There is something about the Makati disco era — the Euphoria, Faces and Mars triumvirate of yore — that has lodged itself deep in the amygdala of Filipino yuppies. You know the amygdala: it’s that oval group of neurons about an inch long that has a primary role in the processing and memory of emotional reactions. Something about ‘80s dance music seems to have permanently hotwired the amygdala of anyone born in the ‘60s, sending him or her into a dance trance, a sort of whirling dervish fever that stops only when the music does — never before.
Are Madonna, Michael Jackson, Tears for Fears, Boy George and their ‘80s contemporaries really all that electrifying? Or is ‘80s music simply a direct link to the yuppie’s long-lost youth?
On a recent Wednesday night, throngs of middle-aged yuppies descended upon Republiq, the new club in the Resorts World complex, because of the implicit promise of ‘80s music. And by “middle-aged yuppies,” I refer to myself, as well as my paternal cousins — Nik, Ton, Val, Karen and Ace — plus a tight group of friends who comprise our little circle of life: Betchay, Candy, Doy and Jun.
My cousins and I consider ourselves lucky to be blessed with “cool” aunts, who were our role models growing up. As teenagers our grandparents sent us abroad on vacations that were meant to momentarily emancipate our parents from us and vice-versa — just cousins with one adult chaperone. The designated chaperone would always be this one aunt, Aloma Lopez, or “Momsie” to her nearest and dearest. Momsie had that “cool” factor that all of us gravitated toward (and still do). She is part mother, part friend, and only she has the chops to keep us firmly in place without losing our affection and our trust simply because we adore her.
Momsie was our front-liner and meal ticket that Wednesday night at Republiq because she was the invitee and we were simply her minions. She may well be north of 60 but she remains young at heart, mind and body. She puts 50-year-old women to shame — trust me on this one. She still turns heads; the killer legs and body; the wind-swept curls; the big brown eyes; and the even bigger, bubbly personality make many — I repeat: many — weak in the knees.
So off to Republiq we trooped, under Momsie’s wing as we navigated a room full of familiar faces — partyphiles all, probably the same crowd that used to be regulars at Euphoria and Faces back in the day. Well, maybe not “used to be,” because these people probably never really receded into domesticity; they’ve been rabid clubbers from decade to decade, starting from their single years to the present, catching up with their now-teenaged children who cringe and do a fast French leave the moment they spot their parental units shimmying in lip-biting abandon.
They have aged — yes, as we all have. Come to think of it, they were already considered the “older” crowd back in the ‘80s but being the big spenders that they are, they were kings and the Makati clubs were their castles. Why? Because most of them owned the clubs — duh! And so in the ‘80s the best party of the night was wherever they were holding court, complete with bevies of hangers-on: beautiful women, not-so-beautiful women, wing men, pimps, handlers, bodyguards, drivers and, most importantly, personal pharmacists. But hey, they were always fun.
And they were there that night at Republiq — the “Pushings” (pushing 50 or 60) — or what another favorite aunt, Ellen Lopez, would fondly call, “Mga labi ng digmaan” (Survivors of war).
They were holding court at tables stocked with bottles of premium liquor — a show of financial empowerment. These men remain as socially significant, as menacing, as predatory, but still as much fun as ever. Their behavior has not changed. Their battle stance remains: feet apart, drink in hand, ready smile, elevator gaze, and ping-pong eyes; head and neck bobbing to the music. Can’t mess with a classic.
The few visible changes are mainly physical. Waistlines have expanded — guts jut out a bit more. Hair is grayer at the temples; skin more wrinkly; clothes dated — stripes and checks that are an obvious throwback to the ‘80s. Pants are still pleated — come on, enough already! Khakis and chinos still top their go-to-outfit list. Some things just refuse to die.
And I’m not just talking about the men — women too. Waistlines were mostly gone; whatever visible curves there were probably the handiwork of Spanx. Miracle bras transformed war-ravaged chests of banana republics into pert cherry orchards. Makeup was bountiful — I’m talking putty-thick foundation topped with concealer. Perfumes were at ethnic cleansing potency levels. Hair-sprayed ‘dos were styled to Ondoy-proof sturdiness.
Outfits were snug and tight — a stubborn death grip on the disco ‘80s. The problem was, where the cinching started and ended was where the displaced body fat and folds appeared. So above and beneath the cute revealing backless tops that are so Motion-ish (hey, some of you remember: dancing duo girls on Denny Terio’s defunct Dance Fever TV show) were visible back fat and love handles that refused to be sucked in and held in place. Up and around the halter shirts were armpit folds that couldn’t find their way home. Beside the spaghetti straps were arm jigglies that bounced to the beat of the music. Beneath the miniskirts were dimples of smiling cellulite, which were bopping to Madonna.
No matter, though: ‘80s music was blaring, oblivious to age, clothing choices or hairstyles. Midway through, when alcohol had tempered most inhibitions and the party got fevered, the more daring ones climbed up on the ledge to dance with complete abandon as a fitting tribute to their youth.
Karen, a cousin, whispered to me as one middle-aged, chunky lady in a mini skirt and platform shoes hopped onto the ledge: “Think: Dolly Duran of Faces (Nepalese in-house ledge dancer),” and she proceeded to do the “Running Man.” Dolly Duran that lady sure wasn’t, but who cares? The point was, she was channeling Dolly Duran — she was truly feeling it and f*** what everybody else thought.
All it took was this one courageous lady to start the fire and within seconds the spoils of the ‘80s disco wars leapt up on the ledge — middle-aged men and women alike — and unloaded their innermost angst and frustrations and burdens. And with every hip sway and arm flail, they seemed a little more uninhibited, a lot more primal — and, dare I say it, a lot happier?
No matter the state of the middle-aged nation with bulging body parts and bursting clothes, no matter the status of runny mascara and sweat-ringed polo shirts, no matter the throbbing toes imprisoned in four-inch platform shoes and narrow-headed men’s slip-ons — Madonna was singing and everyone danced like nobody was watching. You could say they’ve paid their dues: they deserve it. They’ve worked their bottoms off to prop up this flailing economy, marched along EDSA, put their lives on the line not once but three times. Yeah, they deserve it.
And us? It took a wee bit more than some random lady to get us up on the ledge. The cousins were content to dance in place, adding just a bit more soulful shoulder shaking when a favorite Tears for Fears anthem came up. We might have been thinking early on that since we were the “younger” ones in that sea of “Pushings,” maybe we could let the moment pass. Ha! Not a chance!
The moment Momsie in her infinite poise and grace got up to dance the swing with Tweet Tweet (yes, that is his name), we all clambered up that ledge and became one with the sweaty, gyrating, banging bodies that had become faceless and nameless but nonetheless united in the pursuit of happiness that night.
The view from up there on the ledge made it apparent that, hey, we — middle-aged, overweight, battle-scarred yuppies though we may be —were the victors that night; and they — pegged to their seats in firm resolve to preserve their dignity, or worse, stuck at home by choice or under spousal siege — were the remnants of war.
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Thank you for your letters. You may reach me at cecilelilles@yahoo.com.