THE SOUND OF SILENCE

Preface by Vernon Go | Words by Joey Dizon | Photo by Tancio Tongco | Layout by Santino Baraquiel

When Joey called me to tell me Jamir had taken his life, I am sure everyone else whose life has been touched by Jamir, was shocked. And I still feel the shock of this terrible fact and a good measure of disbelief.

I realize now why something like this is so devastating especially for people in the music industry and particularly our beloved Metal community. Slapshock and PULP Magazine literally lived parallel lives, growing together for almost a quarter-century. I still remember Mark Gary took the first photoshoot of the band for us back in late 1999 or early 2000. We took photos of the three bands that would come to be known as The Three Kings in his studio in Malate. And for almost every year following 2000, we would come together in what would become an unbroken annual festival but more importantly a Mecca for Metalheads called PULP SUMMER SLAM. Jamir had a great love for PULP SUMMER SLAM and he and I worked together behind the scenes to bring The Three Kings back when there were divisions due to corporate alliances. He considered PULP SUMMER SLAM his home as much as it was my vision and passion.

So what is so heartbreaking is that, as we came together over the years to bring the glorious Metal war to tens of thousands of fans bound forever in everlasting memories of joyous headbanging anguish, his departure has driven a painful nail that is a heavy final period to end this chapter of our collective lives.

It is hard to say goodbye. And even harder when that farewell comes so abruptly. Especially to someone that has brought us together and helped create such amazing beautiful memories.

I have asked Joey to write the final SLAPSHOCK story for PULP magazine. Herewith it follows…

It was a day like any other: I was sitting in the garden of my parents’ house in the province, trying to make sense of all the craziness of current events I had been reading about online, struggling with my demons and generally feeling everything and nothing all at once—you know: “the new normal” bullshit we’ve all been forced to deal with. Then at around 1 pm, the message popped-up: a dear friend—from Davao—sent me a screencap of an online post, which read: “RIP Jamir Garcia,” and she was asking if the news was true.

My first reaction was rage. “What kind of a disturbed fuck would spread a sick rumor like this? Isn’t the world fucked-up enough as it is?” I honestly felt that the recent months were riddled with so much bad news, that it literally couldn’t get any worse. Needless to mention, the Slapshock camp was also already going through more than their fair share of turmoil, and I had just gotten to a point where I was personally sick of all the bad shit that was happening that I chose to personally stay away from any negative news or conversation floating-around online. I was certain none of it was true, and this is what I figured: I’d make a call to a reliable source and friend of Jamir and the band, and the dude on the other line would tell me that it was fake, and maybe even remind me not to believe everything I read online, and then I’d proceed to hurl a bunch of expletives on my social media page directed at whoever was spreading the fake news, and go about trying to survive the rest of my day. That was the plan.

But it didn’t turn out that way.

It was confirmed. My—OUR—friend was gone. All the life and energy immediately rushed out of my body, and I stared straight into nothing. I wanted badly to scream and wreck shit… but I couldn’t muster enough energy to move a muscle, nor could I even speak. I just sat there, in shock and disbelief, and I felt my chest tighten, and I was gasping for breath. It was all true… Jamir was gone.

After what felt like hours (but was probably only a few minutes…) my phone was ringing off the hook, and the message alert tones from my laptop were sounding-off like crazy. Musician-friends, people from radio, fellow-writers, and fellow music fans were trying to confirm the news, and I could feel the confusion, the sadness, and the hurt in their messages. After a few important calls, I knew I had to make, I simply shut off my phone and had to try and calm myself down, relax, and shut-out the furious pounding in my chest.

I would have no such luck, even in the coming days.

It’s still a struggle up to this day, as I type this.

Emperor Meiji [about Katsumoto]: “Tell me how he died.”

