The crowd laps it up, and quite an attractive bunch this is, too. (I haven’t breathed this much perfumed-sweat since Edsa Dos.) The girl beside me is in a tube top that she flaunts by waving her arms to the peculiar rhythms of the music like leaves in a tropical breeze, her armpits nicely smooth without hair and no trace of any caking deodorant. Beside her, a much older boyfriend is clearly out of place, making clumsy movements to prove he’s down with all the good-natured vibe that thrums from the speakers and seems capable of easing a psychotic’s E.E.G. He only manages to look witless in the attempt, bringing the total number of badly-calibrated automatons in the house to three: the other two being Darwin – my hunchbacked sidekick – and myself.
A little over a week later, I’m at Starbuck’s with Sammy Asuncion from Spy and the buxom couple Chong and Chang from Reggae Mistress. This meeting is supposed to educate me about reggae but really it just manages to fluster me with the outgrowth of all the names from the genre’s genealogy. (I was born the one year shy of punk’s Year Zero, and was weaned on a steady diet of ’70s prog rock, disco and The Smiths. The first ever "reggae" I ever heard was spurious, being The Clash’s version of Police and Thieves.)
"When musicians not familiar with reggae try to play it, it usually ends up sounding like cha-cha," laughs Chong. "There’s a feel to it that’s very different from conventional rock." (I tell him I learned this the painful way in a jam session with some reggae musicians a few years back: I couldn’t figure out why all the bass parts were inverted.)
Compared to rock n’ roll, reggae, when all the instruments are arranged and jotted down on paper, seems like a mess, every element venturing out in a different direction. It really shouldn’t work, but when it does it seems as effortless as the push and pull of the 34 facial muscles we use to kiss.
"It’s very sexy," says Asuncion, who has released reggae albums here and abroad, and is reputed to have composed the first Filipino reggae song. His band back in the day, Eurasia – a power trio composed of drummer Chong, bassist Rico Velez and himself – and like-minded musicians like Popong Landero and Lolita Carbon were reggae’s foremost proponents in the country. His current band Spy is heralded as one of the best reggae groups in the country and is indeed a hip name-drop in music circles, some pundits going as far as to say that they play thinking man’s reggae. "The sensuality, the rhythm of the music enters your body, your soul," he adds, brushing off the laurels. "It’s spiritual; it’s my religion."
Reggae commands a devotion and fervor seen only at El Shaddai prayer rallies and black gospel music, the music acting as a conduit for communion with the Deity above. It is about harmony and having faith in the midst of chaos. It is as divine as being a balm to the wounded in war while as common as being the assuagement of the tempers of women. (Chong confides that when he fights with Chang, reggae is what he offers as a peace offering.) Punk always said that God was dead while heavy metal always put the devil in His Throne, reggae’s sights follow the ladder of ganja smoke to the sky.
"Not all rastas take marijuana the same way not all jazz musicians take heroin," declares Asuncion. "It’s a misconception." I don’t let him get off so easily. Ultimately, he admits that it is part of the culture but by no means is it a prerequisite.
This might explain why I detect no illegal substance in the smoky, nicotine gas chamber that is Xaymaca on the night of Marley’s fifty-ninth birthday. Darwin says he saw two girls who were clearly "altered" but this is dubious coming from someone who thinks everyone wearing a bell-bottom is a hippie. But even the ultra-conservative in him cannot stop the pulses of good feeling emanating from the music, making him sway and bump hips with the long-legged girl beside him. Despite the awkwardness of his movements, he’s lost in the motion of the whole crowd. I wonder how something that came from the shores of Jamaica could hold audiences from as far reaching as Brixton to Paris to Quezon City in such rapture. There are some of us who might say that we are Filipinos after all, what do we know about Jah and places like Trenchtown?
"It’s universal," explains Chang. "I guess it was only patented by the Jamaicans but I’m sure reggae had a presence here in the country from way back." Well, weed does grow in these parts as well, I think.
Indio I’s Vic Facultad is now on the microphone and he’s proposing some legislation. If only both houses of Congress could listen to the howls of approval coming from the crowd as Facultad explains the "herb’s" medicinal benefits (especially for those who suffer from asthma) maybe they’d relent. For now though, the crowd doesn’t seem to need anything but the music to sustain the atmosphere of good cheer and fun.
We head home early though, not finishing the set due to exhaustion and for the continued health of our lungs. The music though has left its impression, fired the synapses and despite weariness and drudgery of the morning sun the next day, I wake up with a smile.
At the NBC tent tonight, Feb. 20, commune with Jah and celebrate with top reggae bands Indio I, Spy, CBI, Neighbors, Reggae Mistress, Brown Man Revival and Hemp Republic. Ticket prices are Php 200.
This is certainly the first big musical event of the year so don’t miss it!