Return to Form, Abe Diaz

90 RETURN TO FORM Abe Diaz

Alas, tis shit! —Plank, 2006

The Ordinary World

You press play and the disc whirrs. The player’s digital timecode displays a row of zeros accompanied by a brief but tense silence. Then, the first sound you hear is an arpeggio. Five cascading notes from the mellow hum of an electric piano followed by the pulse of a kick drum. Is it a real kit or a machine? You can’t quite tell. Meanwhile, the electric keys cycle through a short three-chord progression: C major, D flat minor, E flat minor, and back to C major. Phrygian—according to Western music theory—therefore enigmatic. Haunting, even, especially once the unintelligible vocals fade in, scrubbing forward and backward, chanting gibberish. The soundscape is unsettling. But groovy. And you notice your foot is quietly tapping along with the subtle metronomic drive of the bass drum.

The garbled chants give way to an unmistakable voice. However, while you recognize the bright timbre of the singer, you cannot decipher the bizarre lyrics, the first “verse” a repetition of the same line: Yesterday, I woke up sucking on lemon. Yesterday, I woke up sucking on lemon. . . . You contemplate whether it has value as surrealist poetry, or if it is just trivial nonsense.

It isn’t long before you ask Where are the guitars? I thought this was “alt-rock.” Give me a power chord forchristsake. You watch the timecode accumulate elapsed time, holding your breath as you anticipate a moment of relief at the sound of something more familiar. Your foot continues tapping while you wait. And wait. While the track’s eponymous refrain insists that Everything is in Its Right Place, nothing about this place seems right to you at all.

Departures

Apoy is the only full-service restaurant in the Twin Cities—and, to the best of my knowledge, in all of Minnesota—that specializes exclusively in Filipino food. The one-year-old restaurant stands on the southeast corner (fittingly) of Nicollet Avenue and W. 43rd Street in the Kingfield neighborhood of Minneapolis southside. Its neighbor across the street is another small, region-specific eatery: the southern soul-inspired Revival. And on the other side of Nicollet is another commercial low-rise with storefronts: a bike shop, a record store, and what appears to be a small clinic.

The three of us—my girlfriend Sigrid, my sister Lee, and myself—arrived just before 7:00 p.m. on a Saturday night. Outside, the late November air was brisk, and it had been dark for hours. As we hurried to cover the block between our car and the restaurant, I noticed myself feeling tense, jittery.

I had been to Apoy once before, and it was . . . okay. To be fair, I had unnecessarily high expectations back then. On the one hand, I was still naively holding onto the hope that restaurants could provide a level of excitement worth seeking. And on the other, I was projecting a much greater significance onto the experience, regarding the act of eating at a Filipino restaurant as partaking in some sort of spiritual homecoming, an affirmation of identity. Instead, all that was affirmed was a feeling of incomplete-ness. I recognized the flavors brought to our table, but something was off—maybe it was the contrived restaurant “atmosphere,” or the deliberate presentation with the self-proclaimed foodie’s eye in mind. In the end, the dishes resembled the food that nourished my upbringing, but it seems that imitation was not enough.

In spite of my disappointment, I found myself back at Apoy. Only this time, I was determined not to scrutinize this moment for something it was not, what it could never be. I had confidence in my ability to quell my expectations, but was nonetheless feeling anxious about something. Perhaps, deep down some part of me wanted so badly to be proven wrong. I tucked my

hands into my coat pockets and immediately dismissed the thought, blaming the jitters on the cold.

[hyphenated]-Rock

Three years after their breakthrough album OK Computer redefined alt-rock, Radiohead redefined themselves with the release of their highly anticipated fourth studio album Kid A. The band during this era is commonly portrayed as disillusioned by the oversaturation of prog-rock and Brit-pop, and discouraged by the attempts to imitate OK Computer’s success by which they, too, felt constrained. The arduous eighteen-month recording process was so fraught with conflicting ideas and unproductive sessions that the group nearly reached a breaking point, agreeing to disband should their efforts continue in vain.

