It’s true that my voice teacher permeates most of my posts in the last few months. When you have someone in your life like that and then have them leave you suddenly only to intensify their role in your life, a few things happen. One is that it’s humbling. Another is that you feel very cell in your body feel the tremors of what you thought was mourning, to what the Universe is trying to tell you. Edgardo Crisol made my year. He might have made my life. I will keep talking and writing about him ultimately because I love him and I miss him. A loss like that can never settle. A loss like this has never given me more hope.

I laughed the day he died. It was a laugh that could not have come from a better judgment that knew why. The phone call bringing the news felt strange. The ring of the telephone itself sounded ominous. My brother who brought the phone to me was somber, like he was carrying the relic of a saint. Micko was one the line.

Micko was euphemistic, and had barely recovered from the news he was about to bring. “Sir Dodo is no longer with us.” I listened through Micko’s euphemism. And then, breaking through these words, I laughed. My mind wondered that I didn’t cry. I stopped laughing to think of something else to say, but I laughed again. Then these words came out:

“Oh my God. We got him a great time. We got him at a great time.”

Micko was obviously struck. As for me, there was nothing useful to say, except to wonder at the fact that we were supposed to visit him the next day. That his last messages to me were asking about Micko’s plans after my recital, that he had texted “Godspeed.” It felt ominous, this “Godspeed.” He must have meant this for me on my flight to the US but it felt heavier than what I thought it meant.

Then I felt like I woke up.

“Micko,” I said, like an older sister giving out orders.

“I have to give my costumes back to TDS. Tonight. I think I owe it to him to do that.”

I knew I owe it more to myself, but facing the seat of my anger and frustration is something that I’d like him to know. This was how I celebrated his life, by formally closing a chapter of my life and seeing these people for one last time, at the very least appearing civil, happy, if not a tad grateful. “Performance involves a lot of self-confrontation,” Edgardo told me the first day he gave me lessons. So there I was.

I kept it from the theater company that I was leaving for the US. I didn’t talk about it to a lot in spite of having planned it a year prior because I was sure that they would make a big deal out of it, which I didn’t want. Also, I was losing faith in my place there, so I might as well just fade away.

My first lesson with Edgardo discovered my anger issues, and out came a story. A story that spans 5 years of wasted labor, a legitimate reason to be angry. It was a story he understood. He wrinkled his nose, shook his head, sighed, and gasped. It was the issue of all issues that we’d later on talk about concerning me, my life, and, ultimately, how all that affects my technique, how all that is getting in the way of my voice. In an interview, Bobby McFerrin shares that one way to fight temptation is through singing. Edgardo had me sing away my anger so I won’t have to live that way. He had me hit high note after note, using my frustration as leverage until I forgot what it was like to feel frustrated, until all that came out of me was the moment. He’d call out the slightest twitch of my right eyebrow and the weird way I wrinkle the left side of my mouth, recognizing these as anger. He threw songs at me that made use of my angst to bring out the real story of their lyrics. A a result, I broke through all that and even had a recital to show for it. It was the best thing he’s ever made me do and I’m glad that I did it.

Showing up at the theater company’s office was probably a way of strengthening myself against grief while achieving closure. It was a convenient farewell, a formal one that announces my departure because I wouldn’t have any other reason to leave the theater company other than moving away and to New York at that. It was a convenient way to leave, without the mess of shallow pleasantries and fond farewells. Moving away would at least afford that. I was also stuck between a rock and a hard place emotionally. I didn’t want them to know that I had met and lost someone wonderful. At the same time, I didn’t want to them to know that I couldn’t be happier to be seeing them for the last time because I couldn’t care any less about them anymore. 

Later, we left the office and Micko and I went to Ria’s house for margarita’s. She invited us earlier that week and it still boggles me how all this fell into place in one day. I didn’t know if I wanted to tell Ria and Aria that Edgardo had died. Two rounds of margaritas later, I announced that Edgardo had died and they seemed more struck than we were. In fact, people we broke this news to were more shocked than Micko and I were.

