I honestly can't think of a worse idea. While I've said to close friends (and students) time and again that I couldn't think of anything more boring than sports, this sentiment is not the root of my naysaying. No, it'll be the even more unbearable traffic, the hordes of jaywalking tourists, the longer lines at restaurants, the great stinking mass of people cheering on their country's runners or divers or emaciated gymnasts. To the Olympic Committee or whoever it is that decides for the US: give New York the sympathy vote. Please. Let them have the Olympics. I just want to get on with my life.
Here's to Chuck Busch -- fellow music lover, Exoticaring member, and big Siesta fan -- who left us too soon. I only knew him through e-mail, but he will be missed.
Listen easy, Chuck.
Could someone buy this suitcase for me? =)
It looks done -- like, totally done. I'm about to logout in a second and see if I can get back in... (I had to reinstall all of mt.)
. Just set up my own domain -- The Wily Filipino -- moved most of my old website there, and everything looked fine.
Until I tried setting up my blog via Movable Type -- a beautiful piece of work, entirely customizable, except that I know nothing about cgi and perl and whatnot and configuring the preferences and locations necessitated much browser reloading and config file editing and setting permissions and uploading and rewriting on ftp. Whew. After I got everything fixed and was finally publishing items onto the blog, I logged out and couldn't log back in. Posted on the MT forums regarding my password problem, but no concrete solutions yet. (Meanwhile, you can look at the blog here. Looks much nicer, no?
Ari's recent posting on pu-pu platter conjectures on the possibility that the kapre of Tagalog mythology -- described, at least when I was growing up, as a cigar-smoking, gaunt figure of frightening appearance, living in balete trees -- and the cafre, or African slaves brought over to the Philippines by the Portuguese. Fanciful, he calls it (and I agree), but not necessarily: racial imagination gone wild has, after all, conjured up images of Filipinos as monkeys without tails and Jews having horns under their yarmulkes.
This suddenly reminds me of the ancient (and to my childhood eyes, unbelievably tall) mango tree that used to stand by our old gate in my childhood home in Los Banos. Living memory (at least among interviews my father made with LB oldtimers) pegged its age around the turn of the century and, despite my arboreal ignorance, I have no reason to doubt it. But there were apparently various stories about the tree, with people claiming to see balls of fire swirling around it, or mysterious bonfires at the foot of the tree (this I did see once), or a dwende living near it, or, most popularly, a kapre actually living in the tree. Some neighbors (or at least their grandparents) would apparently ask for permission ("Nakikiraan po") before passing by the tree. Indeed, sometime in the late '70s, the newspaper delivery kid would keep delivering our newspaper (by mistake, he said) to a woman in a white flowing gown who would be standing by the tree early in the morning.
At some point in the mid-'80s my father wanted the mango tree cut down -- or, at least, some of its thick branches, which were hanging perilously over the greenhouse and the plants he sold. No one in town wanted to touch it at all, and the only person he could find lived several kilometers away in San Pablo. The treecutter kept having problems with his treesaw, which either wouldn't start or wouldn't cut the tree at all; next, he started complaining about a sudden pain in his neck; and, scariest of all, he died mysteriously (I am not making this up) a couple of months later. My father simply let the mango tree be, until lightning finally hit it in the late '80s and it caught fire. All that is left of it now is a burned-out, 5-foot high trunk.
Saw the largehearted boy blog last night and was instantly inspired to revive my dead blog. (A nice title for a blog, actually.) Check out the nice, clean layout (Movabletype.org looks great), and LHB's passion for one of my favorite bands as well, Guided by Voices.
Every year I post a list of my favorites; this year's list is a little late.
Something forwarded from my brother.
Dear Son,
Medyo mabagal akong magsulat ngayon dahil alam ko na mabagal kang magbasa.
Nandito na kami sa probinsya para tirahan ang bagong bili na bahay pero hindi ko maibibigay sa iyo ang address dahil dinala ng dating nakatira ang number para daw hindi na sila magpapalit ng address.
Maganda ang lugar na ito at malayo sa Manila. Dalawang beses lang umulan sa linggong ito, tatlong araw noong una at apat na araw naman nung pangalawa.
Nakakainis lang ang mga paninda dito katulad na nabili kong shampoo dahil ayaw bumula. Nakasulat kasi sa labas ay FOR DRY HAIR kaya hindi ko binabasa ang buhok ko pag ginagamit ko. Mamaya ay ibabalik ko sa tindahan at magrereklamo ako.
Noong isang araw naman ay hindi ako makapasok sa bahay dahil ayaw bumukas ang padlock. Nakasulat kasi ay YALE, aba eh namalat na ako sa kakasigaw ay hindi pa din bumubukas. Magrereklamo din ako dun sa nagbenta ng bahay, akala nila ay hindi ko alam na SIGAW ang tagalog ng YALE, wise yata ito!
Mayroon nga pala akong nabili dito na magandang Jacket at tiyak na magugustuhan mo. Ipinadala ko na sa iyo sa DHL, medyo mahal daw dahil mabigat ang mga butones kaya ang ginawa ko ay tinanggal ko na lang ang mga butones at inilagay ko sa mga bulsa. Ikabit mo na lang pagdating diyan.
