The man from 2002

So I passed by my old apartment last week to wallow in nostalgia (as is my wont), and I found myself from 10 years ago, camped on the doorstep.

“What are you doing here?” I asked my younger self. “Time machine,” he replied. “Time machine?” I repeated, adding a question mark at the end. He looked vaguely embarrassed.

“Sort of. I fell asleep in a closet and couldn’t get it open for 10 years. I guess it was more like suspended animation.” I needed no further explanation. It was the sort of thing that always used to happen to me.

I looked him over. “Looks like I’ve lost weight since 2002,” I marveled. “Don’t kid yourself,” he snapped.

We went to a nearby Burger Machine to catch up. We ended up talking about what you might expect: career, love life, and the rotating creative teams on comic books. And, of course, music.

“What’s music like these days?” he asked. “Well…” I began, then slipped my mp3 player out of my pocket.

“Oh, my God, is that one of those new pod-things from Apple? The ones that can contain your entire music collection?” “Um, no,” I said. “This is a Creative MuVo I got around 2004. It holds... um... 40 songs. It still works, though.”

I told him about the impending Pinoy Rock Resurgence. Though he came from a time when acoustic love songs ruled, he already had an inkling: Bamboo formed in 2002, Queso’s “Pilipinas” was out, the pogi rock bands were growing like fungi, the Itchyworms were test-driving the material that would end up on “Noontime Show,” Urbandub’s “Influence” was a year away from release, Kitchie Nadal was getting ready to go solo, et cetera. I told him that in a couple of years, many stars would rise, many CDs would be sold, and that he would even co-found a music magazine after working for an established one for a few years. And that it would fail.

And that the money would slow to a trickle, the audience would splinter, the radio stations would cater to audiences who preferred bad jokes and irritating jingles, and that the biggest music event in recent memory would be a wallow in nostalgia, a.k.a. the Eraserheads reunion concert.

“What? But no one cares about them now. I didn’t even buy “Carbon Stereoxide,”” he said. “That will change,” I said. “People don’t know what they’ll miss until it’s gone.”

Tarsius: The vinyl version of debut album “Primate” was launched earlier this August.

But I also told him that the Saturday before, I was at a bar in Makati where people were losing their minds to bands like Slow Hello and Don’t Bogart the Can, Man (not to mention a surprise Outerhope + Ciudad team-up), that the day after that saw another gathering of local reggae enthusiasts at Irie Sunday (which I regrettably missed), that a film celebrating a very vital slice of the local music scene (Ang Nawawala) had just won the Audience Choice award at Cinemalaya, that I was just about to download the new “Love in Athens EP,” that June Marieezy and the rest of Deeper Manila were working to “push quality music to the global audience,” that Tarsius and Similar Objects and Bent Lynchpin and other acts were taking music in interesting directions, that Up Dharma Down was in the studio mixing their new album “Capacities,” and so on; those were just off the top of my head.

Of course, things have changed, and the way music reaches people has changed everywhere, I told him. As Bob Lefsetz wrote, “It’s easier than ever to make music, and it’s easier than ever to be ignored.” We’re still figuring that out. And of course we miss the days when we could all, literally, sing the same song.

“So … is OPM dead?” he asked. That was when I punched him, causing the space-time continuum to implode. If you’re wondering why you suddenly blinked out of existence, that was why. Sorry about that.