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SERIALIZATION
The Traveler and the Gate
Checkers, by Ted Lerner
Part 3: They did karaoke
their way
 Part
1: The elusive Miss Belgium
Part
2: Famous last words
 Whenever you are invited
back to "have a beer with the boys," you know
immediately that you have reached the pinnacle of
whatever program is being run in that part of town. And
whatever program I had just put myself into, it was
pretty obvious that Fidel was in charge of it. Fidel
told me that he was a retired cop. I had no idea what
his relationship with this photo shop was nor did I care
to ask. This was his hangout and I wasn't asking too
many questions. He obviously appeared to run things, at
least amongst the guys hanging out with him. In the
conversation everybody deferred to him. Every time we
needed something he flashed a huge wad of cash and then
slipped some bills into the hand of one of his runners.
He was the kind of guy who clearly enjoyed spreading his
hospitality and living big.
And speaking of "the
boys," that's exactly whom this get together was for:
Fidel and his various buddies. As soon as we reached the
back room, the women suddenly disappeared. Even the ones
running errands, getting beers, snacks and cigarettes
were guys. I was introduced to Jun, Rene, Johnny and
Fred, all of whom smoked incessantly. Several young guys
kept coming and going at the behest of Fidel, who also
chain-smoked. Everybody was extremely friendly, perhaps
too much. It wasn't in a bad way, though. It's just that
Filipino guys always seem to want to know everything
about you. They want to do too much for you. Well, I
figured, they probably didn't get too many foreigners
stopping by for cocktails in these parts.
Sure
enough what had been a promise to myself that I would
only have one beer-yeh, right-quickly turned in to three
beers, then four, then five. More would sure be coming
because amidst all the beers, cigarettes and laughs,
Fidel decided that we would all go down the street to
get something to eat. And, of course, drink some more.
Eight of us piled into two local style jeeps and
drove around the block. We ended up at one of these big
restaurants that are quite popular in Manila. The place
was a big noisy hall with dozens of well dressed waiters
walking around carrying huge trays of food, people
carrying on at tables loaded with bottles of beer, rum
and brandy and a huge expansive menu with all the
Filipino favorites including lots of Chinese food.
Naturally Fidel sat at the head of the long
table. As befits the guest of honor-I didn't even know
these guys!-I sat in the first seat next to him. Fidel
was obviously a regular here, and a respected regular,
as he was instantly surrounded by several waiters.
Within seconds cold bottles of San Miguel were placed on
the table. Within minutes the table was covered with a
huge array of food, including sizzling platters of meat,
soups, a giant fish and fried rice. From there on in,
whenever we needed anything, Fidel would just stick his
arm in the air and two waiters would come running.
Fidel and I picked up where we had left off at
the shop, talking about Miss Belgium. We soon had a
handshake deal to promote nude photos of Miss Belgium in
the Philippines, with him being the financier, of
course. At first we agreed I would go to Belgium and
convince Miss Belgium with a pile of money to pose nude.
Better yet, I proposed, we could save a lot of money by
simply superimposing a voluptuous naked body on to the
head of Miss Belgium. Nobody would know the difference.
Fidel laughed out loud at this idea. He was so
happy he started offering me women. First, he said, I
could have the waitress. Then he told me that his son
would give me a girl. Then he said he would pick me up
tomorrow at my place and bring me to his home in the
Baclaran area of Manila. He was practically adopting me.
The rest of the guys at the table looked like
they were salivating at the huge amount of pesos Fidel
and I were about to make with this brilliant idea. What
exactly these guys' jobs were, I couldn't quite figure
out. Likely they didn't even have any. Perhaps "friend
of Fidel," or "hanger-on," might be apt job
descriptions. Fred, who sat directly opposite me,
laughed a lot. He said he spent a lot of time at the
cockfights. Johnny, an old geezer who sat next to me,
also smiled a lot. But he kept interrupting me and
asking dumb questions. Fidel yelled at him in Tagalog,
telling him to shut up. Rene, who sat at the end of the
table opposite me, didn't look too high on the totem
pole. He was one of the drivers and he just sat there
quietly sucking down beers. Jun got pretty drunk and he
talked a lot, constantly trying to make deals with me.
