Written by Jax Figarola MISTER MEYERS’ “LAYUAN MO NA AKO” is a heartbreak spiral. Compared to the glitchy, melodic sprawl of his hip-hop mixtape last year called Meister Eyres, this latest track keeps his signature eclecticism, but punctuates it with heavier percussion and a more confrontational edge. And just like his previous works, he scores his emotional distress with a soundbite from a pop culture ephemera: a Raffy Tulfo interview. The flow is magnetic and the rhymes are slick, sure, but there’s an uneasy flattening of the woman in question. The woman in question is a hollow characterization that leans into the cliché of the manipulative ex-girlfriend without interrogating the trope. It positions her as a moralistic foil, a one-dimensional saboteur in the story of his downfall. Her presence is merely symbolic for him to contrast his own fragility and effort. What makes it worse is how intentional the framing feels, how the song relishes in the act of blaming her, while dramatizing the wounds he claims to carry. Additionally, from any angle, it feels unlikable to posture and dismissively insinuate the woman as stupid. One of the lines in the chorus evokes a common trope in rap: that a woman’s inability to “get” a man justifies cutting her off. It’s reductive, but here, it’s delivered with such naked petulance that it becomes pitiful. Still questionable, but probably the least violent expression of the trope we’ve seen in Filipino rap in recent years. Then again, to give the benefit of the doubt, maybe that’s just what really happened. MISTER MEYERS might just be speaking from a place of hurt that hasn’t had the language to process itself with care. He sketches a masculine persona caught between ego and exhaustion, desperately trying to reassert control over his emotions as a man who was done dirty. Moreover, the effort to list sacrifices becomes a coping mechanism, rather than a flex, if juxtaposed to the rest of the song. If read this way, the song becomes less of an attack, and more of a portrait of someone performing strength in his own way. Nevertheless, it’s always a risk when narratives like this regarding women circulate. In Filipino rap, they can normalize certain emotional patterns as justified without being questioned. Still, “LAYUAN MO NA AKO” thrives as a track because of its production. It’s very hard to resist the theatricality of this bass-heavy bravado and the way the hook wriggles into your brain until you’re singing and feeling the masculine persona. Sonically, it’s just fun. It’s the kind of feel-good track tailor-made for those who’ve had their own crazy ex-girlfriend moment and just want to scream “bitch, teka lang!” Regardless of its lyrics, the track is undeniably a guilty pleasure with its impressive production. SUPPORT THE ART & THE ARTIST:
Tag: alternative pop
EP REVIEW: Wuji Wuji – NOVISION
Written by Adrian Jade Francisco Alt-fusion Wuji Wuji has always been a six-piece defined by motion. Their sonic palette constantly twists, turns, unravels like a loose thread, and is always in flux. From jazz-funk rhythms to the dreamy allure of city-pop, now they’ve peeled it all back, exposing ”NOVISION,” a six-track extended play hot out of the oven: fresh, with a warm, experimental bite. This sophomore release is a deliberate act of destruction and reconstruction, preserving some past elements but shedding the hip-hop influences entirely from “NOSOUL.” Drenched in brooding basslines and reverb-heavy guitar, “Times a Crime” and “Push & Pull” carve the emotional core of the EP. The title track “NOVISION” is to surrender to zero gravity, lost in the space of vocal layers and synths that hum like a distant past. It projects exactly what it needs to: a sense of suspension before the EP concludes, acting as a transition to the second half. “Careless” and “Words Hurt” leave things taut, not unresolved. These tracks lay a pivotal point in the EP, deliberately placing the listener in a state of emotional inertia and reflecting a measured evolution in Wuji Wuji’s sound. “NOVISION” was created during a period of identity struggle for Wuji Wuji, a bold, risky move that marks a turning point in their discography, defying expectations that they would lean further into the city-pop path laid out by 2023’s “Kanluran.” But that shift isn’t a misstep; Instead, it reflects their growing curiosity in production and willingness to explore unfamiliar territory. Wuji Wuji doesn’t just change direction; they embrace uncertainty as part of the process. Whether this marks a sound caught mid-metamorphosis or a new era, “NOVISION” proves that the group admires movement more than comfort, and that’s exactly what makes them worth following. SUPPORT THE ART & THE ARTIST:
ALBUM REVIEW: Barbie Almalbis – Not That Girl
