Dispatch from Manila: Songs of the City

A ten-hour flight from Honolulu to the Philippines translates into a quantum leap from Monday morning to Tuesday evening. In this way, Manila is light-hours ahead of any U.S. city.

Upon your return, you will notice that Manila is a city of noise. The early morning moans of cranes building the latest high-rises. The incessant honking of cars to signal a quick movement, a disagreement, or the recognition of one’s existence. The loud rumble of train tracks above and the tiny voices and large, open palms of pleading beggars from below. These sounds become that much clearer as you try to read Jean-Luc Nancy’s “Listening” on this journey. He instructs you that listening is not just about turning the ear outwards but, also, the turning yourself inwards required so that sounds resonate. You decide that the only way to keep sane in Manila is to deploy this active listening. You sharpen your skills of tuning in and tuning out when necessary.


In the midst of all this cacophony, it’s no wonder that what is pumped out of speakers in taxi cabs and malls in this country are the sounds of soft rock (what scholar/musician Theo Gonzales and theatre artist Allan Manalo dub “the ubiquitous slow jam” and what DJ Un-G and Rani D lovingly refer to as “yacht rock”). The sounds of soft rock not only invoke the archipelagic propensity for sentimentality or are symptomatic of its throwback tendencies, the sounds of soft rock cushion one from the grueling noises that signal a seeming progress and the harsh demands of tropical heat, smog, and urban life. It’s the old De Barge melody that transports me, KT, and Kangagi from our teenage suburban bedrooms to that epic cross-town ride from Divisoria to Makati. It’s the lilting and haunting message from the 1990s Pinoy rock powerhouse, The Eraserheads – an uplifting anthem for the people of this island nation, the musical ethos of those who have too little and know too much.





Just like theory, songs travel. Like that sensual 1980s slow jam, “Careless Whisper.” Previously linked to its famous singer’s notorious escapades, it arose again and penetrated the ears of Filipinos through its repetitive referencing of the Hayden Kho-Katrina Halili sex tape. Despite and through the drama of sex, lies, and videotapes, we stole dance moves (an island instantiation of the insta-snake), fashion (red bandanas), and mottos ("ooh la la" and “sizzling hot!”) which we recreated on VIP dance floors at Ascend, karaoke band stages at Mag:net, and brunches in Quezon City apartments. That well-known lick of crotchy chords famously played on a solo saxophone were dropped, like a DJ inserts a break, into band sets and warm-ups from the indie rock stage at Ortigas Metrowalk's Fete de la Musique to the cavernously intimate playing area of Katipunan’s Route 196. Each time we heard it, each time it was played, we understood it to be a tongue-in-cheek sonic reference to the absurdity of Philippine politics and cultural life.

Careless Whisper - George Michael


When you are a female music critic, you also take songs along with you. You put them on, as ATV brilliantly describes, like the armor you need to get through a day, a sonic force shield of sorts. Like the recent female empowerment offering from Beyonce (made known to me by Rin on the Rox’s pared down, a capella rendition), “If I Were a Boy.” The melody and title lyrics echo in heavy rotation in your head while you avoid eye contact walking down Makati streets or refrain from too much conversation in late-night solitary cab rides or even when just choosing outfits for that day’s jaunt, that evening’s show.

If I were a boy even just for a day
I'd roll out of bed in the morning
And throw on what I wanted
And go drink beer with the guys

And chase after girls
I'd kick it with who I wanted
And I'd never get confronted for it
'Cause they stick up for me




But travel and research is always a two-way pedagogical experience. I learned that being asked each time I arrived alone at a show— “Sino ang kasama mo?” (Who did you come with?)—does not always signal patriarchy or women’s limited social mobility. What it more often gestures towards is the strength of the Filipino social formation—the barkada, or crew. I learned that the directives from Q-Feel’s “Dancing in Heaven” fit perfectly with the tempo of life in Manila, what some might call polyrhythms, as most un-American people know how to keep moving even when life and cars and other people switch their days’ rhythm on them. Slow, slow, quick, quick, slow.

Dancing in Heaven - Q-Feel



No proper way of ending, since this trip is only a beginning…Salamat na lang kay The Diegos (Diyegs and DMaps), Raimund Marasigan, Myrene Academia, Sandwich, Mikey Amistoso, El Bee, Zack Linmark, and Quark Henares for helping me to listen and learn.

Here, a few summer favorites from the streets, bars, and clubs of The Fort, Cubao, Quezon City, and Ortigas that I continue to keep in my musical pocket, for safe keeping. The first - a literal sonic mapping of the city of Manila (from Pedicab, the band that brings you the 45-minute megamix set). The second - a dark and funny noir-ish tribute to dead milkmen (from Ciudad, the band you can check out in New York in Oct/Nov 2009). The third - another artsy and upbeat video about friendship and life's trips (from Bagetsafonik, the band that brings the melodica back in full effect). The fourth - a geometrical journey around Manila's Global City guided by my newest favorite female vocalist, Sarah Marco (from the director that brings the best of David Lynchian aesthetics to Philippine film and the band, Taken by Cars). Enjoy! - CBB