Calle 13

Nearly two weeks ago at the Amsterdam Roots Festival, someone handed me a postcard advertising a gig by Calle 13 at Melkweg. I'd never heard of them before, so I decided to check them out on Spotify.

They turned out to be a really fun, not to mention Grammy-winning, reggaeton (a.k.a. Latin American hip-hop) group from Puerto Rico. Their music consists of awesome beats layered with Spanish lyrics, a language that I love the sound of. I've sampled reggaeton in the form of Daddy Yankee and Pitbull, but so far this is the group I've liked the most; they have a musicality and upbeat vibe that I've just been missing from the (admittedly mainstream) reggaeton acts I've heard so far.

The lyrics are mesmerizing enough to just listen to, and some of the quick and few flashes I've been able to translate have made me chuckle. Translated, some of their lyrics simply flow like poetry. Heck, in this particular verse I liked, they could very well be singing about life in the Philippines.

Tú no puedes comprar al viento,

Tú no puedes comprar al sol

Tú no puedes comprar la lluvia,

Tú no puedes comprar al calor.

Tú no puedes comprar las nubes,

Tú no puedes comprar mi alegría,

Tú no puedes comprar mis dolores.

You cannot buy my sun

You cannot buy my rain

You cannot buy my heat

You cannot buy my clouds

You cannot buy my happiness

You cannot buy my pain.

-- "Latinoamerica", Entren Los Que Quieran (2010)

In need of something new to listen to, preferably in a neighborhood where Latin flavor, eclectic influences and kickass beats meet? Then give Calle 13 a listen on Spotify.

Rooting around

There are so many music festivals on in Netherlands (and around Europe) now that it's officially summer. Of the dozens of choices out there, the one I really wanted to go to was the Amsterdam Roots Festival, a week-long world music festival capped with a big, free concert at the Oosterpark. 

From what I gather, the Oost (East) of Amsterdam is where most of the immigrant and minority communities live. I'd been to the Oosterpark once before with Jon, to visit the Tropenmuseum located inside the park. Since the museum deals with the Dutch history of slavery and colonialism, I found this sculpture near the museum particularly poignant: chained slaves emerging on the other side of a portal to gain power and freedom.

Both Womad and the Roots Festival represent world music and are hugely popular events; that's pretty much all the similarity they share. The Roots Festival is definitely bigger in scale than what we got in Singapore: five different stages compared to two. And the crowd was so diverse, which was such a pleasure to behold. No predatory expat-hunting posers in stiletto heels sinking into the grass, no boho uniforms of ethnic-print maxi dress, chunky jewelry and gold sandals. Just a laid-back vibe, lots of sunshine and good music. You could say we were pretty happy.

All around the park were stalls selling various world cuisines at affordable prices, jewelry, clothing, even art.

I was really intrigued by all the soul food and Caribbean cooking. We just don't get that in our part of the world! The Dutch once held sizable colonies in the Caribbean, such as Surinam, a country of which I'd never heard until I moved here. Surinamese food is a big thing here.

For €4, we each sampled a Surinamese bara, which is a flavorful Hindustani-influenced fried bread made with bean flour. Mine was filled with grilled chicken and slathered with the spiciest sauce I've tasted since I moved to Holland, which turned my mouth into the Pacific Ring of Fire. And I mean that only in a good way; I've missed this kind of spice. The bara kept falling apart, but it made a real lip-smacking kind of mess, one that I'd definitely have again.

It was the best kind of Sunday afternoon. We wandered around the park, ducking into tents and drifting into crowds. We got into some Colombian funk and Portuguese fado... 

... mixed with some Dutch hip-hop. I love hip-hop, and being in the midst of the crowd who seemed to know all the songs and not being able to sing along was one of those frustrating moments when I really, really wish I spoke Dutch. I was proud of myself for understanding the words "left" and "right" in Dutch though. It made it easier to wave my hands in the right direction in a timely and thereby non tool-ish manner. Links en rechts, yo!

I'll say it again, I really loved the crowd. I love that moms bring their babies to events like these (there is life after childbirth!), I love that people dance like nobody's watching (because nobody does!) and I love that you can find people of all ages grooving together with such joy. Europeans must be solar-powered... because when the sun comes out they really just come alive.

Here's me in my concert outfit: shorts with a floaty, semi-sheer, neon-dabbed top that I christened a drouse (dress/blouse). I'd been so excited for the weather to get warm enough for me to wear it, and it finally did. Yay summer!

In between acts, we would fall upon one of the park's many sun-drenched grassy stretches to just lie down and chill. Many others had the same idea, although some were better equipped.

It was nice just to watch people go by. So many attractive people, diverse nationalities, and colorful characters. These two were my favorite passers-by: a guy with a face shaved into the back of his head (shades and a moustache!), and a fully-tattooed guy who would look kind of scary if not for his little stumpy adorable dog.

