Hukay-dat-Baul pt. 3

JOHN, ink on paper

1998.

Tronco Advertising days. 


Doodles and sketches were legal during office hours. 

Good material and supplies were within reach.


Good ole boarding house days.

EAT/SLEEP, ink on paper

My room mate John was sleeping. In this pre-digicam/ SLR era, all you need is paper and a pencil.


Our communal area was the bed of our friend Darryl. His bed was slept on, converted into a dining table, a pantry, a work area, and a drying area for Leonardo's silk screened shirts. 

Poor bed. Poorer Darryl.


Talks of a collective group show among the staff were always in circulation.

It remained in circulation,  and to this day, remains as simply talk. 

Inking Heroes

Thor, ink on paper

Years of reading and rereading old comic books was primarily driven by my love for comics illustration. Names such as Jack Kirby , John Buscema, Frank Frazetta, Walt Simonson, Joe Rubenstein, Michael Golden and more were always in my psyche. I would dream of the day, that I would be one of the guys behind the heroes.

Kids grow up though and find out that you can't exactly fall from a skyscraper maneuver your body, land on your feet nary a broken bone. Or stop a charging truck with your bare knuckles. Or that you will be engulfed in a plasma with raging strength every time you grit your teeth. It just doesn't happen that way.

 

Wolverine, ink on paper

I also learned that a landing a career in comics illustration was in some way, akin to the aforementioned feats. It wasn't just about drawing  figures, or stills - but was mainly about creating a flow through panels, breathing life to a script. 

Iron Fist, ink on paper

Fortunately, I outgrew the fantasies of having to sleep on drawing boards, attending comicons and make my living off from strips, because I know that I don't have the skills needed for the job.



I am happiest given a little time, pen and paper ; channeling the days of unfaltering heroism and

invulnerability, drawing power from the mjolnir, adamantium, or the ch'i.

See The Line Walk

It is said that drawing is taking a line for a walk. If so, you'll be amazed how far it travels in the hands of this self taught, talented woman.

Hasale Mañoso Jayme doesn’t use a pantograph ,  a triangular scale, or draws graphs on her reference shots. Just four things: a pair of eyes, glasses, her hands and a pencil. She looks at the subject, draws freehand, and with the simplest materials, manages to come up with these stunning pieces.

Easy? No. Brilliant? Absolutely.

 This 70 year old lady simply inspires the pursuit of innate gifts bestowed by the Creator. The life in her works undeniably spring from the hopeful life she lives: surviving breast cancer, widowhood, and the rough and tumble of life in God's great grace. She is my aunt, my mother's sister. 

 

 

Almost everyone wants to be famous for five minutes and will fight for one shot at any opportunity that bears the title "Got Talent". 

With Hasale, there is no need for such.

All the love.

And now, a Word for My Sponsor

This is the guitar I have named for the umpteenth time. I don't have a thing for finding a good name and sticking with it,  like BB King's "Lucille". A no name caster was better, so I thought.

What's not interesting about it anyway? Tales tell that the earliest traced owner, local guitar pioneer Boy Vargas (now of the famed Checkmates) sold it to stand -up comedian Ram Lopez. Sometime in the 80s, my late father had a chance to drop by Mr. Lopez' (whom he played with on occasions) place. Lopez gave him the guitar, with another bass guitar to go. He declined the offer for the bass, but took the guitar home.

It’s a red Tokai strat, with a DiMarzio humbucker modified at the neck. Smooth feel, warm toned and not too heavy for a guitar.  I learned the solo to Lionel Richie's "Hello" on it,  the guitar intro to Asin's "Bayan kong Sinilangan" and Neocolours' "Hold On".

He gave it to me. Exactly when , I can not recall. It went through a lot of phases and modifications since. After a rewind job the DiMarzio replacement finally rested in silence. All its pickups now are previously owned by Gabe Ascalon. An exact account how it funnily landed in my hands would merit another post though.   

It wasn't only the name that suffered changes.

I ripped the paint off  three times. One day I just woke up with the weirdest notion that I can be a good painter. Seeing the aerosol paint labeled "chrome" was just too good to stay away from. Visions of Satriani's Chromeboy finish just kept recurring. I ended up with a finish that looked more like a pewter can opener than the blue dreamer's axe. Goodbye red, hello tinfoil.