Written by Noelle Alarcon If you’ve dug into the heyday of OPM, there’s no doubt you’ve come across Barbie Almalbis ‘ truths spread across her bands “Hungry Young Poets” and “Barbie’s Cradle.” Ever since becoming a solo act, Almalbis has shown immense growth–she tells us like it is in her latest release, Not That Girl. An album created to cope with “the most challenging year of her life,” her renewed outlook crafted a path for her most introspective, experimental record yet. Enriched with producer Nick Lazaro’s background in the metal genre, they managed to create an assortment of songs that are as familiar as they are fresh. Up to its mixing, the album utilizes everything at its sonic fingertips to tell its story. “Desperate Hours” shifts between your ears, a medley of multiple instruments banging and pattering against the sustained chord progression. Her eventual relief arrives when “finally the war is over” resounds clearer than any of her other lyrics, making way for her victory. “Homeostasis” follows suit in the first track’s whimsicality, equally as synth-laden and raw. It leans a bit more towards power pop though, reminiscent of the punchiness of her earlier works. Not That Girl hinges on Almalbis’ beliefs; it is what makes it so vulnerable, yet so comforting. “I tell my soul to only seek you, it’s the only real remedy,” she admits in “Happy Sad” through her signature unique delivery. The heavy metal-inspired track “Platonic” comes afterward, coated in cloying irony. You’d expect the bass drum-filled, fast-paced track to be cynical; until you hear Almalbis sweetly affirm, “I know God loves me, because you do!” All these songs build from each other; audible renditions of her life lessons making her stronger than ever before. “All U Wanna Do” is as feisty and loud as “Platonic,” yet there’s a calmness to the wandering synths that fill in its gaps while she bares her soul. “How To Weep” and the titular track “Not That Girl” prove Almalbis’ pen game is unparalleled. The former is a somber ballad, written straight from her heart: “Nobody knows I’m grieving alone; the way it comes, the way it goes.” The latter roars and howls, taking a more avant-garde approach to the worship songs she’s been acquainted with. “Tell them I’m not who I was before, I’m not that girl anymore!” Almalbis declares, calming the fierce storm inside her. Speaking of Almalbis and being unparalleled, she’s definitely one of the most influential women during Filipino alternative music’s peak in the 1990s and the 2000s. “Needy” and “Wickederrr Heart,” the album’s concluding tracks, greet you like an old friend you haven’t seen in a while. In this case, it’s her trademark sound that we all know and love. “Needy” is a bass-driven, drum machine-led proclamation, perfect for cruising along the road as you nod along to her lyrics filled with appreciation for loved ones in life. “Wickederrr Heart” is a bouncy, pop rock denouement of self-awareness, coated in the desire to change. “I can’t love you when I’m running; I know how it all turns out,” she admits to God, showing her true colors and encouraging you to do the same. Not That Girl is a testament to the fact that there’s always a light at the end of the tunnel. Its experimentality emphasizes its overall message. Life has its very own heavy metal highs, and sincerity-ridden, folk-inspired revelations. The ringing in your ears can seem like a catastrophic cacophony–until you take charge, and create something daringly beautiful out of it. Support the art and the artist:
EP REVIEW: rosh – cotton mouth
Written by JK Caray If you were also a hip local music listener back in the 2010s, you understand how crucial music websites like Bandcamp and SoundCloud were in experiencing the height of that underground, lofi scene brewing inside people’s own houses. While home recordings have always been a thing, the format of these sites provided the internet a front-row seat to the unfiltered, underproduced music some passionate strangers online made in their free time. Among these lie hits and misses but in 2016, Roshelle Munez released her first release “gitling,” which became an instant hit on SoundCloud. Following the virality of “gitling,” Manila-based Alt-Pop artist Munez, aka rosh, became an indie darling overnight—however, it would not be until 8 years later that she released her debut EP entitled “cotton mouth.” Serving as her serious venture into the music scene, the release—a long-awaited debut effort consisting of her unseen works from 2016-2022—allows us to take a peek into her diary as an extension of her psyche. “gitling – 2024” reinvents the original with more polished production and a clearer sound direction that fits right in with the rest of the EP. The addition of groovy drums and harmonies gives it a more laid back and playful vibe, as if having given it space and time to breathe. In stark contrast to this, “human goo” introduces that wall of angst that lingers throughout the entire record. It picks up the pace with driven drums, rosh’s fatigue embodied in her vocals buried beneath eclectic bass synths and the harmonic dissonance of guitars. “rainbow road” steps back from the heavy noise, favoring to experiment with lush, dreampop-like sensibilities. The lyrics echoing her heartbreak are cryptic yet very familiar, something everyone has felt but nobody could pinpoint. Lastly, “nevermind” closes the EP at the zenith of its turmoil. The instrumentals weep with a sense of deep longing and yearning; she’s begged and begged, but somehow it’ll never be reciprocated. Errors decorate the track alongside distorted guitars, creating the perfect backdrop for the emotional breakdown that follows. rosh ends the EP with a “never mind,” too tired to care anymore. In cotton mouth, each song is a confession; all the anguish and hurt hidden finally surfacing after years of being bottled up. Maybe that’s why despite its heavy, angsty nature, cotton mouth feels freeing. It’s the words you couldn’t say and the stories you try to forget after years of running away. Ultimately, rosh’s first foray displays a remarkably promising future for Manila’s star-sign-loving, alt-pop rockstar. Support the art & the artist: