‘Hey Mama, welcome to the 60s!’: A conversation on 60s nostalgia in contemporary Filipino music

With inputs from Zed Bisenio and Kai Buizon

When you take a look at some of the biggest artists of the 21st century, the 60s squeeze themselves in every nook and cranny of music. Think of Maroon 5 and Christina Aguilera’s “Moves Like Jagger.” Charlie Puth and Meghan Trainor in “Marvin Gaye.” Even boygenius’ “Leonard Cohen.” From song titles to the instrumentation of the tracks itself, six decades later, the 60s is still alive and well. 

The 60s was an era of revolution. In America, the civil rights movement sent shockwaves throughout the nation as they battled for racial equality. The Cold War heightened tensions between the West and Russia. Former President John F. Kennedy was assassinated. Proxy wars were fought in countries like Vietnam, with effects of the war still being felt now. In Southeast Asia, clashes between the communists and ruling governments were felt in multiple countries such as Laos, Cambodia, and Indonesia. Needless to say, the 60s saw incredible history-changing events that were felt all over the world.

The same can be said for the music of this era. The 60s saw a revolution and rupturing of genres. The Beatles revolutionized pop. Jimi Hendrix revolutionized rock. Bob Dylan revolutionized folk. Black Sabbath revolutionized metal. The list goes on and on. In terms of music, the 60s was a total break from what was; a 20th century renaissance in the midst of global sociopolitical turmoil. It is arguably the strongest musical revolution in the 20th century.

When we take a look at how 60s music entered the Filipino mainstream, we have to look at radio host, personality, and entrepreneur Ramon Jacinto, better known as RJ. In 1962, Jacinto started what would eventually be the legendary and influential rock and roll radio station DZRJ. However, in the 1970s, DZRJ, along with the rest of the Jacinto family’s assets, was forcibly seized by the Philippine military during the Marcos dictatorship. Due to threats of being arrested, Jacinto chose to stay in exile in the United States for 14 years.

After Marcos was ousted in 1986, the radio stations as well as other Jacinto family businesses were returned to them. Jacinto reestablished DZRJ and it became a leader on the airwaves by playing music from the 1950s, 1960s, and 1970s. It was during this time that Jacinto also set up the rock and roll music lounge and restaurant Bistro RJ (now known as RJ Bistro) in Makati. It became popular among crowds as well as provided opportunities for bands to play live.

Jacinto’s relationship (and maybe, partiality) to 60s music can be gleaned from his musical influences. In an interview with The Varsitarian around 2016, Jacinto mentions that some of his influences are, “Elvis Presley, The Beach Boys, Eric Clapton, The Ventures, and The Shadows.” Elvis Presley aside, the rest of the mentioned artists more or less gained popularity in the 60s. 

Filipino society’s appreciation of the 60s doesn’t start or end with Jacinto, although he had a large part in its proliferation in a post-Marcos era.

Another institution that shares the flag in pioneering 60s music in the Philippines is the now-defunct Jingle Magazine, created by Filipino music journalist Gilbert Guillermo. 

Jingle was described by Guillermo as a “songbook-magazine,” which meant that it included sections of music reviews, feature articles, and the like; but most importantly, Jingle printed chords and lyrics to some of the most famous songs at the time.

Although it was established in 1970, the magazine—especially in its earlier issues—featured a lot of 60s songs in its song and chord book sections. The team from Jingle would transcribe the lyrics while professional  guitarists would add the chords on top of them. In the era without Ultimate Guitar or YouTube, this made 60s music even more accessible to the Filipino public. Its influence as a rock and roll magazine as well as its anti-establishment overtones made it a target for the Marcos administration, with the dictator shutting down the publication during martial law.

However, this is only part of the story. In order to fully understand the impact of the 60s, we have to compare the importation of Western 60s music in the Philippines with the types of music being created in the Philippines during the 60s.

