D. R. M. Irving - Colonial Counterpoint Music in Early Modern Manila (Currents in Latin Amer & Iberian Music)

Colonial Counterpoint
Walter Clark, Series Editor
Nor-tec Rifa!
Electronic Dance Music from Tijuana to the World
Alejandro L. Madrid
From Serra to Sancho:

Music and Pageantry in the California Missions
Craig H. Russell
Colonial Counterpoint:
Music in Early Modern Manila
D. R. M. Irving
Colonial
Counterpoint
Music in Early Modern Manila
D . R . M . IRVING
3
2010
3
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Irving, D. R. M., 1981–
Colonial counterpoint: music in early modern Manila / D. R. M. Irving.
p. cm.—(Currents in Latin American and Iberian music)
Includes bibliographical references and index.
ISBN 978-0-19-537826-9
1. Music—Philippines—History and criticism. 2. Music—
Philippines—Spanish influences.
I. Title.
ML345.P528I78 2010
780.9599’16—dc22 2009030288
Publication of this book was supported by the AMS 75 PAYS Publication Endowment Fund of
the American Musicological Society.
9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
Printed in the United States of America
on acid-free paper
To all my family and friends, far and near
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Acknowledgments
The great music theorist Johann Joseph Fux observed in his famous treatise on
counterpoint Gradus ad Parnassum (1725) that novices in any craft are obliged
to serve apprenticeships of at least three years. I am most fortunate to have
served my own academic apprenticeship with Tess Knighton, doyenne of
Spanish Renaissance music studies, who supervised my doctoral research at
Cambridge and introduced me to many important areas of scholarship. From
the very outset she showed real belief in my work, pointed me toward new and
significant fields of inquiry, and gave me an enormous amount of all-round
support and encouragement. Another person to whom I am very grateful is the
charismatic and inimitable Alain Pacquier—polymath and founder of the phil-
anthropic organization Les Chemins du Baroque. His promotion and patronage
of Latin American Baroque music were among the initial prompts that made
me look at the Philippines as an important but understudied part of the history
of music in the Iberian world. I would also like to thank William John Summers,
whose research into music of the colonial Philippines has been an inspiration
to me.
My very first musicological contact in Manila was Corazon Canave-
Dioquino at the University of the Philippines Diliman, who kindly responded
to my embryonic research questions with patience and encouragement. Also at
U.P. Diliman, Patricia Brillantes-Silvestre, Jose Semblante Buenconsejo, Elena
Rivera Mirano, Ramón Pangayon Santos, Jonas Baes, Verne dela Peña, and my
many friends in the graduate community have provided ideas and inspiration.
I am particularly grateful to Jose Buenconsejo for his many helpful sugges-
tions, comments, and his eponymous buen consejo on my research over the
years. In November 2003, I was privileged to have two conversations with the
great José Montserrat Maceda (1917–2004), one of the leading lights and pioneers
viii acknowledgments
of ethnomusicology in the Philippines, who offered me some fascinating per-

spectives on his ideas about Asian musics.
At Manila’s University of Santo Tomás María Alexandra Iñigo Chua, Julie-
Ann Hallazgo, Regalado Trota Jose, Erlí Mendoza, María Eloisa P. de Castro,
Cynthia Rivera, Manuel P. Maramba, OSB, Fidel Villarroel, OP, and Ángel
Aparicio, OP, welcomed me as a visiting researcher on many occasions, and
gave me assistance and guidance in the university’s archives. Melissa Mantaring
at the Cultural Center of the Philippines inspired me with her own research,
and advised me to look at rare extant printed sources held in the López Memorial
Museum. Arsenio Magsino Nicolas and I had some very fruitful conversations
about connections between India and Southeast Asia, while Jaime Tiongson
shared with me his knowledge of early modern vocabularios of Filipino lan-
guages. Nicanor Tiongson discussed with me many of the finer points of the
history of theater and religious drama in the Philippines, and invited me to
observe the fascinating Holy Week rituals in his hometown of Malolos. Pedro
Galende, OSA, curator of the San Agustín Church and Museum in Intramuros,
kindly allowed me to access the convent’s Bibliotheca. The staff members at the
Archdiocesan Archives of Manila were very helpful in assisting my forays into
ecclesiastical records. Luciano P. R. Santiago has been a wonderful correspondent
and has informed me about some highly significant documents. Cealwyn Tagle
and the late Edgar Montiano of Diego Cera Organbuilders, Inc., together with
organist Armando Salarza, introduced me to the famous Bamboo Organ in
their hometown of Las Piñas and discussed with me many aspects of organ-
building. To all my friends in the Philippines, maraming salamat po!
I would like to thank Tara Alberts, Francis Knights, W. Dean Sutcliffe, and
the anonymous readers from Oxford University Press for reading the manu-
script at various stages of completion, and for offering constructive and detailed
criticism. I am especially grateful to the Master and Fellows of Christ’s College,
Cambridge, for providing a wonderful and inspiring scholarly atmosphere in
which to live and work; in particular, I am much obliged to Susan Bayly, David
Reynolds, and many other senior members of the college, who generously gave
a great deal of encouragement and advice as I worked on this project. At the
Faculty of Music, University of Cambridge, my colleagues have been very help-
ful in providing an academic sounding board for ideas, questioning me about
the new directions of my research, and providing invaluable information.
Elsewhere in Cambridge and the United Kingdom, Thirza Hope, Katherine
Butler Brown, Miri Rubin, Mary Laven, Joan-Pau Rubiés, Melissa Calaresu,
Janice Stargardt, Geoffrey Baker, Henry Stobart, Richard Widdess, Tala Jarjour,
and Peter Leech discussed and contributed new ideas. My cousins Kirsten
Gormly and Kristian Downing kindly accommodated me in London when I first
began researching at the British Library; Libby and Doug Meikle, Kitty
Summers, and their families have all been a great support. Sara Aguilar, Peter
Agócs, and David Butterfield kindly helped me with Latin translations; David
acknowledgments ix
Sedley gave me some very useful pointers on the classical references in my

sources. Iain Fenlon and Ian Woodfield examined the dissertation that served
as a springboard for the writing of this book, and their comments, ideas, and
suggestions along the way have been invaluable. Besides the intellectual inspi-
ration I have received from colleagues and friends in the course of writing this
book, I must also acknowledge the mental stimulation that coffee has provided,
especially the excellent caffè americano at Clowns Café on King Street.
In Spain, Álvaro Torrente, Juan José Carreras, Mercedes Castillo Ferreira,
Gonzalo Roldán Herencia, María Gembero Ustárroz, Emilio Ros-Fábregas,
Javier Marín López, Cristina Bordas Ibáñez, José María Domínguez Rodríguez,
José Antonio Gutiérrez Álvarez, and many other musicological colleagues too
numerous to mention have offered their advice and support. I must thank
Miguel and Sara Aguilar for their kind hospitality in Collado Mediano, during
my research periods in Madrid. In Germany, Reinhard Wendt read early ver-
sions of my work and made some excellent suggestions. In France, Jean-
Christophe Frisch and François Picard provided some new perspectives and
approaches in line with their expertise in Chinese music, as well as collabo-
rating in several exciting performances and research projects. In the United
States, my dear friend and colleague Joyce Z. Lindorff has always provided
inspiration and helpful advice; Jim and Katherine Zartman kindly accommo-
dated me when I was carrying out research in Chicago. Robert Murrell
Stevenson wrote me an encouraging letter towards the beginning of my
research (an epistle that I still treasure) pointing out the connections between
Sor Juana Inés de la Cruz and the Philippines. Needless to say, his countless
publications on the musical traditions of Latin America have long been a guid-
ing light for me.
I would like to record my gratitude to many organizations and institutions
for their financial assistance in bringing this project to fruition. The American
Society for Eighteenth-Century Studies provided funds for a short-term
fellowship at the Newberry Library, Chicago, where I was able to study rare
materials held in the Ayer Collection. The Association for South-East Asian
Studies in the United Kingdom awarded me a grant that facilitated essential
archival research in Spain. Research funds from Christ’s College, Cambridge,
covered expenses incurred in the production of this book. The Faculty of Music,
University of Cambridge, has generously assisted me with many research costs
over the years. I must also thank the American Musicological Society for its
support of this book through a Publication Award for Younger Scholars.
Walter Aaron Clark, the series editor of Currents in Latin American and
Iberian Music, has given me great encouragement and much sage advice ever
since I initially approached him with an idea for a contribution to the series.
I would especially like to thank my wonderful editor at Oxford University Press,
Suzanne Ryan, as well as Madelyn Sutton, Linda Donnelly, Laura Poole,
Katharine Boone, and Norm Hirschy, for all their support as this project has
x acknowledgments
taken shape. They have made the whole publishing process very smooth and
pleasurable indeed. Finally, thanks must go to my father and my late mother,
the rest of my family (nuclear and extended), and to Tom, for their love and
patience.
I have woven into this book a number of small portions from some of my
previous publications; these excerpts appear here in significantly revised and
expanded forms, with the permission of the original publishers:
“Musical Politics of Empire: The Loa in Eighteenth-Century Manila,” Early
Music 32.3 (2004), © Oxford University Press; and “Historical and Literary
Vestiges of the Villancico in the Early Modern Philippines,” in Devotional Music
in the Iberian World, 1450–1800: The Villancico and Related Genres, edited by
Tess Knighton and Álvaro Torrente (Aldershot: Ashgate, 2007), © Ashgate.
Several citations of archival material have been made courtesy of the Lilly
Library, Indiana University, Bloomington, Indiana.
Note on Translations and Orthography
All translations from Romance languages into English are my own, except
where specifically noted. I have modernized some uses of “v” and “u” in tran-
scriptions from early modern printed sources, in cases where their original
form may otherwise obscure meaning.
Contents
Introduction, 1
Part I: Contrapuntal Cultures

1. Colonial Capital, Global City, 19
2. Musical Transactions and Intercultural Exchange, 45
Part II: Enharmonic Engagement

3. Mapping Musical Cultures, 73
4. The Hispanization of Filipino Music, 99
5. Courtship and Syncretism in Colonial Genres, 135
Part III: Strict Counterpoint

6. Cathedrals, Convents, Churches, and Chapels, 157
7. Regulations, Reforms, and Controversies, 195
8. Fiesta filipina: Celebrations in Manila, 215
Conclusion: Contrapuntal Colonialism, 231

Notes, 239
Bibliography, 337
Index, 369
Colonial Counterpoint
©
Introduction
Music is opposition. Opposition characterizes all parts of music, from the con-
trapuntal techniques used in European compositions to antiphonal performance
styles found around the world, pitting singer against singer. Musical expres-
sion is contingent on binary oppositions: performer and listener, sound and
silence, ritual and recreation. Most European music depends on counterpoint
(punctus contra punctum), the opposition of note against note. The performance
of music, moreover, requires action and reaction at conscious and subcon-
scious levels. In seeking out a collective aesthetic consciousness, musical per-
ception and the interpretation of music history often involve a Hegelian process
of affirmation and negation, and ultimately resolution of the two. This is
counterpoint.
Opposition is often a means to an end, but it remains a universal feature of
music, and we see its effects operating at a global level.1 When geographically
removed and culturally distinct musical systems come into direct contact with
each other, their meetings are framed by the structure of innumerable opposi-
tions relating to style, technique, expression, and aesthetics. From the turn of
the sixteenth century to the present day, diverse musics existing independently
in different parts of the world have been gradually subsumed into a globally
integrated system of sonic expression, and their practitioners have been
interconnected through social processes that include trade, diplomacy, and out-
right conquest. These musics have collectively evolved into the diverse musical
world of today, one that is characterized chiefly by plurality and malleability.
The story of intercultural encounter through music in the early modern
period, during the (necessarily plural) Age of Discoveries, is also a type of
counterpoint: it is a narrative that pits consonance against dissonance, interde-
pendence against independence, tolerance against intolerance, and compatibility
2 colonial counterpoint
against incompatibility. To explore these binary oppositions and their complex

internal relationships is to consider the series of causal links that have brought
about the transformation of the world’s musics over the last 500 years. In line
with the thinking of Ferdinand de Saussure (1857–1913) and Claude Lévi-Strauss
(1908–2009), we can use the idea of opposition to explore the creation of musical
meaning within cultural and social contexts of early modern colonialism and
globalization.2 Through a subversive reading of historical texts, we can also for-
mulate interpretive methods that deconstruct meaning, thus following Jacques
Derrida (1930–2004) in questioning the ideological assumptions and contradic-
tions that are implicit in the early modern documentation of crucial and forma-
tive intercultural encounters.3
Our rich knowledge of the world’s musics as they exist now and existed
then can doubtless be attributed to the historical processes of intercultural
opposition, negotiation, and exchange. But conflict between cultures—brought
about largely by colonialism—has had a ruinous impact on the musics of the
world, causing many traditions to disappear altogether, especially in territories
that were conquered by European nations and incorporated into colonial
empires.4 Musical practices played important roles in this conflict, for in the
early modern world there was arguably no music that was not constitutive of
societies’ ideological values and a signifier of deep cultural symbolism. Every
act of musical performance was inextricably intertwined with religious or
political cultural systems or imbued with expressions of social or ethnic iden-
tities. The musics of many non-European peoples (often inseparable from
specific ritual practices) declined or were eradicated amidst the imposition of
new cultural systems by European colonial empires, for these musics and their
associated practices were frequently considered incompatible with or irrecon-
cilable to the cultural frameworks of the hegemonic societies that supplanted
the social structures of indigenous populations.5
Of course, some early modern European empires actively attempted to
incorporate subjugated peoples into their own colonial societies. In many col-
onies, especially the so-called settlement colonies, sustained intercultural
encounters between indigenous populations and European settlers often
entailed the imposition of Europe’s strict forms and rules on local musics.
Through musical display and musical pedagogy, there was a concerted and
conceited attempt by dominant ruling groups to effect the integration of sub-
jugated peoples’ musical tastes, involving the subtle transformation or out-
right manipulation of musical styles and aesthetics, made actively or passively
in the hope of achieving some form of social cohesion. Elements of musical
encounter and negotiation such as these were entirely symptomatic of colo-
nial societies in early modern Latin America and the Philippines. Throughout
the Spanish Empire, a multiplicity of musical styles and genres was practiced
simultaneously by different ethnic groups, coexisting in accordance with
strict social, religious, and political regulations. The types of interaction
introduction 3
between distinct musical parts—which often worked against each other but
collectively produced a sonorous whole—can be viewed as various species of
counterpoint.
In using the term counterpoint, I mean to apply its common musicological
definition as a social analogy: that is, counterpoint within a colonial society
involves the combination of multiple musical voices according to a strict,
uncompromising set of rules wielded by a manipulating power. To early
modern Europeans, counterpoint represented a means by which sound and
society could be rationalized, and in this sense it became a formidable agent of
colonialism. Europeans also deliberately used counterpoint as a self-conscious
cultural emblem to emphasize their difference from the non-European Other:
one of the principal ways they could maintain a sense of musical “uniqueness”
and “superiority” was to point to the apparent absence of counterpoint else-
where, thereby increasing intercultural difference.6 Essentialist ideas about the
exceptionalism of European musical theory and practice have long pervaded
historical musicology, and contrapuntal polyphony was considered to be the
exclusive preserve of early modern European music, even by the likes of the
great sociologist Max Weber (1864–1920), who argued that “no other epoch
and culture was familiar with it.”7 Of course, this kind of sweeping statement
cannot be upheld today, in light of almost a century of serious ethnomusicolog-
ical research into non-European musics since Weber wrote; furthermore, it is
important to acknowledge that strict and intractable typologies of music cul-
tures are fraught with interpretive peril. Rather than viewing certain European
and non-European musical cultures of the distant and more recent past as
static entities with impermeable boundaries, then, it is essential to see them as
broad, fluid, and often overlapping categories.
The porous nature of intercultural frontiers and the resulting plurality of
musical styles became chief characteristics of many early modern colonial cul-
tures: alongside the traditional indigenous practices that had to adapt to new
social and political circumstances to survive, newly introduced musics were
imposed by hegemonic colonial powers, and some were embraced or emulated
by local musicians.8 Many indigenous musics were contrapuntalized—that is,
certain Western melodic and harmonic structures were absorbed into them—
so they could be accepted within colonial frameworks. Yet counterpoint as a
form of sonic control did not completely overwhelm what had gone before, for
the musics of populous, disempowered factions within such a society (the sub-
altern), set against the musics of the dominant ruling class or prevailing social
institutions (the elite), often failed to recede or become subservient, although
their forms may have evolved. The continued existence of these musics was
due to indigenous peoples’ recognition of their ability to symbolize and articu-
late cultural resistance through subversion of artistic forms and genres that
were mandated or encouraged by the colonizers. At the same time, the active
appropriation of European musical practices by indigenous musicians in parts
of the Spanish Empire served to resist any potential artistic predominance of

colonialists in the newly imposed aesthetic.
To extend the contrapuntal metaphor somewhat further, the displacement
of time and space that characterizes cultural relationships between parent
states and their overseas colonies is similarly, in global terms, a type of imita-
tive counterpoint. The sharing of musical commodities that are produced in
one place and then exported—such as compositions, treatises, or innovations
in the design of musical instruments—invariably involves some delay between
use at their origin and their destination. This period might be a matter of years,
months, or weeks. (It is only relatively recently that the global transmission of
cultural commodities has attained all appearances of being instantaneous, with
almost no noticeable time lapse.) But once musical commodities sound or are
used again in their new location, they often echo their origin at a consistent
temporal interval. In parent state and colony alike, the old coexisted with the
new, even as innovations occurred in both places. The musical ramifications of
temporal-spatial displacement, or imitative counterpoint between parent state
and colony, were noted and critiqued by many early modern travel writers and
colonialists.
A third meaning of colonial counterpoint is more literal. Colonies—in
their establishment, development, and ultimate enfranchisement as autono-
mous states—represent an antithesis or “counterpoint” to the parent state.
There is a new social order; humble migrants from the parent state can find
themselves exalted; indigenous civilizations are often violently overthrown;
and some dignitaries from the parent state might even be sent into exile there.
Certain power relationships are intensified, and others are diminished; still
more are inverted. Assertion of cultural self-identity and oppositional self-defi-
nition becomes exaggerated in unfamiliar host environments. Within the par-
ent state, the presence of the colony is both real and imagined through
migration, trade, and cultural transmission. The reverse is also true—although
it is axiomatic of colonial relationships that subjugated, indigenous residents of
a colony will come to know their oppressors more intimately and directly than
the civilian residents of a parent state will come to know the cultural identities
of a colonial population.
Early modern European nations sought to conquer and colonize various
parts of the world with the aim of extracting revenue from other lands and
establishing an expansive political state. In similar terms, counterpoint can be
seen as not just an end unto itself but a means to an end: a technique of
combining separate but synchronous parts to achieve a euphonious whole. In
the abstract ontology of music theory, the end justifies the means, given that
contrapuntal techniques of composition (the means) can produce a work of
polyphony (the end). Yet no one, by contrast, would concede that the contra-
puntal collision of cultures in the Age of Discoveries (in a word, colonialism)
justifies the globalized musical present, in which a small number of powerful
introduction 5
cultures have predominated at the expense of so many others. We should rec-

ognize that both colonialism and counterpoint are representative of hegemony,
albeit in different forms. Colonialism in its broadest sense represents an over-
arching power structure that controls and governs the use of resources, while
maintaining a relationship between parent state and colony. Correspondingly,
counterpoint represents an overarching power structure that controls and gov-
erns the interaction of tones, while referring to the relationship between differ-
ent musical voices.
Counterpoint in the early modern period has been considered as intransi-
gent a practice as colonialism has been judged to be insidious, and its sym-
bolism as a form of totalizing rationality meant that it was related to many
other aspects of hegemonic European cultures. For instance, the field of aes-
thetics—in which music theory (and, by implication, counterpoint) played a
significant role—was firmly linked to politics, and in the context of this connec-
tion, “usurpation, tyranny, and domination formed one of the most powerful
complex of meanings surrounding counterpoint,” as David Yearsley has so
aptly observed.9 But whether counterpoint contributed directly to political hege-
mony, or whether it merely formed part of “the mirror of reality,” as Karl Marx
(1818–83) would put it, we can still see that counterpoint is a fitting metaphor
for colonialism, as the ideological correspondences between the two concepts
are striking. Pervasiveness is perhaps one of the most significant of their shared
characteristics: colonialism promotes universal commonality (by which I mean
a general standardization of cultural practices, rather than any particularized
notions of egalitarianism), whereas counterpoint became such a conventional
and central component of compositional techniques in Western art music dur-
ing a certain part of its history that the seventeenth, eighteenth, and nineteenth
centuries have become known as the “common practice period.” By expanding
our perspective to encompass the globe, we can see that forms of cultural
hegemony—whether they are represented by colonialism, counterpoint, or
other types of control—inevitably give rise to a great degree of cultural homo-
geneity, with dire results for musical practice and a considerable decrease in
the diversity of musical styles.
In the face of cultural losses that have resulted from colonial hegemony,
it is arguably the “contrapuntal analysis” of historical sources, as proposed by
Edward Said (1935–2003) in his seminal work Culture & Imperialism, that can
offer a means by which we can attempt to redress the interpretive balance.
Contrapuntal analysis, an approach developed by Said for the reading of
canonic texts of Western literature, teases out distinct (and opposing) voices of
the elite and the subaltern in colonial societies, revealing submerged voices
and exposing the intricacies of interdependence and complementarity in the
sounding of a cohesive whole. It has been adopted by literary critics, cultural
historians, and even specialists in international relations.10 According to Ben
Etherington, Said’s idea of contrapuntalism “is successively an analytical
device, a strategy of anti-colonial opposition and an idealised ‘post-imperial’

condition of consciousness.”11 Etherington writes from a musicological view-
point, but other scholars in the humanities who are unfamiliar with concepts
of music theory often fail to realize that the art and act of counterpoint assumes
a set of stringent rules that are imposed from above by the power that con-
structs the contrapuntal form—whether the composer of a musical piece or
the arbiters of colonial social structure. They see contrapuntalism as represen-
tative of the intricate relationships between voices but do not recognize any
agency that dictates the norms of multivocal interactions. (In some cases,
contrapuntal analysts themselves become the contrapuntists.) We should
remember, however, that strict counterpoint from a European perspective pre-
supposes intervention from above, and frequently implies a teleological route
for music. The latter notion was reflected in the titles of some early modern
instructional manuals for composition. As eighteenth-century theorist Johann
Joseph Fux (1660–1741) put it, the study of counterpoint symbolized Gradus
ad Parnassum (“Steps to Parnassus”). In the same way, colonial ideology pro-
moted changes in non-European musics, imposing European counterpoint
and harmony, to effect their “improvement.” In a nutshell, we could say that
counterpoint represents colonialism, whereas contrapuntal analysis repre-
sents postcolonialism.
Said’s contrapuntal analysis was intended originally for the examination of
novels that incorporate a hidden colonial Other, on which the main action of
the plot—usually set in the parent state of some colonial empire—is contin-
gent. For instance, English writers Jane Austen (1775–1817) and Charles
Dickens (1812–70) used Africa, India, Australia, and other parts of the nine-
teenth-century sprawl of the British Empire as a means of explaining accumu-
lated wealth, as a convenient place to dispatch gratuitous characters (in chains
made of either iron or gold), or as a locus for an imagined happy ending that is
implied (but not narrated) with all the opportunism of the colonialist.12 The
fates of the “mother country” and its inhabitants were thereby dependent on
past events or future “opportunities” in the colonies, and an increasing number
of European cultural products—literature, music (especially opera), and the
visual arts—began to reflect this state of affairs by deliberately shaping percep-
tions and stereotypes of the colonized Other. Some form of historical aware-
ness is therefore obligatory if we are to understand fully all the political,
ideological, and aesthetic implications of these cultural products—products
that we continue to consume today. As Said put it,
as we look back at the cultural archive, we begin to reread it not
univocally but contrapuntally, with a simultaneous awareness both of
the metropolitan history that is narrated and of those other histories
against which (and together with which) the dominating discourse
acts. . . . In the same way, I believe, we can read and interpret English
introduction 7
novels, for example, whose engagement (usually suppressed for the

most part) with the West Indies or India, say, is shaped and perhaps
even determined by the specific history of colonization, resistance,
and finally native nationalism.13
Contrapuntalism in literary analysis thus addresses the perspectives of both the
elite and the subaltern, using binary oppositions to create a framework within
which meaning can be constructed.
Of course, fictional literature is one matter, but interpreting the lived past
is another. My meaning of contrapuntal analysis relates to the reading of texts
produced in the colonies or about the colonies themselves. Regarding the study
of the early modern Philippines, many of these texts are ethnographies of local
indigenous populations or descriptions of the subaltern’s musical perfor-
mances that are written by the elite of colonial societies. Others are essentially
hagiographic discourses that extol the virtuous lives of missionaries or indige-
nous converts. The colonial production of writings such as these was connected
inextricably to the machinations of political and cultural power structures, as
Said pointed out in Orientalism.14 Said took as his point of departure his own,
Oriental application of the aphorism of Marx that “they cannot represent them-
selves; they must be represented,” and, leaning on ideas of discursive power
developed by Michel Foucault (1926–84), argued that Europeans’ formal study
or representation of the Orient “promoted the difference between the familiar
(Europe, the West, ‘us’) and the strange (the Orient, the East, ‘them’).”15 Since
the publication of Orientalism just over three decades ago, opponents and critics
of Said have called for a more nuanced view of the relationship between East
and West.16 But we should still acknowledge that the discursive counterpoint of
the colonies played an important role in the creation of European identity and
that it provided for Europe the basis for the formation of hegemonic ideologies
and for attempted control of the Orient. A complex set of meanings and biases
is therefore implicit in every form of document emerging from the colonies.
Thus, in treating sources created in Orientalist or other colonial contexts,
contrapuntal analysis becomes an indispensable tool for the rediscovery of lost
identities that are erased from the record or for the reconstruction of precolo-
nial musical practices that either disappeared or were transformed in the course
of colonial history. In recovering data pertaining to the music of the Philippines’
colonial past and subjecting them to historical and musicological interpreta-
tion, our uses of Saidian techniques of contrapuntalism involve looking beyond
the records of missionaries and colonial authorities, reading between (and
beyond) the lines to question indigenous engagement with the production of
historic colonial texts, and connecting indigenous social structures and cultural
systems to past and present processes of intercultural contact and globaliza-
tion. From our own modern-day perspective, we thus assume the position of
postcolonial “insiders,” as contrapuntal analysts, writing ourselves into a
narrative that seeks to privilege and recover indigenous voices through subver-
sive and contrapuntal readings of rare archival materials.
Manila and the Beginnings of (Music) Globalization
This book does not aim to be just one more monograph on yet another unsung
colonial music history of the early modern Iberian world. Instead, it seeks to
radically reconceptualize our views of what music meant for multidirectional
intercultural exchanges in the age of incipient globalization. It is distinctive
because it pinpoints Manila as the missing link in the concatenation of mer-
cantile, political, and intellectual enterprises that characterized the emergence
of a global consciousness and global networks in the early modern period. If we
are to begin to understand the globalization of musics, we need to examine its
history, and return to where it all started in 1571: Manila.
Globalization is the buzzword of our millennium, but as a field of academic
inquiry, it is still in its infancy. The foremost experts in the area today agree that
globalization represents a worldwide process of connectivity, forges links
around the globe that facilitate exchanges and communication, and develops
interdependencies and increasingly profound senses of familiarity between
mutually distant communities.17 Yet there is great disagreement over when the
process began. One camp argues that globalization “is as old as humanity
itself.”18 Certainly, we have a universal impulse for exploration of our environ-
ment, outward migration in search of difference (and understanding), and
trade with other members of our species; these actions are inherent in our ge-
netic disposition, and globalizing tendencies are a constant feature of all human
societies. Yet at the same time, other scholars see processes taking place within
certain delimited sectors of the world as a type of self-contained proto-global-
ization that foreshadowed the same patterns later established on a worldwide
scale. To this end, John M. Hobson claims that “oriental globalization” emerged
as a process of reciprocal exchanges of commodities, technologies, and peoples
in Eurasia as early as 500 c.e.19 Still another camp contends that if globalization
is to be truly global, then it has only existed for as long as networks of transport,
communication, and trade have been created to girdle the Earth’s surface—
covering every longitudinal point—and sustained through regular contact and
exchange “in values sufficient to generate lasting impact.”20 The Pacific Ocean,
the planet’s largest body of water, was the last ocean to be bridged by crossings
in a consistent rhythm from its eastern to its western extremities, and this con-
nection was forged only in the sixteenth century. Transpacific voyages of the
sixteenth, seventeenth, and eighteenth centuries facilitated all manner of
cultural and commercial exchanges, and although the Spaniards, then the
English, French, and Dutch (and in at least two instances, the Japanese) acted
as mediators in this context, they all remained unwitting actors in what Luke
introduction 9
Clossey has called “an early-modern globalization, complete with multiple

autonomous non-western centres, decentralizing processes, transnational
identities, and a power sufficient to encompass a body of water larger than
every continent combined.”21
Dennis O. Flynn and Arturo Giráldez have proposed 1571 as the birth date
of world trade and globalization, reflecting Immanuel Maurice Wallerstein’s
assertion that the modern capitalist world system, “the world in which we are
now living,” originated in the sixteenth century.22 Although this year is fixed
firmly in the minds of most Eurocentric historians as the year in which the
Christian victory in the Battle of Lepanto turned the tide of an Ottoman offen-
sive, events on the other side of the world had even greater global significance.
This year was the foundation date of Manila as a Spanish colonial capital, a city
that was, as Flynn and Giráldez say, “a crucial entrepôt linking substantial,
direct, and continuous trade between America and Asia for the first time in
history.”23 Manila was the final link in the world’s first circumferential trade
network. We might view it as a kind of buckle on a belt whose fastening pre-
saged an unprecedented acceleration in global flows and exchanges of com-
modities and cultural practices.24 The Spaniards themselves realized that in the
Philippines they were positioned on a nexus between hemispheres. Asia was a
destination they had long known (in limited fact and considerable fancy) from
the tales of Marco Polo (c. 1254–1324) and other adventurers, and to arrive there
they had to traverse the entire Western Hemisphere—via the marvelous New
World of the Americas. Spaniards were also aware of the crucial nature of this
hemispherical link because in Southeast Asia they encountered Muslims, their
traditional opposite numbers, whom they immediately named moros. Spaniards
and Muslims now began to engage with each other at both the eastern and the
western extremities of Eurasia. The Philippines thus essentially became a fron-
tier for Spain’s ongoing religious crusade; but these islands also provided an
arena for encounters with alterity and an opportunity for oppositional self-
definition. Spaniards took their music, along with their religion and their
politics, to the Philippine Islands. They encountered other, local musics in
Southeast Asia, and they also provided channels for transmission and exchange
of multiple musical practices between Asians, Americans, Africans, and
Europeans at this point of global convergence.
The examination of multilateral cultural encounters through music is one
of the most valuable ways we can begin to understand the transnational dia-
logues and reciprocal exchanges that took place during the early days of global-
ization. This study takes as its chronological boundaries the beginning of a
continuous Spanish colonial presence in the Philippines on the one side
(the year 1565), and the cessation of the transpacific galleon trade in 1815 on the
other: a quarter-millennium that became a defining epoch in the making of the
modern globalized world, especially in the development and consolidation of
links between the Americas and Asia. My predominantly synchronic approach
to this slice of time reveals its seminal importance as a well-defined period of

constantly increasing momentum in the transmission and development of
many different musics in the Asia-Pacific arena.
Part I of this book explores the encounters of mutually alien cultures and
shows how they came to interact with one another contrapuntally. It reveals
how the arrival of a significant number of European traders and colonialists in
Southeast Asia and the foundation of Spanish Manila as capital of the
Philippines contributed to the importation and local replication of musical
commodities and practices. Being a colony that was antipodal to the Iberian
Peninsula, Manila assumed great significance as a frontier territory, especially
due to its position at the very doorstep of great Asian civilizations with which
Spain sought commerce. In chapter 1, I explore the physical layout and ethnic
diversity of the city and identify the principal voices of communities that con-
tributed to its contrapuntal fabric. I go on in chapter 2 to examine the importa-
tion of foreign musical commodities and practices to the Philippines and their
radial diffusion throughout the surrounding region. I also make a brief foray
into the musical ramifications of the British occupation of Manila from 1762 to
1764, as this short-lived episode in the colonial history of the Philippines serves
to illustrate how rapidly and deeply foreign influences could become ingrained
in the musical practices of the islands, as a result of cultural dissemination
through colonial systems of patronage.
In the second part of the book, I use the metaphors of the circle of fifths
and enharmony to explain how the “tempering” of intercultural perspectives
(the development of ethnological methods) facilitated the “modulation” of cul-
tures (transculturation) and eventually resulted in attempts to bridge the
“enharmonic” gulf (syncretism). My idea of enharmonic engagement is one
that can potentially offer a useful paradigm for the study of early modern inter-
cultural contact, in terms of providing a different way of understanding the
dynamics of cultural comparativism and relativism. Just as “enharmonic
spelling” in European music theory can call the same note two or three distinct
names, rendering the note’s function entirely different according to the context
in which it is used or the direction from which it is approached, music—a
cultural practice of all members of our species—may be interpreted from dif-
ferent perspectives and assume different functions within different contexts.
In the three chapters of part II, I look beyond Manila to examine the mapping
of musical cultures throughout the three regions of the Philippines: the
northern island of Luzon, the central archipelago of the Visayas, and the
southern island of Mindanao. Through the contrapuntal analysis of colonial
historiography, we can reconstruct a picture of indigenous music-making from
before and after the point of European contact.
The aim of chapter 3 is to dispel long-held myths that the missionaries
ignored and dismissed indigenous music traditions, and I argue that in fact
they made extensive ethnographic surveys of song, instrumental practices, and
introduction 11
dance. Members of religious orders also made intensive studies of many musi-
copoetic genres, which they then used as vehicles for the dissemination of reli-
gious doctrine. In chapter 4, I trace the subtle process of the hispanization of
Filipino music by piecing together documentary evidence from the late
sixteenth century to the end of the eighteenth century. This was a gradual trans-
formation that was attendant on the interlinked policies of urbanization and
religious conversion. But it was not a clear-cut case of “imposition.” Filipinos
themselves adopted and adapted many aspects of European music. There were
other features of European culture (such as religious ideologies, texts, and met-
aphors) that were sometimes fused onto indigenous styles of vocal music,
resulting in the emergence of syncretic, colonial genres. These genres form the
focus of chapter 5, which explores how the courtship and engagement of
Spanish and Filipino cultures brought about the birth of new performative art
forms. In this way, the two cultures modulated in different directions around
the circle of fifths (tempering their intervals to a lesser or greater degree all the
while) toward a point of enharmonic convergence. Thesis and antithesis did
indeed result in synthesis.
The third and final part of the book analyzes the most hierarchical gover-
nance of musical practice in colonial society: strict counterpoint. Here I show
how rules and regulations were imposed on the entire gamut of colonial society
in an attempt to bring diverse and disparate voices into harmony with each
other. I also demonstrate in chapter 6 that a great deal of subversion and
inversion of this counterpoint took place, as the vast majority of church musi-
cians in the Philippines were in fact Filipinos who were able to control the
soundworld of ecclesiastical institutions. The very visible and audible threats
that were posed to Spanish authorities by the subaltern’s wielding of musical
power resulted in the formulation of rigid legislation for the whole archipelago,
as we see in chapter 7, in an attempt to curb and regulate musical practices
within churches and other parts of urban societies in the islands. Finally,
chapter 8 shows how various manifestations of loyalty to Church and Crown
were orchestrated in the form of seasonal and occasional fiestas that incorpo-
rated performances of music, dance, and drama by every segment of the
population, while arguing that these events were organized according to an
intransigent racial hierarchy that was strictly imposed and rigorously
enforced.
The Mosaic of Colonial History: A Note on Sources
The indelible influence of 333 years of Spanish rule in the Philippines (1565–
1898) brought about profound and drastic changes to Filipino cultures.
However, Spain was not the only colonizer of the Philippines. Just months
after the first Philippine Republic was proclaimed in 1898, following a
revolution fought against Spain, the islands were annexed and colonized by the
United States (1898–1941), then occupied by Japan (1942–45) during World
War II, thus delaying the proper independence of the Republic of the Philippines
until 1946. Many Filipinos wryly sum up their country’s past in an ironic for-
mula that succinctly illustrates widespread perceptions of each of the three
imperial powers’ main impact in the popular imagination: “three hundred
years in a convent, fifty years in Hollywood, and three years in a concentration
camp.”25
It is not surprising, then, to observe that the interpretation of this country’s
history has been shaped, molded, and colored to an enormous extent by the
cultural, political, and intellectual legacies of colonialism. The old adage that
history is written by the victor certainly applies to great swaths of historical
writings on the Philippines that are largely Eurocentric, and at first sight it
seems difficult to penetrate this thick veil over the past. In 1958, Teodoro A.
Agoncillo (1912–85) set forth a nationalistic agenda for Filipino history, stating
that it “must be seen through Filipino eyes.” Such a viewpoint seems entirely
sound. Yet he went on to assert, more controversially, that “Philippine history,
rightly looked upon, began in 1872 when the Cavite Mutiny occurred which, in
turn, led to the execution of the Filipino priests Gomes, Burgos, and Zamora
which, in turn, led to the development of Filipino nationalism. The so-called
Philippine history before 1872 was not Filipino but Spanish, that is to say, the
history of Spain in the Philippines.”26 This tenet, promoted and upheld by gen-
erations of Filipino historians, has had the adverse effect of disqualifying the
pre-1872 Filipino past as a subject for serious historical study. Nationalistic his-
tories of the Philippines have sought largely to erase from the record the colo-
nial legacy of Spain, jumping from an idyllic precolonial state to the late
nineteenth-century revolutionary period to the hard-won independent nation
of the mid-twentieth century onward. Undoubtedly, some of their motives were
to construct a past that was fully commensurate with the strong nationalistic
sentiments of the new republic, and above all to counter claims by influential
figures in neighboring countries that Filipino culture was not truly “Asian.”
But as Benedict Anderson noted in his groundbreaking study Imagined
Communities, “Filipino nationalism . . . has been, for a century now, on the trail
of an aboriginal Eden.”27 In other words, nationalistic historians in the
independent Philippines sought overtly to invert colonial history by writing the
colonizers out of their country’s past. This way of proceeding was acknowl-
edged quite frankly and openly: for instance, in the introduction to the seminal
and influential book History of the Filipino People, first published in 1960 and
since then studied by generations of Filipinos, it was explained that Agoncillo
“thought it illogical and irrelevant to discuss lengthily the innumerable events
in which the Filipinos had no direct or indirect participation.”28
A major shift in historical thinking in the 1980s and 1990s, however, led
to a revival of interest in the earlier colonial period of the country. Glenn
introduction 13
Anthony May called for a reassessment of nationalistic interpretations of

Philippine history, and anthropological perspectives afforded by William Henry
Scott (1921–93) proved the value of Spanish documents in constructing an idea
of the precolonial past.29 As I show in part II, the ethnographies composed by
Spaniards preserve fascinating snapshots of Filipinos’ performance practices,
which become invaluable records in cases where these traditions were trans-
formed or entirely lost. They also challenge Agoncillo’s assertion that the only
worthy or reliable historiography of the Philippines is that produced by indige-
nous Filipinos. There were in fact many indigenous writers producing impor-
tant texts long before 1872. Yet with the lack of balanced source material from
both sides, only part of the story can be told. Extant early modern writings by
Filipinos tend to be of religious nature or present petitions that conform to the
expectations of colonial authorities. As anyone studying colonial music history
would agree, however, any forms of early modern historiography that treat
music are invaluable to the modern musicologist because they serve to docu-
ment past musical cultures that have changed drastically. They are both rare
and revelatory.
Some of the major frustrations encountered in researching music of the
Philippines during the Spanish colonial period are the dispersal, fragmentation,
and outright loss of sources. In contrast to Latin America, where archival depos-
itories house vast numbers of colonial-period music manuscripts and related
documentation, similar records from Manila are relatively few and far between.
Part of the problem has been destruction through earthquakes, fire, and
humidity, but the main reason for loss is the cataclysmic destruction of Manila
during the battle for its liberation from February 3 to March 3, 1945. During
these four weeks, indiscriminate bombardment by the Allies and defensive
measures taken by Japanese forces collectively resulted in the widespread
destruction of the metropolis, at a cost of some 100,000 civilian lives. The
scene of a last stand by some of the Japanese Imperial Army was Intramuros,
the historic walled city center. With the heaviest Allied artillery reserved for the
breaching of its fortifications, this religious and cultural nucleus of the country
was reduced to rubble. Only one structure was left intact: the Augustinian
church and convent of San Agustín (in which women and children had been
interned). The metropolitan cathedral, eight major churches and their con-
vents, and many other historic institutions and residences were totally obliter-
ated. Along with them perished thousands of people. Manila lost its historic
nucleus and many records of its past: libraries, archives, and rare cultural trea-
sures. This city is generally recognized to have emerged from the end of World
War II as one of the most devastated capitals on the globe.30
Astonishingly, however, a few archives survived more or less unscathed.
Even though the church and convent of Santo Domingo burned down after a
Japanese air raid in December 1941, the Dominican archives had remained
safe in an underground vault, together with the revered image of Our Lady of
La Naval. They were later sent into safekeeping. A large portion was moved to
Ávila, Spain, in recent times, and other sections are now housed in Quezon
City. The Dominicans were doubly fortunate in that during the 1920s they had
transferred the main campus of their University of Santo Tomás to an outlying
suburb, Sampaloc, together with its library and its exceptional rare book collec-
tion, which contains thousands of pre-1900 European publications (with items
that date back as far as 1492). In Sampaloc the campus was used by the Japanese
occupational government as an internment camp for Allied civilians, who were
safely liberated in 1945. However, another relocation from Intramuros, just
before the final stage of the war, was not so effective: although the Archdiocesan
Archives of Manila were saved from total destruction in war by virtue of their
transfer out of the walled city to the University of Santo Tomás in Sampaloc
before the bombing, an unknown quantity of material was unfortunately lost
on that short journey, because the open-sided trucks that carried them had no
“walls” themselves.31
The Augustinian complex of San Agustín was the eye of the firestorm that
consumed Intramuros, and its archives escaped destruction (although damage
and losses inevitably occurred in the aftermath of the battle). The Augustinian
order followed the example of the Dominicans, by sending the remainder of
their archives to Valladolid, Spain. Yet many of their archival treasures had
already been dispersed almost two centuries earlier. The looting of the convent
by British forces in 1762 had resulted in hundreds of books, maps, and docu-
ments being carried off as war booty, and their diffusion and then preservation
in academic libraries around the world. Most of these sources are now held at
the British Library, King’s College London, and the Lilly Library in Bloomington,
Indiana.
Other collections of Filipiniana that were assembled outside of the
Philippines in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries include the
books and manuscripts acquired by American businessman and philanthro-
pist Edward Everett Ayer (1841–1927) and the famous Tabacalera Collection.
The Ayer Collection, which is especially rich in ethnological materials and
linguistic studies, is now an important part of the Newberry Library, Chicago.
The Tabacalera Collection was largely put together by historian and bibliophile
Wenceslao Emilio Retana (1862–1924) and bought by the Compañía General
de Tabacos de Filipinas in Barcelona in the first decade of the twentieth century.
It consisted of over 4,500 items that were considered of such immense histor-
ical value that in 1906 a three-volume annotated catalog was published. In
1913, the Philippine government bought the entire collection for the National
Library, and it returned to Manila. The National Library was one of the institu-
tional casualties of World War II’s closing days, but amazingly three quarters
of the rare books survived unscathed. A large portion of the Philippine National
Archives in Manila (mostly nineteenth-century materials) also weathered the
storm of 1945, but there are gaps in the records.
introduction 15
Spain was of course the administrative nerve center of its colonial empire,
and a veritable ocean of archival material remains in its state and religious
archives. Scholars studying the cultural history of the Philippines are gener-
ally welcomed there with open arms, for while whole armies of established
academics and graduate students work on Latin American themes, the Filipino
colonial past has remained the preserve of just a small handful of researchers.
Interest has increased over the past decades, however, especially with joint
projects for archival preservation that have been supported by the govern-
ments of both Spain and the Philippines. Seminal archival data concerning
music in the early modern Philippines can be found in the holdings of institu-
tions in Madrid, Seville, Barcelona, Ávila, and Valladolid.32 But all these data
must be extracted from diverse forms of documentation, such as religious his-
tories, linguistic treatises, financial records, inventories, and accounts of
festivities.
In reconstructing colonial musical cultures of Manila and the Philippines,
I thus embarked on a far-ranging and sometimes frustrating quest. This was
needle-in-haystack research, involving sifting through huge quantities of docu-
ments in dozens of archives located throughout the Philippines, Spain, Italy,
the United Kingdom, and the United States. It also necessitated many visits to
Filipino churches and convents. Each period of research revealed several more
nuggets of information, from which I began to piece together a fascinating
mosaic of cultural history and musical practice. Given the vastness of raw and
uncataloged archival materials that still dwell undisturbed in the cavernous
vaults of Filipino and Spanish institutions, however, I cannot say that I have
left no stone unturned. Whole quarries await future mining by cultural histo-
rians and musicologists. Music in the Philippines during the Spanish colonial
period is an enormous field of inquiry—and one that has barely been tilled. In
the chapters that follow, I hope to demonstrate that this is a fruitful area of
academic inquiry and provide a firm foundation on which more scholars can
build.
Colonial counterpoint, in its multiple meanings and manifestations, pro-
vides an apposite analogy for the history of musical cultures in territories that
were conquered, possessed, and exploited by early modern European empires.
Contrapuntalism likewise offers a metaphor through which we can begin to
understand the structure of colonial societies: their multiple voices and inten-
tions interact within a vertical framework according to superimposed rules, but
along a linear time scale. At the same time, enharmonic engagement neces-
sarily makes us move away from “white notes” and locate points of conver-
gence between cultures within the colonial milieu. All these factors are critical
in our new approach to extra-European music history. Of the many European
colonies established throughout the early modern world, none can demon-
strate all these aspects of intercultural counterpoint and enharmony better than
Manila. Our journey begins there.
©
I
CONTRAPUNTAL CULTURES
1
©
Colonial Capital, Global City
Manila was the world’s first global city. Its foundation as a Spanish colonial
capital in 1571 forged the last link in a chain of trade routes that encircled the
Earth. For the first time in human history, there emerged a system of transoce-
anic connections that allowed for the regular transport of people around the
world and the sustained exchange of ideas and commodities. Early modern
Manila’s interstitial function in opening (and in some ways closing) the Chinese
market to the world, together with its role as a cultural, commercial, and
geographical nexus between Asia and the Americas—and, by extension, Africa
and Europe—endowed it with a global economic and political significance out-
stripping that of any other city in the region. Due to its provision of a reliable
maritime connection between Asia and the Americas, and by virtue of its stra-
tegic location close to China, early modern Manila attracted a diverse body of
migrants seeking to trade, conquer, and proselytize. A concatenation of mer-
cantile interests, political ambitions, and evangelistic enterprises facilitated
and propelled the local exchange of people, ideas, and commodities. Manila
was, essentially, a microcosm of the world.1
At the same time as it emerged as an important international entrepôt,
however, Manila remained an integral part of the Spanish imperial network.
From the perspective of Spain, the Philippine colony was an essential frontier
in the expansion of commerce and religion, in a fight for the control of the
Pacific Ocean, and in the creation of a seaborne empire that spanned from
Iberia to Asia via the Americas. The unified Hispanic hemisphere thus imag-
ined by Spain was represented in a creative engraving from 1761, produced at
the Jesuit University of Manila and titled Aspecto symbólico del mundo his-
pánico, which was made to accompany a map of Spanish possessions and
explorations.2 Its production in Manila—at the very outer reaches of the
20 contrapuntal cultures
empire—symbolizes an inversion of the imperial imagination, with Spain’s

most distant colony becoming temporarily fundamental to the promotion of
ideas of unity. In the Aspecto symbólico (figure 1.1) we see the allegorical figure
of Hispania superimposed on a truncated and upended map of the Western
Hemisphere. Her head, inevitably, is Spain, and her flowing mantle inte-
grates the Americas. The folds of her robe are formed by the tracing of
seasonal transpacific galleon routes, and her feet are the Philippine Islands.
This archipelago is thus incorporated quite literally into Hispania and pre-
sented symbolically as Spain’s foothold in Asia. Without the Philippines, the
viewer might infer, the empire could not stand.
In this allegory, various accoutrements are imbued with symbols of empire
and expressions of a belief in geographical and cultural dominance that was
cultivated by imperial Spain. Hispania’s crown, with the word “España” embla-
zoned across the base and the regions of Spain inscribed above, evokes the
Spanish conviction that there existed a divine legitimation of her right to rule.
Meanwhile, her necklace—whose rude beads could in fact constitute a chaplet
or a rosary—bears a compass, and the Equator, resting lightly in her left hand,
becomes a staff that is adorned with a Spanish standard. Hispania thus confi-
dently and effortlessly appropriates the Earth’s girdle and claims a self-appointed
and papally anointed sovereignty over at least half of the Earth’s surface area.
The use of her left hand suggests a secondary, almost casual indifference to her
apparent dominion over half the world (although an oppositional reading is of
course impossible, given this orientation of the map). Meanwhile, she affirms
divine sanction of her imperial ascendancy by using her right hand to brandish
a flaming sword of authority, its blade and ribbon embellished with biblical
phrases.3
Significantly, this representation excludes the Islamic world, the fringes of
which are seen only in the northwest bulge of the African continent, and in
some islands of Southeast Asia. It is also worth noting that the Pillars of
Hercules have been removed to stand at the bottom of the engraving. In ancient
times, they had indicated the edge of the known world, proclaiming that west
of the Mediterranean’s mouth non plus ultra—“there is no more beyond”; fol-
lowing the transatlantic voyages of Cristóbal Colón (Christopher Columbus,
1451–1506), of course, this claim had been corrected to plus ultra. But here the
pillars are located much further west—at the very extent of papally approved
Spanish political influence. Their new position seems to imply and provoke the
idea that what lies ultra, beyond the westernmost limits of this map, would one
day be under the sovereignty of Spain, subsumed within a mundo hispánico that
would ultimately encompass the globe. While chiming with the ideals of impe-
rialism, such an ambition, however, would have contested the geographical
limits of two “Lines of Demarcation” that had been established by the treaties
of Tordesillas and Zaragoza in 1494 and 1529, respectively (separating Spanish
and Portuguese spheres of colonial interests by drawing virtual longitudinal
figure 1.1. Vicente de Memije, Aspecto symbólico del mundo hispánico (Manila:
Lorenzo Atlas, 1761). © British Library Board. All Rights Reserved (K.Top.118.19).
borders through the Americas and Asia). It would also have challenged the
overseas imperial aspirations of Britain, France, and the Netherlands, not to
mention the territorial expansion of Russia.
The Aspecto symbólico is certainly an arrogant and arresting image of
empire. It consolidates the Spanish vision of an entire Western Hemisphere
bonded through a set of common cultural values, religious ideologies, and
power structures that were both Hispanic and catholic—“catholic” in both
meanings of the word. Still, we should note that this idea of the universal inclu-
siveness of empire was by no means new. One and a half centuries previously,
Antonio de Morga (1559–1636), oidor (judge) of Manila’s real audiencia (royal
court) from 1595 to 1603, had already boasted that “hence the scepter and crown
of Spain have come to extend their dominion over all that the sun looks upon
from its rising unto its setting.”4 When the sun set in Madrid, he implied, the
day was still in full swing in Mexico and only beginning in Manila (at least in
the European summer). Even at the dawn of the seventeenth century, the
empire was thought to be without limits. However, this sort of triumphalism
obscured—probably intentionally—the reality of the struggles faced and depri-
vations endured during the course of events that led to the eventual foundation
of Spain’s colony in the Philippines.
Imperial Enterprises and Economic Establishment
The voyages of Fernão de Magalhães (Ferdinand Magellan, 1480–1521) and

then of Ruy López de Villalobos (1500–1544)—who in 1543 named the islands
“Felipinas” in honor of the future Felipe II (1527–98)—forged the first links in
a chain of events that led ultimately to the arrival of the conquistador Miguel
López de Legazpi (1502–72) in 1565. This last year marked the beginning of the
Spanish colonial period in the Philippines. When Legazpi landed at the Visayan
island of Cebu, he established a Spanish settlement on the site of what is now
Cebu City. This initial base and another on the island of Panay were not
sustained without difficulty, however, and in 1570 an expeditionary force led by
Martín de Goiti (d. 1574) and Legazpi’s grandson Juan de Salcedo (1549–76)—
who has been dubbed “the Hernán Cortés of the Philippines”—set out to
reconnoiter the northern island of Luzon. There they encountered Maynilad.
Nestled in a large sheltered bay, into which flowed the mighty Pasig River,
Maynilad was ruled by Rajah Soliman (d. c. 1575), who was of Bornean origin
and who was advised by his uncle and predecessor Rajah Matanda (1480–1572).
Nearby was the kingdom of Tondo, whose reigning sovereign was Lakan Dula
(1503–89). The Spaniards made diplomatic overtures to the local rulers, but
these were short-lived and were quickly followed by skirmishes. The Spaniards
withdrew and returned the following year under the command of Legazpi with
the main body of their forces from Cebu and numerous native allies. After a
colonial capital, global city 23
show of force by the Spaniards and their quelling of resistance led by Soliman,
an armistice was agreed on May 18, and Soliman was forced to cede to the
invaders a portion of land close to the mouth of the river. The following day—
May 19 and the feast of Saint Potentiana—Legazpi took ceremonial possession
of this site. The next month, the conquistador founded the Spanish colonial
capital of the Philippines here.5 He retained the place’s native name, Maynilad
(which is said to mean “there is nilad,” nilad being a type of water lily), in
Spanish form as “Manila.” In 1574, the same year in which a coalition of
Spanish and indigenous forces fought off the Chinese pirate Limahong on the
feast of Saint Andrew, the city was honored by Felipe II with the bestowal of the
title Insigne y siempre leal ciudad (“Noble and Ever Loyal City”).6 From all appear-
ances, the Spanish had arrived in the Philippines to stay.
With its proximity to the markets of island and mainland Asia, Manila
grew quickly into an important commercial entrepôt and thriving international
community. The construction of the city according to Spanish precepts of
urban planning took place amid the frequent occurrences of earthquakes, fires,
and other natural disasters; it required constant rebuilding and adaptation of
architectural designs to withstand challenges of the local environment.7 During
the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, invasion attempts by Chinese and
Dutch naval forces threatened the survival of this Spanish outpost, but Manila
remained intact, and its fortifications were continually monitored and strength-
ened. In the following century its citizens experienced the sudden and unex-
pected British interregnum of 1762–64—the only successful invasion by a
foreign power before 1898—as well as expulsions of the Jesuits and the Chinese
population. All these events had far-reaching consequences for the colony’s
cultural and religious life.
Manila was one of a triumvirate of significant European colonial cities in
early modern Southeast Asia, alongside Dutch Batavia (now Jakarta) and
Malacca (or Melaka, which had been captured by the Portuguese in 1511 but was
conquered by Dutch forces in 1641, then ceded to the British in the nineteenth
century). Although these cities were prominent in trade, Manila appears to
have been noticeably more sophisticated than its rivals in terms of the propaga-
tion of European religious practices and European forms of knowledge, at least
when one considers the number of institutions founded for both purposes. It
became known as a city of churches, a center for European systems of educa-
tion, and a potent symbol of Spain’s political and militaristic aspirations in
Asia. The geographical separation of Manila from other capitals of the Spanish
Empire endowed its governor with powers that were similar in stature to those
of a viceroy or even a king. While “the sun never set” on the Spanish Empire
from Madrid to Mexico to Manila, the transmission of bureaucratic decisions,
petitions, and decrees could take up to two years in either direction, often forc-
ing swift decisions to be taken in situ without consulting the Crown.
Furthermore, the proximity of highly complex, ancient, and autocratic Asian
civilizations to the north, west, and south required the constant local
development of diplomatic and commercial policies. These civilizations’
apparent accessibility (at least in geographical terms) also presented a great
attraction to religious personnel from Europe and the Americas, who consid-
ered the Philippine Islands the gateway to fabled territories in which they could
attempt to carry out grandiose projects of conversion.
The annual galleon trade with Acapulco was the financial and cultural life-
line by which the colony in the Philippines was preserved for Spain. Regular
return voyages across the Pacific to Mexico began in 1565, thanks to the naviga-
tional skill of Augustinian Andrés de Urdaneta (1498–1568) in finding a suit-
able and reliable route.8 From 1571 these voyages set out from Manila, and the
coupling of the transpacific voyages with the trading connection between
Manila and the Chinese mainland forged the final link in the first global trade
network. In 1815, radical shifts in political and economic circumstances brought
about the end of this shipping line. But by this time, the galleons had linked the
Philippines and Mexico politically, culturally, and economically for an entire
quarter of a millennium: a sustained period of exchanges across the world’s
largest ocean that appears to be without parallel in human history.9
The galleons provided the means by which the Philippines were governed
through Mexico, by which people and commodities were transported, and ide-
ologies transmitted. In the minds of the colonialists in Manila, the economic
fate of the colony rested almost entirely on the successful passage of these
ships. As Gregorio F. Zaide has succinctly observed, “the safe arrival of a gal-
leon in either Manila or Acapulco . . . meant a year of prosperity, a period of
economic bonanza. The profits derived by those who took part in the trade
ranged from 100% to 300%.”10 Spanish citizens of Manila—including mem-
bers of religious orders—were allocated space for cargo.11 This cargo consisted
mainly of Chinese goods such as silk and brocades, which were brought to
Manila annually by approximately twenty junks from south China; other cargo
included precious metals, pearls, and perfumes from various parts of Asia.12 In
exchange for these luxury items, a shipment of silver was returned from Mexico
to the Philippines. It is estimated that between one-quarter and one-third of all
silver mined in early modern Latin America was transported across the Pacific
to China—a staggering amount, given that Latin American silver production
represented 84 percent of the global whole in the seventeenth century.13 It is
unsurprising, then, that occasional losses of galleons brought about a severe
economic depression in the islands, not to mention the crushing of public
morale.
Given that the galleons and their indomitable crew of “Manila men” had to
survive rough seas as well as the piratical incursions of rival European nations,
they placed their faith in providence: their chosen spiritual protectress was
Nuestra Señora de Paz y Buen Viaje (Our Lady of Peace and Good Voyage),
later known simply as the Virgin of Antipolo. Her image itself traveled on
several galleon journeys across the Pacific.14 During these voyages, music
formed a significant part of life, particularly in the singing of the Salve at dusk
on Saturdays, and the singing of a Te Deum, together with thanksgiving prayers
and revelry when evidence of land came into sight. On the arrival of the gal-
leons in Manila, the Virgin of Antipolo’s image was often feted with music and
processions. In fact, one of the earliest pieces of surviving musical iconography
from the Philippines is a bas-relief dated 1662 that illustrates a procession
carrying the image of the Virgin of Antipolo from the beach to the cathedral of
Manila, accompanied by three shawm players (figure 1.2).15 The image’s final
return to the islands in 1748, when it was transported inland to Antipolo and
permanently enshrined, occasioned some of the most extravagant festivities
recorded in early modern colonial historiography, as we shall see in a later
chapter.
The first direct maritime link between the Philippines and Spain, via the
Cape of Good Hope, was established in 1765 with the voyage of the Buen Consejo
from Cádiz to Manila, and commercial activities of the colony were enhanced
in the 1780s with the establishment of two groups: the Sociedad Económica de
Amigos del País (founded in 1781) and the Real Compañía de Filipinas (founded
in 1785).16 These initiatives sustained and nourished Spanish–Philippine rela-
tions in the nineteenth century, following the independence of most of Spain’s
American colonies and the demise of the transpacific galleon trade.17 Colonial
culture in the Philippines, as in Spanish America, was contingent on the main-
tenance of regular links with the parent state, for the reproduction and diffu-
sion of Spanish customs.
It is unsurprising, then, that Manila became a major center of European
print culture in East and Southeast Asia, from the time that the first books were
printed there in 1593. Until the beginning of the nineteenth century, there were
three presses in Manila, belonging respectively to the Dominicans, the
Franciscans, and the Jesuits (although on the expulsion of the Society of Jesus
from the islands in 1768, the Jesuit press passed to the Royal Seminary).18 More
than a thousand titles were published by these presses before 1811, when a new
era of printing dawned with the commencement of the first newspaper (Del
superior gobierno) and the establishment of new presses in Manila and other
parts of the archipelago.19 The number of imprints produced in the capital bet-
ween 1593 and the early nineteenth century becomes impressive indeed if we
compare this output level with that of Mexico City, where thousands of books
were published during the colonial period, and staggering when set alongside
the situation in Brazil, which although a rich and prosperous Portuguese
colony, had no local press until 1808 (and before that time had to import all
printed materials).20
Because Manila was an important base for missionaries, the vast majority of
the works printed there were inevitably of a religious nature. Texts were pub-
lished in European and Asian languages alike, with special blocks made for
figure 1.2. Wooden bas-relief, Los Españoles llevando en procession a la Virgen de

Antipolo desde la playa a la catedral de Manila, c. 1662. Reproduced by kind permission
of the San Agustín Church and Museum, Intramuros, Manila.
Chinese characters and Filipino baybayin (the precolonial script derived from
Sanskrit). Their publication was largely in the hands of Chinese and Filipino
master printers and involved the contribution of artists who produced beautiful
and sophisticated engravings for title pages or for illustrations. But while some
publications included song-texts in Filipino languages and Spanish texts of
theatrical works (with significant musical components), music in European staff

notation was not printed in Manila until the middle of the nineteenth century.21
Manila’s walled city center, Intramuros, enclosed convents and churches
of six major religious orders, the cathedral, the palaces of the governor and
archbishop, schools, hospitals, colleges, and universities. It was truly the “Rome
of the East.” Unlike most other trading posts established by Europeans in the
Far East, the city entered regional consciousness as a religious capital, and
many Christian converts from neighboring countries went into exile there as
religious refugees. The musical traditions that were associated with ecclesias-
tical institutions came to play a significant role in metropolitan life, as we will
see in subsequent chapters. Such a preponderance of churches and convents
gave the city an air of monumentalism that reflected colonial ambitions of per-
manence; the religious culture of Europe was literally petrified there.22 The
concentration of these institutions in Manila was unsurpassed in the Asian
region—its closest (but still distant) rival was Goa—and it has been suggested
that by the end of the nineteenth century, Intramuros had more ground space
devoted to buildings related to religious purposes (the cathedral, churches, con-
vents, and schools) than perhaps any other city of Christendom.23
Many early modern historians and travel writers commented on the
splendor of Manila’s edifices. Jesuit Pedro Murillo Velarde (1696–1753), for
example, wrote in the mid-eighteenth century that “the most sumptuous build-
ings are the churches, convents, and colleges.”24 All these structures can be
seen in a detailed topography of the city prepared by Fernando Valdés Tamón
and Antonio Fernández de Roxas, engraved in 1717 by Hipolito Ximénez
(figure 1.3).25 This gives a three-dimensional view of the edifices of Intramuros
and also a glimpse of the surrounding suburbs (arrabales) of Extramuros. It
illustrates daily life in the city at the time—we can even see a procession in
progress in the plaza mayor—and contains a remarkable level of detail in the
depiction of the major structures. This topographic representation shows all
the spaces and contexts that could be used for many types of artistic expression:
religious edifices, educational establishments, public buildings, private resi-
dences, and plazas.
Although quite a number of early modern artists depicted the cityscape of
Manila, most of them made these illustrations for European publications (espe-
cially atlases) without ever having laid eyes on the city. By contrast, some of the
most detailed eyewitness representations are those produced by Milanese artist
Fernando Brambila (1763–1832), who traveled to the Philippines with the
scientific expedition of Alejandro Malaspina (1754–1809) in the 1790s. Grouped
with drawings of Latin American cities in a portfolio of vistas drawn during the
expedition, Manila was shown from a number of viewpoints (figures 1.4 and 1.5).
These vistas show a flourishing metropolis, replete with the spires of religious
institutions, commercial vessels, and people from many different sectors of the
colony’s society.
figure 1.3. Antonio Fernández de Roxas and Fernando Valdés Tamón, Topographia
de la ciudad de Manila (Manila: Hipolito Ximénez, 1717). © British Library Board. All
Rights Reserved (K.Top.116.40).
28
29
figure 1.4. Fernando Brambila, Vista de Manila y su bahía desde el arrabal (1792).
Reproduced by kind permission of the Museo de América, Madrid.
figure 1.5. Fernando Brambila, Manila desde el mar (1792). Museo Naval. Madrid.
Of course, artists could represent cityscapes by reproducing what they saw,

remembered, or imagined, but soundscapes of early modern cities can only be
reconstructed through the assembly and interpretation of a wide range of
sources. Musics for ritual and entertainment from a variety of cultural back-
grounds were punctuated by the sounds of daily life. Some of these sounds—the
signaling and ceremonial fanfares of trumpets, fifes, and drums; the shawm
bands of the military and other groups; the peals of bells marking regular events
or special occasions—were like barlines that regulated the contrapuntal func-
tioning of the city and its society. In many ways they measured the pattern of
each day, especially the bells that marked the times for religious devotions. Every
person present in the city—resident and visitor alike—had to hear them, whether
they listened attentively or not. These sounds, embedded in ritual and cere-
mony, had great cultural resonance for those members of Manila society who
lived according to the precepts of the established Roman Catholic religion and
within the laws of Spanish governance. The local inhabitants knew the identities
of the most powerful political contrapuntists of colonial society. Even to out-
siders, the sonic regulation of the city represented the inflexible rules imposed
on a diverse population to bring it into some form of harmonious order.
Manila’s Contrapuntal Society
The establishment of Manila as a focal point of global convergence brought

many cultures into counterpoint with each other, contributing to the emer-
gence of a contrapuntal society that incorporated multiple diasporas and devel-
oped its own unique culture. Of course, many societies in the early modern
world displayed aspects of contrapuntalism, but few (if any) matched Manila in
terms of their populations’ ethnic diversity. Within this polycultural and multi-
ethnic crucible, Manila’s society was continually stirred by Spanish assertions
of imperial dominance, indigenous subversion, and local resistance to colonial
rule, together with the individual or collective aims of immigrant merchants.
All the while, the city had to uphold an unwavering image of a royal and reli-
gious capital of the Spanish Empire. Although attractive and selectively recep-
tive to foreign visitors who brought their own cultures with them, Manila
remained a staunch representative of Spanish culture and Roman Catholicism;
migrants and travelers to the city were expected to accept the terms of the pre-
vailing power structure.
Of the ethnolinguistic groups that resided in and around the city, the three
largest were Filipinos, Chinese, and Spaniards. As in colonial Latin America,
miscegenation created a complex system of social categories that Spanish
authorities attempted to codify.26 These were often termed castas: literally,
“castes.” In the 1690s, global traveler Giovanni Francesco Gemelli Careri
(1651–1725) visited Manila and noted a host of “ridiculous names” used in the
city as a means of ethnic identification.27 In the course of the eighteenth century,

however, these names were reduced to a smaller number of categories, of
which the principal tiers in the hierarchy were español (Spaniard), criollo
(Philippine-born Spaniard, some of whom had some non-European ancestry),
indio (Filipino), mestizo (Filipino with one Spanish parent), chino or sangley
(Chinese), mestizo sangley (Filipino with one Chinese parent), and negro
(African, also known as cafre). Although in the colonial period the term
“Filipino” was used primarily to refer to Spanish citizens of the Philippines,
I use it in reference to the indigenous population of the islands.28 Meanwhile,
I will call españoles and criollos “Spaniards,” and will retain the term mestizo
(a term that still has currency in the Philippines today) for the Eurasian
population, while using the label “Chinese mestizos” to refer to people of
Chinese-Filipino heritage.
Apart from the groups just mentioned, there were also representatives of
multiple national identities who made up a constantly fluctuating population
of traders and travelers. In 1662, Franciscan Bartolomé de Letona observed
that
the variety of nations seen in Manila and its environs is the greatest
in the world, for there can be found peoples from all the kingdoms
and nations: Spain, France, England, Italy, Flanders, Germany,
Denmark, Sweden, Poland, Moscow, from all the East Indies and
West Indies, Turks, Greeks, Moors, Persians, Tartars, Chinese,
Japanese, Africans, and Asians. And in the four corners of the world
there is hardly a kingdom, province or nation from which people do
not [come to Manila], as a result of the frequent voyages that are
made here from East, West, North, and South.29
Some stayed; most just passed through. All these peoples brought with them
their own cultures and languages.
Then, as now, Manila’s polyglot society was reflective of the city’s role as a
globalized trading entrepôt, and a forum for the intercultural exchange of ideas
and commodities. In the mid-eighteenth century, Murillo Velarde likened the
city’s babel of languages to Jerusalem on the day of Pentecost. He noted that
communities of Filipinos from almost every province of the archipelago were
living there, all speaking their own languages; he also provided an even more
variegated list of cultural and ethnic diversity than Letona’s already impressive
inventory. Murillo Velarde complained that the confessional of Manila was the
most difficult in the world, as it was “impossible to confess all these peoples in
their own languages”—if they were, indeed, Roman Catholic, for representa-
tives of other religions were also present.30
This Jesuit polymath left a number of detailed descriptions of Manila and
the Philippines, as we have already seen, but he was also responsible for pro-
ducing what is considered the first accurate cartographic representation of the
archipelago, the Carta hydrographica, y chorographica delas Yslas Filipinas of

1734. This chart is bracketed by a set of vignettes depicting life in the urban
and rural contexts of the Philippines, as well as small-scale maps and city
plans. These were engraved by Filipino artist Nicolás de la Cruz Bagay (c.
1701–70), who on the chart proudly appended the label “Indio Tagalo” to his
name. The illustrations of urban life in Manila (figure 1.6) show Filipino,
Spanish, mestizo, Chinese, Japanese, African, Indian, and Armenian inhabi-
tants holding certain poses or engaging themselves in various pursuits.31
Musical activity is represented by an African playing the berimbau (musical
figure 1.6. Vignettes from Pedro Murillo Velarde, et al., Carta hydrographica, y
chorographica delas Yslas Filipinas (Manila: Nicolas de la Cruz Bagay Indio
Tagalo, 1734). © British Library Board. All Rights Reserved (K.Top.116.37).
bow with a gourd resonator), and two Filipino children dancing the indige-
nous comintano to the accompaniment of a guitar or vihuela, which is played
by a third child. These remarkable engravings, whose musical representations
we examine in more detail in subsequent chapters, are a snapshot of life on
street corners (and within one house), but they are only a limited glimpse of
the full range of ethnic diversity and musical activity in and around the
metropolis.
Not all social factions had a lasting or significant impact on the evolution
of musical practice in Manila, but let us consider the principal voices in the
contrapuntal texture.
Filipinos
Unsurprisingly, Filipinos made up the largest single group in Manila’s
population. In the mid-eighteenth century, Murillo Velarde wrote that besides
Tagalog inhabitants of the metropolis, there were Kapampangans, Bikolanos,
Visayans, Ilokanos, and people from the Provinces of Pangasinan and Cagayan.
The engravings by Cruz Bagay include depictions of Aeta and Visayans,
alongside people described generically as indios, a label that referred generally
to indigenous peoples but in this case probably specified members of the local
Tagalog community. The Tagalogs and the Visayans were the two largest popu-
lations of the numerous ethnolinguistic groups in the Philippines. Throughout
the islands, the basic sociopolitical unit was a community of 30 to 100 families
called a barangay, a term that stemmed from the Tagalog word for “boat.” The
majority of precolonial Filipino societies had a tripartite class structure, one
with which early modern Europeans could easily identify and empathize:
nobility, their free supporters, and serfs. Each barangay was ruled by a heredi-
tary datu (who came from a noble class that the Tagalogs called maginoo),
whereas the timawa and maharlika were born free, and the alipin (oripun in
Visayan) were considered serfs or slaves.32
In the Manila region and other parts of the archipelago that were under
the administration of the Spanish colonial government, the three-tiered class
system was more or less maintained, as were the term and institution of
the barangay.33 The datu was recognized as the head of each barangay, and
was named cabeza de barangay. He had total control over his community and
was responsible for collecting tribute (a form of taxation) and forwarding it to
the Spanish authorities.34 One out of a group of cabezas de barangay was
given the role of gobernadorcillo, and was directly responsible to the Spanish
official alcalde mayor.35 The Spaniards gave the label principalía to the cabezas
de barangay and their families, and in circumstances similar to the treatment
of Aztec and Inca nobilities in the New World, this indigenous aristocracy
was free from having to pay tribute or perform service to the colonial overlords.
Members of the principalía were entrusted with governing posts in pueblos

(Filipino towns) or doctrinas (rural parishes), and the Laws of the Indies man-
dated that they should be well treated by colonial authorities.36 The Spanish
government also bestowed special privileges on certain powerful Filipino
families, some of whom eventually adopted coats-of-arms in the European
tradition.37
Apart from the addition of new European and immigrant tiers in the overall
structure of society in the islands following Spanish conquest, the most
significant changes to internal social structures of the Christianized indige-
nous communities was their urbanization (reducción) or relocation, and the
official designation of four to eight cantores within each pueblo to provide music
for the church, as we will see in a later chapter. Whereas professional singers
and musicians (the categories of which included balladeers and mourners) had
worked for payment in the precolonial Philippines, the imposition of the colo-
nial tribute system bestowed a new significance on the role of the musician in
Filipino society. As cantores were exempted from tribute, like the cabezas de
barangay, they were thus elevated in society and also had a special role of inter-
acting with the European religious ministers assigned to each parish. During
the Spanish colonial period, Filipinos were also theoretically free to move bet-
ween the islands and around the archipelago at will; a law was even set in place
to prevent the forcible removal by a Spaniard of any Filipino, against his or her
will, from one community to another. If it were at all necessary, the Filipino in
question was legally required to be paid appropriately for his or her work, well
treated, and not aggravated in any way.38 Some itinerant travelers throughout
the archipelago were probably unaware of this legislation, however, and it is
likely that Spanish colonialists themselves—far removed from the eyes of their
authorities—frequently broke these laws.
The early modern Filipinos were, to quote E. Arsenio Manuel, “a singing
people.”39 Songs, whether indigenous or hispanized, always accompanied
Filipino travelers; this was especially the case in boats that traveled between
islands and along rivers, in which the pulling of the oars provided the rhythmic
structure for antiphonal forms of vocalization. The long distance of some jour-
neys promoted the practice of singing genealogies and epic tales. Many visitors
and migrants to the colonial Philippines noted the great disposition of the
Filipinos toward vocal music, especially in terms of Filipino affection for
European styles. We see a typical example in the comment of a Spanish official
who wrote in 1713 that “the Tagalogs are notably fond [of music], and many of
them have voices that are so smooth and sonorous. Of [all] the marvels that
there are in the Philippines, one is to hear these musicians, and such well
ordered choirs of music.”40 This sort of observation became a common trope in
literary representations of the country, as we will see later (the whole of chapter
3 is devoted to the musical practices of Filipinos).
Chinese
There had long been a Chinese presence in the Philippines as a result of migra-
tion for the purposes of carrying out trade. But following Manila’s foundation
as a Spanish city and its rapid florescence as an important commercial center,
Chinese migration increased to an unprecedented level. Around twenty junks
would sail annually from Canton (now Guangzhou) and Amoy (now Xiamen)
to Manila. Each junk was manned by a crew of up to 100 and was laden with
goods. Many Chinese stayed on in Manila to ply their wares or practice their
trades. In the Philippines they were called sangleyes, a word that may have
been coined from a corruption of the Chinese words xang and li, implying
dealing or trade. Their designated area for living, working, and trading was a
ghetto called the Parian, situated outside the city walls but within firing range
of the cannon. Strict apartheid was imposed: the Laws of the Indies forbade
Spanish citizens of Manila from allowing Chinese in their houses.41
The presence of Chinese traders and craftsmen was tolerated by Manila’s
government for decades at a time as they provided indispensable services and
boosted the economy of the city. In around 1640, Jesuit Diego de Bobadilla
(1590–1648) observed that the Chinese practiced “all the arts necessary in a
republic.”42 They traded many goods, including silk and porcelain, and engaged
in numerous professions, such as carpentry, paper-making, printing, book-
binding, and metalsmithing. They provided important accessories for musi-
cians in Manila, such as strings for bowed and plucked string instruments.
Bobadilla noted in his same account that strings of the guitars and harps played
by Filipinos were not made of gut but of twisted silk, a material imported by the
Chinese. He noted that “they produce a sound as agreeable as that produced by
our [type of] strings, even though they are made of quite different material.”43
Silk was not the only alternative to gut: the Chinese also produced metal strings.
Another Jesuit wrote later in the seventeenth century that he “saw in Manila a
Chinese craftsman draw out about an ounce [28.35 grams] of silver . . . in a long
strand the length of nine hundred Spanish ulnæ, or 3,600 palmos [around 720
meters].” But he added that “these wires were so fine that the length of a single
span [a single string on an instrument] . . . [could be] broken with great ease.”44
Material goods such as silk and silver—two of the chief commodities exchanged
between Asia and the Americas by means of the transpacific galleon trade—
were thus transformed to act as an important form of musical interface bet-
ween Chinese, Filipinos, and Spaniards.
In circumstances similar to the population demographic of seventeenth-
century Mexico City, where the African population outnumbered the Spaniards
and sometimes threatened the overthrow of colonial rule, the Spaniards viewed
the growth of the Chinese population with considerable unease. Numerous
laws were set in place to regulate their migration, trade, and religious obser-
vances.45 There were attempts to limit the number of Chinese to 6,000 in 1605
and again in 1705, but in reality the size of the population was considerably
higher.46 Four times during the seventeenth century there were uprisings and
clashes, resulting in massacres that annihilated the Chinese population: in
1603, an estimated 24,000 were killed by combined Spanish and indigenous
forces, and in 1639, some 23,000 were killed.47 Further revolts took place in
1662 and 1686, which were put down violently.48 After these, an uneasy peace
reigned. In spite of the risks, however, Chinese immigrants continued to travel
to the islands. The economic and material rewards of trade in Manila out-
weighed the potential, ultimate cost.
Eventually, the extreme and abhorrent measures of putting an entire
population to the sword gave way to policies of expulsion. The Chinese were
officially expelled from the colony by virtue of royal decrees in 1686, 1744, and
1747, but these orders were not put into effect. Another decree of expulsion was
issued in 1754, and approximately 2,000 Chinese left in 1755 (with the exception
of around 500 who received Christian baptism, and another 1,100 who were
studying Christian doctrine); however, this order was revoked in 1758. Following
the British interregnum, the Chinese population was accused by the Spanish
government of collaboration with the invading forces, and in 1766 those con-
sidered guilty were expelled. Yet another revocation of this order was made
twelve years later.49 The government reversed its policies as it realized that each
expulsion or pogrom against the Chinese population resulted in a major
economic recession (a similar fate had befallen the Spanish economy following
the expulsion of Jews from the kingdoms of Castile and Aragon in 1492). The
presence of the Chinese community was vital to the prosperity and the very
survival of the isolated Spanish colony. Just as musical counterpoint requires
the interaction of two or more voices, contrapuntal cultures in the colonial
milieu were not just interactive but also interdependent.
As was usual in the Spanish Empire, religious conversion was seen as a
means of mediation between opposing ethnic groups. The responsibility for
evangelization among the Chinese was given to the Dominican order. Christian
converts among the Chinese were permitted to live in the parishes of Binondo
and Santa Cruz and were encouraged to intermarry with the indigenous
population.50 However, some religious authorities considered the faith of
Chinese converts to be superficial, and Murillo Velarde wrote in the mid-
eighteenth century that “in my time I have seen them return to China and apos-
tatize, even those who appear the most firm in their religion.”51 Similar opinions
were expressed by a number of non-Spanish observers, including Frenchman
Chrétien Louis Joseph de Guignes (1759–1845), who claimed at the end of the
eighteenth century that “when they leave the Philippines they throw their images
and chaplets into the sea, and cease to be Christians as soon as they lose sight of
Mirabel point.”52 What de Guignes failed realize, however, was that the commit-
tal of sacred objects to water—like burning them or swallowing them—was a
Chinese way of effecting these objects’ transcendence from the material world.
The system of religious belief promoted by Murillo Velarde and all other
Roman Catholic missionaries required the rejection of all other doctrines, an
exclusivity that was at odds with the pluralistic Chinese worldview.53 Yet it is
clear that the syncretic forms of Roman Catholicism practiced by many Chinese
converts in the Philippines accommodated certain traditional rites and beliefs,
such as honoring the ancestors and the implicit worship of Mazu (called Macho
in Spanish), a goddess of the sea revered in southern China (especially coastal
areas), in their veneration of the Virgin Mary.54 As subsequent chapters will
show, there were concerted attempts made by church authorities in the
Philippines to curb such religious subversion and their associated musical
practices. While the Chinese rites controversy (concerning the Jesuits’ tolera-
tion and accommodation of traditional Chinese religious practices within
Roman Catholicism) raged on mainland China and in Rome, the Philippines
remained a staunch outpost of religious orthodoxy, led by a hieratic class that
sought to stamp out any apparent heresy, especially that which was often
expressed or symbolized through music.
With the continuous waves of immigration from the mainland, many
Chinese maintained their own manners and customs in Manila. Unless they
married into other ethnic or social groups, they generally did not integrate into
wider colonial society, meaning that for the most part they also retained their
indigenous musical traditions. This state of affairs meant that European
observers in early modern Manila could hear Chinese music without having to
travel to China. Of all the Chinese instruments in Manila, some of the loudest
and most plentiful were gongs. These were sometimes used as currency by
traders; they were also carried in boats and played for ceremonial purposes.
When Dominican Domingo Fernández de Navarrete (1618–86) arrived in
Manila in 1648, he was greeted by vessels manned by Chinese, Filipinos, and
mestizos (probably Chinese mestizos), who entertained him with fireworks,
the playing of gongs, and displays of artillery. Many decades later, he recalled
that “the Chinese Basons [gongs] made us gaze, for tho they are no bigger than
an ordinary Bason, they sound like a great Bell. It is a strange Instrument.”55
(I have quoted an early eighteenth-century translation here, but the original text
of the second sentence would be more accurately rendered into modern English
as “it is a noteworthy instrument.”) Navarrete’s brief discussion of Chinese
music displays a certain level of intercultural curiosity—and even empathy. In
the mid-eighteenth century, on the other hand, Murillo Velarde gave a more
detailed but disparaging account of Chinese music, writing that “in their festiv-
ities, the Chinese use various musical instruments, such as flutes or shawms,
and a round bell of bronze, like a pandero [meaning tambourine, or a shallow,
circular frame-drum], raised in the middle, and being hit with a stick [it] makes
an intolerably disagreeable noise. They use drums, fifes, and rattles, which
serve more for unpleasant noise than for harmonious music. They perform the
most inexpressive theatrical pieces, which can last an afternoon, or a day, or a
week. They sing through their noses.”56 Navarrete was much more receptive to
Chinese instruments than Murillo Velarde, it seems. But whereas Navarrete
was based in Manila for only nine years (after which he went to China), Murillo
Velarde was there for over three and half decades; thus, the latter’s attitudes
may have been hardened by political and evangelistic frustrations experienced
in his longer relations with Manila’s Chinese population.
European traders and other travelers passing through Manila made com-
ments about Chinese music that were often disdainful. Nevertheless, they evi-
dently found this music to be fairly prominent, arresting, and curious, as it
stood out in Manila as an exotic form of alterity against the backdrop of hispan-
ized musical traditions. For instance, North American trader Nathaniel
Bowditch (1773–1838) recounted in his journal in 1796 that “taking a walk [in
Manila] on Sunday we passed by the house of a China man who had that day
been married & was making merry with his friends. . . . Their music was vocal
& Instrumental. Two men playing on a speces [sic] of Violin another on a flute
& a fourth with an Instrument making a sound like two pewter plates struck
together accompanying it with his voice which was so little harmonious that if
I had met him in the street I should have thought he had been crying. But I
dare say they thought it excellent.”57 On the other hand, he noted laconically
that the music of the Filipinos in Manila was “the same as the Spanish.”58
Throughout the Spanish colonial period, Chinese society in the Philippines
retained strong elements of cultural difference. This potent and symbolic
difference contributed to a considerable degree of dissonance between the
European, Filipino, and Chinese factions of Manila’s society.
Spaniards
It has been claimed that during the entire Spanish colonial period in the
Philippines, the average number of Spaniards and Spanish mestizos who were
resident in the islands never represented more than 1 percent of the islands’
total population.59 The size of the Spanish population itself is difficult to
estimate because it fluctuated constantly. Most Spaniards were based in the
capital, where in the seventeenth century their numbers did not exceed 2,800;
in 1722 they numbered around 4,000.60 Yet in spite of their minority status, the
Spaniards remained the richest and most politically influential inhabitants of
early modern Manila. In the Spanish social hierarchy, the governor of the
islands (also known as “governor general” or “captain general”) was the most
important figure. As María Lourdes Díaz-Trechuelo notes, there then followed
the oidores (judges) of the real audiencia, who, with other legal representatives
and the lecturers and professors of the universities and colleges, made up an
intellectual group in Manila’s society. Officials of the real hacienda (royal
treasury)—contador, factor, and tesorero —together with military authorities in
Manila and the nearby port of Cavite, also formed part of “high society.”61 The
families of the great landowners, or encomenderos, whose holdings were

established by gifts of land (encomiendas) from the monarch to the sixteenth-
century conquistadores and their descendants, constituted an elite. Each enco-
mendero had the obligation to uphold the law, protect and succor his people
(several communities), and above all, give all possible assistance to their
learning of the Christian faith.62 By the mid-eighteenth century, however, the
institution of the encomienda in the islands was in decline.63
Beyond Manila and other small settlements of Spaniards including Cebu
City, Nueva Cáceres (now Naga City), and Vigan, the Spanish population
throughout the islands was represented only by encomenderos and religious
personnel. Spaniards were officially forbidden by the Laws of the Indies to live
in any Filipino town, unless they were involved in evangelization. If Spaniards
had to pass through Filipino towns on their travels, they were not allowed to
stay longer than a day; merchants, on the other hand, were allowed to stay up
to three days.64 Thus, the Spaniards who came to know the archipelago and its
peoples most intimately were the religious personnel. Members of this group
were highly influential in all parts of colonial society, through their interactions
with numerous ethnic groups and social classes: they included the archbishop,
bishops, dean, canons, and dignitaries of the cathedral; the diocesan clergy;
and members of six religious orders. These orders were the Augustinians (who
arrived in the islands with Legazpi in 1565), the Franciscans (who arrived in
1577), the Jesuits (1581), the Dominicans (1587), the Augustinian Recollects
(1606), and the Order of San Juan de Dios (1641). There was also a commissar
of the Holy Inquisition, a Dominican who was responsible to the tribunal in
Mexico.65
Those Spaniards whose professions lay outside the religious realm, and
whose families remained largely endogamous, cultivated lifestyles that
embodied what Antonio García-Abásolo has called a “private environment.”66
Some were wealthy patrons of the arts—a few achieved a degree of success as
authors and poets—and provided a strong financial basis on which artistic
endeavor could rest and function, particularly in civic and religious fiestas. But
information on the domestic musical life of Spaniards in early modern Manila
is relatively sparse; most details about their tastes come from descriptions of
public festivities. Still, there are accounts of private musical soirées and dances
and balls in various institutions.67 In the second half of the eighteenth century,
many French travelers commented on musical performances in the
Philippines.68 Their remarks were generally disparaging; this is not surprising,
seeing as how French writers of this period often looked down on cultural
practices in Spain itself. Their level of condescension predictably became
amplified in a colonial setting. Frenchman Guillaume Joseph Hyacinthe Jean-
Baptiste Le Gentil de la Galaisière (1725–92), who was in Manila from 1766 to
1768 while on his royally ordained but unsuccessful voyage to the South Seas
to observe the transit of Venus across the Sun, went so far as to assert that the
higher echelons of Spanish society had “no taste for any art” and that as far as
music-making went, the Spaniards simply left the Filipinos to their own
devices.69 This laissez-faire attitude resulted in the proliferation of indigenous
and mestizo musicians in the realms of secular and sacred musical practice.
But as we shall see in a later chapter, there was nothing laissez-faire about the
direct interference by some Spanish missionary musicians with the musical
practices of the Filipinos.
Other Diasporas
As the Spanish conquest and colonization of the Philippines were enacted by
way of Mexico, it was inevitable that there should be a significant number of
migrants from Latin America to the islands. Representatives from an entire
cross-section of Mexican society—Spanish criollos, indigenous Mexicans, mes-
tizos, and Africans—migrated west across the Pacific. They included the
government officials from the highest to the lowest ranks, members of the
ecclesiastical hierarchy, missionaries from various religious orders, traders and
merchants, opportunists and adventurers, and even convicts sent to swell the
small population of colonialists.70 In this way, the music, drama, literature, and
visual arts of Mexico were introduced to the Philippine Islands.
People from neighboring Asian territories also moved to the Philippines,
even though it was under Spanish colonial rule. Some ethnic groups were
treated better than others. Japanese immigrants to early modern Manila, for
instance, were not viewed by Spaniards as conquered indios, nor were they
treated with the same contempt or fear as the Chinese merchant classes.
Rather, they were considered “the Spaniards of Asia” and representatives of
a complex literate civilization with a social structure with which Europeans
could identify, particularly in the sixteenth century. Because the majority of
Japanese immigrants to Manila were Christians who chose to go into exile in
the Philippines or Macau for religious reasons, they were greeted by reli-
gious and secular Spanish authorities as “heroes of the faith.” Many sources
note the collaboration of Japanese musicians—skilled in their own tradi-
tions and in European art forms—in Manila’s festivities during the period of
regular contact with Japan, as we will see in a later chapter. After Japan
closed its doors definitively to the outside world in 1639, the exodus of
Christian exiles trickled to a halt. To a certain extent, musical expression in
the Philippines remained linked to Japan, even after the effective closure of
Japan to the world. Members of the community often performed traditional
Japanese dances and music in festivities and spectacles, and a number of
Japanese musicians trained in European music served in churches and con-
vents of the city. By the late seventeenth century, however, the cultural dis-
tinctiveness of the Japanese community in Dilao, Manila, was gradually lost
through assimilation with the surrounding Filipino population.71 Besides
Japanese Christians, some Siamese and Vietnamese converts to Roman

Catholicism also migrated to Manila.
The importance of the presence of Africans in early modern East and
Southeast Asia is only beginning to be recognized by historians.72 During the
sixteenth century, the number of Africans traveling to East and Southeast Asia
via India increased exponentially because of trading voyages on which they
served as slaves or indentured sailors. These voyages included those of the
English and Dutch East India Companies, and especially those of the Portuguese,
whose trade network incorporated Goa, Malacca, Macau, and Nagasaki.
Connections between these centers and Manila meant that many Africans dis-
embarked in the Philippines, either for a short sojourn or for the rest of their
lives. Some Africans who had been taken to Latin America as slaves or born in
the Americas to African parents were also sent across the Pacific Ocean to the
Philippines, with the usual landing at Guam en route. Thus Africans arrived in
Southeast Asia from the East and the West, as did Europeans, but in remark-
ably different circumstances.
With the Africans came their characteristic styles of music and dance,
providing an exotic spectacle for certain Asian peoples who had not previ-
ously experienced these particular modes of performance. In 1593, a group of
Africans accompanying a Portuguese delegation to Japanese taikō (regent)
Toyotomi Hideyoshi (1536–98) performed a lively dance accompanied by fife
and drum, becoming so engrossed that they did not notice the order to stop.73
The tune played by the fife may have been European, but it is likely that the
rhythm of the drum and the dance itself were distinctively African. The
presence of African culture and music in early modern Japan was relatively
limited, but was more pronounced in parts of Southeast Asia and the Pacific.
We know, for instance, that some African instruments and dances were intro-
duced via the transpacific galleon trade to Guam and the Philippines, where
they entered local practices (to varying degrees), as we shall see in the next
chapter.
Some Africans in early modern Asia were practitioners of European music.
One of the first instrumental groups in the churches of Manila was an ensemble
of African slaves who could play recorders and shawms; these musicians had
been “donated” to the Jesuit church in 1596 by a Portuguese captain. They took
on roles as musical pedagogues, teaching vocal music to Tagalog parishioners.
But African musicians in Manila were later subject to discrimination in terms
of their employment in ecclesiastical establishments: when a school for tiples
(“trebles” or choirboys) was founded at Manila Cathedral in the mid-eighteenth
century, African and part-African boys were excluded. It appears that however
far and wide Europeans traveled in the early modern world, and however much
alterity they experienced, they almost always took some racial and cultural prej-
udices with them, although certain feelings took time to develop and harden.
Many of these attitudes eventually became institutionalized in colonial societies,
through the creation of regulations that were as strict as the rules for
counterpoint.
Conclusion
Contrapuntal cultures in Manila interacted in ways similar to the movements

of tectonic plates that produce earthquakes. While symbolic of the cataclysmic
implications of cultural hegemony engendered by European colonialism, earth-
quakes can also evoke the character of cultural diffusion in the propagation of
waves from an epicenter. As such, we could say that Manila was effectively an
epicenter from which waves of hispanized cultural influence were propagated
throughout the Philippine archipelago and neighboring Asian territories, with
numerous aftershocks. In line with this metaphor, it seems appropriate that
Old Manila, a city founded on seismic fault lines, was the birthplace of an
aesthetic that in the twentieth century came to be called “earthquake baroque.”74
This name is predicated largely on the monumental style of architecture that
arose in the Philippines throughout the Spanish colonial period. Earthquake
baroque style was steeped in Spanish, Moorish, and Roman traditions of
design, but was subtly fused with stylistic elements of indigenous art, as well as
influences imported from China and Mexico.75 It represents a syncretic form of
artistic expression that is uniquely Filipino.
But as much as earthquake baroque relates to architecture, it can be applied
in equal terms to other visual and sonic elements of the transplantation and
transformation of Hispanic culture in Southeast Asia. Forms of musical
performance that seemed strangely beautiful and bizarre to early modern
writers began to be cultivated in the tropics, while syncretic artistic genres were
spawned from the colonial condition. For these processes to take place, how-
ever, diverse cultures had to come into contact with each other. The counterpoint
of Spanish and Moorish cultures in the Iberian Peninsula and northern Africa
was echoed and replicated in Southeast Asia. Many other voices entered the
contrapuntal fabric, for the foundation of Manila as a colonial capital brought
together representatives of cultures from all around the world.
Global networks, whether cultural or economic, always require nodes bet-
ween which links can be forged and sustained. These nodes become points of
convergence that attract people, bringing commodities and ideas from all direc-
tions. Yet at the same time they act as points of radial diffusion, from which
agents of globalization seek new points of anchorage—just like a spider throw-
ing strands of silk into the wind in the hope of it making contact with a solid
object. The first “world wide web” of trade and cultural exchange, as it gradually
took shape in the early modern period, relied on entrepôts such as Manila for
the expansion and intensification of international commerce. In terms of the
general backdrop of global music history, these cities come into sharp focus as
loci for the speedy and intense exchange of musical traits and practices from
many different cultures.
In this chapter, we have seen that Manila attracted migrants from all over
the world and juxtaposed diverse cultural identities in a complex social mosaic.
Representatives from Asia, Africa, the Americas, and Europe all converged at
this port city, as a result of voyages from every direction. Manila acted as the
most important link between China and Mexico in the formation of early
modern global trade, and as such it became a significant conduit for the trans-
mission of people, ideas, and commodities. The transpacific galleons traveling
between the Philippines and Mexico were a regular and sustained channel of
communication and transportation; moreover, they symbolized political and
cultural connections across the Earth’s largest ocean. The stage was set for
multidirectional encounters, transactions, and exchanges.
2 ©
Musical Transactions and

Intercultural Exchange
One of the defining characteristics of counterpoint is simultaneity. Without the

simultaneous sounding of voices, there can be no contrapuntal opposition to
make a polyphonic whole. If we view all human musics of the past half-millen-
nium as contributing to a type of global polyphony (or cacophony, for that
matter), we can see that the worldwide diffusion of musical commodities was a
vital element in the simultaneous cultivation of certain shared musical reper-
tories or performance traditions. Likewise, we realize that the meeting of
mutually alien cultures often determined the identities of the opposing voices
that would engage in the most sustained and complex contrapuntal dialogue.
Many of these voices were entangled in intricate relationships of cultural inter-
dependence and behaved in response to the pressures, needs, and expectations
of their environment. Examining this sort of colonial counterpoint, then, allows
us to form an understanding of the functioning or inner workings of musical
encounters between different and usually conflicting cultures in the early
modern world.
Musical transactions and intercultural exchanges were arguably the most
important part of contrapuntal interplay within the colonial milieu. Commodities
such as musical instruments were not just accessories to a transplanted European
culture; they were also artifacts that could be observed or handled by members of
other cultures. They provided the means for the (re)production of sound and
were themselves models to be reproduced in the colonies. Along with instru-
ments, colonialists imported sheet music and theoretical treatises (in print and
manuscript form). All types of musical commodities brought to the Philippines
fell into three main categories: objects for personal use, objects for institutional
use, and objects for trade. Of course, these categories were broad and had fluid
and porous boundaries. There was a great deal of overlap between them.
Musical commodities were transported around the world as inanimate

articles, and they were of course dependent on the human agency of theoretical
understanding and practical skills. For this reason, musicians or instrument
builders often traveled on the galleons with their specialized belongings. Even
when traders without any musical training assumed responsibility for the
transmission of musical commodities, they did so with the aim of serving
professional and amateur musicians in the colonies. The transoceanic chan-
nels of commodity transmission were thus geared favorably toward the needs
of musicians and the creation of colonial musical practices. By their very
existence, they also provided a catalyst for exchanges and transactions with
other cultures. Manila, as a satellite European city and a far-flung outpost of the
Spanish Empire, was the conduit through which European, American, and
African cultural influences arrived in many parts of East and Southeast Asia.
For the cultures of the Philippines and neighboring lands, the musical reper-
cussions of 1571 were arguably as pervasive and radically influential as those of
1492 had been in the Americas.1 The sudden arrival of European music in the
early modern Philippines (and certain neighboring regions) established a colo-
nial music culture, triggered intercultural dialogue between opposing musical
systems, and initiated a period of accelerating musical change and development,
as this chapter shows.
European Musical Commodities as Cultural Currency
The earliest known record of a large collection of musical works reaching the
Philippines is the inventory of plainchant and polyphony in the personal library
of Domingo de Salazar (1512–94), the first bishop of Manila, who arrived in
1581. This document lists sixteen books of music whose titles are unspecified
but whose contents are hinted at by the description that four were “choirbooks”
and twelve were “books of chant intonations and processionals.” Bishop Salazar
also brought with him pipe organs and a set of recorders and shawms.2 Several
decades later, the dulcian (bajón), “a very important instrument for church
music,” was introduced to the islands by the Jesuit Luis Serrano (d. 1603), who
“played it in the choir, and taught the Filipinos how to make it and play it.”3
These instruments, and many others, provided the basis for all those that were
eventually used by European and indigenous ministriles (church instrumental-
ists) in the Philippines.
While scores of commodities came directly from Europe, networks bet-
ween the religious communities of widely dispersed territories within the
overseas Spanish Empire also facilitated the transmission of sheet music and
instruments. Extra-European nodes had strong links between them. In 1615,
Pedro Solier (c. 1578–1620), who was then bishop of Puerto Rico and had pre-
viously been a missionary in the Philippines, sent gifts to the recently founded
musical transactions and intercultural exchange 47
Augustinian convent in Manila. These included ornaments of brocade for use

in worship (“para el servicio del culto dibino”) and a box of choirbooks (“libros
de canto”), all of which had been purchased at his own cost.4 Similar channels
of correspondence allowed for the transmission of musical materials between
autonomous Asian countries and the Spanish colony of the Philippines. For
instance, Franciscan missionary Juan de Santa Marta (1578–1618), who arrived
in Manila in 1606 and then worked in Japan from 1607 until his execution
there in 1618, composed a misa en solfa during his three-year imprisonment in
Miako (now Kyoto) and sent it to his brethren in Manila shortly before his
martyrdom.5 Musical salutations between religious personnel in missions
outside Europe constituted important forms of contact. Because European
music was a familiar element of worship that sparked an immediate connec-
tion between Roman Catholic missionaries working far from their native
countries, it accrued considerable value in its material form (manuscript or
printed sheet music, often produced at great expense) as a representation of
the sumptuous arts of Catholic Europe, which could be imitated or replicated
from afar.
The importation of European books to Manila reflects certain characteris-
tics of the same trade in Latin America, not only in terms of their subject matter
but also in terms of the extent to which censorship was applied. Given that the
added distance of a transpacific voyage compounded the expense and effort of
the exercise, the presence of these books as far afield as Southeast Asia was
highly significant in the early modern period. The works on music theory that
were taken to the Philippines demonstrate the breadth of intellectual endeavor
in the musical culture of the colony—or at least the bibliographical or practical
demands of the colonialists—and it is worth examining them here. An early
example comes from the inventory of a private library of an unnamed Spanish
official, who shipped his books from Acapulco to Manila in 1583: this collection
included an Arte de canto llano by an unnamed theorist.6 Meanwhile, a diverse
collection of early modern music treatises is still held in Manila’s University of
Santo Tomás (founded by the Dominicans in 1611), although it is difficult to
determine the exact dates of their arrival. Among them can be found the first
book of the Declaración de instrumentos (Osuna, 1549) by Juan Bermudo
(c. 1510–59), El melopeo y maestro (Naples, 1613) by Pietro Cerone (1566–1625),
a damaged copy of the first volume of Musurgia universalis (Rome, 1650) by
Athanasius Kircher (1601–80), and a reprint of Élémens de musique théorique et
pratique suivant les principes de M. Rameau (Paris, 1779) by Jean le Rond
d’Alembert (1717–83). A Franciscan historian writing in Manila during the
1730s also made reference in a marginal note to “Plutarch. lib. de Musica,”
implying that an edition of the work was present in the city.7 This work was a
standard classical text for music scholarship in the early modern period. (But
while De musica was attributed to Plutarch [c. 46–120 c.e.], it was almost cer-
tainly not written by him.)
Another important early modern treatise, El porqué de la música (Alcalá de

Henares, 1672; second edition, 1699) by Andrés Lorente (1624–1703), is listed
in a mid-eighteenth-century library inventory of the Augustinian convent in
Intramuros.8 The inventory does not specify which edition of the work was
imported, but we can presume that it arrived in the Philippines within a few
decades of its publication, certainly before the mid-eighteenth century. The
music treatises known to have been in Manila cover a wide range of dates and
reflect local familiarity with regular developments in European music theory. It
is noteworthy that the majority of them propound the principles of contra-
puntal composition, which was a central part of colonial music pedagogy.
Although most of these treatises were housed in institutions that catered for
the education of the elite, especially the Dominican Universidad de Santo
Tomás and the Jesuit Colegio de Manila, the musical knowledge and skills
found within these tomes spread throughout many parts of society with the
appointment of religious personnel to various churches and missions.
Knowledge was propagated through missionary music education. Ultimately,
the influence of these treatises would have resonated in the activities of indige-
nous maestros de capilla and their ensembles. To use a concept of Pierre
Bourdieu (1930–2002), these treatises represented cultural capital in its “objec-
tified state, in the form of cultural goods.” As they also conferred skills and
knowledge of European music, they increased indigenous musicians’ status (in
the eyes of the colonial authorities) and—by extension—both their social capital
(in terms of their networks of connections with patrons of their art) and their
symbolic capital (the prestige bestowed on them for their skills).9
It is likely that each treatise was imported to the colonies while it held
currency within the prevailing trends of music theory and practice in the Old
World, rather than as an antiquarian work within a larger bibliophilic collec-
tion. A letter written in 1654 by Juan Montiel (1630–55), a twenty-four-year-old
Jesuit from Naples, reveals the relatively rapid transportation of major theoret-
ical works in early modern world as part of the global missionary endeavor: in
this case, the Musurgia universalis by Athanasius Kircher. Montiel’s epistle was
addressed to none other than Kircher himself, in Rome, and it is worth quoting
at length, because it illustrates some of the challenges and privations involved
in the dissemination of European books to the East Indies.
I am so obliged to Your Reverence not only for the great kindness
with which Your Reverence treated me in Rome, but also for the
instruction that Your Reverence gives me all day in these remote
parts of the world by means of his books—which are no less
esteemed here than [they are] in Europe—that it would be [a sign of ]
great ingratitude not to write to Your Reverence. May you know,
then, how most fortunate and most brief was our voyage from Rome
to the Philippines. But six leagues from Cavite, a port two leagues
away from Manila, the Lord (the ways of whom are inscrutable)
allowed for the rise of a contrary wind that they call “Noroeste,” or
“Vendrial,” which, breaking out with great fury on 30 May, the night
before the feast of the Most Sacred Trinity, [broke] the ropes, causing
the ship to lose all of its anchors, so that it was necessary to go to a
sandy beach nearby where the people, the King’s silver, and other
precious things were saved. Here in Manila I am studying the fourth
year of theology, and I see for myself the many marvels that Your
Reverence recounts in his books. I have been the first to bring one of
these, that is, the Musurgia, to the [East] Indies, and I do not doubt
that it will be of great usefulness to the Fathers of the missions,
where music is taught publicly.10
Given this description of the ship’s harrowing landing, it seems remarkable
that any books arrived dry and in one piece. Montiel goes on to add that the
rector of Silan (now Silang, Province of Cavite)—a German Jesuit named
Ignatio Monti—“wants to read it, and I will send it to him shortly.”11 We do not
know whether Montiel carried out his intention to send the treatise out of the
city; if he did, then the copy that is now held at the University of Santo Tomás
may not be the same one that was imported in 1654. (It has no marks of own-
ership that associate it with any Jesuit book collection, although it does bear a
Dominican library stamp that probably dates from the late nineteenth or early
twentieth centuries.) In any case, Montiel did not tarry long in Manila after his
landing. Shortly after writing this letter, he was sent as an ambassador on an
ill-fated mission to the Islamic court of Simuay.12 We revisit his tragic story
later.
The arrival of the Musurgia universalis in the Philippines just four years
after its publication in Rome is illuminating; it demonstrates the ready recep-
tion of the local intellectual community to current works on music theory and
suggests that other compendia of the times taken to the islands were greeted
with similar interest. Of all the theoretical works on music published during
the early modern period, Kircher’s Musurgia enjoyed a worldwide distribution
that was practically unprecedented; the breadth of its diffusion was due to the
global network of the Jesuit enterprise.13 In the Philippine missions, where
music was “taught publicly,” the Musurgia—containing information on music
theory, history, ethnography, organology, and practice—would have been con-
sidered a vital tool. As well as detailing European traditions, it provided the
means by which the reader could attempt to approach, understand, and even
make use of non-European musics in the context of evangelization.
Kircher’s treatise was evidently studied in great detail in Manila. A seven-
teenth-century manuscript volume titled “Observationes diversarum artium,”
partly or completely compiled in this city by an anonymous Jesuit, includes
writings on geometry, astronomy, and other diverse subjects, as well as a
116-page section treating music, titled “Musicalia speculativa, practicalia, et

instrumentorum.”14 Within this section, 114 pages provide a succinct digest of
the Musurgia universalis. The text of the “Musicalia” is interpolated with pithy
observations of local musical practices in the Philippines, and its production
shows that erudition in the academic discipline of music was cultivated at the
highest level in late seventeenth-century Manila. The author makes occasional
references to the work of theorist Marin Mersenne (1588–1648), and repro-
duces a diagram of a trump or jaw harp (figure 2.1) resembling one found in
Mersenne’s Harmonie universelle (Paris, 1636–37) and Harmonicorum libri
(Paris, 1648), which suggests that one or both of these treatises may have been
available for study in Manila. It is very likely that this entire volume of
“Observationes,” assembled in the final third of the seventeenth century, was
used for the purposes of academic instruction at the Jesuit Colegio de Manila.
Along with Montiel, certain other individuals (particularly missionaries)
were responsible for spearheading the dissemination of musical commodities:
one was a Franciscan named Francisco Péris de la Concepción (d. 1701). Born
in Pego, Valencia, he traveled to the Philippines via Mexico, arriving in Manila
in 1671, and the following year he transferred to the missions in China, taking
the Chinese name Pien-Siang-Kung. He founded three churches in Canton
and was a prolific theological writer in Spanish and Chinese. After twelve years
figure 2.1. Depiction of a jaw harp. “Musicalia speculativa,” in “Observationes

diversarum artium,” 591. © Biblioteca Nacional de España.
of residence in China, he moved to Macau in 1684, then in 1689 returned to

Manila, where he died on November 8, 1701.15 Soon after, his biographer wrote
that “from [his time in] Mexico he searched out maestros and requested from
them papers [that is, copies], not only for singing, but also the art and rules for
the composition of many hymns and Psalms in musical meter.”16 Péris de la
Concepción probably took these papers with him to the Philippines and China,
providing a theoretical foundation for the use of music in his work there. They
would have been copies of music treatises and compositions that were com-
monly available in Mexico. He also composed a book of motets, which is prob-
ably lost: “Libro de música en fólio para el canto de Motetes á cuatro voces en el
Via-Crucis de los Terceros de Manila.”17
Many other types of European musical repertory were undoubtedly dif-
fused throughout Southeast Asia by means of oral transmission. Works from
one quite obvious category of early modern migrant communities, the songs of
sailors, were rarely mentioned or recorded in early modern documents; but we
can deduce from anecdotal evidence and accounts of daily life that a great deal
of devotional religious music was commonly retained by memory and that
famous spiritual verses were sung to popular tunes. For instance, when Jesuit
Raymundo Prat (1557–1605) lay on his deathbed in February 1605, some singers
from the Jesuit College came to him asking if he would like to hear some music
and what he would have them sing. Prat requested some verses that started
“Véante mis ojos, dulce Jesus bueno; véante mis ojos; muerame yo luego,”
which a treble sang to him in a steady voice.18 This text is the beginning of a
poem that is often attributed to Saint Teresa of Ávila (1515–82)19 and which is
still set to music and performed today in parts of Spain as a popular devotional
song. It is one of the few named examples of popular religious songs that we
know from early modern Manila.
Books of plainchant and polyphony that had been printed in Europe were
also available from booksellers who set up shop in Manila, because these busi-
nesses intended to profit from musical exchanges in the religious and domestic
markets. An inventory of the wares sold by merchant Pedro de Zúñiga (d. 1608)
included the following titles in 1607: “pasionarios de canto llano,” “un juego de
motetes de guerrero,” and “un juego de motetes de madrigal.”20 The volume of
motets by “guerrero” most likely refers to works by celebrated composer
Francisco Guerrero (1528–99), rather than his less famous elder brother, Pedro
Guerrero (b. ca. 1520). It could be one of three collections published in Venice:
Motetta (1570), Mottecta, liber secundus (1589), or Motecta (1597).21 However, the
descriptions of the other musical sources in the will defy identification. The
term “madrigal” was certainly used for certain genres in Spain, predominantly
by Catalonian composers, but “motetes de madrigal” could allude to works
written by a composer whose nickname was “madrigal.”22 Equally, it could refer
loosely to a volume of sacred music in vernacular language(s). Meanwhile,
“pasionarios de canto llano” is a fairly ambiguous descriptor, and a large
number of such works available at the time could fit the bill. All these books
had been sent to Zúñiga in Manila by a friar named Albarránez in Mexico.
However, the business appears not to have thrived, and Zúñiga lamented in his
last testament that he more often loaned books to local religious communities
than sold them to paying customers. Still more were destroyed in a fire. Thus,
he bequeathed the remaining volumes back to Albarránez.23
Although the market for music books in Manila at this time was relatively
restricted—given that the primary consumers would have been members of
religious congregations, with strictly controlled funds—printed music books
continued to make their way to Manila. Eighteenth-century publications that
are known to have been imported include a Pasionario en que se contienen las
quatro pasiones de los quatro santos evangelistas (Madrid, 1788), containing
printed music in mensural notation. Three copies of this work survive today
in the Convento de San Agustín.24 But apart from the treatises discussed ear-
lier, no seventeenth-century examples of European printed music survive,
and no other listings in inventories have yet been found (the earliest example
is a cathedral inventory from 1761, discussed in chapter 6). However, we can
see evidence of this type in neighboring Iberian colonies, which may help
construct an idea of the type of repertory that was known in Manila. For in-
stance, the titles listed in an early seventeenth-century catalog of a library in
Macau, which may have been consulted by European missionaries destined
for mainland China and Japan, include a significant number of publications
containing music, such as the Directorium chori ad usum Sacrosanctæ Basilic[a]e
Vaticanæ (Rome, 1582) by Giovanni Domenico Guidetti (1531–92), books of
Mass and Magnificat settings by Portuguese composer Duarte Lobo (1565–
1646), and many other choirbooks and liturgical books besides.25 Given that
religious commodities were regularly shipped between Macau and Manila—
the facistol (music-lectern) of the Convento de San Agustín in Intramuros, for
example, was reputedly carved in Macau in the early eighteenth century—it
follows that musical repertory was also probably shared between the two
cities.26
Importation and local production of music combined to meet the musical
needs of the colony. A description of festivities held in Manila in 1712 refers to
“the most famous tunes” having come from Spain, and an account of serenata
performances in Antipolo in 1748 mentions that “Spanish and foreign compo-
sitions” were sung, both “old and modern; in which the best of the art was
demonstrated in arias, recitatives, fugues, graves, and all other variety of
genres.”27 Theatrical works by Spanish Golden Age poets such as Lope de Vega
Carpio (1562–1635), Pedro Calderón de la Barca (1600–81), and Agustín
Moreto (1618–89), as well as by the “Phoenix of Mexico,” Sor Juana Inés de la
Cruz (1651–95), arrived from both Spain and Latin America. They were per-
formed in Manila during the first half of the eighteenth century (and perhaps
earlier).28 Some plays are indicated by name, and we know that they included
considerable musical involvement at various stages throughout the drama.

