Who I Was Before the Playlist
I didn’t expect it to hit me like that.
You know how Spotify gives you those curated playlists? Most of the time I just scroll through, try a track or two, then move on. But sometime last year, while doing my usual fandom rotation—BINI, ALAMAT, KAIA, G22—I found myself pausing on something different.
A solo name.
All caps.
GL4DDYY.
The song was Watch Me. I clicked play. A few seconds in and I remember sitting up straight.
It wasn’t polished in the same way the big groups were.
It wasn’t chasing trends either.
It was something else entirely—gritty, fierce, unapologetic.
And it was in Bisaya.
I used to think local music, especially in regional languages, was either meant for comedy or nostalgia. Hiligaynon ballads. Bisaya novelty tracks. I laughed at them, to be honest. Or worse, I dismissed them.
But Gl4ddyy made me sit with that discomfort.
His verses weren’t joking. They were fueled by something urgent. Not just anger—but ambition.
“Oras nang mobangon, ipakita nila kaya nakong abton
Ang akoang mga pangandoy
Bisag unsa pa na kakapoy”
(It’s time to rise up and show them that I can reach my dreams even if it could tire me out.)
I wasn’t just listening. I was hearing myself.
I’ve always said that P-Pop saved me from early doctor fatigue.
I meant it figuratively.
But Gl4ddyy made it literal.
His voice, his rhymes, his cadence—they pushed something awake in me. For weeks, his song became my opening track every time I leave my house for work. Even when I didn’t feel like it. Especially then.
There was no huge fanbase behind him.
No marketing campaign.
Just Bisaya-speaking comments under each video, most of them cheering him on like he was a hometown hero.
And maybe that’s what he is.
To me, he became proof that Filipino music is evolving—and not always where the spotlight is pointed.
When people talk about P-Pop, they usually mean polished groups, big stages, uniformed dance numbers, and high-budget music videos. Don’t get me wrong—I love all that. I breathe all that. But Gl4ddyy complicated things for me.
What does it mean to be P-Pop anyway?
If he’s in the playlist, does he count?
If he’s not always singing in Tagalog or English, is he in the club?
Some might say no. I say—who cares?
He’s there. He’s working. He’s reaching people like me.
That’s enough.
We talk so much about diversity in P-Pop—gender, genre, language, concepts. But Gl4ddyy lives that variety without needing to explain himself. He just does the work. He raps. He sings. He posts. He performs. He shows up.
Even if nobody’s screaming his name in an arena just yet, the music doesn’t wait. And neither does he.
The Sound, the Struggle, and the Space Between
If I had to describe Gl4ddyy’s sound in a sentence, I’d say this:
Upbeat rap with a challenger’s mindset.
Always moving, never apologizing.
There’s a pulse to his music—like it’s already one step ahead of you, daring you to catch up. Even when the topics touch on dreams, doubt, or exhaustion, there’s still energy pushing everything forward. And it’s not just energy for the sake of noise. It’s energy for the sake of belief.
A kind of self-hype, if that makes sense.
As if you have to believe it yourself first, before anyone else will.
It’s the kind of rap-pop that mixes bravado with vulnerability. He’ll spit lines about reaching goals and silencing doubters, but in between are quiet clues about tiredness. Rejection. Wanting more. Hoping your effort pays off.
“Bisag unsa pa na kakapoy”
(No matter how tiring this all gets.)
That line stuck.
Because it’s not just a flex. It’s a confession.
He switches between Bisaya, English, and sometimes Tagalog. And maybe not everyone will catch that right away, but I do. I notice how the rhyme schemes shift. I hear the sudden softness before a drop. I follow the cadence that only a Bisaya tongue can pull off.
And I love that he doesn’t translate for anyone.
He doesn’t dilute the accent. He doesn’t tweak the delivery. He doesn’t try to make himself more “acceptable” for the algorithm. It’s raw. Not unrefined—raw like real food is raw. It hasn’t been processed for mass taste.
And maybe that’s what’s kept him at the margins of the mainstream.
Let’s be honest—solo acts in P-Pop are rare.
Even Maki, who’s more in the ballad space, doesn’t always get playlisted as “P-Pop.” And Gl4ddyy? He’s often the only solo name when he does show up in P-Pop curation.
That alone says a lot.
It tells you what “P-Pop” still means to most people:
A visual-heavy group. Coordinated. Manila-based. Maybe even company-backed.
But Gl4ddyy breaks all that.
He’s not just out of the mold—he’s outside the room.
