made up of people, and that Jal Taguibao, Kaka Quisumbing, Bodgie, and Ebe are just people, too. It cannot have been easy the past 12 years. We must give them credit for it.

And to which we owe some honesty, and this I say with all my heart: I knew it was near the end when Mornings and Airports came out and barely hit the right notes. I knew it in the way that I knew Natin 99 was close to the Eraserheads’ end.

Here I self-consciously wax romantic as spectator: there is a character to a band’s music that becomes familiar, that I imagine to be about how very different members meld together into a song, a sound, a whole album. It is that which cannot be put into words or held down by description, whose presence is made real by its absence, which is always obvious and painfully so.

Of course this might all be my overactive imagination, maybe just my ability at memory and how Sugarfree songs hit at the heart of too many people and moments in the past 12 years, from Sa Wakas to Mornings and Airports. But maybe the worst thing about memory is that now we can’t relive it in the hands of a live performance, in the throes of the kind of energy that a Sugarfree performance inevitably creates.

Maybe that is also the most liberating thing, and maybe that is what the death of Sugarfree is about. That we may also all let go of memories of boys and loves that are long gone, of romance that only their songs can create, of moments that were only possible with their music in the background.

No, we don’t have the right to make new memories—that’s not just cliché, it’s also an illusion. We do justice to those 12 years by denying it is over, by getting angry at the way things turned out, by demanding an explanation. Then we accept it on the level of betrayal, because Sugarfree has been part of our lives for too long, and they sang too closely about our lives, and they could not kill themselves in this way. Except they already have.

Romanticism will not save us this time. Welcome to the real world. That might be the point. (Katrina Stuart Santiago)

Photo by May Umali.

First, this: I am nothing but overjoyed that the debate on how we as Filipinos should support (and, if possible, protect through legislation) our own music has witnessed a Phoenician rebirth of sorts. Now, you may argue that this kind of shit is for pundits and old fogeys alone (and you may argue that, actually), but I beg you to dip your toes in it and get momentarily wet at least, because this will have concrete repercussions on our consumption of music in these shores. The revival of EO 255 was long overdue, and it was a good way to start the year. However—and I say this with a face so long it touches my soiled marble floor—radio is not everything. It used to be everything, until the Internet happened. I guess it was a marriage we thought so nonchalantly faithful about it just sort of…evaporated. Why do I say this? Because, even with the forceful enactment of 255 (a minimum of four songs every hour, in a nutshell), OPM will not be guaranteed its old glorious spot under the sun, where the APO were kings (they still are, in my heart), and Basil and Ryan (and even Ogie and Dingdong) were emperors. They have to slug it out in arenas other than radio: primarily, live gigging, which is an arena Kuh Ledesma feels strongly about she suggested that, perhaps, the entry of foreign acts should be “regulated.” ABS-CBNNews.com reported (on January 3, 2011) that Ms. Ledesma was calling on lawmakers to “study how to protect the interests of Filipino artists,” which she said could be addressed by, you guessed it, “regulating” them (especially during “traditional concert seasons” such as February). The Philippine Online Chronicles (on January 14, 2011), meanwhile, quoted Ms. Ledesma (talking on a radio show) as clarifying that she is “not for banning. I love watching great artists from all over the world.”

Really sound pleas in the spirit of nationalism. I (along with some of my colleagues), however, disagree on some points. The fine line being treaded here is that between free choice and, well, “nationalism” (this time in quotes, not to mock but to hint at its many facets and forms). Another fine line being treaded here is that between fair trade and, well, “nationalism” once more. On the one hand, arguing against people that brandish nationalism as a sword is somewhat morally reprehensible, almost comparable to arguing against helping out the sick and the elderly. A first-time author friend of mine decried the fact that, while her first novel (out on a major local press) is being carried in the same shelves where Twilight and all those other things are being sold, hers (along with a gamut of other noteworthy local releases) was lagging in terms of exposure. Entire tables and rows of shelves displaying foreign titles are propped in strategic places all across several bookstores; meanwhile, even our lit legends (you know who they are) have to virtually beg for space. My friend used the phrase “equal opportunity in promotion,” which I guess is what Ms. Ledesma is asking for in live music, though in a much grander, more business-oriented scale. I cannot argue against nationalism, and I will not. Being both a fan and creator of local art (*cough* buy my two books and my band’s two albums *cough*), I think this makes utmost sense. Support us, or else we’ll die. Again, a pseudo-moral imperative. But, lest I be judged guilty of paragraph-length digression, let me expound on these points of disagreement.

The subtle message here (and the one I don’t buy) seems to be the “demonizing” of foreign acts. To my mind, a good song is a good song, be it Filipino or otherwise. To me, no brainy Radiohead number can ever replace Juan Isip’s “Tymspacewarp,” for example. I had an interesting string of tweet-exchanges with Terno Recordings mainman Toti Dalmacion about the matter, and his take emphasizes originality. The Kuh rhetoric (re: regulation/taxation of foreign artists holding shows here) is put to question by the independent label head, saying, “[It's] best to sing original songs though if [she’s] trying to make a point. I’d watch Joni James instead of her if she’ll just sing American standards.” Dalmacion also pointed out that “What they should complain about is the lack of government support for local music artists; [there are] no grants to aid them in getting out there as it takes a lot of money to promote or do a tour, [especially] if no promoter will take a chance on [a] particular artist.” I argued that, realistically speaking, we cannot compete with “big-money peeps” (government-supported or otherwise) in terms of sending artists around the world. The man responsible for bringing the rabidly inventive (read: not pop) Up Dharma Down to national consciousness would naturally put a high premium on creativity. He further suggested, “As balladeers, they have to step up their game and adapt to the changes if they want to compete with foreign talent. [They should] update the sentimental stylings a bit and adapt to modern pop music, maybe do a little reinvention—[I’m] not saying Lady Gaga but just be abreast of what’s going on.”

Susan Isorena-Arcega, a veteran of live local productions, has a more practical take on the matter, asking, “When Pinoy artists concertise overseas, does anyone say ‘Stop Pinoy acts’? Producing is commercial—you want to make money. Give what people haven’t seen before, not what you already see on TV, and especially not once-creative minds that stagnated. Maybe those concertising locally have been at it too long they’ve bled their audience dry of enthusiasm without having grown artistically.” And Tita Susan is obviously no elitist, citing the successes of specific local productions, and also elaborating on why they were successful: “Concepts are also important. [A] perfect example is how [The] Juicy Cat Dolls with Tita Pilita (Corrales), Nanette (Inventor), and Mitch (Valdez) sold out. Or The CompanY’s shows. [There should be] manageable venues and manageable costs, then check who has the buying power and what they like.” (Aldus Santos)

Image of Kuh Ledesma by Oliver Mayor, and that of Taylor Swift by Brian R., both via Flickr Creative Commons. Some rights reserved.

When I say cheap of course, I don’t mean the kind of music, as it was the price of the music. I look back now and realize that I didn’t at all spend money on a concert, local or foreign, in 2010. It might have much to do with the fact that the last time I put out money for any concert was for The Final Set of the Eraserheads in 2009. After that 5K, no other concert has seemed worth the price.

Yet, there was plenty in music that was fascinating in 2010, for a girl like me who will not spend more than P200 pesos on a gig, and will buy CDs indie and otherwise whenever the wallet permits. There’s also always TV: I’m the girl who keeps it on as ambient sound, at anytime of day and night. Which means a lot of standard regular music, yes, but also the chance to be surprised by local music still.

