Reflections of a ‘groupie’

published 10 Nov 2008, MST

(This is a shortened, less personal version of the blog entry called "The Groupie" which I wrote several months back.)

When you call someone a groupie, you are not being kind. Groupies are mindless girls who follow bands anywhere they go. It’s not a flattering label, but when your son plays bass guitar for an amateur alternative rock band—and he’s 12 years old—making sure you are present in all his gigs, whether it’s in your own sleepy city or near the metro’s gimmick capitals, is the better option. Never mind what you are called.

I’ve been doing this for numerous weekends already since the summer. Family members and, occasionally, friends keep me company as I watch. Still, one can have enough of the sound of one guitar and the songs of a single band. The novelty has worn off and I don’t even bring a camera anymore. So I’ve taken to listening to other groups and appreciating what they have to offer. Heck, they do these things for free— there’s got to be a lot of love in there.

I have never been a fan of rock music. I’m a jazzy, chill out, even standards type of fellow. But I keep an open mind—or ear. And after all this time, I’m learning a thing or two.

Talent everywhere

Say, for instance, there are just too many Filipino musicians out there. In any given evening, I get to listen to anywhere between five and 10 bands playing. They vary in style, packaging, confidence, age, and capability. I have seen performances of bands with released records and music videos to boot. I know of another who has just signed a contract and is now busy touring malls and introducing their songs to radio stations. These are bands that mean business. There is never a hint of tentativeness in the way they play. I am also learning to distinguish between those who are just playing for show (with stand-up comedy spiels to boot) and those who really know their stuff. Those who wow you with the way they slam their sticks or position their fingers on their guitars. The business is mean, too.

Meanwhile, there are those who compensate with gimmickry what they lack in technicality. For instance, I’ve seen a band whose members dress like geeks and crack really green jokes. Another’s members, male and female alike, all sport long, curly hair. At one point in a song, all of them bend and then shake their hair before the audience.

Sometimes there are newcomers who are given the opportunity to play before an audience for the first time. The spectators are nice to these performers, cheering them on and helping cast away their jitters. There are others, however, who obviously want to pack up and go in the middle of their performance, knowing how pitiful they sound. Yet there are some who mercilessly go on and on, oblivious to the listening torture to which they subject the guests who pay the entrance fee. They are having a good time, who cares about the rest?

But the most amazing thing about these gigs I religiously go to is that most of the songs bands play are their original compositions. Oh, there are two or three popular tunes—cover songs, they call them —which they sometimes employ to establish immediate connection with the audience, but that’s about it. The bands then launch into a repertoire of songs they themselves created. The topics are the same: Love, loss, pain, friendship, love again, ambition. Who’s to say these songs are inferior to those we hear over the radio?

Rock in a box

Rock music has always been unpalatable to parents. The genre calls forth images of angst, black shirts, unkempt hair, tattoos, alcohol, cigarettes, and, horrors, drugs. It is known for depth and darkness, and not a few rock musicians have bungled an otherwise promising life by committing suicide.

Nobody likes being put in boxes. We all like to think we are far more unique and complicated than the incidentals that surround us. There must be, I admit, numerous teenagers, unsure of who they are and confused on what they want to become. To these hapless young souls, the conventions of rock may seem particularly inviting. Everything has been defined and fleshed out, and all they needed was to fit into the mold. They could even write a few hate songs in the process. As a bonus, these children carry with them the air of being cool. Invincible. Astig, in the vernacular. Lupet. Does that not sound like the easiest thing to do?

This is perhaps the trap that many fall into, the same trap that scares parents (me included). There appears to be so much freedom that kids are no longer free. It is like they have to do things to be considered cool. At this point, rock stops to, well, rock.

Which is why I don’t mind being a groupie. My kid is not even a teenager yet. He may be deemed musically precocious, but he remains naive, impressionable. How can a parent be sure that the child does not derive satisfaction or build self-esteem from fleeting superficial things? Whether the people he spends his time with are not themselves disturbed or bogged down? Whether he likes his friends and looks up to role models for the right reasons? Finally, how can one guide the child to simply appreciate himself, his strengths as well as his weaknesses, enough to reject anything external that does not quite jibe with this self-possession? Don’t refuse a drink just because your mother is watching. Say no because you know it’s not good for you, and that you believe in yourself enough to know that you will not be less of a person, a friend or a musician if you do so.

But there is also a lesson on humility. Performers are no strangers to compliments after every performance. Other musicians, managers and bar owners casually walk up even to my son to give him a pat on the back, telling him to carry on because he is doing so well. The boy must know by now that he must hold some kind of promise. But that’s another reason I try to be around all the time. How can a mother be sure her son’s feet remain on the ground, unmoved by flattery, arrogance and false pride?

Peace, man

Of course it is noisy in these bars. That’s what rock is known for, anyway. But now I have learned to isolate the sound of the bass guitar from the rest of the other instruments. This sound is not easily heard, not being as flashy as the rhythm guitar or the drums. But when you do learn to listen, you will keep listening. You will realize why it is an indispensable part of the band and appreciate the skills that make a good bass player. You will see what miracles can be created out of a few thick strings with a low sound.

Oddly enough, the loudness of the music can call forth some peace and quiet. Then I think of things I would like to write about. Places I would like to visit. Stuff I would like to get done around the house. As long as the music plays, and everybody’s attention is focused on sounds emanating from those many instruments, one can be alone with one’s thoughts—and be aburst with ideas.

If only for these insights, being a groupie does not seem to sound so bad.