So, Radiohead sought to redefine themselves by undefining themselves. They set aside their guitars, dismantled the traditional band hierarchy, and strived to defamiliarize the listener by increasing the distance in the artist-consumer paradigm. Frontman Thom Yorke obscured his ballady tenor voice behind modulators and esoteric lyrics. Jonny Greenwood, guitarist-cum-keyboardist-cum-orchestral-arranger-cum-synth-programmer-etc, continued to tinker with the sounds and harmonies one wasn’t supposed to use. Filling the absence of snappy guitar riffs was the subdued warmth of synthesizers and ethereal effect layers. Convention was replaced by experimentation. The result: ten meticulously arranged compositions amounting to fifty minutes of genre-bending tracks. Through Kid A, the listener vicariously explores the realm beyond the tenuous borders that haphazardly define “alternative” music.

The minimalist groove of Kid A’s opening track, “Everything in Its Right Place,” sounds more like experimental-jazz than electronic-rock. The mystifying soundscape sets the tone for the remaining tracks and establishes the uncanny reality of the album. The title track is a haunting lullaby with Yorke’s processed vocals conjuring the image of the Pied Piper: The rats and the children follow me out of town. Come on kids. “The National Anthem” is the

first track to feature a discernible traditional-rock sound: an overdriven bass strums a sinister riff that, with the energetic drums, indeed sounds anthemic. But once the harsh wails of the brass kicks in, the arrangement rapidly unfurls into cacophony too chaotic perhaps even for rock. The dust settles by the onset of “How to Disappear Completely,” which, aside from the lone dissonant pitch droning in the background, is reminiscent of the melancholic ballads from their 1995 release The Bends. However, any semblance of nostalgia or familiarity is undermined by Yorke’s dissociative refrain: That there, that’s not me . . . I’m not here. This isn’t happening. Concentrated in this mantra are Kid A’s deconstructive motives, and the track dissolves the music like the Road of Trials that breaks down Campbell’s archetypal hero. Structure is eaten away, the truths of the ordinary world are abandoned, and all that’s left behind is essence. Enter “Treefingers.” Arrhythmic. Atonal. This journey into experimentation has led us here. Far from the realm of four bars, rich harmonies, and exhilarating verses. To sonic limbo. The old world, the band of the past we once knew—or thought we once knew—is all behind us.

Departures 2

When we walked into the restaurant, I was met with a familiar smell that brought me back to a typical moment in my childhood:

My parents would often drag my sisters and me out to the suburbs to attend some family friends’ party. The smell of the restaurant took me to the unfamiliarity I felt the instant I stepped into the suburban foyer. It conjured the image of shoes piled onto a rug and shoved off to the side. There was often a large staircase that only the hosts’ children and their closest friends would utilize to retreat upstairs and away from the forced mingling. An untouched piano in an adjacent un-lived-in living room would prompt the host to ask if I play, and I anxiously anticipate what may or may not happen when I say “yes.”

As I waited in front of the host stand, I considered whether or not this smell was a “good sign,” resisting the urge to mull over “authenticity.” Then

approached a cheery fellow who would be our server. He had long, moppy black hair which barely parted around his face, further obscured by bold, round black glasses with thick high-powered lenses. To Lee’s credit, he can be most accurately described as Ringo Starr from the Yellow Submarine cartoon. And what he lacked in facial visibility, he made up for in enthusiasm which, for the entirety of the evening, we would not be able to match.

You’re living in a fantasy world . . . Come back (interlude)

Mom left in 1985. She was as old as I am now. Dad left in ’92. Carlos Bulosan left on July 1, 1930. Even though I was born here I can’t count how many times people have asked if I’ve been back.

