I've long given up any pretenses of reading all the books I wanted to read in my lifetime, so I'm not sure why I hold on to books I have fallen out of love with, or have the slightest interest in.
Actually I know why: laziness, selfishness, and my choice of decoration. If I had a huge home, I'd keep every decaying tome, every awful novel until I die. Staring at shelves crammed with things I no longer recognize, however, pushed me to finally clean up.
What I thought would only take an hour took an entire afternoon. Reorganizing and decluttering my humble library gave me a massive headache. But here's the fruit of the labor. I'm giving away these books for free.
When the messages start pouring in (and there are a lot), my heart floats. People are excited. And hearing them talk about how much they love a specific book or author — seeing their value through another's eyes — kind of makes me not want to let go of them anymore. That's how selfish I can be!
Some are surprised that I'm getting rid of them (though I thought this is a common practice). Aside from the reasons stated above, I'd tell them, jokingly, "This is my small contribution to the betterment of mankind."
As I create a list of which title goes to whom, the joke becomes truth. I've made someone look forward to something. Proved to myself I'm not poor. I think I'll do this again.
One night in 2015 maybe, I was walking with a friend towards a club. I couldn't remember how the conversation went there, but I declared, "I look my best now."
As I write this I think, No. I look my best now;
And think of perfection. My every day has been a deliberate (though not always successful) step towards that. In 2014 I got my own space. When friends would invite themselves in, I'd quip, I want it to be Instagrammable first, give me time. I want my home to reflect who I am, therefore I want it to be perfect.
Although I know there's no such thing and if I ever reached it, What else?
Then I came across this Robert Herrick poem published in Love poems, a collection of poetry read on BBC Radio 4's Poetry please:
Delight in disorder Robert Herrick
A sweet disorder in the dress
Kindles in clothes a wantonness.
A lawn about the shoulders thrown
Into a fine distraction;
An erring lace, which here and there
Enthralls the crimson stomacher;
A cuff neglectful, and thereby
Ribbons to flow confusedly;
A winning wave, deserving note,
In the tempestuous petticoat;
A careless shoestring, in whose tie
I see a wild civility;
Do more bewitch me than when art
Is too precise in every part.
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Earlier this month we lost John Ashbery.
John Ashbery. Where shall I wander. New York: Ecco Paperback, 2006.
My favorite poem of his is also one of my favorite poems of all time: Some trees. But going through my copy of Where shall I wander, I find a fitting excerpt about death. Us in another's eyes. That it is not our memory but their memory of us that counts. From Novelty love trot:
In the end it matters little what things we enjoy.
We list them, and barely have we begun
when the listener's attention has turned to something else.
"Did you see that? The way that guy cut him off?"
Darlings, we'll all be known for some detail,
some nick in the chiseled brow, but it won't weigh much
in the scale's careening pan. What others think
of us is the only thing that matters,
to us and to them...
This also reminds me of my other favorite poem of all time, which is about dressing well. It doesn't touch on perfection, but instead on making a lasting impression.
Earworms this month are courtesy of a young duo and the widely acknowledged godfathers of electronic music.
The new: At night by Oliver
I haven't heard of Oliver until last week. On August 24, the LA-based DJs released Full Circle, a solid debut album.
It's always the rhythm that wins me. Though largely a song-driven effort, the album's melodic lines (especially those with vocals) are never over-complicated or overpowering; while the sumptuous rhythms are given the extension they deserve — no rushing to the chorus or "the drop". These for me are the very things that make electronic music distinctly enjoyable, habitable.
The tracks also don't follow a single structure, so you'll be pleased with the diversity. Three songs I find extra special are Go with it, Heterotopia, and At night. Am excited for this band. They must be fun to see live.
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The old timeless: Music non stop – 2009 remastered version by Kraftwerk
Kraftwerk's "Computer World" has been sitting in my music library for, like, ever. Yesterday I decided to watch a video of their concert, Minimum – Maximum and Woah! The sound was so clean, the production was the total opposite of rave parties. Its laser-like focus on what it wants to do is impressive. Great concerts envelope you with music and energy till you dissolve in the moment, but Kraftwerk's live show seems to prefer injecting the whole thingamabob into your vein till you're aware that you exist.
Next thing I know, I was going through their entire discography on Spotify. And am still not finished.
I usually have no patience with studio albums with 6++-minute-long tracks, yet with Kraftwerk, I didn't notice the time at all. Except for the 22-minute Autobahn. Anyway, this Music non stop remix is currently playing non-stop at home, making me dance like a happy bunny (may the simile make sense).
Sometimes I think about dance. Not that thing we poor souls do at the club, but that which is conceived by a choreographer and realized by a dancer. How the art form seems to evade preservation and discovery.
Stumbling upon a great modern ballet piece is not as easy as stumbling upon, say, a great novel by an obscure author or great music from a band in the ‘70s. Sure there are licensed recordings of performances available in stores — limited as they may be — and there’s YouTube and other video-streaming services to scour (if you want something recorded by naughty, rule-bending audiences), but my impression is that dance doesn’t bother as much with reproduction and distribution the way other popular art forms do.
Paul Ocampo and Chien-Ying Wang perform Equanimity in Ballet Philippines' A Gala Celebration.
From where I am, there’s no better person to ask whether or not this is an actual problem of the industry than National Artist for Dance, Alice Reyes. “It’s not a problem, it’s a fact. It’s something we have to live with,” a fired up Reyes told me during an open rehearsal of Ballet Philippines — the company she co-founded in 1969.
“You have to experience it now. Tomorrow, it’s different. That’s what George Balanchine said, ‘Dance is the art of now,’” she continued. “That’s why the dancer’s and choreographer’s careers are so short.”
How choreography is passed on or saved for posterity is another mystery to me. “It’s hard. That’s why you have coaches. For instance, we have to get somebody to come in who dances the role and coach the new artist dancing it (to arrive at the right interpretation),” shared Reyes. “There’s an oral history attached to the dance… Kung video lang, kung mali ang na-video, yung mali ang magagawa.” Dance notation is also out of the question. “There are still some who are doing it, but it’s so hard. Masyadong mabilis and takbo,” she added.
National Artist for Dance and Ballet Philippines co-founder and artistic director Alice Reyes
For their 48th season, Ballet Philippines runs under the banner, “Quintessence” and welcomes back Reyes as artistic director. “I’m using this season to start our progress towards the 50th. My idea is to tell the story of Ballet Philippines, which has such an incredibly rich repertoire. We can maybe release 10 seasons without doing any imported works,” said the visionary.
The new season kicked off in August with A Gala Celebration, showcasing the companies’ choreographic range and its dancers’ ability to execute any movement. The next production, called Exemplar, is slated for October. Featured here are the classics that came out during the company’s first decade, including Reyes’s Amada.
Ballet Philippines is giving us the chance to catch internationally acclaimed but long-unseen works. And they’re relying not only on traditional but social media to spread the word. Reyes very well knows that ballet isn’t accessible. Still, one of her goals is to drive more people to the shows by cutting down ticket prices — a tall order, considering that live dance and orchestra are expensive to produce. “That’s why dance always needs patrons. Patrons of the art,” Reyes laughed. “That’s THE problem.”
