NAG-IISHA

We’re already in the 21st century, yet 70s Bistro is still 70s Bistro.

There’s a good reason.

It’s a historic place. Most, if not all Filipino musicians of note have played here at one time or another. Eheads, Parokya, Noel Cabangon, Joey Ayala, Cynthia Alexander, Gary Granada, Color It Red...you name them, they’ve made some great noise here!

So just imagine why ten years ago, I felt I HAD to play this venue. I was given a hard time getting in, but I understood. If I was headlining, I had to be able to pack the venue. Made sense, of course.

The last time I played here was in 2006, with my first band THE LOOK. Back then, I was still signed to an independent jazz label called Candid Records. I had to pull in whatever clout I had to pack the venue. And thank God, I wasn’t forsaken! All the tables were soon occupied. After the two-set gig and spending the whole night thanking friends and soon-to-be-friends who dropped in, we wrapped it up and happily split the proceeds of the gate amongst ourselves. Not a bad way to earn a living! But still. It’s a lot of work. And I am amazed by all my fellow musicians who still do this night after night, week after week.

Early this month, I asked my bandmate Edwin V (who plays guitar for iconic rock outfit Color It Red) if I could jam one song with them at their upcoming 80s Night gig in this historic venue. Magpapakitang gilas lang sana sa mga kaibigan kong bumibisita from the US. He then ran the proposal by their vocalist Cooky Chua, who, being THE Cooky Chua, quickly and warmly invited me to do a whole set as their guest! Nyar! Oh no. CALL A FRIEND! I called in TWO friends: Attorney Jing Gaddi (an 80s kid like me) and Madame Frances Escape (a millennial - hehehe). Jing is now my on-call bassist, while Frances is my drummer and percussionist. We jammed some 80s tunes that I knew from memory. Stuff by Bananarama, Kim Carnes, David Bowie, Echo and the Bunnymen, Madonna, New Order. All that vibrant melancholy. All that poetry - and loud color. DA FEELS. Jing and I shared some great laughs pointing out to our “bunso” Frances that “Bizarre Love Triangle” is NOT a song by Frente!

So here’s what went down last night, June 23, 2016, Thursday: Did the first three songs with my bandmates from THE LOOK (Jayvee Torres, drummer for Color It Red) and Edwin, with Jing doing bass duty from “Venus” onward.

Rock Lobster/Nasunog Na Ang Bahay Kung Saan Tayo Unang Nagtagpo (B-52s with a side of heartbroken Isha)

Venus (Bananarama with a side of jazzy)

Bette Davis’ Eyes (Kim Carnes na pop)

Then did five more songs.

As The World Falls Down (David Bowie on a cool and thumping music bed of “Stand By Me”)

Killing Moon (Echo and the Bunnymen - people were singing along at this point)

Leave Me Alone (New Order, who also wrote Bizarre Love Triangle)

Hey Little Girl (Matthew Wilder - my friend Gail R loved this!)

Borderline (Madonna on solo piano. More sing-along moments!)

I used to invite friends over and then get TERRIBLY UPSET when they don’t show up and I end up ruining my set (I’m baliw this way). But a lot of friends dropped in that night: our bikemates Mayi and Richard; my bestie Sheng, her sister Gail and our beauty expert Weng; my UPNWW batchmate, author Menchu and her cool daughter, clothing tech guru Alice; not to mention the eight-person strong front table of airbnb moguls Dianne and Cai, all the way from Aguirre down South! And the fact that I didn’t know they were coming made it all the more special. Thank you all for the good vibes!

We wrapped up our set with an original, “Lukaret,” a song I love so much because I put all the hate of the world into it! It was a great night, and I can never thank Cooky Chua and the rest of Color It Red enough for this biglaan gig! Thank you to our quiet pillars of solid support who are just THERE, no questions asked: Ava, Jing’s Somebody (sorry, ume-eighties talaga - it’s a reference to my fave band Depeche Mode) and Zab, Frances’ better twin (*evil grin*). Also: thank you Robert Quebral for the photos (for trying to capture all this frisk and manic, and somehow succeeding); for minding our kids, and for carrying my very heavy full-range keyboard from house, into car, to stage, and then back. Ika nga ni Madonna, you must be my Lucky Star!

