Songs of Ourselves

Words and Music through Love and Life

Part 2 of Series

Manoy Awel, our eldest brother, has had the biggest influence in each of us, his younger siblings. 

While brothers Ano and Alex strutted their way to get us equally break-dancing to Michael Jackson and his local copycats in the 1980s, Manoy’s influence in the rest of us, his siblings, is indispensable. Being the eldest, Manoy held the “official” possession of Mother’s pono (turntable) like the two Stone Tablets, where the songs being played later became the anthems among the siblings. 

On this portable vinyl record player, every one of us came to love the acoustic Trio Los Panchos, Mother’s favorite whose pieces did not sound different from her aunt, Lola Charing’s La Tumba number which she would sing during family reunions. 

In those days, Manoy would play Yoyoy Villame’s rpms alternately with (Tarzan at) Baby Jane’s orange-labeled “Ang Mabait Na Bata.” But it was the chorus from Neoton Familia’s “Santa Maria” which registered in my memory, one which chased me up to my high school years. 

Manoy’s pono music would last for a while until the time when there would be no way to fix it anymore. A story has been repeatedly told of how Manoy dropped the whole box when he was returning (or maybe retrieving) it from the tall cabinet where it was kept out of our reach. Here it is best to say that I remember these things only vaguely, having been too young to even know how to operate the turntable. 

Since then, we had forgotten already about the pono, as each of us, through the years, has gone one by one to Naga City to pursue high school and college studies.  

One day in November of 1987, Supertyphoon Sisang came and swept over Bicol. At the time, I was still in Grade 6 staying with Mother and brother Ano in our house in Banat; while my brothers and my sister were all studying in Naga.

The whole night, Sisang swooped over our house like a slavering monster, and in the words of our grandmother Lola Eta, garo kalag na dai namisahan (one condemned soul). The day before, we secured our house by closing our doors and windows. But the following morning, the jalousies were almost pulverized; the walls made of hardwood were split open; and the roofs taken out. But our house still stood among the felled kaimito, sampalok and santol trees across the yard.

Among other things, I remember brother Ano retrieving our thick collection of LP vinyl records. Most if not all of them were scratched, chipped and cracked. In a matter of one day, our vinyl records had been soaked and were rendered unusable. Ano, who knew art well ever since I could remember, cleaned them up one by one, salvaged whatever was left intact, and placed those on walls as decors. 

The 45 rpms and the LP circles looked classic like elements fresh out of a 1950s art deco. On the walls of our living room now were memories skillfully mounted for everyone’s recollection. And there they remained for a long time.

By this time, Mother had already bought a Sanyo radio cassette player which later became everyone’s favorite pastime.

Soon, Manoy would be glued to cassette tapes that he would regularly bring in the records of the 1980s for the rest of us. The eighties was a prolific era—it almost had everything for everyone. Perhaps because we did not have much diversion then, we listened to whatever Manoy listened to. On his boombox, Manoy played Pink Floyd, Depeche Mode, Heart, Sade, America and Tears for Fears, among a million others. Of course, this “million others” would attest to how prolific the 80s was.

In those days, Manoy recorded songs while they were played on FM radio stations. It was his way of securing new records; or producing his own music. Then he would play it for the rest of us. Music was Manoy’s way of cheering the household up—he played music when he would cook food—his perennial assignment at home was to cook the dishes for the family. 

Manoy loved to play music loud anytime and every time so that Mother would always tell him to turn the volume down. Most of the time, Manoy played it loud—so that we, his siblings, his captured audience in the household, could clearly hear the words and the melodies, cool and crisp.

While Mother and Manoy would always have to discuss about what to do about his loud records playing, we, the younger ones, would learn new sensibilities from the new sounds which we heard from the sound-box. We did not only sing along with the songs being played; we also paraded nuances from them which we made for and among ourselves. Out of the tunes being played and heard, we made a lot of fun; and even cherished some of them.

When we were very young, I remember hearing a cricket when Manoy played America’s “Inspector Mills” every night, which lulled my sister Nene and me to sleep. Nene and I asked him to play it all over again because we would like to hear the cricket again and again in the said song. (Later, I would be aware that it’s not only a cricket but also a police officer reporting over the radio.)

During those nights, Mama was expected to arrive late because she worked overtime at her father’s house that hosted Cursillo de Cristianidad classes, a three-day retreat seminar which the family committed to sponsor for the barangay Bagacay through the years.

