Tomorrow usually doesn’t take long to arrive, but for fans of Cebu-based indie rock band School Girl Classic, it took six years before “Tomorrow.”
During this period, the band’s members went their separate ways: one moved hundreds of kilometers away, another now plays for multiple other bands, and one is balancing a career in design while still making music. But as each carved out their own path, the future of School Girl Classic turned uncertain. And yet, even as the band drifted apart, the voice at the center of their music still stayed the same—Hana, the fictional schoolgirl through whose eyes their stories have always been told. She has always been the band’s narrator and mirror, a medium to communicate the relatable uncertainty that comes with growing up. In many ways, her story feels inseparable from the band’s own, making their return with “Tomorrow” not just about picking up where they left off, but about revisiting a character who, like them, has had plenty of time to change.
Their growth is given the opportunity to shine through the single’s lyricism. On the one hand, it reads like a conversation with an old friend, full of updates, questions, and reminders. But on the other, it builds a harmonic mantra through tasteful repetition. Together, these give the song a friendly and approachable sense of familiarity that perfectly matches the instrumental’s various emotional ebbs and flows. And with a laidback drum loop as the steady foundation, the strings are given ample space to shine with riffs that build rhythm, and licks that emphasize and stress like sonic punctuation marks.
But “Tomorrow” isn’t just about growth; it’s also the band’s honest thoughts on time, waiting, and coming back—letting listeners know through Hana that the years in between their releases don’t just feel like gaps that they’re rushing to fill. The band chooses to acknowledge the distance, the change, and the uncertainty that have shaped who they are now.
In the end, School Girl Classic’s “Tomorrow” is a reminder that coming back doesn’t mean returning to the exact same place. Things have shifted, people have grown, and even Hana, the fictional schoolgirl, now speaks with a little more clarity and intention. Waiting, then, becomes part of the story rather than something separate from it. With that in mind, “Tomorrow” feels less like a comeback and more like a continuation—just one that took its time to arrive.
“Training Wheels” begins with the clicking sound of a bicycle’s freewheel. The song pedals a new echelon for Iggy San Pablo, the Toronto-based Filipino musician and Rusty Machines frontman, now recording under the name simple socks. Before the instruments break away in the track, there’s a nervy tick of motion without propulsion, that even after your body has stopped pedaling, your motor memory is still trying to justify itself. A siren shrills within earshot, then someone honks as the voices blur, but the city continues to move, ignoring them all. Then the guitar interrupts the street’s noise, sharp and precise with a crisp rhythm, while the drums stall like an engine refusing to start; every sound seems to hesitate between movement and paralysis. And simple socks’ singing is restrained, as though driven by survival instinct, like the voice of someone desperately and politely trying to suppress their emotions so as not to explode in public.
What makes “Training Wheels” so compelling lyrically is how it consistently frames migration as this never-ending process. Iggy San Pablo writes about distance without romanticizing sacrifice this time. “It’s a long distance away/Still call you anyway” conjures a forlorn intimacy with phone calls from overseas during different time zones. One person is wide awake, while the other is fast asleep on the opposite shore. As the song reaches its midpoint, it becomes clearer that the very essence of conviction is slowly coming into focus, culminating in the lyrics, “The pavement’s rough, but I know I need to move along.” He repeats the phrase “I need to move along,” but it no longer sounds like a source of motivation; rather than an affirmation, it starts to sound compulsory, a survival strategy.
But there is irony at play in all of this. Expressing the alienation of immigrants through English, a language inherited and symbolizing both hope and the scars of colonial rule, is already analogous to surrendering a part of oneself to translation. The memories of diaspora are rarely passed down in their entirety. “Training Wheels” lives precisely within this contradiction. To live between two countries means not fully belonging to either, caught between the homeland from which one grew up and left and the hostland that still treats you as provisional. However, this song refuses to succumb to self-pity. After the final repetition, what remains is not despair, but momentum. The freewheel clicking at the beginning returns as a metaphor for the momentum sustained by past efforts, even if the direction is uncertain. Iggy San Pablo’s greatest strength as a songwriter lies in his restraint. He never exaggerates his experiences into grandiose political revelations, and this stance remains unchanged. The production stays lean and restless, the guitars don’t smooth out the arrangements but rather create gaps, and the drums are always in danger of completely losing their rhythm. “Training Wheels” remains hopeful precisely because it refuses resolution. Iggy San Pablo does not land on wholeness by the end of the track. He simply keeps pedaling. In lesser hands, that ambiguity might feel unfinished. Here, it feels honest.
