All the Sadness in the World

I first heard of the Irish singer Dolores O’Riordan as a college freshman when CJ, a classmate who adores all kinds of music, particularly female pop artists, made a mixtape for me of the alternative rock band The Cranberries. CJ recorded for me “Linger,” “Dreams” and some choice tracks from their “No Need to Argue” album, including “I Can’t Be with You,” “Empty” and “Ridiculous Thoughts.” The latter also featured young actor Elijah Wood on MTV. At the time, alternative music dominated both radio and TV, giving us more choices besides the clichéd popular tunes. It was a great time to be alive: alternative music straddling both pop and rock were in, both here and abroad. But more than anything, alternative music simply meant a different sound. Different meant new. Different meant fresh. I first heard “Linger” on DWEB-FM, the local rock station where I would find myself working as a DJ years later. It's a slow tune lamenting the infidelity of one’s beloved. I liked its unhurried rhythm; the song makes you take it easy and imagine lazy afternoons. But I think it is O’Riordan’s keening voice that makes the song last. Her background vocals sounds sadder than the deep, sad voice singing the lyrics, which makes it more appealing. It is her grieving voice that makes it worth listening to. Besides this, I suppose it’s the repetitive “Do you have to let it linger? Do you have to, do you have to, do you have to let it linger?” that really makes the song “linger.” Listening to the radio, it was also hard for me to resist humming along with her singing “Dreams,” especially the last part, which stands out even with the African background vocals and instruments: Laaaaaa laaaaa la la la laaaa laaaaaa; laaaaaa laaaaa la la la laaaa laaaaaa; laaaaaa laaaaa la la la laaaa laaaaaa:” These are the parts that would last in your head. Through my equally fanatic cousin Jokoy, I learned more about the Cranberries: O’Riordan, the Hogan brothers and Fergal Lawler. The band projected restrained, generally discontented youth minus the sloppy outfits of the grunge artists. I found their packaging consistent with their music, particularly Dolores’s vocals, not only “linger”-ing but poignant and especially affecting. Two years later, I would publish a review of their “To the Faithful Departed” album for the short-lived Bikol Daily. Writing the review in 1996, I was drawn not to the more popular hits “When You’re Gone” or “Free to Decide” but rather to the more elegiac “Joe” and “Cordell,” tributes to the countless nameless victims of the much-publicized Bosnian war in Bosnia-Herzegovina (Sarajevo) in the mid-1990s. To understand the voice of O’Riordan and the band Cranberries is to understand where the group are coming from. They have lived in a war-worn Ireland which normally inspires artists to harp not anymore on the personal issues but also the more serious, bigger themes like war and death. Departing from the hackneyed themes of love, their songs advocate something bigger than the self. The lyrics of “Free to Decide” speak of a person's right to expression or freedom of choice, while “Zombie” immortalizes the tragedy of war, lamenting that: “It’s the same old theme, since 1916. In your head, in your head, they’re still fighting… in your head, in your head, they are dying…” Then, watching “Animal Instinct” in 2003, an upbeat piece featuring her beautiful, more mature voice which now sounded almost like Karen Carpenter’s, I was drawn to the music video depicting a mother’s separation from her children and the her innate nature to protect them. If at all, O’Riordan was one of the influences predating the "emo" generation; her voice is predominantly sad, what with all the songs she made popular with The Cranberries. If not about broken relationships or deaths in war-torn Europe, their music, , especially her voice, laments all the sadness in the world. I must have even typecast her and the band as “sad-sounding singers” especially when later, more positive pieces like “Analyse” or “Just My Imagination” came out in early 2000s. Not only that I could hardly relate to their happier expressions; I now found her cheerful voice hardly believable. Despite the happier tune it had, her voice was always sad to me. Nevertheless, it amazes me how Dolores O’Riordan’s voice has become iconic, probably cutting across social classes. I think “Zombie,” “Ode to My Family” and their early hits “Linger” and “Dreams” enjoyed much airplay over the local FM radio, so that they became anthems of probably most listeners. Consider the song “Zombie,” which, like “Ode to My Family” or “When You’re Gone,” is now a staple song in any videoke songs list or probably any local karaoke bar, with its signature yodelling, “eehh eehh eehh ooohh ooohh ooohh ooohh ooohh ooohh ooohh eeehh aahh aahh aahh.” With all these pieces, it would be hard to forget so much sadness in ourselves and in the world. O’Riordan’s voice sings our restrained, sad selves; her voice is primarily ours, not only belaboring all its maladies, but also grieving life’s tragedies. Even her first name, “Dolores,” comes to me now as consistent with her voice. It comes from the word “Dolor,” meaning “painful grief”; the word dolorous as an adjective also means “showing sorrow”. So there: her name and her voice are one and the same. However, what is appealing in Dolores O'Riordan and The Cranberries is how they have turned bitter personal and social experiences into beautiful anthems not only of death and loss but also of healing, of life and gain. Her beautiful voice is grieving but it also evokes hope and the capacity to move on. The news of her death doubtless surprised me, but it only rather made me think that the songs, which strike a chord in most of us who grew up in the 90s, will linger even after she’s gone. Her songs—I mean, her voice—will remind me of the sadness of life, but also of the necessity of grief, which I suppose can help me weather the tragedies of life. #ripdolores #doloresoriordan #cranberries