So here’s an invitation. Take a chance on ballet. Experience it now. Because tomorrow, it’s different. Or worse, gone.
David Harrower’s Blackbird takes us right smack in the middle of harsh reality: the office pantry. Suspended fluorescent tubes illuminate a small room, which centerpiece is a long plastic table. Cardboard boxes everywhere. No porcelain, only paper cups. In one corner, trash has managed to spill from a tall bin. All these add up to a hyperreal set that is eerie yet captivating.
Enter a young woman and an older man, dressed like everybody else in the audience — in boring ready-to-wear, maybe soiled by earlier fits of clumsiness or by fresh transgressions. The difference is that our mess are hidden in theater dark, while theirs are exposed by light.
Una and Ray engaged in a sexual affair when the former was 12 and the latter was 40. The relationship lasted for three months and its end meant jail time for the gentleman. Fifteen years later, Una stumbles upon a photo of a smiling Ray in a magazine, compelling her to track him down. Now they meet again as Una finds Ray in his workplace, living a new life complete with a new name.
Bart Guingona and Mikkie Bradshaw-Volante are Ray and Una in The Necessary Theatre's production of Blackbird by David Harrower.
Once the initial outburst subsides, you sense a tender pull between them. And it’s not impulsiveness but rather self-control that causes the pair to entertain any residual desire that they might have for each other: the longer they are stuck together, the greater the possibility to see eye to eye and kindle an old fire. An unlocked pantry has never felt so dangerous.
Blackbird’s plotting can sometimes deceive you into thinking that you know where things are heading — partly a result of the playwright’s ability to draw believable characters. Harrower didn’t leave room for the audience to question either protagonist’s motivations. And when you think that you’ve predicted their actions, the play makes an unexpected turn. These twists are never for shock value, and the ambiguities are never forced.
The Necessary Theatre stages this Olivier-winning two-hander, its short run closing out on Sunday (the 10th) at the Carlos P Romulo Auditorium in Makati. The production, directed by Topper Fabregas, features Mikkie Bradshaw-Volante as Una and Bart Guingona as Ray.
Fabregas’ direction is thoughtful, allowing the audience to empathize with both Una and Ray — with both their past and present selves. The play’s overall tone is compassionate as well. It succeeds in refusing to be moralistic without condoning unlawful behavior.
If there’s something missing, it’s somewhere in the acting department. I struggle to connect with the leads on a visceral level. In a crucial, kilometric monologue, for example, Bradshaw falls a little flat. I hang on to her every word because she’s revealing Una’s backstory, though I wish that it’s also because of an emotional grip.
The beauty of Blackbird lies not in its complexity but in its capacity to unload a myriad of complex thoughts and feelings through simple, almost straightforward storytelling. It is smart as it is vulnerable. This production of the play, however, seems to focus on getting its tone right, and somehow overlooks the drama. TNT may have captured Blackbird’s mind; I’m not sure if it has fully captured its troubled heart.
18. “The way to get things done [is] to go ahead and do them. Don’t talk about going to Borneo. Book a ticket, get a visa, pack a bag, and it just happens,” says Richard in the Alex Garland novel, The Beach. That bit didn’t need underlining; it was stuck in my head since. For the longest time I dreamed of traveling to Japan and of taking a proper vacation: something completely mine, well-planned but also aimless. I never thought that I had the resources nor the guts to fly to a land which language I don’t speak, until Justice announced a world tour, with appearances at Summer Sonic 2017.
19. Last April, Coachella streamed Justice’s full set, giving me a taste of Woman Worldwide. What I digested was theater, where each element — may it be aural, visual, lexical — meant something to another element to another element. Everyone talked and will talk about the lights: because they don’t just dazzle, they communicate.
20. Once you hear the live version of a Justice song, you’ll forget about the original. “Access All Arenas” taught me as much. In this current tour, the duo made Love S.O.S — my favorite from “Woman” — even more special by running its trademark siren from the tail-end of Stress (a nice connection, considering both tracks, despite contrasting moods, seem to pivot on having a heart attack); and then adding a layer of keyboard in the midsection (a tingly surprise). Another masterstroke was ridding Chorus of its chorus for one final bass-heavy, head-banging stretch before the set’s hypnotic Audio, Video, Disco denouement.
21. Summer Sonic is a weekend music festival simultaneously held in Tokyo and Osaka, and between the two cities, the latter feels more like me. Chill. It is also, overall, the cheaper alternative. My initial plan was to backpack to Osaka, watch Justice, have curry and ramen, then go home. But excitement had me packing for a five-night escape.
The Osaka Castle, a tourist spot near my hotel
22. As the plane taxied on Kansai Airport grounds, my mind shot through different directions: How will I find my hotel? How will I find Maishima Arena? What if my credit and debit cards weren’t working? Oh my god I’m really going to see Justice. What if they suddenly got sick and cancelled (like Charli XCX later on)? The first problem I had to solve (at 10pm) was the hotel. Lucky me, the customs officer was chatty and knew some English. He directed me towards the train station. Which was big and intimidating. But not without a friendly face behind the counter. I showed Mr Ticket Seller the address written in my pocket notebook, he flipped through the pages of a railway atlas. Got my route. Arigato. That was pretty much how I survived Japan — short words, miming, the kindness of strangers, Google.
23. Hello, Chuo Ward. Hello, hotel. (Quiet elation.) Unpacked. Checked my phone, naturally. Justice posted an invitation to a meet and greet at a pop-up shop… in Tokyo. FUCK YOU, GASPARD AND XAVIER. AND PARDON MY FRENCH. I did contemplate maxing out my credit card to get from where I was to where they were, but Sensible Me prevailed. This was how I consoled myself: If I met them, I would have no fangirl ambitions left. Plus, if I went there, I’d be broke and starve to death. I chose to live to tell this tale.
24. My fear of being lost and unfound diminished with every train ride. Everything in the subway is laid out systematically — the stations are identified alphanumerically; the rail lines, color-coded; the exits, numbered. Trains arrive on time. Another person might perceive coldness from this impeccable clockwork, but for someone who’s MRT-LRT-phobic, it is the most thoughtful, humane design. This magnificent underground web, however, is not idiot-proof. Forty-eight hours of exploring the city before the festival gave me enough commute rehearsal. I boarded from the wrong platforms, got off the wrong stations, adjusted fares. Sonic day itself offered a fresh challenge: riding a bus. Well more of finding the goddamn bus station. All along I was looking for a huge terminal instead of an inconspicuous bus stop on the roadside.
At the Sonic Stage, minutes before Justice's set
25. Plotted my sched: Honne at 5:15, Phoenix at 6:30, Justice at 8:40. What I regret: Not squeezing in Blood Orange at 5:50. As soon as Phoenix closed their very groovy, very sexy set, I dashed to the Sonic Stage to secure my spot. At that point I had seen every livestream, every recording of the show on YouTube and Instagram. When I entered the arena, they were setting up the stage. Seeing those four deck stands atop a square platform flanked by stacks of Marshall amps made me giddy.
26.I want to pee. I just peed ten minutes ago. If I peed now I would lose my spot. Okay lights out, can’t pee anymore. (Buzz.) This is it. (Buzz.) Man everything in this country’s on time. Aww, their faces! It’s really, really them, waving. Okay that is anticlimactic. Oh shit.
