Game & Watch fans, this is what you've been waiting for! Now you can play some of your favorite Game & Watch games and other retro pocket games online with PICA PIC - "Hipopotam's digitized collection of handheld electronic games".
Check it out and try to beat your old score!
By R.N. Rigor
“I recorded the song Bayan Ko (My Homeland) in 1979---seven years before the revolution. I felt that foreign culture was beginning to swamp local pop music. I thought that maybe a patriotic song would jolt back those who were starting to forget who we really are. Bayan Ko was the best I could think of…
When I was singing that song, without accompaniment, beside the coffin of Ninoy Aquino, I broke out in goose pimples. I was thinking, “I am full of conceit. All I do is talk. This man gave his life.” From then on, I became part of the protest scene---all the way until the revolution, still singing Bayan Ko.”
(Freddie Aguilar, quoted from People Power, an eyewitness history, 1986)
In the past month, our nation mourned the passing of Tita Cory, laid her to rest in the most fitting solemnity due one who has been known as the icon of Philippine democracy. Every Filipino across the globe must have witnessed the outpouring of the masa, the presence of every well-healed politico and entertainment personalities paying tribute to the wife of Ninoy, himself a national hero whose life and tragic end propelled Tita Cory to her niche in history.
For many of us who can remember, the slaying of Ninoy Aquino in 1983 was the beginning of the end of the Marcos era. That was three years prior to the biggest and most revered People Power movement that not only shocked the whole world, it also offered the people of a nation a new beginning. It made every Filipino proud.
It was during these challenging moments in our history when one of our most prolific and perhaps the closest to every Filipino then, because of his daunting songs and unabashed national pride, sang a nation to action.
Bayan Ko - Original Sound Track
Freddie Aguilar was known to have stirred the hearts of even the most jaded when his song ‘Anak’ aired the Holy Week after his Metro Manila Pop Music Festival debut. The year was 1976. The more popular singing personalities of the very first government-sponsored festival took the major awards, overshadowing the lilting song from an unknown Olongapo folksinger. But, the song’s message cannot be denied. Not from his own people. Not from the world.
Anak - Original Sound Track
For the very first time in the history of Philippine pop culture, a Filipino song cascaded across the globe in its original version. Every Japanese can sing the song from the heart---in Pilipino. Every European can recognize the song, in more than a dozen languages. This song spurred the “golden era of the seventies”, as pop artist/songwriter Rey Valera would eventually refer to, with original Pilipino songs and compositions lording its way not only in Asia, but even as far as New York. Pinoy songs would end up taking major awards in Asian festivals; local disco’s “Awitin Mo at Isasayaw Ko” was a favorite of Diana Ross at Studio 54 in New York.
Through those years, Ka Freddie, together with his cadre of folk artists (the likes of Florante, Asin, Banyuhay, Joel Ayala, PenPen, etc.) challenged the nation of the political reality of the times. Not only did the people listen, the government’s media authorities did not like what was being addressed. Unknown to many, Ka Freddie’s winning entry to the Second Metro Pop Festival, my brother Snaffu’s composition “Bulag, Pipi, at Bingi” (The Blind, the Mute and the Deaf), was eventually pulled from further airing as it suggested a subversive undertone according to the Broadcast Media Council.
Bulag, Pipi, at Bingi - Original Sound Track
This did not stop Ka Freddie from doing what he does best, to write from the heart and through the heart of the masa. It is unfortunate, and frankly, it is borne from sheer ignorance that some commentators would refer to this pop icon as one whose songs are “only heard by beggars”, as one who is a “sour grape whose time has come and gone”…
These comments from amnesiacs have completely put aside the fact that the guy singing for Tita Cory’s cause during that infamous snap election in 1985, the eventual People’s Power march 0f ’86 that hurled the nation to its new-found freedom was Ka Freddie and his version of what became the people’s anthem, ‘Bayan Ko’. Sure, it is the beggar’s song, but it was the masa of “beggars” that made possible the very freedom that careless commentators like these are enjoying these days.
Ka Freddie’s absence in all of Tita Cory’s last hours before she was finally laid to rest, with echoes of his rendition of ‘Bayan Ko’ and the memory of People’s Power coming alive among the multitude of masa along the funeral cortege, is really ironic.
Perhaps, because of late, Ka Freddie made an unpopular remark regarding several of today’s entertainers who have carved their presence globally. I can understand his argument. True, we are a nation of gifted and talented entertainers, who provide others the delight of hearing songs sung or seeing acts closest to the original. But, in the same breath, we have just as much Pinoy creativity to unleash, much like what “Anak” had done for Freddie, or what Pitoy Moreno has done in the field of fashion, and the many talented local artists in the visual arts. I believe that this is what he is trying to make clear.
Nevertheless, doing great mimicry is far from being original, indeed. Ka Freddie is an original and will not refrain from speaking his mind. His reference to the “unggoy” (monkey) is a stark caricature of the current trend of Filipino popular culture. Truth can be very abrasive sometimes.
He once made his nation proud. Those who forsake him because of what he envisions a nation’s gifted talents to be are the very people who will continue to make the Philippines a nation of beggars.
R.N. Rigor
From 1976 to 1980, a Project Coordinator with the Popular Music Foundation of the Philippines (the producer of the Metro Manila Pop Music Festivals), and is currently a teacher in an alternative school for social justice in the state of Washington for the past 15 years. 
By Citizen J.D.C.
Just because I was a kid doesn't mean that I do not watch shows starring real actors at all. Heck, I do remember watching Iskul Bukol and was laughing at the antics of the Escalera Brothers and their latest caper that usually ends in disaster, for them at least. I also loved T.O.D.A.S ( Joey De Leon, Val Sotto, Spanky Rigor, Frieda Fonda, Maribeth Bichara and later, Jimmy Santos) especially their knock-knock jokes, gags and sketches. That show lasted for, I think 11 years before Bubble Gang broke their record just recently. How about Champoy with Subas Herrero and Noel Trinidad? I loved that show. Bet most of you remember Ora Encantada, shown every Sunday with Luz Valdez playing storytelling grandmother. Following that was Happy House, a family sitcom starring Tito Sotto, Sandy Andolong, Isabel Granada, Aga Muhlach and Laura Hermosa. Then when nine o' clock strikes it time for my all time favorite comedy show of all time: Sic O' Clock News, with "anchormen" Jimmy Fabregas and Ces Quesada, together with Junix Inocalla, Wilson Go, Rene Requiestas (deceased), Errol Dionisio (also deceased), Ching Arellano and other names I couldn't remember.
That's Entertainment? Well, I remember that, but sorry, I'm no fan of love teams; most of my female cousins were. Eat Bulaga? Of course! Tito, Vic and Joey? They were my heroes then. Drama? Hmm, the only drama that I remembered was Lovingly Yours, Helen with the late Helen Vela. How could I forget that: my mom used to watch that every Sunday afternoon right after GMA Supershow. Wait! there was also Maricel Drama Special on channel 2... how could I forget about that? Okay, hmm I think I'll mention Discovery Drama Special hosted by newscaster Angelique Lazo. You know, the show that works like a some sort of a laboratory for up and coming actors. Well, the only actor who I can still remember is Dennis Balthazar. I wonder where the rest of them are doing now? Sitcoms? Aside from Iskul Bukol which I had mentioned, I remember Chicks to Chicks, Sitak ni Jack, Barrio Balimbing, Manok ni San Pedro, and... and... darn, that's all that I could recall!
