WHAT HAPPENS IF MY PARENTS ARE PERFORMING PUNK ARTISTS INSTEAD OF BEING STAID TEACHERS?
By:  Iris P. Concepcion

In the household of four where I grew up, the instruments were never off key.  Stereos sound off blasting tunes of properly melodied symphony and pop songs readily fastened for ears that liven my musical experiences in catchier progressions.

I would stare at the album covers like I would the humungous goat's eyes, clearly in constant wonderment when I could land my pixel self in an album, vinyl cover with outlandish costumes and shiny legs creamed in cocoa powder for special effects.

In my forays to musical listening, I had sometimes wished that my parents with their words of protocol, plantilla, memorandum, voucher and education may be replaced by an avant garde word like "rock lobster".  I had also wished that my brother, him with his tales of W gold mines, become the musician in Queen singing the Galileo song (Bohemian Rhapsody).

This is where I had derived my idea of stupendous wish calculation. What happens if my parents are really the creators of "Rock Lobster" and my brother, really the pianist in Bohemian Rhapsody? Shall I scream out of my wits upon realizing the fact that they had singlehandedly created a movement where shrimps could truly dance and where bass guitars can be improved to a more classical string trombone (refer to Rock Lobster's opening riffs).  The idea is to foster a group of discarded and often maligned in the society to make their message clear: Young. Poor. Angry. But Productive.

The era was, perhaps, started as a protest to the loud music without meaning; a march against music with repetitive lyrics without any semblance of rhyme; a disgust over melodies that are best used as tranquilizers for putting one to sleep.  Punk became an antidote to the senseless awning of lazy creativity. Consider the titles as a slap against that period's decadence. My Sharona, Whip It Good.  The punk movement was created by people, in fact, envisioned by a couple who were early on exposed to perfect rhymes and musical incantations but had suddenly found themselves faced with substandard audio equipment (either the guitars crash or the bass is out of tune).  To add salt to the wound, they made their sound senseless and repetitive as the mediums they were raucusing about.  They had wonderful costumes though, especially the dyed hair that had suddenly stood vertically erect instead of being pulled down.

Thanks to a bizarre neighborhood, I had rekindled all my memories of notes that had made me more musically mature.

ON GENETICS
By:  Iris P. Concepcion

I have, for the past three months, been playing the compact discs of two of the most high-pitched voices in the musical world arena, Olivia Newton-John (given to me by a shopkeeper who likewise moonlights as waterboy) and Diana Ross.

They both sound differently each time I blare them on speakers, finding a flute or violin in cameo, improv musicale.  Even the lyrics to their songs had been twiddled for more rhymed verses with one line guffawing the singsong declaration: "I am Tier's sister."  Olivia and Diana, masters of melodic shifts, are suddenly accompanied by symphony and orchestra intruments.  They have ceased to be Olivia and Diana; they have become The Music.

I am particularly shocked to find a reawakening to the ultimate mushy ditty of all time, Endless Love (a duet of Diana with Luther Van Ross) that had, surprisingly, gained a new musical sphere that I now like, much to my wicked chagrin.  I remember this song as a soundtrack to the iconic Brooke Shields film, the town premiere of which was then sponsored by my very strict high school alma mater.  This already strikes me as funny:  I was academically punished for skipping a symposium on education to watch the Dina Bonnevie, Snooky and Maricel Soriano starrer, Katorse, which was adjudged by a mother superior as kinky and saw the double entendre of morals when the same strict school allowed virginal novices to view an almost topless Brooke Shields on reel.

I return to the subject of music. As already essayed here superfluously, I grew up in a surrounding with music permeating entrance to my ears in every nook and cranny of our house.  My auntie and uncle who lived beside our house with my cousins, would have their own variety of cha-cha, rhumba and modern music, to complement our Billy Vaughn classics and Ray Conniff orchestra albums.  We were encouraged to sing to our hearts' content with various instruments: guitars, ukuleles, maracas, banduria and electric organ.  I could not remember, ever, being reprimanded for turning up the volume of our Interlude to its maximum level.  Perhaps, it gave my family a natural embrace for melody.  We have always sung; we are still singing until now.  All my aunts and uncles, even on the second, third and fourth degrees, can carry a tune, lugging any musical instrument that they could find.  Even our godparents can sing, hitting decibels never been heretofore known.  The priest who had baptized me can sing exceptionally.  And so did the doctor who had brought me out unto this world.

