I'm not infallible. Omniscient. An expert on all things Pinoy Rock. I'm not a voice in the wilderness…screaming at metaphorical windmills in some quixotic fashion. An amateur proselytizer, preaching from the virtual pulpit of cyberspace. A zealot. And, no…I am NOT a spokesman. Not even for saGuijo.

What I am, my friends, is a student of the game. An adherent. A simple fan. And I have been one for over fifteen years now. But you know what? I'm tired

I'm tired of how bands, who work so fucking hard, never seem to be able to make a decent living doing what they love. I'm weary of their fair-weather "friends"…with their Janus-faced promises of "undying support." Only to abandon their one-time heroes with cries of "sell-out" at the mere WHIFF of commercial success. I'm distrustful of the all-powerful Record Companies…business-minded leviathans who NOT ONLY fail to meet the demand for copies…but also DROP their artists at the slightest hint of sporadic sales figures. I'm irritated with the mainstream co-opting our little corner of the "industry"…assimilating OUR songs and absorbing OUR aesthetics. Repackaging it as something "safe" and "acceptable" for the masses to consume on any number of noon-time shows. A caricature of our beliefs. A perversion of our ideals. And I am sick…so goddamned sick…of our fractured, factionalized "scene." The in-fighting. The pettiness. The elitism. The chismis. The backstabbing. Like an Ouroboros, we always…ALWAYS…consume ourselves in a frenzy of unfulfilled potential and cyclical self-destruction. We don't need someone to come along and destroy what we stand for. We do that all by ourselves.

Year in. Year out. Over…and over…and over…and over.

But all is not lost. At least, not YET. For it is also said that with every problem, there is a solution. We just have to take a step back and put things in perspective. Because here's the thing we ALL have to accept. We live in an age where grand, revolutionary gestures often compound, rather than alleviate, pre-existing ills. There is no quick-fix. No miracle elixir to remedy what ails us. These cure-alls are nothing but cleverly conceived band-aids that serve only one purpose: to shut us up until the next crisis emerges. You might as well plug a leaky dam with your fucking pinky. What we need now, more than ever, is ingenuity. Small steps. A series of simple actions that, when done on a MASS level, WILL and CAN help our "alternative" community flourish. Quite a number of the original Guijo crowd have ALREADY cottoned on to what I'm talking about…so I must beg for their indulgence with this little essay of mine. But for those of you who haven't…

…I may not know very much…but I DO know THIS…

1. Be a GOOD fan.
I know it's easy. I know it's tempting. But do not, I repeat, DO NOT purchase PIRATED OPM CDs…or even file-share on your PCs. I am ALL too aware that money is tough these days. But dig this. If a supergroup like Sandwich can admit that they struggle to push 20,000 copies per album, how much more difficult do you think it is for little Indie bands? Your average CD costs anything between 250 to 350 pesos. What percentage of that do you think the individual musicians actually receive? A pittance, right? Now take that paltry sum AWAY from their pockets because that is PRECISELY what you will do by buying "fakes." You are, straight up, STEALING something people have slaved over. I don't know about you but I don't need to carry that on MY conscience. Think of it as an investment. An original pressing sounds INFINITELY better than a counterfeit. This isn't LIKE Art. IT IS ART. Treat it with the same respect.

Having acquired the new record, GO that step further. Instead of spending the night catatonic in front of the idiot box, get a bunch of friends and haul ass to your favored band's next performance. Doesn't matter where you live…there are a TON of venues all over the metropolis anyway. You don't need ME to tell you how fun a gig can be.

Impressed by the show? Then say so! Cyberspace is a vast, largely uncharted territory where the humblest of us are free to give voice to our thoughts. And advertise upcoming events. You may not be an aspiring Shakespeare. You may not be even able to string two coherent sentences together. But you'd be surprised at how a simple, "OMFG…they so RAWK my stripey socks off," can resonate throughout the Internet. If yer lucky, you might even end up like Cris Ramos. Someone who, I BELIEVE, is the ULTIMATE "superfan." A "professional" gig-goer who, by sheer chutzpah (and hard work), has managed to make a CAREER out of airing his opinions. BLOG TRUTHFULLY. BLOG HARD. BLOG OFTEN.

2. Build a "Street Team" for your favorite band.
A thankless job…to be sure. But if you are really a devotee, you won't hesitate to spend a bit of spare time putting your talent and skill in service of a preferred group. Start small. Pick up the phone and pester…that's right…PESTER your local radio station to play the latest single. Get the brush-off? Ask a bunch of buddies to do the same thing. DJ claims he doesn't have a copy? Get over there and PHYSICALLY give them YOUR copy. The songs are in your I-Pod anyway. What's the big deal?