Superseryes has become a regular staple in today's TV, but to be frank, it's not a new novel idea. Let's be honest: some of us recall Kapitan Kidlat and Darna over PTV 4. Twinbill? I'm not a Kapamilya, for your information, and I am very aware that rabid Kapusos out there will come out and lynch me for this, but as I recall ABS-CBN came up with a similar format, a short-lived one, if I recall correctly, starring Robin Padilla (as a superhero whose moniker I no longer remember) and Manilyn Reynes (as a dead girl turned guardian angel). Fantaseryes? Hmm, aside from Ora Encantada, most agree that Okay Ka, Fairy Ko was the prototype of the fantaserye, and I hope that I'm right. Horror Stories? Gosh, Regal Shocker (GMA) and that other show on channel 13 scared the ghost out of me (no pun intended).
Hey, how about shows that came from the other side of the world? GMA used to air a lot of them during that time, especially on primetime. I loved watching Knight Rider just because I was amused with the talking car KITT. Punky Brewster, occasionally. A Different World, St. Elsewhere, Miami Vice, China Beach, Baby Boom, Scarecrow and Mrs. King, Knot's Landing et al, never watched a single episode. The Cosby Show watched once, never followed... couldn't fathom the humor. All Star Professional Wrestling, OOPS! That was on channel 13, but that was the first time I watched grown men in their underwear "beat the hell out" of each other. That's where I was introduced to Hulk Hogan, Iron Sheik, Andre the Giant, Ricky Steamboat, Tito Santana, Ric Flair, Don Muraco, Ronnie Garvin, etc. McGyver, I wished I had his improvisational ingenuity. Imagine building an aircraft out of bamboo and a motor, making bombs using common household cleaning materials, or turn a fountain pen into a gun. That's so cool.
Also read: Memories Of An 80's Childhood (Part 1)
By Citizen J.D.C.
There are some times when I am alone with my thoughts doing nothing, procrastinating or just engaging in my confined soliloquy, or read some books for the nth time, or snoozing; but besides all that I mentioned, there's this one pastime that I would consider my most favorite; going on a trip back memory lane. Being a nostalgic fool that I am, going for a sentimental journey has become my hobby. A trip where I don't have to be physically out of my house. Where my time machine is my recollection about the past and my experiences that comes with them. Where all it takes is to hop in and go with the spiral and spin, spin, and spin around, and around, and around, and around....
"Pagmulat ng mata, langit nakatawa sa Batibot" Ahh, how could I forget that song. And the place. The neighborhood every kids my age wished they lived. Where they can play with the childish, hulking Pong Pagong and the gravel-voiced Kiko Matsing. Where they can listen to Kuya Bodjie's stories. Where they can learn their abc's... or in this case, a-ba-ka-da from Ate Siena. And the puppets: the siblings Ningning and Ginging, Irma and Tikyo, the bickering aliens Sitsiritsit and Alibangbang and other crop of characters whose names I can't recall anymore. All in all, Batibot is perhaps the fondest memory every 80's kid like me has in our respective childhood. And don't forget, Batibot is shown twice a day, everyday; the morning run is aired over channel 9, the afternoon run is aired over PTV 4. Weekend kiddie variety shows means either Uncle Bob's Lucky 7 Club, Pen Pen De Sarapen or Star Smile Factory.
Cartoons. There were lots of that on TV then than now. Especially during weekday afternoons. When ABS-CBN resumed broadcasting after the EDSA revolution it showed robot cartoons every, if I'm not mistaken, 4:00 o' clock in the afternoon. The daily roster is as follows: Monday, Mekanda Robot; Tuesday, (damn I forgot!)... but that is my most favorte among all (I know that it involves computers, that is the clue); Wednesday, Daimos; Thursday, Voltes V. Friday, on the other hand, is for the live-action super sentai Bioman. That was also the time when there are cartoons being shown on primetime. Bet that you could remember watching The Real Ghostbusters every seven o' clock in the evening on channel 2
Weekend Saturday mornings mean Saturday Fun Machine on channel 9, not to mention the adventures of the Superfriends which is light and campy in demeanor compared to the edgy approach of the recent Justice League. Other Saturday staples include channel 7's M.A.S.K and Spiral Zone and channel 2's Pole Position and Visionaries. Channel 13, which was the dominant station of the time, had Looney Tunes, Transformers, G.I. Joe, Denver the last Dinosaur, Widget among others. When primetime comes the fun didn't stopped, rest assured that I have my fill of the Thundercats and Silver Hawks on channel 7.
To be continued...
By Nicholas Stoodley
And they were mad indeed. Ernest Santiago, in many ways, was the embodiment of those insane, crazy, free-wheeling days (and nights)... actually more the nights! that tore through Manila in the 70's and 80's. He designed clothes but that was really a second placer compared with his genius as a showman - an impresario of glitz and glamor and the outrageous focused on his disco COCO BANANA just off Remedios Circle in Malate. But wow was it so much more than just a disco! This was where the electricity that made those years hum and whirl and dance was generated. This was where the movers and shakers of the Wild Side wilded, and wild they did!
The air was balmy with forbidden pleasures as we made our way up dimly lit streets towards COCO for in those days there was still a mini forest in the center of Remedios Circle and the mayor at that time hadn't considered the garish searchlights that now illuminate the new squalor of that area in a hydrogenated light that turns the skin green! They totterered on improbably high Cuban heels which made small boys tall and careened and preened in stiletto heels that made other boys girls. They were dropped off in fancy cars by drivers at the door who had walkie talkies before cell phones were invented and a blur of St Laurent would be lost in the swirl of ravers milling around the entrance.
Petusa was always there... I had first seen her on Mabini posing at the side of the road as Marilyn Monroe, pirouetting and posing for visiting tourists and his own vague amusement. And he did it well. The sons and daughters of politicians and foreigners looking for an easy lay mingled in an easy embrace with call boys, designers, social climbers and even those who had reached the top and stayed there. And me. In a town so easily divided by class and caste and money and power and poverty and glamor and grime, COCO was unique in that it mixed it all up together and it worked. And standing in the entrance as always was Ernest - an immense Cheshire Cat from Alice in Wonderland smile on his face just loving every damned intoxicating moment of it. And I mean this was a disco yet the flower arrangements were fabulous. Flowers! This wasn't a disco at all, It was a social experiment where we all came together with Donna Summer and screamed and just lost it with no inhibitions at all. With flowers!
Then there was the show. Transvestites miming to the usual greats but with such zest and verve and, actually, great talent, that for those moments it didn't feel like a drag show at all. It was REAL. The tourists couldn't believe it and sat there opened mouthed until somebody sunk their lips upon that mouth and they became one. Pinks and Gold and tulle and froth and satin and improbable feathers swayed before us in a chorus line of hedonistic excess that somehow always teetered on the edge of decency without managing to crash into the shadows. Fabulous. To say nothing of the music. Sure, it sounds like a typical comment of one who is getting on a bit but honestly kids these days don't know what they're missing! I could go on and on but I won't. This was for you Ernest! And for all of us that were there. Ernest Santiago was murdered a few days ago in his house in Laguna.
By: Guillermo Ramos
His sexuality was never exposed to the public: there were no scandals, no screaming headlines. But it reeked of capital G, as in Gonzales.
Let's play a game! I declared to my assistant Lynn, who was born in 1975. OK, name the singer of this song. I cleared my throat, and in my signature atonal range sang, "O ang babae pag minamahal/ May kursunada Aayaw ayaw…" Easy, she quipped, Apo Hiking Society! I felt as if a baby grand piano had landed on my head and broken my cranium in half. In a fentosecond (a million times faster than a nanosecond!), I tried to regain my composure, clutched my chest, and with a deep breath I whispered through my nostrils, Bobby Gonzales. Bobby who? she asked. Bobby Gonzales sang it. What song? she asked again. The song I was singing a while ago, I said with growing exasperation. Go back to work.
It was a very sad October day when I read in a leading broadsheet that Bobby Gonzales had passed away. Hardly anyone had noticed. And yet this flaming performer deserved to go not with a whimper, but with a bang. This was the man who popularized Hahabol-habol, a rock-n-roll ditty about Pinoy courtship. It was played in all the jukeboxes of all the carinderias and beerhouses from Sta. Ana to Sta. Cruz, San Juan to Santa Mesa. It was on Raon's (the street in Quiapo where you bought the latest vinyl, the Tower Records of its time) top 10 for months! It was a featured song in a Lita Gutierrez movie, Alembong I think.
The first and only time I saw Bobby Gonzales live was in the 60s, when the stars of Villar Records were on a provincial tour to promote Rely Coloma, the wunderkind of the Yamaha Electone Organ. In that musical extravaganza, Sylvia La Torre, Ric Manrique Jr., The Mabuhay Singers and of course Bobby G, were present. They were known collectively as the Villar All-Stars. At that time Bobby had just come back from a stint in Japan. He was proudly showing off his command of Nihongo while being interviewed by Oras ng Ligaya's Oscar Obligacion. No one could comprehend what was going on, but the audience loved it anyway.
I was thunderstruck. His outfits (yes, outfits—he had several costume changes throughout the show) were outrageous. He was wearing a deep purple, magenta and tennis ball green checkered suit, mango yellow trousers, white nurse's shoes and a fully sequined red bow tie. When he launched into Hahabol-habol, and mind you, he was accompanied not by an orchestra but by a rondalla, he practically brought the entire barrio down. Everyone was on their feet, like the audience at the recent China Crisis concert at the PICC. (At least in the barrio, the people were honest with their emotions; I don't know about the last China Crisis concert.) After that barako-infused number, he delivered some spiels in Tagalog. And then his face took on a darker mood. He looked up and whispered, This is for you. He then sang Johnny Ray's classic, Cry. When he was singing that song, I felt very uncomfortable—a mixture of fright, pain and pity—there was something different about him that I couldn't explain. I just ignored whatever it was that was bothering me. I was in denial. No, no, he couldn't be. He is not, I thought to myself. The man is an entertainer, that is all there is. His sexuality was never exposed to the public: there were no scandals, no screaming headlines. But it reeked of capital G, as in Gonzales.
Bobby G's rise to stardom was not laced with paparazzi, champagne and marzipan petit-fours or whatever we think showbiz life ought to be. It was a hard life in the 1950s. In Clover Theater, at the foot of Sta. Cruz Bridge, Bobby Gonzales belted out 25 to 40 songs per show, three shows per day, seven days a week. He was paid 25 pesos a day, which he collected from the box office take on his way out. Katy de la Cruz, the diva of that period, got 50 pesos.
Hard work really paid off for Bobby G. Towards the late sixties his career blossomed, and he recorded hits like Ale Ale, Walastik, Dalagang Suplada and Diyan Ka Na. He hosted radio and television shows like the Big Show that eventually became Oras ng Ligaya with Sylvia La Torre. He was the original OFW singing OPM. He lived for many years in Tokyo, where he developed a strong following. He also played Vegas and Atlantic City with the Reycards Duet. With erstwhile friend Bimbo Danao, they helped build the reputation of Filipinos as "the entertainers of the world".
Today, in hotel lounges from Bahrain to the Bahamas, Filipino bands and singers dot the map of the world. All this is thanks to Bobby G. Late in his career, he was seen regularly at the Intramuros Bar of the Manila Garden Hotel, performing kundiman and Japanese songs. Sometimes, guests who recognized him would request the occasional Johnny Ray tune; he would do it without hesitation, but he would have a hard time reaching the higher octave, and resort to some musical device to remedy the situation. Among his last public appearances was the 47th Famas night in 1999, when he received the Lou Salvador Memorial Award. He died of emphysema in October 4. 2002. And is almost forgotten.
Also read: Bravo! Indios Bravos
Technorati Tags:70s, television, nostalgia
By: Guillermo Ramos
In September 2006 while strolling the span of La Rambla in Barcelona's Gothic Quarter, my Partner and I chanced upon a handsome 19th century edifice that I knew to be the old headquarters of the Compañia Tabacalera de Filipinas. Upon entering it's narrow foyer with vaulted ceiling, I discovered that this 19th century symbol of tobacco monopoly in the Philippines had been transformed into an elegant 4 star hotel—the Hotel 1898.
On further, into the main vestibule, its walls decorated with wide cream and black stripes of raffia and large-scale photo-murals of Ilocano ancestral homes, Cagayan Valley tobacco plantations and Ifugao granary gods, I was delighted to see fine examples of unmistakably modern Philippine-made furniture in rattan, woven bamboo and Cordovan leather. Determined to find out more about this unique find, I struck up a friendship with the concierge, who, having discovered where I came from exclaimed, "Señor, this hotel is dedicated to you. In your country, the year 1898 is a big victory, but for us, it is a reminder of El Disastro, which the majority of Spanish people wish to forget."
Moving on to the bar, where we ordered Cervesa San Miguel. I suddenly felt an enormous sense of well-being. As a proud Indio, I began to think about Rizal and the Indios Bravos. The Filipino Diaspora it seemed had finally arrived into the 21st century, and of all places in Barcelona, where we are now celebrated and not condemned.
While sipping the cool San Miguel, I allowed my imagination to drift back to one of those mild Spanish winters in Barcelona, visualizing Rizal promenading the La Rambla, while perhaps carrying with him a book to remind him of home: that metrical romance with convoluted plots written in the sweetest Tagalog, Francisco Balagtas's Florante at Laura. Was it this book that helped him shape an opinion about the Filipino Diaspora while working as a correspondent for the La Solidaridad? Being known as a propaganda newspaper, it is credited by many as having created a nationalist consciousness that eventually helped spark the revolution.
During Rizal's time, the term Filipino was reserved for Spaniards living in the colony, whether they be creoles, insulares or peninsulares. The rest of the population was known as Indio, Mestizos (half Spanish-half Indio), Mestizo Chino (half Spanish, half Chinese) and Quadrecillos (a quarter of everything). So one is left to wonder what passport our national hero carried during his world travels. Indio perhaps?
Rizal was clearly burgis, not in the strict French bourgeois sense, but class and class struggle was something he always understood. Being artistic and at the same time logical and scientific, social traditions and new ways of thinking excited him. He was cosmopolitan, a man of the world, a seasoned traveler. He moved homes many times, but always wanted to belong—to an organization, a race, and to the global brotherhood of nations. When Rizal reached his teenage years, Calamba became too small a pond to sustain the intellectual stimulation that this big fish longed for, so his parents dispatched him, first to Manila and eventually to Europe to enable him to quench his thirst for the education and information he desired so much.
