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.

This Is/Is Not A Jacket

This is a jacket.

This is a varsity jacket. 

This is the University Band Varsity Jacket. 

It was one of our secondary skins that we sought refuge in, during civic military festival parades.

It was the skin we wore proudly playing fanfare during varsity matches.  

It was a skin of shining hope donned when playing Christmas carols to bedridden elderly and wide eyed kids. 

It was a skin of armor, shielding from ridicule and ignorant calls who never understood why would play around to lighted tree without any audience, or why we are a band but don't play the radio hits. 

It was a skin of comfort for the long early morning travels and late night arrivals, as the nagging truth gnaws that while most of our schoolmates are fast asleep, we are still pushing musical instruments and scores in utility carts on ghostly halls.  

It was a skin of accountability that kept us on call for four years and more to skip weekends and holidays in almost military fashion and discipline.

It was a skin of resilience, enduring late night rehearsals, and no-apologies mentoring from the band professor, fueling the drive to nail a musical phrase right. 

It was a skin of sigh embracing us until we heard our names called onstage to receive the college diploma. 

Unknown to most, for most of us it was our real skin. The skin that cannot betray the soul, a soul that was hungry for Miles, Bartok, San Pedro, Sousa, Bird, Trane, and more. 

This is a University Band Varsity Jacket, now tattooed in my soul.

This is not a jacket. 






2.19.20 BMT

  

Night of the Open High Hats

(Rust Pocket EP Launch, 4.1.2017, Tippy's Bistro BCD)

Well, that  Ringo. Or Richard Starkey.  Ringo Starr dual handedly canonized the open high hat slam to rock and roll highway. “How potent is that?” we may ask. The answer rings as any hard hitting drummer could hit, and it is a reverberating answer until 2017. So potent,  as  rock is alive and well.  And it still pumps fists in the air. 

Like the first of April, 2017 when we all convened at Tippy’s Bistro under the same ringing sound coming from a unit us grunge-y as their name might sound. Rust Pocket may evoke an industrial vibe – or even a steampunk visual- but it is neither of that. The quartet of Matt Montalbo (vocals), Cabomon Villagomez  (guitar),  Aldwin Alcantara (drums) and Larry Polvoroza (bass) packs that grit,  making one swear this is a band from the post-Nirvana era. And literally they are – as the Rusts (or Pockets, whatever you may) began writing the tracks to their recently released EP under Drowning Sun Records during that era.  And here we are, for their album launch.

Before the band steps in, opening acts lie up armed with originals. Matt, for tonight, is the ad hoc emcee.

Yantra begins with an improvised set of originals – and bravely, even portions in the dialect – accompanied by her iPad.  Ambient and tongue-in-cheek triphop elements evoke Portishead and even Bjork. Influences aside, it is Yantra in her element which keeps one amazed if it is her lost in the music, the music lost in her, or both. 

Next comes Uling, a punk trio reminding us how most of us get into bands in the first place – wide eyed, defiant, and human. They sing about exes, currency and broken hearts – in less than 4 minutes.  I would just have to chime in that despite the raw urgency guitarist manages to throw in a bag of tricks a fellow guitarist can smell miles away. Neat-O.

There’s something about femme fronted heavy bands. Spending Pendulum and Scroll Down. Both can careen of love lost without coming in as pretentious. Yet vulnerability is betrayed as the rhythm sections of these units come in with riffs like bulldozers. Don’t be fooled – Pendulum and Scroll pack the yin and yang elements clean – yielding a dynamic sound that treads on both ends of the sound spectrum. More angry guitars in here, added to generous doses of whacked hi-hats.

Closing the front acts was the amazing duo of Hush Hush, a bare bones unit of drums and guitar – similar to the Jack White’s template with The White Stripes. The influence is not lost in this one, as guitarist frontman El Cid Elumba liberally quotes White's signature riffs midsong.

Then comes Matt’s transformation from hesitant emcee to the towering front man.  

Rust Pocket begin with “Hole”, an exercise in exorcism of relationships lost. Rust may be part of the band’s name, but it surely is nowhere to be found in this power quartet tonight.  Rust Pocket comes as a well- oiled rock juggernaut that may have been transported from Seattle scene circa 1990s, the heydays of hard alternative rock. Aldwin on drums lays down sick grooves on shifting time signatures, tightly in step with Larry’s bass. Despite the overall aggressive sound, their songs remain true to power grooves reminiscent of S.C.I.E.N.C.E –era Incubus, Tool –worthy rawness and even at times, Deftones.  Tight enough for Cabomon’s solo guitar chores, who deliciously provides chime-y arpeggios one moment and churning power fifths the next.  But on top of all that is Matt’s low register drawl with that back-of-the-throat vibrato channeling Eddie Vedder.  When one hear him declare that he knows in “I Know”, one senses the urgency and defiance to the powers and systems that be.  “Quicksand” and “Blind Mute” remains true anthems to isolation and loneliness, while the closer “Brain Dead” is the last heave. Now the crowd has gathered upfront, singing along to the words “never remember the pain, so leave my head and be dead”.  

And what opened with the steady prodding of the open hi-hats is closed with a cymbal crash – driving all the inner demons away. Well, thank you, Sir Ringo.   

TianoBM2017

RUST POCKET's EP is released under Drowning Sun Records. 

FB Links: 

Rust Pocket

Uling

Scroll Down 

Spending Pendulum  

Drowning Sun Records

There are no links available for Yantra and Hush Hush

Frac/tions were not able to perform due to circumstances