She was known as the voice of the band, and a dancer, too, jamming with the man Joey when things started cooking during concerts.
While Joey rented half of a duplex along Visayas Avenue in Project 6, the rest of the Lumad stayed in an apartment on Mahusay Street, UP Village.
One might say that Bayang, named as happenstance would have it after the national anthem, went through the necessary rites into womanhood in Metro Manila, Quezon City in particular, far from her rustic roots in Mindanao.
There were countless times when we got drunk at Mahusay, a stone’s throw away from the old folks’ place in Maginhawa, such that often we’d stagger the few blocks home after an enlightening, intoxicating session.
Drummer Noe Tio held fort there, as did bassist Onie Badiang, both of them native sons of Davao since then transplanted to the big city to pursue an old dream of playing music and making T-shirts.
An artifact of the late 80s is the Bagong Lumad T-shirt, which soon turned into a cottage industry that made a statement on ethnic consciousness.
Bayang was there, too, absorbing what the city had to offer, the kid sister who arrived from her day job while the menfolk polished off their beers in the patio, late into the night.
Then something happened along the way. The Lumad broke up, band members went their separate ways. Onie played bass for Yano, a shortlived band whose brilliance seemed to have burned them out. Noe resettled in Palawan to reacquaint himself with his art and sort out his domestic life. Joey himself continued to write, pop up in gigs across town, then just as suddenly pack up for the States and be based there for a year or two, doing who knows what.
Where was Bayang in all this? She fell in love with the guitarist Mike Villegas, lived in, released her debut album a few years ago, Bayang Makulay, which we have not had the good fortune of listening to, difficult as it is to find a copy in the record bars where the salesladies go, "Ano? Bayang Makulay? Meron lang kami ‘Color My World’."
Now, many years later, it is past midnight and a woman who looks vaguely familiar is gamely dancing on the floor with some friends, among them the folk musician Gary Granada, romping to the raucous sounds of the Friday night band, the Jerks.
She is wearing black or what looks like a very dark color, and it blends well with the repertoire –Life During Wartime, Honky-Tonk Woman, some Doors songs, a bit of Lou Reed. This is after all the 70s Bistro along Anonas, and the beer and wine keep flowing, which effect hastens the memory and the woman’s face is no longer so vague, because we receive confirmation from Gary himself as we run into each other near the restroom, "Oo, si Bayang ’yon."
Soon enough, we are catching up on the past years, wherever this or that common acquaintance went, how life has been in general.
She tells me that Yano is getting together again, minus guitarist Eric Gancio, and Onie is still staying at the old apartment on Mahusay, the sole survivor.
"Si Dong Abay pala ang Yano," Bayang gives an update, saying the fellow long rumored to have suffered from a nervous breakdown, has several deadly new songs.
Joey, too, is returning to Manila, good old ’Pinas where he belongs.
After all that catching up, some beers, a glass of wine courtesy of Killer Sam, she hands me a copy of her latest CD, Harinawa, released last year and produced by Bob Aves and Sammy Asuncion.
She writes an inscription down on the CD jacket, a couple of telephone numbers, highly confidential of course.
"For review," she says.
When the Jerks wrap up their set for the night, and Mike drops in to look for the lady, it is time to take our leave.
A day or two later I listen to Harinawa and am still dumbstruck by the voice, which is like no other. Bayang is as original as they come. The production, however, is rather slick, studio-savvy, verging on the easy listening, except that nothing comes easy with the rock and blues wars.
We suspect that she will sound best with a saxophone and piano, in a kind of ethnic torch setting, but that’s just the effect of staying up till 3 a.m. talking with a friend from the old village.
When we say our goodbyes, promising to keep in touch, daylight must be lying in ambush somewhere down the road, and in the back of our minds the possibility that years later we will run into each other again, wondering if there is left behind in the apartment on Mahusay a soul survivor ruminating over an abandoned drum set bandaged with masking tape.