Nagpadala na din ako ng tseke para sa mga nasalanta ng bagyo, hindi ko na pinirmahan dahil gusto kong maging anonymous donor.
Ang kapatid mo nga palang si Jude ay may trabaho na dito, mayroon siyang 500 na tao na under sa kanya. Nag-gugupit siya ngayon ng damo sa Memorial Park, okey naman ang kita above minimum ang sahod.
Wala na akong masyadong balita. Sumulat ka na lang ng madalas.
Love, Papa
P.S. Maglalagay sana ako ng pera kaya lang ay naisara ko na ang envelope. Next time na lang ha?
Dahil nga sa aking katamaran -- at mula sa tsismisan at kung anu-anong kagaguhan with my besman, ang Ginoong Romeo "Jun-Jun" Alfredo "Sulpicio" C. Quintana -- napagisipan kong mag-umpisa nang isang tribya quiz. Or, to cite its original title, The Pinoy Pop Culture Trivia Quiz.
Sinimulan ko ito noong Abril 1997, along with advance notice sa soc.culture.filipino, with the following questions:
1. In the Hotdog song, "Pers Lab," where exactly on Ella del Rosario's face could pimples be found?
2. Who played the policewoman Emma Henry in the film about Emma Henry?
3. Who was the woman in the Shell commercial that later starred in "Ang Boyfriend Kong Mamaw?"
4. What do the letters T.O.D.A.S. stand for?
Pito lang ang aking contestant noon, pero ito'y lumaki at lumaki hanggang naging mahigit na sinkwenta sa isang linggo. Naubusan ako nang oras -- masyadong mahirap mag-tally nang mga sagot, much more mag-isip nang maitatanong! -- and so the quiz died a much-mourned death on May 17, 1998. It's only been over a year, but that year proved to be one of the most enjoyable ones I've had on the net, with da eksepsyon op my kontrobersiyal site, The Wit and Wisdom of Imelda Marcos. Halatang-halata na ang mga tanong ay galing lamang sa mga taong ako'y nabubuhay (at nakatira sa Pilipinas), from circa 1970 hanggang 1990.
(Totoo bang nagkatuluyan si Camilla at si Gino A. sa inyong long-distance romance dahil sa quiz mismo, o wishful thinking lang ba ito on my part? Maitanong nga sa UPRHS mailing list...) Nadagdagan ito nang mga pangalan nang tao from whom I haven't heard in a long time -- si Boyong V., Cito S., Jun B., Tatie A., Cecile M., Alex G., Bambam Q., Mario S., Johanns F. and more, not counting my old high school classmates (Waldo, Asa (alyas Mr. Tabinga), Alice, Jenny, Mia, atbp.).
At least two people have written and asked if they could include my quiz questions on some university org quiz contest (meron pang isa na gagamitin daw sa TV); another person wrote and asked if they could publish the questions in book form. Someone spotted the url mentioned in the Philippine version of Cosmopolitan, and another saying that the questions were used (without my permission, of course) on trivia flash cards that were actually marketed. (Putang ina, nagalit ako talaga noon. Kita na nilang labor of love ito, tapos peperahan nila yung pagod ko?)
Pa-minsan-minsan meron akong editorial comment, kagaya noong tanong ko na iisa lang ang nakasagot: "The brutal torture and slaying of Kilusang Mayo Uno / Partido ng Bayan leader Rolando Olalia in November 1986 was one of too many signs that the Aquino government was following its predecessor's footsteps. Who was the man abducted and killed along with Olalia? At ang sagot: "Olalia's companion was Leonor Alay-ay; may their names live on as more than mere answers in a trivia quiz! A few months later twenty-one people would be killed during the Mendiola Massacre." O meron akong mahabang diskurso tungkol sa rise of the Manila yuppie at CityLite 88.3 (baka i-publish ko later).
Or I would have something completely off-the wall:
1. You are standing on a beach when a woman on a white horse, in a red bikini (the woman, not the horse) starts coming towards you from nowhere. She is holding a bottle in one hand, and wordlessly hands it to you. What does the label on the bottle say?
Sagot: The woman waves goodbye as she gets back on her horse and rides up the beach. Speechless, you look at the bottle now in your hand. "White Castle Whisky," you read aloud to yourself. You shake your head, pondering the significance of what had just happened. You open the cap and tip the bottle to your lips. The horse and her rider disappear off into the distance. You can barely make her out, the woman shimmering in the heat.
In any case, check it out! Kung ganahan ako, baka umpisahan ko ulit! (I still get about a dozen e-mail messages a month asking about whether the quiz would return.)
My little obsession for today: San Francisco crime statistics. Since we're thinking of moving at some point, I've been checking crime rates in different parts of the city. Alas, one property we kind of like boasted 13 robberies this year -- probably having to do with the two liquor stores at the corner. Breaking into cars, as I've long noticed (my poor car is still without stereo and speakers), is quite rampant in our "plot;" there was a time about a couple of years ago when I would walk Shelby around the block in the morning and find a vehicle with the rear triangular window broken every week. So the neighborhood we live in has had 46 crimes so far this year, including (yeesh) two rapes, 13 car thefts and 11 burglaries.