The streak of rhodessa’s refinement as a musician has only persisted since breaking through in 2023, with “Kisame” allowing her presence to shine in broad daylight. She continues to hone in on the well of OPM pop rock she only delivered with more exciting gusto, with the 2023 track “sa’yong sa’yo lang ako” and her 2024 EP ‘kiss’ becoming the main showcases of her artistic throughlines developing further and further.
And with the recent release of “nananabik,” rhodessa continues to stitch her creative growth, sticking to her yearning songwriting formula that may be wearing its welcome, but still delivers the necessary punch in the overall composition. Carving an emphasis on saturated guitar riffs and a stable percussion section that offers enough support to her pleasant vocal delivery.
With her overall changes in sound and style well documented over 6 years of consistent single releases, it now poses a challenge for rhodessa moving forward, especially in how she will branch out her songwriting into deeper, more interesting ventures. To yearn on the surface may be fun, but sinking deeper into it may require her to tilt to a different angle, just so that she can fully grasp an emotionally wider experience.
ok bouquet is a quartet hailing from Quezon City, proclaiming themselves as “Cubao’s finest pretty bois [sic].” Their debut track, “Internet,” oozes with punchy energy and lighthearted longing that begins to gnaw at the heart if you start to think about it too much. Truly, the three minutes and 54 seconds of their musings are the perfect soundtrack to strolling around Cubao with someone who makes you feel a little too giddy.
The track is hinged on jangly, power pop-based guitars that are fueled and moved forward by snare-heavy, open-handed drum beats. There’s a post-pandemic, Gen Z lilt to the roughness of late 1990s indie rock it’s emulating that’s been recreated and taken time and time again; ok bouquet show great proficiency in reflecting their influences and their specific flavor. But perhaps this mastery gets a little too on the nose, at times, the track is uncertain whether it will stay in the territory of simulacrum or novelty.
In the current internet atmosphere that’s laden with references to “manic pixie dream girls” and being mysteriously eccentric at Cubao Expo, it seems like the four-piece managed to capture this exact landscape through sound—whether it be the wisps of cigarette smoke curling into the night or crazy hair colors dotting the horizon. This includes the vulnerability that lies in the core of these performances of identity: “But can I truly fit in your world?” sings their vocalist, Dan Monreal.
Sure, it’s a one-sided track from the perspective of the boy, and perhaps a bit too self-indulgent at times. However, it is redeemed by the naïveté and hunger for connection that stamp this song with traces of nostalgia. It’s fun, vibrant, and refreshingly cathartic to be dizzied by infatuation this intense. The band has a wider horizon to spread their wings into once they trace their next steps from this point of youthful decadence.
Asian Panganay’s debut single, ‘Disconnection Notice, ‘ talks about Filipino family dynamics in an intimate, sobering way, centering on the panganay’s perspectives. As their band name suggests, Asian Panganay is an all-asian, all-Panganay, all-girls quintet. This common attribute allows them to have the personal edge that pops out of their debut single.
Right off the bat, ‘Disconnection Notice’ starts strong and hollow, even vacant, though not in a bad way. A drum beat dragging itself on and simple riffs being fed through delay pedals give a sense of motion without the drive that actually brings it to life. This gives the song more dimensions in how it tackles the subject matter. The line “I don’t have anything to say/You never hear me anyway” distills all those years of neglect, accompanied by vocals that draw the line between ache and exhaustion. In a way, it acts as a parallel to the times when eldest daughters are expected to keep carrying on, even as fatigue eats them inside.
For such a bold entry, the song has already generated a brand that audiences can look forward to. This can either be a pro or a con, depending on whether the band leans into it or decides to switch it up for their upcoming releases. For now, releasing ‘Disconnection Notice’ as their debut single was a necessary move to solidify the band’s striking presence in the current scene.
Now that they’ve given a voice to the unheard heroes of a Filipino family, where will Asian Panganay steer the ship next?
A Piloto’s comeback song since the past two years immediately wrestles with a shocking surprise splattered through his writing: an old friend just died near his neighborhood. The chills that he encounters through that information fill his entire nerves, wracking him with a desperate plea for connection that turns into solemn avoidance at the end. It’s emotionally haphazard that A Piloto expresses well, with his raw vocals just storming through all that tense situation.
The frigid indie rock spirit allows “Asphyxia” to rhythmically heave, as the grooves just charge through with shaky guitar maneuvers that explode onto the chorus. It never loses its raucous flair from the start, up till its very ending. Foggy ambience and gentle guitar atmospherics now give enough space for A Piloto. He now gets to simmer what has come to pass, calmly taking his time to breathe before moving onwards, even with the ache still weighing on his shoulders.
