[ updated: 5 August 2005 ]

 ...some, maybe more than just quotes, and if they don't want to be called rockers? so how 'bout HEADS.

 

 An excerpt from the newspaper column AUDIOSYNCRASY ;

" Why do DJs talk in a fake American accent? If they just look out the window and into the landscape filled with billboards and garbage and 3,000 cars crammed into 30 inches of road space - they'll know right away where the hell they are. And why do they need to tell us what they had for lunch, what time they got up, or the "meaning of existence" crap? Just play the Minutemen or John Zorn and Naked City or King Crimson, and we'll forgive you. More music, less bullocks. Why do VJs need to scream so much? And how come some of them sound as if they're mouthing stuff straight from the Internet? "  

 - Igan d' Bayan ( Philippine Star entertainment page columnist - August 5, 2005 )

pahabol: I like that "meaning of existence" part as it reminds me of HOWLIN' DAVE. Igan, if we had jocks today like HOWLER, sadly we don't, you'd love him when he talks his "meaning of existence", life, going full circle, real trippy, you'd love it! and you won't have to light it up! - BOB MAGOO

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"The Music We Play Is So Fast That It's Like If You Sneeze, You Miss The Whole Song Completely."

- 80's pinoy punk rock pioneers, BETRAYED

(taken from an interview in JINGLE Magazine, December, 1983)

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This one's picked up from a fairly recent article written by popular entertainment columnist, Nestor Torre

Let's hear it for Joey 'Pepe' Smith

PINOY Rock pioneer Joey "Pepe" Smith has finally cut his first solo album, titled "Idiosyncracies." That's an apt title, because if there's one thing the legendary rocker is, it's idiosyncratic.

The album, released by Alpha Music, has 11 songs penned by Smith himself. Recorded with ace guitarist Jun Lopito and bassist Dondi Ledesma, the album is a mix of blues, ballads and rock 'n' roll that showcases the trio's virtuosity, and Smith's charisma, as well.

Tracks include "The Blessing," "Eto Na Ako," "Midnight Shuffle," "Jueteng Shed," "Hi-Tek Babe," "Walang Kokontra," "Ihip ng Hangin" and "Spice It Up."

Backgrounder on Joey "Pepe" Smith for young rock fiends: In 1959, he formed his first group, The Blue Jazzers. Six months later, he changed its name to the catchier Villains. When the surf music craze hit town, they became The Surfers and performed in Saigon, Vietnam for six months.

At the peak of global Beatlemania, Joey joined The Downbeats and first tasted rock stardom. He left the group to join the legendary Juan dela Cruz Band, and helped usher in the Golden Age of Pinoy Rock in the early '70s. Joey wrote the famous "Ang Himig Natin," which became a favorite Pinoy rock anthem.

That was a long time ago, but the great things is, Joey "Pepe" Smith continues to rock.

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" Many of the young guys coming up didn't know or had forgotten their foundation - the blues." "That's the basis of jazz. "

- CHARLIE PARKER

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"The blues is not a style or phase of jazz, but a permanent substratum of all styles; not the whole of jazz, but it's heart." - ERIC HOBSBAWN

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A lot of people confuse Ramon "RJ" Jacinto's DZRJ with the Rock of Manila. Actually, the only thing they have to do with each other is the frequency, 100.3. Ramon Jacinto started DZRJ in his backyard as a station devoted to early-60¹s rock of that clean-cut guitar-virtuoso genre, Ventures, Shadows etc. When Martial Law came, he went into exile in Hawaii. DZRJ was taken over by the military.

The weird thing was, the colonels assigned to run the station did not know what to do with it. As far as they were concerned, radio stations played music and tried to make money. So they kept on the staff that were there, who were essentially a bunch of stoned hippies. These guys, who were more into post-Revolver rock, then came up with their own concept, which was The Rock of Manila. This was arguably classic rock's finest hour on Filipino radio. Stones, Beatles, Hendrix, Led Zep, Black Sabbath, etc were played basically as they happened. There were many conflicts with the military guys, but somehow, these hippies were not as stoned as they seemed, and managed to preserve the format for many years by fast-talking the colonels. For people like me (and Jim!) growing up in the 70¹s, it was our introduction to real rock.

Ironically, the real death of The Rock of Manila, came upon the return of RJ himself. No station came close to being the flag carrier for rock until WXB102 many years later, and then NU107 under Chris Hermosisima and later Ron Titular.

- Apa Ongpin TV Personality and local celebrity

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"Common sense and a sense of humor are the same thing, moving at different speeds. A sense of humor is just common sense, dancing."

- Luke Lopez-Pozas (my youngest son's favorite quote)

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"... nobody could replace DZRJ Rock ...."
-
Ella Marie Sy Lopez-Pozas (my wife)
what she was trying to say was that no other format could be any better than the 70's Rock Of Manila.

