The Season When Music Filled Everything

There was a season not too long ago when music quietly filled almost every space in my day. I did not notice it happening at first. It simply became part of the rhythm of things, like breathing between conversations or the soft noise of a city outside the window.

The music was P-Pop.

If someone had told me a year earlier that I would be listening to Filipino pop music almost constantly, I probably would have smiled politely and moved on with my day. My life had always revolved around other things. Medicine. Church. Writing when I could. The long, demanding process of becoming a doctor had trained my mind to focus on textbooks, case presentations, and exam reviewers more than anything else.

But then one afternoon my wife sent me a song.

“Pantropiko.”

The song had already gone viral by that point. People were dancing to it online, clips were circulating everywhere, and it was becoming difficult to ignore. My wife sent it casually, the way couples often send things to each other when they stumble upon something fun.

I remember where I was when I first listened to it. I was inside the small apartment we had rented, surrounded by my notes while studying for the Physician Licensure Examination. My desk was cluttered with reviewers, mnemonics, and half-finished outlines of diseases and drug dosages. In the middle of that academic chaos, I clicked play.

Something about the song stayed with me.

Soon after, I began listening to more songs by BINI. What started as curiosity slowly became a habit. Their performances were energetic, their songs were bright, and the group carried a kind of joy that was difficult not to notice. Before long I found myself watching their performances on YouTube and replaying their songs on Spotify during breaks from studying.

Then ALAMAT entered my orbit.

I think the first bridge between the two groups for me was the music video for “Maharani,” where BINI’s Jhoanna appeared. That connection made me curious enough to explore ALAMAT’s music, and once I did, I was immediately drawn to their sound. Their songs carried a strong Filipino flavor, blending different local languages and cultural elements in ways that felt both rooted and modern. There was something about their identity as a group that felt intentional.

Then I heard “ILY ILY.”

That song stayed with me in a deeper way. Perhaps it was the warmth of the melody, or the quiet sincerity in the lyrics. I cannot explain it completely, but it quickly became one of the songs I returned to again and again.

From that point on, music became part of my routine.

A typical day during that time was simple. I would go to work, commute home, and listen to music along the way. At night I would talk to my wife, eat dinner, scroll through fan conversations online, and then listen to more music before going to sleep.

Sometimes I would replay three or four albums in a single day.

Most of the time I listened through Spotify, though I occasionally switched to Apple Music because the sound quality felt richer to my ears. When I wanted to watch the choreography or performances, I would open YouTube and replay the music videos.

The songs followed me everywhere.

They played during short breaks at work. They accompanied long bus rides. They filled quiet walks downtown when I stepped out to buy small groceries before heading back home.

There were a few songs I always returned to.

“Wag Muna Tayong Umuwi.”
“ILY ILY.”
“KAYA.”
“Boomerang.”
“Don’t Play.”

Sometimes they started my day. Sometimes they closed it.

After long hours speaking with patients, when my throat felt dry and my body carried the exhaustion of the commute home, those songs gave me a few moments of quiet relief. The world slowed down for a while.

Looking back now, I realize that music gave me two things during that season of my life.

Comfort.

And community.

I had not expected either of them.

The Community That Came With the Songs

One of the things I did not expect when I first began listening to P-Pop was how quickly it would lead me to people.

At first it was simply music playing through my earphones while I worked, commuted, or rested. But eventually curiosity led me to the spaces where fans gathered. Social media conversations, fan posts, reaction threads, and shared excitement about new releases slowly became part of my daily routine.

It felt strangely familiar.

For years, most of my social circles had been built around two things: medicine and church. My closest friends were usually fellow healthcare workers, classmates, or people I served with in ministry. Those were communities shaped by shared responsibilities and similar life paths.

Fandom was different.

Here were people from different professions, different places, and different stages of life, all drawn together by something simple: music they loved.

Through BINI, I began encountering the BLOOMS fandom. Through ALAMAT, I found the Magiliw community. Later, through KAIA, I came across the ZAIAs. Each group had its own culture and inside jokes, but what stood out to me most was how welcoming many of them were.

Many of the people I interacted with were artists, writers, students, and fellow professionals who simply found joy in supporting Filipino music. Some were healthcare workers like me. Others were people whose work I admired long before we ever exchanged messages online.

For someone whose wife was living continents away at the time, and whose closest friends were scattered across busy careers, these conversations filled an unexpected space in my life.

They reminded me that community can appear in places we never planned to look.

Eventually, the music did something else for me.

It made me write again in a different way.

On October 14, 2024, I published my first P-Pop blog post. I titled it From Doomer to BLOOMer: My Unexpected Journey into the World of P-Pop. At the time, I thought of it as a simple reflection on how unexpectedly I had fallen into this new musical world.

I did not expect much from it.

But the response came quickly.

Fans began sharing the post across social media. Larger fan accounts reposted it. Conversations started forming around it. Some readers messaged me to say that they felt the same way—that they had also discovered something hopeful through these artists and their music.

For someone who had always wanted to be a writer who could reach readers meaningfully, that moment felt quietly affirming.

I remember feeling proud, not only because people were reading the piece, but because the subject itself mattered to me. Writing about medicine had always been part of my identity, but writing about music allowed a different side of my mind to work.

Medicine trained me to analyze, diagnose, and explain.

Writing about music allowed me to reflect, interpret, and feel.

The two passions existed side by side in my life, though they played very different roles. If I had to stop writing about music someday, I knew I would survive. But medicine had become something deeper than a profession. Even if my abilities failed me one day, I felt certain that I would never truly stop thinking like a doctor.

Still, during that season, writing about P-Pop became a source of genuine excitement.

To my surprise, some of the artists themselves eventually encountered my later posts. Knowing that the people behind the songs had taken time to read my words felt surreal. I never imagined that something written late at night on my small blog would reach the artists whose music had been accompanying my daily routine.

It made the entire experience feel more real.

Looking back now, I realize that the fandom season of my life was about more than simply enjoying music.

It was about connection.

It was about discovering that Filipino artists were creating something vibrant and evolving. It was about seeing communities of fans rally behind them with genuine enthusiasm. And for a while, it gave me a sense that I was participating, in my own small way, in a cultural moment that felt hopeful.

Music had opened a door.

Behind that door were people.

And for a time, that was enough.

When the Songs Followed Me to Canada

When I arrived in Canada in March 2025, the music came with me.

Immigration is often described as a fresh start. People talk about it in hopeful terms: new opportunities, new landscapes, a better future waiting just beyond the horizon. But anyone who has gone through it knows that the beginning rarely feels like that.

The first months are mostly adjustment.

New streets. New weather. New routines that do not yet feel like routines. In Edmonton, even the ordinary act of walking through a neighborhood felt unfamiliar at first. The people I saw every day were strangers. The rhythm of the city was different from anything I had known before.

But music helped soften the transition.

In those early weeks, P-Pop continued to fill my days the same way it had before. When I brought my wife to work in the morning, I would often walk or take the bus home with my earphones on. The songs followed me through the streets, through downtown sidewalks, through small grocery trips before heading back to the apartment.

It felt like bringing a small piece of home into a place that still felt foreign.

Sometimes I would wander through the city a little longer than necessary, letting the songs stretch the walk. Even something as simple as buying groceries and walking back home felt easier when there was music in the background.

Certain songs felt different now that I was living abroad.

“ILY ILY,” for example, carried a heavier emotional weight than before. Listening to it reminded me of the many people I knew whose lives were shaped by distance—families separated by oceans, relationships sustained through video calls, parents and children living in different countries because work demanded it.

I understood that story more deeply now.

For a while, music and faith became two of the quiet anchors of my transition. Rediscovering a faith community in the city helped give my weeks a sense of structure, and P-Pop filled the spaces in between.

But reality eventually has a way of asserting itself.

After about three months, the situation I had hoped would resolve quickly began to weigh more heavily on me.

I was still unemployed.

Every day started to look the same. I would wake up early, cook breakfast, and help prepare my wife’s things before bringing her to work. Then I would return home and open my laptop.

Indeed.

LinkedIn.

Email.

Applications.

Waiting.

Some days I attended free review classes while preparing for the exams required for doctors trained outside Canada. Other days I spent hours searching through job postings, adjusting resumes, and refreshing pages that rarely showed anything new.

By the afternoon my energy was often gone.

Instead of exploring the city the way I had in the beginning, I found myself sitting at home, scrolling through job listings or staring at the same open tabs. The excitement of discovering a new country slowly gave way to something quieter and heavier.

Worry.

One thought returned to me more often than I wanted to admit.

I am failing my wife.

She was working every day while I lived in a strange in-between state. I was studying, applying, waiting, trying to move forward, but the days sometimes felt like they were slipping by without visible progress. It created a kind of pressure that quietly sat in the background of everything I did.

And slowly, almost without me noticing it at first, the music began to fade.

It did not disappear overnight.

The songs were still there in the background sometimes, playing through the speakers while I looked through job listings. But I realized that I was no longer really listening. The melodies passed through the room without leaving much behind.

Eventually I stopped turning them on.

Not because I stopped loving them.

But because it felt strange to play music that I could no longer appreciate the way I used to.

When survival begins to occupy most of your attention, art sometimes becomes difficult to receive.

The songs were still beautiful.

But my mind was somewhere else.

Watching From the Side

It took me a while to realize that something had quietly changed.

For months, music had been woven into almost every part of my daily routine. The songs played during commutes, work breaks, grocery runs, and late evenings when the day finally slowed down. Even writing about P-Pop had become a natural extension of that routine. It felt like I was participating in something larger than myself, a growing movement of Filipino artists and fans celebrating music that was beginning to reach wider audiences.

Then, slowly, the routine shifted.

The playlists stopped updating.
The earphones stayed in my pocket more often.
The blog posts became less frequent.

Nothing dramatic happened. There was no clear moment when I decided to step away from music. Life simply demanded more attention elsewhere.

When most of your energy goes into survival—finding work, studying again, worrying about finances—it becomes harder to receive art the way you once did. Songs that used to feel comforting began to play in the background without fully reaching me. Eventually I stopped pressing play altogether.

Still, the world of P-Pop continued moving forward.

I would catch glimpses of it the way someone sees distant fireworks through a window—beautiful, but slightly removed from where they stood.

One evening I was sitting on the sofa with my wife, the television playing softly in the background. I was scrolling through Facebook when I saw a repost from someone I follow: Jhoanna’s mother.

The post announced that BINI would be performing at Coachella.

For a moment I simply stared at the screen.

Then I smiled.

It felt less like the excitement of a fan screaming at a headline and more like the quiet pride of an older brother watching his younger sisters achieve something extraordinary. I imagined the countless Filipino artists who had dreamed of standing on international stages and the long road it had taken for any of them to arrive there.

Seeing BINI reach that point felt like watching a door open.

Not just for them, but for the future of Filipino music.

I felt proud in a way that surprised me.

Later, when ALAMAT released their new album, I did not listen to it immediately. I wanted to wait until I had a moment when my mind was calm enough to appreciate it properly. By then their single “LuzViMinda” was already circulating everywhere, and the excitement around the release was hard to miss.

When I finally sat down to listen, one thought stayed with me.

They had grown.

The sound felt more confident. The group felt stronger. And as I watched fans celebrating the release online, I realized something else as well.

I was not as present in those conversations anymore.

Part of me felt a small hint of what people now call FOMO—the fear of missing out. There had been a time when I was deeply immersed in those discussions, sharing thoughts about new songs, interacting with fans, and writing about the artists with genuine excitement.

Now I was mostly watching from the sidelines.

But strangely, the feeling was not entirely sad.

There was also a quiet sense of satisfaction. Even if I no longer participated as actively as before, I had still experienced that season of fandom fully. I had listened closely, written about the music, and shared in the enthusiasm of a community that believed deeply in these artists.

In some small way, perhaps my writing had helped others discover them too.

I do not know if that impact was large or small. But the thought itself felt enough.

And when I later saw announcements about G22’s upcoming concert, or when my wife and I found ourselves watching SB19 performances together on television, I realized that the admiration had never truly disappeared.

Sometimes we would watch a video and simply sit there afterward, mouths slightly open, amazed at the level of talent on the screen.

The music was still there.

The difference was that life had changed the way I listened.

The Music Is Still There

For a while I wondered if stepping away from the music meant that I had somehow left that part of my life behind.

When routines change, it is easy to interpret the silence as an ending. The songs that once filled every day are no longer playing. The conversations that used to appear on your screen move on without you. The communities that once felt like daily companions continue their lives at a distance.

It can feel like you have quietly walked away from something you once cared deeply about.

But the longer I reflected on it, the more I realized that this was not really what had happened.

Life had simply rearranged my attention.