Second-rate, Trying-hard

Joey Ayala at Cafe Terraza, Roxas City, Capiz

ROXAS CITY—Wala nang original sa mga Pilipino artist ngayon. Pare-pareho na lang ang tunog nila; gaya-gaya lang sila. This was the essence of what Joey Ayala said during my conversation—well, informal interview—with him in October last year here.

The Mindanao-born artist also known as the “Karaniwang Tao” (from one of his hit songs ) was hinting at the consciousness of the Filipino music artists nowadays —and how their work is rather determined by Western influences. 

Through the auspices of the Capiz Provincial Tourism and Affairs Office (PTCAO) headed by Mr. Alphonsus Tesoro​, I had the chance to personally meet with Ayala during the Heritage Camp sponsored by Capiz PTCAO. And as per Tesoro, with the assistance of the National Commission for Culture and the Arts (NCCA), Capiz had the chance to see Joey Ayala for the second time.

Speaking before some 300 student participants at the Capiz National High School during the students semestral break, Ayala practically brought the house down with his rapport with the young learners and leaders who represented their respective municipalities across the province. 

Among other things, Ayala underscored how a nation’s history, heredity, culture, lifestyle and a sense of identity give rise or bear on the consciousness of the individual. For him, the consciousness of the Filipino is determined by his present dispositions acquired gradually through a generation of cultural influences.

In other words, the way we think is influenced by what only prevails in our culture and environment. So, if a Filipino child has long been taught that commodities from the United States are “original’ and therefore “cool” while all products made in the Philippines are “local,” such consciousness will hardly change in his lifetime. He will grow up looking to, patronizing and, yes, worshipping anything that is estetsayd (State-side).

So shouldn't we wonder why many Filipinos would love to pursue their own American dream? For one, not too many in our batch in high school remained in our locality. Subconsciously, it has been made clear that to be successful is to go out of the hometown and make it big in the bigger city where supposedly all the perks of t

echnology; a promising, high-paying job; a successful career; and probably a better life await.

As for the Filipino music artists, Ayala’s claim at the beginning of this piece rings true, indeed, even as growing up, we have come to hear our very own Filipino singers being carbon copies of the Western sensibility.

Upon hearing Ayala’s verdict, I easily recalled how my own favorite alternative bands Cueshe, Hale and a host of similar other bands who rose to prominence in the Tunog Kalye scene in 2000s, indeed, only resonated the vocals and acoustics of Creed, 3 Doors Down, and what-have-you.

You also have the likes of Arnel Pineda and Jovit Baldovino being hailed for singing just like Journey’s Steve Perry and other rock artists who could reach high notes. I also recall hearing over an FM station eons ago how Ilonggo Jose Mari Chan is said to be the Cliff Richard of the Philippines—because of his balladeer sensibility.

