2Pac reconnection

Once again in an insomniac state and glued to VH1, I come across the Rock Doc, Tupac Resurrection.

Back in the day, I had gotten wind of Tupac Shakur through a TV feature on Poetic Justice, some US Billboard video show or, a some sneak peek show on movies showing in the States that would likely end up in either limited distribution in my shores or, straight to pirated VHS or Betamax after losing out to Sharon Cuneta commerce. Some time later I found out through my aunt's padala of People Magazine, his performance was better-received by critics than Janet Jackson's debut, and I gathered that he was also a rapper and a post-Rodney King era icon.

Now, I do not claim to be well-versed with his discography. The only song of his that I am truly familiar with and, happens to be a favorite, is California Love which I first heard though Rick Dees Weekly Top 40. Very edgy.

The cool kids of La Salle talked about him on rotation along with all the other MTV idols of that era because they can afford cable TV. I could only get to watch cable then while waiting for my take-out of inasal chitlins (bul-o & tina-e) and 2-peso serving of rice at Nonoy's Barbecue outside the old Era Theater. I did sense he was a figure of reckoning, spinning out of control towards immortality, a fact that escaped most of the Giordano-clad whose hero-worship of him and of Vedder, Cobain et. al. were wielded like Benetton bags. Along with irony.

I learned he spent a good part of his childhood in Baltimore and was classmates with Jada Pinkett in a local performing arts school. He thought Madonna was a nice person and so was Tony Danza. Janet Jackson's people asked him to get an AIDS test before a big love scene. He liked Don Mclean. Like any self-respecting art-school geek, he read Shakespeare. The late Gene Siskel was a fan of his.

As I was choosing a picture for this blog, I could not help but choose the image above though, I was spoiled with choices of him shirtless, ripped, and in deep thought. I'd seen it before maybe from People (of course) and it stayed in my psyche. He just seemed so calm here yet his eyes look like he was about to explode and not to mention, so young.

The documentary, featured him as how both his adoring and detractors remember him. Young, charismatic, arrogant, volatile and fiercely beautiful. His ideals, his passion, his liasons, his rawest emotion, were not merely worn on his sleeve. It was tattooed, pierced and cocked like a loaded gun. Like every cursed and tragic spokesperson of a generation, he shall never grow old--an heirloom of youthful rebellion to be passed on to the next in line. Hard to imagine him beyond 25. No great comebacks. No tour de force at Madison Square. No Oscars. No T-Mobile endorsements. No collaborations with 50 or Kanye or JT. No Live-Aid reconciliations with the former Puff Daddy and and Biggie. Even turning 30 or 40. 

He shall and always will be Tupac.

For my friend Shivaun.