For those about to rock (we salute you)

I got a very interesting letter from a guy called "Hell7" who wants me to teach him "rock n’ roll – the history, the passion, the works!" Sorry, I’m not Jack Black, a sensei (as in the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles sense), or a messianic Michael Jackson trying to heal the world and make it a better place (complete with the Jesus Christ pose). I am in the dark as much as Hell7 is. And I don’t think it’s enough to listen to records, watch gigs, and read music articles (believe me, some of them are rehashed press releases or cribbed from the Internet). But there really is no other course: you have to hear your own way. No substitute for that. If I were a stoned-immaculate hippie with a freak flag flying, I would tell him, "You have to live and breathe rock n’ roll to know rock n’ roll." Believe it or not, this is not BS at all.

And a little help from friends goes a long way. When I was first discovering how blues legends Robert Johnson and Muddy Waters spawned bastard children such as the Stones, Cream and Led Zeppelin, I learned a lot from Jingle magazine. I loved the illustrations (very influential), the "grin pages," kuwentong Cubao, and of course the music reviews from the likes of Didits Gonzales, Poch Concepcion, Bert Sulat, James Saspa, and Juaniyo Arcellana. You could practically hear Eric Clapton playing God with his Stratocaster every time those guys write about Slowhand. Their articles also gave a blow-by-blow account of the goings-on in Pinoy rock: Lolita Carbon after the Asin split-up, the death of The Dawn guitarist Teddy Diaz, the reign of Pinoy punk (Dead Ends, Betrayed, Urban Bandits, Philippine Violators, The Wuds – ayos!), the No-Nukes concert in Angeles (or was it in Olongapo?) featuring the ethnic rock group Pen-Pen. A side note: in that gig, somebody in the audience tripped, fell to the floor, and then, to paraphrase a line from the article, "dahan-dahang gumapang sa kadiliman." I am so not worthy.

Another side note: I missed the Chick Corea, John Patitucci, and Dave Weckl gig in Manila, but reading Didits’ article gave me an idea of how awe-inspiring that acoustic trio’s concert was. And oh, I learned how to play guitar from the Jingle chord-chart. The obligatory first song: A Horse With No Name by America.

Another friend during those times was a show over DZRJ-FM. I missed the heyday of RJAM, which my brother (with his misty green-tinted Sixties mind) used to rave about. But I was able to tune into "The Rock N’ Roll Machine" every Saturday in the ’90s. And – to steal a line from the leader of the Mahavishnu Orchestra – all was bliss… all was bliss. Imagine all the shit wafting from the radio speakers during those days (such as the Introvoys’ Line to Heaven and any song by Air Supply), and then suddenly you hear Mahavishnu McLaughlin jamming with Devadip Carlos Santana on a John Coltrane tune. An almost spiritual moment.

I couldn’t believe my ears.

After A Love Supreme came Chick Corea’s Light as a Feather (which rocks harder than a Good Charlotte or a Simple Plan tune) and then a couple of songs by Frank Zappa, Captain Beefheart, Tom Waits, and Steely Dan. Also played were classics from Sampaguita (the majestic Tao), Anakbayan and Maria Cafra ("Kamusta mga kaibigan, okay ba kayo diyan?"). I was a sucker from then on. I learned a lot from the pilots of the rocking airwaves (with apologies to those who I will fail to mention): The Penguin, Captain Eddie, Mustang Sally, The Madman, and Cousin Hoagy Pardo, who would eventually become a drinking buddy at NU Rock Awards after-show parties – where are you, man?

One time, Hoagy invited me to play records on his show after I wrote an article for the NU newsletter he put together. I ecstatically packed my "One Size Fits All," "Lumpy Gravy," and "Uncle Meat" CDs (plus "Song X" by Ornette Coleman and Pat Metheny, and a few Weather Report discs), but it rained so hard that I needed an ark to get out of Malabon, so I wasn’t able to go. Maybe when the powers-that-be in that station decide to bring back the best Filipino radio show of all time, I’ll finally get the chance to bug the bejesus out of listeners with Don’t Eat The Yellow Snow and Nanook Rubs It. Why was "The Rock N’ Roll Machine" cancelled in the first place? Why take away a really good thing?