I also recall reading one review in the Philippine Collegian back in the 1990s, saying how Cookie Chua’s then-upcoming group Color It Red sounds very much like Natalie Merchant’s 10,000 Maniacs. 

Later I would read about Gary Valenciano being our very own Michael Jackson, owing to the dance moves of the perennial superstar; Regine Velasquez belting it out like Mariah Carey—though the latter later referred to the former as “A BROWN MONKEY WHO CAN SING;” then the list goes on.

I also recall my high school classmates Alfredo and Delfin (who are Roxette and Madonna die-hards, respectively) constantly berated the musical pieces of Original Pilipino Music (OPM) artists who, along with their U.S. Billboard chartmakers, also enjoyed airtime on FM radio stations at the time.

Talk of colonial mentality at its worst—talk of Western parameters always being used to critique Filipino artistry and originality.

So, are contemporary Filipino music artists, indeed, unoriginal—only rather best at copying what they hear? Or is their mentality so westernized already that they cannot help but sound like anything they hear from other countries—especially United States? Is it our consciousness that is so jaded enough to not anymore believe in what the Filipino artist can achieve?

My brief conversation with Joey Ayala has not given me answers; it only raised more questions.

Songs of Ourselves

Words and Music through Love and Life

Part 4 of Series

Besides my other brothers, Mentz has influenced my penchant for music, even as he has wonderfully sung and danced his way through love and life. 

Though he was not much of a child performer himself, he later has taken to the family program stage like a natural, class act as he has done to presiding matters for (the rest of) our family.

Years ago, I called him to be the Speaker of the House—i.e. our household—because he has hosted and also literally presided our family (gatherings) since 1996. One with a quiet and unassuming disposition, Mentz has always taken to the microphone as if it’s public performance.

Through the years, Mentz has been trained to become a very good public performer. At the Ateneo high school, he led the Citizens Army Training (CAT) Unit’s Alpha Company, a well-respected group finely chosen to parade to give glory to Ina (Our Lady of Peñafrancia) in September in Naga City.

Then in college, Mentz did not only win a Rotary-sponsored oratorical contest; he also served as junior representative in the college student council. And before graduating in 1994, he won a graduate scholarship at the University of the Philippines where he would later obtain his graduate degree. And because he went to Manila all ahead of us, I always thought he has been exposed to the world way before his time.  

In the late 80s and early 90s when he was making the transition from being a high school achiever to a college heartthrob at the Ateneo, Mentz played Kenny Rogers and Tom Jones on Manoy’s cassette tape. Sweet sister Nene and I would always joke at how he covered a singer's song better than the singer himself.

In those days, he deftly worded the first lines of “Ruby, Don’t Take Your Love to Town” as he cleverly impersonated the speaker in “The Gambler”—sounding more Kenny Rogers than the bearded country singer himself: "on a warm summer's evenin, on a train bound for nowhere..." For us, his siblings, no one did it better than Mentz. Not even Kenny Rogers.

Perhaps because I listened to him passionately crooning away Tom Jones’ “Without Love” that I also heard the lyrics of that song after the overnight vigil of the Knights of the Altar inside Room 311 of Santos Hall. I thought I was dreaming but it was in fact Mentz’s tape playing on my classmate Alfredo Asence’s cassette player. Truth be told, I could not do away with the passionate singing that I had carted away Mentz’s tape for that one sleepover in the Ateneo campus.

In 1995, Mentz brought Enya’s “The Celts” and Nina Simone’s collection to our new household in Mayon Avenue. He bought these tapes to fill in the new Sony component secured from Mama’s retirement funds. Most songs of these women sounded morbid but I loved them. Because I so much liked the voice that came and went in Enya’s “Boadicea,” I played it the whole day on my Walkman (which Mentz kindly lent to me) while writing my thesis on F. Sionil Jose’s Rosales saga.  

In early January of 1996, Mother would pass away.

When I played Nina Simone’s “Black is the Color of My True Love’s Hair” one night during mother’s wake, one of my brothers asked me to turn it off. Perhaps it was too much for him to take. That black woman’s voice was too much to bear. But away from people, listening to these women’s songs did not only help me finish my paper; it also helped me grieve. 

