Pette Shabu begins SPRAK with a whispered invitation to her sanctum — and to would-be intruders, a fair warning: “Don’t be confused, you choose to be that / You compared your life over me / And chose to look down on me.” You may or may not exactly be welcomed, but “YOU CHOSE TO ENTER MY WORLD.”
Let’s imagine a scene in disorienting slow motion. A jackhammer hollows out a passage through concrete. As you descend underground, sirens wail in the distance, and subwoofers knell with deathly kick drums. A song seems to be playing, but the melody is warped beyond recognition. You arrive at a room. A grotesque, blurry mass of warm bodies holds council, huddled together like a can of misshapen sardines. In the center, world leaders, tyrants, bigoted theocrats, genocidal maniacs, and some Malacañang and Batasang Pambansa buffoons walk the floor, looking confused and out of place. And then there’s Pette, the MC presiding over the chaos. Actual slayage — not the good kind but actual evisceration — is about to ensue. She roars out: “The category is… Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse!”
Welcome to the SPRAK Ball. “It will be a set up for them to get the ‘chop’ in the most extremist [sic] way possible. Heads, heads, heads across the board!” the rapper declares in my inbox as we try to come up with graphic representations for her first full-length album, a razor-sharp rebuke of the powers that be. She makes no concessions: “Si Naruto ka, not giving you Tentens!” (“FACE THE WALL”). And for as long as she’s in the room, there’s no way these clowns are shantaying — nor sashaying away — unscathed.
“Everything will make you feel SPRAK,” Pette tells me. “It’s a term that captures intense, raging emotion, but one that comes from being provoked. It’s a reminder that when the odds are stacked against you, it becomes a mental battle.” She warns, however, that everything can just implode, leaving only fear and hate in the fallout. But her new record shows that thrashing and screaming about, metaphorically (or even literally) speaking — “sprak,” or in ballroom speak, “dip” (“not a death drop! you unculture [sic], nickname is Yakult,” says “FACE THE WALL”) — is a righteous and prudent response to violence. As a “woman of trans experience” from the Global South, the rapper knows all too well how silent acquiescence won’t cut it. In the words of the blood-curling “DEEPZH*YET”: “These are just words / Brought to you by, kung ‘di matansya / Sa sagutan, i-daan sa pisikalan (If we can’t talk it out, then let’s just get physical).” To “sprak” then, is to resist.
Consisting of 13 tracks made over the course of a year, SPRAK is infused with the rebellious spirit of hip-hop and punk, and the unbridled energy of the rave and ballroom scenes. With beats produced by T33G33, Horseboyy, Xerililies, Jose Olarte (also known as Comrade Jones), Dwaviee, and Magenta, the rap anthology takes cues from a range of industrial-strength electronic sounds (techno and trance; with touches of acid, drum ‘n’ bass, gabber, and hard dance) alongside punk, rock and metal.
Now, there’s the tenuous notion that “hip-hop was the sound of the now, while techno was concerned with the problems of the future, which was its own kind of agitation,” as articulated by Detroit techno stalwart Mad Mike. But the ethos of Pette’s songcraft, which crystallizes in this incendiary body of work, is somewhat grounded by the knowledge of techno’s black/queer heritage and militant politics. This way, radical possibility fuels her flow, even while she dissects her present circumstances with her signature flashes like wordplay, punchlines, and pop culture references galore (IYKYK; any hyper-detailed explanation would water them down). Under her purview, all that untz-untz racket clots into a thorny hunk of ferrous alloy, varnished with the radioactive-hued muriatic acid of her rhythm and rhyme — and then forged and hammered to become a vehicle fit for her trans indignation, barreling forward at a breakneck 160 BPM.
Pette shoots barbs with such precision, and even if you don’t get the brunt of her hits, there’s always the risk of shrapnel planting deep under lacerated skin. And she never holds back. Consider the namedrops in “LIVE WITH YOUR GUILT” or diptych “READY TO FIRE/DAVID BOEH.” The acid-laced babble of “PROPAGANDA” does anything but prop a ganda (beauty) up. Peak time hardstyle belter “POKPOK” is a vicious sledgehammer. Entangled among the Budots-like tiw tiw whistles of “FACE THE WALL,” there’s a classic dig: “Kahiya naman kung bading ka na nga ta’s bobo ka din (It would be embarrassing to be both gay and stupid).” And let’s not miss out on “COA” (“Si O.A.,” i.e. overacting, but possibly also shorthand for bureaucrats, like, from the Commission on Audit), the standout anthem interpolating the immortal “Ha Dance” hook. In the lilt of a Sexbomb Girl, the MC dishes out a brutal read: “COA nambully, nangmisgender; tanong ko bigla, t*ngina ‘yan ‘yong cisgender? (That O.A. b*tch got to bully and misgender? So that’s a cisgender?)”
Make no mistake: SPRAK doesn’t revolve around revenge. It’s more about embracing the dignity in feeling indignant. “I work on myself to be this secure, you cannot put a cuff,” Pette raps in “BULBULIN KA NA.” Often, when a queer person conveys their anger in protest, people somehow always recoil in fear. In the same breath, they’d expect all good vibes, going “Look at this diva” and “Yass Queen” — which can be patronizing. “When we respond with intelligence and insight, it intimidates those who judge us,” the rapper opines.
This might sound glib: but there can be no queer liberation without recognizing queer rage, and this is Pette’s deed and long game here. “With this album, I’ve made sure to confront the unknown future, embracing both the positive and negative energy to move forward while staying true to myself,” she says. SPRAK is a maelstrom of primal fury. There are no moments of respite — and that’s the way it should be, for there must be no rest for the wicked. A truce won’t even be on the table (“I’m at peace / When I thrive in chaos” — “X-DEAL O BARIL?”). For Pette, it’s high time for queer wrath, and no one else can dictate any terms but herself (“NATURAL HIGH”): “It’s my decision / To fuck zh*t up without blowing proportion.”
