Revenge of the jeprox

Poor Oscar San Pedro, PR man, who sent me a CD and cassette of a performer whose scheduled concert here has been canceled. It was the second time it happened. The first was in June last year when he sent me a CD of Al Jarreau, jazz vocalist, whose album contained a version of Weather Report’s A Remark You Made, which Jarreau put lyrics to and given a new title, Something That You Said.

This time, it’s the Scorpions, that metal jeprox band which is the favorite of mini-bus drivers and conductors and assorted beerhouse habitués. The PR man had sent me the band’s latest, Acoustica, no relation to the Wolfgang album of the same title.

What can one say but this could be the revenge of the jeprox, a term that is a distinctly Pinoy phenomenon, the hippie’ng kulelat. You don’t see much of them these days, except maybe on the estribo of wayward mini-buses or in beer gardens ruminating before an aging jukebox.

I remember my first encounter with the Scorpions, introduced to me by a husky-voiced PR of Vicor named Jeng, way back when. The album was In Trance, and the review was not an exactly favorable one, but Jeng was gracious enough to thank me for the execrable comments that came out in a chordbook magazine, or maybe she was being ironic.

But the Scorpions, bad review or not, would hit the big time. Who’s to deny the charisma of their high-pitched vocalist, in the tradition of metal crooners. Or the piercing guitar lines that wreaked havoc on our ear drums? Most of time, the band members were nameless, though the music remained distinctive, especially if one were cruising in a jeepney with the speakers going full blast, and the driver would be humming along to Holiday or Always Somewhere while handing back change for the fare.

As for the jeprox, the last time I saw either hide or hair of them must have been at the now demolished old UP Theater, at a concert either of Juan dela Cruz or Maria Cafra, where the crowd rushed the stage, while balancing precariously on a ledge was a barechested teenager high on something, waving his T-shirt in flames.

Part of the crush would clamber up on stage, jamming with the guitarist on their air guitars.

Or it must have been at the Araneta Coliseum, where Slowhand Clapton played, and promptly retreated backstage when the wave of jeprox surged towards the front. Clapton refused to play until some form of crowd control was imposed.

Cubao could have been home to many a jeprox in the ’70s and ’80s. Bamboo House across from Farmer’s was a good hangout, what with its beer and pinsec, that crunchy pulutan endemic to Chinese food houses.

The pinsec seemed especially crunchy when listening to, say, Bob Seger in the background sining Against the Wind, the album whose cover had blue horses running roughshod over a stream. Such image of wild horses was endemic to jeprox consciousness, just like 8-track tapes and Ornacol.

And where would the jeprox be without a trip or two down to Olongapo side, to walk the length and breadth of Magsaysay and Rizal Avenues, listening to the music and noise of different bands spilling over to the sidewalk.

In a scenario like this would we meet Morris the drummer, was it of the Moonstrucks or the Jovials, we forget now which, but there he was, small and bearded, fielding questions from a greenhorn reporter on the sidewalk with twilight fast catching up.

Victory Liner! The road to ’Gapo was long and winding, and the city held the promise of bohemia.

Then there was Ogie, the tall mumbler who worked at the chordbook, who punctuated his monologues with phrases such as "nothing like" or "he’s just a regular guy."

He once went to Chinatown to perform a number with a couple of co-workers, who lost no time ogling him through the Western style swinging doors as he humped a faceless women in a house of ill repute.

On the night before he migrated to the States, he got beat up at the chordbook’s jeprox offices by the fellows in production, who perhaps had gotten tired of his mumbling.

Meanwhile, many years later, we would find ourselves somewhere in San Juan, in a bar called Tunesmith Cafe, talking with members of a band named Elizabeth Reed, after the Allman Brothers Band song.

Elizabeth Reed was a local band, San Juan boys really, with an overseas contract. Their first album came out abroad, on a foreign label.

Now they were passing around beers and pulutan, and soon enough a request came on, which was their own song in tribute to the place, Tunesmith Cafe.

Their music was described as a melodic form of metal, if there is such a thing, and band leader Rinky even composed a sonata called Mini-bus Heaven, in tribute to you-know-what.

Rinky liked to read Abante Tonite because a friend drew the editorial cartoon. He was sure to have fallen in line if the Scorpions concert pushed through.

But Oscar should not give up sending CDs even if the acts are never sure of showing up. That’s what makes a jeprox; you never know when they’ll spring their revenge.

Rinky, wherever he is, must have his beer and take his mini-bus while thinking up his next move.