These days, a rock aficionado like Hell7 has very little access to good rock n’ roll. The radio? Well, except for NU 107 and 103.5 K-Lite, radio is a dead end (all talk, all covers by MYMP, and identical R&B and hip-hop slush). Gigs? That’s okay if you’re keen on watching bands that rip-off The Smiths and The Care (you know who they are). Or want to go through a set by Cueshé (whose name sounds like one of those tooth-decaying cakes that go with expensive crapuccino).

A third side note: Not content with ripping off Silverchair and Savage Garden (Truly? Madly? Crazy?), Cueshé goes on to spout every bit of lyrical cliché in Sorry. "Some burn out and some fade away…" (Neil Young, Todd Rundgren, Fra Lippo Lippi.) "If I could turn back the time… (Johnny Hates Jazz, Superman.) "Like a life less ordinary…" (Cameron Diaz, Ewan McGregor.) "I’m drowning in tears… "I wish you were here…" "And time will heal…" (Check out the Michael Bolton discography.)

All hope is lost. Nah. A guy like Hell7 can take inspiration from a movie called Rock School. This is not to be confused with the Jack Black flick School of Rock, where the tenacious mock rocker (playing the role of Dewey Finn) teaches school children the rudiments of Yes, AC/DC, Rush and Led Zeppelin. Similar but not the same.

Rock School, a "documentary" directed by Don Argott, tells the saga of The Paul Green School of Rock Music in Philadelphia set up by a manic, foul-mouthed, fire-breathing Frank Zappa fanatic. "My ego’s as big as the universe," says Green at one point. "So if I couldn’t be the best guitar player, I invented something new so I could be the best at it." At other times, he talks about Dio and Satanism, and pokes fun at a Quaker rap group who extols the virtues of helping the elderly cross the street. Despite Green’s overbearing, frenzied, in-your-face method of teaching, kids from eight to 18 flock to his school to learn how to play guitars, drums, keyboards, drums and assorted wind instruments, as well as navigate the tricky linguistic terrains of Zappa lines like "Did a booger-bear/Come from somewhere out there/Just to land in the Andes?"

I thought at first that Rock School would be your normal feel-good flick, climaxing with kids playing It’s A Long Way To The Top, Immigrant Song, put your own rock anthem here. Something very cheesy and overly generous with life lessons. If Sandra Bullock fronted The Ramones. Long live rock! Roll the credits. Pass the Doritos. Where are the Curb Your Enthusiasm discs?

I thought wrong.

There is drama all right purveyed by the suicidal (and annoyingly whiny) Will who has a one-armed mother and many complexes; Madi who makes the transition from Jewel to Joni Mitchell; the cute nine-year-old twins Asa and Tucker who sing Black Sabbath songs Into the Void and Sweet Leaf (complete with Ozzy’s madman movements); and Green himself who comes across as both a music teacher and the Big Bad Wolf.

It was the music that pulled me in. There is 12-year-old guitarist C.J. Tywoniak who made my jaw drop with his rendition of Carlos Santana’s Black Magic Woman (those bends are a bitch to play) during the "Guitar Gods" recital. He also plays Van Halen’s Eruption, for crying out loud. I think this kid has the mark of the devil.

The Black Sabbath recital is for – believe it or not – rock school beginners fronted by two nine-year-olds. For aspiring musicians like us, Into the Void is doctoral stuff. But what takes the cake is when some of the more advanced students go to Germany for the Zappanale festival, where Frank Zappa tribute bands from all over the world come together to perform some of the toughest shit to play.

What a happy ending: The kids go to Germany, play Zomby Woof, jam with Zappa alumnus (flutist and spoken-wordsmith) Napoleon Murphy-Brock on Inca Roads, earn the nod of Mothers of Invention drummer Jimmy Carl Black, and prove to us that rock n’ roll has a fat future. (Hey, Hell7, what better place to start your rock education than Rock School?)

J. Lo on the radio, on TV, and in your head? Don't despair. Rock n’ roll is not dead. It just smells funny.

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For comments, suggestions, curses and invocations, e-mail iganja_ys@yahoo.com.