Playing at Astrid's wake in Marikina. Two fifth's of Biscochong Halimaw (me and TJ) sudenly find it extremely difficult to play "City Shuts Down" and a rendition of "So Tonight that I Might See" (Poldo hates covers, see, so we don't do them).
This must be what catharsis by performance feels like. The cobwebs of rage, sorrow and helplessness getting brushed together like so much chaff under a broom directed by the sure, steady hand of ritual. Then released into the firmament with a grand gesture. As grand as you can make it in the awkwardness of grief.
It is harder to play songs you've done dozens of times before to a room full of mourners than a hundred or so geeks or hipsters or artists or scenesters or toy enthusiasts. It is more frightening to think that your friend is watching from on high and shaking her head, going"you better not fuck this up, dude," than worrying if the people in the back row can hear the glockenspiel.
So I try my best and hope that I have not, even if the intensity of it burns like a kettle newly boiled held in bare hands. Beat that, Kwai Chang Cain. The aftermath of two songs felt like the glow and exhaustion of a full set. An exhaustion of the bones. A glow somewhere between the navel and the heart.
TJ: Well, that was heavy. (stunned)
ME: But for two songs? (sweating like a pig)
TJ: Bawi bawi naman sa pagka-loaded.
ME: I see your point.
We are not the most vocal people in the world so we wanted to say goodbye the only way we knew how. This one's for the road, on to the final, unbeheld destination. May the music of the spheres greet you at the gates, saying: you're home.
The image is from here.
~ 30
This must be what catharsis by performance feels like. The cobwebs of rage, sorrow and helplessness getting brushed together like so much chaff under a broom directed by the sure, steady hand of ritual. Then released into the firmament with a grand gesture. As grand as you can make it in the awkwardness of grief.
It is harder to play songs you've done dozens of times before to a room full of mourners than a hundred or so geeks or hipsters or artists or scenesters or toy enthusiasts. It is more frightening to think that your friend is watching from on high and shaking her head, going"you better not fuck this up, dude," than worrying if the people in the back row can hear the glockenspiel.
So I try my best and hope that I have not, even if the intensity of it burns like a kettle newly boiled held in bare hands. Beat that, Kwai Chang Cain. The aftermath of two songs felt like the glow and exhaustion of a full set. An exhaustion of the bones. A glow somewhere between the navel and the heart.
TJ: Well, that was heavy. (stunned)
ME: But for two songs? (sweating like a pig)
TJ: Bawi bawi naman sa pagka-loaded.
ME: I see your point.
We are not the most vocal people in the world so we wanted to say goodbye the only way we knew how. This one's for the road, on to the final, unbeheld destination. May the music of the spheres greet you at the gates, saying: you're home.
The image is from here.
~ 30
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