Music Uplate Live. With its irregular late-nighttime slot on ABS-CBN, it’s easy to have gone through 2010 without experiencing this show. For the ones who are up after midnight though, this is music at its best, no matter that you might not care for the pop music artists who are the more usual guests, no matter that it’s also still that late night inanity of an SMS game show with a host screaming her heart out. What matters are Tutti Caringal of Six Cycle Mind and Yeng Constantino, jamming with all of their guests.

Off the top of my head, the late nights of 2010 with Music Uplate Live gave me: Sugarfree live, singing their old(er) songs, and Ebe’s guitar string snapping in the middle of it; Parokya ni Edgar live, the huge group forcing the stage to get bigger, the band members’ nonchalant way of responding to questions and requests working against the show’s format; Gloc-9’s performance refusing any form of jamming really, because who can do what he does? Ah, but my personal favorite was The Gatecrashers, made up of Aiza Seguerra, Juris Fernandez, and it I’m not mistaken Nyoy Volante, an informal group that makes songs so different, it could only be creative, if not sometimes absurd. Take “Maalala Mo Kaya” and make it into a rock song? Check!

Sarah Geronimo as Pinoy diva. In the past two years that saw Sarah becoming older, she didn’t just begin to look it, she also began to do things better—infinitely better than she ever has. Sarah’s solo numbers were one reason to stay on ABS-CBN’s ASAP XV in 2010, because it’s a measure not just of her singing, but also her dancing which has changed because she’s more comfortable in her own skin. She swings her hips without looking slutty, covers up or puts inner wear in clothes that are too sexy, and yet in the end with her long sleek hair and just her amount of talent, comes off as one of the better performers on that show, if not on all of TV-land. In 2010 Sarah proved that real sweet innocence plus age and confidence equal sex appeal. And tadah! Diva-hood.

Gloc-9 has more than nine lives. In the album Matrikula, this rapper proves he’s always been in a class all his own, even as FrancisM continues to live. Fact: Gloc-9 is of the social class he speaks of, and therefore speaks from there. Fact: Gloc-9 is not indebted to anyone, not a big network or huge capitalist, and so in the end can speak about anyone. This is exactly what he does in Matrikula. Filled with guests doing the singing parts in most his songs, Gloc-9 also fills this album with these times: its poverty and wealth, its contradictions and pretense, its glaring inequalities and injustices. This he does without preaching or sermonizing, instead doing it with some hardcore Pinoy poetry, using metaphors and analogies that deal with real feelings of hunger and pain, suffering and difficulty. Pinoy rap lives! Its got Gloc-9 written all over it.

Fact: in the now defunct Pilipinas Win na Win! Gloc-9, who was a celebrity contestant, did the short talent portion by doing an excerpt from one of the songs in Matrikula. Host Kris Aquino promptly demanded: “Puwede mag-rap ka ng tungkol sa masaya naman?”

I promptly fell off my seat.

Rediscovering Route 196. And yes, finding it worth the trip across two cities. In the year that Route 196 opened I lived on Katipunan Avenue, and I was there too often; transferring to Mandaluyong had kept me away for a time, yet 2010 made me come home to Route 196. Of course this is mostly about the artists and music that Route 196 hosts, but also it’s about everything else. There’s the ambiance of still being allowed to do things slap-happy, coming as you are, drinking what you will. The service is wonderful and friendly; parking while limited is made easy by watch-your-car-boys. It’s got the best—and I do mean the best—thin-crust pizza across our local bars, and those chili cheese sticks are wonderful pulutan, too. With no gig beyond P200 pesos, plus a free drink, good cheap lives!

The Collective, the konyo, and the rest of us. I love calling The Collective “Makati-X” because I’ve been told that the people who put it up hate being called such. It’s true after all that The Collective is different from Cubao-X. For one thing, The Collective ain’t easy to go to, or find, and there aren’t many shops that I can afford there. It also doesn’t have the layer of masa that Cubao will always have, regardless of how expensive the store you put up may be. But. The Collective has that huge space for concerts and events, many of which are worth going to. In 2010, I found myself there for bands like Outerhope and Arigato Hato, as well as Fete de la WSK, and while too far for comfort, there has not been a trip to The Collective that hasn’t been worth it. Enough said.

Meiday! Meiday! Speaking of Cubao-X, in 2010 on the weekend of Halloween it hosted Meiday! Meiday! and rocked it like no other. Videos of the performances that night are on YouTube, though that barely captures what it was like to be there. The stage was set up facing the side of Mogwai, and even when on around the corner a horrid bar was playing its own loud music—talagang walang pakisama ano?—there was nothing that could ruin Us-2 Evil-0’s performance, or Nyko Maca’s, or the now-legendary night that Sugarfree played three songs and made us all feel like we were in a concert. “Burnout,” “Mariposa,” and “Prom” in the dead of night, in the middle of the Cubao-X crowd, with Ebe practically singing over the stage, never sounded this good.

Johnoy and Kakoy. Of course it might and will be said that there isn’t much going for a duo that performs only covers. Those people obviously don’t know of Johnoy Danao and Kakoy Legaspi. 2010 was all about Johnoy and Kakoy in any of the bars they’d play at, rocking our world, doing covers like no one else. I’m the last person who would accept any kind of Bob Marley cover, but in the hands of these two, damn it, it’s time for an open mind and ready ears. Sitting through a Johnoy and Kakoy gig means being surprised half the time. And floored the other half.

In praise of Peryodiko. One band that got me stepping out more than usual in 2010 was Peryodiko. From 70s Bistro to Route 196, even all the way to saGuijo, I couldn’t but fall in love with this band even more, and I’m the girl who has memorized their whole album at that. Seeing them perform live only adds a layer of passion to the music, also because you see how the members of this band are actually and in fact all fantastic musicians. They’re also all humble and modest, thank goodness.

Jun Lopito is Alive! 2010 saw rakenrol legend Jun Lopito back in Manila after too long away, and yes, it’s difficult not to be awed. In one of his first gigs at the new bar Ten02, it was clear that he had gathered a crowd that cuts across generations, one that’s bound by some Pinoy rakenrol love. Lopito rocked it that night singing covers and playing guitar of course, yet more than that, seeing him live and in his element just makes for an overwhelming experience of seeing why and how Lopito’s a legend. One also realizes that it doesn’t matter when or where rakenrol happens; what matters is that we remain rakenrol.

Dong Abay is Alive! Another artist that put the tail-end of 2010 back on the rakenrol bus was Dong Abay’s most recent incarnation. Yes, we know him from Yano, then from Pan, then from dongabay. Now it’s still him with Coffeebreak Island, and that only works to Dong’s advantage. Because if you’ve seen Dong perform live, you know that he doesn’t take to that stage and stand there singing; he goes crazy on that stage as if in a trance. And with CBI’s guitarist and bassist going just as crazy, watching a Dong Abay gig becomes a feast for the eyes and not just the ears. Add to that original Pinoy music in beautiful stark Filipino poetry that speaks from the core of social inequity and violence, and right there you’ve got a night difficult to forget. Also, one that you’d like to repeat over and over again.

2010 was about many other things in music than just these of course. I would’ve wanted to mention The Hitmakers (Rico J. Puno, Marco Sison, Nonoy Zuñiga, Rey Valera) as an entity that lasted far longer than expected on nationwide noontime TV; and Willie Revillame’s album making it to number one on the record charts after only a week of release; and Lito Camo and the power of the composer to bring the same theme song from one channel to another, without fear of being sued.