Got a spare hundred bucks, a pair of scissors, some Elmer's, a shitload of old magazines and a few sheets of paper lying around? Go online to figure out when and where your idols are playing next. Since you're there already, you might as well send a mass e-mail to everyone in your address book. And then sit back and let the creative juices flow! Punk Rock/Do-It Yourself style collage fliers! Take your masterpiece and find the nearest photocopy machine. Print up what you can afford. Wander through your school/mall and SUBTLY hand out your work to people who LOOK like they might be interested. Learn from our forefathers. This is how the "Old Skool" did it, kids.

Still want to do more? Get in close with your school's student council. Or, better yet, JOIN your student council. Come up with a proposal. Convince your dean that a mini-concert by your chosen artist at the next school event is a "good" idea. That they ARE worth the money "in the interest of promoting local art and culture." Or something like that. Keep your fingers crossed and let the sparks fly. Congratulations. You are now, officially, an amateur concert promoter.

3. Create your own production company.
It really isn't as hard as it sounds. Don't be shy. These bands…even pseudo-gods like Raimund Marasigan or Mong Alcaraz…are flesh-and-blood, human beings just like you. If you approach them with a clear statement of intent…a salary/profit sharing plan…a list of several other interested artists willing to participate…and the passion to back it all up…they WON'T laugh in your face. What's the worst that can happen? An abrupt "no?" But don't get carried away. This isn't Lollapalooza and you are not Perry Farrell…YET. I suggest a lineup of three upcoming groups and two headliners. With your roster in place, shop around for interested venues and strike a deal with the owners. Iron out scheduling conflicts…advertise… and make it happen. Your cellphone will most CERTAINLY get a workout. But guess what? You can, at last, call yourself a "production manager." A mover and shaker. An insider. An integral part of our industry. COMMUNICATE. COORDINATE. COALESCE.

4. Start your own Indie label.
Definitely NOT for everyone. Very few of us can even DREAM of doing this. Still…maybe some of you reading are ready to throw down and jump into the financial abyss. Tired of the corporate rat-race? Inherited an obscene amount of money from a deceased relative? Or are you merely bored…dissatisfied…and ready to do something "different" with your life? Subvert the major labels by starting your own.

A certain technical know-how with regards to the recording process is definitely a plus. Bluntly put, though, you can HIRE people to do that kind of thing. If you're rolling in the dough, ask Louie Talan or Shinji Tanaka as they are generally considered to be two of the best in the biz. Don't skimp on the equipment. Buy time at a studio that takes pride in its facilities. And don't be afraid to re-record…scrapping entire days of work if necessary. You can't put a price on quality workmanship. Money talk aside, though, what you REALLY need is good, eclectic taste…an eye for talent…and foresight. Dude…for all the laudatory praises I can write about Terno Recordings, what you NEED to remember is that Toti Dalmacion was…and IS…a Music fan, first and foremost.

Don't have that kind of financial firepower? RENT. The better rehearsal studios have the capability to record live. And I highly doubt that your would-be stable of Rock stars don't ALREADY have their own instruments. Just make sure the engineer looks like he knows what he's doing. Demo in hand, sit yourself in front of the PC. Apple, for example, has several wonderful programs that will allow you to digitally manipulate pre-recorded sounds. And blank CDs are cheap. Press as many copies as you can. Design an insert. Sell online or at gigs…and PRESTO! You are now the impresario of your very own fledgling Indie label. Granted, your product may sound like nothing but a glorified demo…but hey…even The Eraserheads had to start SOMEWHERE, right?

5. Establish Your Own Bar.
I'm not saying this to scare off future competition. Hell…I think the "practical" side of Angelo will KILL me for even putting the idea in any of your heads! I'll go ahead and say it anyway. If you have the bank account…a complete absence of the prerequisite spark required to set the world on fire with your creativity…but your years working for 'the Man' has given you a distinct acumen with Economics…well…bite the bullet. Open your own venue. Trust me when I say, though, that this is where it will get REALLY complicated. As is often the case when the Business world and the Art world collide.

To run a fairly successful Rock Club, you will need three special personality quirks. An unwavering sense of purpose. A rock-hard set of balls. And a certain recklessness. As professional Poker players say, "you don't gamble with scared money." Because that's what this venture is…a total and utter crapshoot. You constantly worry whether monthly profit margins are enough to keep you afloat. You agonize if bands will continue to work with you. You show up early…wondering if this…THIS is the night…when NOBODY will show up. And you wake up the next morning wondering if it's still worth it.

Decided that you can live in a perpetual state of anxiety? Start conceptualizing. Who are you? What do you stand for? Plan well. Make sure you scope out a location that performers and patrons can get to relatively easily. Secure the necessary permits from city hall. The red tape may take a while to penetrate…but proper licenses are a MUST. Renovate. And I'm not talking about the façade or interior decoration. I'm talking BASICS here. If your place doesn't AT LEAST have one working bathroom and adequate ventilation to sustain human life, you're screwed. TRAIN your staff well. Nobody likes incompetence. And network, network, network. But don't go to another bar and poach their clientele. OR their bands. BUILD YOUR OWN FOLLOWING.