I would totally make this trip to the Oosterpark for the Amsterdam Roots Festival a yearly pilgrimage. On days like this, I just love this town!

Paris, 10 years later

Do you remember?

Do you remember waking up to days, weeks, months where all you had to think about was what you loved to do most, in the company of the people you most loved to do it with?

Do you remember sound checks and rehearsals...



Churches upon churches...



More masses than you'd ever attended in a single day?



Do you remember passing the hat for money? And being so thankful for every deutschmark, franc, guilder, peseta, tolar, lira, and much later, euro, that our voices earned for us?



Do you remember the bread broken with strangers who made the meals and cared for us, so that after those meals they were strangers no more?



Do you remember taking too long to load the bus with suitcases that got heavier at each stop...



... and laughing at the most ridiculous things that only we could find funny, together?



Do you remember the applause and the cheers, how they made your heart feel all warm inside no matter how tired you were... and smile so hard you thought your face might split apart?



Do you remember singing our joys, sorrows, triumphs, exhaustion, even our goodbyes?



Do you remember what it was like to win?

And what it was like when we had to start all over again?

That was when I wish someone had told me that in spite of everything I feared, what I loved would continue, grow and flourish.

And though the songs may be new ones...

The faces may have changed...

And although now we can only be on the outside looking in...

It looks and feels as sweet as I remember. And I know they'll always remember it this way, too.

Wiping my eyes after the Glee Club sang for the morning service at the American Church in Paris, I asked Gutsy: "Why did we have to grow up?"

I'm not sure, but I think maybe we leave some things behind to make room, to clear space for new and different things...

... things that make new selves of us, and that assure us every day that becoming an adult is worth it.

And while we leave some things behind, some things, like laughter, music and friendship...

 

...are simply forever. 

"We'll always have Paris," goes the famous line from Casablanca. But I think we'll always have much more than Paris. And for that I will always be grateful. 

An evening at the opera

When my sister and I were planning this Oslo trip last year, I was thrilled to learn that the dates of our visit coincided with the one-night-only concert of one of the greatest performers in opera today... the awesome Cecilia Bartoli. I had to see her. I'm the only one in my family who is into this stuff but I managed to drag them all with me.

It was a gloomy, rainy evening when we went to the Operaen, Norway's multimillion-euro opera and ballet house. Rising out of the gray and the mist, the Operaen seemed like some mythical fortress of snow and ice. So Nordic!

But really, I was awestruck. This is easily the most stunning concert hall I have ever seen in my life.

Though I was happy to have a wide-angle lens to capture it all, the pictures don't do it justice. It was really hard to choose photos for this post!

Built to the tune of € 500 million (PhP 30.7 BILLION, just to boggle your mind), this is nothing less than a modern-day temple to culture and the arts. Spending that kind of public money on a concert hall makes a powerful endorsement of music that musicians all over the world, particularly in a country like ours, would kill for. 

Everything from the curving walls of clean blond wood... 

... to practical considerations such as the coatroom and cocktail tables... 

... even the bathroom, spoke of everything Scandinavian design is famous for, and makes a statement about the value this society places on culture and art. If it isn't obvious, I'm completely envious and could not want this for the Philippines bad enough.

Everything announces the importance of the experience you are just about to have: the experience of music. No usher could ever bring you as graciously or ecstatically to your seat, in anticipation of a wonderful evening, as this building can.

Which brings us to Cecilia.

I've always found early music to be a bit of a bore, to be honest. But not the way Cecilia Bartoli sings it. She brings such mastery, genius and spirit to early, lesser-known works, that you literally sit up on the edge of your seat and hold your breath listening to her.

She sang pieces from her Grammy-winning album, Sacrificium, which features works originally written for castrati, prepubescent boys castrated for the sole purpose of performing some of the most difficult pieces ever written for the human voice. 

And the costumes! Her knee-high leather boots, billowing pirate-type blouse, swirling cape, scarlet taffeta bustle, and giant red feathers added drama and flair to a bravura performance. Brava Cecilia!

I was so glad that my mom, who's not the biggest fan of opera, really enjoyed it. 

Operaen is the only concert hall in the world where you can, and in fact are meant to, walk all over the building, and all the way up to the roof from the ground floor.

So after the concert, that's just what we did. With the sunset sky in the background, it was absolutely perfect.

It's a wonderful, welcoming space to walk, sit, play and see the city, bringing a new dimension to arts that are seen as dull and exclusive. Plus it's photogenic with a million angles and planes to play with. Camwhores will pee all over themselves with delight. We almost did!

Marlon posed for his Fortune 500/Time Man of the Year cover.

My sights are set a bit lower. Hanggang level lang ng Lookbook and Chictopia, haha.

We took the coolest family photo ever: Marlon and I outside, and Mom and my sister inside.

And my sister took this photo of us kissing. Aww.

I feel so lucky to have been able to watch Cecilia Bartoli in such a gorgeous space. Truly the highlight of the whole trip.