Then again, this list is ultimately what was cheap and thrilling about local music in 2010. Undoubtedly, many things that were interesting or had me glued to my TV weren’t thrilling at all. In fact, as with plenty of other guilty pleasures, much of the cheapness was about it in the literal sense. And I know you know what I mean. (Katrina Stuart Santiago)

Sam’s Kind of Rock

If there’s something you must know, it’s that Sam Milby can sing. While inside the Pinoy Big Brother house during season one, he was discovered playing the guitar and writing a love song, and yes, being an all-around pretty boy. Once outside, he played a rock star role in the movie Close to You, as the third side of a love triangle; soon enough, in the variety shows, he was being made to sing and play his guitar live (albeit with some discomfort). It of course wouldn’t take long for Sam’s good-looks-turned-rugged to become a rockstar image, and soon enough we were welcoming this idea into our lives: the “rockoustic” heartthrob.

The layers of definition here can only mean a wider audience. Because on the one hand you’ve got the notion of music played on acoustic guitar, as Sam had done upon his discovery; on the other you have the idea of rock as a genre, differentiating Sam from every other acoustic singer in these shores who does nothing but revivals. Not that he won’t subsist on revivals for the most part, but Sam was distinct because other than being an interweaving of rock and acoustic, he was also sold as a heartthrob.

This combination I realize might be difficult to beat really, regardless of better rock stars, bigger pop rock, or more creative acoustic singers. This is because Sam’s good looks is already default, and the more he uses the notion(s) of popular rock, the more he redefines it to suit how he looks. Which is really just pretty boy touched with some ruggedness, and tadah!, pop rock redefined with good looks, an American twang, and some sincere need to please.

Sam Milby must know he’s got us all—girls and gays alike—in the palm of his hand. Rakenrol notwithstanding.

Yehey for Yeng!

There isn’t a rocker chick that’s more visible in these shores than Yeng Constantino, and to dismiss her as just another network creation would be unfair. In fact, if you had a sense of Yeng, you would know that when she was a contestant on Pinoy Dream Academy, she seemed the most unlikely to win: she was surrounded by sexy sirens ready to be pop stars, as well as pretty boys ready to work the kilig factor. Yeng meanwhile was the girl with a rock band, the one who appeared in Chuck Taylors for most of the season, and would reconfigure songs like “I Will Survive” before we saw David Cook do it on American Idol.

But, too, Yeng had talent. So much of it that by the end of that season, and by the time she won, her original song “Hawak Kamay” was already on repeat in our heads. In fact, “Hawak Kamay” had become the theme song not just of that season of PDA but of every other love story real and imagined, including cinematic: it would come to be theme song of a Judy Ann Santos and Ryan Agoncillo starrer—enough to make it bigger than Yeng could imagine.

And Yeng was no one-hit wonder. In fact she would fare much better than most reality show winners, save for Sarah Geronimo who’s in a genre all her own (and will be reason for another essay). What is extraordinary about Yeng though is the fact that she’s in a rocker-chick space all her own. After all, we have lost track of Barbie Almalbis and Kitchie Nadal, and even in relation to them, Yeng would still be different: she ain’t of the rich, is willing to make fun of herself, and is more rakenrol than we imagine.

But also, she speaks with a humility that’s borne of her social class, the one that’s overwhelmed by the kind of success that very few are lucky enough to have. She has kept the band she had pre-PDA win called Morning Glory, and that’s about all I have to say about that name. While Yeng’s look has changed slowly but surely in pictorials and album covers given the expectations and requirements of her home network, she has ceased to be uncomfortable with it. Instead, in instances when she can be herself, she actually looks like the anti-thesis to her made-up, highly manufactured image. Have you seen her on Music Uplate Live? Given the late hours of this show, Yeng is less made-up here, and just seems more rakenrol—and one is reminded of how she was exactly this before she had to conform.

And yes, her songs speak of a sense of class, without it being heavy and sad. Instead there is a sense of what’s default about class, and how one can rise to the occasion of dreaming. Of course Yeng stands for exactly this, given her humble beginnings, but it also stands for the kind of rakenrol that she has consistently made popular in these shores, never mind that it might not be what we think pop rock should be. 

The truth is you wouldn’t know pop rock in this country, if you don’t know Yeng Constantino.

Reconsiderations: Pinoy Pop Rock

Now of course we’re missing April Boy Regino, who hasn’t had a hit in a while but who does some real popular rock in “‘Di Ko Kayang Tanggapin,” though not in “Yeye Bonel.”  There’s old-school jukebox rock in Renz Verano’s “Remember Me,” Rannie Raymundo’s “Why Can’t it Be,” and my personal favorites Lloyd Umali’s “Bakit Kung Sino Pa” and Father and Sons’ “Miss na Miss Kita”.

And there is Aegis, that fab rock band that just might be the first local glam rock band—and yes, I mean that with all my heart and the dream to reach those darn high notes on “Ayoko sana/kung ikaw ay mawawala/Masasayang lamang ang pag-ibig kooooo!”

They will all be reason for another essay. (Katrina Stuart Santiago)

Sam Milby image by Baba G., Yeng Constantino by Rex Rosales; both via Flickr Creative Commons. Some rights reserved.  

In the (cred-hungry) world where I exist, in the milieu I’ve been in for several years now, Rico Blanco is not someone who needs any sort of introduction. Yet, in the supernatural-themed soap Imortal (smack in the middle of primetime on ABS-CBN), he is deemed as “the new guy,” as the one whose name is preceded by “introducing,” as the dude who plays second fiddle to figures of TV royalty such as, well, John Lloyd Cruz and Angel Locsin. That his musician persona is not lacking in theatrics is beside the point. That his songs depict both sincere truths and created ones is out of the question. In the ‘93-’94 NBA season, Michael Jordan abruptly retired from professional basketball (the first time around at least) to pursue a career in baseball; somehow, I get a sense of déjà vu with Rico now doing TV—though, yes, he’s done hosting and indie-film-style acting before, and he’s far from retiring from music.

But, hey, who says you can’t do more than one thing masterfully? Granted, someone like Dave Grohl has not yet peaked in his “new” craft (guitar-playing) in the same manner he’s lauded in his “old” one (drumming, most notably for Nirvana), but, well, we’ve got time. Who knows? My point, I guess, is this: there is, I’m sure of it, a good chunk of Imortal’s viewership that tunes in simply because ABS has decided to cast the former Rivermaya frontman as the heartthrob’s “best friend.” Certainly, this chunk off of the audience pie is counting on Blanco to ace this new venture just as he has aced the others (design, art, photography). Track-record-wise, there is little to doubt in the man from Pacita, true, but some trepidation is always welcome; doubt keeps your standards sharp.

Blanco plays Lucas Teodoro, a heredero who is initially depicted as the quintessential playboy (pondering whether this holds water in real life is neither my forte nor great concern), and then progresses to become more “human” (i.e., not impervious to heartache) as he succumbs to the charms of Lia Ortega (played by Ms. Locsin, who’s also a werewolf), who is in a tangle with Matteo Rodriguez (played by Mr. Cruz, who’s also a vampire). Apart from this, another source of pressure for the young man is his strained relationship with his business-mogul father, who as of late displays more confidence towards his best friend than towards him.

In all of his scenes (and there are many; this isn’t a bit role), there is an air of calculatedness, a sense of self-consciousness. This may be what Lucas is, but this may also be Rico being something which he hasn’t been for quite a while: a newbie (albeit a newbie with promise, it has to be said). (Aldus Santos)

Source video for Rico’s “Myx Live!” hosting gig can be accessed here; the ASAP performance of “Kahit Walang Sabihin,” meanwhile, is here; the SNN “Imortal” special, lastly, is here. The performance photo is by onat_agi, and is culled from Flickr Creative Commons. Some rights reserved.