Most importantly, don't lose sight of WHO you're doing this FOR. The Musicians. Make sure everything is on the level. That they know EXACTLY what kind of flat fee they are being paid. And don't screw them over. NEVER use the "pay-to-play" premise. This is a death sentence to ANY working artist. There is a special place in hell for shady entrepreneurs like that. If you can't pay an exorbitant flat fee…profit share. Give them half…or at least a percentage…of the door. This way, they have SOME kind of motivation to promote themselves through websites, blogs, radio. Still feel somewhat guilty for not paying them what you THINK they deserve? Give them a drink/food allowance. Energetic live performances are impossible on an empty stomach. And always…ALWAYS…be thankful. A pat on the back goes a long way. Anyway…this place is as much theirs as it is yours, diba?

Everybody has a story…

-C.C.-

I'm hearing rumors. Mutterings of discontent. Rumblings of potential disaster.

It is said that everything moves in cycles. That for every "up," there is a "down." For every "left," a "right." "In"…well…you get the picture.

Four years ago, when saGuijo first opened its doors, the Pinoy Music scene was at a turning point. Some called it a "crisis." I'd like to think that it was more of a crossroads. One where we, performers and patrons, had been at a standstill for a couple of years by that time. A fork in the road arrived based, in no small part, on three specific events that led to the Nineties band "explosion" officially being declared dead and buried. The first cut came when Club Dredd ceased operations around 1998. The second…when Basti Artadi emigrated to the U.S. and essentially disbanded Wolfgang. And the third…a blow that left so many of us reeling? He'll probably scoff at me for saying so…but it came when Ely Buendia walked away from The Eraserheads. The group that, arguably, had kickstarted this whole thing to begin with.

Oh sure…Patrick Reidenbach's joint was never the be-all and end-all of all venues. His two main rivals, the ever-enduring Mayric's and 70's Bistro were still going strong. The folksy, world-Music set had Conspiracy. The hard-edgers flocked to Peligro. For more mainstream tastes, yuppies slumming it for the weekend could always run to RJ's…Xymaca…or, God forbid, Hard Rock Café. And, of course, strongholds such as Freedom bar, as well as my beloved BigSkyMind, kept the Indie Torch…however dimming…alive and well. With regards to the untimely demise of the two aforementioned bands, well, there were always younger upstarts waiting in the wings to take on the crown. However ill-fitting. Enter Sugarfree. The emergence of "Kupaw" (I STILL hate that non-word by the way) groups Slapshock and Greyhoundz. Not to mention the Rico Blancos and Chito Mirandas of the industry that continued to flourish.

Record deals? Rock groups getting signed by the Majors? Well…that's where it became a little trickier. Bands were getting dropped faster than panties on a prom night. The very THOUGHT of unknown newbies handing a demo to some greasy A&R scumbag was unheard of. The "Cebu Sound," spearheaded by Urbandub, was just starting to find its legs. And Terno Records was no more than a twinkle in Toti Dalmacion's far-seeing eyes. Something had to give. Something was missing. Something that could bring together these (sometimes warring) factions. To align those metaphorical planets and usher in a new era.

Was that "something" saGuijo?

FUCK NO! ANO AKALA NINYO SA AKIN? TANGA!?!

Our performance space WASN'T some long-awaited messiah. Of course not! My delusions of grandeur don't go THAT far. And any pompous bar owner who claims that THEIR establishment is THE only place to go for a decent gig is in for a SERIOUS reality check. Alam naman ninyo, eh. YES, we worked hard for our so-called success. I, myself, continue to labor like a dog for no pay whatsoever. But why…WHY would we ever rest on our laurels when, on a profound level, "the little venue that could" was something of a fluke? In hindsight, we were fortunate enough to have three things going for us: blind passion…good timing…and a little bit of luck.

Looking back, I think Angelo and Dan were being more than a little cavalier when they first told me about this "great idea" that they had. I mean, what did WE know about running a bar, right? What the fuck did we know? But the simplicity of the premise…and my INSISTENCE that this HAD to be a venue "where it is ALWAYS about the Music" was too much of a temptation for my sorry ass. Hell…all I personally ever wanted was a place where I could watch a band without some knee-length Ralph Lauren shirt wearing, overboozed, undersexed twit picking a fight JUST BECAUSE my face happens to look "ma-angas." I look back at four years…four WONDERFUL years of carousing, catharsis and community…and I see many of you out there were looking for the same things WE were. Words cannot express the depth of our gratitude for this. Remember: saGuijo was NEVER about three people. It IS about you…all of YOU who step under that wooden sign and enter a world of OUR own creation. Patron, production people and performer alike. This venue? It belongs to ALL of us.

