Head bang

For someone who looked disciplined and timid, a few people would be surprised if I tell them that I always dreamed to be a rock star. They would think that I am too pure in a world where most people have the obsession to wear all-black outfits and eyeliners, to mark their skins with piercings and tattoos, and to express their anguish through screaming alongside with the cries of strings and percussion. But I knew that rock music was more than that. I found solace and peace in it despite of its loudness. I discovered that beneath the frustrations expressed in the heavy beating of the drums and the intense roughness of the singer’s voice, I heard the melancholic silence, as if reminding me who I was when I was alone. Without masks and pretensions, I was naked and vulnerable.

Music pursued me, convincing me that we were meant for each other from the beginning. The pursuit began when my parents named me after a famous pop star of their time. Growing up, I almost memorized every song of Air Supply and Bon Jovi since my father, a huge fan of these bands, always plugged in his music playlist on speakers for everyone to hear. During my primary days, my impatient nanny would rather turn on the radio than sing me to sleep every afternoon. But instead of falling asleep, my mind was actively wandering in the possible stories behind of the songs I was listening. “Why did I suddenly feel so lonely when I heard the song Pagdating ng Panahon? I cannot exactly understand the song but I know that the singer was sad. Oh wait, I think she was waiting for someone to love her back. Maybe she’s ugly that’s why the guy cannot love her.” This was where music founded its home, in my easily swayed emotion and innocent imaginations.

When I reached puberty, the love songs I heard became more real for me. The fidgeting, the longing, the anxious sidelong glances—all of these were symptoms of infatuation that became the target of music to recapture my attention. The thought of serenade never failed to make me feel giddy. Once I hear a strum of strings from an acoustic guitar somewhere, my mind would immediately paint a vivid picture of the usual romantic scenery I often seen in televisions, a garden full of roses under the moonlight. Then slowly, my crush would enter, strumming his guitar while singing the song Harana. His voice would sound like a breeze, soft and comforting, exactly how Chito Miranda of Parokya Ni Edgar sang it.

In those years, I merely tasted music. I realized it was never enough. I searched more songs to accompany me and gulped down every note I can drink until the song was playing inside me. Then slowly, I’d let rock music enter my world. At first, it was only a source of motivation whenever I feel tired and lazy. Its upbeat sound made me want to move and release the energy I received from the rhythm of the song.

But it changed when my once pure perspective of the world became foggy and tainted since I entered college. There was a constant sound of drumsticks pounding in my head every time I felt that I’m not doing enough in school. I was in a messy state, longing for something to accompany me as I try to weave myself back together. Since then, I started listening to bands whose songs addressed the issues of life. Drugs, depression, sex—I used to avoid these themes in a blink because of the impure ideas that it suggested in my mind. It was also too heavy, like a sack full of rice suddenly laded in my shoulder. But when I started listening, it was not as bad as I thought it would be. These kinds of songs were a reminder for me that it was normal to be in this state because I am human. Somehow, it urged me to remain firm and to rise up from the pit I fell into. Maybe this was the reason why rock music sounded so loud and demanding. In my ears, it sounded like a general in warfare, commanding me to do my school requirements and urging me to push every worry aside and let it drown amidst the heavy music.

I dreamed to be a rock star because of their ability to rule the stage. Like a lion in a jungle, they roar loudly, making other people step away in fear. But if you listened carefully and tried to understand their music, you could hear the soft purring they make.