A century before Filipino overseas workers began peppering the European landscape, a band of "Filipino" students or illustrados had already demonstrated the first signs of collective activity, notably in Barcelona, Madrid and Paris. Their spirited youth, gaiety and pathos were reminiscent of Puccini's opera La Boheme—totally immersed in romance, artistic triumphs, and political intrigues, complete with a tragic ending. These men, who by living overseas imposed upon themselves a life of veritable self-exile, had strong convictions but were inevitably homesick, always anticipating letters from home. In letters he sent to his brother Paciano, Rizal was known for his constant pleading for his allowance, and in his pocket diary he kept detailed accounts of his expenses for food, lodging and items such ink, pens, paper, candles and books. They conquered their vulnerability and sadness by channeling their energies into nationalist sentiments and creative pursuits in order to further the propaganda movement for the reform of the Spanish colonial administration in the Philippines.
In spite of a longing for family, friends and food from home, the accoutrements that accessorized their existence abroad were fully Western. They certainly had style, and dressed in the finest suites, hats and walking sticks, Rizal and his friends were known as Dandies as they elegantly did their paseos, as proud as any of their European counterparts. In their lighter moments they donned classical Greco-Roman costumes for fancy dress parties, disguised as a sitting in the atelier of Juan Luna. To stimulate their young minds, they engaged in lively debates and participated in fencing; a graceful sport reserved for gentlemen wishing to show-off their tactical psyche and agile physique.
One summer evening in 1884, Rizal who at the time had just turned 23, delivered a toast at a banquet in the Restaurant Inglés in Madrid honoring Juan Luna for winning the gold medal for his painting El Expoliarium and Felix ResureccÃon Hidalgo for his silver medal for his painting Virgenes Cristianas Expuestas al Populacho at the Exposition Nacional de Bellas Artes de Madrid. In his rhetorical and florid style, which was fashionable in those days, he conveyed in his propaganda, veiled as a toast, a glowing manifestation on "…how the illustrious deeds of her sons are no longer wasted away at home..." He then compared the two artists to: "…the oriental chrysalis is leaving the cocoon…" The anticipation of the time when Spain finally embraces the Diaspora: "…the dawn of a long day ahead is heralded in brilliant shades and rose-colored dawns…" And he lionizes them to heavens: "…to you are owed the beauty of the diamonds that the Philippines wears in her crown; she produced the precious stones, Europe polished them…" Rizal would have used "world-class", "our very own" and "yes, the Filipino Can!" if it were the mot du jour. Undoubtedly, Rizal in the beginning was a pacifist and all he wanted was Las Filipinas to undergo colonial reforms that would make it an Overseas Department or a Province. (The complete text of the toast in both English and Spanish can be found in 20 Speeches that Shaped the Nation. Selected and with introductions by Manolo Quezon.)
It was at the time of the Paris Exposition Universelle of 1889, held during the centennial anniversary of the French Revolution, that Rizal's patriotism reached another dimension. Clearly, Victor Hugo's Les Miserables and the dramatic storming of the Bastille left an indelible mark in Rizal’s mind and he was fortunate to be in Paris at the time to take part in the celebrations. The main feature of the Exposition was the Eiffel Tower, which served as the entrance arch. An engineering masterpiece by Gustav Eiffel, it marked the end of the Industrial Revolution. Parisians initially loathed the tower but ironically it was later to become the icon of modern France. Across the Seine, the village nègre or the "Negro Village" where about 400 indigenous people were displayed in the form of a human zoo, constituted the major attraction. During this time, Rizal has translated more than thirty pages of Blumentritt’s Memorias on the tribes of Mindanao. At the Exposition, the French composer Claude Debussy was in the audience when an ensemble from Java performed Javanese gamelan music and for sure Rizal heard it too. It probably helped him find the connection.
Upon arriving in Paris two months before the Exposition, Rizal immediately founded the Kidlat Club, the progenitor of the Indios Bravos. In a letter to Mariano Ponce, he proposed that Marcelo H. del Pilar, Graciano Lopez Jaena, Ferdinand Blumentritt, and Julio Llorente should all convene in Paris. It was exacerbated when Rizal learned from Trinidad H. Pardo de Tavera who had arrived weeks later from the Philippines, that life in the country was becoming impossible. Tavera predicted that unless conditions changed, a revolution would occur in the Philippines within ten years.
Paris was undoubtedly the center of the universe at that time. Think of Bas Lurhman's film Moulin Rouge. It's bright lights continuously shone and the grand party unyielding. It was teeming with people of all nationalities and races, and Rizal badly wanted to be a part of that global community. In his room at 45 Rue de Manbenge, with unrelenting inspired madness, he continued annotating Morga's Sucesos de las Islas Filipinas, which he painstakingly copied by hand from the British Library. When he sent his annotations to Dr. Blumentritt for printing in Germany, he requested that the publication of the book be kept secret so as to surprise his compatriots. Dr. Blumentritt lent the illustrados his distinguished scholarship in support of their noble efforts whose aspirations were in complete accord with his liberal spirit. In his dispatches to La Solidaridad, he was urging his compatriots to purchase and read books published about the Philippines and to learn European languages, so they could themselves decipher what Pigafetta and Morga among others had written about Las Islas Filipinas.
It always strikes me as somewhat delusionary (Lourd, is there such a word, from delude, transitive verb) for people to perceive our national heroes as perfect, idealized individuals. As historian Ambeth Ocampo has always espoused, they are not made entirely of stone and bronze. Our textbooks glorify our heroes by venerating them as golden calves, thereby confusing respect with idolatry. For sure their heroic efforts were truly remarkable, but we must never forget that they were human too. With compelling emotions they cried, laughed and loved. They were young, exuberant and passionate, and by embarking on something that was bigger than themselves they eventually succeeded in creating a lasting impression.
If Rizal were alive today, he would undoubtedly frequent the bar of Hotel 1898 and along with Pedro Paterno and Juan Luna would also order Tapas and Cervesa San Miguel. They would perhaps discuss a concept for new magazine, a painting, or a book to be written by Rizal, and designed by Luna, while Paterno would do the business plan. They might even prepare to participate in the Frankfurt Book Fair and who knows, Blumentritt might just show up and pick up the tab. As for the Indios Bravos, I long to gate crash their party at 45 Rue de Manbenge and party all night long.
Also read: The Jukebox Kings
Technorati Tags:history, nostalgia
There was a time when a fan's devotion to his or her idol wasn't measured by how much they've spent on all the advertised merchandise made available to the public. Not every fan was able to afford the style of clothes sported by the stars, let alone be able to purchase the latest glossy magazine with their idol's perfect smile on the cover. It was a time when making a scrapbook was enough to call one a devotee. Chosen photos collected from all sorts of publications were recycled, and carefully pasted on a simple spiral ring notebook. This would be one of many treasured volumes of personalized scrapbooks that would be shared, traded, and admired by other adoring fans. Here's a look at an original late 60's scrapbook made by a Vilma Santos fan.
By: Guillermo Ramos
25 centavos, two buttons, and three selections of pure, unadulterated, shallow excitement.
The Jukebox King was proclaimed by the masses. One had to reach a fan base that numbered the gazillion patrons of beer gardens, cabarets, and buyers of 45rpm records from Raon. Musical themes that favored the pretenders to the throne included the following: Philippine history (Yoyoy Villame's Magellan); physical fitness (again, Yoyoy Villame’s Mag-Exercise Tayo); martyrdom (Edgar Mortiz's My Pledge of Love); creative adaptations (Fred Panopio’s Kawawang Cowboy); and the soggy romantic mulch of Engelbert Humperdinck's Please Release Me.
When Videoke King was shown in 2003, I was happy for Robin Padilla because he was finally being repackaged as a comedian, away from the gun-toting, vitriol-spewing, angry young man roles which he became famous for. I personally think that Robin is great as a comedian. He may not be a singer, but he carries a tune as if he were Perry Como. He also has the moves—his stunts and martial arts training translate well in his dance routines.