60s Filipino music (and by extension, the 50s) is an era that predates Manila sound (which flourished and peaked in the 1970s) as well as Original Pilipino Music (OPM) which was coined by APO Hiking Society’s Danny Javier in the post Manila sound era to refer to pop music (OPM as a concept, and whether or not it is dead, is a completely different topic). While acts like The Beatles, The Beach Boys, Jimi Hendrix, and their peers were flourishing in different genres in the West, 60s Filipino music was primarily defined by ballads and music for film scores. Think of Pilita Corrales, Vilma Santos, Victor Wood, Ric Manrique Jr, Ruben Tagalog, and the like. This genre of music dominated the Filipino mainstream at the time, and if there were attempts to diversify it, it wasn’t as prominent compared to how different genres were gaining relatively equal popularity in the West.

Fast forward to now, and it seems that there is a revival of 60s influences across indie and mainstream Filipino bands. Whether it’s just hints or a faithful recreation of the 60s, it’s clear that 60s nostalgia is here to stay. The question now is, why?

Beatles Department

To start, I have to establish that it could be as simple as musicians having artistic influences, and it so happens that a lot of them like 60s artists. However, why there are so many of them opens a deeper conversation of how nostalgia perpetuates and manifests through music.

In the 21st century, it’s easy to go all the way back to the start of the new millenium and name bands that are clearly 60s-esque. For example, Ely Buendia has admitted openly that he is very inspired by Marvin Gaye, and this inspiration is prominent in The Eraserheads’ discography. The recurring motif in “Ang Huling El Bimbo” (the La, la, la, laaaa…) is a carbon copy of the melody in Marvin Gaye’s “You’re All I Need To Get By.”

In 2005, The Itchyworms released Noon Time Show, with references to the 60s sprinkled here and there in the record. The bouncy melody in “Akin Ka Na Lang” is reminiscent of the vocal bounce in The Zombies’ “Care of Cell 44.” Other parallels can be drawn between the two songs: the bass lines are upbeat with a happy-go-lucky sounding riff, the “ooohs,” “ahhhs,” and harmonies are prominent in both songs, and the drums have the same bounce and upbeat rhythm that complements the vocals.

The Bloomfields’ 2007 self-titled album is basically a faithful love letter to the 60s. Tracks like “Alam Mo Na Yun” and “Ale” are so clearly inspired by The Beach Boys, you can almost hear the Wilson brothers being reincarnated. Their affinity for the era is basically proven through the rest of the tracklist, which includes covers of tracks that were popular during the era such as “Girl From Ipanema,” “Wouldn’t It Be Nice,” and “Surfer Girl” to name a few. 

This nostalgia for the 60s remains strong even in the 2020s. The Pinkmen’s “Asked You To Dance” is very Beatle-esque; from the vocal melodies, the singing and harmonizing in unison, the chord progressions, all the way to the keyboard synths and riffs. Oh, Flamingo’s 2020 record Volumes has hints of the 60s sprinkled throughout. “Sunsets” features prominent 60s elements such as the vocal harmonies (La la la…) and the chord progression, especially the descending riff that is peppered throughout the song and its chorus.

It’s unclear if any of this was an intentional effort for The Itchyworms, The Bloomfields, Pinkmen, and Oh, Flamingo!. However, if it wasn’t, it still sheds more light on how 60s elements are so ingrained in our musical landscape that we can be unaware of how it influences our art. How 60s nostalgia continues to persist so strongly almost six decades later can be linked to different reasons and implications, but for this essay, I want to explore two: the unconscious or conscious desire to revisit a time of musical revolution and the possible causes and effects of how this 60s nostalgia affects the current musical landscape.

Burning Desire

As mentioned before, the 60s was a time for cultural revolution. It was through this rupturing of past conventions—whether sociopolitically or musically—that has catapulted the era’s top stars into god-like status. The Beatles have been touted as “the greatest band of all time” (debatable). Jimi Hendrix is hailed as “the greatest guitarist of all time” (generally accepted, but with some legroom to be debatable). These acts and their contemporaries are timeless, and until this day, very relevant in our social consciousness. There have been so many variations of Beatles documentaries, and multiple movies made about or influenced by the band, such as the terrible film Yesterday (2017).

These persevering perspectives are what contribute to the hold that the 60s has on contemporary music. A theory to consider is that this prominence of 60s nostalgia in 21st century Filipino music is that there is a conscious or unconscious desire to replicate that same revolutionary era six decades ago. It’s an attempt to relive the glamours and novelty that the 60s are defined by. Through DZRJ, plain Beatlemania, or Jingle, our grandparents and parents grew up already subscribing to the 60s, which could more or less explain how and what type of music succeeding generations were first exposed to. In the age of unfettered access to the Internet, this is only emphasized even more as both listeners and artists can easily retrieve performance videos, other artists, or songs from that era. The 60s is so pervasive that casual listeners or the untrained ear can immediately say: “Oh, this sounds like The Beatles” or “Oh, this sounds like The Beach Boys.”

It doesn’t matter whether or not you think other eras of music are superior, the fact of the matter is that the cultural significance of the 60s has generated an intergenerational passing down of its music, from the 60s itself to now. It makes sense that many artists are influenced by the era, and in one way or another, want to replicate its music.

Is this a bad thing? Definitely not. Being inspired and wanting to create music from those inspirations is part of an artist’s creative control. However, it still is an interesting phenomenon how so many acts are influenced by this particular decade, and whether or not it is conscious to replicate the novelty of the 60s, it still plays a part in why the 60s nostalgia cycle will continue to persist as newer generations arrive. More and more eras from the past will be looked at and revered in that same god-like and timeless pedestal, especially as time goes on.

Given the pervasiveness of the 60s, what does this overwhelming affection for nostalgia mean for the musical landscape of the 2020s? 

Moves like Jagger

We are at a point in music where most, if not, all the lines have been drawn. Genres and their subgenres have been defined. Today, you can define or put a label on any type of music. Even the genre of “experimental” is a catch-all label that, admittedly, defeats the core of creating experimental music. In the Philippines, “new” sounds are actually reminiscent of the “old”—case in point, when IV of Spades debuted, they set themselves apart from their contemporaries at the time with their 70s-80s aesthetic and funk sound. However, the 60s still plays a key role in the band’s music. In an interview with Guitar, both Zild Benitez and Blaster Silonga cite 60s artists as their influences. For Benitez, he was heavily inspired by funk bassist Jaco Pastorius. On the other end, Silonga was first influenced by Eric Clapton.

The barriers to making music have never been lower than they are now. Whether it’s open source or free softwares; affordable instruments and gear; or the advent of YouTube, Soundcloud, TikTok, and Ultimate Guitar, it’s much easier now than ever before to make and distribute music.

On the other side of the coin, the increasing accessibility of music makes it so that artists can get influences from all over the world, and from any past era. As audiences and listeners, we have full control—and with the support of algorithms—to define, deepen, and widen their music tastes.

Given this, it seems that an attempt of creating something “new” has probably been thought of, or unknowingly shared, by artists around the world. Attempts to revolutionize the elements of existing genres have been siloed into the numerous subgenres we have today—anti-folk, alternative hip hop, experimental (insert any genre), and the like. 

Today, there’s an abundance of labels that we use to describe the sounds that we hear. It’s part and parcel of human nature; humans create labels to create a point of reference. When we try to describe music (translating sounds into words) having labels makes it easier to communicate and share that musical experience without having the other person listen to the song. Labels create that sense of familiarity. That familiarity is why audiences listen to these songs, or seek out artists that create the sound that they like. In the same vein, familiarity allows for artists to “define their sound,” creating points of references for band members or collaborators to share the same understanding of music.

In the context of 60s nostalgia, these labels are where the past and present diverge. Today, many of the 60s nostalgia bands are defined (if not by the era itself,) by their 60s counterparts. Examples of this include, “This sounds like The Beatles or this sounds like The Beach Boys.” These 60s bands become part and parcel of the band’s identity. Some have hints of 60s influences in their music, while others are more faithful to the 60s formula. Compare this to bands during the 60s, where The Beatles et al were defined by themselves. Rather than being defined by their “own sound,” 60s nostalgia bands are reminiscent of an era gone by. 