This music was either imported or newly composed in Manila.
Locally composed music included Mass and Psalm settings, arias, and vil-
lancicos, almost all traces of which have unfortunately disappeared. These were
most likely produced in manuscript form and were often written for specific
festivities, whether seasonal (according to the feasts of the church year) or occa-
sional (as in the celebration of royal births, deaths, and marriages; or military
victories, beatifications, and canonizations). Complex polychoral compositions
were regularly commissioned and performed by the combined ensembles of
multiple institutions. For instance, the chronicler of celebrations held in 1676
at the Convento de Santo Domingo in honor of the beatification of Pius V,
Diego de Bebaña, and Margarita de Castello reported that “at the appropriate
time for Vespers, all of our religious [the Dominicans] . . . together with all the
capillas de música of Manila invited [for this occasion], accompanied by five
choirs of a fine variety of instruments, sang new works, Psalm settings and
chanzonetas, breaking forth the renown of the celebration, and contributing to
the elevation [of the newly beatified].”29 The scores of these “new works” may
have been retained (and possibly recycled for later performances), but those
with newly composed texts that were written especially for the occasion prob-
ably fell into disuse. Although the texts were kept for posterity in printed
accounts of the festivities, the music itself was always in manuscript form and
was often not preserved.30
The only possible example of a printed work devoted entirely to music was
a treatise on plainchant, composed in the Bikol language, by Franciscan José de
la Virgen (d. 1767), which was purportedly produced by one of Manila’s presses
in 1727.31 But this publication does not appear to survive in Manila, or in
the Bikol region. On the other hand, many manuscript cantorales still exist in
the capital and throughout the archipelago. The largest corpus from the early
modern period is housed in the Biblioteca of the Convento de San Agustín.
Again, some were produced locally (by hand), and others were imported.
Although music in European staff notation was printed in Japan as early as
1605 (in the Manuale ad sacramenta produced by the Jesuit press at Nagasaki)
and there are examples of European staff notation in a Chinese theoretical trea-
tise of 1723, these were isolated instances.32 Music printing did not begin in
Manila until the mid-nineteenth century, but when it did, it soon blossomed
into a thriving industry.
Manila served as the logical starting point for most Spanish missionaries
(as well as some Italians and Portuguese) wishing to venture into mainland
China or other neighboring Asian territories, and musical commodities often
went with them. The Lazarist missionary and musician Teodorico Pedrini
(1671–1746), who was a member of the Arcadian Academy and possibly a stu-
dent of Arcangelo Corelli (1653–1713), stopped in Manila from 1708 to 1710
during an epic nine-year voyage from Rome to Beijing.33 Once he finally
reached the Chinese capital, in early 1711, Pedrini wrote a letter on March 4
reporting on his first audience with the Kangxi emperor. This epistle, sent to
Rome, reveals that he brought to Beijing works newly composed by himself,
and “in his first month [there] he composed three [more] sets of ten trio sonatas
to present to the emperor.”34 As Peter C. Allsop and Joyce Lindorff have shown
in their pioneering research, Pedrini’s sole extant collection of works, “Sonate
a violino solo col basso del Nepridi: Opera Terza. Parte Prima,” which con-
tains twelve violin sonatas fashioned after those in Opus 5 of Corelli, still sur-
vives in Beijing and is believed to have been composed (or at least recopied)
there.35 So far none of his earlier works have been found. We could speculate
that some of the repertory he took with him to Beijing was composed in
Manila, although no evidence survives to substantiate such a claim. Pedrini is
also the obvious candidate to have imported the works of Corelli to China and
the Philippines. However, the same letter includes a petition to the Sacra
Congregatio de Propaganda Fide (Sacred Congregation for the Propagation of
the Faith) “to send, as essential pieces of equipment, ‘le opere di Arcangelo
Corelli di buona stampa con alcune di Bononcino’” (the works of Arcangelo
Corelli, well printed [or engraved], with some of Bononcino), which suggests
that these scores were not already in China at the time of his arrival and that
he did not take them with him.36 Nevertheless, evidence from elsewhere in the
Spanish Empire and from other European colonies in Asia lends weight to
the possibility that Corelli’s music reached the Philippines at some point
in the eighteenth century.37
Musical instruments, especially keyboard instruments, were considered
vital tools for religious missions in Asia. Keyboard instruments (clavichords,
harpsichords, spinets, and organs) began to circulate around East and Southeast
Asia in the late sixteenth century, being transported there via both eastern and
western channels of transmission.38 With the diffusion of keyboards throughout
the Americas and parts of Africa in the sixteenth century, this European musical
technology began to be used worldwide. We have seen that organs arrived in
Manila with Bishop Salazar in the 1580s. Meanwhile, some more surprising
evidence seems to suggest the presence of clavichords in the city not long after:
in a Tagalog vocabulario of 1613, one of the translations for the Spanish term
cuerda (string) is listed as the Tagalog word cauar (now kawad), which is
described as “copper [strings] for clavichords or zithers.”39 This reference to the
clavichord (monacordio) by Franciscan Pedro de San Buena Ventura (d. 1627)
appears to be the earliest written allusion to any stringed keyboard instrument
in the Philippines. Although it does not provide concrete evidence that clavi-
chords proliferated in early seventeenth-century Manila, it implies that the local
Spanish population was nevertheless aware of—and familiar with—the requi-
site technology for the construction of this instrument, and, furthermore, that
local string-making practices were exploited for the construction or mainte-
nance of these European instruments. Inclusion of these specialized musical
terms in a Filipino language compendium could even imply the indigenous

use of these instruments at this relatively early date.
The local teaching of organ building began as early as 1606, with the work
of Juan de Santa Marta who, as mentioned, traveled to Japan not long after his
arrival in the Philippines.40 Exactly what types of organs he built in the
Philippines and Japan remains an intriguing question. There remains no
physical evidence of organs dating from the early seventeenth century in the
Philippines. Nevertheless, the construction of organs with bamboo pipes in
Japan had been noted as early as 1596 by a Portuguese captain, Ruis Mendes,
who had heard of them and “wanted to see them with his eyes, and touch them
with his hands.” When he saw these organs in Nagasaki, touched (or played)
them, and heard their sound, this Doubting Thomas was filled with admira-
tion.41 Organs such as these were probably portative, and similar instruments
with bamboo pipes may also have been produced in the Philippines at this
time. They perhaps provided a precedent for the work of Recollect missionary
Diego Cera de la Virgen del Carmen (1762–1832) in the early nineteenth
century: his famous bamboo organ at Las Piñas, built between 1816 and 1824,
which contains 747 speaking bamboo pipes.42
The building of organs seems to have been propelled or encouraged by the
Franciscans; a document written in 1703 by Franciscan missionary Juan de
Jesús states that “it is not very easy to make organs, [but] a Filipino from
Camarines named Alonso made the organ of our Monasterio de Santa Clara,
and another which our brother fray Lucas Eskuan took to China. There is
another Filipino who is in [here the manuscript has a blank space] who also
makes organs, and in Nagcarlan this year of 1703 another Filipino restored the
organ to an almost new condition, and the same year another Filipino did like-
wise to the organ in Lilio.”43 This document provides the earliest archival evi-
dence of a named Filipino organ builder, and it is highly significant, for it
indicates that this craftsman was constructing organs for both the domestic
and export markets; the three unnamed Filipinos who were mentioned by
Jesús were also engaged in organ manufacture and restoration. Around fifty
years later, a document concerning the rebuilding of Manila Cathedral noted
that the organ was being constructed by an unidentified “expert master” of
organ building who was, at the time, apparently “the only one in the islands.”44
We do not know whether this builder was Filipino or Spanish. (It is unlikely to
be the same Alonso of Camarines, who would have been either extremely
elderly or deceased by that time.) If there were only one organ builder in the
whole of the archipelago in the mid-eighteenth century, then the arrival of Cera
in 1792 may have revived a skill that was waning in the region.
Pipe organs appear to have been popular in other Southeast Asian coun-
tries, as a number of early modern documents attest. For instance, in 1771
French historian François Henri Turpin (1709–99) claimed that “the organ is
the favorite instrument [in Siam], because it is the one that makes the most
noise, and in order to have the pleasure of hearing it, they [the Siamese] come
with willingness to the church of the Christians. Many have learnt the art of
playing it, just through having heard it regularly.”45 Although Turpin wrote in
Paris, compiling his Histoire civile et naturelle du royaume de Siam from letters
sent to him by missionaries in the field, it is likely that this rather routine
observation had some foundation to it. As a mechanical instrument, and a loud
one, the organ attracted audiences in many parts of the world. Still, for lack of
relevant documentation it remains unknown whether these organs in Siam
were built locally or imported from Europe.
As we can see, the early modern Philippines were certainly a significant
center of production for European musical instruments. It is possible that
Pedrini himself obtained instruments such as a violin or keyboard and associ-
ated accessories (strings, for example) in the Philippines, given that his arduous
odyssey across the Atlantic and Pacific Oceans and across land over ten years
may have wrought havoc on the state of his possessions. Although we know
little about luthieries in the early modern Philippines, we do know that colonial
instrument-building undoubtedly reached its zenith in the final decade of the
eighteenth century. Once Diego Cera arrived in Manila, on June 5, 1792, he
established a workshop in which pipe organs and other keyboard instruments
were constructed. Given the well-documented propensity of Filipinos to make
European instruments, there can be little doubt that Cera employed local indig-
enous craftsmen. The first “Forte-Piano” built there was regarded by Governor
Rafael María de Aguilar y Ponce de León (d. 1806) as having no equal in Spain
or England and being so beautiful that it would be a worthy gift to the Spanish
queen. José de Santa Orosia (1736–1807), the provincial of the Recollect order
in the Philippines, confirmed this decision on October 29, 1793, dedicating the
instrument to María Luisa de Parma (1751–1819; also known as María Luisa de
Borbón), wife and queen consort of Carlos IV (1748–1819).46 Santa Orosia’s
letter accompanying its delivery refers to the instrument having “newly invented
registers,”47 but no more specific details are offered, and the letter of dedication
addressed directly to the queen has not yet emerged. Although María Luisa
acknowledged receipt of the fortepiano, sending back to Cera costly gifts for his
parish, no other reactions seem to be recorded in Spain, and the instrument
itself has not yet been located.48 Still, Cera’s fame rests on his skills as an organ
builder. Following his only recorded making of a “Forte-Piano,” he went on to
construct and rebuild many organs throughout the Philippines; a few of his
masterpieces and others bearing evidence of his influence survive today in the
Manila region and in the Visayas.49
A significant cultural ramification of the transpacific galleon trade was very
likely the migration of craftsmen from Mexico to the Philippines, including
makers of musical instruments. The production of new musical instruments
was so abundant in Mexico during the sixteenth century that from 1585 orders
were issued that any person wishing to trade as an instrument maker had to
pass a strict examination testing the ability to construct particular instruments.50

The overflow of Mexican luthiers or their products doubtless spread across the
Pacific to the Philippines, and was probably responsible for the arrival in the
islands of many types of stringed instruments, such as the harp and the bandur-
ria. The author of the “Musicalia” claims that he saw a man named Sebastian
Bicos playing the bandurrilla (bandurria) in Manila on August 1, 1663, and even
provided a diagram of the instrument (figure 2.2).51 The bandurria, popular
throughout Spain and Latin America, stands between the guitar and cittern in
terms of its design and practice.52 As early as 1555, Bermudo mentioned that it
had circulated between Spain and the New World and that organological devel-
opments in the Americas (for example, the addition of extra strings) had had an
impact on the design of European instruments.53 The bandurria most likely
reached the Philippines via Latin America, and its importation was doubtless an
influential factor in the development of the rondalla, an ensemble of plucked
string instruments that remains popular in the Philippines to this day.
figure 2.2. Depiction of a bandurrilla. “Musicalia speculativa,” in “Observationes

diversarum artium,” 596. © Biblioteca Nacional de España.
The sixteenth-century arrival of European plucked and bowed string instru-

ments to the Philippines—from across the Atlantic and Pacific Oceans, by way
of the Americas—represents the beginning of the globalization of Eurasian
chordophones. As I explain in the introduction, I consider the origins of glob-
alization to be coterminous with the regular and sustained use of routes cov-
ering every longitudinal point of the Earth. The globalization of a particular
technology or a commodity can be dated back to its consistent diffusion around
the world through these channels of transmission. Thus the Philippines repre-
sent an early modern point of global convergence for string instruments from
Asia, Europe, and also Africa.
Plucked string instruments have ancient origins in different parts of
Eurasia. Evidence for the use of the lyre and harp can be dated back to 3000 b.c.e.
in the Middle East, and this technology was carried both East and West.54 The
technique of bowing arose in Central Asia shortly before the tenth century c.e.
(which is the approximate date of the earliest known iconographic evidence, a
mural from south Tajikistan).55 String instruments proliferated throughout
Eurasia and reached Southeast Asia via India and China. The earliest icono-
graphic representation of a harp in Southeast Asia, in Burma, dates from the
mid-seventh century c.e., and lutes appear in bas-reliefs on the ninth-century
walls of Borobudur in Indonesia.56 Bows probably arrived in the region at some
point in the following centuries. Yet in the Americas, by contrast, no string
instruments of any type appear to have been known or played before the advent
of transatlantic connections at the end of the fifteenth century, even though
indigenous inhabitants used the bow in archery.57 The subsequent introduc-
tion of European and African string instruments to the Americas, then these
objects’ transportation westward over the Pacific to the Philippines—where a
long-established string instrument culture was flourishing in the precolonial
epoch—meant that the westernmost and easternmost extents of Eurasian-
African chordophonic influence and practice met in Southeast Asia.
The transpacific link between Mexico and the Philippines was not, of course,
a nonstop route, and we should consider the use and delivery of musical com-
modities on the way. During the long voyage from Acapulco to Manila, the gal-
leons usually stopped at the Mariana Islands (but not on the return journey,
as they followed a more northern route). This was not the only connection bet-
ween the two archipelagoes: a ship to link them directly was constructed in the
eighteenth century. Exchanges between the Philippines and its island neighbors
to the east (not only the Marianas but also the Micronesian archipelago known as
the Caroline Islands) were highly important for the Philippine colony, especially
from the perspective of missionaries. Satellite mission stations in these islands
were maintained by Jesuits of the Philippine Province, who transported musical
commodities from both Acapulco and Manila. The Jesuit mission on the
Marianas’ largest island, Guam, was established in 1668 by Diego Luis de
Sanvítores (1627–72), following approval of the project by Spain’s queen regent,
María Ana (Mariana) de Austria (1634–96), who donated funds for the project.
Her name had graced the islands of the small archipelago (“Islas Marianas”)
from the time she issued the relevant cédula (decree) in 1665, replacing the derog-
atory name that had been given by Magellan in 1521: “Islands of Thieves.”58
Along with a band of Spaniards, Jesuit Sanvítores took with him a number
of indigenous Filipinos, including two interpreters (who had previously lived
in the Marianas for around twenty years), craftsmen and soldiers, and three
musicians.59 The musicians have the unusual distinction of having their names
left on the record: Juan de Santiago (cantor), Felipe Tocsan (cantor), and Andrés
de la Cruz (niño tiple). These Filipino practitioners of European music played a
significant role in perpetuating the process of transculturation throughout the
Philippines and adjacent territories. To the Chamorro people of the Marianas,
they would have appeared closer in appearance and customs than Spaniards or
Mexicans, and as fellow subaltern voices in the contrapuntal fabric of empire,
they were more likely to have been accepted into the local community than
Spaniards would have been. Along with their musical duties these cantores
were also expected to take on the role of sacristans.
The list of requirements for the mission, dictated by Sanvítores in 1668,
included the following musical instruments: rattles, a drum, recorders, gayta
(a type of bagpipe) “or any other instrument [that is] easy to play,” horn,
trumpet or shawms, harp, guitar, and (spare) strings.60 It is likely that the
Filipino cantores were familiar with the playing techniques for each of these
instruments, given that by this stage the European instrumentorium had
been present in the Philippines for around a century. In 1671, Sanvítores
wrote to Mexico ordering “harps, guitars, lyres, cornet[t]s and all those other
instruments which belong to the musical art, together with some music
books. Also an organ and organist so that these boys may acquire all these
skills.”61 We do not know whether these commodities in fact arrived, but in
any case it was a common practice for missionaries to send petitions request-
ing far more than they ever hoped or expected to receive. Sanvítores died a
martyr’s death the following year, cutting short his mission. Nevertheless,
the Jesuit missionary endeavor continued there—although it was challenged
by numerous setbacks—and among the items sent from Mexico to the
Marianas in 1677 were three shawms and one sackbut.62 Almost a century
later, an inventory made on the expulsion of the Jesuits from the Marianas in
1768 lists ten violins (at least seven “with their bows”), recorders, three harps,
a violoncello, a small dulcian, two cornetts, and “a shelf with sheet music.”63
European music was such a central part of evangelistic and colonizing
endeavors in these islands that it continued to be a significant element of
cultural life there from the late eighteenth century onward.
Some non-European musical practices also appear to have made their way to
Guam, including the making and playing of an instrument that in Chamorro is
called belembao tuyan. This is a musical bow with a gourd resonator that is held
against the belly while the bowstring is tightened and tapped with a stick. It bears
remarkable resemblance to the iconic gourd bow or berimbau of Angola, whose
arrival in Latin America was most likely due to the cultural memories of Africans
who had been enslaved and shipped across the Atlantic.64 The berimbau prolifer-
ated in Brazil, where it became one of the principal instruments used in capoeira
(a game-dance genre somewhat like a choreographed martial art). This instru-
ment is sometimes called berimbau de barriga (“belly berimbau”) by Brazilians,
and given that “tuyan” is the Chamorro word for “stomach,” belembao tuyan must
be the Chamorro equivalent of berimbau de barriga. It is clear that the gourd bow
was one of the musical repercussions of forced African migration to the New
World. If we follow the trajectory of Spanish trade routes further to the west, we
can surmise that at some stage it must have been introduced to Guam in the same
way, since Africans were taken on the transpacific galleon voyages.65
Galleons that stopped at Guam still had Manila as their final destination,
of course, so it is unsurprising to find evidence suggesting that African musi-
cians played the gourd bow in the Philippine capital—although this instru-
ment could also have arrived there from the other direction, via the Indian
Ocean. A performance on berimbau in Manila is represented in an engraving
from 1734 (figure 2.3). The player of the bow seems to be accompanying three
other African men playing cañas (“game of sticks”), before a small audience of
a Canarin (a native of Goa, India) and a Lascar (the term applied to sailors from
India or the Persian Gulf who were employed on European ships). An account
of festivities in mid-eighteenth-century Manila also provides a description of
performances on the “vulgar birimbao.”66 However, since the term “birimbao”
could also refer to a jaw harp—the “Musicalia” points out that this was applied
in this way by the Portuguese in the East Indies—the identity of the instrument
implied by this source remains unclear.67
Along with musical commodities that were transported to, from, and
around the Philippine archipelago, musicians themselves were occasionally
“commodified,” traveling across the Pacific or to surrounding islands and
mainland Asian territories to offer their services. Missionary personnel sta-
tioned in satellite missions would regularly write to request aid or material
support from the mother-houses of religious orders in Manila, and such
requests often pertained to music. For example, Péris de la Concepción wrote
to his brethren in Manila on March 4, 1678, to describe his duties in the house
of a local prince in Canton, China. He was obliged to regulate clocks; play the
organ, harpsichord, harp, and vihuela; and preach in the local dialect. The last
task alone was enough for one man to be fully occupied, he complained. He
requested that for his relaxation and solace the Franciscans in Manila should
send him a young Filipino child of high birth (probably male) who could play
the harp. If the child did not adjust to the country, he could be returned to the
Philippines on the next ship, “with the blessing of the Lord.”68 Whether this
child was in fact sent to China we do not know.
figure 2.3. Africans (cafres), playing berimbau (musical bow) and cañas
(game of sticks). Depicted in a vignette in Pedro Murillo Velarde, et al., Carta
hydrographica, y chorographica delas Yslas Filipinas (Manila: Nicolas de la Cruz
Bagay Indio Tagalo, 1734). © British Library Board. All Rights Reserved
(K.Top.116.37).
Other individual musicians sailed from Asia to Mexico on the annual gal-
leon, which was known colloquially in Mexico as la nao de China, because it
carried Chinese wares. Musicians described as chinos—because they came
from the same place as the galleon—are sometimes mentioned in Mexican
documents: for example, Nicolás de Rojas, a master harpist resident in Mexico
City, Francisco Sánchez, an established organist in Puebla, and Fulgencio (“el
chino de Manila”), part of an itinerant performing ensemble.69 The designation
of chino in Mexican sources does not necessarily imply that these musicians
were Chinese, but simply indicates their Asian origin.70
Occasionally, groups of Asian musicians—often children or youths—
traveled great distances under the patronage of Europeans. These trips could
end in triumph or tragedy. An example of the former outcome is the case of
four Japanese boys, reputed to be highly skilled in European music, who jour-
neyed throughout Portugal, Spain, and Italy as part of a combined Jesuit-
Japanese embassy in 1584–86.71 A case of the latter is illustrated by the curious
but fascinating story of the patronage given to a choir of Filipino tiples in the
late seventeenth century by the exiled Spanish nobleman don Fernando
Valenzuela, Marqués de San Bartolomé de los Pinales y de Villasierra (1636–
92). Valenzuela, the regent of Spain from the death of Felipe IV (1605–65)
until the fourteenth birthday of Carlos II (1661–1700), had been banished to
this farthest flung corner of empire as a result of the machinations of Juan
José de Austria (1629–79). He arrived on March 29, 1679, at the port of Cavite,
which was in many respects a miniature model of Intramuros, enclosing
churches of the Dominicans, Recollects, Jesuits, and Franciscans. Little is
known about Valenzuela’s life in exile, apart from minor biographical details
reporting that he composed poetry and comedias there and played the guitar.72
In one of Cavite’s churches, Valenzuela took consolation in the musical skills
of the “tiplecillos” (little trebles), and when a ship arrived in 1689 to transport
him back to Spain, he decided to take the boys with him. This act of munifi-
cence was, according to Luciano P. R. Santiago, intended to be undertaken
“for further education and training” of these youths.73 But en route, in Mexico,
Valenzuela met with an untimely and accidental death, and the trebles prob-
ably entered into the care of religious orders.74 The surviving text of Valenzuela’s
will makes no mention of them, unless they are the “esclavos” to whom he
refers, requesting that they be freed.75 While it is more likely that this clause
refers to African slaves, it is possible that the trebles acted as personal servants
to the exiled grandee as well as providing him with musical solace.
Manila as a Catalyst for Intercultural Exchanges of Music
As we have seen, the presence of regular channels for travel and communica-
tion as a result of trade and religious enterprise in Manila enabled contact bet-
ween disparate cultures and the opportunity for exchange. Religious, commercial,
and diplomatic outreach from the Spanish Philippines to neighboring countries
regularly involved the performance of music. Unlike the relatively passive trans-
portative act of remaining in one place and simply sending or receiving musical
commodities, this form of musical dissemination required the musicians them-
selves to travel and perform in unfamiliar environments and often to engage in
intercultural dialogue or pedagogic instruction. Musical dissemination of any
form relies not solely on the transmission of commodities such as instruments
and notated music but also on the teaching of theory and practice. The diffusion
of European musical practices in territories beyond the realms of the conquered
and Christianized Philippine Islands was a result of the steady influence of
European culture through global networks using Manila as an important base
for trade, diplomacy, and proselytization.
One of the main fora for intercultural contact through the medium of music
was the sending and receiving of embassies, for which diplomatic ceremonials
from many cultural traditions mandated the use of music to solemnize the
occasion or provide entertainment for distinguished guests. In the mid-eigh-
teenth century, Murillo Velarde claimed that “the government of the Philippines
is one of the best tools which the King can use in [all] the Indies, due to the great
extension of his mandate, for the authority which it holds and for the interests
which are perceived there. It is possible to send embassies to many kings who
surround us, to make peace, confederations, and alliances; declare wars, receive
embassies, and [to carry out] many similar deeds.”76 This was a fair assessment
of the situation, for embassies were sent regularly from Manila to Asian rulers
in Siam, Cambodia, Tonkin, China, Japan, Borneo, and Sulu; to coastal cities of
the Indian subcontinent, such as Mangalore; and to European settlements in
Macau, Canton, Madras, and Batavia. The rulers of these territories sometimes
responded in kind. Such embassies provided opportunities for European obser-
vation of Asian musical practices and vice versa.
Detailed descriptions of the musical entertainments given by envoys and
hosts are included in accounts of embassies sent from the Philippines to Siam
and India during the eighteenth century. A manuscript report of an embassy
sent from the Philippines to Siam in 1718 indicates that professional musicians
were aboard the Spanish ship; when they arrived in Siam, they provided music
for dances and festivities to greet representatives of the Siamese king. A
performance was then given by a Siamese musical troupe from the royal palace
for the entertainment of the Spanish delegation.77 In 1776, a Spanish trading
embassy that had been sent from Manila to Mangalore hosted in their local
house a performance of “dances in the style of the country,” which was given
in honor of an emissary of Hyder Ali (c. 1722–82), ruler of Mysore. This event
was later depicted by the official artist Miguel Antonio Gómez, who also had
the opportunity to see temples on the Malabar Coast. He later produced art-
works portraying local instruments and musical practices in religious cere-
monies. The commercial and diplomatic networks that were subsequently
forged throughout the region thus positioned Spanish Manila as a leading pro-
tagonist in the interaction between different powers, while intercultural com-
munication in these contexts was facilitated by music and ceremony.
The interest fostered by Spanish observers in the musical and religious
customs of surrounding cultures appears to have been reciprocated by their
Asian neighbors. In 1645, the stranding of a ship that was traveling from Macau
to Manila on the coasts of Cochinchina (part of present-day Vietnam) resulted
in the Spanish passengers seeking refuge at the palace of the local king for four
months. Among them were merchants, soldiers, and a group of Poor Clares en
route to their sisters in the Monastery of Santa Clara in Manila.78 Jesuit
Alexandre de Rhodes (1591–1660) related that the nuns continued the practice
of singing the Divine Office in their lodgings, and by doing so excited the curi-
osity of their hosts. The sisters were summoned before the throne, where the
queen (whom Rhodes asserted was a devotee of idols) “asked them what was
their law, and what sorts of prayers they sang. These good Religious explained
truthfully what they were, but the woman who served as an interpreter did not
translate their response faithfully.”79 In spite of the linguistic barrier encoun-
tered here, music appears to have provided a significant basis for intercultural
exchange through the degree of familiarity with vocal religious practices held
between women from mutually alien traditions and cultures, even though the
positions of these women in their respective religious and social hierarchies
doubtless differed greatly. While these women came from markedly different
backgrounds, they were representatives of two “great courts” in Asia and
appeared to empathize with one other through the discussion of devotional

practices and religious observances.
Other great courts in the region, particularly those of Islamic dynasties in the
south of the Philippine archipelago, were not exempt from diplomatic overtures
or threats of conquest emanating from Manila. Not much is known about the use
of music in these practices, although the Jesuit representatives sent from Manila
to the south of the Philippines during the seventeenth century were probably
chosen by their superiors due to their skills in mathematics or astronomy—dis-
ciplines that were closely linked to music in the academic quadrivium—with
which they might impress the Muslim elite. Juan Montiel, for example, was
selected for and dispatched on an embassy to the court of Sultan Dipatuan
Kudarat (c. 1581–1671) in Simuay, Mindanao, with the express aim of awing
locals with his knowledge of these arts.80 Unfortunately for this young Neapolitan,
however, he was assassinated alongside a fellow Jesuit just two days after his
arrival at the court, where he had, in any case, been received with coldness.81
The Muslim inhabitants of the sultanate of Sulu, known collectively as the
Tausug people, had resisted most cultural and religious overtures made by the
Spanish, but in the mid-eighteenth century, relatively favorable relations were
forged, and treaties were negotiated.82 Feelings of mutual goodwill were further
enhanced in around 1748 by the gift of “a precious violin” from the Spanish
authorities to the sister of Sultan ’Azı m ̄ ud-Dı n ̄ I (r. 1735–48 and 1764–74),
which apparently caused the sultan (who was known to Spaniards as Mahamad
Alimuddin) to show “great joy.” An anonymous Jesuit elaborated in a letter at
the time that “the government was well informed of the pronounced taste of
the princess for musical instruments, and of her love for Spaniards.”83 The
violin, wherever it came from, was certainly an appropriate gift. It seems to
have been recognized by Spanish political strategists in Manila that violins had
become a point of convergence between local and European musical cultures
in this particular part of Southeast Asia. Thus, the presentation of a violin as a
diplomatic token of friendship was a relatively reliable act of diplomatic lar-
gesse that could be expected to have a favorable outcome. The Muslim inhabi-
tants of Sulu and adjacent islands were already familiar with this instrument;
the Portuguese have been credited with its introduction to the Malay Archipelago
in early modern times.84 With its name transliterated as biyula, the violin was
adopted permanently into Tausug musical culture (and it remains popular in
Sulu today).
Whenever gift exchanges took place across intercultural boundaries in the
early modern world, success arose from situations where the tastes of the
recipient had been taken into account, and especially when the recipient’s pre-
dilections were in sympathy with those of the giver. The presentation of any gift
is, of course, bound up with the expectation of reciprocity and exchange.85 The
Spaniards probably hoped that the sultan would repay their generosity—not
only by improving the bilateral understanding that had been established by a
treaty of 1737 but ultimately by showing interest in their own religion. Of all the
sultans of Sulu, ’Azı m̄ ud-Dı n̄ I was probably the most receptive to interfaith
discussions, and his interest in forging stronger relations with Manila eventu-
ally resulted in his (short-lived) conversion to Christianity, as we see in a later
chapter.86
Alongside theory and instruments themselves, European musical prac-
tices also permeated the courts of the Islamic regions within and adjacent to
the Philippine archipelago. British captain Thomas Forrest (c. 1729–1802) vis-
ited Sulu during a voyage for the East India Company between 1774 and 1776.
He was received by the “Rajah Moodo” (raja muda, an elected heir to the sultan),
who later reigned as Sultan ’Azı m ̄ ud-Dı n̄ II (r. 1763–64 and 1778–91; d.
1791).87 Forrest subsequently gave an account of the musical interactions that
occurred during the course of trade negotiations:
As he [the raja muda] is a performer on the violin, I presented him
with two violins, and a german [sic] flute: he had a Bisayan, one of his
guards, who played tolerably by ear on the violin. I wrote down some
minuets, and Rajah Moodo submitted to be taught a little by book.
Having got a slight idea of it, he applied no more; but had recourse,
as before, to the ear. They wondered at my writing down, and
afterwards playing with my flute, some tunes they had played on
their musical gongs, called Kalintang [kulintang].88
The notation of local music and its immediate reproduction was a common
ruse of European musicians in Asia to attract interest; the most famous (and
widely reported) performance of this “party trick” was carried out in 1679 by
Jesuit Tomás Pereira (1645–1708) before the Kangxi emperor of China (1654–
1722; r. from 1662).89 Any European who was familiar with popular published
accounts of China would have known this story, and it seems possible that
Forrest, who was obviously musically literate, was aware of the incident at the
Chinese court and was deliberately trying to emulate it almost a century later.
The familiarity of “Rajah Moodo” with European instruments as a result of
contact with Iberian cultural practices enabled Europeans from other nations
(such as Forrest) to engage in intercultural dialogue within the region using
music as a basis. Sometimes European practices were diffused by non-Europe-
ans: the guard who played the violin may have been captured from the Visayas
during one of the periodic slave-raiding missions that set out from Sulu.90 As
Forrest observed, “the Bisayan slaves play often on the violin, and the Sooloos
are fond of European music. I have seen the Sultan Israel, who was educated at
Manila, and his niece Potely Diamelen, dance a tolerable minuet.”91 From this
observation, among others, we can see that the emulation of European musical
practices formed a distinctive part of court culture in late eighteenth-century
Sulu and the southern Philippines, and Christian and non-Christian Filipinos
alike were themselves responsible for the dissemination of these practices in
areas that lay beyond the political or religious control of Spanish Manila. Britons
also played a mediating role in this context, as we shall see next, not just as vis-
itors (like Forrest) but as occupying military forces.
Musical Consequences of the British Interregnum (1762–64)
Ever since Manila’s early florescence as a wealthy trading port, numerous

foreign powers had threatened to invade the city. Among them figured the
maritime forces of the Chinese, the Dutch, and the Japanese, as noted in the
previous chapter. However, the only successful invasion was made by British
forces. During the Seven Years’ War (which lasted from 1756 to 1763 in Europe
and longer in North America and parts of India), Great Britain, Prussia, and
Hanover allied themselves against France, Austria, Russia, Sweden, and
Saxony; Spain and Portugal joined the conflict at a later stage. When Carlos III
(1716–88) entered into the so-called Family Compact with Louis XV (1710–74)
on August 15, 1761, Spain committed itself to war on the side of France. The
following year, a British force set out from Madras, India, to attack Manila,
whose government was unaware of Spain’s involvement in the war.92 As an
anomalous episode in the colonial history of the Philippines, the British occu-
pation of 1762–64 was short-lived, but it was nevertheless a blow to the pride
of imperial Spain.
On September 24, 1762, the British fleet arrived in Manila Bay, the forces
consisting of around 1,738 men.93 The rolls show that there were thirty-seven
drummers listed among the British troops, and twelve tom-tom players and six
trumpeters among the Sepoys.94 Other musical instruments and diversions
were very likely brought from India by the taskforce. After the bombardment of
Manila by the British forces, during which a breach was made in the southwest
corner of the fortifications, the city was stormed on October 6, 1762. At the
time of the attack, Manila was ruled by Archbishop Manuel Antonio Rojo del
Río y Vieyra (1708–64), the acting governor, who agreed to surrender to the
British on certain terms. Among these were the maintenance of the Roman
Catholic religion and the continuing liberty of the ecclesiastical government.95
Allied Spanish and indigenous resistance in other parts of the Philippines pre-
vented the rest of the archipelago from being conquered. But with the capital
city under the control of an invading power, several Filipino revolts against
Spain sprang up around the islands, the most famous of which were led by
Diego Silang y Andaya (1730–63) in Ilocos and by Juan de la Cruz Palaris
(1733–65) in Pangasinan.96 Once the Treaty of Paris was declared on February
10, 1763, and put into effect on March 31, 1764, Manila was returned to Spanish
control, but not without some degree of sociocultural transformation and a
certain loss of regard by the local population for the supposed invincibility of
imperial Spain.
Although it could easily be assumed that the occupation was purely

functional and occasioned little altruistic cultural interaction that had a lasting
impact, a number of sources dating from shortly after the war reveal that
English musical practices were introduced to Manila during the occupation
and were, moreover, among the legacies that endured in the aftermath. The
type of music introduced reflected the tastes of eighteenth-century Anglo-
Indian society in Calcutta and Madras, where there were regular concerts and
soirées that featured standard European instrumental and vocal repertory.97 It
is likely that the higher ranking Englishmen brought their cultural enthusi-
asms with them to Manila and that the servicemen themselves engaged in var-
ious forms of musical diversions, such as singing popular catches.
Although there is little evidence concerning cultural life during the occu-
pation itself, a general pattern of musical activity can be extrapolated from a
variety of documents. For example, an anonymous “Diario de la invasión
Ynglesa en las Yslas Filipinas” includes a description of English festivities for
Christmas Eve, 1762, held in the capilla real (royal chapel) of Manila. The diarist
recorded: “Today the English celebrated Christmas Eve with pavilions, salvoes,
music, gatherings and communion sub utraque [with both bread and wine] in
the Chapel Royal, which from now on will serve the English nation.”98 The
music was probably both vocal and instrumental. Apart from the British appro-
priation of the capilla real, Spanish religious ritual—in other chapels, churches,
and convents that were not commandeered or ransacked—continued largely
unimpeded. But musical instruments, artworks, and treasures were certainly
looted from the city’s religious institutions. The Augustinians were expelled
from their premises in Intramuros on November 3, 1762, and 100 men pro-
ceeded to sack the complex over fourteen days, with many of the spoils being
put up for sale at public auctions.99 When the convent was returned to the reli-
gious order on December 31, 1763, two realejos were among the items listed as
missing.100 Whereas these small regal organs may have been carried away intact
as war booty, it is more likely that they were purloined by curio hunters or
melted down for bullets (even though they would not have yielded a great
amount of metal). Other looted items also included books, charts, maps, and
documents from the convent library, many of which were acquired by Alexander
Dalrymple (1737–1808), hydrographer to the Royal Navy, who became a
prominent figure in subsequent British explorations of the Pacific.101
In the aftermath of the occupation, Frenchman Le Gentil de la Galaisière
noted that English “country dances” were being performed in Manila: “The
English have left in Manila a lot of contredanses which are quite bizarre; but
these are so very pleasing that the musicians make them serve for church; after
the Collect, one is sure to see the Office finished by an English contredanse in
all the churches, with which the spectators are treated and dismissed.”102 Given
that the English country dance had been adopted and adapted into French
musical practice in the late seventeenth century as the highly popular contre-
danse genre (a dance type that this Frenchman would no doubt have known), it
is probable that Le Gentil de la Galaisière heard distinctively English examples
that were being cultivated in the 1760s, such as the hornpipe. And although the
introduction of the contredanse genre to Manila is described here as a
consequence of the British invasion, it is important to note that earlier docu-
mentary evidence demonstrates that the genre was already being performed in
the city several decades before the occupation.103 Of course, because this and
other dance forms appear to have flourished after 1764, it is possible that their
use was both encouraged and reinforced by the occupying power. It thus seems
likely that a select repertory of English country dances was introduced by musi-
cians among the occupying forces, and that the performance of these works
eventually gave rise to their specific ecclesiastical function of following the
Collect and ending Mass. Such a practice was clearly institutionalized “in all
the churches” to the extent that it was considered by Le Gentil de la Galaisière
to be common. During the nineteenth century, too, travel writers continued to
note a distinct taste for contredanses in Manila.104
English music was not confined to Manila; it spread throughout the archi-
pelago in the second half of the eighteenth century. Perhaps the most significant
cultural ramification to emerge from the British occupation was the introduc-
tion of the music of George Frideric Handel (1685–1759) to the Philippines—or,
if it was previously known in the islands, its increased popularity there. We
know this from a curious passing reference that was penned by an English cler-
gyman at the beginning of the nineteenth century. In a letter of 1812, the
Reverend Dr. Robert Boucher Nickolls praised the work of Handel and Charles
Jennens (1700–73) in propagating Christian knowledge, adding as an aside:
Perhaps that Sacred Musick [of oratorios] may have contributed more
than any modern Sermons to spread diffusely the knowledge of the
finest and most interesting parts of Scripture, to which many besides
the Great World might otherwise have paid little or no attention! We
know not how widely the effects of one good action may extend. In
some recent Voyage, I have read that Handel’s Oratorios were
favourite musick at the Philippine Islands; where I suppose the
words of Scripture would not, among the bigoted Spaniards, have
been otherwise known.105
This kind of document, if taken at face value, might startle historical musicolo-
gists today—Handel’s oratorios as “favourite musick” in the early modern
Philippines! Yet based on all the known evidence, it seems unlikely that any
full-length oratorio by Handel would have been performed in Roman Catholic
Manila, unless English servicemen sang or played excerpts from popular works
during the brief period of occupation. Still, Nickolls certainly makes reference
to having read “some recent voyage,” and given that many surprising but reli-
able accounts of European repertory being performed in far-flung places can be
found within early modern travel accounts, we are bound to lend him some
credence. It appears, however, that the good reverend overestimated his favorite
oratorios’ powers of global diffusion. A search through published travelogs
from the years before 1812 reveals that Nickolls’s most likely source is not so
“recent” as he claimed but is probably an account by navigator John Meares
(c. 1756–1809) of his voyage from China to the northwest coast of America,
which was first published in 1790. Meares relates how he and his crew landed
at the port of Zamboanga, Mindanao, in February 1788, where they were
greeted by a musical reception:
We were . . . surprized at hearing a very tolerable band of music,
which was composed of natives of the country.—It consisted of four
violins, two bassoons, with several flutes and mandolins. This
unexpected orchestra were [sic] acquainted with some of the select
pieces of Handel; they knew many of our English country dances,
and several of our popular and favourite tunes; but in performing the
Fandango, they had attained a degree of excellence that the nicest
ears of Spain would have heard with pleasure.106
Although we do not know the identity of these “select pieces of Handel,” they
seem a far cry from Nickolls’s mention of oratorios. Still, the original eyewitness
(and earwitness) Meares was certainly impressed, but he could not resist adding
the rather patronizing comment that “the Malayans possess, in common with
other savage nations, a sensibility to the charms of music, and are even capable
of attaining no inconsiderable degree of perfection in that delightful science.”107
Later, the Englishmen were invited to a ball at the house of the local Spanish
governor, which was also attended by the young men and women of the island,
whom they noted to be dressed after “the fashions of Manilla [sic].” Here the
fandango and English country dances were performed.108 Although located far
from Manila, Zamboanga was clearly at the receiving end of cultural trends that
had arrived at the islands’ capital. Most of the authorities in outlying provinces—
whether civil or religious—had been presented with their commissions in
Manila and evidently took the current fashions with them to their posts.
What Meares and his crew saw in Zamboanga was a literal counterpoint to
music of metropolitan London or Madrid. In the antipodean context of the
Philippines, musical practice was turned on its head as “Malayans” (that is,
Filipinos) performed Spanish and English dances, and as they formed an
“unexpected orchestra” at one of the most far-flung corners of the Spanish
Empire. From this evidence we can begin to discern certain processes and pat-
terns that were in play. For European musical practices to arrive there, their
transmission had to be played out through a sequence of distancings, in a type
of imitative counterpoint: Europe to the Americas, the Americas to Manila,
Manila to Zamboanga. (Of course, the transmission of Handel’s music and
English contredanses probably took place in the opposite direction—from
London to Calcutta, Calcutta to Madras, and Madras to Manila—as a result of

the British occupation of Manila.) The British occupation, a disruption to the
Spanish colonial project, might even represent a type of cadential pause in the
chronological dimension of our contrapuntal metaphor. Even so, it remains
clear that all forms of counterpoint—whether literal, metaphorical, or
musical—played their part in the creation of colonial musical practice.
Conclusion
In the first part of this book, we have seen how Manila provided a crucial point
of contact for representatives of European and Asian nations to trade and
interact. Early modern Manila was remarkably different from any other capital
of the Spanish Empire by virtue of its geographical distance, its almost complete
reliance on maritime commerce, and its proximity to Oriental civilizations. As
a European settlement at the frontier of Asia, it acted as a crucible for intercul-
tural exchanges. The city was a node in a complex series of networks forged by
European and Asian maritime powers, facilitating global commerce and the
provision of Manila’s inhabitants with access to products and arts from all parts
of the world. The peoples of Manila and the Philippines were quick to respond
to trends and fashions that were introduced from other parts of Asia, the
Americas, and Europe. In particular, the ready reception by Filipinos for
European musical practices was a feature noted regularly by numerous early
modern travelers.
But so that newly introduced musics could permeate traditional cultures,
Europeans had to identify preexisting frameworks that were suitable for adop-
tion and adaptation of alien musical structures, and onto which new practices
could be grafted. Agents of the Spanish colonial mission enterprise were quick
to recognize this necessity. In the process of determining the best methods of
converting the indigenous population, they made detailed observations of the
Filipinos’ pre-Christian condition—and, not least, their musical practices. As
we go on in the next chapters to consider other aspects of colonial musical
culture in greater depth, we explore the bases on which musical practice in the
Philippine Islands stood and the discourses of its early modern documentation
by colonial ethnographers; we then move on to the historiography of musical
transculturation and the subtle but pervasive processes of cultural, religious,
and musical syncretism.
©
II
ENHARMONIC ENGAGEMENT
3
©
Mapping Musical Cultures
At the dawn of the sixteenth century, European composers began to venture

from the familiar to the unfamiliar. Starting from well-established tonal cen-
ters, they moved in one direction or another around the circle of fifths and
eventually entered enharmonic realms, where pitches did not match their
names, nor names their pitches. This phenomenon in the development of
European compositional practices is clearly reflective of the Renaissance
“character of exploration,” as Dorothy Keyser has shown, and the secular motet
Quid non ebrietas by Adrian Willaert (c. 1490–1562) is “the earliest known
example of [a] complete circumnavigation of the circle of fifths.”1 Coincidentally,
the date of this work’s composition (c. 1518–21; probably 1519) corresponds
chronologically to Magellan’s voyage of 1519–21, which in similar ways involved
a modulation from the familiar to the unfamiliar, at least as far as geography
and culture were concerned.2 As Magellan traveled farther away from his home
base, his environment became decreasingly familiar, not only in terms of
knowledge, but also in terms of his familial relationship—cultural and genetic
alike—to the peoples he encountered. Over succeeding centuries, other
Europeans had to engage enharmonically with other peoples as they traveled to
antipodal territories. During long periods of regular and sustained contact bet-
ween Europeans and non-Europeans in colonial milieux, different commu-
nities gradually tempered their cultural systems to incorporate an understanding
the Other and locate a point of enharmonic interchange. To varying extents,
their cultures modulated.
This central part of the book explores how attempts to wield colonial
authority (or contest it) were possible only through a reciprocal process of
cross-cultural familiarization. In formulating contrapuntal principles for the
regulation of music in colonial society, Spaniards and Filipinos faced each
74 enharmonic engagement
other in a type of enharmonic engagement, using their own hermeneutical

frameworks in an effort to interpret and comprehend each other’s way of life
and their own terminology to describe it. This confrontation was a direct form
of intercultural comparativism, but in some cases it eventually accommodated
a certain degree of relativism. Within this enharmonic structure, negotiations
of ideology and power also gave rise to the subtle processes of transculturation,
leading ultimately to the synthesis of syncretic genres. Several of these art
forms provided an impetus for the subversion of colonial domination: in the
revolutionary movements of the late nineteenth century, they were harnessed
for the enactment of mass movement and the (re)assertion of indigenous
identities.3
In this chapter, I seek to critique the ways in which Spaniards and other
European observers wrote about Filipino music—how they mapped musical
cultures onto interpretive structures that were created through enharmonic
engagement. By examining missionaries’ comparisons of indigenous musical
cultures with those of European and Middle Eastern classical antiquity, I show
how Europeans connected the Philippines to their existing visions of the known
world, how they determined Filipinos’ cultural and spiritual suitability for reli-
gious conversion, and how they developed strategies for the use of music in
proselytization. Dwelling on the vocal and verbal aspects of the mapping of
musical cultures, we explore the significant roles played by singing, reading,
writing, and poeticism in the ethnographic construction of the Filipino people
by early modern European writers. With these considered alongside the detailed
organological observations of indigenous Filipino instruments and the descrip-
tions of dances that have emerged from colonial historiography, it will become
apparent how early modern European observers, especially missionaries, were
by no means blind or deaf to the indigenous traditions with which they were
surrounded, even if they wrote disparagingly or disapprovingly of them. In fact,
they looked and listened carefully, describing Filipino musical practices with
the greatest precision that was possible for the time. But all the while, they wit-
tingly or unwittingly contributed to the demise of many.
Interpreting the Musical Past
Just as early modern Europeans used cartography as a means of visually repre-

senting conquered territory, their ethnographic “mapping” of indigenous cul-
tures through textual description and graphic depiction embodied a deeper
level of asserting social, political, and cultural dominance over a subjugated
population. Ethnological observations of non-European peoples in the Spanish
Empire formed a significant part of a concerted attempt to incorporate autoch-
thonous societies into a constellation of “republics” that orbited peninsular
Spain in the imperial imagination.
mapping musical cultures 75
To describe was to conquer. This was one of the underlying consequences

of early modern ethnographic activity, as European observers gathered detailed
information on the ways of life of the non-European peoples whose destinies
became inextricably intertwined with those of the ruling colonial power.
Ethnology within early modern European empires was in many ways a form of
cultural espionage in that it enabled colonial authorities to determine the most
appropriate means of wielding control by knowing their subjects. Yet it also
served a more subtle purpose, one that sought to locate points of intercultural
similarities and differences. By attempting to gain a better understanding of
indigenous cultures, Spaniards aimed to promote a form of harmonious inter-
cultural coexistence—but one that was completely on their own terms. These
terms included the conversion of all the king’s “vassals” to his own Roman
Catholic religion. The colonial practice of ethnology, as much as it reflects the
altruistic image of being the construction of knowledge for the sake of
knowledge, was a powerful tool in the hands of ecclesiastical and secular
authorities. Colonial discourse and its representation of the subaltern consti-
tuted a form of control that was over and above what was already set firmly in
place.
In the early modern Philippines, observations on indigenous cultures were
included in a diverse range of texts. Aside from full-blown ethnographies
devoted to a complete and comprehensive survey of a particular people’s way of
life, writings such as letters, reports by missionaries or Spanish officials, histor-
ical chronicles, and travelogues include discussions of the customs, languages,
physical appearance, religious beliefs, governmental systems, dances, pas-
times, and music of the Filipinos.4 By far the most detailed amount of raw eth-
nographic data can be found in the lexicons of indigenous languages called
vocabularios, which were compiled with the assistance of ladinos (indigenous
bilingual intermediaries). Although the primary purposes of these types of
texts differed significantly, I call all their authors “ethnographers,” because
they all contributed—in various capacities—to the assembly of an ethnographic
mosaic from which a vivid image of indigenous musical cultures begins to
emerge.
Among the behavioral traits treated by ethnographers, it is unsurprising
that music and dance attracted a considerable amount of attention, given that
they were some of the most popular pastimes of the Filipino people. Certain
types of music and dance, as the Spaniards saw them, were an inseparable part
of religious ritual. As such, they had to be forcibly modulated so as to fit into
the system tempered by the tenets of the introduced religion. The first European
observers were interested to find that even though literacy was widespread
among the local population, the systems of governance and civil order were
always upheld by song. But much of what Filipinos sang was improvised poetry,
so the study of indigenous poetics by missionaries became a complex field,
especially when poetry genres began to evolve into colonial, hybrid incarnations.
Dancing also provided a visual display at a level that was virtually unparalleled
by European colonial society. Musical instruments usually accompanied
singing and dancing, but were often played independently as well. These arti-
facts provided sources of admiration and intrigue for the technically minded
Spanish observer.
The aspects of indigenous cultures that were described in great detail were
often those that missionaries wanted to censure or modify. The ethnographic
methodology of the Spaniards was predominantly comparative, for Spaniards
sought to codify differences so as to minimize them, thus hispanifying the
Filipinos. In the case of some missionaries who had lived long enough with
their flock to develop a degree of empathy with indigenous cultural practices,
however, a surprising amount of relativism shines through. Still, early modern
ethnographies composed by missionaries are, on the whole, usually redolent of
evangelistic intent. Non-Christian religious beliefs and cultural practices of
Filipinos were carefully studied and documented (certain religious orders did
this more assiduously than others) so that those that were irrevocably incom-
patible with Christianity could be abrogated and then substituted with Christian
equivalents. Others that were considered less objectionable were simply lay-
ered with a Christian veneer. The codification of musical information within
ethnographic texts thus served a practical purpose within colonial and evange-
listic contexts: it enabled indigenous traditions to be harnessed by missionaries
in the field and exploited for the introduction of new ideologies. It also
contributed to the search for what Filipino Jesuit historian Horacio de la Costa
(1916–77) has called “the logical point of insertion by which Christianity could
permeate the culture.”5 In the Philippines, all major religious congregations
were heavily engaged in exploiting music (both European and indigenous) in
proselytization and conversion, and the Jesuits and the Franciscans were argu-
ably the most meticulous in documenting such practices.
A survey of ethnographic sources can inform us of some of the rich
variety of indigenous and hispanized Filipino musical traditions during the
early modern period. But only some, for although colonial sources are wide
ranging, they are not exhaustive. The Filipino communities that were sub-
jected to the most direct and sustained contact with ecclesiastical or secular
ethnographers are logically represented with the greatest frequency and
detail, and the transition of their musics from precontact to hispanized con-
ditions is documented in stages. The earliest intercultural observations pro-
vide the most illuminating picture of their precontact state. We should
recognize, however, that a culture described at the point of contact was already
in a state of flux, by virtue of the participant (or nonparticipant) observer’s
very presence. Most of the time, the recording of ethnographic data in the
Philippines was concomitant with the fundamental changes to traditional
indigenous cultural systems that were wrought by missionaries and colonial-
ists. Nevertheless, the historical value of all these writings, made at the point
of contact between Spaniards and Filipinos and continued throughout the

subsequent period of cultural evolution, cannot be overemphasized. Colonial
historiography has often been ignored by ethnomusicologists studying the
indigenous and precolonial musical traditions of the Philippines.6 From early
modern archival sources we begin to glimpse a multifarious display of
Filipino musical culture as it existed before European incursions into the
region. Of course, these texts must be read through an interpretive lens that
can compensate for the myopic range and astigmatic focus of colonial authors’
vision. They must be read contrapuntally.
Analogues of Antiquity
One of the prevailing trends of European ethnographers throughout the early

modern world was to use European and Middle Eastern classical antiquity as a
point of reference for intercultural comparison. Jesuit writers, in particular,
made it their lives’ work to prove the similarity of indigenous American peo-
ples to those of antiquity, not only to affirm a sense of common humanity—
and thus “humanize” the natives in the face of brutality exerted by colonial
rulers who denied intercultural parity—but also to verify theories on the post-
diluvian spread of humankind. One such writer was French Jesuit Joseph
François Lafitau (1681–1746), who attempted to compare the customs of the
indigenous population in North America with those of European “primitive
times.”7 His publication included a detailed plate of ancient musical instru-
ments, as had been proposed and illustrated by Kircher, compared with those
that were used in early modern North America.8
Cultural attributes that appeared to relate to European ideas of antiquity
presented the most familiar form of difference to Spanish observers. Early
modern Europeans’ awareness of the Classical world and the accumulation of
ancient artifacts from all territories touching the Mediterranean rendered pos-
sible the comparative campaign to recognize the common humanity of peoples
who were not part of the pre-Renaissance European worldview. The Spaniards
considered their civilization and empire to be derived from Roman antecedents
and believed themselves to be the heirs of Rome in upholding the Roman
Catholic religion, as well as being defenders of “civilization” battling against
“barbarity.” As Joan-Pau Rubiés has pointed out, Spanish ethnographers saw
indigenous peoples in the Americas and the Philippines as analogous to ancient
peoples in pagan Europe (especially on the Iberian Peninsula) before they were
“civilized” by the Roman Empire and then converted to Roman Catholicism.
The cultural transformation that had been effected by the presence of the
Romans in ancient Hispania furnished a precedent that some early modern
Spanish ethnographers eagerly exploited as justification for the conquest and
conversion of indigenous peoples in territories conquered by Spain.9 Just as the
Roman Empire had transformed Spain, so did early modern Spanish colonial-
ists aim to repeat this act and thus attempt to transform Filipino civilization.
Anthony Pagden asserts that what Jesuit writers like Lafitau created was
“a comparative ethnology, an ethnology which argued that cultural difference
could be explained neither as the consequence of differing psychological dispo-
sitions, nor as the merely contingent arrangements of different social groups,
but as the indication of the positions which the various human societies had
reached on an historical time-scale.”10 Music was a readily audible (and visible)
marker of indigenous peoples’ position on this continuum from barbarity to
civilization, but it was also an anomalous trait, in the sense that the music of
the ancients was generally extolled by many early modern European theorists
as having reached a particular level of perfection that had somehow been lost
in the Dark Ages. Comparisons between ancient music and contemporary non-
European music were founded on suppositions of and yearnings for an imag-
ined state of musical perfection. In the mid-eighteenth century, Murillo Velarde
claimed that the Filipino flute called bangsi looked as if it came from an ancient
tomb, and “accordingly [sounded] sad”; he also compared the dances of the
Visayans, Sambals, and Boholanos to those of the ancient Greeks and Trojans.11
Gemelli Careri (who was not a Jesuit, although he had studied at a Jesuit uni-
versity) saw connections with antiquity in the cockfights organized by Visayans;
he asserted that these contests had been a favored pastime of some Roman
emperors.12
Many comparisons were made in respect of vocal genres. Jesuit Francisco
Colín (1592–1660) considered singing verses in “ancient dramas” by “all these
Gentile nations” of Asia (not just the Philippines) to be derived from the
Hebrews.13 Likewise, Augustinian Gaspar de San Agustín (1650–1724) likened
the Tagalog musicopoetic genre dalit to the epic dithyrambs of the ancient
Greeks and Romans.14 Another Augustinian, Joaquín Martínez de Zúñiga
(1760–1818), writing at the beginning of the nineteenth century, was familiar
with the works of Lafitau and, having noted Lafitau’s comparisons of Inca
poetry with classical Greek poetry, suggested that Filipino poetic traditions
could also be considered to rate alongside those of European antiquity.15 All
such references to European and Middle Eastern antiquity essentially endowed
the precolonial civilization of the Philippines with a set of cultural markers that
provided a framework within which Spanish missionaries could effect the
Filipinos’ conversion.
But as the recent archeomusicological research of Arsenio Magsino Nicolas
has shown, Filipino musical connections with “antiquity” diverged fundamen-
tally from the assumptions of early modern Spanish ethnographers. Although
Spaniards often compared Filipinos with the Chinese—because nearby China
was the largest and most powerful civilization in the region—many other
musical elements came to the Philippines through the Malay Archipelago
(especially from what is now Indonesia) and from as far away as the Indian
subcontinent. In fact, multiple words for musical instruments in a number of

Filipino languages derive from just three important Sanskrit terms: kacchapı̄
vı̄ṇ ā (kacchapı̄ means “tortoise” and vı̄ṇ ā means “lute”; kacchapı̄ alone usually
implies a tortoise-shaped lute), which in the Philippines became kutyapi and
other cognate terms; vaṃ śa (“flute”; the word also means “bamboo”), which
became bangsi in the Philippines; and kamsa (Sanskrit for “bell metal”), which
was modified into gangsa and similar terms throughout the archipelago to refer
to metallophones.16
These connections with old Indic civilizations were beyond the scope or
purview of early modern Spanish ethnographers, who preferred the bench-
mark of the European or Middle Eastern classical antiquity. Although some
European scholars in other parts of Asia, such as Sir William Jones (“Orientalist
Jones,” 1746–94) in India, began to study great works from ancient Sanskrit
literature on their own terms, rendering them as much homage as texts in
classical Greek or Latin,17 a similar endeavor was not possible in the Philippines.
This was because ancient epics were preserved through oral tradition rather
than in writing, a circumstance that thus precluded literary studies of written
texts by early modern philologists. Nevertheless, some missionary ethnogra-
phers, including Jesuit Francisco Ignacio Alzina (1610–74), recorded descrip-
tions of these narratives and made summaries of their plots. In this way some
ethnographers began to engage more intimately with linguistic subtleties of
their intended converts’ mother tongues and poetic constructions, attempting
to determine the most appropriate way to effect intercultural courtship and
potential union.
Language and Literacy
Attempts to empathize with the linguistic structures of non-European peoples

represented one of the primary impulses on the part of many European scholars
to locate points of similarity and cultural convergence for enharmonic engage-
ment. For instance, Jesuit Pedro Chirino (1558–1635) marveled at the phonetic
similarity between the Tagalog word “aba” and the Latin word “ave,” whose
shared meaning of a salutary greeting made their sonic semblance all the more
remarkable.18 His discussion of this and other intercultural consonances seems
to strike a chord with contemporaneous diffusionist theories of humanity’s
common origins, such as those put forward by Jesuit José de Acosta (1539–
1600).19 Similarly, Kircher in Rome made the assertion (albeit erroneous) that
Chinese ideographs were derived from Egyptian hieroglyphs.20 As Pagden has
noted, “sixteenth- and seventeenth-century observers . . . lived in a world which
believed firmly in the universality of most social norms and in a high degree of
cultural unity between the various races of man.”21 These sorts of observations
of homologous cultural traits—linguistic signs and symbols among them—
emphasized commonalities between Spanish and Filipino cultures and

provided a structural protocol for intercultural exchange. European colonialists
had navigated the Earth’s full circle and had come to the points of enharmonic
transition.
However, manifestations of intercultural similarities were sometimes
interpreted as the inevitability and inexorability of the colonial project.
Intercultural studies of languages and writing systems had their darker side:
the manipulation and control of indigenous languages and their rhetorical
devices for the advancement of the European imperial project. In 1492, a cata-
clysmic year in Spanish history that saw the completion of the reconquista as
well as Columbus’s first transatlantic voyage, celebrated linguist Antonio de
Nebrija (1441–1522) observed that “language has always been the perfect instru-
ment of empire.”22 Linguistic communication and interpretation were
fundamental to the politics and procedures of the conquistadores and espe-
cially to the missionaries and government officials who followed in their wake.
In the Philippines, it was mandated at a relatively early stage in the colonial
period that missionaries should learn local languages, rather than initiating the
much larger task of imposing the teaching of Castilian on hundreds of thou-
sands of Filipinos (although this policy came later, being decreed several times
toward the end of the eighteenth century and during the nineteenth).
Missionaries destined for the field spent years studying the languages of their
intended flocks—while en route to the Philippines, resident in the convents
and colleges of Manila, and living among Filipino communities. They were
aided by two important tools: grammars (usually titled arte de la lengua de . . . )
and vocabularios.
The presses of religious orders in Manila published numerous vocabular-
ios of five major Filipino languages (some including regional variants): Tagalog,
Ilokano, Kapampangan, Visayan, and Bikol. Many others were produced and
circulated in manuscript form, especially those of minor dialects. Some popular
vocabularios were continually republished throughout the colonial period.
Each new edition was first subject to revision and updating, thus reflecting con-
temporary linguistic trends. Others were compiled afresh. From the late
sixteenth century onward, the function of these vocabularios was to serve as a
tool for members of religious orders working in the mission field.
The role of vocabularios as guides for propelling Spanish understanding of
the Filipinos in both linguistic and cultural terms is doubly significant in the
sense that these works are also effectively autoethnographies of the indigenous
population. According to the prefaces of many vocabulario publications, two to
twelve ladinos were commonly consulted on the pronunciation and meaning
of every word included in the dictionary. One of the most authoritative linguistic
compendia of the eighteenth century, the Vocabulario de la lengua tagala of
1754, compiled by Jesuits Juan de Noceda (1681–1747) and Pedro de Sanlúcar
(b. 1707), relied on data collated in the previous century but involved detailed
revisions. Sanlúcar, who was apparently a Spanish-Tagalog mestizo, organized

the work into its final format. By virtue of his mestizo heritage (by which I
mean that he probably spoke Tagalog as a mother tongue), together with his
education and religious profession that rendered him culturally acceptable to
European authorities, Sanlúcar was regarded as a reliable source for translating
Tagalog into Spanish in the mid-eighteenth century. He even went so far as to
claim that he spent “thirty years verifying word by word” with twelve native
speakers, and that if fewer than twelve speakers agreed on the “pronunciation,
accent, and meaning” then he would not enter the word.23 Similar assertions
were made by authors of other vocabularios, and if they were reporting the
truth, this level of fastidiousness would accord the lexicons’ contents a
significant level of reliability. For this reason, musical terms from early modern
vocabularios are valuable snapshots of intercultural and linguistic homologies,
offering a framework within which we can begin to understand the processes
of transculturation.
Definitions in the vocabularios are much more than straightforward
linguistic equivalents; they often provide important contextual information
concerning cultural function and relevance of the term.24 Within each defini-
tion, indigenous terms are often demonstrated in examples of short phrases in
both Castilian and the indigenous language, many being imperative commands
related to religious ritual and ecclesiastical organization. But what musical data
can be found? As we see in the course of this chapter, a large number of terms
referring to song genres, information concerning the construction and usage
of European and indigenous instruments, musical transculturation, and the
negotiation of Spanish-indigenous musical boundaries in the context of the
ecclesiastical performance space are located in the definitions. Latin
Americanists have already shown how profitable these types of lexicons can be
in reconstructing instrumental, song, and dance traditions.25 In the Philippines,
they are just as fruitful: the vocabulario of Noceda and Sanlúcar, for instance,
even includes the texts of poems by Tagalog poets as examples of particular
poetic genres.26
The vocabularios were not produced solely for Spaniards; it is likely they
were also acquired and used by some Filipinos, especially those who wanted to
engage linguistically with the colonialists. The written word was nothing new
for the Philippines, as these islands had a thriving living tradition of phonetic
literacy at the point of contact.27 The Filipinos used a Sanskrit-derived syllabary
that is most commonly called baybayin (another name is alibata); similar forms
were used in Sumatra, Java, and Sulawesi.28 In spite of long debate over the
origin and number of characters, as well as the direction in which they were
written, it has been well established that the baybayin syllabaries consisted of
three vowels and fourteen consonants. The shape and usage of the characters
by different ethnolinguistic groups throughout the islands was remarkably
consistent.29 A small mark (curlit) above the consonantal characters signified
that the vowel following the consonant was “e” or “i,” and a mark below signi-
fied “o” or “u.”
As errors of translation and transliteration had caused numerous setbacks
to the Roman Catholic cause in Japan, the publishers of religious tracts in bay-
bayin had to make a significant change to the orthography to ensure accurate
transcription of theological terms and concepts. Final consonants of a syllable
were not notated in baybayin, meaning that readers had to guess, so an extra
curlit notated as a cross (crucecita) below the character was introduced to the
script, signifying a final consonant without a vowel sound (analogous to the
virama in Sanskrit). This new sign was first used in 1621 by Augustinian
Francisco López (d. 1631) in an Ilokano translation of the Doctrina christiana by
Jesuit cardinal Saint Roberto Bellarmino (1542–1621).30 Yet coupled with the
introduction and speedy dissemination of Roman script in the islands, this
modification eventually contributed to the later decline of the syllabary. The
negative reaction of early seventeenth-century Filipino scribes to the crucecita
was discussed by Augustinian Pedro Andrés de Castro (1740–1801) in his trea-
tise Ortografía tagala (1776): they said it would “destroy the syntax, prosody, and
spelling of the Tagalog language,” so they would only use it for the translitera-
tion of Spanish words.31 Castro identified the Castilian words that needed to be
transcribed with all consonants with the aid of the crucecita, so that there could
be no misunderstanding of their significance. They were all of a religious
nature, such as Dios, Santissima Trinidad, Jesús, María, sacramento, confesión,
comunión, misa, gracia, Santa Cruz, sacerdote, and others besides. He qualified
that any lack of exact notation of these crucial terms would mean that no license
for the publication of any book would be forthcoming from a bishop.32 According
to Vicente Rafael, the practice of leaving them untranslated was undertaken “to
maintain the ‘purity’ of the concepts that these words conveyed.”33
The intensive studies of baybayin by members of religious orders, and the
subsequent use of the script in a number of early printed books in the
Philippines (particularly books of Christian doctrine), demonstrate the extent
to which the Spanish missionaries sought to understand indigenous cultures
of the Philippines and approach them on their own terms. Some seventeenth-
century vocabularios printed the baybayin equivalents for Roman characters at
the heading of each new letter entry, taking pains to explain how certain Roman
letters (such as “b” and “v”) were considered interchangeable in Castilian. Such
information, unnecessary for the European writer and reader, adds weight to
the suggestion that the publications were intentionally marketed toward the
Filipino elite.
The high degree of literacy in the Philippines at the time of Spanish contact
provided a solid base on which the missionaries could build a foundation for
evangelization that relied on teachings from sacred Scriptures and the wide-
spread dissemination of printed texts throughout an increasingly bibliophilic
community. Within several decades, Filipinos were apparently “not content”
with just the indigenous-language books printed by the religious orders;

Chirino claimed that almost every man and woman had manuscript books
written in baybayin by their own hands, containing “sacred histories, lives of
saints, prayers, and sacred poems composed by them.” He added that he had
examined these books in 1609 (for their doctrinal accuracy) and that this
phenomenon was practically unknown in a population that had been so recently
Christianized.34 The flourishing of indigenous-language publications coincided
with the introduction of the printing press to the islands and the extended pro-
motion of native literacy by missionaries as part of their religious teachings. In
line with traditional indigenous precepts of singing genealogical lore and reli-
gious tropes, music must have played a significant role as a mnemonic device
for Christian indoctrination.35
One of the earliest catechism texts used was the version of the Doctrina
christiana approved by the Synod of Manila, which in 1593 became the first
book printed in the Philippines. This small volume contained the Lord’s Prayer,
the Ave Maria (Hail Mary), the Creed, the Salve Regina (Hail Holy Queen), the
fourteen articles of faith, the ten commandments of God, the five command-
ments of the Church, the seven sacraments, the seven spiritual and seven
corporal acts of mercy, the act of contrition, and a catechism proper consisting
of thirty-three questions and answers.36 With the text printed in Castilian and
Tagalog (the latter in both Roman script and baybayin), this book was distrib-
uted among “Spanish priests and a limited number of Tagalog auxiliaries.”37
The parallel nature of literary cognition within Spanish and Filipino cultures
arguably promoted a speedier process of transculturation and, by extension,
the cross-fertilization of musicopoetic practices that relied heavily on skills of
literacy.
Chirino claimed in 1604 that baybayin was not used for the preservation of
literature, religion, or government, but for the more pragmatic reasons of
correspondence. Apparently it was not even used for the notation of poetry or
song-texts (which in precolonial times were the one and the same). Given the
strength of the oral tradition in the archipelago, there was little need to record
song-texts or melodies in the precolonial era. However, there is at least one
description of song-texts being recorded in this script. Writing in 1750–51,
Jesuit Juan José Delgado (1697–1755) noted the use of baybayin by the Visayans
to “note down their things so as not to forget them, and their verses to sing.”38
This presence of song-text notation in the Visayas suggests that it was a practice
that may have proliferated elsewhere in the Philippine archipelago (in spite of
the lack of early modern ethnographic evidence).39
With the proliferation of printed works throughout the early modern
Philippines, and the increasing availability of mass-produced texts in Tagalog
and other Filipino languages, baybayin was eventually superseded by Roman
script. Two Franciscans, writing in the 1740s, noted that this was a gradual pro-
cess, and there were still a few Filipinos within Christianized territories who
could write in baybayin, but their numbers were decreasing.40 According to

Bienvenido Lumbera, the ability of Filipinos to read and write Roman charac-
ters had become a status symbol by the mid-eighteenth century, “for the
European manner of writing put within a person’s reach knowledge (whatever
was made available by the colonial administrators and the clergy) that the
majority of the populace could not have.”41 Thus the Filipino script began to
disappear for reasons of pragmatism. Eighteenth- and nineteenth-century
travel writers collected rare examples of contemporary baybayin, mainly as a
curiosity, and a number of baybayin documents were deposited in religious
archives.
In the first years of the twentieth century, a surgeon from the U.S. Army
who was based on the island of Mindoro collected contemporary pieces of
bamboo on which baybayin characters were used by the Mangyan people to
transcribe song-texts.42 Remarkably, the Mangyan of Mindoro (who comprise
two distinct communities: the Hanunóo and the Buhid) still use their tradi-
tional script to notate song-texts today and represent one of two ethnic groups
in the Philippines who have continued to make use of traditional writing sys-
tems (the other group is the Tagbanwa of Palawan, whose members do so to a
lesser extent).43 These peoples were sufficiently isolated from the mainstream
population of the Philippines during the Spanish colonial period for their
cultural practices to be preserved. Thus, whatever contradictions there may be
in historical observations of the function and retention of baybayin among
literate Filipino communities, it does seem that the script was sometimes used
as a mnemonic aid for the oral transmission of song-texts, as Delgado men-
tioned (and as is shown by customs on the island of Mindoro today). The intro-
duction of new texts and Christian subject matter following the beginning of
the mission enterprise was possibly responsible for the recording of verses,
because the new ideologies diverged from the themes of traditional songs in
precolonial culture. Given the lack of historical source materials, however, it is
difficult to test this hypothesis.
It seems that one of the principal reasons Spaniards learned Filipino lan-
guages and their modes of writing was to communicate with the Filipinos and
implement policies of the colonial government. Of course, it followed that a
considerable number of Filipinos learned Castilian to gain some level of con-
trol in this intercultural relationship. Ladinos held a significant position in the
social hierarchy as intermediaries between the colonial overlords and the indig-
enous population. It is logical, then, to assume that ethnological observation
was a reciprocal practice; Spaniards may have produced ethnographies that
described Filipinos through text and image, but we can see clearly that Filipinos
observed and analyzed the Spaniards in great detail and came to know them
intimately through imitation and absorption of Spanish traits (in other words,
hispanization or transculturation, as we shall see in the next chapter). Not least
in this process of observation was the Filipino acquisition of linguistic skills,
and the ladinos were at the center of this enterprise. So were the mestizos, but
their Filipino compatriots generally identified them as kastila, or Spaniards.
In 1610, ladino poet and printer Tomás Pinpin (b. between 1580 and 1585)
published in Roman characters a treatise titled Librong pagaaralan nang manga
Tagalog nang uicang Castila (Book with which Tagalogs can learn Castilian).
Marketed toward the Tagalog elite, the Librong asserted that the study of the
Castilian language would contribute to the acquisition of the “inside” or
“source” of all things Spanish; the knowledge of “this other trait which is their
language” would thus complement external Spanish attributes such as dress,
behavior, and arms, which had already been adopted by some Tagalogs. In his
book, Pinpin frequently introduces Castilian vocabulary and grammatical con-
cepts through a bilingual auit (song), the text being written alternately in
Castilian and Tagalog so as to reinforce the equivalent terms in each language.44
Poetry and song were a significant means by which civilization was ordered
and structured in the precolonial Philippines; some of the earliest Jesuit eth-
nographers in the islands noted that these genres served as vehicles for the
preservation of indigenous customs and rites, as we shall see shortly. Under
Spanish rule, these interrelated artforms became a dominant factor in trans-
mitting new ideologies. Yet they also acted as a mechanism for the mainte-
nance of indigenous society’s cohesion and cultural identity.
Filipino Poetics
The art of poetry was seen by the early Spanish grammatists and lexicographers
as an intrinsic and complex part of Filipino song traditions. Early modern eth-
nographers in the Philippines asserted unanimously that all poetry was sung.45
Several treatises on the grammar of Filipino languages contain information
about the poetic traditions of various ethnolinguistic groups; other observa-
tions on poetry also exist as single studies or as part of ethnographies. The art
of Tagalog poetry is treated by Gaspar de San Agustín in his Compendio de la
arte de la lengua tagala (1703), briefly considered in Tagalysmo elucidado, y redu-
cido (en lo posible) a la Latinidad de Nebrija (1742) by Franciscan Melchor
Oyanguren de Santa Ynés (1688–1747), and explored in great depth by
Augustinian Francisco Bencuchillo (1710–76) in the manuscript treatise he
devoted wholly to Tagalog poetry, “Arte poético tagalo” (1759). Martínez de
Zúñiga also gave descriptions of Tagalog poetry and eyewitness accounts of
performances in an account of his voyages around the country in 1800.46
Although the origins and development of Tagalog poetry have been studied
at length by Lumbera, who has considered the surviving treatises in great detail,
sources relating to the traditions of other ethnolinguistic groups have been
largely ignored. We should thus acknowledge that there remains a consider-
able number of early modern Spanish treatises on poetry in Filipino languages
other than Tagalog, such as Ilokano and Visayan. For instance, a guide to
Ilokano poetry was given in the early 1790s by Augustinian Andrés Carro
(c. 1733–1806) in his augmented edition of López’s Arte de la lengua yloca, the
original publication of which dates from 1627.47 Moreover, the entire fourth
book of the Arte de la lengua bisaya hiliguayna de la isla de Panay, composed by
Alonso de Méntrida (1559–1637) in the early seventeenth century, is devoted to
the art of Visayan poetry. Another extensive treatment of the Visayan poetic
tradition is found in the work of the Jesuit Alzina, as discussed shortly.48
Descriptions of poetry in other languages are more elusive. Augustinian
missionary Álvaro de Benavente (d. 1709) briefly treated Kapampangan poetry
in his grammar of the language dated c. 1699, claiming that he could identify
two distinct genres.49 But just a few decades later, his fellow Augustinian Diego
Bergaño (1690–1747) dismissed the local poetic tradition out of hand, consid-
ering Kapampangan verses to be prose rather than true assonance or conso-
nance (rhyme).50 Instead of a treatment of Kapampangan poetry, he gave an
overview of the art of translation into this language. Later in the eighteenth
century, another Augustinian, Sebastián Moreno (d. 1778), left a manuscript
treatise (now lost) titled “Artificio de hacer versos en la misma lengua” (“Artifice
for composing verses in the same language”), suggesting that Augustinians
simply ignored local poetic structures and attempted to impose their own idea
or “artifice” of versification on the Kapampangan language.51 It is noteworthy
that most Spanish theorists and practitioners of indigenous poetry were
Augustinians (with the exception of Franciscan Oyanguren and Jesuit Alzina).
The Augustinians’ endeavors in this area might reflect a desire to uphold or
test the principles of rhythm and meter expounded by Saint Augustine of
Hippo (354–430) in his De musica.
Apart from the treatises I have already mentioned, which are representa-
tive of several major Filipino languages, it is likely that more were produced by
religious authors working with other ethnolinguistic groups of the Philippines.
They probably circulated in manuscript form, or were incorporated into
grammatical artes. One major language for which evidence of poetry treatises
has yet to emerge, however, is Bikol, which is spoken in southeast Luzon (an
area that was mostly under the jurisdiction of the Franciscans). On the basis
of the poetic patterns that operated elsewhere in the archipelago, though, it is
very probable that treatises on Bikol poetry existed in manuscript or printed
form.
All these sources attest to the prominence and persistence of indigenous
poetic traditions during the first two and a half centuries of Spanish rule. Yet it
is important to consider whether the treatises on poetic traditions were works
of anthropological observation or an idealized view constructed by Spaniards of
what indigenous poetry should be and how it should fit into a superimposed
colonial structure. Gaspar de San Agustín, a widely respected poet in Latin and
Castilian, had apparently mastered the Tagalog language, but he sought to
equate the rules of Tagalog poetry with those of Spanish versification. According
to Lumbera, this missionary’s understanding of the conventions for Tagalog
rhyming is oversimplified, but it should be noted his rules were intended to
serve as a guide for Spanish-speaking scholars to understand and use poetic
genres in missionary endeavors—and possibly as an ethnographic document—
rather than as an explicit attempt to instruct native poets in a new “missionary
style” of poetry according to some formalized method.52 Over half of the poetic
examples provided by San Agustín were in fact composed or translated by
Spanish missionaries.
Tagalog poets took a fairly dim view of Spanish attempts to emulate indig-
enous styles, and Gaspar de San Agustín warned his missionary readers of the
futility of forcing the Tagalog language to submit to the rules of Spanish versi-
fication. He referred to the example of Dominican Francisco Blancas de San
José (1560–1614), who had shown sonnets, rhymes, décimas (ten-line poems),
and songs “in our style with forced consonance” to Tagalog master poets. They
were not impressed, replying, “magaling, datapoua hindi tola” (“excellent, but
not poetry”) and “could not be persuaded otherwise.”53 The title of the “Artificio”
composed by Moreno (apparently lost) suggests that it also attempted to enforce
Spanish rules for versification on the Kapampangan language, which, according
to Bergaño, had no tradition of what he considered “poetry.”
Although some poetic traditions were viewed disparagingly, others were
considered so sophisticated that they could not be easily—if ever—understood
by Europeans. In the Visayas, Alzina claimed that five years after attaining
competence in the local tongue he still could not comprehend the texts of poetic
genres because of their profound metaphorical content and complex vocabu-
lary.54 The frustration of impenetrability made him pursue the study of poetic
traditions with great vigor, resulting in his identification of seven distinct
genres within Visayan poetry: ambahan, bical, balac (accompanied by the
plucked instruments coriapi [kutyapi] or corlong [kodlong]), sidai, haya, anogon
(or canogon), and auit. He described the nobility of each form and their tradi-
tional function in indigenous culture, noting that all of these genres were sung.
Oyanguren de Santa Ynés gave a similarly long list of genres of Tagalog
poetry—the auit, diona, oyayi, talingdao, dalit, and soliranin—and claimed that
the syllabic make-up of lines (from five to fourteen syllables) depended explic-
itly on the song or tone to which the verses were performed, thereby priori-
tizing (traditional) melody over text.55
The composition of treatises on indigenous poetry by missionaries in the
Philippines appears to have taken place at a level that may have been unique in
the Spanish Empire. Although pre-Columbian poetry in the Americas was
observed (and sometimes transcribed) by the conquistadores and the first
waves of missionaries, the privileged position that Amerindian genres had
enjoyed prior to contact was usurped by European traditions relatively swiftly.56
It could be argued that in the Philippines, by contrast, the indigenous poetic art
endured for longer, and in a more intact form, even though it was also subject
to a process of assimilation and synthesis within the colonial context.57 However,
colonial ethnographers in the Philippines recorded musicopoetic practices at
the same time as carrying out religious proselytization and introducing
European literary and musical forms. These colonial activities gradually con-
tributed to the demise of many indigenous genres through the processes of
hispanization, but they simultaneously set in place a process of intercultural
courtship, engagement, and union that ultimately resulted in the birth of new
styles of musicopoetic expression, as we shall see in chapter 5.
Singing, Playing, and Dancing
Chirino’s Relacion de las Islas Filipinas of 1604 is a concise account of the work
of Jesuits sent on the earliest missions to the Philippines. This work, the ear-
liest publication by a Jesuit of the Philippine Province, was an important piece
of propaganda for the Society of Jesus; its production in Rome served to inform
the highest authorities of the Roman Catholic Church about the missionary
advances being made in the region. Chirino described the languages, customs,
and beliefs of the indigenous inhabitants, while also detailing the work of
Jesuits and the local responses to evangelization. Music is a significant cultural
feature that emerges from these discussions. In writing about the state of
Filipino society before their conversion, for instance, Chirino noted that
all their government and religion is founded on tradition, and on
practices introduced by the very devil, who spoke to them through
their idols and their priests. And they preserve these in songs, which
they know by memory, and have learned since their childhood,
having heard them sung while they sail, while they work, while they
rejoice and feast, and even moreso when they mourn the dead. In
these barbarous songs they recount the fabulous genealogies and
vain deeds of their gods.58
Narrative vocal practices, ingrained within Filipino society, were thus identified
as a crucial foundation on which law and order functioned, by which religion
was observed, and by which rituals were enacted. Colonialists’ understanding
of Filipino music—especially singing—became fundamental to their attempts
to control and manipulate indigenous society.
Indigenous music had to be codified and categorized, and Jesuits were at
the forefront of this endeavor. In a short passage on “Musicas, y bayles” in his
Labor evangelica, for instance, Colín described responsorial vocal music, in
which one or two people sang and the rest of the gathered Filipinos answered,
asserting that most of these songs were legends and fables “in the style of most
nations.”59 He thereby established the existence of verse-refrain compositional
structures that were later described by other Jesuits as being analogous to

Spanish genres such as the villancico and provided a seemingly egalitarian eval-
uation of sung narratives that positioned Filipinos and their vocal music on a
par with those of the rest of the known world. Meanwhile, in a history of the
southern islands of Mindanao, Jolo, and neighboring regions, Jesuit Francisco
Combés (1620–65) described “dances to the sound of their bells and
tabors . . . stepping to the sound of bells and Moorish dulcaynas [sic].”60 To
Combés and many others, Muslims in these islands thus assumed a familiar
guise as Moors from northern Africa.
The Jesuits had administrative control over large parts of the Visayas, and
they focused most of their evangelistic energies there; before their expulsion
from the Philippines in 1768, they administered almost 100 parishes with
more than 200,000 parishioners—more than a fifth of the Christianized
population.61 The primacy of the Visayas in the Philippine Province is reflected
in the title Alzina gave to his monumental ethnographic history in 1668:
“Historia de las islas e indios de Bisayas, parte mayor i mas principal de las
islas Filipinas” (“History of the Visayan Islands and their people, [the Visayas
being] the largest and most important part of the Philippine Islands”). In this
work, Alzina’s treatment of Visayan liberal arts, religion, and technology
pointed to a sophisticated level of society, one that in his eyes only lacked rec-
ognizable political structures.62
Of particular relevance to musical ethnography are the third and fourth
chapters of book 3 in part I, which are devoted respectively to “the various and
particular poetic styles that they cultivate” and “their music and their musical
instruments,” whereas the ninth chapter of book 4 treats “their feasts, parties,
dances, and other entertainments of the ancient [precolonial] people, and of the
youths and children.”63 Part II (which survives incomplete) concerns the eccle-
siastical history of the Visayas and the work of missionaries: some of it treats
methods and results of evangelization, as well as providing invaluable
information on the celebration of feasts in the missions, where music played a
major role. Music was particularly important for the occasions of Christmas,
Holy Week and Easter, Ascension, Pentecost, and Corpus Christi, not to
mention all the feasts that Filipinos were obliged to observe (according to
decrees issued from Manila), including those for the Virgin Mary and principal
saints.
Alzina was positioned at a crucial moment in the construction of colonial
historiography, having arrived in the islands after colonial and missionary
authority had been entrenched to a degree that allowed for intense intercultural
transactions of music and religion. His integration into Visayan society from
his arrival in the region in 1643 until his death in 1674, coupled with his con-
siderable linguistic capabilities, enabled him to make remarkably objective
observations on the most profound points of Visayan musicopoetic traditions.
Alzina prefaced his discussion of song styles and musical instruments by
claiming that “these Visayans had neither a science nor scientific principles for
music such as we use and the most advanced nations of the world have been
using.”64 He also maintained that the performance of ancient songs had
improved somewhat because the Visayans had grown accustomed to European
music, the idea of consonance, and musical modes.65 This sort of comment
typifies the paternalistic attitude of missionaries and colonialists who assumed
that once indigenous peoples became aware of European tonal structures, they
would inevitably adapt their own musical styles and aesthetics to accommodate
those that had been introduced. But this transculturative process may in fact
have represented a sort of defense mechanism deployed by indigenous peoples
under colonial rule.
Alzina was also interested in documenting the affective power of indige-
nous instrumental music. Following the observations made by earlier Jesuits
on performance traditions of the kutyapi, an instrument that was played only
by men, he described how the listener’s passions could be excited to such a
degree that women were accused of listening to this instrument for sensual
pleasure and arousal. The Visayan women also had their own instrument, the
kodlong, and the rhetorical performance techniques of both instruments
allowed men and women to “speak” to one another “with much more feeling
or sensuality than by word of mouth,” causing Alzina to lament the possible
offenses committed against God in this fashion.66 To him, some Filipino
musical instruments appeared to be both powerful and devious. They tran-
scended the linguistic comprehension of European missionaries, allowing
indigenous musicians to encode and represent their passions—passions that if
voiced might have been more easily censored or curtailed.
Alzina nevertheless admired the craftmanship and skill involved in the
construction of indigenous instruments: his organological descriptions rank
among the most detailed in early modern colonial ethnography, as discussed
shortly. He was sensitive in his descriptions of the Visayans, standing out
among early modern colonial ethnographers by making illustrations of several
dances and recording the plots of epic tales. In 1890, the national hero of the
Philippines, José Rizal (1861–96), anticipated the cry of today’s ethnohisto-
rians by writing that “it is to be lamented that these songs have not been con-
served, as much of the past of the Filipinos could have been known from these,
and perhaps the history of many adjacent islands.”67 But the lengthy prose
summaries of epic songs given by Alzina in his “Historia” provide at least some
idea of their content.
Another observer who admired music and dance in the Visayas in the sev-
enteenth century was Italian world traveler Gemelli Careri. He found Visayan
poetic compositions to be “gracious and eloquent” and described the move-
ments of Visayan dances that depicted warlike themes (although he did not
specify their names). These dances were performed with such grace and style,
he added, that Spaniards sought them out for inclusion in their festivities. Less
convincingly, however, he drew comparisons between Filipino and Chinese

traditions of music and dance, justifying this connection by citing the Visayan
performance of antiphonal singing “to the sound of a metal drum” (by which
he most likely means a gong).68 To his eyes, vocal and instrumental elements
appeared to be Chinese.
Indigenous Instruments
Musical instruments, tools of sonic expression common to all human cultures,

almost always attracted the attention of early modern travelers and often acted
as a fascinating subject for intercultural comparison. In many cases, they
established homologies between different musical systems and provided a
basis for what I have called enharmonic engagement. Colonial historiography
is a rich resource for European observations on musical instruments of the
Filipinos. Throughout the early modern period, missionaries regularly recorded
organological details, such as the local names of instruments, the means by
which sound was produced on them, and the materials and methods used for
their construction. The resulting texts include comments on instruments’
functions in Filipino society and offer descriptions of performance techniques
and assessments of sound quality. All such data were collected as part of the
comprehensive ethnographic surveys undertaken by missionaries. Information
on instruments can be found relayed in the narratives of manuscript and pub-
lished histories and more often incorporated as lexical definitions in the com-
pilation of vocabularios. All these sources are indispensable for the
understanding of precolonial traditions in many parts of the Philippines and
determining how and when they began to change.
While Filipino and European instruments coexisted for long periods in
Christianized areas of the archipelago, indigenous instruments eventually fell
out of use in many communities, in favor of European importations, as we see
in the next chapter. In many cases, all we have left is a written name and
description. Similar instruments may continue to be used today by musicians
from other ethnolinguistic groups of the islands, but their names, physical
properties, and functions may differ drastically. For this reason, a number of
scholars have sought to reconstruct the lost or forgotten instruments of the pre-
colonial past. They have done so through examination of (few) archaeological
remains, early colonial literary sources describing such instruments, and obser-
vation of the instruments in use among communities today who did not bear
the full brunt of colonialism’s impact. One of the first major and detailed
organological studies of indigenous Philippine instruments was by Norberto
Romuáldez (1875–1941), who in 1931 gave a lecture titled “Filipino Musical
Instruments and Airs of Long Ago”; the most recent and most comprehensive
study is Gongs and Bamboo by the late José Maceda.69
Whenever historians or musicologists write about organological aspects of

Filipino music, the lute called kutyapi—an iconic indigenous instrument—is
usually among the first subjects discussed.70 Agoncillo and Alfonso note that it
was originally found “almost throughout the country—from the north to the
south,” and that it was later adopted by the Tagalogs as a “symbol of poetry.”71
As we have seen, the word “kutyapi” stems directly from the Sanskrit term
kacchapī, which means lute. The kutyapi is often called a “boat lute,” and other
instruments of this type with remarkably similar names are found throughout
Southeast Asia, such as the kecapi in Indonesia and the jakhē in Thailand.72
Today, most of the kutyapi’s practitioners and makers are found in Mindanao.
This lute was mentioned on numerous occasions by early modern European
observers. As early as 1543, Bernardo de la Torre (d. 1545?), who was part of the
Villalobos expedition, noted its use at a dance he saw in Samar, and his testi-
mony appears to be the first known European documentation of the instru-
ment.73 Many Jesuits wrote about the kutyapi, but Chirino gave one of the first
detailed descriptions of it, providing source material that was subsequently
reused by numerous writers for comments on the instrument’s rhetorical
capacities (including Alzina, as we have seen). He observed that “although their
viguela, which they call kutyapi, is not very complex, nor the music very pro-
found, it is still agreeable, and very much so to them. They play it with such
liveliness and skill that the four copper strings speak. It is considered a verifi-
able fact there that by only playing the strings, with the mouth shut, whatever
they want to say can be understood by all who desire it. This is something that
is not known of any other nation.”74 Modern-day criticism may easily deflate
the claim that the use of this instrument as a communicative device in the
Philippines was unique in the early modern world. But this observation still
highlights the propensity of missionary writers in the early modern Philippines
(as elsewhere) to use inflated rhetoric in describing “their” potential converts,
so as to justify the effort and resources expended in propelling the evangelistic
enterprise.
Another account of the kutyapi, written a few decades later and attributed
to Bobadilla, again goes on to praise its rhetorical qualities, “unique to those of
this nation,” but points out that although its use was once widespread, only a
few Filipinos played it at the time of writing. The author describes the instru-
ment as being “quite similar to a vielle, and . . . mounted with four copper
strings.”75 Although the comparison of the plucked kutyapi to the bowed chor-
dophone vielle seems unlikely, we should remember that this text exists only in
a seventeenth-century French translation, and it is possible that vielle is simply
a corrupted translation of the Spanish term vihuela. Colín, continuing the work
of Chirino almost half a century later in his Labor evangelica, repeats the latter’s
description of the kutyapi almost word for word but qualifies that the strings
number “two or more” rather than four.76 Alzina in the Visayas affirms that
“these strings number no more than two (there is rarely a musician who knows
how to play on three) and are made of fine copper, or silver (which is usually
more sonorous).”77 Given his more detailed treatment of the instrument—at
least in the Visayan context—Alzina’s observation is likely to be the most reli-
able. Murillo Velarde described this instrument in the mid-eighteenth century,
by which time its practice had begun to wane, at least among the communities
he observed around Manila. According to him, the kutyapi had “two or three
strings of copper, which they used to play with a quill.”78
In the early modern vocabularios, it was not just the constructional tech-
niques that were documented; the natural resources that provided materials for
the instruments were also detailed. The vocabularios offer valuable insights
into precolonial practices that gradually receded as European instrument-mak-
ing began to predominate. Verbs deriving from the nouns of indigenous wind
instruments sometimes imply the acts of both making and playing them, and
many definitions represent the desire of the Spanish ethnographers to equate
indigenous instruments with those from their own European tradition, adding
details about construction that were locally specific. For instance, the
Kapampangan jaw harp, called culaing, is defined as a trompa de París with the
qualification that “here it is made of bamboo,” rather than of metal as in
Europe.79 The 1613 vocabulario of San Buena Ventura describes the making of
a Tagalog flute called tambuli in remarkable detail: “with a certain workman-
ship they take a piece of bamboo without nodes and split it at a point, placing
there a palm leaf or a piece of the same bamboo; they blow it and it sounds like
a dolzaina.”80 But it is possible that this term was confused with another instru-
ment, since the tamboli (now tambuli) was noted in the early eighteenth century
to be a trumpet made from the horn of a carabao (a type of local water buffalo),
which was used for signaling purposes.81 Franciscan Domingo de los Santos
(d. 1695) writes of the Tagalog flute boloboryong that they “make [it] from
bamboo” and “play [it] in their houses.”82 In Visayan vocabularies published in
1637 and 1711, two types of native flute are listed: lantoy (or tolali) and tingab
(now tanggab). The first, lantoy, is identified as being played with the nostrils;
the 1637 vocabulario by Alonso de Méntrida mentions that the Visayans used
this word to refer to the Castilian recorder.83 The term is further qualified in the
1711 publication of a vocabulario compiled by Matheo Sánchez (d. 1618), which
mentions that this flute is used only for sad or funereal occasions, and that “for
its similarity the word is extended to name our flute.”84 The tingab, on the other
hand, is played with the mouth.85
Regarding chordophones, there is a remarkable level of detail in providing
Spanish translations for specialized indigenous musical terms, to the extent of
describing words for frets (Castilian: trastes) and bows (Castilian: arquillos).
Sánchez’s definition for the Visayan cutiapi (kutyapi, translated into Castilian
as guitarra) lists words for strings (dulus), tuning pegs (biricbiric), and three
terms for frets or “that [which is] like a fret” (pidia, bidia, and ipitan).86 In the
same source, the corlong (kodlong) is identified as “a musical instrument,
intended for women, made from some pieces of good and tough bamboo.”87
Méntrida’s Visayan vocabulario, on the other hand, states that the corlong is a
“bamboo vigolón which is played like a harp.”88 This work also gives the noun
for “guitar fret” (bidia)—this presumably being also a fret for an indigenous
instrument—as well as verbs for fretting the guitar (nagabidia) and for fin-
gering with the left hand (namidia); the last term is defined as “bringing the
fingers on the frets.”89 The same noun for “fret” (spelt bidyà) was included in
the Bikol vocabulario of Franciscan Marcos de Lisboa (d. 1628), where it was
defined as “the points where they put fingers on the codyapes, like frets on the
vihuela, which among them [the Filipinos] are some little pieces of wax.”90
Through the identification of material used for the making of frets, we see
further evidence attesting to the extraordinarily high level of detail that can be
found in musical definitions from the vocabularios. The parallel function of
European vihuela frets and indigenous wax frets for the kutyapi also provides a
significant example of a point of convergence that facilitated the processes of
transculturation.
Definitions in the vocabularios occasionally seem to distinguish between
different qualities of strings for different plucked or bowed instruments.91 In
this respect, San Buena Ventura’s vocabulario gives two definitions in Tagalog
for cuerda: the word cauar (kawad) is described as “copper [strings] for clavi-
chords or zithers,” whereas the word dilis refers to strings for guitar, harp, or
codyapi (kutyapi).92 On the other hand, the Visayan term dulus is translated by
Méntrida not only as string for the zither, guitar, and harp but also as a string
for the crossbow.93 With this diversity of terms and definitions, confusion
reigns, but the heterogeneity of musical practices and observations becomes
clear. The integration of a number of traditions of string-playing, whether
plucked or bowed, appears to have resulted in a multiplicity of practices in the
islands, with specific implications for string-making. The Spanish index of a
1794 Ilokano vocabulario identifies the terms cuerda de clavicordio (harpsichord
string) and cuerda de instrumento (instrument string) as the noun barot, which
is also translated in the main body of the text as a verb meaning “to pull
something from silver, gold, or copper” (in other words, to extrude).94 This
approximation is indicative of the tendency to apply functional words to a newly
introduced cultural artifact, although it is likely that the last word would have
been used to apply to the wire strings of the kutyapi. Confusion of terms not-
withstanding, it can generally be assumed that it was only the strings of Filipino
kutyapi and European zithers and keyboard instruments that were made of
metal; strings for harps and guitars were usually made of silk.
Aside from the data found in the vocabularios, the organological observa-
tions made by Alzina in the seventeenth century are invaluable sources for
mainstream precolonial instrumental practice in the Visayas. Alzina gives a
meticulous description of the construction methods of instruments in the
Visayas such as the plucked chordophones coriapi (kutyapi) and corlong (kod-
long), bamboo noseflutes, and the jaw harp subing, noting similarities between
European and Filipino instrument production but highlighting differences in
performative traditions. He makes a number of pejorative remarks in com-
paring European and Philippine instruments. For example, he claims that the
coriapi is not as resonant as the European zither for the following reasons:
“the strings are played with a plectrum like [the strings on] our zithers, and the
sounds produced on them are comparable, although those of the coriapi are
less sonorous because there are fewer of them and the body of the instrument
does not have measurements proportionate to the sounds.”95 Here we see an
emerging pattern of essentialism in Alzina’s comparative assessments: he
implies that European music is more sonorous and more harmonious, but he
does allow (elsewhere) that Filipino instruments have greater capacities for
rhetorical expression.
He goes on to liken the women’s instrument corlong to “the little guitars
of cane which the boys in Spain usually make.”96 Alzina gives a detailed descrip-
tion of how ten or twelve pieces of cane are tied together and strings are pulled
from the middle of the grain of each. Once small bridges are positioned, the
instrument can be played against the breast like a guitar, the women accompa-
nying themselves in the same fashion as the men do on the coriapi.97 The
Visayan noseflute, made of a type of bamboo called bacacai, has a hole in the
“knot” (the node of the bamboo) for producing sound and three or four more
for placing the fingers. Alzina notes that these flutes do not have a duct for pro-
ducing sound (as on a European recorder), but even though they are “not as
loud and sonorous as [our flutes], they are as sweet, and more delicate than
ours.”98 The bamboo subing, or jaw harp, of the Visayas has “as robust a sound
and [is] as lively as those made of iron.” At the time of Alzina’s writing, the iron
jaw harps of Europe had been introduced to the Visayas and were used by local
musicians, but the traditional bamboo form was more common. Although it
involved a complex method of construction, Alzina noted that “great use is
made of it by all in general; men and women, young and old, have this instru-
ment, and all of them know how to make it, for once it is seen it is very
easy.”99
The importance of natural resources for the making of instruments was
recognized by several early modern writers. Surveyors of plants in the
Philippines throughout the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries noted the
propensity of certain trees to produce good wood for the construction of chor-
dophones. Alzina, for instance, stated that hard woods were sought out for the
construction of the coriapi’s body.100 In the mid-eighteenth century, Delgado
identified two trees with wood suitable for the fabrication of musical instru-
ments. His 1751 survey of the islands includes dozens of chapters concerning
the properties of many types of plants, for medicinal, constructional, and other
uses. Although one of the most important functions of the plants he docu-
ments is their use in treating ill-health, Delgado does not neglect to mention
the curative effects of music. He writes of the Visayan tree alagut-ut (Cordia
subcordata) that although it has no medicinal value, “it has the virtue of sweet-
ening the ears, and to make hearts joyful through the music of instruments
made from it.”101 (This wood is still used today in parts of the Visayas for the
construction of guitars.) In the case of a plant that does not produce any edible
fruit, but nevertheless provides wood that can be used to make instruments, he
talks of music as “food for the ears.”102 The comments of Alzina and Delgado
point to the existence of a thriving industry of luthiery, which exploited local
woods for the construction of both indigenous and European instruments.
Naturally hollow plants, such as bamboo, produced many types of indigenous
aerophones as well as other instruments, such as European pipe organs.
Bobadilla noted around 1640 that the strings of the guitars and harps
played by the Filipinos “are made of twisted silk, and produce a sound as agree-
able as that produced by our [type of] strings, even though they are made of
quite different material.”103 By “our strings,” he presumably meant those made
of gut. It is not surprising that a territory so close to China should make use of
one of the most highly prized and abundant natural resources from that empire.
Raw silk was imported directly from China; attempts to initiate a silk industry
in the Philippines were unsuccessful. However, silk was also known to be used
as a material for making strings in early modern Europe: Mersenne and other
theorists made mention of this alternative to gut or metal.104 European musi-
cians traveling to hot climates occasionally appear to have chosen to make use
of silk strings on their instruments, rather than gut.105 A possible reason for
this decision is the differing level of hygroscopicity (the propensity of a material
to absorb moisture) in silk and gut, a contributing factor to the longevity and
functionability of a string.
Yet it seems that not all European musicians in the East approved of the
different material or sound. They may have tried strings made of silk—thus
capitalizing on a local and plentiful natural resource, rather than engaging in
the complicated occupation of making gut strings—but without success or
appreciation. It is probable that gut strings made in Europe or the Americas
circulated among the practitioners of European music in early modern Asia, or
that guts of animals slaughtered for meat—such as carabao—would have been
used for string-making by Europeans resident in the Philippines, although doc-
umentary evidence of this practice has yet to emerge. We know, however, that
carabao hides were used in the production of choirbooks.106 For this reason, it
seems almost inevitable that other parts of the animal, if not immediately used
in local cuisine, would have also contributed to the enterprise of establishing
ecclesiastical music in the islands. (In the Tagalog region, their horns were
converted into musical instruments called tambuli, as already noted.) In terms
of materials for strings, the choice of silk for use by Asian musicians on
European guitars and harps in Asia presents a curious paradox: indigenous
musicians of the Philippines who had originally used metal strings on their
traditional instruments began to play instruments introduced by Europeans

who used a mainland Asian resource made available by increased trade with
China.
Conclusion
Critical analysis of themes and data that emerge from firsthand colonial ethno-
logical and organological sources shows that Spaniards in the early modern
Philippines were fascinated by the peoples who surrounded them. At the same
time as colonialists familiarized themselves with the country and its inhabi-
tants, however, they sought to control and change the Filipinos. Indigenous
musical practices evolved rapidly during the seventeenth and eighteenth cen-
turies, and many sonic structures and ritual performances were lost. No cultural
system that is subjected to the stresses of European colonial incursions can
remain static or continue along the trajectory of its own development unim-
peded by outside influences. It will immediately enter a period of flux, and the
imbalances that are inherent in many intercultural encounters will inevitably
result in the predominance of one set of cultural practices at the expense of
another. Even so, we can come to a better understanding of precolonial Filipino
cultures by examining colonial historiography that preserves descriptions of
songs, dances, and instrumental practices. It is clear that these texts open a
valuable window onto the precolonial state of Filipino music—if only a fleeting
glance—although due care and caution must be taken in interpreting data
gleaned from colonial sources.
In this chapter, we have seen how the counterpoint of cultures at the final
nexus of the first global trade network brought about a type of enharmonic
engagement between musicians from remarkably different cultures. By sur-
veying each other’s speech, songs, dance, and instrumental practices according
to ingrained aesthetic tastes and sensibilities, Spaniards and Filipinos eventu-
ally came to a relatively apprehensive understanding of each other. Of course,
it was only tolerable as long as the power relationships were upheld through
the structures (and strictures) of colonial counterpoint—social and musical
alike. Still, this engagement was intense enough for musicians and observers
from both sides of the cultural divide to attempt to develop an intimate
knowledge and understanding of each other’s practices and enter into a type of
colonial courtship. As we will see in the following two chapters, enharmonic
engagement contributed to the hispanization of Filipino music and the
development of unique, hybrid genres as a creation of colonial practice.
4
©
The Hispanization of Filipino Music
Visitors to the Philippines today are often struck by the heterogeneity of musical
traditions cultivated by the islands’ inhabitants. Ranging from traditional indig-
enous practices to Western art music to the latest styles in popular music from
around the world, musics in the Philippines are characterized, shaped, and col-
ored by constant mediation between tradition and modernity, not to mention
continuous encounters with external artistic influences and the incorporation
of foreign elements into local practices. In an archipelago lying at the cross-
roads of many contrasting civilizations, it is hardly surprising that a panoply of
different musical styles should have been introduced. Some musical influ-
ences, more than others, have found fertile ground in which to take root. Within
a contrapuntal society, however, the overarching organization of cultural hier-
archies and internal interplay of power relationships will often dictate or
endorse whichever new element might be incorporated into musical practices.
These practices then effectively perpetuate and uphold the prevailing social
norms.
As we have seen in the previous chapters, the incorporation of the
Philippines into a mundo hispánico was contingent on the compliance of indig-
enous peoples with the imposition of the intertwined Spanish structures of
religion and politics. Music, as an integral part of performing religious identity
through ceremony, manifested devotion to the church, and therefore—in the
eyes of Spaniards—loyalty to the Crown. Similarly, the adoption of Spanish
musical traits confirmed to Spain the purported legitimacy of their “civilizing”
mission and the sincerity of the indigenous peoples’ religious commitment.
What Spaniards failed to realize, however, was that the adoption and adaptation
of music eventually provided an officially sanctioned avenue for contesting
colonial authority.
From the late sixteenth to the early nineteenth century, Spaniards and
Filipinos gradually tempered their cultural systems to incorporate an under-
standing of the other and locate a point of enharmonic interchange: their cul-
tures modulated. One of the most significant elements of this cultural
modulation was the hispanization of Filipino music. “Hispanization” is a term
I have borrowed from historian John Leddy Phelan (1924–76), who in 1967
published his seminal study on the cultural ramifications of Spain’s coloniza-
tion of the Philippines. His concept of hispanization is one that refers largely
to the socioeconomic dimensions of cultural change in the Spanish colonial
period. Yet Phelan also correctly pointed out that although political and reli-
gious hispanization involved outright imposition, it was an “indirect
hispanization”—due to the relatively small number of Spaniards in the
islands—as opposed to a case of “direct hispanization” in Mexico. It owed as
much to the active appropriation or “Philippinization” of Spanish and Spanish-
American cultural elements by the indigenous population as to the coercive
policies of conversion and urbanization set in place by colonial authorities.
Hispanization is essentially synonymous with the complex process of tran-
sculturation, a phenomenon of cultural transition that often takes place in the
context of frontiers or “contact zones.”1 This implies the merging of cultures over
time, incorporating resolutions of their differences. But compromises and conces-
sions were often made, of course, and mostly on the side of the indigenous
population. Transculturation in colonial societies of the Spanish Empire involved
movement along a continuum between distance from and proximity to the cultural
values of the colonial overlords. The indigenous elite often sought to minimize
difference by emulating cultural traits of the Spaniards, and these principales with
hispanized mannerisms were then imitated in turn by their own communities.
We saw in the previous chapter how meticulously Spanish ethnographers
documented indigenous practices in the Philippines during the first two cen-
turies of encounter (and beyond). Music and dance traditions of the Filipinos
who were in regular contact with Europeans (especially those living in
Christianized communities) continued to change as they coexisted with newly
introduced art forms. Some traditions were replaced altogether as importations
were adopted and subsequently filled their niches. Others were gradually
forgotten. Still more began to metamorphize and take on the character of
Spanish practices. This hispanization of Filipino music is a standard trope of
Filipino music historiography: Corazon Canave-Dioquino has observed that
“during the period of Spanish colonization, a transformation of the people’s
musical thinking occurred, and a hybrid form of musical expression, heavily
tinged with a Hispanic taste, sprouted and took root.” In similar terms, José
Montserrat Maceda (1917–2004) has described the transformation of “the
musical thinking of a people into a Latin expression.”2
Transculturation did not necessarily imply the complete transformation of
an indigenous musician into a European musician, of course. There were
the hispanization of filipino music 101
numerous dimensions to this process, all of which involved subtle changes to

existing and introduced traditions. The convergences between multiple musical
cultures in the colonial context resulted in transculturative processes that
include musical transplantation, appropriation, adaptation, and cross-fertiliza-
tion. These aspects of musical change can be seen in the singing of indigenous
texts to European melodies and, conversely, the singing of European or
Christian texts to indigenous melodies; the use of European instruments in
indigenous contexts and vice versa; and the use of local materials in the
construction of European instruments. As the phenomenon of transcultura-
tion was linked inextricably to the colonial processes of urbanizing and
converting the indigenous population, we can trace its development through a
diverse range of literary sources relating to these endeavors.
The historical study of cultural transition in the Philippines during the
Spanish colonial period has always been challenged by the limitation of docu-
mentary sources and physical evidence. Music is an abstract art, existing fleet-
ingly on a temporal plane, and if it is not recorded through the notation of pitch
and rhythm (and other elements), the historian can rely only on contempora-
neous evidence, such as artifacts or written descriptions. Early modern mis-
sionaries were happy to oblige in the case of the latter, and their texts have
provided historians of Filipino music with seminal data. In 1973, Maceda noted
that “historical records about how the change [in Filipino music] came about
are few, but they all tell how the first Western music was introduced through
the medium of the church.”3 In the decades since this observation, many more
archival sources have been identified, but these remain resolutely textual, in
the form of ethnographic texts or descriptions of performances. There exists no
major corpus of notated musical works produced with consistent regularity to
provide evidence of any sustained shift in musical aesthetics—at least, not until
the second half of the nineteenth century. Thus, in tracing the process of tran-
sculturation, we rely principally on documentation produced by religious
writers, although their perspective was, of course, simultaneously shaped and
clouded by their mission. We must, then, consider other sources that docu-
ment transcultural flows of ideas and concepts on a more balanced and objective
level—texts that shape language as well as being shaped by language—such as
the vocabularios of indigenous languages and the observations of non-Spanish
travel writers. We must translate the idea of transculturation.
Translating Transculturation
Communication is a vital element in the cross-cultural transfer of any musical

concepts. The intrinsic connections between language and music also mean
that texts produced at any given time will reflect many aspects of prevailing
aesthetic sensibilities and artistic currencies. This is true of lengthy descriptions
and observations written by missionaries and travel writers, but small phrases
and individual words themselves often serve to illuminate the state of music at
a particular time. The vocabularios of Filipino languages are remarkably reve-
latory sources in tracing transculturation in the early modern Philippines. They
provide historical vignettes and capsules of ethnographic data that are key indi-
cators of when and how certain Spanish instruments, musical terminology,
and theoretical concepts were introduced to the islands. They show the reten-
tion or disuse of certain musical terms and reveal how a musical-aesthetic shift
was taking place at different times and in different regions. It is important to
remember that they are not, however, diachronic guides or incontrovertible
records of a clear and fluid process. Rather, they present indications of musical-
linguistic intersections and cultural circumstances at given geographical and
chronological points, enabling the tracing of a transculturative trajectory (with
some conjecture).
The lexicographers responsible for producing these sources sometimes
simply transliterated Castilian terms according to the conventions of indige-
nous phoneticization. For example, the Castilian word castañetas (now casta-
ñuelas) is given as castanitas in several Tagalog vocabularios. Very often,
clarification relating to the transmission of Spanish instruments into indige-
nous usage is also provided; in the case of the castanitas, Pedro de San Buena
Ventura stated in 1613 that “these were neither had nor used in their dances,
and they have [now] caught on.”4 Ninety years later, Domingo de los Santos
clarified that the Tagalogs “used these after they saw them used by the Spanish.”5
Andrés Carro showed in the late eighteenth century that the Castilian term
harpa was adopted into Ilokano as a loanword and qualified further that it was
a “musical instrument of King David, very popular amongst the Ilokanos ever
since they saw it played by a Spanish soldier with the conquistadores.”6 From
anecdotal evidence such as this we can speculate that the introduction of the
instrument to the Ilocos region dates back to the early 1570s. In 1572, Juan de
Salcedo, grandson of Legazpi, was ordered to leave Manila and explore northern
Luzon, where he oversaw the invasion of the Ilocos and Cagayan regions. Two
years later he founded the city of Vigan in Ilocos Sur, with a colonizing
expedition of seventy to eighty soldiers. Salcedo himself had been born in
Mexico, and it stands to reason that many of his soldiers, together with a dia-
tonic Hispanic harp, may have come from there as well. Whatever the origins
of this instrument, its practice certainly took root in northern Luzon, particu-
larly in the Cagayan Valley.7 As suggested by the vocabulario, its adoption might
stem simply from local interest engendered by a soldier from Salcedo’s task
force playing his harp for relaxation or solace, by the side of a river or around a
campfire during a rest period in the 1570s. If requested or urged by inquisitive
onlookers to name his instrument—which involved the plucking of strings like
a kutyapi but looked and sounded entirely different—this soldier may have just
replied: “harpa.”
By contrast, when an instrument of the precolonial instrumentorium

appeared to bear physical similarity to a foreign incursion, the name of the
indigenous instrument was often retained to refer to the European counter-
part. In this sense, the newly introduced instrument occupied the same musical
niche as an indigenous Filipino instrument of a comparable type. For instance,
the generic term for flute in Tagalog, bangsi, appears to have already been used
to refer to the playing of European recorders (flautas) to accompany polyphonic
singing in church by 1613, when San Buena Ventura qualified the act of playing
recorders (nagbabangsi, “they are playing bangsi”) as a form of ecclesiastical
service (“de Iglesia”). In his vocabulario of 1703, Santos provided a question in
Tagalog that is presumably for the use of missionaries: “Ylan ang bangsi sa
Simbahan? Quantas flautas ay en la Iglesia?” (“How many recorders are there
in the church?”).8 The instruments mentioned here, presumably ecclesiastical
possessions, are more likely to have been European recorders than indigenous
flutes. As we saw in the previous chapter, Méntrida recorded as early as 1637
that the Visayan terms lantoy and tolali, names for Filipino aerophones, were
being applied to the European recorder.9 According to Jesuit Sánchez, the
physical resemblances between the Visayan noseflute lantuy (or lantoy) and the
European recorder had led to the indigenous name being applied to its coun-
terpart.10 Thus, even if techniques of playing instruments were quite different,
terminological consistence and the reinforcement of certain conceptual simi-
larities between the indigenous and European instrumentorium promoted
increased familiarity with foreign musical technology.
In some instances, European words related to music theory or practice
were translated into indigenous languages, provided that lexicographers noted
homologous indigenous words that implied similar concepts. For example, in
his Kapampangan vocabulario of 1732, Diego Bergaño translated the Castilian
verb solfear (to solmizate) and the composite term compas solfa (meter/rhythm
[and] solfa/pitch) as galai.11 Although he confusingly seems to have combined
meter and pitch in the second translation, he offered a more detailed explana-
tion of galai in the corresponding part of the vocabulario: “Note, or rhythm of
the voice, being ut to sol.”12 In the eighteenth century, missionary linguists
identified a term for “harmony” or “consonance” in a variety of languages: sabot
in Bikol, saliu (now saliw) in Tagalog, and ulat or angay in Visayan.13 But one of
the earliest Castilian translations of the Tagalog word saliw, given by San Buena
Ventura, was acompas [sic], which was defined as “to play with any other
instrument.”14
Certain terms were also applied to specific technical aspects of performance.
The 1726 Tagalog vocabulario by Augustinian Tomás Ortiz (1668–1742) defines
the verb tipa as “pressing, or touching with the extremities, or tips of the fingers,”
relating this word specifically to the keys of the organ, as well as to the strings of
the guitar and the holes of the dulcian, shawm, and fife.15 Such a definition
implies the term’s use in musical pedagogy among Tagalog speakers at the time.
Then, as now, it is likely that musical instruction took place in whichever lan-
guage was the most familiar to teacher and student. Musical pedagogy is, of
course, essentially an act of translation and interpretation, whether visual, verbal,
or sonic. Certain concepts might be better expressed or elucidated using terms
borrowed from other languages, but learning ultimately resides in cognitive
processes arising from mutual comprehensibility.16 The act of musical
pedagogy—a common impulse of Roman Catholic missionaries throughout the
early modern world—immediately contracts distances between cultures and
negates differences that can otherwise appear irreconcilable. It often relies on the
teaching of children, whose minds are fertile fields for the sowing of information
from many different cultural traditions. Most important, it relies on the proximity
of representatives from these different cultures, thrown together in a crucible
where they can act and react to each other. Metropoles the world over are thus
potent sites for intercultural encounters, and transculturation.
Metropolitan Transculturation
In Manila and its environs, cultures lived in counterpoint to one another. As we

saw earlier, the imposing walls of Intramuros and stone buildings within the
city symbolized the Spaniards’ belief in the permanence and immutability of
their imperial enterprise. These walls also defined the rigid policies of ethnic
and social segregation that had been set in place both by colonial authority and
by popular perception. Cities and towns in the Spanish Empire were established
according to strict regulations: the royal instructions of 1573. These instructions
were mainly concerned with location of the settlement and the physical layout
of streets and buildings, but—significantly—they extended to music, man-
dating that if missionaries “wished to inspire greater admiration and attention
amongst the infidels, and if it were convenient to do so, they could use music
performed by singers and instrumentalists (playing low and high wind instru-
ments) in order to encourage them to join in and to use them.”17 Shaping the
culture of the inhabitants seemed as important to Felipe II and his advisors as
molding the physical structure of urban space. Such approaches of musical
coercion were adopted in Manila in the final decades of the sixteenth century,
as we know from an account written by Antonio de Morga, which details the
work of missionaries in imparting European music and drama to indigenous
communities around the city.
While in their doctrinas [missions] the religious undertake to teach
matters of religion to the natives, they also work to train them in
matters of their policía [a concept of rational civil society and
governance]. They run schools in which boys learn how to read and
write in Spanish, teaching them how to serve in church, how to
sing plainchant and polyphony, and the ministriles [instrumental-

ists] how to play [wind instruments]. [They also teach them] to
dance, sing, and play harps, guitars, and other instruments, in
which there is already great skill, especially around Manila, where
there are very good capillas of indigenous singers and ministriles,
who are skillful and have good voices. There are many dancers and
musicians who, using many instruments, solemnize and adorn the
feasts of the Most Holy Sacrament, and many others throughout
the year. They perform autos and comedias in Spanish, and in their
language, with great grace. All this is owed to the care and interest
of the religious, who tirelessly dedicate themselves to the natives’
improvement.18
Evidently, the imposition of Spanish Catholicism involved not just teaching
religious doctrine but also introducing accompanying cultural traits. In respect
for this endeavor, Morga gave an undeniably glowing account of the mission-
aries’ activities. He had to do so, of course, to receive the approbation of reli-
gious authorities in Mexico before the publication of his work there in 1609.
But although Morga’s book was produced for public consumption and was nec-
essarily affirmative, his private correspondence displays another, darker side of
the story. In a letter to Felipe II, dated June 8, 1598, Morga complained of
abuses committed by the religious. He mentioned their extravagance in enjoy-
ing frequent feasts and dances and exposed their exploitation and ill-treatment
of the indigenous peoples. The religious exacted an expensive levy on the indig-
enous converts to pay for their entertainments, he averred; missionaries also
taught indigenous servants and their companions to play the guitar and other
instruments, making them perform “indecent and profane sones,” which set a
bad example “with little benefit to anyone.”19
An official of the Spanish government may have seen it this way, of course,
for in his eyes, time spent in recreation and entertainment detracted from more
pressing activities, such as the establishment of a strong economy and a political
structure that was ordered according to European precepts. But it is more likely
than not that religious engagement with the indigenous population through
the medium of entertainment—singing, dancing, playing instruments, and
performing dramatic works—did more to foster favorable relations between
the two parties than the outright imposition of religious doctrine. Less advan-
tageous, however, was the exacting of heavy levies for the benefit of the reli-
gious communities—a practice that often raised the ire of Filipinos and
eventually resulted in rebellion against the religious orders in the revolutionary
era of the late nineteenth century.
Morga’s reference to the Filipino performance of dramatic works in Spanish
and in translation is an observation that is repeated frequently in early modern
sources. A century later, Franciscan historian Juan Francisco de San Antonio
(1682–1744) noted that the Filipinos “are great lovers of verses and perfor-
mances. [They are] very good translators, and with great skill translate a Spanish
comedia into verses in their own language. And thus, although all men and
women are [already] fond of reading, when they read something in verse-form,
they are tireless in reading, and go about performing it, while they read it.”20
These performances seem to have been given in any place so desired: Le Gentil
de la Galaisière claimed that one frequently saw Filipinos “perform, by reading,
as if they were on stage.”21 Works in many types of literary and dramatic genres
were translated directly or paraphrased from Spanish into Filipino languages;
Martínez de Zúñiga claimed in 1800 that “before the arrival of the Spaniards, all
the poetry of the Filipinos was lyrical. . . . Since the arrival of the Spaniards, they
have had comedias, entremeses, tragedies, poems, and all genres of composi-
tions, translated from the Spanish language.”22 This type of paraphrased trans-
lation contributed to the development of a verse form that came to be known as
“dramatic poetry” or a “metrical romance.” Performances of these works were
often embedded in larger presentations involving music and dance. One prolific
writer of dramatic poetry and metrical romances was Tagalog poet José de la
Cruz (1746–1829), popularly known as “Huseng Sisiw” (José the Chick).23
The endurance of foreign artistic influences relied on Filipino reception
and predilection as much as it depended on a steady stream of importations.
Sometimes there was a relatively small window through which the transmis-
sion of musical commodities and practices could take place, but each episode
nevertheless made a significant contribution to the process of transculturation.
For instance, the bajón (dulcian) was one of the most important instruments
for church music in the early modern Hispanic world, playing a key role in
accompanying both plainchant and polyphony. As we saw in a previous chapter,
its introduction to the Philippines is attributed to a Jesuit from Granada named
Luis Serrano, who played this instrument in church and taught the Filipinos
how to make and play it. We should also note that two months after Serrano’s
burial in 1603, a Sienese Jesuit named Christoval Certelio (Cristóforo Certelli,
1577–1606) arrived in Manila and undertook the same endeavor, but for only
three years until his own death.24 In that short time, the act of transmission had
taken place, and musical practices had been disseminated among members of
the indigenous population. But since references to the bajón do not proliferate
in documentary sources thereafter, the extent of its use remains unknown.
In 1630, Augustinian Juan de Medina (d. 1635) echoed Morga by noting that
there were many good singers among indigenous converts and choirs in Manila
that “could shine in Spain.”25 Peninsular taste and expectations remained the
standards by which hispanized musicians in Latin America and the Philippines
were judged by European observers during the early modern period, in a type of
comparative assessment that is entirely characteristic of colonial relationships. In
many ways, such comparisons promoted sentiments of egalitarianism between
ethnic groups, at least in terms of aesthetic tastes and musical skills. To these
observers, hispanized Filipinos minimized cultural difference from Spaniards by

adopting their music and seeking to emulate their performance styles. Franciscan
historian Francisco de Santa Inés (1650–1713) implied in 1676 that Filipino skill
in European music was as advantageous for the church as for the cultural enfran-
chisement of the indigenous population, writing:
Already all Filipinos dance, play instruments and sing in our
manner, and use all the instruments of the Spaniards, and sing in
such a way that we do not have any advantage over them. They are
the musicians in all the churches of these islands, in the cathedral of
Manila just as in the rest of the churches and convents that are
within and far away from the city. There is hardly a town that does
not have its own musical ensemble with a sufficient number of
voices, trebles, and many instruments, and it is a common sentiment
of those who have seen one or the other that there is music here that
can compete with that of some of the cathedrals in Spain.26
As Geoffrey Baker has pointed out, the highest praise that could be lavished by
colonial observers on indigenous musicians in the Spanish Empire was that
their skills were commensurate with the standards of Spain; at the same time,
this type of compliment, easily given, justified the colonial enterprise to Spanish
readers.27 Nevertheless, the apparent numerical sufficiency of indigenous
musicians in the eyes of European observers meant that all churches were well
served by musicians. These musicians were liminal entities whose actions were
shaped and molded by the competitive nature of a colonial relationship. Musical
hispanization not only minimized distance from the colonial overlords; it also
enhanced musicians’ status within indigenous communities, where they occu-
pied an elite stratum.
Social aspirations were not the only motivation that inspired Filipinos to
hispanize their musical tastes and practices. Religious fervor was also a key
element in hispanization and the interface for the cross-cultural transmission
of performative artforms. Fernández Navarrete recognized the multidimen-
sional nature of the process of transculturation or hispanization, writing in the
late seventeenth century: “I us’d to say, that the fervour of the antient People of
Castile was gone over to the Indian [that is, Filipino] Men and Women at Manila.
The Indians celebrate Festival days very well, there are few among them but
dance very well; and so in Processions they use Dancing, and play well on the
Harp and Guitar.”28 Musical transculturation was inseparable from religious
conversion and social transformation in the context of colonial rule. It is unsur-
prising that the harp and guitar were among the most favored instruments of
the Filipinos, because their skills in playing precolonial plucked chordophones
such as the kutyapi could be transferred to the European equivalents. This
cannot be the only reason for their widespread use, however. If we make a
comparison with Latin America, we can see that the harp and guitar were also
prevalent among the hispanized Amerindian populations, even though no

stringed instruments are known to have been used there before the arrival of
European colonialists. We can assume, then, that the indigenous penchant for
harp and guitar in both Latin America and the Philippines most likely stemmed
from their constant use by Spanish colonialists, their large-scale production,
and their rhythmic impetus in performance that made them suitable for accom-
panying dances (both the harp and guitar) and ecclesiastical vocal music (offi-
cially, just the harp). In the mid-eighteenth century, the harp was identified by
Murillo Velarde as the most popular instrument of the Filipinos in Manila and
its environs. Bowed instruments were commonplace as well; some decades
later, Le Gentil de la Galaisière claimed that almost all of the Tagalogs in Manila
“have a violin on which they continually occupy themselves in playing.”29
Apart from active transmission of instrumental practices, passive aural
absorption may also account for many levels in the process of hispanization.
The late seventeenth-century theoretical text “Musicalia speculativa, practicalia,
et instrumentorum” contains what may be the earliest known example of
European staff notation of music sung by Filipino musicians (figure 4.1),
headed “Quædam Musica.” It appears to have a reciting tone; it could even be
the skeletal notation of a tone used in the pasyon (a genre discussed in the next
chapter). The Latin inscription calls it “a certain music, which is often adapted
by the Tagalog women of the Philippines to their native songs [in] their
dialect.”30 This melodic fragment’s strong resemblance to European plainchant
could suggest that it was heard by Tagalog women in close proximity to Spanish
ecclesiastical institutions, and then was adopted and adapted into indigenous
practices. Unfortunately, we have no idea of what texts may have been sung to
this melody. We do know, however, that Filipino women were noted to be
experts in the extemporary paraphrasis in verse form of missionaries’ sermons
or the Christian doctrine, which they would sing to traditional melodies.31 They
might also have sung them to melodies influenced by European modes.
figure 4.1. Notation of indigenous Filipino song. Loose leaf in “Musicalia

speculativa,” in “Observationes diversarum artium,” between 498–99.
© Biblioteca Nacional de España.
European melodies were also adopted verbatim for use in Filipino songs.
There is one example of a European melody underlaid with an indigenous text
that has survived intact from the early modern period. Dating from the second
half of the seventeenth century, it is included in a manuscript collection of
prayers and songs from the Dominican santuario of San Juan del Monte, in
Extramuros de Manila. Of the eighteen works included, one has a Tagalog text,
which consists of seventeen four-line coplas and a refrain (figure 4.2).32 Whereas
the melody of the Letra en tagalo is idiomatically European and the text Christian,
the use of a text in this language demonstrates that Tagalog speakers had
embraced and incorporated European tonal structures into their musical
sensibilities.
figure 4.2. Letra en tagalo, from “Tanto, õ trasládo de todos los versos y letreros que
tiene esta Iglesia de S. Juan del Monte,” f. 23r. Reproduced by kind permission of the
Archivo de la Provincia Dominicana de Nuestra Señora del Rosario, Ávila.
Beyond Manila
Transculturation in the provinces was markedly different from its equivalent in

the metropolis. Imported cultural practices breached the boundaries of Manila
to reach the provinces and outlying islands in accordance with the movement
of colonialists, traders, soldiers, and—most significantly—religious personnel.
In the diffusion of these practices, some reinterpretation and transformation
took place along the way through the twin processes of transmission and tran-
sculturation. Beyond Manila, the process of religious conversion played a major
role in the hispanization of Filipino music. Outside the main Spanish settle-
ments in the islands, there were few Spaniards apart from missionaries and
encomenderos. In fact, Spaniards not directly involved with evangelistic enter-
prises were expressly forbidden by the Laws of the Indies from visiting indige-
nous communities, although some may have honored this law more in the
breach than in the observance.
Music was a powerful tool for the propagation of the Christian faith; its
sound was a means of attracting local people to hear the messages of mission-
aries. In the case of instrumental music, the means of sound production con-
stituted a point of technological interest and organological comparison. Vocal
music also offered an ideal vehicle for the dissemination of religious doctrine
and moralistic ideologies. Chirino, who described the singing of the doctrine
by the indigenous population throughout the islands in all parts of daily life,
emphasized the extent to which music (in its newly Christianized form)—espe-
cially singing—permeated traditional customs in the Jesuit missions throughout
the archipelago.33 Once a mission had been established in the provinces, its
boundaries were defined by sonic limits, for the surrounding population was
coerced or “reduced” to live within an urbanized space (a reducción) “within the
sound of the bells” (bajo las campanas). Thus music had the power to seduce
and reduce. Beyond these main mission settlements were the visitas, small
chapels in outlying areas, to which parish priests would make regular visits to
administer the sacraments. In remote communities, these brief but regular
encounters at the visitas were probably the only times when the priest would
sing or teach music, as opposed to the missions, where there was more
sustained contact.
Following the building of each mission, one or two priests would live in a
convento next to the church and operate or supervise a school (usually with the
assistance of local auxiliaries) in which religious, literary, and cultural
instruction would take place. Missionaries’ tactics of religious conversion tradi-
tionally revolved around children; by raising a generation of “new Christians”
and reinforcing religiosity in subsequent generations, they attempted to ensure
in perpetuity the integration of Christianity within traditional Filipino culture.
Essentially, there was a threefold process of adoption: the missionary adopted
or accommodated enough indigenous culture (language, dress, and daily cus-

