The Dowggie Blog

And now for a bit of shameless self-promotion.

With much heartfelt gratitude to Scott Garceau.

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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)