No lightstick army.
No merch drops.
No group choreography to react to.
Just him, and the mic, and the beat.
And yet, he performs.
His music videos, if he performs, you’ll see him bouncing, every verse delivered like it’s the first and last time.
He looks like his music sounds.
Nothing extra. Nothing polished to fit someone else’s concept.
He wears his hunger. And it suits him.
His style—grungy, loose, sometimes experimental—won’t make it into aesthetic boards.
But it makes sense if you’re listening.
It matches the message.
He once interacted with me on Twitter. Nothing big. Just one of those quick moments that tell you—“Hey, this guy’s paying attention.” I don’t idolize him for that. But I respect it. You can tell he wants to be heard. Not for ego. But because he knows what he brings.
That hunger again.
That drive.
And it made me wonder—what does support mean for someone like him?
When you’re a fan of a big group, support is easy. You buy the albums, stream the comeback, vote in awards, wear the shirts. There’s a structure. A fanbase. A system.
But cheering for someone like Gl4ddyy?
There’s no roadmap.
No cheering guide.
Just you and your belief that this deserves more ears.
Sometimes I wish I could do more.
I wish there were subtitles for his Bisaya verses so more people could see how good the wordplay is.
I wish local producers would bet on him more.
I wish P-Pop playlists weren’t afraid to stretch the definition further—to include the artists already pushing its borders.
Because if there’s anything Gl4ddyy proves, it’s this:
You don’t need a label to belong.
You just need to make noise loud enough that someone stops and says,
“Wait. Who’s that?”
That’s what happened to me.
And I stayed.
On Being Bisaya, Building Dreams, and Hoping He Gets the Stage He Deserves
When I first heard Bisaya in a pop or rap song, I didn’t know how to react.
Not because it sounded off—but because it sounded too close. Too familiar. Too much like home. And for a long time, I didn’t know if that was something to be proud of, or to keep to myself.
Growing up, I associated Bisaya music with comedy. Parodies. Double meanings. Radio-friendly laughs that we’d joke about during lunch breaks. That’s what played on the buses. On the sidewalks. On the videoke machines in sari-sari stores.
But music that made you feel something? That made you sit still for a moment?
That wasn’t how I was taught to think of regional music.
Until I heard Gl4ddyy.
He changed the equation.
I’m not saying he’s the only one doing it. But he was the first to land on my algorithm. And somehow, that was enough to interrupt the years of quiet disconnection I had from my own region’s sound.
He rapped in Bisaya like it was the default.
Not like he was trying to be clever.
Not like he was trying to explain anything.
Just… using it. Owning it.
And suddenly, I was proud to hear the words.
Proud to hear the tone.
Proud to recognize the rhythm that’s always been there but never front and center.
It’s strange, isn’t it?
How you can be proud of something after someone else gives it weight.
You know what else is different? Me, brought up in a conservative environment, feeling the angst and the power of using curse words in lyrics. These are not dirty words; they expel negativity, at least in this context.
I think that’s what Gl4ddyy does best—he gives weight to something most people overlook. The effort. The struggle.
He sings about pagkakapoy. About how tiring it all is.
And still, he keeps going.
Not every song is deep, of course. Some are hype. Some are love songs. Some are straight-up bars. But even in the lighter tracks, there’s a grit. A persistence. A refusal to be erased just because he doesn’t fit into a neat category.
Is he P-Pop? Is he OPM? Is he regional?
Honestly, I stopped asking.
I just let the music play.
And maybe that’s the freedom he’s fighting for—to be heard for what he sounds like, not for what genre he has to belong to.
There aren’t many fans like me. Not yet.
There’s no official fan name. No strong fanbase churning out edits or threads. Most comments under his videos are fellow Bisaya listeners giving encouragement. Just a few words. A “padayon.” A “nindota oy.” A fire emoji.
But it’s there. That slow warmth. That careful loyalty.
It’s what makes supporting solo artists different.
Especially ones without a system behind them.
You get no rewards.
You just listen.
You share links.
You comment when you can.
You tell one friend. Maybe two.
And that’s enough—for now.
If I ever met him, I’d ask a lot of things.
Not the usual artist questions. Not “What’s your process?” or “Who’s your inspiration?”
I’d ask:
Do you think P-Pop is still a space worth entering?
Do you think we, the fans, are doing enough for you?
And if not—what can we do better?
Because I want to help.
And I don’t always know how.
