One Orange for a Lot of Lemons

Those fuckers. I sat down and lunched with them, trusting the fate of the Pinoy rock (awards) scene was safe in their hands. And what did they do? They let Orange & Lemons take home the Best New Artist Award. Over Cambio (who, I can now freely admit, I voted for). Over even The Mongols and Bamboo. Orange and fucking Lemons. Honestly. Those fuckers.

You know what we should do, Luis? We should go form a vigilante group to track down and kill all those judges who voted for O&L, who, as I am sure our gentle readers will agree, deserve to die horrible deaths for the crime of having no taste. I mean, really. Orange & Lemons. Best new artists. ARRRRRGH.


Judgment Bunny's Choice for Best New Artists

Of course, one of those people who might have to die for liking O&L is Margie's adoptive son, Diego Castillo, although I'd spare him just for being so goddamn funny. We had him and his twin, Quark Henares, comment on a list of 10 songs that had become hits over the past year, for an article to be published in this month's issue of MTV INK. Excerpts:

On Kitchie Nadal's "'Wag na 'Wag Mong Sabihin"
QUARK: The song is hook-y. It’s like, “We Are the Champions.”
DIEGO: It’s like an avalanche of hooks. You’re trying to get air, but no! Hooks! Hooks! Hooks! Air! No! Drowning in hooks!
QUARK: I think it’s quite beautiful. I think it was enhanced especially by the appearance of a certain Onemig Bondoc.
DIEGO: Its just, wow! We didn’t see it coming. It was a perfect mix of him and Kitchie.
QUARK: Yes. I felt the love.
DIEGO: And it was, like, his hair was moving!
QUARK: And he was holding his ass, which was just great.
DIEGO: And he had a little bit of his belt out, like he just watched Queer Eye for the Straight Guy. Kudos to Mr. Romulo for making such a great video.
QUARK: And to Onemig Bondoc.
DIEGO: And his hair, for moving up and down.

On Rivermaya's "Balisong"
QUARK: “Your face lights up the sky on the highway…” Therefore it’s about someone whose face is on a billboard, ‘diba? Perhaps the daughter of Sharon Cuneta.
DIEGO: Perhaps.
QUARK: Who has the same first name as KC Montero…”But I know you only see me as a friend!”
DIEGO: Is it balisong as in the switchblade, or is it Bali, then song?
QUARK: Well, it’s spelled balisong. And he said it’s his pasalubong to someone.
DIEGO: The someone whose face lights up the Skyway. You know what, she’s everything he wanted and more. My golly.

On Sandara Park's "In or Out"
MARC: Why is she famous here anyway?
MTV INK: It’s a Lito Camo song.
DIEGO: I worked with Lito Camo. Because he was with BMG, during the early, early days of my musical career. Chaperoning him around to Cebu and Davao. Even back then, he was oozing with genius.
DIEGO: Can you be both in and out at the same time?
QUARK: If you are a hermaphrodite, like the two of us. This girl doesn’t even know how to speak English nor Tagalog.
DIEGO: And look at her now.

On Radioactive Sago Project's "Astro"
DIEGO: Tingin ko magandang pang self-motivational tape si Lourd, ‘no? Parang subliminal lang… “Bumili na kayo…bumili na kayo… Puntahan mo si Lito Camo…puntahan mo, puntahan mo… Out sya..di sya in, di sya in…puntahan mo…”

On Cambio's "DV"
QUARK: Ito’yung best Filipino album of the year, for me. Pero alam mo‘yung video? Sobrang perfect sa song.
DC: Kung si RA (Rivera) lang, di gumawa ng video this year, eh. Bwisit! Dammit!
QUARK: Feeling ko si Diego (Mapa) nga one of the three greatest musical geniuses in the Philippines. Si Ely yung isa. Ewan ko kung sino ‘yung third.

On Sandwich's "Two Trick Pony"
DIEGO: This song, fuck, it sucks.
QUARK: I think it’s the most horrible song. And what a video.
DIEGO: What’s up with the hoes? Who the fuck…?
QUARK: “I want to move on…but the groupies are coming for me. Help me.”
DIEGO: The riff is mine, I’ll take credit for the riff. And it sucks!


(Note to all readers of this blog: Did you find this article funny? Please buy the December issue of MTV INK, and then write to our publisher to let him know that you love the magazine just the way it is and hope that we will never, ever, ever change. That you think that changing the magazine will be a horrible mistake, on par with naming Orange & Lemons as the Best New Artists of the year. Thank you.)

And the Winnah Is

So, the NU Rock Awards pushed through last night, despite the storm raging and cows hurtling through the air. Thanks to the Philmusic peeps -- "Here’s a list of the winners as we recall them," they report, italics mine (mine, I tell you! MINE!), which could mean that this whole lineup is a complete fabrication, plucked from their drug-scrambled brains. Certainly the O&L win seems like the work of some unhinged reality-warping super-villain.

Best New Artist: Orange & Lemons
Band/Artist of the Year: Bamboo
Song of the Year: "Noypi" by Bamboo
Album of the Year: Influence by Urbandub
Best Music Video: "Astro" by RadioActive Sago Project
Best Album Packaging: Novena by Slapshock
Vocalist of the Year: Bamboo Manalac (Bamboo)
Guitarist of the Year: Jerome Velasco (The Mongols)
Bassist of the Year: Buddy Zabala (Twisted Halo, Cambio)
Drummer of the Year: Vic Mercado (Bamboo)
Producer of the Year: Sandwich
In The Raw Award: The Late Isabel
Hall of Fame: The Jerks
Female Icon: Cynthia Alexander
Listener’s Choice: Bamboo

Bamboo beats Ebe? Not in my universe (a universe, by the way, where good, free pizza is distributed to all who want it, and new comics arrive at your doorstep every morning -- so don't tell me it's not a much better universe). Influence beats Dramachine and Derby Light? Well... it wasn't a bad album, not at all; was quite impressed by the production and some of the songs. It's just not something that bears repeated listening, to my mind. Fairly chuffed (yay, British-ism), though, about Jerome "Bunny" Velasco and Buddy "Hunka Burnin' Love" Zabala.