The more far removed a generation is from an era of music, the more novel and mythic that era becomes. There is a novel and mythical aspect of not being able to see this artist live ever again or not hearing that band play or create new music that this new generation of listeners prefer. For many audiences, these 60s or any era’s nostalgia acts are the closest approximation to being in that era itself. For example, Zild’s music and aesthetic evokes the nostalgia of 80s-90s emo/new wave/post-punk bands. How he presents himself—very ala The Cure—is very popular among younger Gen Z audiences. The same goes for artists, where there is an intentional or unintentional desire to create music that sounds like or is heavily influenced by these eras.

Revolution 1

Why are so many bands revisiting the 60s in particular? As mentioned before, the 60s were the first complete overhaul of what music could sound like in the 20th century. The music from the 60s is one of the most timeless sounds in music in general, and is still relevant to artists and their influences today. With 60s nostalgia bands, there is a conscious or unconscious desire to replicate the revolution or glamour of the 60s.

However, this also asks the question: can we still create music that sounds “new” or novel in the 21st century if it seems that “every” type of music has already been created or defined? Like so many questions that grapple with current evolving phenomena, it’s difficult to say so right now.

Is the ultimate goal of musicianship to create something new versus self-expression, a reaction to society, or to generate a reaction from society? As much as with art, this varies. Much of the music prior to the 21st century has pushed the limits of what music could sound like—think Frank Zappa, Captain Beefheart, Sun Ra, and their contemporaries. They showed that the lines of what is considered music could be crossed. Even genres that are associated with the 2020s (such as hyperpop) can be traced to the 80s.

In the 21st century, social media has given us full access to the past. These drawn lines are more emphasized than they were before. Whether or not we can cross them yet again has yet to be determined.

‘My Face Is The Front Of Shop’: Queerness, Identity, and Liberation in Hyperpop

A version of this essay with citations can be found here.

Glitchy, abrasive, noisy—these are just some of the words to describe hyperpop. Just as the name suggests, the genre pushes the limits of what “pop” can sound like. Think of high-pitched, modulated vocals; overboosted bass lines; loud and crass musical accents. Hyperpop tracks are dense in their production, which only reinforces its “hyper-” prefix.

However, beyond the musical aspects of the genre is a unique, inherently gendered, and queer space. As described by Lucy March, “Along with challenging traditional notions of genre, hyperpop serves to challenge hegemonic presumptions around the nature of identity. Hyperpop is also characterized by its propping up of marginalized identities: several of the higher-profile artists in the scene identify as transgender or gender non-binary.”

Some examples of these higher-profile artists include the late Scottish musician, SOPHIE, often referred to as the “mother of hyperpop.” Others include the genderfluid artist Dorian Electra, Ashnikko, Laura Les of 100 gecs, Rebecca Black (in her later discography), Kim Petras, and select tracks from Charli XCX’s catalog, to name a few. It is evident that the genre’s pioneering and high-profile artists are women and gender minorities (WGM). 

There is also a subgenre of hyperpop that can be described as “bimbo hyperpop”. This subgenre is characterized by hyperpop’s signature musical arrangements (such as the characterizations above), but the lyrical themes in these songs are hyperfeminine, and lean heavily into sexuality, with vocal tones that are high-pitched and “valley girl-like.” Examples include Ayesha Erotica, Slayyyter, Kim Petras, and That Kid. It can be argued that Ayesha Erotica is a pioneer of this subgenre, with a discography chock full of sexual and feminine tracks. Erotica’s most streamed track, “Literal Legend,” opens with “Hey, this is Ayesha Erotica / The world’s number one coke whore.”

What is interesting about the hyperpop space is its maximalism, and why a genre that is dense and jarring in its production attracts oppressed minorities that have been forced to make themselves smaller in society.

I do it for the girls and gays, that’s it

One of the most defining characteristics of hyperpop is its roots and references to internet culture. While many journalists started documenting the rise of hyperpop in 2020, the genre’s origins can be documented to the early 2010s, such as the establishment of A.G. Cook’s record label, PC Music. PC Music found its legs on the music streaming platform Soundcloud, uploading its first releases in 2013. Cook himself is a prominent hyperpop producer, collaborating and creating hyperpop remixes of tracks by artists like Lady Gaga, Caroline Polachek, and Rina Sawayama.