Months later, I still talk about him. How he found me, how he fixed my voice, how he slanders, how he defends, how he complains, how he jokes, how he teaches, how he listens. He really was all that and he still affects how I think and live, an influence that I do not expect to fade. I talk to new friends about him, but I forget to tell them about the day he died. How his death armed me for slaying the demons anger and frustration. How he strengthened my resolve to go back to the start.

Late evening turned into early morning at Ria’s dinner table. After three rounds of margaritas, and probably about 24 hours after his death, the notion that we had wasted 5 years on a dream that ignored us was disproved. The news may have masked the difficulties of me moving away, but his death marked a transition and made us realize how things fall into place.

This was how I grew up. This was how I was made aware of what I could do, arming me for New York, arming me for what many believe I could do. 2011 was like a NASA space shuttle making its re-entry into the earth’s atmosphere with high pressure and high risk. 2012 has landed and it’s going to be great.

I hadn’t realized that it’s been a little over a year since I wasn’t cast in a show that I thought I wanted to be in. Those who know me well were surprised that I actually cried over this one. I hardly ever cried in my life at least until that point. Funnier still, I was crying and I had no idea why.

It’s just a casting. I’m still alive. I was crying because somehow my body knew what was going on and left my brain to figure everything out on its own. Like something other than my own desires knew better. Like my body craved for an epiphany.

I’m actually composing an email to someone and it contains an apology and an account of certain things. This post is supplement to that email because I feel that I have to let it out to the world anyway. More importantly, I’m also writing this to build a framework of grace in my own story because every time this comes up, I feel gross. And gross isn’t the life I want to live or believe in. Bitterness is no story to weave.

Just thinking about writing about these things is painful. Not being cast was like a hit to my gut or like muscle cramps in both calves. I was so lost in not being cast but knowing that I’ll be leaving for New York six months later, I thought I’d start anew and forget everything.

Last Sunday at Hillsong, Carl said

No matter how lost you feel in the wild, God will always remember what you look like.

Feeling forgotten, and despairing at the time I would have spent doing something else, I thought that I’d quit. That quitting theater and singing altogether would do me good. That I had no future in performing. Besides, I was sitting in the midst of a theater company and no one was making use of my worth. I was believing that I was worthless.

Then someone found me.

When Carl yelled shared his message last Sunday, I knew exactly what he was talking about. He was talking about this epic voice teacher who heard me one Sunday, after a mall show that our family provided rehearsal space for. Edgardo Crisol introduced himself to Micko. Micko then introduced me to him. Edgardo took us to be curiosities. New voices to hear. New challenges. He appraised me.

“Talk to me,” Mr. Crisol said. I vaguely remember talking about my life after college, hopefully leading to how I ended up in theater but before I was starting to lose sense, he raised a hand like wizards do when they’ve heard enough.

He asked “Do you sing? Are you a singer?”

“Yes, I sing.”

He turned to one of his students standing next to him, a young tenor, and said “Do you hear that? She has a deep speaking voice but you can hear the high timbre of her head tone. And her speaking voice is velvety.” He turned to me again. “Very velvety. Do you sing soprano?”

“Yes.”

He took a breath and spoke some more. “You are a natural lyric soprano,” He said. He was pointing a finger at me as he spoke, telling me this as if I was at fault for not knowing this information since kindergarten. “Like Kiri Te Kanawa. Velvety and fine. Run a search on her so you have an idea.” Sparing no awkward moment, he offered an invitation. “I hope that you and Micko would sit down and have voice lessons with me. You would make a great team.” (Micko is one of my best friends. We were already a team!)

That was all I needed. Someone who heard me. Someone who knew better. Someone like Edgardo Crisol who took the time to be curious about me and actually tell me what I am. By the time he asked me to talk to him, he already knew what I had. He knew what I could do. He knew what kind of songs I could sing. I looked up Kiri Te Kanawa that evening and thought “he heard that?”

