ne of the best features of Baguio Central School when I studied there from 1970 to 1976 was that it had an excellent all-string ensemble: the Baguio Central School Rondalla.
It was mentored by one of the most unforgettable teachers, Mr. Pedro B. Fontanoz who could play anything that had strings on it: ukelele, guitar, octavina, banduria, mandolin, acoustic base (“bajo de arko” he called it) violin and the harp. Amazingly, he could also play the harmonica and a little bit of the French accordion.
More than being a virtuoso on these musical instruments, he was an excellent music teacher. But he was not a regular music teacher. He did not handle a regular music class "on circuit" like the other teachers. “On circuit” is when the same teacher goes from classroom to classroom, teaching the same subject to different sections.
Instead, Mr. Fontanoz had a small mezzanine floor studio in the main building beside the principal’s office. Every afternoon he would hold a free clinic on how to play the traditional six-string guitar and the banduria, which is a 14-string Philippine version of the European mandolin. Any pupiI was welcome to join and if through persistence you acquired a certain level of playing ability you became part of the 30-or-so-strong school rondalla. This rondalla played the Lupang Hinirang (“Bayang Magiliw” to us then) during daily morning flag ceremony. They also played the “waiting music” interlude before the national anthem, as well as the “walking music” afterwards when we kids dispersed from the school quadrangle and walked to our classrooms.
I auditioned many times for the rondalla but could never make the cut because my fingers were too short and stubby. I could play the open chords C, E, A and D-major but struggled to press down all six strings for the bar chords F, G and B.
But Mr. Fontanoz wouldn’t give up on me. He picked up a tambourine and said “see what you can do with this.” I used the darned thing to hit my head.
But that spoke nothing of how good Mr. Fontanoz himself was on the guitar. He was all over the neck (the fretboard) and he only used an overgrown thumbnail (the literal one, not the digital icon) for a pick. Strangest of all things, he was lefthanded. But he did not play a special “lefty” guitar. He picked up any “normal” right-handed guitar from the rondalla rack and played it---UPSIDE DOWN!
That’s why we couldn’t copy him. That’s why we couldn’t crack the code. That’s also why Eric Clapton couldn’t copy Jimi Hendrix.
On Fridays, Mr. Fontanoz taught a special class--of faculty members. If anyone could put together a special rondalla comprising of a bunch of tone-deaf adults approaching compulsory retirement, many with early onset arthritis, he had to have been THAT good.
Mr. Fontanoz was good at one other thing: calligraphy. He was also the school commandant for the school Junior Police. For this one, I qualified. I was amazed at how Mr. Fontanoz drew by hand all our Junior Police cardboard badges and ID’s—complete with an elaborate coat-of-arms and our names in block letters that totally resembled letters on a Pica-size typewriter. That ID looked so authoritative--you flashed that thing and it intimidated everybody. Even the toughest bully backed off.
He also gave each one of us “junior police kids” short wooden billy clubs and taught us how to use them. For guys you whacked them squarely on the rump. Girls, you never whacked them under any circumstances. So we learned how to properly commit human rights violations very early in life.
The Junior Police--I think that’s where I learned that a little power can be a dangerous thing. Power corrupts and absolute power corrupts absolutely. But not under Mr. Fontanoz, he was very adamant against whacking even troublemakers indiscriminately. And we heeded his guidance, we didn’t whack indiscriminately.
Kapag nanlaban lang.
