when an anti-establishment hippie is established...

Forgive me for being a tad bit emotional. While yesterday everywhere outside my sphere red hearts and Ferreros were swirling by, I was celebrating something else.   At the high school where I am almost done teaching for the year, February 14 marks a completely different albeit related holiday. As far back as I could remember —1987 in fact, when I was but a snot-nosed two-footer—my school has celebrated Teacher’s Day on Valentines.

It was always meant to be a surprise, and every year the student body grouped according to unit, practiced behind closed doors and on V-day sang sappy songs to the teachers.         

By the fifth grade, being that it was always a teacher who prepared the program for us anyway, I’d come to suspect that the only surprise involved was whether we’d finally move on to Marian Carey’s ‘Hero,’ or stick with the formulaic Wind Beneath Your Wings. Still every February 14 we obediently did our part: we warbled off key and gave out roses. (One of youth’s best attributes is its unquestioning nature.)

In our official baptism of fire into ‘coolness,’ a.k.a high school, Feb. 14 obtained a more profound meaning. We still celebrated Teacher’s Day, but we also began to realize that another gender outside our own existed.  So having to participate in the obligatory Valentines/ tribute to teachers program became attractive only for the freedom it promised after. (It’s a half-day affair, so afterwards we were free to do whatever we wanted: paging/ beeping pimply crushes included). Yeah, the performances were fun, especially since that time, teachers were no longer involved in the program creation (so some element of surprise actually existed), but we were careful not to overdo it.  We didn’t want our teachers to think we actually liked them, heaven forbid.

I’d forgotten what we did for our fourth and final year before graduation. I think some of us wore afro wigs and disco fevered onstage. Not very memorable. I have fuzzy memories of our teachers playing parlor games, too, although that may have been back in sophomore year. Point is, Teacher’s Day never really registered to me as anything significant.

Not until yesterday, when for the first time in my life, it became MY day. I’d been teaching Creative Journalism to seniors since June, and had forgotten that anything particular happened in February. It took a few minutes of staring blankly at my students before I figured out why they were begging me to come to school on Valentine’s Day, which was a Wednesday. (I only taught every Tuesdays). How quaint, I thought. They were going to serenade the teachers with something Bette Midler-esque, just like we used to do, every single year of our schooling lives.

I thought that my ten years as a student had taught me exactly what to expect of these things.

It didn’t.

Being choked with emotion was the last thing I expected to happen.

So the program script was a bit choppy, and costumes fell off, and a little more practice couldn’t have hurt. Somewhere in the middle, their power point presentation conked out. And yes. They even sang the obligatory sappy song (This year it was ‘Thank you’ from I forgot the artist’s name).  But I didn’t care.

When one of the graduating girls started crying onstage as she said her thank you address to the teachers, I was thisclose to blubbering myself. At the end of the program the students gave us t-shirts, correction tapes and notepads that said: “A teacher takes a hand, opens a mind, touches a heart, and shapes a future.” Tug.

I have just three classes left with my girls. After that, they will be off to different colleges, and then to different corners of the world. Already I feel my chest growing heavy at having to say goodbye. Already I feel like bawling.

And I’m not the least bit concerned how extremely uncool that would be.

 

 

 

 

Posted by: Hoon at 09:37 | link | comments (4)

Red rice, crumbling coffins and cowboys. These, and giant emerald stairways, a sea of knit-capped noggins and below 9 degree weather made up our blistering two-day jaunt in this plateau described as the Philippine Shangri-la. We took the dusty route from Bontoc, our tiny jeepney’s roof creaking under the weight of a second layer of passengers above, and in an hour we were there—famed terrain to artists and adventurers, hideaway to awed voyagers, this noble mountain nook of the north: Sagada.

Watching the town’s mid-morning scene unfold alone was fascinating. Amidst a cloud of smoke, several backpackers were climbing atop another jeep, this one heading back to Bontoc. One was a nonchalant American woman with dreadlocks down her waist, smoking a cigarette and looking as if she rode jeepneys bareback all her life.