Just texted Wawi of The Late Isabel to congratulate her on their In the Raw win. "Thanks, Luis!" she replies. "We didn't quite expect it and we were pretty much drunk while claiming the award." Woo hoo! Rock and roll!

Solitude Sometimes Is

Am listening to Lifeblood by the Manic Street Preachers and it feels very much like my heart is breaking. It's during moments like these that I think I'm only pretending to be a writer, that I won't really be a writer until I can set down in words how a song and a memory can fill one up with such bittersweetness, such intense yet imprecise longing. "1985" plays, and I feel transported to my pre-teenhood and at the same time rooted here: a muddle of innocent ignorance and cynical self-awareness, romantic and idiotic, clueless and knowing, neither now nor then, possibilities spinning in the air but mistakes already made, years already done and gone. Keyboard-conjured notes ring and echo as James Dean Bradfield sings about "Empty Souls," and I think of lost chances and lives in fast-forward. Listening to "I Live To Fall Asleep" almost makes me want to cry; instead, I raise a squiggle-smile of intermingled affection and regret. "Glasnost" fills me with a hope both irrational and fleeting, yet recurring, if that makes any sense. Understand that I'm not even really trying to make the lyrics out -- though I'm sure that they're good -- it's just the way these songs sound that affects me so. And I know they won't -- can't -- make everyone feel the same way, or even close to the same way. It helps to have grown up in the 80s. It helps to be a little over-sensitive and self-centered, to be prone to bouts of nostalgia and daydreaming. It helps to be me, I guess.

Strangers When We Meet

Last night, I was in the Greenhills branch of Book Sale, stalking through the shelves of secondhand tomes as usual, when I realized something.

Another book hunter was in the same store.

Call it arrogance or ignorance, but when I'm searching for bargain book finds at secondhand stores, I usually assume I'm the most serious, most dead-set, most well-informed and perceptive book buyer in the place. I have an idea of which volumes are worthwhile and hard-to-find, which authors are worth trying or following, and even which books are overpriced and will be marked down soon. I like to delude myself that everyone else is just there for a cheapo copy of, say, The DaVinci Code or some Judith Krantz novel or something, or maybe a computer reference manual, or the latest FHM. Yeah, we all like to feel superior in some way, right? No matter how stupid that way may be.

But last night, as I was methodically making my way through the piles of new deliveries, I noticed that there was one other person in the store who was spending quite a lot of time making sure that she was being thorough. I noticed as well that she was lugging around a slowly-growing stack of acquisitions. A sort of unhurried race was suddenly underway: I avoided the areas she had already scoured, and wended my way towards the unexplored shelves. I rapidly built a stack of my own: nonfiction by Neal Stephenson, a novel by Alain de Botton, a marked-down hardbound copy of The Corrections, Animal Land by Margaret Blount, a biography of The Chieftains for Yvette -- good stuff. At one point, I agonized over a huge hardcover collection of Annie Lebowitz's photographs, entitled American Music and featuring everyone from Delta blues singers to Beck, but at over P600 it seemed a little pricey for a Book Sale find.

My competition had been there before I arrived, and she wrapped up her business and ambled over to the counter first. She addressed the salespeople like they were old friends, and I gathered that she was a regular. I glanced at her collection. Excellent choices: books by solid, widely-acclaimed authors, but, luckily, nothing I really really would have wanted -- except for the Wodehouse. Very Good, Jeeves by P.G. Wodehouse to be exact. Thank God I have an old beat-up copy, inherited from my grandmother, I thought to myself. Whew.

I walked up to her and commented on her acquisition of the Jeeves book. "Good choice, that," I said. She seemed pleased, and started talking about how expensive the Wodehouse volumes were in the non-secondhand bookstores, and about how ol' P.G. was an influence on Terry Pratchett -- "You've read Terry Pratchett, right?" she said, not really as a question -- and how this was actually her first Jeeves book. I told her that in my opinion, the Jeeves stories were far and away the best things Wodehouse had written, and that she was in for a treat. It was a brief exchange, and though we parted with absolutely no idea who the other person was -- not even names were mentioned -- it was undeniably pleasant, in a manner that only conversations that are solely about things one has a passion for can be. No personal issues: just talk about books, and authors. "I miss strangers," Margie said when I told her about it, as she recalled the coffeeshop culture of London.

What does all this have to do with music, you may ask. Well, nothing much, except that of course music is one of those things one can instantly bond with strangers over. Remember meeting Emmily and her husband Dan in Malate last week and, quite early into the conversation, talking about which Smiths albums were our favorites? (I'm tempted to name Meat is Murder, by the way -- thank you Allan Tabilog, for lending me your copy all those years ago). That was a lovely night, with good company and good conversation, and food and (yay) drink aplenty. Dan opening for The Flaming Lips at a festival of music and literature -- I loved hearing about that.

Of course, he also disturbed us both with his pronouncement that he used to be so obsessed with music -- "But I find that as I grow older, I care about it less and less." *Insert blood-curdling scream of grief and denial here* Then again, I look at Tita Pep, who has yet to be disappointed by PJ Harvey and who thoroughly enjoyed the new Eminem, and my own mother, who -- thanks to my sister Marien -- is now a fan of The Shins, The Postal Service and, yes, The Flaming Lips, and I think: well, it's not inevitable. And if I ever do stop caring about music, or books, you may kick me, "so hard that your grandchildren will feel it," as you once so endearingly threatened.

Happy Birthday, Kristine! :)

Though you may be officially a year older today, take comfort in the fact that if you and I and all our friends were to stage a production of The Sound of Music, you would still be Gretl Von Trapp.

The Waxy Seal of Judgment

Sassy B.'s birthday present--an initial mini-seal; "a individual and striking way to seal & decorate all your correspondence"--was put to good first use today, as I put what will hereafter be known as the Judgment Bunny Seal of Doom on the envelope with the NU 107 Rock Awards votes inside. I'm not going to divulge who I voted for, but suffice it to say that I'm sure not all the worthy musicians who got the JB stamp of approval (not to be confused with the S.O.D., by the way) are going to win. I did vote for the ones who I think deserved the award, but I think I underdogged some of the categories.

That said, here are the nominees for the NU Rock Awards, to be held at Le Pavilion on December 2. I'm taking bets.

