Somewhere in Marilao, Bulacan, up on a quiet rooftop above is a studio, a place where dreams echo louder than the amps.

They call it North Studio Marilao — though if you ask around, people will tell you it’s more than just a studio. It’s a refuge, a proving ground, a home for the restless hearts of musicians who carry their dreams like battered guitars across town.

But for someone who only stepped into this circle in late 2023, North Studio is a puzzle — pieces of stories scattered across drumbeats, late-night laughter, cigarette smoke curling in the air, and the quiet moments between songs.

This is the kind of place you only understand by feeling it.

It started back in 2012, in a downstairs room. A small personal space where music could live without apology. As the years passed, the studio outgrew those walls — it moved up, both literally and figuratively, until it landed on the rooftop of Boss Edniel’s family home. Now, under open skies, it welcomes the bands that chase their own kind of freedom.

There’s a rhythm to this place, and it pulses through the people.

There’s Boss Ed — or Edniel, if you catch him between setting up mics or adjusting the mixer. For him, this isn’t just about running a studio. It’s about making space, in every sense of the word. Space for those just learning to keep time. Space for those trying to stitch their lives back together through song. Space for those starting over. Space for those who never stopped.

And of course, the bands.

They come through that narrow rooftop door in waves — some wide-eyed and nervous, others loud and familiar. Some just met each other yesterday. Some have been bandmates for years. And some? They were strangers once, bumping into each other at gigs, trading chords and half-smiles, slowly becoming the kind of friends you can’t imagine playing without.

But it’s not just the music that binds them — it’s the space they share.

In the early days, the studio was tiny, hot, and packed with mismatched gear. Bands weren’t always impressed. But little by little, they stayed. They adapted. They made the space their own. Because inside that humble rooftop room, there was freedom: the freedom to fail, to get loud, to get better.

From there, the productions began to bloom.

What started as small gatherings of local acts turned into nights, into reunions where bands collided in beautiful chaos, into Friday night jams that turned strangers into bandmates, into the kind of moments that stick to the soul long after the last song fades.

There’s something powerful about that rooftop.

It’s a melting pot, where people show up with their own dreams and walk away carrying pieces of each other. The guitarist who lent his pedal. The drummer who offered a lift home. The singer who cheered from the crowd even after their own set ended.

Years later, when people tell their stories, you’ll hear the overlaps:

“We met at a North Studio gig.”
“We were on the same lineup.”
“He borrowed my snare.”
“She filled in when our bassist bailed.”

One night bleeds into the next. One band’s story braids into another’s. And before you know it, you’re not just part of a band — you’re part of something.

A movement.
A family.
A legacy.

There’s no single version of what happens on that rooftop. Some will remember the sweat dripping from their foreheads as they chased the perfect take. Some will remember the way the barangay once tried to shut them down, only to give up when the music refused to die. Some will remember standing under those cheap strung lights, realizing that for all its rough edges, North Studio gave them something precious: a place to belong.

For the newcomer, stepping into this circle feels like stepping into a river that’s been flowing long before you arrived, and will keep flowing long after you leave. You listen, you learn, you watch. And over time, you find yourself swept into the current.

You become part of the story.

Because North Studio isn’t just where bands rehearse. It’s where they become.

It’s where they figure out how to turn noise into music, and music into meaning. It’s where they learn to fight for the things they love, to carry each other when the road gets heavy, to keep showing up even when the world isn’t watching.

It’s where the kid with the secondhand guitar finds his people.
Where the drummer with calloused hands finds her beat.
Where the singer with shaky knees finds their voice.

And maybe that’s the heart of North Studio Marilao — not just the sound, but the beating heart behind it.

So when you hear the thud of a bass drum from the street, or catch the flicker of light from that rooftop late at night, know this: you’re not just hearing music. You’re hearing survival. You’re hearing defiance. You’re hearing a generation of artists carving out their place in the world, one imperfect, beautiful, unforgettable song at a time.

If you ever find yourself at North Studio, don’t just look for the music. Look for the people.

That’s where the real story lives.

So the next time you open Spotify, search for the GrooveLabs playlist, “Bulacan Sweets.”

You’ll hear the very heart of North Studio woven into those tracks — others who once crammed into that rooftop room, chasing the perfect take, sweating through late-night jams, laughing between broken strings and missed cues.

These aren’t just songs. They’re stories of young artists carving their names into Bulacan’s indie music scene.

When you hit play, you’re not just listening to a playlist. You’re stepping into a circle where every guitar riff, every drumbeat, every lyric carries a memory.

This is the sound of a scene still alive, still growing, still dreaming — and you’re invited to be part of it.