Because it worked, you know? The dream and the idea ACTUALLY became a reality. It wasn't easy, trust us. But it was worth it. Whodathunkit? I mean…shit…a place where "Art School kids. Emo kids. Punk kids. Goth kids. Kupaw kids. Konyos. Jologs. Grown Men. Young women. Gay. Straight. And everything in between"…not to mention (and I'm sooooo gonna get ANOTHER slap upside the head for this) the immaculately beautiful Anne Curtis could rub elbows? WITHOUT fear of recrimination? A space where musicians of all factions…be it Terno or Revolver or Admit One or even Tibay… could perform? A venue where "unsigned bands and independent groups alike can perform alongside more established acts?" Fuck…me. It all speaks for itself, really.

"People who care." That's how Cris Ramos eloquently put it last year. And who am I to argue his very valid point? Was it a coincidence that in saGuijo's four years of existence, the "band-scape" seemed to have found its way into Mainstream Pinoy culture once more? MAYBE. Like I said. Our timing, however unconscious, was impeccable. But, as Ramos also mentioned in brief, the scene looks like it has gone off the boil. It has been whispered that the "crossroads" condition is one we will find ourselves in…AGAIN…very, very soon. Certain doom-and-gloomers have said that the rot has already set in. That the bubble we ALL have been fortunate enough to be floating in for the last 1,460 days is about to burst.

I'm telling you, here and now, that it doesn't have to.

Because here's what I really want to say in a modular, recyclable, easy-to-carry out doggie-bag. SaGuijo can serve as a microcosm. A minature version of what CAN happen to the Music "Industry." If you want it to.

So here is my challenge. My personal, quaint little version of throwing down the gauntlet.

To the fans, the musicians, the production folks, the journalists, the label bigwigs and…yes…to our rival venues:

Promote one another. Word of mouth (and the internet) is a wonderful thing. Watch each other's events. Work TOGETHER. Work FOR each other. Not against. WE, as an industry, ARE MUCH TOO SMALL TO BE SO CONTENTIOUSLY DIVIDED. For pettiness, in-fighting and crab-mentality. And if OUR little community can MAKE it work, well…shit…ANYONE can.

COMMUNICATE. COORDINATE. COALESCE.

Some of you reading this may dismiss such notions as naively Utopian. "He's delusional. He's talking out of his ass. How can he even CONCEIVE of such a thing actually coming to fruition?" And the cynics, naturally, are entitled to their opinions. But let me ask you this: what kind of change for the better has ever been achieved by sitting on our hands, leaning on that proverbial fence and shooting down every idealistic brainwave that comes our way? "Impossible" is only a tag we put on things we haven't had the balls to attempt. Yet. In this spirit, we PROUDLY invite you to "MAGKAISA: saGuijo Celebrates Four Years of Carousing, Catharsis and Community." Show starts at 8 p.m. on both nights. On June 27, the killer line-up will include:
Razorback
Greyhoundz
Low Techs
Imago
Sandwich
Corporate Lo-FI
Pedicab
Typecast
Severo
Faspitch
Urbandub
The Ronnies
Bagetsafonik

On June 28, you will be blown away by the likes of:
Up Dharma Down
Chicosci
Taken By Cars
Triggerbliss
Drip
Giniling Festival
Paramita
Sinag
Itchyworms
Stonefree
Chubibo
Skies of Ember
Us-2 Evil-0
Angulo

We would LOVE to see you there.

I've said it before…and I'll say it again.

Once more.

With feeling.

Mabuhay ang Sining Pilipino. Mabuhay ang saGuijo.

-Christopher A. Carlos (C.C.)-

What is it about musical partnerships that they almost always end badly? Does it have something to do with what the punters explain away as "artistic temperament?" You know…drug addiction, alcoholism and general bad behaviour? Is it the sudden ego clashes that INEVITABLY arise whenever money and/or fame enter the picture…otherwise known as "artistic differences?" Or is it something simpler? Something so deeply ingrained within the creative process that it chips away at relationships…an invisible problem until it is far too late? Anybody who has ever tried to compose a song, write a book or paint a picture will readily attest that the experience is intense. It may sound like Romantic twaddle on my part…but there really IS an element of masochism to it all. You are, quite brutally, cutting out a piece of yourself and putting it on display for others to judge. Now imagine having to do that…to share yourself so completely and vulnerably…while someone else breathing down your neck and waiting for THEIR turn to do the exact same thing. On top of YOUR stuff. Pretty unhealthy, right? And yet the history of Rock Music is all the richer for these kinds of alliances. You know the names. Lennon and McCartney. Strummer and Jones. John and Taupin. Doherty and Barat. And…if they would forgive my presumption for saying so…Buendia and Marasigan. All beautiful collaborations that have, arguably, produced the best Music of their respective generations. All relationships that have ended in heartbreak, tears and resentment echoed in a well of silence. Yet none so tragically, I believe, as that of Steven Patrick Morrissey and Johnny Marr.

