Stages, Divided.

NOW. For  another highly opinionated moment.

I may be part of a minority, but I still find it doubtful to think that the rewards resulting from hustling the regular club circuits are equally obtainable with the rigorous selection processes underwent on highly visible media talent searches.

There are areas that are incomparable for both arenas. These, which I dare say, draw the line between seasoned performers and  seasonal  performers. Seasoned performers are like good wine. They age, they get better with age, they last. Seasonal performers last as the TV network allows them for a season, as supported by the Mr. and Ms. Public's text votes and population.  Though both seek the ever elusive break,  the methods and game rules are so different.

Here are three areas that clearly divide both stages:

Area One:

The live club/bar gigs do not guarantee audiences, even if the talents have  established following and have religiously covered the necessary leg work .  Dates that fall on payday still rule, and should one act fall on weak days, it is still necessary to give 100% performance level before an audience of waiters, tables and chairs.  Those joining broadcast competitions enjoy a sure crowd (which  may like them or not), and do not have to worry if there will be people watching.

With Youtube and more,  audience is guaranteed . So does vulnerability to a slew of merciless- know-it-all- yet-faceless comments.

Area Two:

The talent searches give 3 minute shot at stardom, or less. Repertoire is whittled into something that which is believed to show the act in top form. No obscure requests on  tissue paper to contend with, no birthday greetings. The bar gigs see you as the messiah that can do Celine Dion one moment and Rhianna the next, and everything in between.  You do a 45 minute set, miss on one request and suffer the drunken public's frustrated calls for not doing that Billy Corgan tune (which you may have air guitar-red  to back in college).

Area Three:

If one misses that "note" on a Stevie Wonder cover, talent show guy gets immortalized for that lone fumble, without a chance of redemption at that very moment. The episode is run and rerun through gazillion uploads.   Crippling comments sprawl about, deadlier than MJ's throng of Thriller zombies.  The slight sharp/flat note done on national/ global media consequently turns into a mistake of national/global proportions.

Fair enough. 

Meanwhile ,  the gigging act gets a shot for redemption set after set. There will always be a chance to redeem the horrible version of the Barry Manilow classic the previous night. Though chances are, you may not have to play that song again as a big part of the previous night's performance may have been flushed down with the alcohol.

Oh well, or it may just be me. Just a highly opinionated moment, folks. 

SMOOTHNESS FOR ALL ITS WORTH

The danger in too smooth a jazz is you end up crashing in the rails, asleep. It comes too smooth, devoid of bumps and grit, it smooth-soothes one into a calmness akin to water dripping on time lapse mode. Don't get me wrong - I do love a lot of it - the ones which have 90% jazz and 10% smooth.

Smooth rock  or lite rock, if you may, falls in between having angst of a love found/lost theme climaxing in a guitar solo and raspy tenor singing "Ba-ye-beee" numerous times. Is it lite? Yes. Rock? Arguably.

Sometimes, we carry the inaccurate pursuit of comfort too far and see Christianity only as one smooth, grace-filled ride. Though it is biblical at a surface, it seems to lack the teeth and spikes great men of God, martyrs and disciples are made of.

While some were been burned alive for the sake of the gospel, we hide the gospel in socially relevant topics so as to satisfy our cravings for emotionalism, so we do not offend others, and worse, diminish attendance.

While Paul takes every opportunity and limitation to preach to the point of wearing people to death ( a boy fell from a window after his 2-day preaching), we are too tired to care for needs beyond the third degree of our acquaintance.  To be brutally frank, we only care for burdens and get hyped up when people within our knowledge are affected. Body of Christ? Bahala kayo. I have demons to struggle with,  you know. Philippines? It has always been corrupt governance, anyway, all the way. Though, It was nice to live on this rich soil for awhile. So, like, Ta-taaaa.

While Christ admonishes praying and watching the times and signs, we fill our minds with the number of likes our "copy-pasted-pseudo-spiritual" messages garner, the latest so-called "Pinoy Prides" (forgive my abhorrence of that phrase) - as if our national sovereignty depended on their competitions - and all the profit-driven clutter.

How can we forget how Christ emphasized His pursuit of the will of the Father and not His own, while on this earth?  As Christ is the heart of what we blindly claim as Christianity, it is not a question of which direction to follow. It is a question of "Will We?".

Forgive me, but I don't see a simple, "You-and-me-Lord- let's- walk-together-and-enjoy-the-view-tourist-mode-until -you-come- back" pace.

Where is the urgency? Where is the part where we are redeemed so we can shed the same light of redemption to others? Where is the Great Commission?

Sometimes imperfections are better left were they are. They hurt us, they trample us, they even come close to crushing us. The scars remind us that until that great hope, this earth and everything it embodies -  the government, the honor, the prestige, the residencies  -   is not our home after all. 

And while we're at it, here's an original smooth jazz track (its a mouse over link) - An Alien's Sojourn - from the vaults.

Now, This is Revival.

So late in the bandwagon am I, missing Ambulette on my radar. Maura Davis' project after Denali purrs and haunts in a delicate pop package. Released in 2006 and just heard 2 days ago, I knew I had to bully the search engine for that delicious version of the 1959 Jacques Brel song, "Ne Me Quitte Pas" on radio. 