27. DISCO.
Gaspard Augé and Xavier de Rosnay live
28. For a while I was reading the performance like a book, fussing about minute details. I was bummed that Japan didn’t get the production with mobile LED panels (due to venue limitations, I suppose, or logistical challenges), but the substance of the light-work remained intact. What captures my imagination in Woman Worldwide’s staging is the way that light meets metal, passing through slits, or bending — the music’s optic equivalent. Songs in “Woman” are strong and limber. They bang, but breathe elegance.
29. More bouts of synesthesia. I listened to colors, I witnessed notes fold and contract. I was standing still but felt as if I were jumping because everybody else was jumping. I felt alcohol on my skin, because someone splashed her beer. I felt skin on my skin. Gorgeous, shirtless men were pushing their way to the front. Dancing so hard.
30.Alakazam and Fire blossomed into a euphoric remix. From there until the dying bars of We Are Your Friends and Phantom Pt. II, I cannot remember most of what happened. Within that space, I may have left a piece of myself for good.
31. Xavier’s antics, Xavier messing up, Gaspard telling him something, gesturing, “No, no” — these must be mentioned. You might think that attending this concert is an item to be crossed off from some stupid list. No, I want more. Justice didn’t play Randy and Stop (my second favorite from the latest album), so here I am fantasizing about their next tour where I will hear those songs remixed.
Somewhere in Uranamba
32.Paradise for me is a city where I can let my guard down. The night I arrived in Osaka, I climbed out of a subway and into a pitch-black district occasionally brightened by convenience stores. That was the only moment I felt scared and alone in that city. The following morning I had the most boring, most un-Japanese breakfast of bacon and eggs. Upon a friend’s advice, I visited tourist spots and street markets. Umeda was chic, Uranamba was shabby. Dotonbori, I chanced upon after taking too many wrong turns. In a Shinsaibashi café I eavesdropped on two women’s velvet conversation. I haven’t had so much fun commuting and walking on concrete, under the sun. On my last night, I met a local who spoke English — the universe giving me someone to say farewell to. Leaving was tough because I didn’t know how to go back to a life without Osaka’s safety.
33. When Madonna brought her Rebel Heart Tour to Manila, people raised ruckus over the P57,750 SVIP tickets, quickly noting what (better things) an avid fan could buy with all that cash — a MacBook, a year’s worth of tuition at a private university, etc. But as far as I’m concerned, your happiness, your money, your business. I might pay more to catch my idols. Oh wait… A one-day pass at Summer Sonic Osaka was P7,109.49. Including air fare, accommodation, visa application, and daily allowance, the cost of my entire trip was a little shy of P60,000. For that amount, I saw Justice live, grooved to Honne and Phoenix, and took temporary lodging in paradise. What a bargain.
The short, straightforward answer: Because I want to feel good about myself.
For an indulgent, self-patting and -absolving explanation:
You give me the pleasure of having an audience
My favorite anecdote about writing is this: A poet friend attended a national writers workshop and his poetry was lambasted. Imagine how painful it must be for him, hearing the critiques, pretending to be fine afterwards. To recover, he wrote a poem.
That’s how you know you’re meant to do something. It’s a reflex.
Among the activities that captured my imagination as child, writing was the easiest to do. I wanted to be a pianist, a carpenter, a teacher, a cashier, a swimmer. We had a piano at home, but I couldn’t make noises at night. Swimming lessons, plus the gears, were expensive. But writing, it's cheap. I can do it anywhere, whenever I want to. In my head, I can be as loud as I like.
Following the bait of Language has led me here. I studied Literature, I took jobs as a communications assistant, an English tutor, a travel and lifestyle writer. In college I was thinking in poetry. In the mid-2000s I was thinking in blogs. In 2008 I started thinking in aphorisms — in 140 characters, that is.
This blog, which I created in 2003 (that period between graduating and signing an employment contract), has been a steady outlet for my writing. What began as a space for well-meaning bullshit became a confluence of my writerly selves, my many voices.
While my byline has appeared in publications in every available platform, most ideas I hold dear are here. Thank heavens for technology — for blogs, really, because I would explode if these thoughts didn’t find expression. And at least here it’s less of a one-way conversation.
I’ll do what I do anyway — it’s a reflex, but I would be lying if I said that I have no need for kind words. Writing is that job where you know you’re a rockstar but you don't get an applause. It’s a solitary occupation. Often it feels like talking to a ghost. But when you see the shares, the likes, when someone surprises you with a message of admiration or gratitude, the ghost becomes human. The weather turns warm.
"9 years ago I dreamed of becoming a writer. 2 years ago I became a professional one: I write; I get paid. Since then I have loved this blog more than I ever did. Because (cheesy as it sounds) this is me. . . . . Before, I was aching to get published and I knew that getting published would feel amazing. It does. It did. It does when it matters. Now, having your work and your thoughts printed and disseminated seems to be the easiest occupation. So my dream has changed, or it has at least reverted to my principal dream, and that is to write well."
Making a career out of your passions can bring you to an identity and integrity crisis. When I was hired in the marketing department of a local newspaper five years ago, I thought in advertorials. I understood what “culture shock” meant when I entered the publishing industry. Writers put their names on barely edited press releases and call it a day. You’d be asked to state something you didn’t believe in. Because everyone was doing it, you’d figure it was okay.
There are stuff that are very not okay, however. I still can’t get over seeing my name on heavily revised articles, and articles that are almost entirely written by another. I still sometimes beat myself up for allowing these to happen.
And so this blog has also meant that. I’ve learned a lot, which means a lot must be unlearned. This is my constant attempt to write well and be a person of integrity. This is all me: the good, the bad syntax, the ugly.
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Today is the blog's 14th birthday. Consider this entry a form of celebration.
Rep's "Beauty and the Beast" runs until December 14 at OnStage, Greenbelt.
An audience member asked on opening night why the iconic (her word) Beauty and the Beast theme was left out of the Repertory Philippines production of the musical. She was, of course, referring to the Alan Menken hit from the Walt Disney label. Rep could sigh in dismay, having categorically stated that their show adopts a different version of the fairy tale; but maybe, just maybe, no one would miss the popular movie tracks had the Michael Valenti score been equally enchanting.
The Laughter Song has got quite a hook (that’s still lodged in my head). As for the rest of the songs, they barely excite the ear, however pleasant-sounding. It doesn’t help that the cast — led by Alana Vicente (Beauty) and Jos Jalbuena (Beast) — seem to be in short supply of energy, unconvinced themselves of what they’re crooning about.
What Rep’s Beauty and the Beast has going for it is: everything else. Bonsai Cielo’s costumes are visual puzzles (Do you put on, slip or morph into a table dress? Is that actual fire on the walking candlesticks?); while John Batalla’s light design is a sustained magic trick. As if the artistic and production staff are giving their own “This is How You Do Theater” lesson to children, while wowing adults on the side.
Do you put on, slip or morph into a table dress?
Peter Del Valle and John Ahearn have written an interesting book as well.