toms) to allow his acceptance or toleration by a community. Then the celibate
Father effectively “adopted” the children, who lived in close proximity to him,
and began teaching them the catechism and rudiments of reading, writing,
arithmetic, and music. In turn, the children adopted what they learned into
their own forms of artistic expression and eventually passed on hispanized
cultural practices to their own offspring. Lest we imagine that this was a benign
process managed by the munificent missionary-musician, however, we should
remember that violence played a part in pedagogic methods, not only in the
Philippines but also in Latin America—an early seventeenth-century drawing
from Peru depicts a maestro de coro applying the whip liberally34—and in Spain
itself (not to mention many other European nations and their colonies). A
degree of violence was employed not only to teach music but, as we shall see,
also to stop music- and merry-making. It seems that hispanized music some-
times became too much of a diversion among some Filipino communities.
Unsurprisingly, some sources state explicity that indigenous musicians
became the most proficient in European music if they were in close contact or
living with Europeans. A letter by Jesuit Gil Viboult in 1721 recounts that “the
most distinguished play well on the Harp, the Violin, and other musical instru-
ments, principally if they have lived in the house of the missionaries, and ded-
icate their talents to the celebration of the Divine Service with honor and
taste.”35 This was no groundbreaking news in the areas where Jesuit missions
had long been established. But such an observation was made even in remote
areas into which the religious had only recently penetrated: another document
from around the same time, concerning an Augustinian mission to the Isinay
in northern Luzon, attests to the receptivity of the indigenous population to
religious indoctrination. It cites the ingenio (inherent understanding) of the
people in fostering and propelling musical transculturation, giving an example
of one servant to a missionary who, in less than four years, was able to read,
write, and play harp, guitar, and violin.36 If missionaries themselves were con-
versant with musical theory and adept at instrumental practice, it is hardly
surprising that they attempted to pass on their skills to their servants. In a
sense, this cultivation of European music in missionaries’ residences was a
means to re-create a familiar environment and effectively diminish the dis-
tance of their geographical displacement. (We saw in an earlier chapter how a
lonely Franciscan in China requested his brethren in Manila to send him a
young Filipino servant of noble birth who could play on the harp for his
“consolation.”)
Those musicians who received training in the residences of missionaries
were responsible in turn for the dissemination of their skills in European prac-
tice among their compatriots. Indigenous musicians living in a seminary, con-
vent, or any residence of European religious personnel essentially occupied a
liminal space. Their liminality meant that they were betwixt and between
European and indigenous society, humbly obeying one to teach the other and
then performing music to serve both.37 The division between indigenous musi-
cians being servants of the missionaries (offering private entertainment) and
acting as officially sanctioned servants of the Church appears to have been a
fine one, but in all likelihood there was considerable fluidity between these
roles. As discussed in later chapters, the approval of the priest or missionary
was probably vital in the nomination of indigenous musicians to fill the four to
eight tribute-free appointments that were allowed in each parish.
There were many parallels between the Spanish colonizations of Mexico
and the Philippines, especially in terms of the evangelistic endeavors under-
taken by missionaries. In Mexico, religious orders had faced some major chal-
lenges in teaching non-Europeans to sing European music from the dawn of
their mission, which began soon after the capitulation of the Aztec Empire in
1521. The experiences of missionaries in postconquest Mexico undoubtedly
informed the approach of their coreligionists in the Philippines half a century
later. The Franciscans, in particular, prioritized the use of music in their
methods of evangelization. They established schools in which music was taught
alongside European forms of literacy and numeracy, and they built workshops
for the construction of musical instruments. Music became a didactic tool for
religious instruction. In the teaching of the Christian doctrine, texts were often
sung to local or memorable melodies, so music even became a vehicle for
exegesis.
Toribio de Benavente Motolinía (d. 1568) described in his Historia de los
indios (written 1536–41) how one of the first Franciscans in Mexico (probably
Juan Caro), an old friar who spoke only Castilian, attempted to teach part-sing-
ing to Náhuatl-speaking Aztec boys. Talking to these boys in Castilian, the friar
was ridiculed by his coreligionists as his audience stood dumbfounded, appear-
ing to make no headway with his unintelligible language. But as Motolinía
recounted, “it was marvelous that, although at first they did not understand a
thing and the old man had no interpreter, in a short time they understood him
and learned to sing so that there are many of them so skilful that they direct
choirs.”38 Given that Motolinía obviously used this anecdote to boast hyperbol-
ically of the mission’s success, there is sure to be an element of exaggeration
here. Yet his claim that musical pedagogy was possible without a common
spoken language (if we are to rely on the accuracy of his account) clearly indi-
cates that it functioned through demonstration, observation, and imitation.
Franciscan missionaries to Mexico soon became proficient in Náhuatl, and
were important disseminators of European music in the early days of encounter
with the New World. Most musicologists and historians consider the first great
pedagogue of European music in Mexico to have been Flemish Franciscan
Pedro de Gante (c. 1480–1572). Within a few years of his arrival in the New
World, he learned to speak Náhuatl fluently and established schools in which
the sons of noble families were gathered together and taught reading, writing,
and music. He wrote songs in Náhuatl and “went native” to a considerable

degree.39 Loved by his flock, Gante was enormously influential in the propaga-
tion of European arts and culture in Mexico. His schools and pedagogic
methods became models for Franciscan missions in the Americas and across
the Pacific, and the hallowed reputation of Gante as teacher and preacher
became the standard to which the abilities of other missionaries were
compared.
In 1577, the Franciscan order established a province in the Philippines.
Franciscans were assigned to many Tagalog parishes and also administered the
majority of parishes in the Camarines region. Musical instruction was an
essential part of the Franciscans’ evangelistic strategy in all their missions.
Once a mission had been founded, the friars would sequester all youths bet-
ween the ages of eight and twenty, making them live together in a seminary
next to the church, where they were taught “to read and to write, to pray, to sing
plainchant and polyphony, and to play shawms, recorders, and bowed string
instruments [violones].”40 At the dawn of the seventeenth century, Franciscan
chronicler Marcelo de Ribadeneira commented that
it is rare to find a place, however small, that does not have an
ensemble of musicians and shawms, so that at Vespers and the
principal Mass of feast days, God may be praised and served. The
singers are many, and sing all the day, from the morning to the
evening, in the seminary, this being arranged in such a way that
every day, at least, they sing in church in the morning, at least for the
Prime of Our Lady, play recorders at Mass, and in the afternoon sing
Vespers of Our Lady, and at nightfall the Salve.41
Franciscan missions in the Philippines followed much the same pattern as
those in Mexico. Although the Philippine Islands were generally considered a
less glamorous subsidiary of the Mexican theater of evangelization, several of
the Franciscans sent to the archipelago had quite distinguished and aristocratic
family backgrounds. Some martyred missionaries were even canonized, but
the emphasis of hagiographies on miraculous works and other holy acts can
obscure the story of their involvement in music, so it is worth considering
them afresh.
It is a little known fact of Filipino music history that a saint of popular
devotion, San Pedro Bautista Blázquez y Blázquez Villacastin (1542–97), was
also one of the first and most important Franciscan teachers of European music
in the Tagalog region. He was born in Spain to a noble family that counted
among its forebears the medieval Castilian monarch Alfonso X, “el Sabio”
(1221–84). Bautista had studied music in Ávila and had undertaken courses in
philosophy and theology at the University of Salamanca, before working
in Spain and Mexico then traveling to the Philippines. On Bautista’s arrival in
Manila in 1583, the first task assigned to him was the teaching of European
music to Tagalog communities in Extramuros. From 1586 he was custodian

and superior prelate of the Franciscans in the Philippines; he established
churches at Quiapo, Cagsaña (now Pagsanjan), Lumbang, and Los Baños.42
Although Bautista is credited with the establishment of an influential center of
music instruction in Lumbang, the florescence of this school really took place
in the early seventeenth century, as we shall see. However, Bautista left the
Philippines before this happened. In the final decade of the sixteenth century,
diplomatic relations between Japan and the Spanish government of the
Philippines were in a delicate position, and in 1593 Bautista was chosen by
Governor Gómez Pérez Dasmariñas y Ribadeneira (d. 1593) to lead an embassy
to Toyotomi Hideyoshi. He impressed the Japanese regent and was allowed to
stay in Japan, where he founded churches in Miako (Kyoto) and Nagasaki and
where he may have contributed to the practice of European music. But on
February 5, 1597, he became one of the twenty-six Nagasaki Martyrs, a group of
Franciscans, laypersons, and Japanese converts who were executed as a warning
to European nations who harbored colonial ambitions vis-à-vis Japan.43
Another Franciscan to go from the Philippines to Japan was Juan de Santa
Marta, who had arrived in Manila in 1606. According to chroniclers of his
order, he immediately went to Lumbang and began to teach plainchant,
polyphony, and instrumental music, as well as the construction of organs,
lutes, and shawms. Three boys from every parish administered by the
Franciscans were purportedly sent to study at Lumbang.44 The idea was that
they should return to their hometowns and diffuse their knowledge, although
we have no documentary evidence testifying to whether this ambitious aim was
achieved or to what extent.45 The following year, Santa Marta traveled to Japan.
His time at Lumbang was thus curtailed, and nineteenth-century biographer
Gómez Platero could not believe that any level of perfection in music could
have been attained at that school during the course of just one year or that any
more than just a few disciples could have learned the complex art of organ
building.46 But in Japan, Santa Marta evidently continued to be an industrious
disseminator of European music: he was noted for his construction of organs
and other instruments, and “on the eve of his happy martyrdom” he composed
a polyphonic mass setting that was apparently sent back to Manila, but which
is now lost.47
A number of other Franciscans traveled to neighboring territories after
arriving in Manila, but several went back to the Philippines. For example,
Gerónimo de Aguilar (d. 1591), who had first arrived in 1582, spent several
years in China, Macau, and Siam before returning to Manila in 1586.48 He was
subsequently assigned to the Province of Camarines, where he established
schools and taught plainchant and polyphony. Franciscan chronicler Juan
Francisco de San Antonio credited Aguilar with “the first introduction of music
to the natives of this country, in accordance with the royal instructions of 1573,”
although he noted that Aguilar’s contemporary Pedro Bautista was also a strong
contender for this distinction.49 Still, if there was indeed a Pedro de Gante of
the Philippines, this label could certainly go to Gerónimo de Aguilar. In the
seventeenth century, biographers described how he encouraged the custom of
singing the Lesser Hours of Our Lady, and sang motets and villancicos in praise
of holy mysteries.50 He was also known to have composed Lamentation set-
tings, probably polyphonic, which were of enduring popularity and were still
known to be performed as late as the 1740s. San Antonio observed in that
decade how these works, notated “on parchment of little curiosity but of very
patent age,” were “learned by the boys, [passed on] from fathers to sons, with
such perfection that they could be appreciated by any cathedral in Europe.”51
European music had evidently penetrated traditional Filipino cultural patterns
of hereditary preservation and transmission. There is perhaps no better repre-
sentation of a colonial counterpoint to Europe’s own musical culture at the
time than the antipodal production of polyphonic liturgical music for Roman
Catholic rites for Holy Week and its absorption into the performance practices
of Filipino converts for generations to come.
The Power of Music
Juan Francisco de San Antonio used the biography of Aguilar to wax lyrical
about the power of music, eulogizing Aguilar’s skill in wielding music as a
threefold weapon of pacification, urbanization, and evangelization:
This servant of God knew that well-ordered music—[for which] he
was liberally blessed with [talent] from above—was, with its sweet
melody, a delightful preparation for the preaching of our holy faith.
As the Christian faith and its doctrine were totally unknown among
these infidels of the Philippines, he placed music as a fundamental
part of Christianity in his new plantation, by which the hearing of the
infidel was mellowed with sonorous voices, and the soul made joyful
with sweet music. The Filipinos were disposed to hear the word of
God with enthusiasm, and at the same time remained instructed in
music, to give always the proper graces, and praises to the Majesty [of
God], for the benefit of their conversion. This holy aim [was] achieved
with such happiness, that the Filipinos who converted to our holy
faith were innumerable, their proud brutality appeased with the
sweet arms of instrumental and vocal music. Thus triumphed
Timotheus [of Thebes] over Alexander [the Great] with great facility;
when he [Alexander] was most angry, like a furious lion, he was
made as meek as a lamb, just with singing.52
San Antonio went on to claim that music could act as a seductive mode of
psychological control, and an effective means of bringing about social and
cultural change in terms of “reducing” Filipinos to live in urbanized

communities.
[Music] was a singular gift of God, which penetrated the genio
[character, or creative disposition] of these Filipinos, and provided an
advantageous tool for their urbanization [reducción]. As can be seen,
their inclination for music is so remarkable that it is already
necessary to use violence in order to stop them [from making music]
and get them to work, so that they can eat. These barbarous people
were so attracted by the melody of music that they afterwards
received the sacred doctrines with love, and our servant of God
administered [the sacraments] with spiritual joy.53
This chronicler added elsewhere that within the same generation of converts, the
art of music could be converted from an act of venerating “demonic cults” (as he
called them) to the adoration and solemnization of “the true Divinity.”54 His testi-
mony demonstrates a view of the inherent power of music—in spite of its
“tenderness”—to bring the people away from “demonic cults” to the Christian
church. Although many Franciscan missions had been established for centuries at
the time of his writing, this last comment probably refers to more recent Franciscan
penetration into virgin mission fields (in the early eighteenth century).
Music’s power to pacify, suppress violence, and soothe the soul was a
popular trope in early modern European literature, and one that pervaded the
writings of Roman Catholic missionaries stationed throughout the world. Quite
apart from the story of Timotheus of Thebes calming Alexander the Great,
classical models that were used around the early modern world in the context
of intercultural contact include the examples of Plato charming animals and
the biblical story of David placating Saul with his harp playing. Of course, early
modern missionaries were educated according to a curriculum steeped in
classical philosophy and the history of the ancient civilizations of Greece and
Rome. Thousands of relevant texts were also available for consultation in the
libraries of Manila. Correspondingly, classical antiquity was a common point of
comparative reference for missionaries working in non-European territories,
as we saw in the previous chapter, and the missions were their testing grounds.
Writing of Visayan parishioners in a Jesuit mission at the dawn of the seven-
teenth century, Chirino observed that music “moved them (as the glorious
Doctor Saint Augustine said it would), and everyone experienced this.”55 The
Visayan missions thus proved and substantiated a late fourth-century proposi-
tion made by Saint Augustine of Hippo in his Confessions: namely, that music
had the propensity and the power to move listeners, and even to “ensnare”
them.56 In the Jesuit missions, music both attracted and adorned while serving
as a means of enhancing spiritual devotion and facilitating the learning of reli-
gious doctrine. Performances mediated between Spanish and indigenous
cultures, which had their own ways of expressing and experiencing music. The
musical juxtaposition of these cultures-in-counterpoint simultaneously empha-

sized difference and proposed a form of convivencia sweetened by performative
exchanges.
This way of thinking about the power of music became entrenched by
certain writers in Europe who were influenced by philosophical thought in the
latter half of the eighteenth century; they engaged with the “Neoplatonist tradi-
tion that emphasized music’s utilitarian character,” as Vanessa Agnew has
argued, producing what she has termed “Orphic discourse.”57 In the Philippines,
too, connections between the evangelistic roles of music and the Orpheus myth
were not lost on Spanish commentators. In the mid-eighteenth century, an
anonymous writer describing the festivities held in Manila to celebrate the cor-
onation of Fernando VI (1713–59) made a special note of indigenous peoples’
aptitude in playing European musical instruments, commenting that “it seems
that the natives of these islands were born in the time of Orpheus, for it can be
observed that they have a natural inclination for music.”58 Despite the flattery
involved in evoking a vision of a mythical world resounding with music from
the fields and the riverbanks, however, the Filipinos were not considered to be
Orpheus; in the eyes of this particular eighteenth-century chronicler, they were
simply bystanders inspired by the legendary figure’s art. The Orphic role itself
was seen to be reserved for European musicians who were able to exploit the
agency of music in the literal captivation of listeners and the subsequent
imparting of religious doctrine and Hispanic cultural traits.
One such musician was Augustinian missionary Lorenzo Castelló (1686–
1743), who was dubbed the “Orfeo agustiniano” by his contemporaries.59 He
owed this epithet not simply to his skill in musical composition and his strong
and attractive voice but to his ability to use music as a means of conquering
“proud” indigenous communities beyond Manila. Castelló had an impressive
musical pedigree: originally from Valencia, he had been cantor and organist at
the convent of San Felipe el Real in Madrid.60 Following his arrival in Manila in
1718, he served in the Augustinian coro of Manila, and according to Castro,
“taught music to more a thousand Tagalog and Ilokano Filipinos with perfec-
tion, because he had an especial grace and disposition [gracia y genio] to endure
the bad nature [mal natural] of these barbarians.”61 Later he was posted to the
Visayas “to teach music to the sacristans of our [Augustinian] churches, and to
administer the sacraments to those proud nations that lack priests”; after ten
years he returned to Manila, where he revised and expanded the choirbooks of
the Augustinian convent.62 Although this “Orpheus” evidently charmed and
swayed all through his musical performance, the hyperbolic discourse found
here (as in almost all religious biographies) tends to distort the true extent and
influence of his pedagogic powers. Certainly, he had a broad geographical reach
in his performance and teaching. But we should remember that while one criti-
cal aspect of transculturation is its perpetuation, emulation and constant
reproduction require the collaboration of other parties.
Indigenous Teachers
Over the course of the entire Spanish colonial period, approximately 8,800
missionaries (Augustinians, Dominicans, Franciscans, Jesuits, and Recollects)
worked among a total of 6 million Filipinos.63 Each Filipino community had its
instrumentalists and choirs practicing hispanized music, and this phenomenon
is most often put down to the teaching of the missionaries. Enrique Cantel
Cainglet has noted that “as purveyors of Spanish music culture, the religious
were unexcelled. Deployed strategically in key points around the country, they
succeeded in penetrating the most isolated areas where, often, they were the
only persons of authority representing the Spanish government. More bad than
good has been written about them, but as far as perseverance in music teaching
was concerned, they were unassailable.”64 It seems unlikely, however, that
teaching European music to so many Filipinos can be attributed solely to this
relatively small number of missionaries. Missionaries were busy men: they had
a full schedule baptizing, teaching catechism, celebrating the Eucharist, offici-
ating at weddings and funerals, performing the last rites, and hearing confes-
sions. Of course, a select number of missionaries, such as those individuals
mentioned by name herein, specialized in teaching vocal and instrumental
music, instrument making, and the art of composition. Their indigenous disci-
ples in turn probably went out to teach these imported skills to their compa-
triots, as was suggested by the story of the Franciscan mission school at
Lumbang.
Just as some historians fail to acknowledge the participation of indigenous
allies in the conquest of Mexico by Hernán Cortés (1485–1547), so do musicol-
ogists often overlook the collaborative nature of transculturation. Many indige-
nous musicians took it upon themselves to pass on their skills in the newly
introduced art forms of European music to subsequent generations of their
communities. In this way they incorporated European music into their heredi-
tary preservation and dissemination of knowledge. Before the arrival of the
Spaniards, there had long been a strong tradition of intergenerational trans-
mission of musical skills, and learning through observation was an intrinsic
part of Filipino culture. Given how successfully European music was incorpo-
rated into this hereditary structure of musical pedagogy, early modern Spanish
observers considered natural aptitude for music to be an attribute of the Filipino
population as a whole. In 1703, Franciscan Juan de Jesús attested to Filipinos’
proficiency in European music, highlighting their innate musicality. He
claimed that “without teachers the Filipinos are decent enough musicians,”
adding furthermore that “they make musical instruments, and play them with
skill.” In this assessment he mentioned the performance of complex polychoral
works, a feat that was universally considered a hallmark of great practical skill
and theoretical understanding in the metropoles, let alone the provinces.
Describing how he attended celebrations for the feast of Corpus Christi in the
town of Pila, Laguna, in 1686, Jesús noted that “five choirs sang Vespers
without tripping up.”65 Couched in a document that otherwise attacks and crit-
icizes Filipino culture—the author even exclaims at the outset that “every day
I understand these Filipinos less!”66—this praise is indicative of how crucial
music was in bringing Spanish and Filipino cultures into an empathetic under-
standing of each other.
Commentators in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries implied that
once Filipinos had adopted European music, they would perpetuate its prac-
tice, unhindered by Spanish interference. Le Gentil de la Galaisière made
some disparaging observations of parochial musicians in Manila, telling his
European readership that he had “no doubt at all that these Filipinos would
perform good music very well if they were led and directed by capable
Europeans; but the Spaniards in Manila, who have no taste for any art, leave
the Filipinos to their own devices.”67 Musical skills continued to be passed
on from one generation to the next. From the mid-nineteenth century
onward, conservatory-style training was certainly available in Manila, at
institutions such as the cathedral’s Colegio de Niños Tiples,68 and at
Dominican establishments, but apart from these music schools for boy tre-
bles, run by religious, there was no “conservatory” in the strict sense, based
on European models and open to all for professional training. Rather,
Filipino communities propelled their own musical culture without the need
for such an institution—through church schools, musical societies, and
commercial organizations.
It may have been this musical self-sufficiency that led José Rizal to remark
wryly in 1890 that “owing, perhaps, to this great musical disposition [of the
Filipinos], [the government] does not establish a conservatory of music, consid-
ering it useless and superfluous.”69 At this time, Rizal had been traveling
throughout Europe, where in Paris, Brussels, Madrid, and London he had no
doubt seen major music conservatories in operation. These institutions set the
benchmark for European standards in musical performance and produced
“professional” musicians. (Of course, as the standards of these conservatories
were created in metropolitan contexts, many musicians would not have lived
up to them in provincial or rural parts of Europe itself.) Yet Rizal provided an
opinion that represented a valuable colonial counterpoint: why should the
capital of the Philippines, “Pearl of the Orient,” the most important “European”
city in Southeast Asia, the pride of imperial Spain in the last gasp of empire,
not have its own conservatory on a par with institutions in Paris, Brussels,
Madrid, and London? As one of the chief aims of an empire is the large-scale
standardization of many aspects of life—such as education, trade, and
(approved) artistic culture—Rizal implied that the colonial government of the
Philippines had failed as far as the institutionalization of (secular) music was
concerned.
In the eighteenth-century Philippines, European observers continually

affirmed the prevalence and quality of vocal and instrumental music in every
town within Christianized territories, far beyond the confines of ecclesiastical
institutions in Manila. The proliferation of musicians versed in European
music throughout the provinces—where few Spaniards other than religious
personnel ventured or settled—is evidence of a type of musical transcultura-
tion that relied as much on indigenous collaboration as it did on European
imposition. Obviously, communities that had been converted and urbanized
for longer periods were those that were more conversant with European music
and more fluent in its performance. Murillo Velarde, who was reliably informed
about music, reported on the disposition of voice types and the types of instru-
ments played, referring also to local modes of learning through observation.70
He summarized his impressions in his Geographia historica of 1752:
They have notable skill in music: there is no town, however small,
which does not have a very decent musical ensemble of instruments
and voices to officiate in the church, and all musicians know solfa.
There are excellent voices of altos, tenors, and basses, and especially
of trebles. It is rare that a Filipino close to Manila does not know
harp, and there are many harpists, excellent violinists, oboists, and
players of various types of flute. The Filipinos have great facility in
learning what they see, and it is said that the Filipinos have under-
standing in their eyes, and that when they so much as see something,
they imitate it.71
This is a succinct but complex description of some of the principal results of
musical transculturation in the Philippines, and it is worth unraveling some of
the details. First, the “comprehensive sight” of Filipinos—described here as
“understanding in their eyes”—was the main interpretive tool that facilitated
the indigenous adoption of European cultural traits, and the hispanization of
Filipino music. It is interesting to note that Murillo Velarde emphasized the
visual aspect of observation at the expense of the aural. There were many
physical differences between Filipino and European musical instruments and
the respective techniques required to play them. Thus, the Filipino construction
and playing of European instruments relied on visual examination and critical
assessment of these artifacts.
Second, and perhaps more important, Murillo Velarde perceived that the
mimetic character of precolonial music had enabled indigenous communi-
ties—over almost two centuries of exposure to European music—to assume
and appropriate knowledge of theory and practice through observation and imi-
tation. Rather than indigenous art imitating nature, however, as it had in the
days before the Spanish conquest, it now came to mirror the cultural traits of
the colonialists and missionaries. He implied that it was, in a sense, rote trans-
mission. The sincerity of early modern indigenous musicians—in their
reproduction of imposed aesthetic forms—is difficult to assess from the vantage

point of the twenty-first century, except in cases where parody or caricature
were obviously intended. Yet if we place this question of sincerity in the wider
context of the Spanish Empire, we can see that transculturation by indigenous
populations was a purposeful means of coming to terms with cultural bigotry,
subverting cultural and social hierarchies by minimizing difference.
Third, Murillo Velarde’s reference to “various types of flute” probably
implied the presence of both indigenous and European flutes in indigenous
communities, although it could equally indicate the coexistence of endblown
and transverse instruments (the European recorder and traverso). His remark
about the indigenous aptitude for harp also throws light on a phenomenon that
may have arisen through the common elements that had existed in Asian and
European plucked string techniques prior to conquest. However, his geo-
graphical indication of the Manila area and its environs suggests that this
practice may have been heavily influenced by the harp playing of European and
Latin American immigrants, a population that was concentrated within and
around the metropolis.
Fourth, this Jesuit’s allusion to Filipino expertise in European music theory
was made by means of the comment that “all musicians know solfa.”
Interestingly, Murillo Velarde had already asserted in a publication made just
three years earlier that Filipino knowledge of solfa was a phenomenon that had
no equivalent in all of Christendom.72 The ambitiousness of both these claims
could, of course, be tempered somewhat by way of comparison with Christianized
communities in Latin America, where a high level of proficiency in European
musical theory and practice was common. It remains unclear, however, exactly
what Murillo Velarde meant by solfa—that is, whether this term implied gen-
eral literacy in music theory or, quite specifically, the practice of solmization. In
sum, it is clear that Jesuits like Murillo Velarde wrote about many aspects of
music transculturation to highlight the entry of European practices into indig-
enous cultural patterns. Yet this is only one side of the story, for the Society of
Jesus also promoted a broader policy of tolerating and “accommodating” certain
elements of indigenous music within the musical cultures they established or
promoted in the communities under their administration. This is a part of
their evangelistic work that we now consider in more depth.
Jesuit Accommodation of Music and Musicians
Among missionary groups, the Society of Jesus stands out for its policies of
accommodation: that is, the toleration and adaptation of some indigenous
customs and beliefs (only those that were not fundamentally contrary to
Christian teaching) and their incorporation into a new culture of conversion.
Jesuits adopted this approach in the Philippines as much as they did else-
where in Asia, Africa, and the Americas. In the Visayas, especially, Jesuits
adapted to the local way of life. They had to do so, for environmental and
cultural circumstances required it. As the Visayan parishes were scattered bet-
ween a large number of islands, a great amount of time was spent in traveling
between them by boat. One priest might be responsible for many parish
churches and visitas on different islands, so the Jesuits relied on local assistance
for transport.
Whenever members of the Society of Jesus based in the Visayas traveled
back to Manila, they procured the latest musical works and acquired musical
instruments. They also persuaded or pressed musicians—probably Filipinos or
mestizos—from the city’s churches to migrate to the Visayas where they could
assist with performing and teaching music. In this way, Spanish and hispan-
ized musical practices were introduced to the Visayas by Spaniards and Filipinos
from Manila. But these practices did not replace local traditions altogether;
rather, certain aspects of performance and theory were incorporated into
Visayan modes of musical expression—which to the Spaniards’ minds consti-
tuted an “improvement.” We have seen how the Jesuit Alzina claimed in the
second half of the seventeenth century that the performance of ancient Visayan
songs had “improved” somewhat, because the Visayans had grown accustomed
to European music, consonance, and musical modes.73 He and other Jesuits
probably related this phenomenon to a teleological idea of music transcultura-
tion, akin to their views of religious conversion. Musical improvement could be
observed and tested as evidence of the missionaries’ cultural impact on indige-
nous cultures, more so than internalized spiritual change could be measured.
However, Alzina thought that Visayans were embracing European music more
readily than they were embracing the Gospel, as we shall see.
The most effective and appropriate means of using music as an evange-
listic tool in the Visayas were being determined and established as early as the
last decade of the sixteenth century.74 One Jesuit mission in the Visayas that
was known to be an important musical center was Carigara, located on the
north coast of the island of Leyte. The mission had been established in 1595 and
the practice of music grew under the incumbency of Francisco de Encinas
(1572–1633). Encinas brought recorders and shawms to the parish, and encour-
aged the singing of European plainchant and polyphony, as well as Hispanic
tonadas and villancicos in the local language, and songs with Christianized
texts sung according to precolonial practices (“su canto antiguo”). He com-
posed texts of numerous verses in traditional Visayan meter, and these were
sung at church and at home by indigenous converts. The success of the Carigara
mission was cited by a number of Jesuit chroniclers from the beginning of the
seventeenth century onward as a shining example of what Jesuit methods of
evangelization could achieve.75
The incipient Jesuit policies of accommodation ensured the incorporation
of Visayan song into church music alongside music introduced from Europe.
The juxtaposition of European and indigenous musical styles in Christian

worship at Carigara was detailed by Chirino in the following way:
Even though this church was no more than five years old, it was
already served and attended as if it were in Europe, because the
capilla de música officiated grandly, especially in feasts, not only
celebrating the Divine Office in polyphony, but also accompanying it
with hymns and motets in the Visayan language, some in polyphony,
and others in the style of the land. Both types [of music] were a great
attraction to the people, and moved them to devotion, and made
them learn our sacred mysteries—put into their meter and music—
with feeling and pleasure.76
In Carigara, Filipino and European styles coexisted and flirted with each other’s
form and structure in a type of intercultural courtship. But the great irony of all
the Jesuit propaganda surrounding music at this mission station was that the
principal promoter of this endeavor, Encinas, was himself musically illiterate.
His contemporary Chirino stated explicitly in a major account of the missions
that Encinas “did not know music,” but that in spite of this deficiency he
managed to form an excellent musical ensemble (“excelente capilla”) by
employing a music teacher and—more intriguingly—by using a simple but
quite ingenious method to obtain copies of sheet music. Encinas would place
translucent paper on sources of plainchant and polyphony (probably in Manila),
and trace these scores note for note, letter for letter. Having done this, he would
then transport his carbon copies to Carigara in a folder, like so much treasure.77
Encinas evidently recognized that music played such a vital role in his mission
that he was prepared to expend much time and effort in procuring notated
sources of European repertory. But this conscious choice of deliberately copy-
ing out scores also demonstrates that he apparently valued music from his own
heritage over and above the indigenous, as he could have easily made do with
the singing of Christianized texts in local style. (If he had made use of local oral
traditions of music, there would have been no need for notated sources, apart
from “official” texts, newly composed by the missionaries, to be sung by the
neophytes.)
In truth, Encinas undoubtedly owed the success of his musical ensemble
to the training provided by his unnamed maestro, who taught reading and
singing to the children (or perhaps just the boys, seeing that the word niños can
imply either “boys” or “children”), producing appreciable results with aston-
ishing speed.78 Another—or the same—maestro at the mission of Dulac (now
Dulag) on the east coast of Leyte taught children to read, sing, and play recorders,
with the result that “the Divine Office [was celebrated] with greater solem-
nity.”79 Costa claims that the maestro of Carigara was a Filipino.80 It seems that
indigenous musicians from Manila, who had been exposed to European music
for more than two decades by the time the Jesuits’ Visayan missions were
formally established, played a key role in the dissemination and cultivation of

European music throughout the region in the seventeenth century. They were
recruited by missionaries in Manila and transported to the southern islands,
along with the many other material requirements for the establishment of the
Jesuit missions.
One Spaniard who made a great impact on Visayan musical life in this
respect was Juan de Ballesteros (1577–1646). Having originally arrived in the
Philippines as a soldier, he later followed the example of Saint Ignatius by
converting to a spiritual path. He then offered his services to the Society of
Jesus and at some stage was sent to assist the Visayan missions, where he
became a jack-of-all-trades, and apparently a master of many.81 He “went
native,” adopting local dress and learning the local language, teaching school-
boys the songs and dances of his hometown in Spain (Badajoz). Frequently
serving as a pilot for voyages between the Visayan islands and Manila, he took
the opportunity of his visits to the capital to procure musical commodities for
transmission back to the missions and musicians to accompany them.
According to Jesuit chronicler Diego de Oña, who in 1706 compiled a history
based on Annual Letters from the Jesuits in the Philippine Province (covering
the years 1618–65), Ballesteros “searched out many music scores, and when he
heard good [music] in the churches [of Manila] he procured it to take to our new
parts [missions]. He did not content himself just with this. He asked permis-
sion for some skillful singers to accompany him in order to instruct the new
Christians, and the more [singers] he took, the happier they [the converts]
were.”82 Murillo Velarde repeated this vignette half a century later, glossing that
Ballesteros “covered whatever paper he could with good music, and good vil-
lancicos,” and that besides press-ganging singers from Manila, he filled the
churches of the Visayas with “many fine instruments,” using the “bait” of
music to increase the attractiveness of worship and the numbers of attendees
at services.83
Of course, necrologies of the Society of Jesus and other religious congrega-
tions tend to embellish biographical information as they are reformed and
revised from one generation to the next. But we should note that the adroitness
of Ballesteros in acquiring sheet music, a commodity on which the performance
of complex polyphonic compositions was contingent, was evidently worthy of
comment in the first instance and then perpetuation and elaboration by
subsequent religious biographers. In this way it reinforced Jesuit processes of
image-making, particularly in regard to their use of music as an evangelistic
tool. However we read these writings, it is clear that music which moved or
excited Ballesteros in the religious institutions of Manila made him think that
its replication in the provinces would contribute to the growth of the Church
there. Although the level of his musical literacy remains unknown, he was
known to have served as a schoolmaster, and among his many occupations
“there was not anything that he did not do.”84 Perhaps music manuscripts were
simply donated to him when he asked about them; perhaps he bought them
outright or commissioned copies; perhaps he even made use of Encinas’s tech-
nique of tracing scores onto translucent paper.
Regardless of how he procured commodities, Ballesteros’s recruitment of
singers in Manila was critical to the success of music in the missions. Many
renowned choirs of the capital were made up of indigenous singers in the early
seventeenth century, and it seems likely that these singers (rather than their
European counterparts) would have been willing to accompany him back to the
Visayas for the express purpose of singing in church. But their willingness (or
lack thereof ) to cooperate is passed over in silence by Jesuit chroniclers, and
this significant absence in colonial historiography leads us to speculate how (or
whether) coercion took place. What were these musicians promised in return
for their service? To put it bluntly, what was in it for them?
A number of perquisites were presented to potentially itinerant church
musicians in Manila. First, they were offered increased individual mobility
through the missionary enterprise’s channels of transportation. Second, the
prospect of elevated social status through collaboration with the relatively small
but powerful group of missionaries in the provinces afforded them the possi-
bility of a new rank within indigenous society. Third, the opportunity for migra-
tion with a reliable offer of employment gave them the option of evading any
colonial abuses in the metropolis and heading for a new life in the provinces.
As we saw in an earlier chapter, the Laws of the Indies mandated that no
Filipinos could be moved from one part of the archipelago to another against
their will, and if they were, that they had to be adequately compensated. It can
be presumed that religious organizations were fairly careful to observe such
laws to preserve the favor of royal patronage and forms of support from the
colonial government.
The Filipino musicians who traveled from Manila to the Visayas were
probably Tagalogs who would have spoken no Visayan (at least not initially).
Although the languages are closely related, it would have taken them a certain
period to develop familiarity with the local tongue—a reality of interregional
migration in the Philippines that remains a fact of life today. Of course, the
main dichotomy in the Christianized population of the early modern Philippines
was between Tagalogs and Visayans, but the location of the colonial capital in
the Tagalog region meant that Tagalogs were in closest contact with the greatest
number of Spaniards. Centralized in the seat of colonial power, Tagalogs were
in an authoritative position to assert their own hispanized culture over other
ethnolinguistic groups of the islands. The cultural hegemony of Manila over
the rest of the archipelago—which can still be seen today—was already dawn-
ing in the early seventeenth century. Manila became a point of radial diffusion
of hispanized Tagalog culture throughout the Philippines.
The presence in the Visayas of hispanized converts from a neighboring
region—Filipino converts who had the appearance of being heavily involved in
upholding ecclesiastical enterprise while at the same time enjoying the status
symbols and social advantages associated with their position—must have pre-
sented an added incentive for conversion to the inhabitants of the new mission
territory. Moreover, the Jesuits probably presumed that the long-standing
familiarity between Visayan and Tagalog populations meant that Visayans
would be more receptive to Christianized Tagalogs than to an invading Spanish
missionary, however well he might speak the local language. This way of
thinking and its associated strategies were also applied further afield. As we
saw in chapter 2, when the Jesuits from the Philippine Province extended their
mission to the Mariana Islands in the late seventeenth century, they took with
them musical instruments and three indigenous musicians from the Philippines
and used dance as a lively physical means of attracting attention.
Dance is, of course, an important element of early modern evangelistic
endeavors that we should not overlook. Throughout the Philippines, European
dance forms were regularly introduced by missionaries as an additional cultural
trapping of Christianity, besides reading, writing, and music. Dance, as the
literal embodiment of rhythm and music, enhanced the visual aspect of festive
performances and contributed to a general sense of physical freedom and
well-being in the missions, even though the philosophical principles and reli-
gious tenets of indigenous cultures were being changed. Of course, indigenous
communities continued to perform traditional dances, but some of these were
influenced by imported styles. Castanets were introduced into Filipino dance
forms at an early stage in the Spanish colonial period, and many traditional
dances eventually came to be accompanied by other European instruments.
For instance, Alzina observed in the 1660s that the Visayan dance taruc had
once been accompanied by bells and other small percussion instruments, “but
these were their ancient instruments and now they use guitars, harps, and
other musical instruments in our style.”85 This shift is represented by icono-
graphical evidence from the Tagalog region: almost seventy years later, Cruz
Bagay produced an engraving of two Filipino children dancing the indigenous
comintano to the accompaniment of a guitar or vihuela (figure 4.3). This song
and dance genre, which is now known as the kumintang, predated the Spanish
conquest; it is said to have originated from the Province of Batangas, although
it gained currency in many other regions.86 It was generally accompanied by a
guitar or other plucked string instruments in triple time—a meter that demon-
strates the genre’s hispanization, because triple meters are uncommon in non-
hispanized Filipino musical practices—and by the end of the colonial period
the kumintang had become exceedingly popular throughout the country.87
Traditional dances were retained throughout the archipelago, as the contents of
ethnographies and vocabularios demonstrate, but they coexisted with new
forms that were introduced by colonialists and missionaries. (Of the European
dances mentioned in early modern accounts, the minuet, fandango, and contre-
danse are the most frequently described.)
figure 4.3. Indios bailando el comintano, detail from a vignette in Pedro

Murillo Velarde, et al., Carta hydrographica, y chorographica delas Yslas
Filipinas (Manila: Nicolas de la Cruz Bagay Indio Tagalo, 1734). © British
Library Board. All Rights Reserved (K.Top.116.37).
In the Visayas, Juan de Ballesteros was responsible for the introduction

and diffusion of many types of dances; according to Murillo Velarde, Ballesteros
taught them not only to the indigenous communities but also to the Jesuit
fathers.88 Of course, it was not just Spanish dances that were introduced and
practiced in the early modern Philippines; dances from many other cultural
backgrounds are mentioned. Murillo Velarde, for instance, described in great
detail a suite of dances performed in mid-eighteenth-century Manila, each sec-
tion of which represented (and originated from) four major parts of the world:
the Americas, Africa, Asia, and Europe. Dressed in masks to personify deposed
Aztec Emperor Motecuhzoma II (c. 1466–1520), the Mexican tocotín was first
danced by children (probably Filipino) to the accompaniment of ayacastles
(sonajas or rattles); Africans themselves danced the mototo to the rhythm of the
birimbao (musical bow or jaw harp).89 Next, Asia was represented by per-
formers dressed as exotic parrots, dancing to the sound of the tambor and cas-
tanets, and finally, Europe was represented by rustic peasant dances, or the
mojiganga, the performers being clad in the dress and masks of the matachines
(traditional rustic dancers in Spain).90 In early modern Manila, a global city
and colonial capital, the four major parts of the known world thus converged
to create a vivid multicultural display of international interaction. Many voices
were welcome to enter the contrapuntal fabric of colonial society, as long as
they adhered to the rules and regulations that were imposed. Yet at the same
time, the layering of new, introduced cultures onto the traditional indigenous
societies of the Philippines obscured their identities and diluted their precolo-
nial histories.
A Disregarded Past
“Cultural amnesia” is a label that one often hears applied in the Philippines
today. Continual innovation and importation mean that many old ways of life
are being rapidly forgotten. Ever since the incorporation of the Philippines into
a world-system of trade, migration, and cultural exchange in the sixteenth
century, the level of adoption, adaptation, and synthesis of foreign cultural
traits by the islands’ population has been rapidly increasing. Of course, this
process reflects the desires and aspirations of the Filipino people to embrace
worldwide cultural trends, and it can in no way be slighted, for appropriation
and absorption are important characteristics of Filipino culture (as they are of
most cultures, particularly those of peoples in colonial, postcolonial, or neoco-
lonial societies). To counter “cultural amnesia” in the Philippines, however,
there is currently a strong drive toward the conservation of cultural heritage—
spearheaded by governmental departments, such as the National Commission
for Culture and the Arts—and toward the orchestration of programs that seek
to raise public awareness of the preservation of historical artifacts, institutions,
relics, and unique living traditions cultivated by minority and mainstream
communities alike.
If “cultural amnesia” exists today, then many parallels can be drawn with
the process of hispanization in the early modern period, and perhaps prece-
dents can be found there. New colonial musical practices were adopted, and
precolonial ones often waned or were forgotten. Such a state of affairs
benefited the missionaries in carrying out their projects of religious conversion
and hispanization. Missionaries actively sought to suppress indigenous prac-
tices that were not compatible with the ideologies and cultural practices of
the new religion that they promoted. But as Costa pointed out, “the fathers
never destroyed or forbade a pagan usage without introducing a similar
Christian usage to take its place.”91 The Church in the Americas and the
Philippines tried as far as possible to maintain precolonial practices and cus-
toms that were not contrary to European concepts of nature, or to Christianity,
as Pedro Borges has stressed.92 Consequently, many accounts suggest that
musical transculturation was a combination of passive disuse (on the part of
the Filipinos) and active suppression (on the part of the Spaniards). Incidental
observations on musical change found in colonial historiography are often
coupled with statements of intent by missionary writers and evaluation of
how successfully their aims were being achieved. Of course, the inflated rhet-
oric of missionary writing always tends to exaggerate the successes of the
missionaries in evangelization, using hyperbolic terms to affirm the inroads
being made in conversion.
The irrevocable shift in cultural practices of music from indigenous tradi-
tions to a hispanized currency is reflected clearly in the language used by early
modern missionaries, who describe the waning of performance on indigenous

instruments or already refer to these instruments in the past tense. As early as
1640, Bobadilla noted the incursion of European instruments such as the flute,
guitar, and harp into Filipino musical culture, commenting offhandedly that
“they had in old times an instrument named cutiapé [kutyapi], which some
among them still use.”93 In 1754, Murillo Velarde wrote of the Tagalogs that
“their musical instruments were the coryapi [kutyapi], of two or three copper
strings, which they played with a quill [plectrum]; and the bangsi, a type of
flute . . . which some still play today, and I have seen it played with the nos-
trils.”94 His use of the past tense for the kutyapi suggests that, as far as he could
tell, it was no longer used by Christianized populations in the surrounding
urban areas, whereas bangsi practice survived in isolated instances. The
relatively ready availability of imported or locally made European instruments
such as the harp and guitar would have contributed to this transition. In this
sense, European music also became Filipinized, as Filipinos embraced and
used European instruments.
A noticeable trend in colonial historiography is the use of the concept of
“forgetfulness” in the relation of cultural transformation: old traditions fell
into disuse, and new ones were established. Explicit statements that Filipinos
were gradually forgetting their traditional musical practices are observations
that serve to demonstrate the clearly visible and audible nature of the hispan-
ization of Filipino music. They may also reflect the sentiments and objectives
of the authors, however, who probably saw musical transformation as an
external manifestation of spiritual conversion. Sometimes musical conversion
was more successful than religious conversion. Alzina, for instance, attested
that whereas the word of God may not have entered fully into the Visayans,
other European cultural aspects had certainly been adopted by these neo-
phytes in their use of guitars, harps, fiddles, bandurrias, and other instru-
ments, “which they play so expertly that their own instruments are being
forgotten.”95 Alzina probably hoped that this type of apparently irrevocable
transition in musical taste and practice would extend to the spiritual domain.
Similarly, song-texts were recognized as having an important function in the
process of religious conversion, as we see in a letter written by Jesuit Antonio
Masvesi extolling the life and works of another Jesuit, Pedro de Estrada
(1680–1748).96 According to Masvesi, Estrada composed a paraphrased his-
tory of the Passion of Christ in indigenous Visayan verse-form, as well as
many hymns and devotional prayers. These were sung by young Visayans,
who “left behind and forgot” their former “profane” songs.97 New, hybrid
forms occupied the cultural and artistic niches of old styles.
This practice of genre substitution had been common in the Jesuit mis-
sions of the Visayas since the late sixteenth century.98 But it was not a
phenomenon that just occurred naturally, with the simple outcome of being
documented passively by missionary writers after the event; rather, it was one
of the specific aims of textual and musical composition. Dominican historian

Diego Aduarte (1569–1636) thus noted of the Visayans that
when they row their boats, or when many of them are gathered
together, it is their custom to sing, in order to stave off and relieve
their tiredness. They used to use their old profane (and even inju-
rious) songs, as they had no others. Accordingly, [Francisco Blancas
de San José] composed many songs in their language and according
to their verse-form, but a lo divino [that is, with sacred texts], for he
had a particular grace in doing so. He introduced these songs among
them for these occasions, so that with the songs they would forget
their old verses, which were either useless or harmful. [In doing so,]
he did not detract from the songs’ function as a form of relaxation,
but rather increased the enjoyment of them with the devotion of the
new verses.99
In this way, it was acknowledged explicitly by chroniclers of religious orders
that the production of new musical compositions—or the imposition of new
texts on old melodies—was a hegemonic tool for the missionary enterprise in
effecting the religious aspects of transculturation.100 This fact was recognized
by Filipino nationalists in the late nineteenth century, including Rizal, who
wrote in 1890 about the songs that had been forgotten as a result of religious
conversion and hispanization. He lamented the dearth of traditional music and
dance of the Philippines, noting that “all this has been lost, not through the
fault of anybody, especially not of these Filipinos, who have been pressured to
leave behind their own traditions in order to take up new ones.”101
The language of vocabularios had already begun to mirror this shift in the
eighteenth century. Although definitions in the vocabularios suggest that
equivalent indigenous terms for chordophones and aerophones were used to
refer to similar Spanish instruments (that is, kutyapi for any European chordo-
phone except keyboards, and bangsi for flutes), it appears that some indige-
nous instruments coexisted physically with their European counterparts in
practice from the early seventeenth until the end of the eighteenth century, as
suggested by Murillo Velarde’s observation of the bangsi. However, certain
entries attest to the complete replacement of indigenous instruments by
European instruments. In Pampanga the cudiapi (kutyapi) had by 1732 been
superseded by Spanish plucked string instruments, as the definition in
Bergaño’s vocabulario states that it is “like the harp [but] it is no longer there.”102
Similarly, the Tagalogs had referred to a European bowed string instrument
(such as the viol or rabel) as coryapi (kutyapi) in earlier times; but in 1703 Santos
stated that European terms were used to describe European instruments:
“already, almost all call it rabel or violon.”103 Such a comment demonstrates
that shifts in organological nomenclature clearly followed in the wake of instru-
ments’ physical replacement.
The hispanization of Filipino music depended on a combination of passive

disuse of precolonial practices by Filipinos, active suppression of these prac-
tices by Spaniards, and active appropriation of colonial musical forms and
structures by Filipinos. All these processes could feasibly take place within the
span of one generation, depending on the intensity of intercultural contact and
enharmonic engagement. Within and around urban centers, where trade was
brisk and movement of visitors rapid, hispanization progressed quickly. In
more isolated settlements in some provinces, hispanization often took more
time and relied on injections of cultural inspiration from Manila. Documentation
of hispanized music cultures in the Philippines was uneven, however, and
most often relied on observations made in major metropoles, such as Manila
and Cebu. As we saw in an earlier chapter, American trader Nathaniel Bowditch
observed in 1796 that the music of the Filipinos in Manila was “the same as the
Spanish.”104 Such an appraisal was echoed by nineteenth-century travel writers
and also the fledgling “universal histories” of music by the likes of Calcutta-
based Indian scholar Sir Sourindro Mohun Tagore (1840–1914).105 Thus many
music historians considered the hispanization of musical practice and taste
in the colonies of Spain to be an inevitable consequence or by-product of
imperialism.
The introduction of early modern European traditions of musical
performance and literacy into Filipino cultures (in which music was based pri-
marily on oral transmission and imitation) appears to have instigated a
situation whereby stylistic or generic developments in the constantly evolving
and hegemonic European musical culture were mirrored in the society of the
colonized. This imitative counterpoint between the cultures of parent state
and colony (or colonies) sometimes resulted either in florid elaboration by the
musical voices that entered later in the contrapuntal texture or in a distant
echo of the main theme that was established firmly by the first voice. By
extension, the persistence of artistic “development” or “progress” in the colony
at a rate comparable with that of other major imperial centers—whether in the
plastic or temporal arts—was dependent on regular interchange and cultural
dissemination.
Such a sentiment was expressed at the beginning of the nineteenth century
by Martínez de Zúñiga, whose questioning of indigenous ability to contribute
to artistic, cultural, or technological innovations was indicative of the patron-
izing attitudes perpetuated by European religious personnel in the islands.
He hypothesized that “if no new models had been brought from Spain, then
we would [still] walk around in the same [type of] clothes and shoes as used by
the conquistadores; we would have the same music, the same paintings, and the
same buildings taught by the Spaniards who took possession of Manila. The
Filipinos are very good at imitating what they see, but they do not invent
anything.”106 In this comparative and rather disparaging assessment, however,
Martínez de Zúñiga failed to recognize the largely self-sufficient nature of
traditional societies, thereby reinforcing in his own mind the necessity of the
presence of European ecclesiastical functionaries for the ongoing development
of hispanized culture in the Philippines. This missionary and his contempo-
raries evidently had very specific ideas of what constituted invention. But if he
had broadened his perspective, he would have seen that innovation took place
all around him through the continual process of transculturation and absorption
of foreign cultural elements that were desired by Filipinos.
Conclusion
In the diffusion of European music in the Philippines and its adoption and
adaptation into local practices, there were two levels of transculturation.
Spaniards hispanized indigenous populations in closest contact; these popula-
tions then passed on hispanized cultural traits to communities who were
further removed from the Spanish source. This was an ongoing process, for the
models of Spanish culture in the Philippines were constantly subject to unre-
mitting waves of influence and renewal from the parent state (and, between
1565 and 1815, from Mexico) in a type of consistent relationship that character-
izes all colonial societies. Initial introduction or imposition and then acceptance
or rejection of certain Spanish cultural elements meant that the establishment
of a hispanized culture in the Philippines during the early modern period was
contingent on external influences and their subsequent adoption, reinterpreta-
tion, and reproduction by indigenous populations from generation to genera-
tion. The Jesuits, for instance, appear to have been shrewd in realizing that
when they began evangelizing in new territories, they needed to show their
neophytes some proof of the enticing cultural consequences of conversion. The
Franciscans (and many other religious congregations), following their experi-
ences in Latin America, recognized the power of music in “seducing and
reducing” the indigenous populations of the Philippines.
Hispanization was the Filipinos’ reciprocal response to Spanish ethnology;
it represented their own form of observing and attempting to understand
Spaniards, and it provided an unsettling mirror for the colonial overlords, for
Spanish observers saw their own civilization reflected in the cultural traits of
the Filipinos. We should remember that within colonial relationships, how-
ever, the native populations of colonies generally have a deeper understanding
and broader knowledge of their imperial oppressors—as promoted and broad-
cast by the expatriates of the parent state, who usually do not provide the best
examples of their patria’s highest cultural standards—than the stay-at-home
citizens of the parent state have of daily life in the colonies. In the early modern
period, the parent state effectively went to the colonies, but the colonies did not
so often go to the parent state. This is yet another side of colonial counterpoint:
an inversion of what we would see to be the typical imbalance of ethnological
knowledge within early modern colonial empires. If we think of Said’s use of

contrapuntal analysis in dissecting a nineteenth-century English novel, we can
see that the fictional characters taking tea in a drawing room have little idea of
the cost in human lives that is represented by their choice of whether to take
sugar. The colonies are out of sight and out of mind. But the lived reality for the
slaves in the plantations of the West Indies (discussion of which is conspicu-
ously and significantly absent from the narrative) is one of a brutal colonial
regime. They know their oppressors intimately.
Although the forcible conversion—both religious and cultural—of subju-
gated populations within the Spanish colonial empire was an official policy of
Church and Crown that was carried out with great efficacy, we should note that
it also took place in Spain, among the judios and moros who converted to Roman
Catholicism to stay on the Iberian Peninsula after the reconquista of 1492. With
the discovery of the presence of Muslims in the Philippines at the initial point
of contact in the sixteenth century, the crusading vigor of Spain was renewed.
If Roman Catholic missionaries lost their footing in any part of the archipelago,
so the reasoning went, surely the representatives of Islam would assume their
place. Planting the Christian religion in these islands and making sure it took
root meant that the soil had to be cultivated assiduously. Missionaries actively
contributed to the process of hispanization so that indigenous cultures would
be changed and so they would embrace and depend on Roman Catholicism.
Without a doubt, the early modern missionaries seem to have achieved their
goal, as the Republic of the Philippines is today the only Asian country whose
population is predominantly Roman Catholic. Hispanization was symbolic of
the deepest and most intractable form of conquest: the cultural and the spiritual.
Music and many other types of performing arts that were associated with reli-
gious ritual and celebration simply represented the most conspicuous and
easily discernible means by which the hispanization of the indigenous Filipino
population could be tried and tested.
5
©
Courtship and Syncretism in

Colonial Genres
In November 1790, the citizenry and populace of Manila converged to celebrate

the proclamation and vows of Carlos IV and his wife, María Luisa de Borbón,
as king and queen of Spain. The festivities lasted nineteen days and included
religious ceremonies, military displays, and processions, as well as secular
entertainment such as music, dance, and drama. During this time, the governor
permitted four comedias to be played in the “Teatro cómico” of Manila.1 The
texts of comedias were regularly imported from Spain and Latin America or
written locally in the Philippines, as we saw in chapter 2; significantly, they
were usually complemented by performances of other dramatic genres such as
saraos and loas. Loas, as dramatic and musical vehicles for the rendering of
homage, were habitually commissioned and composed for specific celebratory
events. On this occasion, they were performed at night in the Plaza de Palacio,
in full sight of the governor’s residence. They attracted the attention of the offi-
cial chronicler, Dominican Manuel Barrios, who noted in his account of pro-
ceedings that the Tagalog performers “declaimed them in the forthright
manner to which they are accustomed in similar performative acts: their artic-
ulation is very precise, and agreeable to Spanish ears. For it is already well
known that the dialects of the Malay language are so analogous with the
Castilian language in this context, that it would not be easy to identify the true
cause of this rare phenomenon.”2
This remarkable statement encapsulates some of the widespread assump-
tions held by colonial observers about the homologous nature of certain aspects
of Filipino and Spanish cultures. Essentially, by locating points of cultural con-
vergence between two performance traditions, they could attempt to justify the
“naturally ordained order” of imperial domination. What Barrios noted was
also a form of convergent evolution: cultures evolving in isolation from one
another had developed behavioral traits that in some respects bore similarities.
Just as the first Europeans to arrive in sixteenth-century Japan encountered a
society with a feudalistic structure that seemed comparable to their own,
Spaniards in the Philippines found that there were many semblances between
Filipino and Spanish cultures, including sonic aspects of Filipino languages,
the religiosity of the people, a propensity to use verses in rendering honor and
respect in formal situations, and even a state of coexistence with a neighboring
Islamic region. The apparent similarities that precolonial Filipino and Spanish
cultures had developed prior to contact may seem somewhat tenuous or spe-
cious to us today. But these points of convergence (or consonances, according
to our contrapuntal metaphor) within the field of the performing arts became
critical beacons to light the path for intercultural engagement, once the two
cultures came into sustained contact in the colonial milieu. Some of these “bea-
cons” flourished as performative forms that could be produced and appreciated
by both parties. The tempering of Filipino and Spanish cultures subsequently
allowed for fluid modulations through enharmonic regions and the development
of new compositional artforms. These were the real points of enharmonic
engagement.
The parallel existence of certain comparable musicopoetic genres at the
point of contact meant that mutual recognition of each other’s forms allowed
for some degree of empathy. Filipinos could identify with some performative
acts of Spaniards, and Spaniards could incorporate some Filipino performances
(most often dance and Christianized verse) into their own rituals. Their
reciprocal gaze across the enharmonic gulf essentially embodied a form of
courtship. Recognition of genres represented engagement, and performative
exchange symbolized a marriage of sorts. This relationship between Filipino
and Spanish poetic and musical elements finally resulted in the gestation and
birth of syncretic genres. But lest we think that the relationship was in any way
a case of rapacious Spaniards imposing outright change on defenseless
Filipinos, we should recall the disparity in the numerical strength of their
respective population sizes, and recognize that these transitions took place
slowly, often through indigenous responsiveness or receptivity to certain
foreign stimuli.
In some respects, the cultural condition of the colonial Philippines—and
many other parts of the world subjugated by European imperial powers—can
be seen as analogous to the so-called Stockholm syndrome, in which captives
grow accustomed to their captors and develop a certain level of sympathy for
them.3 This syndrome is attributed by some psychoanalysts to the presence of
the captives’ instinctive defense mechanism for survival. Similarly, in cultural
terms, we can see that many indigenous styles survived through adaptation or
the process of intercultural syncretism. Such a phenomenon, seen in art forms
of numerous European colonies, has been described by Serge Gruzinski and
other scholars as mestizaje, literally “mixing” or “miscegenation.”4 Yet the
courtship and syncretism in colonial genres 137
development of artistic or cultural mestizaje was not contingent on the birth of

children with both Filipino and European genes. Rather, it depended on the
coexistence of multiple cultures and the way they interacted. Of course, the
emergence of a mestizo ethnic category (according to the system of castas) pro-
moted the idea of a mestizo cultural identity. But whereas some mestizos
attempted to distance themselves from Filipinos and identify with Spaniards,
others—together with the ladinos—occupied a truly liminal niche as mediators
between the highest and lowest ranks of colonial society.
Historical musicologists working on the sacred and secular art music of
colonial Latin America have long tried to identify and define a mestizo baroque
style, in which indigenous voices can be clearly heard within an otherwise
European texture. Their endeavors have been largely based on the analysis of
musical scores and vocal texts. In his study of colonial Cuzco, however, Baker
argued against this idea and its associated methodologies, because they privi-
lege text over performance and discount oral traditions of indigenous partici-
pants in the art forms that were supported, approved, and patronized by colonial
authorities.5 The early modern repertory used by these musicologists to support
the argument for an inclusive colonial aesthetic consists of art music that in
every way attempted to emulate the most current trends in peninsular Spanish
and Italian style. This art music of colonial Latin America, including many
canonic works that are now heard in major concert halls throughout the world
and on countless recordings, should thus more appropriately be called “criollo
baroque.” If there really is (or was) a mestizo baroque style that fused elements
of both Old World and colonial cultures, it is more likely to be found in oral
traditions of indigenous communities who were—to lesser or greater extents—
conversant with the colonizers’ art forms. (Perhaps it should even be called
“ladino baroque.”) This is what can be identified in the Philippines: colonial
musicopoetic genres that fuse Filipino and Spanish styles of versification, as
well as indigenous and European forms of popular chant, which have been
performed and preserved in oral tradition until our own times.
In spite of the reigning terminological confusion that surrounds the word
“mestizo,” I retain the familiar term “mestizaje” as the marker of an idea that
has long held currency among scholars of Hispanic literature and art. If tran-
sculturation was the process by which indigenous societies received the impact
of colonization by Spain, then mestizaje was the outcome or the product. I treat
mestizaje here as a condition of indigenous societies in the Philippines whose
cultures were influenced by elements of hispanization and not as a characteristic
related exclusively to new identities formed through miscegenation. That is to
say, mestizaje was not reserved only for mestizos. Many Spanish-Filipino mes-
tizos aspired to assimilate into Spanish society and acquire and cultivate
Spanish cultural traits, but a considerable proportion of them also constructed
their own identity between the poles of “fully” Spanish and “fully” Filipino.
This identity became central to the revolutionary movements of the nineteenth
century. I contend, however, that mestizaje related to the Christianized Filipino

population as a whole and constituted a subversive form of cultural expression.
Since art forms with a hispanized veneer were considered acceptable to colo-
nial authorities, mestizaje provided a means for resistance and self-identification.
Mestizaje and the development of syncretic genres allowed old indigenous tra-
ditions to be retained under the guise of hispanization. Here, in one of the
most far-flung colonies of early modern Europe, we see the baroque act of
“masking” in full swing.
In this chapter I offer case studies of three Filipino genres: auit (now awit),
loa, and pasyon. I have succumbed to the temptation of calling them “colonial
genres.” By “colonial” I do not mean hegemonic—although they were hege-
monic to some extent, in terms of encroaching on the niches originally filled by
other indigenous traditions. Rather, I mean that they were art forms born from
the colonial relationship between Europeans and indigenous Filipinos. Within
this broad category, we can see that Spanish missionaries wrote song-texts in
indigenized forms, whereas Filipinos wrote verses in Spanish forms and
adopted European melodies. We saw in the previous chapter how the Letra en
tagalo and the transcription titled “Quædam Musica” provide documentary evi-
dence of such exchanges in the seventeenth century.6 But here we see how
musicopoetic colonial genres arose from the colonial condition to become
potent symbols of indigenous self-definition within the colonial milieu. These
also bound together the entire population—with the exception of the highest
echelons of the Spanish colonial elite—in the development of a new, hybrid
identity.
Auit
“Auit” is a term that proliferates in early modern sources, but the term is endowed
with a mulitiplicity of meanings, and great care must be taken in interpreting its
use in different historical contexts. Primarily, the auit was a distinctive precolo-
nial song genre that appears to have retained its popularity during the colonial
period.7 Although it was considered by writers of poetry treatises as a specific
genre with its own characteristics, the term came to be used by succeeding gen-
erations of ethnographers as a common word for “song” in a number of dia-
lects—a dual function of the term similar to the French word chanson or the
Spanish term canción in the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries. Canave-Dioquino
notes that auit became “an umbrella term for song,” and Manuel offers three
general concepts of the Tagalog term: namely, its general meaning as “song,” its
use as a generic label for all songs, and its specificity as a type of song “sung in
the house.”8 In the early modern Philippines, other major dialects—including
Visayan, Kapampangan, and Bikol (but with the notable exception of Ilokano)—
also used the term auit in reference to any type of “song.”9
The entry for auit in the 1754 Tagalog vocabulario of Noceda and Sanlúcar
points explicitly to the general function of the term. The definition states that
“their songs are: Diona . . . Talindao . . . Auit . . . Dolayanin[,] in the street. Hila.
Soliranin. Manigpasin, whilst rowing. Holohorlo. Oyayi, rocking the baby.
Umbay,i, sad. Umiguing[,] sweet. Tagumpay[,] in triumph. Dopay[a]nin. . . .
Hilirau. . . . [and] Balicongcong.”10 Thus in Tagalog the auit was considered a
generic category, as well as a specific song genre. Both Gaspar de San Agustín
and Oyanguren de Santa Ynés claimed in the eighteenth century that the
Tagalog auit differed from other musicopoetic genres based on its syllabic
structure and musical composition, but they gave no particular details.11 Alzina,
on the other hand, devoted a lengthy discussion to the Visayan auit genre in his
ethnography of the Visayans:
Leaving aside other special types of poetry . . . we shall finish this
subject with those they call auit. This means to sing and is the genre
they use in their voyages, always singing to the sound or rhythm of
the oars. It corresponds to the zalomas that our sailors sing on the
Mediterranean, even if those of the Visayans are more numerous.
Their tonadillas [songs] are either very slow or fast depending upon
the need for rowing [that is, depending on the speed of the oars]. The
spirit behind the oars in any voyage is a fine singer (called the
paraauit), and there are some who are so skillful that they sing for
entire days without stopping, for there are many songs composed by
their ancestors for this purpose. Some (although difficult to under-
stand) are also the most ingenious and metaphorical. The fathers
teach them to their sons, and some Visayans are so productive in this
type of poetry that they sing fluently without lacking subject matter
for many hours. The auit is also composed of two verses without
rhyme in a couplet, having one that is like a short estribillo of two or
three words, no more, that is repeated by all. This auit permits only
one license, namely that a word can be divided so as not to lengthen
the verse, placing a syllable of the beginning of the word in the first
line (verse) and putting the other or others in the following. This
makes its continuation somewhat easier, a necessary move for one
who jointly uses the voice for intoning and the hands for rowing. The
rhythm of the voice and the songs are used to hurry or retard the
movement of the oars; they entertain greatly on the continuous and
tedious voyages with which we, the ministers of the Gospel, are
constantly occupied and even troubled among these Visayans.12
Although Alzina highlights the maritime function of the song, his description
of the hereditary method of oral transmission should be noted. These traits,
along with its repetitive performance during manual labor (at least in the
Visayan practice of the genre) identified the auit to the missionaries as one of
the principal and most effective vehicles by which Christian doctrine could be
disseminated through newly composed song-texts. In the Visayas, as elsewhere
in the archipelago, auit referred to the noun “song” or the verb “to sing.”13
William Henry Scott notes that in the Visayas, auit was always “the general
term for singing”—except when distinguishing different song genres, when it
was used as a “specific term for sea chanteys.”14 Alzina’s mention of verses
(coplas) and refrain (estribillo) bring to mind the Spanish villancico genre.
Again, his identification of parallel structures in indigenous and Spanish tradi-
tions enabled the construction of mutual frames of reference for enharmonic
engagement and the development of syncretic forms of expression that allowed
for fluid enharmonic transition between the two cultural systems.15
The historiographical treatment of the auit reveals two main forms of syn-
cretism: the incorporation of Christian concepts in song-texts and/or the incor-
poration of European musical idioms. In regard to the former, Colín described
in the mid-seventeenth century the “use of songs, and facility of composing
them” among some recent converts, citing the example of a woman singing in
traditional style a paraphrased version of the sermon preached the same day.16
The gradual incorporation of European idioms into indigenous song is illus-
trated most clearly by an example discussed in the previous chapter, the tran-
scription of the melodic fragment entitled “Quædam Musica,” which shows
that Tagalog women were adapting European melodies into their traditional
song. These two types of syncretism probably gave rise to observations by
Alzina and others, seen in the previous chapter, that indigenous music was
“improving,” as it approached the realms of European modal norms. Thus, the
teleological ideologies implicit in all assessments made by Spaniards about
Filipino music are clearly revealed: missionaries considered moves toward
points of convergence to be an inevitable outcome of evangelization and his-
panization, not to mention one that was believed to be divinely ordained. Both
forms of syncretism within the auit—textual and musical—are a clear example
of musical and cultural convergences in colonial praxis.
Members of Spanish religious orders gave the name auit to the song-texts
in indigenous languages that they composed. Such works can be found in the
prefaces or appendices to various religious publications in indigenous lan-
guages. For example, the Tagalog book Librong pinagpapalamnan yto nang aasa-
lin nang tauong Christiano sa pagcoconfesar, at sa pagcocomulgar by Blancas de
San José—first published in c. 1607 and so popular that by the end of the
nineteenth century it had been reprinted in eight editions—includes didactic
texts in the form of auit. These auit are headed by a title in Spanish, which
reads (in translation): “Songs in their style concerning Confession and
Communion, which are the subject of this book.”17 The song-texts are strophic,
and although it is difficult to identify precisely the meaning of the title’s quali-
fication “in their style,” it probably refers to the use of local melodies or Filipino
poetic forms. Another large set of song-texts, a collection of eleven candos in the
Visayan language by Jesuit Pedro de Estrada, survives in his Practica del cathe-
sismo donde se enseña un methodo compendioso para componer las costumbres (a
publication that exists today only in its second edition printed in 1746).18 These
candos are quatrains with six or seven syllables in each line, and they were
probably disseminated widely throughout Visayan-speaking regions. Although
the term “candos” might appear simply to be a transliteration of the Castilian
word cantos, a vocabulario compiled by Sánchez (before his death in 1618) gives
the definition of the Visayan noun candù (now kandu) as “poem, or song, with
which they sing their stories.”19
Filipinos appear to have embraced the auit genre in its new, colonial form,
employing it as a tool for self-identification and for the elevation and consolida-
tion of their position in colonial society. In his 1610 treatise on the Spanish
language Librong pagaaralan nang manga Tagalog nang uicang Castila (Book with
which Tagalogs can learn Castilian), Filipino printer Pinpin composed six
bilingual auit as a pedagogic tool for learning Spanish vocabulary; each line of
Tagalog alternates with its equivalent in Spanish. Damon Lawrence Woods has
noted that “the structure within the auit suggests that he has a particular tune
or melody in mind. Pinpin includes words that do not seem to belong to the
category of vocabulary of a given song, and uses ellision [sic] at times, all appar-
ently to allow the words to fit the melodic structure that he has in mind.”20 The
song-texts are given titles such as auit (“song”), icalauang auit (“second song”),
and isa pang auit (“one more song”) to distinguish them as pieces to be per-
formed, rather than just being lessons. Lumbera maintains that these texts
were composed as Spanish poems, as their lines are “hexasyllabic,” with “asso-
nantal a-e rimes”; the Tagalog equivalents were probably inserted thereafter, in
a process Rafael has called “syncopation.”21 Rhythmic manipulation along
these lines contributed to greater complexity within the contrapuntal texture of
colonial society as independent voices were interwoven.
A significant consequence of the hispanization of Filipino music was an
apparent decrease in the number of song-texts that treated secular subjects—at
least in terms of those that were recorded. The publication of meditations by
Jesuit Francisco de Salazar (1559–99) (based on the Spiritual Exercises of Saint
Ignatius) were translated into Tagalog in 1645 by Augustinian Pedro de Herrera
(d. 1648), who has been called the “Horace of Tagalog.”22 They included what
was, according to Lumbera, “the biggest collection of seventeenth-century
[Tagalog] poems by a single writer.”23 Augustinian Juan Serrano (1715–54),
whose edition of this publication was reprinted in 1762, recommends the poetic
works of Herrera in his introduction, writing that “at the end of this Book are
appended those Dalits composed also by the Very Reverend Father Lector Pedro
de Herrera, which should replace and be substituted for the various evil auits
and plosas that bewitch you and paralyze everything good in your soul.”24 The
use of the term “auit” in this context probably refers to traditional, non-Christian
songs before it became synonymous with any type of song; the dalit genre, on
the other hand, was described by Gaspar de San Agustín as “serious, and sen-
tentious, in the style of what the Greeks and Romans called epic dithyrambs,”25
which could explain why this term was used by Herrera and Serrano. Serious
genres were used for serious subjects. Although several vocabularios defined
dalit as “song” or “sung couplet,” Lucrecia Roces Kasilag (1918–2008) classed
the genre as a “mournful plaint” in honor of the Virgin Mary in our own times,
and Canave-Dioquino has noted its use in wakes.26 Nevertheless, the auit, as a
didactic text and pedagogic tool, generally maintained its position as an all-
encompassing term for “song” in many subsequent evangelistic publications
and devotional texts, and awit (in its modern orthography) still remains the
noun for “song” in Tagalog and many other Filipino languages.
Loa
As with the auit, the prevalence of the loa genre in early modern sources is
probably due to the existence of parallel genres within both Filipino and Spanish
traditions. Whereas the Spanish loa was introduced to the islands in the late
sixteenth century, it is important to recognize that before the arrival of the
Spaniards in the islands, there existed several indigenous musicopoetic genres
that served to honor luminaries, living or dead, in festivities and at special
events. Early missionary linguists and ethnographers considered these genres
to be the equivalent to the Spanish loa, as we can see from correlations found
in early vocabularios, in which several terms were translated into the Castilian
language as loa. For instance, the Tagalog genre puri was described by San
Buena Ventura and Santos in their vocabularios as an equivalent of the loa,
with Santos qualifying that it could be used to praise God or man.27 Meanwhile,
in Visayan and Ilokano dialects (although their speakers were geographically
distant from one another) the word dayao was equated to loa, as it referred to
the rendering of praise in verse or song.28 During the colonial regime, there
emerged plurality in the use of the loa by the indigenous population: some
poet-musicians retained their native traditions, continuing to compose verses
in their own languages, some incorporated elements of the Spanish loa in
thematic content and style, and others composed and performed loas in the
Castilian language and Spanish style.
The evolution of the indigenous loa in the colonial Philippines is a com-
plex phenomenon; it is a genre that challenged Barrios in the eighteenth
century, Retana in the late nineteenth, and literary analysts in our own times.29
The early modern Filipino loa developed as a result of sustained cultural inter-
face between colonizer and colonized, involving indigenous appropriation of
generic function within the colonial regime, and adaptation of stylistic ele-
ments from the equivalent Spanish tradition.30 Although the development of
this genre within colonial contexts demonstrates considerable cultural and
literary syncretism, the Spanish loa imported to the islands (as composed and
performed by Spaniards, mestizos, and ladinos) retained its similarity to prac-
tices elsewhere in the empire.31 The loa in its multiple forms thus needs to be
considered within the context of both indigenous and Spanish traditions, as all
sorts of loas were performed in public festivities, particularly in the capital.
As an act of homage, the Spanish loa in Manila could be spoken or sung in
honor of such important personages as the monarch or governor, the Virgin
Mary, or prominent saints. From the beginning of the seventeenth century, all
governors-general of the Philippines were received with a loa performance on
their arrival in Manila.32 According to Retana, this would require a theatrical
setting in which an individual would recite from memory a poetic composition
praising the recently arrived personage and pondering on his accomplish-
ments, whether or not these deeds had ever taken place.33 In the colonial milieu,
the loa was a genre that could be used to express respect in any language, and
one scholar has even suggested that it provides a musical representation of all
the elements and ideas that make up a society.34 Written in verse, the texts of
loas could be simply declaimed, but in many cases they included musical inter-
polations or were set completely to music. They were often published and cir-
culated widely; some twenty-six complete texts of Spanish loas from Manila
printed between 1677 and 1749 are still extant.35 However, no musical scores
have survived, as they were usually composed for a single occasion and not pre-
served. For this reason, it can be difficult to determine whether music was
included in loas, unless the texts contain explicit indications of musical involve-
ment (as many do, specifying singing, dancing, and instrumental interludes).
Given that there exist no texts of precolonial indigenous loas, it is difficult
to assess their levels of similarity to the Spanish genre. However, Alzina offers
a detailed description of the Visayan genre sidai (now siday), which he con-
siders to be “the most difficult of all” styles, and which seems to be very similar
to a loa.36 He writes that
they use it in order to praise others or to relate the accomplishments

of their ancestors or to extol the beauty of some woman or a brave
man. It is difficult to understand on account of its form and even the
Visayans themselves do not all understand it because there is hardly
a word that is not metaphorical. These people love to listen to these
sidai and they spend many hours especially in the evening without
[any] yawning or falling asleep. They are accustomed to pay or reward
very highly those who are skillful in this poetic art, so that they may
come to their houses and render sidai. These are always rendered in
song. I must admit, as regards these sidai, that the understanding of
them cost me much work and many bribes to the skillful ones, just
so that they would sing them to me. However, they have certain
repetitions somewhat boring for they constantly repeat many and
very long phrases, adding only one or two new words. Honestly, this
is the most difficult of all the forms as I have said previously.37
These observations probably could be applied to the same type of genre prac-
ticed by other major ethnolinguistic groups in the islands. Long phrases in
Tagalog loas were also noted more than a century later by Martínez de Zúñiga,
who wrote that “the verse is always made up of twelve syllables, according to the
narrative tone [style] that is observed in them.”38 This was a larger number of
syllables than in many other forms of Tagalog poetry, demonstrating a greater
level of gravity in the composition and delivery of loas than in other genres.
Although Alzina claims that sidai were sung, like all forms of indigenous
poetry, the introduction of the multifaceted Spanish loa genre, which could be
completely sung or completely recited (or recited with musical interpolations),
evidently resulted in direct adoption by Filipinos of the Spanish genre within
Hispanic contexts. For example, in the celebrations held in Manila for the
accession of Fernando VI, a “eulogistic hymn” was sung by “four choirs of
excellent musicians,” directly after which a loa was recited—not sung—in
Castilian by a Tagalog performer. The author of the published account repro-
duced fragments of this loa’s verses, to demonstrate the “passionate heart of
these Islanders towards their beloved Lord, and King, obliging them to speak in
a language so foreign to their own.”39 The division between reciting and singing
poetry appears to have emerged in Filipino communities as a result of Spanish
cultural influence. But other loas were certainly sung. An account of ’Azı m ̄
ud-Dı n ̄ I’s entry into Manila in 1750, written by Dominican Juan de Arechederra
(d. 1751) just a year later, refers to the performances of groups of Filipinos, mes-
tizos, and Chinese being accompanied by “choirs of music with loas especially
appropriate to the occasion.”40 From this description of multiple choirs, we can
surmise that these loas were perhaps sung polychorally and that some were in
languages other than Castilian.
It is likely that the melodies traditionally used in the performance of indig-
enous poetry would not have been to the taste of colonial authorities in public
performances, which means that loas performed directly to this audience were
often recited or sung to European music. As we saw at the start of this chapter,
an account from 1791 of the festivities surrounding the proclamation and vows
of Carlos IV and his wife, Luisa de Borbón, describes a night performance of
little dramas or loas in Tagalog in the plaza of the governor’s palace. These loas
were “declaimed” in Tagalog, and with their “precise” articulation they were
“agreeable to Spanish ears.” Although Barrios points out the analogous nature
of Malay dialects and Castilian in the context of loa performances, he hesitates
to “identify the true cause of this rare phenomenon.”41 The fact that the Tagalog
loas appear to have pleased a Spanish audience suggests three possibilities:
(1) that there was considerable similarity between the aural aesthetic of both
traditions; (2) that the performance in the context of rendering homage pleased
the colonial authorities; or (3) that the Tagalog loa had undergone sufficient
transformation so as to make it appear similar in poetic style to the Spanish loa.
Along with this third possibility, the “precise articulation” of the Tagalog lan-
guage in this performance, as Barrios heard it, may have contributed to the
welcome reception given by the Spanish audience.
Following two centuries of synthesis, the Filipino loa clearly emerged as a
unique colonial genre, versatile in its various performance styles and functions.
Barrios is correct in noting the difficulty of identifying exact influences in the
development of the loa, and his comment is indicative of the relatively influ-
ential cultural policies of grafting Spanish forms onto preexisting Filipino
genres and of absorbing local practices into the broader context of state festiv-
ities. Yet his remark may also be representative of a significant level of curi-
osity about the loa among educated Spanish observers at the time. This theory
is lent some credibility by an account of a loa performance that took place in
1800 in Lipa (Province of Batangas), not far from Manila. Written by Martínez
de Zúñiga, this account concerns the reception in Lipa of a visiting general
from the Spanish navy, Don Ignacio María de Álava (1750–1817), where a
Filipino performer
presented what must be called a loa in the middle of the theatre, and
was well dressed, like a Spanish gentleman. He was seated and
reclining in a chair as if sleeping; behind the curtains the musicians
sang a lugubrious song in the language of the country. The sleeping
man awoke and began to doubt whether he had heard any voice, or
whether he had dreamed what he heard. He sat down again, sleep-
ing, and the song was repeated in the same lugubrious manner. He
awoke again, stood up and pondered anew on the voice which he had
heard. This scene was repeated two or three times, until he per-
suaded himself that the voice told him that a hero had arrived and it
was necessary to make a eulogy. Then he began to declaim his loa
with great decorum, acting it out, as the actors do in the coliseum,
and gave an account in his native language in praise of the one in
whose honor the fiesta had been ordered.
This loa celebrated the naval expeditions of the General, the
awards and titles with which the king had decorated him, and
finished by giving him thanks and recognition of the favor which he
had done in passing this town and visiting them, they being poor
wretches. This loa was in verse, composed very rhetorically in a
diffuse style, in accordance with Asian taste. The verses did not fail to
mention the expeditions of Ulysses, the voyages of Aristotle and the
unfortunate death of Pliny, and other passages of ancient history
which they like very much to introduce into their accounts. . . . I
believe that the Fathers brought these loas here in the old days.42
The “lugubrious song” to which Martínez de Zúñiga refers could be considered

as the interpolation of an auit. Within the context of the European loa genre,
the mixture of singing and recitation is to be expected; in the last sentence,
Martínez de Zúñiga clearly associated the loa with elements of performance
style and subject matter introduced to the Philippines by Spanish missionaries
over the previous centuries.
Although it is evident that a laudatory verse or song genre already existed
in both Filipino and Spanish performance traditions prior to contact between
the two cultures, it is also apparent that the Spanish loa, characterized in its
colonial function as the legitimization of authority through ritualized praise,
was a hegemonic force that gradually made a lasting impact on the traditional
practices of Filipino communities. Even today the loa exists throughout the
Philippines in various fiestas, and similar forms of homage exist in practices
such as the flores de mayo, the floral offerings to the Virgin Mary made every day
in May, in which devotional hymns are sung between the mysteries of the
rosary. Doreen Fernandez (1934–2002) observed that certain elements of
Spanish feasting set a standard for religious and secular celebration and were
reflected in indigenous fiestas in derivative form; a Filipino komedya on a feast
day might start with a loa in honor of the patron saint, which may include ref-
erences to “the mayor, or the hermano mayor, or town personalities.”43 This
usage reflects indigenous adaptation of the Spanish theatrical function of the
genre. In a study of the modern-day loa in oral literature of the Province of
Samar, Minodora S. Magbutay claims that the folkloric form “is lyrical [and]
deals with some elemental emotions of its singers and reciters. Complete in
four verses or quatrains, [it] has a variety of rhyme schemes. . . . The loa is rich
in imagery and when it is set to music, as it often is, it becomes a haunting and
melancholic song. But the loa is not all tears. It also embodies humor, one that
may be truly characteristic of the common people.”44 She goes on to add that
“God, religious rites, biblical figures [and] saints are not very popular loa fig-
ures. The Blessed Mother is more often mentioned than any other saint or
figure of the Christian faith.”45 The universal function of the latter folkloric
form could indicate the genre’s derivation from precolonial traditions.
The loa became a symbolic form of resistance in the context of struggles
between ecclesiastical and secular authorities. An example of the loa’s power in
this respect is illustrated by the account of an incident in Pampanga in 1772,
shortly after the archbishop of Manila, Piarist Basilio Sancho de Santas Justa y
Rufina (1728–87), had enforced the transfer of parishes that were under regular
control (that is, the control of the religious orders) to the charge of indigenous
secular (diocesan) priests. As Santiago has shown, Filipino priest Nicolás
Dorotheo Masangcay y Coronel (1736–95) had been assigned to the parish of
Bacolor and following his first four months there, “the sacristan mayor together
with the other church sextons and singers arranged a celebration on the occasion
of his thirty-sixth birthday. . . . Don Nicolás Capid, the sacristan . . . composed a
musical loa in his honor and erected a modest stage for the presentation.”46
Suspecting that trouble would arise with the local civil authorities—whose
grudging acceptance of the installation of Filipino priests had led to a great deal
of conflict in the region—Masangcay pleaded with the composer and musicians
to cancel their performance and yield to him the manuscripts of the loa. However,
this did not prevent the town mayor from storming the church with three armed
soldiers and arresting Capid for his controversial composition, “the exact nature
of which was never clarified except that it was laudatory of Masangcay.”47 The
power with which the loa was invested is demonstrated explicitly by this political
episode, and the censorship of such a performance—regardless of its language,
which was probably the local dialect—maintains the position of the loa as a
symbol of social identification. Music invested with textual power gradually
became the new force for social change and a tool for the establishment of iden-
tity.48 But the loa, as a relatively small-scale performance, could in no way match
a genre such as the pasyon in the sense of mass movement and popular
participation.
Pasyon
The pasyon is an account of the life of Jesus Christ in an indigenous Filipino

language, typically made in several thousand verses in the Spanish quintilla
poetic form (five lines of eight syllables each). Some histories begin at the Book
of Genesis and, after treating the life of Christ, go on to cover subsequent his-
torical events, whereas others focus specifically on the Passion story. The nar-
rative is usually interpersed with short episodes of a type of homily called an
aral (lesson); these exhort the listener to reflect with penitence on moral impli-
cations of events in the Passion.49 Ricardo Trimillos observes that the pasyon
“may be recited, cantillated, or sung in nonstop performances lasting from
twelve hours to five days.”50 The text is sung antiphonally or serially by two or
more groups of singers, indoors or outside, to a skeletal melodic formula called
punto or tono, which can be ornamented.51 It is usually monophonic, but some-
times additional parts are added to the texture in a process that in Tagalog is
called habi (weaving): a Filipino form of counterpoint. The performance of the
entire pasyon can be undertaken as the fulfilment of a vow, or as a personal
sakripisyo (sacrifice), and usually involves the duet partners or groups com-
peting with one another for the more expressive and effective rendition of the
chant. In Tagalog regions, the term pabasa is also used to refer to the act of
singing or reciting the pasyon during Lent, while the term “pasyon” refers to
the text itself.
According to Retana, the singing of the Passion of Christ in Tagalog prob-
ably had its origins in the middle of the seventeenth century.52 The first known
published version of the pasyon text was composed by Gaspar Aquino de Belén,
a Filipino nobleman from the town of Rosario (Province of Batangas) and a

printer of books for the Jesuit press. At the beginning of the eighteenth century
he was granted a license to publish his 980-verse pasyon titled Mahal na Passion
ni Iesu Christong P[anginoon]. natin na tolâ, which was appended to a Tagalog
translation of the Recomendación del alma by Jesuit Tomás de Villacastín (1570–
1649).53 The earliest extant edition of this work is the fifth, which was pub-
lished in 1760, but the original licenses of the government and Holy Office
reproduced within it date from 1703. They are accompanied by a pronounce-
ment from the archbishop of Manila, dated January 23, 1704, allowing forty
days of indulgence to all who read (recited) or heard a pasyon.54 In 1738,
Augustinian Juan Sánchez (1689–1758) published a Pasión de Nuestro Señor
Jesucristo en lengua panayana (a Visayan dialect spoken on the island of Panay),
and in 1740 El infierno abieṛto, en lengua panayana, which, according to nine-
teenth-century Spanish Filipinist Vicente Barrantes (1829–98), also contained
a pasyon text.55 Another eighteenth-century pasyon text in Tagalog was prob-
ably composed in c. 1740 by the Tagalog principal Don Luis Guian, as we know
from a literary allusion by Delgado, who in 1751 claimed that he ordered it
reprinted in Manila.56 Jesuit Estrada also “composed in Visayan verse the
History of the Passion of Our Lord Jesus Christ.”57
This proliferation of pasyon texts, composed by religious personnel and
laymen throughout the eighteenth century, was a trend that continued into the
nineteenth century. In 1814, Filipino priest Mariano Pilapil published what was
to become one of the most popular and enduring pasyon texts, the Casaysayan
nang pasiong mahal, by one or more anonymous authors, which still maintains
widespread influence.58 This version expands the Passion story exponentially: it
consists of 2,660 quintillas and, in the words of Canave-Dioquino, “begins
with the creation of the world, covers the life of Jesus, and ends with Empress
Helena’s finding the holy cross. It contains sixty-eight intervening episodes,
which insert twenty moral lessons or sermons (aral). The stanzas of each epi-
sode may be performed in narrative (salaysay) or as dialogues.”59 Today it is sold
in cheap editions that are available in abundance during Lent.
The pasyon genre clearly became one with which indigenous poets and
singers identified strongly, and its popularity increased rapidly throughout the
islands during the colonial period. Elena Rivera Mirano writes that the date of
the earliest public performances is unknown, “but by 1827, when a parish
priest complained in a letter about erroneous doctrinal ideas being spread by
such performances, it could be assumed that the pabasa must have been a well-
entrenched custom.”60 The subversion and even inversion of orthodox religious
doctrine through the indigenous practice of the pasyon contested the authority
of both Church and Crown. The deep-seated predilection of many Filipinos for
the performance of this genre throughout Lent and on Good Friday amplified
its power to act as a poignant counterpoint to the religious hegemony of
imperial Spain. The Passion story was so central to the Spanish religious
crusade of evangelization that its appropriation and reinterpretation by

Filipinos—according to their own theological perspectives—could strike at the
heart of the Roman Catholic mission and present an imposing challenge to the
role of religious conversion as an agent of colonialism.
The pasyon has been variously classed as a literary genre, a dramatic genre,
and a composite musicopoetic genre, but there has been relatively little
consideration of the genre’s traditional musical component per se, apart from
the work of Mirano and Trimillos. This lacuna is probably due to the fact that
pasyon’s melodies have been sustained through oral transmission rather than
in any notated form and possibly because the pasyon is seen as a paraliturgical
genre of lay devotion within the context of the Christianized culture of the
Philippines, thus worthy of less scholarly attention than musical or dramatic
performances in fiestas. But however we might choose to categorize the pasyon,
we must recognize that it clearly represents a unique synthesis of Spanish and
Filipino stylistic traits. To construct an understanding of the musical
performance of such a genre, then, it is essential to make reference to descrip-
tions of precolonial practices as well as to the musical elements of Tagalog
poetry as mentioned in some of the treatises discussed in chapter 3.
In the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, ethnographers observed indig-
enous practices of singing genealogies and histories, particularly those per-
formed while traveling on the water. For instance, Chirino noted at the turn of
the seventeenth century that Filipinos sang long songs to relate “the fabulous
genealogies and vain deeds of their gods.”61 He may have observed perfor-
mances of the Tagalog genre pamatbat, which was defined by Noceda and
Sanlúcar as “that which they sing in their voyages, in the manner of a history,
or when they drink.”62 In terms of its narrative qualities, the pamatbat seems
(apart from the drinking) to bear some similarities with the pasyon. But Alzina
also described a traditional vocal genre of the Visayas that appears to share even
more characteristics with the pasyon:
There is still another form of poetry called haya which they had here
and still have now to weep for their dead, which is sung by mourners
called parahaya, women who hire themselves out for this purpose.
Their task is to sing dirges in a mournful tune, mixing in threads of
praise for the deceased or their ancestors and to which the relatives,
the husband or wife of the deceased reply with some weird outburst,
shout, or scream. This is their method of weeping for their dead
without really shedding a single tear. . . . Here it is sufficient only to
mention that which concerns their verses and poetry pertaining to
their dead, also called anogon or canogon, which is the same as saying
something regrettable, unenjoyable, or a loss.63
The Tagalogs had a parallel genre called panambitan, which Ortiz describes as
“to sing, crying” or “to cry, singing” of the deeds of a deceased parent.64 These
practices, among others, provided a performative foundation for devotions to

the Passion of Christ, in terms of mourning for and extolling a great deceased
hero. They enabled the Spanish missionaries to replace traditional texts with
newly composed Christian verses in indigenous languages. The indigenous
and Spanish traditions from which the authors of pasyon texts came probably
resulted in the use of poetic styles stemming from both traditions or an admix-
ture of the two. The pasyon of Aquino de Belen demonstrates the adoption of
the Spanish quintilla form for poetry in the Tagalog language, in line with a
process in local poetic traditions that Lumbera labels “assimilation and
synthesis.”65
In 1889, Barrantes provided a detailed bibliography of European ante-
cedents dating back to the fifteenth century, documenting the Roman
Catholic poetic tradition that he believed to have been introduced to the
islands. However, he made the assertion that the indigenous pasyon devel-
oped directly as a translation of Latin and Spanish texts, without any refer-
ence to the indigenous narrative genres such as pamatbat.66 Lumbera cites
Spanish literary influences on Tagalog author Aquino de Belen, including
Iñigo de Mendoza’s Vita Christi (Zamora, 1482), Comendador Roman’s
Coplas de la Pasion con la Resurreccion (Toledo, 1490), and Juan de Quiros’s
Cristo Pathia (Toledo, 1552), among others.67 But in a seminal essay on the
sources of the earliest extant pasyon text in Tagalog, Javellana proposes that
Juan de Padilla’s Retablo de la Vida de Cristo hecho en verso (1585) “is the
immediate and principal source of Aquino de Belen’s pasyon and [that] from
which he derives the basic outline of his work,” citing as evidence the simi-
larities in “outline and content,” “technique,” and “expression in more than
a few instances.”68 This hypothesis is supported by comparisons that include
the techniques of “dramatic dialogue, direct address and short sermonette
[aral].”69
A number of scholars (including Canave-Dioquino, Mirano, Trimillos, and
Mary Arlene Pe Chongson) have focused on the modern manifestations of the
pasyon tradition, but any attempts to trace the musical development of this
genre during the early modern period have been frustrated by the lack of
sources apart from the poetic texts themselves. What appears to be the earliest
extant example of staff notation of any of the musical puntos of the pasyon is
included in the 1892 publication La música popular de Filipinas by Manuel Walls
y Merino (figure 5.1).70 This punto displays a recitational quality similar to the
tones used for performing the Passion in the Roman Catholic tradition of
Europe.71 However, the style remained identifiably indigenous, one that osten-
sibly hearkened back to precolonial times (although it would be difficult to trace
its origins with precision). The late seventeenth-century melodic fragment
“Quædam Musica,” discussed in the previous chapter, could also possibly be a
representation of a pasyon tone, but if so, it was clearly adapted from a European
melodic structure (probably plainchant).72
figure 5.1. Earliest known published pasyon tone, transcribed from Manuel Walls y
Merino, La música popular de Filipinas (Madrid: Librería de Fernando Fe, 1892), 25.
The Tagalog orthography has been modernized.
The pasyon and another Holy Week ritual, the Passion play called sinakulo
(from the Castilian term cenáculo), were instituted among Filipino communities
by Spanish authorities to propel the dual aims of evangelization and hispaniza-
tion. But as Tiongson and Ileto have shown, these performative genres had the
contradictory effect of providing Filipinos with a linguistic and dramatic vehicle
to enable the articulation of their own values, ideals, and aspirations for free-
dom and autonomy. Ileto has cited the mass performance of the pasyon genre
as a major factor in fomenting nationalist sentiment and revolutionary action in
the late nineteenth century.73 We may ask: once the Passion story had been
introduced and had taken root in the indigenous consciousness, did Filipinos
identify with the sufferings of Christ as an analogy for their own status as sub-
jugated indigenous peoples under colonial rule? Did the Roman centurions
who were acted out in the sinakulo take on the character of Spanish military
auxiliaries (of any ethnicity) who upheld the political status quo in the islands?
Filipino singers of the pasyon and performers of the sinakulo may have sub-
verted the meanings and significances of the Lenten rituals approved by Church
and Crown to present the central meaning of the Passion story as a symbol for
struggles against social injustice—and to convey the message that suffering and
self-sacrifice would eventually triumph and result in redemption.
As a genre that combined indigenous music with indigenous-language

poetry in the style of the colonial dominators, within Roman Catholic religious
practices, the pasyon allowed Filipinos to assert their identity through song.
Performed at home, before altars, shrines, or carros (floats) intended to be used
in a Good Friday procession at sundown, the communal activity of sharing
verses between singers provided increased levels of relatedness and belonging
within a barangay or pueblo. The genre also had a propensity to bring together
large groups of Filipinos—and thus enact mass movement—and it was pos-
sibly for this reason that its performance was briefly prohibited in 1856.74
Although the pasyon has today undergone radical transformations in its
use of electronic musical equipment, traditional forms remain in place in many
regions, albeit often with fewer, and aging, practitioners.75 In some areas of
Luzon, the pasyon is sung in visitas while actual crucifixions (with real nails)
take place in the adjacent plaza. Genres intended specifically for Holy Week or
for other parts of Lent also appear to have been used for both contexts relatively
indiscriminately by indigenous populations in various regions of the Philippines.
For instance, according to Barrantes, the tradition of singing the indigenous
pasyon did not take hold in the Provinces of Ilocos (northern Luzon); there, the
Lamentations of Jeremiah were sung during Lent.76 Meanwhile, as Trimillos
has observed, the practice of performing stanzas “in a two- or three-part choral
style (called lamentasyon) by rotating groups of twelve to twenty performers
each” that can total more than 100 singers—and can even include the partici-
pation of brass instruments—has persisted in the town of Pamplona, Camarines
Sur.77 The pasyon genre clearly remains a complex practice that represents a
significant level of syncretism: it emerged from blending Spanish Passion
poetry and indigenous musicopoetic traditions that mourned the dead or
related genealogical histories, as a result of their similar religious and cultural
functions at the point of contact.
Conclusion
The dimensions of syncretism in the auit, the loa, and the pasyon spanned not
only the links between poetry and music but also the connections between
Spanish and Filipino cultural patterns. Degrees of similarity between the for-
mulation, function, and practice of genres from both cultures prior to Spanish
conquest—as well as certain religious orders’ customs of accommodating local
traditions to Catholic usage—resulted in unique genres being developed in the
colonial milieu. These genres have become so thoroughly ingrained in musical
practices of the country that they are now viewed as indigenous and “tradi-
tional,” in many ways reflecting Phelan’s quite discursive treatment of the
“‘Philippinization’ of Catholicism.”78 Although these new syncretic genres
remained the domain of indigenous and mestizo performers, they were clearly
proposed, influenced, and promoted by Spanish individuals and institutions.

Parallel with religious practices, indigenous musicopoetic genres in the
Philippines adopted elements of similar Spanish forms, thus assuming the
guise of colonial artistic functions that symbolized obeisance and assimilation,
while at the same time developing and consolidating unique characteristics
that distinguished them as uniquely Filipino.
The early modern age of encounters—and unprecedented acceleration of
intercultural exchanges on a global scale—corresponded to European music’s
progression from modality to tonality and the tempering of intervals to a
sufficient degree that allowed for the circle of fifths’ comfortable circumnaviga-
tion by European composers and listeners alike. Similarly, a literal counterpoint
between cultures not only emphasized musical difference at the point of
contact; it also provided a framework for subsequent exchange through enhar-
monic engagement and even allowed for intercultural inversion. After mem-
bers of different groups had tempered their musical perspectives to
accommodate a sufficient degree of intercultural empathy, enharmonic engage-
ment allowed musicians from one ethnolinguistic group to appropriate and
redefine musical elements from another, different cultural system. Still, a clear
line remained drawn between many Asian and European practices. As we will
see in the third and final part of the book, a form of strict counterpoint was
imposed on society in the regulation of musical traditions in the colony’s major
religious institutions and the construction of ethnic hierarchies for perfor-
mances at major festivities.
©
III
STRICT COUNTERPOINT
6
©
Cathedrals, Convents, Churches,

and Chapels
This final trilogy of chapters examines how musical practice was subject to
strict regulation in religious institutions, Filipino communities, and public
festivities. I named this part of the book “Strict Counterpoint” because the
forms of control that were wielded by Spanish ecclesiastical and secular func-
tionaries—then imposed on the activities and interactions of musicians and
listeners within colonial society—were in many ways analogous to the
enforcement of contrapuntal rules in early modern European art music.
Individual notes had to fit in with other notes according to an established set
of norms and functions. Another reason for the name is that the practice of
European music in the early modern Philippines embodied a literal
“counterpoint” to its contemporaneous equivalent in Spain. As we shall see,
world travelers who were familiar with Spain and its colonies, and who
observed their local environment with open ears and eyes, constantly com-
pared and contrasted musical practices from these opposing poles of the
Spanish Empire.
One of the most interesting characteristics to emerge from observations of
church music in the early modern Philippines—if we are to take into account
all ecclesiastical institutions, from the most central to the most peripheral—
was that Filipinos made up the vast majority of church musicians. Spanish
immigrants who brought great musical expertise were relatively few in number
during the early modern period; many of them belonged to religious orders, in
whose historical annals and necrologies they are extolled as performers, com-
posers, theorists, and pedagogues. But apart from cultivating sacred and secular
musics in their own “private environment,” one of the most important social
and cultural functions of musical Spaniards was to act as conduits through
which Filipino musicians could extract information about the most recent
158 strict counterpoint
developments in European and Latin American art forms—especially in terms

of sacred music repertory.
Filipino ecclesiastical musicians were valued members of colonial society.
They held positions in every parish throughout the islands, and they were
exempt from tribute and other forms of colonial oppression. Of course, some
historians might see service to the Church as a form of oppression in itself, but
we should recognize that musical activity was predominantly voluntary on the
part of Filipino musicians and was actively used as a means of improving their
material circumstances. Training began at a young age, and promising musi-
cians were destined for church posts. By the early eighteenth century, Juan
Francisco de San Antonio observed that among the Filipinos “there are good
singers, and they have positions with an appropriate salary in all the churches,
from the cathedral to the poorest ministry. Thus they are raised from the time
they sing treble.”1 Most of the teachers who trained the young musicians were
Filipinos themselves, and a great number of early modern accounts (mostly
written by Spaniards) attest to the high level of skill attained in the performance
of hispanized ecclesiastical music by indigenous ensembles.
Some non-Spanish visitors to the islands had different perspectives, how-
ever. Le Gentil de la Galaisière, whose opinions of the Spanish colonial
Philippines were generally disparaging, took enough notice of music in eccle-
siastical institutions of Manila in the 1760s for his musical observations to
merit their own place in the index to his Voyage dans les mers de l’Inde on the
publication of this travelogue in Paris in 1779–81 (only the most important or
curious subjects were indexed). This Frenchman’s view of Filipino musicians
in parish churches was fairly disdainful and a far cry from the glowing reports
of Spanish missionaries. “For the most part they [the Tagalogs] go around
barefoot,” he observed; “even so, they are the masters of music in the churches.
The music that they offer is so unique that one could hardly think of anything
more wild; one hardly hears anything other than choirs, in which the parts go
however they can, whether together or not—it’s all the same. It is a type of
rough music [charivari] that pretty much resembles the sort of noise made by
a group of drunks coming out from a tavern.”2 This sort of reaction is unsur-
prising from a Frenchman who was inevitably making comparisons between
the formalized (and even strictured) French sacred music of the mid-eigh-
teenth century and the more exuberant musical aesthetic of a tropical Spanish
colonial milieu. As we will see later, his description of a Mass with choir and
orchestra in a parish church of Cavite made him point out the fact that
musical ensembles in most churches—including the director—consisted
entirely of Filipino musicians but led him to draw some rather patronizing
and paternalistic conclusions about their performance. Of course, all musical
ensembles have their “off days,” and this event might have been one of
those.
cathedrals, convents, churches, and chapels 159
Frustratingly, records of individual Filipinos within colonial historiog-

raphy are few, and descriptions of their activities are often quite generalized.
Because Filipinos often took Spanish names, their identity is subsumed in a
mass of Spanish archival data. It is difficult to make assumptions about eth-
nicity based on surnames in the early modern Philippines, as it was only in the
mid-nineteenth century that legislation was passed to enforce the systematic
adoption of Spanish surnames (taken from a published alphabetical list) by
Filipinos who had not had a family name for more than four generations.3
Generally, members of the indigenous principalía had retained their dynastic
names (such as Magsaisay or Dobali), but mestizos and many converted
Filipinos in the metropoles bore Spanish surnames, especially those Filipinos
who became lay members of religious congregations. Names with obvious reli-
gious symbolism such as Santos (saints), Reyes (kings/Magi), and Cruz (cross)
were popular among Christianized Filipinos, but these names obviously also
proliferated among the Spanish community. Thus, there is only a handful of
individually named musicians in early modern documents who can be identi-
fied positively as Filipinos. For this very reason, it is necessary to interpret a
wide range of sources contrapuntally to tease out details about Filipino musi-
cians within the cathedrals, convents, churches, and chapels of the capital, as
well as further afield.
In this chapter, we see how religious institutions in Manila attempted to
replicate the practices of Spain and Latin America. From the cathedral to the
cloistered environments of religious communities, and from the devotions of
confraternities in private spaces to parish churches outside the walled city,
music created within the colonial milieu became a veritable symbol of the
power of Church and Crown. Of course, the availability of musical resources
and the level of sophistication in musical performances required by a religious
institution depended on its size, wealth, and social context; this means that his-
torians of music in the Spanish Empire may reap great archival rewards from
metropolitan institutions, especially cathedrals. Recently, however, some musi-
cologists have begun to criticize the “cathedral-centered” approach to urban
music histories in the Hispanic world, arguing that a focus on the apex of this
hierarchical pyramid in fact reinforces hegemonic power structures, particu-
larly in colonial contexts. I agree with this position, and although I have decided
to begin with the cathedral, the musicological approach I have adopted here is
necessarily decentered, because this institution was lying in ruins or was under
(re)construction for a significant portion of the colonial period. Earthquakes
and fire made their mark on the city, and Manila Cathedral was a persistent
phoenix, rising again and again from the debris of its previous incarnation. Yet
it was surrounded by a constellation of convents, beaterios, and parish churches,
and these smaller institutions assumed great significance as sites of rich
musical activity.
Manila Cathedral
Among the churches, chapels, and convents of Intramuros, the santa iglesia
catedral was intended to be the most significant and dominant ecclesiastical
institution. In line with standard practices of town planning in Spanish col-
onies, the cathedral fronted the plaza mayor (main square), flanked on either
side by governmental buildings including the casa del cabildo (or ayuntamiento)
and the palacio del gobernador. Manila Cathedral, arguably the most important
in East and Southeast Asia during the early modern period, has been rebuilt no
fewer than seven times, because of the destructive forces of fire, tropical mon-
soons, earthquakes, and the bombs of 1945. The present edifice is the eighth to
be constructed on the same site.4 Although there was not always a complete
building to house services, the celebration of the Divine Office and feasts was
disrupted but did not cease, even though necessity required that they be per-
formed elsewhere (usually in the chapel of the Santa Mesa de Misericordia, the
incomplete cathedral, or some temporary structure). Yet the level of grandeur
with which ceremonies were carried out was undoubtedly linked to the state of
the cathedral: the total functionality of the building allowed for musical perfor-
mances and festivities to be enhanced with much greater pomp. The early
modern musical history of Manila Cathedral can be traced through three cate-
gories of surviving documentary sources: administrative records (including
details of financial orders, statutes, decrees, various regulations, and
employment of personnel), inventories of musical commodities and records of
their construction or importation, and accounts of performances. Although no
music dating from before the nineteenth century remains, many other archival
sources attest to the apparent opulence of music in the cathedral (when the
building was fully serviceable), including printed accounts that describe perfor-
mances in great detail.
The Diocese of Manila, originally suffragan to Mexico, was created by Pope
Gregory XIII in 1576 and given by Felipe II into the charge of Bishop Salazar in
1578.5 Following Salazar’s arrival in Manila in 1581, the first cathedral church
was built, initially as a temporary edifice made from nipa palm and bamboo. As
discussed in an earlier chapter, Salazar brought with him musical instruments
and his personal library, which included a collection of music books. Thus, he
provided the resources for ecclesiastical music to be performed at a level of con-
siderable complexity and sophistication by the standards of the time. But the
cathedral still needed people who could fill roles of responsibility in this respect.
In the early days of Manila Cathedral’s existence, the positions of several
musical functionaries and their duties were detailed in a document concerning
the erection of the institution. One was the chantre (cantor), “for which role no
one ought to be presented who is not trained and experienced in music (or at
least in plainchant): whose duty shall be to sing at the facistol, to teach and to
correct and rehearse whatever is necessary or required for the singing, and in
all cases by himself and not with the help of another.”6 Another important role
was that of the organist, whose duty was “to play on feast days and at other
times at the direction of the chapter,” with the annual salary fixed at sixteen
pesos.7
Within the first year of the cathedral’s foundation, a choir of men and boys
was established, and from 1582 it performed polyphonic music accompanied
by recorders, shawms, and organ, under the direction of the chantre Francisco
de Morales.8 On June 18, 1583, Salazar wrote to Felipe II that “with the boys of
the choir, and others who know music, and with the organs and flutes [recorders]
and shawms that I brought with me, the Divine Office is celebrated on feast
days as it could be celebrated in another cathedral more ancient and richer than
this one.”9 But the temporary cathedral burnt down in a fire later that year,
destroying the pipe organs and probably also the music books brought by
Salazar in 1581.10 According to William John Summers, the departure of chantre
Morales in 1584 and then Salazar in 1591 probably had an adverse effect on the
state of ecclesiastical music in Manila.11 This situation was soon remedied,
however, for in 1595, the same year the diocese was elevated to an archdiocese,
Felipe II sent a real cédula (royal decree) to the ecclesiastical council of Manila,
giving an annual allowance of 500 ducats for the salaries of musicians, singers,
beadle, and choirboys.12 This financial support would undoubtedly have
provided impetus for the improvement and enlargement of the cathedral’s
musical forces.
Although we have no concrete evidence of the repertory that was sung in
Manila Cathedral during the final decades of the sixteenth century, the recent
rediscovery of the 1589 musical inventory of Mexico City Cathedral indicates
what types of works may have been transmitted across the Pacific. As Javier
Marín López has shown, Mexico City Cathedral had an exceptionally large col-
lection of printed and manuscript polyphony, one that dwarfed its peninsular
equivalents. It included music by the usual suspects—Tomás Luis de Victoria
(1548–1611), Cristóbal de Morales (c. 1500–53), and Francisco Guerrero—but it
also featured works by Franco-Netherlandish composers and Mexican mae-
stros.13 Given that every bishop- and archbishop-elect of Manila passed through
Mexico City and attended its cathedral en route to the Philippines, it seems
likely that musical commodities were shared or transmitted between the two
institutions. As we shall see, Archbishop Rojo del Río sent a facistol from
Manila to Mexico City in the mid-eighteenth century, and the reciprocal
exchange of certain ecclesiastical items during the early modern period was
probably a common occurrence, even if it was not frequent.
Antonio de Morga described how the second cathedral was “furnished
with an organ, lecterns, and all other requisite items,” that it had a choir, and
that the Divine Offices were celebrated there with proper solemnity and cere-
mony.14 This incarnation, built of stone, was destroyed by an earthquake in
1600. The third cathedral lasted from 1614 to 1645 and included three naves,
seven chapels, and ten altars, but was also eventually toppled by great earth-
quakes. A makeshift structure was hurriedly erected in the main plaza.15
Although it represented a major setback, this sort of destruction (or rapid decay)
of cathedrals and other public edifices in the Spanish colonies due to natural
disasters was not at all a rare circumstance, especially in territories close to
equatorial zones.
On the arrival in 1653 of Archbishop Miguel de Poblete (1604–67), the ser-
vices of the cathedral were relocated to the chapel of the Santa Mesa de
Misericordia for the next six years while the building was reconstructed in its
fourth version.16 During this time, the position of Ministro y superior de la
capilla y música was held first by a man named Luis de la Cruz (whether
Spanish or Filipino we do not know), then by a man with a noble Tagalog
name: Don Baltazar gat Dobali, from Cainta (Province of Rizal).17 The inclusion
of the respectful adjunct “gat” in the latter indicates that this man was a member
of the principalía. The archival record of Dobali, dating from 1657, appears to
be the earliest evidence of a named musician who is clearly identifiable as
indigenous, but no more is known about him, apart from the name of his
hometown. The new cathedral was able to function for worship by 1659; Letona
noted in his “Descripcion de las Islas Filipinas,” published in 1662 (when the
cathedral was still under construction) that “the cathedral has a good choir of
singers, also chaplains and many able clerics, and two curas and two sacris-
tans.”18 Archbishops Diego Camacho y Ávila (1652–1712) and Juan Ángel
Rodríguez (1687–1742) undertook repairs and restorations of the fourth cathe-
dral building during their reigns (1697–1705 and 1736–42, respectively).
Rodríguez, who arrived in the islands in 1736, was responsible for many major
projects, including the casting of fifteen large bells for the cathedral, the mak-
ing of choirbooks, and the reform of feasts and processions.19 One of his most
significant acts was the revitalization of cathedral music, which culminated in
the foundation of a school for trebles, as we shall see.
During the eighteenth century, musical life in the cathedral began to be
more regular and systematic than it had been in the seventeenth century. An
ecclesiastical survey of the islands carried out in 1742 codified the structure and
salaries of cathedral personnel. Posts with musical involvement included the
chantre and the maestro de ceremonias, who had annual stipends of 500 pesos
and 200 pesos, respectively.20 The latter post had been newly established in the
cathedral, on February 22, 1734,21 and its incumbent was responsible princi-
pally for supervising large events, especially processions. Five hundred silver
ducats were reserved annually for the payment of the pertiguero (beadle), musi-
cians, “and other servants.”22 The term “musicians” here most likely refers to
singers and instrumentalists who were hired for the celebration of major feasts.
Because the post of organist is not mentioned in this document, his salary may
also have been drawn from this particular amount of money. In 1740, one of
the few organists listed by name in the “Libro de gobierno” was Faustino
Magsaisay, whose surname is Tagalog.23
Archbishop Pedro de la Santísima Trinidad Martínez de Arizala (1690–
1755), who arrived in 1747, decided to rebuild the cathedral altogether. The fifth
edifice was designed by “a Florentine architect and engineer,” Giovanni
Uguccioni (a missionary sent east from Rome by the Sacra Congregatio de
Propaganda Fide), who passed by Manila in late 1750. Resembling the Roman
church of Il Gesù in its design and decoration, the cathedral was inaugurated
in 1760 but not completely finished until 1781.24 Arguably the grandest cathe-
dral built in the early modern Philippines, it was depicted in 1792 by Fernando
Brambila (figure 6.1). This was also the most enduring version of the cathedral;
it lasted until it was seriously damaged by an earthquake in 1852.25
It would be expected that such an edifice would have housed one or more
organs that were commensurate with its grandeur. According to Esteban Rojas
y Melo, the obrero mayor in charge of building the fifth cathedral, “an expert
master [organbuilder], and the only one in the islands,” had begun the
construction of an organ “worthy of a cathedral” in 1752, and by that stage it
had already cost 700 pesos.26 It probably incurred further costs by the time of
figure 6.1. Fernando Brambila, Vista de la catedral i plaza de Manila (1792). Museo
Naval. Madrid.
the cathedral’s inauguration, but no relevant documentation has yet been

found. In fact, the only extant early modern inventory of the cathedral, which
dates from 1761, lists just “a small organ that currently serves the church” in
the category of miscellaneous items.27 It is most likely that this entry refers to a
small portative organ that could be moved around the building and used by the
choir. The absence of a large, main organ from this inventory is probably due
to its installation in a fixed position. Equally, the reference to this small instru-
ment “currently serving the church” could indicate that the larger instrument
(apparently built in the 1750s) was temporarily out of order or still under
construction. A grand organ was certainly built in this cathedral, as other doc-
umentation attests to its existence, but it seems that the instrument was under
construction for the larger part of the decade: in his eulogy for the funeral of
Archbishop Rojo del Río, celebrated on June 7, 1764, Ignacio de Salamanca
states that the deceased had paid for the “construction of that big Organ” and
other parts of the cathedral.28 Whatever happened in the second half of the
eighteenth century, we do know that from 1802 to 1806 Diego Cera built a new
organ for this institution.29
Archbishop Rojo del Río also commissioned the making of a number of
facistoles, one of which he sent as a gift to Mexico City Cathedral.30 The 1761
inventory also lists “Missales y Libros de Choro,” among which feature thirteen
books of music. Although few clues to their contents are evident, there were
clearly six large manuscript choirbooks: two contained music for Prime and
Vespers, respectively, and the remaining four contained music for the Offices
of Corpus Christi, Holy Trinity, the Office of the Virgin, Christmas, the Feast
of Saint Peter, and the Feast of the Immaculate Conception. There were also
three printed choirbooks, probably imported from Spain, which were housed
in the colegio de tiples; these were a Psalter, an Antiphonary, and a Gradual.
Lastly, the collection was complemented by two pasionarios, a Gradual, another
Psalter, and an Office for Palm Sunday.31 It is likely that most of the manuscript
choirbooks were those that had been commissioned by Archbishop Rodríguez
(as discussed later).
Following the arrival of Archbishop Sancho de Santas Justa y Rufina, many
reforms were made to the governance of the cathedral. His long reign (1767–
87) saw the expulsion of the Jesuits from the islands in 1768, the indigeniza-
tion of the secular clergy and their installation in many parishes formerly held
by religious orders, and the celebration of the Provincial Council of Manila in
1771. These reforms also resulted in the production of a sizable document titled
“Estatutos, y reglas consuetas de la Santa Metropolitana Yglesia de Manila,” a
normative source that details the celebration of the Divine Office and Mass,
liturgical ceremonies including funeral rites and the administration of the sac-
raments, and the official roles and duties of functionaries in the cathedral.32 Of
particular interest to the musicologist are the chapters detailing the duties of
the chantre, cantores, and organista. In the late eighteenth century, these
positions had developed into roles with quite different responsibilities from
those that had been established two centuries previously.
The chantre was required to be well instructed in music (plainchant and
polyphony), and to give the pitch of everything sung within the choir and in
processions. He was to appoint an ecclesiastic talented in music as sochantre
(succentor), who would act as an assistant and deputy when necessary. The
chantre and sochantre were collectively responsible for the musicians of the
capilla de música, and were required to formulate rosters for the daily singing
of the Divine Office, as well as to direct and instruct the singing of the
Passion, Lamentations, and lessons and prophecies during Holy Week. The
chantre was also responsible for taking care of the choirbooks.33 The can-
tores had to be in attendance for sung Masses (misas cantadas), Vespers, and
Matins, and were required to be familiar with plainchant (canto llano or canto
gregoriano), measured or figured plainchant (canto llano figurado), and
polyphony (canto de órgano). These three styles of singing had their respec-
tive directors: the first was led by the sochantre (who would give the pitch of
Psalms, introits, and responsories), the second by the maestro mayor de cap-
illa, and the third by the maestro de capilla, who was in charge of the entire
ensemble. 34
The organist was required to play for major Masses and holy days. The rul-
ings dictated that the organ must never begin hymns, the Magnificat, or Nunc
dimittis; nor the Eucharistic motets Benedictus Dominus Deus Israel (this ref-
erence could equally refer to the canticle of Zechariah, Luke 1:68–79), Tantum
ergo Sacramentum, and Crux ave spes unica; nor the Gloria Patri or Kyrie.
Rather, these were to be started by the capilla de música. The practice of alterna-
tim was to be avoided in the Gloria and Creed, although the organ was per-
mitted to accompany the musical ensemble (it is likely that this ruling also
applied to the rest of the Ordinary of the Mass).35 All these specifications appear
to have been aligned to an ideal model of practice in Spanish cathedrals; how-
ever, it remains unclear whether there were always sufficient musical resources
to allow in Manila the exact emulation of these rituals.
The “Estatutos, y reglas” also refer to the control of villancico practice in the
cathedral. Chapter 8 in this document (“Methodo que se ha de guardar en
dichos Maytines”) includes descriptions of the division of duties for the singing
of lessons in Matins. It states that although the practice of singing villancicos
immediately after the lessons had been introduced into the cathedral only a
short time previously (the date is not specified), these could not begin until the
end of the responsory, which would be proclaimed in a loud voice by one of the
chaplains “so that everyone hears it.” A further stipulation was that these vil-
lancicos were only permitted on Christmas Eve to contribute to the “solemnity
and universal rejoicing.” On other days with sung Matins, the responsory
would be performed by the choir in Gregorian chant.36 It is likely that these
statutes and rulings remained applicable until the nineteenth century, although
they may have been modified periodically whenever changes to the structure of
the archdiocese and Roman ritual took place.
The fifth cathedral survived more or less intact until 1852, when an earth-
quake damaged it so severely that a new construction was deemed necessary.
However, the sixth cathedral, which was inaugurated in 1858, lasted only five
years: the dome collapsed in a sudden earthquake on June 3, 1863, during the
celebration of Vespers for the feast of Corpus Christi; among the many victims
crushed beneath the rubble were three cantores and four tiples.37 The seventh
cathedral was completed by 1879 and lasted until its destruction by bombing in
1945; the eighth cathedral stands today. The story of this institution’s musical
life seems patchy at present, but further archival research in Manila, Spain,
Mexico, and Rome may reveal much more about music in the cathedral in its
early modern and successive incarnations.
The Colegio de Niños Tiples de la Santa Iglesia Catedral
Boys sang in the cathedral choir from the very foundation of the institution by
Bishop Salazar. These boys were probably sons of Spaniards, but it is likely that
Filipino boys (most likely the sons of nobles) soon entered the ensemble. As we
saw in a previous chapter, the musical skills of Filipino tiplecillos were admired
by Spanish aristocrat Valenzuela, and he took a group of them to Mexico in the
late seventeenth century. It seems that plans were sometimes made to “export”
a small number of tiples from Mexico to the Philippines as well: Marín López
has shown that two seises (a term that refers to choirboys38) from Mexico City
Cathedral, named Miguel and José Ramírez, were ordered to accompany the
archbishop-elect, Carlos Bermúdez de Castro (1678–1729), to the Philippines
in 1722. But although Bermúdez de Castro was presented in Mexico as arch-
bishop of Manila that same year, he was only consecrated in 1725, and then had
to wait three more years for a ship to the Philippines, finally taking possession
of his archdiocese in August 1728. Whether the two boys (presumably teen-
agers by this stage) actually accompanied the archbishop to Manila in 1728 is
unknown.39
We can assume that with all the fluctuations in cathedral organization, and
the constant deterioration and restoration of the building itself, the boys’ choir
was fairly disorganized throughout the seventeenth and early eighteenth cen-
turies, apart from brief periods when individual maestros whipped it (probably
literally) into shape. In a letter to the king written in 1738, shortly after his
arrival in Manila, Archbishop Rodríguez claimed that he had discovered cathe-
dral music to be in a deplorable state.
I established Gregorian chant in the cathedral for the Office and
Mass, which was neither known nor used. There was not a lectern
nor a choirbook, a state of affairs that forced me to teach [liturgical

