And Then There Were Four: Cy plays No Mystery but Will Always Remain a Mystery (1 of 4)

Nope, these are not the four strong winds, the four corners of the earth, names of archangels, or far from it - the horsemen of apocalypse. 

At a time when there were no formalities, but strict unspoken rites of passage to the world of music – these men served as my beacons, whether they were aware, admitted or not. “Mentoring” wasn’t a corporate buzzword then, but these folks lived and breathed it way beyond any ISO approved trainer. I will always be indebted to these four souls who are bright contrasts of immense talent while remaining real everyday folks – a rare pairing in today’s talent-obsessed-entertainment-happy world. 

Restless genius – artist, sculptor, thinker, spiritual sojourner, chemist, quantum physicist, writer, mystic - the real renaissance one. And though I have always been closely learning as much from him, all is consciously subdued under our friendship. Weekends and loose mornings on college was with him three blocks away from our home, talking about everything from quarks to Herbert to Corea to fiction to the Bible to free radicals. 

It began in a full gospel church setting where we we both served as musicians.  I knew he was from a seminary. We got acquainted, and he showed me his painting on a wall from their old place, a big beautiful pastiche of patterns done in three days. My brain disintegrated.

Cyril preceded IT standards of multi-tasking by decades. Far from a jack of all trades, he delivered everything in excellence. Resolved equations, done novels, timed sketches, songs – and don’t get me started on his powers on the keyboards and piano. 

His out of tune Winkelman upright sounded correct, every extended harmony - the 11ths, the #9s and 6ths jumping clear as he played originals like City in The Sky, Ashes, and more. It was too much for my feeble comprehension.

“Cy, can you do a traditional gospel progression?”, I asked, trying to detox from the barrage of Holdsworth worthy harmonies one morning. 

“Like this Bet?”. He switched the Korg N364to a B3 patch. 

I was not in his house anymore. I saw pews, revival preaching and my soul shouted Amen. 

Nowadays, we don’t see each other that much as life has twisted and turned us , I am glad though that he is actively mentoring a team, and a worthy prodigy Goy Pabuhat. I hope that the wheels would turn and afford us a time long lost.

He was with a band, a band formed and disbanded ad nauseaum with members playing revolving chairs. But he was always playing with one guy I only knew by reputation, a close brother of his. They played since the Gameroom and Cactus days, from new wave to Metheny to Azymuth, an English speaking guitarist who was a game apart the rest.

(to be continued)


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His Name Was Gilmer

He was a tall guy, perhaps well on his thirties at that time. He was then a bachelor, well read, lived with his dogs and the ashes of his deceased cat, and it was the dawn of the decade. The 80s have just begun, and I was on first grade, aged five.

Gilmer was a DJ, an onboard jock at then DYBC (Jamies @ 102.3 in the late 90s) at the roof deck of Manuela Building (now Manuela Arcade) of then famed sugar city. His radio voice modulated, a far shadow of his everyday speaking voice. He, along with his siblings were regulars at our corner store either to purchase stuff or pass the time away. He had shelves full of books and magazines on various subjects – travel, culture, arts - which I would while away reading with occasional breaks playing with his canines. Not much with Ludwig, a grumpy aggressive white terrier, but more with Lavi, a half bred white spitz.  

At one occasion, it was from one of his magazines that I saw something that burned in my soul, that which I will always carry to death. 

“Rotring Rapidograph” read the ad – the opposing page was a fine illustration of an Apache indian totting a rifle. I was hooked. I loved to draw, but it was this illustration that had set my own aesthetics – which started a lifelong appetite for comics and illustrators. Little did I know that this illustration of cross hatches with the weaving thick and thin lines would open an unsatiable  hunger for worlds according to Serppieri, Toppi, Wrightson, the 70s DC Comics wave of Filipino Illustrators – Fred Carillo, Ruben Yandoc, Alex Niño, Vicatan, Nestor Redondo, ER Cruz, etc. 

One weekend morning Gilmer sat at the side of the street, facing the northern view of the intersection. He had an easel, cheap Guitar Watercolors in tube (which cost quite a fortune at that time), and proceeded with his meticulous urban sketch, a process which I would know decades later as plein air. It was never the same for me, though I would revisit the medium at a much later period.

27708 was the local number for DYBC, which I would pester for requests at that time. It is a guilty pleasure to admit that until now, I would secretly dream of having at least an hour’s slot of going onboard an FM broadcast, playing an absurd playlist ranging from Eno to Panopio, thanks to Gilmer.

It was his voice that was recorded on a C60 cassette that read a 3-page feature from the Reader’s Digest. The piece’s title was “Fred and the Fireworks”, and I would listen to it everyday while playing or drawing, and end up memorizing it verbatim. I memorized it in time for the declamation contest at school, where I would eventually take home the first prize.

Last time I heard from his siblings, Gilmer got married yet stays most of the time alone at a nearby island right across their home by the sea. No social media, no accounts, ever the non-conformist, total bohemian.

As to the three-page piece, only three sentences were left in my cluttered brain but I’m sure these were the highest points of the piece:

Suddenly, there was a piercing shriek.

“My eyes, my face!” cried Fred. 

Fred was rushed to the hospital.

I can only remember three sentences now, but Gimo, as we all called him – is far from forgotten.