I suppose it's a big trade-off: buy a desirable house in a marginal neighborhood (and get worried every time I walk Shelby at night, not to mention worrying about Madeline and Izzy), or one of those rather boring Doelger houses that you see in the Sunset down to the Westlake District in Daly City. But then we've lived in our neighborhood for a little over five years, and (with fingers crossed) haven't been the victim of anything major (except for my poor car cd player and speakers).
Diana Krall's The Look of Love ups the ante on her previous When I Look In Your Eyes album: more strings, more mush. Krall's voice -- cool, even cold, with limited range but nicely expressive nonetheless -- sounds just about perfect in an intimate, small-group setting (check out the wonderful All for You), but it just isn't strong enough to compete with the forced grandiloquence of a string orchestra. (Madeline and I saw her in concert with Tony Bennett at the Hollywood Bowl last year, and she was okay with the orchestra -- but not like Bennett, who simply brought the house down.) Here, the humor and life are just about sucked out of the songs, with Krall left to slaughter "Besame Mucho" -- perhaps she should get lessons from her idol Nat King Cole on how a non-Spanish speaker is supposed to sing the song. The booklet's gauzy shots (click on the "gallery" link) of her cleavage, her pouting lips and her legs -- combined with all the fussy string arrangements -- betray a sad lack of faith on the part of her handlers in her ability to smolder just as well in a trio. We want the old Diana back.
For another utter disappointment, Aphex Twin's new double album, Drukqs, vividly illustrates the sad state of electronic music. Or maybe it's my tastes that have changed, but this sounds so 1998. Richard D. James cranks out 30 interchangeable and sometimes undeveloped tracks of stale drill-'n-bass, piano pieces right out of Satie's "Gymnopedies," a prepared piano tune here and there. And the unpronounceable titles, the sampled unintelligible mumblings, the nursery-rhyme melodies are all still here -- just buried underneath the heavy sameness of it all. It's like he burned his laptop leavings onto a couple of CDRs and mailed it off to Sire.
Here's something I wrote in 1998 or 1999 or so.
I've always been kind of fascinated with how these little backmasking scares appear to come in cycles, particularly when there's some perceived "moral crisis" in the country. As priest confessors, Grand Inquisitors, Puritans from Salem, Kenneth Starr and Manoling Morato illustrate, those most obsessed with sex (or Satan) are the same ones who've taken it upon themselves to ferret sex and Satan out.[1] Too much time on their hands, I'd say, when there are genuine social concerns to address.
Granted, subliminal images in advertising and films are fairly well-documented. There were rumors in the '60s (during the Cold War, a good panicky time) that there were subliminal advertisements underneath the Muzak played in supermarkets to encourage shoppers to buy certain products. But to lead someone to worship Lucifer??? Give me a break. It's a very anti-humanist view of people for Christian pastors to adopt, I'd say, taking the metaphor of "their flock" too seriously...
One of the guys in my high school was utterly obsessed over backmasking and the connection between rock 'n' roll and Satan that he ultimately wrote a 100-page paper for a Social Science class about it. Essentially the guy, fueled by his newfound born-again Christian fundamentalist faith, combed through back issues of Creem and Kerrang! or whatever and picked out various anti-Christian/anti-status quo quotes, of which there were many. The local Catholic church was so impressed with his research that they invited him to give a two-part lecture at the local auditorium. [2]
In any case, the highlight of his presentation was the result of painstaking backmasking; Cool Edit didn't exist then, so he must have cracked open all those tapes and physically turned the loops over. Unbelievable! Anyhow, everyone was given a handout with all the evil lyrics they were supposed to hear, thus setting the stage for a more receptive audience.[3]
First up was Depeche Mode's "Master and Servant" -- the part in the beginning where the vocals go "It's a lie / it's a lie" was supposed to sound like "God is cheap / God is dead." "Turn me on dead man," from "Revolution No. 9," was reinterpreted as a reference to Satan. Anyhow, he went through a whole range of songs -- Tears For Fears' "Shout," "Stairway to Heaven," and "Hotel California" (boy did he have a field day with that one), but I can't remember the exact words we were supposed to hear. Most famously was the "Start to smoke marijuana" phrase supposedly heard during Queen's "Another One Bites The Dust." (This was "clearest" during the chorus "breakdown" just before the end, when Freddie Mercury kept reciting "Another one bites the dust" over handclaps.) Though the backmasker couldn't exactly explain the significance of the backwards message in Prince's "Darling Nikki" (off the album "Purple Rain") -- it went something like "God is coming soon" -- so Enrique (our backmasker's name) chose to focus on the sexual lyrics instead.
Actually, the highlight for me was when he showed huge slides of black metal album covers. The look on the nuns' faces was priceless.
[1] Satan and sex happen to some of the constant bugaboos in urban folklore, e.g. the supposed giant phallus on "The Little Mermaid" poster, the supposed "666" in the Procter and Gamble logo, etc.