Because even if we delude ourselves into thinking that what’s playing on RJ Underground or NU 107 is pop rock, even when we’d like to believe that we dictate what pop rock in this country is, the truth is there’s a whole system of current popular culture now that invokes rock ‘n’ roll, too. And this doesn’t mean Sandwich, not even Parokya ni Edgar, and obviously not Peryodiko. Instead it means rock stars created from scratch and rock songs revived to suit current pop music tastes. Instead it means a created and presumed mass audience for TV and radio, film and music that will like this kind of rock ‘n’ roll in direct relation to who’s actually singing it.

All it takes is a week or two of viewing the kapamilya network to see that there’s pop rock here like we can’t imagine. Here, it’s the networks of this day and age that create notion(s) of rock ‘n’ roll for the times, the ones who have the power to create celebrities, the ones who bombard us with a culture that’s to their liking because it is profitable. And it is so profitable because we are not the audience. Those of us who have American—or European (ang sosy naman!)—pop rock in our heads? We are so out of it. In fact, we might be so far away from it that we won’t even see this as valid popular rock, and in which case, maybe we’re also in denial.

The Joy of Jovit

Moya? Nope, not the one Jovit that we equate with local showbiz. It’s Jovit Baldivino. And yes, you still don’t know who he is.

In truth, I missed his rise to fame too, away as I was during the first season of Pilipinas Got Talent, of which Jovit was grand winner. Now while I distrust reality shows in general, the talent reality show surprises me still because, especially for ABS-CBN 2, it has truly been a showcase of talent versus just a slew of pretty faces that can sing. In fact, these wins are quite unexpected for local TV’s taste, which requires a certain look to its celebrities, as well as a certain kind of talent. And since it’s the audience that votes for these winners, I can’t help but feel hopeful about an evolving intelligence, naysayers notwithstanding.

Because it’s difficult not to be hopeful, when someone like Jovit wins. A little more research will tell you that he was up against another singer, Markki Stroem, as pretty a boy as you can imagine, with a learned pop song voice and a whole lot of talent, including playing the piano and the saxophone. Better believe it when I say that he used all these to win, but Jovit—the poor probinsyano who sells siomai after school to help his parents out—won, fair and square. With some rock ‘n’ roll at that.

He sang “Faithfully” as an audition piece and it was difficult not to be blown away. That could only require spunk after all; a Journey song ain’t an easy thing to sing. On finals night, he sang with the band Sugarfree, with Ebe Dancel (who’s got one of the best vocal chops on this side of rakenrol), and he didn’t just survive it, he aced it. And then Jovit sang Brian May’s “Too Much Love Will Kill You” as his final competition piece, alongside Markki who did a “Like A Prayer” rip-off of Glee. Had I been around I would’ve been surprised if Jovit lost. And the win? It can only be reason to celebrate, in a country where you’ve got to have good looks to be famous, talent just never seems enough, and the rocker dude never wins (case in point, rocker dude Ram Chaves of Pinoy Idol 2008 lost to a forgettable Gretchen Espina).

Of course post-win it’s become obvious that talent doesn’t necessarily mean an easy success for Jovit. In fact, there’s an obvious uncertainty with which Jovit takes the stage still, an amount of shyness maybe, almost an embarrassment on his face.  Of course this is because of humility more than anything else, but it does make for an amount of unease. For Jovit, yes, but also for us who are watching him, uncertain as we become about him as he takes the stage, looking at the audience uncomfortably.

And then he sings. And then he takes a foreign glam rock song and makes it current. And then he makes it locally popular. And then it is layered with the stories that his eyes can tell, about sadness and struggle—the kind these songs actually don’t speak of. And then glam rock becomes pop rock,  what it is that’s popular, here and now, to a mass audience that has watched this teenager Jovit win a game against the pretty boy, by singing rock ‘n’ roll songs to fulfill a dream to sing.

A dream that might have only begun with Arnel Pineda.

Awed by Arnel

Now, we’d like to say that we’re proud of Arnel Pineda, yes? But I don’t know that we imagine him to be a rock star, the one that’s on ASAP XV most Sundays when he’s not touring the world with the band Journey. Arnel’s discovery happened in the same way and around the same time as that of Charice Pempengco’s: via YouTube, in 2008. We didn’t know Arnel from Adam, didn’t know his band Zoo, now called Ammo, didn’t know of him in any way. Then he was discovered, and suddenly we all just knew his story.

After all, in a country where we say that practically everyone can carry a tune, if not sing, it has also become normal for the most talented to be deemed undeserving of fame and fortune. Call it karma, or class determinism maybe, but here where we come from the chances of someone who’s truly talented making it as a big star is very slim. Even more so for rock singers like Arnel, with rock ‘n’ roll sinking and swimming in a sea of pop songs from here and abroad.

His discovery therefore was telling of the kind of popular cultural system that exists in this country, and how time and again, though few and far between, it is blown apart by what the rest of the world thinks of us. Or more precise, what the world deems to be the talent in this country. This was true for Lea Salonga in the ‘90s, would’ve been true of Billy Crawford had he stayed here and left, is true of Charice, and can only be true for Arnel.

Because have you seen this guy sing? You’ve heard him for sure, but you have to see him to believe that his talents lie beyond that voice. It also lies in the ease with which he sings, as if he breathes those notes, and in the way he carries himself on stage, as if he was born there. With Arnel, there is no discomfort, not even when onstage abroad with Journey, or here with singing icons like Martin Nievera or Zsazsa Padilla on ASAP XV in group numbers for which his voice just rises above the smorgasbord. Instead, there is a greatness to him that isn’t overwhelmingly about yabang. In fact, there just seems to be good ol’ confidence here, the kind brought on by success that was long in coming, but was always deserved. There’s also a confidently rock ‘n’ roll kind of singing, where everything in his hands sounds rakenrol, as if to say, “Walang pakialamanan, o.”

It would be safe to say that Arnel himself has added a layer of interest in Journey once again, not just here but elsewhere in the world.

And yes it has to be mentioned that Arnel has not backed down from his unapologetically ‘80s rockstar look: tight fitting jeans, a whole lot of leather, chalecos, tie-dye, cowboy boots. And yes he rebonded his hair, so for a while it was sleek and long and not very rock ‘n’ roll. But then it just grows on you, and now it seamlessly fits into that ‘80s package, one that he need not apologize for, an up-yours as it is to the standardized look for local TV celebrities in recent years.

In fact Arnel has nothing to apologize for, nothing at all. We might think him just one of those who made it elsewhere, and we might disregard him because he just got into the box that Journey’s lead singer needed to fit in.  We might even say that there isn’t a lot of pride here, seeing as this isn’t at all about Pinoy music. But what it is, is some good ol’ Pinoy singing. The kind that’s so deeply pained by difficulty and suffering that it can only be different and new—and all too passionate—to an audience elsewhere, and can only be inspiring for many others here who have those pains too, and can now imagine singing about it. To dream about rakenrol has got to be rakenrol in itself, yes? And here lies Arnel—and Jovit’s—rakenrol selves. (Katrina Stuart Santiago)

Pictures sourced by the author.

No one listens to radio anymore. Given a decent Internet connection, a hard drive with a few hundred free gigabytes, a serviceable media application, and a handy mp3 player, and anyone could have a personal radio station, right in one’s pocket, free of chatty disc jockeys, other people’s requests, advertisements, and unwelcome music. For the past few years, a lot of us former radio listeners have stepped away from the broadcast audience and started listening to ourselves. Sure, we’d swap new musical discoveries and go to gigs together, but aside from accidental exposure to broadcast radio on the bus, in restaurants, or malls, we didn’t partake of the collective listening experience like we used to, when we were teenagers.

It’s hard to talk about discovering music without including adolescence. Back then, we needed to look cool and hip to our friends, somewhat alien to our elders, and misunderstood by all except by that special someone. Perhaps we were ripe for an introduction to rock, and NU was there, somewhat like an illegal peddler with a trenchcoat lined with forbidden wares. And we took all that NU (and admittedly, other radio stations) could offer, because they played songs that echoed in our frustrations and gave us something to identify with.

