Script about the ugly hate machine

One day. Nothing to do. I switched the TV set on. Click. Oh, American Idol. Ever wondered why former pop star Paula Abdul is such a nice judge to the contestants (as compared to the guy who says "Dawg!" a lot or the Grand Inquisitor, Simon Cowell)? Well, have you heard of Rush Rush? I rest my case.

Click.

A MYX video jock is talking about the phenomenal novelty song called Pito-Pito. Pito-Pito? People in the studio shout to her the correct title: Otso-Otso. The teleprompter must have malfunctioned. The problem with VJs is that very few of them (except for MTV’s Marc Abaya) are really into music. They know the appropriate hand gestures. They know how to act wacky and all. They look good and have the necessary Internet connection and R&B hits compilation CDs. That’s about it.

Click.

The Delta Force is on, back to back with MIA: Missing in Action. These are fantasy movies starring Chuck Norris. Pretty much like The Lord of the Rings or Ang Pagbabalik ni Leon Guerrero. In these movies, Chuck destroys his enemies with a machine gun that fires a thousand bullets without the need for a reload. He gets sprayed with 10,000 bullets by menacing mercenaries, but, surprisingly, not one hits Chuck. He is immortal. He is a miracle worker. This reminds me of a Lito Lapid movie. The action star has only one bullet left in his revolver. Two bandits are running away from him in parallel directions. What does our hero do? He whips out his knife, places the blade between his gun and then fires – slicing the bullet in half, hitting the two running bandits with half a bullet each. Genius. Action stars can overcome anything, even the laws of physics. Even the Constitution.

Click.

A disgruntled presidential candidate is stark raving mad. In his little mind, and through the magic of self-delusion, this dude believes he can win the elections and be able to give Filipinos a million pesos each. If that happens (which is equal to saying if pigs begin flying, or when devils start serving mais con hielo in hell), I would give up ten percent of my one million pesos so that the guy could buy a decent wig – instead of using a dead animal as hairpiece.

Click.

Oh, a local American Idol rip-off.

Click.

Oh, a Fear Factor rip-off.

Click.

The news. Hey, why do newscasters talk as if they just gargled formalin before going on air? "Ang mga ulo ng mga balita…"

Click.

Another network. A newscaster is so perkily bombastic in reporting bad news somewhere in Metro Manila. "Sunog sa Intramuros… Sampu… Patay!"

Click.

William Hung is singing and dancing a la Ricky Martin in a music video. His debut album "Inspiration," is quickly climbing the charts. Anything is possible on planet shit. Hung’s performance is so bad it has overshot "bad" and is bordering on "good." Yeah, William has just ousted Salieri as the patron saint of mediocrity. If he were Filipino, he would eventually run for public office and win. Philippine politics after all is just another branch of the entertainment industry, albeit more entertaining. And we laugh all the way to our pauper’s grave.

Click.

I see an ancient fortune-teller on TV (or is that Michael Jackson?) talking about her twenty-something lover. That’s a May A.D.-December B.C. affair. I don’t know what the madam believes more – reading palms or getting nose-lifts. Both, I guess. She does look a bit like the King of Pop. She boasts, "May asim pa ako!" That idea practically kills everything good about sex.

Click.

An awards show. Great. I expect some actresses to tread the red carpet, with silicone popping out of their kitschy, standard-issue, bold-star outfits. I am right. I also expect a tacky production number: sexy actress, buff men, lip-synching, lifting, skimpy outfits, and shitty music – the works. Bingo! Somebody wins something. Caught by surprise by the award, the winner sheds tears onstage. She takes out a piece of paper. She thanks the whole universe.

Click.

Oh, a soap opera, to be followed by another soap opera – ad infinitum. One show starts around 7 p.m. and ends approximately at 10 in the evening, nine years later. Remember Mara Clara where the characters searched for a freaking diary for a hundred years? When they found the damn thing, they forgot why they were looking for it in the first place. Same as that Loony Tunes episode where Wile E. Coyote finally snagged the Roadrunner – he didn’t know what to do with that damn bird.

Click.

I watch a showbiz talk show. I hear "in fairness" and "we’re just friends" 2,000 times. There you go again! That’s 2,002 times. Actually!

I see a couple of paid political ads. The jingles are horrible. A candidate vows to "change the world." Another candidate promises "a new tomorrow." Can somebody pledge me a quick and painless death if these people win?

Looking straight at me, a televangelist says the devil is gnawing at my very soul, but if I make a generous love offering…

Click. Click. Click.

I wonder what’s on the radio.

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Postcards From The Edgy

I love reader feedback. And I do get all kinds: comments, suggestions, curses ("When are you going to follow your idol Kurt Cobain and kill yourself?") and invocations ("When you wrote about The Sandman it’s as if you were outsmarting reality…"). I said before that writing an article is like sending a message in the bottle; it is via my mailbox that I manage to hook up with kindred spirits, lost friends, old relatives, plus a very interesting woman who I’d like to call my favorite record – someone who approximates 12 songs of love, sex, philosophy, light, wisdom, absence and joy (you know who you are). I also met those who love criticizing "critics."