But his fans were cruel! They couldn't accept their action hero fumbling like Hugh Grant and singing himself silly in a KTV club. He’s too good looking to be laughed at. Why do we have this notion that comedians should be: 1.) Aesthetically-challenged, as demonstrated by: Aruray, Menggay, Chiquito, Balot, Tange, Champaka and Katuray; 2.) Possessing some sort of physical imperfection and speech impediment, like Oscar "Komang" Obligacion, Doro delos Ojos, Babalu, Babalina, Pugo, Tugo, Palito, Tiya Pusit, Matutina and Pandaka Pygmea; and 3.) Racially different: Ponga (Chinese); Angge, Cofradia and Whitney Tyson, (Blacks); Jerry Pons, Lupito, Patsy, Vic Pacia and later Redford White (Tisoys and Albinos). Why can't we accept the fact that being funny makes good-looking men more interesting? Frankly, I'd rather date a funny guy than spend my precious hours with a brooding Marlon Brando-ish character who will only practice his method acting on me. Unless he's Colin Firth. Laughing is good and laughing with a cute guy is even better. Too bad Videoke King didn't measure up to the fans' expectations. It was funny, its Warhol-inspired poster was innovative for the market it served and Robin Padilla was so gorgeous, I wanted to buy all the toy guns from Toys "R" Us to impress him into coming home with me.
Why didn't Videoke King have the same impact as The Jukebox Kings? I think I know the answer. Videoke is a free-for-all slugfest that anyone can participate in, which democratizes music in the process, and therefore there is no such thing as a Videoke King. One can assert oneself as Videoke King till he's blue in the face, and still only be king within the confines of a KTV cubicle. The minute he leaves, he is dethroned.
On the other hand, the Jukebox King was proclaimed by the masses. One had to reach a fan base that numbered the gazillion patrons of beer gardens, cabarets, and buyers of 45rpm records from Raon. Musical themes that favored the pretenders to the throne included the following: Philippine history (Yoyoy Villame's Magellan); physical fitness (again, Yoyoy Villame's Mag-Exercise Tayo); martyrdom (Edgar Mortiz's My Pledge of Love and Eddie Peregrina’s What Am I Living For?); creative adaptations (Fred Panopio's Kawawang Cowboy, adapted from Glenn Campbell's Rhinestone Cowboy); and, lastly, the soggy romantic mulch of Engelbert Humperdinck's Please Release Me and Tom Jones' Delilah. His cover versions of the latter earned Victor Wood the undisputed title of Juke Box King. . .until jukeboxes all but vanished from the face of the earth.
The jukebox was a fascinating invention. Just by dropping a 25-centavo coin in the slot, and pressing a combination of keys, you got three selections of pure and unadulterated super-babaw excitement. My favorite combinations were J5, K3 and B11. I didn’t have to look up the index to make my selection, I just pressed the keys and the intelligent machine would pick the records and play them. Those combinations I knew by heart.
One day, my mother sent me to buy food from our favorite Chinese restaurant in Cavite City, Cheffoo. In the restaurant there resided a monstrosity, a Wurlitzer that looked more like a Thunderbird convertible in all its 50s chrome and bakelite splendor, complete with colored lights and shark's fin details. I nervously inserted my 25 centavos and keyed in my desired combination. To my horror and disappointment, it didn't play what I wanted to hear. I was heartbroken because it didn't play Rosita Cha-cha by Esperanza Fabon, Let Me Love You Carmelita by Victor Wood, and Beautiful Sunday by Jojit Paredes. I was livid: My 25 centavos! Gone! I immediately made inquiries about the anomaly. The cashier told me that a man from the payola mafia came by regularly and replaced 10 vinyl discs. When I inquired about my favorites, she told me they were still there, only they'd been moved to different locations.
My obsessive-compulsive disorder dictated that my trip to Chefoo would not be complete unless I heard my favorite tunes. So I did the unthinkable, gambled my last 25-centavo coin, hit the dollar daily double and I won! By this time, the chopsuey, camaron rebosado and fried rice had been neatly packed and were starting to turn cold. I was totally immersed in my melodic delirium. My soul was filled with the melodious harmonies of Espie Fabon, Victor Wood and Jojit Paredes.
That last 25-centavo coin was my fare money. I walked home, oblivious to the danger that awaited me. My heart was bursting from my chest when I reached the front door of our house. My hungry parents were in the dining room, waiting for me and our dinner. I won't tell you what happened to me that evening. All I can say is that Bantay Bata would have had a fit if they'd existed at the time. My frail little body might have been mangled and distressed, but my soul remains unbroken. Thanks to Mr. Wurlitzer and the jukebox kings.
Also read: Disco Malaria
Technorati Tags:70s, nostalgia
By: Guillermo Ramos
If Dance Fever was choleric, Discorama was phlegmatic if not downright pathetic.
There was nothing wrong with the Apo Hiking Society—they had musical talent and were certainly better-looking than Tito, Vic, and Joey. But they did not have the diabolical brilliance and street smarts of Joey de Leon.
When I was sixteen, I built a shrine dedicated to my hero/ demi-god/ imaginary lover and muse, Deney Terio, star of the American TV show Dance Fever. The shrine consisted of his portrait, which I asked my carpenter father to make a beautiful frame for, a ceramic vase (I called it vahss) with a plastic gardenia, a miniature disco ball, two votive candles in a glass tumbler, and a garland of sampaguita hanging around his portrait. This garland was replaced with a fresh one every Saturday night. All these objects were crammed into a space measuring 8 by 18 inches. To this day, I wonder why my parents didn't ask me what a voodoo altar was doing on top of the television set. Don’t ask, don’t tell.
At exactly 6.30 pm on Saturday nights, my pet goat Camby and I would arrange ourselves on a tattered olive green bean bag that my father bought from an American couple whose tour-of-duty ended when Sangley Point was handed over to the Philippine Navy in 1970. Deney Terio opens the show with an acrobatic dance routine set to Instant Replay, and my gay little heart threatens to burst out of my concave chest. Then comes 45 minutes of pure excitement: The competition! The celebrity judges! The production numbers! I nearly pass out from joy. Meanwhile, my folks eat their dinner, indifferent to my boundless ecstasy.
When Dance Fever is finished, I repair to the kitchen to get some goodies for Camby and myself. After the commercials, Discorama is on. After Dance Fever, it's like a decompression chamber.
If Dance Fever was choleric, Discorama was phlegmatic if not downright pathetic. Discorama was hosted by the late radio talent-turned-TV personality Bobby Ledesma, grand patriarch of Jakes, coñitos, and insulares. He spoke English with an Ilonggo accent so brittle you could hear it snap like toasted piyaya. I couldn't understand why they had to hire an old guy to host a youth-oriented program—hello, he couldn't even dance. Once, he did a show with a cast on his left foot, proudly announcing he'd stubbed his toes. The dance numbers were uninspired—the dancers were only there to promote the latest disco releases. You had the Vicor Dancers, the Dyna Dancers, the Black Gold Dancers, etc. These were all frigging record labels.
