singing into madness

My dad is into his own world once he gets into his singing. He manages to use the wireless Magicsing Microphone as he lays on his back (yes, he sings from his bed). Dad usually does his 50s and 60s ditties inside his own room, as if the neighbors, beside his area, really cared for his unkind talent. Nevermind the hideous pronunciation or the funny accent, my dad will kill to sing.

There was a time when I could not even distinguish whether my Dad was singing the lyrics or was already having his asthma attack. I just had to rush to his room; it turned out he was clobbering “Beautiful Sunday”. “Haa-haa-haa, beau-ti-ful Saaan-daayy”. Beautiful Sunday, indeed.

There is no denying, if there is anything Pinoys should be most proud of - it has to be our musicality. (I could have added the info that Philippines is the “texting capital of the world”. Alas that distinction goes already to China). No doubt about it, as a people we have the penchant to sing- and proudly many of us sing in all stages around the world, whether as a torch singer in a bluesy club in Saipan, a lead in a Broadway musicale, or a tranny evoking the musical stylings of Madonna in Tokyo. Yet not everyone gets to have the same acclaim in public performances around this town, in Pinoyland.

It seems today even our kind of musical talent can turn into a deathly act. Croon “My Way” at the videoke club as if it were your last. Somehow there is a possibility of you being shot down for unknownst reason other than your version was way better than the one done earlier by the vocalist who just turned criminal.

And last night, like the past Saturday nights, I became maniacal about what I was watching. I got to watch celebrities and semi celebrities birit their way into temporary madness at the Celebrity Duets. Some screeched, some shrieked, some bellowed and some bawled into fits of incomprehensible performances except for the one provided by the Artist Manager, Wyngard Tracy. Some of them did recognize their non-mastery that they had to resort to some kind of gimmickry. That could have been a better option than putting up a screaming match between the authentic and faux performers. All of these acts wasted for the sake of snatching a million grand for the favorite charity.

And yesterday, the panel of commentators ala American Idol was not put into use. Either the observers had enough of the ghastly routines and just walked out. Or they exactly knew that their kind of nudging was not reflective of the results thus there was no need for them at all. Other changes had to be instituted in the show to have more credible outcome. Each cellphone line was limited to submit ten text votes, and there was just a number of hours to do the text voting, not the usual one whole week. Hmmm, maybe the weeks before, the contestants themselves had to buy so much load and asked their employees and yayas to textvote nonstop until the following show.

Admittedly, there might be this perversed need for me to witness seemingly successful people reduced to wannabees. But wouldn’t it be a treat for all of us if each of them gets to sing “My Way” until they all disappear into some kind of oblivion. Hopefully no guns though.