Excapelabs

Category: Heart of Music

This is where the spark began. Heart of Music uncovers the first steps of every artist’s journey—the childhood dreams, quiet beginnings, and life moments that led them to pick up an instrument, write that first lyric, or fall in love with sound. It’s about the passion that turned into purpose, the music that shaped who they are today.

  • LC Studio: From Backyard Jams to Big-Time Gigs — The Story of True Grit and Good Music

    LC Studio: From Backyard Jams to Big-Time Gigs — The Story of True Grit and Good Music

    In an industry where studios pop up and fade away like trending sounds on TikTok, LC Studio stands as a reminder that passion, persistence, and a love for community can make a legacy. What started as a dream to survive and support a family using music know-how has grown into one of Sta. Maria’s most respected grassroots music studios.

    How It All Started
    Behind the initials “LC” are Lui and Cathy—names not just etched in the brand but in every mic check, every jam session, and every community event LC Studio has powered through.

    “Nabuo ang LCstudio sa pagkagusto kong maisurvive ang binuo kong pamilya sa paraan ng kaalaman ko sa Music Industry,” says founder Lui. But survival turned into purpose with the help of close friends who believed in him—Russel Fadrigore, best friend John Michael “KUMAGCOW” Bueno, and Mama Watut Reynaldo “BALOT” M. Ignacio. With their financial support, LC Studio was reborn and rebooted from the ashes of earlier ventures.

    Before LC Studio became the name locals recognize, it went through phases—LSJ (Likod Simbahan Jammers) in 2000 and later, KSJ (Ka Steve Jammers) in 2005. But even before the rebrands, back in 1995, it all started with band equipment pooled by high school classmates from St. Paul Bocaue.

    Family, Friends, and Foundations
    LC Studio isn’t just Lui’s passion project—it’s a community movement. One of the earliest collaborators was his cousin “Jtech” Pacifico Catipon Jr., who taught him about sound systems. Their garage jam space slowly turned into a haven for local musicians from schools like STI, ICI, Sacred Heart, Early Christian, Shekina, and more.

    “Hanggang nakita ng ibang tumutugtog kung pwede daw makipractice. Kaya hayun, simula noon tumulong na rin kami sa mga walang mapagpractisan na mga banda,” he shares.

    Music with a Mission
    Long before the studio was a business, it was a mission. Lui, a percussion section leader from Banda85, had been teaching kids how to read notes and play in bands. Music became his tool to steer the youth away from vices and into discipline and opportunity.

    “Ako tinuruan ako dati at alam kong nakatulong sa pagkatao ko kaya gusto kong ipamahagi din nalalaman ko. Dahil yan kay Maestro Marcel Anareta,” he says, crediting his mentor.

    First Events, First Challenges
    The early years of LC Studio weren’t without hurdles. The biggest one? Equipment and debt.

    “Ang pinaka-challenge nyan yung kung paano mo makukumpleto ang mga band equipments at paano ka makakabayad sa pagkakautang mo,” he says. But faith, loyalty, and trust pushed them forward. Some of those early loans? Still unpaid—but out of friendship and gratitude, his supporters have long moved on.

    The first official LC Studio project was a Thanksgiving Battle of the Bands event. It came after a motorcycle accident that nearly derailed Lui’s plans. That event wasn’t just about music—it was about awareness.

    “Gusto ko kasi sabihin sa kanila kahalagahan ng helmet kapag nag momotor ka lang. Awareness ng huwag maging Oscar o kamote sa daan,” he says, laughing.

    The prize? A bottle of long neck gin. But the crowd? Massive. The passion? Unmatched.

    Sleepless Nights, Priceless Memories
    Some of LC Studio’s most unforgettable moments happened during events that ran through the night. One time, they featured 30 bands in one event. “Nakatulog kami sa stage para makapahinga konti ang mga team namin,” he recalls. It was exhausting, but it was also everything they stood for—community, hard work, and love for music.

    From Humble Gears to Big-Time Stages
    Lui proudly shares how even though they started small, some of their equipment has been used by known musicians. And now in 2025, after years of slow but steady upgrades, LC Studio can finally mount a full concert with their gear.

    “Di na rin ako makapaniwala na marami-rami na pala akong naipundar na gamit,” he says. What used to be borrowed and pieced together is now a legitimate set-up ready for serious productions.

    LC Feels and Bloopers
    What makes LC Studio stand out isn’t just the service—it’s the vibe. On YouTube, you’ll find videos of their events where they playfully prank clients and guests with sudden music drops or sound effects while waiting for the program to start. “Sa kaboringan ng paghihintay, nagka-content ng mga pag gulat. Pinatutugtog namin ang ‘I Feel Good,’” he laughs.

    Giving Back, Staying Real
    LC Studio’s reputation wasn’t built on just pricing or tech—it was built on heart. They started by helping and sometimes still offer charity services to clients who are respectful and sincere. “Minsan, nag-sponsor pa kami,” he says. For Lui, it’s not always about profit—it’s about purpose.

    What’s New and What’s Next
    LC Studio now offers recording services for solo artists and full bands—possibly the most affordable in town, Lui proudly says. They continue to teach, guide, and provide a space for growth.

    Looking ahead, the goal is simple: expand the circle. “Marami pa ring makahalubilo na mga tao para sa karagdagang connections at mga tunay na naniniwala sa kakayahan namin,” he says.

