The week that was — with Dennis, Antonio, Cecile…
May 8, 2006 | 12:00am
The Labor Day weekend gave us all some relief, and not just from an extra day of lounging around at home or on some island or hilltop. Nothing much happened on the agitprop streetfront, again underscoring general apathy in the face of serial juridical setbacks for the Palace vacationists.
While urban traffic appears to have worsened anew, despite the continuing summer break for most schoolkids, we sense parallel ennui hovering about. Small business hasn’t been good, we hear. Nightspots and restos don’t enjoy better than tidy noshing. Only malls and movie houses get the crowds; air-con comfort must certainly be a factor.
Good thing we can be entertained globally – virtually, magic-realistically, you name it. Global is as global goes, so that on the same week we can have Dennis Rodman on a freak show in Cubao, our divine Cecile Licad concertizing in Currimao, and Antonio Forcione ("the Jimi Hendrix of acoustic guitar") sharing a gig with Cynthia Alexander.
Maybe there isn’t much by way of inside stuff to keep us awake anymore, so that we rely on the goodness of globalization to keep us afloat. Culturally, anyway. And of course basketball and jazz are best played, and enjoyed, without scripts, so that Solar Entertainment deserves our gratitude for the daily overdose of the NBA playoffs, while the British Council can always be trusted to bring top-class acts to benighted shores.
Exactly a week ago I found myself at the Big Dome, somewhat reluctantly, but still happy over freebie tickets in the company of a couple of fellow MTRCB members who also happen to be basketball freaks.
Gotta hand it to Dennis Rodman; he’s still in condition. Made sure, too, that he did his elaborate stretching exercises before tip-off. But with only a couple of flashy ex-collegiate stars pumping in most of their points, the aging NBA Legends were run to the ground by our putative RP Team, with Dondon Hontiveros and Ren-ren Ritualo raining in the triples.
Entertainment enough. But hardly one to match the humdingers in the NBA playoffs.
A couple of nights later, Antonio Forcione planed in from London. No, not Andres Nocioni of the Chicago Bulls (then still seeking a 2-2 tie with the Miami Heat). But Antonio Forcione, guitar master, Italian but long based in London, thus, courtesy of The British Council.
It was his birthday, too, but we only found that out when a cake with four lit candles (maybe he turned 40?) quickly followed dinner at the wonderful reception hosted by BC director Gill Westaway at South Forbes.
By some quirk of fate – or maybe they recognized one another’s abused fingers – Antonio had seated himself beside my son Aya, himself no slouch with the guitar. My ears were cocked all through the paella valenciana and lengua estofado and pasta atbp. as they exchanged notes (in more ways than one) and craftwise intimacies.
Actually, when Aya and I stepped into Gill’s place an hour earlier, we first spotted Antonio intently listening, up close and down on one knee, to yet another musician doing his thing – on the kudyapi. The performer turned out to be the master player Sumaon Sulaiman from Mindanao, one of our Living National Treasures.
Later at the dinner table, all I could get in edgewise was a query on how Antonio managed to get all of 11 fingers coming out of a guitar’s sound hole for the cover photo of his CD album "Touch Wood." It was a guitar that had been "wrecked" in one of his occasional off-the-wall performances, Antonio said. And the extra finger wasn’t his, but a session man’s, someone requested to provide the additional digit for the shoot.
Was that flamenco music we detected in a few of his pieces? And some Celtic strains? Yes, Signore Forcione allowed, warming up to the conversation. He liked to pick up from everywhere, he liked his music to be eclectic. His last gig had been at Harare, Zimbabwe, where the thumb piano was the favorite instrument. What he heard and learned there would soon be incorporated into his own compositions.
And flamenco, why, yes, it had impressed him so much early in his youth, the vigor with which guitar strings were struck, and all parts of the instrument romanced. Yes, definitely, flamenco music and gypsy music had been an influence.
That was the extent of my contribution to the roundtable discussion, as soon Antonio and Aya were demonstrating with a guitar pick, and exclaiming how they had both picked up the trick of turning it around at an angle for devilish playing. Antonio also showed how gypsies angled their hands above the strings, thrusting the wrist outwards. And both believed Wes Montgomery to have been a god.