In its 23-year run, NU has broadcast to several generations of teenagers, each of which knows a slightly different version. For example, my generation liked the idea of having long hair, an idea almost universally opposed by high schools all over the country. But we had “Long Hair” to sing—obnoxiously—to our forbidding teachers, thanks to the Weedd. We’d sing the Eraserheads’ “Pare Ko” with special emphasis on the expletive. We experimented with social commentary with Yano’s “Banal na Aso, Santong Kabayo.” Other generations of listeners, both older and younger, may have had different songs, but most of us started listening to NU in our adolescence. During that time, NU helped us discover music, as we made spool after spool of mix tapes, spent small fortunes on Walkmans and batteries, and fretted over guitars. We also found ourselves and each other. Maybe if we look back, we’ll realize that a good number of our friendships began with having some artists and radio stations in common.

When we went to college, we grew up a bit, and grew closer to the music, literally. In my case at least, I was lucky to see the Eraserheads perform an acoustic set during my batch’s freshman orientation. Lots of us have our stock of stories where we see our radio heroes live, and NU had several concerts lined up for us, including their Pocket Concerts, Rockology 107, and the Rock Awards. And for some, it wasn’t enough to go to all the concerts or vote at The Midnight Countdown or gab with Zach and Joey in the Morning; they had to make their own music.

Since the late ‘90s, the proliferation of independent musicians and groups has persisted; the events ranging in scale from small, intimate gigs to large, rock-out concerts at stadiums still get produced to give venues to the dozens of artists who have collected their own audiences. It’s not as big as the concerts held a decade ago—one need only look at the last two Eraserheads concerts for a comparison—but the drive to create new music was already born. They organized their gigs, both big and small, with nothing else in mind aside from breaking even and having a good time playing; a part of the salaries from their first jobs was set aside to pay for studio time, mastering, and CD pressing; and if they knew some visual artists, they’d make their own music videos.

And NU remained in the thick of it all. New artists were invited to perform at In the Raw. Their albums, performers, singles, and videos all qualified for The NU 107 Rock Awards. Their singles enjoyed airplay, side-by-side with the musicians they admired when they were younger.

But after a certain point, we lost touch, much like friends who grow apart. A lot of us amassed gigabyte after gigabyte of music for private listening, and went to gigs where our musician friends were playing. We had a more direct access to music, and relied less on NU’s recommendations. We could have Remote Control Sundays everyday. Sure, the station still enjoyed a huge listenership, but somehow people didn’t talk about radio with the same frequency and enthusiasm as before.

And then we heard about the station closing down. A lot of us felt like idiots who didn’t appreciate what was there while it was readily available. But what else was there to do? We expressed our gratitude and celebrated 23 years of listening, writing, and reveling in rock, and at the very end, sang along to NU’s farewell.

Magkahawak ang ating kamay

At walang kamalay-malay

Na tinuruan mo ang puso ko

Na umibig na tunay

Much like the character in the song, looking back at an adolescent love, we sang along and said goodbye to an institution that, like El Bimbo’s Paraluman doppelganger, taught us our love of rock. We raised our hands, holding candles, mobile phones, and cameras that flickered against the dark, until the last notes floated down on us. The sign-off message, which we had heard on many a Monday midnight, followed by the national anthem, brought the realization home for us: that was the last time we’d hear them sign off. NU 107, the Home of New Rock for the past 23 years, was dead.

A friend, who’d also fallen out of the radio-listening habit, said afterwards that he liked the idea that there was beacon out there, shining a light on what he considered good music, and that now, that light had gone out.

Perhaps not. A week before the final sign-off, I was at a Halloween gig with several friends. Most of us met after that self-discovery phase in high school and college and even after our first jobs. But we all had music and the local scene in common, and we’d met and had grown close over the course of several gigs, music video shoots, album productions, and social networking.

One such friend was there; he writes his own music and plays the guitar and listens to obscure bands. However, we do have one band in common: Toad the Wet Sprocket. One group of friends, who all had their individual bands, formed a cover band as a side project. When they started on Toad the Wet Sprocket’s “All I Want,” I got a sock on the shoulder. My new friend and I exchanged a look, and we were back in our respective high schools (him literally so, in his uniform-as-Halloween-costume), rediscovering bands whose songs tell our stories, songs we had heard on NU.

But that brief moment of understanding between my friend and me isn’t defined by just one artist or song or medium. The bands played on, singing new songs, telling new stories. All over were newer, younger faces, and for the first time, were discovering music, each other, and themselves.

No one listens to radio anymore. Today, we write our own songs, fill our mp3 players with them, film our own videos, arrange our own gigs, produce our own albums. We discovered a love for music through NU 107, and the heart of rock will go on beating, even if we may not recognize its face. Thank you, NU, and good night. (Paul Catiang)

Photos and video courtesy of Adrian Arcega.

I relished listening to music as far back as I can remember. From the time I gained my own musical consciousness, days would not pass without me gratifying my ears with aural ecstasy. For most people, music served a dual purpose—it was both a passion and a hobby. This hobby-passion dichotomy becomes more apparent when you see someone’s music collection. Nowadays, when someone asks to see your music collection, you either show them your iPod or open your laptop. So what’s there to see? Gone are the days where you’d open cabinets filled with long-playing records or flaunt your shelves decked with cassette tapes. Since the advent of the digital format (heralded by the compact disc), music has become less and less tangible.

Although music as a medium cannot actually be seen or touched, technology has conjured musical formats like the long-playing record, the magnetic reel-to-reel tape, the 8-track tape, the cassette tape, and the compact disc. Except for the compact disc, all other formats dealt with capturing sound through analog imprinting. You had records where sound was captured on the grooves of a vinyl plate. Sound was likewise imprinted in magnetic tapes as wave fluctuations. Compact discs, however, introduced the digital format where audio signals were converted into discrete numbers. The “disappearance” of music began by this point when digital sound information could be extracted or “ripped” from CDs and stored as music data formats like the MP3. Along with this so-called “disappearance” of music, the listener became detached from the music itself. See how easy it is to download music over the Internet and store it in your computer. Music no longer passed on to your fingers; instead, it is stored in your hard drive via fiber optics.

I miss the days when acquiring music meant getting hold of it—going out of the house, trekking to your nearby music store, searching then selecting, paying at the counter, going home, and listening to your musical acquisition. When analog formats reigned supreme, this was the likely scenario. Of all the analog music formats, the cassette tape proved to be most popular for, unlike its predecessors, the cassette was small yet still tangible. Being the last musical milestone before the digital age, the cassette personified the working-class music consumer, as it was cheaper to buy cassettes. I remember snagging The Cure’s classic album The Head on the Door for forty pesos.

Besides affordability, cassettes provided mobility. To add happy rhythms to my neighborhood strolls, I would play Paul Simon’s Graceland album on my Sony Walkman and strut my stuff to “You Can Call Me Al.” When double cassette players came out, people learned to make mixtapes. I had a Beatles mixtape that I wore down with non-stop playing. Likewise, double cassette players gave you a chance to copy tapes and share them with friends. Thus were the early days of “file-sharing.” Because it was easy to share music via cassettes, it also became valuable a vehicle for inciting social change during the Marcos era in the 1980s. Local independent punk label Twisted Red Cross released bands like Dead Ends, Urban Bandits, and Betrayed via cassette. Likewise, a lot of protest music artists like Patatag, Buklod, and Gary Granada used cassettes to convey nationalistic sentiments.

