Such a novelty occurred one Thursday night in December, when the two independent label bands performed in tandem at the Java Hut along Nakpil Street in Malate, sponsored by the neo-feminist group Feminine Force. Members of the audience were encouraged to donate a toy for indigent children.
I first caught sight of Imago, which has been around the scene for the past couple of years, at a tribute to the late drummer Edmund Fortuno at Hobbit House earlier this year. We arrived at the tailend of their set, and the stage almost went up in smoke with their punk-haired female lead singer, and a lady violinist whose looks and playing resembled that of the gypsy Scarlet Rivera, who once played in Bob Dylan’s Rolling Thunder Revue Band in the mid-’70s.
Hearing Imago was like hearing Dylan’s Desire all over again, or maybe it was deja vu.
But on a Thursday night in Java Hut, there was no sign of Scarlet, which in no small measure somewhat reduced the visual impact of the band. In her place was a fellow who nevertheless wielded a mean violin, which in Imago takes the role of lead guitar.
The following exchange transpired about Scarlet’s absence, which some said may have occurred soon after members of the feminine force distributed handwash lotion to media:
A: Half the reason I went there was gone. The sight of a woman playing violin in a rock band can never be underestimated.
B: That’s unfair to her replacement, not to mention sexist. It would make a difference only if she played her instrument tucked beneath her breast instead of her chin.
Imago, bless their young soul, held up well, led by the irrepressible Aia de Leon, with a metal stud implanted just above her chin.
There was a number in particular where she was angrily prancing about the cramped stage, giving the finger to anyone who cared to listen, and chanting "f*** you, f*** you" repeatedly – I must admit, never has the F-word sounded so sexy.
And if her punkista inclinations can intimidate the uninitiated, De Leon has a voice in the league of rock sirens such as Annie Lennox, Nathalie Merchant, even Eydie Brickell.
Aia’s guitar had a "resign" sticker on it, giving political color to the concert. Maybe her f-word ranting was dedicated to Mr. E: it’s one thing to get a lot of p****, and quite another to use government resources to house those p******.
There was another Imago number wistfully sang by De Leon that night, having to do if Christ were a woman. It was not an altogether far-fetched possibility, even if the orthodox might view it as bordering on blasphemy.
Just once did Aia give up the mike, on the song Little Drummer Boy which was aptly handled by the band’s drummer. But there were instances that De Leon seemed to be getting impatient with the all-too lethargic vocals of the drummer, as not even her flashing beautiful eyes could get him to add more life to the carol.
The finale, as finales go, was loud and wrenching, the violin parlaying a unique ringing in the ears not unlike that left by an electric guitar.
Imago is presently recording its first album, to be produced by Bob Aves and Grace Nono, herself a fury in her own right.
After a brief break between sets, during which the fledgling feminists coaxed audience members to sing a line or two from a carol in exchange for more hand lotions, Gypsy Grind came on.
Fronted by mestiza Tina Ehrhard, with hair dyed red and a clutch of harmonicas, Gypsy Grind gave musical samples of the alternative, as well as post-alternative scene.
It was, Ehrhard said in her opening spiel, to be the last performance of Gypsy Grind as Gypsy Grind, since the group was going to repackage itself and go through some musical, if not personnel, changes. She declined to state which band member would be given the boot.
Now Gypsy Grind has been around for some time, with three albums under Ivory Records to its credit, namely the debut Tattle Tales, Pinipinoy and Eveolution. But somehow the six-year-old band never really broke through and hit the bigtime, unlike say RiverMaya or Parokya ni Edgar. They’ve always been a marginal band, and so alternative in the true sense of the word.
Ehrhard was on melancholy mode, doing slightly altered versions of their previously released songs, "you’ll find they’re a bit different from the ones on tape, if you find them in the record bars."
Her voice was bluesy on the brink of nasal, an indirect salute to the vocalist of the band Missing Persons, sometimes reaching the upper registers and making the listener a bit hard of hearing.
There was one alternative carol Gypsy Grind did, which Ehrhard dedicated to the many people "who can’t afford to have a Christmas," called Silent Night, Holy Night, the music scaling the peaks of their collective angst.
She was stomping her feet, then blowing on her harmonica, and the music behind her propelling her on, the bassist cooking what could have been jambalaya, the drummer keeping time, as well the guitarist economical in his solos lest Ehrhard gets lifted out of her depression, which she repeatedly peeled off like skin off a scab.
It must have been a little while ago when we were just as angry, just as desperate, clinging to the music as if it were the rock of ages.