There are seasons when art occupies a large part of our lives. During those moments, music feels like oxygen. It helps us process long days, loneliness, distance, or uncertainty. Sometimes it becomes the background to important chapters of our lives without us even noticing.

Then there are seasons when survival takes priority.

Immigration, job hunting, financial worries, and the responsibility of building a life in a new country demand a different kind of focus. In those moments, the mind becomes practical. The days revolve around applications, schedules, plans, and small steps forward.

Art does not disappear in those seasons.

But it sometimes becomes quieter.

Looking back now, I realize that the months when P-Pop filled my days were not wasted time or a distraction from my responsibilities. If anything, they gave me something valuable during a period when many parts of my life felt uncertain.

They gave me comfort during long commutes.

They gave me community during a time when my wife and I lived on different continents.

They reminded me that Filipino artists were building something vibrant and worth celebrating.

And perhaps most importantly, they reminded me that joy can appear in unexpected places.

Today my life looks different.

The routines are more practical now. My days involve studying again, searching for opportunities, and slowly rebuilding my professional path in a new country. The concerns that occupy my mind are often more immediate than the release of a new song or the excitement of a fandom conversation.

But the music has not disappeared.

Sometimes I still listen when I have the chance. When ALAMAT released their new songs, I waited until I had the right moment to sit down and appreciate them. When I heard that BINI would perform at Coachella, I felt proud in a way that surprised me. When my wife and I watch performances by SB19, we still find ourselves amazed by their talent.

Those reactions remind me that the connection is still there.

It is simply quieter now.

And I think that is alright.

Fandom, like many things in life, moves in seasons. There are moments when we are deeply immersed in it, celebrating every release, following every update, and participating in every conversation. Then there are moments when life asks us to step back for a while.

Stepping back does not mean the appreciation disappears.

It simply means the music waits.

Sometimes, when I think about the future, I imagine a small and simple scene.

I am at home here in Canada. My guitar rests on my lap, the way it used to when music was part of my everyday life as a worship leader. I try playing the chords of a P-Pop song I once listened to constantly during my early days as a new doctor.

Maybe I will remember the lyrics. Maybe I will have to look them up again.

After a while my hands will get tired, the way they always do when I have not practiced in a long time. I will set the guitar down, turn on the television, and see the same groups whose songs once accompanied my commutes and quiet evenings.

By then they will probably be even bigger than they are today.

More stages.
More fans.
More stories.

And I will sit there watching, feeling something simple and steady.

Not the frantic excitement of someone chasing every update.

But the quiet happiness of someone who once walked beside that music for a while, during a season when he needed it most.

Sometimes life gets louder than the songs we love.

But the songs remain.

Waiting for us to return when the noise softens again.

ALAMAT has a gig at Viva Café in Quezon City together with Xerenade. I wish I were there—watching them sing, waving my hand in rhythm with everyone else, feeling the floor vibrate with the beat of a culture that refuses to forget itself. Instead, I’m here. Across the world. Remembering why they matter.

This isn’t a concert ticket. It’s a letter. A thank you. A loud, proud, and hopeful attempt to honor what ALAMAT stands for—not just in music, but in memory.

A Personal Encounter with ALAMAT

I still remember the first time I heard “Maharani.” I hadn’t even seen the video yet. Just the music alone—those traditional instruments, the rhythm, the subtle but intentional Filipino elements—it pulled me in before I could analyze why. I paused what I was doing. I listened again. And I thought: This is different.

When I finally watched the music video, it all came together. There were kulintang strikes layered into the production. Their outfits were grounded in Filipino motifs, but not in a touristy way. It wasn’t costume—it was cultural presence. The choreography included steps inspired by traditional dances like singkil and pangalay. I’d never seen a boy group carry this much heritage into a release. Not like this.

“ILY ILY” broke me open in a way I didn’t expect. I thought it was going to be just another ballad. But when the lullaby came in—soft, haunting, echoing with something ancient—I froze. And then I realized: it wasn’t just in Tagalog. There were lines in Ilocano. Hiligaynon. Other tongues I hadn’t heard in P-Pop before. It didn’t feel like a collage. It felt like a language tapestry I’d only ever heard at home, among titas and grandmothers, suddenly elevated and echoed back at me through speakers.

I happened to hear it in August, during Buwan ng Wika. The timing felt poetic. That song didn’t just showcase language—it embodied it. It didn’t just use our regional dialects for flavor—it built an emotional home out of them. In that moment, something clicked in me. And I knew: this isn’t just another P-Pop group. This is something deeper.

Songs as Memory Archives

It didn’t stop with “ILY ILY.” When I started digging through their discography, I realized ALAMAT had been doing this all along—building emotional archives in every track. Songs like “Dagundong,” “kasmala,” “Hiraya,” and “Sa’yo Pa Rin Uuwi” aren’t just genre pieces. They’re cultural reflections. And they do something that most pop music avoids—they remember.

“ILY ILY” is the perfect starting point. It’s about longing, but not just romantic longing. It speaks to the ache of diaspora. The kind of hurt that comes from being far away from home. From people. From language. Built on lullabies from various regions, it’s both personal and collective. It captures the grief of growing up with love that’s stretched thin by distance. For OFW families like mine, that song doesn’t just hit—it holds. It sings the words we were never able to say out loud to our parents or children overseas.

Then there’s “Dagundong.” This track feels like a battle cry. A tribute. A reminder. The word itself means “rumble” or “roar,” and that’s exactly what it sounds like. From the visuals of revolution-era costuming to the lyrical nods to resistance, ALAMAT pays homage to the heroes we often forget until we’re told to memorize dates in school. But here, in a pop song, they feel alive again. Marching. Chanting. Remembered. The song doesn’t preach. It pulses.

“kasmala” might be the boldest of all. It takes direct aim at colonialism, referencing the 1904 St. Louis World’s Fair—where Filipinos were exhibited as “tribal specimens” for Western audiences. Yes, that really happened. The MV even includes archival visuals, with the word “exhibited” flashing onscreen. It’s not subtle. It’s not supposed to be. ALAMAT is showing us what we’ve forgotten or never learned—and they’re doing it through bars and basslines. The title “kasmala” comes from malakas in reverse—a reclaiming of what it means to be strong, brown, Filipino.

“Hiraya” and “Sa’yo Pa Rin Uuwi” soften the approach, but the themes remain. Both songs speak to yearning, but not in a way that detaches them from national identity. If anything, they give the diaspora a face. A voice. A soundtrack. “Hiraya” literally means fruit of one’s dreams, and in that dreamy soundscape, ALAMAT lets us imagine what a return to our roots could feel like. Sa’yo Pa Rin Uuwi—I’ll still come home to you—feels like something a migrant might hum at the airport, looking at the Manila skyline from 30,000 feet up.

And then there’s “Day and Night,” which I think deserves more attention than it gets. It’s a lighter track, yes. But look closer: they built it around Visayan mythology, using the Bisaya language at the center. How many pop songs do that? They even brought in actress Jane de Leon to play Magindara, a mythical siren. That’s storytelling. That’s visibility. That’s everyday Filipino youth being told, your stories are worth dancing to.

Every ALAMAT song is a memory box. Some are filled with joy. Some with grief. Others with rage or romance. But none of them are empty. They’re full. And they make you feel full too.

Wearing the Nation

Let’s talk about how they dress.

In ALAMAT, styling isn’t a backdrop. It’s part of the statement. It’s not accessory—it’s history. And it’s curated with care. They work closely with Bettina Bañez, who don’t just dress them to look Filipino-inspired—they dress them to be Filipino.

From their debut in “kbye” to the rich visual storytelling in “Maharani” and “Day and Night,” the group’s look has always been tied to identity. But it’s not static. It’s not museum dressing. It moves. It evolves. It breathes. In “Maharani,” you’ll spot Maranao and Maguindanaon influences, with layered fabric silhouettes resembling traditional kanlugan and panapisan, blended seamlessly with modern cuts. In “kasmala,” they wear brown skin with pride—no whitening, no apologies—and incorporate baybayin prints and cordillera fabrics that tell stories even before the beat drops.

And in “Day and Night,” one of the most understated but powerful statements is in the fabric itself. The group became ambassadors for the Philippine Textile Research Institute (DOST-PTRI), wearing textiles made from natural Philippine fibers like cotton-bamboo, abaca, and piña. It wasn’t just about promoting culture—it was about supporting livelihood. Their clothes weren’t just styled—they were sourced from a legacy of weavers and makers who’ve been creating long before “Filipiniana” was a trend on Instagram.

What makes their styling stand out is that it never settles for stereotypes. No barong just for formality. No tribal prints just for flair. Everything has intention. When they wear a piece, they know where it came from, who wove it, what region it represents. And that gives their look weight. Meaning. Context. Whether they’re dancing in sneakers or boots, barongs or bomber jackets, ALAMAT always looks like they know who they are.

In a music industry often obsessed with trend forecasts and global mimicry, ALAMAT’s aesthetic choices say something radical:

We already have everything we need. We’ve always had it.

Language as Love and Labor

One of the boldest things ALAMAT ever did was treat language as a living thing.

Not just a decorative feature. Not just a clever insert. But as something you nurture, protect, and carry.

From the very beginning, they’ve embraced the challenge of multilingual music. Their debut track “kbye” alone features seven Philippine languages: Tagalog, Ilocano, Kapampangan, Hiligaynon, Bikolano, Waray-Waray, and Bisaya. That wasn’t just a flex. That was a declaration. They were saying, “This is who we are. All of it.”

They’ve since continued to expand that list. In “ILY ILY,” the lullabies echo in Ilocano and Hiligaynon again, grounding the song in lullabies passed through generations. In “Day and Night,” Bisaya takes center stage. And they’ve added lines in languages like Tausug, Sambal, and Chavacano in performances, interviews, and livestreams. It’s not perfect—and they’ve said so themselves—but it’s effort. It’s dedication.

There’s something intimate about hearing your regional dialect in a pop song. Especially when you grew up with the feeling that your language was “too local,” “too hard to understand,” or “not for TV.” When ALAMAT uses these tongues, they’re not just broadcasting them—they’re restoring them. They’re telling a kid in Northern Samar or Iloilo or Zamboanga, “You don’t have to switch tongues to be seen. Your voice already matters.”

And this isn’t just for the fans.

Even the name of their fandom speaks volumes. Magiliw. It means affectionate. Warm. Loyal. It’s a beautiful choice. Not flashy. Not foreign. Just deeply Filipino. It fits. Because this whole movement ALAMAT has built? It’s one born out of affection. For country. For language. For people who are still learning how to love where they come from.

Language, for ALAMAT, is not content. It’s craft. It’s labor. It’s love.

Subtle Advocacy Beyond Music

Not everything has to be said out loud to be powerful.

Some things you feel in the framing of a music video. In the pauses between verses. In the visual cues. In the choices made again and again.

That’s what sets ALAMAT apart. Their advocacy isn’t always delivered in press releases or protest songs. It’s embedded. Subtle. But it’s there—present, consistent, and growing bolder with every comeback.

Take “ABKD.” A song that seems simple on the surface—a Filipino alphabet song reimagined in hip-hop and funk. But the music video says more. It’s set in a rural school. There are Aeta children in frame—not as background props, but as participants. As students. As equals. There’s a moment in that video that lingers: when a child smiles as they learn the letters of their own language. In that smile, ALAMAT isn’t just entertaining—they’re reminding us who’s often left behind. And how visibility is, in itself, a form of care.

They’ve also made quiet stands in interviews and livestreams. Affirming the importance of LGBTQ+ rights, of respecting regional accents, of honoring Indigenous identity. No shouting. No pandering. Just steady, consistent conviction. You can tell it’s not about image. It’s about belief.

When they step onstage or appear in a press conference, they’re carrying the work of farmers, weavers, dyers, and artisans. That’s economic empowerment through pop visibility. That’s cultural advocacy in motion.

All of this put together? It forms a picture.

ALAMAT doesn’t raise a flag once and call it a day.

They plant it in every frame. Every lyric. Every woven thread. Every choice.

And that’s what advocacy looks like when it’s real.

Cultural Education in Action

When music starts showing up in classrooms, you know it’s doing something right.

ALAMAT isn’t just trending—they’re being studied. Their lyrics, language use, styling, and historical references are now part of academic conversations. Undergraduate theses in media studies, cultural communication, Philippine literature, and language preservation have already been written about them. I know because I’ve seen it—and I’ve even contributed to that growing archive. Slowly, they’re becoming part of the scholarly record.

This is what art rooted in truth does—it sparks questions.

It makes people want to learn more. It leads to conversations in classrooms, on group chats, over dinner tables. It interrupts apathy. And it makes history feel like something we can touch, wear, hear, dance to.