The cake came, not much to Antonio’s surprise, as he had already received one upon checking in at the hotel, and of course he had already heard of Manila’s fabled hospitality. But he gamely blew out the four candles after our celebratory song, and proceeded to cut it himself, generous slices for everyone until he realized he had to scale down the portions. Maybe that’s how masterful music is played sometimes.
The following night had the Antonio Forcione Quartet performing at Crossroads 77 on Tomas Morato Avenue, back to back with the Cynthia Alexander Group, with a guest stint by jazz vocalist Mon David who was a recent worldbeater in London. Two nights later, it would be at SM Cebu, maybe after a tour of Mactan’s guitar crafts shops.
I missed the Quezon City concert, only because May 4 happened to be Nick Joaquin’s birthday, and I had already committed to join writer-journalist friends at Richmonde Hotel’s Exchange Bar for a Cole Porter jam session led by the beauteous, mellifluous Girl Valencia.
No sorry trade-off either, as among the crowd were Nick’s nephews and nieces, plus Egie Apostol, the Llagunos Frank and Jenny, Gerry Peralta, Ernie Yee, Billy Lacaba, Marra PL Lanot and the still-dashing Dick Malay, albeit a steady pound-gainer. And there to give Girl a run for her microphone and spotlight were no less than master songsters (and pen-pushers) Cip Roxas, Reli German, Charlson Ong and Marne Kilates.
Hey, none of them may have sounded as ethnically inspired as dear Cynthia, or as scat-brilliant as Mon. But they’d do, they’d do, in a pinch. The way Nick J. always got away with a pinch off Cole P.
And sometime close to midnight a lawyer-friend recounted how he had just come back from the Ilocos, where he had been privileged with a Cecile Licad performance at a Currimao resort. The place and the event, as we heard it, were the handiwork of no less than Dr. Joven Cuanang, the beloved patron of visual artists, primarily the Pinto Arts Group (cum gallery in Antipolo). Glad to hear that the good doc is spreading his wings to bless us all with music as well.
Terrific was the week that was, especially since LeBron James tiptoed his way delicately along the baseline for a game-winner and 45 points in what has been a riveting series against the Wiz. As I write this, on a Friday evening, ensconced at Jimmy and Mercy Abad’s aerie in Baguio, I look forward to Saturday morning for the Cavs-Wiz Game 6. Close-out time in Washington, I hope. Courtesy of Solar Sports, that should be music to my eyes and ears, conducted in the circle of fifths.
While urban traffic appears to have worsened anew, despite the continuing summer break for most schoolkids, we sense parallel ennui hovering about. Small business hasn’t been good, we hear. Nightspots and restos don’t enjoy better than tidy noshing. Only malls and movie houses get the crowds; air-con comfort must certainly be a factor.
Good thing we can be entertained globally – virtually, magic-realistically, you name it. Global is as global goes, so that on the same week we can have Dennis Rodman on a freak show in Cubao, our divine Cecile Licad concertizing in Currimao, and Antonio Forcione ("the Jimi Hendrix of acoustic guitar") sharing a gig with Cynthia Alexander.
Maybe there isn’t much by way of inside stuff to keep us awake anymore, so that we rely on the goodness of globalization to keep us afloat. Culturally, anyway. And of course basketball and jazz are best played, and enjoyed, without scripts, so that Solar Entertainment deserves our gratitude for the daily overdose of the NBA playoffs, while the British Council can always be trusted to bring top-class acts to benighted shores.
Exactly a week ago I found myself at the Big Dome, somewhat reluctantly, but still happy over freebie tickets in the company of a couple of fellow MTRCB members who also happen to be basketball freaks.
Gotta hand it to Dennis Rodman; he’s still in condition. Made sure, too, that he did his elaborate stretching exercises before tip-off. But with only a couple of flashy ex-collegiate stars pumping in most of their points, the aging NBA Legends were run to the ground by our putative RP Team, with Dondon Hontiveros and Ren-ren Ritualo raining in the triples.
Entertainment enough. But hardly one to match the humdingers in the NBA playoffs.
A couple of nights later, Antonio Forcione planed in from London. No, not Andres Nocioni of the Chicago Bulls (then still seeking a 2-2 tie with the Miami Heat). But Antonio Forcione, guitar master, Italian but long based in London, thus, courtesy of The British Council.
It was his birthday, too, but we only found that out when a cake with four lit candles (maybe he turned 40?) quickly followed dinner at the wonderful reception hosted by BC director Gill Westaway at South Forbes.