For one reason or another, I wasn’t on earth in 1995.

I wasn’t there at those jampacked days at Sunken Garden. Those jampacked days at 70s Bistro. Meeting the real-life Shirley, or Julie. PNE, Itchyworms, and the countless other Pinoy bands that they influenced.

I wasn’t paking there.

Which sucks.

Fortunately, many years later, the Universe gave me a second chance and I eventually got to meet all of them – Ely, Buddy, Raimund and Marcus – through my music journalism. I was even blessed with a “scoop” (about their breakup, circa 2000). I got to know them all, up close and personal. As I have mentioned elsewhere, I was even working with the awesome Buddy Z. at some point.

The Eraserheads epitomized a very precious time and culture in Pinoy history. Perhaps more seasoned music journalists like, say, Eric Caruncho or Claire Agbayani, will know the finer details of this. But for me, the Eheads captured a time when being a part of something bigger than yourself was still a very physical, very palpable thing.

The music of the Eheads perfectly reflected 90s Pinoy barkadahan.

I did not experience this barkadahan phenomenon directly. This is because I was never part of a band or a barkada that got together for fun and music (until fairly recently).

I only know about this warm, fuzzy, yosi-scented Eheads feeling of camaraderie from my husband, who told me of his experiences. Having attended college at UST, and growing up by himself for the most part, R was the ultimate kaladkarin. He would tell me of the times when he did nothing but tambay with friends and have a drink at nearby Mayric’s. He also had a band, consisting of friends like Edwin V., who taught him how to play guitar. This barkadahan was all about a lot of cigarettes and story-telling. Of girlfriends with big boobs and outings in Batangas. Of colegialas falling for tambays. Of these tambays going emo after the breakup with the colegialas. Of having no baon and relying on the friend Temmy (nicked like that because he was mai-tem) for nourishment. Of sleeping in smelly dorms and finding a gay friend’s hand resting on your crotch.

You will not know and enjoy these stories unless you are part of the barkada. Of the Eheads narrative.

Bahay namin, maliit lamang

Pero pero pero pero malinis ‘to

Pati sa kusina

Belongingness and abundance. The Eheads captured this time when belongingness and abundance were still the norm. Mothers could feed not just their own families, but their son’s whole tropa that have come over. In fact, this tropa could stay not just one day, but weeks on end, and expect unli ulam and rice from the loving matriarch. This was a time of bands being formed left and right in some garage or living room or bedroom. Happy, carefee noise in every street corner. Young boys and girls unfettered by worry nor poverty nor globalization nor time.

Baby you don’t have to worry

‘coz there ain’t no need to hurry

No one ever said that there’s an easy way

Now, the world has become shrunken, a narcissistic sock folding unto itself. It has become all about the individual. Staying in, eyes transfixed on a computer or tablet, making music solo, bringing things up to dizzying speed. Still in high school or college but already making loads of money from online work. Coffee and healthy, organic food in calculated calories. The loving matriarch? Still there, but the unli ulam and rice is not. New age money will be difficult to come by, for the likes of her. She doesn't know graphic design or coding eh.

Technology for the most part is making this new culture possible. Individuals are connecting and getting connected not by real-life bites, but bytes.

Maybe I am overreading again.

But if there’s one thing that I can read accurately, it’s that the music of the Eheads rocks, and continues to rock many Filipinos of my generation -- the generation that teaches music to its own kids, allows sleepovers, and prefers paperbacks to tablets. The physical, the palpable. And perhaps, this adulation over the Eheads is also a kind of longing for that warm, fuzzy, shoulder-to-shoulder feeling of a barkadahan not too long ago, a barkadahan that is slowly disappearing in the maximally monetized self-absorption of the new age.

