All those stories that inhabit the cities, both real and fantastic, that Ailene fell in love with.

It was raining. The freaking middle of summer, and it was raining.

The time was 2PM and it was the fifth of July, 2008.

I was getting ready to leave New York, and the skies were weeping with me. I thought it was a touch dramatic of NYC, but very apt.

My cousin and I were walking around Yorkville. The original plan was to go to the MoMA.

She asked, “train or walk?”

“Let’s walk.”

Here’s the funny thing about New York: People will walk ten blocks to the next train station (even if there’s one a block away) if it meant catching an express. And I wanted to get an express that day. “Faster,” I told my cousin.

(I think of the subway station in 96th. How empty it was on weekends, the smallness of it. Always, always, I’d think of the pocket park right next to that station when people say 96th Street. It won’t be raining in my memories. It will always be a sparkling, early summer day, with the children playing in the park. In my head, I’d be turning around to go down, with the crowd, to head downtown.)

We walked. More like ambled along, really. We used the rain as an excuse to keep ducking into stores to window shop. We kept walking down 2nd Avenue until we hit 86th Street. (A familiar route for me by then. I loved the ten-block walk from the apartment to the the 86th Street station.)

I dropped off a CD of the photos I took at a nearby CVS. “An hour,” the Hispanic girl told me. “Come back in an hour.”

We walked past Elaine’s (check out the first scene of Woody Allen’s Manhattan), past Carino (where my aunt treated me to for my birthday), that thrift shop that only seems to open at night (and where I got a couple of beautiful necklaces). Ask me now and I could draw a map of Yorkville for you, with all my favorite stores, spots, boutiques in it, straight from memory.

From a gift shop, I bought picture frames, a thick wad of bright green tissue paper, and purple paper bags. On a whim, I got a handful of small stuffed toys. My cousin looked at the toys, and then at me. “What’s that for?”

“They look cute.”

I wanted to make that day last forever. I wanted to keep inhaling that familiar, comforting smell of New York. I wanted to stay still in the rain until I had absorbed all of New York into my skin.

I send my cousin on. “Go to the restaurant and get us a table. I’ll catch up with you.”

At a bodega, I bought a bouquet of cheerful orange gerberas, picked up the prints from CVS, and dashed into the restaurant. Fetch! said the sign outside. I loved the wooden chairs and tables, the bar in the corner, and the dim lighting.

I leaned forward and told my cousin, “We should get champagne.”

“It’s 3 in the afternoon, cuz.”

“Yes. That’s why we need to get champagne.”

I called the waitress over and asked if they served champagne at this hour. She looked amused and not a little surprised.

I did my best to explain: “You see, I’m leaving New York tomorrow morning, so I want to make this a special event… ”

“Oh! But… Leaving New York?! Why’re you gonna do that?!”

“Well, I was just visiting.”

“Really? So where’re you from?”

“The Philippines.”

“Oh, oh! But that’s sad!” We shared a look of mutual understanding about my frustration. “Okay, wait, I’ll ask our manager if we have any champagne!” She rushed off, and I grinned at my cousin.

“Let’s look at the photos,” I said. And while we were looking at the photos, the waitress came back with two flutes of golden champagne, still fizzing with bubbles. She laid them down on our table, and said, “this one’s on me, ladies.”

On an impulse, I whipped out a shot I took of the underside of the Manhattan Bridge (yes, the shot you see right here) and handed it to her. “And this one’s for you. Thank you very, very much.”

She stared at the photo. “Wow,” she said. “Wow.” Again.

She stood there for a bit and talked to us. I found out that her name was Emma and that she’s still studying, and that she lived nearby, “just along 91st Street, actually.”

After that late lunch, my cousin and I walked back to the apartment. She paused at the corner, just as I was turning into the building, and she goes, “this is it.” We hugged, tightly, and I tried not to cry. “I’ll see you soon,” I said. “Get that apartment so I don’t have to squat at Tita Bing’s anymore.” We laughed, and we walked in two different directions.

