The Dowggie Blog

Around 20 minutes ago, I was on my way home after bringing my daughter to school. Three times the jeepney in front of me picked passengers up without first pulling over to the side. Being right behind the guy, I could see that there was room to pull over. It would have been no skin off his nose to do so. But being a quintessentially lazy Pinoy, he couldn’t be bothered.

The third time he did it, I honked my horn at him indignantly.

He pulled over. I overtook him, zooming ahead in a huff.

A few hundred meters later, I spied a traffic enforcer by the side of the road. I pulled over and reported the errant jeepney driver.

As I was relating the jeepney driver’s assholic behaviour, lo and behold the jeepney in question showed up. I pointed the guy out to the traffic enforcer. The jeepney was pulled over.

The jeepney driver got out of his jeep and came over. Words were exchanged.

As is typical of the ilk, the jeepney driver scratched his head and mumbled something about, “… naghahanap buhay lang po…”. He was also clearly miffed at being pulled over and being given a ticket when he could be plying his uncourteous road behaviour. He asked for forgiveness, but in a tone a tad too hot for my taste.

“Bos, kaya nga humihingi ng dispensa, eh…”, he said.

“Bakit kita bibigyan ng kunsiderasyon kung wala kang kunsidersayon para sa mga ibang tao sa paligid mo?”, I asked.

Faced with that insurmountable zen koan, he was flummoxed, unable to reply.

I turned to the traffic enforcer and said, “Tiketan niyo po.”

The jeepney driver was clearly ticked off.

“Walang kinalaman sa paghahanap-buhay yang kalakaran mo,” I said. “Lahat tayo naghahanap-buhay. Kaso hindi naman mahirap tumabi pag-magsasakay ka, eh. Tinatamad ka lang.”

Quite a few of the jeepney’s passengers, annoyed at being delayed thus, got off and asked for their money back.

The jeepney driver was now good and pissed.

So being the considerate fellow I am, I offered him a chance to engage in fisticuffs.

“Mukhang bad trip ka,” I observed. “Tara!”

Thankfully, he declined my offer. He walked back to his jeep shaking his head.

I couldn’t resist giving him this parting shot — “Masyado kayong nasasanay sa ganyang kalakaran! Sa susunod, pag-isipan mo muna bago ka gumawa ng bagay na mali. Matuto ka!”

Played a gig at Nuvo City last night. WIth Kat Agarrado, Reli de Vera and Dave Harder.

Great gig!

Except that my nose gushed blood for the better part of two hours. Huge glops of blood too.

Had to play onstage with tissue stuffed up my nose. But that looked funny — especially when the wads of tissue were saturated with blood — so I then wrapped a purple bandana around my face.

So I was Olop The Bloody Reindeer a.k.a. Bogart The Jazz Ninja.

Hahahahahaha!
It was nice having my chops back, though. Nice to be able to shred again when the situation calls for it. Yeba! Woof!

c”,)

No, this has nothing to do with Dan Brown.

Just wanna put things down for the record.

This morning I did my good deed for the day. Over the past few months, I’ve been on chikahan terms with a trio of Paranaque street sweepers. One of them, Pablo, didn’t report for work today due to an acute attack of arthritis.  Apparently Pablo lives alone and has no one upon whom to rely for help — for even as small a trifle as walking over to the nearest drugstore for medicine.  

So I impulsively elected to drive over to his house and offer to pick up medicine for him. Being quintessentially Pinoy, Pablo refused the offer. Diyahe kasi.

So being a bull-headed Arian (no relation to Hitler’s ilk, mind you), I went ahead and got him a few tablets of his arthritis meds. I couldn’t get him more than a few because to do so would likely make him feel too indebted. But I had to do something.

Again, what I call the angelsong would not be denied.

I try to give my whole self over to the angelsong as much as I can.

The thing about angels, though… they seem to come with concurrent daemons. Daevas and daemons. They seem to come in pairs.

My personal daemon is the force that drives me to make music. It’s the undeniable force which keeps me up in the wee hours of the morning, driving me to play my guitar with fingers rendered numb by a year-long spinal affliction and its consequent nerve damage.

My daemon is the single-minded force which keeps me going despite trifling obstacles like logic, economics and worldly reality.