In 2020, hyperpop surged into the mainstream through TikTok. Emergent (and now prominent) songs such as 100 gecs’ “money machine,” and Ayesha Erotica’s “Nasty” became viral on the platform, with the tracks having over 93 million and 6 million streams respectively on Spotify. Spotify also created the hyperpop playlist in 2020, which contributed to the genre catapulting onto the radar of the mainstream.

However, beyond the conditions of how hyperpop was established and propagated, its musical structure lends itself to internet and digital culture. Hyperpop is electronic, and the presence of physical instruments in its tracks is scant, if not non-existent at all. It is digitally produced and mastered, allowing for the jarring, overboosted elements to shine. The genre’s inherent character to be loud and abrasive is rooted in how it is digitally created.

Hyperpop artists use internet culture to challenge social norms of gender and sexuality, and the genre’s unapologetic platforming of WGM can be analyzed through the lens of cyberfeminism, a strand of feminism that, in its broadest sense, aims to “demasculinize” technology and the internet. One of the field’s pioneers, Donna Haraway, comments on the reimagining of technology, internet, and gender as, “In the traditions of “Western” science and politics—the tradition of racist, male-dominant capitalism; the tradition of progress; the tradition of the appropriation of nature as resource for the productions of culture; the tradition of reproduction of the self from the reflections of the other—the relation between organism and machine has been a border war.”

In the 1980s, cyberfeminists saw technology as a male-dominated space. A collective of female scholars, coders, and artists then attempted to reimagine what the internet and technology could look like: a mode of hacking “the codes of patriarchy” and a way to “escape gender online.”

While Haraway and Scott lean into the idea of the cyberspace as a utopia that abolishes gender, radical cyberfeminists purport that the textual creations on cybersites (how individuals communicate with each other on the internet and create communities) do not erase gender, but rather, “intensify its performance.” On the Internet, identity is king. The mere creation of social media accounts or a person’s online presence demands one to establish their identity—how you present yourself online (the prominence of “aesthetics”), selecting your gender, usernames, online bios, and the like. 

In the case of gender, the Internet’s ability to transcend borders to create communities nurtured the advent of both queer and feminist online communities as well as gender discourse. In the 21st century, websites such as Tumblr created a space for Gen Z and younger millennials to explore gender identity and name it, with microblogs dedicated to the “atomization of gender,” the phenomena of creating highly specific labels for almost all experiences of gender. The blog, All The Genders, All The Sexualities and similar blogs such as the now-defunct queerdictionary.tumblr.com and mogai-lexicon.tumblr.com (MOGAI, meaning Marginalized Orientations, Gender Alignments, and Intersex) created glossaries of hyperspecific genders such as abroromantic and abrosexual, which means having “an orientation or feelings about it that constantly change and cannot be pinned down for this reason.” It is clear that the 2010s saw heightened discourse and self-discovery on the Internet among then-adolescents. The Internet’s contribution to the intensification of gender identity and expression cannot be downplayed.

How do we then marry gender’s prominence in Internet culture and hyperpop as a gendered space? As discussed earlier, hyperpop is inherently tied to the Internet. Its music proliferates in online spaces: Soundcloud, Bandcamp, Spotify, and YouTube. The Internet as a space that intensifies gender expression reinforces hyperpop as both a musical and visual experience. Hyperpop’s eccentric, visually stimulating, colorful, and epilepsy-inducing aesthetic cannot be separated from its musical texture. Hyperpop’s adjacent terms such as “glitchcore” and “digicore” only emphasize its roots in Internet culture. Just as the Internet is bloated with content, hyperpop’s maximalist structure mirrors and reproduces that same burgeoning characteristic. Moreover, the Internet’s ability to cross borders only adds to the musical influences of artists from opposite ends of the world.

Am I loud and clear

Many of hyperpop’s pioneers and prominent artists come from the West. However, today, hyperpop continues to be an emerging scene in Asia. Asian musicians are just starting to lean into the type of hyperpop as defined by its Western counterparts. Prime examples include Sobs’ frontwoman Cayenne’s solo project, which is unapologetically loud, epileptic, glitchy, and maximalist. Her recent EP, CAYENNE SLAY ERA, incorporates the same visual and musical experience of her Western contemporaries.