I rushed back into the apartment. Dusk was falling. I needed to be on the 7PM train for New Haven if I wanted to have enough time to pack my bags. I vacuumed the apartment one last time, threw out the trash, arranged the gerberas in a vase (right next to the sunflowers that my aunt had bought, on a whim, too, I bet, because we’re kindred spirits like that), fixed up my gifts on the table, and took one last look of the New York skyline that had been my bedside companion for the past three months.

I managed to get to Grand Central Station with only five minutes to spare before the New Haven train was leaving. I got into the bar car (yes, the train car does indeed have a bar) and smiled at the man who was trying to start a conversation with me.

I was going back to Manila. But while I was on that train to New Haven, it felt a lot like I was leaving home.

First posted here.

I miss the days when I’d write about books, and the authors themselves would email me back with the first chapter of their new book. Which is what happened years and years ago when I wrote about how much I loved David Fulmer’s Chasing The Devil’s Tail. (A story set in New Orleans, back in the turn of the century when jazz was still jass and it was hot and dangerous.)

Which reminds me that my cousin still has that book, along with my Toni Morrison’s Jazz. For all that he looks (and smokes weed) like a rustafarian, he shares my passion for jazz and I don’t mind that it’s all still with him. He might not have a lot of respect for some things (like women), but he does take care of books the way only my family can take care of books.

____

I’ve been listening to jazz and blues again. I find it ironic that I, a staunch promoter of non-smooth-jazz (or muzak) and (what my guitarist calls) “girl blues,” stopped listening to both when I started performing. It was mostly out of respect to the men and women who’ve burned their music into my heart. The last thing I wanted to do was plagiarize them. Lately I’ve been feeling stale, like there’s something not happening when we get together as a band. No. Stale isn’t the right word for it. More like… cold. No spark. I’ve resolved not to over-analyze it. Some days, the music just don’t flow. I get that. So I’m giving myself this break. And I’ve gone back to the masters (and the goddesses) so they can stir up my heart once more.

____

Mark Linkous took his own life yesterday. It’s sad, no matter which way you look at it. I only really just “met” him. A friend pushed his music onto me; “my idol,” he kept saying. My friend was devastated when he heard the news.

Last night, as I turned off the lights and let his music keep playing, it was the strangest feeling in the world. Here’s a man baring his heart to anyone who cares to hear, and I am all across the ocean, eyes staring blindly up into the dark, and I am listening to him sing. Only it was just a recording, and the real Mark Linkous will never sing again. I wonder if his songs know that. If they feel any sadness about it. The songs play on, a little shyly, raw in its sincerity, and I just laid there and let myself drift with the music.

And for a long time I couldn’t sleep.

Wouldn’t be much of a music blog if I don’t write long “reviews” (really just pretentious stuff where I act like I know what I’m talking about) and if I didn’t pimp several local indie musicians that I love stalking, right?

So here be some personal notes about some bands I love watching live.

Carlos Castaño

He came out of nowhere. I was working on the first Republikha night some months back and the way my friend asked (“Um… ano… can my friend play too? I haven’t seen him in a while and apparently he’s writing songs now…”) made me wonder if he was a charity case.

He wasn’t. He is, and probably will always be, one of the most professional indie musicians I will ever work with. I love getting in touch with Carlos because he actually replies! Most musicians never do. If I’m lucky, they’ll reply after three or five hours (or days), creative (and preoccupied) creatures that they are. Not Carlos. Always nice… and prompt.

Here’s what I wrote last Monday night at Route 196 (as I sat in a corner table and listened to him and his band):

Carlos’ music? Comfortable, bluesy, the kind of music I always find myself listening to on sepia-sunny saturday afternoons in the suburbs. As a musician, I envy the “cleanness” and “neatness” of all the layers, and how full the sound is even if there’s really only four musicians on stage. “Warm hues,” that’s definitely a good phrase to describe his music. He picked great musicians to play his songs. And his voice… Oh, it’s just gorgeously confident. My confession is: my motives in inviting Carlos to play at a Light It Up prod was purely selfish. I just wanted to hear his music live again.

Also, this is a good time to congratulate his February 14 endeavor. Love Download got 112,000 downloads. All the songs were provided by some 40 musicians/bands from the Philippines, Indonesia, Singapore and Malaysia. That’s a lot of love downloaded. (I hear rumors of another one next month.)