If my guardian angel, The Angel Shprengtot, is the heavenly voice who prods me gently into acts of random kindness, then my daemon, The Daemon Baluga, is the one who whacks me with his dowggie prod and drives me to be more than human.

More than human.

Diamond.

Indestructible.

Able to cut through anything.

Hubris? Perhaps. Most likely so.

But hey, that comes with being a hero.

This Icarus is learning to fly again. The sky is my birthright. As God is my witness, I’ve earned these wings many times over. And if I have to grapple with all the daemons of hell to fly again, then so be it.

I still stand. I shall fly again. And forever shall I believe in love.

WOOF!

c”,)

And now for a bit of shameless self-promotion.

With much heartfelt gratitude to Scott Garceau.

Archive
Another jazz angel takes flight
THE X-PAT FILES By Scott R. Garceau
Sunday, October 19, 2008

Having caught jazz guitarist John Scofield and saxophonist Joe Lovano at the Rockwell Tent last week put me in mind of the first article I wrote for the Philippine STAR. It was back in 1996, a year after stepping off the plane here. The piece bemoaned the lack of live jazz venues in Metro Manila, while acknowledging the presence of many fine jazz musicians who survive by doing pick-up gigs for whatever band gets paid.

Things aren’t so different today in Metro Manila, though jazz players perhaps enjoy greater cachet among the public than they did before. There will always be “soft jazz” breakthroughs to herald another musical subgenre, such as “bossa nova” (itself a genre enjoyed in our parents’ — even our grandparents’ — day). And there will always be one or two venues (including Rockwell Tent) that put aside economic considerations and just let a player play. Usually, though, these venues are bars that don’t charge big-ticket entrance fees, but offer an abundance of big-ticket talent found, usually, on makeshift stages set up in the corner.

One such talent is Aya Yuson, who more than one person (excluding his proud papa, STAR columnist Krip Yuson) has referred to as one of the best jazz guitarists in the country. Yuson’s album, “Angelsong,” deserves the attention it gets, as it shows off a talented player in a dozen or so musical environments. It’s a strictly local affair (one indication is that, attempting to import the CD for listening on iTunes, Gracenote — which tracks down CD track names from a huge online database — drew a blank. Never heard of it. Oh, well, I don’t mind typing in the song titles manually for inclusion on my iPod), joined by star players including Tots Tolentino on tenor sax (what jazz album is Tots not playing on?) and singer Skarlet (who decorates the scat-inflected Fooled & Fooled Again).

What I like about “Angelsong” is the range of Yuson’s songwriting and playing. He can write ‘40s and ‘50s era bebop numbers like Big Bird and Ibiza Bop, straight-ahead quartet numbers like the CD opener Nubian Princess (which he later renders in an even better solo version, to my ears, to close out the album), or casually switch to fusion-tinged numbers such as The Tan Man.

In fact, the diversity makes it a bit hard to pin down Yuson’s true identity. Not to say his tunes adopt styles for the sake of style, though. Yuson has integrity as a player, and it shows in the way he incorporates his solos: never too flashy, never given over to excess runs or extra bars just for show. Like another tasteful guitarist from a completely different universe — George Harrison — Yuson knows how to tailor the statement to fit the song; not the other way around.

Toting what looks to be a hollow-bodied Ibanez in the liner note photos (perhaps hoping to channel some of Wes Montgomery’s round, rich tone), Yuson deftly accompanies a gallery of guest singers that also includes Aileen Balon (Used To Be My Moon, I Still Believe), Yosha Honasan (Phoenix Reborn) and great throwback singer Arthur Manuntag (Big Bird). There’s a palpable joy here, too: people digging the music, respecting tradition, but not being too reverential. (The double entendre of Big Bird, for instance, or the backup vocals on Fooled & Fooled Again which wouldn’t be out of place in a contempo R&B number.) Listening to Aya wail on Ibiza Bop, it’s hard to figure out who he’s not listened to and absorbed from jazz history: there’s a little of Wes Montgomery’s octave-hopping and chord-fanning, something of John Scofield’s aggressive bopicity, maybe some Jim Hall touches here and there. But again, ego is kept in check: Yuson’s years of playing live have taught him how to pick his moments, and embellish other players in the most decorous way.