This is how a damage begins. First, the stories told over hurried meals and chance meetings in the streets. Gossip rivets, it detracts from the need to just walk by, it makes you stay and listen. When people get bored and lapse into moments of reverie, they tend to pluck out a name, or something, from the past, and like a game, try to stay focused on it for several seconds. Santi’s name always figures, and the girls would shake their head. The asshole. The womanizer. And I listened and laughed to myself. It had been true: he had fallen in love with two women all at the same time. Karina was one of them, an award-winning writer, extremely beautiful and fragile, like a swan who became even more beautiful the farther she strayed away. “Who wouldn’t fall in love with her?” Santi once told me.

It happens. Santi got agitated. The girl had been a virgin. She had used her purity to build her mystery, and it made Santi extremely angry. Or frustrated.

“I’ll be your virgin and vamp,” I told him on our first date, after downing five bottles of pale pilsen. He accepted and took me home.

Bettina is a vengeful woman. But her vengeance works this way: she still smiles and kisses your cheek when you meet. But then, in a loud voice, for the others to hear, she asks me: where’s Santi? Why aren’t you with the great love of your life? And then the others would chip in. Yeah, where’s he? Don’t make being lonely a habit or he’ll drop you like a hot potato. And they’re all laughing, it’s all just tongue-in-cheek, all in jest, the appetizer to the actual conversations that would follow. They never take Santi seriously as a writer, as an artist. They talk about him as the asshole from that so and so workshop. Of course, they no longer talk about that, literally talk about it. But the talk would still reverberate in the back of their minds everytime they’d see me. I could feel it. I could still hear it. The wind changes. My love for Santi has stained me weak for the others to crumple.

SO one day, I was at the Quezon Avenue station waiting for the trains. As I slid the magnetic card with the magnetic Erap on the cover in the slot machine, I saw Santi. For a moment, he looked bewildered, then regained his composure when he realized it was just me.

“Where you going?” I asked.

“Makati,” he said.

“What for?”

“Damage control.” he smiled wanly.

“What? Applying for a job? Finally?” I smiled.

He hesitated, looking away. “I rang up Karina last night. We’re having lunch,” he said while looking down his feet.

My heart stopped. “Good for you.”

“It’s damage control…” his voice trailed off as the trains arrived.

I whisked him off. “Go on. I’m not in a hurry.”

He uttered my name several times to bring me back. I cleared my throat several times, swallowing my tears. I was waiting for the train that would hurtle me to space and infinity. Silently, I waited for it to arrive.

The death of Ronnie D. left a hole in my heart. But it is the same hole that allowed me to peer through and look at life outside myself.

There is a story by an author named Ursula Le Guin in which people live happily in an almost perfect world. But there is one catch: once a year or so, the citizens of this Utopia must travel down to a basement and watch a small, sickly child suffer.

Many of the citizens can bear the vision and go back to their lives. But then, there are those few who break down, pack their bags and leave the Utopia to live someplace else – someplace where a small, sickly child is not suffering.

Having lived in the Philippines for so long, I have borne many disturbing visions of fellowmen who are suffering and then successfully gone back to my life.

I traveled, bought nice shoes and bags. I even bought some jewelry.

Then Ronnie died.

The hole in my heart became an eye. An eye with a bad case of insomnia. It would not close anymore.

My friend Cris P. says it’s maturity. That I’ve gotten older and wiser.

I’m not really sure if I’m wiser. Because the wise thing to do is to close your eyes to injustice and suffering so that you can go on living your life, right?

The wise thing to do is to wear makeup and be beautiful, even when a woman’s face has melted from acid thrown by a jealous husband.

The wise thing to do is to buy more shoes, even when young children make their own slippers from garbage.

The wise thing to do is to wear jewelry worth six figures – look at how the rose gold matches the glowing, ruddy skin tone diba - even when many Filipinos barely make four figures a month.

