Confessions of an Indie Musician in the year 2000s.

(This post is being updated with more photos…)

Being able to say I was in a band (in the early 2000s) was a flex. The people in my band were exceptionally talented, but I was there because I was in the core group that one day decided to start a band, and delusionally decided that talent was purely optional.

(Origin story will be in another blog post. )

Most of the time, I felt like a pseudo-artist, but in spite of constant imposter syndrome, you get to a point where it starts looking like a legitimate thing. We had people listening to us, watching us. We got backstage access, free food, and closer range to the artists we absolutely idolized. I have precious minutes of nonchalantly geeking out while coolly sauntering over to the shared chillers, giving a friendly nod as I grab a bottle of mineral water, and mouthing cheers to some band people whose music I actually played on loop.

I loved the kind of music we jammed, and the people we made music with. We performed for advocacies, social causes, unions, fundraisers, protest rallies, festivals, rooftop jams and bar gigs. Our band siblinghood had different ideals, but we respected each other. And we looked out for each other’s diets and allergies.

Our usual mode of transportation was an old Pajero, a family car that my parents unwittingly allowed me to commandeer. For a big group lugging around heavy instruments, this was our Mystery Machine. Gas was a shared expense, and “ambag-ambag” got us to places.

We’ve also had the delightful experience of taking a two-tricycle convoy on a rainy afternoon, the heavy drops pelting the tin roof of our open vehicle while we desperately tried to shield our drums and instrument bags. This was followed by a maniacal jeepney ride during rush hour, just so we could make it to a globally recognized music festival.

We composed some songs, and my contributions were more in the lyrics department, alongside transportation, and coordination. We didn’t get paid, and we had to really, really squeeze our personal funds to keep the music going. (Though we were always genuinely grateful when organizers fed us and actually considered our dietary restrictions). Because of our limited resources, we had to get resourceful with practice venues. One time, we pleaded to use the village fitness gym for our midnight practice since we needed a place where we could be loud. Surprisingly, they relented. That practice had us walking on treadmills and doing dumbbells in between songs.

We played in a lot of spaces and events, and we met so many people. We even got mentioned in a newspaper once and appeared on a late-night show on a channel that didn’t have clear reception. We had a few people who would recognize us because we usually played for the same crowds, and it was always fun to meet people who told us they liked our music, or gave us feedback that they couldn’t hear us because the sound system was staticky. There were also some earlier gigs when we had to play to an empty bar, or had that one friend who would pay an entrance fee just to watch us and be the lone audience to our performance.

For us, we knew early on that we probably wouldn’t make money with what we did. Still, it was a great excuse to hang out and jam.

One of my favorite memories is our regular meet up at the outdoor tables of McDo Greenbelt, grabbing fries and drinks while we waited for everyone to arrive. The lure of a jam always started the same way – with nothing more than a rhythmic tap on the table. And then someone answers with a beat. Instinctively, instruments would emerge from their cases. The percussion would join the flow, and as the sound thickened, guitar riffs and the earthy resonance of the hegalong began to weave into the pulse. Soon, the soft cascade of a rainstick, the sharp twang of a kubing, and the rattle of a shaker found their way into this unplanned, unrecorded piece, and we just collectively flowed, rhythms interlocking on their own. The music elevated the space and our state entirely. And for a few minutes, we’re just about that music, a very temporary but spiritual moment. Maybe that’s what binds us.

Sometimes a random crowd would gather to join the session; other times, the security guards would swoop in – without saying a word, just offering those silent, universal gestures to wrap it up. But it didn’t matter. We always found some less restrictive open space to liven up.

Playing together was our happy therapy.

Did we have any famous songs? To a few people who repeatedly attended our performances, they probably would recall one or two. There was a time my friend forwarded a copy of our song covered by a cultural/activist group, and listening to it was such a surreal moment. Not sure if they knew it was ours, but to hear our message carry on, it has that nice sense of pride, that our words mattered enough to be sung.

And when I had my kids, I would sing our songs, they were my special lullabies. It’s like Mariah Carey singing her songs to her children. Except I’m not Mariah Carey. And I don’t sound like Mariah Carey.

Along the way, our little circle grew as we crossed paths with some truly amazing people who were honestly way cooler than us.

Through the years, we’ve still found time to hang out, a few hours of catching up over coffee or showing up to support each other’s milestones. We’ve even brought our significant others and our kids into the fold. While some of us haven’t been as connected lately, no doors have ever closed; every single time we do get together, it feels like nothing has changed.

If you search for us online, you won’t find us anywhere. We weren’t famous, we didn’t have social media back then, we had a website that was hosted on Geocities (it was wiped out during the ice age) and there are no recordings on YouTube (unless you have actual links to the hidden ones, send them please!).

I actually like that we existed under the radar, in an almost conspiracy kind of way, like there’s only a handful of people who can attest to ever having seen us, and it will stay that way. We were nobodies, except for the people who mattered to us, and the people we mattered to. And that was enough. In fact, you could wonder if I’m telling the truth, and I’m sure you’ll try to find out who we were and see if there’s any trace of us online, because it seems pretty bogus to exist without a digital footprint of some sort. Go have fun.

Since 2006/2007, we’ve headed in different directions, and most of us have nothing to do with performing. We’re grown-ups now (but feels like we’re just halfway there). Just yesterday, we were in our 20s, we were still kids navigating our identity, our beliefs, our music, our relationships, our lives. And now, we’ve known each other for more than half our lives, still navigating most of it, but with a collection of such fun, wholesome memories.

I am incredibly proud of my band siblings, some are now godmothers and godfathers of my children. They are beautiful humans doing their own things in the world, adding a little sheen here and there. We made our noise, and we left the stage, with just really great memories of the time we thought we were cool.

This post is dedicated to my timeless band-sibs :
Petchai, Ayi, Ert, JP, Burn, Melvin, Domeng, Melay, Japs