[2] This happened to be a particularly urban folklore-fertile period (1988 or so) in the Philippines as well, which saw the country in the grip of a Satanism scare. Church groups were handing out flyers on "How to Spot a Satanist" -- the anarchy symbol, the pentagram, 666, etc. The same flyers would warn of punks with mohawk haircuts defacing grave stones *and* distributing LSD-laced stickers to school kids (a nice conflation of urban myths right there). Needless to say, everyone distributed by the Twisted Red Cross label were highly suspect...
[3] (Obviously the way it works is through the power of suggestion: if you're consciously looking out for "evil" lyrics, then garbled vocals will sound like what you want them to sound. The brain, in an attempt to find coherence in distortion, automatically tries to isolate and combine phonemes without the presence of a template -- and if that same template (with all the evil lyrics) is already presented to you, then hey! it works.)
Poop. Madeline and I have recently become fascinated with poop. Not ours, mind you, but the poop of the two little creatures in our lives: Izzy the baby and Shelby the dog. At first it seemed that my primary way of relating with Izzy (now almost seven weeks) was through diaper-changing (thankfully today, after about 20 minutes of total bawling, she finally fed from the bottle). Even my nicknames for her seemed to be derived from diaper-related activities.
Much of this was precipitated by Shelby's sudden regression, as it were, into the same nervous behavior when she first arrived from the pound: bouts of vomiting and melted-chocolate-ice-cream diarrhea inside the house (right next to where I'm sitting now as a matter of fact). A bland diet of rice and cream cheese ensued. Diarrhea continued for a while (the stains on the sidewalk stayed out there for what seemed like a month), but now it's back to the reassuring dark-green, solid stuff.
Izzy's bowel movements, on the other hand, remain the same consistency, whether fed with breast milk or formula -- to be precise, her diaper always looks smeared with Skippy Super Chunk peanut butter. This is in contrast to the grainy Grey Poupon (or is it "Poopon?") Dijon mustard stuff from her first two weeks. (I'm just thankful we have diaper service, otherwise we'll have to be rinsing and washing a whole sackful of dirty diapers once a week.) But what varies is the force by which it comes out -- either slow like toothpaste coming out of a tube, though accompanied by much farting, or downright explosive. One time the poop shot off the changing table and onto Madeline's desk, a good two feet away, spraying everything (the changing table, the edge of the desk, the diaper Genie, Madeline's arms, my hand) within a two-foot radius. Pretty spectacular.
Of course, the trick is to wait until all the racket is over before you decide to undo the tapes or Velcro (depending on whether she's wearing a wrap). The change in the temperature, especially if the wipes are cold, can also stimulate other adverse reactions (peeing all over her clothes is not fun -- I can't imagine what we'd do if she was a boy, especially since I've heard many stories about little boys hitting their parents in the eye).
Haven't written anything in a long time, what with an onslaught of midterms and quizzes and a spate of sleeping outside on the sofa during Izzy's second month, when she wouldn't go to sleep without being held. About two weeks ago, however, Izzy started sleeping through the night; now she goes to bed at 9 p.m. (and pretty much so do we), cries a bit at 5 a.m. as she moves from one sleep cycle to another, and then we wake her up at 7 a.m. with lots of good morning kisses, a moisturizer rubdown, and a diaper change.
Had a bit of a breakthrough with her bottle-feeding, which has caused us much anxiety and stress. It seems that Playtex nipples (and their nursers with disposable liners that look suspiciously like, um, never mind) seem to work, as Izzy was happily sucking away yesterday. (Previously Izzy would hardly suck or swallow with the Avent nipples, and the Gerber nipples, we think, gave her a massive tummy ache.) She took about an ounce and a half of breast milk with the Playtex, so we'll continue with that today.
I'm in a bit of downtime right now, being in the middle of Thanksgiving weekend (spent last night's dinner with my friends Jeff and Kumi), waiting for my dissertation committee to respond and with nothing to grade. So I've been preparing a syllabus for my Research Methods in Ethnic Studies class in the spring -- quite difficult for someone with little background in quantitative research (which is wherre my team-teacher comes in) -- and actually enjoying looking up information on interviewing and case studies.
Oh, and a little plug for an absolutely stellar game (I played the demo a few days ago): Max Payne. The comic-book cutscenes, the voice acting (but not the enemies, who come with terrible Italian accents right out of Life with Luigi), the graphics -- are flat-out superb. But the best twist to this shoot-'em-up is "Bullet Time," where with a click of the right-mouse button you can slow down everyone's movement (and hear nothing but a loud heartbeat) and dive, John Woo-style, with dual berettas in hand, gunning your enemies down at the same time. And if you manage to clear out a roomful of baddies, you get an awesome slo-mo, Matrix-like 360-degree shot of the bad guy going down. (My favorite scene was when, via Bullet Time, I leaped out of a corner, gunned one bad guy down, jumped up on a sofa where another bad guy was hiding, and promptly wasted his ass from above while standing on a sofa.)
Okay, enough violence for such a little plug!