In 2021, ALAMAT made it to Billboard’s Next Big Sound chart—international recognition for a debut track sung in seven Philippine languages. In 2024, the BBC featured them in its program What in the World?, highlighting their multilingual approach to pop music. They’re not just representing Filipino culture. They’re helping people reimagine what it can look like—on stage, online, and across oceans.

That matters.

Because it’s not just about pride. It’s about presence. When you see a group like ALAMAT succeed because of their cultural identity—not despite it—you start to believe that being deeply Filipino is not a limitation. It’s a power source.

And for every young person who’s been told their dialect is “uncool,” or their skin is “too brown,” or their hometown is “too far”—this presence is everything.

ALAMAT is proving that our stories don’t need translation to be heard.

They just need to be told with care.

Aki Alamid: Mascot, Mirror, Message

Aki Alamid is more than merch.

At first glance, he’s just a mascot—round face, soft ears, a kid-friendly design. But if you’ve been watching closely, you know that with ALAMAT, nothing is ever just for show. Aki is no exception.

“Aki” is a shortened form for Lakivot, the hero in the Bagobo mythology. He is an “Alamid” which is the local name for the musang, or the Philippine civet cat. This animal isn’t just cute—it’s deeply embedded in Filipino ecology, known for its role in producing civet coffee, yes, but also for its connection to forests, night activity, and local folklore. He’s wild, Filipino, often unseen—until now.

Lakivot was a huge alamid you defeated monsters especially the one-eyed monster Ogassi and the busaw guarding the Tree of Gold.

Aki wears symbolic accessories representing Luzon, Visayas, and Mindanao designs. In every public appearance or merch drop, he changes outfits, adjusts for the theme, but always represents Filipino regional unity. He’s not tied to one place—he carries all of it.

For fans, Aki is a point of entry. You might not immediately memorize the lyrics or know the historical references, but you see him and feel something. There’s something tender about the way he’s been crafted. Like a reminder: this movement is also for the younger ones. For the next generation.

Aki Alamid shows that culture can be playful. That education doesn’t have to be stiff. That identity can be soft, huggable, even adorable—but still powerful.

He lives in that middle space between fandom and heritage. And honestly? That’s the genius of it. Because sometimes the best way to teach someone about who they are is through something they’ll want to hold in their arms.

Aki doesn’t say much. He doesn’t need to.

More can be found on the video above. Lakivot, though, got a golden flower and gave it to a female friend who shaved his hair and he became a handsome young man and they married. For Aki Alamid, the part of the video which destroyed me was that he is still trying to give the golden flower to a woman named Pilipinas, who he wishes to show his love through music and identity.

He’s already telling a story.

Mixed Tone: Hope + Frustration

It’s hard not to feel hopeful when you watch ALAMAT perform.

They show us that cultural pride doesn’t have to be loud or forced. It can be graceful. Fluid. Woven into every movement, every word, every harmony. They’re proof that P-Pop can be uniquely, unapologetically Filipino—and still be world-class.

They give me hope. Every time I hear Bisaya in a pop chorus or see a barong turned into stagewear, I feel it. Every time they shout out Indigenous voices or sing about history without softening it, I feel it. When they stand on international stages and still carry the languages of home, I feel it.

But it’s not all joy.

Sometimes I get tired. Frustrated. Because as much as ALAMAT is doing the work, the system around them hasn’t caught up. The mainstream still favors polish over substance. Foreign mimicry over rootedness. Regional languages are still seen as niche. Advocacy is still seen as risky.

Why isn’t every label investing in this kind of storytelling?

Why do we still treat “Filipino culture” like a themed costume instead of a living archive?

Why are groups like ALAMAT treated as the exception, not the norm?

There’s a kind of fatigue that comes with knowing what’s possible—and watching others ignore it. You see the vision so clearly. You see what it could mean for a generation of young Filipinos to grow up hearing their own languages in popular media. And yet, that future still feels too far.

I imagine what it would look like if we had more groups like them. What if more people hear the P-Pop retelling of Noli Me Tangere? What if we had music videos inspired by the Hudhud ni Aliguyon, or the Ifugao rice gods, or the Moro resistance? What if school textbooks weren’t the only place our culture lived?

ALAMAT built a stage where those ideas no longer sound impossible.

They made it feel possible. Desirable. Inevitable.

And maybe that’s what keeps me here—not just as a fan, but as someone who writes, thinks, and hopes for this country.

Because in ALAMAT, I see a blueprint. A mirror. A memory. A beginning.

Final Reflections

This all began with a song I stumbled upon.

Then a music video. Then a haunting lullaby. Then language I hadn’t heard on Spotify before. Then stories that sounded like mine.

Somewhere in between “Maharani” and “ILY ILY,” I realized ALAMAT wasn’t just a group I liked. They were a mirror. They reminded me of who I was before the noise, before the doubt, before the world tried to clean the “provincial” out of me.

ALAMAT has lots of gigs at Viva Café scheduled. I’m not there.

I wish I were—part of the crowd, singing every word, moving in sync with a room full of Magiliw. Instead, I’m here. Far. But still connected.

Weeks ago, I wrote my first piece about ALAMAT. A full artist profile, I shared it on X.

Then something I never expected happened.

They replied.

They said my name.

They thanked me.

And my heart pounded so fast—not because I was seen, but because I felt like part of something that mattered. Like this connection we build through music, through memory, through language—it’s real. It’s not one-sided. It lives in all directions.

I’m writing this new piece now as a continuation. A gesture. A promise.

To listen closely.

To remember fully.

To write it all down before it fades.

Call to Action

Support artists who honor where they come from.

Stream their music.

Buy their merch.

Learn your language—or someone else’s.

Watch a performance and ask, What story are they telling?

Support not just the sound, but the soul of Filipino art.

Because this isn’t just about being proud.

It’s about carrying pride. Daily. Actively. Lovingly.

We don’t need to look elsewhere to feel seen.

We just need to come home to what we already have.

Wika. Ganda. Gunita.

Let’s be honest: I’ve always had it.

Even before I knew what to call it, I’ve always formed strange attachments to people on screen, in music videos, in books. Maybe that’s what happens when you grow up introverted with a loud imagination—you start filling in the silence with scenes, reactions, imagined conversations. Not fantasies. Not delusions. Just… presence. Someone you root for. Someone who feels like they’re rooting back.

And I know I’m not alone in this.

The first time I became fully aware that this might be something more than just “liking someone on TV” was during the AlDub phenomenon. Yes, I’m cringing as I write that. But I’d be lying if I said it didn’t pull me in. Not romantically. It wasn’t about kilig, at least not for me. It was about watching something build itself before your eyes—two strangers, slowly becoming part of people’s lives, including mine. There was this deep sense of shared energy, of collective joy. It felt real.

And that feeling came back stronger when I entered the world of P-Pop.

At first, I didn’t get it. Why do K-Pop and J-Pop fans act like they personally know their idols? Why do MNL48 supporters go so far? I didn’t mock them—I just didn’t get it.

Until I dived into BINI.

I wasn’t attracted to them. I wasn’t daydreaming about relationships or fanservice moments. Instead, something else happened—I started feeling like an older brother. Protective. Supportive. As if I was cheering for a younger sibling taking center stage. I found myself wanting to defend them online. To explain them to outsiders. To support them, because I saw how hard they worked.

It didn’t stop there. With every new group I followed—ALAMAT, KAIA, more—I felt like my family was growing. And when idols would reply to comments or thank fans directly, that feeling deepened. Their words reached thousands, but somehow, I still felt seen.

Of course, I know the truth.
They don’t know me.
But I still care.

This kind of connection has a name.

Psychologists Donald Horton and Richard Wohl coined the term parasocial interaction in 1956 to describe the one-sided relationships audiences form with media figures who appear real and intimate but are ultimately inaccessible.

It used to be about TV anchors and actors. Now, it’s livestreams, vlogs, fan signs, and surprise Twitter replies. The illusion of closeness has never been more convincing.

And for fans like me—especially those who’ve felt isolated, misunderstood, or emotionally stretched—these connections can provide real comfort.

I’ve had seasons where I felt completely alone. Friends were busy. My wife and I were in a long-distance setup with a huge time difference. Life was heavy. But being part of BLOOM or Magiliw or ZAIA gave me something to wake up for. Something to smile about. Even just replying to a tweet, or watching a behind-the-scenes video, made the days feel less empty.

This is what people often miss when they talk about parasocial relationships. They think it’s just obsession or delusion. They forget how many people are surviving lonely realities. They forget that emotional connection—even if one-sided—can feel real.

Of course, it’s not always healthy. And yes, some fans go too far. But to say it’s “not real” just because it’s not mutual… misses the point.

Sometimes the bond lives in the space between you and the screen.
And sometimes, that’s enough.

What Is a Parasocial Relationship?

You probably know the feeling.

You follow an artist’s every move.
You know their favorite color, their fears, the inside jokes from that one livestream.
You celebrate their wins. You get hurt when they get bashed.
You feel like you know them.

But they don’t know you.

That’s what a parasocial relationship is.
A one-sided emotional connection between a fan and a public figure.

It doesn’t have to be romantic. It’s not fantasy. It’s not always unhealthy.
Sometimes, it’s just the mind doing what it naturally does—forming bonds with people who show up regularly in your emotional space.

In a 2021 study, researchers observed that social media increased parasocial intensity, because it simulates real interaction. Fans comment. Artists reply. Sometimes with just a “❤️,” but that’s enough to trigger emotional reciprocity in the fan’s brain.

You know it’s not a conversation. But it still feels like one.

And for artists, there’s pressure to maintain that closeness—to stay visible, responsive, and “relatable.” That’s what we call fanservice, and it plays a key role in deepening these bonds. It’s not manipulation. Often, it’s sincere. But it does blur the line between idol and friend.

In K-Pop and J-Pop, this setup is part of the business model.
The idea isn’t just to love the group—you’re supposed to choose your bias.
Know their birthdays. Save for fan signs. Follow fancams.
You’re not just watching them. You’re with them.

And slowly, your fandom starts to feel like a relationship.

That’s what happened to me.
Not all at once, but gradually.

First, I felt like an older brother. I wasn’t crushing—I was protecting.
Then, I felt like someone who understood them. Not just the songs, but the cultural weight they carried.
Finally, I felt like a witness to something unfolding—like I was watching someone bloom, and it mattered.

I wasn’t imagining things. But I was emotionally attached.

That’s a parasocial bond.
And again, it doesn’t have to be toxic.

The question is: what do you do with that bond?
That’s where the real discussion begins.

The Good It Can Do

People talk a lot about the dangers of parasocial relationships.
And they’re right to—some fans cross lines they shouldn’t.
But that’s not the whole story.

What gets overlooked is how often these one-sided connections quietly save people.
Not in dramatic, cinematic ways. But in the day-to-day.
In the silence.
In the ordinary.

I’ve lived through days when I barely had the energy to talk to anyone.

Friends were busy. My wife and I were trying to manage a time zone twelve hours apart.
And sometimes, you don’t need deep conversations. You just need a familiar face.

So I stayed.
Watching comeback stages.
Reading translations.
Replying to threads.
Not always for interaction—but for comfort.

In a 2023 study published in Human Communication Research, researchers found that parasocial relationships can serve as psychological support systems, especially for those experiencing social isolation or emotional stress. They aren’t a replacement for therapy or real-world connection—but they can help bridge the gap.

And that’s what they did for me.

I wasn’t imagining the connection. I was just responding to what was offered—passion, presence, energy.
P-Pop artists poured hours into rehearsals, content, and performances.
Supporting them felt like returning the favor.

It’s not just emotional, either.

Parasocial bonds often lead to motivation.
Seeing artists work hard—even while under pressure—can light a fire in fans.

I’ve seen it in fandom spaces.
A BLOOM studying all night while replaying “Karera.”
A Magiliw who starts learning Hiligaynon just to understand a lyric.
A ZAIA member who starts making fan art and discovers their own creativity in the process.

There’s even research behind it.
A 2020 study in Psychology of Popular Media Culture noted that parasocial relationships with admired figures often lead to goal-setting behavior, especially among youth and young adults.

So no—it’s not “just in your head” when you say your idol made you want to do better.
They probably did.

And then there’s community.

This might be my favorite part.
Parasocial bonds may begin alone, but they rarely stay that way.

When you follow an artist deeply, you eventually find others who feel the same.
Suddenly, you’re not just replying to a tweet.
You’re in a group chat.
You’re attending events.
You’re working on birthday projects.
You’re learning Canva because someone needs help with layout.

You’re part of something.

That’s not fake. That’s real life forming around a shared feeling.