I now understand the world of Nick Hornby, with his Top 5 all-time favorite hits.  I am, however,  in a position to contradict the writer over his fascination for Rod Stewart (I would pick Sweden's biggest import, ABBA, anytime).  I agree with his Nelly Furtado choice but I would declare, Bette Midler is far in the constellation of belters who can wreck a melodic balcony seat.  I had often wondered why Usher cleanly swept all the awards in the Grammy's before; I finally found the reson now.  He starts his songs in middle notes instead of the usual C, G, C chord variations.

I also hold the postulation now: the best singers are never recorded commercially.  They creep in songs like feathered mascots and fix the notes here and there, inserting a symphony on a line.  Surprisingly, they do sound better after the note tune-ups.

Finally, I also concede: sports athletes are the best crooners in the universe.  It must be the sharp spikes on their shoes that lent them their masterful ears for improv accompaniment.

A note to my favorite Philippine film and music critic Erwin Romulo of Ateneo de Manila University and Philippine Star: No wonder you were very cocky with your musical choices.  You and your clique absolutely know where to place your chords, right to the core gut.

ON BUTTONS, LACES AND CRYSTALS
By:  Iris P. Concepcion

I embarked on another one day sojourn at Kelantan, Malaysia and had come across a little nook named Cintra, a small palace of potpourri with stairs blooming with makeshift flowers and dainty drawers of buttons and laces.

My eyes were, again, opened to the opportunity of unlocking the hidden secrets of modified hems and sewings, of stitches and embroideries, of gowns and well-dressed men in castles.  The table covers were intricately handwoven with designs that matched the railings of zigzagged stairs in Grimm's and Hans Christian Andersen's Fairy Tales.  Kelantan, by this time, is suffused with materials for accessories and embellishments for production designs, the very things that I have seen and utilized productively in a small village at Yala, Thailand.  This enclave of learning educates young people the rudiments of being productive. I had interacted with them one day, fashioning randomly a short tale of a kid hugging a goodlooking buffalo with a wide grin on his face. It sounds like a poem when recited.

Connecting the two places (Kelantan and Yala) that I now call my sheltered inn for existence has given curves to my stories with fascinating settings.  Before, I could only create verbally adept talkers with impressive dialogues in conducting their conversations.  Now, these characters can sit in cushioned sofas that look like bags, drinking water from handpainted porcelain glasses, invited by gracious and hospitable hosts that remind them of Sleepy, Smiley and Dopey, the lovable dwarfs in Snow White.

The magic carpet, at this hour of the day, has yielded gentlemen of genteel stock with refined, instead of coarse language.The cakes of Angry Birds have emotional and evocative eyes, using circled chocolates as their orbs.  The almonds of pastries now bear the fruits of kiwi, strawberries and peaches.  Young men with adventurous spirits are jet-skiing but are surrounded by the lush greens of the wilds, gliding in between lines of water trees.

The Chinese are very engaged in their chatters while regally eating their french fries; the Muslim women's fish balls have grown thrice their sizes; the bread had been leavened and became bigger.

The television set was showing a spade of dramatic and zombie stories, of people rising from the dead, of shirts declaiming: "The Brain" and "Certified Freaky".  Tim Burton would find a cluster of amusement in these productions, with gorgeous kids crying over heavy-soled shoes, pacified only by colorful football shod in blue and white (witrh spikes).

The women were buying  gifts for their husbands and kids; calf skin had suddenly turned into a shoe ornament; the watches are set on their proper time frame by turning their clock tuners.

This brings me to the wonders of interactions and how creativity works, especially on children.  The small village I had mentioned earlier has teenagers who can converse in English. Their rooms are equipped with camera projectors.  They were given free lunch (European boarding school impetus) and were taught the art of confidence in a wholistic manner.

My hosts for one day are mild-mannered with well-bred customs and traditions.  I was made to write my impressions about my stay in a photo album-like story book.  I scribbled my own simple poetry, using the theme of fruits that had been served on the table: sweet watermelons, tasty Mandarin oranges and crunchy apples.  Their chicken dish is close to Philippine adobo, spiced with green chilis.  Table conversations revolved around the literacy competence of children, comparing their levels of comprehension.  The children, without being instructed, know ho to pose before the cameras properly, for them to look elegant in photographs.

It is charming in a way where the education of "School of Rock" is transferred in reality to remote villages where students can draw helicopters with sound effects (provided by their Acer projector screens).

It is here where I saw the buttons, laces and crystals of kelantan designed and embossed on tissue holders, placed on the dining table of my village hosts.  The tissue holders, in short, were fully clothed, like the noble men of the olden times.

These experiences encapsulate the adage that I had always written in my blog site: Creativity shoots off from everywhere, including swanned ponds.