There are places that echo with music long after the last note fades. Places that don’t just house songs, but hold stories, laughter, spilled beer, the thump of worn-out drumsticks, and the low hum of amps turned off just before sunrise. North Studio Marilao is one of those places.

If you’ve ever climbed that flight of stairs to the rooftop of Boss Ed’s family home in Abangan Norte, you’d know exactly what I mean. The walls don’t just trap sound—they breathe it. They’ve heard the rawest takes, the loudest shout-alongs, and the quiet in-between moments only bandmates truly understand.

But to tell the story of North Studio, we have to go back—not to a glitzy launch, but to a simple bedroom in 2012. “Nagsimula sa kuwarto ko sa baba para sa personal na gamit,” Edniel Martinez, better known as Boss Ed, tells me. There was no business plan. No logo. Just a passion for music and a bunch of curious bands that kept showing up. What was once just for him became a growing hub for musicians in Marilao. And just like that, Music Mind Studio was born.

By 2014, the scene was getting bigger, louder, more alive. It needed a name that matched its reach. Credit goes to Edwin Martinez, aka Oma, who coined the name “North”—a simple nod to its home base, Abangan Norte. It just clicked. And so did the community.

I still remember the stories about the early days, the kind only real friends can laugh at. Like how the first 100 pesos they ever earned didn’t go into savings or gear—but was traded in for a bottle of Red Horse. “Pinambili namin ng Red Horse ni Oma,” Boss Ed says with that signature smirk. It wasn’t about profit—it was about the feeling. The brotherhood. The music.

And if you think it all came easy, think again. “INGAY,” he says bluntly when asked about the biggest challenge. Noise complaints, judgmental stares, the classic “bawal diyan, may nagrereklamo.” But somehow, the studio survived. Thanks to understanding parents, titos, titas, and cousins who let the chaos live a floor or two above them. Not every family would be cool with a full-blown rehearsal space screaming out punk rock at midnight. But the Martinez family did more than allow it—they supported it.

Of course, North Studio isn’t a sanitized, Instagrammable rehearsal hub with expensive panels and digital mixers. Ask anyone and they’ll tell you what makes it special: “Yung AMOY. Di mabango. Hindi mabaho. Saktong amoy kilikili lang.” You don’t walk into North Studio for aesthetic— you walk in for truth.

There’s something different about the air when the studio is full. “SANA HUMINTO ANG ORAS,” Boss Ed says. And anyone who’s ever crammed into that rooftop room with sweaty faces, tangled cords, and that one dude who always forgets his picks—knows exactly what he means.

Memories? There are too many to count. From wild jams to Barangay shutdowns (“4 beses na baranggay studio tapos nanawa na lang sila kakasaway”) to the kind of shows where the amps scream louder than your own thoughts—North Studio has seen it all. Ehipto. Mens. Kalookan. The Big Giant Red Button. Restless, who found a way to reuse panis na kanin just so no energy was wasted. It’s funny, messy, chaotic—but always fueled by heart.

What makes this place magical is that it never aimed to be. There were no expectations that it would become a “tambayan ng mga musikero.” But it did. Because of the joy. The raw, unfiltered, unpolished joy of just making music with friends.

Did the local bands love it right away? Not exactly. “Ayaw nila. Maliit, mainit, pangit gamit.” But people kept coming back. Because sometimes, you don’t need polish. You just need a place to be loud, be seen, and be yourself. And little by little, they embraced it. No choice, as Boss Ed jokes. But maybe that’s the charm. No frills. Just music.

When asked if any band “made it” out of North Studio, the answer was as real as it gets: “Lumaki lang ang tiyan.” Because here, success isn’t measured in streams or festivals. It’s in the nights you survived, the tracks you recorded, the friendships you kept. Some bands dropped singles. Others made waves in their own circles. But all of them left a part of themselves in that room.

What does the studio mean to Boss Ed?

“LIFE x EVERYTHING.” No hesitation. No fluff.

And what’s changed for him since then?

“HINDI KO IPAGPAPALIT AT IIWAN ANG LOKAL SCENE.”

For someone who’s seen more than 14 years of loud riffs and late-night jams, that says it all.

If you asked him what advice he’d give to his younger self when he first started?

“WALA. SOBRANG SAYA. NO REGERTS.” And I believe him.

Because when you build something from love—with no agenda, no business plan, just heart—it becomes more than a studio. It becomes a home.

And to be part of that? To witness it, document it, live it?

Blessed doesn’t even begin to cover it.