Written by Charyan Kaye O. Aguilar
On some nights in Dumaguete City, the music seems to arrive before the musicians do.
Guitars hum low in the background, tested with careful strums. Drums break the silence with sharp taps. Someone clears their throat, preparing to sing. The sound is never technically perfect. Feedback slips, tempos drift, mistakes linger—yet it is in this openness that Dumaguete’s alternative rock scene finds its voice.
Dumaguete’s alternative rock scene has long existed in small, shifting spaces—bars, campus events, and community-organized gigs that come and go. Without the infrastructure of larger cities, it has relied on word of mouth, tight-knit circles, and a shared willingness among musicians to create despite limitations.
Here, music is less about commercial success or technical precision and more about the need to be heard, through cramped gigs, shouted choruses, and lyrics that echo long after the amps go quiet.
Over the years, that need has evolved, yet its core—the urgency of expression—remains unchanged.
In quieter corners of the scene, it takes on new shapes—more restrained, more reflective, but no less urgent. Songs unfold in smaller spaces, carried by raw lyricism and stripped-down arrangements, where vulnerability replaces volume. What changes is not the impulse, but how it is delivered; less about being the loudest in the room, and more about being the most honest.
At the same time, the spaces where this music lives continue to shift. From cramped venues to online platforms, the reach has widened, but the feeling remains grounded in something deeply personal. Even as the scene grows and adapts, it resists becoming distant, holding on to the immediacy that first gave it life.
Across different periods, the scene has been shaped not by a single sound but by the people who choose to stay and contribute to it. Each generation builds on what came before, carrying forward both the challenges and the sense of community that define Dumaguete’s music culture.
Two bands, born nearly two decades apart, trace this evolution. Finpot helped shape the city’s early underground scene. Boylosers, on the other hand, channels the uncertainties of the present through their introspective sound.
Together, they show how the city’s alternative rock scene has grown—not necessarily louder, but deeper.
Finpot’s story began in 2003, before streaming platforms and social media made music widely accessible. After classes, while others headed home, the small group stayed behind with their guitars, playing pop-punk songs until their fingers grew sore and their voices hoarse.
The band is composed of Albert Babaylan on vocals, Karl Flores and Jesse Antiquera on guitars, Rashid Babaylan on drums, and Kim Nochefranca on bass. Most members are from Dumaguete, while Flores moved from Mindanao in 2001 and eventually spent most of his life in the city.
Their different paths eventually met in Dumaguete’s small but growing music scene, which gave them a shared space to practice and perform.
“We used to stay after class and just play songs together,” Albert recalled. It wasn’t planned at first. They were just friends who liked music.
Their casual jam sessions gradually became something more than practice. The group entered the Silliman University Battle of the Bands in 2003. They fell short of winning, but the experience convinced them to continue playing.
From high school competitions to college gigs, Finpot slowly evolved from teenagers covering pop-punk songs into a self-producing band.
Influenced by bands such as Blink-182, Green Day, and Fall Out Boy, they used pop-punk not as a trend but as a way to express frustration, uncertainty, and the confusion of growing up.
As members Jess Antiquera and Kim Nochefranca joined, the band did not resist change. They allowed different influences to shape their music, choosing not to confine themselves to a single genre. Their sound grew the way people grow—gradually, unevenly, and honestly.
Two of Finpot’s defining songs reflect this emotional range.
“One for the Road” speaks of striving for a better future and personal improvement. In contrast, “2 A.M.” carries a quieter mood, embracing melancholy with a sense of fragile hope.
Beyond their own music, Finpot also helped nurture the local scene through the collective Purok Gahi. Working with other musicians, they supported efforts to cultivate Dumaguete’s emerging music community during a time when opportunities were limited.
“With limited funding and members balancing jobs and responsibilities, keeping the scene alive was challenging,” Albert said. “But we stayed long enough to see younger bands start playing.”
Eventually, the group stepped back. “We saw it as a passing of the torch,” he added.
Years later, that torch would be carried by a band shaped by a different era and emotional language.
In a music scene often associated with loud, distorted guitar rock, Boylosers offers a softer and more introspective voice. Their music embraces imperfection as part of its identity. Guitars sometimes fade mid-phrase, vocals carry natural fragility, and pauses are allowed to linger. The result is music that feels intimate rather than meticulously polished.
The band, composed of Ruthi Hilary Marcojos on vocals and guitar, Brycge Cadalzo on bass, Justine Lopez on drums, and Achilles Gadingan on lead guitar, did not form through formal planning. When Gadingan left Dumaguete, Karlson Chris Sta. Cruz became their lead guitarist.
The members once played casually in Dipolog. After one gig, however, the music they shared paused when Ruthi left for college.
Over time, she heard about the Rock Against Youth Apathy (RAYA) competition during the Hibalag Booth Festival in 2023. She then sent a message to the others: “Why not start a band again?”
The question was simple, but it was enough to bring them back together.
They submitted their audition while attending a wedding, with little expectation. They did not claim the top spot, but the experience did not end their story. Gigs followed. People listened. Some even returned to watch them perform.
Entering Dumaguete’s music scene initially felt intimidating. Heavier, louder bands dominated many stages, while Boylosers performed with softer melodies and sometimes incomplete equipment.
Instead of imitating others, they chose to lean into what felt truthful.
Slowly, they found their place in the scene—through small gigs, familiar faces in the audience, and spaces where their unpolished sound could exist without pressure.
Like Finpot, Boylosers writes from experience, often drawing from homesickness and the quiet ache of distance.
Their track, “My First Kiss (and probably your last),” began as a private journal entry about an awkward teenage memory. What started as embarrassment later became a song that listeners could laugh at, relate to, and make their own.
Their music does not aim to be political in the conventional sense. It does not carry slogans or direct calls for change. Instead, it speaks through vulnerability: about displacement, uncertainty, and the search for belonging.
In a world that often demands certainty from young people, their music creates space for the unknown.
In its own quiet way, that openness became a form of resistance. It is heard not through confrontation, but through their willingness to stand on stage and share their stories.
For Ruthi, being the only woman in the band can sometimes feel unusual. Within the band, she feels safe. In a music scene still largely dominated by men, she is often more observant.
Still, she keeps showing up—singing and carving out spaces.
After performances, young girls sometimes approach her and say they want to start bands too. “We really need ladies on stage,” she said, not as a demand, but as an invitation.
Her words reflect a broader truth about the community they belong to. The scene has never been defined by technical or commercial ambition. It is sustained by people who continue making music simply because they feel compelled to do so.
The city’s alternative rock scene has become a space for persistence, staying, playing, and allowing music to carry voices that might otherwise go unheard.
Beyond individual bands, the scene continues to evolve through new voices, temporary spaces, and moments that are often undocumented but deeply felt. Its history is not always archived, but it persists in memory, in influence, and in the quiet continuity of those who keep playing.
Through small stages and shared songs, the scene continues to grow as a living part of Dumaguete’s story. It does not chase perfection. It stays. It plays. It lets music carry the people who choose to listen.
In a city that hums with young energy and unfinished melodies, the sound keeps calling.