He promised girls, money, probably the presidency. With
all the beers, the laughs and the outrageous deals
flying around, I couldn't even pay attention after a
while.
At one point I was startled by a loud
noise coming from two tables away. A man was standing up
and holding a microphone, the cord of which snaked on
the floor to a machine with a television on top. Uh oh,
I thought. There goes the evening because here comes the
karaoke.
The man stared at the television, did a
little drunken sway, mumbled the first few lines of the
song and pretended to be Jon Bon Jovi. No, he didn't
have the frizzy blonde hair or the face and body of a
model. Actually his black hair was cut basic and square
and his stomach protruded noticeably over his belt. But
still, he thought he was Bon Jovi. And his tablemates,
six of them, obviously thought the same as they cheered
him on. And then the man yelled at the top of his lungs.
"I want to lay you down in a bed of roses! For tonight I
sleep on a bed of nails!" For a second I thought
whatever I had consumed over the last few hours might
come flying up and out all over the table. He believed
he was singing. But it sounded more like he was
screaming. "I want to be just as close as, the holy
ghost is, and lay you down on a bed of roses!"
On their table sat dozens of empty beer bottles,
two half consumed bottles of rum and many varieties of
food, including a half eaten piglet whose pried open
mouth made it appear that the pig was singing along with
the drunken Jon Bon Jovi. What I found interesting was
that nobody in the entire restaurant, except Bon Jovi's
buddies, paid the man any mind. His voice sounded
similar to a giant buzz saw carving up a piece of steel,
but still nobody even looked up from their table. I
wondered how people could put up with this ear
splitting, appetite squelching noise. Karaoke was a fine
invention, but do like the Japanese do. Keep it in a
small room amongst friends. But in a very public dining
hall?
I saw Fidel flag down a waitress and then,
sure enough, the microphone made its way over to our
table. "Ted you like karaoke?" Fidel asked. "You like to
sing?"
"Nahhh," I said. "I can't sing. Maybe
later." The boys wasted little time in joining the fun.
Fred sang Tom Jones' "The Green Green Grass of Home."
Johnny and Rene belted out Tagalog love songs. Fred sang
well while Johnny and Rene sounded like overgrown nails
digging two inches deep into a slate blackboard. Good or
bad, though, we all followed proper drinking and karaoke
etiquette and gave them rousing ovations. Then the
microphone went over to Fidel.
If we were
playing "Name That Tune," I would have guessed the song
in a note and a half and walked away with the grand
prize. I instinctively knew what Fidel would sing and
sure enough, it was true; the quintessential karaoke
song, the tune that has, all by itself, been responsible
for the Philippines having one of the highest murder
rates in all of Asia: "My Way."
"Ted this is my
favorite song," Fidel said before the words on the
screen started filling up with color. "Did you know
Frank Sinatra will be in town tomorrow night? Are you
going to go see him?" I said no and then Fidel turned
back to the screen and started singing.
"And now
… the end is near…" the whole table erupted in wild
applause and we all paid rapt attention. "And so I face
the final curtain…" Fidel had a smooth and pleasant
voice and, as he effortlessly segued from one line to
the next, his booming voice filling up the entire hall,
the whole scene suddenly came into sharp focus.
Sinatra had never before been to Manila, but it
seemed like the two were an ideal fit. Yes, Manila was
the perfect Frank Sinatra kind of town. Sinatra with the
quasi-mob connections and the persona of the charming
street thug. That's a near perfect description of the
kind of people you often meet in Manila. They are guys
who, like Fidel, could well be called Mr. Hospitality,
Mr. Action, Mr. Excitement. In Manila you always see
guys snapping their fingers to call somebody's attention
to do something for them. Even the language comes from
the Al Capone era. People call each other "boss."
Congressmen and senators are referred to as "solons."