I got a lot of feedback on my Kurt Cobain article titled "Love, Death and Nirvana." A diehard Rolling Stones fan (pongardz@yahoo.com) wrote: It’s erroneous for you to say (the) Rolling Stones (are) ‘rock dinosaurs we all so abhor.’ Look they are still around and rocking the world. It’s Kurt Cobain you should abhor for committing suicide!

Hey, I don’t abhor Mick Jagger, Keith Richards and the rest of the Stones. I have most of their albums. I think "Sticky Fingers," "Exile on Main Street," "Beggars Banquet" and "Let it Bleed" are four of the best rock n’ roll albums of all time. I went to Bangkok, Thailand, last year, supposedly to watch their gig. I wrote a glowing review of "Forty Licks" ("The Rolling Stones and the Gathering Moss of Time") and a non-article about their non-concert ("The Day I Nearly Watched The Rolling Stones Live").

I can’t ditch their legacy, because legacy is all they have. These days, sadly, the Rolling Stones outfit is nothing but a monolithic nostalgia machine. When was the last time the Glimmer Twins wrote a really good song? Mixed Emotions in the ‘80s? We just can’t relegate ourselves to listening to classic Stones tracks ever anon. There are acts out there that make great music and plow against the mainstream with the rebellious rock n’ roll spirit of the Stones, or even The Beatles – like the White Stripes, The Strokes, Interpol, Beck, the Flaming Lips and Mars Volta (and like Nirvana, Soundgarden, Alice in Chains and Pearl Jam during the grunge era). I called the Stones rock dinosaurs not because they’re extinct or irrelevant, but because there are a new species of rockers also worth an ear or two. (Plus, have you seen pictures of Keef recently?)

I am a Stones fan just like you, a disgruntled, typhoon-tongued, Satisfaction fan. You just have to admit there are good records made after 1975. As Bono once sang, "You glorify the past when the future dries up."

Another reader (eatmyskirt7@yahoo.com) has a beef with my "criticism of guitarists."

What prompted her to write were these lines from my article: "There we mortals were in the ‘90s: arms around a cheap, fake Stratocaster bought in Raon; staring at tablatures photocopied from Fade to Black; trying to figure out how to play the tapping parts in Always With Me Always With You or that blistering solo in One. F*ck all that!"

The letter-sender – an 11-year-old aspiring female guitarist – wrote: Even though I am a huge Nirvana fan, their non-acoustic musical material (is) pathetic. Three chords in one whole song? Where’s the creativity in that? All I’m trying to point out is that you shouldn’t bash things that you might not be so aware of. You may worship Nirvana, but if you come into a guitar forum and proclaim your love, just get ready to be flamed. Zero in 1,000 guitarists (plays) Smells Like Teen Spirit and asks for constructive criticism. Thirty in 100 guitarists (play) Steve Vai’s Eugene’s Trick Bag and ask for constructive criticism.

Hey, I don’t bash guitarists and the technical side of playing. What I bash is the masturbatory aspect of it all. There is this prevailing notion (held by a lot of shredders I’ve met) that other guitarists suck if they can’t play Eric Johnson’s Cliffs of Dover or Dream Theater’s Erotomania note for note. I hate the elitism possessed by those who know what dive-bombs, two-handed tapping, artificial harmonics and Lydian modes are.

Music is not sports. Music is not mathematics. Music is not an exclusive, close-minded, religious sect where only believers are saved. Kurt Cobain (along with the punk rockers before him) proved that everyone can play rock n’ roll (which may be both a good thing and a bad thing), and that technical proficiency is not the end-all and be-all of playing. Guitar geek Page Hamilton from Helmet once said that he’d rather watch Nirvana than see shredder Allan Holdsworth. That tells you a lot about the nature of music: It’s about taste. One man’s technically incompetent punk is another man’s legendary grunge pioneer.

I used to play bass guitar, and I always strove to be honest about my abilities. I couldn’t play Jaco Pastorius’ Teen Town, Stanley Clarke’s School Days or any of the tracks in Victor Wooten’s "A Show of Hands," even if somebody put a gun to my head. But I found joy in discovering what I could do as a bassist – playing roots and fifths all day, or occasionally putting some artificial harmonics for emphasis. The trick is not to be better than others, but to be different – a lesson espoused by greats from Cobain to Clapton to Coltrane.

Music, after all, is a language. And this is what the most effective musicians in the world do: Communicate.

Lastly, a British guy couldn’t believe that I included a Soundgarden album in my top-ten list of the most mind-altering albums of all time. (A list that also included Pink Floyd’s "The Dark Side of the Moon," Jane’s Addiction’s "Ritual De Lo Habitual," Radiohead’s "OK Computer" and Yes’ "Tales from Topographic Oceans," among others). He was incensed: "What were you thinking?" Well, I heard that this guy watched Britney Spears and Pink in concert. Black Hole Sun sucks? Baby One More Time rules?

I rest my case.

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Keep the conversation going. For comments, suggestions, curses and invocations, e-mail iganja@hotmail.com.