Bjork; Stereolab. Two much-anticipated albums were released last week, and I promptly hopped over to Tower Records after my last class on Tuesday to get them.
Bjork's Vespertine is a fine, fine album, and it is growing on me with every listen. She has pretty much abandoned her dance diva days, but not necessarily the subject matter -- this is still all about big-time sensuality. Each track is a finely-threaded, miniaturized, filigreed, ProTooled work; somehow wisps of jewelled lace come to mind. The album isn't very melodic in the conventional sense and, as such, borrows more heavily from the theatrics of the Selmasongs album. The highlight comes at the end with "Unison," the loveliest, most soaring song on Vespertine, but "Hyper-Ballad" it still isn't. Along with Radiohead's Amnesiac, this is the most experimental major-label release so far this year.
In contrast, Stereolab's Sound-Dust is a rather limp affair and, despite the presence of those fellers from Chicago (not the band Chicago, god no, but the folks from Tortoise / Chicago Underground Duo/Trio etc.), sounds like warmed-over Muzak. I saw them live a year or two ago, touring on the Cobra And Phases Group Play Voltage In The Milky Night album (or maybe it was Dots and Loops), and they rocked, coming across louder and harder in concert than in the studio. But this time the abrupt time changes, Laetitia Sadier's run-on phrasing, the slightly off-kilter harmonizing -- all quite endearing in previous albums -- I find oddly cloying and grating somehow.
And here's part three of the Eraserheads article. I wish I'd finished it -- in particular, with a little analysis of my favorite Eraserheads song ever, "Alapaap."
The torch song "Kailan," for instance, is both an uncanny doo-wop imitation (albeit one filtered through an Apo Hiking Society sensibility) and an in-joke, with only the slightest hint of irony. The often-abused "unplugged" or acoustic version - usually meant to convey some sort of sincerity about the music - actually works here, in "Kailan Lounge." Buendia's vocals are incredibly expressive here - but then again, so is the rest of the band. Adoro's guitars sound extremely assured on "Wishing Wells"; Zabala's bass-playing is fuller and more complex on "Magasin"; Marasigan drums up a storm on rave-ups like "Insomya" and "Alkohol."
The sheer unpretentiousness of the Eraserheads' music can be seen in concert; obviously they aren't "too cool" to not lead the crowd on a sing-along to the chorus, or to not play a crowd-pleasing medley. The wonderful shamelessness in incorporating harmonizing vocals or pa-pa-pa-pa bridges attests to a certain kind of musical sincerity. (Buendia actually gets away with singing "Let me hear you sing it" between the doo-doo-doo-doo refrain in "With a Smile.")
Circus, as I had pointed out, represents an incredible stylistic jump from the first album, taking listeners along with them on their forays into different musical territory. But it is, at the same time, quite cognizant of their musical influences, from the Apo Hiking Society to the J. Geils Band.
Which brings me to the amazing "Magasin," which at first listen sounds like a pale ripoff of the J. Geils Band's "Centerfold." This is hardly the case: the Eraserheads make the latter sound completely leering and adolescent. (Okay, so there may be deeper philosophical implications found in "My blood runs cold / My memory has just been sold," but I doubt it.) Their plots are similar: guy picks up a nudie magazine, and discovers (the former) girl of his dreams inside. Buendia's protagonist is momentarily guilt-stricken ("Sana'y hindi nakita"), but in the act of looking his entire world has suddenly changed ("Iba na ang 'yong tingin / Iba na ang 'yong ngiti / Nagbago na'ng lahat sa 'yo"). "Magasin" is more complex, more in tune with the turmoil and guilty pleasure of seeing one's boyhood fantasy naked to the world. It shouldn't be this way, he must say to himself. She is not the same anymore. But then he looks. And looks. By the time we get to the song's punchline of sorts, he has succumbed to the temptation. Such drama in a pop song!
And here's part three of the Eraserheads article. I wish I'd finished it -- in particular, with a little analysis of my favorite Eraserheads song ever, "Alapaap."
The torch song "Kailan," for instance, is both an uncanny doo-wop imitation (albeit one filtered through an Apo Hiking Society sensibility) and an in-joke, with only the slightest hint of irony. The often-abused "unplugged" or acoustic version - usually meant to convey some sort of sincerity about the music - actually works here, in "Kailan Lounge." Buendia's vocals are incredibly expressive here - but then again, so is the rest of the band. Adoro's guitars sound extremely assured on "Wishing Wells"; Zabala's bass-playing is fuller and more complex on "Magasin"; Marasigan drums up a storm on rave-ups like "Insomya" and "Alkohol."
The sheer unpretentiousness of the Eraserheads' music can be seen in concert; obviously they aren't "too cool" to not lead the crowd on a sing-along to the chorus, or to not play a crowd-pleasing medley. The wonderful shamelessness in incorporating harmonizing vocals or pa-pa-pa-pa bridges attests to a certain kind of musical sincerity. (Buendia actually gets away with singing "Let me hear you sing it" between the doo-doo-doo-doo refrain in "With a Smile.")