I also couldn't understand why the hosts had to line up firing squad-style, and the two cameras were in the same place. At this point, Camby would have fallen asleep on my lap, dreaming of Deney Terio reincarnated as a goat. After every commercial break, the camera would turn 30 degrees to the right to reveal a bell jar sitting on top of a ledge. Inside it was the specimen touted to be the sexiest Filipina alive, dancing to the tune of Fly Robin Fly. It was none other than Vivian Velez, executor of the dance Salome wouldn't do—the "Body Language". In her tube top and shorts, she resembled Lolita on the verge of a nervous breakdown. Her doe-eyed innocence and snake-like choreography gave birth to rumors of a bootleg betamax tape of Vivian exchanging bodily fluids with Bobby Ledesma, and breaking into song with a microphone (emphasis on "micro") provided by Ledesma himself. The rumor died down immediately because no tape of that sort really existed.
Vivian eventually danced her way out of television and into the movies as supporting actress to Carmen Ronda, whom she handily upstaged.
Discorama's lasting contribution to Philippine culture was the discovery of Tito Sotto, his brother Mar-Vic, and their friend Joey de Leon. Tito, Vic, and Joey became the biggest, most influential TV personalities of the 80s and 90s. Their Tough Hits parodies of popular songs were the very definition of Pinoy humor and double-entendre. Tito, Vic, and Joey became so popular that people would tune in to Discorama just to watch their segment. Their Tough Hits albums were hits, and are bootlegged to this day. They were so huge, they swallowed up the show which spawned them in the first place.
The grim reality of being a big fish in a small pond took its toll on Discorama. Rumor had it that when contract renewal time came around, Tito, Vic, and Joey wanted more money, so Bobby Ledesma gave them their walking papers. This opened the door for the Apo Hiking Society. There was nothing wrong with the Apo Hiking Society—they had musical talent and were certainly better-looking than TV&J. But they did not have the diabolical brilliance and street smarts of Joey de Leon. They did not have the kind of visceral impact that TV&J had. True, the Apo were pillars of OPM (Original Pilipino Music), but Tito, Vic, and Joey ruled!
Meanwhile, TV & J planned a strategy to dislodge Discorama and hurl it to the depths of ignominy. Without them, Discorama was dead anyway. They launched a direct attack on the flagship noontime TV program that dated back to the Jurassic 1950s, Student Canteen, which was also hosted by Bobby Ledesma, among others. Eat Bulaga was born, and the juggernaut was unleashed.
Dance Fever reached saturation point after the release of the two definitive disco movies: Saturday Night Fever and Thank God It's Friday. There were rumors that Deney Terio was the dance trainer and choreographer of Saturday Night Fever , but no matter how many times I paused and rewound the credits on my betamax copy, I never did find Deney Terio's name. I was heartbroken. My icon, my muse and master, was nothing but a second-rate, trying-hard, B-grade TV host. At this point Dance Fever ceased airing weekly, and Discorama followed suit.
My Saturday nights were never the same. My shrine was packed into a shoebox and stored in the bodega, never to be seen again. Meanwhile Camby passed on and reincarnated as caldereta. Discorama defined a period that I want to forget. I'm glad there exists no photographic evidence that will incriminate me in my future reinventions. But Deney Terio, no matter how baduy he was, still has a place in my heart, right next to my inferior vena cava. As for Bobby Ledesma, may he rest in peace.
Also read: The Bar Formerly Known as Penguin Cafe
Technorati Tags:70s, nostalgia
By: Guillermo Ramos
True enough, the photojournalists’ strategy and camera blocking for EDSA 1 and the RAM-engineered coup attempts that followed were planned and drafted at Penguin Café. Paging Nancy Collins! Where art thou?
Penguin Café Gallery defined the artistic/bohemian life of Malate in the early 80s. I know that’s a sweeping statement, but it’s the truth. At least my truth, with apologies to the late Ishmael Bernal of “…Gray November” and “Indios Bravos” and to Larry Cruz of Café Adriatico.
Penguin Café Gallery once stood on the insignificant corner of Adriatico and San Andres Streets, until it moved to its present location near the Remedios Circle, in what the überstylemeisters define as the geography of “stylish Malate”: from Nakpil to Remedios (North to South) and M. Orosa to Adriatico (East to West). Anything outside of this imaginary boundary is purely marginal. I’m talking about Penguin in its early days—the fringe and the marginal.
This was the early 80s, the height of the Halakhakan Parties. Larry Cruz was holding court at Café Adriatico as the Sultan of the Circle, establishing his gastronomic empire on the Remedios and Adriatico quadrant. Ernest Santiago, the Emperatriz of the Kingdom of Coco Banana hung on to the bastion of the last days of the disco, and a few blocks away on M. Orosa Street, Virgie Moreno the High Priestess of Poetry and Film performed the Pagdiwata to a group of captive poets in her temple, The Café Orfeo.
Penguin Café democratized European cuisine, fine wine and world music to the “starving artists”. In return, the artists gave Penguin cutting-edge exhibitions and performance art by the likes of Cesare and Jean Marie Syjuco, Peng Olaguera and the late Santi Bose. It was an exciting time. This was the vision of Ami Miciano and Maryann Ubaldo, the two women who conceptualized Penguin Café. Ami and Maryann brought with them fresh ideas for a bohemian- style artist’s café in Manila. The country was then reeling from the effects of martial law and its miasma of mass-media suppression, intellectual stupor and artistic mediocrity. Armed with degrees in Hotel and Restaurant Management and Photography from schools in Austria, Germany and Switzerland, Ami and Maryann were ready to build a spiritual home for artists in the coming years.
I had my first one-person show at Penguin. It was called “Ang mga Pahinang Pinilas mula sa Notebook ni Narcissus-X” (Pages Torn from the Notebook of Narcissus-X). It was a series of personal autobiographical collages photocopied and individually hand-colored with Stabilo highlighter. It didn’t get reviews, much less sales, but I was happy just to show my stuff. Laida Lim-Perez liked it so much that she brought the show to her gallery in Baguio. So it never made a dent in the art scene, I really didn’t care. I was 19.
Penguin was my spiritual home, next to the CCP. I was still in college when I discovered the place through my friend Glenna Aquino. I would go there in my uniform—white polo shirt and jeans, with school props: big bayong bag, T-square, stretched canvas, rolls of tracing paper, etc. What I loved about Penguin was that the people there treated me like an adult. I could drink beer in my uniform, without the bartender harassing me, and participate in adult conversation. I was myself in Penguin, although the older people referred to me as bagets and being bagets meant that I was not to be taken seriously (Obviously the geezers were just bitter.)
Penguin was the center of my universe, the extension of my education, and the elective subject that I truly enjoyed. Its interior had a peculiar smell of musk, coffee and tobacco. It was decorated like a quaint Parisian or an Easter European café—marble top tables, glass globe lamps and ox-blood red upholstery. The prices of food and drink were atrociously cheap: red wine at P4.50 a glass, spaghetti carbonara at P9.50 a plate and bratwurst with fries at P8.50! This was in pre-inflation Manila, when the dollar exchange rate was 14 to 1.
Penguin was like an airport coffee shop. People who dropped by were either arriving or departing. Some overstayed and became part of the furniture, like good old Pepito Bosch, who was the local Pilosopo Tasyo, and the utterly talented Jess Abejo, who could play Rachmaninoff’s piano concerto better than Cecille Licad. May they rest in peace. There was a time when Penguin was a social weather barometer, and the mere presence of foreign photojournalists munching peanuts and drinking San Miguel beer at 6:45 in the evening was enough to give you the creeps. True enough, the photojournalists’ strategy and camera blocking for EDSA 1 and the RAM-engineered coup attempts that followed were planned and drafted at Penguin Café. Paging Nancy Collins! Where art thou?