BEST NEW ARTIST
Bamboo
Kjwan
6CycleMind
Orange & Lemons
The Mongols
Cambio

The funny thing about this category is that four of these so-called "new" bands are made up of guys from old bands, either moving on or working on a side project. My prediction is that Bamboo's going to take the award.


ARTIST/ BAND OF THE YEAR
Bamboo
Urbandub
Chicosci
Sandwich
Sugarfree
Rivermaya

One of the most difficult categories to judge. A little too close to call at the moment, and I'm not saying who I picked.


SONG OF THE YEAR
"Noypi" by Bamboo
"Two Trick Pony" by Sandwich
"Biglaan" by 6 CycleMind
"Astro" by Radioactive Sago Project
"Just Like a Splendid Love Song" by Orange & Lemons
"Harapin and Liwanag" by The Dawn

I think Bamboo's going to take it again. And, for the record, the song I voted for isn't my favorite among the nominees, but I still think it deserves the award.


ALBUM OF THE YEAR
As the Music Plays by Bamboo
Influence by Urbandub
Thanks to the Moon's Gravitational Pull by Sandwich
Dramachine by Sugarfree
Love in the Land of Rubber Shoes and Dirty Ice Cream by Orange & Lemons
Derby Light by Cambio

Also a little too close to call. But, that said, I'm really a little bit upset that O&L are nominated. Augh.


BEST MUSIC VIDEO OF THE YEAR
"Astro" by Radioactive Sago Project, directed by RA Rivera
"Two Trick Pony" by Sandwich, directed by Diego Castillo
"Shallow Graves" by Chocosci, directed by Quark Henares
"Sinta" by Sugarfree, directed by Quark Henares
"DV" by Cambio, directed by Diego Castillo
"Doll's Head" by The Late Isabel, directed by Mark Jimenez
"Another Minute Until Ten" by Typecast, directed by Chuck Pose

I think it's a toss-up between "Astro" and "DV." I liked the "DV" video a lot. *looks down at ground, draws figure 8s in the ground with toe, pats hair self-consciously*


BEST ALBUM PACKAGING
Slapshock, Novena by Slapshock (NOTE: Didn't Team Manila do the design for this one?)
Inksurge, Thanks to the Moon's Gravitational Pull by Sandwich
Typecast, The Infatuation is Always There by Typecast
Cairo Visual, Icarus by Chicosci
Marcus Nada, Derby Light by Cambio
Jay Tablante, Kjwan by Kjwan

I think Novena is going to win this, although of course the office would be really happy if Marcus took home the award.


VOCALIST OF THE YEAR
Bamboo Mañalac of Bamboo
Marc Abaya of Sandwich
Karl Roy of Kapatid
Gabby Alipe of Urbandub
Ebe Dancel of Sugarfree

Ebe 4eber! Yay! I voted for Ebe! Heh heh. I'm kidding. No, wait, I'm not kidding. Or am I? I'll never tell.


GUITARIST OF THE YEAR
Ira Cruz of Bamboo
Mong Alcaraz and Sonny Baquisal of Chicosci
Diego Castillo, Marc Abaya, and Raymund Marasigan of Sandwich
Mike Elgar and Kakoy Legaspi of Rivermaya
Gabby Alipe and John Dinopol of Urbandub
Steve Badiola of Typecast
Jerome Astro Velasco of the Mongols

Hm. Hard to call, too. I don't remember who I voted for, either.


BASSIST OF THE YEAR
Nathan Azarcon of Bamboo
Lalay Lim of Urbandub
Lee Nadela of Slapshock
Buddy Zabala of Cambio and Twisted Halo
Myrene Academia of Sandwich and Imago
Japs Sergio of Rivermaya

Now, wouldn't it be cool if a woman took home a Rock Awards trophy? It figures that it'll be for Bassist of the Year, if it happens, though. My complaint here is that bassists aren't given enough to do, and so it's hard to pick out someone in the background to give the award to.


DRUMMER OF THE YEAR
Vic Mercado of Bamboo
J-Hoon Balbuena of Kjwan
Jerros de Lino of Urbandub
Mitch Singson of Sugarfree
Marc Escueta of Rivermaya
Mike Dizon of Sandwich

Luis guessed who I voted for. Which may have been easy, because this particular drummer had a lot to contribute to the band. He stood out, even on the CD.


PRODUCER OF THE YEAR
Angee Rozul and Kjwan, for Kjwan
Angee Rozul and Bamboo, for As the Music Plays
Slapshock, for Novena
Sandwich, for Thanks to the Moon's Gravitational Pull
Rivermaya, for Between the Stars and Waves
Buddy Zabala and Raymund Marasigan, for Dramachine

Wouldn't it be something if Rivermaya won this, eh? It'd be something bad. But I predict that either Angee Rozul and Bamboo or Sandwich will win it.


IN THE RAW AWARD
The Late Isabel
Stonefree
Matilda
Plane Divides the Sky
Nuncyspungen

I think Plane Divides the Sky will finally get the award this year, after having been nominated for the same thing last year (thanks for the info, Luis!). Or will The Late Isabel actually goth their way into the hearts of the judges?

***

So there. Tickets, I understand, are going to be sold at P350 each. Expensive, but worth it if you want to go see your favorite bands play, accept awards, cry, laugh, stutter, thank their fans. There will also be the odd orc stampede or two. Punta tayo!

There and Back Again

What a great weekend! I miss the bracing chill air of Tagaytay already. (Not that early mornings on Maginhawa street aren't laced with chill air, but it's polluted, not-so-chill air punctuated by tricycle motor-sounds). Bread, cheese, mulled wine, and great friends = Yay! Somehow even just watching cable TV is so much more fun in such a setting. Also, our little out of town stay was educational, as I did not know that it was humanly possible to consume a jar of Nutella in one sitting -- raw, without the benefit of bread or crackers, kind of like looking directly at the sun without protection, except in a hazelnut spread sense. Nor had I ever really appreciated the full effect even a televised, fully clothed Richard Gere can have on female spectators. "How old is Richard Gere, anyway?" "Nummy."

