Goodbye to Mag:net

Shucks, it sucks, the end of yet another affair, what with another recent entry to the ever-growing Dead Cafes Society. Mag:net on Katips, or Katipunan Avenue, right across Miriam College’s gate and/or right beside Rustan’s Supermarket, as we used to text invitees and new converts, lasted nearly five years. All that time it became a powerful magnet for young people engaged in various forms of the arts.

But a couple of Mondays ago, the last poetry reading was conducted on its small but memorious stage on the second floor, the cafe-bar area of what was initially an art gallery cum bookshop. And at around midnight, some of us perennial stragglers convened for the last time on the wooden deck by the parking lot that had hosted countless discussions above the din of Katips traffic and speakers blaring out rock and alternative music and the spouted word.

Mag:net’s impresario, the artist and patron Rock Drilon, had texted earlier to explain the unfortunate demise. He had made a pact with his sons about having to go back to the exclusive conduct of his own art — surely an enterprise that had taken a back seat while he provided and nurtured a venue that gave space and voice to visual artists, poets and writers, musicians, filmmakers, indie adherents of all things novel and bright and beautiful.

In past confessional conversations with Rock whenever I could steal him away from the constantly expanding tribe of his alagas or wards, who were all ever grateful for his brand of benevolent assimilation, we would laugh over having to take on the mantle of responsibility for addressing the needs of young artists. And then sigh over how it could become a drain, too, affecting one’s own demands for votive hours devoted to one’s work.

Rock may be said to have been generous to a fault — heedlessly philanthropic of his time and resources, just to guarantee an alternative space for all the dynamic thrusts that fresh generations of creative stalwarts always came up with.

Poklong Anading’s rubble art

Now we cannot begrudge the end of the affair. He had given up his own second-floor private studio when he converted it to a bar where the tribe could congregate after gallery hours, to engage in music, poetry, indie cinema, creative workshops.

I recall that it all started with a book launching held at the gallery, when Fil-Am writer-musician-lawyer Rodney Garcia had a brief homecoming way back in 2005, or maybe early 2006, with copies of his US-printed collection of short fiction. Ces Drilon and Butch Dalisay were pressed into service as the ribbon-cutters. A turn-away crowd gorged on pica-pica, wine and beer while listening to Rodney’s sample reading.

Rock invited Jimmy Abad and me upstairs to show us his latest paintings. Soon we were joined by visiting scholar Vince Rafael and a former Ateneo student the then budding poet Mookie Katigbak. As we drank in Rock’s studio, the wine and whiskey escorted voices into our heads. We looked around while longing on couches, and said, “Hey, why not turn this into a regular bar?” 

Rock only appeared amused at the time, but then his default mien of quiet bemusement meant, as I was to learn later, that he was already processing the notion.

Soon, poets had the Poet’s Alcove by the front door in which to exhibit their verses in 3-D. The cafe-bar opened, featuring alternative music groups nightly and regular readings to complement monthly art exhibit openings. And students could take budget breakfasts and other meals on the extension deck with its view of the moon and the rest of Loyola Heights.

Five years, and the memorable moments assure a flood of meritorious merriment. Joey Ayala on his hegalong, with the bookshop’s shelves as a backdrop. Cynthia Alexander conducting lessons on indigenous music at a suddenly smoke-free bar, per her request. Pepe Smith jamming with a youngsters’ band, extending the venerable anthem Ang Himig Natin into a 12-minute rock version that had cellphone cameras realizing it was indeed a moment for video posterity. Mishka Adams drawing a street-to-ceiling crowd, Mon David scatting and mesmerizing, all that jazz eventually giving way to hip-hop as aggressively rapped by Ampon, as well as reggae nights, acoustic guitar nights, thumping nights with the Los Chupacabras all-poets’ band.

The last night at Mag:net

One of its members, Joel Toledo, started the Happy Mondays series of fortnightly readings, where Maxine Syjuco began to entrance with her erotic poems, and Gelo Suarez got down on all fours to read his coruscating poetry from a laptop on the floor. Danton Remoto organized alternate-Monday readings that upped the ante, morphing merry into gay. Then it was Vim Nadera who took over and brought in Pinoy balagtasan and ventriloquism and epic performance poetry.

National Artist for Literature Rio Almario nodded sagely by a table, approving of all the tribute by way of proferred bottles of red wine. UP professor emeritus Jimmy Abad awed everyone with feats of legerdemain that had Mnemosyne herself dancing on the head of his angelic Alzheimer’s pin. Visiting Fil-Am poets Patrick Rosal, Sarah Gambito, Joseph Legaspi, Oscar Peñaranda and Angela Torres took turns at bonding with homegrown muses. Cesare Syjuco, RayVi Sunico and Marne Kilates caroused and caterwauled on the corner floor of the gallery, giving inebriation a glorious good name.

Gabe Mercado ran the SPIT attraction on Thursdays, with spontaneity and audience participation adding up to non-provisional wit and much laughter. 

Kiri Dalena brought in indie filmmakers and cineastes, and had MTRCB agents knocking at the door, so that a Katipunan film club had to be organized. Khavn dela Cruz regaled with his films and music and poetry, not necessarily in any sort of order. 

Nilo Ilarde curated explosive exhibits. Poklong Anading installed broken bits of concrete on the gallery, and collectors came to marvel. Manuel Ocampo deigned to show and sell large works, giving locals a chance to preempt his European clientele.

Oh, and one summer the bar turned into a simulacrum of Boracay, with all the waiters donning shorts and Hawaiian polo shirts, and everyone had to soft-shoe their way on white sand.

So many more remembered episodes of inspired conduct will now consecrate Mag:net Katips. And since it’s joined that hallowed company that’s the Dead Cafe-Bars Society, maybe it will be one of the few that will lie supine and sacred inside an imagined glass casket, untouched for ages by worms of entropy.

From the 1960s onwards, for half-a-decade now, the roster grows as a litany of enjoyable ephemera: the Cock-n-Bull on Taft Avenue, When It’s a Gray November in Your Soul and Los Indios Bravos on A. Mabini in Malate, Hurri-manna on G. Apacible on the wrong side of Taft, Kape Talismo also across Taft, Cafe Orfeo on Malvar, Moviola at Remedios Circle, My Father’s Moustache on M.H. del Pilar, Camp Gourmet on Remedios, Cafe Amapola on Session Road in Baguio, Cafe Caribana and Blue Cafe et al. on Julio Nakpil, Sanctum in Intramuros, The Malate Republic and Remembrances on A. Mabini, and of late, good old Penguin on Remedios and Oarhouse on A. Mabini.

But Penguin has resurrected on the fringe of Makati, and Oarhouse will rise again, by next month, on the fringe of Malate. So maybe a Mag:net Redux can’t be discounted. Here on this or that side of holistic heaven.

Rock, thanks for all the tender mercies. Mabuhay ang Mag:net!