Written by Red Bartolome

To attempt to confine an art project into conventional musical genres is a futile, fruitless effort.

I could say that BURZAGOM’s album effortlessly combines dissonant genres such as punk, hip hop, noise, funk, TV/Film scores, and more into something surprisingly cohesive.

I could say that the record’s pacing, at times slow and deliberate, at times frenetic and full-bore, mixed with its spoken word vocals, evokes memories of my adolescence listening to the Radioactive Sago Project from my Nokia 5130 while commuting to school.

I could say that BURZAGOM’s sound is largely emblematic of a post-internet, post-pandemic venture. I could say that it cleverly borrows and steals from more established songs to create something entirely new. I could say that it is a piece of work that is inimitably anchored around its time of release.

I could just say all of this and be done with it– but that would be a disservice to both you, the reader and possible enjoyer of the album, as well as to BURZAGOM’s vision.

Grandi Oso, or Simbuyo D. Maunawaan: The grand impulse that cannot be understood. A force in the local music scene as enigmatic as their project the STIGMATICS, they cut through conventions like a Good Knife. Known for a variety of different projects, I honestly have no idea whether to refer to the artist as Grandi Oso or Simbuyo D. Maunawaan.

For the sake of brevity and maybe my sanity, let me refer to Simbuyo D. Maunawaan, the vocalist Eric Barabas-Hestas, and BURZAGOM in its entirety simply as “the artist”.

The artist crafts an experience that demands deliberate attention.

A few weeks prior to even hearing about KONTRABIDA, I received a friend request on facebook from an account named Bur Za Gom. I did not know what to expect. I found myself experiencing chaos, anarchy, and disarray. A flurry of incoherent Facebook posts intermittently flooded my feed.

Bur Za Gom shared cryptic images reminiscent of the weird side of the Facebook marketplace and boomer humor. They were somehow surprisingly salient but also stuttered and bewildering at the same time. That account would be banned a short while later.

As I listened to the record, I found myself sinking into the same feelings of disorder and general confusion; only this time I had a vague sense of what was actually going on. I felt as if I could get a grasp of what the artist was trying to impart.

The so-called “spoken word diatribes” and “mutant Frankenstein sound” reminded me of the metro, of the Philippines, of living here, and everything that that would entail. A sonic assault, not entirely unwelcome, painted feelings of anxiety amidst a bustling crowd. Existential dread flowed and mixed, ironically, into brighter and more hopeful sentiments in tracks like “Tamang Timpla”. The record reminded me of so many things.

The record reminded me of how it felt to line up for the MRT. The record reminded me of the times I spent crammed inside a jeep that purportedly fit nine people on each side. The record reminded me of the blinding sunlight that hit my eyes while I walked in the middle of the day. The record reminded me of the wastes and of the wasted in Manila. The record reminded me of revolution.

Just as I felt I was about to achieve a revelation, however, the artist made fun of me.

“Magduda Ka,” the album’s penultimate track, wraps the entire project once again in a sense of confusion. With an almost schizophrenic fervor, it forces you to question whether or not what you felt was actually the intention. Was that what they wanted to say? Was it just a projection of your own affectations? You doubt your interpretations, and question not only yourself, but every little choice on the record. Why reference the story of GomBurZa? Why release it this close to the election? Why was it only made available on YouTube?

I do not like to take things at surface value, but it is inevitable that I inject more and more of myself the more I try to process what I have experienced.

The project, as Diane Arbus would describe photographs, is like a secret about a secret. The more it tells you, the less you know. At the time of this writing, I am satisfied not knowing everything. I no longer wish to seek meaning where there may be none; hipan mo na ang kandila, gusto ko nang magpahinga.

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