Penguin was also the place for after-theater drinks. When Oro, Plata, Mata had its premiere in December 1982, the entire cast and crew all repaired to Penguin. Reading the film credits (Jed Arboleda, Gerry Fernandez, Rodell Cruz…) at the 20th anniversary screening of Oro, Plata, Mata set off a wave of memories. I remembered Peque Gallaga and Butch Perez debating about Kubrick. The 21 year-old peaches and cream Joel Torre conscious of his accent, wasn’t shaving yet. Punk-rocker Ronnie Lazaro, looking like Sid Vicious with earrings, safety pins, black torn t-shirt and all, became a regular pilgrim. He eventually met his wife there—Lola, a Spanish teacher at the Instituto Cervantes. Then you had guys from CCP, Ballet Philippines and Bulwagang Gantimpala (people too many to mention) and the defunct Shadow Visual Design Group, whose Neal Oshima, Mark Gary, Jo Chua and Nap Jamir were all regulars.
The place influenced me and my best friend Jake de Asis so much that our tastes can be traced back to the Penguin days. The books we read, music that we listened to, the food we ate, and the friends we made (Grace Amilbangsa, Chito Valenzuela, Jayjay Sevilla) were determined by Penguin. Laurie Anderson, Japan, Roxy Music, Kate Bush, The Clash, The Police, and Talking Heads were the musicians playing the soundtrack of our lives. The scripts were supplied by Still Life with a Woodpecker by Tom Robbins, Heart of Darkness by Joseph Conrad and the short stories of Yukio Mishima. We were so poor then, we had to invent our own outfits courtesy of the CCP costume department, second hand shoes from Carriedo, and vintage clothing from Bambang. None of us looked homogeneous or pre-packaged like the kids nowadays (Now who’s the geezer)—our personalities surfaced more than our clothes. We were young, we were brave, and we were angst-ridden, but we never had fashion hang-ups or designer brand-related dilemmas.
The highlight of the year for Penguin was the celebration of the Chinese New Year. Pinikpikan, the batik and bongo collective from Baguio, had their first and many gigs at Penguin until they finally decided to become serious musicians. They would play at Penguin’s notorious street parties headed by the resident shaman Pepito Bosch and Boy Yuchengco.
It is a sad fact that Penguin had to close its doors in December 2002. The amount of emotional baggage attached to the place was so enormous, we thought it couldn’t possibly end. True enough, it opened in March 2003 with the same furniture—marble top tables, globe glass lamps and ox blood red upholstery—warm and familiar, but minus the Penguin resin statue and the Penguin Café neon sign. It was rechristened Café Patagonia or is it 604 Café. For me it will always be the Bar Formerly Known as Penguin Café.
PS. Penguin Cafe is once again open for business. It was bought by kind hearted souls who gave Penguin a new lease on life. Meanwhile, Amy Miciano is trekking the Himalayas and jamming with her favorite sherpas. She plans to open another Penguin to a place where snow is abundant.
Also read: Lilet's Little Secret
Technorati Tags:70s, nostalgia
By: BigBadJamMan
They straddled the bounds of New Music and indigenous ethnicity. I'm making it sounds so complex, but the 80's band Ethnic Faces was ahead of its time. Way ahead that not everyone got the gist of their music. Okay no one, so there. But here and now, we celebrate the fusion of the old and the new with a blast from the past.
Ethnic Faces. An amalgam of talent that paved the way for other bands to follow. Born out of two pioneering Brave New World bands, The Zoo, later renamed Ocean Zoo, to avoid confusion with an Australian band of the same name, and The Lost Boys, Ethnic Faces was a band that fearlessly tread where other bands cowered and buckled. But before Ethnic Faces, there were then two.
(CLICK IMAGE FOR LARGER VIEW)
(CLICK IMAGE FOR LARGER VIEW)
(CLICK IMAGE FOR LARGER VIEW)
The Zoo. Guitarist Jolt. Edgrr 5, their keyboardist/bassist, drummer Zebra and singer frontman Jack B. Quick played barebones punkish keyboard-driven poppy un-chong New Wave. The first of their kind, in more ways than one. No other band looked like The Zoo. No other band had stage presence like The Zoo.. and no other band played like The Zoo.
They were also one of the first to have released an independently produced 7" EP entitled Animal Party. Resplendent in its hot pink sleeve and cartoon cover drawn by singer Jack's nephew Ari, Animal Party was a first. Yes, local punk band Chaos, later renamed Third World Chaos, also produced and released an equally independent single, The Zoo was different. The Zoo took Punk's raw energy, re-channelled it and spit it right back with a New Wave angst that fit right into the predominantly Punk Brave New World underground movement. 
(CLICK IMAGE FOR LARGER VIEW)
(CLICK IMAGE FOR LARGER VIEW)
(CLICK IMAGE FOR LARGER VIEW)
The Lost Boys. Leader vocalist and bassist Rhany Torres, drummer Bojie Gabriel and their guitarist whose name eludes me at the moment were also ahead of their time. Way ahead. The Lost Boys were a Ska band. Think Ska with a Punk attitude minus the trademark horn section, add on the angst and you have The Lost Boys. Their single Krrz Kraze was popular to those who religiously listened to Howlin' Dave over RJAM back then.
Then sometime in 1984, these two bands decided to join forces and become one. Ethnic Faces. Rhany Torres on bass. Bojie Gabriel on drums. Edgar Ramos on keyboards. Boyet Miguel on guitar and Jack Sikat on vocals. A band to be reckoned with. Borne out of the ashes of The Zoo and The Lost Boys, Ethnic Faces brought a new face and a new facet to the burgeoning 80's Underground music scene.
Initially formed as an entry to the Pepsi Punk Band Contest, a battle of the bands tilt powered by the softdrink sponsor, and televised over PTV 4's then-noontime variety show Ito Yun, Ang Galing!, Ethnic Faces, a New Wave band, braved the Punk Band competition and ran away with the trophy. Though some contestant bands, as well as the contest itself had its share of lopsided moments, it was a shining moment for Ethnic Faces. Their winning piece, Within Tribes, with its conglomeration of New Wavish rock and ethnic overtones, put them on the musical map, as far as the Underground was concerned. Post-Punk Band contest syndrome was yet to set in.
Though its tumultous history and rumored infighting seemed to overshadow its very existence, Ethnic Faces weathered the times, through numerous line-up changes and stylistic variations. They managed to release a now-rare, out-of-print single of Within Tribes b/w Back Home Shangri-La. They also saw two of their now-classic cuts from the local late 80's New Wave compilation Ten Of Another Kind, Balikbayan and Golden Boy, even managing a major label album Dekada under the now-defunct Octoarts Intl. label in 1995. And though some of its members have gone onto different paths, playing differing genres, Ethnic Faces remain, as I once wrote in the liner notes to their 90's album release Dekada, "..alternative, long before the term Alternative was coined."
Technorati Tags:80s, music, new wave, nostalgia
Many thanks to Simon Santos, and Paeng Acuna.
Julie Pearl Apostol Postigo, who is better known by her screen name Julie Vega (May 21, 1968 – May 6, 1985), was a popular and well-loved Filipino movie and television actress and singer. Her sudden death at the tender age of 16 triggered a massive outpouring of nationwide grief that is still vividly remembered by Filipino showbiz fans after several years. --Wikipedia
Sometime in March 1984, I had this great and wonderful opportunity of photographing Ms. Vega, upon the request of her parents. They'll be needing the pictures for their various press releases. Of course, I obliged. Its a good break and something not to be missed! (That time, my career path was in the field of photography- setting up my own studio or a photo processing shop, but that didn't push thru as I ventured into a different field). I asked my friends from my group, Kameradare Camera Club to join and assist me, since I still don't have any experience photographing celebrities and this was my first time. That experience was memorable and I want to share some of these photos.