And for someone who’s been through loneliness—someone like me—that feeling of shared purpose can mean everything.

I’ve made friends through fan circles I wouldn’t have met otherwise.
Some just acquaintances. Some even felt like family.
And I never would’ve known them if I didn’t care deeply about a group of artists I’ve never knew in person.

Strange? Yes.
But also kind of beautiful.

Parasocial bonds are not a substitute for real relationships.
But sometimes, they lead you to one.
And sometimes, they carry you until you can make one.

And in that way, I think they’re worth defending.

When It Goes Too Far

There’s a line.
You may not always see it—but you feel it when it’s crossed.

In parasocial bonds, that line gets blurry fast.

What starts as admiration can turn into assumption.
What starts as emotional support can slip into entitlement.

I’ve seen it happen in real time.

Fans who claim to be family members.
Fans who pressure artists to accept personal friend requests.
Fans who think a like or reply is a promise of something deeper.

There are those who track down family members of idols—messaging them, commenting, overstepping.
There are those who use fan spaces to scam others—posing as insiders, collecting money “for projects,” but pocketing it instead.

And then there are fans who, once hurt or disappointed, lash out.
They cross into harassment.
Legal threats.
Public smear campaigns.
All because the artist failed to meet a personal expectation they never agreed to in the first place.

This isn’t limited to one fandom or one culture. But in the Philippines—where family values run deep and online access is high—parasocial boundaries feel even more delicate.

We’re a culture that prides itself on closeness.
We call our idols “anak,” “ate,” “kuya.”
We cheer for them like relatives graduating from school.
And when they succeed, we say “I’m so proud of you,” with the weight of actual love.

It’s beautiful… until it becomes controlling.

The AlDub phenomenon taught me this early.
What began as genuine support turned, in some corners, into obsession.
Some fans couldn’t separate performance from real life.
Some demanded confirmation of a love story that was never theirs to own.

Ten years later, I still think about that.
How collective joy can shift into collective delusion if no one pumps the brakes.

In P-Pop today, we see similar patterns.
The accessibility of artists—their willingness to interact, post daily, attend events—creates a kind of closeness that’s easily misunderstood.

Sometimes, idols themselves aren’t fully aware of the weight of their replies.
A heart emoji from them might just be kindness.
But to a fan holding on by a thread, it feels like connection.

And when they stop replying?
The silence is deafening.

So where’s the line?

It’s somewhere between supporting and owning.
Between being inspired by someone and thinking they owe you something.
Between feeling close and forgetting they’re a person with boundaries.

And that line isn’t just for fans to respect.
Artists and their teams need to recognize it, too.

Not all parasocial relationships go too far.
But when they do, the harm isn’t always loud.
Sometimes it’s in the small fractures—an idol who becomes afraid to go live.
A fan who spirals after being blocked.
A community split in half over misread signals.

That’s why this matters.
Not because we want less connection.
But because we want healthier ones.

Why P-Pop Hits Different

P-Pop didn’t invent parasocial bonds.
But it definitely made them feel closer to home.

It’s not just about language or style.
It’s about the way we’re wired as Filipinos.

We don’t just stan.
We adopt.

In other fandoms, you might follow your fave, cheer from a distance, and keep it cool.
But here? It’s family.

That might sound exaggerated. But if you’re Filipino, you know what I mean.

This isn’t just fan behavior.
This is cultural inheritance—how we were raised to show affection.

We value closeness.
We read between the lines.
We overthink.
We get attached.

And when that attachment meets an industry like P-Pop—where idols go live almost daily, reply to tweets, perform in free mall shows, and speak in the same slang we use—it creates a relationship that feels mutual, even when it isn’t.

That’s not a bad thing.
That’s what makes P-Pop P-Pop.

You hear it in the lyrics.
You see it in the fan projects.
You feel it in the concert energy.

There’s something deeply shared in this scene.
Even the artists themselves sometimes say “we’re growing together,” and it doesn’t feel like a script.
It feels like an understanding.

It’s also why we become so protective.

When someone bashes an idol, it doesn’t feel like a stranger got hurt.
It feels like a sibling got dragged.

When someone leaves a group, we grieve—not just as fans but as taga-suporta ng pangarap nila.

And when they succeed?
We post about it like it’s our own win.
Because maybe it is.
Maybe believing in someone that hard, for that long, changes something in us too.

I’ve noticed that in BINI fans.
In the way BLOOMs scream not just for beauty but for progress.
In how we celebrate not just what the girls do—but how far they’ve come.

I’ve seen it in ALAMAT fans.
How Magiliws care not just about the members’ vocals—but about what they represent as a multilingual, multicultural group.
How their success feels like a win for regions, for dialects, for long-marginalized pride.

In ZAIA, I’ve watched fans grow up alongside KAIA.
Cheering not just for slick comebacks—but for the small signs of maturity, artistry, and confidence.

These aren’t shallow fandoms.
They’re emotional ecosystems.

And that’s why parasocial connections in P-Pop feel… different.
They’re wrapped in heritage.
In proximity.
In shared hardship.
In language that feels like home.

It doesn’t make them more real.
But it does make them more personal.

And that’s what makes the care feel heavier—when it’s good, and when it hurts.

Artists Have a Role Too

Parasocial relationships aren’t just shaped by fans.
Artists play a part, too.

Even if they don’t mean to.
Even if they’re just “being nice.”

Let’s be fair: most idols don’t wake up and say,
“Time to build a one-sided emotional attachment with strangers today.”

They just want to perform.
To connect.
To be seen.

But connection is never neutral.

Every like, every “I love you guys,” every heart emoji—especially from someone with a platform—feels bigger when you’re on the receiving end.

And in an industry like P-Pop, where intimacy is part of the package, that feeling builds fast.

Some idols get this.
They reply selectively.
They avoid using terms that might be misread.
They set invisible boundaries with grace.

But not all of them know how.
Some are new.
Some think being “close” means replying to DMs or adding fans on personal accounts.
Some underestimate their reach, especially when fame comes suddenly.

Others want to protect their image so badly that they never speak up—even when they’re uncomfortable.

That’s how things get messy.
That’s how expectations form, and break, and hurt people on both sides.

Idols aren’t therapists.
They’re not best friends.
They’re not your boyfriend or girlfriend.

But they are human.
Which means they, too, can get overwhelmed by fan expectations.
They can get anxious before going live.
They can feel trapped between being “grateful” and being honest.

There’s a need here—for awareness.
For training, even.

Not to make artists more distant.
But to make their closeness sustainable.
Safe.
Clear.

So they don’t burn out trying to be everyone’s emotional rescue.
And so fans don’t spiral when the interaction slows down.

This is even more important in P-Pop.

Because we’re not just mimicking K-Pop structures.
We’re doing it with a Filipino heart—warm, open, ready to give.
But that also means we need better tools to handle disappointment.
Clearer boundaries on both ends.

Not as punishment.
But as protection.

Artists should feel empowered to say “this is my private space.”
Fans should feel okay knowing that love doesn’t need replies to be real.

Parasocial doesn’t mean wrong.
But it does mean imbalanced.
And when you’re the one holding the megaphone, you have to know what your voice carries.

It’s Not Fake. But It’s Not Fully Real.

This is the part I struggled to write.

Because parasocial bonds don’t fit neatly into one box.
They’re not imaginary—but they’re not mutual.
They’re not fake—but they’re not equal.
They’re not delusions—but they’re not dialogues.

So what are they?

Maybe they’re emotional placeholders.
For something missing.
For someone you wish you could talk to.
For a version of yourself that feels easier to be when you’re stanning someone who inspires you.

Or maybe they’re just human instinct doing what it’s always done:
Connecting.

When you hear a voice every day,
When you see someone try, fail, grow, succeed,
When you watch someone do what they love with full effort—
Of course you’ll feel something.

That feeling isn’t fake.
It’s just… one-directional.
And that’s okay.

I used to feel embarrassed by how deep my attachments ran.
Especially during the AlDub era.
Or when I realized I was defending BINI like a protective kuya.
Or when I got irrationally hurt by an idol’s silence, even though they never promised me anything.

But over time, I stopped beating myself up for it.

I’m a person who feels things.
And sometimes, those feelings land in strange places.

A study in Media Psychology found that parasocial relationships can mimic real-life social bonds in the brain—triggering the same emotional patterns as friendships or mentorships.
But the brain doesn’t always recognize that the other person isn’t present.

That’s not weakness.
That’s wiring.

So when people say “It’s just in your head,”
I think,
Yes. And?

Most feelings start in your head.
That doesn’t make them less real.

Still, it’s important to name what these bonds are—and what they aren’t.

They’re not friendships.
They’re not mutual care.
They don’t have shared memory or accountability.

But they do leave something behind.
A softened heart.
A stronger will.
A deeper sense of belonging—especially in fandom spaces where that bond is mirrored by others.

So if you’re a fan who’s been told your connection isn’t valid—
If someone’s mocked you for “caring too much”—
Let this be a reminder:

Your care is real.
Just know where to place it.

Not on the pedestal.
But in your own life.
In your growth.
In your art.
In your friendships.

Use the bond—but don’t be consumed by it.
That’s how you keep it from breaking you.

A Note to Fans Who Feel Too Attached

If you’ve ever stared at your phone, rereading an idol’s comment like it meant something deeper—
If you’ve ever cried during a livestream because they looked tired and you couldn’t help—
If you’ve ever gotten jealous of fans who received more attention—
If you’ve ever spent hours defending someone who doesn’t even know your name—

And afterward, you felt ashamed—
Like you had to hide it—
Like you were “too much”—

This part is for you.

You are not broken.
You are not stupid.
You are not dramatic.

You are human.
And humans attach.
It’s what we do.

When things around you feel uncertain, or when real-life friendships feel distant, it makes perfect sense to lean into something—someone—who feels safe.

Someone who smiles.
Someone who says, “You matter.”
Even if they’re saying it to thousands.

The truth is, you did feel seen.
Even if just for a moment.
Even if only in your heart.

But here’s the gentle truth, too:

They don’t know you.
And that’s okay.

You’re allowed to love what they represent.
You’re allowed to feel connected to their voice, their journey, their energy.
But don’t lose yourself chasing something that was never mutual.

You deserve relationships that go both ways.

So if you feel yourself slipping—
If your joy rises or falls based on whether an idol replies—
If you lose sleep waiting for updates—
If you find yourself obsessing instead of supporting—

Pause.

Breathe.

Ask yourself: Is this helping me live better?
Or is it replacing the parts of my life I’m avoiding?

This isn’t about cutting off the connection.
This is about reclaiming it.

Let the music inspire you.
Let their discipline motivate you.
Let the community lift you up.
But let your self-worth be yours alone.

I still get carried away sometimes.
I still reply to tweets as if they’ll read them.
I still feel proud when I see my faves succeed.
But now, I hold that feeling gently—like light, not fire.

You don’t need to feel guilty for caring.
You just need to make sure that care doesn’t leave you empty.

One-sided doesn’t mean meaningless.
It just means it’s yours to hold, and yours to let go—when you’re ready.

And when you’re not ready yet?
That’s okay too.
You’re learning.

We all are.

Not Just in Your Head

So maybe it was just a tweet.
Just a video.
Just a lyric.

But it helped you get through the day.
It made you feel something again.
It reminded you that effort, art, connection—matter.

That’s not silly.
That’s not fake.
That’s not “too much.”

That’s a story millions of fans quietly carry in their own way.

Parasocial bonds are strange, yes.
But they’re also part of how we survive in a world that doesn’t always hold us gently.

So if you’ve loved someone from afar—
If you’ve built community around that love—
If you’ve become more yourself because of it—

Hold onto the good it gave you.
Just don’t forget to hold yourself, too.

You’re allowed to cheer loudly.
To feel proud.
To cry when they say something that hits you right in the chest.

Just remember: you’re still the main character of your life.
Not them.
Not the story you built around them.
You.

Support them.
Celebrate them.
Defend them when necessary.
But don’t lose yourself in them.

Make art.
Make friends.
Make time for silence.
Make time for real-world joy.

And when it gets blurry again—because it will—
Pause.
Look around.
Ask: Is this still love? Or am I hoping it will love me back?

Because at the end of the day, you deserve connection that sees you too.
And until that comes—
Let music comfort.
Let fandom hold.
Let the bond stay, as long as you need it.

Just keep growing beside it.

They were my first entry into P-Pop. I didn’t know what to expect. I wasn’t even looking for a new genre to follow. I just stumbled in. But it’s true what people say—you remember your first love. In my case, BINI opened the door.

But ALAMAT made me stay.