music] privately in my house. . . . I have already had a good lectern
made, appropriate for the choirbooks, which are [also] being made.
Four of these have already been made at my own cost. . . . A
significant number of cantorcitos [literally “little singers,” or trebles],
or seises, have been added to the choir, and they are dressed in the
style of the cathedrals in Spain. . . . These trebles, who are most
skillful, these Filipinos instructed in polyphony[,] also serve for the
perfection of the [capilla de] musica [sic].40
Although Rodríguez, like most colonial officials, probably exaggerated to sub-
stantiate his pleas for support, this letter likely reflected the vicissitudes of the
colonial situation quite aptly. A year later, he wrote that because on his arrival
he had found no book in the choir other than an old torn Gradual, he had
ordered sixteen choirbooks to be made, at a cost of 670 pesos. These must have
been produced in local scriptoria (probably within the convents of Intramuros),
and their contents were probably copied from or based on Spanish or Mexican
models. Archbishop Rodríguez boasted of their luxuriousness, stating that they
could shine in the richest cathedral of Spain “without embarrassment.”41
But choirbooks by themselves were of little use; the archbishop needed
singers to transform script into sound. After further petitions, and having
taught music himself since 1737, Rodríguez formally founded a school for tre-
bles, the Colegio de Niños Tiples de la Santa Iglesia Catedral, in June 1739.42 In
a letter to Felipe V (1683–1746), he described the reason for his actions, and
listed the frustrations he encountered in reinstituting the practice of plainchant
(canto llano) in the cathedral.
I took the license of maintaining eighteen boys, who, instructed [in
music], attend the choir at all the Hours [of the Divine Office], six by
six with long habits and surplices. Together they serve as trebles for
the [capilla de] música. I have experimented with this to very good
effect, for although some prebendaries are [still] missing, the Hours
will be said with more decency and volume so that they will be able to
be heard even outside the church, whereas beforehand they could not
even be heard inside the church. And together with this I have
introduced plainchant—which has never been practiced here—to the
clergy. It is sung by all the Filipinos, [who] cause an intolerable
disarray, as they are badly instructed in the rules of music, and are
overall ignorant of them, and of Latin.43
Rodríguez was mistaken in writing that plainchant had “never been practiced”
in Manila, but perhaps there was a hiatus in its use at the time of his arrival.
The following part of this letter suggests that before the archbishop made a
final decision on the number of tiples, there were already many Filipino singers
in the cathedral. They came dressed in Filipino style, and in Rodríguez’s eyes
they made for “a sorry sight.” He gradually replaced these singers by the eigh-
teen tiples “dressed in the style of Spain.”44 The wearing of the uniform may
have acted as a requirement for admission to the cathedral’s capilla and a way
of weeding out Filipino singers not wanted by Rodríguez. If this is the case,
then it appears that indigenous musicians in ecclesiastical institutions had to
yield to those who wielded power. The tiples were first instructed in the house
of Isidoro Arévalo, precentor of the cathedral chapter, but were subsequently
moved into the archbishop’s palace in 1742.45 The real cédula formalizing the
establishment of the Colegio de Niños Tiples was signed at Aranjuéz on April
26, 1742.46 An obra pía (“pious work,” meaning a financial bequest) with a
principal of 3,972 pesos was established for the maintenance of eighteen seises,
and included a monthly allowance of rice.47 However, Rodríguez died on June
24, 1742, not long after the cédula had been signed in Spain but before this
news of the royal approval arrived in the Philippines.48 The following decade,
Juan de la Fuente Yepes (d. 1757), bishop of Nueva Segovia, bequeathed houses
and money to the Colegio.49
The wording of Rodríguez’s letter cited above is slightly ambiguous, but it
is clear that tiples of Filipino parentage were included in the Colegio de Niños
Tiples from the date of its foundation. They were accepted alongside Spaniards,
but other racial strictures were set in place. In his historical account of c. 1946,
Gutiérrez y Maríveles claimed that “according to the will of Archbishop
Rodriguez this College was opened to receive Spanish, Mestizo and pure
Filipino boys, provided they are good for the choir service. Negro or mestizo
negro boys were excluded.”50 We do not know the original ethnic make-up of
this group of trebles; the only record of identities that has been preserved from
the eighteenth century is a listing of the names of five tiples from the original
intake, reproduced by Gutiérrez y Maríveles: “Cristobal Damaso, Clau[di]o
Severo, Bartolome de los Santos, Pedro de los Reyes, Juan de la Cruz.”51 It is
impossible to determine the ethnicity of these boys from their names alone,
but it is likely that a significant proportion of the original eighteen boys was
indigenous or mestizo, as Rodríguez’s letter suggests. Following the foundation
of the colegio, six tiples were required to attend the cathedral daily, and “for this
purpose they were divided into [three] groups. The boys attended processions
and solemn functions performed by the Cathedral Chapter,” and were provided
with red silk cassocks and white linen surplices as uniforms.52
The foundation of this Colegio de Niños Tiples was one of the most impor-
tant developments for music in the cathedral and has been cited by a number
of histories of Manila and the Philippines as being of seminal importance in
the growth of music schools in the country.53 The Colegio operated as a center
of music education in Manila for over 200 years, until the destruction of
Intramuros in 1945. However, there have been no detailed studies of the insti-
tution as it existed in the second half of the eighteenth century. One possible
reason for this lacuna is that it flowered in the following century, taking on
characteristics similar to conservatories in continental Europe. But it was still
definitely geared toward ecclesiastical music, leading Rizal to comment on the
absence of conservatories in the Philippines, as we saw in a previous chapter.
A short account of the “Boys’ Singing School,” dating from 1901, proffers
a working picture of the Colegio at the end of the Spanish colonial period,
describing the nineteenth-century methods (treatises) used in the musical
instruction of the boys, following the curriculum of the Conservatorio de
Madrid, including Hilarión Eslava (1807–78) for singing and harmony, José
Aranguren de Aviñarro (1812–1903) for piano, Román Jimeno Ibáñez
(1799/1800–74) for organ, Delphin Alard (1815–88) for violin, and Antonio
Romero y Andía (1815–85) for vocalization (solmization).54 It also maintains
that the school “has subsisted and still subsists with the same property from
the pious bequest of its foundation.”55 Although the names of some maestres-
cuelas (“schoolmasters,” really teachers of theology) can be gleaned from late
eighteenth-century records, there is no evidence for the substance of the curric-
ulum between the foundation of the school in 1742 and the late nineteenth
century, for the theory course of Eslava and other pedagogic methods were
probably only employed in the final few decades of the nineteenth century, as
Maceda has pointed out.56
The survival of relevant archival data has allowed us to sketch the foundation
story of a significant center of European musical training in early modern Asia,
established by an archbishop of Manila with funding from Spain. What began
as a humble enterprise flourished into a successful music school in the
nineteenth century. It is important to remember, however, that the cathedral,
though a principal player, was not the only institution that fostered rigorously
codified music-making or trained tiples for musical service in the church. The
male religious orders made some of the most prominent contributions to
musical life within Manila, and the rich and diverse documentation of their
musical activities serves to reveal a colorful picture of music within and beyond
the cloisters of their institutions.
Institutions for Men and Boys
The seminal role of convents and monasteries in the musical lives of cities of
the early modern Hispanic world has recently become a fruitful area of study.
Far from being completely isolated, cloistered communities, it is clear that
members of these institutions were actively involved in musical performance,
pedagogy, and composition. In early modern Manila, the constant need for
their interaction with the wider metropolitan community for such purposes as
the acquisition, fabrication, and maintenance of musical commodities (such as
instruments and sheet music), the employment of outside musicians for major
performances, and participation in civic celebrations all positioned convents as

primary centers of music-making and music education. Moreover, their links
with other institutional nodes in the worldwide networks of the various reli-
gious orders provided the means by which currency in the art form and the
academic discipline of music could be sustained.
The Augustinian, Dominican, Franciscan, and Recollect orders were
bound to their daily duties of the Divine Office. (The Society of Jesus was not a
religious order in the sense of the other mendicant congregations present in
Manila—its members did not sing daily in choir, nor did it retain a “convent”
or “monastery” as such—thus the musical lives of Jesuits are discussed later,
along with those of musicians in Manila’s other churches and chapels.) The
documentation surviving from Manila is not sufficiently consistent to allow the
detailed reconstruction of the role of music in locally specific liturgical prac-
tices. But because liturgy in Manila did not deviate significantly from patterns
and traditions established in Spain and Latin America, what is of more interest
here is a consideration of how the musical prowess of members of religious
orders permeated the fabric of civic society. In this sense, musicians from these
communities appear to have made a tangible contribution through perfor-
mances for important feasts in their own churches and especially by their par-
ticipation in public festivities, whether by means of composition, pedagogic
dissemination, or practical music making.
Convents in the Philippine colonial milieu—and we should note that in
the Hispanic world the use of the term convento (convent) usually refers to an
institution for men—differed markedly from their European counterparts. The
“mother houses” in Manila sought to act primarily as an administrative base
for the work of each religious order throughout the islands. They also provided
a sanctuary where newly arrived religious could acclimatize and study the lan-
guages and cultural traditions of different Filipino groups before being dis-
patched to missions in the provinces—but relatively few religious were in
residence at any one time.57 The Augustinian Convento de San Pablo (more
commonly called Convento de San Agustín), the Franciscan Convento de San
Francisco, the Dominican Convento de Santo Domingo, the Recollect Convento
de San Nicolás de Tolentino, and the Convento de San Juan de Dios with its
hospital were all within the walled city, a short walking (or processional) dis-
tance from the cathedral, and they housed a considerable number of skilled
musicians. A small number of extant records identify the musicians (some of
whom were Filipinos) who held posts including organist, chapelmaster (mae-
stro de capilla), vicar choral (vicario del coro, more or less equivalent to the role
of the chapelmaster), and the makers of musical instruments and choirbooks
(cantorales) in convents of Manila. Associated institutions such as colegios also
benefited from musical interaction with conventual musicians.
Several Augustinians, in particular, had a musical influence that spread far
beyond the walls of San Pablo. The surviving documentation concerning these
musicians is the most detailed of any of the religious orders and congregations
in early modern Manila. This is due primarily to the biographical information
contained in the work of Agustín María de Castro (Pedro Andrés de Castro y
Amuedo), whom Retana dubbed “the greatest bibliographer of the Philippines.”58
Castro’s necrological work is a valuable font of biographical and bibliographical
data, and it has been a source for many subsequent studies on the work of the
Augustinian order in the Philippines. It reveals, for instance, that many of
the most renowned Augustinian musicians who went to the Philippines had
originally been based at the Convento de San Felipe el Real in Madrid, where
they had professed and/or had been coristas.
One of these musicians was the “Augustinian Orpheus” Lorenzo Castelló,
who, as mentioned in an earlier chapter, spent many years in the Visayas,
teaching music and administering the sacraments, before returning to Manila.
In 1732 he directed sumptuous vocal and instrumental performances for the fes-
tivities surrounding the inauguration of the church and convent of San Juan de
Dios. Hospitaler Juan Manuel Maldonado de Puga describes how the octavario
(the seventh day after the initial feast, or an eight-day period beginning with the
feast) of these celebrations was enhanced by the coordination of multiple ensem-
bles in the city (“Maestros, y demàs Ministriles”) “to make up a sumptuous choir”
for Vespers under Castelló’s direction.59 This account demonstrates a high level
of cooperation and interconventual participation among the religious orders of
Manila. Given that the cathedral was periodically out of action due to natural
disasters, probably with dire implications for its capilla de música, it appears that
the musicians from convents rose to a position of great prominence in the city,
especially in terms of their direction of public musical performances for celebra-
tory occasions. Castro writes that Castelló also “reformed and added to all the
choirbooks” in the convent of Manila; having “rare ability as a composer,” he left
six volumes of works: two volumes “in folio” of Misas clásicas, another two of
Vespers settings and “various processions,” and two “big volumes” of villancicos
and arias.60 Two manuscript treatises, one on plainchant and another on
polyphony, have also been attributed to Castelló.61 However, none of these works
have yet been located, and they probably do not survive.
Another illustrious Augustinian musician to come to the islands was Juan
Bolívar (1708–54), who had been the vicar choral (vicario del coro) at Madrid’s
San Felipe el Real for eighteen years. From his original base in Madrid, he was
solicited by Toledo Cathedral for a permanent position as a singer, being offered
an annual salary of 600 pesos and licenses from Rome; Mexico City Cathedral
made him a similar offer. Instead, he traveled to Manila, arriving in 1739, and
he soon became renowned for his exquisite ability in singing and his “incom-
parable vocal timbre,” with the result that many groups of people traveled large
distances to hear him. Apparently a proficient player of the organ, harp, violin,
recorder, and many other instruments, he was also a competent composer; his
polyphonic villancicos and settings of the Gloria and Creed, in “three folio
volumes” (also lost), were “kept in the sacristy” of the Augustinian convent.
His influence spread far beyond Manila, for at the age of thirty-three he was
sent to the Augustinian missions on the Visayan island of Panay, where “almost
all of the [indigenous] maestros de capilla . . . were his disciples.”62
Besides Castelló and Bolívar, many other prominent instrumentalists,
singers, and choirmasters are mentioned by biographers of the Augustinian
order, and these men were responsible for the production of multiple canto-
rales and treatises on music.63 Most of the musicians identified in the chroni-
cles originally came from Spain, but several were born in the Americas.64
Information on musicians from the Augustinian order in Manila thus illus-
trates their musical activities within and outside the walls of their convents,
indicating the extent to which they interacted with the local population as per-
formers and pedagogues. Some of them were evidently well-respected musi-
cians in Spain and the Americas, yet, like Bolívar, they prioritized their religious
calling and mission to the Philippines over secure positions at wealthy institu-
tions in major Spanish cities. In this respect, their vocational choices empha-
size the primacy of the religious enterprise in the most distant colony of the
Spanish Empire. It is also worth noting that a probable reason the most profi-
cient European musicians in early modern Asia were predominantly those
from religious orders and congregations was that religious institutions provided
stable sociocultural and economic contexts in which these men and women
could practice their art.
Although it is acknowledged that numerous Filipino musicians were active
in the convents of Manila during the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, so
far only two have been identified by name in chronicles; both of them were
hermanos legos (lay brothers) of the Augustinian order. One, Marcelo de San
Agustín (d. 1697), who was of noble birth, was praised by famous chronicler
Gaspar de San Agustín in this way:
We have a brother in religion, called Brother Marcelo de San
Agustín, native to this city, who could be the crown[ing glory] of the
Tagalogs, for his rare virtue, and for the good service he has rendered
to the Convent of Manila, in various capacities, all those for which
God gave him ability. For he is the most dextrous organist known
among the Filipinos, who are very skillful in playing instruments; he
is a composer, and master of the singers, and minor sacristan, and
has made and written many choirbooks, and above all, he is a great
servant of God.65
This was high praise indeed, coming as it did from an Augustinian who later
wrote a long diatribe about the supposed “indolence” of the Filipino population.66
But although the biographical account of Marcelo has been noted by a number of
historians of Filipino music as an example of a hispanized ecclesiastical musi-
cian, no notice has been taken of the importance of subsequent comments made
by Gaspar de San Agustín, who must have known his subject personally. Gaspar
elaborated that Marcelo’s “parents were nobles, and on the site where the church
and sacristy of the [Augustinian] Convent of Manila are presently situated, stood
houses and lands of his grandfather, a reason that motivated him to take up the
Habit.”67 The significance of this link cannot be emphasized enough: music
provided the means by which Marcelo could continue to assert his familial
authority on his ancestral lands within the structure of the colonial regime.
Given the racial strictures on entry to the religious orders, there was no other
way Marcelo could rise to prominence within this institution.68 Through his
direction of the Augustinian coro (and possibly also the capilla de música), he
regained some element of control over the very institution that had usurped his
dynastic seat. If we are to trace his ancestry back some further generations, we can
see an even more remarkable lineage: as Santiago has shown, Marcelo de San
Agustín was in fact a direct descendant (a great-great-grandson) of none other
than Rajah Soliman, the ruler of the original settlement of Maynilad, who had
been unseated by Legazpi in 1571.69 The distinction of Marcelo as the best organist
“among the Filipinos” suggests that a large number of indigenous instrumental-
ists were employed in this capacity. Although many were surely local, some eccle-
siastical musicians in the city came from further afield. For example, Juan Alfaro,
the other named Filipino musician, was from Tanauan on the Visayan island of
Leyte; he professed as a lay brother in the Convento de San Pablo on September
15, 1695, and held the post of organist there for twenty years.70 He would have
known—and was possibly taught by—Marcelo de San Agustín.
Whereas musicians associated with the Augustinian order are relatively
well documented, few Dominican musicians are mentioned by name in early
modern chronicles and archives of their Provincia del Santísimo Rosario. An
exception can be found in the description of Francisco de la Maza (d. 1703),
who was a “sculptor, painter, and musician all at once.”71 According to Domingo
Collantes (d. 1808), Maza taught the youths of his house in a Dominican
mission in the Province of Pangasinan; “some to paint, others to sculpt, and
others to play various musical instruments, all of which were directed towards
the worship of God, and the adornment of His temples.”72 Manila’s Convento
de Santo Domingo boasted at least two organs in the mid-eighteenth century;
these were mentioned in 1742 by Diego Saenz (1694–1742), the convent’s prior
at that time: “such [was] the tuneful consonance, and sweet melody of various
musical instruments; especially the great Organ of the two, contained in our
Choir, [which is] the admiration of all who know what it cost, and what it is!”73
The “great organ” must have been acquired shortly before the time of Saenz’s
writing, although whether it was constructed locally or imported from Mexico
or Spain is impossible to extrapolate. The confraternity of Nuestra Señora del
Rosario also had its own organ in the Dominican church (as we shall see later),
and this was probably housed in the Capilla del Rosario. In Santo Domingo,
there appears to have been a rich tradition of singing polyphonic Masses on
major feast days, as we know from a beautifully preserved volume dating from
1741 that sets out all the ceremonies “pertaining to the Divine Cult.”74 As well
as detailing the convent’s own performance practices, it describes how the con-
vent’s singers would sometimes be augmented by those from elsewhere in the
city, for instance on the feast of Saint Mark, when the cabildo would bring its
own cantores for the singing of Mass, and even its own choirbooks.75
The Dominicans in Manila played an important role as educators, teaching
at levels that ranged from the most elementary rudiments of literacy to the
most complex parts of standard European university curricula. The Colegio de
San Juan de Letrán, which had originally been founded as an orphanage (for
Spanish boys) in 1630, was one of the principal primary schools of the
Dominicans; it was widely considered to be a preparatory school for the
Dominican University of Santo Tomás.76 Music was included in its curriculum,
as Fernández Navarrete reported in 1675:
Some other Matters of less moment concerning Manila had like to
have slip’d me, but it is not fit they should be forgot. One is a College
call’d of the Children of S. John Lateran; it was founded by a Lay-
Brother of my Order, his name B. James of S. Mary: In my time it had
once above 200 Boys, to the great benefit of the Islands. His way of
governing them was inimitable, he taught them to read, write,
Grammar and Musick; for Philosophy and Divinity they came to our
College [the University of Santo Tomás]. He cloth’d them twice a
Year, taught them their Christian Doctrine in the morning before
Breakfast; they said the third part of the Rosary divided into two
Choirs, another third at noon, and the other third in the evening,
with the Salve and Litanies of our Lady. . . . From thence some went to
be Soldiers, some Clergymen; others into the Religious Orders of S.
Dominick, S. Francis, and S. Augustin. So that it was a nursery of
Spiritual and Temporal Soldiers. . . . An Heroick Undertaking!77
Although this school was originally intended for the education of Spanish boys,
mestizos and some aristocratic Filipinos were also admitted.78 Little other
information has emerged concerning the musical life of San Juan de Letrán or
processes of music education there before the ninteenth century. However,
given that Fernández Navarrete claims the boys were taught “Philosophy and
Divinity” at the University of Santo Tomás, it seems possible that they also
received some training in music theory there.
Institutions for Women and Girls
In early modern Manila, there were several institutions intended specifically

for the religious vocation or education of women and girls. These included a
nunnery (the Real Monasterio de Santa Clara), a number of institutions called

beaterios, and several colegios.79 Although Santa Clara was officially open only
to Spanish women and Spanish mestizas, the beaterios were intended pri-
marily for women of Asian parentage who wished to live as a religious
community, and many of these institutions were established in Manila from
the late seventeenth century onward. Their founders were pious Filipino or
mestiza women who, sometimes together with Spanish (or criolla) laywomen,
petitioned the respective religious orders for approval. In terms of colegios for
girls, the foremost were those of Santa Potenciana, founded in 1589 for daugh-
ters of Spanish officers, and Santa Isabel, founded by the Hermandad de la
Santa Mesa de Misericordia, for the education and housing of Spanish girls.80
Within the Southeast Asian region, Manila figured prominently as a metrop-
olis where there was a considerable number of institutions in which women
could devote themselves to spiritual lives.
The Monasterio de Santa Clara was founded at the instigation of Jerónima
de la Asunción, also known as Jerónima de la Fuente (1555–1630), a Poor Clare
from Toledo.81 In 1620, she sailed from Spain with nine sisters (one of whom
died at sea), and they arrived at the Philippines the following year. They made an
official entry to Intramuros on August 5, where they were greeted by “nine angelic
choirs” symbolizing the nine nuns. A wealthy lady, Doña Ana de Vera, offered
them land in Sampaloc, Extramuros, and in 1622 a monastery was constructed,
but this building was short-lived due to the earthquakes of 1645 and 1658. The
nuns were transferred to Intramuros, where a new monastery was established,
and from this time until the end of World War II, they lived in the Real Monasterio
de Santa Clara—with the exception of the British occupation of 1762–64, when
they were relocated to the Franciscan convent of Santa Ana de Sapa.82
In 1662, Bartolomé de Letona published in Mexico the writings of Sor
Jerónima as three books (bound as one), prefacing them with a description of
Manila.83 He devoted book I to a biography of this foundress of Santa Clara;
books II and III reproduce Sor Jerónima’s teachings, meditations (titled
Oracion), and annotations of the rule and constitutions of the Poor Clares.
Within her Oracion, Sor Jerónima quotes a poem by Saint Teresa de Ávila,
Vuestra soy, para vos nací (the only poetry contained within her writings, as
published by Letona), although she does not acknowledge the authorship of the
famous Carmelite nun.84 Sor Jerónima, who clearly admired Saint Teresa, evi-
dently found this poem a source of great religious inspiration. The authorship
of Vuestra soy was later (mistakenly) attributed to Sor Jerónima in a musical
setting by an anonymous composer in Manila, for which Letona’s publication
was used as the source of the text (both Letona’s name and the correct folio
number are cited).85
Although little documentation of early modern musical practice in Santa
Clara has survived, it is known that in the late seventeenth century Filipino
craftsman Alonso of Camarines constructed an organ that was installed in the
Monasterio.86 It is probable that one of the sisters held the post of organista.
Few directives for musical practice are included in a combined volume of the
regla and constituciones for this institution, published in 1729. They do, how-
ever, detail the responsibilities for the vicaria del coro, who “must take great
care that the Divine Office is sung and prayed with much devotion, saying it
with all due unhurriedness, everyone beginning and ending together at the
same time, so that there is uniformity, and consonance, taking great care, in
assisting the nuns in what is sung and prayed.”87
More evidence for music in Santa Clara exists for the nineteenth century:
María Concepción Echevarría Carril and María Alexandra Gil Iñigo Chua have
independently examined the four choirbooks printed by the monastery annually
from 1871 to 1874. These books contain “music for the Office of the Dead (Oficio
de Difuntos), . . . music for the mass, processions and benedictions (Misas Clasicas,
processiones y benediciones), . . . music for the Divine Office such as Vespers and
Matins (Visperas y Matines), and . . . miscellaneous music such as villancicos, Salve
Reginas, Motetes, Gozos, the Miserere, Antiphons and others.”88 Much of the
notation was mensural with square and diamond noteheads; these publications
were disseminated throughout the island and were used in parish churches as far
afield as the island of Bohol.89 It is possible that this collection of canto llano, canto
llano figurado, and canto de órgano developed from the early modern musical
traditions of the monastery, but at this stage no more details are known.
Although the music of the Poor Clares appears to have been performed by
Filipinos in parish churches throughout the archipelago by the late nineteenth
century, the atmosphere of the monastery itself long remained almost exclu-
sively Spanish. The regulations of the early eighteenth century stipulated strict
racial requirements for the religiosas del coro in Santa Clara:
Inasmuch as the Mother Founders bore witness of the most wicked
inconveniences that can originate in the Community from giving the
habit of the religiosa del coro to pure Filipinas, and since the
foundation [of the monastery] until the present [they] have practiced
the non-admittance [of Filipinas] to the Choir, unless they [the
Filipinas] are daughters of Spanish fathers, or mothers; we order that
the Provincial Minister should not give license, nor should the
Mother Abbess admit under any pretext a pure Filipina to be a
choir-novice, even if she should be of aristocratic birth.90
Still, many native women petitioned the Monasterio de Santa Clara asking for
entry to its cloisters: Santiago has shown that in 1628 Doña María Úray (“úray”
signifying “lady rajah”) wrote asking to take up the veil or even to become a
“slave” in the monastery but was twice rejected.91 In 1631 or 1632, the first
Filipina nun, a Kapampangan woman named Sor Martha de San Bernardo
(c. 1605–50), was allowed to enter the monastery and take the veil. Two more
Kapampangan women, Sor Madalena de la Concepcion (c. 1610–85) and Sor
Juana de Sanct Anttonio (1600–71), were admitted in the 1630s. But they were
probably classed as monjas legas, or lay nuns, who were required to carry out
menial tasks, and they were exceptions, for no other indigenous women were
allowed to enter Santa Clara until the 1880s.92
It seems that these sorts of petitions and exceptions advanced the cause for
religious institutions to be founded for native women. Although Sor Jerónima’s
initial attempt to make such a foundation had been frustrated by bureaucracy,
success came by the end of the seventeenth century. Around this time, groups
of Filipinas, mestizas, and some criollas (who had hesitated to enter Santa
Clara but who nevertheless followed the life of a Tertiary) met in community
for prayer and reflection; they gradually began, in the words of Nick Joaquin
(1917–2004), “to emulate the strict observance of a formal nunnery. The mem-
bers went to church as a group, rose in the night to sing in chorus the matins
of the Virgin, fasted as one, [and] experimented together in the forms of mental
prayer.”93 Eventually the various groups were recognized and formalized as
beaterios. By the end of the eighteenth century, there were five significant insti-
tutions of this type within and around Manila, each attached to a major reli-
gious congregation. These were Santa Catalina de Sena (attached to the
Dominican order), San Sebastian de Calumpang (Recollects), that of the
Compañía (Jesuits), Santa Rita de Pasig (Recollects), and Santa Rosa de Lima
(Dominicans).94 The beaterios were also responsible for the education of young
girls, and some developed into colegios that were prominent in music teaching
during the nineteenth century.
Musical traditions of beaterios probably imitated those of Santa Clara to
some degree. Dominican historian Vicente de Salazar wrote in 1742 that the
beatas of Santa Catalina “know plainchant and music very well, and certainly
appear to be a choir of angels, celebrating all these Offices with great devo-
tion.”95 He detailed their daily schedule:
In the morning at five o’clock, they enter Choir, where they have half
an hour of mental prayer, and afterwards they pray Prime and Terce
of the Officio parvo [Little Office of the Blessed Virgin Mary], and
hear Mass. At half past ten they pray Sext and None, and also a part
of the Rosary. At two o’clock they return to pray again, together with
Vespers, and again at five o’clock after Compline, having sung the
Salve beforehand, and pray also the Litany of Our Lady, with some
other preces and prayers. At seven o’clock in the evening they pray
Matins, and have another half-hour of mental prayer. As they already
have the concession of the King our Lord to celebrate the Divine
Office, on some days of solemnity they sing Mass, and others also
Vespers and Matins, conforming to the hierarchy of the festivities.96
Music thus formed a significant part of all beatas’ devotional lives, from the
time of their entry to a beaterio and throughout their lives as religious devotees.97
Devotional songs in indigenous idioms probably figured among the musical

practices of the beatas, although in 1756 Governor Arandía banned them from
speaking Tagalog or using Tagalog prayer books in the beaterios.98 This kind of
ruling, although it may simply have been ignored, may have discouraged the
singing of traditional songs—even the singing of Tagalog texts to hispanized
music—and boosted the practice of singing devotional songs in Spanish, but it
is impossible to know to what extent this ban may have had effect in such a
private environment as a beaterio. Some beaterios formulated strict sets of
rules that governed the use of music. For instance, the constitutions of the
Jesuit beaterio, which date from 1726 (and were probably composed in a large
part by the Jesuit spiritual directors of the beatas), mandated the performance
of a misa cantada on Saturdays but forbade the entry of “music or dancers into
the house or the garden in order for sisters to play instruments, to sing, or to
dance.”99 Strict social and religious counterpoint depended on and functioned
by means of the imposition of these sorts of rules by the hegemonic power
structure onto the multiple voices of colonial society, especially onto commu-
nities of people whose race and sex rendered them doubly marginalized. But
the Filipina beatas had challenged racial discrimination through their persis-
tence and their eventual recognition by colonial authorities, and in this sense
they presented a very visible and audible counterpoint to the Spanish nuns.
Chapels and Parish Churches
Besides the churches and chapels that were linked directly to convents and the
Clarisse monastery, many others maintained elaborate musical traditions.
Among the prominent chapels within the city walls were those of the Venerable
Orden Tercera de San Francisco and the Hermandad de la Santa Mesa de
Misericordia, as well as the Jesuit church of San Ignacio and the capilla real.
There still exists information relating to the musical lives of these wealthy insti-
tutions. Major parish churches of Extramuros with significant musical tradi-
tions included Tondo, Malate, Binondo, Santa Cruz, Quiapo, the Parian, and
Hermita (now Ermita). Isolated pieces of archival data permit the construction
of a mosaic-like picture of the prevailing musical trends in parochial spaces and
in private or exclusive chapels.
The Venerable Orden Tercera de San Francisco maintained a chapel adja-
cent to the Franciscan convent in Intramuros (figure 6.2). The order was
founded in the Convento de San Francisco in 1611; in 1618, a small chapel was
erected for the order’s use, and this served for religious celebrations until 1723,
when “it was rebuilt and enlarged.” The new edifice was completed in 1733 and
dedicated the following year.100 The constitutions for this order, published in
1746, make few explicit references to music, but they describe how major fes-
tivities were celebrated in the chapel with “the greatest brilliance, and authority,”
figure 6.2. Fernando Brambila, Vista de la plaza de San Francisco en Manila (1792).
Museo Naval. Madrid.
with the attendance of the governor, archbishop, and Franciscan provincial,

together with members of the Franciscan convent.101 After an election within
the order, all the hermanos were required to gather together to sing the Te
Deum.102 Later the hymn Veni creator Spiritus would be sung “after the can-
tores,” with some verses performed by the presiding brother, and the cantores
would finish with the Benedicamus Domino.103 According to chronicler Huerta,
who wrote in 1865, “every year on the Tuesday of Holy Week, the loving and
devoted procession of the via sacra would proceed along the streets of Manila
and conclude with a fervent sermon in the church of our convent.”104 He also
described how the motets for four voices by Péris de la Concepción, mentioned
in an earlier chapter, were in fact composed in the late seventeenth century for
the express purpose of being sung during this same procession.105 Given that
the reference to these motets comes from the late nineteenth century, it is pos-
sible that they were still known at that time and that these same works became
part of an annual tradition.
The Jesuit church of San Ignacio in Intramuros was a splendid building
replete with paintings and sculptures. Murillo Velarde boasted of it: “I believe
that the church is the most beautiful, the best made, the strongest, the most
magnificent, and has the best design of any [church] that the Company [Society
of Jesus] has in all the Indies.”106 The prominent role music played in this
church is demonstrated by archival evidence from the late sixteenth and mid-
seventeenth centuries. An early milestone in the musical life of this institution
was the donation in 1594 by the wealthy merchant Captain Esteban Rodríguez
de Figueroa of an ensemble of nine “black slaves” (“esclavos negros”), who
played recorders and shawms.107 It is possible that these musicians came from
and received their musical training in Mexico, where Africans were often
instructed in ecclesiastical music; more likely, however, they could have come
directly from Africa or the Indian subcontinent via Portuguese trade routes.
The Jesuit annual letter of 1595–96 makes a brief reference to their musical
skills: “We also have for Sundays and feasts a musical ensemble of nine slave
musicians which Captain . . . Figueroa, our founder, left us for this purpose.
These [musicians] play very well, already with shawms and recorders, for the
devotional uplifting of those who hear Mass in [our] house.”108 This musical
group seems also to have directed and/or accompanied a choir of Tagalogs,
who sang at celebrations of Mass and Vespers, and performed for other acts of
public devotion and penance.109 Costa describes the catechetical instructions
preceding the sung Vespers as being “so well attended that many people who
could not squeeze into the church stood outside in the street and the plaza to
listen. . . . Noting the great delight the Tagalogs took in church music, Prat [vice-
provincial of the Jesuit Province from 1596] permitted all the Sunday Masses in
which a sermon was given to be sung with choir and orchestra [that is, an
ensemble of shawms and recorders].”110
San Ignacio continued to enjoy a healthy musical life during the seven-
teenth century. According to a memorandum from Father Provincial Rafael de
Bonafé (1606–68) to the Society’s Father General Gianpaolo Oliva in 1665, so
much music was performed in the liturgy—especially villancicos—that official
visitors were hesitant to attend feast days there.
His Excellency the Governor and the gentlemen of the royal audiencia
are most reluctant to attend our feast days because at the solemn
Mass two villancicos are usually sung, lasting almost half an hour;
and now, by order of your Paternity, the creed, the preface, the
paternoster, and all the other parts of the Mass so designated by the
rubrics must be sung too; all of which, added to the sermon, which is
usually of some length, they find it very hard to sit through. In the
cathedral they intone the creed, but they go on with the Mass without
waiting for the choir to finish singing. They do not sing the pater-
noster nor the Pax Domini nor even the Preface, because it is very hot
in this country.111
The tropical climate of Manila, not to mention the many layers of clothing that
would have been worn within church, evidently made for an uncomfortable
experience, one that was prolonged by the importance given to the performance
of villancicos. Costa, who identified this document in Roman archives in the
mid-twentieth century, noted that “the rest of the passage is difficult to read
because of a patch on the manuscript; but enough is legible to make it clear that
Bonafé wanted permission to adopt the short cuts of the cathedral. Father
General Oliva’s laconic reply would have rejoiced the heart of Saint Pius X:
‘The solution is simple; omit the villancicos or make them very short.’ ”112
Whether this directive was in fact applied we do not know. But as we see in the
next chapter, villancicos and other devotional genres in vernacular languages
were regulated or suppressed in the late seventeenth century—especially in
their use in the misas de aguinaldo, celebrated each morning on the nine days
before Christmas—but they later regained permission for use. A “custom
book” for the Colegio de San Ignacio dating from 1752 reveals that “serious and
devout” villancicos were being sung during the misas de aguinaldo, and that
extra money (in the sum of four reales) was allocated to feed the cantores each
morning.113
In 1768, the order for the expulsion of the Jesuits from the Philippines was
put into effect, and extensive inventories of all the Society’s possessions had to
be made at the time of their seizure by functionaries of the state. Given that
musical instruments were usually considered to belong to an institution rather
than an individual, it is unsurprising that many are found listed in the inventory
of items confiscated (or “compulsorily acquired”) from the church of the
Colegio Máximo de San Ignacio. Two viols, two violins, a harp, two oboes, a
dulcian, a drum, and a rattle were held in one case, while “a well-treated
medium[-sized] organ with all of its parts” was held in another. The organ
(which, given the description of its size, was probably portative) was valued at
almost five times the amount of all the other instruments put together; its con-
siderable worth may imply that it had been imported from Mexico or Spain,
rather than being a local product. The variety of stringed and wind instruments
located there suggests that the scoring of concerted music performed in this
church—liturgical or paraliturgical genres such as settings of the Mass
Ordinary, Psalms, canticles, and villancicos—reflected mid-eighteenth-century
compositional trends in Spain and Latin America, where voices were usually
accompanied by two melodic lines (in which violins and oboes doubled or alter-
nated) and basso continuo (in this case played by viols, harp, dulcian, and
organ). The percussion instruments (drum and rattle) were most likely used in
the performance of festive villancicos and other paraliturgical devotional music.
Within the cases were also found “various pieces of sheet music and solfa
notation” (“varios papeles de música y puntos de Solfa”), which were taken into
the charge of the judge making the inventory. The scribe writes that the sheets
of music would be placed with other manuscripts from the colegio for
identification and inventory, but no further documentation has emerged.114
Thus was the inglorious end of the first period of Jesuit musical influence in
Manila, before the reestablishment of the Society of Jesus in the Philippines in

1859.
Another opulent religious building in Intramuros was the capilla real,
which was founded in 1636 by Governor Don Sebastián Hurtado de Corcuera
(d. 1660). Situated beside the door of the almacenes and close to the fort of
Santiago, it was dedicated to “la Encarnación de Nuestra Señora.”115 Its principal
purpose was to serve as a parish church and burial place for the soldiers of the
Tercio de Manila and to carry out functions and celebrations of the real audien-
cia.116 Because there was a need for a group of boys to assist at services as aco-
lytes, sacristans, and tiples, Corcuera (who had also approved the foundation of
the Colegio de San Juan de Letrán) arranged for the students of San Juan de
Letrán to act in these roles in return for the payment of an annual subsidy.117
There is a dearth of information relating to music in the early modern capilla
real, but several contemporary observers attested to the great skill of the singers
and classed them among the best in the islands. Letona, for instance, stated in
1662 that the chapel had “a choir, an organ, and a famous chorus of singers,”
and this same observation was repeated in 1738 by Juan Francisco de San
Antonio, who made a point of emphasizing the material wealth of the chapel,
especially in terms of its rich ornamentation.118 Delgado noted that the great
expense of the decoration, which was heavy in gold, corresponded to “the reality
of the [royal] name,” and that the “good choir of singers” had “proportionate
salaries.”119 Although little other early modern documentation survives, we can
very likely assume that a position in the musical ensemble of Manila’s capilla
real was highly prized and well paid, given the institution’s elite patronage and
its wealthy state.
One of the most splendid parish churches of Extramuros was that of Ermita,
which housed the image of Nuestra Señora de Guía. Devotion to this manifesta-
tion of the Virgin Mary had strong local resonance for the colony, and a significant
cult grew up around the image.120 On February 7, 1666, Archbishop Poblete
“solemnly blessed the Church . . . Together with the organ and the choir, the
Archbishop spent ₱500.”121 Before his death in 1667, Archbishop Poblete had
paid 300 pesos for a bell and 150 pesos for an organ for this church, but little
else is known about this parish’s early modern music traditions, apart from the
Masses performed by priests and singers, paid for by chantry funds that had
been established by prominent patrons.122 The church was described in verse by
Gaspar de San Agustín in 1712. Replete with classical and mythological refer-
ences, it is possible to infer from his versified history that music, loas, and “var-
ious inventions” all contributed to religious celebrations in this church.123
Resident Spaniards wrote hyperbolically about musical performances in
and around Manila, but some visitors to the city and its environs had other per-
spectives. In the 1760s, Le Gentil de la Galaisière described the musical
performance of a solemn Mass at one of Cavite’s churches in very derogatory
terms. He claimed that he and his companions entered the church “to the
sound of the wildest musical ensemble that one could imagine, consisting of
Filipinos playing on some bad violins and a harp.” The musical performance of
the mass itself, he averred, “was something so wild and so barbarous that it is
impossible for me to describe it, no more than to paint my surprise. . . . I heard
confused shouts that were out of time and out of tune, while the ensemble that
accompanied [the singers] had the skill of making it yet more horrible. Such is
the state of music at Manila, and this is pretty much what one hears in all the
churches on the days of great feasts.”124 Of course, a well-educated Frenchman
like Le Gentil de la Galaisière probably hoped to convince his European reader-
ship of his own good breeding and refined taste in music by leveling harsh criti-
cism at the hispanized traditions of Filipino church musicians, thus assessing
his own qualities of aesthetic taste through oppositional self-definition. But as
much as he directed this excoriation at the performers themselves, he was
equally critical of Spaniards for what he saw as their “laissez-faire” attitude
toward the Filipinos’ cultivation of music in church, as noted in an earlier
chapter. (We should remember, of course, that French music of this time was
no less subject to harsh criticisms from across cultural divides within Europe
itself. A direct counterpoint to Le Gentil’s disdain for Filipino performances
can be found in an anecdote related by English music historian Charles Burney
[1726–1814], just a few decades after the publication of Voyage dans les mers de
l’Inde: “A young Greek lady being brought from her own country to Paris . . . was,
soon after her arrival in that city, carried to the opera by some French ladies,
supposing, as she had never heard cultivated music [that is, French music], that
she would be in raptures at it; but, contrary to those expectations, she declared
that the singing only reminded her of the hideous howlings of the Calmuc
Tartars.”125 Thus we see that early modern encounters with other styles of
musical performance often result in prejudiced accounts and assessments, par-
ticularly when the observer is disembedded from her or his own familiar
environment.)
Other parishes around Manila contributed to the thriving culture of eccle-
siastical music, and it appears that each church owned a range of musical
instruments. Although there is little surviving documentation that can attest to
the extent of an individual parish’s wealth in instruments, an exception is a
record of the 1783 archiepiscopal visitation of parishes in Extramuros—Tondo,
the Augustinian church of Malate, Binondo, Santa Cruz, Quiapo, the Parian,
and the secular (diocesan) parish of Hermita—which includes an inventory of
each church’s possessions (a rare treasure from early modern archives).126
Alongside instruments, music books are also listed, but with few details. In the
church of Santa Cruz there was “an organ in the tribune of the presbytery,”
whereas the parish church of the Chinese Parian possessed “a very badly treated
medium-sized organ, and unserviceable,” “a large harp, and another small one
for the Rosary,” as well as “a violoncello, and two violins, all badly treated, and
which must be fixed.”127 The Augustinian church of Malate had “three Missals
with all the new Saints, and a very old one for the singers . . . a violoncello and a
violin for the choir,” and the church of Binondo contained “an organ” (which,
because there is no qualification of its state, was presumably in working order
at this time) and “an old violoncello.”128
These instruments doubtless belonged collectively to the capilla de música
of each church and remained housed there for use by various instrumentalists
in worship. The musicians of all of these parishes would have been Filipinos or
mestizos (either Spanish or Chinese), and by the end of the eighteenth century,
the priests in charge of most of the secular parishes—that is, the parishes under
diocesan control, rather than those administered by the religious orders—were
indigenous curates.129 The description of the use of a small harp “for the Rosary”
in the church of the Parian is intriguing; presumably, the harp was used to pro-
vide a bass for melodies to which the Rosary was chanted (or possibly sung),
perhaps even outside the church. Equally, the entry in the inventory could pos-
sibly refer to its ownership by some confraternity named for the Santo Rosario,
given that the eponymous province of the Dominican order was allocated the
responsibility of administering to the Chinese converts.
Beyond Manila, early modern sources pertaining to musical commodities
belonging to individual parish churches are few and far between.130 Yet it is
possible to infer from a variety of scattered references that musical activity was
certainly alive and well and that each church owed much to its four to eight
official cantores, whose appointment will be discussed shortly. The prolifera-
tion of pipe organs in parish churches of relatively small Filipino towns
throughout the islands becomes apparent from descriptions of travelers and
even from reports of natural disasters. Regarding the latter, an account of a
devastating earthquake that took place on January 12, 1743, in southern Luzon
describes the damage inflicted on parish churches: “a fine organ” was crushed
in the church of Tayabas, and likewise in Lucban; a “beautiful organ” also per-
ished in Nagcarlan.131 Although there seem to have been many organs installed
in churches throughout the Philippines during the seventeenth and eighteenth
centuries, the smaller number of organs mentioned by nineteenth-century
travelers was probably due to irreparable damage caused by earthquakes and
adverse climatic conditions. In the 1840s, French writer Jean Baptiste Mallat de
Bassilan (1806–63) claimed that “there is not a village, however small it may
be, where the Mass is not accompanied by music [that is, the community
orchestra], for lack of [an] organ.”132 This seems to be a peculiar circumstance,
given the arrival of Diego Cera in the 1790s and his bolstering and promotion
of the skill of organ-building. One explanation could be that the average church
organ was becoming larger and more expensive in the early nineteenth century,
so smaller parishes chose to make do with their instrumental ensembles. The
main reason Cera constructed his famous pipe organ at Las Piñas from bamboo
was that it was an abundant local resource and the use of it (instead of metal)
would save the parish a considerable amount of money.
Confraternities
Confraternities or brotherhoods (cofradías or hermandades) are organizations

of laypersons whose devotional (and penitential) activities are characterized
by charitable and pious acts, such as the provision of dowries for orphans,
care of the sick, or prayers for souls in Purgatory. It is difficult to estimate the
number of these organizations founded in early modern Manila, as almost
every major institution in the city and throughout the provinces had one or
more resident confraternities.133 Phelan notes that these groups “contributed
to the formation of a Christian community consciousness” and that the
Jesuits used sodalities (another term for confraternities) “as instruments to
consolidate Christianization.”134 The works of these groups often involved
sonic and visual embellishment of the liturgy in the celebration of major
feasts, and music figured prominently in this act.
Among the most significant lay organizations was the Hermandad de la
Santa Mesa de Misericordia, created in Manila in 1594 by Juan Fernández de
León. It had its own church in Manila and also maintained the girls’ school
Colegio de Santa Isabel.135 The ordinances of this brotherhood, formulated in
1606 and printed in 1675, describe how the group sought the advocation of the
Presentation of the Virgin at the Temple, whose feast day fell on November
21.136 The eve of this feast was celebrated with solemn Vespers and a sung Mass
“by three Fathers” with a sermon on the day itself.137 On the day following the
annual procession of Nuestra Señora de Guía, the Hermandad would make a
thanksgiving novenario (nine-day period of devotion) of sung Masses and
Salves; this event probably involved hiring instrumentalists, as required by the
Hermandad’s own manifesto.138 Cofradías associated with religious orders
included one devoted to Nuestra Señora de la Consolación y Correa, linked to
the Augustinians, and one devoted to Nuestra Señora del Rosario, linked to the
Dominicans.139 In 1612, the latter confraternity commissioned an organ with
money provided by one Pelayo Hernandez (although whether this instrument
was to be imported or made locally is unclear), and hired shawm players.140
Another group associated with the Dominicans was the Cofradía de los
Esclavos de Jesu Cristo Crucificado, established in the santuario of San Juan del
Monte in April 1643. This confraternity is probably responsible for an unusual
source of music that survives from early modern Manila: a manuscript titled
“Tanto, õ trasládo de todos los versos y letreros que tiene esta Iglesia de S. Juan
del Monte,” now held in Ávila, Spain.141 Containing eighteen musical works
transcribed together with prayers, poetry, and descriptions of church decoration,
this source emanates from the Dominican santuario de San Juan del Monte as
part of the archives that survived the bombing of the church and convent of
Santo Domingo, Intramuros, in December 1941.142 It was identified in 1981 by
Cainglet, who gave it a tentative dating of c. 1763.143 Following a contextual
study by Eladio Neira on the history of the santuario, Summers examined the
manuscript and revised this date, placing it in the late seventeenth century.144
Of the musical works, which are transcribed as single melodic lines with
ambiguous rhythmic notation, two have texts in Latin, one is in Tagalog, and
the rest are in Castilian. Although the heading on f. 13r refers to the works as
letras (a term that we could translate loosely as “songs”), four are obviously vil-
lancicos by virtue of the specification of estribillo or coplas. Due to their function
as paraliturgical works in vernacular languages (with the exception of the Latin
texts), however, the majority of the compositions could also be identified as vil-
lancicos, given the terminological inconsistency that persisted well into the sev-
enteenth century.
The texts of several works in the manuscript have fluvial references, notably
A de la orilla à de la barca (f. 22r) and Ola jau divino barquero (ff. 22v–23r). The
latter implores Jesus, the “divine boatman” (“divino barquero”), to navigate the
protagonist out of his place between two oceans, one of tears and one of fire.
The single work in Tagalog, Letra en tagalo (f. 23r) (which begins “Ang mahal
na larauan”), consists of seventeen four-line coplas and a refrain, “Tunghan
mot [sic] patauarin / ang dung maraing,” for which the melody is the same as
that for the Castilian text Pecador miserable (ff. 14v–15r). The most extensive and
elaborate musical setting, Ola jau divino barquero (ff. 22v–23r), makes use of
repetitive rhetorical devices in the text setting, rising harmonic sequences, and
rhythmic syncopation (figure 6.3). Although only the melody line is notated for
each of these works, they were possibly intended for multiple parts and bass.145
Most of the texts are anonymous, but the scribe attributes two works, respec-
tively, to Lope de Vega Carpio and to Sor Jerónima de la Asunción (founder of
the Monasterio de Santa Clara), giving the exact folio numbers of the published
sources (figures 6.4–6.5).
The text by Lope de Vega Carpio that is set to music in the San Juan del
Monte manuscript (ff. 18r–19r) is the poem Lagrimas que, which was originally
printed in his Rimas sacras of 1614.146 As we saw earlier, the poem Vuestra soy,
para vos nací (set on ff. 19v–20v) is commonly attributed to Saint Teresa de
Ávila, but it was evidently sourced by the composer from the writings of Sor
Jerónima de la Asunción as published by Letona. The other poems and musical
settings in the manuscript appear to be original material; no textual or musical
concordances have emerged from elsewhere. Thus, this manuscript retains its
significance as the only source known so far of locally composed nonliturgical
(albeit paraliturgical) music from early modern Manila.
Musical Appointments in the Parishes and Missions
Besides the major institutions of the metropolis, other ecclesiastical institu-

tions throughout the islands had rich musical lives that were governed by strict
figure 6.3. Music from San Juan del Monte, Ola jau divino barquero, from “Tanto,
õ trasládo de todos los versos y letreros que tiene esta Iglesia de S. Juan del Monte,”
f. 22v. Reproduced by kind permission of the Archivo de la Provincia Dominicana de
Nuestra Señora del Rosario, Ávila.
legislation. Many rulings on music applied universally to all the islands’

Christianized communities, as we shall see in the next chapter, and they also
spelled out the privileges and remuneration that could be enjoyed by parochial
musicians. Other than the cathedrals of the three dioceses suffragan to the
archdiocese of Manila—Cebu, Nueva Cáceres (in Camarines), and Nueva
Segovia (Ilocos)—religious institutions beyond Manila were mainly limited to
parish churches. Their musical resources and capabilities echoed the musical
practices of institutions of the capital and its environs; nevertheless, they flour-
ished in their own particular ways. In provincial parishes where Christianity
had already been firmly established and less ground-level indoctrination was
figure 6.4. Music from San Juan del Monte, Lagrimas que, from “Tanto, õ trasládo
de todos los versos y letreros que tiene esta Iglesia de S. Juan del Monte,” f. 18r.
Reproduced by kind permission of the Archivo de la Provincia Dominicana de Nuestra
Señora del Rosario, Ávila.
necessary, the one or two priests who were present would have had relatively
little to do with the practical measures of music-making, as their time would
have been taken up largely by the continual administration of the sacraments.
The performance of music in the vast majority of ecclesiastical institutions
throughout the country relied on the employment of indigenous musicians in
each parish.
Many musicians employed by convents and the Monasterio de Santa Clara
in the metropolis would have had contracts negotiated specifically for their
terms of service. Evidence of this type abounds in Latin American archives, and
although no documentation survives from the early modern Philippines, it is
figure 6.5. Music from San Juan del Monte, Vuestra soy p[ar].a vos naci, from “Tanto,
õ trasládo de todos los versos y letreros que tiene esta Iglesia de S. Juan del Monte,” ff.
19v–20r. Reproduced by kind permission of the Archivo de la Provincia Dominicana
de Nuestra Señora del Rosario, Ávila.
likely that such a pattern was also followed there. What survives from colonial
historiography, however, is a swath of decrees spelling out universal employment
conditions for Filipino musicians in parish churches throughout the islands.
As we have seen in this and previous chapters, a frequent feature of early
modern descriptions of music is the observation that eight cantores were
exempted from tribute and paid rice subsidies in return for providing music for
the Divine Office, Mass, and other religious functions in each Filipino parish.
These were attractive positions for which many musicians vied. As Fernández
Navarrete put it: “His Majesty allows every Church eight Singing Men, who
enjoy Privileges, are employ’d at the Divine Office, sing well; and there being
always some aiming at those Places, the actual number is greater, but only the
Eight that are appointed enjoy the Privileges granted.”147 In the seventeenth-
century Visayas, Alzina also described this system of what was effectively direct
royal patronage of indigenous musicians, claiming that it was indispensable
for the celebration of principal feasts “with all their solemnity.”148 An appoint-
ment as a cantor provided the means by which a Filipino musician could
become socially mobile and enjoy a greater degree of enfranchisement within
colonial society. A Jesuit book of rules and customs from the Visayas qualifies
that the leading role of maestro de capilla was given to one of these eight singers
exempted from tribute.149 This position of authority put the maestro de capilla
in direct contact with the parish priest in organizing and performing music for
church rituals. The Augustinians decreed that cantores, as privileged parish-
ioners, could not be made to look after cows or horses, nor to serve in the
kitchen or provide personal services to priests.150 They became the elite of their
parishes.
Although only eight cantores could be appointed, other hopeful candidates
for these positions swelled the numbers to make a large musical ensemble. The
popularity of the material privileges enjoyed by cantores meant that the number
of musicians engaging in performance and training exceeded the requisite
number of available tributary concessions. Only on the occasion of death,
retirement, or incapacity of one of the official cantores would there be the
opportunity for another to take his place, and some families became musical
dynasties that commonly provided the successors to these posts. Early modern
observers noted the large numbers of church musicians throughout the islands.
For example, Austrian Jesuit Andreas Mancker (1640–84) wrote in a letter of
1682 that each Visayan town with a market had an ensemble of sixteen or sev-
enteen musicians, who were exempted from tribute to provide music for the
church (he did not specify to his correspondent that only eight enjoyed privi-
leges). Mancker noted that among their instruments were “lyres, harps, cor-
netts, and chalumeaux”; he considered their performance superior to that of
similar groups in European cities.151
The competitive selection of singers for official church posts explains the
intensity of singing practice from a young age. The Franciscans established
special schools for the cantores in their parishes, probably to streamline this
process as much as to promote general singing by their parishioners. As one
Franciscan historian noted in 1741:
From these [people] are selected the most appropriate for the service
of the church, and cult of God, in that they perform duties, some in
the office of sacristan, and others in that of cantor. As such, the
Divine Offices are celebrated admirably with devotion, and solemnity,
owing to the personal service of some sacristans who are well
informed in the practice of ritual, and to the skill of musical voices,
as the singers have practiced since their youth. There is no church
that lacks a very capable ensemble of voices and instruments, which
the religious use in the [celebration of the] Divine Cult, in its
sensitive consolation, which the Filipinos like to attend.152
There is no mention of gender in the descriptions of the cantores, but we know
that most official posts mentioned in the Recopilación de leyes and other decrees
were usually designated for men unless specifically noted. Some sources also
seem to imply that cantores specialized in vocal music, but other references to
village bands would suggest that many singers were proficient on instruments
and that they frequently swapped between these roles. It is possible, however,
that many of the instrumentalists merely augmented the singers—volun-
tarily—without enjoying “the Privileges granted,” as noted by Fernández
Navarrete. Nevertheless, the general clamor of wishful candidates participating
in the same duties as the officially appointed cantores provides a prime example
of political decree not only regulating but motivating the indigenous populace
into acts of musical performance.
It is worth examining the laws on which the privileges of parochial musi-
cians were established and built. The official legislation for the tributary exemp-
tion of the cantores appears to originate from the Recopilación de leyes (libro VI,
título III, ley vi). First promulgated by Felipe III (1578–1621) in Madrid on
October 10, 1618, the law concerns the official number of cantores and sacris-
tans allowed in each town of the Indies, proclaiming that “in all the towns that
have more than one hundred indios, there will be two or three cantores.”153 A far
cry from the eight places mentioned by Fernández Navarrete and others, the
original number of cantores mandated by Felipe III was apparently viewed as a
ratio of singers per tributes. When and how the increase in the official number
occurred appears unclear—the publication of a fourth edition of the Recopilación
as late as 1791, for instance, simply reproduced the same number as decreed in
1618—but it was probably a simple matter of local application by the governor
and the ecclesiastical authorities.
In 1739, Manuel del Río (d. 1749) published a small volume containing
moral and religious instructions for the governance and direction of the
Dominican ministries, in which he described the number of singers per tributes
in each parish as 8 cantores for parishes with more than 500 tributes (approxi-
mately 2,000 souls), and 4 cantores for those with fewer.154 Over the course of
the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, several Spanish governors of the
Philippines compiled guidelines for their subordinates (which were also
intended to act as a reference for subsequent governors), titled Ordenanzas de
buen gobierno. These “ordinances” took into account recent local political devel-
opments as well as new legislation from Madrid. Governor José Antonio Raón
y Gutiérrez (1703–70), who ruled from July 1765 to July 1770, made some revi-
sions of the ordenanzas in 1768, decreeing that a community of more than 500
tributes should have 8 cantores and one of 400 tributes should have 6 can-
tores; this decreased to 5 cantores for 300 tributes, and 4 for 200. But he
insisted that no community, however small, should have fewer than four can-
tores. The cantores (four, five, six, or eight), two sacristans, and one porter in
every community were to be given a certain amount of unhusked rice annually
(each individual was issued with an amount that equates to some 82.56 kilo-
grams in modern measurements). The governor rounded off this order by cit-
ing abuse of these rules, and warning alcaldes mayores that they would face a
heavy fine for any further transgression.155
The insistence on the maintenance of a minimum of four singers, how-
ever small the community might be, is noteworthy. This number was an ideal
minimum for the effective performance of sacred vocal polyphony and con-
forms to the little that is known about the teaching of European liturgical
music—plainchant and polyphony—in missions of the Philippines during the
sixteenth and seventeenth centuries. Consequently, there was a significant
number of professional musicians throughout the country. We can make a
mean estimate on the basis of Delgado’s ecclesiastical survey of 1750–51, which
offered details for 529 parishes in the islands.156 Even if, for argument’s sake,
half of these parishes were regarded as “small” (and thus appointed only four
cantores), a simple calculation would reveal that in the mid-eighteenth century,
around 3,500 cantores would have been exempted from tribute in exchange for
their provision of musical services in parishes throughout the Philippines. This
is a comparatively small percentage of the entire pacified and Christianized
population; Delgado estimated at the time that the number of Christian
Filipinos over the age of seven was 904,116.157 But it is a relatively large and
symbolic number in musical terms, for in no other territory of early modern
Asia could there be found such a substantial corpus of professional ecclesias-
tical musicians literate in European musical practices and Roman Catholic lit-
urgy. Still, this estimate of practicing church musicians is conservative, as it
accounts only for the cantores officially appointed by the Church and exempted
from tribute. It does not consider the other musicians who, aiming for these
places, swelled these numbers (as noted by Fernández Navarrete).
Of course, cantores were paid for some aspects of their work, besides
receiving tributary concessions and rice subsidies. They were paid cash for
performances at feasts that were supernumerary to the Church calendar and

for the provision of musical services at funerals or weddings. In Manila, two
aranceles (schedules of ecclesiastical fees) from the second half of the eigh-
teenth century, which were promulgated by archbishops Martínez de Arizala
and Sancho de Santas Justa y Rufina in 1755 and 1771, respectively, detailed the
payments that had to be made to musicians at particular ceremonies and rit-
uals.158 The hierarchies of fees reveal the importance of the musical profession
as seen by the Church authorities. For instance, while Spaniards, mestizos, or
indigenous Filipinos paid for the presence of a sacristan at a wedding on a
financial scale that reduced as it went down the casta system (a Spaniard, six
reales; a mestizo, three reales; and a Filipino, two reales), someone who wanted
music at a wedding, regardless of ethnicity, had to pay the same amount (two
reales) to each shawm player or any other musician hired.159 Music at weddings
was considered an extravagance that had to be paid for.
On the other hand, when it came to funerals (which included vigil, misa de
cuerpo, and interment), Spaniards were required to pay fifteen pesos for the
“ensemble of sixteen musicians [cantores] in the curacy of Manila,” whereas
mestizos would pay a discounted rate of ten pesos and four reales, and Filipinos
seven pesos and four reales.160 Pablo Fernández notes that the arancel of
Martínez de Arizala also required each tribute-paying adult to give one and a
half reales on the occasion of his annual confession to pay for the wax (for can-
dles) and cantores, and to cover the deficit of the priest’s stipend and the
building of the church.161 These funds and others provided for wax and singers
at the three major feasts of the year: Titular (patron saint of each church),
Corpus [Christi] and Monumento.162 For the Masses of these feasts, ten reales
would be given to the singers (as a group), and the same for Vespers; for tinie-
blas (the Tenebrae rites for Wednesday, Thursday, and Friday of Holy Week)
four reales would be given to the maestro and two reales to each singer.163
We have seen how the patronage of the Spanish monarch brought about
musical performances by Filipinos. But if we look more closely at church cer-
emonies, we can see an interesting case of reciprocal patronage. Significantly,
a few Filipinos are prominent within ecclesiastical records because they were
patrons of church music. From the early seventeenth century, a number of
wealthy indigenous principales—men and women alike—established capel-
lanías (endowed chantry funds) in their wills for the benefit of their souls in
Purgatory, paying for Masses to be said or sung by priests and/or cantores.164
Evidence of capellanías can be found in and around Manila, and especially in
the nearby Province of Pampanga. The foundation of these chantry funds just
a few decades after the Spanish invasion of Luzon had commenced illustrates
the extent to which the indigenous nobility embraced the new religion, with
its rituals and its doctrine. Indigenous patrons paid priests and local choirs to
sing for their souls after their deaths, leaving detailed instructions in their
wills. An inversion and subversion of the colonial power structure took place
in this way: it was now the Spaniard who would sing at the behest of the
Filipino.
For example, in the mid-seventeenth century a wealthy Tagalog lady named
Doña Juana Guinto bequeathed a plot of land to the church of Nuestra Señora
de Guía in Ermita, in exchange for an annual Mass to be sung for her soul in
that church, together with “a vigil and a prayer for my soul at the end of the
mass like the chaplaincies of the Cathedral Church of Manila”; she requested
that the funds to pay for the costs of the Mass and for hiring singers should be
paid out of the rent from the land “so that the benefits to my soul will never be
interrupted.”165 From the will of Doña Juana Guinto, it is evident that the prac-
tices of the cathedral were models that participants in sacred ceremonies
aspired to emulate within other ecclesiastical spaces. Performances by musi-
cians and the enactment of ritual were thus reliant on indigenous patronage as
well as indigenous cooperation. Yet they also depended on the acquiescence of
European clergy, whose willingness to sing Masses for the souls of the indige-
nous (and wealthy) departed had to be gauged before such an arrangement
could be made. We can see that in this way the patronage of church music by
Spaniard and Filipino alike allowed for a certain degree of egalitarianism within
the otherwise intractably stratified society of Manila.
Conclusion
Cathedrals, convents, churches, and chapels in Manila and throughout the

Philippines were important sites of musical exchange between members of
different social strata, and were places where musical practice was very strictly
prepared and governed. A plentiful and regular supply of missionaries arriving
from Spain and Latin America represented new musical entries to the contra-
puntal texture of the colonial Philippines, and local musicians adopted and
adapted fresh musical styles introduced from other parts of the empire.
Institutions appear to have built up impressive collections of European instru-
ments and sacred musical repertory; this equipment became indispensable to
the resident ensembles of musicians.
The musical profession was attractive to Filipino musicians as a mecha-
nism for social mobility and enfranchisement, in Manila and the provinces
alike. The institution of the cantores in each Filipino community was one of the
most significant changes made by the colonial power to native social struc-
tures, even though professional mourners/singers had existed in each baran-
gay long before the arrival of the Spaniards.166 The musician was placed in a
coveted position within colonial society, and dynastic hierarchies were created
around these posts. Cantores and maestros de capilla were able to occupy a lim-
inal space in colonial society—poised at a social frontier—enjoying direct
access to the religious authorities and to the spiritual realm, at the same time
as being envied by their community for the material benefits they enjoyed. Yet
they also unwittingly acted as agents for the reinforcement of the hegemonic
authority of Church and Crown over indigenous society.
Through their transmission of knowledge to students and apprentices, the
cantores consequently made music education function as a catalyst for tran-
sculturation and social formation. In some ways they effectively supported the
suppression of precolonial practices and the increasing conformity of ecclesias-
tical music throughout the islands. But although parochial cantores, within
their communities, may have experienced certain levels of independence,
autonomy, and authority that could be found in few other contexts of society,
their positions and roles were rigorously codified by colonial authorities. This
is true of many other musicians in the Philippines, whether indigenous or
European. As the following chapter will show, the practice of music in the
Spanish colonial Philippines was constantly subject to an imposed set of
rules—just like strict counterpoint.
7
©
Regulations, Reforms, and Controversies
The performance of music in both sacred and secular contexts was in many
ways essential to the effective implementation of colonial policies in the early
modern Philippines—especially those related to evangelization—as it reinforced
hegemonic power structures through the perpetuation of Roman Catholic
ritual and tradition. Yet it is important to remember that the sector of the
population that predominated in the practice of this art was Filipino. As much
as religion might have been “the opiate of the masses,” sacred music appears
to have represented another means by which the subaltern could alleviate the
burden of colonial oppression. Music and the musical profession became pow-
erful tools of cultural self-expression, subversion, and protest. Musicians’ skills
could be employed as a powerful agent for social change, providing the means
for the indigenous population to challenge the authoritative precepts of both
Church and state. Likewise, the persistence of certain indigenous Asian musical
traditions represented to some extent a degree of cultural resistance to the
introduction of Roman Catholicism to the islands.
All these circumstances resulted in continual reforms of musical practices
and regulations for their usage throughout the islands, and deliberations over
the best way of proceeding occasionally resulted in theological controversies.
Ensuing legislation was directed principally at any instances of profanity,
excesses, or decadence in musical performance, particularly as it related to
ecclesiastical usage; no part of society was exempt from these rulings. European
residents of Manila were also subject to prohibitions and regulations that were
set in place to curb the perceived excesses of their musical and theatrical per-
formances, ostensibly to avoid their descent into any form of cultural deca-
dence. Although the regulation and censorship of music in ecclesiastical and
secular contexts was common in Spain, it was made considerably more complex
within the Philippines and Latin America by the consideration of different

cultural traditions and attempts to control the social mixing of different ethnic
groups. The enforcement of European moral standards for musical performance
on peoples in a distant colony (with considerable time delays of governance
from Europe) often resulted either in the formulation of dogmatic local rulings
or a blind eye being turned.
Many early modern documents attest to the recurrent dismay of church
authorities and their persistent attempts to rectify the mores of society. These
sources include the acts of ecclesiastical councils and synods, archiepiscopal
decrees and proclamations, constitutions of religious orders, directives to par-
ishes served by secular and regular clergy, pastoral letters, and even decrees
sent directly from Rome. The majority of rulings on music, which essentially
encode colonialist strategies, expound the prohibition of particular practices or
the tempering of performative excesses. Great attention was devoted to the
potential censorship of certain Asian musics, devotional vocal music in vernac-
ular languages, and devotions to the Virgin Mary, as well as the regulation of
liturgical and instrumental music in church, proscriptions of theatrical perfor-
mances, and reforms of processions and feasts. Many rulings were a result of
an absolute decree being issued by the archbishop of Manila—who expected
compliance within the parishes and suffragan dioceses under his influence—
while the Augustinian, Dominican, and Franciscan orders produced normative
manuals for their own members assigned as priests in parishes around the
islands.1 These sorts of regulations were, of course, the product of ceremonial
institutions that ritualized the periodic reiteration of “position statements” of
moral viewpoints, as well as the issue of strict edicts that it expected the faithful
to obey.2
The publications of religious orders have immense historical value in
revealing how music functioned in the particular institutions and ceremonies
of each Christianized community. For example, the Franciscan order’s consti-
tutions of 1655 and its Estatutos y ordenaciones of 1726 specified the roles of
music and musicians in parishes and convents, as well as giving guidelines on
the care of music books and instruments. Augustinian Casimiro Díaz Toledano
(1693–1746), who held an exalted view of the role of music in the celebration of
the Divine Office by Christian Filipinos, drew on guidelines established by his
order and other councils within the Hispanic world for his Parrocho de indios
instruido de un perfecto pastor of 1745; a similar approach is found in the 1731
manual Practica del ministerio produced by Tomás Ortiz, another Augustinian.
Likewise, the Dominican Instrucciones morales y religiosas of 1739 by Manuel del
Río gave explicit instructions to parish priests in regard to the use of music, the
celebration of feasts, and the instruction of singers. Several other publications
by religious orders, including guides for novices and treatises on the
administration of the sacraments, incorporated instructions for the use of
music in ecclesiastical contexts. Thus, a great deal of data on the musical and
regulations, reforms, and controversies 197
cultural history of the islands can be extrapolated from these sources; however,
we should remember that they were prescriptive rather than descriptive texts
and were probably often at variance with what actually took place.
Of the diocesan and archdiocesan meetings held in the Philippine Islands
during the eighteenth century, two in particular are remarkable: the Provincial
Council of Manila in 1771, and the Synod of Calasiao (in the diocese of Nueva
Segovia) in 1773.3 Motives behind the organization of these conferences
included the universal clarification of doctrine throughout the Indies and the
intended abolition of decadent local practices that had allegedly crept into
the colonial Church. Moreover, the celebration of new councils reaffirmed the
authority of the Crown over ecclesiastical administration under the auspices of
the patronato real (which allowed the king of Spain to have direct control over
Church structures in the Spanish Empire without constant recourse to Rome).4
Music constituted a significant part of the deliberations and discussions, espe-
cially in regard to its relevance to liturgical reforms, the promotion of popular
piety, and the suppression of abuses. However, evidence of political intrigues
and subterfuge in Manila resulted in the king refusing to sign the acts of the
council and the synod, which meant that papal approval was not forthcoming.
As a result, none of the rulings ever held legal validity, in spite of the consider-
able amount of preparation that had been undertaken for their celebration.5
Nevertheless, the texts emanating from these meetings provide an abundant
source of pertinent information concerning the state of the Church, its litur-
gical practices, and its musical traditions in the Philippines at this time.6
The continual prohibitions and reforms provoked by supposed excesses of
the populace—not to mention reports of the difficulties that ecclesiastical
authorities encountered in controlling the apparent religious fervor of the
people—demonstrate the extent to which the practice of music was perceived
as being inextricably intertwined with the practice of religion. A prevailing
belief that music was a power that could either edify or corrupt was central to
deliberations about its practice in the eighteenth century. Although music was
recognized by the religious and secular hierarchies as a powerful tool for the
“pacification” and urbanization of the Filipinos, there was fear that its
performance (if left unmonitored) could lead to decadence and irreligiosity, at
least as those concepts were defined by the precepts of the Church. The amount
of time given over to performative acts in the official calendar was also cause
for concern. In the early eighteenth century, the number of feast days cele-
brated in Manila equated to almost one third of the year; as we shall see, one of
the greatest reforms of the time was their reduction and codification by
Archbishop Rodríguez in 1737. Many political and theological factors thus con-
tributed to the governance and control of musical practice in the early modern
Philippines. In this chapter, I draw on a wide variety of sources to examine six
areas on which ecclesiastical decrees and legislation had influence on the
society and culture of Manila (and, by extension, all Christianized territories in
the islands): Asian musics; vernacular-language vocal music in sacred contexts;

musical practices for Marian devotions; liturgical music and the use of instru-
ments; theatrical performances; and music in processions, celebrations, and
feasts.
Rulings on Asian Musics
There exist relatively few early modern rulings on indigenous practices, for
a great deal of Filipino music and dance was allowed to be perpetuated in
Christian guise under the veil of hispanized or syncretic formulations. As
Borges has noted, indigenous social celebrations and traditional songs and
dances were generally respected, but those with any possible pagan conno-
tations were eliminated.7 The latter were usually replaced with comparable
Christian substitutes. Meanwhile, indigenous artistic practices that could
be reformed and redefined according to Christian parameters were fre-
quently accommodated by the hegemonic power structure and incorporated
into colonial culture. As discussed in previous chapters, the emergence of
new genres through a process of syncretism was a result of the toleration
and encouragement of indigenous musicopoetic art forms by religious
authorities—and the composition of “model” works by missionaries
themselves.
However, the preponderance of indigenous vocal genres necessitated reg-
ular inspection and censorship of texts.8 In the 1740s, Díaz Toledano related
how the early Augustinian missionaries established in the regional visitas
(outside the main missions) the practice of singing traditional verses “in the
style of Hymns”—evidently in the local indigenous language—which explained
the “Mysteries [of the Rosary], or referred to the life and death of Christ, of his
Most Holy Mother, and of the Saints.” Although some later missionaries con-
sidered these verses to be indecent, Díaz Toledano declared that there was no
reason to oppose or impede the practice of this custom, as long as the Filipinos
were not permitted to sing anything that was not first examined and approved
by the parish priest.9 As justification, he cited precedents from ancient Greece,
where the people of the early Church sang hymns and verses after the conclusion
of the sermon and discussion of the Christian doctrine.10 Again, as in so many
areas of colonial life, analogy with antiquity rendered certain Filipino customs
acceptable to Spaniards.
In the interpretation and censoring of song-texts, the metaphorical nature
of musicopoetic traditions often hampered comprehension of the deeper
meanings of indigenous-language songs. Outside ecclesiastical spaces or
sacred contexts, however, it appears that indigenous traditions of vocal music
and poetry that were not related to theatrical performance occasioned little ire.
The only evidence of legislation against such non-theatrical practices is the

proscription of the genres dalit and karagatan by Archbishop Rodríguez in
1741.11 This prohibition related to their use in the Visayas by way of honoring
the dead, in which context Rodríguez considered them inappropriate and irre-
ligious. In the course of a belasiyon (from the Spanish velación, meaning
“wake”), the winner of the karagatan, a poetic contest, would receive a prenda
(token pledge) from the loser, which could be regained by the latter if he per-
formed a loa.12
The authorities’ treatment of the Chinese community in the Philippines,
however, was markedly different. Classical traditions had been imported from
mainland China and were perpetuated by the Chinese in their new locality, par-
ticularly by immigrants who had not converted to Christianity. The prominence
and alterity of Chinese music (“música de los Sangleyes”) in Manila at the
beginning of the eighteenth century provoked Bishop Camacho y Ávila into
prohibiting its performance.13 In the mid-eighteenth century, the funerals of
non-Christian Chinese in the Parian of Manila were subject to strictures, due
to Spanish suspicions of “superstition and idolatry”: while alcaldes mayores tol-
erated lights and a gathering (acompañamiento) on some occasions, songs,
prayers, or any other ceremonies were banned.14 On January 28, 1756, Spanish
authorities made a lengthy list of Chinese celebrations (ordered according to
the lunar calendar) that were prohibited; for example, they were forbidden to
celebrate the Chinese New Year “with lights and din of drums.”15 No Chinese
idols were permitted to be imported to Manila; furthermore, the Chinese were
not allowed to give the name of the goddess Machon (Mazu) to any image of
the Virgin Mary.16
It is unlikely that the policing of such legislation outside the metropoles—
and beyond the control of the small numbers of religious personnel stationed
throughout the parishes—would have been effective. However, in the
performance of vocal music within the liturgy or in other sacred contexts, reli-
gious ministers were positioned to take direct control and promulgate relevant
decrees. Indigenous Filipino instrumental practices were apparently tolerated,
as long as they were not explicitly associated with paganism, and the use of
European instruments was promoted and encouraged by religious function-
aries. As we have seen previously, the Visayan chordophones coriapi (kutyapi)
and corlong (kodlong) were noted by Alzina to harbor and express lascivious
desires, which caused missionaries to deplore the possible offenses commit-
ted against God, but no written legislation dictating their suppression can be
found. Rather, the teaching and active promotion of European musical instru-
ments by missionaries contributed to the gradual disuse of their indigenous
equivalents. Of course, musical instruments—tangible, material artifacts—
could be assessed, then tolerated, destroyed, or replaced with relative ease, but
vocal music was another matter altogether.
Vernacular Vocal Music in Sacred Contexts
The performance of sacred devotional music sung in indigenous languages or

in Spanish is described by a wide range of terminology in decrees, constitu-
tions, and regulations. These include chanzonetas, cançiones, villancicos, “worldly
songs,” and “ridiculous things.” Descriptions of genres such as these refer to
performances by all ethnic groups but do not clarify whether their music was
in an indigenous or hispanized idiom. As discussed in an earlier chapter,
Chirino observed in the early seventeenth-century Jesuit missions of the Visayas
that indigenous-language sacred texts were performed both in traditional style
and in European polyphony. By the eighteenth century, when hispanization
had resulted in the prevalence of European musical styles and instruments
within sacred contexts, it is unlikely that European writers would have used
these terms to refer to a performative act that was distinctly different from their
own experience; but equally, they could have used a broad term to cover any
musical performance in vernacular languages. Although references to indige-
nous musicopoetic genres by their original names occur in the discussion of
extra-ecclesiastical practices or the remnants of precolonial traditions, the evi-
dence examined here will show that within the Church, Spanish terminology
was also applied to performances in indigenous languages.
The provision for vernacular-texted devotional genres in sacred contexts in
the Philippines followed similar practices existing in Spain and Latin America.17
Interpolation of these sorts of compositions within Latin liturgical ceremonies
promoted popular piety and allowed for greater understanding of religious doc-
trine through the use of newly written texts that highlighted, elucidated, or
paraphrased the teachings of each occasion. This opportunity enabled per-
formers and audience to interact in a mutually comprehensible state within
rituals that otherwise excluded them linguistically. Performances of villancicos
were also considered to alleviate the tedium of lengthy religious rituals (although
the length of these works themselves occasionally caused concern), and this
circumstance sometimes gave rise to performative excesses that pushed the
boundaries of propriety within ecclesiastical spaces.
All these genres were frequently subject to strictures in the islands; the
more dramatic forms were probably the object of attack in the Dominican
manual Instrucciones morales y religiosas, whose author, Río, wrote: “so that
ecclesiastical functions are celebrated with solemnity and proper decorum, the
minister will endeavor to ensure that the singers learn their pieces well, and
that by no means will they be permitted to sing inappropriate things, especially
in the Holy Sacrifice of the Mass.”18 But the lack of specificity in this prohibi-
tion—“inappropriate things” could, after all, be interpreted in any number of
ways—suggests that a wide range of song types might have been considered
inappropriate. In the Augustinian manual Parrocho de indios, Díaz Toledano
forbade contrafacta, and the minor alteration of secular texts to make them
appear sacred, in any Filipino parish under the care of his order: “They must
never be permitted to sing burlesque villancicos, nor any profane things which
have been rendered a lo divino; it is indecent that texts devised for the theater
should be transferred into the church.”19
Later in the eighteenth century, it was declared in the Act concerning
Spiritual Exercises at the Synod of Calasiao that “vigilant care should be taken
that during a sung Mass no songs, except those prescribed by the rubrics of the
Missal be chanted [that is, sung]. We condemn the ridiculous manner practised
in some parishes where the choir sings all kinds of songs while the priest says
the Mass. Therefore, we make this provision, namely, whenever a Mass is to be
sung, [that] only the chants prescribed in the Missal should be sung and when
none is prescribed therein there should be no sung Mass.”20 The Franciscan
Estatutos y ordenaciones of 1732 prohibited Filipinos from celebrating the “fiestas
de la Cruz de Mayo,” but in case of parishioners’ insistence, they made the con-
cession that devotional practices could be limited to the singing of letras—prob-
ably in indigenous languages—in praise of the Holy Cross and its mysteries
before sunset.21 It seems that offenses were taking place sufficiently often to be
in need of “correction” by the missionaries. In 1790, Castro journeyed to
Batangas and noted in this province the retention of the feast of Santa Cruz de
Mayo, performed with what he considered “abuses.” He recommended that it
would be better to prohibit this feast, for “even though it started at the beginning
with the best intention and with the practices of the early Christians as a model,”
it had turned into dances that brought together boys and girls during the day
and the night, and the singing of profane songs and tonadillas that were not in
keeping with the “holiness owed to the sacrosanct mysteries of the cross.”22
Similar objections were made in reference to music surrounding celebra-
tions for the Feast of the Nativity, especially in the misas de aguinaldo, which
were celebrated at dawn on each of the nine days prior to Christmas. The
performance of songs in the vernacular in these Masses appears to have been a
great attraction for the populace and was recognized as such by Church author-
ities in the early days of the evangelization of the archipelago. Pablo Fernández
acknowledges that the misa de aguinaldo “was added, just like the Saturday
votive Mass in honor of the Virgin Mary, for the preservation of the Catholic
Church in these Islands.”23 When the Franciscans of the Philippines formu-
lated their constitutions following their Provincial Chapter meeting in 1655,
they confirmed that “the aguinaldo Masses must start in the doctrinas on the
eighth day of the Conception,” and that these Masses were ordained “for the
conservation and improvement of the islands and the conversion of pagans.”24
By the end of the first century of Spanish colonization, the practice of the misas
de aguinaldo had become ingrained among Christianized communities.
Alzina gave a detailed account of the aguinaldo Masses in the Visayas in
the mid-seventeenth century. He attributed their local introduction to the Jesuit
ministry, as a result of widespread devotion to the Immaculate Conception of

the Most Holy Virgin. He admitted, however, that he could not trace “the origin
of this very devout custom, so holy and so worthy of attention,” continuing:
The first time that I heard and saw these festive performances, with
the nine Masses [misas de aguinaldo], was in Mexico, where this
celebration is entrenched. The seminary for natives that the Society
of Jesus has in that city [Mexico City], called San Gregorio [a
secondary school for Nahuas], is the first [place and] time I admired
it, so much for the famous and demonstrative nature of this celebra-
tion, as for the piety and holiness of the solemnity. It is, without
doubt, from there—I mean Mexico (in Spain I did not see it)—that it
must have been brought to these islands, where it is celebrated with
no less ostentation, and in this our ministry we do it in the best way
we can, performing all the nine misas cantadas, with very good
music, villancicos, musical instruments, and all that will lead to the
pious demonstration of holy expectation [that is, Christmas].25
Though it appears that the misas de aguinaldo were already being practiced in
the Visayas at the time of Alzina’s arrival in 1634, it is difficult to estimate the
date of their introduction to the Philippine Islands. It is beyond doubt that these
masses originated in Spain, in spite of Alzina not having seen them there; the
word “aguinaldo” itself originally signified “a New Year’s gift or a Christmas
box” but eventually came to refer to the novena of dawn Masses celebrated
before the Feast of the Nativity.26 In his description of the manner of celebrating
Christmas in the Visayas, Alzina considered the misas de aguinaldo to be a
proper form of preparation for devotion. He noted that at the Vigil of the Nativity,
following refreshments in which wine was served in moderation to the cantores,
Matins was sung by the Visayan cantores “with their villancicos in the nocturns,
and some in their own language so that they understand [the texts] better.”27
After the Vigil Mass, the Calenda was sung in Latin with all its appropriate
music, then repeated, spoken, in Visayan.28 The Visayan language played a
central role in this ritual. According to Alzina’s description, the methods of cel-
ebrating Christmas in the Visayas included the construction of a nativity scene
complete with shepherds, sheep and other animals, the Magi, and a grotto so
“that they may see with their own eyes,” as well as dances by small boys and the
addition of Southeast Asian flavor in the form of puppet and shadow shows.29
Just as bawdy performances of vernacular-texted songs in the misa de agui-
naldo had already occasioned censure in the Iberian Peninsula in the sixteenth
century, their parallel enactment in the Philippines over the following two cen-
turies incurred similar wrath, as is evident in a series of subsequent decrees.
Excesses displayed in Christmas festivities during the late seventeenth century
caused the archbishop of Manila, Monsignor Felipe Pardo (d. 1689), to write to
the Sacred Congregation of Rites in Rome to plead for greater solemnity in the
Nativity devotions. His letter complained of many abuses committed in the agu-
inaldo masses that merited correction: “The reason: some lay-people come
together in choir and sing worldly songs which provoke the congregation to
laughter in choir and are certainly not appropriate to the time and place. A fitting
remedy must be applied to this abuse so that the scandal may be completely
eradicated.”30 The response from Rome, dated January 16, 1677, gave authority
to Pardo to root out such “scandalous” practices. According to the author of the
“Anales ecclesiasticos de Philipinas,” the misas de aguinaldo had already been
banned in the archbishopric of Mexico and were no longer sung there.31 He
went on to transcribe Pardo’s subsequent Archdiocesan Decree of Prohibition:
In as much as we have received the news that a decree has arrived
prohibiting the celebration of the Masses that are sung on the nine
days preceding the Nativity of Our Lord Jesus Christ (which are
commonly called “de aguinaldo”), we decree that they no longer be
sung in any manner whatsoever and that their music, the instru-
ments, and the chanzonetas are now proscribed. Since it is proper
that such prohibition be observed and honored in this Archbishopric,
by these present, We order that by no means the said misas de agui-
naldo be sung or recited; that no rejoicings be made in the churches to the
sound of music; that no instruments be played nor any chanzonetas be
sung or any other songs for that matter, even though they be seemingly
religious. Whoever dares to do the contrary falls under the threat of
punishment which will be inflicted upon him as one disobedient to
the decrees of Our Most Holy Mother the Church and Ours. And We
command that this decree be posted at the gates of the churches of
the City and be forwarded to the beneficiaries [clergy] so that they
may become familiar with them. Given at San Gabriel, Extramuros,
on October 12 in the year 1680.32
This decree evidently proved very unpopular, and the degree of protest it pro-
voked resulted in the misas de aguinaldo being (re)approved by the Sacred
Congregation on January 24, 1682, and, in the words of Pablo Fernández,
“since then this mass has been continued to be said until now.”33 The power of
music in the early modern Philippines was evidently so great that it led to the
investment of considerable effort in procuring judgments from Rome on the
suitability of popular songs’ use in religious devotions.
The performance of the misas de aguinaldo appears to have been a common
practice throughout the Spanish Empire. The Sacred Congregation of Rites in
Rome had considered these masses to be superstitious because of the abuses of
rubrics and the insertion of worldly songs, according to an eighteenth-century
Dominican historian of the Philippines, Vicente de Salazar (d. 1754). Although
the ban was lifted in 1682, “these Masses were not celebrated . . . as long as the
Archbishop was alive”—that is, until his death in 1689. “The practice was
eventually resumed with some moderation of the abuses that were previously
customary,” continued Salazar, “[but] I do not know whether this was universal
[throughout the archipelago].”34
Thus, in spite of Pardo’s efforts, the misas de aguinaldo retained their pop-
ularity, and their performative excesses were evidently not curbed in the course
of the eighteenth century. But regulatory sources from this period are contra-
dictory: some allow the Masses, whereas others do not. For example, the stat-
utes and ordinances of the Franciscans that were formulated by the Provincial
Chapter on June 8, 1726, and printed in 1732, ordered that the misas de agui-
naldo were not to be sung, maintaining the custom “of many years” of avoiding
their performance; caution was to be taken in following the rubrics of the mis-
sal in all the Masses of the year.35 As we noted in the previous chapter, however,
the misas de aguinaldo were permitted to be celebrated in the Jesuit Colegio de
Manila in the mid-eighteenth century.36 We can see from a pastoral letter of
Archbishop Martínez de Arizala, dated November 4, 1751, that these masses
were still being celebrated in many parts of the Philippines. The archbishop
observed that an infamous abuse that had been introduced in Manila and its
surrounding areas was the impious singing of the Rosary of Our Lady in the
Octave of the “Most Pure” (Immaculate) Conception, in the aguinaldo Masses,
Feasts of the Holy Cross, and others of the year, in which people of both sexes
and all ages gathered together after having sung the Rosary on these occasions,
and engaged in dances, songs, and indecent games. He considered these tradi-
tions to be more appropriate for “heretics, Gnostics, gentiles, and Muslims
than for true Christians,” and his letter was a warning for priests to stamp out
these practices to avoid a denunciation in his visitation of parishes.37 Yet all
these observations and decrees concerning devotional songs in vernacular lan-
guages demonstrate that there was continuity of musical practice in spite of
repeated legislation. Music was opposition.
Reforms of Marian Devotions and Music
The comments of Archbishop Martínez de Arizala in his pastoral letter reflect

concerns emerging in doctrinal discussions of the eighteenth century regarding
the veneration that the Filipino people accorded to the Virgin Mary, which was
seen as disproportionately greater than the honors that were rendered to the
Holy Trinity. This devotion stemmed from Filipinos’ traditional reverence for
mother figures, and from the beginning of the evangelistic enterprise of Spain,
shrines dedicated to Mary proliferated throughout the islands.38 Reinhard
Wendt has noted that the cult of the Virgin Mary in the Philippines has been
interpreted by some authors as “a distant memory of pre-colonial creator
goddesses and priestesses”; this perspective supports his thesis that “elements
taken from traditional [Filipino] culture were accorded new attributes” within
the Spanish colonial framework.39 Such a circumstance was, of course, by no

means unusual. Elsewhere in the world, there were similar cases of the worship
of sacred feminine figures transformed by Roman Catholic missionaries into
the veneration of the Virgin Mary.40
The singular devotion to the practice of reciting the Rosary in mid-eigh-
teenth-century Manila was described in detail by Murillo Velarde, who claimed
not only that it was sung in street processions during the night but that in most
(if not all) houses of the city, it was prayed publicly, several times a day.
Furthermore, he averred, it was difficult to see a Spaniard, Filipino, or African
who did not wear a rosary or pray it every day.41 In the Filipino towns observed
by Murillo Velarde, the Rosary was sung in houses, in the streets, and during
voyages; the Salve Regina was also sung to “the most beautiful harmony.”42 On
Saturday afternoons the Rosary was chanted or sung by the entire community
and the Salve was sung in Tagalog (or other indigenous languages). On
Sundays, before Mass began, a procession of youths would carry a standard
bearing an image of the Virgin, singing the Doctrine all around the town so
that the people would gather together.43 Juan Francisco de San Antonio listed
similar devotions in his history of the Franciscan Province, stating that the tra-
dition of sending children into the streets singing the Rosary was both endorsed
and mandated by Archbishop Bermúdez de Castro.44
Although many accounts of Marian devotions approve the popular piety
that was manifested in public displays of religiosity during the seventeenth and
early eighteenth centuries, regulations and reforms subsequently began to be
formulated to temper these practices. Deviation from the orthodox doctrine of
the Roman Catholic Church was clearly considered problematic and was
debated at great length in the proceedings of both the Council of Manila and
the Synod of Calasiao. Through religious conversion, Filipinos had apparently
succeeded in effecting the inversion and even subversion of the imposed reli-
gious doctrine. Barrion observes that “the devotion of the laity to the Blessed
Mother was a reality, a devotion that was an integral portion of their Christian
life. . . So great was the veneration shown to the Blessed Virgin that many of the
faithful believed she was God.”45 In a similar vein, Pablo Fernández asserts that
some of the converted population rendered divine honors to Mary that “they
refused to her Son, whom they did not consider as a true God.”46
According to a letter written in Latin by an unnamed Jesuit on December 13,
1771, Archbishop Sancho de Santas Justa y Rufina proposed at the Council of
Manila to abolish the solemn votive Mass of the Blessed Virgin Mary (sung
every Saturday “for the preservation and spread of the Catholic religion”)
“under the pretext that the Indians [that is, the Filipinos] might not [thereby]
be led into idolatry and the worship of Mary as a goddess.”47 This idea was
strongly opposed by the bishop of Nueva Cáceres, however, who left the assem-
bly in an indignant rage. Although the votive Mass was ultimately not abol-
ished, other measures moderating Marian devotion were set in place, and in
1773 the Acts of the Synod of Calasiao reflected the changes proposed to
spiritual exercises: “we forbid, wherever it is done, the daily singing of the
‘Salve Regina,’ except on Saturdays, Sundays, and on high feasts of our Lord
Jesus Christ and of His Most Blessed Mother. On these days we command
that the Church bells be rung at a convenient time in the afternoon to sum-
mon the faithful for the singing of the ‘Salve Regina’ which is to be followed
by the recitation of the holy Rosary in the church or going in procession
through the streets.”48
Similarly, local practices concerning the praying of the Rosary in the
Diocese of Nueva Segovia were condemned, even though the synod acknowl-
edged the Rosary as an easy and convenient form of devotion: “We have noticed
that in many parts of our Bishopric, the Rosary is recited without saying the
mysteries corresponding to the day; instead they have introduced some verses
which they sing, and which, apart from making the recitation of the Rosary
very boring, no one understands[,] not even the singers themselves.”49 To
counter this practice, it was ordered that anyone reciting the Rosary must say
“the mysteries of the Rosary corresponding to that day.” The reference to the
incomprehensibility of the verses that interpolated the prayers of the Rosary
brings to mind the frustration of Alzina, who found that the indigenous poetry
of deepest emotive power had metaphorical texts that bore little relation to col-
loquial vocabulary, as noted in an earlier chapter.50
The practice of chanting or singing the Rosary while processing through
the streets was banned to all except children; children were also permitted to
sing the Salve Regina daily.51 This concession is a clear demonstration of the
religious authorities’ intention to indoctrinate younger generations of Filipinos
and instill in them a sense of piety that they would, in time, pass on to their
offspring. Adults were recommended to pray four decades of the Rosary in
church with great devotion on principal feasts of the Blessed Virgin Mary and
were also permitted to solemnize the feast with a procession—but only when
the parish priest could attend, ostensibly to supervise—followed by the Litany
of the Blessed Virgin.52 In other reforms of Marian devotions, Bishop García
commanded that no bells should be rung in any church of the diocese when
images of the Virgin were exposed; “this should be done only for the Sacramental
Presence of Jesus Christ” (that is, at the Eucharist).53 All these measures were
intended for the official theological hierarchies to be maintained and reinforced
among the Christianized indigenous population through control of musical
expression, thus “correcting” localized “deviations” of religious belief. The
figure of the Virgin Mary remained central to the faith and devotion of the
people, however, and was promoted by Church authorities who wished to
“engrave and impress in the hearts of the faithful a loving devotion and tender
affection to Mary.”54
Regarding the irreligious rendering of the Rosary, it was not only bishops
or archbishops who expressed displeasure. Simón de Anda y Salazar (1701–76),
the governor-in-exile during the British occupation of Manila, strongly voiced

his disapproval of excesses that were purportedly committed by Archbishop
Rojo del Río in the 1760s. In a letter addressed directly to Rojo del Río, the
governor claimed that the archbishop had used the inspection of a ship that
was under construction at Cavite as a pretext to go to that port and celebrate in
grand style. Anda y Salazar alleged that the archbishop had invited and pres-
sured ladies from Manila (whether Spanish, mestiza, or Filipina we do not
know) to travel to Cavite, where he encouraged and impelled them to sing
secular songs while going around the town. These ladies interpolated the songs
with a recitation of the Rosary at a church, and then attended a dance party at
the archbishop’s local accommodation, where he effectively acted as the dancing
master and persuaded them to perform lascivious dances.55 Anda y Salazar
considered this behavior by a senior prelate to constitute gross misconduct and
set a bad moral example for the people.
It thus seems that the practice of peppering the Rosary with secular songs
extended to the Spanish population of the Philippines (and the Rosary itself
may have been sung to popular melodies). The apparently scandalous episode
just related shows clearly that the temptation of incorporating profane music
into devotional practices was widespread throughout colonial society. Dancing
was also considered by some authorities to lower moral standards. Rojo del
Río’s behavior at Cavite provided Anda y Salazar with evidence for blatant
irreligiosity, which he could readily use to attack his rival. Secular music
offered an easy target for criticism, of course, because it could easily be accused
of distracting people from spiritual matters. On the other hand, music for
church had more complex regulations—but these were also subject to varied
interpretation.
Liturgical Music and Instrumental Practice
The statutes, ordinances, and constitutions of religious orders often detail the
type and amount of music allowed or mandated in the Filipino parishes under
their care. For example, Dominican Río instructed that “an inviolable law is set
in place in our churches that from the Sanctus until the Agnus [Dei] nothing
should be sung, nor should instruments be played.”56 Musicians in the
Dominican parishes were to be treated specially, and Río commanded that the
tiples should be instructed separately from the rest of the children, in their own
school.57 The indoctrination of youth in both religious and musical terms was
of course essential to the continuation of the evangelistic project and the pres-
ervation of the Roman Catholic Church. Augustinian Díaz Toledano devoted a
large chapter section to a discussion of how the cantores should be instructed
and stated that the parish priest (the “perfect pastor” of his book’s title) could
not employ his time any better than in teaching these musicians how to
“pronounce well” the Psalms, Antiphons, and other parts of the liturgy.58 Much
of his chapter is given over to a discussion of the history of liturgical music and
whether polyphony is an acceptable form of divine praise. He points out that
neither Saint Augustine nor Saint Jerome knew of polyphony, “as it was
invented in the eleventh century.” Although the Philippines represented a
relatively recent extension of Christendom, Díaz Toledano’s reference to
Christian figures of late antiquity and the Middle Ages affirms the continuity of
ecclesiastical tradition in a new territory, as well as the persistence or
reproduction of old prejudices. Probably a great deal of what was sung in the
churches of the early modern Philippines (just like their counterparts in
Europe) was improvised polyphony, with local and spontaneous interpretations
of contrapuntal rules.59 Although this Augustinian writer concedes that the
invention of counterpoint has “lowered the gravity and authority of the
church”—we see that even Spaniards could take an oppositional view of musical
counterpoint—he admits that it should not be dismissed out of hand, but toler-
ated and permitted. Nevertheless, he still proclaims that the singing of canti-
nelas and recitados “lacking seriousness” (“cantinelas, ó recitados agenos de la
gravedad”) is “worthy of condemnation.”60
In his Practica del ministerio, Ortiz also gives a detailed description of
musical requirements in the parishes administered by the Augustinian order.
The minister was required to sing Mass on Fridays and Saturdays, as well as
on major feasts, and to say Mass on Sunday, although the cantores would
“sing the sung masses.” On all feast days, Vespers would be sung as well as
Mass. The Salve was to be sung on Saturdays, in some places in the mornings
and in others the afternoon, depending on the custom of each province. In the
case of the former, the Litany of Our Lady would also be sung during Mass,
after the Sanctus. For the latter, the Litany and the Rosary would follow the
Salve. Every day, an adult cantor together with the tiples would sing the Te
Deum Laudamus and the Prime of Our Lady very early in the morning; at two
o’clock in the afternoon they would sing the Vespers of Our Lady and the
appropriate Antiphon.61
The role of music in Filipino ministries and doctrinas administered by the
Franciscan order is set out in great detail in the Estatutos y ordenaciones. Music
in such settings was clearly elaborate; the consideration and regulation of the
organization of schools for cantores, the acquisition and care of musical com-
modities, and the role of music in the Divine Office all attest to the prevalence
of musical culture and the extent to which its use was controlled. In the schools
of Franciscan parishes, where children learned to read, write, count, sing, and
serve at Mass, the maestro—who had to be the most skillful and talented cantor
of the parish—was required to teach plainchant and polyphony, recorder, and
“all musical instruments that are customarily played in the churches.”62
According to this publication, the Franciscan vow of poverty entailed the
prohibition of organs within any convent of the community, but organs, harps,
and other instruments were licensed to be used by Filipinos in the parishes, “at
the Holy Sacrifice of the Mass, and in other divine praises.” Greater conces-
sions were thus made to Filipinos than to European religious, on the grounds
that value was accorded to musical instruments in attracting Filipinos to
worship and consolidating the important position of musical practice within
ecclesiastical rituals. Ministers of religion were informed, however, that “the
penalty for allowing instruments to be bought or made without the permission
of the aforementioned license is suspension of one’s office for two months.”63
Organs appear to have proliferated throughout the Franciscan parishes. In
an account of a journey made in 1790 throughout the Province of Batangas,
Augustinian Castro related that “I have seen in all the provinces of the
Philippines administered by the discalced Franciscan Fathers, and some of
the Dominicans, large and good bells, and fine organs in all [of] them.”64 In the
Franciscan parishes, the care of instruments and music books was the respon-
sibility of the minister, who was required to provide these commodities and, if
necessary, renew them with church alms or with the alms of the convent. Some
responsibility was also delegated to the maestro of the cantores, who would be
warned by the minister that users of these items would have to pay for them if
they were lost or destroyed.65
All the cantores in the Franciscan parishes who were married or exempted
from tribute by virtue of their service to the church were obliged to sing at
Vespers of every Sunday and of feast days observed by the Filipinos, as well as
Prime, Mass, and Vespers for the principal classical feasts of the Franciscan
order, the Benediction on Fridays, and on Saturdays the Prime, Mass of Our
Lady, Vespers, and Salve. On all these days they had to go to the school with the
maestro, to learn what they had to sing and repeat what they had learned, “so
as not to forget it.” They also attended the ceremonies in honor of deceased
religious.66 At Prime, there were to be two strokes of the bell following mental
prayer, and the youths of the school would process to the church with their
maestro following behind, praying the Confession or any prayer from the
Christian doctrine; having arrived at the church, the maestro de los cantores
would sing the Te Deum with the verse and prayer of the Most Holy Trinity.
Once this had concluded, the Prime of the Officio parvo (Little Office) of the
Blessed Virgin Mary would be sung, then the Conventual Mass would follow
while bells were being rung. On feast days that required the altars to be covered
in purple, the Litany of Our Lady would be sung in place of the Te Deum; the
Estatutos y ordenaciones also permitted the playing of the organ, if the parish
owned one, and other instruments at Mass.67 As we have seen, the surviving
regulations for liturgical music and instrumental practice relate primarily to
Augustinian, Dominican, and Franciscan parishes (around two-fifths of the
total number in the mid-eighteenth century), but it is likely that in parishes
administered by the Jesuits, the Recollects, and the secular clergy, similarly
strict rules were set in place.
Regulations of Theatrical Performances
Religious authorities were determined not to allow churches to turn into “the-
aters,” but it seems that theaters themselves were subject to almost as many
restrictions as religious spaces were. In early modern Manila, theatrical genres
from European and Asian traditions alike were often censored or prohibited
outright. The implications for musical performance in the context of theatrical
regulations are considerable, given the high level of involvement of song and
instrumental music in most dramatic genres of the Hispanic world. Whereas
the indigenous theater underwent a great deal of change during the colonial
period, the imported Chinese and Spanish theatrical traditions appear to have
retained stylistic links with practices of their respective mother countries. As
early as 1589, Dominican Juan Cobo (1546/7–92) noted that “the Chinese also
have comedies . . . They act in loud voices with gestures and they sing a great
part of what we would recite.”68 Cobo had developed a detailed knowledge of
Chinese language and customs, which allowed him to sniff out and censor (or
censure) what he saw as “superstition and idolatry” in many theatrical and
musical performances by the Chinese. His apparent knowledge of the Chinese
language enabled him to inform Cristóbal de Salvatierra (the local representa-
tive of Bishop Salazar after Salazar’s return to Spain in 1591) that their theatrical
works contained elements of “superstition and idolatry.” According to Aduarte,
whose work was published posthumously in 1640, these Chinese performances
were very popular, and Spanish men and women would go out at night to see
them. At the beginning of the seventeenth century, the texts were required to
be read and approved by Spanish religious officials versed in the Chinese lan-
guage, before they could receive a license for performance.69
On February 20, 1701, Archbishop Camacho y Ávila issued an outright ban
of three dramatic genres: comedias, coloquios, and entremeses.70 This ruling
applied to all works, regardless of the style and language in which they were
written. They could only be performed if their texts were submitted to the arch-
bishop’s provisor or vicar general for examination two months before the
intended performance.71 Camacho also mandated that no women should take
part in such performances, and that they should “in no way be obscene, nor
treat amorous or illicit subjects, nor incite evil.”72 The archbishop restricted the
performance of theatrical works because he believed they had the potential to
damage public morality. Pedro Rubio Merino has observed that the sorts of
“dangers” that theatrical performances presented were amplified in the Indies,
where the environment created by the social mixing of different ethnic groups
contributed to the supposed relaxation of moral norms, seen most clearly on
the occasion of such performances, when order could “break down.” He notes
that among Camacho’s objections was the performance of dances involving
both genders.73
A major offense against this ruling was committed in 1702 by Sargento

