My Musical Mecca

March 9, 2018

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After years of a painstaking hunt, I finally secured a copy of The Colour and the Shape in CD format. Call it compelled compensating, but I’ve always wanted one because back in the day I could only afford it’s cheaper analog brother, the cassette.

Foo’s second album is my holy grail, my musical Mecca, the soundscape I go back to when I want to rage and relax at the same time. It introduced me to the band. It was the first album that made me pay attention to the drums. I’ve been fascinated by the drums years before it came out, but this was the album that grabbed me by the ears, pulled my head to the speakers, and screamed to my face, “Listen up, motherfucker, this is what you want to be doing in the future!”

And the album was right. I wouldn’t go to great lengths to say it changed my life, but it didn’t take long for me to realize that the thunderous banging in my 13-year-old heart was not just Dave Grohl drumming; it was my calling to play the instrument.

[FUN FACT, which might not me so fun if you’re William Goldsmith: Dave axed Goldsmith, Foo’s original drummer, during the recording of the album and redid the drum parts himself.]

If there’s one album I’d have to listen to day in and day out, from first song to last, the ultimate album I’d bring to that proverbial island of isolation, this would be it.

I don’t own a CD player. At least, not in this era. But as part of a generation that took solace in having physical copies of music albums, the kids who valued the inlays as much as the songs, this is more than a music vessel. It’s a piece of history that spins away in nostalgia and wonders if everything could ever feel this real forever, if anything could ever be this good again.

Now, if only they could play here in Manila…

 

 

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Breakup

August 9, 2017

It hits you.

Like a hammer to the face. Or a metal ball wrecking the walls of your heart until it is diminished to an upright tissue that attracts pain the way a lightning rod draws lighting.

It remains fresh even after the echo of the last unuttered word had gone and halted the sentences you’ve written on a shared page to a period, a small dot that burns in the wide empty space of wordlessness as much as in your head like the black tumor that it is.

You replay all the shared remembrances, all the memories you took for granted, those which you woke up to saying they were ugly and that you’d make better next time, only to realize there will never be a next time, no doing it over, no more dumping of things on the back burner hoping they’ll unfold petal by petal in due time like a flower. You know you should’ve gone to that fucking beach outing. Or that alcohol binge that’d be too blurry to remember.

They say many more lovers will come; that there will be stars and Milky Ways and supernovas but none of them can bring back home the astronaut floating in the micro-universes created by past experiences.

You will never share the same bed with any other in the same way and fornicate in the same room under the same light with the same pace of breathing and create an offspring you’ll announce before prying eyes—”this is called [insert name here]”—then go about shoving its life story down beer-drenched throats.

You will sleep on it. Because the world is your bed. Or anything you want it to be: spotlights, fog machines, sound effects of a torn dream.

This is not about the lasting one.

This is not about the last thing.

This is not about a girl. Rather, about diamonds turning into embers.


Walking Without Feet

February 25, 2016

It’s like with every step you lose the possible footprint you’re meant to leave. Sometimes it even feels you’re walking without feet, covering no distance, arriving nowhere.


Eventually, Home

February 3, 2016

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It’s soothing sitting around watching the world hurry home, music in your ears, lights on your face. It helps to once in a while stop and let the busyness of the city take its course without you thinking of the rush to be somewhere you have to be. You contemplate and realize: you’re a ghost stuck in limbo on the sidelines of somewhere, waiting for your turn to find deliverance in the comfort of a soft seat and eventually, home.