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Commonwealth of the Philippines. Between its establishment in 1901 and dissolution during World War II, it registered a reputation for musical excellence both in the Philippines and the United States, and is credited with being the first band other than the United States Marine Band to provide the musical escort to the president of the United States during an American presidential inauguration.

The Philippine Constabulary and Lt. Walter H. Loving entertained thousands in concert halls and world’s fairs, and as I’ve stated earlier above held a place of honor in William Howard Taft’s presidential parade and garnered praise by bandmaster John Philip Sousa – all the while facing beliefs and policies that Filipinos and African Americans were “uncivilized.”

When the Philippine Constabulary Band arrived in St. Louis, Missouri to perform in the World’s Fair - it was indeed their very first performance in foreign soil – and in America no less.

And in an era when most Westerners perceive Filipinos as “savages” who couldn’t even play the flute, the pressure was on this band to impress everyone.

Consequently, during one of their evening concerts at the fair, the band anxiously stepped into the stage to give the performance of a lifetime and the handsome African-American officer who founded the band years earlier, served as their conductor.

As they began playing one of the more famous symphonic pieces – Gioachino Rossini’s “William

Tell Overture” – the audience was immediately captivated.

Note after note, the Filipino band delighted its listeners with an unforgettable music. Soothing melody filled the concert hall, leaving the concertgoers pleasantly surprised that the “dog-eating, headhunting Filipinos” actually had the potential to become world-class musicians.

Then, the unexpected happened; in what others suspected as an act of sabotage, the power went out in the middle of their performance.

The assembly was on the edge of their seats. The band, meanwhile, continued playing their instruments, barely seeing the white handkerchief that Loving tied to his baton in a desperate attempt to save the show.

What others thought would lead to their defeat propel them instead towards victory?

The Filipino band never missed a beat despite the darkness. Their persistence not only earned them two awards during the fair (second prize for the ensemble and a bronze medal for Pedro Navarro, the piccolo player) but also put the legendary band in the annals of music history.

As the Philippine insurrection reared its ugly head in the early days of the Filipino American War, the need for more US soldiers became inevitable.

But the anti-imperialists wouldn’t back down. They did everything they could to prevent the continuous outflow pf Americans to the bloodbath happening in the old country.

It was then that the U.S. Army came up with a better, more feasible idea. They started recruiting Filipinos who were willing to fight against their fellow countrymen, whom Americans branded as “bandits” or “insurgents.” Soon, the Philippine Scouts was established in 1899, followed by the Constabulary two years later.

The Philippine Constabulary served as the civil government’s police force. Headed by an American officer named Capt. Henry T. Allen, the group’s role was to maintain “public order beyond the capabilities or jurisdiction of the often inefficient native municipal police.” From her book “Instruments of Empire: Filipino Musicians, Black Soldiers, and Military Band Music during U.S. Colonization of the Philippines” author, scholar and ethnomusicologist Mary Talusan draws on hundreds of newspaper accounts and exclusive interviews with band members and their descendants to compose the story from the band’s own voices. She sounds out the meanings of Americans’ responses to the band and identifies a desire to mitigate racial and cultural anxieties during an era of overseas expansion and increasing immigration of nonwhites, and the growing “threat” of ragtime (a musical style that had its peak from the 1890s to 1910s) with its roots in Black culture.

The spectacle of the band, its performance and promotion, emphasized a racial stereotype of Filipinos as “natural musicians” and the beneficiaries of U.S. benevolent assimilation and colonial tutelage. Unable to fit Loving’s leadership of the band into this narrative, newspapers dodged and erased his identity as a Black American officer.

The untold story of the Philippine Constabulary Band offers a unique opportunity to examine the limits and porousness of America’s racial ideologies, exploring musical pleasure at the intersection of EuroAmerican cultural hegemony, racialization and U.S. colonization of the Philippines.

Notably, in the early 20th century, music was explicitly tied to a culture’s level of civilization – the closer to European music, the more civilized the culture that produced it.

And so, the Philippine Constabulary Band, one of the most popular military bands at the St. Louis Worlds’ Fair of 1904, was juxtaposed next to the tribal people of the Philippines as visual and audible proof of the U.S.’ successful project of civilizing Filipinos. The band’s conductor, Lt. Loving, could not be explained by this simple narrative and his identity as a Black American officer was therefore deleted and nearly absent from most periodical reports.

The Filipino band played “Stars and Stripes forever” more than any other band to highlight achievement of U.S. rule in the Philippines. An imperial way of hearing the band’s music-making allowed Americans to take credit for the Filipinos’ tutelage and attainment while forgetting the violence and death of colonial rule. Certainly, it provides a rare glimpse into the ways that music could bridge differences between individuals, frequently breaching social norms and racial restrictions in some instances not reported by newspapers.

As circumstances of U.S. colonization of the Philippines changed leading up to and during World War II, so did the meaning of Philippine Constabulary Band’s performances. The direction and success of the band under Filipino leadership resonated with similar hopes over the independence of the Philippines generally.

If I must say so, the band and Loving’s leadership provided alternate expressions of Filipino and African American identities from the negative portrayals in American culture, connecting the goals of educated Filipino Americans and African Americans in a strategy of racial uplift.

When Japan took over the Philippines, western band music failed to demonstrate Japanese cultural superiority over Filipinos and was ineffective as an instrument of empire. Interviews with Filipino bandsmen who went to the 1939 Golden Gate International Exposition with Loving give voice to the Filipinos’ experiences.

In her book’s conclusion, the writer Talusan discuss how the Filipinos continue to make music, perform and express themselves, critiquing and challenging the symbolic violence engendered in old stereotypes and tropes with their creativity, skills, and ingenuity.

No doubt about it, “Instruments of Empire: Filipino Musicians,

Black Soldiers, and Military Band Music during U.S. Colonization of the Philippines” is the first booklength study of the celebrated Philippine Constabulary Band, a military ensemble (and again, as I’ve earlier stated, in their later years, an orchestra) led by African American U.S. military officer and bandleader Lt. Walter H. Loving. Through close readings of archival documents, oral histories and interviews, secondary sources, and reimagining’s of prior performances, Talusan brings music – its performers and productions – to the forefront. Her narrative beautifully lays out for us how these Filipino musicians – our “kababayans” – and their work teach us to listen against the “imperial ear” so to speak and, in the process, apprehend the deep significance of the Philippine Constabulary Band’s early twentieth-century musical and every day, performances until today.

Truly, Talusan’s book is a mustread for all students of history, colonialism, media studies, race relations, and American popular music. Mabuhay!

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