Mayor Don Mateo López y Perea, whose military company (the Tercio de
Manila) presented farces and entremeses as part of the festivities for the feast
of the Immaculate Conception. In spite of his high military and social ranking,
this man was excommunicated by the archbishop, thus providing for the pop-
ulace an example of the severity of punishment for all levels of the population.74
A real cédula of August 12, 1705, reaffirmed that no (theatrical) composition in
Castilian or any local dialect could be performed without prior censorship and
approval from the governing authority.75
The Franciscan Estatutos y ordenaciones, however, permitted Filipino
players to present one or more comedias in any of the order’s convents (except
one) on major feast days. These performances probably took place in plazas,
courtyards, or certain salas (internal rooms). Dramatic works were not allowed
to be played inside the churches attached to the convents, however, unless they
were a short and devout coloquio for Christmas Eve; the first offense against
this rule would result in the suspension of the convent guardian from his office
for two months, and for the second offense the guardian would be relieved of
his post, after severe castigation by the Franciscan Provincial. Before any come-
dia, entremés, or coloquio could be performed, the text had to be inspected to
see whether it was “decent.” If the actors planned to make use of any religious
vestments, they were to be stopped. Special effects such as the use of fire, acro-
batics, or guns of any type were also prohibited. The ruling against the use of
vestments could be an attempt to avert any comical or “seditious” representa-
tion of a friar that could sow political dissent, or (less likely) it could have been
a simple rule to prevent the wear and tear of these expensive garments.
Interestingly, no comedia was allowed to be performed in the Convento de San
Francisco in Intramuros, and severe penalties were reserved for any trans-
gressor against this rule. It seems that the Mother House in the capital offi-
cially had to appear free of anything that might be interpreted as moral
turpitude.76
Other rulings applying to society at large were decreed on March 29, 1741,
by Archbishop Rodríguez, who declared that “if there are any who consent to
the Chinese performing their comedies and theatrical presentations, or the
Spaniards or ANY NATION without license, and if these have not been first
seen and examined by the Ordinary, and given his express license, IN THE
MANNER WHICH HAS BEEN SANCTIONED AND MANDATED, or any
who arrange for them to be performed without the said license in their ranches
[estancias], lands, or properties,” they would be subject to penalties.77 This rul-
ing demonstrates that landowners and institutions frequently engaged players
to present theatrical performances on their properties, and provides evidence
of the extent of this practice. Another restriction placed on theatrical perfor-
mances concerned the use of arnis, a type of martial art that had precolonial
origins and became a prominent feature of comedias. In 1764, Governor Anda
y Salazar banned arnis (and other games), allowing its use only in comedias as
a performative act by arnis veterans selected by the parish priests.78
Theatrical performances were certainly popular in the early modern
Philippines. At the end of the eighteenth century, Castro noted the widespread
existence of coliseos (theaters or amphitheaters) in Filipino towns, with the
exception of those that could not afford to maintain one. Although Castro
accepted that the ministers could not impede the performance of comedias, he
besought them to keep their superiors informed and solicit the reformation of
theatrical practices in Filipino towns. In this way works could be approved and
performed according to the “laws and circumstances” of the theaters in Madrid,
Mexico, and Manila; Castro states that he himself had assisted Filipino per-
formers by doing so.79
Reforms of Processions, Celebrations, and Feasts
Of course, Filipinos did not necessarily need specific spaces or buildings for
performance. As mentioned in an earlier chapter, Le Gentil de la Galaisière noted
in the mid-eighteenth century that the absence of an artificially constructed
theatrical space made no difference to Filipinos, who were able to give dramatic
performances wherever they were. Song, dance, instrumental music, and drama
could all be enacted in processions, in plazas, or on temporary platforms as part
of larger festivities that involved whole communities. Many of these occasions
were bound up with religious observances. The celebration of religious feasts in
colonial Manila was based on a hierarchy of obligation for different sections of
the population, and feast days were marked on the calendar with one to three
crosses. A three-cross feast was a holiday of obligation for all Spaniards and
natives to hear Mass and abstain from manual labor; those with two crosses
required Spaniards and Europeans to hear Mass and abstain from servile work;
and one-cross feasts obliged Spaniards and Europeans to hear Mass but not
refrain from working.80 The ten feasts of three crosses were holidays for the entire
population, just like all Sundays throughout the year, and were comprised of the
five feasts of Our Lord (Circumcision, Epiphany, Ascension, Corpus Christi, and
Christmas Day), the four feasts of the Virgin Mary (Purification, Annunciation,
Assumption, and Nativity), and the feast of Saints Peter and Paul. These were
originally established for the indigenous peoples of the Indies by the papal bull
Altitudo divini consilii, promulgated by Paul III on June 1, 1537. Though the num-
bers of one- and two-cross feasts (days of obligation for Spaniards and Europeans)
were gradually reduced over the following centuries, the ten three-cross feasts
originally mandated by Paul III (days of obligation for all Roman Catholics,
regardless of ethnicity) remained unchanged during the colonial period.81
A major reform of feasts was made on November 1, 1737, by Archbishop
Rodríguez, who complained that on his arrival in the islands he found such an
excessive number of feast days were being observed that they equated to almost
a third of the year.82 In a letter to the king, dated July 1, 1738, he wrote that this
circumstance was due to local ignorance of the papal bull of Urban VIII, pro-
mulgated almost a century earlier, which in 1642 had reduced the number of
holy days of obligation, besides Sundays, to thirty-four.83 Rodríguez thus
observed that the feasts instituted by his predecessors in Manila numbered
thirty more than in any other place.84 His reforms, titled Edicto sobre las fiestas,
were published in a large-scale format in 1737, with the command that they be
publicized in all parishes of his diocese on the first feast day of the following
year. The changes mainly affected Spaniards; still, this hierarchical three-tiered
structure was set in place and remained more or less unchanged throughout
the nineteenth century.85
Aside from these reforms, in 1738 Rodríguez “prohibited all night proces-
sions as they were inconvenient in this land.”86 The veil of darkness evidently
allowed for Filipinos to control their own movements and subvert the social order
that the Spanish hierarchy wanted to impose. Nighttime also facilitated the unin-
hibited social mixing of people from both genders and the performance of lasciv-
ious dances (something that the colonial authorities were eager to prevent). Thus,
all and any changes to the celebration of feast days—which were sponsored by
both Church and Crown—had significant implications for musical perfor-
mances. Filipino musicians throughout the Christianized territories of the
islands expended a great deal of time and effort in preparation for feast days—as
much today as in the early modern period. The censure and reduction of celebra-
tory community performances simply meant that musical inspiration and crea-
tivity would be directed toward other recreational or devotional contexts.
It is likely that Filipino musicians would have been employed to provide
music for some ceremonies on one- and two-cross days, which were reserved
for observance by members of higher castas in the colonial hierarchy. But cele-
brations for the three-cross feasts remained the most significant, because they
involved all sectors of the population. They had to adhere strictly to the calendar
promulgated by Archbishop Rodríguez, although every parish was of course
entitled to celebrate the feast of its patron saint, as illustrated by Río’s
Instrucciones morales y religiosas of 1739. This document mandated that in the
Dominican parishes, the feasts of the patron saint, Corpus Christi, and
Monumento should be celebrated “with the greatest possible solemnity, with
sung Vespers, Mass, sermon, and [a] procession . . . On the two feasts of Corpus,
and Patron [saint], there can be permitted dances, soirées, loas, and other fes-
tivities of the Filipinos, conforming to the capabilities of the town.”87 A critical
issue for the successful celebration of feasts was the financial well-being of
each community after the event. Some towns would run the coffers dry with
too much expenditure on these occasions, but at the same time, the pride and
the reputation of the town were also at stake. A balance thus had to be struck
between proper celebration and proper fiscal management.
Conclusion
Colonial authorities were probably well aware of the contradictory nature of

their rule. However, because they regarded their mission of hispanization and
Christianization as a divinely ordained process, contradiction simply became a
composite part of the immutable set of rules and regulations applied to colonial
society. Contradiction also characterized the actions of the subaltern, for
Filipinos and other Asian communities in the islands were often frustrated in
their attempt to articulate their cultural identity through song and dance or the
maintenance of ceremonies—even though many practices appear to have
continued in spite of prohibitions and censorship. Nevertheless, their (prob-
ably unwitting) act of resistance was the absorption and reinterpretation of
European religious practices, which appeared to be sufficiently different in
their reproduction so as to cause considerable controversy and debate among
colonial authorities.
Functionaries of Church and Crown struggled to constrain and contain the
quodlibet nature of Filipino musical and religious practices within a strict set
of rules and regulations that they attempted to impose on the subjugated
population. These regulations and reforms were devised by religious and state
leaders to redress problems created by controversies over the population’s tra-
ditional musical practices, as well as to moderate or “correct” the syncretic
devotional practices that diverged from orthodox Roman Catholic doctrine. Just
like the simplest species of musical counterpoint, there was no allowance for
any variation from the rules. But the centrifugal force of rulings from Manila
lost some of its inertia in the provinces: greater distance from the capital
allowed for greater dilution of the strict decrees that were issued. Of course, the
colonial government attempted to counteract any laxity by organizing regular
visitation by ecclesiastical authorities and by constantly replenishing religious
posts with recruits from Manila, Mexico, and Spain.
In addition to this form of control, Spanish discrimination between differ-
ent levels of the colonial casta system meant that each level would develop its
own cultural identity and, moreover, the behavioral standards that were
expected from each stratum would become rigorously enforced by society at
large. Yet these constructed boundaries could be either intensified or dissolved
in different contexts of musical and dramatic performances. As we see in the
next chapter, disparate elements of the population regularly converged for the
celebration of festivities, in which some parts of the social order could be
inverted or subverted. Filipinos made the Hispanic fiesta their own, simulta-
neously embracing features of the introduced religion, appropriating cultural
traits of immigrant groups, defending indigenous identities, and contesting
heteronomy.88
8 ©
Fiesta filipina: Celebrations in Manila
Fiestas (feasts or festivities) in early modern Manila and throughout the Philippine
archipelago were focal points of celebration and music-making that involved the
entire spectrum of the population. Significantly, fiestas embodied the active par-
ticipation of Manila—the most distant colony of Spain—in the political affairs,
theological discourses, and ideological debates of the rest of the empire. They
provided an unparalleled local opportunity for musical, theatrical, and artistic
expression, and a considerable portion of Manila’s civic budget was spent on
them.1 Many accounts stress—usually in hyperbolic tones—the contribution of
all ethnic groups in the city to a display of loyalty to Spain and the empire. Because
almost all of the sources pertaining to these fiestas were produced by the elite of
Manila’s society, however, we are presented with an inherent bias in their per-
spective, which complicates any attempt to make meaningful evaluations of the
extent to which different ethnic groups or social castas were involved in the cele-
brations. Early modern authors carefully molded descriptions of events to meet
(or mold in turn) the expectations of the rulers of an idealized Hispanic world,
and so we are presented with the idealized view of a utopian, multiracial
community bound together by collective loyalty and in carrying out ceremonies
that upheld and legitimated the authority of Church and Crown.2
In Manila and its environs, it could be argued, non-European peoples
benefited from a greater degree of integration into the commercial and cultural
life of the metropolis than their counterparts in Latin American cities. This
state of affairs was probably due to the smaller number of Spaniards in the
Philippines, a steady commerce with neighboring countries and across the
Pacific, and the constantly fluctuating population of visiting foreigners, all of
which are typical attributes of a port city at the crossroads of trade.3 But racial
segregation in Manila was, in fact, rigorously imposed, and ethnic categories
were rigidly defined. This segregation extended to the production of fiestas;

surviving records indicate that different parts of the fiesta were reserved for
different sections of the community. Thus the fiesta simultaneously upheld
and reinforced colonialist ideologies.
Mikhail Bakhtin (1895–1975) identified the idea of the “carnivalesque”—
the celebratory part of a feast, as opposed to the official, ritualized compo-
nents—as a form of public celebration that can momentarily suspend and
invert the hierarchies of stratified societies (an apt representation of invertible
counterpoint in our metaphor). But other scholars have argued against the
“emancipatory potential” of festivities. They point out that the deliberate offi-
cial approbation of an apparently subversive public event may in fact have
underscored the intensification of hegemony.4 Another view, offered by
Reinhard Wendt, is more nuanced: he asserts that fiestas in the Philippines
“were by no means simply a cultural-imperialistic instrument in the hand of
colonial masters, used to establish and buttress their power. The same festivals,
steeped in the traditions of the Christian West, presented the indigenous
population with a means to assert themselves culturally under changed political
and economic conditions, and even eventually to resist heteronomy outright.”5
We see, then, that the Filipinos’ active appropriation of hispanized practices
contributed to the gradual acquisition of an increasing amount of cultural con-
trol. While Spanish colonial authorities manipulated the rules of strict
counterpoint, Filipinos and other Asian communities constituted the funda-
mental bass (or base) on which the rest of the contrapuntal fabric (or super-
structure) rested. In the revolutionary era of the late nineteenth century, the
strict rules of counterpoint eventually disintegrated as the ancien régime of
colonialism gave way to struggles for independence.
In all the components of fiestas, ritualized and celebratory alike (represent-
ing strict and free counterpoint respectively), musical practice provided a
central point of interface between contrasting cultures, races, and religions,
even though the musics of these groups had quite different meanings. Fiestas
were divided nominally into civic and religious celebrations, but there was con-
siderable overlap between these categories. Civic events involved religious
observance, and religious celebrations involved the patronage of the city’s offi-
cials. A clearer dichotomy, however, can be seen in the two groupings of
“seasonal” and “occasional” fiestas. The seasonal religious fiestas were rigor-
ously codified by the ecclesiastical rulers (whose pronouncements were upheld
by secular functionaries), and these holy days entered into annual cycles that
became immutable, with the inclusion of musical elaborations that were
relatively standardized. By contrast, the occasional (or “one-off ”) fiestas—com-
memorating such events as royal births, accessions, marriages, and funerals;
royal, gubernatorial, and religious entries into the city; or beatifications and
canonizations—necessitated performances that were innovative and specific to
FIESTA FILIPINA : celebrations in manila 217
every occasion, with various factions of society attempting to outdo one another
in splendor and invention.
This final chapter surveys some of these celebrations, exploring aspects of
the imperial ideologies of loyalty, ceremony, and racial integration in musical
performances that took place in early modern Manila. We will see how
“baroque” music was reproduced at the farthest geographical limits of the
Spanish Empire—and how the term “baroque” itself was reinterpreted in extra-
European contexts by a French commentator in the late eighteenth century as
a result of witnessing Chinese musical performances in Manila. It will also
become apparent how music in these metropolitan celebrations enabled the
populace to express a collective identity while at the same time reinforcing rigid
social and racial hierarchies.
Festivities for Royal Occasions
Royal accessions, births, and marriages were all celebrated in Manila to rein-
force local loyalty to empire and emphasize Spanish sovereignty over the islands
in visual and aural terms. Portraits of the royal figures were often displayed for
the populace, as they were in other parts of the empire; in 1678, for instance,
“reverence” to a portrait of Carlos II was made during the performance of a
sarao in the celebrations for his accession to the throne.6 Portraits of royalty
were also taken through the streets of the city on floats in the midst of perfor-
mances, and obeisances were made before them. For example, a loa was per-
formed by mestizos before portraits of the prince and princess of Castile in
1766, as Le Gentil de la Galaisière described.7 Although this type of practice,
also prevalent throughout Latin America, appears in some ways not dissimilar
to the Chinese veneration of ancestor portraits and might have been viewed
with some empathy by the Chinese population, effigies and likenesses of
Spanish royalty usually acted as potent visual symbols of both imperial sover-
eignty and colonial oppression.
Following the accession of the House of Bourbon to the throne of Spain in
1700, public celebrations were held in Manila just as elsewhere in the Spanish
Empire (but unfortunately the official account from Manila seems to have been
lost).8 Just seven years later, news of the birth of Prince Luis Felipe Fernando
(1707–24), the eldest son and heir of Felipe V, gave rise to state-sponsored cel-
ebrations throughout the empire, as the prince embodied the continuation of
the Bourbon bloodline on the Spanish throne (although he had a relatively
short life). This news was greeted with some of the most extravagant festivities
ever held in Manila during the eighteenth century.9 Surviving evidence shows
that at least three distinct events were held by various groups in the city. The
most substantial were those spanning December 10 to 18, 1708, and January 6
to 8, 1709, which included Masses, military displays, and the performances of

comedias, entremeses, at least six new villancicos, and twelve loas.10
The novena of December 1708 included “a graceful entremés, in the style of
the land,” a description that probably implies a drama in Tagalog verse.11 On
the following days there were runnings of the bulls, Tagalog and Chinese cele-
brations, masquerades, and fireworks.12 Newly composed loas by Augustinians
Gaspar de San Agustín and Nicolás de San Pedro del Castillo (a Spanish mes-
tizo, d. 1715) preceded performances of imported comedias by Mexican poetess
Sor Juana Inés de la Cruz, including Amor es más laberinto and Los empeños de
una casa, works whose texts indicate considerable musical involvement within
the drama.13 As the festivities moved on to the civic celebration of the birthday
of the king and birth of the prince, three works by mestizo Augustinian San
Pedro del Castillo were premiered, and surviving texts show that each of them
involved a considerable amount of music.14 The first is a vejamen (a festive
literary genre that can be written in verse or prose), which features singing by
the characters Musica and Juno, as well as by two choirs.15 The first half, which
begins “Ola, ola, a de los cielos,” displays elaborate polychoral exchanges bet-
ween Musica, Juno, and four unnamed soloists; in the second half, Juno and
Musica engage in a lively debate, with Juno declaiming verses in Spanish and
Musica responding to each with a Bible verse in Latin.16 The conclusion of this
spectacular work was followed by a procession with a “carro Triumphal” (tri-
umphal float) entering the plaza mayor of the city, where the former performance
had presumably also taken place. The carro approached the balconies of the
palace, and a loa was performed in the presence of the governor. The author of
this loa is not specified in the record of the festivities, but Retana maintains
that it was also San Pedro del Castillo.17
Multiethnic displays of loyalty were also noted in accounts of festivities in
Manila that celebrated royal betrothals and marriages that had taken place in
Europe. In some ways their descriptions could be considered to have intention-
ally symbolized “marriage” between different ethnic groups of the empire. For
instance, verses were written to describe how Filipinos, Japanese, and Africans
all joined in dancing for the joint nuptials of the prince of Asturias with the
Infanta of Portugal, and the Portuguese prince of Brazil with the Infanta of
Spain.18 Similarly, a 1749 account of festivities for the accession of Fernando VI
offers detailed descriptions of the performance of loas in Spanish by Tagalog
declaimers and the use of Chinese instruments.19 Royal deaths were also com-
memorated in Manila by all factions of the population; in these cases, however,
the descriptions of music (at least those known so far) do not mention any
performance styles other than European.20 For example, the death of Spain’s
Crown Prince Balthasar Carlos (1629–46) resulted in elaborate public proces-
sions, vigils, and funerary rites.21 An anonymous writer recorded that “this
whole community constituted a theater of grief,” and that the display of emo-
tions was fitting to the loyalty felt by each person, causing amazement among
“the barbarous nations who carry out trade in these islands.” During a proces-
sion, each religious community in order “sang its responsory with different
ensembles of musicians [capillas de músicos],” who were “so skilled that they
could compete with those of Europe.” The following day, all religious partici-
pants met in the capilla real before sunrise “with the contribution of all the
different choirs [ensembles] of musicians.” There, “at different altars, to which
they were assigned, each group sang its Mass, and afterwards its responsory in
front of the royal catafalque,” before the Office of the Dead commenced.22
Similar events celebrating the deaths of kings and queens are related in pub-
lished accounts.23 All these commemorations serve to reinforce the idea of
monarchy that was created and upheld in overseas territories, where the vassals
of a king or queen were required to express loyalty and devotion to a leader they
would never see (even though effigies were created as objects for devotion, and
catafalques were constructed). But by contrast, eminent persons who physically
entered Manila became tangible and human focal points of celebration.
Entries to the City
In early modern Europe, royal entries into cities assumed an important propa-
gandic role in publicly emphasizing the imposition of sovereignty and the
divine right of the monarch to rule. As Tess Knighton and Carmen Morte
García have noted, “music and dancing of various kinds” in royal entries to
European cities “all formed part of a royal spectacle devised according to the
political process of image-making.”24 In Southeast Asia, entries of important
personages into Manila similarly occasioned jubilant celebration; these included
entries of governors, religious groups, bishops and archbishops, sacred images,
and even Asian nobility. Such performances enhanced local concepts of con-
nection with the empire at large and the notion of intransigent authority
wielded from across two oceans. The most important political figure in the
islands was the governor, and considerable funds paid by the city were allo-
cated to his official reception on arrival.25 Some of the most extravagant festiv-
ities were those held in 1793 for the arrival of Governor Rafael María de Aguilar
y Ponce de León with his wife and son; these celebrations lasted six days and
included dances, musical performances, refreshments, and banquets.26
It was not only on initial arrival to the islands that the islands’ ruler was
feted. Following the military conquests of Governor Hurtado de Corcuera in
Mindanao, he was welcomed back to Manila on May 24, 1637 with peals of bells
and the performance of a villancico.27 An official feast of thanksgiving was held
on June 7, and the procession that preceded it “was enlivened by a great variety
of dances and similar exhibitions, accompanied by various musical instru-
ments and two portable organs.”28 Polychorality, music, and dance all
surrounded religious processions, which were events that sometimes lasted
several days. One of the lengthiest descriptions of an extravagant entry to the

city of Manila is Murillo Velarde’s account of mid-eighteenth-century festivities
in honor of the arrival of Our Lady of Peace and of Good Voyage (the Virgin of
Antipolo). It is worth considering this text at length, as it demonstrates the
central role that music played in this type of celebration.29 As we saw in chapter 1,
this image had accompanied many galleon voyages across the Pacific as a
spiritual protectress. In the islands, she was usually enshrined in the town of
Antipolo (close to Manila), where a strong cult grew up and took root in the
national consciousness.30 In 1748, the Virgin returned to the Philippines from
her last transpacific voyage, and was welcomed with “the most solemn recep-
tion ever seen in these islands.”31 On January 23, the governor, archbishop,
many members of the religious orders, “almost all the [Spanish] citizenry, and
innumerable people” went to the beach to welcome the Virgin. Amid artillery
salvoes and fireworks, a procession singing hymns and praises accompanied
the image to the Convento de Santo Domingo; the following day, the Virgin
was removed to the chapel of the governor’s palace, where devotees could visit
and render praise.32 On February 18, the image left the city in a fluvial proces-
sion, accompanied by the governor himself in the same champana (boat), and
many other richly adorned champanas carrying Spaniards, Filipinos, Chinese,
and representatives of “other nations.”33 This order reflected the social hier-
archy of the Virgin’s devotees, according to the precepts of the colonial casta
system.
During the two-day trip to Antipolo, the procession passed the town of
Pasig, where the banks of the river were lined with arches, flags, hangings, and
altars. Murillo Velarde relates that “the procession halted before two of these
[altars], as the Most Holy Virgin was feted with elegant devotional loas, and
with beautiful songs by smooth and gentle voices, accompanied by sweet tune-
ful instruments. The harmonious consonance of fiddles [rabeles], harps, violon-
cellos, flutes, and oboes was matched by the continuous shots of the fireworks,
the horror of one sound, and the smoothness of the other, interpolated by the
joyful warlike harmonies of drums, horns, and clarions.”34 In the midst of
dances, songs, instrumental music, litanies, masses, and other celebrations,
the procession arrived at Antipolo on February 20; on the entry of the Virgin
into the church, a polychoral Te Deum was performed to instrumental accom-
paniment by the choir of the capilla real of Manila and choirs of many other
towns.35
The following day was designated as the day of festivity, with Mass being
accompanied by the musicians of the capilla real and a sermon preached by
Spanish mestizo Jesuit Sanlúcar. Subsequently, the female Marian sodality of
Antipolo (known as “Las Congragantas de la Santisima [sic] Virgen”) began the
celebrations: “with great affection and devotion they sang the Aba po, or Salve,
in Tagalog,” which was followed by the singing of poetic verses of praise and
welcome in “elegant meter.”36 Dances depicting Asia, Africa, America, and
Europe were performed with appropriate costume, songs, and instrumental

music. After all these exotic displays, however, Murillo Velarde seems to have
been most impressed by the culmination of the festivities, which was marked
by performances of European music:
These two nights there were two serenatas, in which were sung
Spanish and foreign compositions, old and modern; in which the
best of the art was demonstrated in arias, recitatives, fugues, graves,
and all other variety of genres, and good taste [was demonstrated]
with some seasoned farces. Many wind and string instruments were
played with delicacy, alternating with the voices of trebles, altos, and
tenors, who sang with great gracefulness, elegance, and skill, for in
this town were gathered the best and most skillful voices, and the
most intelligent musicians of these islands. And without difficulty
the two serenatas could have earned applause in any large
European city.37
By “foreign,” it is likely that Murillo Velarde means that the music came from
European countries other than Spain: it was possibly Italian or French. But as
is the case with so many other sources, the text offers us little more than a hazy
idea of what repertory was performed on this occasion.
This lengthy account brings a number of issues to the fore. The plurality of
symbolism(s) that the Virgin of Antipolo provided for the colonial population
as a whole allowed for different sectors to render praise and devotion in their
own way, similar to the veneration of the Virgin of Guadalupe in Latin America.38
The Virgin of Antipolo’s arrival at Manila (following successful protection of a
galleon’s return voyage across the Pacific) consolidated her blessing of trans-
oceanic imperial connections in the eyes of the faithful. Furthermore, the colo-
nial government’s “borrowing” of the brown-skinned image from the Tagalog
town of Antipolo, where the Virgin was watched over by a staunch group of
devotees, symbolically acknowledged the devotion of the Spaniards to the same
spiritual protectress as the Filipinos and the debt they owed to the Filipino
guardians of Antipolo. Respect for the same divine entity mediated between
different ethnic groups in this colonial context.
Few other writers give such a detailed step-by-step account of celebrations
for official entries to Manila, but from around the same time there survives a
Spanish description of a royal entry—the only entry into the capital by a monarch
in person rather than effigy—made, ironically, not by a Christian ruler but by
the Muslim sultan of Sulu, ’Azı m ̄ ud-Dı n̄ I.39 As we noted in an earlier chapter,
the moro courts in Mindanao and Sulu had long been a thorn in the side of the
Spanish government in Manila, but ’Azı m ̄ ud-Dı n̄ I, who had acceded to his
throne in 1735, sued for peace with Spain in 1737, and a five-point treaty was
signed. The following decade, however, the sultan was deposed by his brother
and sought Spanish aid to regain his throne.40 He arrived in Manila on January 3,
1749, with a retinue of seventy.41 Fifteen days later, the “public entry” was staged;
this delay demonstrates the symbolic nature of such an event, which had to be
carefully prepared and rehearsed for it to have its full impact. During the initial
procession, there was “continuous music of sonorous instruments”; in each city
neighborhood the citizens competed for “sweetness, and melody . . . with trilling
graces, low sighs, pauses, and echoes . . . With trebles, with tenors, and altos,
multiple voices, and numerous choirs, [they] celebrated the entry of the Sultan
with [much] more than just plainchant.”42
This example of such jubilant celebrations for the official entry into a
Spanish city by an Islamic ruler appears to be unprecedented and unparalleled
in the early modern Spanish Empire—and possibly never repeated. With the
prospect of peace with the moros, the honors accorded to ’Azīm ud-Dīn by the
Spanish citizens of Manila were akin to victory celebrations not unlike those
following Hurtado de Corcuera’s conquest of Mindanao. For the residents of
Manila, the potential for the sultan’s conversion to the Christian faith heralded
the possibility for lasting peace in the region. Juan de Arechederra—then
bishop of Nueva Segovia and acting governor of the islands, who wrote a
detailed account of ’Azīm ud-Dīn’s entry—compared Manila’s reception of the
sultan to Moorish-Christian relations in Spain during the reconquista.43
Celebrations such as these probably contributed to the development of the
moro-moro genre, a music-drama depicting a conflict between Christians and
Muslims, which became exceedingly popular in the nineteenth century.44
Amid great controversy among the religious leaders of Manila (many of
whom doubted the sultan’s readiness), ’Azīm ud-Dīn received baptism into the
Roman Catholic faith on April 28, 1750—in the nearby town of Paniqui, beyond
the jurisdiction of ecclesiastical opponents to this event—and was named
Fernando I, king of Jolo.45 Subsequently, he was welcomed back (again) to the
city with great jubilation; a proclamation was put out to all residents of
Intramuros and Extamuros ordering four days of “luminarias,” three days of
mojigangas (masquerades), three days of bullfights, four nights of fireworks
with three comedias, and, to crown the celebrations, a panegyrical Mass of
thanksgiving.46 The mojigangas of the Filipinos, mestizos, and Chinese began
the festivities; they were performed with a procession of carros (with fire)
accompanied by “choirs of music with loas [composed] especially for the
occasion, and fantastic spectacles, together with dances and many inventions,
which were at the time very pleasant, and very joyous.”47 The other ingredients
of Hispanic festivities—bullfights, fireworks, and comedias—were probably
contrived with the intention of astonishing the new Christian monarch.
Whether they had the desired effect, however, we do not know.
Arechederra describes how the ideological conquest of Jolo’s dynasty would
continue, comparing it to a similar case in Latin America. The eldest son and
daughter of ’Azīm ud-Dīn would be brought to Manila for instruction in
Spanish religious institutions; Arechederra theorizes that since this plan
worked for the Inca of Peru, “to assure their conquest,” it should also work in
̄ ud-Dı n
this Southeast Asian case.48 But in 1751, on ’Azı m ̄ ’s return to the south
together with Spanish allies, Spaniards found letters written by him in Arabic
that were suspected to contain treasonable intent—he had reported that in
converting he had been forced to act under duress—and he was unceremoni-
ously brought back to Manila and imprisoned there for more than a decade.49 It
was only in 1762 that he was freed and then restored to his throne by the British
forces that were occupying Manila at the time.50
The entries of several other noble non-Europeans into Manila occasioned
similar expressions of jubilation, but had outcomes that were more fortunate
for the parties in question. Among the mass exodus of Christians from Japan
in 1614, a number of distinguished converts, including daimyō (warlord) Justo
Takayama Ukon (1553–1615) and his entire household, sailed directly from
Nagasaki to Manila, where they were greeted and given a ceremonial welcome
by the Jesuits and other religious congregations. As Colín recounted, the pro-
cession entered Intramuros,
and because in the path from the palace to our [Jesuit] College they
were obliged to pass by the Cathedral and Convento de San Agustín,
they were saluted in both places with a peal of bells, and the capitu-
lars and religious came out of their doors to receive them. Seeing
this, they were obliged to enter into these churches and make a brief
prayer, accompanied by music of the ministriles, organs, and other
instruments. In our College they were given the same reception, and
with the same solemnity and festivity: adding to this a Te Deum
Laudamus in thanksgiving, sung in polyphony by a very good choir.51
Within the Spanish Empire as a whole, Manila appears to have distinguished
itself by honoring non-Europeans with such elaborate festivities—a pheno-
menon rarely seen in the overseas territories of other early modern European
empires, although within Europe itself, many non-European embassies were
honored with extravagant celebrations.52 At the most distant frontiers of the
Spanish Empire, such acts had to be deliberately and carefully orchestrated
(and choreographed), with due consideration of the religious persuasions or
political motives of the intended visitors from adjacent regions. The survival of
the isolated Spanish colony on the doorstep of Asia necessitated delicate diplo-
matic negotiations with powerful neighbors, and also the assertion of Spain’s
religious identity and the military strength of its empire.
Beatifications and Canonizations, Seasonal and Votive Festivities
An endogamous European expatriate community that was far removed from

its mother country in the early modern period needed to exaggerate and
reinforce its own cultural practices and traditions to maintain a sense of iden-
tity. The Spaniards in Manila did so by keeping abreast of the latest political
and religious developments in Europe and the Americas, even going to the
extent of reproducing or imitating important “one-off” church ceremonies.
From the late seventeenth century onward, lengthy accounts were published of
celebrations surrounding beatifications and canonizations; several include full
texts of new compositions that had been commissioned locally for the occasion.53
In 1742, Dominican Diego Saenz reported on festivities held the previous year
in honor of the beatification of “the new Dominican star” Pope Benedict XI
(1240–1304), enthusing hyperbolically:
And so that all outside the Temple [church] [there] would be a poor
imitation of glory, there were heard sweet motets, soft alleluias, and
melodious canticles of exultation to the sound of tuneful instruments
([with] the voices of men serving to imitate those of Angels), those
which were directed to the Majesty [of God] occupying the throne,
[and those that] filled the Catholic hearts of all the Filipinos with
devotion and jubilation.54
The periodic announcements of beatifications and canonizations gave an
opportunity for the religious congregations of the islands to celebrate in grand
style. Following official ceremonies in Rome, repetition or confirmation in
Manila symbolized the worldwide nature of religious connections and some
imposed form of standardization: the blesseds or saints in question were seen
to intercede no less for Catholics in the Philippines than for those in Europe. A
sense of rivalry between the conventos of Intramuros also raised the level of
expectation in festivities, although there was often some level of collaboration
and cooperation between members of different religious orders.
Events of great local significance in Manila included celebrations for the
beatifications of Ignatius of Loyola and Francis Xavier in 1611 and 1621, respec-
tively, for the canonizations of these same Jesuits in 1623, and in 1630 for the
beatification of the Nagasaki Martyrs of 1597, some of whom (including the
Franciscan Pedro Bautista) had traveled to Japan from Manila.55 All these events
represented a type of imitative colonial counterpoint, as this sort of news from
Rome took its time to reach the islands. Beyond the ecclesiastical ceremonies
that emulated European practices, there was always considerable involvement
of non-European and syncretic genres of dance, music, and drama. But as
we have seen, Asian musicians performing inside the churches of Manila
usually made use of music in European idioms. They were also occasionally
commissioned to compose works for these events, as becomes apparent in
three accounts of Manila’s celebrations for the beatification of Francis Xavier.
These texts mention the involvement of a Japanese cleric, who was a prominent
organist and composer. The Jesuit annual letter for 1621 relates that this man
was the “best organist” and composed masses and antiphons especially for the
celebrations, in which three choirs sang.56 This letter is an intriguing source,

because it may be the earliest known documentation of a Japanese-born com-
poser writing works in a European idiom and for multiple choirs.
Two candidates immediately present themselves for the identity of this
unnamed Japanese musician: either Luis Shiozuka (1576–1637), a Japanese
Christian who had received his musical training at the Jesuit seminary of Arima
(Japan) and who was living in exile in Manila, or the Augustinian Guillermo de
Silva y Cárdenas (d. 1647), an organist of the Convento de San Agustín in
Manila who had been born in Japan (but whose ethnicity is not made clear in
the convent’s records).57 The participation of a Japanese musician in these fes-
tivities was particularly appropriate, given that they were held in honor of
Francis Xavier, the apostle of Japan. It also points to the integration of musi-
cians from different Asian ethnic groups, which was made possible through
the union of different musical ensembles for the purpose of public celebration
in the city. Some of the performers under the direction of the Japanese cleric
may have been Europeans, and if this were the case, we would see here an
obvious inversion of strict social counterpoint.
On February 1, 1630, an octavario was held in Manila to celebrate the beat-
ification of the twenty-six martyrs of Nagasaki.58 Vespers were sung in the
cathedral “by seven choirs of harmonious music, under the direction of Fr.
Martín Carmena [or de San Bernardo], a Franciscan and an excellent musi-
cian.”59 According to Bañas, the celebrations continued with fireworks, horse
races, games, comedias, literary contests (probably including works in Japanese
and Tagalog), and a “kind of game managed by the Japanese in Manila.”60 We
see that the Japanese community in Manila, which was made up of exiles or
religious refugees who had achieved the social distinction of being “living mar-
tyrs” by virtue of forsaking their own country for their faith, appears to have
taken control of proceedings to some extent, thereby subverting the hierar-
chical colonial power structure.
Aside from special events such as beatifications and canonizations,
seasonal and votive festivities held pride of place in early modern Manila.
Among the regular feasts of the liturgical year, these annual events in Manila’s
calendar were celebrated with particular grandeur. Feasts that stood out were
(unsurprisingly) Christmas, Holy Week, Corpus Christi, feasts for the Virgin,
and the feast days of Manila’s patron saints, together with the feast days of
other protectors against disasters such as earthquakes and fires.61 Three feasts
related specifically to military and naval victories: the feast of Saint Potentiana
(May 19), the day on which Legazpi occupied Maynilad and established the
Spanish capital of Manila; the feast of Saint Andrew (November 30), on which
day the city was saved from an attack by the Chinese pirate Limahong in 1574;
and the feast day of Our Lady of the Rosary, later called La Naval (October 2),
the intercessions of whom were believed to have saved Manila from Dutch
forces in 1646.62 Given that an alliance of Spanish and Asian forces resulted in
all these victories (Visayans were involved in the conquest of Maynilad in 1571),
it is unsurprising that these events brought together different parts of the pop-
ulace each year in forms of commemoration. Even the feast of Saint Andrew
presented an opportunity for the Chinese community of Manila to demonstrate
their loyalty to the local government in spite of the actions of their sixteenth-
century compatriot Limahong (and in spite of Spanish attitudes towards the
Chinese).
The feast for the Immaculate Conception of the Virgin Mary, on December
8, achieved lasting status as a pivotal event of the year. Officially declared
“universal patroness” of Spain and the Indies in 1760, the Immaculate
Conception and its veneration prompted extensive celebrations throughout the
empire. We should note that this feast day had already achieved great popu-
larity more than a century beforehand in 1619, when, according to Costa, “the
approval given by the Holy See to the public celebration of the feast . . . became
known in Manila.”63 That year, the celebrations for this feast lasted nineteen
days.64 The Jesuit author of an account of the proceedings mentions Chinese
fireworks and the performance of the mitote (a Mexican dance), enthusing that
“our people [the Jesuits] played a thousand musical instruments.”65 The stu-
dents of the Jesuit Colegio de San José appeared in three carros respectively
containing clarion players, singers, and players of stringed instruments. On
another day, “a dance was given by more than sixty Japanese, who danced and
sang to the accompaniment of various instruments, according to their custom.”
This description may illustrate equal participation by different racial groups,
but one small detail reminds the reader of the inescapable nature of colonial
hegemony: the mention of a triumphal float being “drawn by two savages.”66
However, the range of performance styles seen here is characteristic of a fron-
tier territory, and also reflects the “catholicity” of the Spanish Empire—bound
together through Roman Catholicism, with all its religious rituals and social
manifestations—that was promoted by colonial authorities.
Racial Segregation or Integration?
As we have seen, celebrations in Manila were characterized primarily by the

mix of different races and cultural traditions—a diversity that seems to have
been unparalleled throughout the Spanish Empire. Material goods such as
silks and fireworks were brought from China and decorations imported from
as far away as Bengal and Persia.67 Performative elements such as dances,
theatrical presentations, song, processions, and instrumental music by the
Spanish, Filipino, Chinese, and Japanese populations all added to the complex
cultural mixture. Contributions by different ethnic groups were noted specially
in descriptions of festivities, probably to highlight the prevailing catholicism
(that is, universality) of Hispanic social practices, such as religious and civic
fiestas, among diverse races in this Oriental colony. Yet these accounts also
show that a strict hierarchy was often imposed on celebrations: a day for the
Filipinos, a day for the Chinese, and so on. All groups were given an opportu-
nity to demonstrate their loyalty to Church and Crown, but paradoxically, the
successful integration of each group into society at large was judged by differ-
entiating between ethnic categories within a festivity. Their voices interacted in
strict counterpoint, according to a set of rules imposed from above.
This sort of strict governance also applied to dance, which, with its music,
was visually and aurally representative of distinct cultural traditions.68 The
combined effects of dancing, singing, and playing instrumental music consti-
tuted a powerful symbol of cultural identity for any faction of the multiracial
community. Often these performances were viewed with considerable suspi-
cion by European observers. Le Gentil de la Galaisière, for instance, described
Chinese music and dance performances in mojigangas (which he called “mas-
carades”) on the feast of Saint Charles, name day of the king (Carlos III), on
November 5, 1766. He wrote that the customs of the Chinese were too different
from those of the Spaniards or the Filipinos for him to find them enjoyable and
that a dance with large paper horses, fish, and a forty-foot-long snake (by which
he evidently means a dragon) “was accompanied by a Chinese music or song
[which was] quite baroque and most disagreeable, hardly cadenced or mea-
sured, . . . which they performed principally before the snake [dragon], causing
it to make at the same time various movements that were very singular.”69
Notably, his observation provides a relatively early printed example of the term
“baroque” in relation to music—but his use refers specifically to “bizarre,”
“outlandish” Chinese traditions.70 Writing in the 1770s, Le Gentil de la
Galaisière was probably familiar with the 1768 Dictionnaire de musique by
Jean-Jacques Rousseau (1712–78), which included the following definition:
“A baroque music is that in which the harmony is confused, charged with mod-
ulations and dissonances, the melody is harsh and little natural, the intonation
difficult, and the movement constrained.”71 Le Gentil de la Galaisière’s descrip-
tion of Chinese music as baroque was very likely intended to accord with
Rousseau’s definition and must be one of the earliest applications of this term
to non-European music.
The attempt by the Chinese population to render homage and please spec-
tators in 1766 appears not to have had its desired effect. Le Gentil de la Galaisière
states that the governor, instead of being pleased, was revolted; he saw in the
dragon evidence of the persistent “idolatry” of the Chinese. The fact that no one
among the ruling class of Manila could understand the Chinese songs made
them think they saw the performance of a ritual cult, and the governor promised
that he would not allow it again.72 Since this was in the midst of controversy
concerning the 1766 expulsion of the Chinese, any evidence of a division of
loyalty within Manila’s society would have provided a catalyst for political
action.
Another pertinent observation made at this point by this Frenchman

relates to the autonomy of practice: the Chinese of the Parian acted out their
indigenous traditions of their own accord, whereas the performances of moji-
gangas by the Filipinos were conducted by the Jesuits.73 The ideological and
artistic control thus exercised over the indigenous population was considered
trustworthy—a legitimate expression of fidelity—whereas the Chinese “genius,”
incomprehensible to the Spaniards, could not convey any notion of assimila-
tion into the empire. In this context, the comment of a Chinese mandarin
recorded in Beijing by French Jesuit Jean-Joseph Marie Amiot (1718–93) holds
sway: “European music is not made for Chinese ears, nor Chinese music for
European ears.”74 Thus we see that in spite of music’s capacity to transcend
social and cultural boundaries constructed through the articulation of collective
identities, the more ingrained prejudices of court cultures often resulted in
clashes and impasses.
From a different perspective, however, Japanese immigrants to early
modern Manila were not viewed by Spaniards as being on the same social level
as Filipinos, as we noted in an earlier chapter, nor were they treated with the
same contempt or fear as the Chinese. Members of the Japanese community in
Manila often performed their traditional dances and music in festivities and
spectacles, and some Japanese musicians trained in European music served in
churches and convents of the city. Chirino witnessed a performance of a
Japanese dance at the feast of the Most Blessed Sacrament in the Jesuit church
of Manila in the 1590s, describing the steps and movements in great detail. He
claimed that they sang on divine subjects as they danced and that those who
could understand the text were inspired with devotion.75 The performance of
non-European musics and dances certainly had their place in Spanish-controlled
Manila. But they had to be situated in approved contexts (most often
Christianized contexts) and vetted for suitability. Only in this way could they
enter the strict contrapuntal fabric of colonial society and culture.
Conclusion
The participation of Filipino, Japanese, Chinese, African, and American musi-

cians and actors in the Spanish festivities of Manila resulted in celebratory
performances that were remarkably diverse, yet rigidly structured and carefully
monitored. There were various levels of racial integration and racial segrega-
tion in different contexts of the fiesta, depending on the motives of religious
and secular authorities. Integration promoted “catholicity” or religious unifor-
mity, whereas segregation provided the means for political control and manip-
ulation. The occasional fiestas, often described in great detail in accounts that
were published in Manila and Mexico, provided the colonial counterpoint to
the equivalent celebrations enacted on the Iberian Peninsula. Celebrations in
Spain that were inspired by the same historical, political, or religious events
still involved African and Moorish elements in their musical and dramatic per-
formances, but almost no other part of the Spanish Empire could match Manila
in terms of its display of cultural diversity. The descriptions of events in Manila
thereby inverted the primacy of the “mother country” in terms of fiestas’ sophis-
tication and extravagance.
A great number of racial and cultural elements combined to demonstrate
the “mosaic” created and fostered by Spain in the Philippines, at the most dis-
tant frontier of its empire, amid a complex network of human interchange and
commerce. Festivities were intended by imperial Spain to promote and sustain
the colonial enterprise and its ideologies, while still giving distinct Asian popu-
lations of Manila occasions to establish and affirm their place in colonial society.
In this respect, the fiesta provided the interface between different cultures,
classes, and races. Ceremonial displays of loyalty to the Roman Church and the
Spanish Crown bound subjugated peoples together in forms of mass movement
that eventually led the way to resistance against colonial structures.
We have seen in this final part of the book that the forms of social, reli-
gious, political, economic, linguistic, and ideological control wielded by Spain
correspond aptly to the analogy of strict counterpoint. Early modern counterpoint
is symbolic of the political ancien régime, the hegemony of the church, and
ideological or aesthetic conservatism: voices could only enter the contrapuntal
texture or operate within it if they conformed to a set of immutable rules
imposed and manipulated by the colonialist contrapuntist. Colonial historiog-
raphers seem to suggest that the strict counterpoint imposed by Spain on the
inhabitants of the early modern Philippines embodied an idealized social struc-
ture that attempted to achieve consonance between different cultures. However,
it is clear that in practice there were many dissonances that defied resolution.
©
Conclusion
Contrapuntal Colonialism
Opposition is an essential part of music. Without opposition, we can have no

high pitches or low pitches, no loud notes or soft notes, no fast speeds or slow
speeds. Forget consonance and dissonance; never mind major and minor. All
these qualities in music can be defined only in relation to their antitheses. In
similar terms, many cultures can only discover their own identity through
opposition or difference. Today, historians of any country that was once the
mother state of an overseas empire will never know their own country’s history
or culture without also knowing those of the colonized territories. Only the
study of global connections between different and localized spheres of
knowledge can frame a structure within which the national, imperial, or colo-
nial pasts can be interpreted. As British historian Sir John Robert Seeley
(1834–95) put it, the history of eighteenth-century England is, for example, “not
in England but in America and Asia.”1 Correspondingly, historians of Spain
have long been aware of the immense impact that the collision of the Old World
and the New World had on the development of Spanish culture in the early
modern period. Spain’s connections with Asia—across the Atlantic and Pacific
Oceans until 1815, then a direct Cádiz–Manila link until 1898—have provided
a further dimension of cultural influence and exchange. The counterpoint of
the colonies can offer deeper insight into the histories of European nations, as
well as requiring us to step back and observe the bigger picture of increasingly
entangled global histories.
In similar terms, Western music has never existed in a vacuum; it has
always been contingent on exchanges and transactions with other, often
opposing cultures. Western music frequently defines itself in opposition to the
musics of other cultures, but it can only do so in reference to the knowledge of
musics from the rest of the world. This knowledge was constructed largely
through the (usually violent) acts of colonialism and globalization. Early modern
globalization at first increased the diversity of musics known and practiced in
societies that were linked to global networks of exchange and commerce. But
this heterogeneity gave way, over time, to a standardization or homogeneity
that was enforced by imperial hegemony.2
Still, Western music cannot exist without its Others.3 The positioning of
Western music within an integrated system that takes global musical cultures
into account thus requires analysis of binary oppositions, such as consonant/
dissonant and soft/harsh. Relationships of difference provide the best means
of cultural self-definition for all parties, and these relationships themselves
assume primary importance as crucial components of interdependence and
exchange. Their impact has been considerable: Timothy D. Taylor has even
argued that it was the construction of the binary opposition of cultural self-
identity/alterity through the creation of colonial empires that propelled the
domination of tonality and the new genre of opera in the musical practices of
early modern Europe.4
Yet there are instabilities in binary oppositions, too, and their internal links
and structures are often arbitrary. It is easy to polarize two different cultures
that come into contact with each other, and unless there is some sort of willing
exchange on mutual terms, together with an offering that represents over and
above what is required through the ritual of trade or encounter, fruitful engage-
ment may not take place.5 Although we should recognize the “fundamental
role of singing as a constitutive element in the making of both indigenous and
colonial worlds,” as Gary Tomlinson has pointed out, we should also acknowl-
edge that the meetings of indigenous peoples and Europeans in the “making”
of colonial empires involve a confrontation at a frontier or the negotiation of
place or identity within a “contact zone.”6 Of course, intercultural engagement
that gave rise to any kind of musical outcome often involved some sort of acqui-
escence under duress, within the colonial contexts of power imbalances.
Similarly, the bass in strict musical counterpoint is fundamentally stronger
than the treble, and it usually dictates the center of tonality, especially in reduc-
tionist or Schenkerian analysis. Only when the voices are manipulated by con-
trapuntal analysts so that they may be invertible does a conceptual subversion
of this power structure appear possible.
Ethnomusicologists have long railed against comparative approaches to
non-Western music, arguing that a musical culture must be studied on its own
terms and from a relativistic perspective. This is necessarily true. But ethnomu-
sicology typically relies on “observation of the present,” as Bruno Nettl puts it,
to form ideas about a musical culture.7 The more abstract, reverential, and his-
toricized approach to the musical past belongs to the domain of historical musi-
cology, and this discipline focuses largely on the study of Western cultural
contexts. How, then, do we approach musical cultures that have evolved within
the context of global interdependence and exchange—that is, within the context
conclusion: contrapuntal colonialism 233
of early modern globalization? How can we consider or interpret the musical

pasts of colonial societies that were produced through the hegemony of
European expansion?
I suggest that we attempt to conflate the methodologies of historical musi-
cology and ethnomusicology, and that we agree with Nicholas Cook that “we
are all (ethno)musicologists now.”8 Many cultures of musical heterophony
around the world were subsumed by the heteronomy of European colonial
empires. The coercive nature of an imposed social system meant that the sub-
jugated subaltern reacted to the existence of newly introduced social and
musical structures by adopting them and adapting them within their own
cultural frameworks of references and meaning. If we invert the Weberian con-
cept that social and economic developments are determinants of musical
change, we can see that musical change sometimes also takes place to effect or
attain social and economic “improvement.” This is as true now as it was in the
early modern period. In many industrialized societies today, social and
economic ascendancy often goes hand in hand with the development of a taste
for “art music”—a professionalized art form that is the product of elite
patronage. The cultivation or appreciation of certain types of music confers
social power and privilege.
The strict counterpoint of intercultural musical encounters and engage-
ment during the early modern period gave rise to the development of global
networks of interdependence and exchange. Histories of musics in colonial
territories of early modern European empires must thus embrace a whole
world of divergent musical cultures, aesthetics, and philosophies that con-
verged in specific localities. When we come to study the histories of multi-
ethnic societies that emerged from these crucibles, however, our tendency to
focus on just one element (for example, the European or the indigenous) to the
exclusion of all other parts does little to contribute to an understanding of
common humanity, or a collective global musical consciousness. Many limita-
tions to an all-inclusive history are set in place because of absences and silences
in colonial historiography and also because many subaltern societies recorded
or upheld their pasts in ways that diverge fundamentally from modes of past
and present Western epistemological discourse. The incommensurabilities of
European and non-European music histories are thus themselves constitutive
of a need for a structuralist approach that examines the ways the analysis of
humanly organized sound can mediate between seemingly irreconcilable
cultural differences.
Of course, writing histories to treat the musics of colonial empires forces
the pasts of many minority societies to conform to historicized standards and
norms that are set by a musicological community that is predominantly
Western. But we can aim to avoid such a predicament by attempting to treat
plural musical cultures contrapuntally. Through an analytical approach that
examines the relationships between contrasting pairs of elements—and these
relationships representing “intercultural contact,” for want of a better term—

we can begin to construct new webs of meaning that contribute to the history
of cultural globalization. I contend, therefore, that a contrapuntal approach is
the only way to transcend the comparativist nature of early modern colonial
discourse or historiography. In terms of music history, too, counterpoint is the
best analogy we can have for the interpretation of how plural voices—whether
European or non-European—functioned together in the early modern world.
All at once, colonial counterpoint symbolizes thesis, antithesis, and synthesis;
at the same time, binary oppositions are mediated through encounters,
exchanges, or engagement between different cultures. Colonialism itself is
contrapuntal.
In this book, we have seen that the introduction of European music to early
modern Manila and its imposition on the local population brought about some
remarkable exchanges and transformations throughout the Philippine archi-
pelago as well as the wider East and Southeast Asian region. Manila became an
important node in a world-system of capitalist commerce, and the exchange of
many forms of capital. This city was a multifaceted, multiethnic, and wealthy
entrepôt; as such, it acted as a catalyst for intercultural exchanges between Asia,
Europe, the Americas, and Africa. It was also the geographical missing link in
the formation of early modern global networks of trade and communication.
A rich variety of European musical commodities made their way to the Philippines,
and these were diffused throughout the surrounding region by means of the
individual and collective enterprises of merchants and missionaries. Local indus-
tries relating to European musical practice (such as instrument-building, compo-
sition, and the production of music scores) arose in these islands, many supported
by Filipino and other non-European craftspeople. Europeanized music profes-
sions were adopted by local inhabitants: I have identified the first named Filipino
organ builder and offered possible identities for one of the earliest recorded
native Japanese composers of music in European idioms.
We have also seen that far from being ignored by zealous European mis-
sionaries, indigenous musical practices were documented extensively by the
colonial agents of Church and Crown. Surviving texts indicate that language
and literacy were key tools in European understanding of Filipino musics, and
indigenous poetic forms were observed, theorized, and employed by European
missionaries as a tool for religious indoctrination through song-texts. Music
was recognized by missionaries as a powerful tool by which indigenous com-
munities could be “seduced” and “reduced,” and music was used to “penetrate”
indigenous genio, or creativity. Numerous ethnographic documents reveal the
interest shown in the construction of indigenous instruments and demonstrate
the various stages at which European musical terminology, theory, instru-
ments, and practice were introduced to indigenous cultures.
These documents allow us to trace the ways Filipino music was hispan-
ized. When indigenous musicians were employed in ecclesiastical contexts,
they were required to be familiar with European musical theory and practice.
Although many of these musicians also perpetuated their traditional genres,
European missionaries censored and modified their song-texts and composed
many new works, actively encouraging indigenous musicians to “forget” pre-
colonial non-Christian practices. European dances and dance music were
introduced, and indigenous dances were retained but performed to European
music. Although the process of musical transculturation was fostered by the
missionaries, the collaboration of indigenous musicians themselves played
an important part in the extent of Western music’s diffusion, given that there
was a relatively small number of missionaries and a large number of indige-
nous parochial musicians. Whereas missionaries may have actively sup-
pressed indigenous musics, the active appropriation of European customs
by indigenous musicians themselves was equally influential in musical
transculturation.
From this process there emerged syncretic or mestizo creative forms, such
as musical and poetic genres that fused Roman Catholic doctrine with tradi-
tional indigenous musical forms, as well as other influences imported from
Europe, the Americas, and Africa. Born from intercultural contact, the
phenomenon of syncretism usually relied on the parallel existence of broadly
similar genres, whose resemblances in performance style, context, and function
allowed for elements from each other culture to be assimilated or accommo-
dated. In particular, three prominent musicopoetic genres—the auit, the loa,
and the pasyon—enabled the assertion of an indigenous musical identity within
the cultural framework of Roman Catholicism. Performance of these genres
and other European forms was encouraged throughout the Philippine archi-
pelago by members of religious orders and the diocesan clergy, whose head-
quarters in Manila also housed their own musical traditions.
Although some of these institutions enforced racial strictures for entry to
their ranks, most employed Asian musicians in specific contexts of music-mak-
ing. Spanish institutions provided different types of education to all sectors of
the population, and the teaching of music (along with European religion,
literacy, and other arts and sciences) was a significant undertaking by peda-
gogues belonging to religious orders. Surviving colonial legislation reveals that
tribute-free posts for ecclesiastical musicians (cantores) were established
throughout the Philippines—between four and eight in each parish, although
the number of supplementary and voluntary musicians increased the number
of performers. Most of these musicians would have been familiar with European
music theory (solmization and counterpoint) to varying degrees. Consequently,
the Philippine Islands were distinct in early modern Asia as the territory with
the greatest number of specialist musicians fluent in European musical styles.
However, these musicians’ practice and performance were monitored and
regulated by the ecclesiastical and secular governments of the colony. This con-
trol was extended to all sectors of the population; all members of society,
regardless of their ethnicity, language, class or caste, were brought together in

festivities, both occasional and seasonal, which were intended by colonial
agents to mold and manipulate sentiments of loyalty and inclusivity. Ceremonies
of homage—to religious figures, overseas royalty, or local dignitaries—involved
music, theater, and dance, and reinforced the political and religious objectives
of colonial authority. New musical and theatrical works in European or Asian
idioms were composed by local musicians; some of these were published and
disseminated throughout the Spanish Empire.
The construct of musical counterpoint provided an unwavering foundation
for compositional strategies and was a crucial constituent of European peda-
gogical systems that were imposed on indigenous societies in the Philippines.
To a large extent, counterpoint also symbolized European motives of political
expansion and cultural hegemony. As Susan McClary puts it, counterpoint was
a form of “dissonance control.”9 And according to Yearsley, this idea of “con-
trol” relates to European ideas of rationalizing society as much as it relates to
compositional practice.10 Counterpoint was essentially a manipulative form of
controlling indigenous communities and, as such, was a tool of imperial heter-
onomy. The totalizing impulse of colonial counterpoint swept away many
indigenous practices and subsumed others within its framework of opposi-
tional relationships. Subaltern voices within colonial society were governed by
a system of rules that channeled their sounds into “rationalized” forms of oppo-
sition with other voices.
Although counterpoint as a social analogy presupposes the equality of dif-
ferent voices as independent musical lines, we have seen that a discriminatory
hierarchy based on race was imposed on colonial society by the hegemonic rul-
ing power. Consequently, it was only through hispanization, or imitation, that
some semblance of parity could be achieved. The enharmonic engagement of
Spaniard and Filipino served to indicate the location of homologies between
their respective musical cultures, thus mediating transitions between two
opposing poles. Spanish colonialists and missionaries went out of their way to
develop strategies by which they coerced the Filipinos to participate in the insti-
tutions of the Church and the state, which could not operate without the acqui-
escence and collaboration of the subaltern.
These same Spanish policies unwittingly laid the foundations for their
own demise. In many ways, the Filipinos’ active appropriation and reinterpre-
tation of imposed cultural trappings eventually made possible the indigenous
articulation of political resistance and social enfranchisement. As much as
counterpoint encodes colonialist strategies, we can see that indigenous musical
practice also came to represent a counterpoint to colonialism. Indigenous skill
in European music made Spanish musicians practically—“practically” in both
senses of the word—superfluous. The emergence of popular syncretic colonial
genres contested the privileged position of imported European art music in the
contexts of devotion and celebration. Even the pipe organ, that supreme icon of
European empire and religious expansion, began to be superseded by local

instrumental ensembles in the early nineteenth century.
Music is opposition. Counterpoint—note against note, punctus contra
punctum—seeks to impose a set of strict rules on the combination of simulta-
neous voices to effect the consonance of vertical relationships. Likewise, all the
processes of colonialism operate contrapuntally in order to control societies
that are subjugated by ruling imperial powers. Counterpoint thus mirrors the
objectives of empire in a vain attempt to create a formalized and harmonious
structure: thesis and antithesis are therefore deliberately and forcibly brought
into collision to produce a progression to some kind of teleological synthesis or
gradus ad Parnassum. Throughout the history of the early modern world, we
can see how Europeans attempted to use the imposition of musical counterpoint
as a means of conquering, subduing, and “rationalizing” other societies. But
Filipinos took colonial counterpoint and both inverted and subverted it.
Notes
Institutional Abbreviations
In the notes, citations of unpublished materials include initials in parentheses; these

sigla indicate the names of the archives from which the sources come. The full details
for each source may be found by referring to the data provided under the relevant insti-
tution’s name in the Archival Sources section of the Bibliography.
AAM Archdiocesan Archives of Manila

AFIO Archivo Franciscano Ibero-Oriental, Madrid
AGI Archivo General de Indias, Seville
AHSIC Archivum Historicum Societatis Iesu Cataloniae, Barcelona
APDNSR Archivo de la Provincia Dominicana de Nuestra Señora del Rosario,
Ávila
APUG Archivio della Pontificia Università Gregoriana, Rome
ARSI Archivum Romanum Societatis Iesu, Rome
ARVM Archives of the Religious of the Virgin Mary, Manila
ASFMA Archdiocese of San Fernando Museum and Archives, University of
the Assumption, San Fernando, Pampanga
AUST Archives of the University of Santo Tomás, Manila
BAV Biblioteca del Real Colegio de los PP. Agustinos Filipinos, Valladolid
BL British Library, London
BNE Biblioteca Nacional de España, Madrid
BP Biblioteca de Palacio, Madrid
KCL Marsden Collection, King’s College London
LLIU Lilly Library, Indiana University, Bloomington
NLC Newberry Library, Chicago
PNA Philippine National Archives, Manila
240 notes to pages 1–5
introduction
1. Significantly, the idea of opposition as a universal feature of music was
identified and acknowledged in the late 1960s by José Maceda, the great doyen of
Filipino musicology, within his theory of “drone” and “melody.” He proposed this
theory as a means of analyzing Southeast Asian (and other) musics in terms of
opposition between “a continuous sounding of one or more tones which act as organ
points, ostinati, centres or pivots” and a circulating melody. See José Maceda, “Drone
and Melody in Philippine Musical Instruments,” in Traditional Drama and Music of
Southeast Asia, ed. Mohd. Taib Osman (Kuala Lumpur: Dewan Bahasa dan Pustaka,
Kementerian Pelajaran Malaysia, 1974), esp. 247 and 270–71.
2. I refer especially to Saussure’s theory of the construction of meaning through
the semiological study of contrasting binaries, set out in Ferdinand de Saussure, Course
in General Linguistics, trans. Roy Harris, ed. Charles Bally and Albert Sechehaye, with
Albert Riedlinger (London: Duckworth, 1983), and the structural anthropological
thinking of Claude Lévi-Strauss, whose The Raw and the Cooked: Introduction to a
Science of Mythology: I, trans. John Weightman and Doreen Weightman (London:
Jonathan Cape, 1970) proposes the location of meaning in the relationships that
mediate between contrasting elements of culture. See also “Lévi-Strauss and the
Methodological Value of Concepts of Binary Oppositions,” in Ho-chia Chueh, Anxious
Identity: Education, Difference, and Politics (Westport, Conn.: Praeger, 2004), 39–54.
3. See Jacques Derrida, Of Grammatology, corrected ed., trans. Gayatri
Chakravorty Spivak (Baltimore, Md.: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1997).
4. See Bruno Nettl, The Western Impact on World Music: Change, Adaptation, and
Survival (London: Collier Macmillan, 1985).
5. This decline or eradication has been attributed to the rise of a “global
industrial culture.” See Walter Wiora, The Four Ages of Music, trans. M. D. Herter
Norton (London: J. M. Dent & Sons, 1966), esp. 153–56.
6. See David Irving, “The Pacific in the Minds and Music of Enlightenment
Europe,” Eighteenth-Century Music 2.2 (2005): 205–29, esp. 214–17; and Vanessa
Agnew, Enlightenment Orpheus: The Power of Music in Other Worlds (New York: Oxford
University Press, 2008), esp. 114–17.
7. Max Weber, The Rational and Social Foundations of Music, trans. and ed. Don
Martindale, Johannes Riedel, and Gertrude Neuwirth (Carbondale: Southern Illinois
University Press, 1958), 69.
8. On the distinctions and correlations between the colonial imposition and
indigenous appropriation of European music in one such society (Cuzco), see Geoffrey
Baker, Imposing Harmony: Music and Society in Colonial Cuzco (Durham, N.C.: Duke
University Press, 2008).
9. David Yearsley, Bach and the Meanings of Counterpoint (Cambridge:
Cambridge University Press, 2002), 170.
10. On the use of contrapuntal analysis in international relations, see Geeta
Chowdry, “Edward Said and Contrapuntal Reading: Implications for Critical
Interventions in International Relations,” Millennium: Journal of International Studies
36.1 (2007): 101–16; and Sankaran Krishna, “Race, Amnesia, and the Education of
International Relations,” in Decolonizing International Relations, ed. Branwen Gruffydd
Jones, 89–108 (Lanham, Md.: Rowman & Littlefield, 2006).
notes to pages 6–9 241
11. Ben Etherington, “Said, Grainger and the Ethics of Polyphony,” in Edward
Said: The Legacy of a Public Intellectual, ed. Ned Curthoys and Debjani Ganguly
(Carlton, Vic.: Melbourne University Press, 2007), 227.
12. Of course, this situation is inverted in the works of Rudyard Kipling
(1865–1936), who wrote in Britain for a domestic readership but whose plots usually
unfold in India. Kipling made a great contribution to the tangible presence of colonial
territories in the literary imagination of the Old World. It should be remembered that
Kipling himself was responsible for coining the phrase “white man’s burden,” which
was the title of a poem he wrote in 1899 in response to the invasion of the Philippine
Islands by the United States.
13. Edward W. Said, Culture & Imperialism (London: Vintage, 1994), 59–60.
14. However, whereas Said takes “the late eighteenth century as a very roughly
defined starting point” (Edward Said, Orientalism, rept. with a new preface [London:
Penguin, 2003], 3), I refer to early modern texts produced from the sixteenth century
onward.
15. Said, Orientalism, 43. On discourse, see Michel Foucault, The Archaeology of
Knowledge, trans. A. M. Sheridan Smith (London and New York: Routledge, 2002). For
a discussion of colonial discourse with reference to both Foucault and Said, see also
Ania Loomba, Colonialism/Postcolonialism, 2nd ed. (London: Routledge, 2005), 42–53.
16. For a summary of these critiques, see Daniel Martin Varisco, Reading
Orientalism: Said and the Unsaid (Seattle: University of Washington Press, 2007).
17. Globalization as a social and cultural concept has multiple definitions and
interpretations, but one of the more succinct and all-encompassing explanations refers
to the phenomenon as “a multidimensional set of social processes that create,
multiply, stretch, and intensify worldwide social interdependencies and exchanges
while at the same time fostering in people a growing awareness of deepening
connections between the local and the distant.” Manfred B. Steger, Globalization:
A Very Short Introduction (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2003), 13.
18. Ibid., 19.
19. John M. Hobson, The Eastern Origins of Western Civilisation (Cambridge:
20. Dennis O. Flynn and Arturo Giráldez, “Globalization began in 1571,” in
Globalization and Global History, ed. Barry K. Gills and William R. Thompson
(London: Routledge, 2006), 244.
21. Luke Clossey, “Merchants, Migrants, Missionaries, and Globalization in the
Early-Modern Pacific,” Journal of Global History 1.1 (2006): 42.
22. See Dennis O. Flynn and Arturo Giráldez, “Born with a ‘Silver Spoon’: The
Origin of World Trade in 1571,” Journal of World History 6.2 (1995): 201–21, and
“Globalization began in 1571”; see also Immanuel Maurice Wallerstein, World-Systems
Analysis: An Introduction (Durham, N.C.: Duke University Press, 2004), 23, and The
Modern World-System: Capitalist Agriculture and the Origins of the European World-
Economy in the Sixteenth Century (New York: Academic Press, 1974).
23. Flynn and Giráldez, “Born with a ‘Silver Spoon,’” 201. It was only from 1571
that three approximately equal sectors of the globe’s surface area—Eurasia, the
Americas, and the Pacific—were linked through regular and sustained transoceanic
connections. See Flynn and Giráldez, “Globalization began in 1571,” 234–35.
24. I am grateful to Margaret Rigaud-Drayton for her suggestion of this very

appropriate analogy.
25. James Stuart Olson et al., eds., Historical Dictionary of European Imperialism
(New York: Greenwood Press, 1991), 495.
26. Teodoro A. Agoncillo, “On the Rewriting of Philippine History,” in
Proceedings and Position Papers of the Fifth Regional Seminar on History, May 26–27,
1972, Baguio City (Manila: National Historical Institute, 1976), 44–45.
27. Benedict Anderson, Imagined Communities: Reflections on the Origin and
Spread of Nationalism, rev. and extended ed. (London: Verso, 1991), 166.
28. Teodoro A. Agoncillo and Oscar M. Alfonso, History of the Filipino People, rev.
ed. (Quezon City: Malaya Books, 1967), vi.
29. See Glenn Anthony May, A Past Recovered (Quezon City: New Day
Publishers, 1987); William Henry Scott, Looking for the Prehispanic Filipino and Other
Essays in Philippine History (Quezon City: New Day Publishers, 1992), and Prehispanic
Source Materials for the Study of Philippine History, rev. ed. (Quezon City: New Day
Publishers, 1984).
30. For a compelling autobiographical account of the “liberation” of Manila and
the destruction of Intramuros, see Purita Echevarría de González, Manila: A Memoir of
Love and Loss (Sydney: Hale & Iremonger, 2000), esp. 230.
31. Maria Rita Ferraris, “A Brief History,” in Archdiocesan Archives of Manila: A
Catalogue of Archival Documents, Testaments and Holdings, ed. Ruperto C. Santos
(Manila: Roman Catholic Archbishop of Manila, 1994), 30.
32. For an overview of archival holdings in Spain that pertain to the history of the
Philippines, see Patricio Hidalgo Nuchera, Guía de fuentes manuscritas para la historia
de Filipinas conservadas en España: con una guía de instrumentos bibliográficos y de
investigación (Madrid: Fundación Histórica Tavera; Fundación Santiago, 1998).
chapter 1
1. On Manila as the final nexus for the establishment of world trade, see Dennis
O. Flynn and Arturo Giráldez, “Born with a ‘Silver Spoon’: The Origin of World Trade
in 1571,” Journal of World History 6.2 (1995): 201–21, and “Cycles of Silver: Global
Economic Unity through the Mid-Eighteenth Century,” Journal of World History 13.2
(2002): 391–427; on the role of Manila as an important node in the early modern
development of globalization, see Luke Clossey, “Merchants, Migrants, Missionaries,
and Globalization in the Early-Modern Pacific,” Journal of Global History 1.1 (2006):
41–58.
2. Both of these had been prepared by the cartographer and mathematician
Vicente de Memije, then engraved by the Tagalog artist Lorenzo Atlas.
3. My reading of this engraving is informed by the description given in Carlos
Quirino, Philippine Cartography, 1320–1899. 2nd rev. ed. (Amsterdam: N. Israel, 1963),
57. Memije’s own explanation of the allegory reads:
Es, pues, en este Symbolico Aspecto del Mundo Hispanico, que a V. M.

tengo la dicha, de presentar con estas Theses, y Proposiciones, à cerca del
presente Mapa Geographico de vuestros amplissimos Dominios: Es, digo,
España la cabeza coronada de sus nobilissimos Reynos; el cuerpo el Mar del
Norte; el vientre el Seno Mexicano; el purpureo Manto Real las dos

Americas; el Mar Pacifico es la amplissima ropa talar, hasta los Archipielagos
del Asia; y los pies son estas Islas Philipinas. Es el Ioyel de su pecho la Rosa
de los vientos, con que por todos rumbos navegan vuestras Flotas, y
Armadas, como dueñas de los mayores Thesoros del Orbe de la Tierra; son
los Derroteros del Mar del Sur los pliegues de la ropa talar, señalados con
sombras de lineas, que muestran los vientos dominantes: Y sirven à todo de
complemento los Letreros precissos â la perfeccion, que puede, admitir este
tosco diseño de la presente idea.
Sirvele por consiguiente la Europa de dosel, el Nuevo Mundo de ropage,
el Asia de peana; y el Africa sirve de sombra à sus realces. El Espiritu Santo
la ilustra con su Divina Luz; es su Escudo el mas Venerable Blason de
vuestro antiquissimo Glorioso Reyno, y su Espada es el Gran Rayo de
Santiago; sirviendo la graduada Linea Equinocial de hasta de la Vandera de
los demas Tymbres, y Blasones de vuestras innumerables Coronas. Y todo
esto sin mudar, ni mover nada de lo dicho de su verdadera conocida
situacion.
Vicente de Memije, Theses mathematicas de cosmographia, geographia y hydrographia. En

que el globo terraqueo se contempla por respecto al mundo hispanico: en el qual felizmente
domina D. Carlos Tercero el magnanimo: a quien por tanto en su celebrado ascenso al
throno las dedica, y consagra D. Vicente de Memije, Colegial Theologo, que fue en el Real
Colegio de San Ioseph de Manila su Patria, y assi mismo contador escrivano de navio, y
ultimamente primer theniente, y capitan de infanteria de el: presidiendo el R. P. Pasqual
Fernandez Professor Publico de Mathematicas en la Real, y Pontificia Universidad de la
Compañia de Iesus en la misma ciudad (Manila: Con las Licencias necessarias en la
Imprenta de la Compañia de IESUS, por D. Nicolas de la Cruz Bagay, 1761), n.p.
4. “De aqui, à venido a estenderse, el cetro y corona de España, por todo lo que
mira el Sol, desde que nace, hasta que se pone.” Antonio de Morga, Sucesos de las Islas
Philipinas (Mexici ad Indos: Samuel Estradanus, 1609), “Al letor [sic],” n.p.
5. On negotiations between Legazpi and local rulers, see Nicholas P. Cushner,
Spain in the Philippines, from Conquest to Revolution (Quezon City: Ateneo de Manila
University Press, 1971), 67–68.
6. My overview of the conquest of Maynilad is largely informed by Antonio
Molina, Historia de Filipinas (Madrid: Ediciones Cultura Hispánica del Instituto de
Cooperación Iberoamericana, 1984), 1:63–65; and Robert R. Reed, Colonial Manila:
The Context of Hispanic Urbanism and Process of Morphogenesis (Berkeley: University of
California Press, 1978), 18–25.
7. On the effects of natural disasters on the urban development of the city, see
Greg Bankoff, “Fire and Quake in the Construction of Old Manila,” Medieval History
Journal 10.1–2 (2007): 411–27. For a general overview of the city’s geographical history,
see Reed, Colonial Manila.
8. See Felipe Fernández-Armesto, Pathfinders: A Global History of Exploration
(Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2006), 202–3.
9. See William Lytle Schurz, The Manila Galleon (New York: Dutton, 1959), 15;
Benito J. Legarda Jr., After the Galleons: Foreign Trade, Economic Change and
Entrepreneurship in the Nineteenth-Century Philippines (Quezon City: Ateneo de Manila

University Press, 1999), 32; William John Summers, “Listening for Historic Manila:
Music and Rejoicing in an International City,” Budhi: A Journal of Ideas and Culture 2.1
(1998): 205.
10. Gregorio F. Zaide, “Manila and Acapulco,” Philippine Historical Review 4
(1971): 257. For a detailed study of the naval traffic, economy, and population of the
port of Manila from the sixteenth to the eighteenth centuries, see also Pierre Chaunu,
Les Philippines et le Pacifique des Ibériques (XVIe, XVIIe, XVIIIe siècles) (Paris: SEVPEN,
1960); and Schurz, Manila Galleon.
11. For a discussion of clerical involvement in the galleon trade, see Nicholas
P. Cushner, “Merchants and Missionaries: A Theologian’s View of Clerical
Involvement in the Galleon Trade,” Hispanic American Historical Review 47.3 (1967):
360–69.
12. See Horacio de la Costa, The Jesuits in the Philippines, 1581–1768 (Cambridge,
Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1961), 111.
13. On the exchange of goods for silver, see Clossey, “Merchants, Migrants,
Missionaries, and Globalization,” 44. See also John F. Richards, ed., Precious Metals in
the Later Medieval and Early Modern Worlds (Durham, N.C.: Carolina Academic Press,
1983).
14. The image of the Virgin of Antipolo was carried on voyages leaving Manila in
1641, 1643, 1647, 1648, 1650, 1651, 1659, and 1746. (The voyages of 1647 and 1650
were aborted midway.) On its return from the last voyage in 1748, the image was
enshrined in Antipolo and no longer made any more journeys to Acapulco. See Monina
A. Mercado, Antipolo: A Shrine to Our Lady (Manila: Aletheia Foundation, 1980), 81–83.
15. This bas-relief was commissioned shortly after the Virgin of Antipolo
returned to Manila on the galleon San José in 1662. See ibid., 81.
16. See María Lourdes Díaz-Trechuelo López-Spínola, “Filipinas en el siglo de la
Ilustración,” in Historia general de Filipinas, ed. Leoncio Cabrero (Madrid: Ediciones de
Cultura Hispánica, 2000), 279–85.
17. See Legarda, After the Galleons.
18. Wenceslao Emilio Retana, La censura de imprenta en Filipinas (Madrid:
Librería General de Victoriano Suárez, 1908), 1.
19. See Regalado Trota Jose, Impreso: Philippine Imprints, 1593–1811 (Makati,
Manila: Fundación Santiago and Ayala Foundation, 1993), 7. In this same year, new
types of mechanical presses were invented in London by German printers Friedrich
Koenig and Andreas Bauer, representing a radical development in printing technology
that soon swept throughout the world.
20. José Marques de Melo, História social da imprensa: Fatores socioculturais que
retardaram a implantação da imprensa no Brasil (Porto Alegre, Brazil: EDIPUCRS,
2003), 87. On the other hand, the Portuguese enclaves of Goa and Macau had printing
presses, which had been established in 1557 and 1588 respectively. Ibid., 64.
21. On the publication of musical works in nineteenth-century Manila, see Ma.
Concepción Echevarría Carril, “La música franciscana en Filipinas (ss. XVI–XIX),”
Nassarre 9.2 (1993): 206–9.
22. For a detailed survey of the buildings in Manila, see María Lourdes Díaz-
Trechuelo Spínola, Arquitectura española en Filipinas (1565–1800) (Seville: Escuela de
Estudios Hispano-Americanos de Sevilla, 1959).
23. Fidel Villarroel, “Implications of the Religious Festival in Intramuros,” in

Intramuros and Beyond (Manila: Letran College, 1975), 46.
24. “Los Edificios mas sumptuosos son las Iglesias, Conventos, y Colegios.”
Pedro Murillo Velarde, Geographia historica, donde se describen los reynos, provincias,
ciudades, fortalezas, mares, montes, ensenadas, cabos, rios, y puertos, con la mayor
individualidad, y exactitud, etc. (Madrid: Gabriel Ramírez, 1752), 8:53.
25. Fernando Valdés Tamón and Antonio Fernández de Roxas, Topographia de la
ciudad de Manila, capital de las Yslas Philipinas, fundada en la de Luzon Nuevo Reyno de
Castilla, dedicada al rey nuestro señor D. Felipe V (Manila: Hipolito Ximénez, 1717).
26. In Mexico this attempt eventually gave rise to the development of the casta
painting genre, which sought to depict the identities of sixteen main castes. See Ilona
Katzew, Casta Painting: Images of Race in Eighteenth-Century Mexico (New Haven,
Conn.: Yale University Press, 2004), and Magali M. Carrera, Imagining Identity in New
Spain: Race, Lineage, and the Colonial Body in Portraiture and Casta Paintings (Austin:
University of Texas Press, 2003).
27. Giovanni Francesco Gemelli Careri, “A Voyage round the World, by Dr. John
Francis Gemelli Careri; containing the most remarkable Things in Turky, Persia, India,
China, the Philippine-Islands and New Spain. Translated from the Italian,” in A
Collection of Voyages and Travels, ed. John Churchill (London: Awnsham and John
Churchill, 1704), 4:420. The original text reads: “Farà Manila circa tre mila anime;
però di persone, nate tutte dall’unione di tanti, e sì differenti semi in qualità, e in
colore, che bisogna distinguersi con vari, e stravaganti nomi. Ciò è accaduto, per
essersi congionti Spagnuoli, Indiani, Cinesi, Malabari, Neri, ed altri, che abitano
l’istessa Città, e l’Isole dipendenti: siccome avvenne anche nell’Indie di Portogallo, e
ne’Regni del Perù nella Nuova Spagna, e in altri dell’Indie Occidentali. Dano nome di
Crioglio à colui, che nasce da Spagnuolo, ed da Indiana, o al contrario; di Mestizzo da
Spagnuola, e da Indiano; di Castizzo, o Terzeron, da Mestizzo, e da Mestizza, di
Quartaron da Nero, e da Spagnuola; di Mulato da Nera, e da Bianco; di Grifo da Nera, e
da Mulato; di Sambo da Mulata, e da Indiano; di Capra da Indiana, e da Sambo, ed altri
nomi ridicoli.” Giovanni Francesco Gemelli Careri, Giro del mondo del dottor D. Gio.
Francesco Gemelli Careri, new corrected ed. (Venice: Sebastiano Coleti, 1728), 5:13.
28. On the reasoning behind the use of the term “Filipino” in studying colonial
history, see William Henry Scott, Barangay: Sixteenth-Century Philippine Culture and
Society (Quezon City: Ateneo de Manila University Press, 1994), 6–7. On the
development of the term as a marker for national identity, see Domingo Abella, “From
Indio to Filipino,” Philippine Historical Review 4 (1971): 1–34.
29. “La variedad de naciones, que se ven en Manila, y sus arrabales, es la mayor
del mundo; pues se ven hombres de todos los Reynos, y naciones de España, Francia,
Ingalaterra [sic], Italia, Flandes, Alemania, Dinamarca, Sueçia, Polonia, Moscobia, de
todas las Indias Orientales, y Occidentales, Turcos, Griegos, Moros, Persas, Tartaros,
Chinos, Xapones, Africanos, y Assianos: Y apenas en las quatro partes del mundo ay
Reyno, Provincia, o Nacion, de donde no aya aqui hombres, por la generalidad de sus
navegaciones de Oriente, Poniente, Norte, y Sur.” Bartholomé de Letona, La perfecta
religiosa (Puebla: por la Viuda de Juan de Borja, 1662), “prologo,” n.p., no. 37.
30. “De aqui nace, que el confesonario [sic] de Manila es, à mi ver, el mas
dificultoso de todo el Mundo, porq[ue] siendo imposible confesar à todas estas gentes
en su propria lengua, es menester confesarlos en Español, y cada Naciona tiene hecho
su proprio vocabulario de la lengua Española, con q[ue] comercian, se manejan, y se

entienden, sin que nosotros los entendamos, sino con gran dificultad, y casi
adivinado.” Pedro Murillo Velarde, Historia de la Provincia de Philipinas de la Compañía
de Jesús. Segunda parte, que comprehende los progresos de esta provincia desde el año de
1616 hasta el de 1716 (Manila: en la Imprenta de la Compañía de Jesús, por D. Nicolas
de la Cruz Bagay, 1749), f. 5v.
31. For a full description of these engravings, see Quirino, Philippine Cartography,
51–55; see also María Lourdes Díaz-Trechuelo López-Spínola, “Grabadores filipinos del
siglo XVIII,” Anuario de Estudios Americanos 19 (1962): 286–89.
32. On the complex issue of precolonial class structure in the Philippines, see the
essays “Filipino Class Structure in the Sixteenth Century,” in William Henry Scott,
Cracks in the Parchment Curtain, and Other Essays in Philippine History, emended ed.
(Quezon City: New Day Publishers, 1982), 96–126, and “Oripun and Alipin in the
Sixteenth-Century Philippines,” in William Henry Scott, Looking for the Prehispanic
Filipino and Other Essays in Philippine History (Quezon City: New Day Publishers,
1992), 84–103; see also Molina, Historia de Filipinas, 1:23.
33. See María Lourdes Díaz-Trechuelo López-Spínola, “Filipinas,” in Historia
general de España y América. América en el siglo XVIII. Los primeros Borbones, ed. Luis
Suárez Fernández et al. (Madrid: Ediciones Rialp, 1983), XI–1:530.
34. For a contextual background of tribute, see Luis Alonso, “Financing the
Empire: The Nature of the Tax System in the Philippines, 1565–1804,” Philippine
Studies 51.1 (2003): 63–95. The tribute exacted from each Filipino family was set at
ten reales, a rate that was much lower than in many parts of Latin America. Men
began paying tribute from the age of eighteen; women were exempted. The
Recopilación de leyes de los Reynos de las Indias mandated that indigenous peoples
newly converted to the Christian faith should be exempted from tribute and other
services for a period of ten years. In 1620 this same concession was extended to the
Chinese in Manila. See Recopilación de leyes de los reynos de las Indias (1681; reprint, 4
vols. Madrid: Ediciones Cultura Hispánica, 1973), 2:ff. 208r–08v, 217r, 272r.
According to Teodoro Agoncillo and Oscar M. Alfonso (History of the Filipino People,
rev. ed. [Quezon City: Malaya Books, 1967], 88), the amount was raised to twelve
reales in 1851.
35. Luis Alonso Álvarez, “Los señores del Barangay. La principalía indígena en las
Islas Filipinas, 1565–1789: viejas evidencias y nuevas hipótesis,” in El cacicazgo en
Nueva España y Filipinas, ed. Margarita Menegues Bornemann and Rodolfo Aguirre
Salvador (Mexico City: Centro de Estudios sobre la Universidad; Universidad Nacional
Autónoma de México; Plaza y Valdés, S. A. de C. V., 2005), 398.
36. Recopilación de leyes, 2:f. 221r. Luis Alonso claims that “the Spaniards acted
more efficiently in the Philippines than in Mexico, considering that, in general, they
won over and transformed the indigenous aristocracy into collaborators in a project
that was full of contradictions, triumphs, and setbacks.” Alonso, “Financing the
Empire,” 68. For a more extensive discussion of indigenous nobility and their role in
the colonial regime, see Alonso Álvarez, “Los señores del Barangay.”
37. According to Santiago, “these included the Houses of Matanda and his
nephew, Soliman of Manila, Lakandula of Tondo across the Pasig and Tupas of Cebu.”
See Luciano P. R. Santiago, “The Houses of Lakandula, Matanda, and Soliman
(1571–1898): Genealogy and Group Identity,” Philippine Quarterly of Culture and Society
18 (1990): 40. One example of a coat-of-arms for a late eighteenth-century Tagalog
noblewoman (“la muy clara y muy expectable señora doña Maria Magdalena de Pazis,
Soliman y Lacandola: Principala Cazique del Pueblo y Cabeçera de Bulacan señora de
la Casa de Lacandola. Capitana de Dalagas”) can be found in Agustín María de Castro
y Amuedo and Antonio Graiño, Ortografía y reglas de la lengua Tagalog acomodadas a
sus propios caracteres por D. Pedro Andrés de Castro (1776; reprint, Madrid: Librería
General de Victoriano Suárez, 1930), n.p. The center of the shield shows three large
rings in a triangle, joined together with links (as in a chain), possibly symbolizing the
three noble houses of Pazis, Soliman, and Lacandola, from which this lady was
descended.
38. “Mandamos, Que en las Islas Filipinas los Indios no sean llevados de unas
[islas] á otras para entradas por fuerça, y contra su voluntad, si no fuere en caso muy
necessario, pagandoles su ocupacion y trabajo, y que sean bien tratados, y no recivan
agravio.” This law was decreed by Felipe II in Madrid, November 7, 1574. Libro VI,
título I, ley xv of the Recopilación de leyes, 2:f. 189v.
39. E. Arsenio Manuel, “The Epic in Philippine Literature,” Philippine Social
Sciences and Humanities Review 44.1–4 (1980): 328.
40. “À que son notablemente aficionados los Indios Tagalos; y muchos de ellos
tienen voces tan suaves, y sonoras, que es una de las maravillas, que ay en Philipinas,
el oyr tantos, y tan concertados choros de Musica.” Relacion de las acclamaciones festivas,
plausible celebridad y expressivas demonstraciones de amorosa, y fina lealtad, con que
solemnizò la nobilissima, y siempre leal ciudad de Manila, cabeza de las Islas Philipinas, y
universal emporio de todo el Oriente. La publicacion de la jura, que en ella se hizo de el
serenissimo principe de Asturias D. Luis Phelipe Fernando de Borbon, primogenito, y
heredero legitimo de los catholicos reyes de España Don Phelipe Quinto, y Doña Maria Luisa
Gabriela de Saboya, nuestros señores (cuyas vidas dilate, y prospere el cielo largos, y
felicissimos años) el dia 14. de henero del año de 1712 (Mexico: Viuda de Miguel de Ribera,
1713), f. 26v.
41. Recopilación de leyes, 2:f. 273v.
42. “Il y a dans Manilla [sic] . . . Sangleyes ou Chinois, qui exercent tous les Arts
necessaires dans une Republique.” Diego de Bobadilla (attrib.), “Relation des Isles
Philipines, faite par un religieux qui y a demeuré 18. ans,” in Relations de divers voyages
curieux, ed. Melchisedec Thévenot (Paris: Thomas Moette, 1696), 11.
43. “Les cordes dont ils se servent pour ces derniers instrumens [guitar and
harp], sont de soye torse, & rendent un son aussi agréable que les nostres, quoy
qu’elles soient de matière bien différente.” Ibid., 5.
44. “Ego Manilæ vidi operarium Sinensem extendere fere unciam argenti: vulgo
petaca in filum longum ulnis hispaniæ. 900—seu palmos 3600. quorum quatuor
complent dictam ulnam[;] erant tamen filla ita tenuissima, ut longitudo unius palmi
facillime rumperetur.” “Musicalia Speculativa,” in “Observationes diversarum
artium,” late seventeenth century (BNE, Ms. 7111), 583. Although this thin silver wire,
made of a relatively soft metal, would have been generally unsuitable for use on
musical instruments, it is possible that it was produced as silver thread for exclusive
items of clothing, such as liturgical vestments. I am grateful to Peter Leech for
pointing out this possibility.
45. For a summary of the principal laws, see Recopilación de leyes, 2:ff. 271v–73v.
46. For 1605, see Milagros Guerrero, “The Chinese in the Philippines, 1570–
1770,” in The Chinese in the Philippines, ed. Alfonso Felix Jr., vol. 1: 1570–1770 (Manila:
Solidaridad Publishing House, 1966–69), 33. For 1702, see the real cédula dated
Barcelona, February 8, 1702, limiting the number of Chinese in Manila to 6,000,
copied in “Zedulas despachadas a Manila (1760)” (NLC, VAULT Ayer MS 1440),
ff. 276v–78r.
47. Guerrero, “The Chinese in the Philippines, 1570–1770,” 25.
48. Rafael Bernal, “The Chinese Colony, in Manila, 1570–1770,” in The Chinese in
the Philippines, ed. Alfonso Felix Jr., vol. 1: 1570–1770 (Manila: Solidaridad Publishing
House, 1966–69), 56.
49. See Guerrero, “The Chinese in the Philippines, 1570–1770,” 35–36; Salvador
P. Escoto, “Expulsion of the Chinese and Readmission to the Philippines: 1764–1779,”
Philippine Studies 47.1 (1999): 53.
50. See Reed, Colonial Manila, 58–59.
51. “En mi tiempo he visto bolverse à China, y apostatar aun los que se juzgaban
mas firmes en la Religion.” Murillo Velarde, Geographia historica, 8:57.
52. Chrétien de Guignes, “Observations on the Philippine Islands and the Isle of
France, from the French of M. De Guignes,” in A General Collection of the Best and
Most Interesting Voyages and Travels in All Parts of the World; Many of Which Are Now
First Translated into English, ed. John Pinkerton (London: Printed for Longman, Hurst,
Rees, Orme, and Brows, Paternoster-Row; and Cadell and Davies, in the Strand, 1812),
11:83. The original text reads: “Les Chinois qui habitent Manille [sic], professent le
christianisme, mais ce n’est que pour la forme, car, lorsqu’ils partent des Philippines,
ils jettent à la mer les images ou les chapelets, et cessent d’être Chrétiens en passant la
pointe Mirabelle.” Chrétien de Guignes, Voyages à Peking, Manille et l’Île de France, faits
dans l’intervalle des années 1784 à 1801 (Paris: l’Imprimerie impériale, 1808), 3:401.
53. I am grateful to François Picard for discussing these ideas with me.
54. The Virgin of Casaysay, a Marian manifestation in northern Luzon, is
essentially considered to be the goddess Mazu in Roman Catholic guise. She remains
the patroness of the Filipino Chinese community today.
55. Domingo Fernández Navarrete, “An Account of the Empire of China,
Historical, Political, Moral and Religious, written in Spanish by the R. F. F. Dominic
Fernandez Navarette,” in A Collection of Voyages and Travels, ed. John Churchill
(London: Awnsham and John Churchill, 1704), 1:238. The original text reads: “Las
vacinetas de los Chinos, nos embobaro[n] mucho, porque no siendo mayores, que una
vacía, tenian la voz como una campana grande. Es notable instrume[n]to.” Domingo
Fernández Navarrete, Tratados historicos, politicos, ethicos y religiosos de la monarchia de
China. Descripcion breve de aquel imperio, y exemplos raros de emperadores, y magistrados
del (Madrid: Imprenta Real, por Iuan Garcia Infançon, 1676), 304.
56. “Los Chinos en sus festines usan de varios Instrumentos Musicos, como
Flautas, ò Chirimias, y de una Campana de bronce redonda, como un pandero, hueva
por en medio, y dandole con un palo hace un ruido intolerablemente desagradable,
usan Tambores, Pifanos, y Sonajas, que mas sirven para ruido desapacible, que para
Musica armoniosa. Hacen Comedias friissimas [sic], y suelen durar una tarde, ò un
dia, ò una semana. Cantan por las narices.” Murillo Velarde, Geographia historica,
7:148. The gong to which Murillo Velarde referred, which was “raised in the middle,”
was probably a knobbed gong called gongluo or mangluo, commonly used in south-
central and southeastern China. See Alan R. Thrasher et al., “China,” in The New Grove
Dictionary of Music and Musicians, 2nd ed., ed. Stanley Sadie and John Tyrell (London:
Macmillan, 2001), 5:659.
57. In Thomas Riley McHale and Mary C. McHale, eds., Early American-Philippine
Trade: The Journal of Nathaniel Bowditch in Manila, 1796 (New Haven, Conn.: Yale
University Press, 1962), 41. The “violin” specified by Bowditch was probably an erhu, and
the “flute” could have been either the transverse flute di (also called dizi) or the vertical
flute xiao. The “two pewter plates” were most likely a pair of small cymbals known as bo.
58. Ibid., 36.
59. Abella, “From Indio to Filipino,” 10.
60. Inmaculada Alva Rodríguez, Vida municipal en Manila, siglos XVI–XVII
(Córdoba: Universidad de Córdoba, 1997), 30–34; Díaz-Trechuelo López-Spínola,
“Filipinas en el siglo de la Ilustración,” 253.
61. Maria Lourdes Díaz-Trechuelo López-Spínola, “Filipinas,” in Historia general
de España y América. América en el siglo XVIII. Los primeros Borbones, ed. Luis Suárez
Fernández et al. (Madrid: Ediciones Rialp, 1983), XI–1:530–31.
62. See Costa, The Jesuits in the Philippines, 13.
63. Only eleven remained by 1746. See Díaz-Trechuelo López-Spínola,
“Filipinas,” 531.
64. See Recopilación de leyes, 2:ff. 200v–01r.
65. Murillo Velarde, Geographia historica, 8:56. On the role of the Inquisition in
the Philippines, see Carolyn Brewer, Shamanism, Catholicism, and Gender Relations in
Colonial Philippines, 1521–1685, Women and Gender in the Early Modern World
(Aldershot, U.K.: Ashgate, 2004), esp. 143–46.
66. See Antonio García-Abásolo, “The Private Environment of the Spaniards in
the Philippines,” Philippine Studies 44 (1996): 349–73.
67. For instance, a report to Carlos III by Governor José de Basco y Vargas, dated
December 29, 1778, mentions a ball that took place the day before the Hermandad de
la Santa Mesa de Misericordia held elections for officials in their organization. This
was attended by men, women, and girls from the Colegio de Santa Isabel. See Leoncio
González Liquete, ed., Repertorio histórico, y bibliográfico: Colección de obras publicadas
hasta el presente en la prensa de Manila, y ahora cuidosamente refundidas, y otros escritos
todavia inéditos (Manila: Imp. del “Día Filipino,” 1930), 1:339–40.
68. See, for example, Guillaume Joseph Le Gentil de la Galaisière, Voyage dans les
mers de l’Inde, 2 vols. (Paris: Imprimérie Royale, 1779–81); Pierre Sonnerat, Voyage aux
Indes Orientales et à la Chine: fait par ordre du roi, depuis 1774 jusqu’en 1781. Dans lequel
on traite des mœurs de la religion, des sciences & des arts des indiens, des chinois, des
pégouins & des madégasses; suivi d’observations sur le Cap de Bonne-Espérance, les Isles de
France & de Bourbon, les Maldives, Ceylan, Malacca, les Philippines & les Moluques, & de
recherches sur l’histoire naturelle de ces pays, 2 vols. (Paris: Chez l’auteur etc., 1782); and
Guignes, Voyages à Peking, Manille et l’Île de France.
69. “Les Espagnols à Manille n’ayant de goût pour aucun art, laissent faire les
Indiens, qui leur donnent moyennant cela de la musique dans le goût de leurs
tableaux, & dont on se contente à Manille.” Le Gentil de la Galaisière, Voyage, 2:134.
70. Rafael Bernal, México en Filipinas: estudio de una transculturación (Mexico:

Universidad Nacional Autónoma de México, 1965), 109–10.
71. Reed, Colonial Manila, 55.
72. See, for instance, Shihan de Silva Jayasuriya and Jean-Pierre Angenot, eds.,
Uncovering the History of Africans in Asia (Leiden: Brill, 2008). Of course, connections
across the Indian Ocean between Africa and Southeast Asia date back to an
undetermined period prior to 1000 c.e., when Austronesians (from what is now
Indonesia) colonized Madagascar. See Fernández-Armesto, Pathfinders, 61; Jared
Diamond, Guns, Germs, and Steel: The Fates of Human Societies (New York: Norton,
1999), 340, 380–81. Arab voyagers had also long transported Africans from their
home continent to India. There was even one example of a seaborne link between East
Asia and Africa: the east coast of Africa was the farthest point visited by Chinese
navigator Zheng Ye during his fourth voyage of discovery (1413–15). See Fernández-
Armesto, Pathfinders, 109–12.
73. David B. Waterhouse, “Southern Barbarian Music in Japan,” in Portugal and
the World: The Encounter of Cultures in Music, ed. Salwa El-Shawan Castelo-Branco
(Lisbon: Publicações Dom Quixote, 1997), 365.
74. See Alicia M. L. Coseteng, Spanish Churches in the Philippines (Manila:
UNESCO, 1972), 19; Regalado Trota Jose, Simbahan: Church Art in Colonial
Philippines, 1565–1898 (Makati: Ayala Museum, 1991), 56–57.
75. A characteristic feature of earthquake baroque was the presence of heavy
buttresses to shore up thick walls against the tremors of frequent seismic activity in
this volatile geological region, located on the fringes of the Pacific Ocean’s ring of fire.
These buttresses had the added advantage of providing ample fortification; ironically,
however, some buildings in the Philippines that incorporated Moorish architectural
features from Islamic Spain doubled as fortresses to withstand raids by Muslims
(whom the Spaniards called moros) from the south of the archipelago.
chapter 2
1. As a point of comparison, see Carol E. Robertson, ed., Musical Repercussions of
1492: Encounters in Text and Performance (Washington, D.C.: Smithsonian Institution
Press, 1992).
2. On the music books (“4 libros de canto”; “12 libros yntonatorios y
procesionarios”) and other musical commodities brought by Salazar, see Robert
William Harold Castleton, “The Life and Works of Domingo de Salazar, O.P.
(1512–1594),” Ph.D. diss., University of London, 1974, 67–68, 288, 306; and William
John Summers, “Music in the Cathedral: Some Historical Vignettes,” in Manila
Cathedral: Basilica of the Immaculate Conception, ed. Ruperto C. Santos (Manila:
Archdiocesan Archives of Manila, 1997), 153. The bookseller who provided the music
books (at a cost of 1,100 reales) has been identified as Blas de Robles. See María
Gembero Ustárroz, “Circulación de libros de música entre España y América
(1492–1650): notas para su estudio,” in Early Music Printing and Publishing in the
Iberian World, ed. Iain Fenlon and Tess Knighton (Kassel: Reichenberger, 2006), 154.
3. “[Serrano] era musico, y como tal traxo a estas Islas, y introduxo en ellas el
baxo[n], instrumento tan importante para la Musica Eclesiastica, èl mismo lo tocava en
el coro, y enseñò a los Indios como le avian de hazer, y tocar.” Francisco Colín and
Pedro Chirino, Labor evangelica, ministerios apostolicos de los obreros de la Compañia de
Iesus, fundacion, y progressos de su provincia en las Islas Filipinas. Historiados por el padre
Francisco Colin provincial de la misma compañía, calificador del Santo Oficio, y su
comissario en la governacion de Samboanga, y su distrito. Parte primera, sacada de los
manuscritos del padre Pedro Chirino, el primero de la Compañia que passò de los Reynos de
España a estas Islas, por orden, y a costa de la Catholica, y Real Magestad (Madrid: Por
Ioseph Fernandez de Buendia, 1663), 461.
4. “Memorial del maestro fray Pedro de Solier,” June 15, 1616 (AGI, Filipinas,
79, no. 117).
5. Felix de Huerta, Estado geográfico, topográfico, estadístico, histórico-religioso, de la
santa y apostólica Provincia de S. Gregorio Magno de religiosos menores descalzos de la
regular y más estrecha observancia de N. S. P. S. Francisco, en las Islas Filipinas (Binondo:
Imprenta de M. Sanchez y Ca., 1865), 386; Eusebio Gómez Platero, Catálogo biográfico
de los religiosos franciscanos de la Provincia de San Gregorio Magno de Filipinas desde 1577
en que llegaron los primeros á Manila hasta los de nuestros días (Manila: Imprenta del
Real Colegio de Santo Tomás, á cargo de D. Gervasio Memije, 1880), 137.
6. Irving A. Leonard, Books of the Brave: Being an Account of Books and of Men in
the Spanish Conquest and Settlement of the Sixteenth-Century New World (Berkeley:
University of California Press, 1992), 234; William John Summers, “Listening for
Historic Manila: Music and Rejoicing in an International City,” Budhi: A Journal of
Ideas and Culture 2.1 (1998): 207.
7. “Plutarch. lib. de Musica.” Juan Francisco de San Antonio, Chrónicas de la
apostólica Provincia de S. Gregorio de religiosos descalzos de N. S. P. San Francisco en las
Islas Philipinas, China, Japón (Sampaloc: Convento de Nra. Señora de Loreto del
Pueblo de Sampaloc por fr. Juan del Sotillo, 1738–44), 2:506.
8. “Inventarium Generale Omnium Librorum huius Bibliothecae Conventus
Divi Pauli Manilensis Ord. Eremitaru[m] S. P. N. August. in ha[e]c Provintia SS
Nominis IESU Philippinarum,” 1754–62 (LLIU, Philippine Mss. I, box 13), listed
under caxon 6, estante 2.
9. See Pierre Bourdieu, “The Forms of Capital,” in Handbook of Theory and
Research for the Sociology of Education, ed. John G. Richardson (New York: Greenwood
Press, 1986), 243, 255n3.
10. Thanks to Renata Pieragostini for assisting with the English translation. “È
tanto l’obligo che hò al V[ostra] R[everenza] non solamente per la gran carità, che VR
usò meco in Roma, ma anche per l’insegnanza che VR tutto il giorno mi dà in queste
ultime parti de mondo co’ suoi libri, non meno stimati qui, che in Europa, che sarebbe
grande ingratitudine il non scrivere a VR: sappia dunque come il nostro viaggio da
Roma insino alle Filippine fu felicissimo, e brevissimo; ma il Signore, le vie del quale
sono imperscrutabili permise, che sei leghe lontano de Cavite, porto due leghe lontano
da Manila, si levasse un vento contrario che chiamano Noroeste, o Vendarial che
rompendo con grán furia alli 30 di Maggio nella notte precedente alla festa della SS.ma
Trinità, le funi fece perdere alla nave tutte le anchore; siche fu necessario andare ad
una spiaggia di arena vicina dove si salvò la gente, l’argento de Re et altre cose
pretiose. Qui in Manila stò studiando il quarto anno di Theologia, e veggo con l’occhi
molte maraviglie, che VR racconta ne suoi libri; de quali uno, cioe la Musurgia, io sono
stato il primo che l’hò portato nell’Indie, e non dubbito che sarà di molto utile ai Padri
delle missioni, dove s’insegna la musica publicamente; Il P. Ignatio Monti Germano
Rettore di Silàn desidera leggerlo, e fra poco glielo mandarò.” Giovanni Montèl [Juan
Montiel], letter to Athanasius Kircher, Manila, July 15, 1654 (APUG Kircher, Ms. 567),
f. 155r. Also available online at the Kircher Correspondence Project, <http://archimede.
imss.fi.it/kircher/>, Title-ID 150305. In Italian records, this Jesuit’s name is usually
recorded as Giovanni Montiel.
11. “Ignatio Monti” doubtless refers to the Swiss-born Jesuit Walter Ignaz
Sonnenberg (1612–80), who took the Spanish name Ignacio de Monte on his
arrival in 1643. On the identity of Sonnenberg, see Horacio de la Costa, The Jesuits in
the Philippines, 1581–1768 (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1961),
225, 617. Thanks to Bonnie Blackburn for helping to decipher Montiel’s letter.
12. Ibid., 448–49, 614.
13. See John Fletcher, “Athanasius Kircher and the Distribution of His Books,”
Library, 5th series, 23.2 (1968): 112–13; John Fletcher, “Athanasius Kircher and His
‘Musurgia Universalis’ (1650),” Musicology [Australia] 7 (1982): 76, 79.
14. “Musicalia speculativa,” in “Observationes diversarum artium,” late
seventeenth century (BNE, Ms. 7111), 481–596. For a more detailed discussion of this
source, see David R. M. Irving, “The Dissemination and Use of European Music Books
in Early Modern Asia,” Early Music History 28 (2009): 54–57.
15. Gómez Platero, Catálogo biográfico, 298–99.
16. In Georgius Mensaert, Fortunato Margiotti, and Sixto Rosso, eds., Sinica
franciscana, vol. 7: Relationes et epistolas fratrum minorum hispanorum in Sinis qui a
1672–81 missionem ingressi sunt (Rome: Scuola Tipografica “Pax et Bonum,” 1965),
1024.
17. Gómez Platero, Catálogo biográfico, 298.
18. “Llegaron unos cantores de la Capilla del Colegio a quererle entretener con
alguna musica, y preguntado, que gustaria que le cantassen? Dixo, que su regalada
coplita: Veante mis ojos, dulce Iesus bueno; veante mis ojos; muerame yo luego. Entonòla
un tiple de regalada voz.” Colín and Chirino, Labor evangelica, 535.
19. This poem does not appear in Saint Teresa of Ávila, Efrén de la Madre de
Dios, and Otger Steggink, Obras completas, Biblioteca de autores cristianos, 212
(Madrid: Editorial Católica, 1962), but its authorship is attributed to the saint in
Arthur Terry, Seventeenth-Century Spanish Poetry: The Power of Artifice (Cambridge:
20. Antonio García-Abásolo, “The Private Environment of the Spaniards in the
Philippines,” Philippine Studies 44.3 (1996): 365.
21. Robert Murrell Stevenson, “Guerrero, Francisco,” in The New Grove Dictionary
of Music and Musicians, 2nd ed., ed. Stanley Sadie and John Tyrell (London:
Macmillan, 2001), 10:502; Summers, “Listening for Historic Manila,” 203.
22. I am grateful to Iain Fenlon for his suggestion of this hypothesis. Joan
Brudieu (c. 1520–91), whose collection titled De los madrigales was published in
Barcelona in 1585, seems a possible candidate.
23. García-Abásolo, “The Private Environment of the Spaniards,” 365.
24. See Enrique Cantel Cainglet, “Hispanic Influences on the West Visayan Folk
Song Tradition of the Philippines,” Ph.D. diss., University of Adelaide, 1981, 1:158, 352.
25. Noël Golvers, “The Library Catalogue of Diogo Valente’s Book Collection in
Macau (1633). A Philological and Bibliographical Analysis,” Bulletin of Portuguese-
Japanese Studies 13 (2006): 17, 31–41. The works by Duarte Lobo have been identified
by Golvers (41) as Missarum IV. V. VI et VIII Vocibus (Antwerp, 1621) and Cantica
B[eatae] Mariae Virginis, vulgo Magnificat (Antwerp, 1608 [sic; 1605]). According to
Golvers (38–41), other significant works in this collection include Litaniae Sanctorum
cum Hymnis, Precibus, et Orationibus (Lisbon, 1619); Pedro Navarro, Manuale Chori
secundum Usum Ordinis Fratrum Minorum (Salamanca, 1586); and Pedro Ruyz
Alcoholado, Ceremonial Romano para missas cantadas y rezadas (Alcalá, 1589).
Unidentifiable entries in the catalog include listings such as “Tres libros de coro de
solfa grandes, ass[im] hum antifonario Romano.”
26. On the facistol from Macau, see Pedro G. Galende and Regalato Trota José,
San Agustín: Art and History 1571–2000 (Intramuros, Manila: San Agustín Museum,
2000), 137.
27. Relacion de las acclamaciones festivas, plausible celebridad y expressivas
demonstraciones de amorosa, y fina lealtad, con que solemnizò la nobilissima, y siempre leal
ciudad de Manila, cabeza de las Islas Philipinas, y universal emporio de todo el Oriente. La
publicacion de la jura, que en ella se hizo de el serenissimo principe de Asturias D. Luis
Phelipe Fernando de Borbon, primogenito, y heredero legitimo de los catholicos reyes de
España Don Phelipe Quinto, y Doña Maria Luisa Gabriela de Saboya, nuestros señores
(cuyas vidas dilate, y prospere el cielo largos, y felicissimos años) el dia 14. de henero del año
de 1712 (Mexico: Viuda de Miguel de Ribera, [1713]), f. 26v; Pedro Murillo Velarde,
Historia de la Provincia de Philipinas de la Compañía de Jesús. Segunda parte, que
comprehende los progresos de esta provincia desde el año de 1616 hasta el de 1716 (Manila:
en la Imprenta de la Compañía de Jesús, por D. Nicolas de la Cruz Bagay, 1749),
f. 219v.
28. Leales demostraciones, amantes finezas, y festivas aclamaciones de la novilissima
ciudad de Manila, con que agradecida a los divinos beneficios expresa su fino amor en las
nueve fiestas que celebrô, patente el divino rey de reyes en el ss. sacramento; y colocada en la
capilla mayor desta s. metropolitana iglesia la milagrosa ymagen de Maria Santissima de
Guia, en accion de gracias por el dichoso y feliz nacimiento de nuestro príncipe, y señor
natural D. Luis Phelipe Fernando Joseph, que Dios guarde, y las consagra a magestad
catholica del señor D. Phelipe quinto rey de las Españas (Manila: Imprenta de la
Compañia de Jesus por D. Gaspar Aquino de Belen, 1709), ff. 16v, 27v, 54v; Relacion
de las expresivas demostraciones de la mas fina lealtad, en los publicos regozijos, que dispuso
a su costa, y con que solemnizó la nobilisima, y siempre leal ciudad de Manila, cabeza de las
Islas Philipinas, y madre de el basto archipielago de San Lazaro. la elevacion al trono de su
merecida grandeza, de el grande rey, y señor de las Españas, y de las Indias D. Fernando
Sexto de Borbon que dedican, y consagran al mismo señor rey, y catholico monarca, los
capitulares de la nobilisima ciudad de Manila (Manila: Imprenta de la Compañia de
Jesus, por D. Nicolas de la Cruz Bagay, 1749), ff. 61r–63r; Relacion de las acclamaciones
festivas, f. 26v.
29. “Concurriero[n] a su tiempo a las Visperas todos los Religiossos [sic] nuestros
del meridiano, y combidadas todas las capillas de musica de Manila, acompañadas a
cinco choros de hermossa variedad de instrume[n]tos, cantaron obras nuebas en
Psalmos y chanzonetas, rompie[n]do desde aqui el nombre a la zelebridad, y dandole
desde luego elevacion.” Felipe Pardo et al., Sagrada fiesta: tres vezes grande: que en el
discurso de tres dias zelebro el Convento de Sancto Domingo de Manila, primera casa de la
Provincia del Sancto Rosario de Filippinas: en la beatificacion de los gloriossos sanctos Pio
Quinto, Diego de Bebaña, y Margarita de Castello (Manila: Collegio, y Universidad de
Sancto Thomas de Aquino. Por el Capitan D. Gaspar de los Reyes, 1677), f. 12v.
30. For a survey of surviving sources of texts and music of works composed in
the early modern Philippines, see David R. M. Irving, “Colonial Musical Culture in
Early Modern Manila,” Ph.D. diss., University of Cambridge, 2007, 393–408.
31. Gómez Platero, Catálogo biográfico, 473; Regalado Trota Jose, Impreso:
Philippine Imprints, 1593–1811 (Makati, Manila: Fundación Santiago and Ayala
Foundation, 1993), 122, no. 379. Despite claims to the contrary, it is likely that this
treatise simply circulated in manuscript form. However, several music treatises on
music were printed in the Philippines during the nineteenth century. They include the
Pequeño método teórico-práctico de solfeo y colección de cánticos sencillos para los niños de
las escuelas elementales de Filipinas, written by a Jesuit and published in Manila by the
Spanish government in 1866 or 1867 (see Cainglet, “Hispanic Influences,” 1:136; and
Pedro Vindel, Biblioteca oriental: comprende 2.747 obras relativas á Filipinas, Japón,
China y otras partes de Asia y Oceanía. Con comentarios y 96 reproducciones en facsímil,
etc. [Madrid: P. Vindel, 1911–12], 1:272), and Emilio Ramírez de Arrellano’s Apuntes
para una introducción a la estética y literatura musical y ensayo de un programa de la
misma ciencia (Manila: Rev. Mercantil, 1884) (see Wenceslao Emilio Retana, Aparato
bibliográfico de la historia general de Filipinas deducido de la colección que posee en
Barcelona la Compañía General de Tabacos de dichas islas [Madrid: Imprenta de la
Sucesora de M. Minuesa de los Ríos, 1906], 2:988). Another treatise is the Breve
explicación de los principios elementales de la música en idioma tagalog (Manila, 1888) by
Filipino priest José Ma. Zamora. This source was listed as no. 2839 in Trinidad
Hermenegildo Pardo de Tavera’s Biblioteca filipina: ó sea, catálogo razonado de todos los
impresos, tanto insulares como extranjeros, relativos á la historia, la etnografía, la
lingüística, la botánica, la fauna, la flora, la geología, la hidrografía, la geografía, la
legislación, etc., de las Islas Filipinas, de Joló y Marianas (Washington, D.C.: U.S.
Government Printing Office, 1903, 437), but no copy has yet been located. It is also
mentioned in the biography of Zamora in E. Arsenio Manuel and Magdalena Avenir
Manuel, Dictionary of Philippine Biography (Quezon City: Filipiniana Publications,
1955–95), 3:466. I am grateful to Luciano P. R. Santiago for pointing out the
references to the treatises of Ramírez de Arrellano and Zamora.
32. See Irving, “The Dissemination and Use of European Music Books,” 50–53.
On the Jesuit press from Goa printing European music notation in Japan, see Eta
Harich-Schneider, A History of Japanese Music (London: Oxford University Press,
1973), 473–74.
33. Peter C. Allsop and Joyce Lindorff, “Music, Religion and Politics: Teodorico
Pedrini’s Correspondence from the Early Qing Court,” paper presented at the Twelfth
Biennial International Conference on Baroque Music, Warsaw, July 26–30, 2006.
34. Peter C. Allsop and Joyce Lindorff, “From the Qing Court to the Vatican:
Teodorico Pedrini’s Half Century of Letters,” paper presented at “Music and Inter-cultural
Contact in the Early Modern Period,” study day at Corpus Christi College, Cambridge,
June 18, 2005.
35. Peter C. Allsop and Joyce Lindorff, “Teodorico Pedrini: The Music and Letters
of an 18th-Century Missionary in China,” Vincentian Heritage 27.2 (2008): 54–56.
36. Ibid., 43. “Bononcino” probably refers to Giovanni Bononcini (1670–1747),
whose output of published instrumental music was greater than that of his younger
brother, Antonio Maria Bononcini (1677–1726).
37. On Corelli’s music in India, see Raymond Head, “Corelli in Calcutta: Colonial
Music-Making in India during the 17th and 18th Centuries,” Early Music 13.4 (1985):
548–53; and Ian Woodfield, Music of the Raj: A Social and Economic History of Music in
Late Eighteenth-Century Anglo-Indian Society (New York: Oxford University Press,
2000).
38. See Ian Woodfield, “The Keyboard Recital in Oriental Diplomacy, 1520–
1620,” Journal of the Royal Musical Association 115.1 (1990): 33–62; Joyce Lindorff,
“Missionaries, Keyboards and Musical Exchange in the Ming and Qing Courts,” Early
Music 32.3 (2004): 403–14.
39. Pedro de San Buena Ventura, Vocabulario de lengua tagala. El romance
castellano puesto primero (Villa de Pila: Thomas Pinpin, y Domingo Loag Tagalos, 1613),
207.
41. “Diçe q[ue] queria ver com seus ochos, & a palpar com suos maõs, se os
orgaõs como che disian eran de Bambu, & qua[n]do os vio, tocou, e ouvio suos vozes,
não ficou pouco admirado.” “Papers Relating to the Jesuit Mission in Japan” (BL,
Marsden Collection, Add. Mss. 9860), f. 52r. See also David B. Waterhouse, “Southern
Barbarian Music in Japan,” in Portugal and the World: The Encounter of Cultures in
Music, ed. Salwa El-Shawan Castelo-Branco (Lisbon: Publicações Dom Quixote, 1997),
365.
42. On this instrument and its maker, see Helen Samson-Lauterwald, The
Bamboo Organ of Las Piñas, 2nd rev. ed. (Las Piñas, Manila: Bamboo Organ
Foundation, 2006), esp. 105–10 for a discussion of the pipes.
43. “No es mui fazil hazer Organos, y hizo un Indio de Camarines llamado
Alonso, el Organo de N[uestro]. M[onasterio]. S[anta]. Clara, y otro que llevo a China
N[uestro]. H[ermano]. Fr[ay]. Lucas Eskuan. Otro Indio ay en [blank space in
manuscript] que tambien haze Organos, y en Nagcarlan hizo casi nuebo el Organo otro
Indio est[e] año de 1703, y el mismo año otro Indio hizo casi nuevo el de Lilio.” Juan de
Jesús, “Instrucciones a nuestros misioneros acerca de la predicación y confesión de los
indios,” 1703 (AFIO, 68/8), f. 1r.
44. “Un Maestro sumamente perito y único en las Yslas.” María Lourdes
Díaz-Trechuelo Spínola, Arquitectura española en Filipinas (1565–1800) (Seville: Escuela
de Estudios Hispano-Americanos de Sevilla, 1959), 208.
45. “L’orgue est l’instrument favori, parce que c’est celui qui fait le plus de bruit;
& pour avoir le plaisir de l’entendre, ils se rendent avec empressement dans l’église
des Chrétiens. Plusieurs, par la seule habitude de l’entendre, ont appris sans maître
l’art de le toucher.” François Henri Turpin, Histoire civile et naturelle du royaume de
Siam, et des révolutions qui ont bouleversé cet empire jusqu’en 1770; publiée par M. Turpin,
sur des manuscrits qui lui ont été communiqués par M. l’Evêque de Tabraca, vicaire
apostolique de Siam, & autres missionnaires de ce royaume (Paris: Chez Costard, Libraire,
rue S. Jean de Beauvais, 1771), 1:125–26.
46. Samson-Lauterwald, The Bamboo Organ, 59–61; Summers, “Listening for

Historic Manila,” 230–31.
47. “Un Religioso subdito mio ha fabricado un Forte-Piano con varios registros
nuevamente inventados; y asegurando d[ic]ho Religioso, que en su linea de
Forte-Piano, no ha oido haya otro igual en n[ues]tra España, ni en Ynglaterra; he
determinado presentarlo en nombre de mi Prov[inci].a â la Reyna n[uest]ra S[eño]ra.”
Santa Orosia, letter accompanying the delivery of a fortepiano to María Luisa de
Borbón, queen of Spain, Manila, October 29, 1793 (PNA, Patronatos 1686–1898,
Bundle 13, L. 35–39).
48. There still remains the possibility that this “Forte-Piano” was in fact a
harpsichord with a dynamically diverse range of registers, rather than a hammered
keyboard instrument. I am grateful to Cealwyn Tagle for this suggestion. Renewed
searches for a harpsichord—made from tropical woods and with multiple registers—
that was present in late eighteenth-century Spain might yet yield fruitful results.
49. See Hans Gerd Klais, “Philippinische Orgeln aus dem 18. und 19.
Jahrhundert,” Acta Organologica 24 (1979): 75–123; David Irving, “Keyboard
Instruments and Instrumentalists in Manila, 1581–1798,” Anuario Musical 60 (2005):
35–38; and William John Summers, “Manila, the Philippines,” in The New Grove
Macmillan, 2001), 15:761.
50. José-Antonio Guzmán-Bravo, “Mexico, Home of the First Musical
Instrument Workshops in America,” Early Music 6.3 (1978): 351; Robert Murrell
Stevenson, Music in Mexico (New York: Crowell, 1971), 92–93.
51. “Musicalia speculativa” (BNE, Ms. 7111), 596.
52. John M. Schechter, “Bandurria,” in The New Grove Dictionary of Music and
Musicians, 2nd ed., ed. Stanley Sadie and John Tyrell (London: Macmillan, 2001),
2:657. See also Maurice Esses, Dance and Instrumental Diferencias in Spain during the
17th and early 18th Centuries, vol. 1: History and Background, Music and Dance
(Stuyvesant, N.Y.: Pendragon Press, 1992), 323–26.
53. Esses, Dance and Instrumental Diferencias, 1:323; Juan Bermudo, Comiença el
libro llamado declaración de instrumentos musicales (Osuna: Juan de Leo, 1555), Book IV,
f. 98r.
54. See Jeremy Montagu, Origins and Development of Musical Instruments
(Lanham, Md.: Scarecrow Press, 2007), 128, 132.
55. See Werner Bachmann et al., “Bow,” in The New Grove Dictionary of Music and
Musicians, 2nd ed., ed. Stanley Sadie and John Tyrell (London: Macmillan, 2001),
4:130–31.
56. Muriel C. Williamson, “Saùng-gauk,” in The New Grove Dictionary of Music
and Musicians, 2nd ed., ed. Stanley Sadie and John Tyrell (London: Macmillan, 2001),
22:332; Arsenio Magsino Nicolas, “Musical Exchange in Early Southeast Asia:
Indonesia and the Philippines, ca. 100 to 1600 c.e.,” Ph.D. diss., Cornell University,
2006, 213.
57. See Montagu, Origins and Development, 196; Robert Murrell Stevenson, Music
in Aztec and Inca Territory (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1968), 22–27; and
David R. M. Irving, “Comparative Organography in Early Modern Empires,” Music &
Letters 90.3 (2009): 379.
58. Costa, The Jesuits in the Philippines, 455–56.

