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They sang about doing someone else’s thesis, about sem break, about learning how to drive. What college student of the ’90s didn’t relate to the Eraserheads? What teenager, for that matter? Everyone remembers how the E-heads phenomenon swept the nation. With their fresh rock sound and very real lyrics, the Eraserheads allowed alternative music to enter the mainstream. No more sappy ballads or teenybopper pop tunes. No more crooning vaguely about love. The band was very genuine, from their unadorned, simple getup (they made the T-shirt-maong-Chuck
Unfortunately, at eight years old, I wasn’t ready to grow up. Our tape of “Ultraelectro-magneticpop!” was my brothers’, and I would simply sing along from the backseat of our car every time they popped it in the tape deck. They became my favorite band of all time, but I really had no idea why. I just loved their songs. Not only were they fun to sing, but they made me feel like I knew what it was like to be in college. I could actually see myself eating isaw on campus, advising my friend against pursuing a kolehiyala, or getting wooed by a guy that my mother didn’t approve of. I even felt a certain panache in singing the chorus of Pare Ko without flinching. I knew that all these songs would mean so much more when I finally did grow up.
However, by the time I was finally a teenager, the Eraserheads and the rest of their rock contemporaries had faded from the local music scene. The boyband/girlband trend exploded all over the world while the showband sound emerged here, with bands like Side A, South Border and Freestyle. Pop had fought its way back into the heart of music. When I watched concerts, bands would usually do mostly covers. The crowd would go wild every time they heard the opening riffs to “concert classics” like Do You Believe in Me? And Hey. Then came the acoustic wave, when amplifiers were unplugged and songs were stripped down. Music wasn’t the same anymore. It was all about love, love, love. These songs could practically apply to any heartbreak or love spell.
The Eraserheads broke up even before I got to college. I had followed them doggedly, even through their later songs like Julie Tearjerky and Maskara, but by this time, their songs from their earlier albums had become “classics” to most people. They had been reduced to songs that are fun to sing, something I had already figured out when I was eight years old. It seemed that we had forgotten what it was that made the songs great, why the band was incredibly incendiary. Even with the release of “Ultraelectromagneticjam!”, the tribute album to the E-heads, it wasn’t the same. The remade songs were unfamiliar. They lacked the signature sound and failed to generate the same nostalgia and experience that the originals did.
When I discovered Tikman ang Langit: An Anthology of the Eraserheads in a bookstore, I realized that the “Fab Four” had not been forgotten. Their music had not gone quietly into the night! The book is a reminder of who the Eraserheads were and what their music meant to their fans. The book’s timing couldn’t have been more perfect. The alternative rock scene is coming alive again. Take the TV show Wazzap Wazzap, for instance. There’s a different band rocking it out every night. Admittedly, the music isn’t like ’90s Pinoy rock, but at least our local bands are playing their own songs again. Plus, I’ve always hated that I was kid when the band become big. I felt that I couldn’t appreciate them fully since I wasn’t a college kid when their songs came out. To me, reading this book shows and explains to me exactly why the Eraserheads were so phenomenal and perfect for that generation — and why their songs still strike a chord with listeners now.
It’s conceived as a compilation of essays written by several of their fans. A lot of the essays paint a picture of what the ’90s were like, and describe the impact of the Eraserheads in their lives. Edwin Sallan describes how the lack of a fashion statement of this “ordinary-looking band” incited fans to put the music above everything else. Joel Pinaroc marvels at how they were able to create music for both the coños and the jologs — one band to rule them all. A lot of the essayists also identify specific songs that touched them the most. How Hey Jay is a song by acceptance. How Minsan captures the fleeting moments that become the foundation of long-time friendships. How Pare Ko perfectly expresses the rage and frustration of a scorned lover. You will not be able to keep from humming all these songs. In fact, you will want to play some while flipping through the pages. It’s impossibly nostalgic — you’ll laugh and remember your own experiences with these songs.
It’s a little repetitive, though. You might get tired of hearing how the E-heads are like the Beatles, how everyone was heartbroken when they broke up, etc. You know how even the greatest song begins to get tiring when it’s overplayed or hyped up too much? That’s the vibe that you get when you read all the essays at once. There are a few unique pieces though, like “How to be The Girl in the Eraserheads Song” by Faye Ilogon. This funny essay gives you a guide to personify all the women in the Eraserheads songs, from the tragic one in Ang Huling El Bimbo to the elusive daughter in Tindahan ni Aling Nena. I also enjoyed looking at the few pictures of the Eraserheads (in their T-shirts and unkempt hair) back in the day.
Overall, I loved reading it. I finally got to know the band for what and who they were back in the ’90s. I finally understood why we all fell in love with them, and why we still pine for them, even if we know that the guys are still around. Ely’s with Pupil, Raymund’s with Cambio, Pedicab and