Long-time devotees of The Smiths relish telling that oft-repeated "origin myth" of how the charmingly hustler-like Marr showed up at the reclusive Morrissey's doorstep and declared: "Here I am…let's do it." To be fair, this isn't so far from the truth. What people tend to gloss over is that it wasn't a "love-at-first-sight" scenario. Sure, the two had seen each other around Manchester…playing poorly-paid (if at all) gigs with a string of mediocre Post-Punk bands. But that was all. For reasons only he may ever know, something clicked in Marr's head…something telling him that the struggling (some say 'failed') writer from "up the street" was his ticket to ride. A ride that hurtled so mind-fuckingly fast that they went from absolute obscurity to headlining "Top Of The Pops" a scant six months later. Sheer, dumb luck? Maybe. But Marr, in particular, was an ambitious, driven young man who knew the market was ripe again for "good" bands. 1982 was a pretty dire time for Music…what with the chart dominance of Spandau Ballet, Duran Duran and other practitioners of manufactured, candy-coated, escapist Pop fluff. In other words, Music that says "nothing to me about MY life." And life in England…particularly in the northern urban sprawls…was, at the time, a bleak, grim existence thanks to the Thatcher government. No matter. Marr assembled the best local musicians that he knew of: bassist Andy Rourke, drummer Mike Joyce, Morrissey on vocals and, of course, HIMSELF on guitars. And, amazingly enough, the (self) hype proved to be justified. Just listen to any of the songs.

With respect to the VERY competent rhythm section of Rourke and Joyce, the real genius behind the Music was Marr's guitar work. I think Noel Gallagher said it most amusingly when he quipped: "You CANNOT be influenced by Johnny Marr because you CAN'T play what HE plays. Even HE can't play what HE plays. Even HE'S not good as HE is." Marr's technique was so utterly advanced that a note-perfect "cover" of what he plays on the records…every arpeggio, every pull-off and every hammer-on… is virtually impossible. A blatant example of studio-trickery by layering and overdubbing multiple parts? Not always. You see, aside from the chord choices and the way he was structuring a progression (which were ALREADY unusual in themselves), Marr implemented patterns specific to The Smiths' sound. Rather than STRUMMING a chord, he would pluck 3 to 5 of the individual strings in staggered succession. Sounds simple enough. But consider the increasingly tricky time-signatures AND quick-fire chord changes…well…any wannabe guitarist will tell you that this kind of dexterity and patience is mind-blowing. For Marr, it was all about subtlety and texture. His Music is…complicated…to say the least. But not in a Radiohead way. No. That would be like comparing Oscar Wilde to T.S. Eliot. Both are equally rich and complex. But they're not playing the same game. And this was only half the picture!

Consider Morrissey's words. I'll go out on a limb and say that from 1982 to 1987, he was the finest lyricist out there…probably because he wasn't writing lyrics at all. At least not in the typical Pop/Rock framework. That he saw himself as a writer…or better yet, a poet…was not pretentious posturing. It was fact. Any half-articulate fool with a pen and some spare wit can write about emotion, failure, gender confusion and the loneliness of everyday life. About "otherness" in the face of societal "conventions." But to do so with any real style or verve…to be able to evoke and PRO-voke a genuine reaction from one's audience…well…this is best left to a select few. Humor and pathos. Morrissey effortlessly mixes the absurd with the profound…and, in doing so, does what so few Musicians are able to: make the listener THINK. "I want to live and I want to love…I want to catch something that I might be ashamed of." Has there ever been a more accurate encapsulation of the spirit of Rock? Didn't think so.

But the sun wouldn't always shine out of their behinds. By 1987…after a protracted period of miscommunication…Marr quit the group in a huff. Try as he might, even Morrissey knew that there would be no point in carrying on. Were the songwriting partnership based on competition, jealousy and one-upmanship (as was the case with Lennon & McCartney), The Smiths might have lived to release several more albums. But Morrissey and Marr's partnership was based on something worse: co-dependency and unrequited love. In the decades since the split, the gossip is that the gender-ambivalent vocalist was romantically infatuated with the guitarist. But that would be too convenient. I believe that the relationship was torn apart for the very same reason that it was formed in the first place: their personalities complimented each other a little TOO well. Morrissey is famously introspective and dour…so shy and socially awkward, it is said, that he barely spoke a word to his own drummer and bassist throughout their career. He left the wheeling-dealing to Marr…including the odorous task of informing the "other two" Smiths that while Rourke and Joyce would (rightfully) not be receiving songwriting royalties, they would ALSO be paid only 10 percent of live PERFORMANCE fees. The ever-effervescent Marr, already overworked by composing, gradually grew to resent this "obligation" of having to take care of the business side of things. Additionally, he took exception to his partner's escalating Musical inflexibility…not to mention the singer's insistence that Marr not work on any "side-projects" with other artists. Morrissey simply didn't want to "share" his partner.