I write this with no feeling of resentment for those who do these wise things. I have done and still do these wise things. Ursula Le Guinn adopted a very compassionate tone for writing her story. She did not make me feel that those who stayed in Utopia to watch a child suffer are Evil, and that those who left to not watch a child suffer are Good.

However, being one fantastic writer, Le Guin did make me see the Bigger Picture.

And the bigger the Picture gets, the smaller everything becomes. Until it is but a tiny glowing ball in the palm of your hand.

It’s always the case. You are moving along, going on your own journey. A bubble is wrapped around your life, created out of your own choices: lifestyle, relationships, career. You live and work inside this bubble.

Then something happens and the journey changes. Perhaps a war broke, or a tsunami swallowed up your province.

Or someone died. Then the bubble pops.

You see a picture much bigger than yourself.

I am familiar with death. My mother died in 2000. She didn’t live to see me give birth to her second apo.

The grief was deep. Her death changed many things in my life: my address (had to move out of the compound we shared), my outlook on hospital care and Western medicine, a change in domestic cuisine (from splendid to so-so…she had been a great cook and so I didn’t cook, thinking I would be her freeloader forever).

But there was another death that truly changed me. That shook me to the bone. That made me realize there are things bigger than myself. That burst the egocentric bubble.

Me with Waya G. and Ronnie D at the Philjazz Music Fest, 2010. Ronnie played bass for my set. Photo by Nick Puzon (used with kind permission).

He wasn’t even a very close friend. Nevertheless, he straddled that warm, gray area between stranger and beloved.

His name was Ronnie D.

He was only 36 when he died.

He was a music savant and he was my bandmate.

In 2009, my friend Conch invited me to play keyboards for a band named Waya and that’s how we met. Ronnie was also a keyboardist but shifted to playing bass after the band (Waya G., Conch, Justin DB, Paul S.) took me in.

Because I’m also a mother and wife, I never have enough time to hang out with people. So Ronnie and I and the rest of Waya basically just played music together.

But when he suddenly died of a heart attack in 2012, I cried a kind of existential cry.

I didn’t cry and tear my hair. I don’t and never cry that way.

The cry was deep inside.

“Cry inside” is not an abstract idea. I felt it as a real physical sensation.  After the initial agony of steel bars pushing against your chest, you suddenly feel a  general relaxation of muscles; your thinking is suddenly very clear and expansive. Remember that scene in The Matrix when Neo has finally “broken through” and endless strings of codes are appearing right before his eyes and he could defeat the Smiths without any effort at all?

I don’t know why it was Ronnie D. that changed me. Because he was also in his thirties like me? Because he was also a musician? I will never really know and will not question. Do you and must you even beat your skull over every instance of love-falling with a person, an art, a career, a plant, a dog? It is a mystery I surrender to the Great Wide Open. After that cry, the sinuses in my heart cleared themselves out. I started reaching out more. I made amends with people. I took good stock of all accumulated envies and tenderly disposed of them one by one – through sincere conversations with the envied, through countless hugs and besos with friends and family, through precious moments with people who straddle the warm area between stranger and beloved.

The Unconventional Charing, Part 3

What a beauty. I didn’t realize I had emotions that ran deep. When I heard “Silent All These Years” for the first time on radio, I cried a good cry deep inside. There is absolutely no one like Myra Ellen Amos in the whole world. Winasak niya ang lounge pianist mould. Winasak niya ang concert pianist mould. Winasak niya ako in 1993, second year college. I fell madly in love at first sound.

I started playing Myra's piano-driven masterpieces by ear after my friend Reggie V. gifted me with a cassette tape (!!!) of “Little Earthquakes.”