59. In Rodrigue Lévesque, ed., History of Micronesia: A Collection of Source
Documents (Gatineau, Quebec: Éditions Lévesque, 1992–2001), 4:381–93.
60. In ibid., 4:382–83.
61. In ibid., 5:143.
62. “Historia 1663–1734” (ARSI, Philipp. 13), f. 233r.
63. “Siete violines con sus Arcos . . . Flautas dulces . . . Dos Arpas . . . un violin [sic;
violón?] . . . un bajoncito con varios flores de mano . . . Un estante con papeles de
musica . . . Dos Cornetas . . . tres violines . . . una Arpa.” “Diligencias hechas por S. M.
sobre extrañamiento y ocupación de bienes de los jesuitas en Marianas,” 1769–86
(AHSIC, FILEXP-11: E.I,d-11), 90, 92, 97, 128.
64. Examples of gourd bows have also been found in Mexico, but these
undoubtedly date from after the beginning of sustained transatlantic contact with
Africa and Europe. See Stevenson, Music in Aztec and Inca Territory, 22–27.
65. The significant absence of this instrument in any other part of the Mariana
Islands supports the thesis that passengers on the transpacific galleons were
responsible for introducing the instrument to Guam, because Guam was the principal
island at which these ships landed.
66. “Se representò el Africa en una danza de Negros, que con medios toneletes al
compàs del grosero birimbao, baylaron el mototo.” Murillo Velarde, Historia de la
Provincia de Philipinas, f. 218v.
67. The following text is included in the explanation beneath a diagram of a jaw
harp: “Apud Lusitanos Indiæ orientalis dicitur: Bìrimbào” (“Among the Portuguese of
the East Indies it is called Bìrimbào”). “Musicalia speculativa” (BNE, Ms. 7111), 591. On
Guam, the Chamorro word for “mouth” is pachot, so it is unsurprising that the
common name for the jaw harp in Guam is belembao pachot.
68. In Mensaert et al., eds., Sinica franciscana, 7:356.
69. Javier Marín López, “Música y músicos entre dos mundos: la catedral de
México y sus fuentes polifónicas (siglos XVI–XVIII),” Ph.D. diss., Universidad de
Granada, 2007, 1:161.
70. See María Fernanda García de los Arcos, “La emigración a Filipinas en el
siglo XVIII, según los fondos del Archivo General de la Nación (México),” in Extremo
oriente ibérico: investigaciones históricas: metodología y estado de la cuestión, ed. Francisco
de Solano, Florentino Rodao García, and Luis E. Togores (Madrid: Agencia Española
de Cooperación Internacional, Centro de Estudios Históricos, Departamento de
Historia de América, 1989), 240–41.
71. See Eduardus de Sande and Alessandro Valignano, De missione legatorum
Iaponensium ad romanam curiam, rebusque in Europa, ac toto itinere animadversis
dialogus, ex ephemeride ipsorum legatorum collectus, & in sermonem latinum versus ab
Eduardo de Sande Sacerdote Societatis Jesu (In Macaensi portu Sinici regni: in domo
Societatis Jesu, 1590. Reprint, Tokyo: Toyo Bunko, 1935).
72. Vicente Alemany and Wenceslao Emilio Retana, “Tercera parte de la vida del
gran tacaño. Obra inédita publicada con prólogo y notas de W. E. Retana,” Révue
hispanique 54.126 (1922): 509.
73. Luciano P. R. Santiago, The Hidden Light: The First Filipino Priests (Quezon
City: New Day, 1987), 77.
74. “El Señor D. Fernando Valenzuela, quando se fue de aqui año de 1689, llevo
unos tiplecillos Indios.” Jesús, “Instrucciones a nuestros misioneros” (AFIO, 68/8),
f. 1v. One of these boys, the Chinese mestizo Don Ignacio Gregorio Manesay, was
admitted to minor orders in Mexico and later returned to Manila, where he professed
as an Augustinian. He subsequently traveled to China as a missionary. See Santiago,
The Hidden Light, 76–78.
75. “Declaro, por mis Esclavos los que parecieren ser mios, y tener en esta mi
Casa, y Servicio, para que desde el dia de mis fallecimiento en adelante gozen de su
libertad, y para su titulo les sirva de bastante una Copia de esta Clausula, por ser asi mi
voluntad.” Fernando de Valenzuela, “Memoria escrita por D. Fernando Valenzuela,” in
“Papeles varios, siglo XVIII” (BNE, Ms. 11033), f. 230r. Of course, Valenzuela may
have taken other personal servants with him to Mexico, besides the tiplecillos, and the
term “esclavos” may refer to these additional members of his retinue.
76. Pedro Murillo Velarde, Geographia historica, donde se describen los reynos,
provincias, ciudades, fortalezas, mares, montes, ensenadas, cabos, rios, y puertos, con la
mayor individualidad, y exactitud, etc. (Madrid: Gabriel Ramírez, 1752), 8:55.
77. Gregorio Alexandro Bustamente Bustillo y Medinilla, “Breve y puntual
relacion, de la Embajada, que executò en Siam el año de 1718, el general don Gregorio
Alexandro de Bustamente, Bustillo, y Medinilla Manjon de Estrada, Señor y Mayor de
las Casas de su Apellido: con una epilogada descripcion de aquel Reyno, y sus
costumbres, y otra muy succinta de las Yslas Philipinas, su servicios en ellas, ay alguna
parte de los trabajos, è infortunios, que despues le han seguido,” c. 1724 (LLIU,
Philippine Mss. II), ff. 49v, 65v.
78. Huerta, Estado, 43.
79. “La Reyne qui ayme fort les Idoles, leur demanda quelle estoit leur loy, &
quelles sortes de prieres elles chantoient: ces bonnes Religieuses répondirent
constamment ce qu’elles devoient; mais la femme qui leur servoit d’interprete, ne
rapporta pas fidellement leur réponçe.” Alexandre de Rhodes, Divers voyages de la
Chine, et autres royaumes de l’Orient. Avec le retour de l’autheur en Europe, par la Perse &
l’Armenie (Paris: Christophe Iournel, 1681), 232.
80. José S. Arcilla, “Montiel, Juan de,” in Diccionario histórico de la Compañía de
Jesús: biográfico-temático, ed. Charles E. O’Neill and Joaquín Ma. Domínguez (Rome:
Institutum Historicum Societatis Iesu; Madrid: Universidad Pontificia Comillas,
2001), 3:2733.
81. Costa, The Jesuits in the Philippines, 448–49. Costa notes that the
assassination took place at the nearby locality of Bwayan.
82. See ibid., 543–44.
83. “Le Sultan montra une joie encore plus grande à cause d’un violon précieux
envoyé en cadeau, et des expressions amicales que le gouverneur employait dans sa
lettre pour honorer la sœur du Roi. Le gouvernement était informé du goût prononcé
de la princesse pour les instrumens [sic] de musique et de son penchant pour les
Espagnols.” “Relation des nouvelles missions à Jolo et à Mindanao, écrite par un
missionaire des Philippines en 1748,” in “Serie de cartas escritas en francés desde
1677 á 1750 por varios PP. Misioneros jesuitas de la Provincia de Filipinas á otras
personas, generalmente de las Provincias de Austria y del Rhin inferior á las cuales
ellos pertenecian. 2.a Parte: 1732 á 1750” (AHSIC, FILCAR: E.I,a–18/2), 334.
84. See Margaret J. Kartomi, “Portuguese Influence on Indonesian Music,” in

Festschrift Christoph-Hellmut Mahling zum 65. Geburtstag, ed. Axel Beer, Kristina Pfarr,
and Wolfgang Ruf (Tutzing: Hans Schneider, 1997), 1:658–59. In a publication of
1783, British orientalist William Marsden (1754–1836) wrote about music on the west
coast of North Sumatra, noting that “the violin has found it’s [sic] way to them from
the westward [sic]. . . . Those who perform on the violin use the same notes as in our
division, and they tune the instrument by fifths to a great nicety. They are fond of
playing the octave, but scarcely use any other chord.” William Marsden, The History of
Sumatra, Containing an Account of the Government, Laws, Customs, and Manners of the
Native Inhabitants, with a Description of the Natural Productions and a Relation of the
Ancient Political State of That Island (London: Printed for the Author, and Sold by
Thomas Payne and Son, 1783), 159–60. Dutch and English vessels carried violins as
well and may also have been responsible for the transmission of the instrument to this
region. English buccaneer William Dampier (1651–1715), for instance, described in his
celebrated publication A New Voyage around the World how Captain Swan of the Cygnet
“sent for his Violins, and some [men] that could Dance English Dances,” to entertain a
local leader during their stay on Mindanao in 1686. See William Dampier, A New
Voyage Round the World. Describing particularly, the Isthmus of America, Several Coasts
and Islands in the West Indies, the Isles of Cape Verd, the Passage by Terra del Fuego, the
South Sea Coasts of Chili, Peru, and Mexico; the Isle of Guam, One of the Ladrones,
Mindanao, and other Philippine and East-India Islands near Cambodia, China,
Formosa, Luconia, Celebes &c., New Holland, Sumatra, Nicobar Isles; the Cape of Good
Hope, and Santa Hellena. Their Soil, Rivers, Harbours, Plants, Fruits, Animals, and
Inhabitants. Their Customs, Religion, Government, Trade, &c., 2nd ed. (London: James
Knapton, 1697), 361. It is possible that some ships’ instruments were traded with the
inhabitants or copied by local craftsmen.
85. See Marcel Mauss, The Gift: The Form and Reason for Exchange in Archaic
Societies, trans. W. D. Halls, foreword by Mary Douglas. (London: Routledge, 1990).
86. Costa notes that Jesuit Josef Wilhelm (1710–48), who was stationed at
Zamboanga from 1745, possessed an Arabic Book of Hours that had been published in
Rome in 1725, which had been sent to him by a Dominican in Manila. ’Azı m ̄ ud-Dı n ̄ ,
when visiting Zamboanga, took a great interest in this volume, discussing and
debating many points of the contents with Wilhelm. See Costa, The Jesuits in the
Philippines, 545.
87. Forrest observed that “the Rajah Moodo is elected by the states, and succeeds
the Sultan; similar to the king of the Romans succeeding the emperors of Germany.”
Thomas Forrest, A Voyage to New Guinea and the Moluccas, 1774–1776, 2nd ed.
(London: G. Scott, 1780. Reprint, Kuala Lumpur: Oxford University Press, 1969), 179.
88. Ibid., 296.
89. This story is related by Jesuit Jean-Baptiste Du Halde (1674–1743) in his
Description géographique, historique, chronologique, politique, et physique de l’empire de la
Chine et de la Tartarie Chinoise (Paris: P. G. Le Mercier, 1735), 3:266.
90. On the role of slave musicians in Sulu, see James Francis Warren, The Sulu
Zone 1768–1898: The Dynamics of External Trade, Slavery, and Ethnicity in the
Transformation of a Southeast Asian Maritime State (Quezon City: New Day Publishers,
1985), 225–26.
91. Forrest, Voyage to New Guinea and the Moluccas, 330. According to Forrest,
there were also some Spanish slaves in Sulu.
92. Nicholas Tracy, Manila Ransomed: The British Assault on Manila in the Seven
Years War, Exeter Maritime Studies, no. 10 (Exeter, U.K.: University of Exeter Press,
1995), 9.
93. Ibid., 17.
94. Nicholas P. Cushner, Documents Illustrating the British Conquest of Manila,
1762–1763 (London: Offices of the Royal Historical Society, University College,
London, 1971), 57.
95. Samuel Cornish and William Draper, A Plain Narrative of the Reduction of
Manila and the Phillippine [sic] Islands ([London], 1764), 21.
96. See Rosario Mendoza Cortes, Celestina Puyal Boncan, and Ricardo Trota
Jose, The Filipino Saga: History as Social Change (Quezon City: New Day Publishers,
2000), 88–101.
97. See Woodfield, Music of the Raj, 102–03.
98. Cushner, Documents Illustrating the British Conquest of Manila, 118.
99. Galende and José, San Agustín, 48.
100. Ibid., 48, 138.
101. See Charles Ralph Boxer, “Preliminary Report on a Collection of
Documents Looted at Manila in 1762–64, and now in the Lilly Library, Indiana
University,” in International Conference on Asian History (Kuala Lumpur: University of
Malaya, 1968).
102. “Les Anglois ont laissé à Manille beaucoup de contredanses fort bizarres,
mais qui plaisent si fort que les Musiciens les font servir à l’église; après la Collecte, on
est sûr de voir finir l’Office, dans toutes les églises, par une contredanse angloise, avec
laquelle ils régalent & congédient les Spectateurs.” Guillaume JosephLe Gentil de la
Galaisière, Voyage dans les mers de l’Inde (Paris: Imprimérie Royale, 1779–81), 2:133.
103. See, for example, Relacion de las expresivas demostraciones, ff. 44v, 60v.
104. Jean Baptiste Mallat de Bassilan, Les Philippines: histoire, géographie, mœurs,
agriculture, industrie et commerce des colonies espagnoles dans l’océanie (Paris: Arthus
Bertrand, 1846), 2:250.
105. John Nichols, Literary Anecdotes of the Eighteenth Century, Comprizing
Biographical Memoirs of William Bowyer, Printer, F. S. A. and Many of His Learned
Friends; an Incidental View of the Progress and Advancement of Literature in This Kingdom
During the Last Century; and Biographical Anecdotes of a Considerable Number of Eminent
Writers and Ingenious Artists; with a Very Copious Index (London: Printed for the author
by Nichols, Son, and Bentley, 1812. Reprint, New York: AMS Press; Kraus Reprint,
1966), 3:126.
106. John Meares, Voyages Made in the Years 1788 and 1789, from China to the
North West Coast of America: To Which Are Prefixed, an Introductory Narrative of a
Voyage Performed in 1786, from Bengal, in the Ship Nootka: Observations on the Probable
Existence of a North West Passage and Some Account of the Trade between the North West
Coast of America and China and the Latter Country and Great Britain (London: Printed
at the Logographic Press; and sold by J. Walter, 1790), 44.
107. Ibid., 44–45. On the musical implications of the use of the word “savage” in
eighteenth-century European discourse, see Olivia A. Bloechl, Native American Song at
the Frontiers of Early Modern Music (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2008),
187–94.
108. Meares, Voyages Made in the Years 1788 and 1789, 45.
chapter 3
1. Dorothy Keyser, “The Character of Exploration: Adrian Willaert’s Quid
non ebrietas,” in Musical Repercussions of 1492: Encounters in Text and Performance,
ed. Carol E. Robertson (Washington, D.C.: Smithsonian Institution Press, 1992),
185.
2. Ibid., 185–86.
3. See Reynaldo Clemeña Ileto, Pasyon and Revolution: Popular Movements in
the Philippines, 1840–1910 (Quezon City: Ateneo de Manila University Press, 1979) and
Filipinos and Their Revolution: Event, Discourse, and Historiography (Quezon City:
Ateneo de Manila University Press, 1998).
4. For an overview of these types of written sources, see the seminal article by
Corazon C. Dioquino, “Musicology in the Philippines,” Acta Musicologica 54.1–2
(1982): 124–47, esp. 124–26.
5. Horacio de la Costa, The Jesuits in the Philippines, 1581–1768 (Cambridge,
6. Historical reconstruction from colonial period documents should also be put
into perspective by comparison with living traditions of minority groups who have
preserved many precolonial traditions of making and playing musical instruments.
(Many of these traditions are documented in José Maceda, Gongs and Bamboo: A
Panorama of Philippine Music Instruments [Diliman: University of the Philippines
Press, 1998].) Some communities in the Philippines were never directly subject to
colonial rule and have retained many elements of their culture free from radical
transformations as a result of having little or no contact with hegemonic cultural
influences. Certain groups who were in contact with Spaniards but who resisted their
claims of sovereignty (including the Muslims in the south of the archipelago and
highland communities in Luzon) simply eschewed European musical practices as the
cultural trappings of a colonial oppressor; others selectively embraced certain elements
of European musical culture, adapting them to their own uses and purposes. But we
should remember that the musical cultures of noncolonized peoples cannot be
projected as some sort of vestigial evidence of the precolonial musical reality of the
archipelago as a whole, because these communities often constitute minorities in
territories that were relatively inaccessible to the mainstream population in the early
modern period.
7. Joseph-François Lafitau, Mœurs des sauvages amériquains, comparées aux
mœurs des premiers temps, 4 vols. (Paris: Chez Saugrain l’aîné; chez Charles-Estienne
Hochereau, 1724). See a discussion of this work in Philip V. Bohlman, “Missionaries,
Magical Muses, and Magnificent Menageries: Image and Imagination in the Early
History of Ethnomusicology,” World of Music 30.3 (1988): 5–7.
8. Lafitau, Mœurs des sauvages amériquains, plate VIII, between 1:212–13.
9. See Joan-Pau Rubiés, “The Spanish Contribution to the Ethnology of Asia in
the Sixteenth and Seventeenth Centuries,” Renaissance Studies 17.3 (2003): 443.
10. Anthony Pagden, The Fall of Natural Man: The American Indian and the
Origins of Comparative Ethnology, corrected ed. (Cambridge: Cambridge University
Press, 1986), 4.
11. “El Bangsi, à modo de flauta, que parece sale de una sepultura, segun es
triste . . . Los Visayas, Zambales, y Boholanos usan un Bayle muy guerrero, con lanzas,
campilanes, y otras armas, como los Griegos, y Troyanos.” Pedro Murillo Velarde,
Geographia historica, donde se describen los reynos, provincias, ciudades, fortalezas, mares,
montes, ensenadas, cabos, rios, y puertos, con la mayor individualidad, y exactitud, etc.
(Madrid: Gabriel Ramírez, 1752), 8:34.
12. “Il maggiore loro solazzo però è la guerra de’galli (di cui abbiam favellato di
sopra), giuoco usato alcuna fiata dagli antichi Imperadori Romani.” Giovanni
Francesco Gemelli Careri, Giro del mondo del dottor D. Gio. Francesco Gemelli Careri,
new corrected ed. (Venice: Sebastiano Coleti, 1728), 5:79.
13. “Uso semejante al de los antiguos Dramas en los combites, y desposorios, y
derivado de los Hebreos a todas estas Naciones Gentilicas de la Asia.” Francisco Colín
and Pedro Chirino, Labor evangelica, ministerios apostolicos de los obreros de la Compañia
de Iesus, fundacion, y progressos de su provincia en las Islas Filipinas. Historiados por el
padre Francisco Colin provincial de la misma compañía, calificador del Santo Oficio, y su
comissario en la governacion de Samboanga, y su distrito. Parte primera, sacada de los
manuscritos del padre Pedro Chirino, el primero de la Compañia que passò de los Reynos de
España a estas Islas, por orden, y a costa de la Catholica, y Real Magestad (Madrid: Por
Ioseph Fernandez de Buendia, 1663), 369.
14. “El otro llamàdo Dalit es mas grave, y sentencioso, al modo de los que los
Griegos, y Latinos llamaron Epico dythirambicos.” Gaspar de San Agustín, Compendio
de la arte de la lengua tagala (Manila: Collegio del Señor Santo Tomas de Aquino, por
Juan Correa, 1703), f. 37v.
15. “Si juzgamos de la poesía de los peruanos por la de los tagalos, Racine el
joven no hubiera hallado en sus dramas las calidades que creía . . . No sé cómo el P.
Lafitau pudo comparar su retórica con la de Demósthenes y Cicerón.” Joaquín
Martínez de Zúñiga and Wenceslao Emilio Retana, Estadismo de las Islas Filipinas, ó
mis viajes por este país. Publica esta obra por primera vez extensamente anotada W. E.
Retana (Madrid: [Viuda de M. Minuesa de los Ríos], 1893), 1:512–13.
16. See Arsenio Magsino Nicolas, “Early Musical Exchange between India and
Southeast Asia,” in Early Indian Influences in Southeast Asia: Reflections on Cross-
Cultural Movements, ed. Pierre-Yves Manguin, A. Mani, and P. Ramysamy, vol. 2
(Singapore: Institute of Southeast Asian Studies, forthcoming); and Arsenio Magsino
Nicolas, “Musical Exchange in Early Southeast Asia: Indonesia and the Philippines, ca.
100 to 1600 c.e.” Ph.D. diss., Cornell University, 2006, 149 (kamsa, gangsa), 208
(vamsa, bangsi), 211 (kacchapi, kudyapi).
17. I am grateful to Katherine Butler Brown for discussing with me her ideas for
a theory of classicism in the early modern European study of ancient Indian literature.
18. “Misterio tiene en esta oracion la primera palabra ABA, que tiene fuerça de
saludar; como Ave en Latin.” Pedro Chirino, Relacion de las Islas Filipinas i de lo que en
ellas an trabaiado los padres dæ la Compañia de Iesus (Roma: Por Estevan Paulino,
1604), 36.
19. See Pagden, Fall of Natural Man, 194–95.
20. See Florence Hsia, “Athanasius Kircher’s China Illustrata (1667): An

Apologia Pro Vita Sua,” in Athanasius Kircher: The Last Man Who Knew Everything, ed.
Paula Findlen (New York: Routledge, 2004), 390.
21. Pagden, Fall of Natural Man, 6.
22. “Siempre la lengua fue compañera del imperio.” Antonio de Nebrija, Pascual
Galindo Romeo, and Luis Ortiz Muñoz, Gramática castellana: texto establecido sobre la
ed. «princeps» de 1492 (Madrid: Edición de la Junta del Centenario, 1946), 2:3.
23. “Treinta años estuvo averiguando palabra por palabra, con tal empeño y
teson, que se habia propuesto por regla infaliable el que no pasaría de una a otra sin
que conviniesen doce indios ladinos en este idioma en la pronunciacion, acento y
significacion de cada raiz; y vez hubo en que teniendo ya nueve, y pasándose mucho
tiempo sin hallar ó poder cumplir con el numero prescripto, no se determinaba aun á
notarla y apuntarla.” Juan José de Noceda and Pedro de Sanlúcar, Vocabulario de la
lengua tagala (Manila: Imprenta de la Compañia de Iesus, por D. Nicolas de la Cruz
Bagay, 1754), f. 4v. See also Bienvenido Lumbera, Tagalog Poetry 1570–1898: Tradition
and Influences in Its Development (Quezon City: Ateneo de Manila University Press,
1986), 2.
24. Scott has observed that the early vocabularios are “by far the richest sources
of information on Filipino ethnography. . . . By their very nature, dictionaries contain
more information than any other sort of literature or documentation.” William Henry
Scott, Barangay: Sixteenth-Century Philippine Culture and Society (Quezon City: Ateneo
de Manila University Press, 1994), 2.
25. In discussing Inca musical instruments, for instance, Stevenson notes that
“anyone who has made use of the dictionaries soon comes to know them as the
organologist’s best friends.” Robert Murrell Stevenson, Music in Aztec and Inca
Territory (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1968), 260.
26. Lumbera, Tagalog Poetry, 2–21.
27. Filipino women were generally noted to be much more proficient than men
at reading and writing.
28. See William Henry Scott, Prehispanic Source Materials for the Study of
Philippine History, rev. ed. (Quezon City: New Day Publishers, 1984), 56–58.
29. The practice of baybayin has not been completely suppressed; even after
more than 400 years of Western cultural hegemony, it remains a traditional practice
among some isolated communities, particularly on the islands of Mindoro and
Palawan. Baybayin usage and orthography aroused the curiosity of both scholars and
amateurs from the early nineteenth century onward, and its gradual disappearance
from general practice increased its rarity value, especially among travel writers of the
nineteenth century who sought to find relics of a distant past. See ibid., 52–62, and
Vicente Rafael, Contracting Colonialism: Translation and Christian Conversion in Tagalog
Society under Early Spanish Rule (Ithaca, N.Y.: Cornell University Press, 1988), 44–54.
30. Scott, Barangay, 215.
31. “Pero ellos despues de haver celebrado mucho la invencion de la Cruz, y haver
dado muchas gracias por ella, resolvieron que no podia tener lugar en su escritura,
porque era contra su intrinseca propriedad y naturaleza que Dios le dìo; y que era
destruir de un golpe toda la Sintaxis, Prosodia, y Ortografia desu lengua Tagala,
poniendola en mala Cruz. Pero que no era su animo tampoco, el disgustar alos
Señores Españoles, y que harian lo que les mandasen, especialmente quando escriban
cosas de lengua Española, en sus Caracteres Tagalos, y que procurarian llenarlo todo
de buenas cruces, paraque mexor se entienda.” Agustín María de Castro and Antonio
Graiño, Ortografía y reglas de la lengua Tagalog acomodadas a sus propios caracteres por
D. Pedro Andrés de Castro [Ms, Manila, 1776]. (Reprint, Madrid: Librería General de
Victoriano Suárez, 1930), 15–16.
32. Ibid., 19.
33. Rafael, Contracting Colonialism, 29.
34. “Es tanta su aficion á libros que no contentos con los impressos en su lengua,
conpuestos [sic] por Varones Religiosos; de los sermones que oyen, de las historias
sagradas, Vidas de Santos, Oraciones, y poessias [sic] a lo divino, compuestas por ellos:
apenas ay hombre y mucho menos muger que en su lengua y letra, y escritos de su
mano, no tenga uno mas libros, cossa en tan nuevos cristianos que no se save de
ninguna otra nacion. Y puedo yo dar fe desto, por averseme cometido el esamen de
estos libros este año de mill y seiscientos y nueve, por orden del Tesorero de la
Metropolitana de Manila Provissor y Vicario General deste Arzobispado, que a fin de
corregir errores, los mando Visitar todos.” Francisco Colín, Pedro Chirino, and Pablo
Pastells, Labor evangélica, ministerios apostolicos de los obreros de la Compañia de Jesus,
fundacion, y progressos de su provincia en las Islas Filipinas. Historiados por el padre
Francisco Colín. Parte primera sacada de los manuscritos del padre Pedro Chirino, el
primero de la Compañia que passó de los reynos de España a estas islas, por orden, y a costa
de la catholica, y real magestad (Barcelona: Impr. y Litografía de Henrich y Compañía,
1900–02), 1:223.
35. This idea has been proposed by Costa in The Jesuits in the Philippines, 140–41.
See also a comparison of Christian and Muslim forms of oral recitation in Anthony
Reid, Southeast Asia in the Age of Commerce, 1450–1680 (New Haven, Conn.: Yale
University Press, 1988–93), 2:155.
36. Doctrina Christiana: The First Book Printed in the Philippines: Manila 1593
(Reprint, Manila: National Historical Institute, 1991); Costa, The Jesuits in the
Philippines, 141.
37. Rafael, Contracting Colonialism, 40.
38. “Y apuntan también sus cosas, porque no se les olviden, y sus versos para
cantar.” Juan José Delgado, Historia general sacro-profana: política y natural de las islas
del poniente, llamadas Filipinas, Biblioteca Histórica Filipina, vol. 1, ed. Pablo Pastells
(Manila: Imp. de El Eco de Filipinas de D. Juan Atayde, 1892), 333. Also discussed in
Damon Lawrence Woods, “Tomás Pinpin and Librong pagaaralan nang manga Tagalog
nang uicang Castila: Tagalog Literacy and Survival in Early Spanish Philippines.” Ph.D.
diss., University of California, Los Angeles, 1995, 110.
39. Many early ethnographers observed that literacy came relatively late to the
Visayans, and probably via the Tagalog population, from whose writing system the
Visayan baybayin characters were derived. See Scott, Prehispanic Source Materials, 55.
40. “Oy dia se van olvidado de estas letras, porque los Españoles introdujeron las
letras Gothicas, y los Operarios Evangelios ayudan con incessante desvelo,
manteniendo en cada Pueblo su Escuela.” Melchor Oyanguren de Santa Ynés,
Tagalysmo elucidado, y reducido. A la latinidad de Nebrija (Mexico: Imprenta de
D. Francisco Xavier Sanchez, 1742), 4. Similarly, in the Arte de la lengua tagala, first
published in 1745, the Franciscan Sebastian de Totanes ventured to introduce the

Tagalog alphabet “in our Castilian [Roman] characters,” qualifying that “the Tagalog
characters [baybayin] will not be treated here, because the Filipino who knows how to
read them is already rare, and the Filipino who knows how to write them is the most
rare. All of them already read and write our Castilian characters.” (“No se trata de los
Caracteres Tagalos, porque es yà raro el Indio, que los saba leer, y rarísimo el que los
sabe excribir. En los nuestros Castellanos lean yà, y escriben todos.”) Sebastian de
Totanes, Arte de la lengua tagala, y manual tagalog, para la administracion de los santos
sacramentos, 2nd ed. (Sampaloc: Imprenta de Nra. Sra. de Loreto por el herm. Pedro
Argüelles de la Concepcion, 1796), 1.
41. Lumbera, Tagalog Poetry, 55.
42. “Mangyan Rolls,” 1904 (NLC, Ayer MS 1726). This collection comprises
twenty pieces of bamboo, inscribed with courting and begging songs. They were
collected by Fletcher Gardner (contract surgeon, U.S. Army) in 1905. In a short
communication from 1940, he claims that he was in the process of studying hundreds
of such bamboo pieces, with diverse writings on them; see Fletcher Gardner, “Bamboo
Writings from Mindoro and Palawan,” Journal of the American Oriental Society 60.2
(1940): 271–72.
43. Scott, Barangay, 213.
44. Rafael, Contracting Colonialism, 56–66.
45. Scott writes that “all this poetry was generally sung or chanted rather than
recited, so our sources include songs in the same category as poems. Even real
songs—that is, melodies with lyrics—were poetic rather than musical compositions:
the singer set his words to common tunes known to all.” William Henry Scott, Looking
for the Prehispanic Filipino and Other Essays in Philippine History (Quezon City: New
Day Publishers, 1992), 107. In the Philippines today, not all indigenous poetry is sung,
but it is possible that this shift in performance practice may have resulted from the
influence of European styles of poetry recitation during the Spanish colonial period.
46. See San Agustín, Compendio; Oyanguren de Santa Ynés, Tagalysmo elucidado;
Francisco Bencuchillo, “Arte poético tagalo,” 1759 (NLC, Ayer MS 1731); and Martínez
de Zúñiga and Retana, Estadismo, chapter 3.
47. Francisco López and Andres Carro, Arte de la lengua ylocana compuesto por el
padre predicador fray Francisco Lopez del orden de N. P. S. Augustin, y ministro por
muchos años en la Provincia de Ylocos. Año de 1628. Corregido, y añadido segun lo que
ahora se usa, por el M. R. P. predicador fray Andres Carro del mismo orden: examinador
synodal del Obispado de Nueva Segovia; missionero por conventos de la dicha provincia, 2nd
ed. (Sampaloc: En el Conv. de Nra. Sra. de Loreto. por el Herm. Baltasar Mariano
Donado Franciscano, 1793 [1795]), 563–66. The original publication by López, Arte de
la lengua iloca (Manila: Colegio i Universidad de S. Thomas de Aquino, por Thomas
Pinpin, 1627), does not include any section on poetry. It is unclear as to whether it was
López or Carro who was the author of the section on poetry included in the late
eighteenth-century publication Arte de la lengua ylocana.
48. Alonso de Méntrida, Arte de la lengua bisaya hiliguayna de la isla de Panay, 2nd
ed. (Manila: Imprenta de Don Manuel Memije por Don Anastacio Gonzaga, 1818). The
first edition (of which there are no extant copies) was published in 1637; after the
second edition in 1818, eight other editions appeared up until the end of the
nineteenth century. For Alzina’s observations on Visayan poetry, see Victoria Yepes
and Francisco Ignacio Alzina, Una etnografía de los indios bisayas del siglo XVII,
Biblioteca de historia de América, 15 (Madrid: Consejo Superior de Investigaciones
Científicas, 1996), 12–14.
49. The first was a dramatic verse-refrain (verso-estrivillo) type called tumaila,
which was sung by rowers and at alcohol-laden festivities; the second was a more
serious genre called dalit. See Alvaro de Benavente, Arte de lengua pampanga:
Kapampangan Grammar circa 1699, trans. Edilberto V. Santos (Angeles City: Holy
Angel University Press, 2007), 398–99.
50. “No dudo hecharàs menos aqui la Poèsia [sic], pero te aseguro, que aunque
otros habrà mas Enemigos de ella, lo que es la Pampanga, me fastidia tanto que la
cadencia, que dàn a sus versos mas me parece prossa, que verdadera asonancia, ò
consonancia, por lo qual lo omito: Dandote en su lugar, aunque con brevedad, avisos
suficientes para trasumptar bien, si sabes la Lengua.” Diego Bergaño, Arte de la lengua
pampanga. Compuesto por el R. P. Lector Fr. Diego Bergaño, de el Orden de los Hermitaños
de N. P. S. Agustin, examinador synodal de este Arzobispado de Manila, y Prior del
Convento de Bacolor. Nuevamente añadido, emmendado, y reducido à methodo mas claro,
por el mismo author, siendo actual provincial de esta su Provincia de el Santissimo Nombre
de Jesus, 2nd ed. (Sampaloc: Convento de Nra. Señora de Loreto, 1736), 217.
51. Elviro Jorde Pérez, Catálogo bio-bibliográfico de los religiosos agustinos de la
Provincia del Santissimo Nombre de Jesús de las Islas Filipinas desde fundación hasta
nuestros días (Manila: Establecimiento tip. del Colegio de Sto. Tomás, 1901), 279. Blake
also cites a manuscript source by Moreno titled “Sobre el modo de comprender el
idioma pampango y su poesia” (taken from Barrantes’s bibliography of Filipino
linguistics), which suggests that Kapampangan poetry did exist and was not imposed
by Spaniards—just misunderstood. See Frank R. Blake, “A Bibliography of the
Philippine Languages, Part I,” Journal of the American Oriental Society 40 (1920): 50,
no. 255. The linguistic bibliography from which the entry comes is found in Vicente
Barrantes, El teatro tagalo (Madrid: Tipografía de Manuel G. Hernández, 1889),
167–96.
52. See Lumbera’s discussion of Gaspar de San Agustín’s observations in Tagalog
Poetry, 46–47.
53. “Y assi aunque les muestren Sonetos, Rimas, Decimas, y Canciones à
nuestro modo con consonante forçoso; como las que al fin de su arte puso el
Ven[erable]. P[adre]. Fr[ay]. Francisco de San Joseph, no les parecen bien; y responden,
magaling, datapoua hindi tola. Y no ay persuadirles otra cosa.” San Agustín,
Compendio, f. 38r.
54. Yepes and Alzina, Una etnografía, 12.
55. “Sus especies son auit, diona, oyayi, talingdao, dalit, soliranin, &c. Suelen
constar de seis, siete, cinco, ocho, diez, doze, ó catorze sylabas; segun la cancion, ò
tono, aquien sirven los versos.” Oyanguren de Santa Ynés, Tagalysmo elucidado, 219.
56. On pre-Columbian poetry in the Americas, see José Alcina Franch, Poesía
americana precolombina (Madrid: Editorial prensa española, 1968), and Gary
Tomlinson, The Singing of the New World: Indigenous Voice in the Era of European
Contact (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2007).
57. See Lumbera, Tagalog Poetry, 49–82.
58. “Todo su gobierno, i Religion, se funda en tradicion, i en uso introduzido del

mismo demonio, que les hablava en sus Idolos, i en sus ministros: i lo conservan en
cantares, que tienen de memoria, i los aprenden desde niños; oyendolos cantar
quando navegan, quando laboran, quando se regozijan, i festejan, i mucho mas,
quando lloran los difuntos. En estos cantares barbaros cuentan las fabulosas
genealogias, i vanos hechos de sus dioses.” Chirino, Relacion de las Islas Filipinas, 52.
59. “Interrumpen los combites con musica de vozes, en que ca[n]tan uno, ò dos,
y responden los demas. Son los cantos, lo comun, sus antiguallas, y fabulas, al modo
que las demas Naciones.” Colín and Chirino, Labor evangelica, 62.
60. “Bayles al son de sus campanas, y tamboriles . . . moviendose la marcha al son
de campanas, y dulcaynas Moras.” Francisco Combés, Historia de las islas de Mindanao,
Iolo, y sus adyacentes. Progressos de la religion, y armas catolicas (Madrid: Herederos de
Pablo de Val, 1667), 60.
61. Deduced from Delgado, Historia general sacro-profana, 155–56, whose survey
was made in 1750–51.
62. See Rubiés, “The Spanish Contribution to the Ethnology of Asia,” 443.
63. Yepes and Alzina, Una etnografía, 12–15, 24–29, 211–17.
64. “No tuvieron ciencia ni principios científicos de la música que nosotros
usamos y las más políticas naciones del mundo usaron y usan ya estos indios bisayas.”
Ibid., 24.
65. “Algo mejor cantan hoy aun sus antiguos cantares estos indios porque se
les ha ido con nuestra música apegando mejor la consonancia y modos músicos.”
Ibid., 25.
66. “Se enamoran y requiebran con más sentimientos o sensualidad . . . que de
palabra; cosa que fuera increíble si entre estos naturales la experiencia y la
consonancia de estos instrumentos no lo testificara cada día ¡y ojalá no fuera tanto!,
que se ahorraran no pocas ofensas de Dios en esta parte, que se hacen con menos
nota.” Ibid., 26.
67. “Es de lamentar que estos cantares no se hubiesen conservado; por ellos tal
vez se hubiera podido saber mucho del pasado de los Filipinos y quizás de la historia
de muchas islas adyacentes.” Antonio de Morga, José Rizal, and Ferdinand
Blumentritt, Sucesos de las Islas Filipinas: obra publicada en Méjico el año de 1609;
nuevamente sacada á luz y anotada por José Rizal; y precedida de un prólogo del Prof.
Fernando Blumentritt (Paris: Librería de Garnier Hermanos, 1890), 266.
68. “La Musica, e’balli si fanno all’uso Cinese: cioè, quanto al cantare, l’uno dice,
e ripete l’altro la strofa, al suono d’un tamburo di metallo: quanto al ballare, si è come
una finta guerra; però con passi, e mutanze misurate. Fanno anche varii movimenti
colle mani, e talvolta [sic] tenendo una lancia, colla quale si assaltano, si ritirano, e
s’infuriano, e si mitigano, si accostano, e si arretrano con grazia, e bel modo; di
maniera tale, che gli Spagnuoli non gli stimano indegni d’intervenire nelle loro feste.
Le composizioni nella lor lingua sono anche graziose, ed eloquenti.” Gemelli Careri,
Giro del mondo, 5:79.
69. Norberto Romuáldez, Filipino Musical Instruments and Airs of Long Ago:
Lecture Delivered at the Conservatory of Music, University of the Philippines on November
25th, 1931 ([Manila]: National Media Production Center, 1973); Maceda, Gongs and
Bamboo.
70. The term kutyapi is also written as cutyapi, coriapi, codyapi, kudyapi, kudyapiq,
kusyapiq, kutyapiq, and other cognates.
71. Teodoro A. Agoncillo and Oscar M. Alfonso, History of the Filipino People, rev.
ed. (Quezon City: Malaya Books, 1967), 67.
72. R. Anderson Sutton, “South-east Asia,” in The New Grove Dictionary of Music
and Musicians, 2nd ed., ed. Stanley Sadie and John Tyrell (London: Macmillan, 2001),
24:96.
73. Agoncillo and Alfonso, History of the Filipino People, 67.
74. “I aunque la Viguela, que llaman Cutyapi; no es mui artificiosa, ni la musica
mui subida: no dexa de ser agra dable [sic], i a ellos mucho. Toncanla [sic] con una
biveza, i destreza, que a quatro cuerdas, que tiene de alambre, las hazen hablar.
Tenemos alla por cosa mui averiguada, que con solo el tocarlas, callando la boca, se
dizen, i entienden todo lo que quieren. Cosa que no se sabe de otra ninguna nacion.”
Chirino, Relacion de las Islas Filipinas, 39.
75. “Ils avoient autrefois un instrument commé Cutiapé, dont quelques-uns
d’entr’-eux se servent encore maintenant: il ressemble assez à une vielle, & est monté
de quatre cordes de cuivre; ils le touchent si adroitement, qu’ils luy font dire ce qu’ils
veulent, & c’est une chose averée qu’ils se parlent, & se disent les uns aux autres ce
qu’ils veulent par le moyen de cét instrument, addresse particuliere à ceux de cette
Nation.” Diego de Bobadilla (attrib.), “Relation des Isles Philipines, faite par un
religieux qui y a demeuré 18. ans,” in Relations de divers voyages curieux, ed.
Melchisedec Thévenot (Paris: Thomas Moette, 1696), 5.
76. “Tenian un modo de vihuela, que llaman Coryapi, de a dos, ó mas cuerdas de
alambre. Y aunque la musica no es muy artificiosa, ni subida, no dexa de ser
agradable, mayormente para ellos, que la tocan con una pluma con gran viveza, y
destreza. Y es cosa averiguada, que con solo tocarla se hablan, y entienden lo que
quieren.” Colín and Chirino, Labor evangelica, 62.
77. “Son éstas [cuerdas] dos no más (raro es el que sabe tañerlo con tres) o de
alambre delgado, o de plata, que suele ser más sonora.” Yepes and Alzina, Una
etnografía, 25.
78. “El Coryapi, de dos, ò tres cuerdas de alambre, que tocaban con una pluma.”
Murillo Velarde, Geographia historica, 8:34.
79. Diego Bergaño, Bocabulario de pampango en romance: y diccionario de romance
en pampango (Manila: Convento de Nuestra Señora de los Angeles, 1732), 121. Maceda
comments that “unlike metal jaw harps, bamboo mouth harps should not touch the
teeth. The lips may touch the bamboo, but the filament must vibrate freely.” Maceda,
Gongs and Bamboo, 220.
80. “De çierta hechura toman un cañuto sin ñudos y hiendenle por la una punta,
meten alli una hoja de palma o de la misma caña, soplan y suena como dulçayna.”
Pedro de San Buena Ventura, Vocabulario de lengua tagala. El romance castellano puesto
primero (Villa de Pila: Thomas Pinpin, y Domingo Loag Tagalos, 1613), 321.
81. “Taboli. Trompeta, o clarin de Cuerno, o Querno que sirve de Trompeta. = V.e
Tamboli.” Tomás Ortiz, “Vocabulario Tagalo Español que contiene muchas
composiciones, locuciones, y Frases Tagalas explicadas a la letra en Español. Por el M.
R. P. L. F. Thomas Hortiz Ex Provincial de esta Provincia del SS[antísi].mo Nom[br].e de
Iesus del Orden de N. P. S. Aug[usti]n de Philippinas, y Prior del Convento de N[uest]
ra Señor de Guadalupe. . . . Dedicado A S. Ioseph Profugo en Ægypto, Padre Putativo de

IESUS, y Esposo Fidelissimo de MARIA. . . . En el convento de N[uest]ra Señora de
Guadalupe. dia del Triumpho dela Cruz. 16 del mes de Iullio de 1726 años,” 1726–33
(LLIU, Philippine Mss. I, box 11), part I, f. 354r. A few decades later, Noceda and
Sanlúcar listed this instrument as “Tamboioc . . . Corneta, para llamar gente,” in their
Vocabulario de la lengua tagala, 554. See also the listing of tambuli as a Tagalog horn in
Maceda, Gongs and Bamboo, 305, 312.
82. “Hazen de caña, con que tocan en sus casas.” Domingo de los Santos,
Vocabulario de la lengua tagala (La muy noble villa de Tayabas, 1703), 424.
83. “Flauta que tañen con las narices; y a las de Castilla las llaman así.” Alonso de
Méntrida, Vocabulario de la lengua bisaya, hiligueina y haraya de la isla de Panay y Sugbú
y para las demás islas, ed. with a study by Joaquín García-Medall (Tordesillas,
Valladolid: Instituto Interuniversitario de Estudios de Iberoamérica y Portugal,
Universidad de Valladolid, 2004), 295.
84. “Por la semejanza se estiende a nombrar nuestra Flauta.” Matheo Sánchez,
Vocabulario de la lengua bisaya ([Manila]: Impresso en el Colegio de la Sagrada
Compañia de Iesus por Gaspar Aquino de Belen, 1711), part 1, f. 302r.
85. “Tingab . . . flauta de bagacay que se tañe con la boca.” Méntrida, Vocabulario
de la lengua bisaya, hiligueina y haraya, 400.
86. “Cutiapi. . . . Guitarra . . . Dulus las cuerdas, biricbiric, las clavijas. Pidia, bidia,
ipitan, el como traste.” Sánchez, Vocabulario de la lengua bisaya, part 1, f. 157v.
87. “Un instrumento musico, proprio de mugeres, hazese de algun bias de caña
buena, y recia.” Ibid., part 1, f. 144v.
88. “Vigolón de caña que se tañe como arpa.” Méntrida, Vocabulario de la lengua
bisaya, hiligueina y haraya, 217.
89. “Bidia. . . . traste de guitarra; nagabidia. . . . entrastar guitarra; namidia. . . .
puntear el que tañe, esto es, traer los dedos en los trastes.” Ibid., 187.
90. “Bidyà. . . . Los puntos donde ponen los dedos en los codyapes, como trastes
en la biguela, que entre ellos son unos pedacitos de cera.” Marcós de Lisboa,
Vocabulario de la lengua bicol, primera, y segunda parte (Sampaloc: Convento de Nuestra
Señora de Loreto, 1754), part I, 108.
91. For example, in Méntrida, Vocabulario de la lengua bisaya, hiligueina y haraya,
“dulus” is translated as “cuerda de arco de ballesta, de cítara, de guitarra, arpa. etc.”
(236), and “litgit” as “cuerda de arco con que se to[c]a rabel, vigolón; y el rabel o
vigolón le llaman litgit, etc.” (305).
92. “Cuerda[:] Cauar . . . de alambre en los monacordios o citaras . . . Cuerda[:]
Dilis . . . de guytarra o arpa.” San Buena Ventura, Vocabulario de lengua tagala, 207.
93. “Dulus . . . cuerda de arco de ballesta, de cítara, de guitarra, arpa. etc.”
Méntrida, Vocabulario de la lengua bisaya, hiligueina y haraya, 187.
94. “Tirar cosa de playa, oro, ò alambre.” Francisco López and Andres Carro,
“Tesauro, Vocabulario de la lengua yloca al castellano. Compuesto por el M. R. P. L. y
V. Fr. Francisco Lopez del Or[de]n de N. p. s. Augustin Min[o]ro de la Prov[inci].a de
Ylocos añadido por diversos padres de la misma Or[de]n, y Provincia, y puesta la
ultima mano, añadiendo muchos terminos, frases, refranes, adagios conla virtud de
varias yerbas. Al ultimo va el Tesauro del castellano al iloco por el mismo R. P. Carro,”
1794 (BAV), f. 98r.
95. “Las cuerdas las tocan con una plumita como nuestras cítaras, y las voces
son muy parecidas a ellas, aunque acá son menos sonorosas por pocas y por no tener
el buque del instrumento con las medidas proporcionadas para las voces.” Yepes and
Alzina, Una etnografía, 25.
96. “Este es al modo de unas guitarrillas de caña que suelen hacer los
muchachos en España.” Ibid., 26.
97. “Hácenlo acá las mujeres de un género de carrizo que llaman tigbao, atando
diez o doce juntos como los dedos de la mano: su largor de un palmo y medio, nunca
llega a dos; de ancho algo más de un palmo. De cada varilla o cañuela sacan una como
cuerda en medio de la tez del dicho carrizo, y les ponen después sus puentecillas a un
lado y otro; arrímanlas al pecho y tocan como guitarra o acompañándose tal vez con los
cor[iapi] con su modo de consonancia.” Ibid., 26.
98. “Aunque no tan recias y sonoras como las de nuestras flautas, [sus voces]
son tan suaves y más delicadas que ellas; y es cosa de admiración oir a algunos más
diestros los varios sones y prolijos que tañen sin cansárseles el resuello de la nariz, que
con dificultad, como puede hacer cualquiera la prueba, se puede alargar mucho
tiempo; y con todo están grandes ratos, máxime de noche cuando mejor se oye y aun
de algo lejos, tañendo con ellos y mudando sones muy a compás, sin otra ciencia más
que la aplicación natural y el ejercicio y uso, cual se oía en los quiebros de la voz,
suavidad del son y melodía, no ingrata a nuestros oídos de sus mudanzas.” Ibid., 26.
99. “No les faltó acá en su antigüedad la célebre trompa de París, que suelen
llamar en algunas partes de España y en otras, que aunque las usan hoy de hierro
como las de allá, lo más común es, aun hoy, lo que en su antigüedad usaron; y es
hacerlas de una astilla de caña de éstas grandes y duras de acá, y cierto con tan recio
son y tan vivo como las de hierro. . . . Es grande el uso que todos en general, hombres y
mujeres, chicos y grandes, tienen de este instrumento, y todos ellos lo saben hacer,
pues visto una vez es muy fácil.” Ibid., 26–27.
100. “Buscaban para ellos maderas sólidas.” Ibid., 25.
101. Delgado’s Tratado primero (de los arboles que se crían en llanos y playas) is
found in his Historia general sacro-profana. Chapter 26, concerning “the wood called
alagut-ut in the Visayas” (“la madera llamada en Visayas alagut-ut” [Cordia subcordata,
Lam. in Latin]), states that “very good musical instruments can also be made of it, such
as violins, fiddles, and guitars, with a sound that is somewhat soft, but sonorous and
high. I have not heard anything special about this tree as regards medicines, but
notwithstanding, it can be said that it has the virtue of sweetening the ears, and to
make hearts joyful through the music of instruments made from it.” (“Fabrícanse
también de él muy buenos instrumentos músicos, como violines rabeles y guitarras,
de voz algo oscura, pero sonora y alta. No he oído cosa especial de este árbol en lo que
toca á medicinas; mas no obstante, se puede decir de él que tiene virtud de endulzar
los oídos, y alegrar los corazones por la música que hacen los instrumentos
fabricados.”) Delgado, Historia general sacro-profana, 438.
102. Chapter 27, “of the tree named banago” (“del árbol llamado banago” [Cordia
cumingiana, Vidal and Thespesia macrophylla, Bl. in Latin]), describes the plant’s
musical nature: “So that there is no lack of food for the ears, nature places this wood
into the hands of the natives, who make from it very sonorous instruments for their
entertainment and recreation.” (“Para que no faltase pasto á los oídos, puso la
naturaleza esta madera en manos de los naturales, dándoles en ella instrumentos muy
sonoros, para divertirse y recrearse.”) Ibid., 439.
103. “Les cordes dont ils se servent pour ces derniers instrumens, sont de soye
torse, & rendent un son aussi agréable que les nostres, quoy qu’elles soient de matière
bien différente.” Bobadilla (attrib.), “Relation des Isles Philippines,” 5.
104. See Patrizio Barbieri, “Roman and Neapolitan Gut Strings 1550–1950,”
Galpin Society Journal 59 (2006): 170.
105. For instance, Ian Woodfield has noted the use of silk strings for viols on
board the ships of the English East India Company in the early seventeenth century,
and suggests “the possibility that gut had been found an unreliable material in the
humid and hot conditions experienced on previous voyages.” See Ian Woodfield,
English Musicians in the Age of Exploration (Stuyvesant, N.Y.: Pendragon Press,
1995), 79.
106. On the production methods of cantorales in the Philippines, see María
Alexandra Gil Iñigo Chua, “Kirial de esta Yglesia de Baclayon año 1826: A Study of an
Extant Sacred Music Manuscript of the Spanish Colonial Period in the Province of
Bohol.” M.Mus. thesis, University of the Philippines, 2000.
chapter 4
1. On “contact zones,” see Mary Louise Pratt, Imperial Eyes: Travel Writing and
Transculturation (London: Routledge, 1992), 6–7.
2. Corazon Canave-Dioquino, “The Lowland Christian Philippines,” in The
Garland Encyclopedia of World Music, ed. Terry Miller and Sean Williams (New York:
Garland Publishing, 1998), 4:841; José Maceda, “Music in the Philippines in the
Nineteenth Century,” in Musikkulturen Asiens, Afrikas und Ozeaniens im 19.
Jahrhundert, ed. Robert Günther (Studien zur Musikgeschichte des 19. Jahrhunderts.
Regensburg: G. Bosse, 1973), 218.
3. Maceda, “Music in the Philippines in the Nineteenth Century,” 218.
4. “Estos ni las tenian ni las usaban en sus bayles, y alas ande prendido.” Pedro
de San Buena Ventura, Vocabulario de lengua tagala. El romance castellano puesto
primero (Villa de Pila: Thomas Pinpin, y Domingo Loag Tagalos, 1613), 151.
5. “Castañetas. Castanitas. . . . ussan [sic] de ellas despues que las vieron à los
Españoles.” Domingo de los Santos, Vocabulario de la lengua tagala (La muy noble villa
de Tayabas, 1703), 226.
6. “Harpa, Ydem. . . . Instrum[en]to musico del Rey David, muy usado entre
estos Ylocos, desde que la vieron tocar à un Soldado Español de aquellos
Conquistadores.” Francisco López and Andres Carro, “Tesauro Vocabulario de la
lengua yloca al castellano. Compuesto por el M. R. P. L. y V. Fr. Francisco Lopez del
Or[de]n de N. p. s. Augustin Min[o]ro de la Prov[inci].a de Ylocos añadido por diversos
padres de la misma Or[de]n, y Provincia, y puesta la ultima mano, añadiendo muchos
terminos, frases, refranes, adagios conla virtud de varias yerbas. Al ultimo va el
Tesauro del castellano al iloco por el mismo R. P. Carro,” 1794 (BAV), f. 207r.
7. Although the tradition of harp playing in the Ilocos region is now in decline,
there are still some players in parts of the Visayas, especially Cebu and Bohol. See
Stephen L. Grauberger, “Diatonic Harp of the Philippines: An Historical Overview and
an Organological Comparison of the Cebuano-Bisayan Harp,” M.A. thesis, University

of Hawaii, 1994, 42–45.
8. Santos, Vocabulario de la lengua tagala, 424.
9. “Lantoy . . . tolali . . . flauta que tañen con las narices; y a las de Castilla las
llaman así.” Alonso de Méntrida, Vocabulario de la lengua bisaya, hiligueina y haraya de
la isla de Panay y Sugbú y para las demás islas, ed. with a study by Joaquín García-Medall
(Tordesillas, Valladolid: Instituto Interuniversitario de Estudios de Iberoamérica y
Portugal, Universidad de Valladolid, 2004), 295.
10. “Por la semejanza se estiende a nombrar nuestra Flauta.” Matheo Sánchez,
Vocabulario de la lengua bisaya ([Manila]: Impresso en el Colegio de la Sagrada
Compañia de Iesus por Gaspar Aquino de Belen, 1711), part 1, f. 302r.
11. Diego Bergaño, Bocabulario de pampango en romance: y diccionario de romance
en pampango (Manila: Convento de Nuestra Señora de los Angeles, 1732), part 2, 22,
78.
12. “Punto, ô compas de lavoz [sic], ut sol seando.” Ibid., part 1, 158–59.
13. In Bikol: “Cosa unisonis, ò conforme,” with the action being “concordar las
cuerdas ò concertar las voces ò una voz con la otra” (Márcos de Lisboa, Vocabulario de
la lengua Bicol, primera, y segunda parte [Sampaloc: Convento de Nuestra Señora de
Loreto, 1754], part 1, 583); in Tagalog: “Saliu. Consonar, o tocar con consonancia, un
instrumento o a compas con otros. Vg. Campanas, Guitarras, Arpas, Clarines,
Chirimias, &c.” (Tomás Ortiz, “Vocabulario Tagalo Español, que contiene muchas
composiciones, locuciones, y Frases Tagalas explicadas a la letra en Español. Por el M.
R. P. L. F. Thomas Hortiz Ex Provincial de esta Provincia del SS[antísi].mo Nom[br].e de
Iesus del Orden de N. P. S. Aug[usti]n de Philippinas, y Prior del Convento de N[uest]
ra Señor de Guadalupe. . . . Dedicado A S. Ioseph Profugo en Ægypto, Padre Putativo de
IESUS, y Esposo Fidelissimo de MARIA. . . . En el convento de N[uest]ra Señora de
Guadalupe. dia del Triumpho dela Cruz. 16 del mes de Iullio de 1726 años,” 1726–33
[LLIU, Philippine Mss. I, box 11], f. 305v); in Visayan: “Armonia. = Ulat. Angay”
(Sánchez, Vocabulario de la lengua Bisaya, part 2, f. 3r).
14. “Acompás) Saliu (pp) Tocar con otro qualquier instrumento.” San Buena
Ventura, Vocabulario de lengua tagala, 16.
15. “Tipa. Pisar, o tocar algo con los extremos, o Yemas de los dedos. Vg.a el
Horganista las Teclas del horgano, quando le toca; El Guitarrista las Cuerdas de la
Guitarra, que pisa con las Yemas de los dedos de la mano hizquierda, quando la toca,
losque tocan bajon, Chirimia, Pifano quetapan [sic] con las yemas de los dedos los
Agujeros de ellos. &a.” Ortiz, “Vocabulario Tagalo Español” (LLIU, Philippine Mss. I,
box 11), f. 389v.
16. As we saw in chapter 2, Franciscan José de la Virgen used the Bikol dialect to
compose a treatise on Gregorian chant in 1767. A number of Augustinian
missionaries produced artes of plainchant and polyphony, but whether these were
written in Spanish or indigenous languages is unknown.
17. “Si para causar más admiración y atención en los infieles les pareciere cosa
conveniente, podrían usar de música, de cantores y de ministriles altos y bajos para
que provoquen a los indios a se juntar y de usar de ellos.” Ordinance no. 143 in
“Fundación de pueblos en el siglo XVI,” Boletín del Archivo General de la Nación 6.3
(1935): 358.
18. “Iunto, contratar los relijiosos en sus doctrinas, de las cosas de la relijion de
los naturales, trabajan en adestrarlos, en cosas de pulicia suya, teniendo escuelas de
leer, y escribir, para los muchachos en español; enseñandoles, a servir la yglesia, canto
llano, y canto de organo, y tocar menistriles [sic], dançar, cantar, y tañer harpas,
guitarras y otros instrumentos, en que ya ay tanta destreça; especialmente, al rededor
de Manila, que ay muy buenas capillas, de cantores y de menistriles, de los naturales,
diestros y de buenas vozes, y muchos dançantes y musicos, de los demas
instrumentos, que solenizan [sic] y adornan las fiestas del santisimo [sic] Sacramento, y
otras muchas del año; y representan autos, y comedias en español, y en su lengua con
buena gracia, q[ue] esto se deve al cuydado y curiosidad de los relijiosos, que sin
cansarse entienden en su aprovechamiento.” Antonio de Morga, Sucesos de las Islas
Philipinas (Mexici ad Indos: Samuel Estradanus, 1609), ff. 152v–53r.
19. “Tienen muy de hordinario á estos sus criados y á otros yndios que traen
consigo yndustriados en tañer guitarras y otros ynstrumentos, danzar y cantar
caralandas [sic; çarabandas?] y otros sones desonestos y proffanos, con que hacen
fiestas á los que quieren regalar con mal exemplo de los yndios y poco provecho de
todos.” Antonio de Morga and Wenceslao Emilio Retana, Sucesos de las Islas Filipinas;
enriquecida con los escritos inéditos del mismo autor, ilustrada con numerosas notas que
amplían el texto y prologada extensamente, por W. E. Retana (Madrid: V. Suárez, 1909),
249. Sones are rustic types of music cultivated in Mexico (villancicos can fall into this
category); these were evidently brought across the Pacific to the Philippines.
20. “Son aficionados â versos, y representaciones; y muy buenos Traductòres,
que una Comedia de Español la traducen con primòr en versos de su proprio
lenguage: y assi aunque todos son aficionados â leer, hombres, y mugeres; quando son
cosas de verso, son en el leer inca[n]sables, y lo vàn representando, quando lo leen.”
Juan Francisco de San Antonio, Chrónicas de la apostólica Provincia de S. Gregorio de
religiosos descalzos de N. S. P. San Francisco en las Islas Philipinas, China, Japón
(Sampaloc: Convento de Nra. Señora de Loreto del Pueblo de Sampaloc por fr. Juan
del Sotillo, 1738–44), 1:143. Another similar observation was made by Delgado:
“Porque entre los indios hay buenos poetas, que componen con grandísima elegancia,
y muchas perífrasis y alusiones, con excelentes comparaciones y parábolas; y no sólo
esto, sino que traducen con propiedad y gracia nuestras comedias y versos castellanos
en su lengua, tagala ó visaya.” Juan José Delgado, Historia general sacro-profana: política
y natural de las islas del poniente, llamadas Filipinas, Biblioteca Histórica Filipina, vol. 1,
ed. Pablo Pastells (Manila: Imp. de El Eco de Filipinas de D. Juan Atayde, 1892), 333.
21. “Ils ont un goût singulier pour les vers & les représentations de Tragédies; on
les voit représenter, en lisant, comme s’ils étoient sur un Théâtre. A Manille, où ils
entendent tous trés-bien le Castillan, ils ont traduit & mis en vers dans leur Langue,
des Pièces espagnoles.” Guillaume Joseph Le Gentil de la Galaisière, Voyage dans les
mers de l’Inde (Paris: Imprimérie Royale, 1779–81), 2:131.
22. “Antes de la venida de los españoles, todas las poesías de los indios eran
líricas. . . . Después de la venida de los españoles tienen comedias, entremeses,
tragedías, poemas y todo género de composiciones, trasladadas de la lengua española.”
Joaquín Martínez de Zúñiga and Wenceslao Emilio Retana, Estadismo de las Islas
Filipinas, ó mis viajes por este país. Publica esta obra por primera vez extensamente anotada
W. E. Retana (Madrid: [Viuda de M. Minuesa de los Ríos], 1893), 1:63.
23. Bienvenido Lumbera, Tagalog Poetry 1570–1898: Tradition and Influences in Its
Development (Quezon City: Ateneo de Manila University Press, 1986), 52, 72–82.
24. “Pero bien averiguado, no pertenece esto al Padre Luis Serrano, sino a otro de
su mismo tiempo por no[m]bre Christoval Certelio Italiano, q[ue] llegò a Manila dos
meses despues de enterrado el Padre Serano [sic], y viviò en esta Ciudad, y Doctrinas
de Tagalos solos tres años, pues passò a la otra vida en Agosto de 1606.” Francisco
Colín and Pedro Chirino, Labor evangelica, ministerios apostolicos de los obreros de la
Compañia de Iesus, fundacion, y progressos de su provincia en las Islas Filipinas.
Historiados por el padre Francisco Colin provincial de la misma compañía, calificador del
Santo Oficio, y su comissario en la governacion de Samboanga, y su distrito. Parte primera,
sacada de los manuscritos del padre Pedro Chirino, el primero de la Compañia que passò de
los Reynos de España a estas Islas, por orden, y a costa de la Catholica, y Real Magestad
(Madrid: Por Ioseph Fernandez de Buendia, 1663), 461.
25. “Cantores los hay muy buenos, y en Manila hay capillas que pudieran lucir en
España.” Juan de Medina, Historia de la Orden de S. Agustin de estas Islas Filipinas,
Biblioteca Histórica Filipina, vol. 4, ed. Pablo Pastells (Manila: Imp. de El Eco de
Filipinas de D. Juan Atayde, 1893), 132.
26. “Ya todos danzan, bailan, tañen y cantan á nuestro modo, y usan de todos los
instrumentos de los españoles, y cantan de manera que nosotros no les hacemos
ventaja. Ellos son los músicos en todas las iglesias de estas islas, así de la catedral de
Manila como de las demás iglesias y conventos que están dentro y fuera de la Ciudad.
Y apenas se hallará un pueblo que no tenga su música con bastantes voces y tiples y
muchos instrumentos: y es común sentir de los que han visto uno y otro, que hay aquí
músicas que pueden competir con algunas de las catedrales de España.” Francisco de
Santa Inés, Crónica de la Provincia de San Gregorio Magno de religiosos descalzos de
N. S. P. San Francisco, en las Islas Filipinas, China, Japon, etc. (1676), Biblioteca
Histórica Filipina, vols. 2–3, ed. Pablo Pastells (Manila: Tipo Litographía de Chofret y
Compañía, 1892), 1:46–47.
27. Geoffrey Baker, Imposing Harmony: Music and Society in Colonial Cuzco
(Durham, N.C.: Duke University Press, 2008), 245.
Fernandez Navarette [sic],” in A Collection of Voyages and Travels, ed. John Churchill
(London: Awnsham and John Churchill, 1704), 1:240. The original text reads: “Dezia
yo algunas vezes, que el fervor de los antiguos de Castilla, se avìa passado a los Indios,
y Indias de Manila. Las fiestas celebran los Indios muchas vezes bien, raro se hallarà
entre ellos, que no dançe lindamente; y assi usan en las Processiones de danças, y
saraos, tocan muy bien arpa, y guitarra.” Domingo Fernández Navarrete, Tratados
historicos, politicos, ethicos y religiosos de la monarchia de China. Descripcion breve de aquel
imperio, y exemplos raros de emperadores, y magistrados del (Madrid: Imprenta Real, por
Iuan Garcia Infançon, 1676), 306.
29. Pedro Murillo Velarde, Geographia historica, donde se describen los reynos,
provincias, ciudades, fortalezas, mares, montes, ensenadas, cabos, rios, y puertos, con la
mayor individualidad, y exactitud, etc. (Madrid: Gabriel Ramírez, 1752), 8:38. Le Gentil
de la Galaisière writes: “ils ont presque tous un violon sur lequel ils s’exercent
continuellement à jouer.” Le Gentil de la Galaisière, Voyage, 2:132–33.
30. “Quædam Musica, quæ a feminis Tagalensibus philippinarum proprijs

cantilenis sui idiomatis Solet decantantibus adaptari.” “Musicalia speculativa,” in
“Observationes diversarum artium,” late seventeenth century (BNE, Ms. 7111), loose
leaf between pp. 498–99.
31. See Horacio de la Costa, The Jesuits in the Philippines, 1581–1768 (Cambridge,
Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1961), 157. See also the report of one of these
observations in Colín and Chirino, Labor evangelica, 369.
32. “Tanto, õ trasládo de todos los versos y letreros que tiene esta Iglesia de S.
Juan del Monte” (APDNSR, Sección 18 [San Juan del Monte], Tomo 1, Doc. 12), f. 23r.
33. In reference to the Jesuit missions in Mindanao, Chirino writes: “Ya gracias a
Dios todo el rio se quiere bautizar, i no se oye otra cosa en todo el pueblo, i casas,
quando trabajan, quando bogan, quando andan, sino cantar la dotrina [sic]: i assi e
andado por todas las casas sin dexar ninguna, repartiendo los niños, que la saben, para
que mientras trabajan juntamente canten, i apre[n]dan: i porque no ai muchachos para
cada casa, hago que los vezinos se junten en las mas principales, i respondan al niño
que canta. Estan las casas destos principales, que no paran de dia, i de noche de
cantar . . . Cantan la dotrina las noches, que parece alegran los cielos con tan linda
musica.” Pedro Chirino, Relacion de las Islas Filipinas i de lo que en ellas an trabaiado los
padres dæ la Compañia de Iesus (Roma: Por Estevan Paulino, 1604), 83, 97–98.
34. See Baker, Imposing Harmony, 176–77.
35. “Los mas distinguidos, principalmente si han vivido en la casa de los
Missioneros, tocan muy bien la Harpa, el Violìn, y otros Instrumentos Musicos, y con
honra, y gusto dedican sus talentos à la celebridad del servicio Divino.” Letter from Gil
Viboult to du Chambge [sic], Manila, December 20, 1721, in Cartas edificantes, y
curiosas, escritas de las missiones estranjeras, por algunos missioneros de la Compañia de
Jesus, trans. Diego Davin (Madrid: En la Oficina de la viuda de M. Fernandez, imprenta
del Supremo Consejo de la Inquisicion, 1753–57), 14:70.
36. “En confirmación de su ingenio, digo conocí á uno de esta nación que sirvió á
un Padre Misionero, que en menos de cuatro años sabía leer y escribir, tocar arpa,
guitarra y violín.” Ángel Pérez, ed., Relaciones agustinianas de las razas del norte de
Luzon, Spanish ed. (Manila: Bureau of Public Printing, 1904), 3:69.
37. On the concept of liminality, see Victor Witter Turner, The Ritual Process:
Structure and Anti-Structure (Harmondsworth: Penguin, 1974), 81–82; see also
Katherine Butler Brown, “The Social Liminality of Musicians: Case Studies from
Mughal India and Beyond,” twentieth-century music 3.1 (2007): 13–49.
38. In Robert Murrell Stevenson, Music in Aztec and Inca Territory (Berkeley:
University of California Press, 1968), 158.
39. See ibid., 91–95.
40. “Apre[n]de[n] a leer y a escrivir, a rezar y cantar, canto llano, y canto de
organo, y a tañer cherimias, flautas y violones.” Marcello de Ribadeneyra, Historia de
las islas del archipielago, y reynos dela gran China, Tartaria, Cuchinchina, Malaca, Sian,
Camboxa y Iappon, y de lo sucedido en ellos a los religiosos descalços, de la orden del
seraphico padre San Francisco, de la Provincia de San Gregorio de las Philippinas
(Barcelona: G. Graells y G. Dotil, 1601), 66.
41. “Y en esto se tiene tanta curiosidad, que no ay lugar por pequeño que sea, que
no tenga capilla de musicos, y chirimias. Paraque las fiestas a visperas, y missa mayor
sea Dios alabado y servido. Los cantores son muchos, y se exercitan todos los dias a la
mañana y tarde en el seminario, y estan repartidos, de tal manera, que cada dia por lo
menos, cantan muy de mañana en la yglesia, por lo menos prima de nuestra Señora, y
tañen flautas a la missa mayor, y a la tarde, cantan visperas de nuestra Señora, y al
anochezer la salve.” Ibid.
42. See Eusebio Gómez Platero, Catálogo biográfico de los religiosos franciscanos de
la Provincia de San Gregorio Magno de Filipinas desde 1577 en que llegaron los primeros á
Manila hasta los de nuestros días (Manila: Imprenta del Real Colegio de Santo Tomás, á
cargo de D. Gervasio Memije, 1880), 55–56; and “Opinions of the Religious
Communities upon Waging War with the Zambales,” in The Philippine Islands,
1493–1898, ed. Emma H. Blair and James A. Robertson (Cleveland: Arthur H. Clark,
1903–9), 8:233n33.
43. Joseph Jennes, A History of the Catholic Church in Japan, from Its Beginnings to
the Early Meiji Era (1549–1873): A Short Handbook (Tokyo: Oriens Institute for
Religious Research, 1973), 71, 77.
44. “Esta piadosa, como apetecíble, enseñanza de la Música la prosiguiò despues
Nuestro Santo Mártyr de Japòn Fr. Juan de Santa Martha, excelente, y diestro Cantòr,
enseñando el Canto de Organo à 400 Niños en Lumbàng, y à hacer, y tocar
Instrumentos músicos con primòr.” San Antonio, Chrónicas, 2:17. See also Ma.
Concepción Echevarría Carril, “La música franciscana en Filipinas (ss. XVI–XIX),”
Nassarre 9.2 (1993): 200.
45. This assumption has been repeated by many scholars summarizing the
history of music in the Philippines during the Spanish colonial period. See, for
example, Raymundo C. Bañas, Pilipino Music and Theater (Quezon City: Manlapaz
Publishing, 1969), 29; Canave-Dioquino, “The Lowand Christian Philippines,” 841;
and Lucrecia Kasilag, in José Maceda et al., “Philippines,” in The New Grove Dictionary
of Music and Musicians, 2nd ed., ed. Stanley Sadie and John Tyrell (London:
Macmillan, 2001), 19:581–82.
47. On instrument construction, see Eta Harich-Schneider, A History of Japanese
Music (London: Oxford University Press, 1973), 474. On the Mass: “en las Vísperas de
su martyrio felìz, compuso en la Carcel, à Canto de Organo, una Missa muy cabal, y
encargò, se remitiésse à esta Província por ultimo dòn.” San Antonio, Chrónicas, 2:17.
Santa Marta was beatified in 1867, but he has not been canonized.
48. Echevarría Carril, “La música franciscana,” 199; Gómez Platero, Catálogo
biográfico, 36.
49. “La primera imposicion de la Música en los Naturales de este Pays, en
conformidad de Reales Instrucciones del año 1573, la atribúyen nuestros Escritóres à
N. V. Fr. Gerónymo de Aguilàr. . . . Sin que sea violéncia el creèr, que N. Santo Fray
Pedro Bautista diéste à este exercício algun foménto especial, como quien se avía
criado en èl desde su niñez, y estaba ya en Manila en esta occasion, contemporáneo de
Fr. Gerónymo de Aguilàr.” San Antonio, Chrónicas, 2:16.
50. “En la provincia de Camarines, tenia gran cuydado, q[ue] no dexassen los
Indios la costu[m]bre de cantar las oras menores de nuestra Señora.” Ribadeneyra,
Historia de las islas del archipiélago, 291. “Juntaba á los indios, y en particular á los que
él había enseñado el canto, y después de haber cantado con mucha solemnidad con
ellos lo que pertenecía al oficio del día, cantaba motetes y villancicos en alabanza del
misterio, con primor y destreza, y con mucha devocíon.” Santa Inés, Crónica, 1:506.
51. “Déjan poca duda, para creèrlo assi, unas Lamentaciones músicas de
excelentissimo punto, que se conservan oy, escritas en Pergamínos de poca curiosidad,
pero de muy patente vejèz, que de Padres à Hijos vàn aprendiendo los Niños con tal
perfeccion, que puede apetecèrlos Eurôpa para qualquiera Cathedràl; Obra
singularissima de N. V. Aguilàr, en comun tradicion.” San Antonio, Chrónicas, 2:16.
52. “Sabía este Siérvo de Dios, que tan bien ordenáda Música, sobre sèr pága
jústa de la Divína Liberalidad, éra con su melodía suâve una deleytâble preparacion,
para la Predicacion de Nuestra Santa Fè; y como para estos Infiéles de Philipinas la
Fè, y la Doctrína Christiána éra tódo escabrosidad, púso à la Música por fundamento
de la Christiandad en su nuéva Plantacion, paraque suavizádo el oîdo del Infièl con
la sonôra voz, y alégre el ánimo con la música suavidad, estubiéssen dispuéstos, para
oîr con gústo la palabra de Dios, y quedassen al mísmo tiémpo instruidos en la
Música, para dar siémpre las debídas grácias, y alabánzas à su Magestad, por el
beneficio de su Conversion. Este santo fin de logrò con tánta felicidad, que fuéron
innumerables los Indios, que redújo à Nuestra Santa Fè, amansando su fiéra
brutalidad con las suáves ármas de la Música de los Instruméntos, y de la voz. Assì
triumphába Timothéo de Alexándro con gran facilidad; pues quando estaba mas
ayrádo, como un furiôso Leon, le bolvía mas mánso, que un Cordéro, solo con
cantar.” Ibid., 2:505–6.
The classical story of Timotheus of Thebes, an aulos player, calming
Alexander the Great through music has little historical basis, but it became a
popular myth that was frequently cited by early modern authors. Although
based on a corrupted reading of an anecdote in the Suda (Byzantine lexicon),
this story pervaded early modern writings about music and was immortalized in
Handel’s Alexander’s Feast, hwv 75, which was a 1736 setting of the Ode for
Saint Cecilia’s Day (1697) by John Dryden (1631–1700), with additions from
another Cecilian ode, The Power of Music (1720) by Newburgh Hamilton (fl.
1712–59). I am grateful to David Sedley for discussing with me the ancient
origins of this story and Peter Agócs for helping me trace it in its various
incarnations up to the early modern period.
Fernández Navarrete, when he left the Philippines to continue his seven-
teenth-century epic voyage to China, was another writer who made note of this
ancient demonstration of music’s power when he discussed Chinese writings on
music. He compared these Chinese writings to the works of Saint Thomas
Aquinas (in reference to this saint’s discussion of Pythagoras in De regno ad
regem Cypri) and Saint Basil (from which the anecdote about Timotheus and
Alexander also comes). He refers to Aristotle and Pliny, as well as the biblical
story of David calming Saul, before loosely comparing Jesuit Matteo Ricci’s
presentation of a clavichord to the Wanli emperor of China in 1601 with
Emperor Constantine Copronymus of Byzantium’s sending an organ to Pepin,
king of the Franks, in 766 (he probably means 757). See Fernández Navarrete,
Tratados historicos, 156.
53. “Fuè singular dòn de Dios, el penetrar el génio de estos Indios, para
aprovechàrse de èl para su Reduccion; porque, segun se vè, su inclinacion à la Música
es tan singular, que yà es necessária la violéncia, paraque la suspéndan, y trabáxen,

para comer: con que atrahída con la melodía de la Música aquélla bárbara Gentilidad,
recibían despues las Doctrinas sagrádas con amor; y N. Siérvo de Dios administraba
con gózo Espiritual.” San Antonio, Chrónicas, 2:506.
54. “Es de edificacion comun; y aun es de ternúra singular, si se buélve la
consideracion, à mirar à la antiguedad, en que en estos mismos lugáres daba cúltos al
demónio ésta misma Generacion, que aôra con tanta veneracion adôra, y solemníza à
la verdadéra Divinidad.” Ibid., 2:14.
55. “Finalmente les movia, como el glorioso Doctor S. Agustin dize de si, i todos
lo experimentamos.” Chirino, Relacion de las Islas Filipinas, 125.
56. Chirino’s mention of Saint Augustine probably refers to book 13 the latter’s
Confessions, which discusses the role of music in moving the listener, and debates
whether music (which had the capability to “ensnare”) should be allowed in church.
The saint is inclined to endorse the practice (but not altogether decisively). See Saint
Augustine, Sancti Augustini Confessiones Libri XIII, ed. Lucas Verheijen, Corpus
Christianorum Series Latina, no. 27 (Turnhout: Brepols, 1981), 181–82.
57. Vanessa Agnew, Enlightenment Orpheus: The Power of Music in Other Worlds
(New York: Oxford University Press, 2008), 6.
58. Relacion de las expresivas demostraciones de la mas fina lealtad, en los publicos
regozijos, que dispuso a su costa, y con que solemnizó la nobilisima, y siempre leal ciudad de
Manila, cabeza de las Islas Philipinas, y madre de el basto archipielago de San Lazaro. la
elevacion al trono de su merecida grandeza, de el grande rey, y señor de las Españas, y de las
Indias D. Fernando Sexto de Borbon que dedican, y consagran al mismo señor rey, y
catholico monarca, los capitulares de la nobilisima ciudad de Manila (Manila: Imprenta de
la Compañia de Jesus, por D. Nicolas de la Cruz Bagay, 1749), f. 15v.
59. Juan Manuel Maldonado de Puga, Antonio de Arce, and Joseph Andrade,
Religiosa hospitalidad por los hijos del piadoso coripheo patriarcha y padre de pobres S. Juan
de Dios en su Provincia de S. Raphael de las Islas Philipinas (Granada: Joseph de la
Puerta, 1742), 136.
60. He had also been a preacher and confessor in this institution. See Gregorio
de Santiago Vela, Ensayo de una biblioteca ibero-americana de la orden de San Agustín
(Madrid: Imp. Asilo de Huérfanos del S. C. de Jesús, 1913–31), 1:651.
61. “Vino a . . . Filipinas el año de 1718; sirvió mucho en el coro de Manila, y
enseñó la música a más de mil indios tagalos e ilocos con perfección, porque era de
especial gracia y genio para sufrir el mal natural de estos bárbaros.” Agustín María de
Castro, Misioneros agustinos en el extremo oriente 1565–1780 (Osario Venerable), ed.
Manuel Merino (Madrid: Consejo Superior de Investigaciones Científicas & Instituto
Santo Toribio de Mogrovejo, 1954), 216.
62. “Después lo envió el Prelado a la Isla de Panay para que enseñase la música a
los sacristanes de nuestras iglesias, y para administrar los sacramentos a aquellas
fieras naciones que tenían falta de sacerdotes, y habiendo cumplido esto por espacio de
diez años, lo volvió el Provincial a enviar al convento de Manila, en donde reformó y
añadió todos los libros del coro.” Ibid.
63. Enrique Cantel Cainglet, “Hispanic Influences on the West Visayan Folk
Song Tradition of the Philippines,” Ph.D. diss., University of Adelaide, 1981, 1:91.
64. Ibid.
65. “No podemos negar que la Musica no es cosa como quiera, y vemos, que sin
maestros; son los Indios bastante Musicos; como yo asisti en Pila año de 1686, a unas
Visperas de el Corpus, que cantaron a cinco coros, sin tropezar en ellas. Vemos que hazen
instrumentos musicos, y los tocan con primor.” Juan de Jesús, “Instrucciones a nuestros
misioneros acerca de la predicación y confesión de los indios,” 1703 (AFIO 68/8), f. 1r.
66. “Cada dia entiendo menos a estos Indios!” Ibid.
67. “Je ne doute pas au reste que ces Indiens n’exécutassent très-bien de bonne
musique s’ils étoient menés & conduits par des Européens habiles; mais les Espagnols
à Manille n’ayant de goût pour aucun art, laissent faire les Indiens.” Le Gentil de la
Galaisière, Voyage, 2:134.
68. See William John Summers, “Manila, the Philippines,” in The New Grove
Macmillan, 2001), 15:761.
69. “Tal vez debido á esta gran disposición músical, no se pone conservatorio de
música por considerarlo inútil y superfluo.” Morga and Rizal, Sucesos de las Islas
Filipinas, 331n1.
70. This trait was also noted by a number of nineteenth-century travel writers.
See one example discussed in Enrique Cantel Cainglet, “Spanish Traditions in the
Philippines,” Miscellanea Musicologica 12 (1987): 49.
71. “Tienen notable habilidad para la Musica: no hay Pueblo, aunque sea corto,
que no tenga una Musica muy decente de Instrumentos, y Voces para oficiar en la
Iglesia, y todos saben Solfa. Hay excelentes Voces de Altos, Tenores, y Bajos, y
especialmente de Tiples. Raro es el Indio, que cerca de Manila no sabe Harpa; y hay
muchos, y excelentes Violinistas, Abuistas, y Flautistas de varios generos. Por la
facilidad, que tienen los Indios en aprender lo que vèn, se dice, que los Indios tienen
el entendimiento en los ojos, pues quanto vèn, tanto imitan.” Murillo Velarde,
Geographia historica, 8:38.
72. “Todos estos Cantores entienden de solfa, cosa q[ue] no tiene equivalente en
toda la Christiandad.” Pedro Murillo Velarde, Historia de la Provincia de Philipinas de la
Compañía de Jesús. Segunda parte, que comprehende los progresos de esta provincia desde el
año de 1616 hasta el de 1716 (Manila: en la Imprenta de la Compañía de Jesús, por
D. Nicolas de la Cruz Bagay, 1749), f. 348r.
73. Victoria Yepes and Francico Ignacio Alzina, Una etnografía de los indios bisayas
del siglo XVII, Biblioteca de historia de América, 15 (Madrid: Consejo Superior de
Investigaciones Científicas, 1996), 25.
74. See Nicholas P. Cushner, “Early Jesuit Missionary Methods in the
Philippines.” Americas 15.4 (1959): 361–79.
75. See Costa, The Jesuits in the Philippines, 161; Pedro Chirino, Miquel Batllori,
and Jaume Górriz, Història de la Província de Filipines de la Companyia de Jesús:
1581–1606 (Barcelona: Pòrtic, 2000), 243; Francisco Colín, Pedro Chirino, and Pablo
Pastells, Labor evangélica, ministerios apostolicos de los obreros de la Compañia de Jesus,
fundacion, y progressos de su provincia en las Islas Filipinas. Historiados por el padre
Francisco Colín. Parte primera sacada de los manuscritos del padre Pedro Chirino, el
primero de la Compañia que passó de los reynos de España a estas islas, por orden, y a costa
de la catholica, y real magestad (Barcelona: Impr. y Litografía de Henrich y Compañía,
1900–02), 2:125.
76. “Ya esta Iglesia era servida, i fruquentada como si fuera una de Europa con
no tener mas de cinco años tassados, porque la Capilla de musica la auturizava [sic]
grandemente: en particular las fiestas, no solo celebrando los divinos oficios a punto
de organo, sino acompañandolos con letras; i motetes en su lengua Bissaya cantados al
mismo punto, unos; i otros al tono, i uso de la tierra: que lo uno, i lo otro atraia mucho
la gente, i la movia à devocion, i les hazia aprehender consentimiento [sic], i gusto
nuestros sagrados misterios, puestos en su metro, i musica.” Chirino, Relacion de las
Islas Filipinas, 124–25.
77. Chirino, Batllori, and Górriz, Història de la Província de Filipines, 310.
78. “Aquí en Carigara tenemos un maestro que enseña a cantar y leer a los niños.
Es cossa de ver que presto que aprenden. Cada día se canta la salve a poner del sol, y
acude alguna gente del pueblo especialmente los sábados a la letanía de nuestra
señora; y a la missa los niños se crían en buenas costumbres.” Ibid., 243–44.
79. “Un maestro . . . les ha enseñado a leer, cantar y tañer flautas, con que el ofiçio
divino se haze con mayor solemnidad.” Ibid., 245. Costa calls this educational
establishment a “seminario de indios or boarding school for natives,” and claims it was
the first of its kind to be established by the Jesuits in the Philippines. On the school at
Dulac, see Costa, The Jesuits in the Philippines, 159 (establishment), and 287–89 (later
development).
80. Ibid., 161.
81. “Era cozinero, sachristan, Portero, Hortelano, Maestro de escuela, Arbañil,
Carpintero.” Diego de Oña, “Labor evangelicus in Philippinis,” 2 vols., c. 1706 (ARSI,
Philipp. 19), 1164. Costa adds “nurse” to this list and claims that Ballesteros was a
builder of churches and homes; in 1620 Ballesteros became a lay brother, and in 1637
a temporal coadjutor. See Costa, The Jesuits in the Philippines, 317, 609.
82. “Buscaba muchos papeles, de Musica, y quanto oya bueno en las Iglessias
procuraba llevarlo para los nuevos Partidos. No se contentaba aun con esto. Sollicitaba
[sic] el llevar algunos cantores diestros paraque instruyessen a los nuevos christianos, y
quanto mas llevaba de uno, y otro iba mas contento.” Oña, “Labor evangelicus in
Philippinis” (ARSI, Philipp. 19), 1165.
83. “Llenaba quantos papeles podia de buena musica, y buenos villancicos y
quanto podia servir a las Iglesias de Bisayas, y aun llenaba algunos diestros Cantores, y
muchos, y buenos instrumentos, para que instruyesen a los nuevos Christianos, y con
este cebo hubiese mas asistencia en los Templos.” Murillo Velarde, Historia de la
Provincia de Philipinas, f. 162v.
84. “No avia cossa que no hizisse.” Oña, “Labor evangelicus in Philippinis”
(ARSI, Philipp. 19), 1164.
85. “Éstos eran sus antiguos instruments y agora usan de guitarras y arpas y otros
instrumentos músicos a nuestro modo.” Yepes and Alzina, Una etnografía, 213.
86. See Elena Rivera Mirano, Ang mga tradisyonal na musikang pantinig sa lumang
Bauan, Batangas (Manila: National Commission on Culture and the Arts, 1997),
94–114.
87. See Manuel Walls y Merino, La música popular de Filipinas (Madrid: Librería
de Fernando Fe, 1892), 30–34.
88. “He taught the children unusual and pleasing dances—very diligently, and
with great taste—and not only the Filipinos themselves, but also the Fathers, who were
called from one town to another, so as to be taught. And he trained them so that their
dances were celebrated everywhere, and even in Manila they were famous, because at
the feasts of the canonization of our Holy Saints [Ignatius of Loyola and Francis
Xavier] they were the most colorful and gracious.” (“Para esto instruia con gran
diligencia a los niños en danzas muy curiosos, y agradables, con tal gusto, no solo de
Indios, sino de los Padres, que se llamaban de un Pueblo a otro, para que los enseñase.
Y los adiestro de forma, que en todas partes eran celebres sus danzas, y aun en Manila
se hizieron famosas, pues en las fiestas de la Canonización de nuestros Santos fueron
las mas vistosas, y lucidas.”) Murillo Velarde, Historia de la Provincia de Philipinas,
f. 162v.
89. Although the term birimbao confusingly refers to two different instruments,
the jaw harp (alongside the gourd bow) was noted to be associated with Africans in the
Philippines by the compiler of an early eighteenth-century Tagalog vocabulario:
“Trompa [de París], Instrumento, con que, Tocan los Cafres. V.e Colaying.” See Ortiz,
“Vocabulario Tagalo Español” (LLIU, Philippine Mss. I, box 11), part II, f. 92r.
90. “Siguiòse una danza de niños, que ayrosamente vestidos al compàs de
musicos instrumentos, y de sonoras vozes acompañaron con los ayacastles las
gallardas mudanzas del tocotin, representando con la propriedad de las mascaras las
antiguas memorias de Motezuma [sic], Emperador de los Mexicanos. Si estos
representaron à la America, en breve se representò el Africa en una danza de Negros,
que con medios toneletes al compàs del grosero birimbao, baylaron el mototo,
significando al vivo la barbarie del Pays, que representaban en la desnudez del cuerpo,
en lo bozal del lenguage de la cantinela, en el rudo sonido de los cascabeles, y en el
incivil ademan de los movimientos. . . . Aun mas al vivo representaron al Asia unos
Indios disfrazados de pajaros de estraña grandeza. . . . Estos baylaban al son de un
tambor, bajaban à un tiempo los picos hasta la tierra, à otro toque los lebantaban tan
altos, que sobresalian mucho à toda la gente del concurso, à otro toque castañeteaban
con gran ruido los desmedidos picos, como haciendo la salva. . . . Y luego cantaban la
victoria con horribles graznidos, à que hacian acorde compàs los Indios con sus
descompasadas risadas. Luego saliò otra danza, o mogiganga de viejos vestidos de
matachines, y enmascarados, que imitaban à los rusticos de España en varios juegos,
bayles, y mudanzas, que hizieron al son del villano con toda propriedad.” Murillo
Velarde, Historia de la Provincia de Philipinas, ff. 218v–19r.
91. Costa, The Jesuits in the Philippines, 156.
92. Pedro Borges, “Primero hombres, luego cristianos: la transculturación,” in
Historia de la iglesia en hispanoamérica y filipinas (siglos XV–XIX), ed. Pedro Borges
(Madrid: Biblioteca de Autores Cristianos, 1992), 1:525.
93. “On les employez en ces derniers temps . . . à ioüer de la fluste [sic], de la
guitarre & de la harpe . . . ils avoient autrefois un instrument nommé Cutiapé, dont
quelques-uns d’entr’-eux se servent encore maintenant.” Diego de Bobadilla (attrib.),
“Relation des Isles Philipines, faite par un religieux qui y a demeuré 18. ans,” in Relations
de divers voyages curieux, ed. Melchisedec Thévenot (Paris: Thomas Moette, 1696), 5.
94. “Sus Instrumentos musicos eran el Coryapi, de dos, ò tres cuerdas de
alambre, que tocaban con una pluma; y el Bangsi, à modo de flauta, que parece sale de
una sepultura, segun es triste: la que hasta ahora tocan algunos, y yo la he visto tocar
con las narices.” Murillo Velarde, Geographia historica, 8:38.
95. “Dijimos pocas son las que con esta música se acuerdan de la dulzura y
armonía celestial, afecto ordinario de los que la oyen como se debe y levantan el
corazón a Dios, que aun les ha entrado muy poco a éstos, si bien ha entrado muy bien
en ellos, y ellos en nuestros instrumentos de guitarras, arpas, rabeles, bandurrias y
otros que tañen diestramente, con que van olvidando los suyos.” Yepes and Alzina,
Una etnografía, 27.
96. Estrada worked in the Visayan Islands and was the Jesuit Provincial from
1744 until his death. See Costa, The Jesuits in the Philippines, 601, 611.
97. “Con el numen, y habilidad no vulgar, que tenia de Poeta, compuso en verso
Bisaya la Historia de la Passion de nuestro Señor Jesu-Christo, que, por ser estos Indios
muy amigos de Poesìas en su lengua, y estàr dicha Obra con toda propriedad del verso
Bisaya, ha sido de igual provecho, que gusto, en todas las Islas de Pintados. Compuso
tambien, en verso, muchas letras, Oraciones devotas, ya al Nacimiento de nuestro
Señor Jesu-Christo, al Santissimo Sacramento, à la Cruz, ya à la Santissima Virgen, y ya
en alabanza de otros Santos, y a otros assumptos morales, à fin de que con aficionarse
la gente moza à cantar essas Canciones, dexassen, y se olvidassen de las prophanas, que
tenian.” Antonio Masvesi, Carta del Padre Antonio Masvesi, de la Compañia de Jesus,
rector del colegio de Cavite, sobre la vida, muerte y virtudes, del padre Pedro de Estrada,
provincial de Philipinas, de la misma Compañia ([Manila], 1748), 25–26.
98. Costa notes that in the late 1590s the Jesuit Encinas, “taking his cue from
Chirino, put the principal truths of the creed and several hymns into the verse form of
the traditional Visayan folk songs. These achieved instant popularity, especially at
Carigara, where they sang Encinas’ compositions not only at Mass but in their houses
in the evening.” Costa, The Jesuits in the Philippines, 161.
99. “Y por q[ue] es uso suyo qua[n]do reman en sus embarcaciones, o tienen
otras juntas de muchos, cantar para engañar y aliviar su cansancio, y no teniendo otros,
usavan de sus cantares antiguos profanos, y aun nocivos, les conpuso [sic] muchos en
aquella lengua, y modo de verso, pero a lo divino, (para lo qual tanbien tuvo particular
gracia) y los introduxo entre ellos para aquellas occasiones, con que les hacia olvidar las
coplas antiguas, que o eran inutiles, o dañosas, no les quitando el alivio, sino antes
acrecentandosele con la devocion de las nuevas.” Diego Aduarte, Historia de la Provincia
del Sancto Rosario de la Orden de Predicadores en Philippinas, Iapon, y China (Manila:
Colegio de Sa[n]cto Thomas, por Luis Beltran, 1640), book 2, 15–16.
100. Carolyn Brewer, Holy Confrontation: Religion, Gender, and Sexuality in the
Philippines, 1521–1685 (Manila: C. Brewer and the Institute of Women’s Studies,
St. Scholastica’s College, 2001), 77.
101. “Todo esto se ha perdido, pero no por culpa de nadie, sino de los mismos
Filipinos, que se apresuraron á dejar lo suyo para tomar lo nuevo.” Rizal, annotation to
his edition of Morga, Sucesos de las Islas Filipinas, 331n1.
102. “Cudiapi. . . . Como Harpa, yâ no le ay.” Bergaño, Bocabulario de pampango en
romance, 121.
103. “Violon. Coryapi . . . ò rabel grande. Ya casi todos le llaman rabel, ò violon.”
Santos, Vocabulario de la lengua tagala, 873.
104. Thomas Riley McHale and Mary C. McHale, eds., Early American-Philippine
Trade: The Journal of Nathaniel Bowditch in Manila, 1796 (New Haven, Conn.: Yale
105. In 1896, Tagore wrote that music in the Philippines was strongly influenced
by the Spanish, on the basis of observations such as that of Bowditch: “The influence
of Spanish music is reported by travellers to have made itself felt in the musical
performances of the people in the Philippine Islands, and other places where the
Spaniards at any time established a footing.” Sourindro Mohun Tagore, Universal
History of Music: Compiled from Divers Sources Together with Various Original Notes on
Hindu Music, Chowkhamba Sanskrit Studies, vol. 31 (Calcutta, 1896; reprint, Varanasi:
Chowkhamba Sanskrit Studies Office, 1963), 324.
106. “Si no se les hubieran traído modelos de España, andaríamos con el mismo
vestido y calzado que usaron los conquistadores; tendríamos la misma música, los
mismos cuadros y los mismos edificios que les enseñaron los españoles que se
apoderaron de Manila. Son facilísimos en imitar lo que ven, pero no inventan nada.”
Martínez de Zúñiga and Retana, Estadismo, 1:509.
chapter 5
1. Manuel Barrios, Descripcion de la proclamacion y jura de nuestros soberanos y
señores don Carlos IV, y doña Luisa de Borbon en la ciudad de Manila, y de las fiestas de
publico regocijo que con este aplaucible motivo sè celebraron (Manila: Imprenta del Real
Seminario de San Carlos: Por Agustin de la Rosa, y Balagtas, 1791), f. 12v.
2. “Por lo que hace à las Loas, las dijeron con el desembarazo, que
acostumbran en semejantes funciones: y su articulacion ès muy propria, y agradable á
los oidos Esp[a]ñoles, pues yá se sabe, que los Dialectos de la lengua Malaya tienen en
esto tal analogia con la lengua Castellana, que nó será facil señalar la verdadera causa
de este raro phenomeno.” Ibid., f. 18r.
3. I am grateful to Tess Knighton for this suggestion. We should remember,
though, that the Stockholm syndrome, also known as “hostage identification
syndrome,” is usually characterized by the constant and unremitting threat of
violence. On the emotional identification of hostages with their captors, see Claudia
Card, The Atrocity Paradigm: A Theory of Evil (New York: Oxford University Press,
2005), 213–14.
4. See Serge Gruzinski, The Mestizo Mind: The Intellectual Dynamics of
Colonization and Globalization, trans. Deke Dusinberre (New York: Routledge, 2002).
5. Geoffrey Baker, Imposing Harmony: Music and Society in Colonial Cuzco
(Durham, N.C.: Duke University Press, 2008), 9, 248. Illari has also asserted that
“mestizaje is no longer a synonym for Latin American identity.” Bernardo Illari, “The
Popular, the Sacred, the Colonial and the Local: The Performance of Identities in the
Villancicos from Sucre (Bolivia),” in Devotional Music in the Iberian World: The
Villancico and Related Genres (1450–1800), ed. Tess Knighton and Álvaro Torrente
(Aldershot, U.K.: Ashgate, 2007), 439.
6. In a similar vein, Nicanor G. Tiongson has shown that Mexican theatrical
influence contributed to the evolution of syncretic dramatic genres in the Spanish
colonial Philippines, in “Mexican-Philippine Relations in Traditional Folk Theater,”
Philippine Studies 46.2 (1998): 135–50.
7. For an extensive treatment of the history, development, and current practice
of the genre, in its many different manifestations in the town of Bauan, Batangas, see
Elena Rivera Mirano, Ang mga tradisyonal na musikang pantinig sa lumang Bauan,
Batangas (Manila: National Commission on Culture and the Arts, 1997), 51–116.
8. Corazon Canave-Dioquino, “The Lowland Christian Philippines,” in The
Garland Encyclopedia of World Music, ed. Terry Miller and Sean Williams (New York:
Garland Publishing, 1998), 4:853. In Tagalog, for example, auit was defined by
numerous lexicographers as “any type of song” or “romance.” See Pedro de San
Buena Ventura, Vocabulario de lengua tagala. El romance castellano puesto primero (Villa
de Pila: Thomas Pinpin, y Domingo Loag Tagalos, 1613), 141; Juan José de Noceda
and Pedro de Sanlúcar, Vocabulario de la lengua tagala (Manila: Imprenta de la
Compañia de Iesus, por D. Nicolas de la Cruz Bagay, 1754), 30; and Domingo de los
Santos, Vocabulario de la lengua tagala (La muy noble villa de Tayabas, 1703), 216. On
the role of the auit as a type of domestic song, see E. Arsenio Manuel, “Tayabas
Tagalog Awit Fragments from Quezon Province,” Journal of Far Eastern Folklore 17
(1958): 56–58.
9. The word was spelled auet in Bikol; see Márcos de Lisboa, Vocabulario de la
lengua Bicol, primera, y segunda parte (Sampaloc: Convento de Nuestra Señora de
Loreto, 1754), part I, 59. In the Ilokano language, canta referred to the singing of
sacred songs (with the definition “cantar cosas de la Yglesia”), while the term
“danio” was used to refer to the act of singing “a profane song” (“cantar à lo
profano”). See Francisco López and Andres Carro, “Tesauro Vocabulario de la
lengua yloca al castellano. Compuesto por el M. R. P. L. y V. Fr. Francisco Lopez del
Or[de]n de N. p. s. Augustin Min[o]ro de la Prov[inci].a de Ylocos añadido por
diversos padres de la misma Or[de]n, y Provincia, y puesta la ultima mano,
añadiendo muchos terminos, frases, refranes, adagios conla virtud de varias yerbas.
Al ultimo va el Tesauro del castellano al iloco por el mismo R. P. Carro,” 1794
(BAV), ff. 134r–v, 166v.
10. “Sus canciones sòn: Diona. pp. Talindao. pc. Auit. pp. Dolayanin. En la calle.
Hila. Soliranin. Manigpasin, Los remeros. Holohorlo. Oyayi. Arullos al niño. Umbay,i,
Triste, Umiguing. Suave, Tagumpay. Detriumfo, Dopaynin [sic]. pp. Hilirau. pp.
Balicongcong.” Noceda and Sanlúcar, Vocabulario de la lengua tagala, 30. (The
punctuation in the original source is ambiguous, but it is clarified somewhat in the
translation in the main chapter text.) These song genres all have their own entries in
the same vocabulario. Yet the same vocabulario defines three other verse genres (dalit,
tanaga, and pamatbat) separately from those mentioned above, and Lumbera has
suggested that this separation was intended “to distinguish [dalit, tanaga, and
pamatbat] from those that were strictly musical in origin.” See Bienvenido Lumbera,
Tagalog Poetry 1570–1898: Tradition and Influences in Its Development (Quezon City:
Ateneo de Manila University Press, 1986), 32; for Lumbera’s discussion of the genres
mentioned by Noceda and Sanlúcar, see ibid., 21. Many of these same genres were also
listed and defined in individual entries by San Buena Ventura more than a century
earlier in his Vocabulario de lengua tagala of 1613.
11. See Gaspar de San Agustín, Compendio de la arte de la lengua tagala (Manila:
Collegio del Señor Santo Tomas de Aquino, por Juan Correa, 1703), f. 37v. According
to Oyanguren de Santa Ynés: “Sus especies son auit, diona, oyayi, talingdao, dalit,
soliranin, &c. Suelen constar de seis, siete, cinco, ocho, diez, doze, ó catorze sylabas;
segun la cancion, ò tono, aquien sirven los versos.” Melchor Oyanguren de Santa
Ynés, Tagalysmo elucidado, y reducido. A la latinidad de Nebrija (Mexico: Imprenta de D.

Francisco Xavier Sanchez, 1742), 219.
12. English translation based on Cantius Kobak, “Ancient Bisayan Literature,
Music and Dances: In Alzina’s Historia de las islas y indios de Bisayas. 1668,”
Leyte-Samar Studies 11.1 (1977): 37. The original text reads:
Y dejando otros nombres especiales de poesías, que los dichos son los más
nobles, acabemos esta materia de ellas con la que llaman avit [auit] que
quiere decir cantar, y es el que usan en las navegaciones cantando siempre
en ellas al son de los remos, que es lo que corresponde a las zalomas que
nuestros marineros usan en el mar Mediterráneo, si bien éstas de estos
naturales son más, y tantas que son sin número las tonadillas o más
espaciosas o mas apresuradas que tienen para remar, siendo el alma de los
remos un buen cantor (que llaman paraavit [paraauit]) en cualquiera
embarcación; y los hay tan diestros que cantan dias enteros sin faltarles qué,
porque hay muchos cantares suyos hechos de sus antepasados para el efecto,
y algunos aunque difíciles de entender también los más muy ingeniosos y
metafóricos, que los padres van enseñando a sus hijos, y algunos son tan
fecundos en este género de poesía (es también de dos versos sueltos la copla,
teniendo uno, que es como estribillo corto, de dos palabras o tres no más,
que repiten todos) que de repente cantan sin faltarles materia en algunas
horas. Sóla una licencia tiene este canto de los navíos y es que se puede partir
la palabra por no alargar el verso poniendo una sílaba del principio en el
primer verso, y prosiguiendo la otra u otras en el siguiente; y ni tampoco se
pide tan puntual la sentencia como en los otros, que facilita algo más su
duración, facultad necesaria para uno que juntamente usa de la voz enton-
ando y de las manos remando, sirviendo de compás su voz y las tonadillas de
apresurarse o detenerse más en el movimiento de los remos, que entretienen
no poco las contínuas y penosas navegaciones con que andamos contínua-
mente los ministros del Evangelio ocupados y aun molestados entre estos
naturales bisayas.
Victoria Yepes and Francisco Ignacio Alzina, Una etnografía de los indios bisayas del
siglo XVII, Biblioteca de historia de América, 15 (Madrid: Consejo Superior de
Investigaciones Científicas, 1996), 14.
13. “Auit. . . . Cantar.” Matheo Sánchez, Vocabulario de la lengua bisaya ([Manila]:
Impresso en el Colegio de la Sagrada Compañia de Iesus por Gaspar Aquino de Belen,
1711), f. 38r.
14. William Henry Scott, Barangay: Sixteenth-Century Philippine Culture and
Society (Quezon City: Ateneo de Manila University Press, 1994), 110.
15. On syncretic forms of the villancico in the Philippines, see David Irving,
“Historical and Literary Vestiges of the Villancico in the Early Modern Philippines,” in
Devotional Music in the Iberian World, 1450–1800: The Villancico and Related Genres, ed.
Tess Knighton and Álvaro Torrente (Aldershot, U.K.: Ashgate, 2007).
16. “Hazen de comunidad estos versos con grande gracia, y destreza, tanto, que
poniendose un dia entre otros, el Padre a oir desde su casa lo que cantavan, advirtiò
que una doncella que era la que entonava el cantar, ponia en èl toda la materia del
sermon que aquel dia les avia predicado. Causandole no pequeña admiracion la
facilidad con que una moçuela iba ligando, y conprehendiendo Misterios tan altos, y
puntos para ella dificultosos, sin dexar ninguno que no ingeriesse en su cantar.”
Francisco Colín and Pedro Chirino, Labor evangelica, ministerios apostolicos de los obreros
de la Compañia de Iesus, fundacion, y progressos de su provincia en las Islas Filipinas.
Historiados por el padre Francisco Colin provincial de la misma compañía, calificador del
Santo Oficio, y su comissario en la governacion de Samboanga, y su distrito. Parte primera,
sacada de los manuscritos del padre Pedro Chirino, el primero de la Compañia que passò de
los Reynos de España a estas Islas, por orden, y a costa de la Catholica, y Real Magestad
(Madrid: Por Ioseph Fernandez de Buendia, 1663), 369. Also discussed in Horacio de
la Costa, The Jesuits in the Philippines, 1581–1768 (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard
17. “CANCIONES A SU MODO [sic] acerca de la Confession, y Comunion, que
son la materia de este Libro.” Francisco de Blancas de San Jose, Librong
pinagpapalamnan yto nang aasalin nang tauong Christiano sa pagcoconfesar, at sa
pagcocomulgar, 6th ed. (Manila, 1792), texts located in prefatory pages; n.p.
18. Pedro de Estrada, Practica del cathesismo donde se enseña un methodo
compendioso para componer las costumbres, 2nd ed. (Manila: Imprenta de la Compañia
de Jesus, por Don Nicolas de la Cruz Bagay, 1746). The candos are found on ff.
33v–69v.
19. Sánchez, Vocabulario de la lengua bisaya, f. 126v. Costa writes that this
vocabulario “may have circulated in manuscript for nearly a century before [its
publication in] 1711.” Costa, The Jesuits in the Philippines, 625.
20. Damon Lawrence Woods, “Tomás Pinpin and Librong pagaaralan nang
manga Tagalog nang uicang Castila: Tagalog Literacy and Survival in Early Spanish
Philippines,” Ph.D. diss., University of California Los Angeles, 1995, 198.
21. Lumbera, Tagalog Poetry, 38; Vicente L. Rafael, Contracting Colonialism:
Translation and Christian Conversion in Tagalog Society under Early Spanish Rule (Ithaca,
N.Y.: Cornell University Press, 1988), 63–66.
22. See “Herrera (Pedro de),” in Enciclopedia universal ilustrada europeo-americana
(Madrid: Espasa-Calpe, 1907–30), 27:1270.
24. English translation in ibid., 51. The original text reads: “Sa cadolohan nitong
Libro,y, nang~ araratig yaong mang~ a Dalit na quinatha din ng M. R. P. Lector Fr. Pedro
de Herrera, na sucat ipalit, at inhalili doon sa ibang mang~ a masasamang auit at
mang~ a plosang nacapanlolomay sa inyo,t, nacalolompo nang tanang cagaling~ an nang
inyong mang~ a loob.” In Francisco de Salazar, Meditaciones, cun manga mahal na
pagninilay na sadya sa sanctong pag eexercicios (Manila, 1645), trans. Pedro de Herrera,
2nd ed. (Manila: Imprenta de la Compañ[ía] de IHS, por D. Nicolas de la Cruz Bagay,
1762), n.p. Four out of the five dalit are versifications that correspond to Latin texts,
respectively Miserere mei Deus followed directly by De Profundis (Dalit sa pagsisisi sa
casalanan), Parce mihi Domine (Dalit sa camatayan), Dies Iræ dies illa (Dalit sa
Paghohocom nang ating Pang~ inoong Jesu-Christo), and the Te Deum (Dalit sa ualang
catapusang hirap at saquit sa infierno). The Latin and Tagalog texts are printed alongside
one another, thus confirming the function of the Tagalog works as meditations on
sacred texts that were central to worship and also as providers of insight into the
intricate layers of meaning within the standard texts. These dalit are found at the end
of the book, unpaginated.
25. “El otro llamàdo Dalit es mas grave, y sentencioso, al modo de los que los
Griegos, y Latinos llamaron Epico dythirambicos.” San Agustín, Compendio, f. 37v.
26. See Lucrecia Kasilag in José Maceda et al., “Philippines,” in The New Grove
Macmillan, 2001), 19:581, and Canave-Dioquino, “The Lowland Christian
Philippines,” 851. In early modern vocabularios, this term is defined as
“Cançion. . . . Cantarla lo ordinario es para picar a otro diciendole en ella algo que le
pique,” in Miguel Ruiz, “Bocabulario tagalo, su autor el P. F. Miguel Ruíz del Orden
de S. Domingo añadido por otros de Varias Religiones,” begun 1580 (KCL,
MARSDEN M2/17), n.p.; and as “copla . . . para cantar,” in Santos, Vocabulario de la
lengua tagala, 286.
27. “Loar) Puri . . . qual quier cosa que sea. Vi. Alavar) nagpupuri din ang marg~ ail
on sa maygaua sa canila rang canilang paghuni, loan los pajaros asu criador con su
canto.” San Buena Ventura, Vocabulario de lengua tagala, 392. “Loa. Puri. . . . A Dios, ò
al hombre alabandole.” Santos, Vocabulario de la lengua tagala, 504.
28. “Dayao. . . . loa activa. Dayao ogaling sa banoa can acun ini: esta es loa y honra
que me da el pueblo.” Alonso de Méntrida, Vocabulario de la lengua bisaya, hiligueina y
haraya de la isla de Panay y Sugbú y para las demás islas, ed. with a study by Joaquín
García-Medall (Tordesillas, Valladolid: Instituto Interuniversitario de Estudios de
Iberoamérica y Portugal, Universidad de Valladolid, 2004), 231. An applied definition
of the Ilokano term dàyao is given as “Honra . . . alabar qualquiera cosa en Oracion” in
the manuscript vocabulario by López and Carro, “Tesauro” (BAV), ff. 160v–61r.
29. Wenceslao Emilio Retana, “Las loas de los indios,” La política de España en
Filipinas 36 (1892): 161–63 and “Otro género de loas ó la influencia del medio,” La
política de España en Filipinas 37 (1892): 175–77; Minodora S. Magbutay, “An Analytical
Study of the Loa in the Oral Literature of Samar,” M.A. thesis, University of Santo
Tomás, 1970.
30. This discussion thus updates several conclusions made in David Irving,
“Musical Politics of Empire: The Loa in Eighteenth-Century Manila,” Early Music 32.3
(2004): 384–402, which did not take the precolonial musicopoetic traditions of
praising luminaries into full account.
31. On the origins and development of the Spanish loa, see ibid., 386–88.
32. Wenceslao Emilio Retana, Noticias históricobibliográficas de el teatro en Filipinas
desde sus orígenes hasta 1898 (Madrid: Librería general de Victoriano Suárez, 1909), 37.
33. “Desde principios del siglo XVII á todo Gobernador general se le recibía con
una loa, que es la menor cantidad de expresión teatral, pero teatral desde luego, pues
que requería tablado y que un sujeto de ciertas dotes artísticas recitase de memoria
una composición poética en alabanza del recién llegado, ponderando sus
hazañas . . . aunque no hubiese realizado ninguna en los días de su vida.” Ibid., 37–38.
34. “En cualquier caso toda su fuerza está en el lirismo que en toda ella se
exprese, y tanto los solos como los coros deben de tener aquella entonación propia de
un homenaje artístico de alabanza, que contribuyen representados musicalmente
todos los elementos é ideas que componen una sociedad.” “Loa. Mús.,” in Enciclopedia
universal ilustrada europeo-americana (Madrid: Espasa-Calpe, 1907–30), 30:1226.
35. For a listing of these texts, see David R. M. Irving, “Colonial Musical Culture
in Early Modern Manila,” Ph.D. diss., University of Cambridge, 2007, 395–99.
36. “Sidai llaman a otro género de poesía, y es el más difícil de todos.” Yepes and
Alzina, Una etnografía, 13.
37. English translation from Kobak, “Ancient Bisayan Literature, Music and
Dances,” 36. The original text reads:
Y lo usan o para alabar a otros, o para contar las hazañas de sus pasados, o
las prendas o hermosura de alguna mujer o hombre muy valiente; es difícil
sobre manera de entender, y aun los mesmos bisayas no lo entienden todos
porque no hay palabra que no sea metafórica y que no tenga diverso sentido
en este metro que fuera de él. Gustan mucho los bisayas de oirle y se están
muchas horas, en especial de noche, sin bostezar ni dormirse oyéndolos; y
suelen pagar o regalar muy bien a los diestros en esta poesía para que vayan
a sus casas a cantarlas, que todas ellas las dicen cantando. Y yo confieso que
de estos sidai me costó mucho trabajo el entenderlos y regalar no pocas veces
a los más diestros en ellos para que delante de mí los cantasen; sólo tienen
algunas repeticiones algo cansadas, porque vuelven a repetir muchas veces,
con añadir sólo una o dos palabras, muchas y muy largas razones, y tal vez
no puede ser menos por pedirlo mas materias que cuentan o cantan y ser el
modo tan difícil como hemos dicho.
Yepes and Alzina, Una etnografía, 13–14.

38. “En las loas, el verso es siempre de doce sílabas, muy proporcionado al tono
de relación que observan en ellas.” Joaquín Martínez de Zúñiga and Wenceslao Emilio
Retana, Estadismo de las Islas Filipinas, ó mis viajes por este país. Publica esta obra por
primera vez extensamente anotada W. E. Retana (Madrid: [Viuda de M. Minuesa de los
Ríos], 1893), 1:64.
39. “Despues de una conceptuosa letra que cantaron quatro coros de
excelentes musicos, comenzò à recitar una Loa, cuyos fragmentos pondrè aqui, no
para ostentacion de el ingenio, sino porque en la estrañeza de las voces, representò
ella misma, hasta donde podia llegar el abrasado corazon de estos Isleños à su
amado Señor, y Rey, obligandoles à hablar en una lengua tan estraña à la suya.”
Relacion de las expresivas demostraciones de la mas fina lealtad, en los publicos
regozijos, que dispuso a su costa, y con que solemnizó la nobilisima, y siempre leal
ciudad de Manila, cabeza de las Islas Philipinas, y madre de el basto archipielago de
San Lazaro. la elevacion al trono de su merecida grandeza, de el grande rey, y señor de
las Españas, y de las Indias D. Fernando Sexto de Borbon que dedican, y consagran al
mismo señor rey, y catholico monarca, los capitulares de la nobilisima ciudad de Manila
(Manila: Imprenta de la Compañia de Jesus, por D. Nicolas de la Cruz Bagay,
1749), f. 41r.
40. “Acompañados de Choros de Musica con Loas muy al intento.” Juan de
Arechederra, “Relacion de la entrada del Sultan Rey de Jolo Mahamad Alimudin en
esta ciudad de Manila,” in Archivo del bibliófilo filipino: recopilación de documentos
históricos, científicos, literarios y políticos y estudios bibliográficos, ed. Wenceslao Emilio
Retana (Madrid, 1895–1905), 1:[34].
41. Barrios, Descripcion de la proclamacion y jura, f. 18r.
42. “Se presenta el que ha de decir la loa en medio del teatro, bien vestido, como
un caballero español: está sentado y recostado en una silla en ademán de que está
durmiendo; detrás de las cortinas cantan los músicos una letra de un tono lúgubre en
el idioma del país; el que está dormido despierta u empieza á dudar si ha oído alguna
voz, ó será sueño lo que oía: se sienta otra vez, durmiendo, y se repite la letra en el
mismo tono lúgubre; vuelve á despertarse, se levanta y hace nuevas reflexiones sobre
la voz que ha oído. Esta escena se repite dos ó tres veces, hasta que se persuade de que
la voz le dice que ha llegado un héroe y es preciso hacer su elogio. Entonces empieza á
decir su loa con bastante propiedad, representando, como hacen los cómicos en el
coliseo y echando una relación en el idioma del país en alabanza de aquel cuyo respeto
se ha dispuesto la fiesta. En esta loa celebraron las expediciones navales del General,
los grados y títulos con que le había condecorado el Rey, y acabaron dándole las gracias
y reconociendo el favor que les había hecho en pasar por su pueblo y visitarlos, siendo
unos pobres infelices. Estaba esta loa en verso, compuesto muy retóricamente en estilo
difuso, conforme al gusto asiático. No faltaban en ellas expediciones de Ulises, los
viajes de Aristóteles y la desgraciada muerte de Plinio, y otros pasajes de historia
antigua que les gusta mucho introducir en sus relaciones. . . . Creo que estas loas se las
hicieron en tiempos antiguos los Padres.” Martínez de Zúñiga and Retana, Estadismo,
1:60–61. This episode in Martínez de Zúñiga’s travels is also discussed in Retana,
Noticias históricobibliográficas, 47–48.
43. Doreen G. Fernandez, “Pompas y Solemnidades: Church Celebrations in
Spanish Manila and the Native Theater,” Philippine Studies 36.4 (1988): 424.
44. Magbutay, “An Analytical Study,” 50–51.
45. Ibid., 83.
46. Luciano P. R. Santiago, “The Struggles of the Native Clergy in Pampanga
(1771–77),” Philippine Studies 33.2 (1985): 191. The original source for this incident is
found in “Año de 1772. Declaraciones de los PP. Clérigos de la Provincia de la
Pampanga contra el Alcalde Mayor de ella,” in “Expedientes sobre Diferentes
Materias,” 1730–79 (AAM, 7.B.5).
47. Santiago, “The Struggles of the Native Clergy,” 191–92.
48. This idea is pursued by Reynaldo Clemeña Ileto in his discussion of the
formation of revolutionary ideologies in the nineteenth century, in Pasyon and
Revolution: Popular Movements in the Philippines, 1840–1910 (Quezon City: Ateneo de
Manila University Press, 1979) and Filipinos and Their Revolution: Event, Discourse, and
Historiography (Quezon City: Ateneo de Manila University Press, 1998).
49. René B. Javellana, “The Sources of Gaspar Aquino de Belen’s Pasyon,”
Philippine Studies 32.3 (1984): 310–15.
50. Ricardo D. Trimillos, “Pasyon: Lenten Observance of the Philippines as
Southeast Asian Theater,” in Essays on Southeast Asian Performing Arts: Local
Manifestations and Cross-Cultural Implications, ed. Kathy Foley (Berkeley: Centers for
South and Southeast Asia Studies, 1992), 7.
51. Ibid., 8; see also Canave-Dioquino, “The Lowland Christian Philippines,” 844.
52. Retana, Noticias históricobibliográficas, 43.
53. Tomás de Villacastin and Gaspar de Aquino de Belen, Mang~ a panalang~ ing
pagtatagobilin sa Caloloua nang tauong nag hihing~ alo. Ang may catha sa uigan Castila
ang M. R. P. Thomas de Villacastin sa mahal na Compañia ni Iesus. At ysinalin sa uican
Tagalog ni D. Gaspar Aquino de Belen. At ysinonod dito ang mahal na passion ni Iesu
Christong P. Natin na tolâ; at ypinananagano sa cataastaasang Poong Iesus Nazareno, 5th
ed. (Manila: Imprenta de la Compañia de Iesus por D. Nicolas de la Cruz Bagay,
1760). A modern transcription (although with questionable editorial treatment of the
early modern Tagalog orthography), accompanied by a critical analysis of the text and
its performance practices, has been published as Rodel E. Aligan and Gaspar de
Aquino de Belen, Pasyon (Manila: UST Press, 2001).
54. The text of this pronouncement reads as follows: “Manila, y Henero 23. de
1704. años. Concedense, quarenta dias de Indulgencia à todos los que leyeren, ù
oyeren leer qualquier Passo de la Passion de Christo Señor Nuestro de este Libro,
Impresso por todas las vezes, que lo hizieren: Assi lo concediò, y firmò su Señoria
Illustrissima el Arzobispo mi Señor, de que doy feè [sic].” Villacastin and Aquino de
Belen, Mang~ a panalang~ ing pagtatagobilin sa Caloloua nang tauong nag hihing~ alo, n.p.
55. Vicente Barrantes, El teatro tagalo (Madrid: Tipografía de Manuel G.
Hernández, 1889), 159. The publication in question is Juan Sanchez, El infierno
abierto, en lengua panayana (Manila: Imp. de los Jesuitas, 1740) (see Regalado Trota
Jose, Impreso: Philippine Imprints, 1593–1811 [Makati, Manila: Fundación Santiago and
Ayala Foundation, 1993], 157, no. 509). No extant copy of this original edition appears
to survive. However, it appears that another edition was published in the nineteenth
century, according to Elviro Jorde Pérez (Catálogo bio-bibliográfico de los religiosos
agustinos de la Provincia del Santissimo Nombre de Jesús de las Islas Filipinas desde
fundación hasta nuestros días [Manila: Establecimiento tip. del Colegio de Sto. Tomás,
1901], 225–26): El infierno abierto con ang infierno nga bucas nga hinuad sa binisaya nga
pulong sang M. R. Ex-definidor nga si Fr. Juan Sánchez sa Caparian ni San Agustín
(Guadalupe: Imp. del Asilo de Huérfanos, 1886).
56. “Han impreso algunos libros con singular elegancia en verso heróico, uno de
los cuales hice yo reimprimir en Manila, de que gustan mucho los tagalos, y contiene
la Pasión de Nuestro Señor Jesucristo. Su autor es don Luis Guian, principal de
tagalos.” Juan José Delgado, Historia general sacro-profana: política y natural de las islas
del poniente, llamadas Filipinas, Biblioteca Histórica Filipina, vol. 1, ed. Pablo Pastells
(Manila: Imp. de El Eco de Filipinas de D. Juan Atayde, 1892), 333.
57. “Compuso en verso Bisaya la Historia de la Passion de nuestro Señor
Jesu-Christo.” Antonio Masvesi, Carta del Padre Antonio Masvesi, de la Compañia de
Jesus, rector del colegio de Cavite, sobre la vida, muerte y virtudes, del padre Pedro de
Estrada, provincial de Philipinas, de la misma Compañia ([Manila], 1748), 25–26.
58. René B. Javellana, “Pasyon Genealogy and Annotated Bibliography,” Philippine
Studies 31.4 (1983): 453–55; see also René B. Javellana, Casaysayan nang pasiong mahal ni
Jesucristong Panginoon natin na sucat ipag-alab nang puso nang sinomang babasa (Quezon
City: Ateneo de Manila University Press, 1988). According to Lumbera, Pilapil was the
editor of this pasyon text, not the author. Lumbera, Tagalog Poetry, 93.
59. Canave-Dioquino, “The Lowland Christian Philippines,” 843–44.
60. Elena Rivera Mirano, Musika: An Essay on the Spanish Influence on Philippine
Music (Manila: Cultural Center of the Philippines Special Publications Office,
1992), 14.
61. Pedro Chirino, Relacion de las Islas Filipinas i de lo que en ellas an trabaiado los
padres dæ la Compañia de Iesus (Roma: Por Estevan Paulino, 1604), 52.
62. “Lo que cantan, en sus embarcaciones à manera de historia, ò quando

beben.” Noceda and Sanlúcar, Vocabulario de la lengua tagala, 393.
63. English translation based on Kobak, “Ancient Bisayan Literature, Music and
Dances,” 36. The original text reads: “Haya es otro modo de poesías que usaban y usan
para llorar sus muertos; y de ahí llaman parahaya a las plañíderas, que son mujeres
que se alquilan para este efecto. El oficio de éstas es cantar con voz lamentable
endechas mezclando alabanzas de los muertos o de sus antepasados; a que
corresponden los parientes, marido o mujer del difunto, con unos alaridos
desproporcionados, que éste es su modo de llorar muertos, sin derramar comúnmente
ni una lágrima . . . aquí sólo baste para lo tocante a sus versos y poesías esto que se
usaba para los muertos, que también le llaman anogon o canogon, que es lo mesmo
que cosa lastimosa o mal lograda.” Yepes and Alzina, Una etnografía, 14.
64. “Panambitan. Cantar llorando, o llorar Cantando, y diciendo sus des dichas.
Vg.a el que esta entrabasos, el que llora a su Padre, madre, o Pariente difunto, que no
solo canta y llora, sino que tambien dice su mal obrar con el difunto, y el bien obrar
del difunto para con el, y muchas falsedades, y disparates.” Tomás Ortiz, “Vocabulario
Tagalo Español que contiene muchas composiciones, locuciones, y Frases Tagalas
explicadas a la letra en Español. Por el M. R. P. L. F. Thomas Hortiz Ex Provincial de
esta Provincia del SS[antísi].mo Nom[br].e de Iesus del Orden de N. P. S. Aug[usti]n
de Philippinas, y Prior del Convento de N[uest]ra Señor de Guadalupe. . . . Dedicado
A S. Ioseph Profugo en Ægypto, Padre Putativo de IESUS, y Esposo Fidelissimo de
MARIA. . . . En el convento de N[uest]ra Señora de Guadalupe. dia del Triumpho dela
Cruz. 16 del mes de Iullio de 1726 años,” 1726–33 (LLIU, Philippine Mss. I, box 11),
f. 242r. A related word is sambitan.
65. See Lumbera, Tagalog Poetry, 49–82.
66. Barrantes, El teatro tagalo, 22–23, 143–60. Yet as Javellana points out,
Barrantes “does not bother to demonstrate through literary and textual analysis which
part of the European pasion [sic] is borrowed by which Filipino pasyon.” Javellana,
“Pasyon Genealogy,” 452.
68. Javellana, “The Sources of Gaspar Aquino de Belen’s Pasyon,” 310–11.
69. Ibid., 313.
70. Manuel Walls y Merino, La música popular de Filipinas (Madrid: Librería de
Fernando Fe, 1892), 25.
71. The seventeenth-century transcription “Quædam Musica” discussed earlier
displays certain features that could classify it as a punto or pie from a pasyon. First,
it appears to indicate a “reciting tone”; second, Elena Rivera Mirano (in “The
Pabasa of San Luis, Batangas,” Asian Studies 22–24 [1984–86]: 110) has noted that
the range of women’s voices when performing the pabasa (pasyon) in Batangas is
usually limited to the interval of a fourth; and third, women predominate in singing
this genre.
72. I am grateful to Elena Rivera Mirano for her suggestion of this hypothesis.
73. See Ileto, Pasyon and Revolution, 12. On the Filipino passion play, sinakulo,
see Nicanor G. Tiongson, Kasaysayan at estetika ng Sinakulo, at ibang dulang
panrelihiyon sa Malolos: kalakip ang orihinal, partitura, mga larawan ng pagtatanghal
(Quezon City: Ateneo de Manila University Press, 1975), 195.
74. “Entre nosotros se ha representado la Pasión todavía sin el menor

inconveniente hasta el año 1856, en que fué prohibida por el Ministro de la
Gobernación don Patricio de la Escosura (alta autoridad por cierto en cosas literarias)
en un célebre Decreto, que produjo en la prensa política más de una polémica y al que
esto estribe hartas satisfacciones de amor propio en los comienzos de su carrera
oficial.” Barrantes, El teatro tagalo, 30.
75. See the discussion of modern-day forms in Mary Arlene Pe Chongson,
“Pasyon and Holy Week: A Study of Music, Acculturation, and Local Catholicism in
the Philippines,” Ph.D. diss., University of Texas at Austin, 2000.
76. “En Ilocos no es la Pasión, sino las Lamentaciones de Jeremías lo que cantan
por Cuaresma. La primera no la cantan, sino que la leen, pero cada uno á sus solas.
Esta costumbre será molesta para los que no quieren oir su música (del canto llano);
pero los indios tienen sus gustos musicales y no podemos ni debemos quitárselos.”
Barrantes, El teatro tagalo, 23n2.
77. Trimillos, “Pasyon,” 11.
78. In identifying “syncretic elements in Philippine Christianity,” Phelan notes
that “the suppression of outward[ly] pagan rituals did not entail the abolition of a
whole accretion of superstitious customs of pre-Hispanic origin. Rather these folk
customs were gradually if only superficially Christianized. . . . In the seventeenth
century syncretic elements are often apparent, but in the nineteenth century they are
much less so.” John Leddy Phelan, The Hispanization of the Philippines: Spanish Aims
and Filipino Responses, 1565–1700 (Madison: University of Wisconsin Press, 1959),
79–80.
chapter 6
1. “Ay buenos Cantòres; y los ay de Oficio en todas las Iglesias, con sus Salarios
competentes, desde la Iglesia Cathedral, al Ministerio mas pobre; y assi se vàn criando
desde Tiples.” Juan Francisco de San Antonio, Chrónicas de la apostólica Provincia de
S. Gregorio de religiosos descalzos de N. S. P. San Francisco en las Islas Philipinas, China,
Japón (Sampaloc: Convento de Nra. Señora de Loreto del Pueblo de Sampaloc por fr.
Juan del Sotillo, 1738–44), 1:143.
2. “Ils vont pieds nus pour la plus grande partie; ils n’en sont pas moins les
maîtres de musique des églises. La musique qu’ils donnent est si singulière qu’on ne
peut rien se figurer de plus sauvage; on n’entend guère que des chœurs, les parties
vont comme elles peuvent, ensemble ou non, la chose est égale; c’est une espèce de
charivari qui ressemble assez bien à celui que fait une troupe d’ivrognes qui sortent de
la taverne.” Guillaume Joseph Le Gentil de la Galaisière, Voyage dans les mers de l’Inde
(Paris: Imprimérie Royale, 1779–81), 2:133.
3. See James C. Scott, Seeing Like a State: How Certain Schemes to Improve the
Human Condition Gave Failed, Yale ISPS Series (New Haven, Conn.: Yale University
Press, 1998), 69–71, and Domingo Abella, ed., Catálogo alfabético de apellidos (Manila:
National Archives, 1973).
4. For a summary of the various incarnations of the cathedral, see Ruperto C.
Santos, “A History of the Manila Cathedral: 1571 to 1945,” Philippiniana Sacra 35.103
(2000): 129–67.
5. Isacio R. Rodríguez, “Filipinas: la organización de la iglesia,” in Historia de la

iglesia en Hispanoamérica y Filipinas (siglos XV–XIX), ed. Pedro Borges (Madrid:
Biblioteca de Autores Cristianos, 1992), 2:705–6.
6. “Cantoriam, ad quam nullus possit praesentari nisi in musica, saltem in
cantu plano, doctus et peritus exista[t], cujus in facistol cantare, docere et quae ad
cantum pertine[n]t et expecta[n]t ordinare, corrigere et emendare in choro, et
ubicumque per se et non per alium, officium erit.” Pablo Fernández, “The
Constitution of the Manila Cathedral Chapter,” Philippiniana Sacra 27.77 (1991): 304.
7. Domingo de Salazar, “Erection of the Manila Cathedral,” in The Philippine
Islands, 1493–1898, ed. Emma H. Blair and James A. Robertson (Cleveland: Arthur
H. Clark, 1903–09) 34:344, 347. The original text reads: “Offic[i]um organistae, qui
organa in diebus festivis, et aliis temporibus ad votum Praelati vel Capituli pulsari
teneatur.” Transcribed in Fernández, “Constitution of the Manila Cathedral
Chapter,” 306.
8. Robert William Harold Castleton, “The Life and Works of Domingo de
Salazar, O.P. (1512–1594),” Ph.D. diss., University of London, 1974, 67; William John
Summers, “The Jesuits in Manila, 1581–1621: The Role of Music in Rite, Ritual and
Spectacle,” in The Jesuits: Cultures, Sciences, and the Arts, 1540–1773, ed. T. Frank
Kennedy and John W. O’Malley (Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 1999), 660;
William John Summers, “Music in the Cathedral: Some Historical Vignettes,” in
Manila Cathedral: Basilica of the Immaculate Conception, ed. Ruperto C. Santos (Manila:
Archdiocesan Archives of Manila, 1997), 153.
9. “Con los muchachos del coro y otros que savian musica y con los organos y
flautas y chirimias que conmigo traje celebravase el oficio divino en las fiestas como se
pudieran celebrar en otra yglesia catedral mas antigua y mas rica que esta.” In
Castleton, “The Life and Works of Domingo de Salazar,” 67.
10. See Vicente S. Hernández, History of Books and Libraries in the Philippines,
1521–1900: A Study of the Sources and Chronology of Events Pertaining to Philippine
Library History from the Sixteenth to the End of the Nineteenth Century (Manila: National
Commission for Culture and the Arts, 1996), 110; Castleton, “The Life and Works of
Domingo de Salazar,” 68.
11. Summers, “The Jesuits in Manila,” 661.
12. Felipe II, real cédula, “Real cédula a los oficiales de Real Hacienda de
Filipinas,” June 20, 1595 (AGI, Filipinas, 339, L. 2), ff. 92v–93v.
13. See Javier Marín López, “The Musical Inventory of Mexico Cathedral, 1589:
A Lost Document Rediscovered,” Early Music 36.4 (2008): 575–96.
14. “En la mesma plaça, esta la yglesia mayor, de canteria, de tres naves, con su
capilla mayor, y coro de sillas altas y bajas, cercado de rejas, adornado de organo,
atriles, y lo demas necesario, sacristan y sus aposentos y oficinas.” Antonio de Morga,
Sucesos de las Islas Philipinas (Mexici ad Indos: Samuel Estradanus, 1609), f. 148v.
15. Santos, “A History of the Manila Cathedral,” 139–40.
16. Juan Bautista de la Uriarte, Manifiesto, y resumen historico de la fundacion de la
Venerable Hermandad de la Santa Misericordia de la ciudad de Manila, hospital, casa, y
collegio de niñas, y iglesia de Santa Ysabel, con las conveniencias, y utilidades al comun,
bien publico, y particular de estas islas ([Manila]: Collegio, y Universidad de Santo
Thomas, con las licencias necessarias por Iuan Correa, 1728), f. 34v.
17. Don Baltazar gat Dobali replaced de la Cruz on the illness of the latter. See
William John Summers, “Listening for Historic Manila: Music and Rejoicing in an
International City,” Budhi: A Journal of Ideas and Culture 2.1 (1998): 224. Dobali’s
integration into Spanish social and musical institutions is further reinforced by the
honorific title “don”; this was a privilege that was extended only to the elite of society
within Spanish colonial territories. Stevenson has noted that “nowadays, the use of
‘Don’ as an honorific has become so widespread in Spain and in Latin America that
not many stop to consider how few had a right to use it in the sixteenth century.”
Robert Murrell Stevenson, Music in Aztec and Inca Territory (Berkeley: University of
California Press, 1968), 205.
18. English translation in Bartholomé Letona, “Description of Filipinas Islands,”
in The Philippine Islands, 1493–1898, ed. Emma H. Blair and James A. Robertson
(Cleveland: Arthur H. Clark, 1903–9), 36:208. It is possible, however, that Letona was
referring to a memory of the third cathedral, but this is unlikely, given that the third
was devastated by an earthquake in 1645.
19. See San Antonio, Chrónicas, 1:190.
20. Pablo Francisco Rodriguez de Berdozido, “Estado ecclesiastico de las
referidas yslas Philipinas,” 1742 (BNE, Ms. 19217), 180–81.
21. Felipe V, real cédula, “Respuesta sobre maestro de ceremonias de Catedral de
Manila” (AGI, Filipinas, 342, L. 10), ff. 27v–28v.
22. Rodriguez de Berdozido, “Estado ecclesiastico de las referidas yslas
Philipinas” (BNE, Ms. 19217), 181.
23. Summers, “Listening for Historic Manila,” 226.
24. María Lourdes Díaz-Trechuelo Spínola, Arquitectura española en Filipinas
(1565–1800) (Seville: Escuela de Estudios Hispano-Americanos de Sevilla, 1959), 202;
María Lourdes Díaz-Trechuelo López-Spínola, “Filipinas en el siglo de la Ilustración,”
in Historia general de Filipinas, ed. Leoncio Cabrero (Madrid: Ediciones de Cultura
Hispánica, 2000), 261.
25. Santos, “A History of the Manila Cathedral,” 150–51.
26. “Un Maestro sumamente perito y único en las Yslas.” Díaz-Trechuelo
Spínola, Arquitectura española, 208.
27. “Un Organo pequeño q[u].e actualm[en].te sirve a la Yglecia [sic].” “Inventario
delas Reliquias, Alajas de Oro, y Plata: y de mas Trastes, pertenecientes à la S[an]ta
Yglecia Cathedral de esta Ciudad de Manila,” 1761 (AAM, 13.B.6/1), f. 19r.
28. “Costeò la obra de esse Patio, la composicion de esse Organo grande, esse
Altar del Santo Christo.” Ignacio de Salamanca, Heros ecclesiasticus, oratio funebris
quam in exequijs Manilae celebratis defuncto suo arhciepiscopo [sic] et gubernatori
illustrissimo d. d. d. Emmanueli Antonio Roxo del Rio, et Vieyra pro illustri admodum: ac
venerabile capitulo designatus orator dixit d. d. Ignatius de Salamanca. In alma Cathedrali
ecclesia malinensi die 7 junij anno 1764 (Mexico: ex Regalis, & antiguioris divi Ildefonsi
collegij typis, 1765), 36. Rojo del Río had assumed the archiepiscopal See in 1758, six
years after the date of the initial evidence for construction of this organ. The long
period of construction could justify the note from the 1761 inventory that a “small
organ” was “currently serving the church.”
29. Helen Samson-Lauterwald, The Bamboo Organ of Las Piñas, 2nd rev. ed. (Las
Piñas, Manila: Bamboo Organ Foundation, 2006), 70–72.
30. Pedro G. Galende and Regalado Trota José, San Agustín: Art and History
1571–2000 (Intramuros, Manila: San Agustín Museum, 2000), 137. Although
commissioned in 1762 (probably before the British occupation of Manila), the facistol
was probably sent to Mexico in 1764 or later, but it did not arrive there until 1770,
due to intervention by a pirate. See Marín López, “Música y músicos entre dos
mundos,” 1:94.
31. “Inventario delas Reliquias, Alajas de Oro, y Plata: y de mas Trastes,
pertenecientes à la S[an]ta Yglecia Cathedral de esta Ciudad de Manila,” 1761 (AAM,
13.B.6/1), ff. 12r–13r.
32. “Estatutos, y reglas consuetas de la Santa Metroplitana Yglesia de Manila,
mandadas hacer, y formar por el illustrissimo Señor D. Basilio de SS. Justa y Rufina,
Digniss[i].mo Arz[obis]po Metrop[olita].no de estas Islas, del Consejo de S. M. y su
Predicador, Then[ien].te de Vicario G[ene]ral de los R[eal].es Exercitos por Mar, y Tierra,
à su V[enerabl].e D[ean]. y Cav[il].do y de Comission de este, à los S[eño].res Arcedeano
Liz[encia].do D[o].n Estevan de Roxas y Melo; Canonigo Magistràl D[oct].or D[o].n Ygnacio
de Salamanca; y Canonigo de Merced D[oct].or D[o].n Joseph Antonio Correa los hàn
formado, y trabajado, sujetandose lo primero à la Ereccion de dicha S[an].ta Yglesia; à
los celebrados Concilios de Lima, y Mexico; al Ceremonial de Señores Obispos; à las
Rubricas del Missal, y Breviario; à las Decisiones, y Declaraciones de las Sagradas
Congregaciones del Concilio, y Ritos, &c.a,” Manila, August 17, 1771 (AAM, 13.B.6/1).
33. Ibid., ff. 21v–22r.
34. Ibid., f. 27r–v.
35. Ibid., f. 27v.
36. Ibid., f. 5r.
37. Santos, “A History of the Manila Cathedral,” 154. This disaster was reported
widely, and as far away as the United Kingdom an account was published in The
Illustrated London News on August 29, 1863. Tragically and ironically, broken organ
pipes were used in frustrated attempts to supply water to the victims buried under the
rubble. See “The Earthquake at Manilla [sic],” The Illustrated London News 43.1219
(1863): 214.
38. For a detailed treatment of the practices of the seises in Seville Cathedral (the
model for many cathedrals in Spanish colonies), see Lynn Matluk Brooks, The Dances
of the Processions of Seville in Spain’s Golden Age, Teatro del Siglo de Oro: Estudios de
literatura, 4, dir. Kurt and Roswitha Reichenberger with Evangelina Rodríguez and
Antonio Tordera (Kassel: Edition Reichenberger, 1988), 91–143.
39. On the seises, see Marín López, “Música y músicos entre dos mundos,” 1:383;
on Bermúdez de Castro, see Emma H. Blair and James A. Robertson, “List of
Archbishops of Manila,” in The Philippine Islands, 1493–1898, ed. Emma H. Blair and
James A. Robertson (Cleveland: Arthur H. Clark, 1903–9), 51:309.
40. “Entablè en la Cathedral el Canto Gregoriano en Oficio, y Missa, que ni se
usaba, ni se sabia, ni avia Atril, ni un Libro de Choro, viendome precisado à ensenarlo
[sic] yo privadam[en]te en mi Casa . . . Tengo yà hecho un Atril bueno, correspondiente
à los Libros de Choro, que se estan haziendo, de que estan yà concluydos quatro à mi
costa. . . . Añadi a el Choro un competente de numero de Cantorcitos, ò seises vestidos
al uso de las Cathedrales de España . . . estos seises que son abilissimos estos Indios
instruidos en el Canto de Organo sirven tambien para la perfeccion de la Musica.”
Letter from Juan Ángel Rodríguez to Felipe V, Manila, July 21, 1738 (AGI, Filipinas,
1006).
41. Francisco Mateos, “Fray Juan Ángel Rodríguez, trinitario, arzobispo de
Manila (1687–1742),” Revista de Indias 23.93–94 (1963): 498.
42. Ibid.
43. “Tomé la providencia de mantener dieciocho niños, los que, enseñados,
asisten de seis en seis con hábitos largos y sobrepellices al coro a todas las horas,
sirviendo juntamente de tiples para la música; con lo que se ha experimentado muy
buen efecto, pues aunque falten algunos prebendados se dirán las horas con más
decencia y voz perceptible aun fuera de la iglesia, cuando antes ni aún dentro de ella se
oían; y juntamente con esto he introducido en el clero el canto llano, que jamás se
había practicado, cantándose por todos los indios, aunque mal instruidos en las reglas
de la música y del todo ignorantes de ellas y de la latinindad, causaban una
desapacibilidad intolerable.” Letter from Juan Ángel Rodríguez to Felipe V, June 5,
1739, transcribed in Mateos, “Fray Juan Ángel Rodríguez,” 498.
44. “Por lo que también su remedio, pues estándose estos niños en este ejercicio
con ellos en hábitos de clérigos ordenados o no introducidos en el clero de la música,
poco a poco, según se fueren proporcionando, se irán quitando los indios, no sirviendo
muchos de ellos más que de hacer número, y viniendo como vienen en el traje de su
nación, deforman aún a la vista el coro de los clérigos.” Ibid.
45. Simeon Gutiérrez y Maríveles (attrib.), “Historical Account of the Founding
of the Colegio de Niños Tiples,” c. 1946 (AAM 40.B.4/1). Dr. Simeon Gutiérrez y
Maríveles was the last director of the colegio, having taken up this post in 1929. He is
the most likely candidate for the authorship of this account in English, which was
written in about 1946 after the destruction and demise of the institution.
46. Felipe V, real cédula, “Respuesta sobre niños cantores y Seminario de San
Felipe,” April 26, 1742 (AGI, Filipinas, 334, L. 15), ff. 29r–31r.
47. “Los expresados niños quedavan con Maestros que les enseñen à leer, y
escrivir, Musica, y Grammatica; y que mediante aver adquirido, yà vuestra vigilanzia
para la enseñanza, y manutencion de ellos, hasta la Cantidad de tres mil novecientos, y
setenta y dos pesos de principal, y que hay parage proporcionado dentro de la misma
Iglesia en que poder los hacer casa para su havitacion fuese yo servido de aprobanos
esta obra, y concurrir a ella con treinta cabanes de arroz mensualmente del que hay en
mis Reales Almacenes de esa Ciudad.” Ibid., f. 30r–v.
48. Mateos, “Fray Juan Ángel Rodríguez,” 499.
49. Gutiérrez y Maríveles, “Historical Account” (AAM 40.B.4/1), n.p.
50. Ibid.
51. Ibid.
52. Ibid.
53. See, for example, Raymundo Bañas, Pilipino Music and Theater (Quezon City:
Manlapaz Publishing, 1969), 111–13; Delfin Colomé Pujol, “República de Filipinas,” in
Diccionario de la música española e hispanoamericana, ed. Emilio Casares Rodicio, José
López-Calo, and Ismael Fernández de la Cuesta (Madrid: Sociedad General de Autores
y Editores, 1999–2002), 9:118; José Maceda et al., “Philippines,” in The New Grove
Macmillan, 2001), 19:581–82; Elena Rivera Mirano, Musika: An Essay on the Spanish
Influence on Philippine Music (Manila: Cultural Center of the Philippines Special