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During the 70's, the difference between concert goers from Olongapo City and those from the sleazy side of Malate in Manila:

"Basta taong Gapo, malinis, mabango, yung mga batang Malate, hindi ma-drawing yung mukha, gumagapang sa pader, kung hindi nakadilat ang mata, nakapikit! "

 - quoted from veteran Leveriza rocker HEADZEP, original batang Malate. You can catch heads at the corner of San Andres and adriatico sts. in Malate. He's the skinny guy with long hair who fixes and shines shoes. If you see him and your shoes needs some work, he's the man. Or maybe you could give the dude a few bucks...

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" I recently caught his show at KIKO"s one thursday, took some photo's, and was summarily blown away. The hottest gun in town is in his 50's and he can still plow them down with his axe "
 -
-
JIM AYSON ( head honcho of PHILMUSIC.COM ) On the return to active duty of legendary Juan De La Cruz lead guitarist, WALLY GONZALEZ.

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On rocking in recovery...                                   
"Listen to it, but don't drink or smoke it. Because in the end, it's all about delivering God's justice!"

- " The DOCTOR " RAMON ZIALCITA (the Rock surgeon general of the Pacific) Jan. 27,2003

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Batang Malate DONGHAWS, his opinion of the legendary Filipino-American Pinoy Rock band, PETRIFIED ANTHEM, and a comment on watching them perform at the ABOT-LANGIT concert at the Sierra Grande
in Tagaytay City in the mid-70's.

"Anak sila ng mga Kano, pero ang bandila nila Pinoy. Yung bokalista nila Pinoy, tumalon pa sa swimming pool!."

-
FERNANDO GERONES aka "Donghaws"

( one of the few remaining species of the "Batang Malate Rockers" of Leveriza. )

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"The Blues are the only style of music that are also a state of mind."
"
The Blues don't need to be profound, they just need to be profoundly felt."

- JOSH TYRANGIEL (Music writer for NEWSWEEK)

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"It's not perverted, it's not thought about,

it's not a concept- it's a chair. Not a design

for a chair, or a better chair, or a bigger chair,

or a chair with leather or with design

- it's the first chair; chairs for sitting on,

not chairs for looking at or being appreciated.

You sit on that music."

- JOHN LENNON on the Blues.

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Carlos Santana on TOMMY CASTRO:

"The blues is in good hands. When someone has the right intentions, with sincerity, you can never go wrong. This is the person who has the voice, the sound, and the intentions, to touch everybody's heart."

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As musicians, there is nothing more that we would want than to have as many people hear what we have to say.

Isn't that the reason why we write songs? So that other people can listen to them, and hopefully be inspired?

I really wouldn't mind hearing the neighborhood labandera, a tricycle driver, street kids or some makati executive

humming or singing along to one of our songs (which I've actually heard already on several occassions) because,

to me, this means that we have transcended scion-economic boundaries and age differences and delivered our

message. If you would prefer to be pigeon-holed in your own little elitist clique, then that's your choice I guess.

Then again, what purpose does your music have if nobody hears it?  I've done dozens of noontime shows,

telemovies, sitcoms and talk shows and was able to reach out to people in far flung areas who, under normal

circumstances, wouldn't be able to get the chance to hear our music. So, what's wrong with that? Does that make

me less of a human being? I don't think so.

 

Whose side are we on? Are we for the MASA? My goodness! You sound like a contrabida from a bad telenovela.

Why diss a band for playing in a noontime show? Kasi baduy? O naiinggit lang tayo pero ayaw nating aminin?

What we have here, ladies and gentlemen, is talangka mentality in it's full glory. Sell-out? I can't tell you how many

times I've been called that, behind my back, by some snotty 20 to 30 year olds who still live under the safety net of

their parents' dole-outs. By other self-righteous "alternative" musicians who lead a Jekyll and Hyde lifestyle by

slaving for what they perceive to be a kiss-ass corporate world on weekdays and venting out their frustrations

onstage on weekends to an audience that lead the same double life as they do... the list goes on.

 I've lived my life the way I wanted to and up to this day and I have no regrets, no hang ups, no half-baked efforts,

no compromises and my principles and ideals are still intact. How about you?

So, am I for real? You bet your ass I am.

 

PAPADOM - leader of PINOYROCK reggae band, TROPICAL DEPRESSION

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After JOHN LENNON's death, Lester wrote that " the Beatles were most of all a moment... and to keep turning the guttered lantern of those dreams this way and that in hopes the flame will somehow flicker up again in the Eighties is as futile a pursuit as trying to turn Lennon's lyrics into poetry. It is for that moment - not for John Lennon the man - that you are mourning for yourself."

- as quoted from the late great American writer LESTER BANGS, who started with Rolling Stone magazine and went on to Creem magazine, England's New Musical Express, but mainly for the disposable media as much of his work was too unbridled for mass publication.

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THE OTHER 'RALLY'
Conrado De Quiros, There's The Rub
Philippine Daily Inquirer, 23Aug99


"WHAT is it," a reporter asked Michael Lang, "that musicians have that makes them communicate so well?"
The reporter asked the question while Lang was in the midst of putting up Woodstock—the original one, and as far as I am concerned the only one. Lang had estimated that the event would draw in at most 200,000 people, and he was wrong by a million. By the time the reporter talked to him, a horde was streaming in, jamming traffic, raising fears among residents and cops, and discombobulating journalists, who were supposed to be the experts in language.