Once again, our good friend Kuya Geezer shares with us some cool memories of the late 70's, with scans of advertisement clippings I'm pretty sure everyone remembers. Kuya Geezer is the older brother of Martin Oppus, who co-hosted Kulit Bulilit. Also check out his wonderful article on Uncle Bob's Lucky 7 Club!
By: Guillermo Ramos
Or How Celia Rodriguez made my life worth living.
When I was 10 years old, I was keeping a great secret from my family. It is such a great secret that I know it will be the end of the world for me and I will be killed by both of my parents if they find out that I was playing with a doll. I really felt that it was a criminal thing to do, hiding a doll in a shoebox in a storeroom on the second floor of our house and only me, but me who will know where it is hidden.
The doll is nothing special. In fact, it was from some cheap souvenir shop bought by my cousin in Saigon, when his tour of duty was over, mind you not as a soldier, but as a combo player. My aunt who owned a sari-sari store was a practical and tidy woman. She likes to throw away things that are no longer useful to her. One of the things she threw away was this eight-inch Vietnamese doll complete with a hat and white tunic (Imagine Lea Salonga in Miss Saigon). When she was about to douse a can of kerosene to the dump, the doll sort of talked to me and screamed silently to ask me to save her from my aunt's wrath. When she lit up the dump and as soon as the fire was stable, she left and I ran towards the burning flame and looked for the doll, and there she was, her beautiful black raven hair protected by the straw hat she was wearing was already ablaze. Her left foot was a convoluted fusion of plastic and charcoal. With a long stick I braved the conflagration and tried to save what is left of the doll. What I saw was a sad and sorry state, a gruesome cocktail of charred plastic, burnt cloth, soil and organic substance clinging to it. Smoke coming out of its missing limb, like the photograph of the little girl in the infamous Tet offensive came to my mind. The doll was sending cryptic messages to me as I took it and hid it from every one else. The horror reminded me so much of Celia Rodriguez when she played Valentina in "Lipad, Darna, Lipad" when Darna shielded herself with a mirror when the lethal laser beam emanated from Valentina's eyes backfire on her and causing her destruction. I named my burnt little doll "Lilet" in honor of my muse Celia Rodriguez.
Years later, I had the chance to meet Celia Rodriguez in a highly pretentious Japanese restaurant in Greenbelt 3 for a chat. I shared with her oysters and sea urchin in a bed of crushed ice and rock salt for starters. I couldn't believe my self being seated next to the muse of my childhood. As I place the slimy sea urchin in my mouth, the film projector in my mind suddenly ran a clip from "Lipad, Darna, Lipad". Celia played Valentina, the Queen of the Reptiles and moonlights as a ramp Model. She was seen walking on the lobby of the Manila Hotel in a turban covered Medusa wig, bare midriff Indian Sari, and on her belly button, a giant Ruby known as the "Star of Bombay" that can blow away suspecting Bollywood wannabees. At the Ilang Ilang Coffee shop, she saw Darna flying across Rizal park and she said, "Sino ba yang Babaing Mababa ang Lipad"
I was brought back to my senses, when she asked me if I was recording our conversation. I was quite taken aback and got embarrassed, although, I have no intention to use the recorded conversation to blackmail her, it doesn't really amount to anything. I told her that I'm using the material for a magazine article. Suddenly, there was a glint of excitement from her eyes. "So what do you write about?" She inquired. "Well, I write about dead, has-beens and forgotten people that created a dent in my life." I said wryly. She then broke to a half non-committal smile.
Of the three antagonists of Darna, Celia Rodriguez has the class and camp factor that's missing from the other two: Gloria Romero played the smarmy provincial public school teacher Miss Luna / Impakta / Bampira and Liza Lorena as Babaing Lawin that she looks more like a "basang sisiw" than a malevolent she-hawk. At least Celia Rodriguez had provenance and name to match her existence. In the film she was known as Dr. Valentina Vrandakapoor, Ph. D. in Reptilian Zoology from the University of New Delhi. She had to battle the waist-less Darna "mano-mano" in mid-air. Ate Vi had no match with Valentina, especially when Celia donned the Darna costume. She was flat chested, and she also had no waist. Her back is as flat as her front. She could pass for a transvestite, if you don't look further down. But I think she is well preserved for her age. She may have minute crows feet on the corner her eyes caused by years of constantly smiling for no reason. There was no traces of botox, collagen implant or stitches behind her ears. She has tiny ears like a rat's. It is so tiny and pointed and cute like a baby Klingon, only to be offset by a stunning sapphire earring that goes bling bling every time she turns her head. Her dyed black hair was a give away. It was so black and sticky as if she used Coke to shampoo it. Or is it the atomic strength hair spray she used that no amount of tsunami would destroy it. In spite of the artifice, she was still beautiful. The red Mac lipstick becomes her. She is obviously prettier than Angelica Houston when she played Morticia in Adams Family Values. I just wish, producers and directors offered her offbeat and challenging roles. She could have played Markova better than Dolphy, I think. She has more depth and the portrayal would be less caricature-ish.
Before Celia Rodriguez's career catapulted into great heights via Darna, I remember seeing her in two films that defined her career: Celso Ad Castillo's "Kung Bakit Dugo ang Kulay ng Gabi" where she played a supporting role to Rita Gomez and Alona Alegre as a fashion model (ala "Blow-up") wearing nothing but original Emilio Pucci and the ground breaking "Lilet" where she collected the FAMAS best actress trophy in 1971. It was a tight race between Celia Rodriguez and Rita Gomez. When Celia's name was called as the best actress winner, Rita Gomez appeared from the back stage and grabbed the trophy from Celia. A struggle ensued between the two women. Coiffure bashing and make-up scraping were the order of the day. "I am the real best actress!" Says Rita. "No! I am! Give that to me!" Replied Celia. Few days later, the photo of the hair pulling incident was splashed all over the major newspapers and no one bloody cared.
"Lilet," was a psycho-thriller-film noir directed by Gerry de Leon. De Leon too has won the FAMAS as best director that year. The film was rated for Adults only. Somehow, I managed to sneak to the fleapit, sawali-covered wall of our local cinema in Cavite; it was called GAY THEATER. The film was so frightening that the only thing I can remember is the presence of at least 10,000 black tailor's scissors in every frame. That led me in embarking on an early career in Haute Couture where I dress up my burnt, limbless doll Lilet in secret, which gave me so much pleasure. To this day, I can’t remember where I hid Lilet for fear that I will be found out. I'm sure my late father buried it somewhere in our garden, which for him was a great effort literally "nipping the bud" before it starts.
Also read: From Aldeguer Sisters to Sex Bomb Dancers
Technorati Tags:70s, television, nostalgia
Get All That Nostalgia Manila Goodness!
Get a Nostalgia Manila Email Subscription today and enjoy all the benefits of this wondeful service. Today, if subscribers want to read / view / watch syndicated online content, they typically have to go to where the content is hosted, or know how to subscribe to the feed and consume the content within an aggregator or reader (e.g. MyYahoo!, FeedDemon, ect.). With a Nostalgia Manila Email Subscription, you will receive all that Nostalgia Manila goodness straight to your inbox, similar to an e-newsletter. This is delivered to you in easy-to-read, plain text or HTML email containing the latest Nostalgia Manila posts. What are you waiting for? Sign Up for a Nostalgia Manila Email Subscription today!