Some self proclaimed pro redid the paint job, and it ended up with a cross between a black matte and gloss finish. It looked like the Batmobile, only dented after running down the Joker. Simply put,  it was ugly.

I was one hard headed dude though. I thought if I can't make it look like the chromeboy, then I can surely make it look like something cooler, but more attainable. With a sparkle green and blue aerosol (persistent, wasn't I?) at hand, I rubbed sandpapers until late hours to get a cross between Keith Howland  (Chicago) and Steve Lukather's Music Man.  What I got though was a cross between a Christmas décor and the Blue man group. This time it wasn't ugly - its ugli- errrr.

The house underwent renovations at that time too. I came across some anti termite wood treatment lacquer with woodstain finish used for window sills. Next thing I knew, I was again sanding the guitar's surface (Oh brother. Palmface.) and noticed that the body's grain followed interesting patterns. After the stain, I got the body to a guy who did the paintjobs on church pews, cabinets and stuff. He Had it lacquer finished and had it buffed.

That's just the paint job. Yet, even after countless abuses in the name of modification and tone,  the poor thing never failed me - not even a single gig. Sometime ago, It got its share of laughs in a forum as some purist chap insisted that putting varnish on guitar is a bad, cheap taste. I couldn't really care much. After festivals, opening acts, countless gigs, jams and worship services,  I swear I still can not hear how varnish sounds - because I haven't tried one.  Honestly , I can not hear how paint sounds.  Music remains colorblind, thankfully.

There goes a word FOR my sponsor, the guitar that brought food on the table, got us through college , told countless stories, paid the bills and who knows what else. 

Long Weekend Yahoohoo

What started out as a doodle 

during one of the 

normal phone queries , 

has recently been fleshed out 

in another form.

SALAMANKERO IN OIL

I could have titled it "Salamankero 2.0" or something else, knowing the original doodle was done purely in ink and highlighter on a scrap of paper.  But "Salamankero in Oil" sounds a lot like some spicy dish. 

This is my second work with oil on canvas.

THREE OF A PAIR

A fairly larger work in black paper. A pair which look too big and too colorful to be birds, but too bird-y to be flowers or blossoms.  So is it a pair of birds or a pair of flowers? Or a pair of a flower and a bird? Partridges in a pair three? I do not really know.

Oil pastel on paper.

OF RUST and DUST

Rust and dust surely cloud the subject in this post apocalyptic-themed work. My first try on fantasy art/ female subject,   though I have toyed with the concept for a while. Perhaps the comics years are beginning to resurface.

Watercolor on paper.

TABLE # 1

Here's an artwork that remained taped on one of my working boards for a long time, simply for the reason that I didn't 'feel' it was done yet. One day, I just had it framed and is now reserved for a buyer.

Mixed media on paper.

The Day of the Whirring Sharpeners

Its one of those rush requests, and I was quite confident I had all the materials needed for a caricature.

I found out that the only paper left in my stock was charcoal paper. I tried initial washes for the background, but the paper seemed to literally laugh off such stubborn attempt.

The colored pencil set was before me - as if prodding me to give it a try. Whirred went the sharpeners.

I loved it. No messy washes, no bleeding colors, all bright and all right. 
 

MORE THAN A HANDSHAKE

And so much more than your average guitar- totting- screaming- next -door teenagers

George Duke pinpointed  one of the missing elements that contribute to a glaring lack in today's music.

Duke calls it the missing  handshake - a musical handshake. He identifies it as the lack of connection between present artists with the masters of yore, physical or conceptual. He goes on to state that kids nowadays slice and dice loops and beats, but forgot the important foundation of knowing and learning the instruments.

Yet a breath of hope may have earned his big sunny smile if a faint swinging ride cymbal from a small city called Bacolod managed to reach his sharp ears that evening of September 24, 2011.

The slightly detectable aural disturbance wasn't coming from Bacolod's established artists - though they have also come to add to the sonic palette. The jubilant and swinging sound, insistent solos and rich harmonies were coming from college kids, all below 20 years old, under the very able baton of an extremely talented band director. The 24 piece West Negros University Jazz Band, all college kids, all scholars, were breezing their way through jazz standards, big band swing, smooth jazz and even fusion.  Harmonies were knit tight with band director Michael John Tambasen handling the main keyboards.