Among others, Mentz adored Paul Simon’s “Graceland.” Because this was the time before Google could give all the lyrics of all songs in the world, Mentz knew the words to the song by listening to cousin Maida’s tape many times through the day. While every piece in the collection is a gem, “Homeless” struck a chord in me that years later, I would use it to motivate my high school juniors to learn about African culture and literature. Talk of how the South African Joseph Shabalala's soulful voice struck a (spinal) chord in both of us.

Years later, when we were all working in Manila, I heard him singing Annie Lennox’s “Why” and miming Jaya singing “Laging Naroon Ka.” At the time, I could only surmise that he was humming away his true love and affection which he found with his beloved Amelia, a barangay captain’s daughter whom he married in 2001.

With my sister Nene, the household of Mentz and Amy in Barangay San Vicente in Diliman would become our refuge in the big city. Though Nene and I worked and lived separately from them, it was where we gathered in the evening as a family. Even as Mentz and Amy gradually built their own family, their growing household has become our own family. Through years, it has not only become the fulcrum of our solidarity; it has also become the core of our own sensibility.

Many times, I would be told how Amy and Mentz would go gaga over live musical performances by their favourite local and foreign singers. Once they told me how they enjoyed the concert of Michael Bolton, whom the couple both loved. I would later learn that Amy had a very good collection of Bolton’s albums from “Soul Provider” to the greatest hits collection. I wouldn’t wonder about it even as I have always liked the white man’s soulful rendition of Roy Orbison’s “A Love So Beautiful” since the first time I heard it. (But I think I wouldn’t trade off the Roy Orbison original.)

Years have gone by fast, and three children have come as blessings to Mentz and Amy. Once I heard him singing with his firstborn Ymanuel Clemence singing Creed’s “With Arms Wide Open,” indeed their anthem to themselves. Yman, now a graduating high school senior, has likewise taken to performing arts as a guitarist and an avid singer of alternative rock and pop. Mentz’s firstborn is one soul conceived by his father’s love for lyrics and heartfelt melodies and his mother’s love for Michael Bolton and a host of many other soulful sensibilities.

With Yman, and now Yzaak and Yzabelle, their vivo grade-schoolers (like the rest of today’s youth who can hardly wait to grow up) singing the words of Daft Punk and Pharell Williams from the viral downloads on YouTube, this tradition of song and sense and soul is subtly being passed on, with each of us now and then singing our own ways through joy, through love and through life.

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. 

My Christmas Rack

Songs They Sing for The Son 

“Sing a song of gladness and cheer!/for the time of Christmas is here!” sings Jose Mari Chan, in his all-time favorite anthology “Christmas in Our Hearts” (1990). Very well, these words spell my mood, inspired by listening to these heart warmers in my Christmas collection. 

Through the years of Christmas celebrations, holidays and December vacations, I acquired them. Every year, I have continually appreciated what they offer to the soul. They share grace and joy to whoever can listen to them. How these albums got into my rack or how I got these masterpieces I have yet to recall.

But regardless of their history and motivations, in all their original selections and covers of traditional songs—they offer one and the same message— ceremoniously and soulfully they pay tribute to Baby Jesus, the Lord of All.

Bonding with the Boy

98 Degrees, "This Christmas," MCA Universal, 1998

Boy band, boy bond—whatever term you use, Nick Lachey and his friends give us all the reasons to celebrate Christmas as they render cool covers to most traditional Christmas carols like “Silent Night,” “O Holy Night,” “God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen,” and “Little Drummer Boy.” Here, they hardly resemble NKOTB, evading the boy band image by hitting notes that spell sweet things like “mistletoe” and “chestnuts roasting on an open fire.” The solos in some songs display vocalization and rhythmic intonations that remind us of more solemn choirs in churches. Surely, such style does not fail to send shivers from the spine to the soul.