There are more lengthy workouts on The Tan Man, Sugar and Dum Da Dee Dum, where drummer Alex Fidel shows off his own gifts. The Tan Man veers into Mike Stern flash at times, but again Yuson counters it with solo choruses that are subdued, almost reflective. Simon Tan on upright and electric bass gets plenty of space here, too.

If there are some flaws with “Angelsong,” it perhaps comes in the less-than-pristine mixing of the CD (at least my copy) causing the bass to overdrive a bit. And the concessions made to current “lite jazz” appetites are felt in numbers like I Still Believe and Diwa Ng Babae. Yet the tunes are tasty, commercial or not, and have every right to be played on the radio, or on your car stereo, heading home from a stressful day at the office. That’s what light jazz is for, right?

To my ears, the final two numbers on “Angelsong” — For the Queen and a solo rendition of Nubian Princess — are the real deal: here Yuson interweaves crisp acoustic lines with himself, basking in tasteful reverb. For the Queen recalls Stanley Jordan, not in technique so much, but in Yuson’s quavering high-neck bends and fluid lines. And Nubian Princess shows how a solid jazz tune can work well in other settings. The song, almost forgotten from its quartet version at the start of this diverse album, leaves you humming the melody long after the final notes ring out.

As I said at the start, there’s no shortage of gifted players in the Philippine jazz world; just a lack of audiences to nurture them. And now there’s one more exceptional CD out there for homegrown ears.
If jazz be the food of Filipino musicians, play on.

The bad news is — after more than year of this unfortunate physiological impairment, I can still hardly feel my hands. Both hands are numb. Both hands feel swollen. Swollen and numb.

The good news is, despite the numbness, I’ve found ways to work around it and still execute most of what I want to execute. Most of my dexerity, strength and speed is back.

At the Angelsong album launch last September 13, my chops were in more or less fine form. I was able to double-time my lines most of the night.

The past few weeks since the launch, I’ve been in fine form at my regular monday night gig at Mandarin. Been able to execute 90%-95% of my chordal vocabulary and around 70%-80% of my single note vocabulary.

The past two monday gigs have been particularly encouraging.

Last monday my hands were working right but the guitar wasn’t. Due to an electronic/technical glitch, the guitar’s B string could hardly be heard. It was a tad frustrating that my hands were working well but the guitar wasn’t. Felt like a grand conspiracy to keep me from sounding good.

That technical guitar problem has since been laid to rest. So tonight found my guitar, Bajekjek (aka Chuvanez Veneracion), sounding fine.

And praise God and Goddess, my hands worked well tonight too.

So I sounded ok to my ears. Finally!

Woof!

At isa pang malaking WOOF!

c”,)

There are those who see me as soft-hearted.

I’ve also been accused of having a hard, cold heart.

The truth lies somewhere in between, I suppose.

There are parts of my heart which I’ve learned over the years to harden into ice. Those icy-heart-sicles have been tucked away deep in a locked refrigerator inside a closet within a cobwebbed attic I almost never look into for fear of what I might see.

14 years ago I constructed said refrigerator within said closet within said attic.

I did that just so I could keep functioning on a day-to-day basis. The fridge was constructed to keep the heart-sicles icy. The closet was made to keep the fridge safe from prying eyes. Fridge and closet were tucked deep into attic to keep them secure.
These admittedly silly constructs were created out of a sense of self-preservation. It was all I knew to do. Mea culpa.

I distanced myself in part because I sought to spare an innocent from strife. It seemed to me that benign neglect was a safer sin than staying and thereby engendering inevitable strife.

Yes, it was cowardly. Mea maxima culpa.

The only thing I can say in my defense is this: I asked her to come with me, to believe as I did. To believe in me. To believe in what we might accomplish together.

Flawed though the perception may have been, it seemed to me that she chose the safer course. Her choice is one I’ve always respected. I understand perfectly why she chose as she did.

We then lived apart.

When our son was born, the very air in the room – heated to searing temperature by the high intensity lasers of his maternal grandmother’s gaze – seemed hell-bent on squeezing me out.

In the year that followed, I tried several times to visit. 

