BARKING AT THE MOON
A Fuzzy Account of Groove Nation's FULL MOON RAVE At Antipolo
By Clarence Tan (aka Lionel Valdellon)

published in PHILMUSIC.com : Dec 17, 1999

I.
A flyer at Lava Lounge. "Full Moon Rave". At the back, a map into the Anipolo hills. Yeah, right. Like ANYONE ever goes there. Auie-- my best friend-points out: Groove Nation will spin and Rubber Inc. will play. Wilderness it must be.

First mistake: Traffic along Sumulong Highway. Never underestimate. 10 PM and the road is a frozen mass of metal and flesh, twitching tempers and throaty horns. Good thing the car is stacked with 8 CDs. Tripping on Moloko's "Killer Bunnies" and Bjork's "Hyperballad" long before the road congestion tickles our medulla oblongatas.

Five kilometers from our destination. A sign in the skies. Powerful spotlights fingering dark, rain-heavy clouds. (We later find out: the machine is called a Space Flower, its beams reach 8 kilometers away.) "That's where we're going," Auie says. Orbital kicks in on the speakers.

Second mistake: Antipolo is NOT wilderness. Along Sumulong Highway? Bars, baby. Grilla, Tabu, Street View, Beast-Ro, Padi's Point (the original)… too many to mention. In the bars? Teenagers. Quite a number of them commuting on taxis and jeeps.

We park along the highway. Auie says "It's my way or the highway." I giggle stupidly. One-third-full Tequila bottle in bag, warm golden alcohol in stomach, fuzziness in brain.

WARNING: Do not drink and drive.

At the Seven Suites area. Groove Nation's Edge Pamute is soundchecking. Some Asian dub-type house tracks. No one. Yet. Turns out it's outdoors at a parking lot area near Seven Suites. Thanks for telling me.

Third mistake: Antipolo=hills=high altitude=cold temperature. Wind. Dew. A movie title comes to mind.

"What's that bastos movie that starred Izza Ignacio?" I ask Auie.
"How the fuck would I know?"
"Something with hamog in it."

Next to designated dance area, a playground. A troop of kids and their yayas marches into it, to play. Groove Nation's still soundchecking. Strobes are tested.
"That's a fucking surreal sight," Auie says.
I agree. And pour her a shot from the bottle in my bag.
Kids at a playground at 11 PM.

II.
Near midnight. People trickling in like cold sweat on a drunken brow. Toti Dalmacion on the turntables. The Orb's "Fluffy Little Clouds", house remix. Finally. The beat. A Blue Ice bottle lies broken on the cement.

Searching for excitement, we scour the nearby bars. Boring. Teenyboppers impressing each other hoping for a shag. Pirated CDs blaring over loudspeakers. Smirnoff Mule. Texting. Long-sleeve polos. Pedal pushers. Boys puking in the CR.

"I'm hungry."
"There's a Star Mart down the road. Can you drive?"
"Uhh, give me 20 minutes."
"We can always walk."
"Hey. Why not?"

We wait the 20 mins. Hop into car. Good thing too. Star Mart is a good 2 KM-to far to walk for hotdogs and more booze. We settle for a 375 ml of Gilbey's. Shut up. We're cheap, dammit. We keep the Coke cups from our hotdog meals and fill 'em with ice for the gin. Returning, we see more vehicles parked along the main road-some with people on the roofs, drinking or eating. I get it. "Highway" means "park".

III.
Finally, the moon. Fuzzy like my brain. Hidden behind viscous clouds. Toti D's enormous house beats segue seamlessly into Rubber Inc.'s set. The dancefloor is packed-revellers travellers partyhounds. The faithful.

Standing by the Rubber Inc. duo (assisted by their percussionist) I spy. Like watching a video without cut-to-cut editing. Music being made before me, using only knobs and mixer sliders and start/stop buttons? Loops upon loops, synthetic fart-basses, Nintendo bleeps. Song titles like "Eat Me" and "Ball Bearing". Noel and Malek smoke endlessly. Ice in my Coke cup melts into my tongue.

I find out later, Rubber Inc. lugged their shitload of gear from Malate to Antipolo in a taxi. I converse with the cab driver who has opted to stay and enjoy the party, beer in hand. He's assured of return fare after the party.

Drizzling doesn't stop the dancing. Never really rains, thank god. Drops just pitter-patter, a descant to the drum-and-bass snare drum patterns. Tireless caucasian woman on the dance floor, we call her "Wet Girl". Admire her athleticism. Everyone who's present is here to be here, not to be seen. Amen.

The eclectic electronic set ends before it ever really explodes into a convulsive climax, leaving everyone screaming for more. Auie and I-sweat-drenched, hamog-drenched, reeking of gin and hotdogs and tequila and soon enough, shivering, head for the car to rest aching feet.

The cheap gin bottle is one-third empty.
Our ears are full.

* * *
Clarence Tan is a freelance writer who loves music but can't sing to save his life.

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