By: Iris P. Concepcion
Still on the inauguration rites.
I just read some of the reviews about the inauguration ceremony as written by people who, upfront, chose to sleep in their houses pretending to cook enormous buffet, feign unexcitement that there is nothing huge going on, or heckle people on their way to the inauguration rites as a foil to their own demise in the public service field (it is not the only way to help---as they all repeatedly pound).
Since the event was gratifyingly a triumph of the understated (I have seen that particular bowl in the field where the silent satire is going on that could thaw even the grittiest of fortitude--this is where my silent troops camped in) and the working, namelesss herd, the temptation to subdue them as historical outcasts is more inviting to those who might have been insultingly stumped along the way.
Imagine, then, my aghast, when these quite famous but now apologetic pack of musicians and their panderers of buffalos and traditionally (vehicle) gifted children (they actually threatened to snub the affair; the same people who jeered the efficacy of full automation) photoshopped themselves to faux holograms and horror of horrors did the unthinkable: they now fraudulently claim that they were there to support a nation into a carousel of reform-building citizenry.
Do not mistake drunkeness for valor and patriotism folks.
This is my story then, of the usurped heroes on the field and their beautiful music for internal change.
I hope the female host's cajoling of the bonused lot did not fall into deaf ears. I had been stepped on on the same event by these recipients. It is not a cause of rudeness if you had sulked in tears for what is inevitable: the event was really for the people, not a particular group's grand posturing. If you were left out, it is because you had stubbornly refused to heed the call of an internal change that is about erupting right at your very noses.
I particularly singled out Mr. Noel Cabangon's ultra heroism in defying the not so subtle elbowing to barbarize the proceedings via forced ruckus (when Pres. Aquino was about to deliver his speech, they yelled nonsensical sentences like unleashed bonus recipents on the prowl)----even right within his platform of performance.
The people had felt the pulse though. He received the most thunderous claps and as I looked around, tears fell silently for this chosen, brave few. There were several attempts to clog access to his lyrics; but someone must write about how this man singlehandedly shushed the crowd of interlopers and dampeners by his MABUTING PILIPINO number.
That is President Noynoy's true blood; his voice peeking out as his true line of reform.
Even in the aftermath of his inauguration rites, this wiki, travelling, almost reluctant but ferocious musicians (trained on the road for vocalization by the best offbeat teachers) surged through with their heavenly music. "Impossible Dream" was a world-class act; not even a catastrophe can stop it from bursting onto that vast, QC, aural field.
Where there is no noise, there is transcendental union with the movement of free spirits. Compact, small, well-disciplined, unfazed, they tore off the walls of indifference and sloth, even the skeletal excesses of selves in the field of entertainment. I feel strongly about this because I have felt, vein for vein, their unheralded contributions, failing throats be damned.
(As I am writing this down, the harmony of Cabangon's beautiful pipes, glided down in my aural periphery of listening, unimpressed by the gangs of forfeit---that raspy voice during chorus, that lone guitar, the expansive, happy smile for the listening crowd, the universal sincerity that dwarfed myself into some guilty reaffirmation of my beliefs).
On hindsight, I am not imagining things like this one as cornily rosy. I have been with this musician in the past. I just need to write this as an experience to let everyone know that this was not built overnight. If we had been musically allied in thoughts then, these were founded on journeys, from Mindanao to Visayas to Luzon. Over gatherings of people and sharing of thoughts and inputs. He did not sing in that cavehole though; he actually dozed off, over pop tunes of love bug songs in one obscure birthday party.
I exactly knew then that I was not really left out cold for a Korean car in this fight.
We are not outflanked. We outsmarted the election flunkers this time around.
Why do I insist on writing this? They say that truth is relative. I have read experts defend their turf that they might have missed entirely on other stories but their elegance of writing had not been amiss---I have no beef with that kind of defense mechanism. Absolutely a free writing world. Fine argument.
The moment you forcefully twist truth for expediency though, report on something that is not there, you are falling into the trap of Stephen Glass (remember the New Republic debacle) and could be perceived as hellbent on professionalizing a writing mendicancy.
As I said, you do not have a right to call my name when you had repudiated the essence of your true reformist spirit for a trade, a stock listing, a vile remark, a push.
Somehow, you'd know, the new warriors of the mainstream underground will bite everything for order. Sure, they may be fat, but they could be thin for reform.