This pleading, tormented,  yet airy take perfectly serves the lyrics. We are deluged, buried underneath a flood of so called "revivals" of songs. I am supposed to be working now, but I guess this is worth sharing - if i may. I consider revivals/ readings of songs as tricky acts, where interpreters bear in mind the intent of the writer while allowing space for the infusion of fresh blood,  and stamp one's own creativity. 

Current bands should learn a thing or two from this track. Whatever the style, it pays to do one's homework - getting chords and harmonies correct and really learning the song. Most think they can get away with jangling out of tune guitars in the almighty name of rock and ram the airwaves with a mangled and forced version of beautifully written tunes. 

Disclaimer: I do not own the rights to the clip above, and do not earn money with the video. The clip belongs to the rightful owners, and is shared for enjoyment purposes only. All rights are owned by the publishers of the music. Video clip courtesy of Youtube.  

I See Where We Are Headed

In circles, that's where.

The micro is the small form of the macro. If keen with it, one may see what I see in one of the smallest forms of our community . It is an everyday experience, that which mirrors who we are as individuals and as a nation.

I have commuted for almost all of my life, with the jeepney (an improvised version of the Jeep) as my main form of transport.  It is an everyday ritual, until recently.

It is not simply a mode of transportation. It is the Philippines and the Filipinos at the same time. Its the country's culture in four wheels. A persona that is so alike, it should be our national logo. 

There are laws and ordinances posted in stickers against smoking, yet remains as stickers as the same are not really implemented. Even when implemented, these are not heeded, anyway.  Seatbelts are worn like beauty queen sashes and are not securely fastened. These are not for safety, but are simply to avoid apprehension and fee. The manner of driving likewise is a good demo on the book  "Violation of prescribed Traffic Regulations to earn your P 8.00, 1st Edition"

Don't national laws sound good on letter  too ,minus the intent?

The average jeepney is a travelling altar with the strangest of doctrines. There is a crucifix (that the driver touches every time a church is passed by) side by side with a money frog, below a hanging bible verse. Differing pseudo spiritual elements protect the journey for the day - which would mean no accidents, no apprehensions, good income (or "boundary"). God can mean anything: a lucky streak, a talisman, a retreat, a fairy tale godmother.

It is a lot like our national spiritual psyche, collectively. 

The lucky passengers are the ones who happen to ride first, they get the rear end of the seat. This means one doesn't get to be annoyed by the fares passed (most of the time, without the rudimentary 'please') by those seated at the farthest end. No one will want to sit on the space left behind the driver. More so, there are different seating manners fit for every one:

The pre pubescent kids who barely grew facial hair sit like dons with legs spread apart, cigarette at hand, baseball cap at the edge of their foreheads.

The lovers who have to be seated at a 45 degree angle for a public hug, and who knows what else.

Those with short term memories, as they insist for a wider sitting angle so they can watch everything passed by, lest they forget where there are.

Best of luck to passengers with three shopping bags or more, as those seated first will rarely move a nanometer to give way for convenience's sake. 

In this country,  who cares if others stumble and fumble as long as we get our comforts - our fancy coffee over fancy bossa nova while we chat the calamity stricken nights away, anyway? At  the point even when murder is inevitable, we will commit - as long as we get what we want.

The average jeepney travels quite a distance for a day, starts at point A, and consequently ends at point A, too.  Despite the fuel and effort spent, it is not expected to categorically arrive at a certain destination . Now we lift that template and impose it to this nation's pursuit,  we are almost at a similar state. We spend and spend and exert endless hours of policy making, only to fall wayside in the implementation stage and we go back to where we began.  More tired,  fully exhausted, and  seeking the balm of the television and virtual realities.

Some drivers end the day's work with a bottle or two. Some of us do likewise. Then we all fall asleep, and wake up with throbbing brains and the same route as yesterday. And the previous week. And the previous month. And the previous year. 

Some never wake up at all. Eventually, the circle closes and we are back from where we began.

Oh well,  here's Andy Timmons for that rainy-day rant with HEADED FOR THE DITCH, Live  from the Resolution DVD. Enjoy!

Disclaimer: I do not own the rights to the clip above, and do not earn money with the video. The clip belongs to the rightful owners, and is shared for enjoyment purposes only. All rights are owned by the publishers of the music. Video clip courtesy of Youtube. 

Why Sir Yoyoy Rocks and Bops Harder than any Metal Jazz Wannabe

Everytime I listen to the late Yoyoy Villame's Magellan  and Philippine Geography, I always manage a good laugh with honest appreciation and awe.

Well thought of, solid writing and melody (Yes, he may have adapted some lines form popular songs of yore, George Harrison did the same anyway)are undeniable in these gems. Who would have thought of writing something that dares cover the Philippine Archipelago in one pop format? This is pre-Pinoy Henyo era (for the uninitiated, this category is a must  for aspirants of the rounds), where kids simply run through the whole Philippine regions in the name of trivia. Yoyoy ingeniously rhymes the nation in one Bahay Kubo fashion. Yi Yi Yi indeed.