With the cassette now in obsolescence, the wheels of tape players and walkmans have stopped turning. For all its worth, the cassette has had a good run from the late 1970s until the early 2000s. As someone whose life revolved heavily around music, cassettes fuelled my artistic persuasions and fanned my ever-growing passion for the recorded sound. Among the last tapes I remember buying were the Eraserheads’s Ultraelectromagneticpop! and Weezer’s Blue Album. With the continuing onslaught of the digital age, we can only wait for an analog resurgence where music shall reappear as the resilient cassette tape. (Jing Gaddi)

“16/365 vinyls” by Sarah in Montréal, “Don’t steal music” by Buran, and “Sonic Leftovers” by Clonny, all culled from Flickr Creative Commons. “Sony Walkman WM A602” by Peter de Wit, culled from Wikimedia Commons. Some rights reserved.

“Welcome to the last NU107 Rock Awards.” I recognize Quark Henares’ voice blaring from the speakers as the opening AVP ended.

“The last Rock Awards,” I mutter to myself.

“‘Eto na, ‘eto na,” exclaim some people behind me.

The air in the NBC Tent was one of tentative anticipation. Will NU107 go out with a proverbial bang? Word spread in the weeks prior that the radio station of 23 years was shifting to a more pop format, and people’s reactions ranged from “WTF” to “I knew it” to a cynical “It’s been dead for 5 years already.” [As of press time, the station, I believe, is taking a wilful, voluntary plunge; in short, consciously dying a natural death and not “reformatting.”—Ed] Interestingly enough, NU never released a statement. The only clear news-bit that spread around came from former NU “News Goose” Joyce (a.k.a. “Jaedee”) Burton-Titular (her blog entry has since been taken down, strangely. But Google caching has been helpful). Station Manager Chris Hermosisima didn’t confirm anything. Speculation, speculation.

Then as the days rolled on, NU DJs themselves started airing cryptic remarks about “things coming to an end.” The post-midnight playlists comprised mostly of songs bidding farewell, save for the occasional optimistic number, such as Sandwich’s “Betamax” (“Ipagpatuloy ang daloy ng alon”), which actually made things all the more poignant. Newly produced radio plugs started proclaiming, “The new order is upon us.” And tonight, Quark’s voice-over seemed to have confirmed it.

The home of new rock as I knew it will be no more. Not that I’m royally pissed about it, as I haven’t been actively listening to radio for several years now. I got my new music off the internet instead. Did I contribute to NU107’s demise?

Looking around the venue, I was wondering if everyone else was asking the same thing.

When Razorback’s Kevin Roy opened the night with the customary “Lupang Hinirang,” it felt more like a dirge than the national anthem. This is it: the beginning of the end. But I guess you might as well face it with your head and fists up high. Or maybe the devil’s hand signal.

Rock Awards regular The Dawn started the show proper with “Iisang Bangka Tayo” and “Salamat.” While I can’t help but wonder when they will stop milking these songs dry, the song choices seemed apt. This last awards night was a communal experience, after all. And it would remain as such.

Eventually I felt a sense of disconnect. Maybe I was waiting for fire and brimstone, punk rock mayhem, or at least Rock Awards host Erning throwing herself at me (co-host Iza Calzado was much too glamorous for my taste, and I definitely won’t do Tado). Or craziness on the same level as the Diether Ocampo incident of 2002 [where the movie star openly addressed audience members as “jologs”—Ed]. But none of those things happened.

Then again maybe people were just there to send the station off, and party along the way. And while we were at it, enjoy DJ Kim roasting Hayden Kho onstage in front of everyone, as they presented the oh-so-apt Best New Video Award. Let’s face it, Kho’s infamous videos were the motion picture event of the previous year.

The award went to erstwhile Dredd Eastwood regular Tanya Markova, whose ironic pop ditties covered in shock-rock veneer make them pleasantly adorable. Incidentally they also won Best Live Act and Best New Artist (all well-deserved, in my opinion).

In a future without NU107 or the Rock Awards, would these accolades mean anything? 8 Toleran of Franco, upon accepting the band’s Listeners’ Choice award, shouted, “This award doesn’t mean anything! Do your research! Choose your music!” We’re left to fend for ourselves, and it may not necessarily be a bad thing.

Except for the newer acts, who rely on radio to make themselves heard by the larger demographic that would rather tune in to radio than “do research.” That’s why I considered the final In the Raw Award to be a very sad one. The nominees weren’t exciting enough. If this is how the future will sound like, I’m afraid the local scene does need a shakeup, and if NU going will be the catalyst then so be it. However, I couldn’t help but admire Flying Ipis as they claimed their Red Horse-sponsored trophy. “This award,” vocalist Deng defiantly said, “is for all those people who told us to change our name!” “The girl’s got spunk,” I thought. And maybe, just maybe, they really are bringing something to the table.

It felt weird seeing Franco grab all the main awards. They’re a great group, no doubt. The supergroup of the South! Plus those awards are 15 years overdue for Franco Reyes alone. I remember watching his old band Frank! In the Jag Rock Bivouac finals, and they only won second place. The thing is I couldn’t shake that nagging feeling that I.L.A.W. [In Love and War] should have won Album of the Year instead. Ely Buendia. Francis M. As much as the Awards was a popularity contest, the voting stops at the nominee selections. What were the judges thinking?

I reminded myself:  “Adrian, it’s the Rock Awards. Come on.”

The show became better as the night wore on, with past winners like the Youth (with Dodong Cruz not singing “Multong Bakla,” odd) and Slapshock returning. Kamikazee dressed up as five Mr. Miyagis, giving us a preview of their lives 50 years from now: still messing around as geriatrics. Ian Tayao of WilaBaliW, meanwhile, proved to us that he’s one of the few remaining real frontmen in more recent rock history. And everything felt alright again.

Rivermaya with Francis Reyes and Gelo Lagasca (of Lowtechs fame)—and was that Brigada with the NU DJs?—gave the station a nice send-off.  Apt song as well (“Awit ng Kabataan”). As Reyes said later on during his show-stopping speech, “NU107 will never f*$#$g die!”

As the show ended, I looked across the fence at the floor area: people leaving the venue; mutual friends meeting mutual friends; people milling around Ely Buendia for a photo op; Quark sitting on the floor sighing in relief that the show is over. The NBC tent was slowly being emptied out, and crew members rushed to dismantle the whole setup.

And just like that, the NU Rock Awards ended. That was it.

The music, in the meantime, lives on for a full week after the awards ceremony.  After which music listeners will be on their own.

But yeah, the music will never die. (Adrian Arcega)

The Winners:

Artist of the Year: Franco

Album of the Year: Franco, Franco

Song of the Year: “This Gathering,” Franco

Vocalist of the Year: Gabby Alipe, Urbandub

Guitarist(s) of the Year:  Peavy “Sideshow” Nicolas and Fran Lorenzo, Sleepwalk Circus

Bassist of the Year: Lalay Lim, Urbandub

Drummer of the Year: Otep Concepcion, Ozawa, In Love and War

Best New Artist: Tanya Markova

Best Music Video: “Disney,” Tanya Markova

Best Album Packaging: Great Secret Show, Sleepwalk Circus

Producer(s) of the Year: Ely Buendia, Angee Rozul, Robert Javier, In Love and War

Listeners’ Choice Award: Franco

Hall of Fame: Angelo “Angie” Rozul

Best Live Act: Tanya Markova

In the Raw Award: The Flying Ipis

Photos by and courtesy of Jim Ayson, whose personal account of the awards can be accessed here.

PART THREE: In which we present the “hits” of the emerging scrunk canon and where we inform you that neither the author nor the company is liable for grand mal seizures or similar traumatic reactions to extended listens. You’ve been warned.