"I've had my fill, my share of losing. ... And now ...
as tears subside ... I find it all, so amusing ..."
Manila's a city that has thousands of little
fiefdoms, subject to dudes who, like Fidel, run their
own program in some corner of a little neighborhood with
a dozen or so loyal associates and hangers-on. Lord
knows what these guys did on a daily basis. But whatever
program they were running, nobody messed with it.
Charming wheeler dealers, big shots, guys who like to
spread cash, gamblers, wise guys, big bosses, punks and
partiers all in a 24 hour town where you can get
anything you want-and don't want-whenever you want it.
That's Manila, a city that's got everything people
associate with the Frank Sinatra persona, all played out
openly.
"For what is a man … what has he got? …
If not himself … then he has naught …" And as Fidel
reached the crescendo and with gusto finished it off,
"The record shows … I took the blows … and did it my
way", and as our table burst forth in wild cheering and
applause for the chairman of this board, I realized then
and there that I absolutely had to see Frank Sinatra in
concert the following night.
An evening walk
down the promenade of Manila Bay along Roxas Boulevard
normally offers a pleasing, if somewhat smelly breeze,
which cools perspiring skin and relaxes a frazzled mind.
But not this night. The hot sultry air of late June
seemed to stand completely still. The air felt thick and
heavy and if you waved your hand you'd swear you could
actually push the air from here to there. With the faint
hint of sulfur wafting in from the Bay, I felt like I
was walking through industrial soup. Every breath sent a
warm, pungent spoonful of this special Third World,
urban recipe right down my gullet. Mmm, mmm, yuck.
Not that I actually cared, though. In fact, at
that moment, with sweat hurriedly beading on my face and
arms and the air acting like some kind of invisible,
odorous obstacle course, the world seemed nothing short
of perfect. And the reason that I didn't have a care in
the First, Second or Third World was because in my
pocket sat two tickets to see Frank Sinatra on opening
night in Manila. Manila, even on an ordinary night, is a
city that always offers up many interesting
possibilities. But with the Chairman of the Board in
town and, it being his kind of town, the possibilities
then seemed that much more intriguing.
After he
finished singing "My Way" the previous night, Fidel once
again asked me if I was going to see Sinatra. I again
told him "no."
"Anyway," I said, "after
listening to you sing "My Way," I have no reason to go
see Frank." The large smile on Fidel's face when I said
that indicated that that was perhaps one of the biggest
compliments he ever received.
"Well, I was
supposed to go see Frank Sinatra," he said. "I even went
and bought some tickets for tomorrow night. But I forgot
that I have a baby baptismal to attend. I am the
godfather to this baby so now I cannot go see Frank. So
how about you? I'll give you the tickets and you can go
see Frank Sinatra."
"Really?" I said. I thought
for sure it was just the beer talking. "You want to give
me two tickets to see Sinatra? No, no I couldn't do
that. Maybe your son or one of your friends here wants
to go."
"They cannot," Fidel said. "We are all
going to the baptismal party. So I will offer the
tickets to you." And with that he reached into the small
pouch he had brought with him and pulled out an envelope
containing two tickets to see Sinatra on opening night
in Manila. He handed me the envelope.
"Fidel," I
said shaking my head in disbelief, "they call Frank the
'Chairman of the Board.' But you are the real chairman
of the board." With that he raised his arm in the air
and a waitress appeared out of nowhere by his side.
Seconds later another round of beers appeared on the
table.
"One for the road, Ted," said Fidel
raising his bottle. Actually, as I expected in a city
where there are always so many roads on the way home,
that wasn't the last beer. There were more songs, more
crazy deals, more laughter and two more calls of "one
for the road," before we finally left.
All along
since the first beer, I had wondered how I would ever
get back to my pension house, or even if I'd get back
that night. The two jeeps drove together over the Pasig
River and to the Ermita area. As we pulled up to my
guesthouse, I climbed out and made the rounds of the
boys, shaking everyone's hand and promising we'd hook up
"real soon." I promised Fidel I'd get right on that Miss
Belgium photo and I'd call him in a few days so we could
start writing checks on the account. I thanked him
profusely for the Sinatra tickets.