Magellan paints the encounter of Señor Ferdinand with the rather unwelcome courtesy of Lapu Lapu and the gang. "Bolos and spears versus guns and cannons"  rides in an arrowhead and claims the battle. What is interesting is how Yoyoy (somebody correct me if he had an arranger) segues the battlefield to retreat in the innocent world of nursery rhymes: Doctor shall I die, tell my mama do not cry. Really clever.

This also leaves us asking the doctor, will good Filipino music die too? Need novelty be always about sexual innuendos to reign the videoke joints? Do bands have to always have to write about hangovers, decadence and getting wasted to qualify as the anthem of the youth? Do we have to sing in the highest of keys to effectively communicate?  Is cramming all the Berklee approved licks in a three minute pop ditty the new standard? 

If so,  please tell my mama do not cry.

Disclaimer: I do not own the rights to the clip above, and do not earn money with the video. The clip belongs to the rightful owners, and is shared for enjoyment purposes only. All rights are owned by the publishers of the music. Video clip courtesy of Youtube. 

Where This Foot Sets

A rushing itinerary just passed me by like a freight train and it is such a relief to be finally writing this away. Sudden turns still take time to sink in , yet most often it just gets buried underneath this trove of memories.

It begins one Sunday with the second 10k of my imaginary athletic lifestyle, clocking in approximately 56 minutes. I'd like to think i have an athletic lifestyle. I run with stats as the least of my concerns though. Yet, there is a slight improvement from the previous 1:08 time I hit on the Milo marathon. What’s more, BAMC provided some cold, refreshing soymilk after the run. And, their raffle won me a free body bag stuffed with freebies 

Now, how good can that get? 

Early next morning got me all corporate on the first hour of the morning, set for Iloilo for some official business. I was scheduled to return in the afternoon and have a smooth week ahead.

Then storm PABLO happened. 

Trips were cancelled and signal number two was declared in the midst of a burning noonday sun. Interesting how times have indeed changed.

An extended stay meant two things: a hyper-stressed musical director, as we were having a big show as session band for the annual priest concert in the next 2 days; and happy new shirt/slippers/ whatever for me.

Trips resumed the day before the  concert, and needless to say I made it in time for the technical rehearsal - straight from the pier to the coliseum. An hour of coffee to catch up with home, breathe, and transport instruments and equipment would be enough - for the moment, that is. A dream come true that was - handling guitars and supporting keyboard parts simultaneously - really fires me up on all cylinders.



Surprise, surprise -  its weekend (again!). Off to the Mambukal mountain resort for a whole day Christmas party with the field office. 
One party off my tick list. More to go.
Upon descent, Its great to see energy levels still up, as much would be needed for the next day’s long drive to the airport, and get set for an evening at The Araneta Coliseum. 

Honestly, I missed Lee Ritenour, Dave Grusin and Tony Macalpine for this.

Well, yeah! Sting at the Araneta Coliseum!

 7902536648     GA                     PHP1,030.00      PHP50.00     December 9, 2012 8:00 PM      STING  BACK TO BASS TOUR*

Being a cheapo got me general admission tickets and strained my eyes trying to figure out what he and the band were up to on stage, but who cares? The voice, the music, the hip swaying, the bass thumping -  was springing from the live, breathing third of The Police force. With the monster line up tearing up song after song, hotdog at hand, I joined some 12,000 strong in screaming "Heee- Yoooo- Hoooo". 

Thanks, Mr. Gordon.

  


One free day left before the evening flight and what’s better than setting foot on the roots by which we breathe? An evening of great music is perfectly complemented by Philippine History immortalized in stones the following day. Intramuros, the next stop, is the next item ticked off in my wish list. A side trip to the oldest Chinatown, Binondo, felt like hustling in the midst of a Hongkong December.

Who knows where to next? 

Nostalgia Powers

One day, we'll have to confront the fact that we do not really love the toys, publications, fashion, apparel, TV shows, radio jingles, music, food, advertisements  of yore.

What we yearn are the carefree days of the past, staring at us straight in our eyes . It reminds us of a time when assignments, examinations, sitcom plots, summers, visits to the dentist, and Monday school programs worried us to death. At a blink, we look around and we find a the real world unforgiving and humanity corrupted. It was always easier. Perhaps, it has always been.

When time allows, retrace the path why you love a specific icon from the past and identify the reason why Loafers are cool, why  <insert your decade here>s music is the best, or how Nintendo rocks, or why invest on a box set of 1st season TV shows, why Action Comics # 1 cost way higher than your house, why Harem Scarem/ Hall and Oates/ The Doobie Brothers / Neil Sedaka /<insert favorite act here> is waaaay better than <insert current act here>.

Other factors aside, we come face to face with a child that is no more. We desperately try to pull the memories back which are only relevant to  us and the few with whom we have shared the same memories, sadly.

A look at the crowded streets tell of a brooding and dangerous times we now face. It was different once -  safer, cleaner and where civility was still the guide of all things.

Aaaaaand its gone.