Sometimes, it was just fine even if Mother was not there when we slept. At times, we knew she wouldn’t be able to return home for that weekend, so we were lulled to sleep in Manoy’s bed listening to America and his other easy-listening music. Because he played these songs for us, the lonely nights without Mother in our house were made bearable by Manoy Awel. 

When Manoy was not around or when I was left alone in the house, I would go to his room and play his records to my heart’s content. Because he would leave his other records at home, I equally devoured them without his knowledge. None of his mixed tapes escaped my scrutiny.

Through the years, Manoy would later be collecting boxes of recorded songs and later even sorting them according to artists and genres. 

 One day, I saw these recorded tapes labeled “Emmanuel” on one side and “Mary Ann” on the other. It wouldn’t be long when I learned that Manoy had found his better half, his own B side—in the person of Manay Meann, his future wife. 

Words and Worlds

There are moments when you recall some words you first heard when you were young; these words easily bring you back to the past. Whenever you get to encounter them again, you begin to picture people and places, faces and spaces; colors and presences. As if in a dream, these images pour onto your mind at random; sometimes from one face to another; from one place to another; from one scene to another.

You could do only this when you type away the keys: letter by letter, word by word, this daydreaming brings you to these spaces and faces; these times and places; these worlds. Through this daydreaming, which you do usually through the day, yourealize that they are worlds that you would want to rather be in again.

Jamboree. You have never been to an actual jamboree. Vaguely you recall one afternoon in grade school when your mother's Grade 6 pupils were being led by Mr. Domingo Olarve, the industrial arts teacher, to build tents and take part in varied group games, complete with teams and cheerleading. They even built a campfire toward the late night inside the grade school grounds. But you were hardly in school by then. Burubuglangan—that’s how they called you. You just tagged along your mother who was one of the teacher leaders then. It also refers to that kind of player in your games who was not considered an official opponent or competitor. Sort of like understudy—as you were barely 6 years old.

Some years later, when you stepped into the sixth grade yourself,you hardly had one. Probably because Mr. Olarve was now either un-motivated tolead the scouting activities for the school; or that you school principal Mr. Virgilio Abiada’s projects did not include the scouting for the students when October came. You never had jamboree even as you were constantly told that Ardo and Zarina, your cousins in Iriga, almost had it every year and even in their high school.

Timpalakan. You remember this word very well. Across the year, and even across your entire elementary school life, your teachers sought you to take part in an event in the district level—arts contest, essay writing contest and even quiz bees. In these activities, you never wondered why they would not get somebody else.

Bivouac. You first heard the term from your elder brothers Manoy, Ano and Alex, who went to the city trade school. In that school, your brothers had undergone bivouac, that you remember there was a time they could not shut their mouths about their own experiences. You thought it’s bibwak. Years later, youwould know the correct spelling and even encounter the same in one of the stories in the komiks which they asked you to rent from the Bago store downtown. It’s a French word,referring to a temporary camp or shelter. Ah, probably, their own version of summer camp. It must have been exciting.

Library. Back in college, whenever you were in the library, you searched for books dating back to the 1880s or earlier, those set in an old typeface,soft-bound and probably published before 1970s. 

You were excited if you happened to find one by an author whose love for nature was clear in his works. These kinds of books were very difficult for you to find; but you really allotted time to look for them. In a week, you would be able to borrow at least one which you would reserve to read for the weekend.Then come Monday, you would be refreshed, as if nothing bad happened on your Sunday morning’s ROTC drills in the school grounds.

Leo Tolstoy’s diaries, Oscar Wilde’s De Profundis, F. Sionil Jose, Nick Joaquin, or sometimes poetry in the Philippines Free Press magazine or Bikol poems in Kinaadman—you  loved to read them, copy them in your notebook, put some drawings along with the excerpts from a book.

Doing all these made your day—some of them you shared with your sister,your close friend, your teachers; and your significant other. At the time, you had felt fortunate because there were many, many good books in the library.

Among others, it always thrilled you to read short, powerful verses.Some of them answered your questions; others rid you of confusion. Some cleared your mind; and about a few spoke to you loud; spoke to you hard: “We are/Leaves on Life’s tree/And Death is the wind/that shakes the branches/Gently till its leaves/All fall” (“Death” by Herminio Beltran, pre-war Filipino poet).