VALENTINE'S DAY, for those of us who haven't had it dinned into our heads often enough, is not just a day. It is the entire month of February if not the "season" between New Year's Day and school graduations. It is when the malls break out in a red rash and launch underwear sales as surely as they start playing Christmas carols come September (with a respectful pause for "Halloween"). It is when songs by Air Supply can choke up even the most jaded among us and leave us sobbing into the beer, very like the character in Sugarfree's song, "Mariposa."
While the artistic merits of Air Supply's songs may be subject to debate, there is no question that they are classic love songs. By love songs, we mean songs with lyrics dealing with professions of love from one person to another, how wonderful the beloved is, how they'll do anything for the beloved, etcetera. The assumption in these songs is that the beloved is listening, that the professions and promises will have fruition, and that there is something to be won. Not so the currently most popular songs in the airwaves. From Sugarfree's "Burnout" of almost three years ago to Kitchie Nadal's "Huwag na Huwag Mong Sasabihin," songs of lost love have ruled the radio. It is romantic to be Romantic.
The attitude of Romanticism towards love may go something like this: "While she lived, her existence never seemed necessary to my happiness. But no sooner did I lose her, than it appeared to me as if I could not live without her." Thus--in the words of that most redoubtable of Romantics, Lord Byron--does the value of the beloved increase with absence. Of course, it is not necessary for anybody to die. It is enough for somebody to leave, never to return. "How Do You Keep the Music Playing" and, much less, "Endless Love" are out. In songs of lost love, a door is slammed shut and the song begins and ends at that very moment or, at least, in reliving that moment over and over again.
The trio who make up Sugarfree (Ebe Dancel, Jal Taguibao, and Mitch Singson) are the present princes of this genre. With their well-crafted songs, rife with pop hooks, and Dancel's understatedly woebegone vocals, they tug at our heartstring whether we like it or not, as the best songs (in a manner of speaking) should. Even a Vulcan would be hard put to resist.
In their debut album, Sa Wakas, they displayed their mastery of the balancing act between sensitivity and mawkishness. It is the simplicity of their lyrics that appeals to us for they say nothing more nor less than things that we ourselves could have said; in short, they speak to and for us. And yet there is tension in their matter-of-factness. Take the chorus of the far-from-burnt-out "Burnout" that at first goes "kay tagal din kitang minahal" but resolves itself into "kay tagal din kitang mamahalin." There is a train of emotion in the song that contradicts itself without doing violence to our feelings or intellect. Whether consciously or unconsciously, we recognize the vacillations as perfectly natural for someone who is unwilling to recognize a breakup and oscillates from denial to acceptance to denial and back again. Interestingly enough, anger has no place in any of their songs of love lost. It is as if the lovers had been torn apart by forces outside their control: "kay bilis kasi ng buhay, pati tayo natangay" in "Burnout," or simply "just because" in "Tummy Ache". There are no recriminations and not even a whiff of wrongdoing. After some thought, it might leave the listener wondering what reason anybody could have to leave such a gentle persona as that conjured up by Sugarfree in most of their songs.
Possibly another secret to the popularity of Sugarfree's songs for male and female audiences alike is the reversal of traditional roles. In "Telepono," it is the boy who anxiously waits for the phone to ring and obsesses over past conversations until dawn. In "Mariposa," the song ends with a lovelorn "ayoko nang mag-isa," an admission that, while suspiciously co-dependent in sentiment, might still sound sweet coming as it does from a guy. And so it goes for most of Sa Wakas where everyday is the first day of loss, "ang unang araw na wala ka na." It is Waiting for Godot translated into pop.
And now for Sugarfree's second album, Dramachine, released during the second half of 2004. In the interval, they have gotten, if not much happier, a little more knowing; knowing enough to place a clap effect in the chorus of "Hari ng Sablay," which they are hands down and not in a bad way, either. In fact, there is a distinct rock swagger to some songs in Dramachine that is not to be found in Sa Wakas. There is a much wider range of emotions, textures and, certainly, post-Eraserheads influences. The drums, bass, and Dancel's edgier vocals in "Tao" combine to form just the right mix of indignant hurt and resignation. The spiraling keyboards featured in some songs are worth watching for. If one were to consider Dramachine as a continuation of the story begun in Sa Wakas, the boy is ready to love again, as in "Sinta," "Prom," and "Kwentuhan." Nevertheless, fans who loved Sugarfree for their forlorn charm won't be disappointed. Their most striking songs are still the ones that drive a stake through our achey-breaky hearts. "Kandila" is a milder paraphrase of the Byron quote above: "Kung kelan pa nawalan ng ilaw saka pa lahat naging malinaw." Meanwhile, there are shades of Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind in "Kwarto," a song of disarming sadness, dealing with the putting away of things and, hardest of all, memories. In this spring-cleaning of the room which is also the heart, the tension that is found in "Burnout" reoccurs with a twist. Gently, tenderly, relics of lost love are put away even as the persona steels himself by recalling all the grief associated with each item. The song's mostly steady rhythm and the poetic repetition of "magpapaalam na sa yo ang aking kwarto" at the end betray a heart dulled by pain but with feeling enough still to protest too much. One has to feel sorry for the new love who is mentioned almost as a punchline. Yet even this complication is a minor quibble in an otherwise great song.
Sugarfree is probably the first local band to deal almost exclusively with the theme of lost love and, what's more, they do it in true Romantic fashion. They have shown us that boys can and do cry, and that vulnerability is not gender-specific (if there's still any question about it). It is a pretty safe bet to say that "Burnout" and "Telepono" will keep getting played long after other breakup songs have faded into retirement. But as with all emotion-driven bands--whether by anger, ennui or, in Sugarfree's case, heartache--the problem is how to sustain it. One cannot go on crying indefinitely and anybody with a genuine appreciation for Sugarfree's music would wish their songs' characters much-deserved happiness, whether in or out of a relationship. There is life after the prom, first love and, yes, even a lonely Valentine's Day. (Sofia Guillermo)