Thoroughly enjoyed the trip there and back too. Road trip music: the Jack Daniels compilation CD (best bits: The Youth, Violent Playground, Girl in Park), the Pixies tribute album ("Gigantic" makes you wanna jump around; it's Rave Pixies, so wrong and so right), Liz Phair, Fiona Apple, Sting before he went bad, and the next day, Kristin Hersh, two CDs worth of Sugarfree, Vince Guaraldi's A Charlie Brown Christmas and "Don't Stop Me Now" by Queen, hee hee. I had sung along to the "I'm a sex machine/ready to reload" line in front of Sassy's mom before I realized what I was doing. Luckily I doubt that she noticed.

And now we're all back in the city. Am listening to "Buwan" by the Itchyworms, and working on that how-to article for PULP now. I doubt very much that I can fill three spreads with it; kind of the opposite of the problem I had last month, with the Kitchie article. Given the instant nature of the assignment, it's not going to be a classic, but I'm going to shoot for something that's at least passably witty and informative. ("The first thing to remember about getting gigs for your fledgling band is the first thing that you have to remember about everything in the Philippines, from plumbing to teaching astrophysics: it's all about who you know.")

Oh, hey, congratulations on your NU judging stint, btw! :) And RE: your shameful past, nothing at all wrong with "making phone calls to radio stations to request songs" -- hey, I did that in high school too, and furthermore I would ask the NU jocks to dedicate those songs: "This is "Gravity" by Translator, going out to Maricon, from you know who." In other words, I win the uncool contest.

Except for a minor personal glitch (not to mention the mini-riot that went on outside the Trade Center, tho I only found out about it later), I enjoyed last year's NU Awards quite a bit; hope they hired director Cocoy Jimenez again, as he knows how to keep his awards shows as tight and fast-paced as possible (as I witnessed first-hand behind the scenes at Pilipinas). Last year's highlights included an acoustic set by heavy band Subculture, an energetic Urbandub number, that E-heads tribute, and Narda's In the Raw triumph. I think I still have that large-format souvenir magazine they were giving away: kind of like MTV Ink, except without the color, the cool layouts and the fun writing.

Anyway, back to work. See you at the office! :)

Judgment Bunny Gets a Phone Call

I was just on my way into the elevator today when I got a call on my cellphone. It was a landline number that my phone didn't recognize, and I didn't pick it up because I wasn't in a hurry and couldn't wait for the next elevator car. It was an Ortigas number that looked vaguely familiar. I tried dialling the number when I got off the elevator, but I kept getting a busy signal. Oh, well, if it's important, they'll call back, I thought, and tucked the phone into my pocket.

It wasn't till I started the car when the sleeping neurons in my head awakened from their drooly slumber. "6346516? You know that number because...ah, you used to call it quite a bit when you were young, uncool, and secretly called radio stations to make requests. You never got through, though."

Well, my neurons might be lazy, but they were right. 6346516 called back, and it turned out to be from NU107. They wanted to know if I could maybe be one of the judges at the NU Rock Awards this year.

Yay! I mean, YAY! In the course of this job, I've been a judge at competitions big and small, from the barely tolerable acoustic competitions where (true story) the lyric "I'm constipated for your love" actually figured, to prestigious music awards like MTV Pilipinas and the Awit Awards. But I can't begin to tell you what being asked to judge the NU107 Rock Awards is like for me. I was, all throughout the critical years of high school, so uncool it wasn't even funny enough to be material for a future bitter autobiography. I was making phone calls to radio stations to request songs, ferchissakes. And I didn't even know how uncool it was, because I was just a whole black hole of uncoolness.

So now, here I am, almost 15 years away from being 15 years old and NU107 called me! To judge the Rock Awards! Oh my god. This is like...like being named Prom King or Queen years after the fact. Revenge of the nerds, baby! *evil laugh*

Next week: Judgment Bunny is invited to the Judges' Lunch, where she will find out which bands will be on the receiving end of her judgment oranges of doom.

Bad Dream, Good Idea

Been at home for three days trying to get stuff finished and failing miserably. Margie says elves are to blame and I'm inclined to believe her, but elves can only go so far -- hiding my research, misplacing my interview tapes, etc. The constant fatigue and disinterest and lack of focus are all my own (unless the elves have gone so far as to drug my food, as well).

Dreamed last night that I was in a car with Paul Guadakomeda from the office, Ebe Dancel of Sugarfree, my dancing engineer friend Avel, and Astrid, an old friend from college. Paul was driving. We traveled way way out of the city on a dirt road to a huge mansion of Chinese-influenced architecture, which looked out of place in that remote, sparsely vegetated, almost desert-like area. Inside the mansion was our boss, Vernon. The gist of the dream was that we had all gone there to seek a boon, and we were turned away, boonless, but not exactly surprised or even upset. And then, on the return trip back to the city, I woke up.

I guess the dream was mildly prophetic. I had an idea for our December issue -- that it would be sprinkled throughout with short sweet blog-like essays by the staff (you, me, Peach, Joey, Conch, Denise, Bernie, etc), each on a certain aspect of music -- nothing straitlaced or agenda-laden, just easy-to-read, fun stuff; personal, but not self-indulgent. For example, you on making mix CDs, Peach on recording her debut album, Joey on his out-of-town gig with Skychurch, etc. So of course Vernon shot it down today. Oh well. He claims we focus too much on the staff as it is. That was, of course, not the point of the essays; the point was to focus on music, in an accessible way. We could get a bunch of other writers to write short, blog-like essays on music, and then he could complain about the freelancer payments instead. Anyway, I still think it was a good idea.

Slip...not!

Well, people might as well hear it here first: the Slipknot concert has been officially cancelled. Not that I give anything even remotely resembling a fuck, but I do feel bad that so many people (Denise and Cait, especially) have put in so much work to have it come to naught. The band's still proceeding with their Asian Tour, skipping the Philippines due to concerns related to the US State Department's continuing travel advisories warning American tourists against coming here. They chickened out, in other words.

In the meantime, here's to hoping that MTV will be able to bring in a halfway decent foreign act for the Music Summit in December. Sigh. The music scene needs cheering up.