Here, Beauty has two egoistic sisters named Mimi and Fifi, who think she’s boring. And they’re right. Beauty lacks dimension. Thank goodness there’s Mimi and Fifi, and their pompous suitors, Jacques and Pierre to bring the much-needed color and humor to the show. Seeing them prance around, hearing their mannered speech, is a delight. Watch out for their riot of a number somewhere in Act One.
The story takes off when Beauty’s father finds a safe refuge in the middle of a storm, then wakes up in a wondrous garden. How lucky of him as he promised his daughters gifts when he returns home: a tiara and a cape for Mimi and Fifi, and a rose for Beauty. So he plucks the prettiest flower in sight, but no sooner than he can admire it, a mad voice booms at him. Beast. In exchange for his prized possession, he demands that Beauty lives with him, else he will claim the old man’s life. Funny how an innocent wish — a single rose — leads to great dangers.
Awesome foursome: Mimi, Fifi, Jacques, and Pierre bring color and humor to the show.
When Beauty and Beast meet for the first time, they discuss the situation rather calmly. The absence of aggression from both sides is refreshing — and the scene isn't any less intense because of it. With our main characters quickly arriving at a compromise, we wonder what new conflicts will unfold.
Trespassing and possessiveness are some of the show’s nicer points for reflection, even if it is, for the most part, a story of Mimi and Fifi unlearning greed; and of Beast relearning to laugh, and that love reads through facades.
Another audience member asked how they could entice their sons to catch the musical. Men are as afraid of being judged by their appearance as women are. If young boys saw Rep's Beauty and the Beast, they might realize that looks alone doesn’t make or break a person. But they would have to ignore the girls in a rapturous fit the moment Beast turns back into his human, handsome face.
My mistake was electing to sit at the front row despite knowing that Newsies — the stage adaptation of the Disney film of the same title — would be a visual spectacle. Rights to the award-winning Christopher Gattelli choreography weren’t granted to the show’s local production (as I later on learned); but PJ Rebullida, with a little help from Yek Barlongay, created a choreography that, based on audience reaction, was every bit of a winner.
Co-producers 9 Works Theatrical and Globe Live harped on this dance excellence — a clever decision as the musical’s paper-thin characters and storyline would hardly please the discerning theatergoer or keep the casual fan awake. The narrative was standard Disney: an all-too safe journey between plot points leading to a saccharine resolution. A happy ending lurked from the get-go, and conflicts that arose along the way failed to arouse any sense of danger.
Instead the danger was in the dance. I had seen some of these actors before though not in this form. High-flying that is. Almost literally. And so I was impressed and at the same time stressed out as I watched them nail one daring routine after another at breakneck speed. Even Ed Lacson’s industrial set, composed of tiered, moveable pieces, gave its own restless performance, rolling and transforming in every scene.
Adrenaline rush, I guess, is the perk of being three feet away from the stage. So close to action, you could hear the dancers heave. Your imagination grows wilder, too. Please don’t fall flat on your face, I kept thinking with every jump and back flip. I was also worried that the towering set piece in front of me, which I swear was swaying, might topple over.
Three musicals in and I’ve developed a fondness for the ragged charm of Globe Iconic Store at Bonifacio High Street Amphitheater. As an open space it will always compete with natural elements, as well as the commercial property’s noises — aural and otherwise. The night I saw Newsies, it was raining heavily, microphones were malfunctioning; yet these somehow made the experience special, like elevated community theater. Given the venue’s design and the partnership’s goals, I wonder if 9 Works Theatrical and Globe Live will continue to favor loud, bombastic productions, as with American Idiot and A Christmas Carol.
(Side-note: What I have zero fondness for is tardiness and condescension. The show started 20 minutes late, and was further pushed back with a speech from the producer. I watched on the third weekend, so I was surprised by the intro, which I thought only happens during gala and press nights. There’s no point for a hard-sell pitch; we already bought tickets for chrissake. I understand that you’re proud of your product, but please let it do the talking and let the audience be the judge of whether or not they’re getting their money’s worth. Whether or not the cast and crew deserve a standing ovation, let alone an applause.)
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Anyone can appreciate a good dance routine. But dance, when it tries to tell a story — divested of narrator and dialogue — can be difficult to penetrate. Such is the challenge of Your highness, the second part of Eisa Jocson’s Happyland series, produced by Ballet Philippines.
The ballet’s first and easiest entry point is (surprise!) Disney. Five dancers dressed in the usual tights and tutus take the stage. They proceed like well-oiled robots, naming every repeated movement (fondu, fondu, fondu… échappé, échappé… arabesque…), until they find fluidity, looking less mechanical by the minute and more like dolls. Each performer then dons garments allusive to royalty. Added to their recitations are familiar lines from Disney tales: I can show you the world…
Towards the latter half of the performance, the dancers slip into animal body suits, covering all corners of the stage with erratic moves and wild grunts. Finally they adopt the choreographies of the Filipino fiesta, their voices (as with their stances) more powerful, yet it's hard to tell if they’re conveying happiness or anger, or something completely unknowable.
At the open rehearsal of Eisa Jocson's "Your highness"
While the dancer has become a symbol of grace, one can only imagine the pains that come with the discipline, and the industry. Your highness allows a glimpse at these struggles — the struggles of the body, of the mind, and of the heart elsewhere.
“The previous artistic director of Ballet Philippines invited me to work with them. I told him that I have this project and it’s perfect for BP, because every year they lose some of their lead dancers, who either work in cruise ships, Hong Kong Disneyland, or foreign dance companies. Which is better, in a way, because they continue their artistic practice. But there’s always people leaving,” Jocson shared with me during their open rehearsal.
She also indulged me when I asked how dance can communicate a complex socio-political idea, such as that which informs Your highness. “I want (the audience) to experience the (message) as opposed to ‘get it’; to feel this question or proposal. The work hopefully gives space for that reflection,” she offered. “It’s important to understand and experience the work in different layers, not only on the social and political levels, but also on the aesthetic and reflexive levels. Depending on who is watching — if they’re a dancer or a teacher — they would see things differently. If the person is a musician, then they would be attuned to the musicality of the piece; which is quite interesting because it’s like a chorus, it’s like a concert.”
With that she answered a question I hadn’t brought up. Throughout the show, I read the performance as a literary form — from a short story (a default), to an essay (due to its apparent desire to make a statement), to poetry (given its patterns and lyric expressions). “The voice is part of the body,” Jocson reminded us. And the words I hear in Your highness are pleasurable sonic effects rather than carriers of unequivocal meaning. In short, I forget that dance is its own language, which I have yet to learn to think in.
My latest hobby is revisiting tried-and-tested literary titles. The classics. I think that I’m a better, though slower, reader today; and so, in a way, better able to give them the reading that they deserve. Besides, adulthood can be an amazing filter.
Raymond Carver makes so much sense to me now. Stories in What we talk about when we talk about love aren’t exactly slices of life, but more like pieces of jigsaw puzzles. Carver zooms in on an dull moment until he catches characters in a profound split-second. He barely gets into their psyche. The images he uncovers are real enough to cause a jolt of recognition.
Raymond Carver. What we talk about when we talk about love. New York: Vintage, 1989.