In the Philippines, emerging artists such as MIKASAN incorporate elements of hyperpop and the vocal stylings of bimbo hyperpop in her discography. Rapper Pette Shabu creates hip hop music, but there are influences and elements of the same maximalist aspect of hyperpop in the production. Other emerging acts include vice* who describes himself as a creator of “unapologetically feisty digicore music.” In general, hyperpop in the Philippines is still heavily linked with the electronic scene, with collectives such as Showtime Official Club and the genre of budots—a similar, maximalist, electronic genre in the Philippines that is rooted in the class conditions of the country—having their own elements of hyperpop and its density. Likewise, Cayenne’s lean discography has scant references to the femininity and gendered aspect of Western hyperpop. Her track, “Centrefold,” has one line with minor sexual undertones: “But I like it I like it I like it when you touch me there.”

Is the queer and gendered core of the genre that is prominent in its Western counterpart as prominent? It’s hard to tell as early as now, especially as the scene continues to emerge. However, that doesn’t mean that there isn’t any. Filipino electronic and dance collectives such as That Elephant Party are explicitly LGBTQ+ spaces, and are cultivating hyperpop as they emerge. Pette Shabu’s “THE FUTURE IS TRANS” makes references to the Filipino trans experience. In the diss track, “bulbulin ka na,” she drops sexual references in certain lines, such as “Giving good head / tanggal pati dandruff” (Giving good head / Even dandruff’s removed).

Whether it’s in Southeast Asia or Asia in general, artists across different genres seem to borrow elements or are influenced by hyperpop, but have yet to create the clear delineation that Western hyperpop artists do. As the genre grows and emerges in these regions, there is an open space that is waiting to be filled; whether or not the space will be as gendered and queer as its Western parallel has yet to be clearly determined.

Immaterial girls

The core of music is the individual experience and expression, both for musicians and listeners. These individual experiences eventually grow into communities, into movements, and build the genres and subgenres that we love and recognize today. However, the discussions surrounding music and identity transcend just resonating with the music—what is unique about gendered spaces in music like hyperpop is its emancipatory dimension. In a genre that pushes and exceeds the limits of pop music through intense, abrasive, and loud instrumentation, queer people and women push their own limits and experience of gender; what it means to be “unapologetically queer and here.” It is a genre that stands against gender oppression, refusing to make itself small in the same way that WGM are forced to be in the status quo. 

What then is the importance of emancipation in music? What could this look like in the future? As we continue to analyze society’s relationship with music, there is a constant challenge to find the balance between the “universalization” aspect of music to transcend identity (meaning, to resonate with people regardless of what they identify as), but also recognizing the lived experiences it is continually shaped by.

Ultimately, hyperpop is resistance. It resists pop conventions and gender conventions, all housed in a cyberspace that cannot be held down and controlled.

Header image: Pette Shabu/Instagram; SOPHIE/Press; Cayenne/Instagram

The case of “Katipcore”

Last May 18, CNN Philippines Life published a piece of notes on Katipcore and how we understand music, geography, and genres. In his essay, Jam Pascual discusses how music scenes evolve and are defined by “sounds, genres, [and] movements.”

Pascual and Elijah Pareño of The Flying Lugaw talk about how the term “Katipcore” emerged as a conversational device to describe “The Ateneo Sound” or “The Katipunan Sound,” referring to a certain demographic of bands that usually, but not necessarily, come from the universities that line Katipunan Avenue. 

To summarize the essay, Pascual describes the history and discourse that surrounds the term, especially after the resurfacing of the term in January of this year. It’s a case of a sound association: when you hear a certain arrangement or how a song is structured, you can instantly describe it as Katipcore. Pascual also mentions albums, bands, and songs that fit the Katipcore sound: Any Names Okay, SOS’s 2012 EP, Rusty Machines, Devices, Kremesoda, and the like.

