cristy picks
Tuesday, June 23, 2026
A signed album, lingering concert euphoria, and the joy of growing older with the music that shaped us.
I'm still reeling from the euphoric high of Manila 2.0: The Wolfgang Reunion Concert Tour held at the Filinvest Tent in Alabang, Muntinlupa. It may take weeks before this nostalgia-fueled hysteria finally wears off.
I can still feel Wolf Gemora's thunderous drumbeats and hear Basti Artadi's warm, full voice filling every corner of the venue. Manuel Legarda and Marco Cuneta's dynamic guitar tandem remains etched in my mind, their interplay so intuitive it bordered on telepathic. The earth-shaking riffs. The raw energy. Pure rock and roll sorcery.
When Basti urged the crowd to raise their middle fingers in collective defiance—a salute to a generation that refuses to be subdued by age, expectations, or BS—we were officially transported back to 1995.
As I slip back into the daily grind, I can't help but feel grateful for the rare privilege of witnessing a band that defined my youth celebrate three decades of music. For one night, we relived the old days. We sang every lyric. We became 23 again.
On June 20, 2026, the kids of the '90s were one tribe once more.
To stage a reunion concert after thirty years is perhaps the greatest measure of a band's success. When your songs become life anthems—soundtracks to heartbreak, triumph, resilience, and growing up—you know your music has fulfilled its purpose.
As a fan, I couldn't be happier for Wolfgang. As Basti once wrote on Facebook, the fans are the band's fifth member. And somehow, that makes this journey feel even more special.
Back at work today, a long-awaited parcel finally arrived in the mail: the Batch 2 limited-edition Wolfgang 30 CD that I ordered from Jeepney Rock Stop.
It's been ages since I've held a CD in my hands. It's been even longer since I've ripped one onto a computer. I don't own a proper CD player anymore—just an external drive connected to my laptop. Maybe it's time to buy a portable CD player. Am I officially back in 1990s mode?
I think so.
The Wolfgang 30 album packaging is artsy yet straightforward, featuring Paolo Cagampan's striking artwork in a blue, gold, and white color palette. The sleeve includes song lyrics and short anecdotes about how the tracks came to be. The only problem? The lyrics are printed in microscopic nano-sized fonts.
Seriously, Wolfgang?
Your 50-year-old fans need a magnifying glass.
I also love how the band was cheeky enough to include a tiny group photo with a taho and balut vendor. It's roughly one inch by three-quarters of an inch, and it perfectly captures Wolfgang's offbeat sense of humor.
The CD itself embraces a clean, minimalist aesthetic—black on white, simple and masculine. Since this copy is signed, it automatically earns a permanent spot in my Wolfgang treasure box.
And yes, I'm already eyeing the upcoming Acoustica vinyl release.
If physical media isn't your thing, by all means stream Wolfgang on Spotify and other music platforms. They deserve far more than a million monthly listeners.
What I particularly love about Wolfgang 30 is the band's decision to re-record these songs with Basti's present-day voice. Time has given his vocals a warmth, depth, and richness that add new dimensions to familiar tracks. The songs haven't aged.
They've matured.
Like fine wine—or your libation of choice.
A new song, The Blackened Sea of Carrion is also included in this limited-edition CD. I loved the song the first moment I heard it. I believe a video version is available on the band's YouTube channel.
The album is masterfully recorded, mixed, and mastered by guitar wizard Manuel Legarda at Loudbox Studios. Listening to it, I couldn't help but wonder what a future spatial audio remix might sound like.
A fan can dream.
Rating: ★★★★★ (5/5)
Wolfgang 30 isn't just a commemorative album. It's a celebration of survival, brotherhood, and the enduring power of rock music. Thirty years later, Wolfgang still sounds hungry, dangerous, and unapologetically alive.
And for those of us who grew up with their music, that's exactly what we needed.
Stream Wolfgang 30 here:
Friday, May 24, 2024
Somewhere between moss gardens and temple corridors, Kyoto teaches the art of slowing down.
Some places feel like an invitation to slow down.