Departures 2 cont’d

Bright bulbs which would occasionally flicker throughout the night hung from the ceiling, many encased in lampshades that resembled wicker or woven bamboo-work. Leafy vines draped from floating shelves that were mounted along the walls, and a few ferns and trees in indoor planters added to the tropical greenery. Playing overhead above the steady buzz of the Saturday night dining crowd were energetic hits, from anthemic ’60s classics to synth New Wave.

The evening started off with a round of drinks from Apoy’s signature cocktail menu. Each drink featured rum, some sort of citrus liqueur or tropical fruit juice, and was given an appropriately kitschy Philippines-related name like “Pacquiao Punch,” or “Manila Sunset.” I started with a Manilla Sunrise—essentially a gin and tonic, with an extra “L” and no discernable hint of calamansi, which was ostensibly a key ingredient.

The menu seemed to offer the Philippines’ culinary “greatest hits” with no regional specificity explicitly stated. Unsurprisingly, there was lumpia,

pancit, and adobo. In addition to the classics, there were what Soleil Ho would call “assimilation foods”: whitefish dredged in San Miguel beer-batter before being fried and served with ube chips, adobo chicken wings with honey and a sesame seed garnish, and longanisa in burger form topped with annato aioli on brioche. There was even the (in)famous Pinoy Spaghetti with its hot dogs and shredded cheddar. As per the cuisine, most of the menu was meat-based, so Sigrid, Lee, and I would have to put our vegetarianism on hold. We began, naturally, with pulutan, selecting the lumpia and sisig. There was no shortage of pork that night.

The lumpia were long and thin cigarillos, golden brown, and cut on a bias giving one end a distinct point. They had the delicate crunch and light savoriness of the lumpia I had grown so familiar with as a child, staples of every big gathering. Each serving came with six rolls lined up on a long rectangular plate lined with a strip of banana leaf. Forgoing the accompanying saucer of banana ketchup, we opted instead for the bottle of spiced vinegar which claimed its rightful place on each table as proudly as Heinz at an Applebee’s. The sharpness of the vinegar helped mellow the richness of the pork for us vegetarians, thus suiting the lumpia, although Lee lamented the absence of sweet chili sauce.

In lieu of a sleek rectangular plate, the sisig instead came to the table in (what was supposed to be) a searing hot cast-iron skillet as in the Philippines. Nevertheless, the sisig was rich and succulent, the chopped-up bits of chicken liver adding “darker” savoriness to its meaty decadence. As we worked our way through the appetizers, Ringo occasionally graced us with his animated presence and refilled our drinks.

For our ulam—main course, more or less—we settled on the bicol express, a medley of shrimp and mussels in a pale broth of coconut milk and chili; and their version of adobo which was comprised of chicken thigh, large cuts of potato and bay leaf. By 8:30, we had our entrees. It wasn’t until then that we were served our first insufficient portion of rice, the modest helping just barely filling the small soup bowl in which it was served. As we took turns dividing the rice into even smaller helpings among the three of us,

I imagined a world where “Asian” restaurants like Apoy would always have rice ready for each table as European bistros do with bread. A world where I could simply reach toward a giant heap of white jasmine at the center of the table and appropriately structure the rice-to-ulam ratio of my meal without amassing a surcharge. Where our server—who would otherwise have to take lap after tireless lap between our table and the rice cooker in the kitchen— could leave us alone and finally see to their other tables. I came back to reality when Sig handed me the bowl saying I could have the rest, so I tilted it and emptied what was left onto my plate.

The bicol express, the smooth warmth of the coconut broth, was soothing. The broth had a similar flavor to other ginataan-based dishes: coconut with a subtle peppery zip of garlic and chili. The adobo was less impressive. The chicken was dry, and the broth leaned too far in the direction of soy sauce, indicated perhaps by the darkness of its color. I should have known better than to order something with chicken, an irresponsible refrain from vegetarianism for what is inarguably the worst meat.