Addy Pantig heeds the listener with one thing: a warning. “Sandstorm” is an admonition explored through metaphor, showcasing the pitfalls of lost time, delivered through soulful blues rock, and with this being her debut single, it’s as gutsy as it is dramatic.
Sandstorm paints a picture of gravitas and intensity, each line like a brush stroke to the canvas. The song is set in a room that’s slowly filling up with sand, and a girl, frozen in fear, realizes it’s too late. Addy has a knack for narrative, and her lyrics are a testament to that. Her “show, don’t tell” method of songwriting set the scene so well, and because of that, the experience lof istening to the track is nothing short of cinematic. The anxiety that comes with time running out rings through in her words and is further highlighted with the dramatic instrumental.
Starting slowly with a steady acoustic guitar and vocals, with added elements joining in the setup as each bar progresses: an eerie violin, the muted drums, and the bass to carry the whole track, as if each new instrument is another grain of sand filling up the room. Then the build-up comes to fruition in the chorus, crashing down like a sudden moment of realization. The blues rock style complements the storytelling style of the lyrics well, which is prominent in blues.
“Sandstorm” is an exemplary showcase of the magic she weaves into the music she has a hand in: Addy’s lyrics that bring with them storytelling and narrative, paired with the quiet yet intense passion that gilds her vocal performance. We’ve seen elements like this in her past work in different projects, and it’s refreshing to hear them still standing strong in her solo work. This track is the first of hopefully many, and will no doubt lay a great foundation for any tracks she releases in the future.
For the most part, We Are Imaginary has played along the ballpark of noise pop, shoegaze, and jangly lo-fi when it comes to their sound. Each of their last four albums plays with the formula in different ways – a reflection of the band’s changing members. Early on, sometime before the release of 2010’s ‘One Dreamy Indeterminate Hum,’ the band even had to change its name. With its latest release, We Are Imaginary settles on something new and interesting, enough for it to be a self-titled album, with the record to be sold on vinyl via Eikon Records.
Not only is ‘We Are Imaginary,’ their fifth album, a feat in “remaining true” to their sound, so to speak, but it is also a symbolic act to release their fifth album as a self-titled full-length album 17 years since their debut. As if to say that the band has planted an anchor against the currents of time that bears their name – a sign of confidence. It’s worth mentioning that this is supposedly the last by their longtime bassist Vhall Bugtong, who migrated to North America. The new setup includes Ahmad and Khalid Tanji as the band’s twin backbone, joined by Jerros Dolino of Megumi Acorda and Spacedog Spacecat.
We Are Imaginary’s self-titled album is worth listening to not because of their proximity to bands we already enjoy–they do wear their influences on their sleeves in interviews–but to see how they’ve planted their feet in their musical journey. The band knows how to be both emotionally evocative and earnestly relatable, and it shows. The album’s sonic palette is primed by the singles that were released prior: “Pinkish Hue,” kept in their pockets since 2015, puts the band’s romantic lyrics at bay with fierce mood-driven fuzziness. “Stockholm” and its happysad structure don’t resolve themselves despite soaring up in energy. The same with “Object Of My Affliction” and its nuanced breakdown two-thirds of the way. “Greatest Kill” emerges as a track that I keep going back to; it’s built for detached navel gazing.
Throughout the album, I feel a poignant dissonance. As a whole, the album comes across as concrete and certain, and well curated, thanks to its one year in preproduction. But why do I feel a permeating sense of melancholy while listening? How can the album talk about surrender and yearning while remaining measured, almost clinical, in its arrangement?
Both can exist, in music and in life, which is a testament to the band’s own songwriting. Frontman Ahmad’s lyricism cut through the production in a way that they have always done it: abstract, unfettered, and accepting of its own feelings. This time, the result feels more cohesive when looked at as a full project. This band setup, this new approach to their sound, just feels right.
When you live through cold weather all the time, you’re always going to find ways to make the warmth you get linger within you. That’s why it makes sense that some of the artists we turn to for moody expressions of emotions, be it through words or music, come all the way from frigid Canada. And somewhere up in Montreal, Johann Mendoza committed to tape sounds that would allow his feelings to circulate through the dense winds of a Quebec autumn.