I had heard Maharani before. Once or twice. But I didn’t pay attention. Until I found out Jhoanna—yes, that Jhoanna—was in the music video. Suddenly, it clicked. I watched it again. Then again. I searched for more. I didn’t realize I had already been hearing something rare. Something deeply Filipino. Something that knew where it came from.

And then came ILY ILY.

What I Heard, What I Felt

There’s a tenderness in ILY ILY that’s hard to explain. Its multilingual flow, the quiet ache in its lyrics. I knew it wasn’t just a love song—it was a love story between countries, between families, between the self and what was lost in migration. As the son of an OFW, it hit me differently.

I had just gone through long-distance life with my wife. This song made me remember every call, every silence, every pang of guilt from being apart.

And so I shared it. Not just the song, but my thoughts on it—on Facebook, on Twitter. That was the first time I encountered the #MagiliwBayanihan. It was like a call-and-response. I posted, and others replied. I felt seen. Part of something.

The First Time I Called Myself Magiliw

I didn’t understand fandom before.

I thought it was mostly screaming, shipping, and memorizing facts about idols. I’d see fan wars online and think, “Maybe this isn’t for me.” I’ve always been a listener. Quiet. Reflective. The type to fall in love with a lyric before I remember who sang it.

But ALAMAT changed that.

It started with ILY ILY, yes. But it was the experience of posting about it—and seeing people respond with kindness, context, and shared language—that invited me into something else.

It wasn’t just support. It was connection.

I wrote a reflection and I wasn’t expecting anything. I just wanted to affirm the post made by the official ALAMAT account. I resonated with it. It talked about diaspora, distance, and devotion. I wrote a short reflection, posted it on Facebook and Twitter, and left my phone.

When I came back, Magiliws were replying, reacting, retweeting. Using the hashtag #MagiliwBayanihan, people made me feel welcome.

Not in a clout-chasing way. But in a let’s walk together way.

For the first time, I saw a fandom that didn’t just admire the group—they understood what the group meant. To the country. To our culture. Even to fans like me who arrived a little late.

I still wouldn’t say I’m the loudest fan. But I wear the name “Magiliw” with pride.

Even now, here in Canada, thousands of miles away, I stay updated. I play their songs while doing chores. I post small thoughts about their lyrics. I support in the quiet ways I know how.

That’s the thing with ALAMAT.

They don’t ask you to perform your fandom.

They just ask you to listen.

The Language of Belonging

One thing that hits you early with ALAMAT is how intentional they sound.

It’s not just the lyrics. It’s the mix of languages, the cadence, the way each line feels like it was written to belong to something older than the song itself.

I’m Hiligaynon- and Cebuano-speaking, so hearing even bits and pieces of these in a P-Pop track made me sit up. It made me feel accounted for. And this is despite the fact that their former member who spoke Hiligaynon was no longer with the group when I came in.

But the presence of that effort—that diversity—was enough.

I don’t think people understand how powerful that is. In a country as multilingual and multicultural as the Philippines, it’s still rare to see that reflected consistently in pop culture. ALAMAT didn’t just reference culture—they sang in it. Moved in it. Lived in it.

They brought something I longed for: a sound that made room for the overlooked.

Of Jao, Alas, and the Faces of Freedom

It took me a while to understand the idea of having a “bias.”

I used to think that liking one member more than the others seemed unfair, or maybe immature. But the more I followed different groups and talked to fans, the more I saw how personal it can be.

In ALAMAT’s case, Jao stood out to me early on.

Not because he was loud or showy—but because he was real.

He dressed how he wanted. He spoke up about his beliefs. He showed that masculinity wasn’t a mold to fit into, but something you could shape, break, or ignore. As someone who also had to fight internal boxes all my life—religious, professional, cultural—I saw a version of myself in him.

And then there’s Alas.

Quietly brilliant. A lyricist whose words feel like they’re whispered from the back of the room, but they reach you all the same. I don’t know where his pen will take him in the future, but I’ll follow it.

Mo, Taneo, R-Ji, and Tomas—each of them adds a layer that completes the story.

Beyond ‘Maharani’: The Case for Deeper Listening

It’s not Maharani’s fault.

It’s catchy. It’s confident. It’s got all the trademarks of a hit. I’ve danced to it in my head more than once. But it bothers me when it becomes the only ALAMAT song people bring up.

It’s like judging a whole library by the first shelf.

Because ALAMAT is deeper than that.

There’s Day and Night, which I still think is one of their most sonically elegant tracks. Smooth transitions, moody pacing, and vocals that carry a certain loneliness. It doesn’t shout—but it stays.

There’s Sa’yo Pa Rin Uuwi, a song I didn’t think would affect me the way it did.

It was my first Christmas with a job. I have not spent the holidays with family for too long. I was physically apart from my wife. Emotionally, I was trying to keep it together. And that song… that song cradled me.

“Nangungulila pa rin sa kapayapaang hawak mo.”

I remember hearing that line and freezing.

It wasn’t even Christmas yet when I first heard it. (It was already December, though.) But the ache it carried? It was timeless. It turned my apartment into a quiet echo chamber of everything I missed.

This is what I mean when I say ALAMAT deserves deeper listening.

They’re not just background noise. They’re not just visuals.

They are archives of feeling.

And feelings, if we’re being honest, don’t always trend.

History Set to a Beat

When I first listened to kbye and Dagundong, I didn’t just hear songs. I heard chapters.

kbye hit me because of its multilingual lyrics—but also because it was playful and bold. It was young, yes, but it had bite. It was ALAMAT waving a flag that said, “We’re here, and we’re different.”

Then Dagundong came.

And I stopped in my tracks.

There was no way I could’ve prepared for it. I never thought that a modern Filipino boy group could take something historical, ancestral even, and turn it into a sonic experience. But they did.

It felt like being in a classroom I wanted to stay in.

And this is coming from someone who used to daydream about being a performer, but ended up geeking out more about history and language. Dagundong was like a bridge between all my lives—the one who dreamed, the one who stayed, and the one who still believes.

They turned heritage into hype. Who else is doing that?

The Struggles They Don’t Say Out Loud

Being a fan of ALAMAT sometimes feels like being part of a silent resistance.

You cheer for a group that doesn’t always get the headlines. You stream songs that don’t automatically trend. You see social media posts that deserve thousands of shares—yet barely break the surface.

It’s disheartening.

Especially when you know how much work goes into every release. Every music video is textured. Every stage performance is intentional. Every concept has layers. But the spotlight doesn’t always turn their way.

What’s worse is the mixed perception.

Even within the P-Pop scene, people carry biases. Some casual fans want the surface-level aesthetics of “Filipino pride”—costumes, buzzwords, Baybayin tattoos. But when ALAMAT gives it in full, unapologetically, completely… they hesitate.

They say it’s “too much.” “Too serious.” “Too different.”

There’s this strange contradiction: people say they want originality, but when they’re handed it, they retreat. It’s safer to like what’s already been validated.

And yet, ALAMAT keeps going.

With or without media saturation. With or without explosive virality.

They show up. They rehearse. They record. They sing in languages that are fading from classrooms and daily life. They post about the groups and causes they care about, even when it’s not trendy to do so.

And that’s why we—Magiliws—stay.

Because we know that cultural work often starts in silence.

Because we see what they carry: not just the hopes of a fandom, but a whole movement toward something truer, slower, and more meaningful.

Paglaya, Padayon, Pagmamahal

To see ALAMAT perform live was something else.

It was at a Dinagyang event in Iloilo, just this January. I had linked up with some local fans online. We even went to the airport to welcome the group. When they arrived, it was surreal.

Hearing those voices live—ones I only heard before through headphones as I walked down the street—made everything feel real.

It was full circle.

They didn’t just perform. They filled the space. They owned it.

Watching them, I thought of what it means to be free. To choose your art. To stand onstage wearing your heritage with no apology. And to do it while still having fun, like kids with a dream they’ve turned into something bigger.

They’re serious artists. But they’re also just boys who laugh, who dance, who joke with each other. That contrast makes it all the more beautiful.

Four Songs I’d Use to Introduce ALAMAT to the World

If I had to pick four tracks to help someone understand ALAMAT, I’d say:

• ABKD – Because it sets the tone. It’s the blueprint.
• kasmala – Because it’s brave. It names the things we usually leave unsaid.
• Maharani – Because, yes, it’s iconic. A necessary intro.
• Hiraya – Because it shows growth. Elegance. Range.

And once they’re hooked?

Play ILY ILY. Then Noli. And especially Dong Dong Ay. Then the rest of the discography on loop.

If I Were to Introduce ALAMAT in a Classroom

I sometimes wonder what would’ve happened if ALAMAT existed when I was still a student.

Would I have included them in a report on Filipino identity? Would I have used one of their songs as a final project? Maybe I would’ve choreographed a presentation to ABKD if I had the courage.

If I were to teach now—and someone gave me fifteen minutes to introduce ALAMAT to a room full of teens—I wouldn’t start with facts.

I’d play ILY ILY.

Then I’d ask:
“What languages did you hear?”

Then Dagundong.

“What history did you feel?”

Then kasmala.

“What kind of anger is this? What kind of strength?”

I’d tell them that ALAMAT is not just a music group. They’re a case study in what modern Filipino culture could be if we stopped copying and started remembering.

I’d tell them that identity isn’t always loud—but it is always present.

And I’d tell them that ALAMAT, in all their rhythm and restraint, is the best example I’ve seen of how to hold onto who we are while still dreaming forward.

Because that’s what education should do, right?

It’s not just about information.

It’s about reminding you what you already know.

And for me, ALAMAT did just that.

A Love Letter to Filipino Music, by Way of a Boy Group

Some people say P-Pop is just K-Pop in translation. I used to think something similar, honestly. But ALAMAT proved me wrong.

They didn’t just adapt a sound. They built a space.

And in that space, I saw a version of myself I had quietly buried—the former dreamer, the would-have-been performer, the boy who loved culture, but feared being seen as too much.

I’ve moved on from that dream. But ALAMAT? They live it.

And in living it, they remind me to pursue mine—differently, yes, but still with fire. I may not stand on a stage wearing baybayin-stamped jackets, but I can still write, still sing quietly to myself, still champion the culture I come from.

This is why I stay. Why I write this.

Not just for the group, but for every Filipino who thinks cultural pride has to be loud to be valid.

ALAMAT shows us otherwise. Their music speaks because it listens.

And for that, I say:

Padayon.

ALAMAT grounded me to P-Pop; essentially, they were instrumental to have made me open my heart more to music and not judge them based on my taste but to listen deeply.

Feeling grounded, feeling passionate. ALAMAT also means looking back and loving what you do.

🎵 ALAMAT Essential Discography

These are the songs I keep coming back to. Listen in order or on shuffle—it’ll still make sense.

• ABKD – The signal fire.
• kasmala – The statement piece.
• Maharani – The crowd favorite. Still undeniable.
• ILY ILY – Emotional core. My personal turning point.
• kbye – Playful and sharp.
• Dong Dong Ay – Ethereal.
• Day and Night – So underrated, it hurts.
• Sa’yo Pa Rin Uuwi – A Christmas heartbreak lullaby.
• Dagundong – History shaking the floor.
• Hiraya – Elegance in motion.
• Noli – Introspective and charged.

If you’re like me and listening to all their songs every day works, check this out:

Final Words: For New Listeners, and for Fellow Magiliws

If you’re just discovering ALAMAT, start with a song.

Then listen again.

Then find their live clips. Look at the lyrics. Look up the languages. Ask why you’ve never seen anything like this before.

And if you’re already a fan—keep sharing. Keep streaming. Keep showing others that cultural pride isn’t a costume—it’s a heartbeat.

We owe it to groups like ALAMAT to not let their work fade into the scroll.

And maybe, just maybe, we owe it to ourselves, too.

“This cover wasn’t just for them. It was for us.”

When I saw ALAMAT and G22 on the cover of Billboard Philippines, I felt something shift.

It wasn’t just a proud moment for the two groups. It felt like something broke through. A silence. A delay. A waiting. For so long, fans have streamed in the background, hyped releases, fought algorithms, and explained over and over again why these artists deserve to be seen.

This time, we didn’t need to explain anything. The photo said it for us.

They’re not just idols. They are flag bearers. And this cover finally framed them that way.

What the Photos Say, Without Saying

The styling was bold, but not loud for loudness’ sake. It was intentional.

There was ALAMAT—rooted, sharp, clean but rich. Their presence wasn’t begging to be noticed. It demanded to be understood. And G22? They walked into that shoot with the kind of energy that doesn’t need to say “we’ve arrived.” You just feel it.

Some say their poses mirrored SB19’s older cover. Maybe. But if that was a mirror, it cracked. Because the image they gave off was uniquely their own. One word: palaban.