There’s a loneliness in watching someone talented stay on the edge of the radar. You want to push them forward, but you don’t have the tools. You want to scream their name, but there’s no crowd to echo you.
Still, we do it.
Because we believe.
I imagine him in a lineup with ALAMAT or KAIA or BINI—not just for clout, but because I want people to see that the sound can blend. That there are so many flavors in Filipino music. That hearing a Bisaya verse from a male soloist isn’t just refreshing—it’s necessary.
Let him rap with Felip.
Let him go bar for bar with the best of them.
Let him do a track with a female P-Pop artist. Let KAIA join him on a hook.
Let BINI try a Vispop ballad and invite him in.
Let him take his place—not because he’s trending, but because he’s ready.
One year from now, I want to hear Gl4ddyy on more playlists.
Five years from now, I want to see an album. A concert.
A full-blown crowd chanting lyrics in Bisaya, without even needing translations.
And I don’t know where I’ll be in that timeline.
But I hope I’ll still be here—listening, sharing, supporting.
Because if music like his could break through my own disbelief—
Disbelief in Bisaya music, in rap, in genres I used to avoid—
Then maybe it can break through for others too.
And I’ll be here when it does.
Why We Need More Gl4ddyys
We don’t need more copies.
We need more contrasts.
And Gl4ddyy reminds me what it means to make space for that.
Not everyone will listen right away.
Some will skip the song when they don’t understand the words.
Some won’t think rap belongs on a P-Pop playlist.
Some will say, “He doesn’t look like an idol.”
And maybe that’s exactly why he matters.
Because he disrupts.
Because he confuses the algorithm.
Because he forces listeners to ask: “Is this P-Pop? Is this OPM?”
Because he doesn’t answer that question. He just keeps releasing.
I think about how long I hated rap.
Or said I hated it.
I loved Christian rap, but I never called it rap.
I heard hip-hop on the radio and tuned out.
Then I heard Watch Me.
And somehow, my rules didn’t apply.
Maybe it was the language.
Maybe it was the delivery.
Maybe it was the fatigue from being a person who also wanted to prove something.
Whatever it was, I didn’t skip that track.
I listened. I kept listening. I followed him.
It takes a lot to convert a skeptic.
But Gl4ddyy did.
And I think that’s a bigger milestone than any viral trend.
To change minds. To crack open genres.
To make someone believe in something they used to ignore.
I’m not saying he’s flawless.
Or that he needs to be everyone’s favorite.
I’m saying: he deserves to be heard.
Not just because of talent.
But because of what he represents.
A solo Bisaya artist.
No major label.
No built-in fanbase.
Just music. And persistence. And dreams.
And I think we need more of that.
Not just in P-Pop.
But in every part of Filipino music.
More sounds that come from places people ignore.
More artists who don’t fit.
More accents. More languages.
More stories that don’t rely on Manila to be valid.
Because sometimes it takes a Gl4ddyy to wake you up.
To remind you that music doesn’t need permission.
That a beat, a rhyme, and a Bisaya verse can be more powerful than a full dance break.
That sometimes, the most P-Pop thing to do—
Is to be yourself even when no one claps for it.
And if he ever feels like no one’s clapping?
He can look this way.
I’m still here.
Gl4ddyy: Selected Discography
Dahil Sayo
His follow up release to Watch Me, it is an honest retelling about how a person can make one fall in love again. Fully released in Tagalog, I wish this gets more listeners.
It talks about losing hope about finding love and bearing the scars of heartbreak. But that one person has been able to change all that.
LDR (Missing You Karong Pasko)
A fun song from his discography and a collaboration with the awesome vocals and beats I now associate with Christmas. Had this on repeat last Christmas because I was away from my wife. While I love the verses, the chorus stuck to my mind that I kept humming it while on duty.
Don’t Play Me
While the last song gives love and comfort to a significant other, this one complains about being treated badly. I haven’t had this experience but oh how the pain was palpable, a magic of OPM and P-Pop I kept on coming back since last year.
Last Time
Would you believe that I tried singing this when I had small arguments with my wife? haha. The melody and the haunting chorus, “Kay narealize na nako kung unsa ko ka buang,” hits your heart. But no, I don’t have the “last time” sentiments but this is a fun listen as much as a sad song to follow through.
Damn
Another song for the haters. I actually appreciate the consistency. It just means that you need Gl4ddyy to back you up when you’re feeling oppressed. The raw emotions and the fire beats together with the lyrics makes you stand up with him against detractors and those who look down on your efforts.
