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.