He was sick last Monday at Route196 and when I found out I was set to send him home, but he gave me this helpless shrug and a simple “it’s music. Sarap eh.”

I totally get it.

Championship Vinyl

I was at Dondi Virrey’s house, in a post-pizza-and-soda haze, when he takes out a banged-up guitar and starts competently plucking the intro to a Kings of Convenience song. I’ve seen Dondi behind a guitar before, of course, because he helps out with Linus (a side project of his friends), and I know that when he writes the demos for Techy Romantics he would sometimes lay in the guitar lines with a red (usually dusty) Telecaster that gathers dust in the corner. But that night, he let me listen to what the Techy Romantics would sound like without the other two, and if he sang the songs, and if he played all the songs with just a battered acoustic guitar.

I am happy to report that the songs still shone. (And that “Seven Years” – a song I usually didn’t care much for – was actually sexy coming from him.)

I’ve always looked up to Dondi Virrey because he’s so prolific. He manages to churn out all these catchy tunes like an automatic song dispenser, and he’s a step up from decent when it comes to being a rhythm guitarist, and as a bassist? If you don’t know what you’re looking for, you’re gonna miss how he manages to add a certain kind of solidity to the song.

So I’m happy that he finally decided to set up his own band (we’ve been bugging him since forever). I have a feeling it’s going to be a fun ride with Championship Vinyl (let’s give them five million props for the High Fidelity reference). Give them a spin while I go and beg for more songs.

Johnoy Danao’s album

I wonder if his fans will be ready for the folksiness of it. I sort of am, but only because I know that Johnoy’s roots are all folk. I remember past conversations with him about growing up in Masbate and his influences. So me, I know I’m going to love his album. Let’s hope the fans who keep associating him with the Dave Matthews Band will be ready to accept and embrace his folk/country side.

Encounters With A Yeti

I’m repeating myself, and I hate repeating myself. So please, have pity on me. Go and catch them at one of their gigs.

I caught them last week at the Terno Inferno in Saguijo. I was surprised at how well-received they were, considering that there were no Diego Mapa’s or whoever’s famous enough that’ll make 19-year-old’s watch a band of middle-aged men staring at their shoes while they play songs that have no lyrics. For me, Encounters With A Yeti is always a good trip. They make you soar and crash in such perfectly orchestrated movements that you can’t help but smile to it. Good times.

February 22, 2010 at Route 196. With Erle Refuerzo & Sandy Baliong.

And sometimes, I want to stop performing.

I want to go back to the roots of my music and patiently unravel the tangled ends of desire, lust, dream, and wants. I need to remember how it was when it was just the music and me, and I didn’t have to worry about electricity and if the keyboardist’s amp was working fine, or how the audience would respond when they see my soul hanging out to dry.

I need my band back. I need all of them together in one small room and we need to learn how to play with our emotions again. How to beat our emotions into submission and kick the ass of our demons while we’re at it.

I need the bip and the bop and the bipitee-bop-di-boom marching up and down every neuron, every vein and artery in this body. I need to be with my band because when I’m alone singing, it’s nothing more but a thin tune. But when I’m with my band, it’s a crashing, overwhelming experience.

I can go philosophical on you when it comes to my music, but I won’t. Because then you’ll stop reading (or you’ll stop listening).

My music is me. It is my very soul speaking. And at the same time, it’s an awesome communication channel to get dreams across.

Monkeys, we need to jam. Or, rather, I need to jam with you again. I’m beginning to sound like a hippie’s daughter. (Maybe because I am.)

I didn’t mean to corner Ponchie Buenavista for this impromptu interview about his band Encounters With A Yeti (I think we were discussing my haphazard/shy attempts to write my own music at the time), but I was curious.

If I had space and time, I’d quote all of our chats here because Ponchie’s full of awesome sound bites like that (even if most times I feel like my brains are bleeding out of my nose), but because this is a music blog (well, that was the original idea), let’s talk about his music. Actually, I’ll let him talk about his music. He’s usually acerbic and full of razor-sharp insights; Which is why I appreciate the earnest, steady, and rather avuncular tone of this interview. It’s not always that I come out of a conversation with Ponchie Buenavista without any verbal wounds.