What was it that musicians had that made them communicate so well? Lang answered: "Music."
That dialogue flashed through my mind last Thursday night when people began streaming into the Bahay ng Alumni for "Rock the Jeep, Roll the Presses," our concert for press freedom. It was nothing like Woodstock by any means: Not one of the later Woodstocks themselves would come close to it. But before the night was through, our concert would resonate in many ways with the spirit of the original one, notwithstanding our vastly more modest scale.

When we started, we thought we would be lucky to fill half of the Bahay ng Alumni, given how little time we had to prepare for it, which was all of two weeks, and Aug. 19 being a holiday. Cooky Chua would tell me later they wondered where the world had gone while cruising through Quezon City—they had forgotten it was Quezon City Day—only to find that the world had gone to Bahay ng Alumni. But we were determined to push through with the concert, whether it pulled in a throng or a Sunday-night lonely-hearts crowd. Partly because we wanted to give the Aug. 20 rally a boost (most of the people there that night went to Ayala next day), mostly because we wanted to give the world to know how the artists felt about the attempt to poison the air they breathed.

Maribel Legarda, the director, would say later she was amazed at how well the concert went. And somebody would tell me later that we must be the best organizers around to have pulled that one off. Well, if so, I have to credit that to the staff at PRESS who worked tirelessly (they went nights without sleep) and to the artists who put the show on the road. I myself have been called many names, but "good organizer" is not one of them. I cannot even organize my life.
Quite simply, something happened that night. Something wonderful, something crazy, something magical. People came to ward off a common threat, they stayed on to embrace a common dream.

I caught a whiff of it from the start backstage, where the artists congregated. It was warm, it was crowded, but the air was light and exuberant. There were no superstars, there were no billing problems. "God, I've missed this!" swore Lito Crisostomo, as the other musicians streamed in and shouted greetings at each other. I looked at the faces of everyone there. Lito, who does not write lyrics, had found the exact words for how they felt.

Lolit Carbon told me how she and the other surviving members of Asin were planning a reunion and a new album for next year—a marvelous thing to start the new millenium with. Someone reminded me that in a moment of inebriation, I had accompanied Lolit on guitar many years ago in an activity organized by a women's group. Yes, I said, I was even tempted to have a T-shirt made that proclaimed, "I played with Lolita Carbon." Lolit shrieked: "Don't ever do that!" I didn't know whether she objected to the flattery or to the thought of the world knowing she once compromised her artistry to that extent.

I hadn't seen Gary Granada in ages. It had nothing to do with a change of status, he said, it had to do with a change of geography. He now lives in UP Los Baños. I asked him how many takes it took to make that Ginebra commercial. He said he had no problem with the acting, he had a problem with the imitation Harley Davidson: he hadn't ridden on a motorcycle for 10 years. The bike did seem to overwhelm him. But it wasn't all fun and games, that ad, he said. Some members of his congregation frowned on his endorsement of a sin of the flesh, and made little attempt to hide it. A deeply religious person himself, notwithstanding a proneness to temptation, Gary was now working on arranging psalms and hymns. "Do you have any idea how beautiful that music is?" He began singing "Amazing Grace," while in the throes of ecstacy and Merito.

The performances lent clear proof to the magic of the night. Maybe it was my imagination, but they all seemed to play with special inspiration that night. Maybe it was the throng that gathered there—when I went out at one point, the place was bursting at the seams—each one feeding on the other person's energy. Maybe it was the reason they were there: artists are first to intuit old threats, they are first to glimpse new dreams. Whatever it was, they had the place rocking before long. By the time the Apo came on stage, the crowd was in a frenzy, the kind that stoked the fires of love rather than the flames of hatred. I was a year ahead of Jim and Buboy at the Ateneo, Danny was the same year (I think), and I remembered listening to them sing the Beatles' "Your Mother Should Know" at the school quadrangle while activist groups sang makibaka songs all around. I looked at their still youthful faces. Their profession had been kind to them.

I don't know when it happened, but suddenly the whole thing had this incredible feeling about it. I have heard people say that freedom is not just freedom from something, it is also freedom for something. But there is still a third category, which was palpable that night. That is freedom itself, or the feeling of it. Freedom is not just protest or purpose, it is also a condition of being, a state of mind, a spine-tingling sensation. That was what you felt that night, while the world swirled with life, laughter and the pounding rhythms of a language everyone understood. "Everyone's here!" someone gushed in my ear, a dim voice in the dark. He meant the political groups that hadn't been talking to each other in some time. But I looked around and saw it was more than that. They were all there: friends who had drifted apart from the untamable currents of life, lovers who wore the wounds of love like medals, couples who had groped for words and found in the crash of cymbals that night a silent language with which to find each other. I felt lonely. I felt happy. I felt—free.

What is it that musicians have that makes them communicate so well? Music.

©  Conrado De Quiros   (one of my favorite columnists, heavy dude.)

  

 

© 1998-2005 The Blues Sessions

 

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