I was clearly unwelcome.

There was a birthday of his when we had all agreed to have him come over to my family’s house for lunch. The lechon manok had been ordered, paid for. Before cabbing over to her house, I spoke to her on the phone and was told that we had gotten a grandparental green light. I proceeded to her house only to be told that her parents had forbidden what was supposed to have been a done deal. It was never clear to me where, how and why that day’s signals had become crossed.

The above incidents are the tip of that iceberg. The rest shall be left unsaid.

Now, however, it seems that certain skeletons in the closet within the attic have been fiddling with the fridge. Said skeletons seem to have taken the icy-heart-sicles out. Said skeletons seem to be licking vigorously.

Perhaps the time has come for the ice to melt.

May the puddles of melted icy-heart-sicle douse the raging flame in my son’s heart.

I know it may be too much to ask but I can only hope that hope is allowed.

Pasasaambat.

(captain, please take the wheel)

I’ve long had a huge crush on Heart Evangelista. Even when it seemed her gorgeous sloe-eyed face was everywhere, grossly overexposed on billboards, posters, ads of all shapes and sizes the length and breadth of Metro Manila, I would feel tingling frissons of kilig upon sighting each oversized Heart Evangelista ad.

So you can imagine how I must have felt last night when she showed up at my regular monday night gig at Martini’s Bar (at the Mandarin Oriental hotel) and sat at the table right in front of the stage, natch!

I spent the whole third set staring at her intently. The audience stares at us all night long. So turnabout is fair play. We performing artists may also, therefore, stare at anyone in the audience for as long as we damn well please.

Lemme tell you, staring at Heart’s pixie face is a pleasure equalled only by the dessert served at the Mandarin Deli. And that’s saying a lot.

All throughout the third set, I made wolf-whistles on my guitar at every opportunity and quoted the Pretty Woman riff incessantly. Starstruck by a celebrity crush, what can I say?

After the third set, my vocalist partner Kat Agarrado introduced me to Heart. Apparently, the two of them already knew each other. So Kat introduced me to Heart.

KILIG!!!

With three exclamation points, no less. While I normally frown upon the excessive use of exclamation points, moments as momentous as being introduced to one of the prettiest faces on the planet merit no less than three exclamation points.

I half-expected Heart to be a beeyatch, as I’ve heard bandied about by the envious. Call me starstruck and blinded by beauty (which is also quite possible, truth be told), but I found her quite gracious. Well-spoken. Obviously well-bred. Intelligent. Articulate. Very charming.

But then, I guess that sort of thing comes with her job description.

Heart Evangelista and I chatted with each other for maybe seven minutes.

I opened with, “I’m sure you’re tired of hearing this but I have to say na mas maganda ka sa personal.”

She laughed, leaned into me and laid a hand on my arm.

Seizing the opportunity, I continued with, “And contrary to what some people say about you, di ka naman pala beeyatch.”

She laughed again and said, “Well… alam mo naman dito sa atin…”

“Yeah,” I said. “Kapaga maganda ka’t sikat, kung anu-ano na ang sasabihin tungkol sa ‘yo.”

“Exactly,” she said.

“So what’s it like?” I asked. “What’s it like…”

“… being an artista?” said she. “It can be hard. You always have to be what people want you to be…”

“I can relate,” I said. “In our own line of work,” I gestured at the stage, “medyo parang artista rin. You’re not allowed to have an off-night sa chikahan.”

She laughed and touched my arm. “I loved your set, by the way.”

(Kilig!!!)

“I really liked your playing,” she continued. “You’re very spontaneous. You guys sounded great.”

“Awww… thanks,” I said, grinning from ear to ear. “In that case, lemme do a bit of self-promotion. I’ve just released my newest solo album. It should be in the stores today.”

“Talaga?” she said. “I’ll be sure to get a copy. You’ll be in my I-pod.”

To which I so badly wanted to say, can I be in your heart as well? Ahhh… the things you wish you could say but can’t.

“What’s the title of your album?” she asked.

“Angelsong,” I answered.

“Angelsong?” Her elfin face is just as pretty when quizzical.

“Angelong,” I affirmed.

The conversation petered out after that. I didn’t want to impose and I think she wanted to sit down.

