By: Iris P. Concepcion
I was buying my purified water when I heard a prelude to rehearsals of a tribal performance by artists from Davao City. The arena was filled with a potpourri of foreigners.
I saw my mentor, a gangly man aged 481, spooking me with his his new, green tents in the vicinity.
Since I had been attending this musical performance, I was impressed for the first time with the program blurb. It says in part that "Kalumon" is "committed to the proliferation of art and promises to assert space in the holistic development of Davao, Mindanao, the Philippines and the World." Holistic. As in spiritual. Not wholistic. I remember my favorite priest who had been churning out drama stories better than scriptwriters. He always makes the flock weep. He is that good.
A seatmate was commenting why the Philippine Anthem was not played. What kicked off the programme was a supernaturally splendid production of native instruments fused with guitar chops of blue and black make. What a blast. I mean, what a sound. Engineering was perfect; sound system, a technical triumph. I read from a paper that the Mt. Makiling school had been teaching its students this kind of art mix. I am wondering though why this was not hauled off to mainstream media in big gongs and blasts. I have not heard nothing but the crop of dialect mixes. None of the depth of melodies that I had heard yesterday. That is the visionary Makiling.
In another play of self-parody, it was opened up by "Tambolan", a percussion piece by Afro-Cuban and Mindanao indigenous music. You shall be in for a universal mesh of sounds in lutes, drums and kulintang. People from outer space had landed. The kids are getting paid and can they shout. Gorgeous names and mix of faces, this is a group that had long been herded for blending. A man who, as story goes, looks like the President, directed these young kids how to play together. He played as a prelude. I thought he was performing. He was only teaching his wards. Garbed in slippers and scarf of the hinterlands, he played and played leisurely as people tried distracting him. I saw his morphed self in shirts and tux too. It is a plague of sorts; a badge and emblem to think of nothing but on how to improve the already existing craft.
It gave me delightful creepiness already: seeing the morphed prexy playing the piano, doing ethnic songs, looking at variety shows in smugness and invading art scenes with Noy signages and emblems. It is a splurge and the kernels are in the forefront, showing off their souls stripped. It is an affliction.
I was very, very, very impressed by this one.
I wanted something like this to happen with our cultural instruments. I did not know they could mount something intelligent, smooth and worldclass like this output in such a short span of time, straight from the whirls and beauty of the boondocks. It can be done and what a beautiful impact it has to the aural senses. If ever we are going to break it into the world scene as truly Filipino performers, this is the way to go. I am very proud of the children who had pulled this off, hook, line and sinker. There is a piece of song and dance titled "Matsalam", correctly intoned as "Salamat" by the host.
They have voices that are felt; that is the trick. They sing from their gut with a doze of self mockery as they ascribe the production as stupid. Even I was stupid. Of course, once you have seen the difference in the renditions of Singkil dance, you shall know who slept on the job and who took the history with lyrical awareness of prose.
I could not begin to dissect the opulence of this richly-endowed mix of melody with honest tracing of the roots but it was pulled off. They should bring these young 'uns abroad along with the Bayanihan troupe. Their fares were shouldered by a certain "Ma'am G" since they all came from the South and had no money to travel.
I take my hats off, including my hair, to the choreographer and original musical composers. Especially to Mario Leofer Lim who masterminded the whole affair.
You have come a long way babies: damn, did you make the Mommy proud. The shout of the old lady in curly hair is certainly the best there is.
And the eldest had to bring in his ramen megman and I kept on saying: A. Kurosawa.
Yes. Him. And the subtlety of it all. Feeding yourself to the wolves is a good thing to change the world. That is lesson Number One kids. Kudos for making it.
(Subtext: Hihihihihihihihihihihihi.) This will not look good in my writing portfolio.
This box had a fix: Hanabishi, A Quality That Grows With You. 18" stand fan. Windmill. The pageant was a hoot by the way.