Up until that point, I had been simply playing piano instrumentals– inspired by new age stuff by David Lanz, Jim Chappell, Suzanne Ciani, George Winston, etc. as well as all 80s new wave music - and then singing while being accompanied by someone else, perhaps my friends like Eric G. or Rolly M. I had no trouble singing the music of other artists and providing my own touch on the piano. I had not tried playing the piano – and singing – at the same time, much less compose my own original songs. The frightening “solo piano and vocal” act. I mean, why inflict such cruelty upon yourself?

But after listening to Myra, reading her biography, and snapping up all her albums (right up to "The Beekeeper"), I realized a little sadomasochism and multitasking could go a long way.

Oh wow. One can sing a melody and then play a different melody on the piano at the same time? I didn’t know that was possible!

Myra Ellen Amos, a.k.a Tori Amos. Diyosa.

I copied. And copied. Transcription, in music school parlance. Chortals, she calls it. As a kid, I was actually good at finger-drumming. Now, I could do it again with these chortals. Chortals. Like that pain-reliever med. Pound a beat with my fingers, using just two notes, and not those corny block chords.

Ok, I think block chords are also awesome. But I have bad fingering technique, so I play them slipshod. My friend Khavn D.C described it best: “Para kang ngongo. The velocities are uneven and the sounds don’t stand out.” Then he played a piece on his baby grand to show me how and I was floored. I wish I’d had good fingering technique and been a good boyfriend to all the pianos I’ve ever loved!

Well, I am still trying… Here's an excerpt of me with Jing Gaddi and Frances Escape doing a cover of her beautiful heartbreak song "Northern Lad" (from her album From The Choirgirl Hotel).

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MQsHhASqTEc&feature=youtu.be

By the time I came around to producing my first ever demo, I was married to the best music video director of all time, one of the great pioneers in this now-massive field. This is the guy who directed most of PNE’s award-winning music vids lang naman. And has worked with my crush BB. Oh not that one. The rockstar one. I don’t know what this brilliant man (the director) ever saw in me. But I am thankful to Allah the most beneficent (and a little maleficent) that I was seen, loved (and still being loved) by this beautiful man.

Hi Robert Q. Aylabyu. O diba, nag-rhyme pa.

Anyway, because husband, I was promptly introduced to members of his  circle, and one of these beautiful contacts is an amazing man named Buddy Z. I was intimidated by his musical and pop culture pedigree. He was one fourth of just the most influential band ever in the country. But when I met him in person, all my fears vanished. Nakuha ako sa ngiti. Kindly face and a pure, highly evolved spirit that only wants to share and enrich. Being smiled at constantly by Buddy Z. is fangirl heaven; imagine working with him! May layers din talaga ang heaven ano. Unbeknownst to many, Buddy Z. the bassist is also a superb piano player. He helped produce my demo and we recorded some of my songs at Greenhill Sound in Valencia.

The Yamaha baby grand over there is one of the best I’ve ever experienced. Soft, warm sound, just a touch of treble breaking through. David Benoit has recorded there, said the engineer, Joel M. The ivory keys are weathered yellow and some say there is a ghost in the room.

Too bad that piano enthusiasts like myself no longer have access to Greenhill Sound, as it has been taken over by a big company.

I worry about that baby grand sometimes. I hope it is still being loved.

Ear for Queer

I wanted so much for my music to be heard, and for my face to be hidden. Like I said, I got bad teeth. Also, my father would rather that I did not display myself too much and stayed at home praying. Which I believe I’d already done in another life.

Again, these conflicting desires. Popularity without facial recognition. Worldly fame and transcendental meditation.

Fortunately, a path cleared.

In 1999, Cris P., a pioneer of Pinoy queer cinema, had started working on his debut film Duda/Doubt and needed music for his opus. I let him listen to my song “I Don’t Love You Anymore” which I’d recorded some months back at Greenhill Sound. The song ended up being part of a pivotal scene in the movie. And I was made to compose music for the rest of the movie.

I promptly took over my husband’s Powerbook, that heavy beast of a laptop made of airplane-grade metal, attached an audio interface and a MIDI controller keyboard to it, and proceeded to master Garageband and make dramatic music for many lovemaking scenes (among others). So there. I became a composer. And the projects arrived in a steady trickle. And they still arrive in the same healthy peeing trickle today.