John Michael Tambasen, Musical Director

Tambasen's eyes glow with the gleam of a merry prankster as he opens the evening with a marching tune, The Loyalty March.  Amidst the parade vibe and the choruses, a seemingly big question mark hovers - as the show is titled JAZZ ONCE.  Images of the town fiesta and parade ceremonies play around as the band blasts through trios and choruses.  As the final note slashes, Tambasen quips , "That's jazz". " Jazz started with the parade bands, and that is where we begin tonight", he follows and the crowd smiles and gets the prank.

The band shifts gear as they go through a groovier reading of Jaco Pastorius' The Chicken, and the audience cheers in approval. What was simply a crowd earlier is now turned into converts to the gospel that is jazz. The set was a sampler of jazz' ever elusive face, from bossa nova (Agua de Beber,  Quando Quando), big band swing (Theme from the Pink Panther,  Crazy Little Thing Called Love, Route 66), ballads (The Shadow of Your Smile, Moonlight Serenade), smooth jazz (Night Rhythms, Deeper than You Think, Spain), celtic (Toss the Feathers) and even blues ( Summertime). 

The band's discipline and precision would give any other jazz outfit a run for their money.  Obviously , Tambasen reared the kids on the above virtue well. Such virtue is a potent talisman, that which spares  from the curse of overplaying and recycled riffs ad nauseaum.  The band's reading of Spain and Armando's Rhumba comes as the strongest example. Finally,   a young band braves the original RTF (Return To Forever) arrangement of Spain, forsaking the  fusion - y arrangements birthed by Jarreau's version and its spin-offs. It is a breath of fresh air to hear the song restored to the composer's original and Latin-tinged intent, far opposed from all the pyrotechnics and polyrythms stereotypical of the material.  The unison parts are flawless, especially on Armando's Rhumba, as they handle the head with the right rubato from the violin (yes, THE lone female violinist playing jazz in Bacolod City), piano, and bass. For more than once, you'll have to squint your eyes to believe what you are hearing.

The vocalists are cleverly interspersed all over the set, not just de rigueur, but because they can truly sing. For a moment , all the pseudo acrobatics that clutter us from all the talent searches were shut - as WNUs three vocalists took turns on the microphone. The ladies were one part sultry, another part gut wrenching. Picture a smooth rendition of the Carole King staple, Too Late, complete  with streaks of muted trumpet conjuring Botti's spirit, balanced by the a striking take of Summertime and Route 66. To top the vocal section, the gentleman exuded a cool demeanor  as he made his way through the Buble catalogue.  

It would be sacrilegious not to mention the tight rhythm section for in the church of jazz, it is a major

ordinance. The bass and the drums falls where it should be - a rarity even among more established players of the game. Notes are tasteful and not wasteful (pun intended), as  one notices that dimensions are so clearly put forth , delineating verses from choruses and buildups. If discipline is WNU Jazz Band's first name,  dynamics would have to be their last name. 

And the improvisations? Just like seeing a toddler's first step, or hearing a tot's first word - the students gleefully took turns - tenor sax, guitar, bass, drums, flute, trumpet, violin with such juvenile spirit and purity. They literally play their instruments. They teach us a lesson or two, who more than once have griped over modes, substitutions, alterations and whatnots. Agua de Beber turns into a conversation between flute and violin and simply exudes with youthful abandon. Don Cherry must be smiling from somewhere as he had always believed in playing in a manner as if it was one's first.

Then there is the icing - that sweet, guilty pleasure that haunts us - of the evening, a first . Three of Sugar City's bastions of the art form in albeit short but packed sets,  pay support to the history being written. Gabe Ascalon with Offbeat and Michael Tambasen, Nancy Brew and Marlon Sipe guest for the first time, on the same stage. Offbeat with Ascalon breezed through the fusion/ worldjazz highway , while Nancy Brew drove at the funkier side of the road with funk and smooth jazz numbers.  Marlon Sipe was firmly grounded on one of jazz' roots, the blues,  as he joined WNU for a blistering spontaneous 12-bar number and added soulful licks to Summertime.

