Life’s misery fades away as we firmly take hold of the microphone. As if poise to take flight, we brace ourselves with the first lyrics that come into view. Then we sing like rock stars, pop princesses, R and B singers and what have you. (Do they have Kundimans in videoke bars? Just asking.) We give it to them like a pro. Doesn’t matter really if some of us sing like frogs. When it comes to videoke, it’s the passion, not the voice that counts.
Filipinos are so fond of singing and it goes to say that fiestas, baptisms, or gatherings of any sort (except burial)are not complete without singing showdown. Even roadside eateries in the country compete with each other everyday in attracting customers. You can rent one or buy one. Videoke as I've known is best when shared with family and friends. Everybody gets the chance to show their singing prowess. Never mind if together we sometimes really do sound like frogs having a feast after a series of rainy days and cold nights at the swamp. The important thing is, we sing. When we sing, there's life and yes, most often than not, there's laughter and happy moments.
There are days that I really sing aloud, like you can really see my tonsils literally swinging like beach balls inside my mouth.
I’ve been known to be notorious when it comes to videoke machines. I believe I’m a picture of ecstasy whenever I take center stage. That’s what they call my “I own the moment” mode. I drop my inhibitions. Nothing comes between me and the videoke machine. The world is eons away, drawn back to Paleolithic period.
I am not myself when I take hold of a microphone.
You have to LITERALLY pry me away. The only way you can make me sit is to offer me a cinnamon roll. And fact is, videoke bars don’t offer some heart-stopping, salivate inducing cinnamon rolls.
So you pretty get the picture here, right?
I’m thinking that maybe if I’m not an ardent admirer of archives, archaeology, war time stories, museums and all things old and musky, I would probably be a rock star babe or some indie movie maker basking her glory in the limelight. But well if I become a rock star babe, I would probably be singing about Andres Bonifacio, Rosa Parks, Mao Tse Tung, Buffalo Soldiers, Ho Chi Minh or maybe Power Puff Girls ( I love them esp. Buttercup and no, they’re not historical figures).
My loyal legionnaires would be nerds. Historians and book worms to be exact.
We’ll blend our music like how the native Indians of Teotihuacan culture blend their cacao beans into delicious chocolate drinks. We will conquer the whole world with our stories of mystical origins and legends from far-away land. We will strum this life with unspoken myths of indigenous people fighting for recognition for lands that they truly own. We will beat the drums with the distant call of our ancestors bringing to life the stories of a buried past. It will be fun. Such passion. Such intensity.
It will be great.
I’m not exactly an authority when it comes to music but anything that resembles nothing but shouting and cursing is a no-no for me. There’s music and there’s trash. I don’t know how to understand it when all I can hear is shouting and cursing. I will be needing some serious translation for the stuff. At the end of the day, I’ll probably look like a walking zombie.
Alive but unconscious.
Back in college, I did conceptualize something about having a band solely made up of girls. We’re serious about our studies but all work and no play is not good. No, I won’t be the lead singer. Back then, I have special affinity with drums and guitars. My voice is three steps away from that of a songbird. And yes, it would be an all girl band. No men allowed. They’re lovable creatures but complicated.
Tutti Frutti.
That’s the name. I know it sounds sweet. It should be. The name was taken from one of my fave sweets, Tutti Frutti. Small and comes in different colors but nonetheless truly satisfies your sweet tooth. Why chose this? I don’t know. The name was just stuck forever in my head and refused to leave. I know I should have chosen something strong and appealing to the audience but how am I supposed to think of other names when my head is so full of nothing but Tutti Frutti?
Today, it literally reminds me of that Chippy commercial. TEAR HERE. That’s their band name, literally taken from the package of their favorite junk food. If Tear Here sounds cool these days then there’s no reason why Tutti Frutti wouldn’t rock during those times.
Agree?
But alas, after 31 years of existence in this beautiful planet called earth, I’m no band member. The toll of studying the economy and cultures of Russia, trying to figure out why Vietnam War was considered as America’s waterloo and the endless nights of reading Samuel Huntington’s Clash of Civilizations prevented me from fulfilling my secret (not so secret now) dream. There goes my dream of stardom.
Sigh.
I have given up my dreams of becoming a rockstar babe. The only consolation I get is the fact that even if I can never sing about Andres Bonifacio, Rosa Parks and the Buffalo Soldiers, I can actually write and discuss about them in class. To my heart’s content, in fact. This goes to say that I can have my cake and eat it too. Never mind if it’s only half of the cake. And besides, I can always look for Bob Marley’s song in the playlist.
Buffalo soldiers.
Now, what are you waiting for? Stop reading and look for some cinnamon rolls.
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