Finally, for dessert, in lieu of the turon which was 86’d early in the evening, we ordered the ube halaya and leche flan. The former was served again on a sleek rectangular plate in three delicate lavender dollops garnished with slivers of jackfruit and macapuno. The flan was an extra firm custardy triangle drizzled with a dark brown sauce that claimed to be caramel and tasted like the artificial smell of the air around the Starbucks in your local shopping mall. After a so-so dessert, we stirred the ice at the bottom of our glasses while waiting for the bill to be processed. I ended up paying something like $150. It was much more than the food was worth, but after witnessing the whole spectacle of the restaurant—the mid-century modern furnishings, the elegant plating, the trendy with-a-hint-of-exotic decor—I conceded that it wasn’t about the food, and it hasn’t been for a long time.

Return to Form

It was this phrase that sent me down the Kid A rabbit hole. I exhausted the album with back-to-back listens while I contemplated the unspoken

criticisms beneath “return to form,” commonly interpreted as praise. I hear it as dog-whistle for “finally!” A sigh of relief after a protracted, often tense period of expectation for . . . something else? What does that say about the artist, that “waiting” period? Are they and their artistic endeavors useless? What is “form,” and what gives one the authority to essentialize certain works over others?

Questions of “return to form” lead to the same dilemma as “authenticity” in foodie-speak. It assumes that the subject in question has a fixed essence, an inherent and quantifiable purity. It narrowly evaluates and fails to contextualize. Its reliance on permanence pigeonholes, compartmentalizes creativity and punishes experimentation. Essence and authenticity are constructions that serve less to evaluate a subject, but to flaunt the ostensible expertise of the one doing the evaluating.

Those who, following the release of Kid A, still await Radiohead’s “return to form,” don’t just pigeonhole the band; they seem to be misreading art altogether. The opposite of creativity is stasis.

Champorado: A Recipe

You wake up one morning and head straight from the bed to the kitchen. You are eager to make breakfast not because you’re hungry, but because you’re exhausted and you like to have something to complement your coffee. You prefer the taste of something sweet for breakfast, thinking it’s more palatable first thing in the morning and is a more suitable flavor to the black coffee that steams away in your mug as you look for something to eat. You’re out of your go-to cereal. There’s no fruit because the season is so short. Jam on toast won’t last you long enough and a bowl of oatmeal will last too long. You start from scratch and decide to make champorado. You have time and it’s easy. Just four ingredients: sugar (check), cacao (check), boiling water (easy enough), rice (check, duh). You dissolve the cacao in the boiling water as per the ratios your mother explained: one tablea for every twelve ounces of water. You pour the liquid over the rice that’s nearly finished cooking in the other pot, the melted chocolate seeping down through the grains. You spoon in

some brown sugar and stir until the rice is an even shade of deep brown. Is it too dark? You can’t quite remember what it should look like and use your best guess. After all, what matters most is how it tastes. As you scoop a portion into your bowl, you notice the rice clumping more than expected. You decide to add more liquid to your bowl, only remembering now the final key ingredient: evaporated milk, a splash to taste to sweeten to enrich. You go to the fridge knowing you only have almond milk. That will do. You pour the milk into the bowl and give it an impatient stir. It seems that it smells right, and you take that as a good sign. You take your first bite and hold the flavor in your mouth. It’s missing something, but you’re not sure what. You try it again, hoping that prolonged exposure will reveal the missing piece. You think it could be either chocolate or sugar and end up adding more of both. You try your champorado again. It still tastes slightly different than the version in your head. You’ve gotten used to this discrepancy—it has happened numerous times with adobo, pinakbet, sinigang, afritada, puto, bibingka— but A Thousand Plates later, it is nevertheless discouraging. You look down at your champorado sitting slightly too dark and clumpy in your bowl. It’s fine, you concede. After all, it’s rice, sugar, and chocolate, so how bad could it be? You are reminded of the refrain to Kid A’s “Optimistic” as you take a sip of your coffee, the bitterness balancing out the sweet: The best you can is good enough.