RIP Francis M.

It was summer break. Kuya and I were fighting over whose tape should be played in the cassette recorder. I was into 80's pop, the kind that you'd like to dance to silly in private. Kuya was inclined to this fresh new artist who delved into the genre of rap when rap, for me back then, was equivalent to country music - meaning it sucked. He eventually won, and bullied me with Francis M.'s "Cold Summer Nights". I hated every moment I was forced to listen to a man crying over spilt milk. It's not that the song wasn't good, because it was. It's just that I thought my brother used the song to irritate me for not being able to have my song played in the cassette.

The hate didn't last long. Because my brother had me listen to it so many times, I eventually had it memorized to the point that I sing the song to myself. One time I was going to school and I was singing "Cold Summer Nights", one big boy told me he almost wanted to shove me because I looked irritatingly lanky. He didn't because I was singing his favorite song. Needless to say, Francis M. saved my butt.

Fast forward, 19 years later. One of my favorite artists died from septic shock today at noon. I watched an online mini-video of Eat Bulaga hosts announcing his demise. I cried. Funny how songs remind you of days that will never return, albeit mundane and common. You still cherish them because something about those days reminded you of a good thing you still enjoy even up to now.

I hold that memory with me still. I hold that song more closer now. Thank you Kiko. May you rest in peace.