Tambasen closed the show with a medley of jazz standards, and perhaps to the crowd's adore and surprise, took the vocal chores and backing himself on piano. He is a self-confessed Corea fan, and as his lines took flight, it was not surprising to hear touches of Tatum.  Tambasen knew his wares well, a reward of years playing the cruise ship circles.

Though its been done many times, many ways - the last song never fails to rev the Bacolod crowd. EWF's Sun Goddess complete with  Tambasen's two-fisted runs on a Rhodes patch stays true to the soul of Ramsey Lewis. As the final part comes - the 12 piece horn section blows with such authority, creating dents along the way. Nothing still beats a full horn section blasting over your face.  And as the final note dies, its clear that the WNU Jazz Band wasn't up for a handshake after all.

They were generuosly throwing big hugs and embracing, breathing this wonderful gift , drinking freely of it and swimming and diving to its depths. Surely, George Duke would give one deep , satisfied puff knowing the kids are perfectly alright.

THE WNU JAZZ Band

(Trumpets) Edward Garcia, Jorald Samillano, John Paul Celedona, (Alto Sax) Richard Tumayan, Elizer Alvero, Jade Samilllano (Tenor Sax) Aaron Edaño, Jude Toralballa, also on flute (Clarinet) Mark Nemes, Jovic Belleza (Trombone) Brandon Infante (Lyre) Mark Anthony Nabalitan, Clare Joy Lerona also on picolo flute (Drums) Rey Navarra - Snare Drum in marching, (Bass) Christian Samillano (Guitars) Nestor Edanio, Lester Dellave, Paul Kevin Mirarza - sound tech/cymbals in marching, (Vocals) Sheralyn Gonzales, (Majorette)

Aljin Samillano,Rusty Niño (Percussions) Bernard Cruz - bass drum in marching, (Violin) Lucellie Santibañez

OFFBEAT

 (Drums) Hernan Mijares, (Bass) Louie Claur (Guitars) Gabe Ascalon , (Keyboards) John Michael Tambasen

NANCY BREW

 (Drums) Ronald Amoroso, (Bass) Butch Inson (Guitars, saxophone, 2nd Keyboards) Bethoven Tiano , (Keyboards) Jico Monte

MARLON SIPE (Guitars)

By BM TIANO
Photos Courtesy of Bob Coscolluela

Back to Hukaying-dat-Baul

After countless hours of staring at this work, I decided to call the project off not knowing where its headed. Months later, I rediscovered it in all its unfinished state (the man standing, actually), and again, approach it from a more fresh point of view.

After permanently rendering the figure in front, I thought it would be time to wrap it up. Here's how it ended:

"Kamilyon", watercolor on paper

One Foot on the Past

I have this habit of poring through back issues of magazines, and it is not that far before one stumbles upon things amusing. One of which is the dent made by waves unleashed by  Filipino artists. Albeit not that frequent,  they leave marks in the field. Make that very large, gaping marks.

JAZZIZ is known for monthly free CDs (JAZZIZ ON DISC) showcasing new releases from noteworthy artists. In 1995, their May compilation included none other than one of the pioneers of jazz in the Philippines, MR. BOY KATINDIG. The track was “Puerto Princesa” from Katindig’s eponymous album released under Noteworthy Records.  R. Dante Sawyer provided the comprehensive background on the cut and the artist, commending not only the artist’s amazing technique as a multi-instrumentalist, but his production savvy as well. 

JAZZTIMES, another equally informative publication, gave another Filipino artist a much deserved review.  Their December 2009 issue reviews section (REVIEWS Vox) were all praises for Filipino crooner MR. MON DAVID and his album COMING TRUE. The review was written by Christopher Loudon, providing a track by track rundown of the album.

Here’s one big cheer to the Senyors MON DAVID, BOY KATINDIG, and the ever growing number of those inspired by them, braving the future that is Pinoy Jazz.  Mabuhay!

Pop In, Pop Out

I used to pop in my earphones to and from work just to shield my ears from idiocy that is commonly known as "masa" (the masses, that is) FM radio.

The mass indoctrination of sexual innuendos and self proclaimed prophets of Illuminati -pop musicdom gather steam daily and gleefully erodes whatever's left of values. That is,  what's left after television and internet has taken its toll in our minds and consciousness.