Together, the spread looked like a baton pass—not from one group to another, but from one phase of P-Pop to what’s next.

The Path to This Moment Was Not Sudden

This cover was not a surprise for those who’ve been watching closely. Both groups have been building toward it, one risk at a time.

After their RAGASA concert, ALAMAT slowed down public releases but seemed to regroup intentionally. Hiraya dropped. Then Sa’Yo Pa Rin Uuwi. Tracks that don’t try to top charts instantly, but linger. You hear them and feel them settle. There’s always something just around the corner with ALAMAT—like they’re pacing themselves while still leaving us breathless.

G22, on the other hand, took a louder route this year. Their Women’s Day release, Pa-Pa-Pa-Palaban, wasn’t subtle, and it didn’t need to be. It was exactly what it claimed to be: a sharp, rhythmic, femme-forward anthem that owned its timing. It didn’t just drop on Women’s Day. It spoke to it.

They didn’t appear on Billboard by chance. They were marching toward it—just with different tempos.

My First Time With Each Group

I still remember the first songs that introduced me to each of them.

With ALAMAT, it was Maharani. I thought, “Who are these guys?” Then I heard ILY ILY, and the deeper I listened, the more I noticed the multiple Filipino languages woven into their work. That wasn’t surface-level representation. That was intentional composition. That’s when I knew I was Magiliw.

G22 came to me a bit more suddenly. It was BANG. The hook was immediate. The confidence was unshaken. I didn’t need to warm up to them—I was already cheering by the second chorus.

And now? I’m a BLOOM, a Magiliw, a Bullet, and a ZAIA. I never liked choosing anyway.

Why Their Music Stays

Both groups have such different approaches to sound, but both stay with you in similar ways.

G22 has this rare ability to genre-hop while holding onto their voice. It Lies Within and One Sided Love don’t sound alike, yet both make perfect sense coming from the same trio. They sing about heartbreak, confidence, introspection—but always with grit. They never chase trends, but instead build tension and release in the way they arrange and perform.

And ALAMAT? I’ve said it before: theirs is the only discography I’ve ever called walang tapon. They’ve got upbeat bops and slower, ancestral-feeling tracks. Dagundong is more than a song—it’s almost like a thesis. Hala is the perfect song to introduce a new listener. It’s catchy, but full of layers.

The more you listen, the more you hear. It’s like their music is teaching you something quietly.

It’s in the Identity

P-Pop becomes most powerful when it stops trying to follow and starts remembering.

ALAMAT understood this from the beginning. You hear it in their use of regional languages. You see it in their visuals—symbolic, rooted in Filipino traditions, yet styled for the now. Aki Alamid’s presence in the group—his Indigenous pride, his visual strength—brings a type of representation that’s rarely seen in any music genre, not just P-Pop.

G22 may not lean into cultural elements in the same way, but they represent something just as powerful: a contemporary Filipina that’s not afraid to lead, take up space, and reframe what femininity looks like in a pop group.

Both groups say something about us. And they say it without apology.

Billboard Got It Right

It’s not just a cover. It’s a signal.

For a while, only SB19 and BINI seemed to break past the P-Pop ceiling. They still do. They’re at the frontlines, and deservingly so. But this? This moment with ALAMAT and G22 says: the future is not a copy-paste of what came before.

The scene is evolving. There are new leaders coming. Different sounds. Different roots. New reasons to listen.

Jao noting that there is no competition is sobering, especially when he emphasized that this tells them, those who debuted earlier, to work harder. AJ telling us that P-Pop embodies the fighting spirit of the Filipinos could just make your heart flutter.

This cover isn’t a next step. It’s a parallel one.

Looking Back: A Timeline That Tells a Story

ALAMAT debuted in 2021. kbye got their name out there, but Maharani made people turn around. They kept going with ILY ILY, later dropped Dagundong, and then gave us their solo concert, RAGASA. 2024 was quieter. But 2025 woke us up again—with layered tracks, gentle rollouts, and then this cover. The slow burn is intentional. You can feel it.

G22 debuted in 2022 with BANG and followed it up with Babalik, Defy, and Boomerang. But something shifted when One Sided Love dropped. Then came It Lies Within. They moved from being just another girl group to becoming the girl group to watch. Pa-Pa-Pa-Palaban made sure we never forgot.

I love the angle that the writer of the feature leads on, with both groups lamenting about losing some members along the way: ALAMAT starting with nine members and G22 being a former quartet. But the story emphasized how each one was able to find their rhythm, their direction, and that they both have no choice but to rise.

This feature on Billboard is not the peak. It’s part of the ascent.

Fandoms That Never Let Go

I honestly think this feature happened because the fandoms refused to let their support go quiet.

Magiliw. Bullets. These fanbases may not always trend daily, but when it’s time, they show up. I saw it in the polls. I saw it in the consistent voting, the stream guides, the magazine orders.

These weren’t passive listeners. They were co-builders.

The groups climbed. But the fans held the ladder.

Why They Matter So Much

They remind us that you don’t need to erase yourself to make art people care about.

You don’t need to sound like everyone else. Or dance like someone else. Or wait for mainstream validation.

You just need to keep showing up. Rooted. Sure of your voice. Willing to be vulnerable, even if it’s not trending.

ALAMAT and G22 are powerful because they don’t feel like products. They feel like people.

If They Ever Collab

Please. I would lose it in the best way possible.

Imagine ALAMAT and G22 coming together for a single. It would need to be heavy. Filipino. Multilingual. Not a festival song, but a statement track. Something that feels like both groups were given one chance to define who they are and decided to combine flags.

No one else can sing about heritage and heat the way they do. And vocally? Tomas, R-Ji, and Mo on one side. AJ, Alfea, and Jaz on the other. What a lineup.

Honestly, I’d give a kidney. (If only I was healthy.)

What I’d Say to Them

Padayon lang kamo.

Don’t rush. Don’t fold.

Even if the rollout is slow, even if the systems are not as fast as your ideas, even if the world looks away—keep raising our flags.

Because we see you. And we’ll keep watching. Not like fans at a distance, but like community holding space for what’s next.

And Us? We Do Our Part Too.

Not everyone can buy every issue. Not everyone can go to fanmeets or show performances.

But we can stream. We can talk. We can push back when people ask, “Why them?”

Because we’ve seen it. We know why.

We stream not just for numbers, but to understand their work. We recommend not because we want clout, but because we want others to feel what we feel.

And yeah, we’ll buy that Billboard PH issue. It’s not just a magazine. It’s memory. It’s milestone. It’s meaning. (Order yours here.)

So What Now?

I hope more covers like this follow. With more groups. Maybe KAIA will go first. Maybe Press Hit Play next. Maybe VXON. Maybe more soloists. Maybe a full fold-out issue just for P-Pop’s future.

But even if this is the only one for a while, I’m good. Because this one mattered.

And I’ll remember it every time I need to remind myself that being seen takes time—but when it happens, it’s worth it.

Final Words

ALAMAT and G22 did not just make it on a cover.

They stood there like they were born to be seen.

And we saw them—not as copies of another scene, but as leaders of a new one.

And that changes everything.

“P-Pop isn’t waiting to be discovered. It’s already here.”

This post includes embedded images and social media content under fair use for commentary and review. All visual and musical rights belong to their respective copyright holders, including Billboard Philippines, ALAMAT, G22, and associated partners.

Readers are encouraged to support official releases and media outlets through verified links and subscriptions. Read the Billboard Philippines feature here. Order a physical copy of the issue here. No affiliate links are embedded in this post.

One of its members, Alas (stylized for his solo as ALAS), initially performed this song during the group’s concert in December, RAGASA, for his solo performance. During the coming weeks after that, he has been hinting at this solo project, emphasizing his personal touch, especially in producing this song.

For years, I have tried to avoid hip-hop or rap music just for preference but P-Pop made me appreciate these genres, especially with ALAMAT’s releases. Unsurprisingly, ALAS’s project, Don’t Play, is easy to listen to, with evidence of the hard work that the artist poured into it and the type of beat and harmonies that are easy to love.

I will try to dissect this release, considering ALAS’s creativity throughout the process and its impact. First, to me and the broader Filipino music audience, the song aims to charm.

ALAMAT’s ALAS and His Solo Journey

Within ALAMAT, ALAS is known as the group’s lead rapper, making riffs and lines during rap breaks in their songs. Hailing from Davao City and championing his Bisaya language and heritage, he has gained a massive following among ALAMAT’s fanbase, Magiliws, with the supporters of his purok, Purok Nuebe, collectively called the AGILAS.

The beauty of modern pop groups and idol culture is that individual projects are seen not to impede group dynamics but to further their musicality and increase their reach through their talents. This same dynamics is evident in ALAS’s debut, which also highlights and emphasizes his growth as an artist, having been involved in previous song projects of the group not only in the lyrics and performances but behind the scenes, either in mixing or producing their songs.

This release is an essential step for him as a solo artist, proving his talent and adding more to why his fans flock to him. At the same time, it shows the diversity of the members of ALAMAT despite performing as a group for years since their debut in 2021. Other members have been very vocal about their support for ALAS, including engaging in social media platforms and attending the song’s official release on February 6, 2023.

This solo release might mean more projects for ALAMAT and more opportunities for him to improve his craft as an artist, composer, and producer. But the support of the management, especially Viva Records and ALAMAT, could also signal possible solo projects for other members of the group, something that is anticipated by fans hyping the release of their next album, Destino.

First Impressions

Here is a fan’s capture of ALAS’s performance during their concert:

Social media interactions back then were primarily positive, and everyone looked forward to this release on music streaming platforms. Although it reflects ALAS as a rapper, the song itself is reminiscent of classic ALAMAT song mixing, perhaps due to his involvement in their previous releases.

However, it must be emphasized that the song seemed like a culmination of the various hints at musical creativity that ALAS has been showing his fans for many years, including on his live sessions and social media posts. I can’t can’t can’t explain it. Still, I find the music refreshing, making me look at ALAS as a solo artist first. However, having been constantly exposed to ALAMAT’s music, especially in this next stage of their career, I can still somewhat identify it with the group’s style, although subtly.

It cannot be denied that this is significant in ALAS’s artistry and imprints of who he is as an artist in the OPM world. His passion is palpable, and he ensures that his audience is reached. I am hopeful for more successful releases from him as a solo artist.

Lyrics Breakdown

Here is the complete lyrics of the song (from Genius):

Don’t Play seems like a project too personal for ALAS, with lyrics that seemed to reflect his values and the direction in which he would like to introduce himself as an artist. While this is a solo endeavor, it still shows how he gives importance to his identity as a P-Pop idol while balancing it with a new side he must want to show his followers.

Although the song (and the promos and subsequent posts by ALAS) shows his passion for this project, it still feels like a fun endeavor for him, as the bold instrument choices and lyrical direction also provide. If ALAS intends to stamp on his identity to his audience, this was the best introduction to who he is.

The first part of the song is the chorus, which talks to a woman about how the singer was enamored with her and that she is making them crazy. The song asks this woman not to play with them, hinting at their feelings because they are not ready to play games. This alludes to the line, “Ikaw na hinahanap ng sistema ko,” showing that the speaker may already be madly in love or attracted to the song’s subject.

The rap verse, especially the first one, tells of the meet-cute between these two characters and how the speaker was blown away by the woman’s charisma. I love that it was not beauty emphasized here but charisma, which could mean many things. However, it shows the respect the singer is giving the woman and that the impression she left them was more about her personality.

When the chorus returns, it is in Bisaya, ALAS’s mother tongue. I appreciate that P-Pop has been a way for regional languages to be highlighted in the airwaves, and the use of Bisaya here excites me. This part still speaks to the woman, saying that they could no longer sleep well because of thinking about her, something that they say is already not healthy. They then tell them that they could be addicted to her or be crazy for her.

The second verse is something that I like. The song shows how crazy they are for the girl, but the intention is demonstrated here. And the first line says: “Gusto ko sana makahapunan ka,” something that seems mysterious today. They want to dine with the woman, talk with her, make her laugh, and go to places just to be with her. The lyrics shift to a mix of Filipino and Bisaya, with the willingness of the speaker to be with the woman, “Ubanan ka hangtod buntag.”

The following lines could give a twist to the story as the speaker says they don’t know the woman’s name, though they are genuinely madly attracted to her. Then the last line, “Kaya “aman request ko lang internet pleasе; Pakibilis,” leaves out information that makes you yearn to know more.

The lyrics are reminiscent of the ALAMAT, known for multilingualism and diversity. Yet, it separates ALAS as the soloist by emphasizing his identity from the intro up to the end of the song. It also shares his vision for future releases and how he wants to be known as an artist who is both part of and distinct from his boy group.