Pixie Dust

Last night, at the end of the travel writing workshop at the FHL, one of the workshoppers (Kathy, who had also signed up three years ago at one of the first workshops I'd ever facilitated) treated us to a show of her fire spinning skills, which she'd learned during the extended stay in South Africa which she was preparing for the last time I saw her. It doesn't really sound like much if you describe it--two flaming balls of fuel-filled balls of Kevlar, being twirled on the ends of metal chains--and even Kathy says it took her only two weeks to learn. She offered to teach me for free.

Hm. Hmmm...

Okay, the truth is that fire spinning doesn't hold any particular thrills for me, and I don't really feel any compelling urge to take that up. But it did make me think about my landmark birthday coming up, and how I don't have any plans for it just yet. (So far, there are only two words on the Birthday Plans page in my notebook: "drink" and "unconsciousness.") Why not do something that frightens me? I think everyone should do something they're scared of once in a while--it's good for the soul.



And this relates to music how, you ask. Wait, I'm getting there. There's an interview on Salon with Charles Thompson of the Pixies, and it's the kind of interview that I dream about. It's also the kind of dream I wake up screaming from. I mean, here you have an interviewee from a band that you truly respect, and he has very strong opinions about music, and he's smart and articulate, and I'm really interested in what he has to say--but he also hates interviews and interviewers. "One thing that hasn't changed about Thompson is his interview style. He can be variously tangential, disengaged, ecstatic and bored," says writer Scott Thill in the introduction to his Q&A. Not to mention downright hostile.

I feel so conflicted and confused reading this interview. When Thompson attacks music magazines for being gossipy, there's a part of me that wants to applaud, like, Yeah, give 'em hell, Charles! But then I remember that I also belong to the opposition. "I want to be Lou Reed and I want the writer to be Lester Bangs. Know what I mean?" Thompson says. "I want him to be so into it that he's arguing with me about the validity of a song I wrote. I don't care if it's insulting. I don't care if it's challenging or whatever." And I'm thinking, Yay! Lou Reed! Lester Bangs! . Just before it dawns on me that I'm never going to be Lester Bangs, and no matter how much of a Pixies fan I am or how mellow Charles Thomspon gets to be in his advancing years, he's going to hate me.

This was like the time they offered us a Garbage phoner, with either Shirley Manson or Butch Vig. I'm a really big fan of their music, but the thought of interviewing either of them scared me so much that I gave the phoner over to Bernie. It turned out to be Butch Vig (!), and he turned out to be a sweet, easy interviewee. To this day I envy Bernie for that interview, but I still don't know if I'd do it, given another chance.

Of course, 30th birthday fast coming up, there are but a few things I would say no to these days.

Anniversary Song

Hey ho, Judgment Bunny! :)

Realized belatedly that PULP just churned out its 50th issue: the one, unfortunately, with the 6cyclemind cover feature. Despite an electronica feature by yours truly and your always-reliable reviews section, it is, quite possibly, one of the most lackluster issues in recent memory, seemingly devoid of enthusiasm and riddled with typos and outright mistakes. (On the bright side, I finally got to use the word "lackluster" -- one of my favorites -- in this blog). It's too bad. After all, being the comics collector that I am, I've always been a sucker for the landmark issue numbers. "Spectacular 50th Issue! Collector's Item!" "Double-sized 100th Issue Extravaganza! Unbelievably Special Guest Stars!" "Mind-blowing 300th Issue! You are 30+ Years Old and Still Reading the Same Titles!"

And on the heels of that belated realization comes galloping the fact that, counting my first freelance forays, I've been writing for PULP for over two years now. Amazing, considering that prior to this job, the longest I had been employed was two months (not counting my stint as columnist/contributing editor at LegManila). It's still fun, this job; I'll always enjoy writing about music and interviewing musicians (um, depending), but if the criteria for staying with something is whether you're still learning or not -- as a wise friend once told me -- well, I have to wonder.

I pitched what I believed were some nice ideas some months ago for the 50th and/or our 5th anniversary issue this December -- including an artist/industry-based survey of the 5 best (not best-selling) albums of the past 5 years, accompanied by little interviews/features for the top 5 ranked (admittedly, a very Q or Rolling Stone-esque thing to do) -- but they got shot down without being considered very carefully, I thought. Even Joey and Peach seemed to like the suggestions, but as we know, only one person, ultimately, calls the shots. Ho well. As I always end up telling myself, it's not my money, and it's not my magazine (if it were, I'm guessing Slipknot wouldn't be on the cover... not that I have anything against Slipknot. I guess I feel about them the same way Joey feels for, say, the Stone Roses).

Am just rambling, now. Better to sleep it off. And to all a good night.

Cab Rides and Cover Versions

Listening to Paul Weller's Studio 150 at 6AM on a Tuesday morning. Not bad. Comfort music, in a way; songs familiar (The Carpenters' "Close to You," "All Along the Watchtower") and obscure (an unreleased Noel Gallagher song, Neil Young's "Birds"), rendered by Weller's weathered rasp and a small army composed of backup singers, a string section, and special guests from friend-bands like Ocean Colour Scene and The Stands. Everything's very well done, and Weller's signature style shines through, but as a whole, the album isn't very compelling.



There are, generally speaking, some cover versions that almost obliterate your sense of the original, that's how good they are (I would include The Sundays' version of "Wild Horses" on that short list; Stones fans can hate me all they want). Or they are sufficiently different from the source that the result is two almost completely distinct listening experiences (yes, I enjoy BOTH the U2 and Pet Shop Boys version of "Where the Streets Have No Name"). For the most part, on Studio 150, Weller neither enrages or astonishes, and while that means the album has no real high points, it must be said that there is nary a low point to be heard here, either. It's just a good, unsurprising set of tastefully-done songs in a 70s soul/guitar-pop stylee, perfect for -- well, perfect for cool early mornings when the sun's still half-asleep.

Oh, and here's a game I love to play when forced to listen to the typical public transpo radio stations that are always broadcasting teeth-gnashingly familiar love song crap from the 70s and 80s: I imagine them being covered by someone I actually like, whether it's David Bowie or Massive Attack or whomever. One can't assign artists randomly, though: you have to really imagine the new version, and really believe it might actually be good, might lift the song from its cheesy mediocrity. Examples: Nick Cave doing the Bee Gees' "Emotions" ("In the words of a broken heart it’s just emotions/ Taking me over/ Tied up in sorrows/ Lost in my soul"), Roddy Frame doing Christopher Cross' "Never Be The Same", and Freddie Mercury doing basically any of those over-the-top exercises in pop song sappiness by Air Supply (especially "Here I Am"). Haven't thought of an appropriate cover artist for Charlene's "Never Been To Me" yet, though I do find it easy to imagine a Tori Amos version -- spoken-word section and all. Knowing Amos' penchant for covers, maybe it exists, somewhere.