Publications Office, 1992), 6; William John Summers, “Manila, the Philippines,” in
The New Grove Dictionary of Music and Musicians, 2nd ed., ed. Stanley Sadie and John
Tyrell (London: Macmillan, 2001), 15:761; and Summers, “Music in the Cathedral,”
155–56. Although the foundation of this colegio is frequently cited as an example of a
fully fledged music school, there has been no examination in any of these histories of
the original correspondence from Archbishop Juan Ángel Rodríguez, the founding
documents from Madrid, nor the historicosocial context in which support from the
Crown was sought to establish the necessary obra pía for its maintenance. Most of the
documents concerning the foundation of the school are held in the AGI.
54. “The musical instruction given to those boys is according to the methods
pursued in the conservatory of Madrid; for singing and harmony, Eslava; for the piano,
Aranguren; for the organ, Gimeno; for the violin, its method and studies, Alard;
and for vocalization, Romero.” “Boys’ Singing School,” in The Philippine Islands,
1903–9), 45:244. The “earliest professors” listed by Bañas, among them Blás
Echegoyen, Remigio and Apolinar Calahorra, Oscar Campos, Luis Vicente Arche,
Ramón Valdez, Ignacio and Bibiano Morales, and Hipolito Rivera, were all musicians
active in Manila in the nineteenth century. Bañas, Pilipino Music and Theater, 112.
55. “Boys’ Singing School,” 244.
56. José Maceda, “Music in the Philippines in the Nineteenth Century,” in
Musikkulturen Asiens, Afrikas und Ozeaniens im 19. Jahrhundert, ed. Robert Günther,
Studien zur Musikgeschichte des 19. Jahrhunderts (Regensburg: G. Bosse, 1973),
219n20. In the late nineteenth century there was published a sixteen-page pamphlet
titled Reglamento del Colegio de Tiples bajo la advocacion de la Santisima [sic] Trinidad,
fundado para el servicio de la Santa Iglesia Catedral de Manila (Manila: Imp. del Colegio
de Santo Tomás, 1877), but I have not yet located a copy. It is listed in Pedro Vindel,
Biblioteca oriental: comprende 2.747 obras relativas á Filipinas, Japón, China y otras
partes de Asia y Oceanía. Con comentarios y 96 reproducciones en facsímil, etc. (Madrid:
P. Vindel, 1911–12), 1:273.
57. For instance, in the mid-eighteenth century, the sum total of religious
resident in Manila was twenty-five Augustinians, eighteen Franciscans, twenty-five
Dominicans, between eighteen and twenty Recollects, and forty Jesuits. See María
Lourdes Díaz-Trechuelo López-Spínola, “Filipinas,” in Historia general de España y
América. América en el siglo XVIII. Los primeros Borbones, ed. Luis Suárez Fernández
et al. (Madrid: Ediciones Rialp, 1983), XI–1:535.
58. Wenceslao Emilio Retana and José Toribio Medina, La imprenta en Filipinas:
adiciones y observaciones à la imprenta en Manila de J. T. Medina (Madrid: [Imprenta de
la Viuda de M. Minuesa de los Ríos], 1899), 10, note.
59. “Assi se diò fin, el assombro nunca visto en estas Islas Octavario, del qual
solo se ha dicho lo mas principal; sin tocar la variedad de industriosos magestuosos
bayles, Tornèos, Danzas, la melodìa de instrumentos, dulcisonas [sic] canciones, que
en todos los dias se oyeron: Dispuesto por el Magisterio del Orpheo Augustiniano Fray
Lorenzo Castrellòn [sic], que desde las Visperas de la Celebridad, de vino à este
Convento, con grande primoroso acompañamiento de Maestros, y demàs Ministriles
para componer un sumptuoso Coro.” Juan Manuel Maldonado de Puga, Antonio de
Arce, and Joseph Andrade, Religiosa hospitalidad por los hijos del piadoso coripheo
patriarcha y padre de pobres S. Juan de Dios en su Provincia de S. Raphael de las Islas
Philipinas (Granada: Joseph de la Puerta, 1742), 136.
60. “Compuso dos tomos en folio de Misas clásicas; otros dos tomos en folio de
Vísperas y procesiones varias; otros dos tomos grandes de Villancicos y Arias.”
Agustín María de Castro, Misioneros agustinos en el extremo oriente 1565–1780 (Osario
Venerable), ed. Manuel Merino (Madrid: Consejo Superior de Investigaciones
Científicas & Instituto Santo Toribio de Mogrovejo, 1954), 216.
61. Gregorio de Santiago Vela, Ensayo de una biblioteca ibero-americana de la orden
de San Agustín (Madrid: Imp. Asilo de Huérfanos del S. C. de Jesús, 1913–31), 1:652.
However, this attribution does not appear in Castro, Misioneros agustinos.
62. “Juan Bolívar. Natural de Lacaitio [Lequeitio] en Vixcaya [sic]; diez y ocho años
fué Vicario mayor del Coro de San Felipe el Real. La Catedral de Toledo le convidó
muchas veces para su cantor perpetuo ofreciéndole 600 pesos anuales y sacar licencias
de Roma; casi lo mismo le ofreció la de México; pero él, siguiendo su vocación, llegó a
Filipinas el año de 1739. Cantó muchas veces en Manila, y venían las gentes en tropas
de muy lejos a oírle cantar, por su exquisita habilidad y metal de voz incomparable.
Tañía con primor el órgano, el arpa, el rabel, la flauta dulce y otros muchos
instrumentos. Compuso también en canto de órgano tres tomos en folio, de varios
Glorias, Credos y Villancicos, que hasta hoy se guardan en la sacristía nuestra de Manila.
Pero viendo el Provincial su buen talento en el púlpito y la falta que había de ministros,
lo envió a la Isla de Panay, teniendo de edad treinta y tres años, en donde aprendió con
eminencia la lengua Hiligaina y trabajó en ella muchos años. Fué Ministro de Panay
con voto en Capítulo, de Dumarao y de Dumalag; en Laglag murió religiosamente a
15 de Enero de 1754. Casi todos los maestros de capilla que hay en aquellas provincias
fueron discípulos suyos, y hasta hoy celebran mucho su estupenda habilidad en los
cantos llano y de órgano.” Castro, Misioneros agustinos, 193. The provinces on the island
of Panay to which Castro refers are Dumarao, Dumalag, and Laglag. Bolívar’s
biography (based on the Osario Venerable) is also found in Santiago Vela, Ensayo, 1:437,
and Elviro Jorde Pérez, Catálogo bio-bibliográfico de los religiosos agustinos de la Provincia
del Santissimo Nombre de Jesús de las Islas Filipinas desde fundación hasta nuestros días
(Manila: Establecimiento tip. del Colegio de Sto. Tomás, 1901), 269–70. A good
biographical summary is also given in Nuria Busto González and Pello Leiñena
Mendizábal, “Bolívar, Juan Antonio,” in Diccionario de la música española e
hispanoamericana, ed. Emilio Casares Rodicio, José López-Calo, and Ismael Fernández
de la Cuesta (Madrid: Sociedad General de Autores y Editores, 1999–2002), 2:568.
63. Juan Jadraque (1699–1745) was from Durón, Guadalajara, and also professed
in San Felipe el Real, Madrid. He was an excellent singer in the Convento de San
Pablo, Manila, and for the last three years of his life was the director of the choir there.
According to Pérez (Catálogo bio-bibliográfico, 238), he wrote a treatise on plainchant
and polyphony. Bañas asserts that this last work was composed in collaboration with
Nicolás Medina but does not substantiate this claim (see Bañas, Pilipino Music and
Theater, 27). However, no biographical entry for Nicolás Medina appears in the works
of either Pérez or Castro.
Ignacio de Jesús (d. 1747) was a prominent vicario del coro; he was born to a noble
family in Salamanca and professed in the Augustinian convent of that city, where he
acted as superior for nine years, master of the novices for sixteen years, and vicario del
coro for four years. He also worked in Burgos as maestro de los jóvenes before arriving at
Manila in 1735, where he held similar positions in the Convento de San Pablo and the
Convento de Guadalupe (Extramuros). According to Castro, many cantorales of Manila
were copied in his hand (“escribió por su mano muchos libros de este coro de
Manila”). See Castro, Misioneros agustinos, 164–65.
José Calleja (d. 1765), took the Augustinian habit in Valladolid in 1756 and arrived
in the Philippines three years later. He was known to play “any musical instrument
with great skill” (“tocaba con primor cualquier instrumento músico”). Being well
versed in the Kapampangan language, Calleja composed many comedias honestas in
this language and a treatise on Kapampangan characters and orthography (attesting to
the continuing use of baybayin in this province in the mid-eighteenth century). Castro
points out, however, that these works were not published due to the poverty of the
Augustinian order (“pero nada se ha impreso por la pobreza de aquellos Padres”).
Ibid., 196–97.
Another prominent instrumentalist from this order appears to have been Nicolás
Sirvént (d. 1744). According to Bañas (who spells his name “Nicolas Servenit”), he
was “an organist who taught many pupils in Manila.” Bañas, Pilipino Music and
Theater, 27.
64. One such man was Juan Andrade (c. 1731–55), who was born in Mexico and
professed there in 1748 at the age of seventeen. Pérez, Catálogo bio-bibliográfico, 333.
Following Andrade’s arrival in the Philippines he was, according to Bañas, “choir vicar
[vicario de coro] and a celebrated singer of San Agustin Church.” Bañas, Pilipino Music
and Theater, 27.
65. “Un Hermano tenèmos en la Religion, llamado Fray Marcelo de San
Augustin, natural de este Puevlo, que puede ser corona de los Indios Tagàlos, por su
rara virtud, y los bien que ha servido al Convento de Manila, en varios oficios; para
todos los quales le ha dado Dios habilidad. Porque èl es Organista el mas diestro que
se conoce entre los Indios, que son muy habiles en Instrumentos; es Compositor, y
Maestro de los Cantores, y Sacristan Menor, y ha hecho, y escrito muchos Libros de el
Coro, y sobre todo, es gran Siervo de Dios.” Gaspar de San Agustín, Conquistas de las
Islas Philipinas: la temporal, por las armas del señor Don Phelipe Segundo el prudente; y la
espiritual, por los religiosos del Orden de Nuestro Padre San Augustin: fundacion, y
progressos de su Provincia del Santissimo Nombre de Jesus (Madrid: Ruiz de Murga,
1698), 490–91.
66. See Gaspar de San Agustín, “Carta de Fr. Gaspar de San Ag[ustí]n, aun [sic]
Amigo suyo en España, que le pregu[n]ta el natural i genio de los Indios naturales de
estas Islas Philipinas,” June 8, 1720 (NLC, VAULT Ayer MS 1429).
67. “Sus padres fueron Principales; y el sitio donde està al presente la Iglesia, y
Sacristia del Convento de Manila, eran casas, y tierras de su abuelo, razon que moviò
tambien para darle el Abito.” San Agustín, Conquistas, 491. According to Santiago,
Marcelo’s parents Don Francisco Banal and Doña Clara Morahin had originally
“owned the land on which the [Augustinian] congregation’s famous church and
sacristy in Intramuros were erected.” Luciano P. R. Santiago, “The Houses of
Lakandula, Matanda, and Soliman (1571–1898): Genealogy and Group Identity,”
Philippine Quarterly of Culture and Society 18 (1990): 43.
68. On racial strictures, see Damon Lawrence Woods, “Racial Exclusion in the
Mendicant Orders from Spain to the Philippines,” UCLA Historical Journal 11 (1991):
69–92.
69. Genealogical research by Luciano P. R. Santiago has shown that Marcelo
Banal de San Agustín was descended through Doña María Laran (his great-
grandmother), who was the daughter and only surviving child of Soliman. Santiago,
“The Houses of Lakandula, Matanda, and Soliman,” 43, 46.
70. “Alfaro, (H[erman].o Lego Fr. Juan de). Natural de Tanauan, provincia de
Samar, profesó en Manila el 15 de Septiembre de 1695, y desempeñó durante veinte
años el oficio de Organista en el mismo convento.” Pérez, Catálogo bio-bibliográfico,
209.
71. “Escultor, pintor y músico a la vez.” Pablo Fernández, Dominicos donde nace el
sol: historia de la Provincia del Santísimo Rosario de Filipinas de la Orden de Predicadores
(Barcelona: Tall. Graf. Yuste, 1958), 272.
72. “À unos [criados de la casa] enseñaba à pintar, à otros à esculpir, y à otros à
tañer varios instrumentos musicos, todo lo qual dirigia al culto de Dios, y adorno de
sus Templos.” Domingo Collantes, Historia de la Provincia del Santísimo Rosario de
Filipinas, China, y Tunquin Orden de Predicadores: quarta parte desde el año de 1700 hasta
el de 1765 (Manila: En la imprenta de dicho Colegio, y Universidad [de Santo Tomás]:
por Iuan Franc. de los Santos, 1783), 36.
73. “Y tal la acordada consonancia, y dulce melodia de varios instrumentos
musicos, en especial del Organo maximo de los dos, que tiene nuestro Choro,
admiracion de todos los que saben lo que hà costado, y lo que es!” Diego Saenz,
Festivas expressiones, aplausos celebres, y sagrados triumphos, con que la Santa Provincia
del Smo. Rosario de las Islas Philipinas celebró la beatificacion del nuevo astro dominico,
San Benedicto XI. en el Convento de N. P. S. Domingo de la ciudad de Manila, el dia 7. de
julio del año de 1741 (Sampaloc Extra-muros de la Ciudad de Manila: Convento de Nra.
Señora de Loreto del Orden Seraphico, 1742), 23.
74. “Libro en que se contiene las Seremonias pertenecientes al DIVINO CULTO
y estilos antiguos, y loables de este Conbento de N. P. S. Domingo de Manila. Año de
1741” (APDNSR, Sección 10 [Santo Domingo], Tomo 2).
75. “El Cabildo cantarà la Missa y traen sus Cantores, y libros Corales.” Ibid., f. 37v.
76. For a brief overview of the Colegio de San Juan de Letrán, see Sinibaldo de
Mas, “Public Instruction,” in The Philippine Islands, 1493–1898, ed. Emma H. Blair and
James A. Robertson (Cleveland: Arthur H. Clark, 1903–09), 45:251–52.
Fernandez Navarette [sic],” in A Collection of Voyages and Travels, ed. John Churchill
(London: Awnsham and John Churchill, 1704), 1:256. The original text reads: “Otras
cosillas tocantes a Manila se me passavan por alto, las quales no es razon sepultarlas
en silencio. Una es, de un Colegio, que se llama de los Niños de San Iuan de Letran.
Fundòle un Religioso Lego de mi Orden, nombrado Fray Diego de Santa Maria. Llegò
en mi tiempo a tener mas de ducientos muchachos, en gran beneficio de aquellas
Islas. El govierno que con ellos tenia, era inimitable de otro alguno, enseñavales alli a
leer, escrivir, Gramatica, musica: los Artistas, y Theologos acudian a nuestro Colegio;
vestiales dos vezes cada año, doctrinavales; al amanecer antes de almorçar, rezavan a
choros en voz alta un tercio de Rosario, a medio dia otro, a la tarde otro, y Salve
cantada con Letania de nuestra Señora . . . obra cierto heroyca.” Domingo Fernández
Navarrete, Tratados historicos, politicos, ethicos y religiosos de la monarchia de China.
Descripcion breve de aquel imperio, y exemplos raros de emperadores, y magistrados del
(Madrid: Imprenta Real, por Iuan Garcia Infançon, 1676), 323.
78. Sinibaldo de Mas (1809–68) noted in 1842 that although there were twenty-
one places for Spanish boys at the Colegio de San Juan de Letrán, which were
subsidized by monies accrued to the Dominican order from indigenous labor in
Pangasinan (amounting to 600 pesos per year), an unfixed number of Filipinos and
mestizos were permitted to enroll, provided they each paid 50 pesos annually. See
Mas, “Public Instruction,” 252. Santiago has identified several noble Filipino alumni
of San Juan de Letrán in the seventeenth century. See Luciano P. R. Santiago, The
Hidden Light: The First Filipino Priests (Quezon City: New Day, 1987), 26–27.
79. For a comprehensive survey of Roman Catholic female religiosity in the
Philippines during the Spanish colonial period, see Luciano P. R. Santiago, To Love
and to Suffer: The Development of the Religious Congregations for Women in the Spanish
Philippines, 1565–1898 (Manila: Ateneo de Manila University Press, 2006).
80. These institutions, together with the boys’ colegio of San Juan de Letrán, were
under royal patronage. Evergisto Bazaco, History of Education in the Philippines (Spanish
Period 1565–1898), 2nd rev. ed. (Manila: University of Santo Tomas Press, 1953), 98.
81. A magnificent portrait of Jerónima de la Asunción was painted by Diego
Rodríguez de Silva y Velázquez (1599–1660). It is currently housed in the Museo del
Prado, Madrid.
82. Information about the establishment of the Poor Clares in Manila is
summarized from Felix de Huerta, Estado geográfico, topográfico, estadístico, histórico-
religioso, de la santa y apostólica Provincia de S. Gregorio Magno de religiosos menores
descalzos de la regular y más estrecha observancia de N. S. P. S. Francisco, en las Islas
Filipinas (Binondo: Imprenta de M. Sanchez y Ca., 1865), 36; María Alexandra Gil
Iñigo Chua, “The Santa Clara Church Repertory: Women, Religiosity and Music in
19th-Century Manila,” unpublished paper presented at the University of the
Philippines Conservatory of Music Seminar Series, November 2001; Díaz-Trechuelo
Spínola, Arquitectura española, 263.
83. Bartholomé de Letona, La perfecta religiosa (Puebla: por la Viuda de Juan de
Borja, 1662).
84. See a concordant source in Saint Teresa of Ávila, Efrén de la Madre de Dios,
and Otger Steggink, Obras completas, Biblioteca de autores cristianos, 212 (Madrid:
Editorial Católica, 1962), 482. Although several words and the order of some of the
stanzas in Letona’s version differ from this twentieth-century source, it is clearly the
same poem.
85. The poem appears in Letona, La perfecta religiosa, book II, chapter 21, 239–40.
86. Juan de Jesús, “Instrucciones a nuestros misioneros, acerca de la predicación
y confesión de los indios,” 1703 (AFIO, 68/8), f. 1r.
87. “La Vicaria del Coro hà de tener gran cuydado, de que el Officio divino se
cante, y reze con mucha devocion, haziendo se diga con la debida pausa, comenzando
todas juntas, y acabando â un mismo tiempo, para que aya uniformidad, y
consonancia, teniendo gran cuydado, en que las Religiosas ayuden al Coro en lo
cantado, y rezado.” Regla primera dada por N. S. P. S. Francisco a la gloriosa virgen Santa
Clara en el principio de la institucion de la Orden para todas sus hijas . . . assimismo las
constituciones por donde se ha de governar, y ser governado el Real Convento de la Purissima
Concepcion de Maria SS. N. Señora de religiosas descalzas de N. M. S. Clara de la ciudad
de Manila (Manila: Convento de N. Señora de los Angeles, por el H. Pedro de la
Concepcion, 1729), 81.
88. Chua, “The Santa Clara Church Repertory.” An inventory of the contents of
these four cantorales is given in Ma. Concepción Echevarría Carril, “La música
franciscana en Filipinas (ss. XVI–XIX),” Nassarre 9.2 (1993): 206–9.
89. Chua, “The Santa Clara Church Repertory.”
90. “Por quanto las Madres Fundadoras tuvieron presentes los pravissimos
inconvenientes que podian originarse en la Communidad de dàr el Abito para
Religiosa del Coro â Indias puras, y hasta el presente desde su fundacion se ha
practicado el no admitir para el Coro, si solo â hijas de Padres, ò Madres Españolas;
ordenamos al Ministro Provincial no dè licencia, ni la Madre Abadesa admite
pretendiente alguna para Novicia del Coro, que sea India pura; aunque sea muy
Principal.” Regla primera, 8.
91. Luciano P. R. Santiago, “The Flowering Pen: Filipino Women Writers and
Publishers during the Spanish Period, 1590–1898, a Preliminary Survey,” Philippine
Studies 51.4 (2003): 563; Santiago, To Love and to Suffer, 67.
92. See Santiago, To Love and to Suffer, 68–73, 80.
93. Nick Joaquin, Culture and History (Pasig City: Anvil Publishing, 2004), 174.
94. Their histories are summarized in Manuel Buzeta and Felipe Bravo,
Diccionario geográfico, estadístico, histórico, de las Islas Filipinas, etc. (Madrid: Impr. de
J. C. de la Peña, 1850), 1:164–65. For more details on their foundation and later
development, see Santiago, To Love and to Suffer, esp. 91–160.
95. “Saben muy bien Canto llano, y Mussica [sic], y parece por cierto un Choro
de Angeles, celebrando todos estos Officios con gran devocion.” Vicente de Salazar,
Historia de la Provincia de el Santissimo Rosario de Philipinas, China y Tunking, de el
Sagrado Orden de Predicadores. Tercera parte (Manila: Imprenta de dicha Collegio, y
Universidad de Santo Thomas de la misma Ciudad, 1742), 661.
96. “Por la mañana à las cinco entran en el Choro, donde tienen media hora de
oracion mental, y despues rezan Prima, y Tercia de el Officio parvo, y oìen Missa. A las
diez, y media rezan Sexta, y Nona, y tambien una parte de el Rosario. A las dos
buelven à rezar otra, junto con las Visperas, y otra à las cinco despues de Completas,
aviendo antes cantado la Salve, y rezan tambien la Letania de Nuestra Señora, con
algunas otras preces, y oraciones. A las siete de la noche rezan los Maytines, y ti[e]nen
otra media hora de oracion mental. Como tienen yà concession de el Rey nuestro
Señor, para celebrar los Officios Divinos, algunos dias solemnes cantan la Missa, y
otros tambien las Visperas, y Maytines, conforme à la gerarchia de las festividades.”
Ibid.
97. Cánticos were often performed on the occasion of a novice’s entry to a
beaterio. For an observation of such a ritual in 1782, see Marta María Manchado
López, “Religiosidad femenina y educación de la mujer indígena en Filipinas: el
beaterio-colegio de la madre Paula de la Santísima Trinidad,” Revista de Indias 59.215
(1999): 190–91.
98. Santiago, “The Flowering Pen,” 567.

99. “Todos los Sabados tras a las siete a la Misa Cantada de la Virgen . . . No
permitira entrar en casa ni en la huerta musica ni danzarinas para tocar instrumentos,
cantar o danzar de las Hermanas.” “Constituciones y Reglas de las Beatas Indias
Doncellas que sirven Diós Nuestro Señor en este Beaterio de Manila debaxo dela
direccion espiritual de los RR. Padres dela Compañia de Jesus,” 1726 (ARVM),
capitulo tercero, no. 17 (misa cantada); capitulo cuarto, no. 15 (music and dance).
100. Huerta, Estado, 44–45.
101. “Que las Festividades, que nuestra Orden celebra, se hagan como hasta
aqui, con el mayor lucimiento, y authoridad, assi en el ornato del Altar, y Capilla, como
en procurar authoricen las Funciones los muy Illustres Señores Governador,
Arzobispo, y N. M. R. P. Provincial, y assistencia de la Comunidad de la Orden
Primera.” Libro de las constituciones municipales de n[uest]ra. sagrada Orden Tercera de
Penitencia de N. P. S. Francisco; fundada en este religioso co[n]vento de la ciudad de Manila
(Sampaloc: Convento de Nra. Señora de Loreto, 1746), 15–16.
102. “En el dia siguiente à la eleccion se convocaràn todos los Hermanos, que
pudieron, avisandole à cada uno de por sì, y se congregaràn en nuestra Capilla.
Estando todos juntos se canta el Te Deum laudamus, desde la Sachristia hasta la Iglesia
como se acostumbra.” Ibid., 47.
103. “Despues los Cantores, cantaràn el Hymno Veni creator Spiritus, &c. y el que
preside cantarà el Verso: Confirma hoc Deus, &c. con los demas Versos, y Oraciones,
q[ue] se acostumbran. Y finalizan los Cantores con el Benedicamus Domino, &c.” Ibid.
104. “Todos los años, el dia de Martes Santo, sale de esta Iglesia la tierna y devota
procesion de la via sacra, corriendo las calles de Manila, y concluyéndose con un
fervoroso sermon en la Iglesia de nuestro convento.” Huerta, Estado, 44.
105. “Un libro en fólio en punto de música, que tituló: Motetes á cuatro voces
para el Via-Crucis de la Tercera Orden de S. Francisco de Manila.” Ibid., 524. In 1880,
the biographical catalog of Franciscans makes the following listing: “Libro de música en
fólio para el canto de Motetes á cuatro voces en el Via-Crucis de los Terceros de Manila.”
Eusebio Gómez Platero, Catálogo biográfico de los religiosos franciscanos de la Provincia
de San Gregorio Magno de Filipinas desde 1577 en que llegaron los primeros á Manila
hasta los de nuestros días (Manila: Imprenta del Real Colegio de Santo Tomás, á cargo
de D. Gervasio Memije, 1880), 298.
106. “La Iglesia es la mas bella, la mas bien hecha, la mas fuerte, la mas
magnifica, y de mejor arquitectura, que creo tiene la Compañia en todas las Indias.”
Pedro Murillo Velarde, Geographia historica, donde se describen los reynos, provincias,
Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1961), 175; Summers, “Listening for Historic
Manila,” 210; Summers, “The Jesuits in Manila,” 661.
108. “Tenemos tambien para los Domingos y fiestas un terno de musica que son
nuebe pieças de esclavos que nos dejo el Capitan Estevan R[odrigue]s de Figueroa
n[uest]ro fundador para este fin. Los quales ya con chirimias ya con flautas que las
tocan muy bien entretienen con devocion a los que oien misa encasa, queste se
permite por los indios y ser uso de las otras Religiones. En lo temporal a querido
n[uest]ro señor pove [sic] ex con liberalidad a este Collegio como principio y
fundamento de todas las casas destas yslas al qual tienen recurso los padres dellas
fundole el Capitan Estevan Rodrigues de Figueroa dandole mil y quinientos p[eso]s de
Renta. un terno de musica que son los negros que he dicho.” “Annua de la vice-
provincia de las islas Phylippinas de Compañia de Jhs Año de 1595. 1596,” 1596
(ARSI, Philippinarum 5), ff. 11v–12r.
109. Summers, “Listening for Historic Manila,” 210; Summers, “The Jesuits in
Manila,” 661.
111. English translation in ibid., 509. The original source is found in “Memorial
del P. Rafael de Bonafe Provincial de la Provincia de Filipinas para N[uest]ro P[adr].e
Vic[ari].o General Juan Paulo Oliva. año 1665” (ARSI, Congregationes 76), f. 130r, but
the edges of the manuscript have deteriorated to the extent that small portions of the
relevant text are now missing.
112. Translation in Costa, The Jesuits in the Philippines, 509–10. The original text
reads: “El remedio es facil, dexense [sic] los villancicos, o procurese [sic], q[ue] sean
muy breves.” “Respuesta de N. M. R. P. Juan Paulo Oliva Preg.o G[enera].l de la
Comp[añí].a de Jesus a un memorial del P. Rafael de Bonafe Prov[incia].l de la
Prov[inci].a de Filip[in].as Año de 1665” (ARSI, Congregationes 76), f. 131r.
113. “A 16, comiensan las Missas de Aguinaldo que pueden cantar, los nuestros por
determinacion de N[uestro]. P[adre]. Gen[era].l Ygnacio Visconte siendo su P[adr].e
Vicario Gen[era].l La Missa comienza alas seis, y sirven de acolitos los Collegiales de San
Joseph, ay musica y Villansicos, serios y devotos: al evangelio, y al alzar salen 4,
Collegiales, con cirios encendidos danse cada mañana quatro rr[eal].es para almosar [sic]
alos Cantores.” “Libro Septimo de las costumbres del Colegio de Nuestro Pader [sic] S[a].n
Ignacio de Manila nuevamente corregido y aprovado por el P[adr].e Juan Antonio de
Oviedo visitador General de esta Provincia de Philipinas segun el decreto 81= [?] de la
congregacion 7 que dize assi” (AHSIC, FILMIS-058: E.I,b-04), f. 12r.
114. The full text of the inventory’s entries that refer to musical instruments and
sheet music reads as follows:
300___Dos Violones á tres pesos = Dos Violines á quatro reales = Una

Arpa en dos pesos = Dos Oboyes y un Bajon en seis reales = Un Tambor en
dos reales = Una Sonaja en quatro reales, importa todo diez pesas y quatro
reales. Los quales instrumentos en el Aparador antecendente . . . 10p. 4r.
301___Un Aparador mediano, bien tratado, de molave, de una vara y
Quarta de alto, vara y Quarta de largo y dos tercias de ancho, con su cerra-
dura y llave, y dentro de él, se halla un Horgano mediano bien tratado con
todos sus adherentes, abaluó en cinquenta pesos . . . 50p.
Importan dichas partidas ochenta y nuebe (89p. 3r.) pesos y tres
tomines [sic]. Y haviendose hallado dentro de dichos aparadores varios
papeles de música y puntos de Solfa se hizo cargo de ellas dicho Señor Oydor
Juez, y distinguidos los pasó al aposento en que tiene separado los papeles
manuscriptos para su reconocimiento é inventario.
Manuel Galbán y Ventura, “Inventario de los bienes del Colegio Máximo S.

Ignacio de Filipinas,” 1768–74 (AHSIC, FILEXP-07: E.I,d-07), 158.
115. This institution was rebuilt in 1708. See Díaz-Trechuelo Spínola, Arquitectura
española, 268–69.
116. “Tiene la ciudad de Manila una hermosa y rica capilla de la Encarnación de
Nuestra Señora, fundación del gobernador don Sebastián Hurtado de Corcuera, donde
se hacen las funciones y celebran las fiestas propias de la real audiencia, y sirve para el
entierro de los soldados del tercio y administración del hospital real.” Juan José
Delgado, Historia general sacro-profana: política y natural de las islas del poniente,
llamadas Filipinas, Biblioteca Histórica Filipina, vol. 1, ed. Pablo Pastells (Manila: Imp.
de El Eco de Filipinas de D. Juan Atayde, 1892), 187.
117. Evergisto Bazaco, Historia documentada del Real Colegio de San Juan de Letrán
(Manila: Universidad de Santo Tomás, 1933), 68, quoted in Summers, “Listening for
Historic Manila,” 216.
118. Letona, “Description of Filipinas Islands,” 208–9; San Antonio, Chrónicas,
1:193–94.
119. “Tiene . . . buena capilla de cantores con salarios proporcionados. El adorno,
alhajas, ornamentos, vasos sagrados, altares y retablos corresponden á la realidad del
nombre, y entre todos obtiene el primer lugar una grande custodia de oro apreciada en
once mil ducados.” Delgado, Historia general sacro-profana, 187.
120. In circumstances similar to the discovery of the Santo Niño de Cebu (an
image left behind by Magellan in 1521 and found by one of the soldiers accompanying
the conquistador Miguel López de Legazpi in 1565), the image of Nuestra Señora de
Guía was identified by a soldier, as legend has it, in one of the smoldering remains of
the settlements around Maynilad on the evening of May 19, 1571, the day of the
Spanish conquest. This image may have been traded or given by the Portuguese. For a
colorful account of this story, see Nick Joaquin, Manila, My Manila (Makati City:
Bookmark, 1999), 29. Both these discoveries in Cebu and Manila were portentous
events during the conquest of the Philippines, as they seemed to the Spaniards to
indicate the validity and seeming legitimacy of their enterprise through the apparent
bestowal of divine approval.
121. Ruperto C. Santos, ed., Anales ecclesiasticos de Philipinas, 1574–1682: Philippine
Church History: A Summary Translation, trans. Andres R. Pelingo (Manila: Roman
Catholic Archbishop of Manila, 1994), 1:199.
122. Ibid., 1:216–17. See also Luciano P. R. Santiago, “The First Filipino
Capellanías (1605–1699),” Philippiniana Sacra 22.66 (1987): 427–29.
123. Gaspar de San Agustín, Descripcion chronologica, y topographica de el
sumptuoso templo de nuestra señora la Virgen Santissima de Guia, nombrada La Hermita,
Extra Muros de la ciudad de Manila ([Manila], 1712/1717), f. 17v.
124. “Nous entrames [sic] au bruit d’une symphonie la plus sauvage que l’on
puisse se figurer, exécutée par des Indiens, & composée de quelques mauvais violons
& d’une harpe. . . . On célébra la Grand’Messe; elle fut chantée en musique, mais ce fut
quelque chose de si sauvage & de si barbare qu’il m’est impossible de le rendre, non
plus que de peindre ma surprise. . . . J’entendis des cris confus sans accord & sans
mesure, que la symphonie qui les accompagnoit avoit l’art de rendre encore plus
horribles: tel est l’état de la musique à Manille, & telle est à peu-près celle qu’on
entend dans toutes les églises les jours de grandes fêtes.” Le Gentil de la Galaisière,
Voyage, 2:134.
125. Charles Burney, “Putaveri,” in The Cyclopædia; or, Universal Dictionary of

Arts, Sciences, and Literature, ed. Abraham Rees (London: Printed for Longman, Hurst,
Rees, Orme, and Brown, 1802–19), 29:n.p. Of course, Burney was using this account
primarily as a means to argue for the superiority of Italian music over French; he goes
on to say that “soon after this experiment she went to Venice, where another trial was
made on her unprejudiced ears, at an Italian opera, in which the famous Giziello sung
[sic], at whose performance she was quite dissolved in pleasure, and was ever after
passionately fond of Italian music.” Ibid.
126. “Testimonio litteral [sic] de la Santa Visita de los Pueblos Extramuros del
Arzobispado de Manila. Vino con carta de 20 de Mayo de 1783, y reciviadela sec.va en
27 de Marzo de 1784” (AGI, Filipinas, 652). For each parish visited there is a “Relato
del Cura” (a description by the curate of the church and its images, altars, and other
items) and an “Inventario de Hornamentos, y Alhajas de la Yglesia.”
127. “Un organo que esta en la Tribuna de este Presbyterio”; “Ay un Organo
mediano muy mal tratado, è inservible = Ytt. Ay un Arpa grande, y otra chica para el
Rossario = Ytt. Ay un Biolon, y dos biolines todos estaban mal tratados, y los mande
componer.” Ibid., ff. 14v (Santa Cruz), 38v (Parian). Although in the seventeenth
century the term “biolon” would most probably imply an instrument of the viol family,
it is more likely that by the 1780s it was being used in the Philippines to refer to the
violoncello (“violonchelo”), as we can extrapolate from the fact that by this time the viol
had largely fallen out of use in European and American metropoles. For a discussion
of various issues encountered in translating the term violón, see Craig H. Russell,
From Serra to Sancho: Music and Pageantry in the California Missions (New York: Oxford
128. “Tres Missales con todos los Santos nuebos, y uno viegissimo para los
Cantores = . . . Ytt. Un biolon, y un biolin para el Choro”; “Un organo . . . y un Biolon
viejo.” “Testimonio litteral [sic] de la Santa Visita” (AGI, Filipinas, 652), ff. 51r (Malate),
62v–63r (Binondo).
129. Archbishop Sancho de Santas Justa y Rufina installed indigenous clerics in
parishes vacated by the Society of Jesus after its expulsion in 1768 and also in those
vacated by Augustinians in 1773. This action was considered controversial by many
commentators of the time: Costa writes that “the quip became current in Manila that
‘there were no oarsmen to be found for the coasting vessels, because the archbishop
had ordained them all.’” See Horacio de la Costa, “The Development of the Native
Clergy in the Philippines,” in Studies in Philippine Church History, ed. Gerald
H. Anderson (Ithaca, N.Y.: Cornell University Press, 1969), 95–99.
130. Jose has identified records for the purchase of instruments and the payment
of musicians in the parish of San Luis Gonzaga, Pampanga. These data come from a
“Libro de Cargo y Data, e Ynventario de varias alajas de plata, y ornamentos de esta
Parroquia de S. Luis Gonzaga, que comprehende la maior p[a]rte del govierno de ella
su proprio Cura d[o].n Gaspar Macalinao. Año de 1785” (ASFMA). They include entries
such as the following: July 1786, “doi en data diez p[eso].s i dos r[eale].s derechos del
P[adr].e cura cantores i sachristanes por las Tinieblas del Miercoles y Jueves Santo
arreglados al Arancel de este Arzobisp[a].do” (f. 15v); October 1790, purchase of “un
violin y cuerdas p[ar].a la Yglesia un peso y seis r[eale].s” (f. 32r); March 1791, the
payment of “dos p[eso].s por un violon para la Yglesia” (f. 33r); and April 1801, the
major purchase of “un Organo de cinco castillos y cinco registros cuya caxa es de
Narra en quatrocientos y veinte p[eso]s” (inserted separately). I am grateful to Regalado
Trota Jose for sending me this information. According to Jose, the parish of San Luis
Gonzaga had been founded by the Augustinians but was turned over to indigenous
secular priests in 1785. As surviving early modern records from Philippine parish
churches are gradually examined, similar information is likely to emerge, allowing us
to form new perspectives on the richness of musical lives in the churches of the
provinces.
131. “Desplomòse la Fachada de la Puerta principal de la Iglesia, y arrojò à tierra,
hechos confusos pedazos, el Coro, un lindo Organo”; “Desplomòse toda la Fachada de
la Iglesia, llevandose consigo, y destruyendo el Coro, un lindo Organo”; “Esta se
arruinò toda, el dia yà dicho, con el Terremoto, y Temblores: todo el techo con su
maderamen, y tejas diò en tierra: escupieron sus Piedras las Paredes, y mucha parte
del ripio: pereciò un hermoso Organo, y el Coro.” Melchor de San Antonio, Breve, y
veridica relacion del lastimoso estrago, que hicieron los terremotos, y temblores, en las iglesias,
y conventos, que están en las faldas de los montes de Saryaya, Tayabas, Lucban, Mahayhay,
Lilio, y Nagcarlan, el dia 12. de henero de este año de 1743. entre las cinco, y seis horas de la
tarde, en estas Islas Philipinas ([Sampaloc], [1743]), ff. 4r (Tayabas), 7r (Lucban), and 10v
(Nagcarlan).
132. “N’[y] a-t-il un village, quelque petit qu’il soit, où la messe ne soit
accompagnée de musique, à défaut d’orgue.” Jean Baptist Mallat de Bassilan, Les
Philippines: histoire, géographie, mœurs, agriculture, industrie et commerce des colonies
espagnoles dans l’océanie (Paris: Arthus Bertrand, 1846), 2:248.
133. Many are listed in Buzeta and Bravo, Diccionario, 1:166–68. They include “la
venerable congregacion de San Pedro, príncipe de los Apóstoles” (founded 1698); “la
archicofradía del Santísimo Sacramento” (1804); “la archicofradía del Santísimo de
Binondo, la de Nuestro Padre Jesus Nazareno”; of which many principales were
members; and “la [cofradía] de Nuestra Señora de la Soledad” (1651).
134. John Leddy Phelan, The Hispanization of the Philippines: Spanish Aims and
Filipino Responses, 1565–1700 (Madison: University of Wisconsin Press, 1959), 74.
135. Antonio M. Molina, Historia de Filipinas (Madrid: Ediciones Cultura
Hispánica del Instituto de Cooperación Iberoamericana, 1984), 1:93; Buzeta and
Bravo, Diccionario, 1:166; María Lourdes Díaz-Trechuelo López-Spínola, “Religiosidad
popular en Filipinas: hermandades y cofradías (siglos XVI–XVIII),” Hispania sacra
53.107 (2001): 347–48.
136. Díaz-Trechuelo López-Spínola, “Religiosidad popular en Filipinas,” 349.
137. Ibid.; Ordenanzas, y constituciones de la Sa[n]cta Misericordia de la insigne
ciudad de Manila, reformadas conforme al estado, y disposicion de la tierra por los hermanos
de la dicha hermandad, conforme por las ordenanças de la ciudad de Lisboa se dispone, y
aunados a ella el año de 1606 (Manila: Colegio de S. Thomas de Aquino por el Capitan
D. Gaspar de los Reyes Impressor, 1675), chapter 4.
138. “Que el dia siguiente esta Santa Mesa determinaba hacer un novenario de
Missas cantadas, y Salves por las tardes à nuestra Señora de Guia en hazimiento de
gracias, y que los Señores Prebendados se obligaban à decir las Missas por la intencion
de esta Mesa, y la dicha Mesa se obligaba à pagar la Musica, y los demas gastos.”
Uriarte, Manifiesto, y resumen historico, f. 35v.
139. Pablo Fernández, History of the Church in the Philippines (1521–1898) (Manila:
National Book Store, 1979), 82–83; Díaz-Trechuelo López-Spínola, “Filipinas en el
siglo de la Ilustración,” 265.
140. “Se compre un organo para ornato de su capilla y del culto divino con que se
escussara aver chirimias.” “Libro de los Cabildos y Ordenanças de la Cofradia del
Sancto Rosario de la Virgen Maria Nuestra Señora de la illustre ciudad de Manila”
(APDNSR, Sección 56 [Cofradías], Tomo I), f. 147r. Thanks to Regalado Trota Jose for
pointing out this reference.
141. “Tanto, õ trasládo de todos los versos y letreros que tiene esta Iglesia de
S. Juan del Monte” (APDNSR, Sección 18 [San Juan del Monte], Tomo 1, Doc. 12). For
an overview of this confraternity and its music, see William John Summers, “New
Perspectives on the Performing Arts in Historic Manila, Baroque Music in Rite, Ritual
and Spectacle,” in L’umanesimo latino nell’area asiatico-pacifica: eredità e prospettive: atti
del Congresso ([Treviso]: Fondazione Cassamarca, 1999), 64–67.
142. Santo Domingo was an early casualty in the war, during the first Japanese
assault on Manila in December 1941. But the archives, housed in an underground
chamber, remained unscathed. See Juan Labrador, A Diary of the Japanese Occupation:
December 7, 1941–May 7, 1945 (Manila: Santo Tomas University Press, 1989), 28–30;
and Louis Morton, The War in the Pacific: The Fall of the Philippines, originally
published 1953, United States Army in World War II (Washington, D.C.: Center of
Military History, 1989), 232–34.
143. Enrique Cantel Cainglet, “Hispanic Influences on the West Visayan Folk
Song Tradition of the Philippines,” Ph.D. diss., University of Adelaide, 1981, 1:354.
Why Cainglet chose to place the date during the British occupation of Manila
(1762–64), however, is not made clear.
144. See Eladio Neira, Glimpses into the History of San Juan, MM: San Juan del
Monte, Convento de la Santa Cruz, Santuario del Santo Cristo, Municipio de San Juan
(San Juan, Philippines: Life Today, 1994); and Summers, “New Perspectives,”
65–66. Cainglet did not list all the musical sources, but a “preliminary inventory”
was made by Summers, in “New Perspectives,” 83–86 (full manuscript), 85–86
(music [letras] only).
145. Convincing reconstructions of these works, with the missing parts written by
Jean-Christophe Frisch, were performed by the ensemble XVIII–21 Le Baroque
Nomade at a concert in Milly-la-Forêt, France, as part of the Festival d’Île-de-France,
on October 5, 2008.
146. See the original text of this poem in Lope de Vega Carpio, Rimas sacras,
facsimile ed. and study by Joaquín de Entrambasaguas, Clásicos hispánicos, Series 1, 4
(Madrid: Consejo Superior de Investigaciones Científicas, 1963), ff. 164r–66v. The text
as set in the San Juan del Monte manuscript has only two-thirds as many stanzas and
some differences in their ordering; its last full stanza and two additional lines do not
seem to appear in the publication of Vega Carpio.
147. Fernández Navarrete, “An Account of the Empire of China,” 240–41. The
original text reads: “A cada Iglesia dà su Magestad ocho Cantores, tienen sus
privilegios, ocupanse en los Oficios Divinos, cantan excelentemente, y como siempre
ay pretendientes, el numero es mayor, pero los ocho señalados, usan solo de los
privilegios concedidos.” Fernández Navarrete, Tratados historicos, 306.
148. “Esta cantidad se manda dar por Su Magestad a las iglesias para el gasto de
cantores y fiestas principales; que habiendo como hay cantores . . . y celebrándose como
se celebran las fiestas mayores con toda su solemnidad, y es el canto no poca parte de
ella.” Victoria Yepes and Francisco Ignacio Alzina, Historia sobrenatural de las islas
bisayas, del Padre Alzina, Biblioteca de historia de América, 18 (Madrid: Consejo
Superior de Investigaciones Científicas, 1998), 100.
149. “Tambien reserva el Rey de tributo a trece personas para servicio de la
Ygl[esi].a, y del P[adr].e, y con el M[aest]ro de capilla siete Cantores[,] dos sachristanes,
dos cosineros, y un portero.” From “Ritual o Libro de las Costumbres, y usos, que
deben guardar todos los Nuestros en la Provincia de Bisayas. Corregido, y Confirmado
por el P[adr].e Juan Antt[oni].o de Oviedo Visitador General de esta Provincia de
Filipinas Año de 1724,” in “Compilation of Documents Pertaining to the Regulation of
Jesuit Missions in the Philippine Province, 1724–1757” (NLC, Ayer MS 1711), f. 15v.
150. “No deve el ministro mandar assi â los Cantores como â los Sachristanes,
otros trabajos distintos de los que corresponden â sus oficios, Vg. no les podrá mandar
cuydar de las bacas, ô cavallos ni asistir en la cocina, ô convento para cuidar alli de estas
ó las otras cosas, tampoco podrá tener Indios con nombre de Cantores ò Sachristanes,
para que sirvean al Padre en el Convento, cocina, ô fuera.” Tomás Ortiz, Practica del
ministerio, que siguen los religiosos del Orden de N. P. S. Augustin, en Philippinas.
Recopilada y ordenada por el M. R. Padre Lect. F. Thomas Hortiz, ex-provincial de esta
Provincia del Ssmo. Nomb. de Iesus del Ord. de N[uest]ro P. S. Augustin de Philippinas
(Manila: Convento de Nuestra Señora de los Angeles, 1731), 44–45.
151. “Chaque ville ou endroit où se teint [sic] un marché entretient à cet effet seize
ou dix-sept musiciens, qui, en échange de leurs services, sont délivrés des corvées
royales. Leurs instruments consistent en lyres, en harpes, en cornets et en
chalumeaux; ils produisent un ensemble si harmonieux que beaucoup de villes
d’Europe n’ont rien entendu de plus agréable.” Andreas Mancker, letter to Constantin
Schiel, Manila, 1682, in “Serie de cartas escritas en francés desde 1677 á 1750 por
varios PP. Misioneros jesuitas de la Provincia de Filipinas á otras personas,
generalmente de las Provincias de Austria y del Rhin inferior á las cuales ellos
pertenecian. 1.a Parte: 1677 á 1735” (AHSIC, FILCAR, E.I,a-18/1), 55–56. Although it
was probably composed in German or Latin, this letter seems only to survive in a later
French translation. The term “lyres” probably refers to bandurrias and related
instruments, whereas it is more likely that “chalumeaux” refers to shawms (chirimías),
which were prevalent in church bands throughout the islands.
152. “De estos se entresacan los mas aptos para el servício de la Iglesia, y Cúlto de
Dios, en que se habilítan, unos, para el Oficio de Sachristan, y otros, para el de Cantòr.
Assi se admíran celebrados los Divinos Oficios con la devocion, y solemnidad, que
correspónde al servício personàl de unos Sachristánes bien informados en la práctica
del Rituàl; y à la desstréza de vóces músicas, en que se exercítan los Cantóres desde su
niñes; no aviendo Iglesia, que carézca de una Capílla de vóces, y Instruméntos
músicos muy cabàl, con que los Religiosos suplen en el Divíno Cúlto, su sensible
soledad, se aficiónan los Indios à las assisténcias de èl.” San Antonio, Chrónicas, 2:14.
153. “En Todos los Pueblos, que passaren de cien Indios, haya dos, ó tres
Cantores.” Recopilación de leyes de los reynos de las Indias (Madrid: Julian de Paredes,
1681. Reprint, Madrid: Ediciones Cultura Hispánica, 1973), 2:f. 198v.
154. Manuel del Río, Instrucciones morales y religiosas para el gobierno, dirección y
acierto en la práctica de nuestros ministerios que deben observar todos los religiosos de esta
nuestra Provincia del Santo Rosario de Filipinas del Orden de Predicadores (Manila: en el
Colegio y Universidad del Señor Santo Tomás, 1739), f. 18v.
155. “24. Itt. Se declara que los pueblos que escedieren de quinientos tributos
tengan solamente ocho cantores para el servício de las Iglesias, dos sacristanes y un
portero, asistiéndole á cada uno de la Caja de comunidad con el arroz acostumbrado,
que suelen ser al año cuatro fanegas de paláy de cuarenta y ocho gantas. En los
pueblos de cuatrocientos tributos, seis cantores. En los de trescientos cinco. En los de
doscientos cuatro, de cuyo número no se bajará, aunque el pueblo sea menor;
entendiéndose, que los dos sacristanes y portero sean fijos en todas las Iglesias que
tengan Cura ó Doctrinero; y porque en estos puntos ha habido muchos excesos en
perjuício de la Real Hacienda y de los naturales, se manda que los Alcaldes aplique
todo su celo sin consentir mas cantores, sacristanes ni porteros, pena de doscientos
pesos.” José Felipe Del-Pan, Ordenanzas de buen gobierno de Corcuera, Cruzat y Raon
(Manila: Establecimiento tipográfico de La Oceanía Española, 1891), 60. Regarding the
calculation of the amount of rice in modern measurements, Arens observes that “one
ganta of palay [unhusked rice] contains 1.72 kg.” Richard Arens, “The Rice Ritual in
the East Visayan Islands, Philippines,” Folklore Studies 16 (1957): 280n3. Thus, 48
gantas equal 82.56 kg.
156. Delgado, Historia general sacro-profana, 155–56.
157. Díaz-Trechuelo López-Spínola states that approximately one million more
baptized children under the age of seven can be added to this number. The non-
Christian peoples of the islands are not included in this estimate, thus the total
population of the archipelago would have been considerably larger in the mid-
eighteenth century. Díaz-Trechuelo López-Spínola, “Filipinas,” 520.
158. Pedro de la Santísima Trinidad Martínez y Arizala, “Arancel de derechos
parroquiales,” signed February 27, 1755, in “Concilium Primum Provinciale Manilanum
Celebratum per Illmum. & Rmum. D. D. Basilium Sancho a Sancta Rufina,
Archiepiscopum Manilanum et suos sugraganeos, in Civitate Manilae. Anno Domini
1771” (BAV); Basilio Sancho de Santa Justa y Rufina, Nos D. Basilio Sancho de Santa
Justa, y Rufina por la gracia de Dios, y de la santa sede, arzobispo de Manila, con consejo, y
consentimiento deiento nuestros comprovinciales. A todos los parrochos, coadjutores, juezes
ecclesiasticos, y officiales de curia, salud en el Señor (Manila, 1772). The wording of the latter
arancel (signed 1771) is almost identical to that of the former (1755), as are the fees.
159. “Por el velo, cruz y ciriales en el casamiento dará el español al sacristan = 6r
= el mestizo = 3 y el indio = 2 = si huviere chirimias, ó musicos se les dará = 2r = á
cada uno.” Martínez y Arizala, “Arancel de derechos parroquiales” (BAV), 172.
160. “Por entierro, Vigilia y misa de cuerpo presente dará el español = 15 pesos. =
por toda la capilla de 16 cantores en el curato de Manila el mestizo = 10 pesos y 4 r = y
el indio = 7 pesos y 4 r.” Ibid., 177.
161. Fernández, History of the Church in the Philippines, 158.
162. “Monumento” refers to the object built to house the host (body of Christ),
which was exposed from Good Friday to Easter Sunday. Thus the use of the term in
reference to a feast with singers probably refers to Good Friday. It is defined in the
Diccionario de autoridades as “el túmulo, altár ò aparáto, que el Jueves Santo se forman
en las Iglesias, colocando en él, en una arquita à modo de sepulchro, la segunda hostia
que se consagra en la Missa de aquel dia, para reservarla hasta los Oficios del Viernes
Santo, en que se consume. Hácese en memoria del tiempo que Nuestro Redentor Jesu
Christo estuvo en el sepulchro.” Diccionario de autoridades (Madrid: Francisco del
Hierro, 1726–39. Reprint, Madrid: Gredos, [1963]), Tomo Quarto, 603.
163. Sancho de Santa Justa y Rufina, Nos D. Basilio Sancho de Santa Justa, y
Rufina por la gracia de Dios.
164. See Santiago, “The First Filipino Capellanías.”
165. Ibid., 428.
166. Costa writes that during a three-day period of lamentation after the body of a
deceased man had been embalmed, “not only the family took part but professional
mourners also, who served for a fee.” Costa, The Jesuits in the Philippines, 139.
chapter 7
1. Among the mendicant orders, the Recollects had a significantly smaller
number of parishes under their care. This may explain the lack of official printed
manuals, although such documents probably existed in manuscript form.
2. I am grateful to Janice Stargardt and to W. Dean Sutcliffe for their ideas on
this issue.
3. These events were the first of their type to be celebrated in the Philippines
for almost two centuries. The first Synod of Manila had been held in 1582, convened
by Bishop Domingo de Salazar. The Diocese of Manila was suffragan to the
Archdiocese of Mexico until 1595, when it was elevated to an archdiocese. However,
Manila did not hold its own council; thus the acts of the third Mexican Council applied
to the Philippines over the following centuries. Subsequent attempts to hold
ecclesiastical assemblies in Manila during the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries
were thwarted until Carlos III, in the spirit of colonial reforms, ordered in a cédula real
of August 21, 1769, that archdioceses in the Indies should hold provincial councils and
synods “without delay.” See Pablo Fernández, History of the Church in the Philippines
(1521–1898) (Manila: National Book Store, 1979), 95.
4. In the fraught relations between secular and regular clergy in the
Philippines during the eighteenth century, the Provincial Council of Manila mandated
the diocesan rights of the visitation of parishes administered by religious orders.
5. See a detailed discussion in Fernández, History of the Church in the Philippines,
95–97, and Caridad M. Barrion, Religious Life of the Laity in the Eighteenth-Century
Philippines as Reflected in the Decrees of the Council of Manila of 1771 and the Synod of
Calasiao of 1773 (Manila: University of Santo Tomás Press, 1961). These circumstances
were unknown to Bishop Miguel García of Nueva Segovia, who celebrated the Synod of
Calasiao in 1773, in accordance with the instruction from the Provincial Council that all
suffragan dioceses should hold synods. According to Barrion, “it is not an overstatement
to say that the Synod was almost his [García’s] work alone.” There was no discussion at
the Synod of the Calasiao; the bishop simply read the acts to the assembled clergy and
demanded their approval. Barrion, Religious Life of the Laity, 10–11.
6. The original Latin text of the Acts of the Provincial Council of Manila are
published in Pedro Natividad Bantigue, The Provincial Council of Manila of 1771: Its
Text Followed by a Commentary on Actio II, De Episcopis, Canon Law Studies, no. 376
(Washington, D.C.: Catholic University Press, 1957). The acts of the Synod of Calasiao
(1773) are translated in Philip F. Smith, “Acts of the Synod of Calasiao,” Philippiniana
Sacra 5.13 (1970): 65–107, and [Philip F. Smith], “Acts of the Synod of Calasiao
(Continued),” Philippiniana Sacra 5.14 (1970): 185–229.
7. Pedro Borges, “Primero hombres, luego cristianos: la transculturación,” in
Historia de la iglesia en hispanoamérica y filipinas (siglos XV–XIX), ed. Pedro Borges
(Madrid: Biblioteca de Autores Cristianos, 1992), 1:526.
8. The third Provincial Council of Mexico of 1585, convened by Archbishop
Alfonso de Montufar, decreed that the feasts of the natives were to be regulated, and
that “their songs [were] to be previously examined, so that there be nothing in them
smelling of paganism or superstition.” José Luis Porras Camúñez, The Synod of Manila
of 1582, trans. Corrita Barranco et al., General History of the Philippines, Part I, vol. 4
(Manila: Historical Conservation Society, 1990), 277n43. This policy was also carried
out in the Philippines.
9. “Nuestros antiguos Padres establecieron el que en estas Visitas cantassen
algunos Versos à modo de Hymnos, en que se explicaban Misterios, ò se referia la
vida, y muerte de Christo, de su Madre Santissima, y de los Santos, lo que à algunos
subcessores [sic] les parecio indecente, ò nada decoroso à los Templos, por lo que
aceslado en los mas Pueblos. . . . De aqui es que nunca conviene oponerse, ni impedir à
los Indios esta costumbre, bien que no se les permitirà canten cosa alguna, sin que
primero passe por el examen, y aprobacion del Parrocho, antes sì se les debe animar, y
les forzar à estas ocupaciones.” Casimiro Díaz Toledano, Parrocho de Indios instruido de
un perfecto pastor copiada de los SS. PP. y concilio con la resolucion de las principales dudas
que en la administracion de los sacramentos se ofrecen á cerca de los indios (Manila:
Imprenta de la Compañia de Iesus, por D. Nicolas de la Cruz Bagay, 1745), f. 144v.
How this censorship worked in practice, however, remains unknown for lack of
documentary evidence.
10. “Despues de acabado el Sermon, y conferencias de Doctrina Christiana,
cantaba el Pueblo los Hymnos, y Versos.” Ibid.
11. Raymundo C. Bañas, Pilipino Music and Theater (Quezon City: Manlapaz
Publishing, 1969), 181; Corazon Canave-Dioquino, “The Lowland Christian Philippines,”
in The Garland Encyclopedia of World Music, ed. Terry Miller and Sean Williams (New York:
Garland Publishing, 1998), 4:851. This prohibition may account for the change to the dalit,
making it a devotional genre in honor of the Virgin Mary, as noted by Lucrecia Kasilag in
José Maceda et al., “Philippines,” in The New Grove Dictionary of Music and Musicians, 2nd
ed., ed. Stanley Sadie and John Tyrell (London: Macmillan, 2001), 19:581.
12. Bañas, Pilipino Music and Theater, 181.
13. “Llenas de idolatría y superstición.” Pedro Rubio Merino, Don Diego Camacho
y Ávila arzobispo de Manila y de Guadalajara de México (Seville: Escuela de Estudios
Hispano-Americanos, 1958), 362. Francisco de la Cuesta, “Informe de la Audiencia al
Arzobispo de Manila en materia de espectáculos públicos,” Manila, June 14, 1708
(AGI, Filipinas, 290).
14. “Les hàn tolerado llevar el cadaver con acompañamientos, y luces enterrandolo
en un sepulchro de argamasa sin mas ceremonias, rezo, ni canto, todo lo qual ò es
bueno, ò indiferente.” “Manifiesto: en que se evidencia ser gravemente ilicita la
permision de los entierros solemnes en sepulchros publicos de los sangleyes infieles

difuntos en la Alcaizería Parián extramuros de Manila: por ser contra la constumbre [sic]
universal de la iglesia, y por cometer en ellos los Infieles idolatrias, y supersticiones,”
addressed to governor Fernando Valdés Tamón, 1738 (NLC, Ayer MS 1458), 17.
15. “1756 28 Enero Edicto—prohibiendo á los Sangleyes 1.o Sus Pascuas
gentílicas ó año nuevo de Sangleyes que celebran con luminarias y estrépito de
tambores. llamados por ellos Chave.” Other proscriptions were as follows:
2.o las fiestas principales del Guausian el día 15 de la 1.a Luna.

3.o El Bonglanche ó día de los difuntos al 15 de la 7.a Luna;
4.o de Tiongchiu al 15 de la luna 8.a;
5.o el Tangche á Pascua de invierno á 15 de la luna 11.a
II. Prohibimos encender luminarias, pebetes y candelas en las dichas fiestas.
III. Uso del Calendario llamado Lansit [sic].
IV. El dinero de oro y plata que queman los gentiles en honor de sus falsos
Dioses.
V. A la llegada de las champanes de China, prohíbaseles desembarquen
Papeles supersticiosos y hacer públicos sacrificios quemando estos papeles á sus
idolos.
VI. Que no traigan Idolos de China. &c.
In “Libro de Gobierno en Sede vacante 1755–1759,” in “Copia de documentos
antiguos del Archivo de la Misión de la Compañía de Jesus. N.o 1” (AHSIC,
E.I: a.13), 153.
16. “[1759] 26 Setiembre. Edicto recordando y ampliando el de 28 Enero 1756
contra las idolatrías de los Sangleyes. Prohibimos 1.o el ídolo llamado Quamina, y el
otro llamado Nioma, y el 3.o Michon; 2.a llamar Machon á la S[antísi]ma. Virgen Madre
de Dios en sus imágenes como lo hacen con la de Casaysay—y que si quieren
encender candelas, enciéndanlas á la Madre de Dios—cuya prerogativa no conviene al
Machon Chino, como no lo ignoran los inteligentes de China y de sus cosas.” Ibid., 155.
In spite of this eighteenth-century proscription, the practice of revering the Virgin of
Casaysay as a Chinese goddess associated with the sea has persisted to this day among
some members of the Chinese community of the Philippines.
17. See Tess Knighton and Álvaro Torrente, eds., Devotional Music in the Iberian
World, 1450–1800: The Villancico and Related Genres (Aldershot, U.K.: Ashgate,
2007).
18. “Para que las funciones ecclesiasticas se celebren con la solemnidad, y decoro
debido, procurarà el Ministro, que los Cantores aprendan bien lo que hàn de cantar, y
de ningun modo les permitirà cantar cosas ridiculas, especialmente en el Sancto
Sacrificio de la Missa.” Manuel del Río, Instrucciones morales y religiosas para el gobierno,
dirección y acierto en la práctica de nuestros ministerios que deben observar todos los
religiosos de esta nuestra Provincia del Santo Rosario de Filipinas del Orden de Predicadores
(Manila: en el Colegio y Universidad del Señor Santo Tomás, 1739), f. 18r. Pietro
Cerone’s treatise El melopeo y maestro was very likely used in musical instruction at the
Universidad de Santo Tomás, the Dominican university of Manila. It may have
provided the impetus for the proscription of profane performances in Dominican
ministries, as Cerone rails against such practices in his advice for the singing of
appropriate music in church, disapproving of the recreational music employed in

villancicos and claiming that some members of the congregation only attended church
to hear such works. See Pietro Cerone, El melopeo: tractado de musica theorica y pratica
(Naples: Juan Bautista Gargano and Lucrecio Nicci, 1613. Reprint, Bologna: Forni
Editore, 1969), 1:196–97.
19. “Nunca permitirà que canten villancicos burlescos, ni aquellos profanos, que
estàn trobados à lo Divino; es cosa indecente que las letras inventadas para los
Theatros, las traslademos à la Iglesia.” Díaz Toledano, Parrocho de Indios, f. 138r.
Similar strictures were set in place throughout the Spanish Empire.
20. [Smith], “Acts of the Synod of Calasiao (Continued),” 189.
21. “Por ningun caso se les permitta à los Naturales celebrar de noche las fiestas
de la Cruz de Mayo; y por tanto, si quisieren celebrarlas, sea despues de Visperas,
delante de la Iglesia por alguna de las puertas, que miran al patio; en donde podràn
cantar algunas letras en alabanza de la Santa Cruz, y sus Misterios, hasta la hora de
ponerse el Sol, en que se retiraràn, sin que les anochezca, à sus Casas.” Estatutos y
ordenaciones de la santa Provincia de S. Gregorio de religiosos descalzos de la regular, y
mas estrecha observancia de N. S. P. S. Francisco de Philipinas. Dispuestas y ordenadas
por el compromisso de el discretorio, y diffinitorio en el capitulo provincial celebrado en
nuestro convento de Nuestra Señora de los Angeles de la ciudad de Manila el dia 8. del mes
de junio del año de 1726. y mandadas dàr à la estampa por el ministro provincial, y vener.
diffinitorio el año de 1730 (Manila: en la Impre[n]ta de dicha Provincia [Franciscana],
1732), 70.
22. “La fiesta, que llaman Santa Cruz de Mayo, creo que sería mejor prohibirla;
porque aunque a los principios comenzaría con buena intención y con buenos
modales de los cristianos antiguos, pero en el día todo se reduce a bailar los mozos
junto con las mozas, y esto de noche, cantándose letras muy profanas en tonadillas
poco honestas y poco conformes con la santidad que piden los misterios sacrosantos
de la Cruz. Y, finalmente, todo viene a parar en beber mucho vino de coco y otros
peligros y excesos. Por lo cual, muchos celosos ministros han prohibido totalmente a
los indios esta dicha fiesta tan estimada y frecuentada de ellos. Pero otros parece que
no hallan inconveniente especial en permitirla. Ipsi viderint. Este fue siempre mi
sentir, salvo meliori.” Manuel Merino and Pedro Andrés de Castro y Amuedo, “La
provincia filipina de Batangas vista por un misionero a fines del siglo XVIII,”
Missionalia hispánica 34.100–102 (1977): 210.
24. “Las Missas de Aguinaldo se an de enpeçar en las Doctrinas el dia octavo de
la Concepcion y el dia de Santo Thome y Dominica donde no huviere dos Saçerdotes
se cantara la Missa de la festividad y Dominica. Y se diran por la conserbacion y
aumento destas Islas y conversion de los infieles.” Constituciones desta Provincia de San
Gregorio de Philipinas delos frayles descalços de la orden de los menores de nuestro padre S.
Francisco hechas en el capitulo provincial que se celebro en la ciudad de Manila el año del
Señor de 1655. en veinte y uno del mes de henero (Manila: Collegio y Universidad de Santo
Thomas de Aquino, por Buenaventura Lampao, 1655), f. 13v.
25. “El origen de esta celebridad tan pía, santa y devota no le he podido sacar
de raíz de dónde salió. La primera vez que yo oí y vi estas demostraciones festivas
con las nueve misas fue en México, donde está muy introducida su celebridad, y en
el Seminario de los naturales que tiene nuestra Compañía en aquella ciudad,

llamado de San Gregorio, fue la primera vez que lo admiré, así por lo célebre y
demostrativo de la celebridad, como por lo pío y santo de la solemnidad que de
allá, digo de México, sin duda (que en España no lo ví yo) se debió de traer a estas
islas, donde se celebra con no menos ostentación, y en este nuestro ministerio
tiramos la barra cuanto podemos, diciendo las nueve misas cantadas todas, con
muy buena música, villancicos, instrumentos músicos y todo cuanto conduce a la
demostración pía de tan santa expectación.” Victoria Yepes and Francisco Ignacio
Alzina, Historia sobrenatural de las islas bisayas, del Padre Alzina, Biblioteca de
historia de América, 18 (Madrid: Consejo Superior de Investigaciones Científicas,
1998), 116.
26. Pepe [Juan José] Rey, “Weaving Ensaladas,” in Devotional Music in the Iberian
World: The Villancico and Related Genres (1450–1800), ed. Tess Knighton and Álvaro
Torrente (Aldershot, U.K.: Ashgate, 2007), 19; Cantius Kobak and Pablo Fernández,
“Alcina’s Report on the Celebration of Feasts in XVIIth Century Samar and Leyte,”
Philippiniana Sacra 16 (1981): 190.
27. “A los cantores se les da también aparte, con cuidado que no queden poco
templados para cantar los maitines que a su hora se cantan solemnes con sus
villancicos en los nocturnos, y se procura haya algunos en su lengua para que lo
entiendan mejor.” Yepes and Alzina, Historia sobrenatural, 118–19.
28. “Se canta en esta vigilia después de la misa la calenda en latín con toda la
música de por acá, y luego se les declara en su lengua (tengo yo traducida en ella la
dicha calenda, que todavía tiene su dificultad) y se les platica algo.” Ibid., 118.
29. Ibid., 119.
30. Translation in Kobak and Fernández, “Alcina’s Report on the Celebration of
Feasts,” 190. The original text reads: “Prætextu Devotionis Populi, et ad earum
maiorem celebritatem multa eiunt remedio digna conveniunt enim in Choro canendi
causa plura laici, et quasdam cantinelas risu moventes canunt; tempore, loco q[ue] ulla
tenus consentanens. Huic damno debet opportunum adhiberi remedium, ut penitùs
de medio tolleber scandalum.” “Anales ecclesiasticos de Philipinas y de la excellencia
de potestad que los ss[eño].res arzobispos gozan como metropolitanos de ellas,” c. 1680
(AAM, 1.A.2), vol. 2, f. 120r.
31. “Â vista del exemplar del Arzo[bis]pado de Mexico, à donde se habian ya
prohibido, y no se cantavan.” Ibid., vol. 2, f. 120r–v.
32. English translation modified from Kobak and Fernández, “Alcina’s Report on
the Celebration of Feasts,” 191. The original text reads: “Nos el Maestro Don Fray
Phelippe Pardo, Arzobispo Electo de esta Iglesia Metropolitana de Manila, del Consejo
de SU MAG[esta]d, y Govenador de Este Arzobispado, &ca. Por quanto habemos tenido
noticia, que hà venido prohibydo la Celebracion de las Missas que se Canten los Nueve
dias antes de la Natividad de CHR[IST]O Señor nuestro (que communm[en]te llaman:
De Aguinaldo) para que en ninguna manera se pueda Cantar, prohibidendo tambien
todo genero de Musicas, è Instrumentos, y Chanzonetas: porque conviene que en este
Arzo[bis]pado se observe, y guarde d[ic]ha prohibicion. = Por tanto, por el Pressente,
Mandamos, que en ninguna manera se canten, ni recen d[ic]has Missas de Aguinaldo, ni se
hagan en las Iglesias regozijos de Musicas, ni toquen Instrumentos algunos, ni canten
Chanzonetas, ni otro Cantares, aunque sean â lo Divino: Pena de que se procederà al
Castigo al que lo contrario hiziere, por Inobediente a los Mandatos de N. S. M. Iglesia,

y Nuestros. = Y Mandamos se fixen en las Puertas de las Iglesias de esta Ciudad este
Autho, y se remitta a los Beneffi[cia].dos para que les conste. = Dada en San Gabriel,
extram[ur]os de Manila, en Doze de Octubre, de mil, seiscientos, y ochenta Años. =
Fray Phelippe Pardo, Arzo[bis]po Electo de Manila. = Por Mandato del Arz[bis]po mi
Señor. = Andres Escoto SS[ecretari].o [sic].” “Anales ecclesiasticos de Philipinas” (AAM,
1.A.2), vol. 2, f. 120v.
34. “Celebranse casi en todas las Indias las Missas, que llaman de Aguinaldo,
mezclandose en ellas algunos abusos, que las maculaban de supersticiosas, y
oppuestas [sic] à los sagrados Ritos de la Iglesia. Tolerabanse con capa de devocion, y
aunque à algunos les parecia mal, no se atrevian publicamente à reprehenderlo, por no
excitar contra si la piedad de el vulgo, siendo esta materia de las que pertenecen al
zelo, y providencia de los Prelados; hasta que à representacion de personas zelosas, el
dia 16 de Henero de el año de 1677 declarò la Sagrada Congregacion de Ritos, ser las
dichas Missas de Aguinaldo, no solo repugnantes à las rubricas, sino tambien
escandalosas, y supersticiosas, por entretexerse en ellas algunas cantinelas, con otros
semejantes abusos; y llegando este Decreto de la Congregacion el año de ochenta à
estas Islas, arreglado à èl el Señor Arzobispo prohibiò dichas Missas en su
Arzobispado, y mientras viviò su Illustrissima, no se celebraron; aunque despues se
bolvieron à entablar con alguna moderacion (no sè, si universal) de los abusos, que
antes se acostumbraban.” Vicente de Salazar, Historia de la Provincia de el Santissimo
Rosario de Philipinas, China y Tunking, de el Sagrado Orden de Predicadores. Tercera parte
(Manila: Imprenta de dicha Collegio, y Universidad de Santo Thomas de la misma
Ciudad, 1742), 493–94.
35. “Ordenamos, no se canten las Missas, que llaman de Aguinaldo,
manteniendo siempre el estilo, que de muchos años á esta parte há avido de no cantar
las, en cuya atencion se evitará qualquiera singularidad en todas, y cada una de las
Missas de todo el año, celebrando las segun el ordinario, y Rubricas del Missal.”
Estatutos y ordenaciones, 23.
36. “Libro Septimo de las costumbres del Colegio de Nuestro Pader [sic] S[a].n
Ignacio de Manila nuevamente corregido y aprovado por el P[adr].e Juan Antonio de
Oviedo visitador General de esta Provincia de Philipinas segun el decreto 81= [?] de la
congregacion 7 que dize assi” (AHSIC, FILMIS-058: E.I,b-04), f. 12r.
37. “Advierto tambien, por averseme denunciado en la Visita, que procureis
desterrar un infame abuso introducido, aun dentro de Manila, y sus contornos, con el
motivo de cantarse el Rosario de Nuestra Señora en algunas casas, especialmente en el
Octavario de la Purissima Concepcion, por los Aguinaldos, Fiestas de Santa Cruz, y
otras del año, se congrega varia gente de entrambos sexos, y de todas edades, despues
de aver rezado el Rosario (con que intencion? Con que devocion?) se ocupan en bayles,
cantares, y juegos indecentes, y desembueltos, todo mas proprio de las costumbres de
los torpissimos Hereges, Gnosticos, Gentiles, y Mahometanos, que de verdaderos
Christianos.” Pedro de la Santísima Trinidad Martínez de Arizala, Carta pastoral. D. fr.
Pedro de la Ssma. Trinidad, Martinez de Arizala, del consejo de su magestad, y del real, y
supremo de las Indias, arzobispo metropolitano de estas Islas Philipinas. = A todo el clero,
nobleza, y pueblo de nuestro cargo: salud, y gracia en nro. Señor Jesu-Christo &c. . . . Manila,
y noviembre 4. de 1751 ([Manila]: Imprenta de Santo Tomas, [1751]), 68–69. See also
Fernández, History of the Church in the Philippines, 443.
38. See the “Marian map” of modern-day shrines dedicated to the Virgin
throughout the Philippine archipelago, in Vitaliano Gorospe and René B. Javellana,
Virgin of Peñafrancia: Mother of Bicol (Makati, Manila: Bookmark, 1995), 6–7.
According to Wendt, 20 percent of all new churches built in the Philippines in the
sixteenth and seventeenth centuries were dedicated to Mary. Reinhard Wendt, Fiesta
Filipina: Koloniale Kultur zwischen Imperialismus und neuer Identität (Freiburg im
Breisgau: Rombach, 1997), 347.
39. Reinhard Wendt, “Philippine Fiesta and Colonial Culture,” Philippine Studies
46.1 (1998): 7, 9.
40. See discussion of the Mexican and Canadian contexts in a number of
chapters in Nicholas Griffiths and Fernando Cervantes, eds., Spiritual Encounters:
Interactions between Christianity and Native Religions in Colonial America (Birmingham:
Birmingham University Press, 1999). For discussion of Marian devotions and culture
from biblical times to the establishment of global networks throughout the sixteenth-
century world, see Miri Rubin, Mother of God: A History of the Virgin Mary (London:
Allen Lane, 2009).
41. “En Manila es singularissima la Devocion, que ay con el Rosario de la
Santisima Virgen; pues no solo sale de noche en Procesion, cantando por las calles, si
no que en la mayor parte de las casas, (sino en todas) se reza publicamente, y en
algunas se repite dos, ò tres vezes al dia. A mi me ha servido muchas vezes de
indecible consuelo, al andar por las calles, oir rezar à vozes de dia, y de noche el
Rosario de Maria Santisima, de donde en gran parte se originan los favores, que Dios
por intercesion de su madre, hace à estas Islas. Y creo, que con dificultad se hallarà
Español, indio, ni Cafre, que no trayga su Rosario, y le reze todos los dias, aun quando
por otra parte no es la vida tan christiana.” Pedro Murillo Velarde, Historia de la
Provincia de Philipinas de la Compañía de Jesús. Segunda parte, que comprehende los
progresos de esta provincia desde el año de 1616 hasta el de 1716 (Manila: en la Imprenta de
la Compañía de Jesús, por D. Nicolas de la Cruz Bagay, 1749), f. 7v.
42. “Rezan à coros el Rosario en sus casas, en los caminos, y en las
navegaciones . . . cantan con bellisima armonia la Salve, resonando en todas partes las
alabanzas de Dios, y de su Madre.” Ibid., f. 348r.
43. “Los Domingos, antes de empezar la Missa, sale una Procession de muchachos
con una Imagen de la Virgen en un Estandarte, cantando la Doctrina al rededor del
Pueblo, para juntar la gente. Los Sabados por la mañana canta toda la Doctrina la gente
moza: por la tarde reza el Pueblo el Rosario en comunidad, y cantan bellissimamente la
Salve en Tagalo, y la Musica canta la del tiempo, descubierta la Virgen, y el Padre canta
la Oracion.” Pedro Murillo Velarde, Geographia historica, donde se describen los reynos,
provincias, ciudades, fortalezas, mares, montes, ensenadas, cabos, rios, y puertos, con la mayor
44. Juan Francisco de San Antonio, Chrónicas de la apostólica Provincia de
S. Gregorio de religiosos descalzos de N. S. P. San Francisco en las Islas Philipinas, China,
Japón (Sampaloc: Convento de Nra. Señora de Loreto del Pueblo de Sampaloc por fr.
Juan del Sotillo, 1738–44), 2:14–15.
45. Barrion, Religious Life of the Laity, 69–70.
46. Fernández, History of the Church in the Philippines, 142. For a brief summary
of Marian devotions in the Philippines, see ibid., 84–86.
47. “The Council of 1771,” in The Philippine Islands, 1493–1898, ed. Emma H.
Blair and James A. Robertson (Cleveland: Arthur H. Clark, 1903–9), 50:317. This
proposal “had . . . its exact counterpart in several European countries, where, in almost
the very same year, that identical movement was inaugurated in many places
throughout all the dominions of Joseph II of Austria—in Austria itself, the Low
Countries, Tuscany, Naples, etc.,” according to Middleton, in ibid., 318n156.
48. [Smith], “Acts of the Synod of Calasiao (Continued),” 188–89.
49. Ibid., 192. The noncomprehension of the texts probably relates to the type of
“deep poetry” being practiced, as discussed in chapter 3.
50. See Victoria Yepes and Francisco Ignacio Alzina, Una etnografía de los indios
bisayas del siglo XVII, Biblioteca de historia de América, 15 (Madrid: Consejo Superior
de Investigaciones Científicas, 1996), 12.
51. [Smith], “Acts of the Synod of Calasiao (Continued),” 193, 216.
52. Ibid., 193.
53. Ibid., 191.
54. Ibid., 190.
55. Simon de Anda y Salazar et al., “Anda and the English Invasion, 1762–1764,”
in The Philippine Islands, 1493–1898, ed. Emma H. Blair and James A. Robertson
(Cleveland: Arthur H. Clark, 1903–9), 49:157.
56. “Y desde Sanctus hasta Agnus pongase por Ley inviolable en nuestras Iglesias
el no cantar cosa alguna, sino precissamente [sic] se toquen instrumentos.” Río,
Instrucciones morales y religiosas, f. 18r.
57. “Todos los muchachos, sean Principales, sean timauas, deben acudir a la
escuela, y obligarles à ellos, y à sus Padres, ò parientes, para que por ninguna excusa,
ni pretexto pueda eximirse de esta asistencia, excepto los tiples, que seràn enseñados à
leèr, y escribir en la escuela de los Cantores.” Ibid., f. 38v.
58. “No puede emplear el Parrocho mejor el tiempo que tubiere desucupado [sic],
que enseñandolos à pronunciar bien los Psalmos, Antiphonas, &c. Paraque alaven à
Dios como se debe.” Díaz Toledano, Parrocho de Indios, ff. 137v–38r.
59. I am grateful to Iain Fenlon for this suggestion.
60. “Question es muy reñida si son licitas las Musicas en los Divinos Oficios, y
aunque ay Patronos que defienden el canto de Organo, á lo que yo alcanzo no tienen
otro apoyo que à la costumbre; pues las Authoridades que trahen los SS. PP. antiguos
no hablan de este canto de Organo, sino de el Gregoriano; pero valanse de ellas,
porque hablan de bajo del nombre de Musica. Que no hablen ni N. P. S. Augustin ni
San Geronimo de este canto de Organo, es claro; porque si esta introduccion de contra
punto la inventò por los años de 1000. Guido, Aretino, que fue despues Cardenal,
como podia N. P. S. Augustin hablar de èl quando 600. años antes havia ya muerto el
Santo? Estilavase esta Musica de contra punto fuera de la Iglesia, pero dentro de ella,
solo el canto llano à que dieron principio los Monges del Oriente, despues le
perficionó San Isidoro, y San Gregorio, y hasta los años de 1000. No se oyo en el
Choro de la Iglesia otro [sic] Musica, en que con occasion de algunas composiciones de
Guido, excelente Musico fueron introduciendo cantar la Psalmo dia à contra punto, y
aun los Instrumentos no los oyeron tocar en la Iglesia N. P. S. Augustin, ni San
Garonimo [sic] porque el que mas antiguedad los dà es Platina, quien dice que se
introduxeron por los años de 660[.] Pero Almoyno dice que fue por los de 820. En fin
con esta invencion del contra punto, el canto ha subido tanto de punto quanto ha
bajado la gravedad, y Authoridad de la Iglesia. No se puede condenar absolutamente
este genero de Musica, mientras la Iglesia, ò la tolera, ò la permite; pero si es digno de
condenacion el que se hagan los Choros coliseos profanos, ó Theatros de Comediantes
embargando la Devocion con cantinelas, ó recitados agenos de la gravedad, que piden
los Divinos Oficios.” Díaz Toledano, Parrocho de Indios, f. 138r. Díaz Toledano is
probably refering to Saint Jerome’s “Commentary on the Epistle of Paul to the
Ephesians,” which approves of “sweet singing” in church, and to Saint Augustine’s
Confessions, book 13, which discusses the role of music in moving the listener.
61. “Los Viernes y sabados, que son dias de Ministerio, y tambien los dias
Clasicos, cantara el Ministro la Missa; los Domingos, la dira rezada, pero los cantores
cantaran lo que se â costumbra, cantar en las missas cantadas. En todos los dias
festivos, que se cantaron Visperas, se cantará tambien la Missa . . . La Salve secantará
[sic] los Sabados, en unas partes por la mañana, y en otras por la tarde segun
costumbre de cada Provincia. Donde ay costumbre de cantarla por la mañana el
Ministro luego, que acaba la Missa se desnudará la Casulla, y Manipulo, y sepondrá
[sic] Capa blanca, y con una candela encendida en la mano sepondrá en la primara [sic]
grada del Altar, y alli entonara la Salve &c. la Letania de Nuestra Señora la cantarán los
Cantores mientras la Missa despues del Santus [sic]. Donde hay costumbre de cantar la
Salve por la tarde, a las quatro de la tarde se tocara á la Salve á que asistiran los
mismos que se dixo arriba debian asistir al Rosario. Primero se cantará la Salve que en
tonará [sic] el P. Ministro en la misma forma, que arriva se dixo. Despues secantará la
Letania, y se prosiguirá el Rossario. . . . Todas las Visperas de los dias Clasicos de
N[uest]ro Señor y N[uest]ra Señora, San Pedro, y San Pablo; San Iuan Bautista, todos
los Santos, fiestas Clasicas de los Santos de la Orden, Aniversario de la Iglesia, y de la
Orden, y Patron principal del Pueblo se cantarán Visperas á que asistirá el Ministro
revestido de Alba, y Estola, y el mismo dia se cantará la Missa. Todos los dias por la
mañana muy temprano cantará un cantor con los tiples el Te deum Laudamus, y la
prima de N[uest]ra Señora, y por la tarde á las dos cantarán las dichas Visperas de
N[uest]ra Señora, y la Antiphona, y mientras se cantan todas estas cosas se encenderan
dos Candelas en el Altar.” Tomás Ortiz, Practica del ministerio, que siguen los religiosos
del Orden de N. P. S. Augustin, en Philippinas. Recopilada y ordenada por el M. R. Padre
Lect. F. Thomas Hortiz, ex-provincial de esta Provincia del Ssmo. Nomb. de Iesus del Ord.
de N[uest]ro P. S. Augustin de Philippinas (Manila: Convento de Nuestra Señora de los
Angeles, 1731), 18, 32–33.
62. “Se enseñen á rezar leer, escrivir, contar, cantar, ayudar á Missa . . . Avrà
siempre un Maestro, que lo sea de la escuela, y Cantores, el mas diestro, y Principal,
persona de talento, á quien todos tengan respecto, que con cuydado assista á la
escuela, y enseñe todo lo dicho en el numero antecedente, y assi mismo, el Cantollano,
y de Organo, si lo huviere, el tocar las flautas, y demas instrumentos musicos que se
acostumbran tocar en las Iglesias.” Estatutos y ordenaciones, 134.
63. “No se permittan en Convento alguno de Communidad, Organos, como
siempre se hà observado; aunque en las Doctrinas, ô Ministerios, los podrà aver con
licencia del Prelado Provincial, como assi mismo Arpas, y otros instrumentos, con que
los Cantores Indios Offician el Santo Sacrificio de la Missa, y demas Divinas

alabanzas, pena al que sin dicha licencia permittiere, que se compren, ô se hagan, de
suspension de su officio por dos meses.” Ibid., 37.
64. “He visto en todas las provincias de Filipinas que administran los PP.
Franciscanos Descalzos, y algunas de Dominicos, grandes y buenas campanas, y
hermosos órganos en todas ellas.” Merino and Castro, “La provincia filipina de
Batangas,” 209.
65. “Tendrà tambien cuydado el Ministro con los Libros de Canto, e
Instrumentos musicos, que pertenecen al culto Divino, proveyendolos, y renovandolos
con la limosna de la Iglesia; y quando no la huviere[,] con la del Convento, advirtiendo
al Maestro, y á quien los trata, que los cuyden bien, y que si por su culpa, ò descuydo
se pierden, ô se destruyen, que los hàn de pagar, por que no se descuyden con ellos.”
Estatutos y ordenaciones, 135.
66. “Todos los Cantores casados, ô tributantes, tendrán obligacion; pues estan
reservàdos para esso, de assistir á la Iglesia á cantar todas las Visperas de los
Domingos, Fiestas de guardar d[e] los Indios, Classicas principales de nuestra Orden,
y a la Prima, y Missa mayor de di[c]hos dias, y tambien el Viernes á la [B]enedicta, los
Sabados á Prima, Missa de Nuestra Señora, Visperas, y Salve, y estos dias irán todos á
la escuela con el Maestro, à estudiar lo que hán de cantar, y rep[a]ssar [sic] lo que hán
estudiado, por que no se les olvide; y assistirán tambien á las honras, que se hazen por
los Religiosos difuntos.” Ibid.
67. “A la hora de Prima se dirà las quatro horas menores; y acabadas juntamente
con la media hora de Oracion mental, que se tendrà despues, se tocaràn dos golpes
con la Campana, y los muchachos de la escuela, que yà estaràn prevenidos, iràn
processionalmente à la Iglesia formados con su Maestro, que irà el ultimo, rezando la
Confession, ô alguna Oracion de la Doctrina; y llegando à dicha Iglesia, el Maestro de
los Cantores entonaràn el Te Deum, con el Verso, y Oracion de la Santissima Trinidad, y
concluydo, proseguiràn cantando la hora de Prima del Officio parvo de Nuestra Señora,
segun el tiempo, la qual concluyda, se dirà la Missa mayor, ô Conventual, y mientras se
estuviere cantando dicha hora de Prima, se estara tocando la Campana, todo el tiempo
que duràre dicho canto. Mas en los dias, que estuvieren los Altares de color morado, en
lugar del Te Deum, se cantar à la Letania de la Madre de Dios. Y en el tiempo que la
Missa se dize, se podrà tocar Organo, si lo huviere, û otros Instrume[n]tos, segu[n] el
tiempo, y do[n]de huviere costumbre, se rezarà el Rossario [sic] despues de la Sumpcion
de la Hostia, y Caliz.” Ibid., 128–29.
68. In Alberto Santamaria, “The Chinese Parian (El Parian de los Sangleyes),” in
The Chinese in the Philippines, ed. Alfonso Felix Jr. (Manila; New York: Solidaridad
Publishing House, 1966–69), 1:139.
69. Diego Aduarte, Historia de la Provincia del Sancto Rosario de la Orden de
Predicadores en Philippinas, Iapon, y China (Manila: Colegio de Sa[n]cto Thomas, por
Luis Beltran, 1640), 200–01.
70. Diego Camacho y Ávila, “Edicto para prohibir las comedias” (AUST, Libros,
vol. 61, no. 16).
71. “Mandamos, que todas las d[ic]has Comedias, Coloquios, ô Entremeses, que
en adelante se huvieren dos messes [sic] antes de su representacion ante n[uest]ro
Provisor, y Vicario General, para que las apruebe, ô repruebe.” Ibid., f. 79v.
72. “[Mandamos] que los representantes de ellas, sean todos hombres, y de

ninguna suerte, ni manera mugeres. [Mandamos] que las Comedias, Coloquios, ô
Entremesses, que assi se representaren sean honestas . . . de ningun modo obcenas, y
de amores, y licitas [sic], è insitativas à mal.” Ibid., f. 79r.
73. Rubio Merino, Don Diego Camacho y Ávila, 357, 361–62. The restriction of all
theatrical and dance genres would have had strong implications for the types of music
that were allowed to be cultivated. Throughout the Spanish Empire, indigenous
peoples were given little freedom in terms of arranging their own entertainment. The
Recopilación de leyes went so far as to give a universal mandate that public dances
organized by indigenous peoples could not take place without a license from the local
governor. See Recopilación de leyes de los reynos de las Indias (Madrid: Julian de Paredes,
1681. Reprint, Madrid: Ediciones Cultura Hispánica, 1973), 2:f. 193r.
74. Rubio Merino, Don Diego Camacho y Ávila, 362–63.
75. “Con el fin de que en los Teatros de esta Capital existentes ó que puedan
existir, no se ofenda á la moral y decencia y se guarde el decoro que se merece la
sociedad, y en armonia con lo dispuesto en la Real cédula de 12 de Agosto de 1705 y 6
Setiembre de 1814 no se podrá representar ninguna composicion en español ó en
idioma del pais sin previa censura y permiso de esta Superioridad.” Título VI, “De las
representaciones ó comedias”: Artículo 49, in “Reglamento de asuntos de imprenta
decretado por el Excmo. Sr. Gobernador Político Superior de estas islas en 16 de
febrero de 1857,” in Archivo del bibliófilo filipino: recopilación de documentos históricos,
científicos, literarios y políticos y estudios bibliográficos, ed. Wenceslao Emilio Retana
(Madrid, 1895–1905), 1:[25]. Another ban on comedias was issued in the archdiocese of
Manila on June 9, 1708: “Edicto sobre las comedias” (AAM, “Libro de Gobierno
Eclesiástico, Fr. Cuesta [1707–1724],” 1.C.7, folders 9–11, ff. 75r–76v). Thanks to
Luciano P. R. Santiago for drawing my attention to this decree.
76. “En los dias de dichas fiestas, y no en otros, se podrà permittir à los Indios,
hagan alguna Comedia, ô Comedias. . . . Las quales por ningun modo se representaràn
dentro de nuestras Iglesias, salvo, si fuere algun breve, y devoto Coloquio la noche de
Navidad: el Guardian, que lo contrario hiziere, sea suspenso por la primera vez de su
officio por dos meses; y por la segunda, aviendo sido amonestado por N[uest]ro. Ch.
H. Provincial, sea privado del officio. . . . Ordenamos, que antes que dichas Comedias,
Entremeses, ô Coloquios se hagan, ô representen, las vea, y registre con todo cuydado
el Guardian, ô Ministro, reparando muy bien, si son, ô no decentes; ô si acaso ay en
ellas el uso de algunas vestiduras Sacerdotales, ô Abito de nuestra Religion, ô de otra;
por que en estos casos, no se permittiràn de modo alguno, y mucho menos, si se
mezclan casos de administracion de Sacramentos, û otros qualesquiera actos
Sacerdotales. . . . Prohibimos tambien, que en dichas fiestas aya fuego de voladores, ô
que se disparen fusiles, ô arquebuzes, por los daños, y desgracias, que suelen
suceder. . . . Assi mismo se ordena, que en nuestro Convento de Manila no se permitta
representar, ô hazer Comedia alguna; y el Guardian, que lo confintiere [sic], sea
privado de los actos legitimos por un año, y qualquiere Religioso, que en dicha Ciudad
fuere à ver Comedias, si fuere Sacerdote, incurrirà en la misma pena; si Corista, ô
Lego, se le pondrà un Caparon por un año.” Estatutos y ordenaciones, 70.
77. “Júzguese de la frecuencia con que antes de mediado el siglo XVIII se hacían
comedias de todas clases y en todas partes, por esta exhortación del Arzobispo de
Manila, fechada á 29 de Marzo de 1741; el prelado exhorta á que se declare: ‘si ay

algunos que consientan que los sangleyes (chinos) hagan sus comedias y representaciones, y
los españoles y DEMAS NACIONES sin licencia, y sin estar primero vistas y examinadas
por el Ordinario, y con expresa licencia suya, DE LA MANERA QUE ESTA ASENTADO
Y MANDADO, ó algunos que conciertan que en sus estancias, tierras ó huertas, las
representen sin dicha licencia.’” Quoted in Wenceslao Emilio Retana, Noticias
históricobibliográficas de el teatro en Filipinas desde sus orígenes hasta 1898 (Madrid:
Librería general de Victoriano Suárez, 1909), 42.
78. See Felicidad Mendoza, The Comedia (Moro-Moro) Re-Discovered (Manila:
Society of St. Paul, 1976), 58–59.
79. “Comedias[.] Están ya tan introducidas entre los indios, que ganan ya en esto a
los españoles; y el no tener ellos coliseo en cada pueblo es porque no alcanza más su
caudal. Pero, en fin, ya que el ministro de Dios no las puede impedir totalmente, a lo
menos debe informar a los superiores y solicitar por todos caminos su reformación;
esto es, que sean comedias aprobadas, y con las leyes y circunstancias que tienen los
coliseos de Madrid, de México y de Manila. A pocas he asistido yo de indios, pero me
pesó a mí mil veces haber caído en este defecto.” Merino and Castro, “La provincia
filipina de Batangas,” 210–11.
80. Fidel Villarroel, “Implications of the Religious Festival in Intramuros,” in
Intramuros and Beyond (Manila: Letran College, 1975), 51.
81. Juan Ángel Rodríguez, Edicto sobre las fiestas (Manila, 1737); Fernández,
History of the Church in the Philippines, 159–60.
82. See Francisco Mateos, “Fray Juan Ángel Rodríguez, trinitario, arzobispo de
Manila (1687–1742),” Revista de Indias 23.93–94 (1963): 493–94.
83. “Quando lleguè à estas Yslas Philipinas hallè tan excessivo numero de Fiestas
de guardar, que llegaban, y cumplian un tercio de todos los dias del año . . . Examinada
la materia, halle sèr la causa de lo dicho no haverse publicado en estas Yslas, como ser
hizo en los Reynos de España, la Bulla de n[uest]ro. S. P. Urbano VIII sobre la
Reforma de las Fiestas, ò por que no se dío ôportuno aviso de dicha Bulla, como ni de
otras igualm[en]te aceptadas, y publicadas en los Reynos de España, ò por que se supo
muy tarde, y solo por los Bullarios impressos.” Juan Ángel Rodríguez, letter to Felipe
V, July 1, 1738 (AGI, Filipinas 1006). See also Mateos, “Fray Juan Ángel Rodríguez,”
493–94. On the reduction of holy days of obligation in 1642, see V. Ponko Jr., “Urban
VIII, Pope,” in New Catholic Encyclopedia (Detroit: Thomson/Gale, and Washington,
D.C.: Catholic University of America, 2003), 14:341.
84. “Las Fiestas instituidas por mis Antecessores eran 30. fuera de otras, que
instituidas tambien por los mismos llegaron despues con el tiempo à ser Universales ò
en la Yglesia, ò en los Reynos de España.” Rodríguez, letter to Felipe V, July 1, 1738
(AGI, Filipinas 1006).
85. Rodríguez, Edicto sobre las fiestas. This calendar of feasts was reinforced and
clarified in a simpler version published as part of the Ceremonial de las asistencias y
funciones de la noble ciudad de Manila, written in 1775 by Andrés Joseph Roxo, the
earliest extant edition of which was published in 1836. A table of required feasts for
the city (taken from Roxo) is also reproduced in Luis Merino, The Cabildo Secular, or
Municipal Government of Manila: Social Component, Organization, Economics (Iloilo:
Research Center, University of San Agustín, 1980), 262–64. In 1879, however, three
more three-cross feasts were added to the list by Pope Leo XIII: Saint James the
Apostle, All Saints, and the Immaculate Conception. On the changes made in the late
nineteenth century, see Villarroel, “Implications of the Religious Festival in
Intramuros,” 52.
86. “Todas las Procesiones de noche las tiene prohibidas por inconvenientes de esta
Tierra.” San Antonio, Chrónicas, 1:190. However, a mid-nineteenth-century description of
a nighttime Corpus Christi procession suggests that this ruling was revoked at some
stage. See Manuel Buzeta and Felipe Bravo, Diccionario geográfico, estadístico, histórico, de
las Islas Filipinas, etc. (Madrid: Impr. de J. C. de la Peña, 1850), 1:157.
87. “Por tanto en todos nuestros Mininisterios [sic] (contribuyan, ò no los Indios
para ello) se celebraràn cada año las tres Fiestas dichas, cada una por si, con la mayor
solemnidad possible, aviendo Visperas cantadas, Missa, Sermon, y Procession, que
andarà por fuera de la Iglesia, para lo qual se harà Palapala, y Altares (como se
acostumbra) en las dos Fiestas de Corpus, y Patron, en las quales se pondràn permitir
danzas, Saraos, Loas, y otros festejos proprios de los Indios, conforme la possibilidad
del Pueblo.” Río, Instrucciones morales y religiosas, f. 18v.
88. For a discussion of “self-determination and resistance during the fiesta,” see
Wendt, “Philippine Fiesta and Colonial Culture,” 6–7.
chapter 8
1. Luis Merino has shown, for instance, that in the years 1592–1691 22.42
percent of the total budget of the cabildo secular or municipal government of
Manila was given over to religious feasts, and 5.35 percent was spent in receiving
governors. Luis Merino, The Cabildo Secular, or Municipal Government of Manila: Social
Component, Organization, Economics (Iloilo: Research Center, University of San
Agustín, 1980), 213; see also William John Summers, “Listening for Historic Manila:
Music and Rejoicing in an International City,” Budhi: A Journal of Ideas and Culture 2.1
(1998): 204n3.
2. Of course, in the absence of any other historical sources, apart from
descriptions by (European) travelers such as Le Gentil de la Galaisière, these
hyperbolic accounts must be treated with caution.
3. Alva Rodríguez notes that whereas feasts in Manila were celebrated on a
smaller scale than some in other parts of the Spanish Empire, they nevertheless stood
out in terms of “exoticism and originality.” Inmaculada Alva Rodríguez, Vida
municipal en Manila, siglos XVI–XVII (Córdoba: Universidad de Córdoba, 1997), 123.
She claims additionally that the religious feasts of the year that were most
representative of the city were those of Saint Andrew, Saint Potentiana, and Corpus
Christi. See ibid., 112.
4. Mikhail Bakhtin, Rabelais and His World, trans. Hélène Iswolsky (Cambridge,
Mass.: MIT Press, 1968), 10; Vanessa Agnew, Enlightenment Orpheus: The Power of
Music in Other Worlds (New York: Oxford University Press, 2008), 126.
5. Reinhard Wendt, “Philippine Fiesta and Colonial Culture,” Philippine Studies
46.1 (1998): 6.
6. Note in margin to the text of the sarao: “Reverencia al Rei en su retrato.”
Francisco Moya y Torres, Lealtad empeñada finezas de amor y bizarra idea de desempeños
que dio la noble ciudad de Manila cabeza y corte de las Filipinas en las festivas
acclamaciones, con que aplaudio la feliz nueva de el govierno del rey nuestro señor D. Carlos
segundo que Dios guarde (Manila: Imprenta en la Compañia de Jesus por D. Santiago de
Matangso, 1678), 39.
7. “Le jour destiné pour les Mœtis, ils parurent dans deux chars assez beaux,
pleins de Musiciens & de Déclamateurs; dans un de ces chars étoit un tableau
représentant l’Infant & l’Infante; ce char s’approcha du balcon, & un des
Déclamateurs, après un compliment fort court, présenta le tableau au Gouverneur, &
lui en fit présent au nom de ceux qui étoient dans le char, ensuite sortirent de ce char
plusieurs danseurs, qui exécutèrent des danses & sauts singuliers à la façon du pays,
au son de plusieurs instrumens.” Guillaume Joseph Le Gentil de la Galaisière, Voyage
dans les mers de l’Inde (Paris: Imprimérie Royale, 1779–81), 2:125–26.
8. The only relevant text appears to be one titled “Celebridad de la Coronacion
del S[eño]r. Philippo Quinto Rey de las Españas,” a manuscript by Jesuit Blaise de
Mesa, dated 1701, which according to Robertson was held in the “Archives du Gesù” in
Rome. See James Alexander Robertson, Bibliography of the Philippine Islands, Printed
and Manuscript, Preceded by a Descriptive Account of the Most Important Archives and
Collections Containing Philippina (Cleveland: Arthur H. Clark, 1908. Reprint, New
York: Kraus Reprint, 1970), 321. However, this source has not yet been located in the
Jesuits’ Roman archives and may be lost.
9. His birthdate was August 25, 1707, but the news took considerable time to
traverse the Atlantic and Pacific Oceans. Luis succeeded to the Spanish throne on
February 9, 1724, but died of smallpox on August 31, 1724. See Robert Murrell
Stevenson, “Sor Juana Inés de la Cruz’s Musical Rapports: A Tercentenary
Remembrance,” Inter-American Music Review 15.1 (1996): 18. Felipe V had abdicated in
favor of Luis but resumed the throne after his son’s death.
10. An account of the festivities of December 1708 is given in Leales
demostraciones, amantes finezas, y festivas aclamaciones de la novilissima ciudad de
Manila, con que agradecida a los divinos beneficios expresa su fino amor en las nueve fiestas
que celebrô, patente el divino rey de reyes en el ss. sacramento; y colocada en la capilla mayor
desta s. metropolitana iglesia la milagrosa ymagen de Maria Santissima de Guia, en accion
de gracias por el dichoso y feliz nacimiento de nuestro príncipe, y señor natural D. Luis
Phelipe Fernando Joseph, que Dios guarde, y las consagra a magestad catholica del señor D.
Phelipe quinto rey de las Españas (Manila: Imprenta de la Compañia de Jesus por D.
Gaspar Aquino de Belen, 1709). There is also a description (published in Mexico) of
nine “panegyrical expressions” that were held in Manila from January 6 to 8, 1709,
not only in honor of the birth of the prince but also in celebration of the “joyful news
of the triumphs and victories obtained” by the king. See Juan Ygnacio de Ochoa,
Exprecion panegirica, solemne demonstracion de las festivas reales, y magestuosas pompas
con que solemniçô el maestre de campo D. Thomas de Endaya, con su sargento mayor,
capitanes y Real Tercio, dè estas Islas Philipinas. el feliz nacimiento de nuestro principe, y
señor Don Luis Phelipe Fernando, (que Dios guarde) y las alegres noticias de los triumphos,
y victorias conseguidas por nuestro grande monarca, y señor Philippo V. el grande. acuya
magestad el capitan Juan Ignacio de Ochoa, vecino de la ciudad de Manila, y professor de
mathematicas, sacrifica rendido quanto escriviò obediente (Mexico: Francisco de Ribera
Calderon, 1710).
notes to page 218 325
11. “Despues de la primera jornada entretuvo el auditorio un gracioso entremes,

al uso de la tierra.” Leales demostraciones, ff. 16v–17r.
12. Wenceslao Emilio Retana, Noticias históricobibliográficas de el teatro en Filipinas
desde sus orígenes hasta 1898 (Madrid: Librería general de Victoriano Suárez, 1909), 45.
13. Leales demostraciones, ff. 27v, 54v. Although no musical details of these
comedias’ performance in Manila are included in the descriptions of the festivity,
Stevenson notes that the “one substantial musical interlude in Los empeños inhabits
Act II, lines 413–444, at which juncture five soloists and two coros argue the question,
‘Which is the harshest of love’s pains?’” Stevenson, “Sor Juana Inés de la Cruz’s
Musical Rapports,” 18.
14. San Pedro del Castillo was born in Parañaque, Extramuros de Manila.
Santiago Vela writes that “it appears that copies or the original of these two
compositions [the vejamen and the second loa] are found in the archive of San Agustín
of Manila” (“parece que se encuentra copia o el original de estas dos composiciones en
el archivo de San Agustín de Manila”). Gregorio de Santiago Vela, Ensayo de una
biblioteca ibero-americana de la orden de San Agustín (Madrid: Imp. Asilo de Huérfanos
del S. C. de Jesús, 1913–31), 7:257. Whether this source contained texts alone or
musical settings as well is unknown. Although most of the Augustinian archives were
moved to Valladolid before World War II, this particular source has not yet been
located. These works and others are discussed in David Irving, “Musical Politics of
Empire: The Loa in Eighteenth-Century Manila,” Early Music 32.3 (2004): 384–402.
15. Leales demostraciones, ff. 73v–77r.
16. The two finally agree, singing, “Buele Buele Buele / Por siglos y eternidades
immensas” (“Fly, fly, fly / for centuries and immense eternities”). Ibid., f. 77r.
17. Wenceslao Emilio Retana, Aparato bibliográfico de la historia general de Filipinas
deducido de la colección que posee en Barcelona la Compañía General de Tabacos de dichas
islas (Madrid: Imprenta de la Sucesora de M. Minuesa de los Ríos, 1906), 1:230.
18. See verses describing demonstrations of loyalty, such as: “Coronaban las
fiestas muchas danzas / De Indios, de Iapones, y de Negros, / Que à su barbara
usanza competian / En jugar compazados sus meneos.” In Descripcion de las fiestas
r[ea]les con que la muy noble, y siempre fidelissima ciudad de Manila, metropoli de las Islas
Philipinas. celebro los felices desposorios del serenissimo señor D. Fernando principe de
Asturias, con la señora infanta de Portugal D. Maria; y del serenissimo principe del Brasil,
con la s[eño]ra infanta de España (Manila: Imp. de la Comp. de Jesus, por D. Sebastian
Lopez Sabino, 1731), f. 15v.
19. Relacion de las expresivas demostraciones de la mas fina lealtad, en los publicos
regozijos, que dispuso a su costa, y con que solemnizó la nobilisima, y siempre leal ciudad de
Manila, cabeza de las Islas Philipinas, y madre de el basto archipielago de San Lazaro. la
elevacion al trono de su merecida grandeza, de el grande rey, y señor de las Españas, y de las
Indias D. Fernando Sexto de Borbon que dedican, y consagran al mismo señor rey, y
catholico monarca, los capitulares de la nobilisima ciudad de Manila (Manila: Imprenta de
la Compañia de Jesus, por D. Nicolas de la Cruz Bagay, 1749), ff. 41r, 46v.
20. Nevertheless, poems purportedly written by non-Europeans and made public
in the funeral ceremonies were sometimes reproduced. See, for example, poems in
Joaquin Mesquida, La perla del oriente derretida en llanto, y llanto elevado a perla fina de
lealtad en las sentidas expresiones del dolor amante, con que la m. noble, y m. leal ciudad de
Manila celebró las reales exequias a la immortal memoria de su querida catholico monarca.
Don Philipo V. (que de Dios goza) consagrada a la S. C. R. M. G. del rey N. S. Don
Fernando VI (Manila: Imprenta de la Compañia de Jesus por Don Nicolas de la Cruz
Bagay, 1748). The title of this publication appears to contain one of the earliest known
printed references to Manila as “Pearl of the Orient.”
21. See “Royal Funeral Rites at Manila,” in The Philippine Islands, 1493–1898, ed.
Emma H. Blair and James A. Robertson (Cleveland: Arthur H. Clark, 1903–9),
36:23–43. The news of this royal death reached Manila in December 1647 via the
Dutch, who were attacking the Philippines at the time and used this news as means of
demoralizing the Spaniards; the official royal announcement only reached the islands
in July 1648, and “the king ordered the demonstrations of sorrow to be made on the
same scale as if intended for his own person.” Ibid., 24–25.
22. “Haziendose toda esta Republica un Theatro de dolor, ostenta[n]dose en cada
uno la lealtad tan correspondida de sentimientos, como admiraba de las naciones
barbaras, que comercian en estas Islas . . . Cantó cada Comunidad sucesivamente su
responso con diferentes Capillas de Musicos, tan diestros, que pueden competir con
los de la Europa. . . . El dia siguiente Martes 10. de Noviembre antes que el sol
despertara, madrugó el cuidado y solicitud de las sagradas Familias, concurriendo
todas co[n] diferentes coros de musicos a la Real Capilla: donde en diferentes altares,
que les fueron señalados, cantaron cada qual su Missa, y después su responso enfrente
del Real Tumulo.” “Aparato fúnebre y real pira de honor. (Funerales en honra del
Príncipe Baltasar Carlos.) Manila, S. Pinpín, 1649,” in Archivo del bibliófilo filipino:
recopilación de documentos históricos, científicos, literarios y políticos y estudios
bibliográficos, ed. Wenceslao Emilio Retana (Madrid, 1895–1905), 2:114–15, 123.
23. See, for example, Augustin Soler, Cenotaphio que erigio en las exequias de la
serenissima señora Doña Maria Luisa Gabriela de Saboya reyna de las Españas N. Señora,
la nobilisima ciudad de Manila. Capital de las Islas Filipinas. Con el epicedio, y funebre
oracion, que en ellas oro el R. P. M. Augustin Soler, de la Compañia de Jesus. En la iglesia
cathedral metropolitana de dicha ciudad el dia VII. de octubre de M.DCCXV. dedicados al
serenissimo señor Don Luys Felipe Fernando de Borbon principe de Asturias, y jurado de las
Españas (Manila: Impre[n]ta del convento de N. P. S. Francisco, por el H. Francisco de
los Santos, 1716); Juan Antonio Cantova, Real mausoleo, que a la immortal memoria de
su catholico monarca D. Luis I. erigió en sus solemnes exequias la muy noble, y leal ciudad
de Manila, capital de las Islas Philipinas y lo dedica a la S. C. R. M. G. del rey N. S. D.
Philipo V. Ideado, y descrito por el P. Juan Antonio Cantova de la Compañia de Iesus
cathedratico de prima de sagrada theologia en su universidad (Manila: Colegio, y
Universidad de Santo Thomas de Manila, por Iuan Correa, 1726); and Mesquida, La
perla del oriente.
24. Tess Knighton and Carmen Morte García, “Ferdinand of Aragon’s Entry into
Valladolid in 1513: The Triumph of a Christian King,” Early Music History 18 (1999):
119.
25. These celebrations were so extravagant that a cédula dating from September
12, 1686, limited expenditure to 2,000 pesos. See “Zedulas despachadas a Manila
(1760)” (NLC, VAULT Ayer MS 1440), ff. 62v–63r. By the early eighteenth century
this budget rose back to 4,000 pesos, but in 1759 was reduced by three-quarters due to
poor civic finances: “October 23, 1759. The City of Manila had permission to spend
4,000 pesos for the reception of new governors. In view of the poor financial state of
the city as a result of general expulsion of Chinese pagans, the burning of the Parian
which cost 28,000 pesos to repair, and the poor state of trade with New Spain, this
sum is reduced to 1,000 pesos, half of which is to be taken from the funds of the
Town Council.” See Nicholas P. Cushner, Helen Tubangui, and Domingo Abella, eds.,
Cedulario de Manila: A Collection of Laws Emanating from Spain which Governed the City
of Manila 1547–1832 (Manila: National Archives, 1971), 93–94.
26. Retana, Noticias históricobibliográficas, 58.
27. “Al descubrir al señor gobernador antes de entrar en la ciudad le hizo salva la
artillería de los fuertes que están en la puerta de Bagunbaya, y viéndole dentro se
repicó en nuestra casa, tocáronse las chirimías, y cantó la capilla un villancico.” Letter
by Juan Lopez, reproduced in Vicente Barrantes, Guerras piráticas de Filipinas contra
mindanaos y joloanos, corregidas é ilustradas por Don Vicente Barrantes (Madrid:
Imprenta de Manuel G. Hernández, 1878), 305.
28. English translation in Juan Lopez, “Corcuera’s Triumphant Entry into
Manila,” in The Philippine Islands, 1493–1898, ed. Emma H. Blair and James
A. Robertson (Cleveland: Arthur H. Clark, 1903–9), 27:337. The original text reads:
“Alegraban la procesion mucha variedad de danzas y otras invenciones con varios
instrumentos músicos y dos órganos portátiles.” Barrantes, Guerras piráticas, 308.
29. Pedro Murillo Velarde, Historia de la Provincia de Philipinas de la Compañía de
Jesús. Segunda parte, que comprehende los progresos de esta provincia desde el año de 1616
hasta el de 1716 (Manila: en la Imprenta de la Compañía de Jesús, por D. Nicolas de la
Cruz Bagay, 1749), ff. 216v–19v. For a translation and criticism of this text, see María
Patricia Brillantes-Silvestre, “Literatura, música y cultura: una traducción al inglés de
unos documentos selectos en español sobre la música de Filipinas pre-hispánica e
hispánica,” M.A. thesis, University of the Philippines, 1998.
30. Its objective was, according to Wendt, “to promote the notion of a colonial
society in which Spaniards and natives were united in their mutual veneration of the
Madonna who spread her protective mantle over all sections of the
population, . . . which at the same time made the existing social and political order
appear natural and willed by God. . . . This Madonna, who with her brown skin seemed
to be a local, was . . . not merely the patron saint of Spanish colonial interests.” Wendt,
“Philippine Fiesta and Colonial Culture,” 11. See also Monina A. Mercado, Antipolo:
A Shrine to Our Lady (Manila: Aletheia Foundation, 1980), 14, 49.
31. “Se les hizo el recibimiento mas solemne, que se ha visto en estas Islas.”
Murillo Velarde, Historia de la Provincia de Philipinas, f. 216v.
32. “Salieron à la playa el Il[ustrísi]mo Señor Doctor Don Fr. Iuan de
Arechederra, Governador, y Capitan General, el Il[ustrísi]mo Señor Doctor Don Fr.
Pedro de la Santissima Trinidad, Arzobispo de esta Metropolitana, muchos Religiosos
de todas las Sagradas Religiones, casi todo el vecindario, y Pueblo inumerable. Hizo
salva la artilleria, y se dispararon muchos fuegos artificiales. Formòse una lucidisima
devota procesion, y cantando Hymnos, y alabanzas à la Reyna de los Cielos, fue al
Convento de Santo Domingo, en donde se colocaron las dos sagradas Imagenes. El dia
siguiente se llevò à Palacio la Virgen de Antipolo, y se depositò en la Capilla; donde
siempre ubo un crecido concurso de los devotos, que iban à rezar, à ofrecer obsequios,
y à pedir mercedes à la Señora.” Ibid., ff. 216v–17r.
33. “A demas de la Champana, en que iba la Virgen, acompañada del Señor

