MANILA, Philippines - Remuda” is the name of the street where Sandwich holds its rehearsals. Contrary to how the word sounds, Remuda is not a name of a national hero or a dead politician. It is a term which Merriam-Webster defines as “the herd of horses from which those to be used for the day are chosen.” Quite apt, considering that of the tens and thousands of guitar-driven bands in the Philippines today — some of them cutesy little ponies, some of them asses posed as steeds, some of them mustangs mistaken for donkeys, some of them merry, prancing unicorns — Sandwich comes out as a trusty, old thoroughbred ready to work on a quick three-song set or a full-blown album. They are workhorses, tamed on the outside but raging on the inside; musicians who have figured it out after 17 years of playing in small bars and stadium concerts and filing the nasty paperwork that goes with the profession.
“Four hours ‘yung sini-set naming practice, once a month. Pero one hour lang talaga kami nasa studio. Three hours ‘yung kain at usap,” frontman Raymund Marasigan says at a small conference of nosey and overeager press people gathered in his house. The real training, Raimund says, happens on stage. On the average, the band plays seven gigs a month, sometimes two on a Friday or on Saturday nights. Often, they would each have to drive out of the bar as soon as they finished their set to go to their respective gigs with their other bands elsewhere — as much as possible, no band more important than the other. And if they were enjoying the privilege of an out-of-town gig, they’d ask the locals which eatery served the best food in the wee hours of the morning. “Crazy eyes,” they describe their drive to be precise and purposeful with their music.
Far from the popularized idea of “rocking out,” these guys are professionals. They know their stuff, they play them well, and those who have kids among them (all except for their guitarist, Diego Castillo) manage to fetch them from school on time. Don’t let the fanfare fool you. They are not Russel Hammonds jumping on rooftops, diving into private pools, while screaming “I am a golden god!” They are only as different from us as we are different from them, playing in the same city where we’re all just trying to get by. “Dati pwede mo pang i-punk rak ‘yun, eh” says Diego, bringing up changes in their band, most recently, Mong Alcaraz, their guitarist’s, marriage. “Dati, 6 p.m. to 3 a.m. ang recording schedule namin. Ngayon, 11 a.m. to 5 p.m.,” adds Raymund.
“We all had day jobs for a long time,” Myrene Academia, the band’s bassist chimes in, “at hanggang ngayon, nagra-racket pa kami.”
“We make sure na balanced out ‘yung gigs na you play in where you don’t get anything, like in Saguijo, and ‘yung corporate gigs na three songs lang, may pambayad ka na ng rent,” says Raymund.
Asked if they were comfortable with their band’s sound now, Raymund’s reply was quick: “We’re really comfortable now. We own the gear. Now, the sound travels with us.” To which Mong Alcaraz adds, “Kung ano tunog namin dito sa studio, ‘yun na ‘yun. Depende na lang kung sino nilalagnat sa venue itself.”
“Monitor speakers na lang di namin madala, eh,” jokes Myrene.
STRAIGHT-CUT
Sandwich consists of Diego Castillo, Raimund Marasigan, Mong Alcaraz, Mike Dizon, and Myrene Academia.
The house on Remuda was straight cut and well-lit, its corners sharp and its walls plain. Grey and white, its mood was a minimalist’s take on Goth, none of the intricate curls and sharp details the Victorian era was known for. In their stead, figurines, binoculars, and helmets for the five bicycles parked indoors were neatly placed on shelves. At the basement, out of their neighbors’ sights and unheard by the community police’s ears, their small rehearsal studio stood. It had Camaro yellow walls and thick soundproofing. One-foot-tall cubic tube amps and cabinet-sized bass amps powered their sound through; a 21-year-old drum set which Mike Dizon could pound to his heart’s delight; a Fender Jaguar bass guitar standing quietly at a corner. They did not play for the press present in their “dojo” then, but from the looks of it, one can say that the room was a bomb shelter, the explosions happening from inside.
“Debris” comes as their eighth studio album, a rare feat in an industry where many live in a perpetual high from performances two decades old and the rockstardom of bands long gone. Sandwich keeps themselves on their toes by having an acute appreciation for bands apart from themselves, saying that they started writing new songs after enjoying Warpaint's concert too much.
“We’re big fans of music,” says Diego, “When we hear something, nai-inspire kami tapos ‘yun na—let’s start working again! It’s about how honest you are with how you sound.”
As “elder statesmen of the scene,” coined by Diego himself, they feel that they have a responsibility to let other musicians shine. “The kids that come out and play inspire you to play, too,” Diego says, “I still want to be part of this scene kasi gusto kong makita lahat ng iba pang parating tumugtog.”
“They all sound different. They’re all exciting. Nobody sounds the same,” says Raymund. “Now is really the best time to be in a band because there are more venues to play in and be heard.” Mike, who was quiet for the most part as he was attending to his toddlers, said that the band hopes to tour the country, bringing with them younger bands which others might not have had the opportunity to hear. Being the rock scene’s old guards, they felt it was only right that they showed the kids around.
Perhaps, “Debris” is just that — a contradiction, a coming out and coming clean, that calming moment of inertia after the long balancing act between living a life and playing rock ‘n roll.
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