Many years later, Marr would admit: "He was different with me than he was with everyone else. And I couldn't have given my Music to anyone who would have appreciated it more." I spoke earlier about giving up a piece of yourself every time you create something. Seen in that light, it doesn't take much imagination on our part to hear Marr as a lamenting divorcee. Because if there is one thing a Musical partnership is…particularly one as severe as Morrissey and Marr's…it is a marriage. You bring out the best in each other. You incite the worst. And, judging from the fluctuating degrees of success these two have individually achieved in the years since, the two parts are never…NEVER…greater than the whole. As with all divorces, the children…in this case the fans…are the casualties. We comfort ourselves in memories. We console ourselves in the Music. And we hope, beyond all reason, that one day…not so far away…this story may at last have a happy ending. On May 31, 2008 at 9PM, we proudly invite you to "I Won't Share You: A saGuijo Tribute to Morrissey, Marr and The Music of The Smiths." Participating bands include The Christmas Lights, Drip, Purple Chickens, Triggerbliss, Stereo Lalas, Mint Car, The Low-Techs, Skies Of Ember, and Pin Up Girls .

We hope to see you there.

"Where there's Music and there's people who are young and alive."

-C.C.-

WARNING: The following article contains, perhaps, some of the BITCHIEST comments I have EVER committed to print. Please keep in mind that this is just the opinion of ONE Music-loving asshole. So have a sense of humor. And don't get your panties in a bunch.

-C.C.-

There is, perhaps, no Musical genre as ridiculously misunderstood and utterly misrepresented than Punk Rock. And when I say "Punk," I do not mean dressed-down boy bands such as Good Charlotte, or the media-savvy Fall Out Boy. I am referring to the REAL thing: the proto-Punk of Iggy and the Stooges. New York Dolls, MC5, Television and The Velvet Underground. Siouxsie Sioux, The Stranglers, Buzzcocks and Stiff Little Fingers. Dead Kennedys, The Germs and X. The Art-school "cool" of early Talking Heads. Patti Smith's profane, improvisational poetry set to distorted guitars. I'm speaking of my personal favorites, the Mod-influenced The Jam. Most of all, I am talking about the unholy trinity of The Ramones, The Sex Pistols and The Clash. Groups that, rather than surviving and prospering in the 80s and 90s, crashed chaotically (but gloriously) in the same haphazard blitzkrieg with which they were formed. Which is sad, really. Because rather than any genuine weakness in conception, execution and reception, the fatal flaw of Punk Rock has ALWAYS been the clothing aesthetic which managed to trivialize an otherwise indomitable movement. In other words, it is FASHION that has brought the genre to the brink of death by overshadowing what should ALWAYS matter most: The Music.

The mohawks. The liberty-spiked hair. The leather, chains, safety pins and torn pants. Expressing your affiliation is nothing to be ashamed of. Laugh if you must but I, myself, have been known to pull out the black eyeliner when the spirit moves me. Yes, the concept of "dressing up" to "fly a flag" is an integral part of Musical subcultures…but when the act (and it IS an "act") becomes a routine and shtick, well, it is a manifestation of self-sabotage rather than a declaration of independence. I mean, shit, what's so revolutionary about wearing a ripped t-shirt when it has been done countless OTHER times? Punk-couture has become a UNIFORM…an affectation…and THAT, my friends, is VERY dangerous ground to tread on. Particularly for people who consider themselves to be "outside" the societal norm. You're not building anything new with those bondage pants, kid. You're just establishing another hierarchy with yourself in the forefront of the "elite." Pretty damned funny considering a lot of that stereotypical iconography was, primarily, a way for Pistols' svengali Malcolm McLaren to drive up sales in a London S&M fetish sex shop he happened to own at the time. Come ON, right? I might as well wear knee-length Ralph Lauren polo shirts…I hear those are STILL the rage among the self-professed "Konyo" shopping mall crowd. Pareho lang yan. Bullshit conformity.

Here's something to think about: if everyone's favorite lip-syncher Ashlee Simpson can wear a store-bought CBGBs shirt and ACTUALLY manage to convince herself that she is a Punk, then the shit has hit the proverbial fan. Unless you've actually BEEN to the venue in question, the shirt might as well spell "Fraud," "Poser,"…or better yet, "Fashion Victim." Then, of course, there are those select few who saw that infamous picture of Sid Vicious wearing a swastika-laden shirt and decided to follow suit. What I find bloody hilarious is that this abomination of "Nazi-chic" has actually managed to invade Metro Manila! Good Catholics as anti-Semites my BUTT. Dude, I have a freezer here that you might want to sell to a couple of Eskimos too. Putang-fuckin'-ina, diba? If these BROWN Aryan fanboys could get their heads out of their goose-stepping asses for even a FRACTION of a second, they may come to realize that our boy Sid was being ironic. He was English! Much like his ability to play the bass guitar, the symbol was a feeble put-on. It was a juvenile and pathetically misguided attempt at "freaking out the straights." No other significance. Yun lang. And as for our very own frustrated members of the "Master Race," wearing a swastika does NOT make you a Punk…it simply means you are an idiot.

