Melody, power, truth

Before My Way became a karaoke jump-scare, it was just a song. Then Filipinos got hold of it, handed someone a mic, added a bit of beer and too much confidence, and suddenly it became a full-contact sport.

That is what makes Daily Guardian founding publisher Lemuel Fernandez’s take so good.

He understood that My Way was never just about music. It also talks about ego with a backing track, main-character energy before the phrase even existed, and that very Filipino talent for turning a song into a public test of courage, endurance, and sometimes survival.

In our hands, My Way stops being just a classic. It becomes a joke, a warning, and a tiny national documentary all at once.

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My way

Downstairs a company yesterday was launching a business venture but what’s with the loud Frank Sinatra’s “My Way”?

Mindless inadvertence likely.

In the dying years of the 20th century, a folksy politico barely warming his seat as city mayor had his own unique version of the popular song. So “My Wee” it was.

During the early rise of karaoke a culture has emerged — the idiotization of singing. Everyone with a voice suddenly became their own musical entertainer. Sometimes, the accidental audience got lucky to listen to the talented ones. The unlucky ones had to endure discordant, nay atrocious voices, their eardrums becoming sore hearing the believers of the new faith, those fanatics with tongues and diaphragm who will brawl, stab or shoot for their turn on the microphone.

But even karaoke fanatics, despite their strong beliefs in themselves and in their rights and privileges to belt out any song that captured their fancy, need to be reined in. Thus the “2 songs per table” rule for karaoke joints.

Songs have meanings. They convey a message. But never mind. Lyrics are only as good as the melodies that bind and blend them into auditory gems.

Lyrics and melodies?

Rhyme and reason?

Who cares? Never mind the mindlessness.

Don’t worry. Be happy.

So everybody, “I did it my way”.