Lately, I’ve found myself pulled into the world of Filipino music. It probably has something to do with me being in El Nido, where I often hear these tunes playing in the background, especially when I’m at Prince Hypermarket. I guess I just wanted to feel more connected to the local culture, which, funny enough, is my own country. (Alright, I took a pause from Tech House and Techno.)
So, I jumped in. Not the surface-level kind, but the ones that hit deep, the kind you hear on a quiet night that suddenly makes you feel everything. The more I listened, the more I realized: damn, these songs are tagos hanggang buto! They feel like pages from someone’s diary, sung out loud.
Of course, I don’t listen to this stuff when I’m a mess. I wouldn’t be able to handle it. I guess I can only face that kind of vulnerability once I’m no longer feeling the exact same shit.
What got me reflecting, while chilling by the beach, was this:
When someone writes a serious love song about another human being, it can’t be about just anyone. There has to be a real connection. Some level of admiration, even in the pain. Because how can you sing so delicately, so vulnerably, about someone you’re disgusted with? You can’t. You can’t fake that.
Just like I can’t paint an artwork and dedicate it to someone I don’t care about.
If the song’s sincere, then the muse had to matter. It’s real. It’s not about harvesting external validation, or pulling some manipulative stunt to boost your ego. Energy will always reveal that.
And when it comes to heartbreak, Filipino songs just know how to carry the ache. There’s something beautiful about how grief softens once it’s put into melody. Like the music cradles it. Somehow, sadness becomes more bearable when it’s sung. More poetic.
I guess I’m just in awe of how raw Filipino music is and the artists behind these captivating songs.
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