This is Bacolod City.  A small, growing suburb with a not-so-fast paced lifestyle - for now. The jeepney  is the main form of transportation for the working class.  This is where professionals, students, enterpreneurs, are slumped together in the morning ride to various destinations. Seated, everyone is force fed with to what passes as radio. In fact, it is technically radio based on the jeepney driver's standards.  Preschool kids with common folks hear junk music blasting. They dance a bit in time, with small bits of choreography from the noontime shows. Intermission comes courtesy of DJs with faux Filipino/English medium selling everything from aphrodisiacs to cellular phone network promos. They (the DJs) pose ambiguous questions like:

"Which gender comes first - Male or Female?"

I refuse to give the colloquial equivalent  of this line in our local dialect, Hiligaynon, as it is something that can only be described as downright nasty and reeks with sexual overtones.

The question above receives a response from a concerned listener calling the attention of the DJs onboard of the vulgarity.

The DJs snap back with the classic cliché "Perspective is a matter of the mind" . Since the messenger was first to call foul,  they make fun and cutting remarks that the same was the one with unhealthy connotations and biases. They laugh.

I don't. This distorted, naïve concept of freedom -  without responsibility - is the safe flag where one coward finds refuge. Simply put, it is nothing but a cheap attempt to gather more listeners at the expense of corrupted values.  When the ratings ring, flaunt goes the station in all its pride as if art and really creative programming were behind it.

A sexual moan passed as a naughty station I.D.? Anybody beyond grade school can decipher that.

Rapid fire blabbers authoritatively giving advice on air, yet promoting skewed morals and relative ethics everyday?  Please. As if the net and television is not enough.

Not that I would want to sound like some conservative prick, but there are certain things meant for certain places. And this time, its a move that goes way, way out of bounds.

I used to shut the world out and wear my earphones.

Now I'm popping out  my phones. 




So here's to you, radio:

RUSH - Spirit of Radio

That Big Ol' Mambo

I’m no eco buff.  I have trekked simple heights in the past, but nothing really spectacular – or serious- compared to those scaled by pros.

But what I do know, is that nature has always been a close friend, a confidante, a playground, a canvas that sings a melody of its own and fumbles along its innate groove which it shares with only a few.

That’s why I trod its byways and treks with gadgets kept to a minimum, perhaps a cellular phone solely for emergency purposes and for taking pictures.  I don’t plug portable music players as I don’t want nature’s own song adulterated. I’d say turn the thing off and let the wind talk. It clears the mind, it soothes the soul. 

And the audio experience is just one of the many experiences you get as your senses collect information all around. The cold water, the muddy earth, the smell of grass (the living one of course, not burnt and dried as some would prefer), all visceral, all cerebral, all soulful, and downright spiritual.  A peak in all its majesty bows to the expanse that is, which is encompassed by indescribable glorious blanket, made suspend on nothing by the sheer will of an all powerful Creator.

The frustrating scene, though, are the attempts of the ignorant to bring their idea of fun in this area of breathless beauty.  They think this mountainous bliss is perfect for an undisturbed videoke marathon.  And the irresponsible, young and old alike, think that any field of green is the same as their subdivision's vacant lot dumping site.

Look Mommy! A stump, mushrooms and a ... styropack?

Ely Buendia’s declaration “C.R. mo buong mundo”, (The whole world turns into one’s restroom - Alcohol) doesn’t fit drunks exclusively anymore. Sobers meet with the intoxicated on the same planes now - the plane of ignorance and apathy.

The Amazing Chippy Plant

Amidst the frustration, you still can't get over Mambukal (the Big Mambo), in all its stupendous glory. These hilly ranges that, for years, kept Negros safe from storms and  typhoons are so beautifully and mysteriously intertwined - are among the things that we always forget thanking the Creator for. 

Somehow, a part of me wishes that the puny humans would keep on messing up with God's
fingerprints - so that they'd be in the perfect position for a gigantimous cosmic thumb squashing. But then again, that's just the vengeful me, of course.

7th Falls, Mambukal Mountain Resort, Murcia Neg. Occ.

overlooking Murcia

RESPECT

I love Aretha Franklin. 

The anthem that fueled countless struggles and acid tests many divas and wannabes is an in your face scream for R-E-S-P-E-C-T.

Is it a two way street? Does one have to give to receive the same?

