Remembering the Eraserheads

Sometimes, the most random of things can remind you of entire years of your childhood. An Eraserheads song, for instance. Although not so random as far as frequently played anthems go, whenever I hear one of their songs I always feel like I'm back in the late 1990s and early 2000s. Anything from Cutterpillow, and suddenly I'm in my uniform, not-so-fresh from school, Indian-sitting on the yellow sixties tiled bodega floor, singing along to every song with my cousin, flipping from side a to side b until it's time for dinner. The Metrotren is noisy in the distance and the neighbors are playing basketball, but who cares? In that bodega, with that album, we could shut the world out and nothing could disturb us from singing "I'm a traveling man! Straight from the can! I'm a thousand miles away from my number one fan!" Anything from Natin99 and well, hey it's 1999! I'm in high school, and I've discovered other bands but every time anyone comes to school with a guitar, it's still Eraserheads songs that everyone sings at the top of their lungs, until we hear the ominous clicking of some killjoy teacher's heels coming down the corridor. And of course, that day in 2002. I heard it on the radio, the same way I found out about Alexis Tioseco, and although it was definitely not a life that had ended with Ely Buendia's farewell via SMS, it certainly felt like something had died. Later on, the Eraserheads breakup became a favorite drinking topic, and fortunately for us, questions were limited to what ifs, and not what now. Though some would argue that the Eraserheads were unbeatable, the individual members have gone their not-so-separate ways, and are still rocking and rolling to different beats. Marcus Adoro is not the Eraserheads, but Markus Highway is definitely Rakenrol. Raimund Marasigan is not the Eraserheads, but Sandwich is definitely Food for the Soul. Buddy Zabala is not the Eraserheads, but The Dawn is definitely, well, The Dawn. Still, you can't help but miss the Eraserheads, and I was one of the thousands of fans who went to the open field in Fort on August 30, 2008. I remember it was raining at around 6 pm. I was in a class in the new College of Arts and Letters building, and it was very, very dark outside. I began to feel nervous as I imagined the jeepney ride to the MRT, the overflowing train ride, and the problem of getting to the open field from Ayala. But just thinking about the concert made me giddy, and I was having a fine time just imagining it. There were so many people when I finally made it, and after considering hitching a ride with a stranger, we decided to walk. We got there in time, not knowing if the magic passes would truly get us in. They did, and within minutes, we disappeared in the crowd of fans, all abuzz with anticipation. I could taste the excitement. It tasted like dust, cigarette smoke, and that elusive high only good music can bring. We walked around, sat down, stood up, walked some more. People were so wired, you'd think they were the ones who had to perform for fans who had been deprived for 5 years. People eyed the limited refreshment options, wondering if their hunger could wait, if the insanely long lines were worth it, or worst of all — if the band started playing and they were still in line. We gave in and lined up to by some enhanced water — the type that comes in candy colors and looks more like it belongs in the hands of a lab-gowned wild-haired inventor. Before you could say "hold-up," people were counting down, hugging each other and screaming and squealing arbitrarily. And then. It was like coming home. They were onstage. They began with Alapaap, playing through the set in classic Eraserheads style, too caught up in the music to stop — to heed the ridiculously sweet chant of "group hug! group hug!" or, in Buendia's case, to give it a rest. The rest of the show was a vivid blur. It felt like swimming in the sound, the collective bliss of seeing them perform one more time, Buendia's voice nearly drowned out by the fans who knew every single word, the open sky that decided to cooperate and held back on the rain. Even the stars hardly twinkled, as if they knew the night, this time, wasn't theirs. After the abrupt ending, I was too happy to be disappointed. Of course the hospitalization didn't make me happy, all I mean is I didn't feel like I wanted the second set, or the third set. I felt those fifteen songs were enough, and maybe that's all that was meant to be. It felt like being greedy to ask for more. Apparently, I was wrong, because they played again in 2009. The morning of March 7, I was at the station for an orientation for University Rock. Someone was brave enough to ask for tickets to the Final Set, and we wrote our names on small pieces of paper. I had one in seven chances of getting tickets. I didn't get any. I never win raffles. Maybe it was just as well. I had said earlier that I didn't want to go, because for me, the August concert was perfect. I was afraid to expect something as amazing and I didn't want the possibility of being let down. I'm pretty sure I haven't seen more than five Eraserheads gigs, but I've heard their songs countless times, whether on purpose or accidentally, and I sort of feel like I know the band. Not personally, of course, but it comes to a point where you can plot your life against the albums. You know how it is when you love a band, you can't quite decide if you want to declare it to the world or keep it to yourself, like treasure in a box you hide under your bed. But then, there are some bands that are so good, you don't mind sharing them, because you know that every chord progression, every bass line, every drum pattern, every word, brings back a memory that no one else but you remembers. At the same time, you know that any time you start singing one of their songs alone, the person next to you will most likely sing along. And that, I think, is why the Eraserheads is the seminal rock band of the nineties.