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SuperPanaloSounds! by Lourd De Veyra-Sampler

SuperPanaloSounds! by Lourd De Veyra-Sampler

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Superpanalo Sounds! is the first novel by award-winning writer Lourd de Veyra, who is also main man for the rock band Radioactive Sago. This book takes us on the rough-and-tumble journey of the greatest band you never heard, a story of drugs, rock and roll, and the depths of the human soul. We witness both the exhilaration and the ravages wrought by the rock scene. Tracing Pinoy rock history, while creating its own alternative mythos, where rock gods walk on water, bands record mythical albums and then vanish from the scene, and kids from Projects 2-3 can change the world with music, Superpanalo Sounds! is a mind-opening, mind-altering cautionary tale of how high and how low you can go when you’re rocking and rolling.
Superpanalo Sounds! is the first novel by award-winning writer Lourd de Veyra, who is also main man for the rock band Radioactive Sago. This book takes us on the rough-and-tumble journey of the greatest band you never heard, a story of drugs, rock and roll, and the depths of the human soul. We witness both the exhilaration and the ravages wrought by the rock scene. Tracing Pinoy rock history, while creating its own alternative mythos, where rock gods walk on water, bands record mythical albums and then vanish from the scene, and kids from Projects 2-3 can change the world with music, Superpanalo Sounds! is a mind-opening, mind-altering cautionary tale of how high and how low you can go when you’re rocking and rolling.

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Published by: UST Publishing House on Mar 10, 2011
Copyright:Attribution Non-commercial

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05/20/2014

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1
CHAPTER 1
The Saddest Instrument
I
s the saxophone. Nobody understood this better than Milo David, aman constantly gripped by sadness and all its sundry frequencies. Timesare when nothing stands between a man and his misery except a faint,unintelligible sound which he read somewhere was called a “skronk”aharsh, brassy squeak that evoked metal, wooden reed, and air being pushedto their physical extremes. Milo felt that it was the sound that embodied hissoul, a sound that captured all the grotesque beauty of the world aroundhim: the roar of trafc, the clashing voices from the wet market nearby, thedin of the neighbors’ TV and radio in full blast. The saddest. And therefore,the most savage. Because nothing is more terrifying than solitude pushedto the brink. And nothing is more terrifying than genius that has gazed intothe edge of madness. If his sanity were a big hunk of concrete, the slavespushing it came in the form of milky crystal bits. He had gazed deep intothe saxophone and found an immensely dark soundscape.That morning, like almost all mornings of the past ve years, Milo Davidcontemplated suicide, helped in no small part by cigarettes and a savagehangover. But how? Frightening amounts of cheap liquor, nicotine, downers,and amphetamines are sure indications of a man who has no intentions of staying long on earth. But each time he glanced at the aging saxophoneresting on a corner of his room, he would always decide, “Not today.” Tosee the world through the bottom of a gin glass. To see the world through theopacity of an aluminum foil wrapper. To perceive patterns in the swirl of thismorning’s vomit. To fall under the hypnosis of tranquilizers. That seemedto be his overriding philosophy. A destructive one, yes, but he believed
 
2Lourd Ernest H. De Veyra
the music would nally redeem him. It would save him from the neighbors’maddening noise. Oh, how so much he wanted to just ram down their doorsone hot day, yank their TV off their tacky plastic cabinet while hopefully,they were tuned into
Wowowee
and hurl it outside their window. He imaginedthat sound of plastic and glass shattering on the busy street below. It wouldbe one of the most beautiful sounds he’ll ever hear in his life.His head felt as if being jackhammered from both sides. He couldn’teven remember what happened at the gig last night. Maybe he was brilliant,or maybe he simply jerked off all over the club, that is, if he could evenremember where. Moments like these, he would be seized by paranoia.
WasI a drunken jerk to everyone? Did I hit the notes right?
 
Was my
 
zipper openas wide as the barangay hall again?
A ange of guilt always seized hismornings, helped in no small part by the tragic absence of coffee in his sorryexcuse for a kitchen. He wasn’t as poor as to not be able to afford coffee, butMilo was the kind of guy who’d constantly walk into a convenience store andcompletely forget what he was supposed to buyexcept cigarettes, two tothree packs to be exact. Coffee, deodorant, shampoo, toothpaste, canned food.For some reason, he would be briey convinced that these weren’t exactlyessentials, or that he could pick them up again at Aling Rose’s
sari-sari
storefor much less. The problem is that he would come home extremely late whenall the stores were closed, and only scandalously barking dogs heralded hislurching arrival. It became a cycle. When overcome with an articial senseof order and purpose for the day, he’d make a mental grocery list of thingsto purchase from the remainder of last night’s budget, half of which alwayswent to beer and cigarettesthe two things essential to his existence. Thisusually happened when he stared at the cracked and lthy bathroom mirror illuminated from above by a sad incandescent bulb. Milo felt a slight sense of alarm at the sight of sunken eyes and protruding cheekbones, the bloodshoteyes, and teeth bearing an onset of decay. He recoiled at the smell of his ownbreath, which he simply thought could be masked by smoking more cigarettes.Better to reek of smoke than stale saliva and festering sh, he believed.Nothing like nicotine to mask the bad stuff. What he might not realize wasthat the atrocious odor came from within his body, from a stomach stewinginto disgusting mulch in its own gastric juicesthe kind of smell broughtonly about by perennial starvation and not talking for extended periods of 

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