It seems everyone is hung up on the pursuit of such; we can, at our extremely debased and illogical moments resort to shameless self promotion and unnecessary flaunting of ego.

This may rub, but when one can not – does not – will not – learn to respect one’s self, there is no reason to expect the same from others. Respect is a sibling of the knowledge of one’s real identity – and makes us love ourselves first as creations of a sovereign, omnipotent God – no mistakes, no accidents. When we fail to see such, we seek affirmation for everything we do, and act as if the whole damn universe is in a task of  auditing us like some mere ledger lines and numbers.

“What will THEY say of my hair?”

“Will THEY obey me?”

Humanity will always be fickle. Like now, dislike tomorrow.  

Moses feared such.  Multiply that a dozen times, as Joshua – a first hand witness of Israel’s stubbornness – was tasked to take over. Its no wonder that Joshua was reminded and commanded more than once to ‘be strong, and to take courage’. He had to remember by whose power and authority he stood on.

Talk is cheap. Vain introductions, extended titles, additional initials after a name and bloated resumes never really mean respectable. Yes, they are good, but never tantamount to our identities. Honored guests do not seem that honorable now. The moment they approach the podium and go through the usual conundrums thinly disguised as speeches and addresses, brains fly out the halls. The first words that proceed from the mouth usually betray the person behind, revealing either pure rich substance or sheer superficiality. Sincerity - honesty’s other face, reveals how real the person behind the words is and is directly proportional to respect due. 

Pity those who equate visibility with respect – bear in mind that high visibility places the subject in utmost scrutiny and vulnerability.  Should one hog for the spotlight – make sure that the goods fill large pocket to the brim and ready for delivery when needed. Otherwise, spotlight + ignorance + empty pockets + pants down = ONE sick joke. It's the price to pay.

Oh yeah, Aretha - with soulfully inspired pipes, 1967. Dig that tight groove and horn solo along the way while you're in it -  Respeto!

6 Strings, 6 woes (or even more)

Being a guitar player has its own attached fixes and woes, much as any other instrument would have.  Here are 6 of those woes:

WOE 1: ROCK AND ROLL! ROCKSTAR! ROCKER!

At an age where the electric guitar is associated with THE rockstar - complete with coolness factor reaching to 100, it is further implied that once spotted slinging a guitar case, you definitely must be able to play the latest 4 chord pop junk on your amp's drive channel, and play it with so much conviction and so less in tune.

When asked of the things you play or are learning to, you answer something like the blues, some scales,  hybird picking, etc. - and is retorted with:

"How about <insert latest FM hit/ soap opera soundtrack here>?"

What do you mean 'You haven't heard of that song?!' Dude, that's got to be the best thing that happened since triple decker cheeseburgers!"

WOE 2: How come you don't play that solo note for note?

Though I will never on the same plane, Charlie Parker was the guy who was referred to as "someone who never played the same solo twice", Miles never wanted to play what he played yesterday, and Don Cherry always approached his horn as if it was his first time to pick the instrument up.

Some instances require note for note accuracy: pre written/arranged lines from the catalogue of Vai, Satch, Petrucci, and the likes, a woodshedding exercise, or a tribute band project  (How much liberty can you take from Steve Howe's guitar parts for YES?). Yet in the arena of improvisation, the dueling notes and unrehearsed strikes and parries shine bright - and all your guitar heroes love that dangerous engagement.

Sadly, for the TAB generation, the numbers printed are written in stone. A pharisaic view of this wonderful art of string bending has been reduced into something akin to a financial audit, which subjects every screw, picking angle, guitar face and stance into scrutiny.

"that sounds different from the album version. Betcha' can't play that. You suck."

WOE 3: YOU ARE TOO...

Loud. Soft. Heavily gained. Clean. Frilly. Flashy. Economic. Handsome. Young. Old.

This one's a no-brainer. 

Humans in general will always have something to gripe about .That includes your guitar playing.

WOE 4: THE GUITAR GEEK ATTRACTION FACTOR

Okay. In as much as I love guitar and things guitar, I do not live on it - I live on an astronomical dose of God's grace, including oxygen, food, sunlight, water. 