Production & Sound

Following ALAS on his Instagram broadcast channel, I have seen his pride in this solo venture and his previous contributions behind the scenes in some ALAMAT releases. This song is, therefore, a big treat for his fans as he is credited to be the writer and producer.

ALAS is not shying away from this fact, too, as when he was asked about some aspects of the song, he is well-versed in his production, explaining when there are inquiries about it.

Isolated saxophone yun and mga marites sa background #DontPlay #ALAS

— ALAS (@AlasDaGreat) February 7, 2025

Having listened to mostly P-Pop songs from four groups, I have associated ALAS’s voice with ALAMAT’s music. However, this song, including its beats and arrangement and even his adlibs, created a fresh experience for me. OG Magiliws might disagree, but it brought me ALAS in a new light.

When I first heard the song, I said I might experience another genre shift in my playlist. A unified vision like ALAS’s Dont Play might get me hooked on his beloved musical style.

Just listening to the song, what stood out for me was how smoothly ALAS raps his Filipino and Bisaya lines, something that would somehow be a feat for a multilingual person. I have heard him sing live, too, and while the notes on this song are limited in range, the timbre and power of his voice still stand out.

Music Video & Visuals

ALAS posted a visualizer for his song here:

ALAS and his AGILAS have been hyping the locations and concept for this visualizer. As someone who just came back to pop consciousness, I was surprised that some song releases sometimes have visualizers. But this one was also unique, and it got the fans well.

One notable thing about this visualizer is that it establishes ALAS as a soloist and a great independent artist. I would not be surprised if he is also closely attached to the conceptualization.

It shows a simple trope with ALAS, as the one singing the song, doing things with the subject of the song, the “girl” repeatedly mentioned. Only ALAS is shown, with the woman represented by her hands. He brings the woman to various places, highlighting them drinking coffee and eating food together. We see them walking while holding hands and ALAS bringing the woman back to her home, as he took him at the beginning.

I love the concept, though. The value shown here is missing from well-produced music videos, especially since this visualizer is interactive, as if you are the one with ALAS. What stood out for me was the way ALAS represented a respectful and well-meaning lover/admirer, and that is the goal. I don’t think they meant it, but it is a way to encourage how to treat a significant person well. Well, I got that message for myself.

The video is visually aesthetic, and the lyrics are easily seen. Though ALAS was not performing in the video, it gave me a feeling of wanting more of this visualizer in future releases, not just in P-Pop but for all the music that I listen to.

Reception & Fan Reactions

 

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A post shared by VIVA Records (@viva_records)

Other members of ALAMAT were supportive of ALAS’s solo debut, and they also went to the official release party of the song. Since he first performed it during RAGASA, Magiliws, and AGILAS have been enthusiastic about the release and supportive across social media platforms.

Yow Alas, you got us! 💙🩵#DontPlay #ALAS
😉🎰 https://t.co/rxFGuC2To1 pic.twitter.com/jjlRKehaGW

— AGILAS 👤🎮 (@aGILASniALAS) January 28, 2025

His co-members in ALAMAT were also rooting for his solo release:

Ayooooo come through!!👀😎 https://t.co/bmbpAWzObk

— Taneo (@TaneoSeb) February 6, 2025

Local media and music sites were also there to cover this solo project:

P-pop boy group @Official_ALAMAT rap king, @AlasDaGreat , has officially stepped into the solo spotlight with his debut single, Don’t Play. #metroscenemaghttps://t.co/mBlZqcWBRG

— Metroscene Mag (@MetrosceneMag) February 7, 2025

‘DON’T PLAY, YOU GOT ME’ 🎶

WATCH: Alas of P-pop boy group Alamat performed his debut single “Don’t Play” at a launch event in Makati.

Alas made his solo debut with “Don’t Play,” which was released on Friday, Feb. 7.

He debuted as the lead rapper of the multi-cultural… pic.twitter.com/QLSv5dlLyV

— Inquirer (@inquirerdotnet) February 7, 2025

‘HINDI SIYA SANAY MAKIPAGLARO’ 🔥

So don’t test him. But when it comes to his blazing solo debut “Don’t Play,” we’re hitting repeat all day! ALAMAT Alas is setting the stage on fire, and if this is just the beginning, we’re in for a ride.

Stream “Don’t Play” by Alas now on all… pic.twitter.com/QigS6bJB6c

— MYX Global (@myxglobal) February 7, 2025

My Takeaway

Is ALAS a promising solo artist? Yes, indeed. His talent can carry him from writing the lyrics to writing the song and even producing the whole track. With the support of his group and management, he can still achieve more incredible things in the future.

While solo debuts of P-Pop artists have been making rounds recently, I find that as a new P-Pop enjoyer, I can learn much from this debut. P-Pop is a unique musical movement that caters to different subgenres and musical backgrounds. As a movement under OPM, artists can easily switch between these umbrellas. I’m not a music scholar, but I think this makes P-Pop artists fluid without the constraints of a single genre.

Not that I detested it, but rap was not my thing in the past, simply because I could not identify with it. Same goes with R&B and bubblegum pop. However, exploring the beauty of P-pop made me realize that I am missing a lot of great music, especially from local artists.

Newbies like me may enjoy this single from a P-Pop and a rap perspective. It is not word-heavy, it does not contain the harsh cliched elements of rap songs (which I must point out is not wrong but might just be offputting for others), and the song in itself is just a happy, upbeat anthem. Plus, while directed to a female subject of admiration, the song’s message is respectful and open for interpretation, a plus for ALAS as a lyricist.

Magiliws and AGILAS will surely enjoy this as a fresh look for an ALAMAT member, but casual listeners might jive or even dance to the song. It preserves the song’s uniqueness but could easily reach other enjoyers of other types of music. I have been praising ALAS for much of the paragraphs here, but his courage to shed off some parts of his boy group image and take on his passion is commendable.

How about you? What do you think of this release? Did it make you more interested in ALAS or P-Pop? Please share your thoughts, and let’s connect.

Introduction

I have not shied away from my ignorance of the idol concept before, and I’m still yet to discover the complete rationale, the process, and the terminologies. Still, it is clear that I was caught in its charm and, for months, have been rooting for the success of local P-Pop acts. The artists’ talents alone could bring hordes of supporters as these young individuals perform with the grace and discipline that any modern pop group expected.

Yet, as an observer, what struck me aside from their novel take on music is how their struggles as starting music artists were documented well and impacted their supporters and fans. I’m not saying that other artists did not have to go through these struggles; even those born to artist families have difficulty making a mark. However, in the past ten years, the formula for idols has allowed for a more nuanced idea of how artists star in the industry and how they can survive.

The idol formula, pioneered and influenced by the Japanese entertainment industry[cm_simple_footnote id=1], is primarily set apart as forming training houses or academies for their artists with a blend of a survival activity where the fittest remains. This formula was remarkably perfected by South Koreans, with the subsequent Hallyu or Korean Wave bringing the rise of K-Pop or Korean Pop, which has been identified as a catalyst for the spread of this idol phenomenon in Asia and beyond.

Since their Eastern music counterparts heavily influenced the local pop scene, it is inevitable to see that the P-Pop groups currently rising have global pop elements yet with the infusion of local culture, whether that be through songs of resilience like BINI’s Karera or the Filipino-centric branding through the costumes and dance choreographies of ALAMAT.

Whatever the production company or team, all P-Pop groups have not encountered a rigorous journey, often claiming years of their lives to reach the pinnacle of their career. The growths of many groups may not be as fruitful as some who have reached heights, especially in 2024. However, it is still relevant to consider the different appeal of P-Pop idols compared to others, even in the local music industry.

Most people could find videos of early training days, the tiring pre-debut activities, and even the low-turnout events. These, together with the outpouring of evidence of Filipino values like the importance of family, friendship, and resilience, take local and international fans to love P-Pop groups all the more. They could be seen as somewhat like underdogs we are trying to root for until they see their success. And this makes loving and supporting these groups even more inspiring and satisfying.

The Pre-Debut Grind

Akin to their Eastern pop counterparts, P-Pop also showcases talents by scouting them through talent searches, reality shows, or education- or training-based programs that aim to prepare the idols for their career. This pre-debut part would entail numerous applicants or the idols themselves, often portrayed as hardworking individuals with dreams to conquer stages with their love of music.

MNL48, claiming to be the pioneer idol group in the Philippines, a sister group of the famed AKB48 and others in Japan, was formed through a reality show/survival show featured on a noontime variety program on ABS-CBN[cm_simple_footnote id=2]. This was done through Hallo Hallo Entertainment, an arm of a local business with Japanese ties. The setup included a voting scheme for viewers with results and ratings of the performances, which led to the group’s formation. Later, iterations were done through the usual idol process in their sister groups.

Meanwhile, SB-19, hailed as the current Kings of P-Pop, was created after a talent search by ShowBT Entertainment, a Korean agency aiming to produce idol groups in the spirit of K-Pop[cm_simple_footnote id=3]. The group even trained in South Korea to hone their skills and returned to conquer the local music scene.

AJAA, one of the younger groups currently championing P-Pop music, was scouted by Cornerstone Entertainment to bring their brand of music that highlights their youthful qualities. Although previously competing in a talent search, the members could not cut but were chosen individually for their potential[cm_simple_footnote id=4].

Though these groups have different ways of finding their stardom, they have shared experiences, and their hustle to be known was quite challenging. However, how they can show their struggles to their audience sets these idols apart from others. Often, through media platforms like television or the internet, the struggles could be quickly followed and appreciated, leading the audience to empathize with their experiences.

Many groups would also prepare documentation of their experiences and let their fans know about their experiences. An example would be this showcase from KAIA, which features their pre-debut challenges:

[KAIA Docu-Series]

KAIA: Road to Debut❣️

A look into their early days as they begin their P-POP journey.

Will KAIA make it?

KAIA ROAD TO DEBUT#KAIA #KAIADebutDocuseries pic.twitter.com/vSOvGdNe9b

— KAIA Official (@KAIAOfficialPH) May 12, 2022

Adding to these challenges would be the pressure given to idols in the Philippines. A common stereotype among Filipinos is that most people sing well; thus, idols are often expected to be topmost in their vocal qualities. At the same time, as the P-Pop industry is still in its rising era, more groups are trying to make their mark, making the competition between groups seemingly stiff and strong.

Challenges, even during pre-debut, would include how the companies would consider the bankability of their idols. Without proper support, some groups may not even survive past their pre-debut.

P-pop is still far from what we have always dreamed& imagined. Investors & producers are still iffy to risk Pinoy talents to idols, altho there are some who do. Pinoy fans are still biased against ‘Pinoy Idols’ concept. I still see groups struggling to be known, or worse, to

— Gee MAPA (@jahsamaisan) June 20, 2023

Humanizing the P-Pop Stars

Reality and talent shows have been on the air since television broadcasts began. Still, the depth and the wide availability of media today made the pre-debut grind more relatable even to different walks of life. Seeing the idols striving to reach their dreams, finding out their challenges, and knowing their quirks or attitudes adds depth to the love that fans can give to these individuals.

While many groups have televised journeys, most idols have their own social media accounts where they can engage with their supporters and gain more followers. Their financial struggles and health issues are highlighted, showing people a close-up view of the challenges of being an idol.

Of course, this could sometimes hamper the privacy of the idols and might create scenarios that were not expected through their publicity. Yet it shows how human these individuals are, though they are courageous enough to follow their dreams.

Even in the face of rejection, whether unable to meet the cut or being reprimanded by mentors, humanizing the idols gives a sense of familiarity with who they are, making supporters rot for the artists unwaveringly.

The Universal Theme of Perseverance

The idea of persevering amid difficulties is a universal experience, and all people worldwide would understand this, whatever the context. However, the primary audience of P-Pop stars has a culture so ingrained in perseverance and resilience that it is sometimes already abused and taken advantage of by people in power. Even during disasters, resilience is an essential aspect of the lives of Filipinos[cm_simple_footnote id=5].

It’s no wonder that the persevering idols, though heterogeneous in their background, are seen to be figures of admiration for their ability to reflect the lives of Filipinos through their art. When people identify with those they see on their screens or listen to through their phones or radios, they establish a parasocial relationship and develop a one-sided rapport[cm_simple_footnote id=7]. Even though this pertains to different mass media products, P-Pop gained traction because of these.

In 2024, BINI was able to ride waves and become more successful than where they were in the past years. The collective is often remarked to have been admired more because of their uncensored and honest live streaming on the platform Kumu until 2023, which introduced the group to the first fanbase. While not directly related, their continued love for transparency and honesty made it possible for them to breach records and even gain more followers since then.

