Settling grudges through art is not uncommon. Artists and writers have done it for centuries. Anthony Burgess, author of A Clockwork Orange, never forgave Stanley Kubrick for leaving him to defend the director’s film – a work he barely approved of – against the uproar it caused among groups who saw the exploits of Alex and his Droogs as morally reprehensible. He dedicated his book Napoleon Symphony to his second wife Liana and "Stanley J. Kubrick," addressing the latter as "maestro di color." The aforementioned dedication is a reference to Dante’s Inferno (see above quote) that translates as, "I saw the Master of those who know," referring to Aristotle whom the author dutifully condemned to hell.
Titling their sophomore outing "Light Peace Love," the band collectively known as Bamboo do have their own scores to settle. Opening track 04 (we can only guess what the number refers to) is somber, resigned, with a lyric and a vocal delivery that conceals none of the disgust at a friend who "did the unimaginable." ("I hope you’re proud," is the next line.)
Current single F.U. has this peculiar taunt for a chorus: "You’ll never hear this song playing on the radio." Confessing to be an "optimist who’s become a little cynical," singer Bamboo Mañalac spits out every line on the song with indignant pique, "Why do you hate him? Why did you make him leave?" or "You just stood by idly watched her suffer…you think you’re something special?" Before the accused can have a word in, Mañalac cuts them off, "Boy you blew it! This conversation’s over."
Although oblique enough to read universally, the song has a particular vitriol in the delivery of its litany of charges that one doesn’t mistake its personal nature. In epics like Alpha Beta Omega, though, the band attempts to channel that passion to polemic, addressing issues plaguing the modern Filipino. It’s this album’s shot at harnessing the power and appeal of their first hit, Noypi, substituting the flag-waving affirmation to condemnation and a call to arms. No doubt it’s an awesome display of how lethally fluent Bamboo has become as a group but it does not cut quite close to the jugular. After drawing blood early on, one expects Bamboo to focus their sights on the choicest animals – namely themselves and those around them.
On songs such as Much Has Been Said, they have. Despite being a rock band, Bamboo offer up a tender R&B number – the best pop tune of its kind that we haven’t heard possibly since Gary Valenciano’s first hits. Unflinching and heartbreakingly honest, it examines a break-up and possible reconciliation as only someone who’s ever been truly devoted to someone can articulate. (Interestingly enough, the coda has Mañalac cooing the first lines from Lisa Loeb’s Stay, which does not bode well for the relationship despite the shift to reggae by the rest of the band.) There is not one false note on the track, no superfluous adornment in the arrangement. In fact, the track is naked and leaves the band, particularly the singer, vulnerable, with not a stitch of feigned emotion.
I-You is also sparse, drawing its power as if from a beating heart. There’s really nothing new said in the lyrics; the chords have been played before as well. But rather it’s the conviction, its introspection that somehow makes the song a unique experience. On the surface, it appears to be a love song, sung to someone that somehow fate has awarded you. In the context of the album, though, it seems to be more about finding your own voice and how amazing it is the moment it happens.
It’s telling that on the rap break of the first single Hallelujah Bamboo identifies their mirror image as their "one true enemy." Never mind the others, it’s themselves they’ve got to watch out for! So far they’ve resisted the temptation to sell out wholesale and just do "cover" versions of themselves by coming out with an album that does not repeat the same tune as last time. No matter the pressure. That, itself, is the greatest triumph over any adversary.