Every now and then, you run into people (usually on gatherings and Christenings and weddings, oh bless them) who, start to talk about humbuckers and Floyd Roses and screws and who-knows-what at the very first instance.  They expect you to know all about the recent effects box on the market, rant on for hours on how indispensable  the toy is, and ask your opinion on it , no matter what amount of clarification you make regarding your ignorance of the existence of such a product.  Or make that sheer disinterest.

Please, I would be fine with bread and pasta , I think I'll skip that set of gauge .11 GHS Strings for dessert.

 

WOE 5: I HATE ME

I still wake up with mornings realizing:

I can have an EVH Fender Wolfgang, Neil Zaza's pedal board, Vai's Digitech Presets, Brian May's curly locks (and cable),  David Martone's fingerpicks, and I will still sound like me, and I hate it.

Or that means I Hate me, to be exact. 

Looking over the brighter side of things, even Eric Clapton can give a limb or two, but he will never sound like you. Because, simply he is Eric, and you are you. Eric has a voice, you have yours too, and as sure as rain, I have mine too.

But then again - you will never, EVER, EVER, EVER, EVER sound like him. Ha ha! Haaaaa!

WOE 6: THE DREADED VIDEOKE NIGHTS

So you are a guitar player.

You get together with friends, who for one reason - equate guitar playing with being part of a band of any type - and follow that link to come up with a very unreasonable conclusion that this night will be your show. They hand you the mic, and expect you to do the mic like you would the guitar.

Before you can find the off switch (there is none, actually) you have mixed songs on your instant "setlist" lined up, courtesy of your friends : ballads from Journey and Europe, Silverchair, Eraserheads, Spongecola, Barry Manilow, Ricky Martin and, dig this - novelty, cheesy songs just for novelty's sake. Bon Jovi's 'It's My Life ' rumbles: the verse passes by with no other sound but the thudding mic laid on the table, enhanced by the echo.

Thud, thud, thud, thud. I find myself in the restroom .

They expect you to know the songs, tread the range from rap to soaring metal ballad because, yeah - you are in a band playing guitar.

Very, very logical. 

Read with me: VOCAL CORDS, GUITAR CHORDS. These are entirely different entities.VOCAL CORDS, GUITAR CHORDS, VOCAL CORDS, GUITAR CHORDS...

photo by Joby Tanjuatco

Go Ahead, Indulge 3: Rahsaan Roland Kirk

 

Pushing the envelope is a big understatement.

Put together a pennywhistle, a noseflute, another flute, alto, tenor and  soprano saxophones - everything but the kitchen sink - in two very able hands, powerful lungs, a mouth, a nose and a healthy dose of imagination and a highly passionate brain  - you get moving, in-your-face music - you get Rahsaan Roland Kirk.

And less two eyes. Kirk was blind.


Strong proof that absence of sight does not necessarily imply absence of vision, though. 

He had a strong vision of what the music was, and where its headed. More than simply being a multi-instrumentalist and playing one instrument after the outher, he plays them simultaneously. He was the band leader, with a resume as a sideman for Charles Mingus, Quincy Jones, and Roy Haynes.


Another case of extremely beautiful music from an extremely inspiring soul.

Tiano on Tiano

What's better than coming up with a solo project, 
doing everything from the groundwork up and 
cap it with a self serving writeup? Ha!

ON WHY WASTE DISK SPACE FOR AN ALBUM, WHERE EXACTLY IS THAT CATHEDRAL, WHAT IN THE WORLD ARE THE STEPS FOR SOLAR DANCING, WHY HIS GUITAR PLAYING IS THE ULTIMATE RIP-OFF AND WHY HE WON'T TRADE PLACES WITH BONO - ALL IN 150 WORDS OR MORE

DIY has come of age. After a long time, I have mustered enough gall to finish the eight track debut, INNER CATHEDRALS - a job I enjoyed doing and enjoyed putting of for a while.  While listening to it, I would be best to keep in mind that the album is still a demo album, and isn't written in ink. When an opportunity comes, I would definitely love to do the whole album again with a live band.  Some may wonder how come I never did the originals with Nancy Brew, it is simply because I wouldn't want three very unhappy people working with me this time , as Steve Howe would say. You see, the little dictator me rears its ugly head (and mustache) once in a while. 