Nathan Algren: “I will tell you how he lived…”

Looking back, I realize that Jamir and the members of Slapshock—guitarists Lean Ansing and Jery Basco, bassist lee Nadela, and drummer Chi Evora—have pretty much-been constants in my life; from the late 90s – when I was in college, running into them at various clubs like Mayrics along España, and events like the annual UP Fair and countless of gigs in and out of town, to the early part of the millennium, after I joined PULP Magazine, interviewing the band on more than one occasion, and watching them from the side of the stage year after year as the stage manager of the annual PULP Summer Slam. I never considered myself a huge fan of the music they created during the early days, but I was always in awe of the impact they had on an entire generation of passionate music fans, not to mention the amount of respect they gave right back to them. Their fans were just like them, or well, just like us: sad, angry, frustrated, constantly searching for answers and hoping for even just a small glimmer of light; Slapshock, and the wonderfully chaotic music they created and shared with us, exposed both the beautiful and ugly side of existence; they exorcised demons and they delivered all of this with unmatched professionalism and unrivaled live-performance-know-how, as attested by both fans and their peers in the game. Like many of my fellow music enthusiasts, I could tell early on that they were headed to the top—I literally could sense and feel the determination they had individually and collectively. There was no stopping them from reaching their goal. They never seemed to have an off-night, and the audiences who flocked to their congregation were getting larger, more varied throughout the years. I remember many countless nights I’d spend talking about the band with PULP Publisher Vernon Go, pounding back expensive beers [in various clubs in what is now-known as hipster central Poblacion…], talking about our favorite international and local bands, and debating for hours-on-end who had the potential to be the biggest heavy metal band in the land. The band was always part of our discussion.

And surely, not too long after the first five years of the millennium, Slapshock did transform into a larger-than-life, well-oiled heavy metal entity that could not be denied nor fucked-with even by the most elitist critic, music snob, and/or pseudo-underground-music-retard… With seven full-length albums, two EPs, astounding international collaborations and tours around the world, a fuckload of hit singles, and live anthems that drove audiences bat-shit crazy—the band set the standard and bar pretty high for the Philippine heavy music scene and its aficionados. If memory serves me right, I think Slapshock holds the record of being the band that has the most cover appearances in PULP Magazine, even though PULP’s photoshoots and concepts always managed to freak-out the straights and well, offend less-adventurous musicians and managers. But Jamir always saw the bigger picture—he understood the beauty and charm of fucked-up imagery, he was always willing to work with whatever crazy ideas we had, always willing to take one for the team: be doused in gobs of fake blood and hold a severed pig’s head on a hook.

Though the band never faltered or strayed too much from the path they had created in the following years—graciously delivering the goods to those who had been loyal to them since day one—they were also evolving and fearlessly unafraid to throw out the rule book on-occasion: after the first decade of the 2000s, when heavy music was seemingly taking a backseat in the mainstream musical landscape and other forms of band-music were being hailed as the “next big trend” by pundits and “music people,” the band refined its live performance and sound even further, and gravitated towards an even heavier direction, proving that it was never about the business or acclaim. It was around this time when I realized that I was becoming a fan and that theirs was a story I couldn’t get enough-of nor tire of following. It was all so organic, so sincerely amazing for people like us, who always strived and wanted something…real. Something honest. Something we could relate-to.

On a personal level, what amazed me, even more, was the amount of graciousness and goodwill the entire band had always shown me, no matter the setting, and no matter how big they had gotten. Always a polite smile and nod, a firm handshake, a pat on the back, a simple compliment… there are so many stories I wish I could tell everyone: the electricity in the air that could be felt when the band was shooting their music video for their single “Numb,” working with a then-new company called Team Manila (our common buddies Mon Punzalan, Jowee Alviar and Xander Angeles, who basically gave me a place to stay, and unconsciously taught me the value of chasing dreams…); countless of interviews I would conduct, not needing to bring a recorder because our conversations were just naturally entertaining and memorable; I also remember after the release of my band Intolerant’s first [and only…] album, it was drummer Chi Evora who made it a point to pull me aside for a few seconds during a PULP photoshoot to congratulate me, and compliment us on the work we had done; and years later, when that very same band folded and I had gotten into a funk and started selling all my gear and guitars, it was guitarist Lean Ansing who would randomly text me and say: “hey, whatever it is you’re going through, don’t give up… I am—and will always be—a fan [of the work you did].” I remember a text message Jamir had sent me a few years ago on my birthday – it was a simple greeting, but I could feel the sincerity and warmth in his message: “Happy birthday bro; I see all the cool stuff you do and post, keep up the good work. I will see and hang with you soon. Ingat.” Shit like that blew my mind; they had no reason to be kind and warm, but they just were. I will always take those acts of kindness with me and will be forever grateful. I still get choked-up remembering those moments.