Kennin-ji Zen Temple, tucked quietly in Higashiyama Ward, beckons the tired and travel-worn soul into a space of calm, silence, and gentle reflection. Founded in 1202 by Eisai—the father of Japanese tea culture and founder of the Rinzai school of Zen Buddhism—Kennin-ji is believed to be the oldest Zen temple in Kyoto.
The walk to the temple is part of the experience. From Gion Tatsumi Bridge, it takes only eight quiet minutes on foot. The bridge sits at the meeting point of Shinbashi-dori and Gion Shirakawa, in the heart of Gion—a neighborhood defined by lantern-lit streets, wooden machiya houses, ryokans, and the soft feeling that time moves differently here.
Before stepping into stillness, we made a brief and cheerful stop at Miffy Kitchen Bakery Gion for usagi—rabbit-shaped bread, cookies, and small trinkets. A light, playful pause before the quiet that awaited us.
Away from the steady flow of tourists in Higashiyama, Kennin-ji offers something rare: space to pause. A modest entrance fee is collected at the reception counter, after which shoes are left neatly on old wooden racks. Photography of people inside the temple is respectfully prohibited, allowing visitors to move freely without self-consciousness or interruption.
As I walked along the antique wooden corridors—my rented geta left behind—I felt the warmth of the aged floors beneath my feet. The temple opens itself slowly through framed views of its Zen gardens. Shoji screens reveal red pine, Japanese maple, moss, and carefully placed stone, each angle offering a different composition. Every window feels intentional, like a painting that changes with the seasons.
It was late spring during our visit. The trees were dressed in fresh greens—youthful, hopeful, and quietly alive.
Square windows—known as Windows of Delusion—offer a different meditation altogether. Through them, one is gently reminded of impermanence: life, aging, illness, and death. Nothing feels heavy here. Just honest.
Outside, meandering stone paths encourage unhurried wandering. Sunlight filters through maple leaves. Water glistens on bamboo basins and stone. In the stillness, even the subtle flutter of bird wings becomes audible. Slippers wait near the steps leading down to the rock garden for those who wish to walk deeper into the greenery.
A refuge from movement and noise
Away from the steady flow of tourists in Higashiyama, Kennin-ji offers something rare: space to pause. A modest entrance fee is collected at the reception counter, after which shoes are left neatly on old wooden racks. Photography of people inside the temple is respectfully prohibited, allowing visitors to move freely without self-consciousness or interruption.
As I walked along the antique wooden corridors—my rented geta left behind—I felt the warmth of the aged floors beneath my feet. The temple opens itself slowly through framed views of its Zen gardens. Shoji screens reveal red pine, Japanese maple, moss, and carefully placed stone, each angle offering a different composition. Every window feels intentional, like a painting that changes with the seasons.
It was late spring during our visit. The trees were dressed in fresh greens—youthful, hopeful, and quietly alive.
Windows that ask you to look inward
Inside the tatami-matted meditation rooms, visitors may sit on floor cushions facing rock or moss gardens. Some rooms feature round windows, often referred to as Windows of Enlightenment, inviting reflection on wholeness, continuity, and the cyclical nature of life.
Square windows—known as Windows of Delusion—offer a different meditation altogether. Through them, one is gently reminded of impermanence: life, aging, illness, and death. Nothing feels heavy here. Just honest.
Outside, meandering stone paths encourage unhurried wandering. Sunlight filters through maple leaves. Water glistens on bamboo basins and stone. In the stillness, even the subtle flutter of bird wings becomes audible. Slippers wait near the steps leading down to the rock garden for those who wish to walk deeper into the greenery.
Furu ike ya
kawazu tobikomu
mizu no oto
古池や 蛙飛び込む 水の音
The Old Pond
Old pond…
a frog jumps in
water’s sound
-Matsuo Basho
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Tea, memory, and lingering calm
A small temple café and gift shop offers carefully prepared Uji green tea and traditional biscuits—simple, grounding comforts. Souvenirs are understated, chosen not to impress but to remember.There is a particular kind of peace found in Zen temples—one that doesn’t demand effort. Faced with harmony, the chaotic mind seems to fall naturally into alignment. Kennin-ji is not just a place to see; it is a place to feel.
A garden not only of moss and stone, but of quiet clarity—for the mind and the soul.
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Green light on tatami, |
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