It seems absurd but to get the true gist of the late 70s "Blank" Generation, you may actually have to look back about ten years. I don't give two shits about what some high-minded, PAID critic might contend: my opinion is that the FIRST, and probably GREATEST, Punk band was the earliest incarnation of The Who. THEY provided a blueprint that put emphasis on attitude and volume. THEY put forth the philosophy of not being able to affect change unless you ATTACK the things that are negatively affecting you. THEY proved, with their simple, 3-minute ditties, that ANYBODY can pick up a guitar and spark a revolution. It is such a shame that Pete Townshend was so ahead of his time. Don't hear…don't read…really LISTEN and UNDERSTAND what he is TRULY saying when he proclaims: "I hope I die before I get old." He wasn't being nihilistic. Or self-destructive. Not really. This four-chord gem of a song called "My Generation" WAS…and IS…a call to arms. What's past is past. And it should remain there. To hell with "adults." To hell with the Establishment. To hell with preconceived ways of "doing things properly." To hell with propriety. And to hell with fence-sitting apathy. It is time for a changing of the guard. And MEANING it. What's more Rock and Roll than that?

The TRUE nature of Punk is nothing so shallow as outward appearances. What clothes you wear shouldn't be an issue…leave that to the "trendies" and "fashionistas." What MATTERS are the feelings in your gut and the ideas in your head. It is the undeniable rage you feel at how fucked up this world has become. It is the sheer indignation which hits you when you realize that we, the youth, have to pay for our parents' mistakes…that we are being held accountable for crimes that were not ours. Crimes that we didn't even have the CHOICE to commit. It is the momentary helplessness that keeps us awake at night…the cold, sterile knowledge that nobody gives a shit anymore. We are alone in this life and we have to dig ourselves out of the hole we are born into. Ultimately, Punk is that rational argument that gets caught in our throats…and all that comes out is a guttural, visceral scream. The Ramones gave us the Musical vocabulary. The Sex Pistols gave us the sneer. The Clash gave us the meaning. No pretension. Nothing contrived. Punk Rock is about attitude, Zen-like simplicity and sound. Its driving force is rebellion. Its battle cry? "Fuck you! We'll do it ourselves!" Pretty damned positive when you think about it.

In celebration of the "DIY" ethos, saGuijo is proud to announce our very own tribute concert dedicated to the filth and the fury of Old School Punk. And, with all the crap that has happened to our country lately, it couldn't have come at a better fucking time. The concert will be held on March 29. Show starts at 9 p.m. Featured bands include Boy Elroy, Blast Ople, Giniling Festival, Ciudad, Mint Car, Republika de Lata, The Wuds, Sleepyheads and Hilera. This event promises to be quite the kick up the rear-end. And boy do we need it. Now more than ever.

Kurt Cobain, explaining the name of his band, once said: "In Webster's terms, 'Nirvana' means freedom from pain, suffering and the external world…and that's pretty close to my definition of Punk Rock."

-C.C.-

Okay. Alright. Yeah, yeah, yeah. I'll be the first to admit it. We, in our little venue, have been SOMEWHAT heavy-handed when it came to picking out the "theme" nights we chose to hold on a monthly basis. And why not? I've always contended that saGuijo is a place where ALL types of Music are celebrated…even long-forgotten singles that we have chosen to disavow and "laos" bands we have (un)consciously renounced. Basically, shit that is no longer on heavy rotation at your local radio stations. Think. When was the last time you heard a disc jockey rave about Joy Division or Blur? Not-fucking-lately. Does this mean, though, that these songs have lost all meaning and relevance in the world which we now live? Absolutely not! All it indicates is that these musicians have fallen off our radar…oh…and that the major labels aren't interested in "pushing" these artists as they no longer draw top-dollar. Additionally, much of these older bands have achieved "cult" status…that is…there are usually a select few Music "snobs" and "critics" who parade their knowledge of said groups around like elitist credentials. As if they are so much better than your average Joe for knowing who Ian Curtis was! My reply? Put down that hipster handbook before I stick it up your ass. Hard. So yes, "theme" nights allow our little community to have some much-needed nostalgia now and then. Because if we cannot honor the past, how can we possibly move into the future? More importantly, we HOPE to introduce you to Music that you may or may not have necessarily heard before. Things WE enjoy and would love to turn YOU on to. Screw "exclusivity." We stand on the shoulders of giants. We BUILD on what has been done before. We just have to LOOK harder…with a little help from our friends.