Circus, as I had pointed out, represents an incredible stylistic jump from the first album, taking listeners along with them on their forays into different musical territory. But it is, at the same time, quite cognizant of their musical influences, from the Apo Hiking Society to the J. Geils Band.
Which brings me to the amazing "Magasin," which at first listen sounds like a pale ripoff of the J. Geils Band's "Centerfold." This is hardly the case: the Eraserheads make the latter sound completely leering and adolescent. (Okay, so there may be deeper philosophical implications found in "My blood runs cold / My memory has just been sold," but I doubt it.) Their plots are similar: guy picks up a nudie magazine, and discovers (the former) girl of his dreams inside. Buendia's protagonist is momentarily guilt-stricken ("Sana'y hindi nakita"), but in the act of looking his entire world has suddenly changed ("Iba na ang 'yong tingin / Iba na ang 'yong ngiti / Nagbago na'ng lahat sa 'yo"). "Magasin" is more complex, more in tune with the turmoil and guilty pleasure of seeing one's boyhood fantasy naked to the world. It shouldn't be this way, he must say to himself. She is not the same anymore. But then he looks. And looks. By the time we get to the song's punchline of sorts, he has succumbed to the temptation. Such drama in a pop song!
The first album, ultraelectromagneticpop! rightly shook up the Philippine music scene, and with much good reason: only a precious handful of albums before 1993 (Gary Valenciano's Moving Thoughts, for one) arguably captured the intensity of OPM's earlier mid-to-late-'70s Metropop heyday. (How thrilling it must have been to turn on the radio and hear Freddie Aguilar, VST and Co., Hotdog, early Apo Hiking Society, the Juan de la Cruz Band and Asin on one station!) The playing, as with Buendia's vocals, was still pretty raw around the edges, but the album, with its complete lack of pretensions, would be a refreshing contrast to the Chicago / Toto / power-ballad template that underlay some of the more slickly-produced, histrionic OPM singles of the late '80s and early '90s.
Indeed, the music scene during that period was, in my opinion, rather bleak. The lessons learned from new wave did not last very long; only The Dawn, with its tight trio playing (and only really on its first album), would follow through with their synth-laden hooks. One must also remember that there was also a mini-generation of listeners suddenly tuned in to Citylite 88.3, ultimately just a more "sophisticated" version of the Mellow Touch. (I have a long theory about Citylite, the marketing of the yuppie aesthetic, and the EDSA Uprising of 1986, but this is not the place nor the time.) The significance of the fact that the recalcitrant NU 107, devoted to college rock, was situated at the very opposite end of the radio dial should not be lost on the reader. Indeed, one can only gauge the stagnation when saxophonist Eddie Katindig (or Eddie K), in a misguided attempt to imitate the moniker of an American lite-"jazz" artist of the lowest species, was reduced to producing sad little covers of Top 40 hits. The social consciousness pervading mainstream music only a decade earlier would at least find its resurgence in Joey Ayala's re-recordings of his older cassette-only albums, but lightweight pop singles and ballads were, unfortunately, the norm. Listen, for instance, to Martin Nievera's "You Are The One"; what actually passed for drama was the mere raising of an octave for every iteration of the chorus. Or the entire Constant Change album, by Jose Mari Chan, which threatened to engulf the whole of Philippine radio with its utter blandness.
However, ultraelectromagneticpop! is still, in my mind, an uneven debut, but for every iffy track like "Maling Akala," "Shake Yer Head" (if I wrote "Well I ain't no stupid fighter / I go for flower power," I guess I'd be kind of embarrassed) or "Toyang" (just what is it with Pinoys and medleys?), there would be an absolute stunner of a song like "Ligaya," or a flat-out work of irresistible genius like "Shirley." (The squall of guitar noise at the beginning, anchored with that little throwaway piano riff, is alone worth the price of admission; it's not very often you can pogo along to a song which so perceptively traces the fall and rise of a relationship.) The breathless, melodic complexity of "Tindahan ni Aling Nena" transcends its novelty-song origins. The humor of the album, as well as the goofy liner notes, was already a nod to the wacked-out anarchy that would pervade later albums.
Philippine News Day. [It's hard typing this with one hand, as I'm cradling Izzy with my left arm.] Yesterday I went to the 40th anniversary party of Philippine News, held at the SF War Memorial and Performing Arts Center. Usually I consider this sort of thing as work (part of my research and all), but I was really looking forward to being there. Seeing old friends (Cherie, Salli, and so on -- I must have lunch again with you folks one day), enjoying the beautiful weather (the balcony looked out over Van Ness and City Hall), and drinking the champagne (flowin'!) -- this wasn't work. =) Okay, I managed to sneak in a few discussions with academics as well (see, it was work-related after all).
The Pinoy glitterati was there in full force, along with the usual cast of characters at Bay Area events, with various dignitaries and indignitaries. Mayors of different cities proclaimed August 24, 2001 as "Philippine News Day" -- something Willie Brown seems to do at the drop of a hat -- and Speaker of the House Kevin Shelley gave a nice little talk about how PN had supported his dad Pete as mayor of SF back in '63.