Governador, la fueron cortejando varias Champanas, y embarcaciones de Españoles,
Indios, Sangleyes, y otras Naciones.” Ibid., f. 217r.
34. “En dos se detubo el acompañamiento, mientras festejaban à la Santisima
Virgen con loas devotas, y elegantes, y con bellas canciones de vozes suaves, y
apacibles, acompañadas de dulces acordes instrumentos. A la armoniosa
consonancia de rabeles, harpas, violones, flautas, y obues [sic], correspondian los
continuos disparos de varios artificios de polvora, interpolandose entre el horror de
los unos, y la suavidad de los otros, las alegres guerreras consonancias de tambores,
trompas, y clarines.” Ibid., f. 217r. Although the term rabeles implies rebecs, it
probably refers more loosely to a variety of treble bowed string instruments, so I
have translated it as “fiddles.”
35. “Luego que entrò en su Templo la Soberana Emperatriz se entonò el Te
Deum, que acompañaron divididos, y alternados varios coros de musica de la Capilla
Real de Manila, y de muchos Pueblos con variedad de acordes sonoros instrumentos.”
Ibid., f. 217v.
36. “Las Congragantas de la Santisima Virgen, como primogenitas de la Señora,
fueron las primeras, que la empezaron à festejar. Cantaron con gran afecto, y devocion
el Aba po, ò Salve en Tagalo. Despues en metro elegante del mismo idioma le dieron la
bien venida, acompañando uniformes la voz, el instrumento, y el compàs con
agradable armonia, cantaron, y recitaron con demonstraciones de cariño, ternura, y
confianza muchas alabanzas, à la que veneran Madre.” Ibid., f. 218v.
37. “Las dos noches ubo dos serenatas, en que se cantaron tonadas de
composicion Española, y estrangera, antiguas, y modernas, en que se viò lo mejor del
arte en arias, recitados, fugas, graves, y todo genero de variedad, y buen gusto con
algunos saynetes sazonados. Se tocaron con delicadeza, y primor muchos
instrumentos de ayre, y de cuerda, alternaron vozes de tiples, altos, y tenores, que
cantaron con gran gala, ayre, y destreza, por aver concurrido en este Pueblo las
mejores, y mas diestras vozes, y lo mas inteligentes musicos de estas Islas. Y sin
dificultad las dos serenatas ubieran tenido el debido aplauso en qualquier Ciudad
populosa de Europa.” Ibid., f. 219v.
38. See discussion of celebrations in honor of the Virgin of Guadalupe in
Bernardo Illari, “Polychoral Culture: Cathedral Music in La Plata (Bolivia), 1680–
1730,” Ph.D. diss., University of Chicago, 2001, esp. part III (vol. 2).
39. Retana remarks that “it is extremely curious that the unfortunate Alimuddin
was the first sultan who entered Manila with the honors of a prince” (“Es sumamente
curiosa: Alimudín, el desdichado, fué el primer sultán que entró en Manila con
honores de príncipe”). Wenceslao Emilio Retana, ed., Archivo del bibliófilo filipino:
recopilación de documentos históricos, científicos, literarios y políticos y estudios bibliográficos
(Madrid: Librería General de Victoriano Suárez, 1895–1905), 1:xxv–xxvi. But as far as is
known, he was also the only sultan (from the Southeast Asian region or any other
territory) to do so.
40. Horacio de la Costa, Asia and the Philippines: Collected Historical Essays
(Manila: Solidaridad Publishing House, 1967), 81, 88; Nicholas Tarling, Sulu and
Sabah: A Study of British Policy Towards the Philippines and North Borneo from the Late
Eighteenth Century (Kuala Lumpur: Oxford University Press, 1978), 11–12.
41. Juan de Arechederra, “Relacion de la entrada del Sultan Rey de Jolo Mahamad
Alimudin en esta ciudad de Manila,” in Archivo del bibliófilo filipino: recopilación de
documentos históricos, científicos, literarios y políticos y estudios bibliográficos, ed.
Wenceslao Emilio Retana (Madrid, 1895–1905), 1:[11–12].
42. “Causaban las continuadas musicas de sonoros instrumentos, que en cada
morada de los Vezinos alternaban à competencia la suavidad, y melodia, yà con
quiebros gorgeos, suspiros bajos, pausas, y ecos, yà con tiples, con tenores, y
contraaltos [sic], multiplicadas vozes, y numerosos choros celebraban mas que con
canto llano la entrada del Sultan.” Ibid., [12–13].
43. Ibid., [15–16].
44. For an overview of this genre, see Corazon Canave-Dioquino, “The Lowland
Christian Philippines,” in The Garland Encyclopedia of World Music, ed. Terry Miller
and Sean Williams (New York: Garland Publishing, 1998), 4:856; and Felicidad M.
Mendoza, The Comedia (Moro-Moro) Re-Discovered (Manila: Society of St. Paul, 1976).
46. “Se promulgó un Bando en consequencia de estos elevados respectos,
paraque todos los Vezinos, y habitantes en los extramuros, y vezindades entendiessen
que se avia de solemnizar, y celebrar al nuevo Rey Christiano con 4. dias de
Luminarias, tres de Mogigangas, otros tres de Toros, y 4. noches de fuegos artificiales
con tres Comedias, y por Corona una Missa de gracia con Panegirico, y assi que todos
bien inteligenciados con curriessen [sic] de su parte cada uno aver y à alegrarse, y à
contribuir festivas, demostraciones à el nobilisimo objeto del Santo Bautismo en el
primer Rey de Iolo, que depuso el Mahometismo.” Arechederra, “Relacion de la
entrada,” [33].
47. “Las fiestas comenzaron publicamente en el Orden porpuesto; los gremios de
los Pueblos ò de los extramuros, y arrabales, assi Naturales, Mestizos, y Sangleyes
hizieron sus Mogigangas, con mill graciosidades porque traian sus Carros encendidos,
acompañados de Choros de Musica con Loas muy al intento, y espectaculos muy del
caso, enlazando danzas y muchas imbenciones, que hacian al tiempo muy grato, y
muy alegre.” Ibid., [34].
48. “El Señor Governador embie á Samboangan por su Hijo Primogenito, y la
Infanta para que se eduquen en esta Capital conforme à la politica española, y
professen la Ley de Iesu-Christo se pone la clave à la perplexidad. Los incas, para
asegurar sus conquistas, traian à su Corte, los Primogenitos de los regulos, resguardo
bien prudente, que vincula la seguridad en los baybenes de la fortuna, y volubilidad.”
Ibid., [40].
49. Costa, The Jesuits in the Philippines, 548–49. After the arrival of Governor
Arandía in 1754, however, he was allowed freedom of movement within Intramuros.
Costa, Asia and the Philippines, 93.
50. In return, ’Azı m̄ ud-Dı n ̄ ceded to the British his territories in northern
Borneo. See Costa, The Jesuits in the Philippines, 549. For an overview of British
involvement in this fascinating episode in the history of the Philippines, see Tarling,
Sulu and Sabah, 10–22.
51. “Y porque en el camino de Palacio a nuestro Colegio, se ofrecia passar por
delante de la Iglesia Cathedral, y Convento de San Agustin, en entrambas partes les
saludaron con repique de campanas, y salieron a las puertas los Capitulares, y

Religiosos a recibirles. Se vieron ellos obligados a apearse, y entrar en sus Iglesias, y
hazer breve oracion, acompañada de musica de menestriles, organos, y otros
instrumentos. En nuestro Colegio se les hizo el mismo recibimiento, y con la misma
solemnidad, y fiesta: añadiendose un Te Deum Laudamus in gratiarum actionem, a
canto de organo, con muy buena Capilla.” Francisco Colín and Pedro Chirino, Labor
evangelica, ministerios apostolicos de los obreros de la Compañia de Iesus, fundacion, y
progressos de su provincia en las Islas Filipinas. Historiados por el padre Francisco Colin
provincial de la misma compañía, calificador del Santo Oficio, y su comissario en la
governacion de Samboanga, y su distrito. Parte primera, sacada de los manuscritos del padre
Pedro Chirino, el primero de la Compañia que passò de los Reynos de España a estas Islas,
por orden, y a costa de la Catholica, y Real Magestad (Madrid: Por Ioseph Fernandez de
Buendia, 1663), 741. Pastells, in his edition of Colín’s Labor evangélica, cites the
original source: the “Anuas de Filipinas de 1614,” by Ledesma. This qualifies that the
Jesuit college also received them with chirimías: “Aviendo de pasar por el camino
hasta n[uest]ro. collegio, delante de la yglesia catedral, y de los P[adr].es Agustinos,
todos començaron a repicar sus campanas, y salieron a la puerta para recebirlo, y assi
fue forçado a apearse en ambas partes, y lo recivieron con ministriles, organos, y otros
generos de musica, haziendole la mayor fiesta que de paso podian, en nro. collegio
tambien fue recebido con la misma fiesta y solemnidad de repiques chirimias etc.
acrecentando un Te Deum laudamus que in gratiarum actionem, se canto a canto de
organo con muy buena capilla y de alli fue llevado al refitorio de donde aquel dia
comio, y luego se fue a descansar a su posada, que eran unas casas principales cerca
de n[uest]ro. collegio.” Francisco Colín, Pedro Chirino, and Pablo Pastells, Labor
evangélica, ministerios apostolicos de los obreros de la Compañia de Jesus, fundacion, y
progressos de su provincia en las Islas Filipinas. Historiados por el padre Francisco Colín.
Parte primera sacada de los manuscritos del padre Pedro Chirino, el primero de la
Compañia que passó de los reynos de España a estas islas, por orden, y a costa de la
catholica, y real magestad (Barcelona: Impr. y Litografía de Henrich y Compañía,
1900–02), 3:489n1.
52. Consider, for example, a Japanese delegation to Iberia and Rome in the
sixteenth century, Siamese embassies to France in the seventeenth century, and
Ottoman embassies to Europe (especially France) in the eighteenth century. On
these see, respectively, David B. Waterhouse, “Southern Barbarian Music in
Japan,” in Portugal and the World: The Encounter of Cultures in Music, ed. Salwa
El-Shawan Castelo-Branco (Lisbon: Publicações Dom Quixote, 1997), 351–77;
Ronald S. Love, “Rituals of Majesty: France, Siam, and Court Spectacle in Royal
Image-Building at Versailles in 1685 and 1686,” Canadian Journal of History 31
(1996): 171–98; and Yirmisekiz Çelebi Mehmed and Gilles Venstein, Le paradis des
infidèles: relation de Yirmisekiz Çelebi Mehmed Efendi, ambassadeur ottoman en
France sous la régence, trans. Julien-Claude Galland (Paris: François Maspero,
1981).
53. Some principal published accounts of festivities for beatifications and
canonizations in early modern Manila include Jose Sanchez del Castellar, Descripcion
festiva, y verdadera relacion de las celebres pompas, y esmerados aciertos, con que la sagrada
religion de la Compañia de Iesus aplaudio gozosa en estas Philipinas la canonizacion de su
gran padre San Francisco de Borja, y beatificacion del Beato señor rey Don Fernando, y del
Beato Estanislao Koska de la Compañia (Manila: Imprenta de la Compañia de Iesus por
Sanctiago Dimatangso, 1674); Felipe Pardo et al., Sagrada fiesta: tres vezes grande: que
en el discurso de tres dias zelebro el Convento de Sancto Domingo de Manila, primera casa
de la Provincia del Sancto Rosario de Filippinas: en la beatificacion de los gloriossos sanctos
Pio Quinto, Diego de Bebaña, y Margarita de Castello (Manila: Collegio, y Universidad de
Sancto Thomas de Aquino. Por el Capitan D. Gaspar de los Reyes, 1677); Pedro
Murillo Velarde, Sermones, certamen, y relacion de la fiesta, con que solemnizo el maximo
colegio de la Compañia de Jesus de Manila la canonizacion de los dos nuevos astros de la
iglesia, S. Estanislao de Kostka, y S. Luis Gonzaga (Manila: Impr. de la Comp. de Jesus,
por D. Sebastian Lopez Sabino, 1729); and Diego Saenz, Festivas expressiones, aplausos
celebres, y sagrados triumphos, con que la Santa Provincia del Smo. Rosario de las Islas
Philipinas celebró la beatificacion del nuevo astro dominico, San Benedicto XI. en el
Convento de N. P. S. Domingo de la ciudad de Manila, el dia 7. de julio del año de 1741
(Sampaloc Extra-muros de la Ciudad de Manila: Convento de Nra. Señora de Loreto
del Orden Seraphico, 1742).
54. “Y paraque en todo fuera un remedo de la gloria el Templo, à el son de
acordes instrumentos (haciendo las veces, y imitando las voces de los Angeles los
Hombres) se oìan dulces motetes, alleluyas suaves, y acordes canticos de exultacion,
los que iban dirigidos à la Magestad, que ocupaba el Throno, y llenaban de devocion, y
jubilo los corazones catholicos de todos los Philipinos.” Saenz, Festivas expressiones, 28.
Although the label “los Philipinos” could be meant to apply strictly to Spaniards in the
Philippines, it could also be interpreted here as a reference to all Christian inhabitants
of the islands.
55. The celebrations for the beatification of Ignatius of Loyola were described by
Jesuit Provincial Gregorio López. His lengthy account is reproduced in Colín, Chirino,
and Pastells, Labor evangélica, 3:268–72n2. It is also discussed in William John
Summers, “The Jesuits in Manila, 1581–1621: The Role of Music in Rite, Ritual and
Spectacle,” in The Jesuits: Cultures, Sciences, and the Arts, 1540–1773, ed. T. Frank
Kennedy and John W. O’Malley (Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 1999), 663–64.
Celebrations for the beatification of Francis Xavier are reported in “Relatio brevis
eorum, quæ Manilæ celebrata sunt, in die Beatificationis Patris Nostri S. Francisci
Xaverij, 2. Decembris Anni. 1621” (ARSI, Philipp. 6–II), ff. 291v–302r. For
observances of the beatification of the Nagasaki Martyrs, see Retana, Noticias
históricobibliográficas, 31, and Juan de la Concepción, Historia general de Philipinas:
conquistas espirituales y temporales de estos españoles dominios, establecimientos progresos, y
decadencias (Manila: Por Agustín de la Rosa y Balagtas, 1788–92), 6:chapter 1.
56. “Ecclesia v.o hominum multitudine redundanti magna cum solemnitate
vesperas inceperunt tres chori. Clericus quidam Japonensis opinione maior musicus
organa percurrere cepit: et Missas composuit, antiphonas eaque quæ ad carmina
honoris commoda erant modulatus est non pauca.” “Relatio brevis eorum” (ARSI,
Philipp. 6–II), ff. 292v–93r. In around 1706, Oña updated this account in his
unpublished history “Labor evangelicus in Philippinis,” claiming that alongside some
very effective musical settings of Vespers and the Mass, this Japanese organist also
composed a villancico “as he was very skilled in music” (“se comenzaron las Visperas
en que no dexo de concurrir el Japon, por que un Clerigo su natural, q[ue] era el
332 notes to page 225
organista[,] avia compuesto para aquel dia Visperas, Missa, y Villancico con especial
punto por ser muy diestro en la Musica”). Diego de Oña, “Labor evangelicus in
Philippinis,” 2 vols, c. 1706 (ARSI, Philipp. 19), 89–90. Oña may have been
expanding the letter of 1621, of course. Murillo Velarde also made a succinct summary
of these accounts in his Historia of 1749, stating simply that the Japanese cleric, who
was a musician and an organist, “in honor of and gratitude to his holy apostle, played
various compositions of good taste” (“Concurriò à la celebridad de estas fiestas un
Clerigo Iapon organista, y musico, que en honra, y agradecimiento à su Santo Apostol,
hizo varias composiciones de buen gusto”). Murillo Velarde, Historia de la Provincia de
Philipinas, f. 16v.
57. Born in Nagasaki in 1576, Shiozuka entered a Jesuit seminary in 1588 at age
eleven, and was described as an artist, a performer on musical instruments (tangedor),
and even choirmaster (mestre da capela). According to Yukimi Kambe, a letter written
in 1603 by Diego Mesquita reported on the music training in the seminary at Arima,
where students learned to sing plainchant and polyphony, “and to play the cravo,
orgãos, violas darco [sic], and other instruments.” Kambe claims that at this time
Shiozuka was a teacher of music at this seminary. In 1607 he joined the Society of
Jesus, and in 1614 he crossed to Macau in the evacuation of the entire seminary as part
of the mass exodus of Japanese Christians. He soon traveled to Manila, where he was
ordained; he probably ministered to the exiled Japanese communities in San Miguel
and the district of Dilao, near Manila. Eventually he was encouraged by several
Dominicans to accompany them on a mission back to Japan in 1636; around this time
he entered the Dominican order, changing his name to Vicente de la Cruz. The
following year, after a lengthy trial and imprisonment, he was executed in Japan in the
habit of the Dominican order. This biographical information is summarized from
Waterhouse, “Southern Barbarian Music,” 359–60, 367; Yukimi Kambe, “Viols in
Japan in the Sixteenth and Early Seventeenth Centuries,” Journal of the Viola da Gamba
Society of America 37 (2000): 62–63; and Fidel Villarroel, Lorenzo Ruiz: The
Protomartyr of the Philippines and His Companions, 3rd ed. (Manila: Corporación de PP.
Dominicos de Filipinas, 1988), 62.
According to biographers of the Augustinian order in the Philippines, Fray
Guillermo de Silva y Cárdenas was born around about the turn of the seventeenth
century in Japan, but then professed and finished his studies in the Augustinian
convent of Manila. He was a famous musician and for many years was organist in the
Augustinian church. He died in 1647, but there is tantalizingly little other
information about him. It is possible that Silva y Cardenás was a Spaniard born in
Japan, as the chroniclers made no comment to the contrary (which would usually
have been the case with non-European members of religious orders). However, it is
possible to speculate that he had some Japanese ancestry. This biographical
information is summarized from Manuel Merino, Agustinos evangelizadores de
Filipinas 1565–1965 (Madrid: Archivo Agustiniano, 1965), 440; Elviro Jorde Pérez,
Catálogo bio-bibliográfico de los religiosos agustinos de la Provincia del Santissimo Nombre
de Jesús de las Islas Filipinas desde fundación hasta nuestros días (Manila:
Establecimiento tip. del Colegio de Sto. Tomás, 1901), 195; and Pedro G. Galende and
Regalado Trota José, San Agustín: Art and History 1571–2000 (Intramuros, Manila: San
Agustín Museum, 2000), 138.
58. The martyrs included Spaniards, a Mexican, and many Japanese Christians
who were crucified and lanced at Nagasaki on February 5, 1597. According to Retana,
the news of the pontifical brief concerning the canonization arrived in Manila in the
middle of 1629, but the celebrations were not held until February of the following
year. This decision was probably made to coincide with the newly established feast day.
Retana, Noticias históricobibliográficas, 31.
59. “Entró con este orden [la procesión] en la Iglesia Cathedral, y se cantaron las
visperas à siete Choros de acorde Musica, llevando el compas de direccion el Padre
Fray Martin de Carmena Franciscano, excelente Musico; el Señor Obispo Presidente
hizo el Oficio, con asistencia de Canonigos; huvo à la noche siguiente Illuminaciones,
fuegos artificiales de muy buena invencion, Clamoreando las Campanas con sus
festivos repiques: el dia inmediato, y à su hora, se bolvió à ordenar la Procession, que
saliò en el mismo orden de la Cathedral, y fuè à la Iglesia de San Francisco.”
Concepción, Historia general de Philipinas, 6:5–6. See also William John Summers,
“Music in the Cathedral: Some Historical Vignettes,” in Manila Cathedral: Basilica of
the Immaculate Conception, ed. Ruperto C. Santos (Manila: Archdiocesan Archives of
Manila, 1997), 155.
60. Raymundo C. Bañas, Pilipino Music and Theater (Quezon City: Manlapaz
Publishing, 1969), 175. Bañas may be summarizing the continued description of the
festivities in Concepción, Historia general de Philipinas, 6:6, which reads as follows:
“Celebrò de Pontifical el mismo Illustrissimo, y Predicò el Maestro Juan de Arriola:
continuaron los dias siguientes las Sagradas Religiones con Altar, y Pulpito: las
tardes, y las noches, divertian corridos de Toros, Comedias, Juegos demanos,
manejados diestramente por los Japones, y fuegos artificiales por las noches: huvo
tambien fiestas literarias, Certamines [sic] poêticos, en alabanza de los Santos
Martyres, con Ricos premios, propuestos à los Vencedores, de Oro, Plata, Perlas, y
Diamantes, con determinados Juezes Eclesiasticos, y Seculares, con la formalidad de
Secretario: huvo disfraces en Mascaras con costosas libreas, asistiendo en calidad de
Gefe el Muy Illustre Señor Governador.” The “games of hands” of the Japanese
(“Juegos demanos, manejados diestramente por los Japones”) may refer to a type of
martial arts.
61. María Lourdes Díaz-Trechuelo López-Spínola, “Filipinas en el siglo de la
Ilustración,” in Historia general de Filipinas, ed. Leoncio Cabrero (Madrid: Ediciones de
Cultura Hispánica, 2000), 261, 264.
62. An account dating from 1647 of the numerous battles in the invasion attempt
is given by Joseph Fayol, “Affairs in Filipinas, 1644–47,” in The Philippine Islands,
1903–9), 35:227–51.
64. A description of the event is given in an unsigned document titled “Relation
of Events in the Philipinas Islands, 1619–20,” in The Philippine Islands, 1493–1898, ed.
Emma H. Blair and James A. Robertson (Cleveland: Arthur H. Clark, 1903–9),
19:42–70 (the relevant passage is found on pp. 61–66). See also a discussion of this
event in Summers, “The Jesuits in Manila,” 664–66.
65. “Relation of Events in the Philipinas Islands,” 63.
66. Ibid., 64–66.
67. One account of festivities from 1749 states: “Los Balcones de sus Casas se
adornaron con todo lo q[ue] el artificioso desvelo de la China, Vengala, y Persia ha
inventado para el fausto.” Relacion de las expresivas demostraciones, f. 15r.
68. On dances and dance music in late sixteenth- and early seventeenth-century
Manila, see Summers, “Listening for Historic Manila,” 213–14.
69. “Le tout fut accompagné par une musique ou chant chinois fort baroque &
des plus désagréables, quoique cadencé ou mesuré, & qu’ils exécutèrent
principalement devant la couleuvre, en lui faisant faire en même temps différens
mouvemens très-singuliers.” Le Gentil de la Galaisière, Voyage, 1:195.
70. The earliest known use of the word in reference to music dates from 1734.
See Claude V. Palisca, “Baroque,” in The New Grove Dictionary of Music and Musicians,
2nd ed., ed. Stanley Sadie and John Tyrell (London: Macmillan, 2001), 2:749.
71. Translation from ibid.; Rousseau’s original definition reads: “BAROQUE.
Une Musique Baroque est celle dont l’Harmonie est confuse, chargée de Modulations
& de Dissonnances, le Chant dur & peu naturel, l’Intonation difficile, & le Mouvement
contraint.” Jean-Jacques Rousseau, Dictionnaire de musique (Paris: Chez la veuve
Duchesne, [de l’imp. de la veuve Ballard], 1768), 40. Interestingly, Rousseau makes no
mention of rhythm or cadences (his idea of “movement” probably refers to movement
between parts), whereas Le Gentil adds such terms to his description (“quoique
cadencé ou mesuré”), suggesting that if he knew Rousseau’s definition, he needed to
amplify it to apply it to the Chinese context.
72. “Tel fut à peu de chose près le divertissement que donnèrent à Manille les
Chinois du Parian, en réjouissance de la fête royale: mais ce divertissement, loin de
plaire au Gouverneur, le révolta; il n’y vit que superstition; & ces peuples firent là,
selon lui, un acte d’idolâtrie, dans la représentation de la couleuvre à laquelle ils
sembloient, en effet, rendre un culte plutôt qu’ils ne songeoient à célébrer la fête
royale.
“Il y a bien de l’apparence que les danses, la musique & les paroles qu’on
n’entendoit point, & dont les mouvemens qu’on faisoit faire à la couleuvre
étoient accompagnés, se rapportoient à cette couleuvre comme objet du culte des
Chinois.
“Le Gouverneur que je vis deux jours après m’en parla dans ces propres termes;
& il se promettoit bien que la chose n’arriveroit point une autre fois.” Le Gentil de la
Galaisière, Voyage, 1:195. Of course, the Dominicans who ministered to the Chinese
Christians in Manila would have understood Chinese, but they would have been
unlikely to step forward to defend any performance that appeared contrary to Christian
teachings.
73. “Les Indiens donnèrent aussi des mascarades assez bien exécutées pour des
gens qui n’en avoient jamais vu; mais ils furent conduits en cela par les P. P. de la
Compagnie; au lieu que les Chinois du Parian ne le furent que par leur propre génie.”
Ibid., 2:125.
74. English translation in Charles Burney, “Chinese Music,” in The Cyclopædia;
or, Universal Dictionary of Arts, Sciences, and Literature, ed. Abraham Rees (London:
Printed for Longman, Hurst, Rees, Orme, and Brown, 1802–19), 7:n.p. The original
text reads: “Nos airs n’étant point faits pout leurs oreilles, ni leurs oreilles pour nos
airs, il n’étoit pas surprenant qu’ils n’en sentissent pas les beautés, comme ils
sentoient celles des leurs.” Jean Joseph Marie Amiot, Mémoire sur la musique des
Chinois tant anciens que modernes (Paris: Nyon l’aîné, 1779), 2–3.
75. “Tambien tenian recurso a nuestra Iglesia los Iapones, que venian a Manila,
alos [sic] quales vi una fiesta del Santissimo Sacramento hazer en ella una dança bien
grave, i devota. Por que como el vestido dellos lo es, i el son lo hazen cantando con
musica grave, i pausada, dando con las pausas unos golpes con un avanillo cerrado en
la palma de la mano izquierda: a cuyo compas mudan los pies solo dando una patada:
i inclinando algo el cuerpo, parece una extrañeza mui de ver, i que pega devocion,
mayormente a los que entienden lo que cantan, que son cosas todas a lo divino.” Pedro
Chirino, Relacion de las Islas Filipinas i de lo que en ellas an trabaiado los padres dæ la
Compañia de Iesus (Roma: Por Estevan Paulino, 1604), 14–15.
conclusion
1. Sir John Robert Seeley, The Expansion of England: Two Courses of Lectures
(London: Macmillan, 1883), 10.
2. The rapid acceleration of globalization today even presages a musical
monoculture. See David Huron, “Lost in Music,” Nature 453 (2008): 456–57.
3. See Georgina Born and David Hesmondhalgh, eds., Western Music and Its
Others: Difference, Representation, and Appropriation in Music (Berkeley: University of
California Press, 2000).
4. Timothy D. Taylor, Beyond Exoticism: Western Music and the World (Durham,
N.C.: Duke University Press, 2007), 17–42.
5. Vanessa Agnew, Enlightenment Orpheus: The Power of Music in Other Worlds
(New York: Oxford University Press, 2008), 93.
6. Gary Tomlinson, The Singing of the New World: Indigenous Voice in the Era of
European Contact (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2007), 6. On the idea of
the “contact zone,” see Mary Louise Pratt, Imperial Eyes: Travel Writing and
Transculturation (London: Routledge, 1992).
7. Bruno Nettl, The Study of Ethnomusicology: Twenty-Nine Issues and Concepts
(Urbana: University of Illinois Press, 1983), 176.
8. See Nicholas Cook, “We Are All (Ethno)musicologists Now,” in The New
(Ethno)musicologies, ed. Henry Stobart, 48–70 (Lanham, Md.: Scarecrow Press, 2008).
9. Susan McClary, “The Politics of Silence and Sound,” afterword to Jacques
Attali, Noise: The Political Economy of Music (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota
Press, 1985), 151.
10. See David Yearsley, Bach and the Meanings of Counterpoint (Cambridge:
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Index
Aba po, 220. See also Salve Regina Alfonso X, “el Sabio,” 113
Acapulco, 24, 58, 244n14 alibata. See baybayin
accommodation, Jesuit practice of, 38, Alimuddin I. See ’Azīm ud-Dīn I
121–27 Alimuddin II. See ’Azīm ud-Dīn II
Acosta, José de, 79 Allies (in World War II), 13, 14
Aduarte, Diego, 130, 210 Allsop, Peter C., 54
aerophones. See wind instruments Alonso of Camarines, 55, 175–76
aesthetics, 2, 4, 5, 6, 90, 106, 121, 137, 233 altars, 152, 162, 209, 219, 220
Aeta, 34 alto voice, 120, 221, 222
Africa, 6, 19, 20, 54, 58, 89, 122, 127, Alzina, Francisco Ignacio, 79, 86, 87,
220, 229, 231, 234, 235, 250n72, 89–90, 92–96, 122, 126, 129,
257n64 139–40, 143–44, 149, 189, 199,
Africans, 9, 32, 33, 36, 41, 42, 44, 60, 61, 201–02, 206, 266n48
62, 127, 168, 180, 205, 218, 228 ambahan, 87
Age of Discoveries, 1, 4 Americans, 9, 44, 77, 121, 131, 228
Agnew, Vanessa, 117 Americas, the, 9, 19, 22, 24, 36, 42, 46,
Agnus Dei, 207 54, 57, 58, 69, 87, 96, 113, 122, 127,
Agócs, Peter, 277n52 172, 220, 224, 231, 234, 235, 241n23
Agoncillo, Teodoro A., 12, 92 pre-Columbian poetry of, 87
Aguilar, Gerónimo de, 114–15 Amiot, Jean-Joseph Marie, 228
Aguilar y Ponce de León, Rafael María Amoy, 36
de, 56, 219 Anda y Salazar, Simón de, 206–07,
aguinaldo Masses. See misas de aguinaldo 211–12
Alard, Delphin, 169 Anderson, Benedict, 12
Álava, Ignacio María de, 145 Andrade, Juan, 299n64
Albarránez, 52 Andrew, Feast of Saint, 23, 225–26, 323n3
alcalde mayor, 34, 191, 199 Angola, 60
Alexander the Great, 115–16, 277n52 anogon, 87, 149
Alfaro, Juan, 173 anthropology, 13, 86, 240n2
Alfonso, Oscar M. 92 antiphons, 176, 208, 224
370 index
antiphonal performance, 1, 35, 88, 91, 147 Atlantic Ocean, 56, 58, 60, 231, 324n9
Antiphonary, 164 Atlas, Lorenzo, 21, 242n2
Antipolo, 25, 52, 220–21, 244n14 Augustine of Hippo, Saint, 86, 116, 208,
Antipolo, Virgin of (Nuestra Señora de 278n56, 319n60
Paz y Buen Viaje), 24–25, 220–21, Augustinians, 13, 14, 40, 67, 78, 86, 111,
244nn14–15, 327n30 117, 118, 141–42, 170–73, 174, 185,
antiquity, 74, 77–79, 116, 198, 208 189, 196, 198, 208, 209, 218,
appropriation, cultural and musical, 3–4, 258n74, 272n16, 298n63, 306n129,
100, 101, 120, 128, 131, 142, 149, 153, 325n14
214, 216, 235–36, 240n8 auit (awit), 85, 87, 138–42, 146, 152, 235,
Aquinas, Thomas, 277n52 283n7
Aquino de Belén, Gaspar, 147–48, 150 aulos, 277n52
Arab people, 250n72 Austen, Jane, 6
Arabic, 223, 259n86 Australia, 6
Aragon, 37 Austria, 66
aral, 147, 148 Austronesians, 250n72
aranceles, 192 authorities, colonial. See colonial
Arandía, Pedro Manuel de, 178 authorities
Aranguren de Aviñarro, José, 169 auto, 105
Aranjuéz, 168 Ave Maria, 83
Arcadian Academy, 53 Ávila, 14, 15, 113, 185
archbishops, 27, 40, 161–69, 179, 196, awit (auit), 85, 87, 138–42, 146, 152, 235,
206, 219. See also bishops 283n7
Archdiocesan Archives of Manila, 14 ayacastles, 127
Archdioceses. See Manila, Archdiocese Ayer, Edward Everett, 14
of; Mexico, Archdiocese of Ayer Collection, 14
Arche, Luis Vicente, 297n54 ayuntamiento, 160
architecture, 43. See also earthquake ’Azīm ud-Dīn I, 64–65, 144, 221–23,
baroque; Manila, architecture of 259n86, 328n39, 329nn49–50
archives, 8, 13–15, 77, 159, 173, 185, 188, ’Azīm ud-Dīn II, 65
239, 242n32, 308n142, 324n8, Aztec Empire, 112
325n14 Aztec people, 34, 112, 127. See also Nahua
Arechederra, Juan de, 144, 222–23 people; Náhuatl language
Arévalo, Isidoro, 168
arias, 53, 171, 221 Bacolor, 146
Arima, 225, 332n57 Badajoz, 124
Aristotle, 145, 277n52 bagpipe, 59
Armenians, 33 bajón. See dulcian
arnis, 211–12 Baker, Geoffrey, 107, 137
Ascension, Feast of the, 89, 212 Bakhtin, Mikhail, 216
Asia, 9, 19, 20, 22, 36, 58, 78, 96, 122, balac, 87
127, 172, 220, 223, 231, 234, 235 balicongcong, 139
Asia-Pacific region, 10 Ballesteros, Juan de, 124–25, 127,
Asians, 9, 32, 42, 44, 61, 62–63, 214, 216, 280n81
219, 224–25, 229 balls (dances), 40, 249n67
Aspecto symbólico del mundo hispánico, Balthasar Carlos, Prince, 218
19–22 bamboo, 55, 79, 84, 93–96, 160, 184,
Asturias, Prince of, 218 265n42
Asunción, Jerónima de la (Fuente, Banal, Francisco, 299n67
Jerónima de la), 175, 177, 186, 188, Bañas, Raymundo C., 225, 297n54,
301n81 298n63
index 371
bandurria, 57, 129, 309n151 Bengal, 226

bandurrilla. See bandurria Bergaño, Diego, 86–87, 103, 130
bangsi, 78, 79, 103, 129, 130 berimbau, 33–34, 60, 61, 127, 257n64
baptism, 37, 118, 222, 310n157 Bermúdez de Castro, Carlos, 166, 205
Barcelona, 14, 15, 252n22 Bermudo, Juan, 47, 57
barangay, 34, 152, 193 bical, 87
baroque, 138 Bicos, Sebastian, 57
criollo, 137 bidia, 93, 94
defined by Jean-Jacques Rousseau, Bikol language, 53, 80, 86, 94, 103, 138,
227, 334n71 272n16
earliest use of term in reference to Bikol region, 53
music, 334n70 Bikolano people, 34
ladino, 137 binary oppositions, 1–2, 7, 232, 234,
mestizo, 137 240n2
music, 217 Binondo, 37, 178, 183
term used to describe Chinese music, biricbiric, 93
227, 334n71 birimbao. See berimbau
See also earthquake baroque bishops, 40, 46, 82, 161, 206, 219. See
barot, 94 also archbishops
Barrantes, Vicente de, 148, 150, 152, biyula, 64
266n51, 291n66 Blackburn, Bonnie, 252n11
Barrion, Caridad M., 205, 311n5 Blancas de San José, Francisco, 87, 130, 140
Barrios, Manuel, 135, 142, 144, 145 bo (cymbals), 249n57
Basco y Vargas, José de, 249n67 Bobadilla, Diego de, 36, 92, 96, 129
bass, 232 Bohol, 176, 271n7
bass voice, 120 Boholano people, 78
bassoon, 69 Bolívar, Juan, 171–72, 298n62
Batangas, Province of, 126, 145, 148, 201, boloboryong, 93
209, 283n7, 291n71 Bonafé, Rafael de, 180–81
Batavia, 23, 63 Bononcini, Antonio Maria, 255n36
Bauan, 283n7 Bononcini, Giovanni, 255n36
Bautista Blázquez y Blázquez Villacastin, Bononcino, 54, 255n36
San Pedro, 113–15, 224 books, 25, 82–83
Bautista, San Pedro. See Bautista Blázquez y music, 46–52, 59, 160–61, 183, 209,
Blázquez Villacastin, San Pedro 250n2
baybayin, 26, 81–84, 263n29, 264n39, See also cantorales; choirbooks; music
265n40, 299n63 scores
beadle (pertiguero), 161, 162 Borbón, María Luisa de, 56, 135, 144
beatas, 177–78 Borges, Pedro, 128
beaterios, 175, 177–78 Borneo, 63
beatifications, 53, 216, 223–24, 276n47, Borobudur, 58
330n53, 331n55 Bourbon, House of, 217
Beijing, 53–54, 228 Bourdieu, Pierre, 48
belasiyon. See wakes bow, for archery, 58. See also crossbow
belembao tuyan, 59 bow, for string instrument, 58, 59, 93
bell(s), 31, 89, 110, 126, 162, 182, 206, bow, musical (gourd bow). See berimbau
209, 219, 223 Bowditch, Nathaniel, 39, 131, 283n105
Benavente, Álvaro de, 86 Brambila, Fernando, 27, 30, 163
Bencuchillo, Francisco, 85 brass instruments, 152. See also clarion;
Benedict XI, Pope, 224 horn; sackbut; trumpet
Benediction, 176, 209 Brazil, 25, 60
372 index
Brazil, Prince of, 218 canonizations, 53, 216, 223–24, 330n53

Britain, 22, 66 canticles (cánticos), 165, 181, 224, 254n31,
British Empire, 6, 67 302n97
British Library, 14 cantinelas, 208
British occupation of Manila, 10, 14, 23, canto de órgano. See polyphony
66–70, 175, 207, 223 canto gregoriano. See Gregorian chant;
British people, 23, 66, 329n50. See also plainchant
English people canto llano. See plainchant
brocade, 24, 47 canto llano figurado. See plainchant,
brotherhoods. See confraternities measured or figured
Brown, Katherine Butler, 262n17 Canton, 36, 50, 60, 63
Brudieu, Joan, 252n22 cantor (chantre), 160–61, 162, 164–65
Brussels, 119 cantorales, 53, 170, 172, 271n106, 299n63,
Buhid people, 84 302n88. See also books, music;
bullfights, 222 choirbooks
bulls, runnings of the, 218 cantorcitos. See tiples
Burma, 58 cantores, 35, 59, 164, 165, 166, 174, 179,
Burney, Charles, 183, 306n125 181, 184, 189–94, 202, 207–09, 235.
See also musicians, ecclesiastical;
cabeza de barangay, 34–35 singers
cabildo, 160, 174 cantos, 141
Cádiz, 231 Cape of Good Hope, 25
Cagayan region, 34, 102 capellanías. See chantry funds
people from, 34 Capid, Nicolás, 146–47
Cagayan Valley, 102 capilla de música, 123, 165, 167, 219
Cagsaña. See Pagsanjan capilla real, 67, 182, 219, 220
Cainglet, Enrique Cantel, 118, 185, capital, 234
308nn143–44 cultural, 48
Cainta, 162 social, 48
Calahorra, Apolinar, 297n54 symbolic, 48
Calahorra, Remigio, 297n54 capitalism, 9, 234
Calasiao, Synod of. See Synod of capoeira, 60
Calasiao captain general. See governor
Calcutta, 67, 70, 131 carabao, 93, 96
Calderón de la Barca, Pedro, 52 Carigara, 122–23, 282n98
Calleja, José, 299n63 Carlos II, 61, 217
Camacho y Ávila, Diego, 162, 199, 210 Carlos III, 66, 227, 249n67, 311n3
Camarines, 55, 113, 114, 152, 187. See also Carlos IV, 56, 135, 144
Bikol region Carmena, Martín, 225
Cambodia, 63 carnivalesque, 216
Campos, Oscar, 297n54 Caro, Juan, 112
Canada, 317n40 Caroline Islands, 58
Canarin, 60 Carro, Andrés, 86, 102
cañas, 60, 61 carros (floats), 152, 217, 218, 222, 226
Canave-Dioquino, Corazon, 100, 138, 142, Carta hydrographica, y chorographica delas
148, 150 Yslas Filipinas, 32–33
cançion, 138, 200 casa del cabildo, 160
cando, 140–41 Casaysay, Virgin of, 248n54, 313n16
candù (kandu), 141 castanets, 102, 126, 127
canogon, 87, 149 castanitas. See castanets
index 373
castañuelas. See castanets Chinese language(s), 50

castas, 31–32, 137, 213, 215, 220, 227 characters, 26, 79
casta painting, 245n26 Chinese mestizos, 32, 38, 184, 258n74
Castelló, Lorenzo, 117, 171, 172 Chinese people, 23, 31, 32, 33, 36–39, 41,
Castile, 37, 217 66, 78, 144, 210–11, 217, 220, 222,
Castilian language, 80–86, 102–03, 112, 226–28, 246n34, 313n16, 334n72
135, 142, 144, 186, 211. See also expulsions from Manila, 37, 227, 327n25
Spanish language limitation of population in Manila,
Castilians. See Spanish people 36–37, 248n46
Castro, Agustín María de. See Castro y revolts of, 37
Amuedo, Pedro Andrés de Chinese rites controversy, 38
Castro y Amuedo, Pedro Andrés de, 82, chirimía. See shawm
117, 171, 201, 209, 212, 299n63 Chirino, Pedro, 79, 83, 88, 92, 110, 116, 123,
catechism, 83, 111, 118, 180 149, 200, 228, 278n56, 282n98
cathedrals, 115, 187 choir(s), 35, 46, 53, 61–62, 106, 112, 118,
Spanish, 107, 167 119, 125, 144, 158, 161, 162, 164, 165,
See also Manila Cathedral; Mexico City 166–69, 170, 171, 173–77, 180, 182,
Cathedral; Seville Cathedral; Toledo 184, 192, 201, 203, 218, 219, 220,
Cathedral 222, 223, 225, 298n63
cauar (kawad), 54, 94 choirbooks, 46–47, 52, 96, 117, 162, 164,
Cavite, 39, 48, 49, 61–62, 158, 182–83, 207 165, 167, 170, 171, 172, 174, 176. See
Cavite Mutiny, 12 also books, music; cantorales
Cebu, 22, 40, 131, 305n120 choirboys, 42, 161, 166. See also seises;
Cebu, Diocese of, 187 tiples; trebles
Cebu, Santo Niño de. See Santo Niño de Chongson, Mary Arlene Pe, 150
Cebu chordophones. See string instruments
cenáculo, 151. See also sinakulo Christ. See Jesus Christ
censorship, 47, 90, 147, 195, 196, 198, Christianity, 76, 83, 110, 115, 128, 133,
210, 211, 214, 235, 312n9 146, 222, 264n35, 292n78
Cera de la Virgen del Carmen, Diego, Christendom, 27, 121, 208
55–56, 164, 184 Roman Catholicism, 31, 32, 38, 42, 47,
Cerone, Pietro, 47, 313n18 66, 75, 77, 82, 115, 133, 142, 150, 152,
Certelio, Christoval. See Certelli, Cristóforo 191, 195, 214, 222, 224, 226, 235,
Certelli, Cristóforo, 106 301n79
chalumeau, 189, 309n151 Christmas, 89, 164, 181, 201–03, 211, 212,
Chamorro language, 59–60, 257n67 225
Chamorro people, 59 Chua, María Alexandra Gil Iñigo, 176
chanson, 138 Church, Roman Catholic, 11, 88, 128, 133,
chant, 46 151, 159, 205, 207, 213–14, 215, 227,
chantre (cantor), 160–61, 162, 164–65 229. See also Provincial Council of
chantry funds, 182, 192–93 Manila
chanzonetas, 53, 200, 203 churches, 13, 15, 23, 27, 41, 42, 48, 50,
chapel royal. See capilla real 61–62, 67, 68, 107, 114, 117, 122,
chapels, 67, 110, 160, 162, 178–79, 182, 220 124, 157–94, 203, 207–11, 223–24,
chapelmaster. See maestro de capilla 228, 280n81, 307n130, 317n38. See
chaplet, 37. See also rosary also cathedrals; chapels; institutions,
charivari (rough music), 158 religious; parishes
China, 19, 24, 43, 44, 52, 54, 55, 58, 60, circle of fifths, 10, 11, 73, 153
63, 65, 69, 78, 96, 97, 111, 114, 226, Circumcision, Feast of the, 212
258n74, 277n52 cittern, 57
374 index
clarion, 220, 226 composition(s), musical, 4, 51, 118, 130,

Classical world. See antiquity 139, 147, 171, 172, 185–88, 224–25,
clavichord, 54, 94, 277n52 234, 236, 254n30
clergy, diocesan (secular), 40, 196, 209, Concepción, Madalena de la, 176
235, 306n129, 307n130, 311n4. See confession, 32, 118, 140, 192, 209
also missionaries confraternities, 173, 184, 185–86,
climate, 96, 170, 180–81, 184 307n133. See also sodalities
Clossey, Luke, 8–9 conquest, 1, 2, 4, 15, 35, 41, 64, 77, 118,
Cobo, Juan, 210 120, 121, 126, 133, 152, 219, 222–23,
Cochinchina, 63 226, 305n120
cockfights, 78 conquistadores, 22, 23, 40, 80, 131. See
codlong. See kodlong also soldiers
codyapi. See kutyapi conservatories, 119, 169
cofradías. See confraternities consonance, 1, 86–87, 90, 103, 122, 136,
Colegio de Niños Tiples, 119, 164, 166–69, 173, 176, 220, 229, 231, 232, 237.
297n53, 297n56. See also tiples See also dissonance;
Colín, Francisco, 78, 88–89, 92, 140, harmony
223 Constantine Copronymus, 277n52
coliseo (coliseum), 145, 212 “contact zones,” 100, 232
Collantes, Domingo, 173 contrapuntal analysis, 5–8, 15, 133, 232,
Collect, 67, 68 240n10
colonial authorities, 7, 13, 34, 75, 151, 214, contrapuntal polyphony, 3, 208
216, 226 contrapuntalism. See contrapuntal
colonial relationships, 4–5, 106, 107, analysis
132, 138 contredanse, 67–69, 126
colonialism, 2–6, 12, 43, 149, 232, 234, convents (conventos), 13, 27, 110, 169–74,
236–37. See also postcolonialism 224. See also San Agustín, Convento
coloquio, 210, 211 de; Santo Domingo, Convento de;
Columbus, Christopher, 20, 80 San Felipe el Real, Convento de; San
Combés, Francisco, 89 Francisco, Convento de; San Juan de
comedia, 62, 105, 106, 135, 210, 211, 218, Dios, Convento de; San Nicolás de
222, 225, 299n63, 325n13. See also Tolentino, Convento de
komedya conversion, religious, 11, 37, 65, 76, 77,
comintano (kumintang), 34, 126–27 110, 115–16, 121, 130, 133
commerce, 8, 10, 19, 23–25, 27, 36, 43, Cook, Nicholas, 233
62–63, 70, 119, 215, 229, 232, 234. copla, 140, 186
See also Real Compañía de Filipinas; copper, 94
Sociedad Económica de Amigos del copper strings, 92–93, 94, 129
País; trade and traders Corelli, Arcangelo, 53–54, 255n37
commodities coriapi. See kutyapi
musical, 4, 45–46, 60, 161, 169 corista, 171
transmission and exchange(s) of, 4, 8, corlong. See kodlong
9, 10, 24, 44, 45–46, 60, 124, 161, coro, 117, 173. See also choir(s)
234, 295n30 Corpus Christi, 89, 119, 164, 166, 192,
communion, 67, 140. See also Eucharist 212, 213, 225, 323n86, 323n3
Compañía General de Tabacos de Cortés, Hernán, 22, 118
Filipinas, 14 coryapi. See kutyapi
comparativism, 10, 74, 78, 95, 234 Costa, Horacio de la, 76, 123, 128, 180,
Compline, 177 181, 226, 264n35, 280n79, 282n98,
compositional techniques, 4, 5, 236 306n129, 311n166
index 375
cornett, 59, 189 Derrida, Jacques, 2

Council of Manila. See Provincial Council di (dizi), 249n57
of Manila dialects. See language(s)
counterpoint, as analogy and/or metaphor, Diamelen, Potely (princess of Sulu), 65
3–6, 11, 15, 132, 136, 157, 214, 216, Díaz Toledano, Casimiro, 196, 198,
224, 229, 232, 233, 236–37. See also 200–01, 207–08
contrapuntal analysis; contrapuntal Díaz-Trechuelo López-Spínola, María
polyphony; habi; music theory Lourdes, 39
country dance. See contredanse Dickens, Charles, 6
cows, 189 dictionaries. See vocabularios
Creed, 83, 171, 180, 282n98 diffusionism, 79
criollos/criollas, 32, 41, 175, 177 Dilao, 41, 332n57
crossbow, 94. See also bow, for archery Dioceses. See Cebu, Diocese of; Manila,
Crown, Spanish, 11, 22, 23, 99, 133, 148, Archdiocese of; Manila, Diocese of;
151, 159, 194, 197, 213–14, 215, 227, Mexico, Archdiocese of; Nueva
229, 234, 297n53 Cáceres, Diocese of; Nueva Segovia,
crucifixions, 152 Diocese of
Cruz, Andrés de la, 59 diona, 87, 139
Cruz, José de la, 106 diplomacy, 1, 62–65, 114
Cruz, Luis de la, 162 discourse, 6, 7, 70, 75, 117, 215, 233, 234,
Cruz Bagay, Nicolás de la, 33, 34, 126 241n15, 260n107
Cruz Palaris, Juan de la, 66 dissonance, 1, 39, 227, 229, 231, 232, 236.
cudiapi. See kutyapi See also consonance
cuerda, 94 dithyramb, 142
culaing, 93 Divine Office, 63, 67, 123, 160, 161, 164,
cultural capital. See capital, cultural 165, 166, 167, 170, 176, 177, 189,
Cuzco, 137 190, 196, 208
cymbals (bo), 249n57 dizi (di), 249n57
Dobali, Baltazar gat, 162
d’Alembert, Jean le Rond, 47 doctrinas, 35, 104, 201, 208. See also
dalit, 78, 87, 141–42, 199, 266n49, missions; parishes; visitas
284n10, 286n24, 312n11 doctrine. See religious doctrine
Dalrymple, Alexander, 67 dolayanin, 139
Dampier, William, 259n84 dolzaina (dulcayna), 89, 93
dance(s), 11, 40, 63, 65, 67–69, 75, 76, Dominicans, 13–14, 25, 37, 40, 47, 53, 61,
81, 89–91, 97, 106, 107, 124, 109, 118, 119, 170, 173–74, 177, 184,
126–27, 130, 135, 136, 178, 204, 207, 185, 190–91, 196, 209, 301n78,
212–14, 219, 220, 222, 224, 226, 332n57, 334n72
227, 228, 235. See also comintano dopayanin, 139
(kumintang); contredanse; fandango; doxology (Gloria Patri), 165
hornpipe; minuet; mitote; mojiganga; drama, 11, 78, 104–06, 135, 210–12, 214,
mototo; taruc; tocotín 218, 222, 224, 283n6
danio, 284n9 Chinese, 38, 210
Dasmariñas y Ribadeneira, Gómez of Mexico, 41, 52–53, 283n6
Pérez, 114 regulation of, 210–12
datu, 34. See also cabeza de barangay Spanish, 52–53, 104–05, 229
David (King of Hebrews), 102, 116, 277n52 Tagalog, 144, 149–51, 218
Delgado, Juan José, 83, 84, 95–96, 148, theatrical works, 27, 52–53
182, 191, 270n101 See also coliseo; comedias; farces
Denmark, 32 (sainetes); theatrical performances
376 index
drum(s), 31, 38, 42, 59, 66, 181, 199, 220 Esclavos de Jesu Cristo Crucificado,
frame-drum, 38 Cofradía de, 185, 308n141
Dryden, John, 277n52 Eskuan, Lucas, 55
Dulac (Dulag), 123, 280n79 Eslava, Hilarión, 169
dulcayna (dolzaina), 89, 93 Estrada, Pedro de, 129, 141, 148, 282n96
dulcian, 46, 59, 103, 106, 181 estribillo, 139, 140, 186, 266n49
dulus, 93, 94 Etherington, Ben, 5–6
Dumalag, 298n62 ethnographies, 7, 10, 13, 74–97, 126, 139,
Dumarao, 298n62 149, 234, 263n24
Duron (Guadalajara, Spain), 298n63 ethnology, 10, 74–78, 84, 132
Dutch people, 8, 23, 66, 225, 259n84, ethnomusicology, 3, 77, 232–33. See also
326n21 historical musicology; history, music
Eucharist, 118, 165, 206. See also
earthquake(s), 13, 23, 43, 159, 160, communion
161–62, 163, 166, 175, 184, 225, Eurasia, 8, 9, 58, 241n23
294n18, 295n37 Eurasians. See mestizos/mestizas
earthquake baroque, 43, 250n75 Europe, 2, 4, 7, 19, 24, 58, 69, 77–79, 96,
East India Company 119, 127, 150, 196, 221, 224, 231–32,
English, 42, 65, 271n105 234, 235, 257n64
Dutch, 42 European colonial empires. See empire(s)
Easter, 89. See also Good Friday; Holy Europeans, 3, 9, 10, 34, 44, 73–74, 87,
Week; Lent 212, 223–24, 225, 232, 237
Echegoyen, Blás, 297n54 evangelization, 9, 19, 40, 82, 88, 89, 110,
Echevarría Carril, María Concepción, 113, 115, 122–24, 128, 149, 151
176 Extramuros, 27, 109, 114, 175, 178, 182,
education, 23, 48, 62, 119, 168–70, 183, 203, 222, 325n14
174–75, 177, 194, 235. See also music extrusion, 94
pedagogy; schools
embassies. See diplomacy facistoles (lecterns), 160, 161, 164, 167,
empire(s), 2, 6, 15, 22, 133, 231–33, 237 295n30
allegorical symbols of, 20–22 fandango, 69, 126
See also Aztec Empire; British Empire; farces (sainetes), 211, 221
Ottoman Empire; Portuguese feast days, 105, 107, 160, 162, 164,
Empire; Roman Empire; Spanish 174, 177, 189, 192, 197, 201,
Empire 206, 208, 212–13, 322n83,
Encinas, Francisco de, 122–23, 125, 322n85, 333n58. See also
282n98 Andrew, Feast of Saint; Ascension,
encomenderos, 40, 110 Feast of the; Circumcision, Feast of
encomiendas, 40 the; Epiphany, Feast of; fiestas;
England, 32, 56, 231 Immaculate Conception of the
English people, 8, 67, 259n84. See also Virgin Mary, Feast of; Mark, Feast of
British people Saint; Nativity, Feast of the; Peter,
enharmonic engagement, 10, 15, 73–74, Feast of Saint; Potentiana, Feast of
130, 136, 153, 236 Saint; Presentation of the Virgin at
enharmony, 10, 11, 15, 73 the Temple, Feast of the; Santa Cruz
entremés, 106, 210, 211, 218 de Mayo, Feast of
epics, 35, 79, 90 Felipe II, 22, 23, 104–05, 160–61, 247n38
Epiphany, Feast of, 212 Felipe III, 190
erhu, 249n57 Felipe IV, 61
Ermita (Hermita), 178, 182, 183, 193 Felipe V, 167, 213, 217, 324nn9–10
index 377
Fenlon, Iain, 252n22, 318n59 Franciscans, 25, 40, 55, 60, 61, 76,
Fernandez, Doreen, 146 83–84, 86, 111, 112–16, 118, 132, 170,
Fernández, Pablo, 192, 201, 203, 205 174, 178–179, 189–90, 196, 201,
Fernández de León, Juan, 185 204, 208–09. See also San
Fernández de Roxas, Antonio, 27, 28 Francisco, Convento de; San
Topographia de la ciudad de Manila, Francisco, Venerable Orden Tercera
27–29 de
Fernández Navarrete, Domingo, 38–39, French people, 8, 37, 40
107, 174, 189, 190, 191, 277n52 frets, for string instrument, 93, 94
Fernando I, king of Jolo, 222. See also Frisch, Jean-Christophe, 308n145
’Azīm ud-Dīn I Fuente, Jerónima de la (Asunción,
Fernando VI, 117, 144, 218 Jerónima de la), 175, 177, 186, 188
festivities. See feast days; fiestas Fuente Yepes, Juan de la, 168
fiddle, 129, 220, 270n101 fugues, 221
fiestas, 11, 40, 53, 117, 135, 146, 214–29, Fulgencio, “el chino de Manila,” 61
236, 323n88. See also feast days funerals, 118, 164, 192, 199, 216, 218–19,
fife, 31, 38, 42, 103 311n166, 325n20, 326n21
Filipino languages, 26, 79–88, 102, 106, Fux, Johann Joseph, 6
126, 136, 142, 205, 272n16. See also
Bikol language; Ilokano language; gaita. See bagpipe
Kapampangan language; Malay, galleons, 220, 221, 244n14, 257n65
dialects of; Tagalog language; Buen Consejo, 25
Visayan language San José, 244n15
Filipino people, 11, 13, 31, 32, 33, 34–35, 55, seasonal routes of, 20
59–62, 73–97, 132–33, 149, 152, 159, trade by means of, 9, 24–25, 36, 44,
166–68, 172, 176, 184, 192, 204–05, 56, 60–61, 244n11
209, 212–14, 216, 218, 220–21, 222, gangsa, 79
224, 226, 228, 236, 237, 301n78 Gante, Pedro de, 112–13, 115
as “a singing people,” 35 García, Miguel, 206, 311n5
definition of term “Filipino,” 32, 245n28 García-Abásolo, Antonio, 40
elite, 34–35, 85, 189, 246n36 Gardner, Fletcher, 265n42
minorities, 261n6 Gemelli Careri, Giovanni Francesco,
precolonial class structure, 34, 246n32 31–32, 78, 90
fire, 13, 23, 159, 160, 211, 222, 225 genealogies, 35, 83, 88, 149, 152, 300n69
fireworks, 38, 218, 220, 222, 225, 226 genio, 116, 117, 234. See also ingenio
Flanders, 32 genre(s)
flauta. See flute(s) musicopoetic, 11, 78, 83, 89, 135–53,
floats (carros), 152, 217, 218, 222, 226 200, 235
flores de mayo, 146 song, 81, 138–40, 146, 284n10
flute(s), 65, 69, 79, 120, 121, 130, 220 substitution of, 129–30
Chinese, 38–39, 249n57 See also ambahan; anogon; arias; auit
Filipino, 78, 93, 95, 121 (awit); balac; balicongcong; bical;
noseflute(s), 93, 95, 103, 129 canogon; cantinelas; coloquio; comedia;
See also bangsi; boloboryong; di (dizi); comintano (kumintang); dalit; danio;
lantoy; recorder; traverso; xiao diona; dithyramb; dolayanin;
Flynn, Dennis O., 9 dopayanin; entremés; farces (sainetes);
Forrest, Thomas, 65, 259n87, 260n91 fugues; gozo; haya; hila; hilirau;
fortepiano, 56, 256n48. See also pianoforte holohorlo; hymns; karagatan; letras;
Foucault, Michel, 7 loa; madrigdal; manigpasin;
France, 22, 32, 66, 330n52 mojiganga; moro-moro; motets; oyayi;
378 index
genre(s) (continued ) Guam, 42, 58–60, 257n65, 257n67.

pamatbat; panambitan; pasyon; plosa; See also Mariana Islands
puri; recitados (recitatives); serenatas; Guangzhou. See Canton
sidai (siday); soliranin; son; Guerrero, Francisco, 51, 161
syncretism; tagumpay; talingdao; Guerrero, Pedro, 51
tanaga; tonadillas; tumaila; umbay,i; Guian, Luis, 148
umiguing; vejamen; villancico Guidetti, Domenico, 52
Germany, 32 Guignes, Chrétien Louis Joseph de, 37
Gesù, Il (church in Rome), 163 Guinto, Juana, 193
Giráldez, Arturo, 8 guitar, 34, 36, 57, 59, 62, 94, 96, 103,
global consciousness, 8, 233 105, 107–08, 111, 126, 129, 270n101
global networks, 8, 43, 70, 234 gut strings, 36, 96, 271n105
globalization, 2, 4, 7, 43, 58, 232–34, Gutiérrez y Maríveles, Simeon, 168,
242n1, 335n2 296n45
birth of, 9, 241n23
definitions of, 8–9, 241n17 habi, 147
“oriental,” 8 hagiography, 7, 113
Gloria, 165, 171 Hamilton, Newburgh, 277n52
Gloria Patri (doxology), 165 Handel, George Frideric, 68–70,
Goa, 27, 42, 60, 254n32 277n52
gobernadorcillo, 34 Hanover, 66
Goiti, Martín de, 22 Hanunóo people, 84
gold, 94, 182 harmony, 3, 6, 11, 103, 205, 225. See also
Gómez, Miguel Antonio, 63 consonance
Gómez Platero, Eusebio, 114 harp, 36, 58, 59, 60, 61, 94, 96, 102, 105,
gong(s), 38, 65, 91, 249n56. See also 107–08, 111, 116, 120, 126, 129, 130,
gangsa; gongluo; kulintang; mangluo 171, 181, 183, 184, 189, 208, 220
gongluo, 249n56 harpsichord, 60, 94, 256n48
Good Friday, 148, 152, 310n162. See also haya, 87, 149
Holy Week; Lent Hegel, Georg Wilhelm Friedrich, 1
Gospel, 122, 139 hegemony, 2–5, 7, 43, 125, 130–31, 138,
gourd bow (musical bow). See berimbau 146, 148, 159, 178, 194, 195, 198,
gozo, 176 216, 226, 229, 232, 233, 236, 261n6,
governor, 39, 143, 179, 191, 219, 227, 263n29
323n1 Helena, Empress, 148
governor general. See governor hermandades. See confraternities
Gradual, 164, 167 hermano lego (lay brother), 172
grammar, 80, 85, 86, 174 Hermita (Ermita), 178, 182, 183, 193
Great Britain. See Britain Hernandez, Pelayo, 185
Greece, ancient, 116, 198 Herrera, Pedro de, 141–42
Greek, ancient (language), 79 heteronomy, 214, 216, 233, 236
Greek people, 32, 183 heterophony, 233
ancient, 78, 142 Hideyoshi, Toyotomi, 42, 114
Gregorian chant, 165, 166, 272n16. See hieroglyphs, Egyptian, 79
also plainchant hila, 139
Gregory XIII, Pope, 160 hilirau, 139
Gruzinski, Serge, 136 Hispania (allegorical figure), 20
Guadalupe, Convento de (Extramuros, Hispania (ancient), 77
Manila), 299n63 hispanization, 11, 39, 43, 76, 84, 88, 97,
Guadalupe, Virgin of, 221, 328n38 99–133, 138, 151, 234–36
index 379
definition of, 100 Ilokano people, 34, 102, 117

See also transculturation images, religious, 13, 24–26, 37, 182, 199,
historical musicology, 3, 137, 232. See also 205, 206, 219, 220–21, 244n14
ethnomusicology; history, music Immaculate Conception of the Virgin Mary
historiography, 77, 234 devotion to, 202
colonial, 10, 13, 89, 91, 97, 128–29, Feast of, 164, 204, 211, 226, 323n85
159, 229, 233 imperial powers and imperialism, 12, 20,
history 22, 31, 74, 80, 104, 131, 135, 136, 216,
colonial, 7, 12–13, 231 217, 232, 237. See also colonialism
cultural, 5, 15, 197 Inca, 34, 78, 223, 263n25
Eurocentric, 9, 12 India, 6, 7, 42, 58, 60, 63, 66, 78–79,
metropolitan, 6 180, 250n72, 255n37
music, 8, 13, 15, 131, 233–34 Indian Ocean, 250n72
nationalistic, 12–13 Indian people, 33
Hobson, John M., 8 indios, 32–34
holohorlo, 139 Indonesia, 58, 78, 92, 250n72
Holy See, 226. See also Rome indulgence, 148
Holy Week, 89, 115, 151, 152, 165, 192, Inés de la Cruz, Juana, 52, 218, 325n13
225. See also Good Friday; Lent ingenio, 111. See also genio
homogeneity, cultural, 5, 232 Inquisition, 40, 249n65
horn, 59, 220 institutions
hornpipe, 68 educational, 23, 27, 39, 114, 235
horses, 189, 225 religious, 11, 13, 23, 27, 124, 153,
Hospitalers. See San Juan de Dios, Order of 157–94, 222, 235
hospitals, 27, 170 instrumentalists, 42, 46, 105, 162, 180, 184,
hostage identification syndrome, 283n3. 185, 223, 237. See also ministriles
See also Stockholm syndrome instruments, musical, 4, 46, 54–60, 67,
Hours. See Divine Office 76, 81, 89–96, 103, 117, 124, 126,
Hours, Book of, 259n86 129, 160, 169, 178, 190, 193, 199,
Huerta, Félix de, 179 203, 208–09, 219, 222, 223, 224,
Hurtado de Corcuera, Sebastián, 182, 219 226, 299n63
Huseng Sisiw. See Cruz, José de la Chinese, 38–39, 218
hybridity, 75, 100, 129, 138. See also construction of, 56–57, 114, 234,
syncretism 276n47
Hyder Ali, 63 design of, 4, 57
hymns, 51, 123, 129, 144, 165, 179, 198, Filipino, 81, 89–96
282n98 Japanese, 226
See also brass instruments; keyboard
Iberian Peninsula, 10, 19, 202, 228 instruments; music, instrumental;
Iberian world, 8, 19 percussion instruments; string
iconography, musical. See music(s), instruments; wind instruments
iconography integration, racial and social, 38, 89, 215,
ideology, 2, 5, 6, 7, 215, 216 217, 225, 226–28, 294n17
religious, 11, 22, 84 international relations, 5, 240n10
Ignatius of Loyola, Saint, 124, 141, 224, Intramuros, 13, 14, 27, 104, 159, 168, 175,
331n55 185, 222, 223, 224, 242n30
Ileto, Reynaldo Clemeña, 151, 289n48 ipitan, 93
Ilocos region, 66, 102, 152, 187 iron, 95
Ilokano language, 80, 82, 86, 94, 102, Isinay people, 111
138, 284n9 Islam, 9, 20, 64–65, 133, 221–23
380 index
Israel, Sultan (of Sulu), 65 jew’s harp. See jaw harp

Italy, 15, 32, 61 Jewish people, 37, 133
Ituy. See Isinay people Jimeno Ibáñez, Román, 169
Joaquin, Nick, 177
Jadraque, Juan, 298n63 Jolo, 89, 222. See also Sulu
Jakarta. See Batavia Jones, Sir William, 79
jakhē, 92 Jose, Regalado Trota, 307n130,
Japan, 12, 41, 42, 47, 52, 53, 55, 61, 63, 82, 308n140
114, 136, 223, 224–25, 254n32, Juan José de Austria, 61
332n57 judios. See Jewish people
Imperial Army of, 13 junks, Chinese, 24, 36
occupational government of the
Philippines, 14 kacchapī vīṇā, 79
Japanese language, 225 Kambe, Yukimi, 332n57
Japanese people, 8, 13, 32, 33, 66, 218, kamsa, 79
224–26, 228 kandu (candù), 141
Christians, 41–42, 61, 114, 223, 225, Kangxi emperor, 54, 65
332n57, 333n58 Kapampangan language, 80, 86–87, 103,
composers, 224–25, 234, 331n56, 138, 266n49, 266n51, 299n63
332nn56–57 Kapampangan people, 34, 93, 176–77
dances of, 41, 228 karagatan, 199
immigrants to Manila, 41–42, 228 Kasilag, Lucrecia Roces, 142
musicians, 41, 224–25, 331n56, kastila. See Spanish people
332nn56–57 kawad (cauar), 54, 94
Java, 81 kecapi, 92
Javellana, René, 150, 291n66 keyboard instruments, 54–56, 94, 130.
jaw harp, 60, 93, 95, 127, 257n67 See also clavichord; fortepiano;
Jennens, Charles, 68 harpsichord; organ; pianoforte;
Jeremiah, Lamentations of. See spinet
Lamentations of Jeremiah Keyser, Dorothy, 73
Jerusalem, 32 King’s College London, 14
Jesuits, 19, 23, 25, 40, 48–50, 53, 58–59, Kipling, Rudyard, 241n12
61, 64, 76, 77, 78, 86, 88–90, Kircher, Athanasius, 47–50, 77, 79
92–96, 110, 111, 116, 118, 120–27, Musurgia universalis, 48–50
132, 139, 170, 177, 178–82, 185, 189, Knighton, Tess, 219, 283n3
200, 202, 209, 223, 224–25, 226, kodlong, 87, 90, 93–95, 199
228, 254n31, 254n32, 280n79, komedya, 146. See also comedia
324n8, 332n57 Kudurat, Sultan Dipatuan, 64
Beaterio de la Compañía, 177, 178 kulintang, 65
Colegio de Manila, 48–50, 204, 223 kumintang. See comintano (kumintang)
Colegio de San José, 226 kutyapi, 79, 87, 90, 92–95, 102, 107, 129,
expulsion of, 23, 59, 89, 164, 181–82, 130, 199, 268n70
306n129 Kyoto. See Miako
University of Manila, 19 Kyrie, 165
See also San Ignacio, Church of; San
Ignacio, Colegio de Lacandola, House of, 247n37. See also
Jesús, Ignacio de, 298n63 Lakan Dula
Jesús, Juan de, 55, 118–19 ladinos, 75, 80, 84–85, 137
Jesus Christ, 129, 147, 148, 150, 151, 186, Lafitau, Joseph François, 77, 78
198, 203, 205, 206, 212, 310n162. Laglag (Dueñas), 298n62
See also Passion story Laguna, Province of, 119
index 381
Lakan Dula, 22. See also Lacandola, Letona, Franciscan Bartolomé de, 32, 162,
House of 175, 182, 186, 301n84
lamentasyon, 152 Letra en tagalo, 109, 138, 186
Lamentations of Jeremiah, 115, 152, 165 letras, 201
language(s). See Arabic; Bikol language; Lévi-Strauss, Claude, 2
Castilian language; Chamorro Leyte, 122, 123, 173
language; Chinese language(s); Lilio, 55
Filipino languages; Greek, ancient Lilly Library, 14
(language); Ilokano language; Limahong, 23, 225–26
Japanese language; Kapampangan liminality, 107, 111–12, 137, 193–94,
language; Latin language; Malay, 275n37. See also status, social
dialects of; Náhuatl language; Lindorff, Joyce, 54
Sanskrit; Spanish language; Tagalog Lines of Demarcation, 20
language; Visayan language; Lipa, 145
vocabularios Lisboa, Marcos de, 94
lantoy (lantuy), 93, 103 litany, 174, 177, 206, 208, 209, 220
Laran, María, 300n69 literacy, 75, 80, 81–83, 112, 174, 234, 235,
Las Piñas, 55, 184 263n27, 263n29, 264n39, 264n39,
Lascar, 60 265n40
Latin America, 2, 13, 15, 24, 31, 42, 57, 81, musical, 121, 123, 124, 131
106, 107–08, 111, 121, 132, 135, 137, literary criticism, 5–7
159, 188, 193, 196, 200, 217, 222 liturgy, 52, 115, 164, 170, 180, 181, 185,
cities in, 27, 215 191, 196, 197, 199, 200, 207–09
independence of Spanish colonies in, 25 loa, 135, 138, 142–47, 152, 182, 199, 213,
Latin language, 79, 86, 108, 150, 167, 217, 218, 220, 222, 235, 325n14
186, 200, 202, 205, 218 Lobo, Duarte, 52
Laws of the Indies, 35, 36, 40, 110, 125. London, 69–70, 119
See also Recopilación de leyes de los Lope de Vega Carpio, 52, 186, 188,
reynos de las Indias 308n146
lay brother (hermano lego), 172 López, Francisco, 82, 86
laypersons, 185, 203 López, Gregorio, 331n55
laywomen, 175 López y Perea, Mateo, 211
Lazarists, 53–54 Lord’s Prayer (paternoster), 83, 180
Le Gentil de la Galaisière, Guillaume Lorente, Andrés, 48
Joseph Hyacinthe, 40, 67–68, 106, Los Baños, 114
108, 119, 158, 182–83, 212, 217, Louis XV, 66
227–28, 323n2, 334n71 Lucban, 184
lecterns (facistoles), 160, 161, 164, 167 Luis Felipe Fernando, 217, 324n9
Legazpi, Miguel López de, 22–23, 102, Lumbang, 114, 118
173, 225, 243n5, 305n120 Lumbera, Bienvenido, 84, 85, 87, 141, 150
legislation lute, 58, 79, 92, 114
for music, 11, 235 luthiery, 56–57, 96
general, 35 Luzon, 10, 22, 86, 102, 111, 152, 184, 192,
See also Laws of the Indies; music, 248n54, 261n6
reforms for; music, regulations for; lyre, 59, 189, 309n151
Recopilación de leyes de los reynos de
las Indias Macau, 41, 42, 51, 52, 63, 114
Lent, 147, 148, 152. See also Good Friday; Maceda, José, 91, 100, 101, 169, 240n1
Holy Week Madagascar, 250n72
Leo XIII, Pope, 323n85 Madras, 63, 66, 67, 70
Lepanto, Battle of, 9 Madrid, 15, 22, 23, 69, 119, 171, 190, 212
382 index
madrigal, 51 first Spanish contact with, 22

maestrescuela, 169 foundation as Spanish city, 9, 19, 225
maestro de capilla, 48, 111, 165, 170, 189, naming of, 23
193–94 physical layout of, 10
maestro de ceremonias, 162 plazas, 27, 152
maestro mayor de capilla, 165 Provincial Council of, 164, 197,
Magbutay, Minodora S., 146 205–06, 311n4, 311n6
Magellan, Ferdinand de, 22, 59, 73, residences, 27
305n120 society of, 10, 31–43
maginoo, 34 suburbs (arrabales) of, 27
Magnificat, 165 Synod of, 83, 311n3
Magnificat settings, 52 topographic representation of, 27–29
Magsaisay, Faustino, 163 transculturation in, 104–09
Mahamad Alimuddin. See ’Azīm See also Extramuros; Intramuros;
ud-Dīn I Maynilad
maharlika, 34 Manila Bay, 22–23, 66
Malabar Coast, 63 Manila Cathedral, 13, 25, 27, 40, 42, 52,
Malacca (Melaka), 23, 42 55, 107, 119, 158, 159–69, 170, 171,
Malaspina, Alejandro, 27 180–81, 193, 223, 225, 292n4,
Malate, 178, 183 294n18, 295n37
Malay, dialects of, 135, 144 Manuale ad sacramenta, 53
Malay Archipelago, 64, 78 Manuel, E. Arsenio, 35, 138
Maldonado de Puga, Juan Manuel, 171 María Ana (Mariana) de Austria, 58–59
Mallat de Bassilan, Jean Baptiste, 184 Marian devotions, 204–07, 317n38, 317n40
Mancker, Andreas, 189 Mariana Islands, 58–60, 126, 257n65. See
mandolin, 69 also Guam
Manesay, Ignacio Gregorio, 258n74 Marín López, Javier, 161, 166
Mangalore, 63 Mark, Feast of Saint, 174
mangluo, 249n56 Marsden, William, 259n84
Mangyan people, 84, 265n42 martial arts, 60, 211–12, 333n60
manigpasin, 139 Martínez de Arizala, Pedro de la
Manila Santísima Trinidad, 163, 192, 204
Archdiocese of, 161, 166, 187, 203, 213, Martínez de Zúñiga, Joaquín, 78, 85, 106,
311n3 131–32, 144, 145, 146
architecture of, 23, 27 martyrdom, 47, 59, 64, 113, 114, 332n57,
as birthplace of globalization, 8 333n58
as global city, 19 Masangcay y Coronel, Nicolás Dorotheo,
as “Pearl of the Orient,” 119, 326n20 146–47
as “Rome of the East,” 27 masquerade. See mojiganga
attempts to invade, 23, 225, 333n62 matachines, 127
British occupation of, 10, 14, 23, Matanda, Rajah, 22
66–70, 175, 207, 223 Matins, 165, 176, 177, 202
budget of, 215, 323n1, 326n25 Maynilad, 22–23, 173, 225, 226, 305n120.
cityscapes of, 27, 30–31 See also Manila
connections with Latin America and mayor, of town, 146, 147
Spain, 24–25, 44 Marx, Karl, 5, 7
construction of, 23 Mary, Virgin. See Virgin Mary
destruction of (in World War II), 13 Mas, Sinibaldo de, 301n78
Diocese of, 160, 311n3 Mass, 158, 164, 165, 166, 173, 174, 176,
ethnic diversity of, 10, 31–34 177, 178, 180, 182, 185, 189, 192, 193,
index 383
201–04, 205, 208–09, 213, 218, 219, Middle East, 58, 74, 77–79
222, 282n98. See also misa cantada migration, 4, 8, 19, 34, 36–37, 38, 56, 60,
Mass Ordinary, 165, 181 125, 128
Mass settings, 52, 53, 114, 171, 224, 331n56 Mindanao, 10, 64, 69, 89, 92, 219, 221,
Masvesi, Antonio, 129 222
May, Glenn Anthony, 12–13 Mindoro, 84, 263n29
Maynilad, 22–23, 173, 225–26, 243n6, ministriles, 46, 105, 171, 223. See also
305n120 instrumentalists; musicians,
Maza, Francisco de la, 173 ecclesiastical
Mazu, 38, 199, 248n54 minuet, 65, 126
McClary, Susan, 236 Mirano, Elena Rivera, 148, 149, 150,
Meares, John, 69 291nn71–72
Medina, Juan de, 106 misa cantada, 165, 178, 202. See also Mass
Medina, Nicolás, 298n63 misa de cuerpo, 192
Mediterranean Sea, 20, 77, 139 misas de aguinaldo, 181, 201–04
Melaka (Malacca), 23, 42 miscegenation, 31, 136–37. See also castas;
Memije, Vicente de, 21, 242n1, 242n2 mestizaje; mestizos/mestizas
Mendes, Ruis, 55 Miserere, 176, 286n24
Mendoza, Iñigo de, 150 Missal, 164, 183–84, 201, 204
Méntrida, Alonso de, 86, 93–94, 103 missionaries, 7, 10, 25, 38, 40–41, 47, 53,
merchants, 31, 40, 41, 51, 63, 180, 234. 74–76, 78, 80, 82–83, 87, 91, 92,
See also trade and traders 103–33, 138, 145, 146, 150, 158, 188,
Merino, Luis, 323n1 193, 205, 234–35, 236. See also
Mersenne, Marin, 50 Augustinians; Dominicans;
Mesa, Blaise de, 324n8 Franciscans; Jesuits; Lazarists;
Mesquita, Diego, 332n57 Recollects, Augustinian
mestizaje, 136–38, 235 missions, 47, 48–49, 50, 54, 58–60, 80,
mestizos/mestizas, 32, 33, 41, 81, 137, 144, 84, 88, 89, 104, 110–26, 129, 170,
152, 159, 168, 175, 184, 192, 207, 217, 172, 173, 186–92, 198, 200, 275n33.
218, 220, 222 See also doctrinas; visitas
metallophones, 79 mitote, 226
metals, precious, 24. See also copper; Moctezuma II. See Motecuhzoma II
gold; iron; silver modes, musical, 90, 108, 122, 140, 153
metal strings, 36, 94, 96 mojiganga, 127, 222, 227
metaphors, 11 monacordio. See clavichord
meter, of music and poetry, 51, 86, 103, monjas. See nuns
122, 123, 126, 220 monjas legas, 177
Mexicans, 41, 333n58 monsoons, 160
Mexico, 22, 23, 24, 40–41, 43, 44, 50–51, Monte, Ignacio de. See Monti, Ignatio
56–57, 58–59, 62, 100, 102, 105, Montezuma II. See Motecuhzoma II
112–13, 118, 132, 166, 180, 181, 202, Monti, Ignatio, 49, 252n11. See also
212, 214, 228, 245n26, 257n64, Sonnenberg, Walter Ignaz
273n19, 295n30, 317n40 Montiel, Giovanni. See Montiel, Juan
Archdiocese of, 311n3 Montiel, Juan, 48–50, 64, 252n10
Mexico City, 25, 36, 61, 202 Montufar, Alfonso de, 312n8
Mexico City Cathedral, 161, 164, 166, Monumento, 192, 213, 310n162
171 Moors, 32, 43, 89, 222, 229, 250n75
Miako, 47, 114 Morahin, Clara, 299n67
Micronesia, 58 Morales, Bibiano, 297n54
Middle Ages, 208 Morales, Cristóbal de, 161
384 index
Morales, Francisco de, 161 Southeast Asian, 240n1

Morales, Ignacio, 297n54 Spanish, 9, 99–133, 118, 137, 157–94,
Moreno, Sebastián, 86–87 283n105
Moreto, Agustín, 52 See also books, music; cantores;
Morga, Antonio de, 22, 104–05, 161 compositional techniques;
moro-moro, 222 composition(s), musical; history,
moros. See Muslims music; instruments, musical; music
Morte García, Carmen, 219 pedagogy; music scores; music
Moscow, 32 theory; musicians, ecclesiastical;
Motecuhzoma II, 127. See also Aztec notation, of music; singers; singing
Empire; Aztec people music history. See history, music
motets, 51, 73, 115, 123, 165, 176, 179, music pedagogy, 2, 48, 62, 103–04,
224 112–15, 117–18, 174. See also
Motolinía, Toribio de Benavente, 112 education
mototo, 127 music scores, 53, 54, 123–25, 137, 143,
Murillo Velarde, Pedro, 27, 32–33, 234, 254n30. See also music, sheet
34, 37–39, 62, 78, 93, 108, 120–21, music theory, 3, 4, 5, 6, 10, 47–51, 111,
124, 127, 129, 130, 179–180, 205, 120–21, 174, 234–35, 254n31
220–21, 249n56, 332n56 modulation, 10
Carta hydrographica, y chorographica translation of terms for, 103
delas Yslas Filipinas, 32–33 See also treatises, music; compositional
Museo del Prado, 301n81 techniques
music(s) musical bow (gourd bow). See berimbau
ancient, 78 musical commodities. See commodities,
Chinese, 38–39, 91, 199, 217, 227–28, musical
334n71 “Musicalia speculativa, practicalia, et
controversies over, 195–214 instrumentorum,” 50, 57, 60, 108
English, 67–70 musicians, ecclesiastical, 11, 46, 157, 158,
European and Western, 3, 5, 6, 11, 35, 161, 172, 173, 183, 191, 235–37.
65, 67, 101, 111, 113, 114, 122–23, 144, See also cantores; instrumentalists;
157, 221, 228, 231–32, 234, 235, 236 ministriles
Filipino, 10, 11, 35, 73–153, 198–99, 214 musicology, 15, 233. See also
French, 158, 183, 221, 306n125 ethnomusicology; historical
iconography, 25–26, 58, 61, 126–27 musicology
instrumental, 67, 90, 110, 114, 118, musicopoetic genres. See genre(s),
120, 196, 210, 212, 220, 221, 226, musicopoetic
227, 255n36 Muslim courts, 64–65. See also Jolo;
Italian, 137, 221, 306n125 Simuay; Sulu, sultanate of
Japanese, 41, 226, 228 Muslims, 9, 49, 64–65, 133, 204, 221–23,
manuscripts, 13, 45, 47, 53, 108–09, 250n75, 261n6, 264n35. See also Islam
124–25, 147, 161, 164, 181, 185–88 Mysore, 63
notation, 65, 123, 176, 181, 254n32
reforms for, 195–214 Naga City, 40. See also Nueva Cáceres
regulations for, 195–214 Nagasaki, 42, 53, 55, 114, 223, 332n57,
rough (charivari), 158 333n58
sacred, 41, 51, 68, 137, 157–94, 195–97, Nagasaki Martyrs, 114, 224, 225, 331n55,
200–09, 212–14, 219–29 333n58
secular, 41, 73, 119, 137, 157, 195, 207 Nagcarlan, 55, 184
sheet, 45–47, 59, 123, 124–25, 169, 181, Nahua people, 202. See also Aztec people;
304n114 Náhuatl language
index 385
Náhuatl language, 112–13 Nunc dimittis, 165

nao de China. See galleons nunnery. See Santa Clara, Real
National Commission for Culture and Monasterio de
the Arts, 128 nuns, 63, 175–77. See also Poor Clares;
National Library of the Philippines, 14 Santa Clara, Real Monasterio de
nationalism, 7, 12–13, 151
Nativity, Feast of the, 201–03, 212. See oboe, 120, 181, 220
also Christmas octavario, 171, 225
Navarrete, Domingo Fernández. See Office of the Dead, 219. See also funerals
Fernández Navarrete, Domingo Oliva, Gianpaolo, 180–81
Nebrija, Antonio de, 80 Oña, Diego de, 124
necrologies, 124, 157, 171 opera, 6, 232, 306n125
Neira, Eladio, 186 oppositions, binary. See binary
Neoplatonism, 117 oppositions
Netherlands, 22 oral traditions, 79, 83, 123, 137, 264n35
Nettl, Bruno, 232 oral transmission, 51, 84, 131, 139, 149
New World. See Americas, the oratorios, 68–69
Newberry Library, 14 orchestra, 69
Nickolls, Robert Boucher, 68–69 organ, 46, 54–56, 59, 60, 61, 96, 103,
Nicolas, Arsenio Magsino, 78 114, 161, 163–64, 169, 171, 173, 175,
Noceda, Juan de, 80–81, 139, 149, 181, 182, 183, 184, 185, 208–09, 219,
269n81, 284n10 223, 236–37, 277n52, 294n28,
None, 177 295n37
noseflute(s), 93, 95, 103, 129 bamboo, 55, 96, 184, 255n41, 255n42
notation regal, 67
of music, 65, 123, 176, 181, 254n32 organist, 59, 161, 162–63, 164, 165, 170,
of song-texts, 83–84, 265n42 172, 173, 176, 224–25
See also literacy organology, 90–97, 263n25
novels, 6–7, 133 Orient, the, 7
novenario, 185 Orientalism, 7
Nuestra Señora de Guía, 182, 185, 193, Orpheus, 117
305n120 Orphic discourse, 117
Nuestra Señora de la Consolación y Ortiz, Tomás, 103, 149, 196, 208
Correa, Cofradía de, 185 Ottoman Empire, 9, 330n52
Nuestra Señora de La Naval (Our Lady of Our Lady of La Naval (Nuestra Señora de
La Naval), 13–14, 225 La Naval), 13–14, 225
Nuestra Señora de Paz y Buen Viaje Our Lady of Peace and Good Voyage. See
(Virgin of Antipolo), 24–25, 220–21, Nuestra Señora de Paz y Buen Viaje
244nn14–15, 327n30 (Virgin of Antipolo)
Nuestra Señora del Rosario, 225. See also Oyanguren de Santa Ynés, Melchor, 85,
Nuestra Señora de La Naval (Our 86, 87, 139
Lady of La Naval) oyayi, 87, 139
Nuestra Señora del Rosario, Cofradía de,
173, 185 pabasa, 147, 291n71. See also pasyon
Nueva Cáceres, 40. See also Naga City Pacific Ocean, 8–9, 19, 24–25, 42, 56–57,
Nueva Cáceres, bishop of, 205 58, 67, 215, 220, 231, 241n23,
Nueva Cáceres, Diocese of, 187 250n75, 324n9. See also galleons
Nueva Segovia, bishop of, 168, 222 pacification, 115–16, 197
Nueva Segovia, Diocese of, 187, 197, Padilla, Juan de, 150
206, 311n5. See also Synod of Calasiao Pagden, Anthony, 78, 79
386 index
Pagsanjan, 114 percussion instruments, 126. See also

palacio del gobernador, 135, 160, 218 ayacastles; bell(s); castanets; cymbals
Palawan, 84, 263n29 (bo); drum(s); jaw harp; kulintang;
pamatbat, 149, 150, 284n10 rattles; sonajas; tabor; tambor;
Pampanga, Province of, 130, 146, 192, tambourine
306n130 Pereira, Tomás, 65
Pamplona, Camarines Sur (Philippines), perfume, 24
152 Péris de la Concepción, Francisco, 50–51,
panambitan, 149 60, 179
Panay, 22, 86, 148, 172 Persia, 226
pandero, 38 Persian Gulf, 60
Pangasinan, Province of, 34, 66, 173, Persians, 32
301n78 pertiguero (beadle), 161, 162
people from, 34 Peru, 111, 223
Paniqui, 222 Peter, Feast of Saint, 164
paraauit, 139. See also auit (awit) Phelan, John Leddy, 100, 152, 185,
parahaya, 149 292n78
Parañaque, 325n14 Philippine Islands
paraphrase, 106, 108, 129, 140, 200 American colonial period, 12, 241n12
Pardo, Felipe, 202–04 colonial history of, 12–13, 15
Parian (Chinese district of Manila), 36, Japanese occupation of, 12, 13–14
178, 183, 184, 199, 228, 327n25 nationalistic histories of, 12–13
Paris, 119, 158 Spanish colonial period, 9, 11, 13, 15,
parishes, 35, 89, 110, 112, 113, 114, 122, 19, 24, 35, 84, 118, 265n45
146, 158, 164, 176, 178–84, 186–93, See also Luzon; Mindanao; Visayas
196, 199, 201, 204, 207–09, 213, Philippine National Archives, 14
235, 306n126, 306 nn129–30, 311n1, Philippines, the. See Philippine Islands
311n4. See also cathedrals; chapels; philosophy, 113, 116–17, 174
churches; doctrinas; missions; visitas pianoforte, 169. See also fortepiano
Parma, María Luisa de, 56. See also Picard, François, 248n53
Borbón, María Luisa de pidia, 93
Pasig River, 22–23 pie, 291n71
pasionario, 51–52, 164 Pien-Siang-Kung. See Péris de la
Passion (liturgical), 165 Concepción, Francisco
Passion play, 151 Pieragostini, Renata, 251n10
Passion story, 129, 147, 148, 150, 151. See Pila, 119
also pasyon Pilapil, Mariano, 148
pasyon, 108, 129, 138, 147–52, 235, 291n71 Pinpin, Tomás, 85, 141
paternoster (Lord’s Prayer), 83, 180 pirates, 23, 24, 225, 295n30
patronage, 10, 61, 182, 189, 192–93, 216, pitch, 101, 103, 165, 231
233, 301n80 Pius X, Pope, 181
patronato real, 197 plainchant (canto llano), 47, 51, 105, 106,
Paul III, Pope, 212 108, 113, 114, 122, 123, 150, 160, 165,
Pazis, House of, 247n37 167, 176, 177, 191, 208, 272n16,
pearls, 24 298n63, 332n57
Pedrini, Teodorico, 53–54, 56 measured or figured (canto llano
Peking. See Beijing figurado), 165
penance, 180 Plato, 116. See also Neoplatonism
Pentecost, 89 Plaza de Palacio, 135
Pepin, 277n52 plaza mayor of Manila, 27, 160, 163, 218
index 387
Pliny, 145, 277n52 principales, 100, 148, 192, 307n133.

plosa, 141 See also Filipino people, elite;
Plutarch, 47 principalía
Poblete, Miguel de, 162, 182 principalía, 34–35, 159, 162. See also
poems. See poetry (verse) Filipino people, elite; principales
poetry (verse), 62, 75, 78, 81, 83, 85–88, printing, 25–27, 36, 80, 82–83, 244n19,
92, 106, 129–30, 135–53, 175, 182, 185, 299n63
198, 206, 218, 234, 265n45, 266n51, of music, 27, 53, 176, 244n20, 254n32
282n98, 318n49, 325n18, 325n20 procession(s), 25–26, 27, 107, 135, 152,
dramatic poetry, 106 162, 165, 168, 171, 176, 179, 185, 196,
metrical romance, 106 205, 206, 212–13, 218, 219–20, 222,
of pre-Columbian Americas, 87 223, 226, 323n86
See also genre(s); treatises, poetry processionals, 46
Poland, 32 prohibitions, 195–214, 312n11
Polo, Marco, 9 Propaganda Fide. See Sacra Congregatio
polychorality, 53, 118–19, 144, 218, de Propaganda Fide
219–20, 225 Provincial Council of Manila, 164, 197,
polyphony (canto de órgano), 4, 103, 105, 205–06, 311n4, 311n6
106, 113, 114, 115, 122, 123, 165, 167, Provincial Council of Mexico, Third,
173, 176, 191, 208, 223, 272n16, 311n3, 312n8
298n63, 332n57. See also Prussia, 66
contrapuntal polyphony Psalm settings, 51, 53
polyphony, works of, 51, 124, 161. See also Psalms, 51, 165, 181, 208
contrapuntal polyphony Psalter, 164
Poor Clares, 63, 175. See also Santa Clara, publication. See printing
Real Monasterio de Puebla, Mexico, 61
porcelain, 36 pueblos (towns), 35, 40, 114, 152, 184, 190,
Portugal, 61, 66, 218 205, 212, 213, 220
Portuguese people, 23, 42, 64 Puerto Rico, 46
Portuguese Empire, 20, 42, 180 punto, 147, 150, 291n71
postcolonialism, 6, 7 Purgatory, 185, 192
Potentiana, Feast of Saint, 23, 225, 323n3 puri, 142. See also loa
power, 6, 74, 168, 216 Pythagoras, 277n52
of music, 11, 90, 110, 115–17, 132,
146–47, 148, 197, 203, 277n52 quadrivium, 64
relationships of, 4, 97, 99 “Quædam Musica,” 108, 138, 140, 150,
social, 233 291n71
structure(s) of, 5, 7, 22, 31, 159, 178, Quezon City, 14
192, 195, 198, 225, 232 Quiapo, 114, 178, 183
Prado, Museo del, 301n81 quintilla, 147, 150. See also poetry (verse)
Prat, Raymundo (Ramón), 51, 180 Quiros, Juan de, 150
prayers, 25, 63, 83, 109, 129, 177, 178,
185, 193, 199, 206, 209, 223. See also rabel, 130, 220, 270n101
Lord’s Prayer (paternoster); rosary racial discrimination, 42, 300n68. See
precentor, 168 also castas
preces, 177 Rafael, Vicente, 82, 141
Presentation of the Virgin at the Temple, Ramírez, José, 166
Feast of the, 185 Ramírez, Miguel, 166
press. See printing Ramírez de Arrellano, Emilio, 254n31
Prime, 113, 164, 177, 208, 209 Raón y Gutiérrez, José Antonio, 191
388 index
rattles, 38, 59, 127, 181. See also ayacastles; Rizal, José, 90, 119, 130, 169
sonajas Rizal, Province of, 162
real audiencia, 22, 39, 180, 182 Robles, Blas de, 250n2
real cédula, 59, 161, 168, 211, 248n46, Rodríguez, Juan Ángel, 162, 166–68,
311n3, 326n25 197, 199, 211, 212–13, 297n53,
Real Compañía de Filipinas, 25 322n85
real hacienda, 39 Ródriguez de Figueroa, Esteban, 180
realejo. See organ, regal Rojas, Nicolás de, 61
recitados (recitatives), 208, 221 Rojas y Melo, Esteban, 163
recitatives (recitados), 208, 221 Rojo del Río y Vieyra, Manuel Antonio,
Recollects, Augustinian, 40, 55, 61, 118, 66, 161, 164, 207, 294n28
170, 177, 209, 311n1 Roman, Comendador, 150
reconquista, 80, 133, 222 Roman Catholicism. See Christianity;
Recopilación de leyes de los reynos de las Church, Roman Catholic
Indias, 190, 246n34. See also Laws of Roman Empire, 77–78
the Indies Roman script, 82–84, 265n40
recorder, 42, 46, 59, 93, 95, 103, 113, 121, Romans, ancient, 43, 77, 78, 142
122, 123, 161, 171, 180, 208 Rome, 38, 48–49, 53–54, 79, 88, 163,
reducción, 35, 116 166, 171, 196, 197, 202–03, 224,
regulations. See music(s), regulations for 259n86, 324n8, 330n52. See also
relationships, colonial. See colonial Holy See
relationships Rome, ancient, 77, 116
relativism, 10, 74, 76, 232 Romero y Andía, Antonio, 169
religion. See conversion, religious; Romuáldez, Norberto, 91
evangelization; institutions, rondalla, 57
religious; missionaries Rosario, 148
religious doctrine, 11, 82–83, 108, 115, rosary, 20, 146, 174, 177, 183, 184, 198,
117, 140, 148, 174, 192, 198, 205, 204, 205–08
214, 235 Rosary, Our Lady of the. See Nuestra
religious orders, 11, 27, 174, 235, 297n57. Señora del Rosario
See also Augustinians; Dominicans; Rousseau, Jean-Jacques, 227, 334n71
Franciscans; Jesuits; Lazarists; Roxo, Andrés Joseph, 322n85
missionaries; San Juan de Dios, royal chapel. See capilla real
Order of; Recollects, Augustinian royal patronage. See patronato real
Retana, Wenceslao Emilio, 14, 142, 143, Royal Seminary, Manila, 25
147, 171, 218, 328n39, 333n58 Rubiés, Joan-Pau, 77
revolts, 36–37, 66 Rubio Merino, Pedro, 210
Revolution, Philippine, 12 Russia, 22, 66
revolutionary movements, 74, 105,
137–38, 151, 216, 229, 289n48. See sackbut, 59
also revolts; Revolution, Philippine Sacra Congregatio de Propaganda Fide,
Rhodes, Alexandre de, 63 54, 163
rhythm, 35, 42, 86, 101, 103, 108, 126, sacraments, 83, 110, 116, 117, 164, 171,
127, 139, 141, 186, 334n71 188, 196
Ricci, Matteo, 277n52 Sacred Congregation of Rites (Rome),
rice, 168, 189, 191, 310n155 202–03
Rigaud-Drayton, Margaret, 242n24 sacristan, 59, 117, 146, 162, 172, 182, 190,
Río, Manuel del, 190–91, 196, 200, 191, 192
207, 213 Saenz, Diego, 173, 224
Rivera, Hipolito, 297n54 Said, Edward, 5–7, 133, 241n14
index 389
sailors, songs of, 51 San Luis Gonzaga, Parish of (Pampanga),

sainetes (farces), 211, 221 306n130
sakripisyo, 147 San Miguel, district of Manila, 332n57
Salamanca, 113, 298n63 San Nicolás de Tolentino, Convento de,
Salamanca, Ignacio de, 164 170
salaries, 158, 161, 162, 171, 182, 191–92 San Pablo, Convento de, 170, 173,
salaysay, 148 298n63. See also San Agustín,
Salazar, Domingo de, 46, 54, 160–61, Convento de
166, 210, 250n2, 311n3 San Pedro del Castillo, Nicolás de, 218,
Salazar, Francisco de, 141 325n14
Salazar, Vicente de, 177, 203–04 San Sebastián de Calumpang, Beaterio
Salcedo, Juan de, 22, 102 de, 177
Salvatierra, Cristóbal de, 210 Sánchez, Francisco, 61
Salve Regina, 25, 83, 113, 174, 176, 177, Sánchez, Juan, 148, 290n55
185, 205, 206, 208, 209, 220 Sánchez, Matheo, 93, 103, 141
Samar, 92, 146 Sancho de Santas Justa y Rufina, Basilio,
Sambal people, 78 146, 164, 192, 205, 306n129
Sampaloc, 14, 175 Sanct Anttonio, Juana de, 176–77
San Agustín, Convento de, 13, 14, Sanctus, 207, 208
52–53, 67, 117, 170, 172–73, 225, Sanlúcar, Pedro de, 80–81, 139, 149, 220,
299n64, 299n67, 325n14, 269n81, 284n10
332n57 sangleyes. See Chinese people
San Agustín, Gaspar de, 78, 85, 86–87, Sanskrit, 26, 79, 81, 82, 92
139, 142, 172–73, 182, 218, 266n52 Santa Ana de Sapa, Convento de, 175
San Agustín, Marcelo de, 172–73, Santa Catalina de Sena, Beaterio de, 177
299n67, 300n69 Santa Clara, Real Monasterio de, 55, 63,
San Antonio, Juan Francisco de, 105–06, 175–77, 186, 188, 302n88
114–16, 158, 182, 205 Santa Cruz, Parish of, 37, 178, 183
San Bernardo, Martha de, 176 Santa Cruz de Mayo, Feast of, 201
San Buena Ventura, Pedro de, 54, 93–94, Santa Inés, Francisco de, 107
102–03, 142, 284n10 Santa Isabel, Colegio de, 175, 185, 249n67
San Felipe el Real, Convento de (Madrid), Santa María, Diego de (“B. James of
117, 171, 298n63 S. Mary”), 174
San Francisco, Convento de, 170, 178–79, Santa Marta, Juan de, 47, 55, 114, 276n47
211 Santa Mesa de Misericordia, Hermandad
San Francisco, Venerable Orden Tercera de la, 160, 162, 175, 185, 249n67
de, 178–79 Santa Orosia, José de, 56
San Gabriel, Hospital de, 203 Santa Potenciana, Colegio de, 175
San Gregorio, Colegio de (Mexico City), Santa Rita de Pasig, Beaterio de, 177
202 Santa Rosa de Lima, Beaterio de, 177
San Ignacio, Church of, 178–81 Santiago, Juan de, 59
San Ignacio, Colegio de, 181 Santiago, Luciano P. R., 62, 146, 254n31,
San José, Colegio de, 226 299n67, 300n69, 301n78
San Juan de Dios, Convento de, 170, 171 Santísimo Rosario, Provincia del, 173. See
San Juan de Dios, Order of, 40. See also also Dominicans
San Juan de Dios, Convento de Santo Domingo, Convento de, 13–14, 53,
San Juan de Letrán, Colegio de, 174, 182, 170, 173–74, 185, 220, 308n142
300n76, 301n78, 301n80 Santo Niño de Cebu, 305n120
San Juan del Monte, Santuario de, 109, Santos, Domingo de los, 93, 102, 103, 130
185–88 Sanvítores, Diego Luis de, 58–59
390 index
sarao, 135, 217 Simuay, 49, 64

Saul (King of Hebrews), 116, 277n52 sinakulo, 151, 291n73
Saussure, Ferdinand de, 2, 240n2 singers, 1, 35, 51, 104–05, 106, 113,
Saxony, 66 124–25, 139, 146, 147, 148, 151, 152,
Schenkerian analysis, 232 158, 161, 162, 167–68, 171, 172, 174,
schools, 27, 42, 104, 110, 112, 113, 114, 118, 182, 183, 184, 189–93, 196, 200,
119, 174, 185, 190, 202, 207, 206, 226, 265n45, 298n63, 299n64.
208–09, 254n31, 280n79 See also cantores; paraauit; parahaya
Scott, William Henry, 13, 140, 263n24, singing, 25, 35, 51, 63, 67, 74, 76, 78, 83,
265n45 88–91, 101, 103, 105, 110, 112, 115,
secular clergy. See clergy, diocesan (secular) 122, 123, 125, 130, 140, 161, 169, 178,
Sedley, David, 277n52 180, 200–07, 226–27, 232, 319n60.
Seeley, Sir John Robert, 231 See also plainchant; polyphony
segregation, racial and social, 104, Sirvént, Nicolás, 299n63
215–16, 226–28 slaves, 34, 42, 60, 62, 65, 180, 258n75,
seises, 166–68, 295nn38–39. See also 259n90, 260n91
choirboys; tiples sochantre (succentor), 165
seminary (seminario), 25, 111, 113, 202, social capital. See capital, social
225, 280n79, 332n57 social status. See status, social
Sepoys, 66 Sociedad Económica de Amigos del País,
serenatas, 221 25
serfs, 34 Society of Jesus. See Jesuits
sermons, 68, 108, 140, 148, 150, 179, 180, sodalities, 185, 220. See also
185, 198, 213, 220 confraternities
Serrano, Juan, 141–42 soirées, 40, 67, 213
Serrano, Luis, 46, 106 soldiers, 59, 63, 102, 110, 124, 147, 151,
servants, 258n75 174, 182, 305n120. See also
Servenit, Nicolas. See Sirvént, Nicolás conquistadores
Seven Years’ War, 66 solfa. See solmization
Seville, 15 solfa notation, 181. See also notation,
Seville Cathedral, 295n38 musical
Sext, 177 Solier, Pedro, 46–47
shawm, 25–26, 31, 38, 42, 46, 59, 103, Soliman, House of, 247n37
113, 114, 122, 161, 180, 185, 192, Soliman, Rajah, 22–23, 173, 300n69
309n151 soliranin, 87, 139
sheet music. See music, sheet solmization (solfa), 103, 120–21, 169, 235,
Shiozuka, Luis, 225, 332n57 254n31
shrines, 25, 152, 204, 220, 244n14, son, 105, 273n19
317n38 sonajas, 127
Siam, 55–56, 62, 114, 330n52 song(s), 35, 51, 84, 75, 85, 89–90, 97,
Siamese people, 42 108–09, 122, 129–30, 138–42, 146,
sidai (siday), 87, 143–44 178, 186, 199, 200–04, 212, 214,
Silang, Cavite, 49 220, 226, 265n42, 265n45, 266n49,
Silang y Andaya, Diego, 66 284nn9–10, 312n8. See also auit
silk, 24, 36, 94, 96 (awit); genre(s); singers; singing;
silk strings, 36, 94, 96, 271n105 song-texts
Silva y Cárdenas, Guillermo de, 225, song-texts, 26, 83–84, 129, 138, 140–41,
332n57 198, 234–35, 282n98
silver, 24, 36, 94 Sonnenberg, Walter Ignaz, 252n11. See
silver strings, 36 also Monti, Ignatio
index 391
soprano voice. See treble voice; tiples spinet; vielle; vihuela; viol; violin;
sovereignty, 20, 217, 219, 261n6 violón; violoncello; zither
Spain, 9, 10, 11, 12, 15, 19, 20, 25, 32, 40, structuralism, 2, 233, 240n2
56, 57, 61–62, 66, 77–78, 107, 124, subaltern, 3, 5, 7, 11, 59, 75, 195, 214, 233,
131, 135, 157, 159, 164, 169, 172, 175, 236
181, 193, 195, 200, 202, 204, 214, subing, 95. See also jaw harp
215, 217, 218, 221, 222, 223, 226, subversion, 2, 3, 8, 11, 31, 38, 74, 121, 138,
229, 231, 256n48 148, 151, 192, 195, 205, 213, 214, 216,
Spanish Empire, 2, 4, 15, 19–22, 23, 31, 225, 232, 237
46, 54, 66, 70, 87, 100, 107, 119, 121, succentor (sochantre), 165
133, 157, 159, 172, 193, 203, 215, 217, Sulawesi, 84
218, 219, 222, 223, 226, 228, 229, Sulu, Sultanate of, 63, 64–66, 221–23,
236 259n90, 260n91. See also Jolo
Spanish language, 50, 80–86, 104, 140, Sumatra, 81, 259n84
141, 178, 218. See also Castilian Summers, William John, 161, 186,
language 308n144
Spanish people, 8, 9, 13, 22–23, 31, 32, 33, Sutcliffe, W. Dean, 311n2
36, 39–41, 75–77, 84–85, 110, 132, Sweden, 32, 66
153, 192, 205, 210–11, 212–13, 215, syllabary. See baybayin
220, 221, 223, 224, 226, 227, 228, symbolic capital. See capital, symbolic
236, 260n91, 261n6, 326n21 syncopation, 141, 186
numbers in Philippines, 39 syncretism, 10, 11, 38, 43, 74, 135–53, 214,
private life, 40 224, 235, 236, 283n6, 292n78.
social hierarchy of, 39 See also hybridity
spinet, 54 Synod of Calasiao, 197, 201, 205–06,
standardization of cultural practices, 5, 311n5, 312n6
119 Synod of Manila, 83, 311n3
Stargardt, Janice, 311n2
state(s), 195, 236 Tabacalera Collection, 14
parent, 4–5, 6, 25, 131, 132 tabor, 89
status, social, 48, 84, 107, 125–26, 151. See Tagalog language, 79, 80–83, 85–87, 94,
also liminality 103, 108–09, 138, 139, 141, 142, 144,
stereotypes, 6 147, 150, 178, 186, 205, 218, 220
Stevenson, Robert Murrell, 263n25, Tagalog people, 34, 35, 42, 81, 83, 85, 87,
294n17, 325n13 92–93, 102, 108–09, 113–14, 117,
Stockholm syndrome, 136, 283n3 125–26, 129, 130, 135, 144, 149, 158,
string instruments, 58, 93, 95, 130, 221, 180, 264n39
226 Tagalog region, 96, 113, 125, 126, 147
bows for, 58, 93 Tagbanwa people, 84
bowed, 36, 58, 92, 94, 113, 130 Tagle, Cealwyn, 256n48
frets for, 93, 94 Tagore, Sir Sourindro Mohun, 131,
plectra for, 95, 129 283n105
plucked, 36, 58, 92, 94, 107, 121, 126, tagumpay, 139
130, 199 Tajikistan, 58
strings for, 36, 54, 59, 92–96 Takayama Ukon, Justo, 223
tuning pegs for, 93 talindao. See talingdao
See also cittern; clavichord; erhu; fiddle; talingdao, 87, 139
guitar; harp; harpsichord; jakhē; tambor, 127
kecapi; kodlong; kutyapi; lute; tambourine, 38
luthiery; lyre; mandolin; rabel; tamboli. See tambuli
392 index
tambuli, 93, 96 Topographia de la ciudad de Manila,

tanaga, 284n10 27–29
Tanauan, 173 Torre, Bernardo de la, 92
tanggab (tingab), 93 Totanes, Sebastian de, 265n40
Tartars, 32, 183 towns (pueblos), 35, 40, 114, 152, 184, 190,
taruc, 126 205, 212, 213, 220
Tausug people, 64. See also Jolo; Sulu, trade and traders, 1, 4, 8, 10, 19, 23–25,
sultanate of 32, 36–39, 41, 45–47, 56, 62, 65, 70,
taxation. See tribute 97, 110, 119, 128, 131, 180, 215, 219,
Tayabas, 184 232, 244n11, 259n84, 305n120,
Taylor, Timothy D., 232 327n25
Te Deum, 25, 179, 208, 209, 220, 223, trade networks, 9, 19, 24, 42, 43, 70, 234
286n24 world trade (global trade), 9, 44, 234,
Teatro cómico, 135 242n1
technology, 8 See also commerce; galleons
Tenebræ rites (tinieblas), 192 transculturation, 10, 59, 74, 81, 84,
tenor voice, 120, 221, 222 100–33, 137, 194, 235
Terce, 177 definition of, 100–01
Teresa of Ávila, Saint, 51, 175, 186, See also hispanization
301n84 translation, 63, 82, 86, 87, 93, 101,
tesorero, 39 103–6, 141, 148, 150
texts. See song-texts travel writers and writing, 4, 68–69, 75,
Thailand, 92. See also Siam 84, 131, 184, 263n29
theatrical performances, 135, traverso, 121
210–12 treaties
theatrical works. See drama between Manila and Sulu, 64–65, 221
theory, music. See music theory of Paris, 66
timawa, 34 of Tordesillas, 20
Timotheus of Thebes, 115–16, 277n52 of Zaragoza, 20
tingab (tanggab), 93 treatises
tinieblas (Tenebræ rites), 192 music, 4, 6, 47–51, 53, 169, 172,
Tiongson, Nicanor, 151, 283n6 254n31, 272n16, 298n63, 313n18
tiplecillos. See tiples poetry, 85–87, 138
tiples, 42, 61–62, 107, 120, 166–69, treble voice, 120, 158, 167, 221, 222
182, 207, 208, 258n75. See also trebles, 42, 51, 62, 107, 119, 162, 166–69.
choirboys; Colegio de Niños Tiples; See also tiples
seises; treble voice; trebles tribute, 34–35, 158, 189–92, 235, 246n34
tocotín, 127 Trimillos, Ricardo, 147, 149, 150, 152
Tocsan, Felipe, 59 Trojans, 78
tolali, 93, 103 trompa de París, 93. See also jaw harp
Toledo, 175 trump. See jaw harp
Toledo Cathedral, 171 trumpet, 31, 59, 66, 93
Tomlinson, Gary, 232 tumaila, 266n49
tom-tom. See drum(s) tuning pegs, for string instruments, 93
tonada, 122 Turks, 32
tonadillas, 201 Turpin, François Henri, 55–56
tonality, 153, 232
Tondo, 22, 178, 183 Uguccioni, Giovanni, 163
Tonkin, 63 Ulysses, 145
tono, 147 umbay,i, 139
index 393
umiguing, 139 viol, 130, 181, 271n105, 306n127

United Kingdom, 15, 295n37 violin, 39, 56, 59, 64–65, 69, 108, 111,
United States, 12, 15, 241n12 120, 169, 171, 181, 183, 184, 249n57,
Army, 84 259n84, 270n101. See also biyula
University of Manila (Jesuit), 19 violón, 113, 130, 306n127
University of Salamanca, 113 violoncello, 59, 183, 184, 220, 306n127
University of Santo Tomás, 14, 47–49, Virgen, José de la, 53, 272n16
174, 313n18 Virgin Mary, 38, 89, 142, 143, 146, 177,
universities, 27, 39 182, 196, 199, 201, 204–07, 209,
Úray, María, 176 212, 225, 226, 312n11, 317n40,
urban planning, 104 327n30. See also Antipolo, Virgin of
Urban VIII, Pope, 213 (Nuestra Señora de Paz y Buen
urbanization, 11, 35, 115–16, 120, 197 Viaje); Casaysay, Virgin of;
Urdaneta, Andrés de, 24 Guadalupe, Virgin of; Immaculate
Conception of the Virgin Mary;
Valdés Tamón, Fernando, 27, 28 Marian devotions; Nuestra Señora
Topographia de la ciudad de Manila, de Guía; Nuestra Señora del Rosario;
27–29 Nuestra Señora de La Naval (Our
Valdez, Ramón, 297n54 Lady of La Naval); Presentation
Valencia, 117 of the Virgin at the Temple,
Valenzuela, Fernando, 61–62, 166, Feast of the
258n75 Visayan language, 80, 86, 103, 123, 138,
Valladolid, 14, 15, 299n63, 325n14 141, 148
vaṃśa, 79 Visayan people, 34, 65, 78, 83, 89–90,
vejamen, 218, 325n14 93, 95, 116, 122–27, 129–30, 139,
velación. See wakes 149, 172, 189, 202, 226, 264n39
Velázquez, Diego, 301n81 Visayas, 10, 56, 83, 87, 89–90, 96, 117,
Vera, Ana de, 175 122–27, 139–41, 149, 172, 173, 189,
vernacular language(s). See language(s) 199, 200, 202, 282n96
verse. See poetry (verse) visitas, 110, 122, 152, 198
Vespers, 53, 113, 119, 164, 165, 166, 171, visual arts, 6
176, 177, 180, 185, 192, 208, 209, vocabularios, 54, 75, 80–82, 91, 93–94,
213, 225, 331n56 100–03, 126, 130, 139, 142, 263n24
Vespers settings, 171, 331n56 voice types. See alto voice; bass voice;
Viboult, Gil, 111 tenor voice; treble voice
vicar choral (vicario del coro), 170, 176, voyage accounts. See travel writers and
299n64 writing
vicario/vicaria del coro (vicar choral), 170,
176, 299n64 wakes, 142, 199
Victoria, Tomás Luis de, 161 Wallerstein, Immanuel Maurice, 9
vielle, 92 Walls y Merino, Manuel, 150–51
Vietnam. See Cochinchina; Tonkin Wanli emperor, 277n52
Vigan, 41, 102 wax, 94, 192
vigil, 192, 193 Weber, Max, 3, 233
vihuela, 34, 60, 92, 94, 126 weddings, 118, 192
Villacastín, Tomás de, 148 Wendt, Reinhard, 204–05, 216, 327n30
Villalobos, Ruy López de, 22, 92 West, the, 7
villancico, 53, 89, 115, 122, 124, 140, 165, West Indies, 7, 32, 133
171, 176, 180–81, 186, 200–02, 218, Western Hemisphere, 9, 20, 22
219, 314n18, 331n56 Wilhelm, Josef, 259n86
394 index
Willaert, Adrian, 73 writing. See baybayin; literacy; notation;

wind instruments, 104, 105, 221. See also printing
aulos; bangsi; boloboryong; brass writing systems. See baybayin
instruments; chalumeau; clarion;
cornett; di (dizi); dolzaina; dulcian; Xavier, Saint Francis, 224–25, 331n55
fife; flute(s); horn; lantoy; Xiamen. See Amoy
noseflute(s); oboe; recorder; sackbut; xiao, 249n57
shawm; tambuli; tingab; tolali; Ximénez, Hipolito, 27, 28
traverso; trumpet; xiao Topographia de la ciudad de Manila,
women, 13, 63–64, 69, 90, 94, 95, 27–29
106, 107, 108, 140, 149, 172, 174–78,
192–93, 207, 210, 246n34, 247n37, Yearsley, David, 5, 236
249n67, 263n27, 291n71,
301n79 Zaide, Gregorio F., 24
Woods, Damon Lawrence, 141 zaloma, 139
woods, for musical instruments, 95–96, Zamboanga, 69, 259n86
256n48, 270n101 Zamora, José María, 254n31
world system, 9 Zheng Ye, 250n72
World War II, 12, 13, 14, 160, 175, zither, 54, 94–95
242n30, 308n142, 325n14 Zúñiga, Pedro de, 51–52

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Colonial Counterpoint

Walter Clark, Series Editor

From Serra to Sancho:

Oxford New York

Copyright © 2010 by Oxford University Press, Inc.

Published by Oxford University Press, Inc.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

of ethnomusicology in the Philippines, who offered me some fascinating per-

Sedley gave me some very useful pointers on the classical references in my

Note on Translations and Orthography

Part I: Contrapuntal Cultures

Part II: Enharmonic Engagement

Part III: Strict Counterpoint

Conclusion: Contrapuntal Colonialism, 231

against incompatibility. To explore these binary oppositions and their complex

of the Spanish Empire served to resist any potential artistic predominance of

cultures have predominated at the expense of so many others. We should rec-

device, a strategy of anti-colonial opposition and an idealised ‘post-imperial’

novels, for example, whose engagement (usually suppressed for the

Manila and the Beginnings of (Music) Globalization

Clossey has called “an early-modern globalization, complete with multiple

to this slice of time reveals its seminal importance as a well-deﬁned period of

The Mosaic of Colonial History: A Note on Sources

Anthony May called for a reassessment of nationalistic interpretations of

Colonial Capital, Global City

empire—symbolizes an inversion of the imperial imagination, with Spain’s

Imperial Enterprises and Economic Establishment

The voyages of Fernão de Magalhães (Ferdinand Magellan, 1480–1521) and

figure 1.2. Wooden bas-relief, Los Españoles llevando en procession a la Virgen de

theatrical works (with signiﬁcant musical components), music in European staff

Of course, artists could represent cityscapes by reproducing what they saw,

Manila’s Contrapuntal Society

The establishment of Manila as a focal point of global convergence brought

city as a means of ethnic identiﬁcation.27 In the course of the eighteenth century,

archipelago, the Carta hydrographica, y chorographica delas Yslas Filipinas of

Members of the principalía were entrusted with governing posts in pueblos

families of the great landowners, or encomenderos, whose holdings were

Japanese Christians, some Siamese and Vietnamese converts to Roman

Contrapuntal cultures in Manila interacted in ways similar to the movements

Musical Transactions and

One of the deﬁning characteristics of counterpoint is simultaneity. Without the

Musical commodities were transported around the world as inanimate

European Musical Commodities as Cultural Currency

Augustinian convent in Manila. These included ornaments of brocade for use

Another important early modern treatise, El porqué de la música (Alcalá de

116-page section treating music, titled “Musicalia speculativa, practicalia, et

figure 2.1. Depiction of a jaw harp. “Musicalia speculativa,” in “Observationes

of residence in China, he moved to Macau in 1684, then in 1689 returned to

considerable musical involvement at various stages throughout the drama.

terms in a Filipino language compendium could even imply the indigenous

pass a strict examination testing the ability to construct particular instruments.50

figure 2.2. Depiction of a bandurrilla. “Musicalia speculativa,” in “Observationes

The sixteenth-century arrival of European plucked and bowed string instru-

Manila as a Catalyst for Intercultural Exchanges of Music

appeared to empathize with one other through the discussion of devotional

Musical Consequences of the British Interregnum (1762–64)

Ever since Manila’s early ﬂorescence as a wealthy trading port, numerous

Although it could easily be assumed that the occupation was purely

London to Calcutta, Calcutta to Madras, and Madras to Manila—as a result of

Mapping Musical Cultures

At the dawn of the sixteenth century, European composers began to venture

other in a type of enharmonic engagement, using their own hermeneutical

Interpreting the Musical Past

Just as early modern Europeans used cartography as a means of visually repre-

D. R. M. Irving - Colonial Counterpoint Music in Early Modern Manila (Currents in Latin Amer & Iberian Music)

D. R. M. Irving - Colonial Counterpoint Music in Early Modern Manila (Currents in Latin Amer & Iberian Music)