"Have a good
time tomorrow Ted," Fidel said as we shook hands for
about the fourth time in a minute. "And give my regards
to Frank!"
Manila's Folk Arts Theatre was nearly
packed with over 6,000 people by the time I strolled in.
I found my seat about three quarters back in the arena.
The air was stifling hot and thousands of women tried to
cool off by fanning themselves with their foldable fans
as they talked excitedly.
After twenty minutes
the night got going with several opening acts. First a
local Filipino orchestra played some uninspired big band
jazz. After four songs they gave way to Lea Salonga, a
Filipina who was the original star of the musical, "Miss
Saigon." Her first song was some frilly, silly number
about how she liked being a girl. The crowd went wild
for her, but I couldn't bear it. Perhaps on another
night, but I had come to see Frank.
I walked
outside and cruised around the grounds looking for
somebody selling a beer. Two dozen men dressed in army
fatigues and carrying machine guns stood around smoking
cigarettes. They congregated near a group of
black-tinted Mitsubishi Pajero wagons with the
presidential seal on the side. The President of the
country was here to welcome Sinatra to the Philippines.
The grass lawns outside the theatre were covered
with people spread out on blankets and having nighttime
picnics. The theatre is open at the sides and you could
hear the music from inside fairly well. I couldn't find
a beer so I bought a Coke and sat down on the grass next
to a casually dressed Filipino guy who was sitting by
himself. I asked him if he was going in to see the show.
"I don't have any money," he said. "So I just
came down to sit outside here and listen."
"So
you like Frank Sinatra?"
"Oh yes, he's been my
favorite all my life. I know all his songs." We talked
for a little while longer when I heard the announcer
say, "Ladies and gentlemen, Frank Sinatra!" I stood up
to go in and suddenly remembered I had the extra ticket
in my pocket.
"Here," I said to the man. "Do you
want to go to the concert? I have an extra ticket." The
man had a look on his face that suggested he was about
to nearly faint. He stood up, took the ticket and shook
my hand, all the while thanking me as if I were the
Pope. Then we walked in together to see Frank Sinatra.
Up to that point in his illustrious career, the
78-year-old Sinatra had probably had his share of off
nights, nights where the voice simply wasn't there or he
just couldn't muster the energy to properly entertain
his rabid fans. But it would be difficult to imagine
that he had experienced anything as bad as that opening
night in Manila.
Frank simply couldn't sing. His
voice sounded raspy. He often couldn't keep the melody.
He kept forgetting the lyrics to the songs. He must have
flubbed the lyrics 25 to 30 different times. Constantly
he had to be prompted by his son, Frank Sinatra Jr., who
was conducting the huge orchestra. When he would forget
the song lyric, the orchestra would play on while Frank
Jr. leaned over and prompted his dad on where to pick up
the song. There were other times Frank got ahead of
himself or he simply mumbled the words.
On
several occasions he kept repeating himself. After the
first song he said how happy he was to be in Manila and
how he loved the sun. "I can just lay out like this," he
told the crowd with outstretched arms, "and in one hour
I'll look like Sammy Davis Jr." Right after the next
song, he immediately said the same thing, delivering it
like it was the first time he'd said it. Later, four
times after four straight songs, he heaved a big sigh
and wiped his brow. "Boy you could lose a lot of weight
up here." Each time, he said the line like it was the
first time.
Granted it must have been 150
degrees up on that stage and, with the oppressive
humidity, Frank probably thought he had mistakenly
walked into the hotel sauna instead of the theatre.
Furthermore he had flown half way around the world just
two days prior and he had to be completely exhausted
from the trip. And at 78, trying to belt them out at the
top of your lungs in front of 6,000 fans cannot be an
easy task. But what I found astonishing was that he
would forget the lyrics to such standards as, "New York,
New York," and "Strangers in the Night." Surely by any
normal standards of entertainment, Frank Sinatra simply
sucked that night in Manila.
