Archiving is never just about collecting, it’s an act of love, rebellion, and sometimes absurd devotion. In a country where cultural memory is constantly threatened by natural disasters, economic neglect, ominous interests, and the rapid pace of modernization, the work of preservation becomes radical.
For the anonymous archivist behind Ancestral Swamp, every scratched vinyl, warped cassette, and forgotten CD represents a piece of Filipino music heritage that refuses to disappear. From the saccharine jingles of 1980s Jollibee theme song vinyls to the eerie prayer cassettes of Pastor Apollo Quiboloy, this is digitization work that borders on archaeology where it’s a desperate race against time to save sounds that would otherwise be lost forever.
“Parang ‘yong collection kasi ng Ancestral Swamp, hindi siya genre-focused na collection,” the archivist explains in his characteristic mix of humility and determination. “It’s everything actually so medyo ambitious siya at saka medyo ridiculous din.” What began as casual Facebook posts during the pandemic lockdowns of 2020 has evolved into a monumental effort to safeguard sounds from the pre-war era to today’s DIY band CDs, creating what may be the most comprehensive private archive of Philippine music ephemera.
Where Philippine Music Hides
The archive grows through what collectors call “picking” — the art of combing through junk shops, antique stalls, and unmarked storefronts where music history gathers dust. Unlike conventional collectors who focus on specific genres or eras, Ancestral Swamp’s approach is gloriously indiscriminate.
In Vigan, a chance encounter with a child repairing TVs revealed a hidden trove of Ilocano pop cassettes that commercial record stores would never stock.
“Tinanong ko ‘yong bata, saan ka ba bumibili ng mga cassette tapes? Tapos tinuro niya ‘yong shop,” he recalls. “‘Yon pala may mga nakatago na shops. Hindi naman nakatago, hindi lang priority ilagay sa labas.”
These accidental discoveries form the backbone of the archive. In Baguio’s palengke, he uncovered rare Kankanaey cowboy music tapes, folk songs infused with Western motifs, documenting a unique cultural fusion. Zamboanga City yielded Disco Moro electronica, a fascinating hybrid of traditional Muslim melodies and ‘80s synth beats. Then there are the countless records left behind by OFWs migrating abroad, their personal collections often discarded as clutter but containing invaluable snapshots of musical trends across decades.
When Packaging Tells the Story
Ancestral Swamp delights in the strange alchemy of physical media with not just the music itself, but the entire cultural package surrounding it. The archive celebrates the “so bad it’s good” album covers, the pretentious liner notes, and the hilariously mismatched artwork that commercial releases would never allow today.
“Mayroon ako dating pino-post na mga ridiculous album covers,” he says laughing, describing sleeves featuring pastors posing with electric guitars or provincial bands attempting psychedelic artwork on shoestring budgets. “Tapos ‘yong mga liner notes ang weird din ng mga pagkakasulat. May sobrang academic pero hindi naman.”
Among the rarest treasures is a 1970s recording of radio star Lulubelle (born Liwayway Arellano), preserved by her family on vinyl. This artifact predates the concept of “OPM” itself, capturing a moment when Philippine popular music was still defining itself. The archivist describes holding these discs with reverence: “Pina-publish ko rin sa social media ‘yong mga liner notes. Kasi ‘yong liner notes interesting din siya. Kasi parang ano ba ‘yong music nito?”
Saving What Others Throw Away
The work is relentless and overwhelmingly self-funded. “Almost every month may dumarating na mga records, tapes, CDs,” he says, describing the constant influx of material. “Kailangan i-catch up ‘yong cataloging tapos ‘yong digitization part — sobrang logistically challenging. It’s an independent and personal project.” Each item requires careful cleaning, cataloging, and often delicate digitization to preserve its contents before the physical medium deteriorates beyond salvation.
While he dreams of a national sound archive, Ancestral Swamp persists as a grassroots effort, fueled by one man’s obsession and the occasional contributions of like-minded collectors. His advice to new preservationists reveals his philosophy: “Mixtaping is the way. DJing is already collecting. Collect ka ng collect at puwede mong isipin na puwede mong i-share.” This ethic of sharing or making the obscure accessible is what elevates the project beyond mere hoarding.
This archive stands as proof that Philippine music history isn’t just worth saving, it’s worth seeking in the unlikeliest of places. From the prayer tapes of cult leaders to the homemade recordings of provincial bands, Ancestral Swamp asserts that all sounds have value that all voices deserve digitization. The project’s true power lies in its refusal to discriminate. Its recognition that cultural memory is not just made by the famous, but by the everyday musicians, the regional stars, the forgotten innovators whose work commercial archives would never deem “important” enough to save.
As physical media continues to disappear in the digital age, efforts like Ancestral Swamp become increasingly vital. They remind us that music history isn’t just about hits and stars; it’s about the full, messy, glorious spectrum of sounds that have shaped a nation’s auditory imagination. In preserving everything from Jollibee jingles to Ilocano pop, this archive does more than save records, it safeguards the soul of Philippine music itself.
