Dong Abay is singing Senti, a song that he’s sung many times before, ever since the 1990s when his then-band Yano released their debut LP. That album, one of the best records released in the ‘90s, is justly recognized as a landmark release in Philippine music. Songs like Banal Na Aso, Coño Ka Pre, Tsinelas or State U are bona-fide anthems, Pinoy Rock classics that provided the soundtrack to a significant cross-section of a generation. These songs mattered. And they endure. On this very day, a few days before Christmas, he’s singing to a large audience, many of whom have proclaimed themselves fans of Abay’s music, even requesting tracks from his tracks from the his latest recording, Flipino. But at this moment he’s singing an old hit, which, when first released back then, was a bit of a novelty, an ironic nod to those “sentimental” songs we swooned over and used to recover from all those heartbreaks during college — but no one seems to be sniggering now. Abay, backed by ska-punk-soul outfit Coffeebreak Island, is performing in front of an audience inside Bilibid’s Maximum Security Prison. And as he sings, the crowd gathered there sing along with him too, many of them noticeably teary-eyed as they mouth the lyrics. “Mahal ka n’ya talaga?”
Abay’s performance today is sponsored by Rock Ed Philippines, co-founded and headed by Gang Badoy, who holds a concert series in jail called “Rock The Rehas.” In cooperation with the Lamb of God foundation, an organization of inmates inside Bilibid, Badoy has invited artists such as The Itchyworms, Pedicab, Peryodiko, The Dawn and many others to perform for the inmates. Every week, she teaches a creative writing class and usually invites guests to come and act as “alternative teachers.” Today, she’s invited Abay to perform as a Christmas gift to the community, which she frequently says has taught her much more than she — the teacher — has taught them.
During concerts, the audience is not allowed to stand up, move or dance as a rule. But they’re sure as lively sitting down or simply standing, clearly enjoying every moment of Abay’s set. As he sings Esem’s chorus (“nakakainis ang ganitong buha-ahay!”), they clearly know what Abay means. But this is due in no small part to the artist himself. This is not all just a nostalgia trip or being “senti” because Abay as a performer is not only reciting the words but is performing them. After a stirring rendition of his great song Mateo Singko (which this writer admits to getting goose-bumps over just while watching and hearing it), he goes into Banal Na Aso. Together, the two songs form a diptych of Biblical significance, a two-act music suite of Reynaldo Ileto’s thesis in Pasyon and the Revolution. At one point during the latter, Abay descends from the stage and prostrates himself in front of the stage, face-down, arms outstretched as though nailed on a cross. This isn’t an act: it’s the real thing.
As Abay launches into his last song, the upbeat Tsinelas, Badoy runs to the crowd and cajoles them to start dancing. Looking at the inmate’s faces, it’s clear that they’re unsure, but the music and Badoy’s infectious energy manage to entice a few to join. It’s a joyous sight. They dance like free men, if only for the moment, forgetting themselves just as Abay does when he’s playing.
Later, Abay is mobbed by his fans who ask him to autograph their shirts. The singer happily obliges while Badoy herself treats the crowd to her a cappella rendition of Gary V.’s Pasko Na, Sinta Ko. To this jaded viewer, this scene is what Christmas is supposed to be about: just an outpouring of giving, of being grateful and a little bit silly if not happy to be alive. If I could make a suggestion, Santa, ditch the red, and try wearing orange instead.
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Thanks to Gang Badoy, Dong Abay, Coffeebreak Island and the Lamb of God Foundation, especially to alternative educator Mike Alvir.