HOLLYWOOD UNDEAD

Rap rock is back with extra crunk

Listen, these are the members of Hollywood Undead: Charlie Scene, Da Kurlzz, Funny Man, J-Dog, Johnny 3 Tears. All of the band members also wear their own unique mask, mostly based on a common hockey design. The use of the mask and the pseudonyms are never explained, though it’s most likely a nod to how rappers take on monikers and how Slipknot made the stage mask cool again.

Hailing from Los Angeles, California, this band is the current poster-boy for the heavy rock side of crunk core. They’re notable for the lack of auto-tune in their vocals. The band originated in 2005, from a song titled “The Kids” that Jorel Decker (J-Dog) and former member Aron Erlichman (Deuce) posted on the band’s MySpace profile to astronomically positive response and click through hits amounting to something in the vicinity of 500,000 in a mere few weeks.

With badly rhyming anthems to youth empowerment, the perils of Californication, and reprazenting LA, this is the way Fred Durst would likely sound if he was 13 and dyslexic and had Papa Roach as his backing band. Still, their debut album Swan Songs (released September 2, 2008 under A&M/Octone Records) reached number 22 on the Billboard 200 in its first week of release and sold 21,000 copies.

Their song “Young” is featured as a downloadable for Rock Band 2 and an instrumental version is featured in the trailer for the video game Velvet Assassin and also currently has three remixes and covers by other artists. Another song, “Undead,” is featured in the video games Madden NFL 09 and UFC 2009 Undisputed. An instrumental version of “Undead” is featured in a trailer for GI Joe: The Rise of Cobra.

The Critics Say: “While rap rock bands like Limp Bizkit mined old-school hip-hop […] screamo-crunk bands like Hollywood Undead look strictly to the new school: get drunk, get silly, wear loud clothes, have fun at all costs.” (Revolver Magazine, May 2009)

Similar Groups: I Set My Friends on Fire, Aiden, Jakewolfe, Outta Play, Scene Kidz, SnapKracklepop

BROKENCYDE

Godfathers of scrunk and proud of it

Hailing from Albuquerque, New Mexico, BrokeNCyde was formed in 2006 by vocalists Se7en and Mikl. According to interviews, the band name originated from their music being fundamentally “broken inside” due to personal relationship problems. BrokeNCyde = “broken inside.” Get it?

Their first full-length outing, I’m Not a Fan, But the Kids Like It! (released via Suburban Noize Records), is highly regarded as the template of the modern crunk core tangent and, popularity-wise, the tip of the spear. This album also debuted at number 86 on the Billboard 200 in July 2009, and is also responsible for the band being featured on the US Vans Warped Tour that same year.

Characterized by Caucasian-boy, crunk-style (i.e., auto-tuned) rapping about women, alcohol, drugs, and partying very hard, and with occasional shrieks and growls layered over a pre-mixed techno loop, BrokeNCyde also has an ubiquitous mascot: a man in a pig suit they call Bree. They take him along on every gig.

It would be unfair to say that their gateway single “FreaXXX” doesn’t have a last-song-syndrome vibe in it. I found myself humming the chorus (“Let’s get freaky now/Let’s get fuckin’ freaky now”) on a jeep ride once.

BrokeNCyde’s Phat J once had this to say about all the negative criticism regarding their music and fans: “Honestly, we are sort of appalled by it, but we are used to it. People just want to try and throw dirt on our name and they have to make things up to make us seem like bad people so people won’t like us. I would never do that to someone, so I can’t relate to someone who would do it to us.”

The Critics Say: “The prerecorded backing tracks and juvenile misogyny of […] the New Mexico screamo-crunk act BrokeNCyde are affronts to traditionalist punk values.” (August Brown, Los Angeles Times)

“A near-perfect snapshot of everything that’s shit about this point in the culture.” (British comics author Warren Ellis, on Brokencyde’s song “FreaXXX”)

“Even if I caught Prince Harry and Gary Glitter adorned in Nazi regalia defecating through my grandmother’s letterbox I would still consider making them listen to this album [I'm Not a Fan, But the Kids Like It!] too severe a punishment.” (NME)

“Fucking horrendous!” (Metal Edge Magazine)

Similar Groups: Breathe Carolina, H3dless, Jakewolfe, 3oh!3, Blood on the Dance Floor, Dot Dot Curve : )

MILLIONAIRES

Grrrl power, scrunk style

It’s been debated whether, musically speaking, Millionaires are crunk core. Certainly the synths, keytars and Reason loops are there, but they often get lumped with the scrunk groups because they’re friends with most of the bands (especially Breathe Carolina) and they wear the same clothes. I guess they’re the 21^st century, post 9/11 equivalent of the grunge-era riot grrrl.

Millionaires is three girls from Orange County, California who drink ‘til they puke (they did at several gigs) and make songs on just about every modern vice. The group gained popularity on MySpace and climbed the charts early on in their career.

DJ Hyphy Crunk gave them their big break and they returned to California in January and February 2009 after an MTV guesting to go on the road for their Just Got Paid, Let’s Get Laid tour. The tour sold out every date. The Millionaires are signed to B-Unique Records in the UK and are currently in the process of making their debut album.

Their highest rated single “Alcohol” has this chorus: “Let’s get fucked up!/Gimme some alcohol!/A-L-C-O-H-O-L!”

What the Critics Say: “Not screamo by any stretch of the imagination […] but they drink like sailors and dress like Suicide Girls.” (Revolver Magazine, May 2009)

Similar Groups: E-40, Hyper Crush, Ke$ha (Karl R. de Mesa)

Parts of this article have appeared in another form in Monday Magazine’s September-October 2010 issue. “Hollywood Undead—No?” by Donna Grayson, “Lowlands 2009—BrokeNCyde” by Anne Helmond, and “Millionaires 2/03/09” by Kerosene Photography. All images via Flickr Creative Commons. Some rights reserved.

Read Part 1 of this series here.

Read Part 2 here.

PART TWO: Where we dissect the blemishes and barfs of the scrunk vanguard.

The crunk core kids aren’t too sure themselves about what exact message their music wants to say; but what they are sure about is that they want to party hard, drink lots of booze, get inked, and—as the BrokeNCyde song “FreaXXX” goes—“get fucking freaky now!”

Crunk core (also scrunk, crunk punk, and screamo-crunk) is the newest emergent genre to come out of middle America. It resonates strongly with global teens and tweens and spreads itself via the MySpace and Twitter virus. It combines the rollicking suburban style of dirty crunk rap and the belligerent screams of post-hardcore. More specifically, I should say it tries to.

The Boston Phoenix describes it as “a combination of minimalist Southern hip-hop, auto-tune croons, techno breakdowns, barked vocals, and party-‘til-you-puke poetics.” The way scrunk awkwardly saturates its songs with auto-tune, in particular, is so odious it can make T-Pain sound like Enya.

If you’re not familiar with it, auto-tune is a vocal effect that sounds like Cher, Lady Gaga, and a very horny robot had a vicious animal orgy inside your mouth. [Time answers the question of why pop music sounds perfect—or intentionally imperfect—here—Ed.]

John McDonnell of UK’s The Guardian says “[Crunk core] is the worst thing to happen to music since Katie Melua’s ‘Nine Million Bicycles’ in Beijing.” And in case you didn’t notice, they like to use LOLspeak (that’s jejemon-ish, to us) in their group names and song titles.

A cursory check of some of the crunk core bands prove that, while they are still miles away from sliding into the mainstream, they are now garnering a steadily increasing fan base with their MySpace page hits numbering in the hundreds of thousands. They’ve also invaded major Hollywood movie soundtracks and, in the case of I Set My Friends on Fire, even signed to major punk label Epitaph Records.

