The Sound We Inherited: Anjo’s Journey Back to the Beat that Started It All

Imagine this: 1970s Manila. The country was under martial law, the streets were tense, and yet—out of that pressure cooker of politics and passion—something bright, cheeky, and unbelievably catchy came alive. They called it Manila Sound.

Growing up in Canada, I didn’t quite know what to call the songs I’d hear in my parents’ cassette tapes or on late-night karaoke playlists. But I knew how they made me feel: nostalgic, even if I hadn’t lived that life. Familiar, even if I didn’t recognize the artist names. I was part of that second-generation Filipino Canadian crowd that could hum the chorus of “Manila” without always remembering it was by Hotdog.

So when I got the chance to sit down with Mon Torralba, one of the original members of Hotdog—the band credited with starting the Manila Sound—it felt like opening a family time capsule.

“There were six of us,” Mon began. “Rene and Dennis Garcia were brothers. Jess Garcia on drums. Lori Ilustre. Myself. And of course, Ella, our lead singer.”

Their vision wasn’t just to make music. It was to break away from the old. At the time, most Filipino bands were doing covers. Note for note. Word for word. But Hotdog? They wanted to be first—to create something original. And they did. They became the pioneers of what we now recognize as a movement: the transition from traditional Filipino ballads to pop that sounded and spoke like us.

What stood out the most to me in our conversation was how intentional they were in capturing the voice of the streets. They didn’t want heavy, flowery lyrics. They wanted Taglish—the kind of mix we actually spoke at home and in jeepneys. Pop, disco, love songs, heartbreak—all told with a wink and a jingle. Their songs were stories of the times: Kasi sa Hotdog, may kilig, may kulit, may konting kalokohan.

Mon said it best:

“Manila Sound is the trunk of a tree. The branches? That’s OPM now—rock, R&B, hip hop, acoustic. But the roots? That’s us. We didn’t know we were starting something. We were just a bunch of long-haired kids making music.”

That moment hit me. Because here I was, 50 years and one ocean away, still tapping my foot to their beat.

It’s surreal to think that something born in the middle of martial law is still on the radio today. That a bunch of dreamers writing songs in Taglish made it to Miss Universe stages and Canadian karaoke nights. That their movement became our musical identity.

And maybe that’s the magic of Manila Sound. It was always more than sound—it was soul, swagger, and a wink at the world that said: Filipinos know how to groove.

So to Mon, to Hotdog, and to that unforgettable era—thank you. Your beat didn’t just echo through the streets of Manila. It crossed oceans, entered living rooms in Canada, and became the rhythm of generations.

🎵 Long live the Manila Sound. Long live OPM.

See you on the dance floor. Or maybe the karaoke mic.