A Midnight Concert

A firsthand account of an unexpected performance.

It was 11:43 at night when I noticed the concert. Licking the dryness from my mouth and wiping the fatigue from my eyes, my ears perked at the familiar sound of drums and guitars. Loud. Chaotic. I couldn’t understand Tagalog, as I painfully discovered at the Tiki bar a few hours before, but music is a universal language. As I walked down the half-dirt, half-pavement road, the cacophony grew louder. I heard drums banging, voices screaming, and laughter"the other common tongue. Part of me wanted to go back to the hostel"my aching head, specifically"but whether it was the tourist spirit or the booze, something convinced me to follow the notes.

              I had expected a bar with a stage or hell, even a van. I had expected a cover charge, a gorilla in a suit searching me for weapons, guys in V-necks and girls in skirts. Imagine my surprise when I came across throngs of people from all walks of life drinking, laughing, and shouting in an apartment parking lot. Old, young, local, foreign"the crowd surged with a stew of men and women of all shapes and sizes cheering their own cheers and dancing their own dances. A group of Russians joked with a Filipino man. A Korean couple danced with a gaggle of teenagers who had become their impromptu dance instructors. At the end of the lot an Australian shared a smoke with the parking enforcement guards, both at a loss as to how to handle the situation. Before I could find a seat, someone had already passed me a Red Horse Ale"another fine Filipino concoction. Taking a seat at a nearby picnic table (where they found it eludes me still) my gaze shifted to the main attraction. Barely looking over 18, the band’s front man leapt back and forth onstage shouting and screeching in a way only metal singers can. His band members, already sweaty from the muggy Summer night, added more to the mix as they reeled and raged on their instruments like flame on a candle. I couldn’t understand, of course, but I didn’t need to. Foreign, local"we could all feel the energy.

              Like the snap of a photograph, the concert was finished. As quickly as they had arrived, groups split off and vanished into the night shouting what I gathered to mean ‘good night!’ New friends piled into cars eager to grab their next drink while others approached the band to offer their praises. Draining what I assumed was my fourth beer, I inched past couples lying on the pavement towards the front man, still heaving from the performance. Shouting at his band mates in between sips from a beer, his gaze turned to me, a sweaty tourist with a dopey grin on his face. “That was awesome,” I said, as clearly as I could. With a smile, the singer hunched forward and slapped my hand, the words “thank you” crackling from his dry throat. Nodding, I gave him one last wave and joined the others in the mass exodus out of the parking lot.

              When I awoke the next day, my hostel bed reeked of sweat, smoke, and booze"the telltale signs of a fun night out. Taking a swig from my water bottle I scanned the other beds. New boarders had arrived while I slept. By the end of the week I had visited several other corners of the Philippines, but no sight, dish, or experience felt quite as real, or visceral, as that impromptu concert on that quiet, muggy night.