Singing warm ups at the top of every lesson informed him of various things. Like if I was having my period, or if I was tired. If I was sleep deprived or if I’m adjusting to November temperature changes. He also figured that I had anger issues. He figured this out in the middle of my first session.

He was exasperated about those anger issues. At the first session, he was getting me to reach a high E flat. I couldn’t reach a high E flat and he was making me reach it because he could hear it “There’s something there. There’s something there,” he insisted.

“I’m thinking of the note but I can’t figure it out,” which is how I work when I sing. I hear the note, I think about it and sing it. Like how your brain will always know that the letter “A” is the letter A. He did say that that there was one good thing that I have going for me: “You have a very good ear for music. Very good.” But there was something keeping me for from that E flat. I could hear it. I know what it sounds like but I couldn’t get it out.

Finally, he hit the nail on the head. “You have anger issues!” he said. “But come on. I know you have it. Show up, PJ.”

I’m trying to get reach something I should physically reach with my voice and I’m learning that my anger is an obstacle. I was confused. I was sweating and clueless. I could feel my throat expanding. My voice is bouncing around every crack in my skull. I’ve been singing since I was five but I have never gone through anything like this. It was like my soul was being laid bare, like was being stripped naked. 

Then he couldn’t let it get past him. He let go of his keyboard in surrender and said “PJ, come on. Let’s have it. You’re very angry. What’s going on? Tell me, ano ba yan?” I turned to Micko who was hiding his face in his music. Micko knew everything but I’m sure he didn’t see this coming. I gave Edgardo the bottom line. My thoughts stuttered but he listened. At the end of it, I couldn’t wait to see what else he could get out of me, what else he thought I could actually do. Sundays were amazing and Micko and I figured that at some point, we’d already become friends with him.

I’ve only known him for five months and the last time I saw him was in April. He was at his sharpest, most energetic, and most witty, which is the way he would have wanted to be remembered.

He didn’t make it to the recital he urged for me to have. He died before we could even send him a burnt cd of the show. He died about two weeks after my recital, almost exactly a month before I arrive in New York.

Mine was the last recital that he would have seen. They say he waited for me. They say I was his last investment before leaving this earth. Strangely, our visits prompted him to organize his files into folders and there was a constant issue with last pages in his photocopied sheet music for us. Little things that foreshadow. Later on, we found out that he knew he was going to die soon but never told us.

On my first day of lessons, he said that performance has got to do with self-confrontation. You have to deal with yourself before you go out to an audience. You have to deal with yourself. The evening after he passed, I decided to get up on my feet and face the object of my anger. That was the last time I saw the theater company I dedicated myself to for five years. I never intended to see them again, but as a small celebration of his legacy in my life and for my own sake, I faced facing them. And it went well.

The timing and circumstance of our first meeting and the timing of his death defined not only what I should do in New York, but also what I should be doing to my life. One of them is to sing, which I’ve been doing without fail. Another is to write.

I’ve been keeping this story from being written because I’ve always been pissed off and passive aggressively angry every time it comes up even in conversation. I feel like shit thinking about everything and I was sick and tired of that feeling.

Obviously, I’m writing about it right now but it’s taken me almost 24 hours. How do you organize grace into words when you don’t have grace just yet? How do you organize pain into words when your story conjures bitterness and words are the very things that are hard to come by? How can I tell this story without offending anyone?

Then again this is my story. I’ve been offended for far too long and I have moved on, as they have. The words will come and hopefully, grace will be attached to them. For all I know, they didn’t know any better and still don’t know any better the same way I have no idea what will become of me here in New York. At least one of us is excited for me and the healing is just about to begin.

Singing 3 songs from The Last Five Years, namely: See I’m Smiling, Climbing Uphill/Audition Sequence, Still Hurting. Performed last April 17, 2011. Miss Tess Panaligan of the DLSZ Chorale plays the piano. I dedicate this video to my voice teacher, the late Maestro Edgardo “Dodo” Crisol.