Here Comes Judgment Bunny!

Luis is back...and how! Glad to see you're posting again. It was getting a little lonely here, and as a result, I was beginning to get a little self-absorbed. ;)

My musical luck lately hasn't been as good as yours. My latest musical adventure--and here we use both the words "adventure" and "musical" loosely--was last night's Nescafe De-wired acoustic band competition, the last of the eight elimination rounds, and the second one I sat in as judge (Conch and Bernie both took turns on the other rounds). The winner last night were the brothers Michael and Angelo Manahan, collectively known as Michaelangelo. Minus points for creativity when it comes to finding a band name; plus points for looks. And, oh, they were pretty good musicians, too.

I was happy with last night's winner, because they were my pick, although for a while there I was worried that I might've been giving the handsome brothers extra points for their fragrant good looks (i.e., mukha silang mabango), I closed my eyes during their performance, and confirmed that, yeah, Michael's voice was doing something to my insides. I liked that his voice wasn't the typical smooth, sweet, and brain-curdlingly bland voice that makes so much of this so-called genre. Michael's voice had some rough edges, which he used to good effect, and their pick of covers just walked the line between a little off-beat and memorable, and familiar and crowd-pleasing.

That said, I still had issues with the judging process for this whole thing. I suppose every contest shows the particular biases of its judges, but the De-wired criteria focused nearly exclusively on vocals, with almost nothing awarded for musicianship. A full 30% was given over to "vocal quality," but points for musical performance had to be subsumed under the hazy headings "originality" and "stage presence." I'd like to think that I can appreciate a good voice as much as the next person, and sure, it's not for nothing that vocalists are called front(wo)men, but ignoring the talents of the musicians in the band is just plain dumb. As a result of this limited system, my scores for the bands always came out nearly level, even when I vastly preferred the performance of one over the others. The truth is that good vocalists are easy enough to find (although it's something that's eluded the Purplechickens), but it's quite another thing to put together a good band and make good music.

To their credit, Nestlé and the event organizers have scheduled deliberations to come up with new criteria for the finals on October 22, and have invited representatives from our office to help out. I'd like to come dressed in my Judgment Bunny costume (headband and ears, and a basket full of "judgment oranges"). I'll hop on to the table, point to each of the people in turn, and scream, "Your taste sucks! And your taste also sucks! You all suck! Your opinions are all wrong and sucky! Stop all this sucking and kill yourselves now!!!" And then I'll pelt them with oranges till their skins are as bruised as their egos. That'll teach them not to mess with Judgment Bunny.

Step by step (ooh baby)

This post has nothing directly to do with music. Just wanted to share this excerpt, from an essay on essays:

I've always been fascinated by comb-overs, especially the extreme sort that make a man look as if he's wearing a beret made of his own hair. Surely this is a lowly sort of thing to be interested in -- the sort of superficial quizzing best left to teenage girls. And yet there is something underneath. The key question, I realized, is how does the comber-over not see how odd he looks? And the answer is that he got to look that way incrementally. What began as combing his hair a little carefully over a thin patch has gradually, over 20 years, grown into a monstrosity. Gradualness is very powerful. And that power can be used for constructive purposes too: just as you can trick yourself into looking like a freak, you can trick yourself into creating something so grand that you would never have dared to plan such a thing. Indeed, this is just how most good software gets created. You start by writing a stripped-down kernel (how hard can it be?) and gradually it grows into a complete operating system. Hence the next leap: could you do the same thing in painting, or in a novel?

I've been reading about such things as entire novels written through accumulated text messages (thanks to Indira for the link). Been wanting to try one. Of course, I plan many many things that never happen.

The Lost Art of Livin'

Talking to Margie about her Sinatra review sparked within me the urge to dig up a book I got secondhand a couple of years ago -- The Way You Wear Your Hat (subtitled "Frank Sinatra and the Lost Art of Livin',") by Bill Zehme. Not your typical biography, it's arranged more or less according to topic -- "Pallies," "Broads," "Style" and so forth -- and peppered with anecdotes, bits of onstage banter, quotes from FS and family and friends, and lots of great photos: a bygone, swingin' time captured in words and images, in black and white. "Arguably, no man ever lived life more broadly or confidently or stylishly than Frank Sinatra. So I sought his large legacy of mortal wisdom, plain and simple," writes Zehme. Sinatra was amused by his request, and generous with his replies.

How do you get over a broken heart? ~ "You don't. I think being jilted is one of life's most painful experiences. It takes a long time to heal a broken heart. It's happened to all of us and never gets any easier. I understand, however, that playing one of my albums can help."



One of the last mix tapes I ever made -- in the sense that it was an actual cassette, and not a CD -- was for my father, a mix of some of his favorite Sinatra songs. I think he still plays it in his car to this day; it strikes me that he's been listening to FS for maybe half a century by now, maybe more. Growing up, that voice was always there for us, which I suppose made it easy to take for granted. (I remember rewinding and playing a green-colored Sinatra tape to death, as a child; aside from the color, I remember little else about it, except that it had "Bad, Bad Leroy Brown"). The Beatles, my brother and I had to seek out specifically, aware of a huge gap in our music-appreciating knowledge, but Sinatra -- I suppose by the time I hit high school, I figured I had listened to enough Sinatra to last me the rest of my life (I was wrong -- after I made that tape for my father, not so long ago, I made a copy for myself, which I was to play quite a lot in the months to follow).

What is the most important thing a father can tell his children? ~ "Be true to yourself. And stay away from the dark thoughts."