But, of course,
when you're talking of Frank Sinatra, the word 'normal'
doesn't come in to play. And so even though Frank
mumbled and stumbled his raspy way through one hour of
classics, I can honestly say, with a very straight face,
that on that steaming and sultry night in Manila, Frank
Sinatra gave one of the greatest performances I've ever
seen by an entertainer.
Call it an irresistible
charm, charisma, that "certain something," whatever.
Sinatra had it by the boatload. Exhausted? Drunk?
Stumbling around the stage? Who cared? Frank had this
way about him that made the audience want to root him
on. What Sinatra did really well was act. During each
song, he pumped and thrust his arms to the rise and fall
of the music. He endeared himself to the audience by
being self-deprecating. He was humble, but rough, like a
lovable street thug. He was straight to the point,
almost blunt. He introduced his wife, Barbara, in the
audience and he said, "That's my girl!" Before one song,
which he labeled a "Saloon Song," he told a story.
"Back when I first started out," he said, "I
used to sing solo in bars. My only accompaniment was the
piano. In these types of bars, guys would come in and
sit down at the piano and ask the piano player to play
their favorite song. Usually the songs were blues songs,
sad songs. These guys were losers. And this is one of
those songs."
Certainly one of the reasons for
the electric atmosphere and the excitement was the crowd
itself. I saw several people murmuring to each other
when Frank would flub a line, but nobody really cared.
If there was ever a forgiving people, it is Filipinos.
They have a few warts of their own, but they never let
that stand in the way of having a good time. Frank could
have messed up 100 times and they wouldn't have minded.
After all, it was Frank who had brought them to the
dance so many times. It was those Sinatra classics,
whether on records or in karaoke bars, that had been a
part of so many of these people's long nights over the
last 40 years. Frank was the man who had brought so much
joy to them over the years. And so the crowd allowed
Frank to do whatever he wanted.
Right from the
opening number the audience was hanging on the edge of
their seats. Once they recognized the tune, they cheered
wildly. It was an hour of the classics: "Witchcraft,"
"Mac the Knife," "The Lady is a Tramp," "Strangers in
the Night." When the orchestra struck up the familiar
opening bars of "New York, New York," the roar from the
crowd practically tore off the roof. And then, after
nearly an hour, came the one song that, for Filipinos
especially, was worth the lofty price of admission.
Frank introduced the song by simply saying, "I
think you'll recognize this next song." The orchestra
began playing the slow opening notes. Frank stood on the
stage, engulfed in the lone spotlight, gazing downward
and looking reflective. The audience held its collective
breath. And then Frank started singing. "And now, the
end is near …" If "New York, New York" had elicited a
roof shattering roar, "My Way" brought forth something
that surely shook the solid concrete foundation of the
theatre to it's very core. Once the cheers and the
squeals died down, the crowd settled in with rapt
attention. Frank actually flubbed the second line of the
song, but got himself situated and poured whatever was
left in his gas tank into the task at hand. As he
crooned the well known lyrics, lyrics that each and
every one of the people in the audience had themselves
sung countless times at parties, get-togethers and any
old afternoon around the karaoke machine, I was certain
I could feel the collective chill racing up the spine of
the entire Filipino people.
It occurred to me
then that "My Way" is surely the perfect song for the
Filipino people: proud, dramatic, defiant, emotional. No
wonder people slaughter each other over it. Their entire
lives were encompassed in those four moving minutes. And
as Frank reached the end of the song, and he stretched
out his arm, closed his eyes and belted out the last
famous line, "The record shows… I took the blows… an did
it my way…" and the crowd rose to its feet and engulfed
this legend in their applause, their cheers and their
love, I was sure that there were buckets of tears
welling up in the eyes of many in the house.
Manila wasn't just Frank's kind of town. For
this night, at least, he owned the
town.
The End
(For
more information about Ted Lerner's latest book, The
Traveler and the Gate Checkers, visit www.hey-joe.net or email
Ted Lerner at ted@hey-joe.net.)
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