By some quirk of fate – or maybe they recognized one another’s abused fingers – Antonio had seated himself beside my son Aya, himself no slouch with the guitar. My ears were cocked all through the paella valenciana and lengua estofado and pasta atbp. as they exchanged notes (in more ways than one) and craftwise intimacies.
Actually, when Aya and I stepped into Gill’s place an hour earlier, we first spotted Antonio intently listening, up close and down on one knee, to yet another musician doing his thing – on the kudyapi. The performer turned out to be the master player Sumaon Sulaiman from Mindanao, one of our Living National Treasures.
Later at the dinner table, all I could get in edgewise was a query on how Antonio managed to get all of 11 fingers coming out of a guitar’s sound hole for the cover photo of his CD album "Touch Wood." It was a guitar that had been "wrecked" in one of his occasional off-the-wall performances, Antonio said. And the extra finger wasn’t his, but a session man’s, someone requested to provide the additional digit for the shoot.
Was that flamenco music we detected in a few of his pieces? And some Celtic strains? Yes, Signore Forcione allowed, warming up to the conversation. He liked to pick up from everywhere, he liked his music to be eclectic. His last gig had been at Harare, Zimbabwe, where the thumb piano was the favorite instrument. What he heard and learned there would soon be incorporated into his own compositions.
And flamenco, why, yes, it had impressed him so much early in his youth, the vigor with which guitar strings were struck, and all parts of the instrument romanced. Yes, definitely, flamenco music and gypsy music had been an influence.
That was the extent of my contribution to the roundtable discussion, as soon Antonio and Aya were demonstrating with a guitar pick, and exclaiming how they had both picked up the trick of turning it around at an angle for devilish playing. Antonio also showed how gypsies angled their hands above the strings, thrusting the wrist outwards. And both believed Wes Montgomery to have been a god.
The cake came, not much to Antonio’s surprise, as he had already received one upon checking in at the hotel, and of course he had already heard of Manila’s fabled hospitality. But he gamely blew out the four candles after our celebratory song, and proceeded to cut it himself, generous slices for everyone until he realized he had to scale down the portions. Maybe that’s how masterful music is played sometimes.
The following night had the Antonio Forcione Quartet performing at Crossroads 77 on Tomas Morato Avenue, back to back with the Cynthia Alexander Group, with a guest stint by jazz vocalist Mon David who was a recent worldbeater in London. Two nights later, it would be at SM Cebu, maybe after a tour of Mactan’s guitar crafts shops.
I missed the Quezon City concert, only because May 4 happened to be Nick Joaquin’s birthday, and I had already committed to join writer-journalist friends at Richmonde Hotel’s Exchange Bar for a Cole Porter jam session led by the beauteous, mellifluous Girl Valencia.
No sorry trade-off either, as among the crowd were Nick’s nephews and nieces, plus Egie Apostol, the Llagunos Frank and Jenny, Gerry Peralta, Ernie Yee, Billy Lacaba, Marra PL Lanot and the still-dashing Dick Malay, albeit a steady pound-gainer. And there to give Girl a run for her microphone and spotlight were no less than master songsters (and pen-pushers) Cip Roxas, Reli German, Charlson Ong and Marne Kilates.
Hey, none of them may have sounded as ethnically inspired as dear Cynthia, or as scat-brilliant as Mon. But they’d do, they’d do, in a pinch. The way Nick J. always got away with a pinch off Cole P.
And sometime close to midnight a lawyer-friend recounted how he had just come back from the Ilocos, where he had been privileged with a Cecile Licad performance at a Currimao resort. The place and the event, as we heard it, were the handiwork of no less than Dr. Joven Cuanang, the beloved patron of visual artists, primarily the Pinto Arts Group (cum gallery in Antipolo). Glad to hear that the good doc is spreading his wings to bless us all with music as well.
Terrific was the week that was, especially since LeBron James tiptoed his way delicately along the baseline for a game-winner and 45 points in what has been a riveting series against the Wiz. As I write this, on a Friday evening, ensconced at Jimmy and Mercy Abad’s aerie in Baguio, I look forward to Saturday morning for the Cavs-Wiz Game 6. Close-out time in Washington, I hope. Courtesy of Solar Sports, that should be music to my eyes and ears, conducted in the circle of fifths.
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