Going through The Way You Wear Your Hat makes one nostalgic for a time and a place one never knew firsthand; for nights out on the town, fighting "a relentless battle against sleeping before sun-up," going to black-tie parties with sunglasses in your pocket, laughing hard and loving recklessly with one's pallies. Not that one wants to be part of that crop of fairly recent Rat Pack wannabes, flashing their borrowed lingo and secondhand swagger; there's something sad and pitiful in that, even if an imitation of style may be better than no style at all. And deep down, no matter how attractive an earlier era may seem, perhaps one senses that the depictions of all silvery ages are just linings on clouds, that the perception of glamour remains where perhaps the reality of pain and cruelty has faded, and that nothing, after all, is better than the present moment, with its stalwart friends and swoon-worthy lovers, these days of fulfilling work and happy-grinned play. And speaking of work, since, after all life can't be all tuxedos and Jack Daniel's:

What is the secret to doing good work? ~ "Never to accept anything without question. Never ignore an inner voice that tells you something could be better, even when other people tell you it's okay."

A good rule for work, and a good rule for livin', in general, I should think. Not that I don't break it all the time. Which reminds me -- it's almost 6 AM, and time to get back to work now. ;)

Unreal Sunday

But tonight we feel like stars
We’ll play our air guitars
Cause we’re eighteen
It’s a perfect night
To sing our prom theme

-- "Prom Theme," Fountains of Wayne

As you can tell from the above quote, even though it is now almost 6 AM on a Monday morning, I've still got the non-drinker's emotional equivalent of a hangover, caused by last Saturday's Prom Night. Except for the bit about being eighteen, those lines are pretty appropriate (and you know -- maybe because of all the 80s nostalgia, maybe because of the excellent company I was with -- this was one of those times I just completely forgot what my age is. I might as well have been eighteen).

Just finished rewriting yesterday's blog entry to make it suitable for our impressionable PULP readers. I actually wish I could make it longer -- there are so many details I want to mention, like the blinking-lights tiara worn by that member of Death by Tampon, or Ebe Dancel sliding between the legs of Imago's guitarist (almost as obscene as it sounds) -- but I'm already over 600 words. ;p

Felt slightly unreal all of Sunday. Drifted. Slept little snatches of sleep. Not a bad thing, really. Watched a DVD of Tears for Fears videos, which sank me even deeper into intense description-dodging high school feelings, a brief resurgence of that odd fleeting sense that one is both immortal and incredibly fragile. So many trivial things in one's past can still affect one so much -- the memory of a childhood car ride, a sunset you observed while sitting on a stone bench beside your high school football field. What matters? It's all just life.

Will probably feel more solid tomorrow -- I mean, later. But for now, words fail me.

And the lovely mirrorball reflected back them all
Every triumph, every fight, under disco light.

-- "Mirrorball," Everything but the Girl

After the Prom

That's it. I think I can stop going to gigs for now. I don't think I'm going to top this one any time soon.

Just got back home a short while ago, a little before 3 AM, from the Admit One Production, "BLAST PROM DI PAST: Mga Kantang Pang-Mirrorball." Oh, man. What a night. It's kind of stupid to be writing about it right now, because with the state my mind is in, I don't think I'm going to find the words to do it justice. Sure, the lineup was impressive: Imago, Cambio, Sugarfree, Twisted Halo, Happy Meals, Itchyworms, Drip, and, um, Death By Tampon -- so I was expecting a great gig. But you know, it wasn't a gig, it was a party. I thought the affair hit its high point too early, with that wonderfully shameless medley by the Itchyworms, which included everything from "Stars" by Simply Red to "I'm Too Sexy" by Right Said Fred to "Xtasi Xtano" by whoever the heck that was, but I was so wrong. The night was just beginning.

Everyone was so good (with the exception of the usually reliable Happy Meals; their vocalist Odin is still in the States, and his substitute couldn't cut it) -- Death by Tampon were a fun, energetic surprise, Halo did a great take on OMD's "If You Leave," Imago left us gasping with their rendition of "Take My Breath Away", Diego Mapa got lucky while Cambio sang of "Endless Love," Sugarfree performed the magnificent "Prom," of course, as well as Bon Jovi's "Never Say Goodbye," and Drip -- with the gorgeous talented Beng Calma (resplendent in her white prom dress) on vocals and Ian and Malek on electronic thingamajigs -- delivered the best version of "Rush Rush" ever. Quite possibly the best possible version you can have of that Paula Abdul song.

And then, debunking the notion that the evening couldn't possibly be any more preposterously smile-inducing -- our friends won. Our friends won! Congratulations, Margie, and congratulations, Thor, on being crowned Prom Queen and Prom King (respectively)! Basically, the Admit One Prom was what everyone's sucky high school Proms should have been -- a giddy, insanely happy affair, no chaperones or awkwardness, with lots of music and dancing and singing along, where lovely, genuinely nice people get crowned King and Queen, and all of the bands rock.

It all ended in a gloriously endless jam (how many times did they call out, "Last song! Last song na 'to!"), involving basically all the band members present who weren't too wasted to perform, and spanning the party/senti 80s kids gamut from "My Sharona" to "Blister in the Sun" to "Everybody Wants to Rule the World." Ebe Dancel (with Raimund Marasigan, Vin Dancel and Aia de Leon) delivered an epic rendition of "With or Without You." Aia belted out "Crazy For You." Raimund did "Should I Stay or Should I Go?" Vin sang an intense "Boys Don't Cry." You get the idea. PULP photographer Gani ran out of batteries taking pics of everything that was happening. Part of me wished that a film crew and a sound recording crew had been there too, so that the evening could have been completely covered for posterity, but it's probably best that it just stays in our memories, unsullied and ever-shiny.

It wasn't a perfect night for me, though, what with Yvette sick and at home. Oh, the slow dances and fast dances we could have danced, to the music of our past! Ah, well. (At one point -- during the cover of "Pride (In the Name of Love)" -- I called her up, so I could at least share that bit with her). There aren't many things that ever turn out exactly the way you wanted them to. This night, though, must have come close, especially for anyone there who wasn't missing someone else.

Tired. Happy. And finally starting to get sleepy, now, buzz finally fading a bit. What a night, what a night.