It was the town’s last day of fiesta, and beneath banderitas of colored foil was a parade of chickens, dogs, locals and foreigners. Stalls of mountain produce lined the streets: fresh fruit and fresher greens, peanut butter, rice and tables of knitwear and crafts. Running around were little red cheeked tots, with shiny black hair worn like the Vietnamese. All of them had tiny eyes, full lips and double-layered clothing—trademark features of cold-weather people. Tourists either stood out or blended in by virtue of how laid-back they looked: as such, Koreans stuck out just a smidgen more than the rowdy families from Manila. Europeans, Americans, and seasoned Pinoy backpackers, thanks to slightly grizzled beards and hair, could go by almost undetected. But most remarkable were Sagada’s local cowboys. You couldn’t take your eyes of them, these “western” folk from the north—nothing else swaggered more loftily to the blaring of John Denver and Jonny Cash than their boots. Just watching them cross the street zapped you to a different time zone.

And with the searing sun, the temperature dipped and dodged, blowing chilly summit winds that smelled of pine and mountain grass.

Sagada has long been the trail for many spirited trotters, known for its nippy weather and breath-sucking views that sent even the most unflappable photographer scrambling for an angle. Backpackers often cite not less than ten reasons to stop by Sagada: cheap lodges, Baguio gold and the sheer un-Manila-ness of it all make a hearty top 3.  Even more, locals leave the tourists alone, which is a no better indication of a town fully content. 

Our dwindling funds led us atop a hill to St. Joseph’s inn, where at P200 per scrimping head, you get a large window to the sky and street, fuzzy blankets, and that all-too familiar feeling of home. The large oil paintings of saints and nuns on the walls come as a bonus; so does the freezing tap water. (I would conclude thereon that I would not need a bath in Sagada).

The town, officially a municipality of the Mountain Province, has even made adventuring uncomplicated. There is a Tourist Center, where visitors could register (we were Jean Valjean and Cosette for the day) and be assigned a guide for a minimal, all-inclusive fee: a group of one to ten is P400, eleven to fifteen P450, and so on. We failed to convince a Korean couple to band with us and split the cost, but then again it gave us complete freedom to choose our itinerary: we went for Echo Valley, the Kiltepan rice terraces viewpoint, and the Lumiang burial caves— the waterfalls, underground rivers and spelunking call for another chapter.

It was actually grand just standing there on the street like a lamppost. Everything that moved commanded awed attention: in the basketball courts was an ongoing tug-of-war, where cowboy hats and boots heaved left and right, to the delighted cheering of a large crowd. Further down people were reclined on the grass, chomping on red rice and watching a line of people dance and play the gangsa (gong) in traditional merriment. A soccer and softball game were happening simultaneously, and before them the green fields and blue skies stretched on for ages.

It was Madrid, though, our jolly guide who could say the most appropriate French phrases, who brought us deep into the breathing, beating heart of Sagada. We saw century-old coffins hanging from cliffs, hundreds more stacked inside caves, housing tribal bones creaking in seated positions. We stood at the edge of a precipice, gazing in quiet homage at the rice terraces built by our forefathers and their fathers before them. Huge rock formations watched us from above, pinecones crackled beneath our feet. Madrid took us across fences, over gates and through tiny vessels to take in wonders made by time, earth and man. For three hours we trod the ancient but unforgotten paths of a mountain that nourished, and we were full.

Just as the sun was beginning to set, and cast before us shadows and orange dust, we sat ourselves at a tiny shop in Sagada’s main street. And over steaming cups of brewed coffee, reflections and some sugared bread, we watched the night fall, and the town settled in a sleepy, enchanted light.

Mastercard would splice the experience— bundled cocoon-like under the blankets at bedtime and bouncing back to Bontoc atop a jeepney included—in a single catch phrase: priceless. And it was, but for the sake of formality, I’d put it at less than P1500 pesos (about $30), and not a freezing centavo more. Unfortunately, no cowboy hat included.

 

 

 

Posted by: Hoon at 05:48 | link | comments (3)

Posted by: Hoon at 09:08 | link | comments

 

 a happy day on mouse control

Disclaimer: I must have all who belong to the Japanese cult know that my exposure to Japan’s music has been but three days, and that any trespasses/ referential errors contained herewith be excused.

 

From a half-hearted viewpoint it would seem not too different from Eat Bulaga.

Here is a comedian host of over a decade with unchanging appeal—Music Station’s Tamori has been wearing what seems to be the same pair of shades since 1996; the oldest clip I could find at You Tube—and a deadpan wit that has the audience in stitches nearly half the time, with a pretty young lass for a co-host, and a featured music artist/ group. A preliminary interview here, an album plug there—you don’t understand anything except the “Hais” and “Arigatos”—and then, often to the shrieking of fans, the live  performance.