The opening number from my recital last April 17, 2011. The marvelous Miss Panaligan of the DLSZ Chorale is on the piano. Also, in the first few seconds, I talk too much.

Also, forgive crappy video quality. I had no idea it would come out this way on tumblr D:

We had a run through of my recital at his house in early April. Other people involved in my recital were there as well, allowing a reunion of sorts.

My repertoire was divided into three parts. The meaty middle part (aptly called “Geeking Out”) consisted of six showtunes from the usual suspects like Webber and Schonberg. After those six songs, he said “Perfect six. Brava”. It was then he felt assured that my show would be great. He was at peace because putting the show together was laborious and he was thinking of everything concerning it.

And that was the last time I saw him. He was gracious and energetic, his hair was well kept and he left an impression on the rest of the afternoon’s company. Apart from the priceless look on his face as I ran through my entire repertoire his full self and his entire being was present and vibrant.

He never got to see my recital, and he probably never got to hear the recordings. For all I know, I was the last of his students to have a recital while he was still alive. Incidentaly, this recital would be my last performance in the counrty before leaving for New York for good.

I got the call about his passing hours after the fact but by then, the steamroller had already passed. I had already seen it coming and I couldn’t cry. Like the calm after a storm, or the numbing sensation of settling down after a show. However, reflective moments would lead to me smiling to my self and laughing from my belly at his memory.

Every lesson with sir Dodo couldn’t be described any lesser than revelatory. I was forced to take a hard look at myself and I was pushed to my limits only to prove that I can reach that bloody high note. 

He made a holistic process about reaching that note while I was going through some metaphysical shifts in my head. With every fiber of my being engaged in the act of singing and performing, I have never felt as tired. Or hungry. 

Every Sunday Micko and I come to Katipunan (all the way from Muntinlupa) without expecting anything but the fear of the unknown. Sir Dodo must have felt my anxiety (which a good kind of anxiety) and started lessons with an hour long chitchat. Aside from effortlessly reaching a high G, I found it to be a small victory to have made him laugh.

It is with great pride and profound humility to call sir Dodo a mentor. Like any beginning of any relationship, we met at one point but I would rather say that he found me. He found me at a time when theater was about to be something that I’d give up. It was a time of discouragement, anger and disappointment. Sure enough, he called out those demons the first time I sang for him, thus saving me from them and ultimately salvaging my passions.

Nevertheless, he heard me. He didn’t just hear my voice. He didn’t just hear the anomalies of mismanaged vocals and the anger issues that plagued my conscience. He heard me and knew everything about me and what I am capable of.

My recital last April 17th was something that he would have applauded. If it weren’t for him, I wouldn’t have had a recital to begin with. My little concert had a humble turn out, but my goodness were they talking about it for a week. I would have done it again if I had the resources, most especially if he were still here.

Sir Dodo’s death could not have come at a more auspicious time. He came into my life just when I was thinking of quitting, and he died not even a month before my flight. As if he didn’t have any more significance with each voice lesson. I am convinced that God himself brought him all the way to Muntinlupa for me. There can’t be any other explanation.

And now, I have a lot to give tribute to him for. If it weren’t for him, I wouldn’t have regained belief in myself. I think I’d disappoint him more than my own family if I didn’t embark on performance once I land in the US. He did push me to my outmost limits and I cannot put those labors to waste.

As if you didn’t bear enough significance already. It’s a peculiar time to depart, sir, leaving at this stage of my life when I am about to go full circle and return to America. You made things easier to bear, for someone who is going on her own journey. 

Thank you for saving me from giving up. Thank you for listening to what I could surprisingly do. Thank you for finding me.

Here’s to last pages and Fate, to head tone cherubs, to a certain preference for the English languge, to the human voice, to Prince Zardoz, to CCP urban legends, to photoshopped hearts, to sugar crashes, to disappearing boxes. Your memories are precious. Yours are the words I’ll allow to be burned onto my skin and stitched onto my heart.

You’re already a part of me and I’ll be taking you with me, on whichever stage I shall hopefully grace.