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.