What stood out for me in the collection is A serious talk. Burt visits his wife, Vera on Christmas day. The two have children but appear to be separated, at least not living together anymore. He came over to have a serious talk with her — which never happened.
Instead they spoke but skirted anything of importance. In the middle of their non-conversation, Burt lit a cigarette then scrutinized the ashtray on the table.
He studied the butts in it. Some of them were Vera’s brand, and some of them weren’t… The ashtray was not really an ashtray. It was a big dish of stoneware they’d bought from a bearded potter on the mall in Santa Clara. (p 109)
Later the phone rang and Burt answered it. The voice on the other end of the line was looking for a Charlie. Vera took the call in a different room. While she was away, Burt searched for a knife then cut the telephone cord. After realizing what her husband had done, Vera screamed at him and swore that she’s going to get a restraining order.
Burt picked up the ashtray and attempted to throw it, but Vera pleaded, “Please, that’s our ashtray.”
He left.
He was not certain, but he thought he had proved something. He hoped he had made something clear. The thing was, they had to have a serious talk soon. There were things that needed talking about… He’d tell her the goddamn ashtray was a goddamn dish, for example. (pp 112 – 113)
Oftentimes I'm Burt, orchestrating that serious talk but failing. And in failure I reach for an ashtray to break or a knife to carve my way back to someone's attention.
My friends and I — and I’ve observed this with colleagues as well — still resort to composing letters when we want to express something important. Obvious reasons are: Emotional sobriety. Writing allows a calming down. There’s time to weigh feelings and opinions, and therefore make sure that nothing aired will be regretted. Things are recorded, so it may be reviewed again and again, diminishing the chances of misunderstanding.
And that illusion of finality. Having said everything you wanted to say the way you wanted it said makes you feel like you’ve had the last word on the matter. That’s why as much as I appreciate the act of letter-writing, I find it a weakness when talking face-to-face is an option.
Everyone is quick to prescribe communication when forging a healthy, lasting relationship. And it’s hard to disagree. It’s also hard to admit that we don’t know what that means. We’re told to communicate; we aren't taught how.
1. Like any other teenager during my time (not sure what fills teenagers' heads nowadays), I fantasized about having a family.
2. The fantasy gave way to other things as I grew older, until it went on reverse: it became the last thing on my mind. Currently, unimaginable.
3. I'll admit. I jumped on the Broadchurch bandwagon because of Jodie Whittaker. BBC announced that she will be the next Doctor in Doctor Who. Not having heard of her before, I googled her works. Broadchurch happens to be available on Netflix, so I binge-watched the series and finished three seasons in two days.
4. I'm excited, by the way, to see a female Doctor. For the simple reason of novelty. I remember enjoying the David Tennant and Katherine Tate combo because the latter isn't the typical young, pretty companion. Am looking forward to this new dynamic between the leads. (Speaking of the show — a by the way within a by the way — Michelle Gomez's Missy is oh-so-fine!)
5. This is very strange. After watching Broadchurch, I kind of want to raise a family.
6. The story begins with an eleven-year-old boy named Danny found dead on the shore. Jodie plays his mother.
7. Okay, wow, I'm going back to Doctor Who. I believe the episode was A Christmas Carol. The details won't be precise but the mom (guardian? — an important, lovable woman) passed away, then towards the end, by some magic or timey-wimey manipulation, she was brought back to life and everybody was happy.
I was disappointed, not just because it felt like a cheap trick, but because... wait I tweeted about it before (getting used to quoting myself; repetition bulldozes the message home):
I want fiction to teach us how to deal with death and loss--or that it can be dealt with no matter how impossible it may seem.
8. In Broadchurch, the parents take their son's death as their failure. That's the word they use repeatedly. Fail. I failed. I'm a failure. Jodie in an outburst says her job as a mother is to prepare Danny for life, and she fails at it.
9. Whenever I (adult me) would sit down and think about having a family — why I may or may not want one — I would discover that, among other things, what's stopping me is that fear of failure to protect (which I've explained better here).
10. I'm sure I've come across other stories with characters meeting death head-on. But Broadchurch has made such an impact on me because it's simply well-made, what else?
Other stuff I like about the show:
11. Acting and casting. Special shoutout to Olivia Colman! The people of Broadchurch look like people in a real town. The only miscast actor for me is Arthur Darvill, whom I feel is too baby-faced for the role of the reverend.
12. The reverend. Darvill's fluffiness aside, the show makes a case for keeping our Faith, capital F. It paints the church kindly, as a sane institution.
13. Death is not the only horror in Broadchurch. It's a hugely horrific show that inspires me to live. Because the good people persist despite personal failures and failed systems. They don't win against criminals or change corrupt institutions, but they somehow find ways to overcome them.
14. I'm sleepy, I'll end here. All praises to Broadchurch. I already like Jodie Whittaker as The Doctor.
Jodie Whittaker (leftmost) is Beth Latimer in "Broadchurch" and future Doctor in "Doctor Who". (Photo via @BroadchurchTV)
Early in the Second Act, three thugs discuss breaking into a convent, their entire strategy hinging on wooing the nuns to let them through without the slightest hesitation. In a rhythm and blues number called, Lady in the long black dress, the men take turns in telling the others how to really do it. “My name is Bones and I’m a Libra. I dig sunsets and strolling on the beach, and loving my neighbor as myself; and right now, baby, I’m standing next door to you,” goes Bones, adopting an ‘80s boy band suavity — husky voice, calculated smirk, and the gait of someone who might be having an upset stomach.
That scene pretty much defines the nature of Sister Act, the stage adaptation of the 1992 blockbuster film starring Whoopi Goldberg. Its intention is clear: to charm. Not exactly to wow. The storyline is straightforward, with no converging plots, twists or flashbacks; and the characters sit somewhere between stereotypes and caricatures. It’s only a question of, Will they pull it off? Will they manage to turn the charm switch on?
The Goldberg-produced musical debuted in the mid-2000s, over a decade since the film’s release. Now it’s enjoying an international tour, with a two-week run in Manila that closes on July 9th at The Theater at Solaire. The time gap doesn’t matter, apparently. Sister Act the movie has made such a huge impact that its appeal remains strong 25 years later. All it takes is the title and the promise of kooky singing nuns to get people interested in its stage counterpart.
Someone asked me, “Is it as good as the movie?” I think it’s never fair to compare an adaptation to its source material, though one has to wonder what the new medium has to offer.
Caught the gala performance of "Sister Act" the musical last June 29 at The Theater at Solaire.
You might imagine that with the powers that be at the helm of this production, you’ll find a glorious, jaw-dropping set design and costumes. Not quite. The stage is rather bare except for a towering, not to mention rotating — and glittering — figure of The Blessed Virgin Mary. In an era where theatergoers have witnessed actors fly onstage and gotten wet with fake rain, a 16-foot glammed-up Mama Mary doesn’t impress.
Then again, visual spectacle is the least of the show's priorities. Anyone who has seen the film may have already forgotten bits and pieces of the story, but I bet that, along with the harmless naughtiness brought by a colorful soul into a nunnery, they remember the music and how it made them feel. As it was onscreen, so it is onstage. Music continues to be a strong selling point. Those who’ll catch the musical to hear their favorite numbers from the film sung live, however, will be disappointed. Or not: Alan Menken’s original score and Glenn Slater’s lyrics are equally infectious.