In this essay, I aim to throw my own hat into the ring. I will discuss my own definition of Katipcore, the unique distinction it has, geographical and class analysis, as well as the challenge for a more complex documentation and sociological analysis of modern Philippine music.

When it comes to describing the Katipcore phenomenon, I posit that it has a very distinguishable sound. Rather than the indie rock definition that Pascual denotes in his article, I argue that the Katipcore sound is notably indie rock and jazz fusion; a collection of upbeat major 7 chords and bubblegum, head-popping tunes. Think Kremesoda’s “City Lovin,” Any Name’s Okay’s “Clouds,” or Alyson’s “Heto Na Naman.” 

This indie rock and jazz fusion trend doesn’t just come from the era of late 2010s bands. One could argue that you can find the Katipcore sound in the early discographies of Katipunan-reared bands, such as Ciudad’s 2000 album Hello! How Are You, Mico The Happy Bear? and The Itchyworms’ Little Monsters Under Your Bed. Tracks like The Itchyworms’ “Mellow Carousel” and Ciudad’s “With Me” could easily fit into the Katipcore bands of the 2010s and 2020s. 

Katipcore as a distinguishable sound

While some may argue that the Katipcore sound isn’t necessarily situated in a singular genre or sound, associating a specific genre is necessary. Without a clear definite sound, it completely defeats the purpose of having a term in the first place.

This specific sound association is what makes the phenomena of Katipcore unique, and makes it stand out in how we talk about music. There is no term as prolific as Katipcore when it comes to talking about university-based music scenes—there’s not really a strong sound association with a “Taftcore” or “UBeltcore” in the same way as Katipcore. Yes, there are bands in these places, but there isn’t a sound that would make you immediately think “Oh, this is Taftcore,” in the same way as Katipcore.

Are there bands from Katip that don’t fit the Katipcore sound? Yes. I agree with Pascual—music is not necessarily reflective of the space it is created in. While yes, it can influence lyrics and themes, artistic influences still come first in how a band’s sound is formed, especially in their early careers. For example, in One Click Straight’s early discography, you can clearly hear The 1975 and their contemporaries influence in tracks like “She” or “Kaleidoscope.” The Arctic Monkeys sound is clearly palpable in SOS’s “Dying to Meet You.”

This is the unique case I will make for Katipcore: the sound hasn’t evolved. This is not to say that the individual bands or acts haven’t evolved their sound. But the sound that was prominent in the 2000s and 2010s is still prominent with the newer bands today. 

Pascual argues that the sound has fallen off. I argue it hasn’t. Jazz fusion is alive and well in Katipcore as well as in the mainstream—think SunKissed Lola, and even international influences such as Phum Viphurit and Boy Pablo (who, let’s be honest, served as an influencing starting point for many of these bands in the late 2010s.) These acts serve as musical influences for college students. While I argue that jazz fusion defines Katipcore, what makes it uniquely Katipcore is that this sound is reinforced within the university organizations like UP Music Circle and Ateneo Musicians’ Pool, and defines the starting careers of this community that spreads into the gig scenes. It is in these gig places that re-expose college-aged aspiring musicians to the sound, whether it be in campus events or Jess and Pat’s, and around.

Geography and beyond

Pascual and Pareño talk about how locations like Mow’s, the now-extinct Route 196 (rest in peace) housed and exposed this type of music to university students. This makes sense. I agree with Pascual that geography “situates the art we experience.” But we live in a post-pandemic world, and how we consume and learn about music is drastically different. We’ve transcended beyond geography at this point.

So, what does this mean for Katipcore? Online platforms such as TikTok, Spotify, and YouTube have contributed to the boom of how musicians try to find their sound. Musicians have recognized the power of social media to boost their reach to audiences, and many of the acts now that have been signed to major record labels are artists that blew up on social media. TikTok sounds and songs squeeze their way into streaming platforms, and through the assistance of algorithms that curate similar sounding bands, create a feedback loop of musical influences for musicians. The genres that end up feeding Katipcore are further reinforced, and the more that aspiring musicians enjoy that music, the more that it manifests in their own compositions.