A loose concept ties the materials for Inner cathedrals, which is about life as long travel in pursuit of something that fulfills, commonly depicted in forms of space journeys and discoveries.  I have been fascinated with space travel at the time, and still am at an extent. I'm no NASA/ MITT enthusiast, but have learned enough to love and awe things on dark matters, quasars, and neutrinos.  'Inner Cathedrals' would ascribe to the inner sanctuary we find when we find peace with our Creator through grace in the cross, and that worship goes beyond the physical cathedrals we erect.

Orbits (Green remix) is a clean toned foray into a funky old school fusion/ smooth jazz, and I enjoyed laying down the keyboard tracks (clavinet comp and faux-B3 solo) on this one.  The melody may remind some of a short reference to a line from Manhattan Skyline (which was also quoted by Santana on one of his jams).

Planet Phulla' Phunk is a groovy track which started as a sound clip demo uploaded at www.philmusic.com's Soundclick Thread.  Originally titled as  'Leave it That way', the 1:32 track was shelved for a time until revisited during all Soul's day of 2010. Thank God for holidays, indeed.  The main head is inspired by Satch's phrasing and the solos are divided into two parts:  the first one aims for the short intricate statements of Scofield while the next pays homage to the Satch/Vai whammy bar phrasing.  As the track progressed, the arrangement veered into a slightly different direction, more towards Greg Howe-y fusion.

Venus in Blue is an interesting cut culled from a million influences. Its another keyboard solo that I loved doing, as I was trying hard to draw from Joe Zawinul. The whole vibe was later fusion Miles, and the dom7th chord vamp from Stern (Mike). An old friend and batchmate (Richie Remo ) and I used to jam over this riff.  The guitar solos are another story.  In the middle of the sessions, the Zoom 707 (So that's why the tone sucks! - tone police department) broke down and I had to finish tracking with the old trusty Korg A4. I thought I wanted to sound like Jeff Beck, or Scott Henderson but found that impossible - I ended up sounding like, unfortunately, me.  The drum outro is definitely ho-hum, and this track reeks of demo like quality and horrible tone.  I just decide to let it remain as is though,  and had to release it before I get OC over the track again for the umpteenth time.

Inner Cathedrals, 9 and An Alien's Sojourn are the album's slower tracks and were a breeze to do.  9,  touches into the romantic and lyrical side of guitar playing and is actually the second edit. An earlier version was edited into the recent one with a more focused and concise arrangement. The first melody part was recorded using a borrowed Ibanez nylon-string (Thanks to Joel Bayona). The second head and outro solos, drum tracks and rhythm sections were re-recorded. Inner Cathedrals was originally titled Home, and the ethereal feel was greatly influenced by Pat Metheny's and The Yellowjackets' landscapes. I was pushing for a 'less is more' type of playing, a slightly snarling tone and the fretless solo was done real time on the keyboards.  An Alien's Sojourn still comes from the old school fusion vibe and was a challenging track as far as parts and arrangements were concerned. Highlighting three instruments is a very indulging thought - yet indulge I did.  The three tracks are homage to my other heroes, George Benson, Earl Klugh, Dave Spinozza and Paul Jackson Jr.

The Solar Dance is a one chord ditty rock instrumental over another groovy bed. Oddly, the intro riff which modulates a half step is inspired not by notes, but by dance steps.  One evening in a youth camp I was watching two young people dancing goofy with each other face to face, imitating each other's moves. From a far, I was imagining what music they were dancing to, hence, the wah intro riff.

The last track (and also the last one written) was The Walk.  The track started with a chord progression done on tremoloed guitars and was intended to be a bare bones blues. Yet something progressed as the whole sequence fit squarely in a half tempo rock groove. At that time, I was heavily listening to Michael Lee Firkins, and I suspect that I was sublimely aiming for the phrasing and the imitated-slide-effect via the whammy bar. Pastorius' The Chicken is quoted and  punctuates the end of the piano solo for fun.

Instrumentals paint different pictures to different people, as opposed to having  lyrics . There's less guilt in explaining the stories behind the tracks, a much lesser crime than the time Bono explained (ugh!) some of U2 lyrics. But as to ripping off and generously stealing other people's styles - guilty on eight counts, your honor.

Pencils up, finished or not. Those caught writing at this time will be shot dead. Now pass your papers to the front.

Tiano BM

CLICK TO DOWNLOAD THE ALBUM FOR FREE (album is in compressed .rar format)