One of my fondest childhood recollections is spinning 7” vinyl records on my plastic turntable, an RCA 45-EY. Becoming a composer-musician and recording artist was a natural recourse and fruition.
I was stuck somewhere between originality and no gigs. My own colleagues called me the conceptualist, the maverick with the only too occasional stadium concert.
I was just a kid inventing my own guitar chords because I did not have a teacher. Whatever sounded good to me was effectively correct. There were no rules.
As one who wrote interesting stories — whimsical stories, perhaps — and who drew whimsical maps and landscapes across a long canvas. Is this real enough? I also wish to be remembered as a Filipino, most of all.