01.14.10 kulturnatib

Winston

Winston is not a usual name for a mother. But then, a mother is not what Winston would usually think of himself either, though, he would surely laugh at this, in the boisterous way he has been known for and with it a mischievous twinkle in his eyes.

But, yes, he is a mother especially with the important virtue of being nurturing. This is, of course, a throwback to the strict unapologetic sexist days of the sharp divide between father and motherhood. Even the stereotype now accepts that fathers can be just as nurturing.

Still, recognizing this, Winston would appreciate the tongue-in-cheek nature of this declaration. So he – and I, for myself -- wouldn't mind being grouped with the mothers.

Also, there is a bit of irony in this. Winston, who turned half a century old very recently, could or, more likely, would not even be a father, so far as I know. He remained a staunch bachelor in the strict legal sense of the word.

Yet, there are more than a handful of people who could attest to Winston's generous nurturing.

Foremost would be the artists and musicians. Winston was one himself. Not one for hogging the limelight, he honed his art of drumming and percussion playing to virtuosity in the kind of obscurity that back-bench or back-up musicians are familiar with.

Still, drums and percussion are not exactly quiet instruments. And early on in his musical career he earned the notoriety for being a power drummer of a kind that had a few broken drums to his name and, at one point, membership in a blacklist of one from one of the more popular live music joints in the city in the early 80s.

When I caught up with him, his musical career was in full bloom and he had learned that power drumming had little to do with sheer decibel count. In fact, in one particular instance at that time when we bumped into each other, he was shadow-drumming with a walkman, playing to one of the greatest exponents of the judicious use of silence in music: Miles Davis.

Of the musicians that he subsequently influenced the most notable would be Budoy Marabiles and Jr Kilat. In an example of the expansive and inclusiveness of music, Winston and Budoy are connected, though generations apart, by their common search for a relevant musical vernacular.

More directly, Jr Kilat came about as a band name only because Leon Kilat was already taken. Budoy realized this and realized further that the music that he was creating was not just new but also old, rooted in the revolutionary spirit of Leon Kilat the now mostly forgotten hero and Leon Kilat the early 80s band that Winston was among the founding members of.

Then, in the last two years there were the musicians who Winston brought with him on a journey across what locally is still uncharted territory; the bridge between the musico-aural, visual and performative arts.

Here we found ourselves collaborating directly. The resulting performance works surprised us both. Even with minimal prior discussion we both developed our individual contributions or elements to a single work that was much more layered with multiple platforms for the elaboration of meaning or relevance. We were establishing the co-primacy of music or sound in the overall performative work.

Most recently, Winston was involved in nurturing the reestablishment of old ties from the time when we can be said to be most conscious of our developing individual and social selves – and from this, the selectivity of memory; our elementary school days.

This group, some physically and many, like myself, in cyberspace, kept track as Winston fell sick. As he was admitted into the hospital. As he recovered and returned home. Then, as he fell once more. This time, fatally.

But, fatal is not final. Winston continues as we do. If we do.