With Gen-Z being digital natives, they bring these influences into their university lives. They flock together, create these bands with this sound, and work to perform in gig places that continue feeding into that feedback loop of online to offline performances.

This is how Katipcore continues to be reinforced in the digital age. Beyond Any Name’s Okay—which many consider to be the “last Katipcore sounding band”—newer bands such as The Quirks, Lagooon, Lucy Dee, Cutting Corners continue to grow in these spaces. These are the sounds curated in campus spaces, whether it be through small-time concerts organized by campus organizations, events such as UP Fair, and the like, what makes Katipcore Katipcore is its inherent “college band sound.”

“The Ateneo Sound” and the reflection of our material conditions

Pareño and Pascual touch a bit on how the gig places where Katipcore grew such as Route 196 are inaccessible, expensive, which reflect the socioeconomic conditions of students in the universities surrounding these areas. 

It goes deeper than that. To be in a band, to produce this kind of music, and to perform it is rooted in being upper class. The connection between bands and higher income individuals are rooted in being able to afford all the gear such as pedals, instruments, transportation, and more. This class divide manifests in more ways than one in the local music scene—look at the divide between band music and hip hop. 

In another piece on Filipino hip hop on Rappler (and yes, I will quote my own work because this is my blog and no one can stop me lol,), LIAB Studios co-founder and Kartell’em member WAIIAN talk about how rap was invented on the streets. Professor Dr. Lara Katrina Mendoza shares, “It is a way of life that is born of the streets, and in hip-hop, there is nothing wrong with that. Street Is Life. And hiphop celebrates that.”

She continues, “Usually, but not always, those who enter hip-hop are those who have experienced oppression or grew up in poverty…. ’Yung kalaban nila (Their rivals were fellow) [hip hop heads], mga alternative bands, mga fans of [Eraserheads]…. Because those who could buy instruments [could afford them]. Having a band was ‘middle-class.’”

The material conditions in the Philippines manifest in the music that these artists create. If you listen to many of the rappers in the country today, they rap about “getting out of the ghetto” or “the hustle.” As I write in the Rappler piece (again, I’m being self-indulgent), “It’s rooted in actual experiences of using music as a mode not just of upward mobility, but of livelihood as well.”

This is in contrast with the lyrical themes that Katipcore bands usually discuss. More often than not, Katipcore bands explore love as a concept. It’s rare, if there is any attempt at all, that these bands talk about the hustle or struggling in life. Of course, Filipino rappers also explore different lyrical themes, but tracks that tackle success and class struggle are a pillar of the genre.

That economic capacity to invest in band music is what is associated with the elite Katipunan belt universities. This is not to say that people not from UP Diliman and Ateneo de Manila University can’t make indie rock or jazz fusion music, but on the first level, their socioeconomic conditions make it easier to, and on the second level, it’s what makes people negatively associate Katipcore with the universities.

This is where Pascual talks about the reductive, negative connotation that comes with describing acts as Katipcore. I mean, it’s not something that people genuinely get angry about (I think), but it’s a term thrown around as a punchline. However, beyond the tongue-in-cheek punchlines lies a more complex reflection on music, class, geography, and historicizing modern Filipino music. 

Beyond Katipcore

So, why talk about Katipcore? It’s a blip in the grander, complex, and sprawling Philippine music scene. 

The Philippines lacks deeper sociological analysis, theorization, and documentation of its musical landscape. Academic literature on Philippine music tends to focus on the past—folk music, music and political movements in the past, and the like. However, the modern, contemporary Philippine music experience is so rich in what to study. Off the top of my head, there’s so much to unpack with regionalism in the Philippines within different genres, the music scenes in different areas in the country, class and social mobility, and the like.

The discourse on Katipcore is an opening into what discussions on and analysis of Philippine music can be. As Pascual writes, music journalism in the country is rich, but to historicize it, critique it, and analyze it is crucial in capturing the ever evolving scenes today. 

Filipino music is evolving everyday as we know it. All the scenes and genres are fluid, dynamic. There will never be a time where these music scenes are exactly the same. As writers, as listeners of music, we must challenge ourselves to preserve these moments as we look to the future.

Header image: Route 196 Facebook