Watch out for Rebecca Mason-Wygal (Mother Superior) and her interpretation of Here within these walls. Arguably the brightest spot in this limited run, Rebecca brings humanity to her character that her scenes are some of the show’s most touching. As a leader she’s stern yet confused. She remains the voice of reason, even as her internal voice doubts God. And boy can she crack a joke! If Sister Act is going to be memorable, it’s all up to the performers. The melodious songs are there; the script, intended to tickle and tug at the heartstrings, is there. The ensemble only has to show up with a little more fire.
What’s gained in this theatrical translation is that church vibe. Regardless of your faith or musical preference, you can’t deny the pleasures of listening to a choir and singing along with a community, smiling on the side. You’ll have that here, for sure — and then some. But nothing more to elevate the spirit to high heavens. This weekend, attend mass if you want to contemplate God and watch Sister Act if you want to have a good time. If you're looking for catharsis, search elsewhere.
The title of the play along with its entire story escape me now, but here's what I remember: onstage is a round wooden bath tub where two men are talking. Naturally they are naked, or at least the bare torsos and the show's daring mood suggest nudity all the way down there. One of them says, "Aalis na ako" as he gestures to leave. Behind me a male voice, hushed but panicked: "Huwag!" Then a snigger of relief — from him and his companion, I assume, when the scene ends with neither actor getting up.
That was in college, when watching stage productions was a course requirement. That was also my first experience of a pleasure unique to live performances. Whatever transpires in the audience section is, for better or worse, part of the entertainment. When I saw A little night music, people were singing A weekend in the country to themselves as they wait for Act 2 (Great, the song is stuck in their heads as well). In an attempt to acquaint myself with opera, I accepted an invitation to La Boheme — didn't understand a thing, and the kissing couple in front of me wasn't helping.
What's serious becomes tense when everybody's dead silent. What's funny becomes funnier when you hear all these strangers' laughter. Enter the theater and confront a feeling that, because shared, is amplified.
*
In 2007 I got a full-time job at an office along Ayala Avenue. The location meant I was a building away from the Carlos P Romulo Auditorium, and at a walking distance from OnStage, Greenbelt. Which meant that I would have to appreciate in retrospect my student discount, because tickets to plays and musicals don't come cheap. A financial knot aggravated by the fact that there's a Starbucks on every corner of the district and I love coffee the same way I love theater.
But that's why we work hard.
OnStage is home to Repertory Philippines. Many weekends were spent consuming whatever they were dishing out. One Saturday afternoon in 2009, I was at the Greenbelt ticket booth. An old man came up to me and asked what was showing. "A portrait of the artist as Filipino." It was a mouthful to say but the man understood my mumbling and was rather pleased. "That's a wonderful book," he said.
I didn't count but surely there were less than ten of us watching the matinee. I've always wondered how actors feel when that happens. If it's as uncomfortable for them as it is for me. Discomfort aside, I felt right at home.
Some proof that Repertory Philippines has been taking my money in the last 10 years.
The last Rep production I saw was pretty special. Their golden anniversary concert. That night at The Theatre at Solaire they made a fond recollection of their very first performance, attended by seven people. None got paid, we were also told. It must've been hell to go through, but thank heavens they didn't stop — even if audiences were, are, and might always be hard to win.
In the same year that they staged the Nick Joaquin drama, they brought Sweeney Todd, a musical I wanted to but never thought of seeing in Manila. It was so amazing I caught it twice, on succeeding Saturdays. "They did it?" My friend couldn't believe that it was mounted here. "With the pie shop and barber shop and murdered customers sliding down to the furnace room?" Yes, yes, all the works.
I'm on the "as if nothing is a miracle" side of things. It's not the magic itself but the clockwork behind it that's magical. I admire actors for having the physical and mental toughness to perform, but they're only part of a greater whole. To this day am blown away by the chilling soundscape Jethro Joaquin has crafted for Agnes of God, as well as Ohm David’s symbolic set design for The secret garden. And to whoever made the contraption that lets Sweeney Todd's victims fall from the barber chair into their delicious death, good job.
In their anniversary extravaganza, Rep celebrated in a Pippin-inspired number theater's faceless heroes, or shall we call, magicians. Them who work behind the scenes, and even further behind. "We've got magic to do," the artists sang, and magic they did — have all been doing.
A performance of "Magic to do" in Rep's 50th anniversary concert, held on June 11 at The Theatre at Solaire.
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You can't argue against what you see. Damn difficult, at least. And for me that's what makes theater powerful: actual, breathing human beings in front of you living out a story. Oh how many filters have been removed between audience and action! This quality lends not just an urgency but a realness to whatever the performers do. They can turn your suspicions into truth and convince you that the impossible is, no kidding, possible. And then shatter everything you believe in in a heartbeat.
Which brings me to what I really, really like about theater. It is that place where you can see someone like you take the spotlight. Where (political correctness aside) you can see someone ugly kiss someone beautiful or someone beautiful kiss someone ugly. Where the fat lady with her cellulite is the most seductive person in the room. Where the old and the middle-aged aren't relegated in the fringes.
For these reasons and more I keep coming back to the theater and wish a longer, bolder life to performing arts companies, especially the pioneering Rep and PETA. (Happy 50th, too, PETA! So, so sorry that you're an aside in this piece. I haven't seen much of your shows, since I live in the South; but I'm an adult now and I vow to change that because I know it's my loss.) Thank you. Don't ever stop giving us something worthwhile to talk about.
No one is supposed to live in this world friendless. I know the good that friendship does for me but I can’t quite define what a friend is. And the concept grows nebulous — as with all things growing complex — the older you get.
Others have pointed this out. We have no qualifiers for friends the way we’re ever stringent about romantic partners or spouses. A formal declaration must be made for the latter two; guidelines are laid down and regularly revised.
We apply the label to an acquaintance after a warm exchange and maybe laughter over cold beer. Even so, the affection is often one-way, thus we get disappointed or hurt when, in the succeeding days, the other doesn’t assume the shape of our friend mould. The lack of rules negates our right to be mad.
I am interested in the pull that’s felt upon meeting someone for the first time. That connection or the strong desire to connect, even to care deeply. Sometimes we’re happy to be with the same people at a distance. Like the waitress who knows your favorite meal by heart and how you hate chit-chat. Except for taking orders and the check, you barely communicate. You may not know her name but are ready to take a bullet before she does.
*
“You can love somebody without it being like that. You can keep them a stranger, a stranger who’s a friend,” says Joe Bell about Holly Golighty in Breakfast at Tiffany’s. The 66-year-old bar owner confesses to loving but not to desiring the 20-year-old starlet.
The relationship between him and her, and her and the story’s narrator is that of quaint friendship. Either a long-term encounter or a meaningful short-term affair, skimming the surface of romance.
Unforgettable.
Is it beauty, a shared though unknown history, a sense of safety, or a piece of (or missing from) ourselves that pulls us towards someone? Maybe a familiarity. We just need another human being to share habits — newly formed, ours or theirs — with.
