sci fye label themselves a “weird rock” trio of college kids from Pasay City. (Okay, I’m Old Man Yells at Cloud™. Pray tell, what does that even mean?) Technically speaking, they say it just means “noisy pop rock, grunge-inspired” music.
Their feed reveals a few factoids alongside copious self-ribbing at their underground stature. One: Clem Cabuntocan (vocals and guitar), Lance Bernales (bass), and Neil Milante (drums) practically dwell in storied Quezon City basement bar Mow’s. Two: They are formerly known as Plastic Saint. But finding the old name “too metal” for their liking, they have since baptized themselves with their quirky new moniker chosen through the spin of a name generator.
With their first EP as sci fye, who knows?, the three-piece band admits that few threads or themes bind the project together, save for woes close to home. “I guess you could say that it’s about an individual’s inconveniences in their late teen to early adulthood days,” they tell me over DMs. True enough, not a single track on the release disguises their naïveté, but I get a sense of their earnestness as well that I’d feel guilty to be outright dismissive.
The opening salvo, “magulang,” doesn’t help their case. “Hindi ikaw magdi-dikta sa buhay ko / Hayaan mo na ako / Mabuhay sa ‘king mundo (You can’t dictate my life / Just leave me be / To live in my own world),” they sing with a gurgling rage, firing away at some shadowy parental figures. That’s classic pop punk right there — just with a touch of grunge by way of Nirvana, Soundgarden, and the ilk. However, all that drowns underneath murky, abrasive guitars. For a tune with an anthemic design, its mixing choices baffle me — which might unsettle in the “I asked for clean, athletic, smiling; they sent me dirty, tired, and paunchy” kind of way and make me expect the worst; however…!
On paper, you get the hint that they hate to sound whiny over vapid, angsty concerns. Observe: “Wala raw ako utang na loob / Nalaman ko ginamit mo / Paghihirap ko / Sa sabong (You say I’m an ingrate / But I found out you wasted / All my hard work / Betting on losing cocks).”
Traces of the trio’s influences are definitely on the record. With drums hammering away in martial cadence, “i hate manila” is a prison break anthem for those yearning for the stillness of a home far removed from our insane city (none of the members grew up in Manila). The interpolations — straight-up in the vein of a Green Day or Blink-182 joint — are clearest here. Maybe add in the mix the devil-may-care antics of Matt Damon belting out “Scotty Doesn’t Know” and the headstrong escapism of J-Rock outfit King Gnu’s “Teenager Forever.”
Yet at other junctures, the band makes borderline absurd detours. In their manifesto, “deadbeat generation,” they suddenly wail “future of our fucking nation” in screamo fashion over a tune that suspiciously resembles a hybrid of “Smells Like Teen Spirit” and Wolfgang’s “Atomica.” Meanwhile, “don’t wanna be” registers as a post-punk/garage revival experiment sans the ambition to be yet another Arctic Monkeys or The Strokes döppelganger. There’s the specter of Thom Yorke and Kevin Shields in the droning, ghostly vocals in “hanggang sa walang hanggan” and situationship vignette “whiteflower,” suggesting that they might have shoegaze aspirations more than they’d like to admit.
It’s as if half of the EP has several other ideas, but I chalk up its faults to a mix bogged by an identity crisis. This try-anything-at-once shtick might feel edgy and subversive at first, but it won’t get any more fun. At times, it even feels like the whole thing is a tentative pitch that needs another look. I’m not asking for pristine engineering without the rough edges, just to be fair. But they’re not entertaining just their peers at some muggy, jampacked gig anymore.
With who knows?, sci fye is telling the same old familiar bildungsroman. While there’s nothing wrong with embracing the mess of youth, that sort of thing has been commodified to no end by hugot hacks. So, it’s kind of refreshing to see Clem, Lance, and Neil not hold back on sharing their distinctive views on modern ennui. In their universe, imperial Manila is a prison (“i hate manila”); misfit-dom dovetail with dysmorphia (“don’t wanna be”); and being called “deadbeat” means nothing when the world is on fire (“deadbeat generation”), among other musings. To quote philosopher Maurice Merleau-Ponty by way of the late great French New Wave filmmaker Jean-Luc Godard (I hope I don’t blaspheme by switching out one bit): “The philosopher and the musician have in common a certain way of being, a certain view of the world, which is that of a generation.”
So, let them cook, but maybe with a different recipe next time?