Can local tweens be far behind? Thankfully even local emo fans find the whole thing hilarious. But it’s not far-fetched to prophesy that the tweens alienated by the emo experience and easily influenced by American music trends will certainly find much to like in the scrunk vanguard.

Thankfully, there are no Pinoy scrunk bands (not yet) and the local fandom still proves to be limited to the superficial-listening variety. The fashion and attitude are fast catching on though, and soon this is how all the Bottle Pong/Pit Sitting kids might look like at future concerts.

Overseas, the bands themselves are steadily becoming legion. This is not a good sign. But allow me to be more specific.

THE FOUR CORNERS OF CRUNKCORE

In an effort to explore and somehow map this emerging genre that has been unanimously reviled by critics worldwide, I sat down and listened to a gross amount of scrunk albums and videos—as a corollary, I have now imbibed enough to last me two lifetimes of sonic torment.

Remember these names. These are the bands that your sons and daughters just might be bobbing their heads to in a year or two.

ATTACK! ATTACK!

Metalcore meets techno scrunk with Christian lyrics

From out of the wheat fields of Ohio comes Attack! Attack! While they have more cred than most screamo or even scrunk acts, the traits of auto-tuned singing, techno-influenced breakdowns and bridges (I’m talking about Ibiza rave and Hotel Costas-worthy riffs here), and keyboard solos fling them far from even the most open-minded metalcore fan’s collection. They do, however, represent the metal side of the crunk core phenomenon.

The group is currently signed to Rise Records and have, since 2005, released one EP (If Guns Are Outlawed, Can We Use Swords?), two full-length albums (Someday Came Suddenly), and a self-titled sophomore record. Someday Came Suddenly peaked at #25 on the Billboard Independent Albums chart and #193 on the Billboard 200, with unit sales of more than 3,600 in its first week.

Although their songs contain Christian-themed lyrics, the members have said that Attack! Attack! does not consider itself a Christian band.

What the Critics Say: “Someday Came Suddenly truly fails because it has exactly zero memorable moments.” (Alternative Press)

Similar Groups: Sky Eats Airplane, Family Force (Karl R. de Mesa)

Read Part 1 of this series here.

Read Part 3, the conclusion, here.

“I Set My Friends on Fire” image by Paolo Dourado, via Flickr. Some rights reserved. Baguio emo kids photo by Grace Mirandilla-Santos.

PART ONE: In which we shake hands and fists with the post-emo brethren.

Seven in the evening and the sky’s awash with PET bottles. Raining with it. I’m in the middle of Amoranto Stadium about 30 meters from the stage barricade surrounded by a couple of thousand strong metal heads, emo kids, freaks, punks, and orcs. A lot of orcs. This is Pulp Magazine’s annual Summer Slam circa 2010.

The torrential downpour of plastic has been an impromptu invention of the kids I’m sharing this sprawling arena with. We’ll call it Inter-Pit Bottle Pong. This new game comes close to being hazardous to my shaved head. And so I hold my crossed arms up to shield my head, fists curled down to the top of my spine, elbows to the sky in self-defense.

Why am I smack dab on ground zero of this heaving, malodorous mass of young flesh bent on destroying each other with a massive display of hurled objects?

THRASH THE SCRUNK

When you hit your thirties you start to doubt if you can survive a violent mosh pit at a venue the size of Amoranto. I’ve never been to a Summer Slam but all reports previous pointed to an extremely hazardous environment freed from the comfy walls of a club. There are no safe corners here, bub.

Plus, Testament and Lamb of God headlining this event was just too good to pass up. A couple of things came free with the general admission ticket: a copy of the magazine, a condom (variously flavored), and a Pepsi in a PET bottle. They inflated the condoms and tossed it around the arena like a beach ball. Guess what they did with the PET bottles?

Still, the bottles didn’t hurt per se. They were empty 80% of the time. The remaining 20% were packed with arena soil, dirt, and/or contained urine. So here I am with my hands above my head cursing the idiot who armed the little buggers. When Lamb of God finally started I took my angst out on the nearest punks unfortunate enough to be in the way of my St. Vitus dance.

I felt even more aptly righteous when I thrashed an asymmetrically coiffed, bling-wearing, neon t-shirt clad kid whom I caught adding fuel to the Bottle Pong by throwing back a shoe that had been hurled at us.

In the middle of all the frenzy I thought he was just a species of emo kid. I find out later that he was the spitting image of a crunk core fan.

He looked more or less like this :

I tell you no lies.

DON’T BE HATING EMO

Sometimes it feels like I’m inside a 16-bit video game. All second-rate hard rock and a synth soundtrack.

When I first heard it, modern emo rock seemed like a middle class white boy’s confessional diary. An apologia and litany of grievances with zero call to action. Certainly, it bore little resemblance to its flailing, misery-worshipping big brother emocore. This particular sibling was the triumph of males venting their fury at the girls who’d wronged them in an over-the-top style.

As emo learned to stand and then stumble on shaky feet, things did start to get better. Certainly, I have been ridiculed for saying that better emo acts of the day like My Chemical Romance, Paramore, and Fall Out Boy have their place in the current generation’s coming-of-age sacrament.

The relationship between a moral manifesto, the music that espouses it, and how far a fan applies it to his life in the real world is so far unsubstantiated by science. It’s abstract and fragile at best. Still, there’s no denying cultural phenomena spearheaded by musicians have had effects on a given social order. Exhibit A being John Lennon and hippie culture.

Look: back at the Amoranto Stadium, in the middle of the Lamb of God set, dozens of kids who had just minutes before been holding up “Tropang Emo ng Taguig!” and “Hari ng Marikina Screamo!” banners and happily moshing away have suddenly dropped down to Indian sit enervated on the dust and heat like petulant children realizing they lacked the appetite for a dinner that had started out as delicious but was now loathsome. There were so many of them that LOG’s chisel-faced redneck vocalist D. Randall Blythe had to instigate the hoodie-wearing people to stand back up before the older metal heads plowed them down. Holding a be-in in the middle of a pit is not only a hazard to one’s internal organs; it’s also a major violation of pit rules.

While I would like to train the big guns at modern emo (and how common sense seems to flee the emo kids at worst moments), it’s been pointed out to me that there’s something worse coming out of the global woodwork and fast gaining a local fandom.

These are BrokeNCyde, Hollywood Undead, Attack! Attack!, The Millionaires, Aiden, H3dl3ss, Dot Dot Curve : ), N!tro, Jakewolfe, I Set My Friends on Fire, 3OH!3, Blood on the Dancefloor, Breathe Carolina, or Dropping a Popped Locket. These are crunk core bands. And they are fast becoming the music of choice for the tween set.

Was the kid I thrashed at Amoranto an emo kid or a crunk core kid? Is there a difference? A big one, apparently.

Punk wanted to liberate us by anarchy; metal yearned to plunge the world in Satanic blood; goth indulged in miserablist baroque decadence via urban corpse light; grunge painted the world in disenchantment and violent beauty; hardcore visited political and literal hostility on anything that moved; and emo whined in middle-class angst by pointing fingers at the world’s failures and the damage they inflicted on the young.

So, what then does crunk core want to say to the world? (Karl R. de Mesa)

Lamb of God image courtesy of Paolo Seen of Pulp Live Productions (previously loaned to us to help illustrate Yagi Olaguera’s story on the L.O.G./Testament-helmed Summer Slam). “Crunk Core Poser” diagram culled from YourSceneSucks.com. “Emo Fashion Kid” by SwitChar, via Wikimedia Commons. Some rights reserved. “BrokeNCYDE” by Suzy S., via Wikimedia Commons. Some rights reserved.

Read Part 2 here.

Read Part 3 here.