Little Redeemer Boy

Glenn Medeiros, "The Glenn Medeiros Christmas Album: Recorded in Hawaii," Amherst Records, 1993

This 90s Leif Garrett is more than a heartthrob when he croons way, way beyond his pretty-boy image. When he reaches high notes, he is surely pop. He sounds like a lad who has seen the Baby Jesus so he doesn’t need to act silly—he just sings holy. His “Feliz Navidad” and “Ave Maria” are choice cuts, baring innocence and jolliness in varying degrees. He does away with his shrill voice when he allows the instruments to do it for him—he focuses on hitting the emotional rises of the lyrics to render a slightly pop finish. In all, Hawaii-born Medeiros’ almost girlish voice makes recalling the Nativity a simply light moment—just like the playful child Who shall redeem us from our lack, or utter loss of innocence.

Persons are Gifts are Instruments

Ken Navarro, "Christmas Cheer," Galaxy Records, 1996

This virtuoso acoustic guitarist offers an alternative way to remember our salvation. It sets your Christmas mood through an instrumental overload—with some traditional songs like “Angels We Have Heard on High” and “Silent Night” as choice pieces. Listening to Navarro’s one-of-a-kind strummings may tell us that salvation—by the Holy Child—need not be brought about by pain and suffering [like rock or harsh or hard sentiment]. Rather Christmas is all about cheer. With Navarro’s work, Christmas has never been so jazz, light and easy. For sure, you would want to play this bunch before you go to that Christmas party in which you’d render a surprise lousy fox trot number for all of them to see!

Cowboy Christmas

Randy Travis, "An Old Time Christmas," Warner, 1989

You would easily know how an ordinary Christmas carol sounds—but add to it some cowboy or any colloquial twang, then you get Randy Travis. But you do—not just for nothing. Here is one cowboy—whose stereotyped licentious lifestyle may tell you otherwise, whose pieces might ring a bell because they match with those of other CMT favorites—Travis Tritt, Allison Krauss or Garth Brooks. With this album, Travis proves that something more can be done beyond saddles and stall. He lets loose his soul when he chants both holy and hallowed. While his “Winter Wonderland” may perfectly fit the Marlboro ad in Time’s December issue, his reconstructed “Oh What A Silent Night” allows the guitar to sway the thoughts of the soul lulled to slumber. This cowboy’s treatment of traditional songs affords us easy cool and listening that can make us even remark oddly, as “Cowboys have Christmas too!"

Rebels We’ve Heard On High

Various Artists, "Christmas on the Rocks," Viva Records, 1994

This album hit the stands during the grunge and rock era—a time when anxiety and discord were the heyday. It gathered mostly artists and rockers who were perhaps angry at how Christmas was usually celebrated. Featuring covers of songs composed by National Artist Levi Celerio and other traditional Filipino compositions, it portrays and documents the consciousness of a more realistic Christmas, at least as defined by Filipino experience. For one, Sandugo’s “Pasko ng Mahirap, Pasko ng Mayaman” sings away a social realist stance—perhaps a self-talk on the part of the oppressed class who claims it’s also Christmas in their part of the world, despite their poverty and forlorn state [or even state of mind]. 

While DJ Alvaro’s “Gabing Tahimik” is a more soulful rendition of ”Silent Night,” which hit playlists and charts in 1990s, Ang Grupong Pendong’s “Ang Pasko Ay Sumapit” completes this collection to compose a sort of a Lino Brocka’s counterpart opus—it collectively makes a statement on the dismal social realities brought on to Filipinos at Christmas. You may not necessarily be one of those donning a cheap Che Guevarra T-shirt to appreciate its message; but one’s own salvation, according to the album, is simply working for social justice—and all it entails.

True, my collection is not the one you may have to die for—it is neither hard-to-find, for these artists are not as popular as, say, Ray Conniff and his singers, Chipmunks, Destiny’s Child, Frank Sinatra or even Nat King Cole. Yet, in this season of cheer and giving, their music all the same strikes chords in my heart and mind; when I play them,  I do not fail to realize all of mankind intensely desires to share the innocence, the joy, and the promised redemption by the Holy Child.

Good news from heaven the angels bring,

glad tidings to the earth they sing:

to us this day a child is given,

to crown us with the joy of heaven.

                                                      ~Martin Luther