On the self-titled debut album of this project, marcel explores melancholia through slowcore textures and melodies—combine that with its grayscale cover art of clouds and chain-link, and you get a collection of songs that chronicles the doomed fate of young love and its complex phases. This theme is set in motion with the album opener “journal entry,” which acts as a prologue for a story of heartbreak told across seven tracks. On “just one of those days,” marcel recalls the first memory of a past lover. His lyrics on partaking in the reckless abandon of a night out are elevated by the delicate drone of a string quartet – or, at least, a guitar resembling a string quartet, which brings an organic feeling within an otherwise processed soundscape. It’s like catching the cool breeze and falling leaves while walking wasted in downtown Montreal, although the textures do overstay their welcome, to the point where it could leave you wanting to take shelter, lest you get hypothermia.
But on “these rotten nails,” we’re taken away from the streets and into the rooms of two individuals processing heartbreak in dim lighting. The chemistry between marcel and guest vocalist kelly elizabeth is palpable as they sing about their perspectives on a failed relationship, though any hope of reconciliation between the two characters is nowhere to be seen: the acoustic guitar-driven half of the song dissolves into a slower, gloomier instrumental as the two singers wonder where things went wrong. It’s fascinating to hear a story being told through the contrast between two guitars that sound completely different from one another. This creative use of slowcore drones and the drama laced within the lyrics are two things that make “these rotten nails” a highlight within the project.
“parc hang,” like “just one of those days,” is a song that sees marcel reminiscing about a night out, but with the context of the track that immediately precedes it, “parc hang” becomes the sound of a memory slipping away from the mind of someone who’s ready to move on. The guitars make you feel like you’re watching a videotape of a park while it’s being demagnetized – to the point where all you can see is static, and this is about the only time on this album where you’ll hear them be this distorted.
The intro of “end of the line” greets us with the most ornate blend of sounds in the album. Listening to the mix of acoustic and electric guitars and a violin is like stepping into the woods for soul-searching before letting out your frustrations through a chamber-emo song. Like in “these rotten nails,” the dichotomy of sounds within this song adds another level of storytelling, and kelly elizabeth’s backing vocals – which mixes so well with marcel’s lead vocals – is the icing on the cake for another satisfying number.
Because marcel mashed together sounds and genres so frequently and so well on the first part of this album, the last two songs, “porch” and “when it’s time to leave,” can be a bit middle-of-the-road by comparison. These songs play their genres straight: the twang of the guitars in “porch” more strongly suggests country-tinged Americana that is well outside the frosty sonic palette you’ve been hearing so far, and the instrumentation in “when it’s time to leave” is the clearest and barest out of all the tracks on the album. But perhaps the cleaner, less hazy state these songs are in, along with their more cautiously optimistic lyrics, represent marcel actually fulfilling his promise of moving on from heartbreak – or, at least, doing so while hoping he and his lover can rekindle the flame someday soon. Nevertheless, these are both decent performances, and it’s still nice to see the snow thaw out for the grass of spring.
Though some of the slowcore drones feel like they’re holding on for too long, marcel still showed some strength as a budding singer-songwriter in the indie space with this album. It’s clear that he has an ear for making films out of the sounds he’s working with, a pen that easily captures the catharsis of a broken heart, and hands that let these two elements live in symbiosis, one track at a time. While the final stretch of songs do come off sonically inconsistent with the rest of the album, they’re still good enough to show marcel’s potential in branching out towards other genres of music, and with the core of this album being in a genre that can feel constrained within one particular sound, he might stand a chance to tell his stories well as the seasons slowly change in Montreal.
Anchored in experimental math rock, parti.’s debut album ‘High Action’ is the equivalent of a cat chasing a laser pointer—you never quite catch what comes next. Across its 43 minute runtime, it thrives on a buffet of instrumental twists and turns.
There’s a kind of beauty in disorder that presents itself throughout the tracks. The first half of ‘High Action’ delivers abrasive riffs and aggressive percussion that refuses to let you settle in. From the metal track “Hullabaloo” to the subsequent math rock “Milo Dinosaur Jr.,” the album already established its ability to be unpredictable. ‘High Action’ levels up its game with a barrage of Japanese-style rock guitar akin to POLKADOT STINGRAY and A Crow Is White, particularly in “Mirage” and “Antigua.” featuring snappy fretwork from Justine Tan and Pio Perez. The production lets the intricacy of the compositions without smoothing out their rough edges, packing the hooks for constant earworm. “Breach” and “High Action” serve as microcosms, concentrating the album’s spectrum of sounds on full display.
“Breach” was just an appetizer—Parti. had already carved out a sound. A mix of alternative, experimental math, and progressive rock keeps you on edge. ‘High Action’ serves up the full feast of their sonic arsenal unapologetically.