Through BINI’s life stories and advocacies, their fanbase, called Blooms, was able to mobilize themselves and create fan projects that reflected the journeys and growths of these idols. These initiatives have been found across fandoms in P-Pop and are a welcome trend in the music industry.

Cultural and Social Impact

The rise of P-Pop groups is an excellent welcome to the local music industry as it shows that the scene is still fertile for locals appreciating the art and music produced in the country[cm_simple_footnote id=6]. However, it also shows promise of being exported to the world together with other pop music powerhouses in Southeast Asia.

Like other trends in the Philippines, P-Pop groups have become household names and earned a following, which could even shock some idols. The love and support poured in these past few years prove that anything is possible for people with dreams, and that art appreciation of foreign music is not a threat to the local industry.

Sometimes, the fame that comes with the idols’ dream realization would be intertwined with blunders and extra struggles, including the prying eyes of other people and possible detractors across different parties. Almost everyone in the industry could testify to these problems, but as their growth shouts resilience, so, too, would the idols as they try to reach the pinnacle of their careers.

Just months ago, people would frown upon fans of P-Pop and may even call them names, but it has undergone a 180-degree turn, with love and acceptance being given even to starting groups and other aspirants. Moreover, fanbases have become venues for collective action, with fans organizing events and fundraisers to help with disaster relief and raise their idols’ causes and advocacies.

Conclusion

Who doesn’t love underdog stories? They are stories of redemption, overcoming challenges, and reaching for one’s dreams. P-Pop idols are great personifications of these qualities, which is why their stories resonate with the people.

While they have swayed their countrymen, they are on the verge of reaching more audiences. Admiring these individuals for their grit and talent is, therefore, reflective of the human experience and falls further than just enjoying their music and loving their dances; it would encompass the human stories that each idol possesses.

As enjoyers or even aspiring idols, we need to see these idols as more than just their glitz and glamor or their moves and harmonies. We should understand that when we cheer for them, stream their music, and purchase their official merchandise, we are actually participating in how they were able to overcome all their challenges. In short, our support lets us join their journey and help them reach their dreams higher, sooner, and better.

How about you? What do you think about P-Pop and the life stories of these idols? Let me know, and share your own stories.

I have had my share of a love-hate relationship with pop music for years. My conservative upbringing generally frowns on popular music, though it has penetrated our lives still.

The earliest pop group I remember was The Moffatts, whose songs my classmates in grade 1 and I would sing during breaks. International groups were more famous, but I did hear some local pop stars.

Generally, in terms of Original Pilipino Music (OPM), I was more inclined to the 90s rock bands up to the early 2000s. Their songs will still be on my playlists today. However, I will point out that people tend to look down on you when you listen to local artists, which tends to sway fans towards foreign acts.

The entry of dubbed Chinese drama series into the local stations brought in their own flavor of pop music, which lingered on the airwaves for some time. But when JPOP and KPOP went into Filipinos’ consciousness, I was not keen enough to follow, which I think developed into disdain.

Later on, when local acts followed the success of KPOP stars, I was expected not to be receptive to their music.

Initial Skepticism

I’m trying my best to keep up and start this P-Pop pilgrimage I am taking on. I am also looking to widen my appreciation of OPM and immerse myself in the culture I treasure. I can confirm that as long as the arts are appreciated and allowed to flourish, the music scene will never be doomed.

In 2017, it was announced that a sister group of AKB48 would be launched in the Philippines. It was highly publicized, and the selection process was shown on noontime TV. While I can go gaga to everything Japanese, I was not that receptive to having a local group that would behave like their overseas counterpart. MNL48 would become a pioneer in the P-Pop scene.

By this time, KPOP groups had become so famous nationwide that it became a usual trend among social media pages to call out fanaticism towards this music genre. By virtue of influence, I may have been too susceptible to share this sentiment before.

It also did not help that following trends is often considered lame and sometimes even emasculating. The genre tends to highlight visual elements, incredibly beautifying their artists, which could make an observer think that you prioritize this over the music.

While MNL48 tried to make its mark, other local groups tried to form their modern pop music take, forming artist groups akin to KPOP. The first group that comes to mind is SB19, a five-member boy group that was scouted by ShowBT, who then sent them for training in South Korea.

My former university was one of the places where SB19 performed after it debuted. However, I was not that welcoming to their brand of music, their integration of dancing into their performances, and their close similarities to KPOP groups; it made me cringe so hard.

Later on, I was able to appreciate MNL48 and enjoyed listening to their songs, especially their Filipino translations of Japanese hits. Unfortunately, it was never the same with other groups, which I continued to dismiss as cheap copycats, trying hard but failing to make their marks or cringy artist wannabes. (Yes, I was too harsh.) But things would eventually change.

The Turning Point

For years, I was dismissive of P-Pop and of OPM as a whole. Some songs may stick to me at times, but I did not have enough faith in this industry, as I was too legalistic and still emphasized that the best OPM songs were those released in the ’90s and early 2000s.

One OPM song that stuck with me was Nica del Rosario’s ‘Rosas,’ for obvious reasons. I was taken aback by how the words were weaved so expertly that I took the time and looked for her other songs. The poetry was flawless, and the cadence of the lyrics was on point. However, this was in the middle of my clinical clerkscould not able to take on an OPM journey.

Earlier this year, BINI‘s ‘Pantropiko‘ became viral because of the dance challenges on TikTok, even though the song has been around for nearly half a year. I have seen BINI on TV before and have even watched their performance of ‘Da Coconut Nut‘ on TV but never really minded them, dismissing them as just another girl group.

However, February came, and I started reviewing for my medical board examinations. My wife and some friends have been sharing BINI’s songs, especially ‘Karera,’ which should inspire us in our review process. I tried listening to the music for the first time and bawled. I cried, all my frustrations and tiredness seeping through my body as I read and reread my review materials.

I searched for the song and found it on my music streaming apps, shared my reaction with my wife, and became obsessed with it. During this time, I was still unable to explore BINI’s discography. Still, because of my interest, my wife started sharing videos of BINI, their hard work through their training, their continued patience to improve and maintain their craft, and their overall desirable qualities.

Thankfully, I passed my board examinations, and my free time allowed me to explore BINI and their songs. During this time, my wife continued to share all things BINI, saying she was obsessed with this girl group. I was hooked and became a BLOOM myself, the collective fan base of the group. As I explored their projects, I became exposed to other artists they collaborated with and started listening to other P-Pop acts.

To say that I was blown away is an understatement. I was exposed to a movement that valued creativity, performing well-written songs, presenting well-meaning and inspiring messages, and people passionate about their art. After BINI, I listened to ALAMAT, G22, Hori7on, SB19, KAIA, BGYO, and VXON.

Of course, I first hesitated because why would I spend time listening to songs by artists nearly half my age? Why would I dare listen to bubblegum-style music with polished visual looks? Why would I decipher the meaning behind the songs about teenage love or the inspiring anthems directed towards the youth? It feels off-brand for a married, nearly-middle-aged person. Yet, the musicality, lyrics, and passion caught up with me, and I became hooked.

Appreciating the Aesthetics

As I have stated above, one of my major issues with P-Pop, which initially prevented me from enjoying this genre, was the visual aesthetics being highlighted by the industry. Like KPOP’s, this aspect emphasizes beauty in promoting their music. P-Pop even adopted the KPOP positions, including the ‘visual,’ which is usually the person generally at par with the beauty standards, whether male or female.

However, I failed to realize that this emphasis is uplifting and encouraging. Even though visual members shine out among their co-members, everyone is celebrated, and their brand of beauty, especially the Filipino image, is given importance.

Visual aesthetics also involve the choreography and fashion of the P-Pop groups. In the case of BINI, their choreography stands out, and their dances frequently feature in challenges on social media accounts. Their attires also highlight local fashion artists with varied styles that often surprisingly meld seamlessly in their performances.

Perhaps the group that made me fall in love with aesthetics is ALAMAT, whose Filipino-centric branding incorporates traditional and cultural aspects in their clothes and choreography. The angst and charm they present onstage make me question why I did not pursue this path. I would have loved to perform like them.

Revitalizing Filipino Music

Aside from visual aesthetics, auditory elements also set P-Pop apart. Continuing with ALAMAT, their multilingual songs, use of traditional Filipino musical instruments in their music, or their rousing ‘Alamat, Handa, ‘Rap’ spiel wkes the soul, allowing one to be hopeful of the Filipino music scene.

While I think (especially now) that despite the foreign challenges, OPM continued to survive, P-Pop has seen a resurgence in the acceptability of admiring and following local acts after a long period of Filipinos thinking that liking international artists is cooler than loving the local scene. This may not be a general truth, but I observe this.

But what I like here is my rediscovery of how good lyricist Filipinos are. I mentioned Nica del Rosario before, who may not fit into the P-Pop categorization, but guess who was the leading composer and writer of ‘Karera;’ it’s her, the one I can call today’s Nicanor Abelardo!

P-Pop paved the way for Filipino creativity in writing to reach new heights, bearing the challenge of fitting Filipino languages (which include English) with modern music without sacrificing the essence of the lyrics. It also brings in writer-composer-singers who dance so well and present the P-Pop idol image so well.

The Influence of P-Pop

2024 has seen P-Pop groups frequent international stages for their performance and not just for the Filipino diasporic communities. Aside from being brought to the general attention of Filipinos, P-Pop has eventually seeped into the international consciousness and would perhaps have more exposure in the future.

As merely an observer, I cannot tell concretely how the local music scene has changed since P-Pop’s emergence. However, with the seemingly absent TV network wars and the general appreciation of all kinds of music, the Filipino music industry has felt P-Pop’s passion.

BINI, a known talent of ABS-CBN, has been popping up on the network’s former rival’s various TV shows. Their hits are also performed on GMA’s Sunday noontime variety show, though BINI is frequently its counterpart.

While collaboration between artists was widespread before, collaborations among PPop groups or seasoned OPM artists are also revitalizing local music. Whether this partnership involved one artist showing up on another’s music video (like in the case of Maloi from BINI in Maki‘s ‘Dilaw‘) or legendary performances (especially Gary Valenciano performing ‘Gento‘ with SB19), these are truly remarkable.

Community and Culture

Of course, fan wars and rivalries are still expected; I think it is human nature for people to want their favorite group to surpass others. It’s been happening in all waves of trends in the entertainment industry; thus, it is well expected in P-Pop.

Yet what struck me with the rise of the different groups is how individual members usually speak out in support of other groups or even praise them for what they do. It brings a sense of pride that each artist would want people in the same industry to rise and be known for their craft.

Thus, aside from toxic individuals, most relationships between fans are amicable at best. When I first posted praises for BINI, I found fans supporting me and retweeting my tweets. When I shared how ALAMAT’s ‘ILY ILY’ impacted me, I was welcomed by users to the fanbase, all who found belonging in the music and the members’ artistry.

Learning and Growth

I have always been a language junkie, and I was blessed to have learned Chinese in high school. Currently, I have three pending languages in my Duolingo app. But after I came to explore P-Pop, especially ALAMAT, I hungered to learn the local Filipino languages.

My family has also been multilingual, as I have Cebuano roots and live in the Hiligyanon-majority areas. Add to that the school’s Filipino, English, Mandarin, and Hokkien lessons. But now I think over things in Ilocano and Tausug. What if I learn more about this?

Also, the shared heritage highlighted in the songs reflected a Filipino culture that’s living, ever-evolving, and flourishing. I’m so proud to have been at the forefront of this growth in Filipino artristy.

Perhaps another personal growth for me is how I am now receptive to different types of subgenres. P-Pop has grown to feature various kinds of music genres. And I wouldn’t say I liked hip-hop and rap music before. But because of P-Pop, I now enjoy them all. I never cringed with the rap breaks and enjoyed the instrument change.

Looking Forward

I have been exposed to numerous PPop groups but have barely grazed the surface. More is yet to come, with more agencies developing their P-Pop groups. I’m still juggling the groups that drew me in and am in the process of appreciating HORI7ON (who breaks the KPOP/P-Pop divide), Press Hit Play, and KAIA.

Aside from groups, P-Pop has also opened to single acts from individual members of the groups like PABLO, Felip, and JOSH CULLEN of SB19. The industry is also ripe for single acts developed outside NCR, like Gl4ddyy, whose songs resonated with me.

P-Pop has also seen an international boost, especially this year. What does the future hold for these artists? While not concretely sure, I am confident that they will be showered with success. As long as the fans continue to support them and the industry follows through their journeys, we can be sure that P-Pop will continue to rise.

Personal Reflection

I may be late to the party, but I am dancing now. These past few months, I have opened my eyes to the promise of P-Pop and the future of OPM. It reignited my love for music in general and served as a rebuke for ignoring the Filipino music scene in the past.