But enough of this armchair philosophizing. What I want to discuss is the proverbial "flipside" of the coin. I've previously conversed at length about "hard-to-find" Music…but what of that OTHER stuff? Songs that have been played to DEATH by a legion of otherwise well-meaning DJs who are "just doing their jobs?" Songs that, at least in The Philippines, are HAMMERED into our collective consciousness from the cradle to the grave? Songs that you simply CANNOT get away from. Schmaltzy. Trite. Saccharine-sweet. You hear them in shopping malls. You hear them in jeeps. You hear them whenever you turn on the television and, self-flagellatingly, CHOOSE to endure some tone-deaf "artista" belting the words out with every artificial fiber of their being. You can't change the channel. You can't even turn away. It's too fun to watch. You know. You KNOW. Don't deny it. In the darkest recesses of your very CORE, you find that you remember every single lyric. When I was in high school, my friends called the genre "Senti"…as in "sentimental." The great Jessica Zafra once dubbed them "wedgie-classics"…because "there's always someone singing them in a karaoke joint while adjusting a wedgie." And as for me? Read the title of this piece. Yes, my brothers and sisters, I am here to expound on the freakshow that is your stereotypical "cheesy love song."

Believe it or not, I find myself…for the first time in my long and checkered history of writing for this website…at an absolute LOSS. I mean, FUCK dude…how do you explain the seemingly-universal appeal of David Pomeranz's "Got To Believe In Magic?" The earnestness of Dan Hill's "Sometimes When We Touch?" James Ingram's embarrassingly heartfelt "Just Once?" Or the cringe-worthy sincerity of uber-cheese-meister himself…Barry Manilow…with "Somewhere Down The Road?" Nangingilabot ako! And I'm not just saying that. But it isn't ALL bad. Much to my better half's chagrin, I've insisted that one of the songs I want to get married to is Edwin McCain's eyes-closed performance of "I'll Be"…diba…coz' I'm "the greatest fan of her life?" Naks naman! And yes…that noise you hear in the background is probably her gagging at how utterly corny I've become in my not-so-old age. Better yet…I COULD always pull out the big guns… that very first song we danced to: the immortal, ipis-like, long-lived "It Might Be You" by Stephen Bishop. What!?! I know I'm not the only one who watched THAT particular "teen-oriented" show: "Wacks!" "Peachy!" "Waaaaaackssss!!!!!" "Peeeeeee-cheeeeee!!!" Mwahahaha! Kayo ha! Alam ko na nakatutok 'rin kayo 'pag Sabado!
So yeah. Sige na. Why fight it? Some of this shit CAN be good…on a SUBJECTIVE level. When I wrote about The Eraserheads more than a year ago, I went to great lengths explaining how "Music is contextual." How our own PERSONAL experiences can, and will, often infuse particular songs with some sort of special meaning. And when a "standard" of old is RE-contextualized…"covered" EFFECTIVELY by a different band at a different era in their OWN way, well, the song transcends from being throwaway rubbish to instant classic. Proof? Who of you can HONESTLY say that you heard Spongecola's (bootleg) cover of Madonna's "Crazy For You"…and NOT think it was fairly decent? The way it was sung with nothing but an acoustic guitar and a raspy, wounded voice? I freakin' got goosebumps. Parang bago yung kanta. And I don't even LIKE Madonna!

"But Chris, man…you claimed you'd NEVER sell out. You said saGuijo would NEVER kowtow to the Top 40/mainstream inklings of our less-'Indie' countrymen!" Geez. As if you guys didn't know me by now. I can't speak for him but when I first mentioned this idea to Angelo, I had to specify that the night was a complete piss-take. Patawa. Palabiro. I mean, come ON…how many venues this February are going to have SOME sort of Valentine's night? It's about time that SOMEONE took a stand…and presented something a little bit different. Because this Music, whether we like it or not, is practically a strand in our cultural DNA. We, of the "Alternative" mindset, can mask, obscure and even overwhelm this drivel by putting on our headphones and drowning it out in our OWN Music. But when the batteries are dead and the earbuds come off…well...there it is. Again. And again. And again. So what can we do? We can make it our own. NOT by doing serious, note-perfect covers…fuck no. That will NEVER happen. Not on MY watch. But, as I mentioned before, we can recontextualize it. Like Twisted Halo doing Vanilla Ice's "Ice Ice Baby." Or Kamikazee with Ariel Rivera's "Sana Kahit Minsan." Or, internationally, the entire snot-nosed catalog of Me First And The Gimme Gimmes.

I may ridicule…deride…and completely laugh at these "Senti" songs. But, as Elvis Costello once crooned, "what's so funny 'bout peace, love and understanding?" Nothing. Nothing at all.

On February 23, at 9 p.m., we invite you to partake in "A Very saGuijo Valentine's." Participating bands include The Ronnies, Triggerbliss, Wake Up Your Seatmate, Severo, The Dorques, Mike's Apartment, Boy Elroy, and Halik Ni Gringo. Bring a loved one. A significant other to hold onto. Or at least someone you can rub up against. Without getting slapped.

-C.C.-