Singing Off To Sleep

Three things I don't know right now: 1. why I'm still in the office, 2. why I'm still awake, and 3. what exactly to make of Kitchie Nadal's solo debut album. The first two are kind of easy, actually. In much the same way that Neil Gaiman's formula for immortality is "not dying," the reason I'm still here is because I haven't gone home yet. It doesn't seem worth the effort at the moment, so instead, I've been surfing, catching up on music and comics sites, drinking ridiculous amounts of caffeinated soda and eating crab soup and potato fritters, and listening to some CDs I intend to review for PULP's next issue, like The Stands, Wolfmann, and -- maybe -- the Kitchie Nadal release. I'm listening to it for the second time now, and still, I'd be hard-pressed to name a rating I'd be comfortable with. Nothing below two oranges and nothing above four just about covers it, but man, that's a wide range.

Attempting to please the world at the age of 17, you kill your babies and call it offering
The stench of truth: a life for a life. To be kind is to be unkind.
-- from "Fire"

Two things I'm sure of right now: there's a lot of good songwriting here (Kitchie has a way with a chorus, and the lyrics are accessible while remaining a far cry from simple-minded -- people who found the Mojofly material to be uninspiring should give this a chance), but it all sounds too clean, it needs to rock a little harder. I don't want to hear every plucked guitar string, every bongo beat. The production puts one in mind of 80s pop-rock, and not entirely in a good way. One actually misses the rough original versions of "Deliverance" and "Run" that her website used to offer in low-quality mp3 format, and songs like "Fire" and "Bulong" sounded a lot more thrilling live. The guitars need to be dirtier, and the drums need to kick a whole lot more ass, especially on a great potential anthem like "Bulong."

Minsan ang kagitingan ay wala sa bigat ng pinapasan, kundi sa pagsukot pag harap ng kabiguan
Tumatakbo ang oras, gumising na at bumangon na, pagka't hindi na ikaw ang biktima
-- from "Bulong"

Kitchie's voice itself, which is what lends these pleasantly solid (yet admittedly not massively original) songs their distinctive touch, is an acquired taste; some may find her oft-deployed breathy fragility grating. I think it's effective and appropriate on the whole, although, again, she should try rocking out and travelling to the edge of a potential loss of control some more. The deer-in-headlights look she sports on the cover may be taken for a representation of her leftover hesitation as regards her musical boundaries, despite the definite strides forward she has taken since her Mojofly days. One wonders how much of this restraint is due to her religious conversion, but it would probably be churlish to speculate. In any case, the obviously God-centric numbers like "You're Worthy" are no less listenable than anything else on this album.

Now she found a place to rest, where the shadows run deep
Lying there barefoot, dirty, singing off to sleep
-- from "Drained"

A lot of songs that become radio staples suck; good pop hits with artistic merit are few and far between. Maybe the best way to sum up Kitchie Nadal's debut is to say that I can easily imagine these songs being requested and played over and over again on the air, and also imagine myself not minding at all.

Guess Who's Back, Back Again

Wow, long time no write. It's been a weird month and a half for me; have been feeling that I'm always behind, always late, always running to catch up. "How is that different from the past decade or so of your life, Luis?" a voice from the balcony queries. Well, first of all -- security, throw that bastard out of the theater. That'll teach him to interrupt my monologue. Where was I? Oh yeah -- late.

It's not just deadlines, and it's not just a matter of taking on too much work, both regular and freelance. I have a fair idea of my capabilities, and I know I could be doing even more than I'm doing now, and doing it well -- I guess I've been blocked, or low-level depressed, or something. There are times when I feel that there's nothing worth getting out of bed for, but this is usually coupled with the strong sense that staying in bed isn't a fantastically attractive option either. As you know, Kidlat and I figured that it was probably a matter of not doing the truly fulfilling, creative work we're meant to be doing. Writing for TV and magazines and such is great, and financially rewarding (relatively speaking, anyway), but it's been literally years since I finished a short story I was satisfied with, for example. So anyway, I'm jotting this down in this semi-public forum so that, a year or so from now, if friends of mine who have read this entry realize that I haven't come out with a new book or two yet, they have my permission to whack me upside the head.

The AMP benefit gig on Katipunan last Saturday was great -- remember that place we went to before, to watch Hellbender? It's even grottier now, but that somehow added to the rocking-ness of the event. Instead of sitting beside a fast-food stall a few tables away from the stage, we were on our feet, and practically in the faces of the performers. I could, for example, have reached out and gently pushed the somewhat out-of-it Ely Buendia over. Not that I would ever do such a thing, he he. It was great fun to hang out with Margie, Marnie, Jovan and her boyfriend Nico (master of the matter-of-fact observation: for example, "Nakakahiya kayo"). Seems like it's been too long since I've been to a gig, much less gone to a gig just to enjoy myself and not cover it for the magazine and not worry about anything.

Highlights for me included the sets by Narda (all fairly new, non-EP material -- really looking forward to the first full-length!), Boy Elroy (lead singer/diminutive bundle of pop-punk energy Conrad was approached after the gig by a woman who offered to adopt him; he declined, explaining that "I already have a mother"), and of course Sun Valley Crew, whooo! *does Sikatuna Village gang sign; busts a move* Finally got to talk to Ryan of SVC face to face; previous interactions for my MTV Ink piece were through texts and e-mail. I was surprised by how much I enjoyed the Mongols finale -- as you know, their album didn't really grab me, and I was less than thrilled by their performance at the last Summer Slam -- but that night, they tore into their songs with an energy and a fierce joy that was infectious, and now I may have to dig out my copy of Buddha's Pest for a reassessment.

Am also interested in the upcoming release from one of Mongols guitarist Jerome "Bunny" Velasco's other bands, Daydream Cycle. Saw those guys perform a couple of years ago, in Sanctum. And btw, in the coincidence department: earlier today, caught The Mongols on MYX. Even greater, non-Mongols-related coincidence: days after I submit a Delays CD review which compares them to one of my favorite bands from my misspent youth, The Reivers, Thor writes about The Reivers in his blog. Got all happy and excited reading his entry. It was like when I discovered that Jing Gaddi was also a fan of that absurd and obscure cartoon, Tomfoolery. Now I'm sure that neither Tomfoolery nor The Reivers are figments of my fevered, pulsating imagination. I couldn't have dreamed up anything as good as Saturday anyway. Not to mention the collected works of Edward Lear.