By far, one of the two highlights of the event was founder Alex Esclamado's speech. (He was somewhat upstaged, though, when the keynote speaker -- Phil Bronstein, executive editor of the San Francisco Chronicle and animal-bite survivor -- and his wife made their fashionably late entrance amidst snapping flashbulbs. I was standing a few feet away from her, and she looked pretty glam, but was paler than I expected.) In my writings, I've been a little critical of PN before, pointing out their gleeful celebration of various society events (balls, debuts, and whatnot) and how this inadvertently contributes to a vision of Asians as the model minority. But I do recognize, at the same time, that this is a "function" of the immigrant press, i.e., staking a claim regarding belonging in America, and this is, I think, a particular immigrant predicament in which the ethnic press in general finds itself. Still, there was a certain undeniable bravery when PN did what it did in the '70s, and now, listening to Mr. E's understated reminiscences, I had to agree. There was genuine emotion in his voice as he singled out the most loyal staffers. Even as he went into his usual spiel about how the newspaper began "in the garage of his small house in San Francisco's Sunset District" -- something I'd heard and read many times -- my heart still went out to him a little. He was right to be proud.
The other highlight came not from any speech, but from a musical performance. I have been a fan of Joey Ayala for many years now, since my high school days, and when I met him about a month ago I was too tongue-tied to say anything (I even forgot to bring out the CD I wanted him to sign). So he comes up on stage with a guitar, and tells the audience that he's a songwriter from the Philippines, and that he's written 150 songs, but the song he was going to sing today was not he had written -- in fact, he said, "I learned it from you." This is your song, not my song, he said, introducing it as "an English folk song from the 1800s" which he just learned here in the U.S. And then he promptly launches into a stunning version of the Star-Spangled Banner -- in Tagalog.
I wish I can remember the lyrics exactly. But I can't. I suppose I can ask him for the lyrics later, but I think it would spoil it. It began with "Nakikita mo ba?" and then went on as a hymn dedicated to the immigrants of the United States. His lyrics had allusions to the Filipino American War and ended with something about "Hinirang na bagong lupa" (a clear reference to the Philippine national anthem) and "Kasaysaya'y pinapanday." All in all it was too brief a moment, possibly two minutes: Ayala had the audience in the palm of his hand, and then it was gone.
An old one, originally posted, I guess, in August 2001 or so.
Izzy Goes to the Doctor. Today we went to the hospital for Izzy's first doctor's appointment. We were all concerned about her weight loss -- a little too much the first few days, so she had to be supplemented with formula for a couple of days -- but she was right at 8 pounds, so we were all quite relieved. Otherwise Izzy's all healthy and beautiful, except for a little bit of diaper rash.
As someone who still gets carded regularly at the ripe age of 30, I full well know how Asians can look awfullly young. (My dad is a prime example.) However, Izzy's pediatrician looked all of 12! (Madeline said 13.) The funny part was when she called in another colleague (ostensibly someone slightly senior) to listen to Izzy's heart -- he comes in and he looked like he was 16! (Everyone must have tormented him mercilessly in med school by calling him "Doogie.")
Izzy is growing more and more every day -- 2 inches in 2 weeks! I've found it hard to work with Izzy in the room -- not because she fusses, though she does that too -- but because I and Madeline end up just staring at her. I've never particularly liked holding babies, much more changing their diapers, but Izzy is amazing. She's so wonderful.
Clarissa's uncle Noli tells me that I would not mind going to work with only 3-4 hours of sleep the night before, because "you'll be so happy." Well, we'll see until the colic months hit. But right now I think Madeline and I are plainly euphoric. Last night we put her in bed between us and just played with her -- opening her palms, kissing her on the forehead, rubbing her belly. Unbelievable.
Here's an unfinished fragment of an overblown, gushing, and frankly embarrassing essay about a Filipino pop band -- the Eraserheads -- which I wrote in 1995 or so. Alas, what I write below is not true anymore (about which I can write later), but for one moment there (after the release of their Cutterpillow album, one of my favorite albums of all time) they truly were the greatest band in the world. (Otherwise everything's still the same: I still love the Beatles, and Yo La Tengo still rules.
This is Part One; Parts Two and Three continue next week.
Eraserheads, Part One
The Eraserheads are the greatest band in the entire world. This is a fact. And I write this with the same equanimity as making a statement like "The sky is blue." For no other pop music group (well, there are exceptions; see below) has produced a body of work that has consistently challenged my intellect, stirred my emotions, and on the whole produced such limitless listening enjoyment as the Eraserheads have.
Of course, I could qualify my sweeping generalization with a modifier of time, i.e., the Eraserheads are the greatest band in the world right now, and to follow that up with something like the Beatles are the greatest band in the world ever. Or a modifier of place, such as Yo La Tengo is the greatest band in America and The Eraserheads are the greatest band in the Philippines. But such qualifiers needlessly diminish the drama of my original, monumental statement, when all I really want is for the impact of my affirmation to remain. So let me write it again: The Eraserheads are the greatest band in the entire world.
