I Asked for a Soundtrip. They Gave Me a Multiverse.

One courageous question led to a surreal soundtrip, and a backstage moment turned into an unscheduled therapy for the soul.

One night, around 2004, I was walking home, carrying a heaviness sponsored by the existential crisis (or hormones responding to planetary movements) with the kind of emotional fog that dulls even the colors of the street.

As I neared my house, I saw two silhouettes smoking outside the gate of the recording studio next door (Tracks Studio). The bassist and drummer – familiar faces from a band I was a major fan of.

Usually, I’d play it cool. Fangirling had to be lowkey, self-respecting, and tucked beneath a carefully practiced shrug.

But that day, I didn’t have the energy for cool. I was emotionally frayed and in desperate need of something that could shift my entire mood. Turns out, you could barely tell the difference between low-key admiration and emotional burnout.

I approached them and said, “Uy, kamusta?“, and instinctively high-fived both of them.

“Uy, kamusta, Mygz,” the bassist greeted me.

(I’d met them before a few times, seen them perform, and was relieved when they remembered my name. Found out they were recording or rehearsing at the studio at that time.)

“Uh… pwede pasoundtrip?” I said. It wasn’t planned, I didn’t even know what I was expecting them to say. I was just numb and was craving something to jolt me back to life. Something neither chemical nor alcohol-induced.

“Oks, tara,” the drummer replied. I followed him and the bassist inside.

Yup. Just like that, they let me in. Obviously, I hadn’t really thought this through.

Before I could even absorb what was happening, the guitarist appeared out of nowhere. I got introduced to him.

Oh no. This is exactly the kind of material that inspires fanfics. My palms went clammy. My brain paused, the icy glaze of starstruck spreading across my eyes. I was terrified that if I shook his hand, I might never let go.

Everything went s l o w – m o. I swear I could hear “Take my breath away” by Berlin playing somewhere in my head, like a couple of rogue brain cells were scoring the scene for their own amusement. I tried to shush it internally. It took actual effort to make sure my jaw didn’t drop and my intrusive thoughts stayed caged.

“Hi, nice to meet you.” Smooth. I’m not even sure I said actual words – it’s quite possible I just made grunting sounds. I wanted to crawl back into my cave and take a moment to compose myself. But I don’t think he noticed—he’s probably used to women forgetting their vocabulary in his presence.

I blocked the urge to confess that he was one of the best (and sexiest) looking people I had ever seen – a sentiment shared by friends who, without fail, attach “omaygad shet sobrang pogi nun” to his name. Also, I felt compelled to hang a garland of flowers around his neck, and dab his imaginary sweat with imaginary my handkerchief for imaginary goodluck. I tell you, my intrusive thoughts are going feral at this point : My Gulay. Kinikilig lahat ng red at white blood cells ko. The jokes about the term ‘kalaglag-panty’ actually scared me – I was terrified my soens would be tested by the sheer gravity of this moment. I was shrieking internally, and wishing more than anything, that my friends Petchai, Ert and Yi were with me. It would have been fun to see Petchai try to keep a neutral expression and undergarments in place.

There’s a kind of kilig you don’t outgrow. The kind that seizes you when you’ve never been able to say the guy’s name without shrieking and having constellations swirling in your eyes.

I resorted to keeping my mouth shut and just smiled like this was such a regular encounter. Truth is, my word bank was officially emptied, and I couldn’t trust myself to say anything remotely sensible anymore.

My heavy mood, once thick like a paper-wrapped White Rabbit candy – melted in seconds. Cue Walking on Sunshine. My emotional baggage seemingly abra-cadabra’d itself into nothingness.

They pointed toward the vocalist, the face I used to see during high school MTV binges (yes, it was a music channel). I smiled. He smiled. Then went back to what he was doing. The whole exchange lasted less than a second, and it felt unreal. Yes, BAMBOO. The legendary FRONTMAN whose voice has been a part of my life’s soundtrack, whether he knew it or not.

I realized only now—twenty years later—that the moment was perfectly scored by his own lyrics from his Rivermaya days: ‘Pag automatic na ang luha… kumapit ka kaya sa akin nang ikaw ay maitangay sa kalayaan ng ligaya.

Angee Rozul, the legendary sound engineer, gave a small nod. I nearly bowed. Suddenly, I felt like a preschooler determined to earn a gold star just so I wouldn’t be kicked out.

And so there I was, parked on a studio couch, watching them play in the booth. The sound engineer did his thing while I soaked in every detail like a mad artist, sketching furiously to capture light before it vanished. Mental snapshots, burned into memory.

My phone was an old Nokia, barely capable of more than calls and texts. But I had a secondhand digicam, which was half-functional, always low on battery, and with a broken display. It was my only hope of capturing anything. So I took the shots blindly, quietly, fingers crossed, hoping something would come through. Something I could hold onto.

It was surreal. Just the band, the sound engineer, and me- the lone audience. No crowd. No noise.

I felt elated. I was high on their presence, their music, that moment, the rawness of it all. And if this ever happened again in the future, the combination of these emotions would never be the same.

Imagine: if I hadn’t asked, this opportunity would’ve vanished into the land of permanent what-ifs. But because I did, I slipped into what felt like a multiverse for about an hour or two.

It was a thrill to watch the bassist and drummer in their element. This wasn’t just about charisma, it was mastery. Their instruments had become extensions of their bodies. It was awesome. Their songs were absolutely perfect and powerfully executed. Each member was incredibly skilled, holding their own, and together they carried the band’s weight evenly. Performance-worthy of a crowd that could fill an entire arena.

I stayed as long as I could, savoring every note, rhythm, beat, and every glance exchanged between the band members. Or maybe I overstayed, and they just didn’t know how to politely escort me out.

When they finally took a break, I gathered my stuff, my heart bar filled up. I managed a simple thank you- one that carried the weight of a thousand thanks as I said my goodbyes to the band. (Gusto ko mag-mano dun sa sound engineer, thank you talaga!!!)

I wish I had a photo with them – especially one I didn’t have to fight a crowd for. But even without one, I have that moment: sacred and sealed.

Even as I walked away, the moment lingered, like the final note of a song that leaves the air vibrating long after it’s played. This moment was so big for me that it left no space for any emotional crap with was dealing with earlier, and it was so incredible that I kept asking myself if it had really happened. Of course, no one can vouch for it – maybe only the band members, if they remember that ordinary day from more than two decades ago.

When your heart is running on low battery, leave space for chance. Dare to ask without expectation. That night, I wasn’t even chasing a cure; I just asked for a soundtrip. And music answered.

All it took was courage, and ridiculously beautiful timing.

Thanks Nathan Azarcon & Vic Mercado. You probably don’t remember this moment, but i don’t think i will ever forget this. You are amazing and really nice, and I’m just proud that i have this story to tell. Thank you. To Ira “Shetsobrangpogi” Cruz, and Bamboo, it was really nice to meet you.