And if you’re not doing anything tonight (February 20, 2010), I do believe Encounters With A Yeti is making an appearance at the Terno Inferno in Saguijo. -A.

Last month or so, on a Wave somewhere…

Ailene: Why did you decide to make this kind of music?
The Yeti: Years ago..

Ailene: “In a galaxy far, far away…” Sorry. I couldn’t help myself.
The Yeti: It’s the Star Wars geek in me. We’ve, at least I, was always impressed by soundtracks in movies. Its like what one of those I look up to told me: music in movies are tonal poems. They tell you something without having to sing it; They make you feel the scene.

Ailene: Are the visuals an important part of your set?
The Yeti: Now? Sort of coz we’re pretty boring onstage, no one sings and banters with the audience, we don’t jump around… So it gives the audience something to focus on aside from the music. Like when they see the visuals, the music comes into perspective

Ailene: So how do you make this music?
The Yeti: It starts with an event. Let’s say a girlfriend broke up with me. On my drive home, feeling the exquisite pain of separation, I try to find a soundtrack for it.

Ailene: “The exquisite pain of separation.” Ow.
The Yeti: Separations are always painful but in a liberating kind of way.

Ailene: Go on.
The Yeti: That’s pretty much it. All the songs are based on events, a soundtrack to a certain moment. I lay down the tracks at home and once done, give ‘em to the band and they turn it to magic. You have to have an idea of the song in your head. I carry around a little recorder with me all the time and I hum stuff I think of there. We don’t know theory; we never studied music. Everything is based on what I hum in that recorder and the chords that I transcribe out of it.

Ailene: So how exactly did Encounters With A Yeti start?
The Yeti: This sounds like a real interview now. Hahaha! It all started in 1991. We were in a cover band called Pedro’s Cannabis then we broke up. I then hooked up with the bassist (who’s a very good friend of mine at the same time) and started The Christmas Lights in 1998. We played a bit then some guy in MySpace apparently used the same name (he’s in maryland) so we were in limbo. While we were playing as The Christmas Lights, I started a little project of my own called ‘Encounters With A Yeti’ because like a yeti, I knew these songs would never see the light of day. The guys took an interest in the music I was making and we became a band.

Ailene: Do you think there’s a place for your music in the current scene here? (Oh no. This really is an interview now. You don’t hafta answer.)
The Yeti: But I’d like to answer that! I think people aren’t ready yet for this kind of music, kinda like Michael J. Fox in Back To The Future when he played Chuck Berry. But I like the audience now because they are more appreciative. They listen. They know what they want. It’s no longer a “they’re the in thing so I like them” culture. In the end, I just want to bring this music out because I feel I owe it to the music. Just let people hear it. Let them decide. So long as I’ve presented it, then I’ve contributed my fair share into this collective thought of music.

Ailene: Best gig you’ve ever played and why?
The Yeti: Probably the MYX setlist webcast. It was the week when our third guitarist dropped out of the band. We were so nervous that the music wouldnt be the same with two guitarists. I’d re-worked the songs, made them softer, more quiet: a complete turn around from our usual soft-loud set. It came out pretty well. When I listened to the recording, it was the first time I almost felt like crying while listening to the songs. Not to sound biased, but for once I heard the songs for what they really were and they were beautiful. There’s something about the stripped down set where all the songs will be laid out in its barest, naked sound and if it don’t sound good stripped down, then it’s a terrible song.

Ailene: Everybody thinks they were born in the wrong era. What era/decade do you think you should’ve been born?
The Yeti: I think 1950 so I’d be at my prime in the late 60’s early 70’s,  just in time for the flower power thingy. And I kinda like the people’s state of experimentation at that time. It was an era of creative explosion. Don’t forget the astro turf. You see, music wise, this was a golden era. There was no video yet, so every song was based on its own merit, not by who sang it. People were uninfluenced by looks so you really had to like the song if it was really good. (I think I lost my train of thought there. But you know what I mean.)