In fact, around two years ago, just for the hell of it – I went on a road trip with a close buddy and sneaked-in backstage and hung out with the band, literally in the middle of some ungodly province, and the entire band and their crew made us feel that we were family, offering their seats, their food, their drinks, everything… Of course, they killed it that night—they tore that venue a new fucking asshole—and even though they were dead-tired after their set, they proceeded to talk and entertain me and my buddy, making sure we were comfortable and having a good time. They simply were—and are—good people. That same night, I would have one of the last long conversations with Jamir: we talked about music, how excited he was for the band’s upcoming anniversary, and the dude even extended an invitation for me to be part of the celebration and their plans. And in an unexpected gesture, he started reminiscing on many other crazy stories and memories of conversations we had through the years. And with a big smile on his face, he thanked me for being one of the many people who were part of the band’s story. He was always grateful, he said… and took none of it for granted. He was a good soul, through and through. He was simply, one of the greatest.

And it pains me—and countless others—that he is gone.

“Take comfort in your friends…everybody hurts.”

It’s a particularly dark and gloomy Sunday afternoon, and there’s a heavy vibe in the air as I make my way to St. Peter’s in Commonwealth for the wake, with close musician-friends. As someone who has avoided going to wakes and funerals my entire life, I was especially dreading this moment… but I also wanted to say one final goodbye and see Jamir for one last time. I felt I owed him that much.

I was lucky enough to see Chi and Lean hanging out with another good friend, Urbandub’s Gabby Alipe. As hard as it was to contain the excitement of being able to see each other in the flesh and catch-up after months of being under quarantine, there was a painful and nagging reminder in the air of why we were there. We listened to unreleased music in Jamir’s van, and of course, it was kick-ass. We talked about the good times and the bad… exchanged memories and short anecdotes on how generous and supportive Jamir was of both peers and upcoming artists. Greyhoundz vocalist Reg Rubio showed up an hour later [another longtime friend who I’ve known since college…], and I was reminded of the fact of how lucky a lot of us, well… to have each other. I mean, fuck—these people are not just musical heroes and co-conspirators in search of a good time, but they are…friends. It was an emotional night—I could feel the love and the support pouring in from all directions; even from people who couldn’t physically be there. It was both heartwarming and heart-wrenching considering the circumstances. I told myself I’d only stay for an hour tops, be in and out (because of current health protocols and well, because I thought to myself it wasn’t exactly the best night to socialize…), but as the late afternoon gave way to the night, I realized I didn’t want to leave—I just wanted to spend a little more extra time with Jamir and all our friends who showed up. Just like old times. I might be crazy, but I felt a little guilty leaving the place. I don’t know why, but I just did

“And if you were with me tonight, I’d sing to you just one more time / A song for a heart so big, God wouldn’t let it live… may angels lead you in”

So yeah, as much as I would have wanted to end this piece in a kick-ass fashion with a few deeply profound lines about how life and death are all part of the process or some grand master plan and offer some sort of silver lining to all this shit, forgive me—I simply can’t. I remember a message Vernon sent me the day it happened: “It’s just hard to look for anything right, given this situation…” and I am painfully reminded of a quote I read somewhere: “you never recover from the pain and grief—you just learn to live with it.”

All I can do is simply offer my version of a prayer: “We will never forget you, bro. Rest easy, and I will – somehow – run into you and hang with you again someday… and we can have more conversations.”

But right now, it fucking sucks and hurts, learning how to live in a world without Jamir. PULP