Again, it should be understood that I state this with no shred of objectivity whatsoever. Certainly a kind of ethnic sentiment clouds my judgment; I am Filipino, after all, and the fact that the 'heads are from the Philippines means everything. But do not let that sway the uninitiated listener from experiencing music that is both refreshingly experimental and reassuringly consistent at the same time; music chock-full of damnably catchy melodies and lyrics both silly and worldly-wise; music which, with dead-on accuracy, has painted a portrait of an entire generation of Filipinos over the course of a mere four albums; music that rewards the listener with different, deeper meanings with every listen. As with the Beatles and Yo La Tengo, who would have known a three-minute pop song would yield up such an embarrassment of riches?
Take, for instance, just one couplet from the song "Ligaya": "Gagawin ko ang lahat pati ang thesis mo / Huwag mo lang ipagkait ang hinahanap ko." Is this not an altogether brilliant pledge of love and devotion? How could the listener dare doubt this? (Side note: the Eraserheads have long been compared to the Beatles, a comparison that is not only trite but irrelevant as well. For what band, except for that empire in which James Brown reigns, does not come from the Beatles? Or, to take a different tack, it is not as if the Beatles originated vocal harmonies, or verse-chorus-verse structure.)
My appreciation for the Eraserheads has been, oddly enough, in a kind of media vacuum; I have yet to see them interviewed, or any of their music videos, including the much-heralded one for "Ang Huling El Bimbo." Their career began and rocketed as I was out of the country and unplugged from any Filipino radio station; perhaps that explains as well my obsessive, repeated listenings, trying to glean any little information I could about who these pop geniuses were.
Here's an unfinished fragment of an overblown, gushing, and frankly embarrassing essay about a Filipino pop band -- the Eraserheads -- which I wrote in 1995 or so. Alas, what I write below is not true anymore (about which I can write later), but for one moment there (after the release of their Cutterpillow album, one of my favorite albums of all time) they truly were the greatest band in the world. (Otherwise everything's still the same: I still love the Beatles, and Yo La Tengo still rules.
This is Part One; Parts Two and Three continue next week.
Eraserheads, Part One
The Eraserheads are the greatest band in the entire world. This is a fact. And I write this with the same equanimity as making a statement like "The sky is blue." For no other pop music group (well, there are exceptions; see below) has produced a body of work that has consistently challenged my intellect, stirred my emotions, and on the whole produced such limitless listening enjoyment as the Eraserheads have.
Of course, I could qualify my sweeping generalization with a modifier of time, i.e., the Eraserheads are the greatest band in the world right now, and to follow that up with something like the Beatles are the greatest band in the world ever. Or a modifier of place, such as Yo La Tengo is the greatest band in America and The Eraserheads are the greatest band in the Philippines. But such qualifiers needlessly diminish the drama of my original, monumental statement, when all I really want is for the impact of my affirmation to remain. So let me write it again: The Eraserheads are the greatest band in the entire world.
Again, it should be understood that I state this with no shred of objectivity whatsoever. Certainly a kind of ethnic sentiment clouds my judgment; I am Filipino, after all, and the fact that the 'heads are from the Philippines means everything. But do not let that sway the uninitiated listener from experiencing music that is both refreshingly experimental and reassuringly consistent at the same time; music chock-full of damnably catchy melodies and lyrics both silly and worldly-wise; music which, with dead-on accuracy, has painted a portrait of an entire generation of Filipinos over the course of a mere four albums; music that rewards the listener with different, deeper meanings with every listen. As with the Beatles and Yo La Tengo, who would have known a three-minute pop song would yield up such an embarrassment of riches?
Take, for instance, just one couplet from the song "Ligaya": "Gagawin ko ang lahat pati ang thesis mo / Huwag mo lang ipagkait ang hinahanap ko." Is this not an altogether brilliant pledge of love and devotion? How could the listener dare doubt this? (Side note: the Eraserheads have long been compared to the Beatles, a comparison that is not only trite but irrelevant as well. For what band, except for that empire in which James Brown reigns, does not come from the Beatles? Or, to take a different tack, it is not as if the Beatles originated vocal harmonies, or verse-chorus-verse structure.)
My appreciation for the Eraserheads has been, oddly enough, in a kind of media vacuum; I have yet to see them interviewed, or any of their music videos, including the much-heralded one for "Ang Huling El Bimbo." Their career began and rocketed as I was out of the country and unplugged from any Filipino radio station; perhaps that explains as well my obsessive, repeated listenings, trying to glean any little information I could about who these pop geniuses were.
Found them all! I'll be posting the golden oldies over here then.
It's too bad that I seem to have lost all my archives from my old blog -- little reminiscences about my baby daughter, some music reviews, that sort of thing.
Oh well. Here's one of my favorite kooky pages, Jesus -- With You Always. Freaky!
After much experimentation -- my old blog seems to have died, and been taken off its secondary server (sorry, I just couldn't keep updating it with all my work), this is now a half-hearted attempt to revive it.
I write "half-hearted" because I'm not sure how much I can keep this up -- that's what happens when there's too much midterm and paper grading. =)