 

It just so happens that the first clip I saw was a comedic take on popular pop artists—comedians with wigs and exaggerated moves were impersonating groups like Kat-Tun and Han-Kun. Near the end, a man in a curly blond afro and a protruding belly was joined onstage by the mishmash of performers for a dance number. The finale is a shot of the curly blonde with his pants around his ankles—exposing a pair of shiny retro jockeys. The audience is rendered immobile with laughter.

The original artists, though, as subsequent clips would show, step out to real adoration. These celebrities triumphantly work the hanamichi and execute choreographed moves as back-up dancers in matching suits tumble out of nowhere. These are Japan’s brightest musical stars, and to their legion upon legion of fans, the world is this stage.

 

So at first glance it would seem like your regular Pinoy noontime show.

 

Except that no Pinoy noontime show had ever, ever consumed me with the almost rabid desire to see more.

 

Music Station, under the guise of a harmless musical program, is actually a cultural time-space vortex.

In a span of ten short minutes, the initial annoyance you will feel at being unable to decipher neither dialogue nor lyric will become immaterial. It will be all about the artist, the music, the fans and the unexplainable potency of this combination.

 

Faced with Tokyo’s J-pop celebrities, adjectives you’ve known all your life will suddenly become incompetent. There are electrically spacey, wild-haired, girl-fronted groups like Judy and Mary; wilder-haired bands like ghoulish rockers BZ, the fur-coated Gackt;  identically dressed and barefoot pixie girls Biyuuden; Atari girls Halcali; Yakuza-inspired gangsters L‘arc en Ciel; and many, many other strange guitarists, drummers, keyboardists, acrobats, vocalists and other national heroes in leather. As this one hour weekly program works as a syndicated teleport to our Asian neighbor’s id, it means you will also find, among others, the guaranteed powerhouse combo of five good-looking men who can sing, dance, and most important of all, point to the sky while bending. This is carried out most ably by who I assume to be the current kings of this genre, Kat-Tun.  (Just so you know what you’re up against, comments following each Kat-Tun video is more or less a variation of the following:

‘ they're soooo cute ^-^

sigh they all so cute

uhm, i think kame should have a haircut. haha. but he's hot that way, too. ^^
anyway, i really really really love ueda!

omigod!! i luv akanishi!!!! he's soooooo HOT.’

—Guys whose girlfriends fainted at F4’s Manila “concert,” take necessary precautions. These Kat-Tun guys are lethal. Their latest single “Signal”, for instance, is almost Justin Timber-like in execution).

 

But then you have the ladies. Soulful soloists like Ayumi Hamasaki who just bowled my non-Japanese trained ears over with a haunting piece called Hanabi. And gothic punk Mika Nakashima with a beautiful live version of Hitoiro. I later find out that Hitoiro is a soundtrack from a movie that Mika Nakashima actually appeared in, and that Hanabi, meaning fireworks, was used in an anime series. Only much later on, upon finding myself pleasantly surprised to see a clip of Mika with Hyde of L‘arc en Cie playing the guitar, did I realize that I ‘d been hooked.  Badly.

 

I acquainted myself further with another Hide, who, a decade ago already had pink hair, was making faces at the camera, and was already singing of beauty and stupidity, with lyrics that went: I just wanna make love, I don’t wanna fall in love. And this little kid Nishikido Ryo—who in a stylish hat and Michael Jackson threads danced and sang and allowed himself to be carried on the head of a much older duet partner —all while performing a very fun version of Secret Agent Man in Japanese.

And this group called Sambo Masters, whose members didn’t look at all different from a corner store grocer, but ironically could incite the greatest rock riot in the audience.

I could now recognize several of the Japan’s pop icons, having gone beyond the show’s casual novelty. It is only either very easy or very difficult to appreciate Music Station’s allure. And once you do, you go beyond. And once beyond, you discover a culture that’s really amazing, artists that are really good, and a nation that is really strange.

 

So why should you watch Music Station?

Because long after I’d gotten enough material for this review did my fingers continue clicking on their clips.

Because prior to this bout of YouTubism all the knowledge I possessed on

Japanese music could be spelled out in a non-word and a Roman numerical figure—Voltes V to you Power Ranger tots—and now I’ve got artists like Rie Fu and Mosume Morning swimming in my head.

 

And because no matter how close we feel we are to understanding this nation, through something as primal and visceral as imbibing their music—we find out rather that it’s because of it, that we never really will.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Posted by: Hoon at 08:59 | link | comments (1)