The Unconventional Charing, Part 2

To get away from the spotlight while remaining musically productive, I worked (and continue to work) behind the scenes as a TV and film music composer. Yes, we’re talking musical scores for drama soaps, comedies, action films, horror films, fantaseryes, documentaries, AVPs and other such labada, as well as producer of songs, minus-ones, voice-overs, nursery rhymes, etc. for other artist friends, all recorded in my little home studio where you can see my handwashed panties hanging inside the bathroom. I taught myself how to use Vegas, Garageband, Ableton, Logic Pro, Pro Tools and Final Cut Pro by pestering friends like Bond S. and Ryan B., and watching a whole lot of online tutorials without the aid of subtitles.

I became a geek. Life is hard. Life in the Philippines is doubly, triply, quadruply paking hard.

I am flat-chested with bad teeth. Also, not a comedienne. So I have no business with spotlights.

Obviously, malalim ang complex ko when it comes to fame and spotlights. How many times have I written the word “spotlights” in this entry?

  As if that fame-thirst complex wasn’t enough, I am also not a "real" composer.

I have a terrible “I don’t belong anywhere” complex. Don’t start me off with my strange name. That’s a whole new essay.

I didn't go to music school. I have no formal training. No one among my parents, brothers and sisters can play an instrument for any good length of time. I play everything solely by ear. Oido, they call it. Sifra.

A gift, yes.

But also a curse.

Because of my working-class background and no musical role models to look up to (I was scared of becoming that uber-talented musician playing for loose change at the overpass), I took up something safe and assuring -- journalism. Writers will always be needed in the world, right? And I should be able to pay the bills and make my mother happy.

Well, in hindsight, I did have a few names to inspire me growing up. There was Rica Arambulo. I saw her playing the keyboard at a popular noontime TV show. She was called a Musical Director, and she would provide musical accompaniment whenever needed. She was beautiful, amazingly talented and could think and play on the fly. Also, there was Jingle Buena. She wrote a song for Metropop and became a finalist. She painted herself all blue for the performance night. She took my breath away.

Before I start telling you about something bigger than myself, I should like to take you first inside myself, to provide a bit of context.

Sorry this will be intense. Game?

Here to make a clean breast of everything. Eventhough I don’t have much of a breast to start with. I am flat-chested. Also, I have bad teeth.

Anyway, here goes. I started out wanting to be rich, beautiful, full-chested and famous– but I didn’t want the attendant headache, loss of true friends, loss of privacy, loss of my hard-earned salary to cosmetic and dental surgery, etc.

So how is the fulfillment of my ambitions even possible?

My friends have told me that I have sent the universe nothing but conflicting signals, which is why my ambitions have not prospered.

You see, my friend Annie A. said it best in an article called “The Unconventional Chanteuse.” She touches the ivory keys ever so lightly before pounding them with the force of an anguish. She sits half facing the audience, poised like she is just starting and already leaving at the same time.

The article was about me, and these words best describe my feelings about fame and fortune -- and quite possibly, about life in general -- in one insightful nutshell. Thank you Annie Alejo for your keen talent! Oh how I love the piano! I have played for family, friends and elderly people wanting to relive good memories of balmy afternoons through the sound of soft, warm keys. But I am frightened of the limelight. It is too hot in there, literally. The klieg lights give off these carcinogenic energies that may stunt growth and quite possibly even talent. Plus, the Filipino audience to whom I play is a very demanding audience. I have had friends with whom I have shared my best obscure work, perhaps the song of mine that the great Pilita Corrales sang for an independent movie, or some such great shit.

But they would still look for the song that they had heard on mainstream radio. And not even my song, but a cover of a hit song. The one that almost toppled an American popstar off the local charts.

Yes, I have friends from all walks. I wanted to be famous, yet anonymous.