So I look at my own friendships, realizing that I’m lucky to have earned and kept constants — those whose silence and absence aren’t neglect. And that I have had my Holly Golighties.
I want to meet more. I have a feeling I will.
Bought and read Truman Capote's "In Cold Blood" (Vintage, 2012)
and "Breakfast at Tiffany's" (Vintage, 2008) successively.
*
Our (your, my, Joe Bell and the narrator’s) knowledge of Holly may be scant, but Truman Capote has cast such a bright light on her character that the littlest detail becomes bigger than any real but dull person.
Her haircut, her clothes. Her armor. I cracked a smile on that part where she’s about to read an important letter. I wouldn’t have understood her behavior had I read the novella in my twenties. The convergence of inner peace and appearance is something I’m only learning today.
“Darling… would you reach in the drawer there and give me my purse. A girl doesn’t read this sort of thing without her lipstick.”
Guided by a compact mirror, she powdered, painted every vestige of twelve-year-old out of her face. She shaped her lips with one tube, colored her cheeks from another. She penciled the rims of her eyes, blued the lids, sprinkled her neck with 4711; attached pearls to her ears and donned her dark glasses… (pp 98 – 99)
Her red cat. She is everyone I pine for. With a presence that is undeniable, and a heart that is ever elusive. Their nearness comforts me because I am reminded of my own search for home.
It’s a little inconvenient, his not having a name. But I haven’t any right to give him one: he’ll have to wait until he belongs to somebody. We just sort of took up by the river one day, we don’t belong to each other: he’s an independent, and so am I. I don’t want to own anything until I know I’ve found the place where me and things belong together. I’m not quite sure where that is just yet. But I know what it’s like. (p 39)
*
To arrive somewhere you belong. Seems to be the main characters’ journey. Holly, the cat especially — and the narrator, who opens the story with a recollection of his first New York apartment: “I am always drawn back to places where I have lived…”
Both of Holly’s parents died of TB when she was a child. She and her brother, Fred ran off from “mean, no-count” guardians and survived on stolen food. They got caught trespassing on the property of widower Mr Golighty, who, upon seeing the children's puny legs and wobbling teeth, welcomed them to his home. In 1938, at age 14, Holly married Mr Golighty.
Holly took off again. “Home is where you feel at home. I’m still looking,” she says.
The most memorable scene for me is right at the end. Holly, an outlaw by now, meets the narrator and Joe Bell at the latter’s bar for her latest escape. She’s still acting cool, ordering drinks for the three of them. “You’ll only need two… I won’t drink to your foolishness,” states Joe Bell who has already fixed for a Cadillac to take her to the airport. Holly asks Mr Bell to look at her, but instead he yanks a bunch of flowers from a vase and throws them her way. He hates her as much as he loves her.
If I were pressed for definition, I’d say that a friend is someone who eases loneliness. They show that you are not going to battle alone. Their company a temporary shelter.
Bring me flowers. It'll make my day. Perfect gifts, they are: highly symbolic and practical. A bouquet of flowers is a burst of emotions. It's alive and real at the moment — it'll die soon. And so like feelings it must be renewed, reasserted over and over. And so bring me flowers again, and again.
Trinkets are tacky, food is messy, but flowers, you can assign any meaning to them and they unburden the receiver of clutter. Flowers discard themselves by wilting.
Teaching myself the art of arranging flowers, I came across this tip, which makes me think of a princess locked in a castle:
Sometimes people think they should set their vase of flowers in a sunny windowsill since that is where a plant would be happiest. However, cut flowers are actually the opposite of potted plants. They are at their peak of perfection. Sun and heat will encourage them to "mature" and thus quicken their demise. Instead, keep your cut flowers in a cool dark spot if you would like them to last as long as possible.
Not sadness for a loss of life but a pang of nostalgia. That's how I felt when I heard about Chris Cornell's death.
The afternoon weather was rather relaxed. Rain cooled the air. We welcome this given what seemed like summer baking in infernal heat. Late lunch was made, served, had. Logged on to Netflix. Watched the stupid but nevertheless entertaining Stephen King novel-inspired Secret Window.
Peeked at Twitter (or returned to Twitter after a quick dip into life?). There the news was.
Whatever sadness I felt, it was directed towards the fans awaiting the band's next gigs. I know I can put myself in their shoes. I do love Soundgarden, though I may not have followed them as intently. Cornell's voice will remain — I don't see it within the context of gender or genre, it just is magnificent.
Naturally went on a binge—
My favorite
Quintessence of badassery
Missing this brand of loud
—Reminded of how grand, how badass Soundgarden and Chris Cornell were.
Many say the 90s is the best decade in music. We (didn't notice I typed 'we') had grunge, alternative, hip hop, the boybands and girl groups, and OPM going on; but I wasn't too conscious of it. Maybe because it wasn't that far from me yet, and because I am also genuinely enjoying the music today. Nineties Music hasn't 'been gone' to me. It's true, though. I listen to Sunshower, Like a stone, Spoonman, Blow up the outside world, Hunger Strike and how nice it is to hear those rough, heart-rending vocals, those drums and guitars again.
*
Update: Reports say Cornell's cause of death is suicide. Now I'm sad and mad.
The Dispossessed by Ursula K Le Guin is saying something important about man's proprietary interests. Printed in the back of my limited edition copy (bought it for the pretty cover design) is the quote, 'All you have is what you are, and what you give.' It reminds me of these words of wisdom (from the Disney cartoon, Committed), which has stuck with me ever since: 'What you have is not yours, what you give is yours.'
Ursula K Le Guind. The dispossessed.
New York: Harper Collins, 2015.
But I'm reading for the romance. By romance I mean this ideal relationship with a sexual component between two people.
I find the notion of ownership in romantic relationships barbaric. I confess, conquest is exhilarating — among all the women vying for his attention, he chooses me. I have made him mine. I, however, shiver with disgust whenever I think about myself or someone I love, like a friend or a relative, being 'owned' by someone else.
Whatever happens within the frame of this partnership must be set in motion, perpetuated and preserved by the partners, both.
Here's a passage better expressing the thought:
The language Shevek spoke, the only one he knew, lacked any proprietary idioms for the sexual act. In Pravic it made no sense for a man to say that he had "had" a woman... The usual verb, taking only a plural subject can be translated only by a neutral word like copulate. It meant something two people did, not something one person did, or had... Certainly he had felt that he owned Beshun, possessed her, on some of those starlit nights in the Dust. And she had thought she owned him. But they had both been wrong; and Beshun, despite her sentimentality, knew it; she had kissed him goodbye at last smiling, and let him go. She had not owned him. His own body had, in its first outburst of adult sexual passion, possessed him indeed—and her. But it was over with. It had happened. (p 53)
Le Guin's narration is at its most compelling during the characters' intimate encounters — whether sexual in nature or otherwise. My favorite has the protagonist Shevek arguing with one of his best friends, Bedap. They won't verbally reconcile in the scene, but the lateness of the hour pushes them to spend the night together. Melodramatic but well-executed.
