Mutya ng Pasig: 100 Years of the Immortal Kundiman

There are many stories about Abelardo, but the one I have always taken a fancy to is his life as a saloon musician—playing piano in cinemas, cafés, and dimly lit drinking houses. The image sounds almost unbearably romantic, until one hears the stories of the professor arriving in class the next day carrying the weight of a hangover.

One can almost imagine the atmosphere: smoke filling the air, noisy cinema audiences demanding the next flickering scene on the screen, empty glasses of hard drink waiting for another shot, the music score spread open before the pianist. The Jazz Age had arrived in Manila. Yet amid all this, Abelardo created something profoundly Filipino.

There was supposedly a carnival once held along the Pasig River, and this became part of Abelardo’s inspiration. Unfortunately, we no longer have carnivals in the way people once did, celebrations that followed the Lenten calendar. Terms such as carnevale and Mardi Gras—“Fat Tuesday”—all point to that final week before Lent, perhaps even giving us a clue as to when the composition may have first been conceived.

Whatever the exact story may be, Abelardo was astonishingly prolific. There was something in the narrative of the maiden that deeply moved him. I am reminded of José Rizal retelling the legend of Doña Jerónima and her cave—all within the vicinity of the old town of Pasig, which according to tradition was once ruled in pre-Hispanic times by a matriarch.

And going back to Abelardo’s saloon playing: during my years at the University of the Philippines College of Music, an old and highly respected professor once revealed to me the particular brand of whisky Abelardo preferred.