We shook hands warmly (her hands were so soft!) and she surprised me by bussing me on the cheek. Beso-beso, in Pinoy parlance.

KILIG MOMENT ALERT!!! KILIG MOMENT ALERT!!!

“One last thing,” I said before bidding adieu. “I have a friend on friendster na Heart Evangelista…”

“Hindi ako ‘yon,” she smiled.

“Alam ko. Pero niloloko ko na lang sarili ko, kunwari ikaw talaga yon, para kiligin ako.”

She laughed and laid her porcelain hand on my arm again.

(I have a sneaking suspicion that she just wanted to clean her hands on my shirtsleeve…)

“I am on facebook, however,” she said.

We exchanged facebook contact details and I bid her adieu.

“Nice meeting you, Heart.”

“You too, Aya.” She remembered my name! “I will really get a copy of your album.”

Ahhh, sigh….

Woof!!! (three exclamation points, no less.)

Yes, dear reader, your eyebrow must be on its way skyward right about now.

Ano? May great love of his life, may Sacred Saggitarian, Cono Capricorn, Bossa Lola, Sweet Sexy Scorpio, Little Fish… tapos ngayon, may Forever Love pang nalalaman?

Well, lemme tell you a little bit more about her.

She is the one female who shall be in my life ’til, well… forever.

She’s my daughter, you see.

Out of respect for my 9 year old daughter’s privacy, let’s call her Pooh.

It’s really true what they say — no purer love hath no man than a father’s love for his daughter.

… oh, and while i’m still online, might as well post a new song of mine as well…

          Ever After

When will be my ever after?

Will that dream ever come true?

Where is my fairytale ending?

Will ever after come true?

Do i still believe in the morning?

Dare i still hope for the dawn?

Or is this an endless night waiting?

hardly content with some porn

It’s an interesting time to be alive.

New Year’s Eve 2008 was spent playing music at the intersection of Makati Avenue and Ayala Avenue. Right across the Manila Peninsula, site of Senator Trillanes’ absurd exercise in bad strategy.

Skarlet gig. Skarlet on microphone, Henry Katindig on keys, THE Simon Tan on upright bass, Alex "Sugar" Fidel on drums, Anthony Morris on alto sax, Richie Gonzaga on trumpet and ummm… a bunch of other guys on various horns.

(Mga brad, pasensya na… alam niyo naman kung gaano ako katanga pagdating sa pangalan ng tao, eh.)

Someone I love dearly came to the gig. We spent a few hours together. Sigh.

She watched from the control booth as Skarlet & The Swing Machine played its set. She later relayed how "guapo" i looked on the larger-than-life video wall screen and how, upon blurting that thought out in the control room, she was teased about being in love.

After our set, I managed to hang out with various people outside the bandroom. Some actor host guy who happens to be married to Mickey Ferriols. Nice guy. Solid. Grounded. Also shared a yosi moment with a fellow guitarist whose name escapes me at the moment. He asked for my number, saying he was interested in taking lessons from me.

Then Beloved and I made our escape. En route to my house, i dropped Beloved off at MOA, where she hung out with a buncha friends of hers.

Spent the turning of the year with my family.

Made as much noise as i could with Nimfa the guitar and Tecla the amp. Played an absurdly dissonant Lupang Hinirang… which segued into anything and everything i could think of (Beautiful Love, My One & Only Love, My Foolish Heart, Stella By Slipped Disc…)… then ended with what i could recall of Francisco Tarrega’s "Capricho Arabe".

I thought it was funny.

Thankfully so did my mom.

My hands needed a break (cut me some slacks!) at that point so i slaked my thirst for adventure by balancing atop the frame of our garden’s swing set. Thankfully, muscle memory of MA balance is still ingrained, spinal issues notwithstanding. Hooyah.

Noticed my daughter, Ava, staring up at me, so i beckoned to her then pulled her up to join me atop the frame of the swing set. Sat on top of aforementioned frame with Ava on my lap, shooting mind bullets at skyward bound firecrackers.

Sweet.

When everyone else went to sleep, I went to MOA to pick Beloved up. We hung out at a garden for a while. Then i brought her home.

That’s enough for now. There’s much more to this.

To be continued.