They moved closer together. Shevek turned over onto his face and fell asleep within two minutes. Bedap struggled to hold on to consciousness, slipped into the warmth, deeper, into the defenselessness, the trustfulness of sleep, and slept. In the night one of them cried out aloud, dreaming. The other one reached his arm out sleepily, muttering reassurance, and the blind warm weight of his touch outweighed all fear. (pp 171 – 172)
This, from his wife, is a lesson on honoring a human being as a universe unto himself. It's a pleasure to recite and maybe what I will remember most from the book.
We came, Takver thought, from a great distance to each other. We have always done so. Over great distances, over years, over abysses of chance. It is because he comes from so far away that nothing can separate us. Nothing, no distances, no years, can be greater than the distance that's already between us, the distance of our sex, the difference of our being, our minds; that gap, that abyss which we bridge with the look, with a touch, with a word, the easiest thing in the world. Look how far away he is, asleep. Look how far away he is, he always is. But he comes back, he comes back, he comes back.... (p 321)
I have this playlist called 'Flavor of the now'. Title's self-explanatory, no? Songs there have a short shelf life. May, however, seems to be my new-music month. Two releases have blown my mind, a single by Ghastly and Matthew Koma and an LP from Ed Banger Records (on the 26th, Rita Ora is dropping Your song — but that's topic for later). My favorite artists are loving me back.
These tracks have been enjoying a longer run on FOTN. They're on repeat since Thursday (an advantage of living this side of the world is our Friday arrives earlier, so I got to sort of preview them); and are currently playing in the background as I type this.
1. We might fall – Ghastly, Matthew Koma
It's so simple and so direct. So clear in what it wants to say. I never really take lyrics seriously but this hits home. I knew it was good as I somewhat felt annoyed after a few listens.
Could you come a little closer but still keep your distance. I realize this is a cliché yet it's also not, because we don't say it out loud. The rest of the song is that — your fears of intimacy laid bare.
The structure is deceivingly thin and even, as well. Nothing much is going on until you're caught in layers and layers of sound. And feelings.
2. Mystery – Breakbot
Confession. Only reason I'm interested in 'Ed Rec 100' is Justice. Other than the duo, I only know Breakbot, Boys Noize, and very little of Sebastian, Busy P, and Mr Oizo.
So aside from the Randy remix, I checked out Breakbot's Mystery. Oh how he cheers me up with his groove. At first I was disapppointed to hear vocals, but as it progressed, I was smiling silly. It's disco perfection.
'Ed Rec 100', an album celebrating Ed Banger Records' 100th release.
Since the entire album was already available, I gave it a go. Now I understand why Ed Banger has such a loyal fanbase. The next couple of songs are from the same compilation celebrating the 100th release of the record label.
3. Genie – Busy P, Mayer Hawthorne
Am I listening to the chill, charming cousin of rock n' roll or what. I enjoy singing along with this one. Pop songs are overpowered by the pop star's voice (and personality); what I like about these electronic dance tracks is that the vocals complement every sonic element in the production.
And this line's cool: I know that you see me / You know that I see you, too. Yeah, I can relate. Coz I'm rock n' roll like that.
4. About it – Boston Bun, Steed
This one I want to hear, to experience in a nightclub — or a lounge?
To be super non-technical, the track is marked by yearning. The hook is all at once sexy, catchy, and emotional. Then there's this drop to make things interesting and extra dancy.
*
Sidenote: Speaking of favorite artists, Adam Anderson shared this letter on his birthday (May 14).
Over the weekend I saw two stage performances: one a preview, the other a premiere; one by a college drama guild, the other by a professional theater outfit. Both musicals, both tell familiar tales — one concerning politics, the other, religion.
The former, Lean; the latter, Godspell.
Lean: If all else fails, there’s music
Will Gary Granada please write more musicals?
The composer injects a dose of rock with patriotic élan into UP Naming Mahal that any listener, regardless of alma mater, will find a connection to the anthem. Without neglecting its humor, he turns the pejorative catchphrase ‘Only in the Philippines’ into a full-on critique of the national elections in Dito lang sa Pilipinas. These, along with other rousing Granada-penned songs, I heard at the concert preview of Lean last Friday.
Give 'Lean' a chance. Support these passionate students.
Lean is short for Leandro Alejandro, the name of prominent UP student and nationalist shot dead in 1987. The musical, which revolves around his activism, premiered in 1997 and featured OPM artists Chikoy Pura, Bayang Barrios, Cookie Chua, and Noel Cabangon. On May 12 and 13 at the Adamson University Theater, UP Manila Dramatista is staging Lean to commemorate Alejandro’s 30th death anniversary and, according to director Reachie de Leon, because the narrative bears repeating.
That last thought is saddening, if you were to ask Gary. ‘Walang nagbago. We fail as a generation to change things,’ he says. ‘I hope that my (political) songs no longer resonate. I hope that my corny love songs are the ones that last.’
Makes me think — maybe there’s a need to tell the same story in a different way. The less-than-an-hour sneak peek may not be a fair approximation of the entire production, but based on the few numbers UPMD presented, Lean appears like another cursory glance at Martial Law, at corruption and injustice.
What’s certain is: Gary’s songs will be worth the trip to Taft Avenue (UPMD was kind enough to provide a copy of the original cast recording). If the performers unleashed their vocal power and gave off an energy inherent in their youth (which were missing in the preview), then Lean could well be the entertaining, eye-opening musical it aims to be.
Godspell: Fun as it unfolds
Godspell is high school musical — first thing that popped in my head as soon as I stepped out of the theater. Onstage (and off, as they mingle with the crowd) are good-looking, multi-talented artists performing catchy tunes about something somewhat meaningful. I mean it’s JC and his parables told in succession, in a cool, silly, almost wild way.
Topper Fabregas didn’t hold back on the charm, effortlessly stealing scenes. Jef Flores as Jesus makes sense, but it’s his comedic chops that makes me a believer. Menchu Lauchengco-Yulo was being Menchu the whole time — brilliant. Myke Salomon (John the Baptist/Judas) and Lorenz Martinez were, to oversimplify, awesome. Caisa Borromeo seduced us. A ukulele-wielding Maronne Cruz rocked our world.
Really bad IG snap. 'Godspell' runs until May 21 at the Carlo P. Romulo Auditorium.
It was fun while it lasted. Once you cross the road, the spell — brought by the music, lights, set design, and the actors’ dynamism — is gone. Maybe a melody will linger, but the gags and (tired) lessons don’t invite revisiting. This is a show that preaches to the choir.
Which is not to say that non-Christians won’t enjoy the ride. They must prepare for minor discomforts, though. Hearing Jesus talk about God’s reward and punishment system, the verity of an afterlife might make them cringe, for example.
The best parts of the musical are those wherein the actors know that they are being funny. Because they let the audience in on the joke. The serious bits aren’t as effective — confusing to be precise. The drama towards the end, showing Jesus’ crucifixion, felt forced, like a jump in a plot that never existed to begin with. In a snap, Jesus was fine again and everyone’s back to singing in exaltation. I wanted to ask my seat mate what just happened but (believe it or not) he was dozing off! (I’m sure it wasn’t out of boredom, he probably had a long day.)
This star-studded cast (four of them earned Philstage Gawad Buhay citations the other night) is too bright for a dull material. But then I guess that’s what you’re paying for. To see the pros loosen up, exchange winks, and maybe high-five Judas during intermission.
