Digital telepathy
So there we were, thousands of Eraserheads fans, crammed into an empty lot at Fort Bonifacio in Taguig. We were packed like sardines in front of the stage — buyers of canned fish should be so lucky to get that kind of density. Ely Buendia had put us on the SVIP list, which was much appreciated though we didn’t know what the “S” meant. “Super?” guessed Noel. “Sexy?” ventured Raymond.
On closer inspection of the people in our section — and I mean close — I began to suspect that our “S” meant “Senior.” I’d expected a crowd of concertgoers about our age: the Eheads core audience, the people who remember hearing Pare Ko for the first time in the early ’90s and saying, “Did he just say what I think he said?” Instead we were relative fossils in a sea of 20-year-olds. They must’ve been toddlers when “Ultraelectromagneticpop!” came out, and just starting school when Ang Huling El Bimbo was the most-played song on the air.
“I was a film major at UP round the same time as Ely, so I heard the band even before their first album came out,” Noel pointed out.
“Ely was my classmate, so I heard them even before they formed the band,” said Raymond.
“True, they were already famous when I met them, but I was the one who had to carry a magazine at all times because Ely refused to go to the bathroom without something to read,” I said. This is more information than anyone needs, so I won.
The summons to the one-night-only reunion concert had arrived not through the traditional media outlets, but through a kind of digital telepathy. You heard from someone who knew someone who knew someone, and the news was transmitted via text message, e-mail, blogs, and online forums. There was some mention of the show on the radio and in newspapers, but almost no advertising to speak of. If you weren’t into the Eheads, you may have missed it altogether. However, if you were a fan, you were tuned to that secret frequency and the news somehow reached you. Think of Carl Jung’s theory of the collective unconscious, facilitated by technology.
This particular story required the velocity of digital communications because it developed at the speed of text. First the concert was announced, then the procedure for acquiring invitations revealed. You had to access the concert sponsor’s website and register online. Then the legality of the concert was questioned: there is a total ban on cigarette advertising, which extends to concert sponsorships. Then the sponsor withdrew, and the concert was cancelled. Before the mourning could begin, Raimund Marasigan announced that the concert was on again. The venue was changed. The invitation-getting procedure was scrapped. You could buy your tickets online, if you could get onto the site with everyone logging on at once. Two days before the show, Ely’s mother died and the concert was in doubt again. Until the band actually appeared onstage that night and started playing Alapaap, nothing was certain; all we had to go on were snippets of information.
In olden times, say a year ago, concertgoers expressed their admiration for the performers by raising cigarette lighters in tribute. Given the circumstances surrounding the concert, this would’ve been a bit odd. One solution was to download a program that would display a lighter flame on the screen of your iPhone. Cute, but what we really need is a proper concert venue with good acoustics so we can hear every note, and a stage big enough for elaborate spectacles (I’m not sure the empty lot could handle a Madonna or U2 show). At least someplace with a roof so we wouldn’t have to worry about sudden downpours and lightning strikes.
Of course, everyone raised their phones to take pictures of the stage, so lighters were irrelevant. The band had just started playing Ligaya when the guy in front of me started sending out text messages. Whoever you are, I’m sorry I read your messages but I couldn’t help it, your phone was in my face. His message read, “Pare nasa Fort kami ang galing galing ng Eheads concert the best!” (We’re at the Fort the Eheads concert is great!) This is not how he spelled it; I just can’t remember txt. Then he sent it to everyone in his directory — I know because the names appeared on the screen one by one, in alphabetical order, as the message was sent. He even sent it to his mom, which was sweet, although I don’t know how she’d like being called “Pare.”
Our indefatigable texter then received a reply on his phone. It said:
“Hus dis?” Ow! I wish I hadn’t seen that — it’s embarrassing to get a “Who’s this?” reply, especially when you’re sharing your feelings of great joy and one-ness with the world. Yes, names vanish from phonebooks and systems get glitchy, but nobody wants an existential crisis via text. Fortunately our new non-acquaintance was made of stern stuff. He immediately fired off this reply: “Ex- boyfriend ni xxxxx.” Again, that’s kind of sweet, staying in touch with the friends of your ex. Or creepy. In the information age, privacy is virtually impossible: you can’t hide anything, and you can’t avoid anything.
You may have heard that the concert was halted after 15 songs because Ely had chest pains and was rushed to the hospital. The emotional stress and lack of sleep following his mom’s death had gotten to him. The audience was stunned at the announcement, but after all the drama preceding the concert, it wasn’t that surprising. They were aware of Ely’s heart problems, and seemed more worried for him than ticked off at not hearing Ang Huling El Bimbo and Pare Ko.
Thousands of us trudged off of the field by the lights of our mobile phones, calling and texting each other to get a ride home.
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