    One exciting partnership is with Cre8 Music and Cre8 TV, led by Bokalistang Pakalat Kalat (Benedict of ForSomeReason). This collaboration promises new productions, free jam sessions, and the annual Dec 30 year-end Thanksgiving gig that’s become tradition.

    The Secret to Standing Out
    With so many creative studios out there, how does LC Studio stay relevant?

    “Same good quality service at madali at totoo tayong kausap,” Lui says without hesitation. Authenticity, reliability, and heart have always been their brand.

    Advice to Aspiring Creatives
    For those dreaming of entering the creative or music industry, Lui offers simple but powerful advice:

    “Maging masaya ka sa papasukin mong larangan. Isipin lagi na maging totoo, makatulong, at positive lang lagi para maging productive. 💯 Pure happiness ang dapat maibigay mo sa client dahil yan ang purpose natin. Mahalin mo lang trabaho mo.”

    And just like that, LC Studio isn’t just a name—it’s a feeling. A culture. A rhythm that started in Sta. Maria and now echoes louder than ever.

  • On the Rooftop of Dreams: The Story of North Studio Marilao

    On the Rooftop of Dreams: The Story of North Studio Marilao

    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.

    https://open.spotify.com/playlist/5QoAHZS9c7ziLWubQ3rB7R?pi=tNQ9f4gPQDm4s
  • Evredt and His Musical Tatay: How Genesis Built More Than a Band in Captain Jack PH

    Evredt and His Musical Tatay: How Genesis Built More Than a Band in Captain Jack PH

    Every musician remembers the first person who believed in them — not just in their skill, but in their place in something bigger. For Evredt, that person was Genesis. Or as he calls him, Gino.

    Back in 2014, fresh out of high school and just starting his first year in college, Evredt took a chance. He made his way to Gino’s spot in Marilao, where Gino ran a small bigasan. It wasn’t a studio, but for Evredt, it was where the real music lessons began. He kept coming back, eager to learn how to play the guitar — to sit under someone he already looked up to, even if he didn’t fully know it yet.

    Before Captain Jack PH, before the tight riffs and packed sets, there was Rediscovered — Evredt’s early 2000s band playing a sound deeply rooted in OPM grit and heart. One night, they played a gig, Gino watched. Evredt was still lead guitarist back then. He remembers it clearly: “Umupo siya sa harap ng stage. Leadista pa ako nun. Semplang semplang yung solo ko.” But Genesis didn’t laugh, didn’t walk out — he stayed. Watched. Listened.

    A few weeks later, Genesis messaged him. Not to talk about that night, but to invite him in — to play bass for his next project.

    Eventually, Gino asked him to join his band, BOD. But instead of putting Evredt on lead, he gave him a bass. “Para masundan ko yung mga ginagawa niya,” Evredt says now with a smile. That was how it started — tracking riffs, one string at a time.

    The first song they worked on together was “Bisig,” a heavy, gripping track from what Evredt now fondly calls the BOD-era Slap days — raw, thick grooves, full of heart. He remembers the sessions well. The band was still forming its identity, and not everyone saw Gino’s vision. “May mga tumatawa pa nga noon sa riff niya sa ‘PROMDI,’” he shares, referencing the now-popular EP’s title track — a song that later racked up serious streams on Spotify. “Pero siya, tuloy lang.”

    After BOD eventually disbanded, something new began to take shape. Gino called up Evredt again. This time, it wasn’t to revive the old — it was to start something fresh. That something was Captain Jack PH.

    Evredt was the first person Genesis reached out to. No grand pitch. No guarantees. Just the same trust that had always been there — and a promise to build something real.

    Today, Evredt still stands by Gino, both on and off stage. Sometimes he’s the internal push, the challenger in the group, even when it means being the voice against the grain. “Opposition ako minsan,” he admits, “pero para sa ikabubuti ng banda.” But one thing remains — Gino leads with quiet resolve, and Evredt follows with loyalty and belief.

    “Captain Jack PH is always moving forward,” he says. “Mawala man ang isa sa amin, we know Gino will continue its legacy. Kung ano yung pangarap ni Gino para sa banda — pangarap na rin naming lahat. Masaya kami kung saan man papunta ang Captain Jack.”

    For Evredt, it’s not about fame or solos anymore. It’s about playing beside the man who believed in him when it mattered. Gino didn’t just teach him how to play. He taught him what it means to belong.

    And that — more than the riffs, more than the gigs — is the legacy that plays on.

  • A Friday Night Jam: When Amere, Captain Jack PH, and Continents Reunited

    A Friday Night Jam: When Amere, Captain Jack PH, and Continents Reunited

    Did you ever wonder how music connects people? Not just on stage. Not just through lyrics. But in garages. In kitchens. In quiet corners where the air hums with guitar strings and the smell of home-cooked food.

    That was exactly what happened one warm April night in Marilao.

    The jam session had been planned by Emerson, the vocalist of Amere. He had sent out the invites himself. The venue? His home. A garage transformed into a playground for musicians. Electric drums. Guitars. Bass. Amps stacked like mini towers. It looked like a concert setup, but it felt more like family.

    People arrived one by one. EL of Captain Jack PH. Jani of Continents. RJ, Amere’s bassist. Marvin Gabon, also known as Gabs or Bon—once with Captain Jack, once with Amere. TY, Emerson’s current guitarist and one of Genesis’ old students. Even Genesis himself, the man behind Captain Jack, was there. Old friends. Old bandmates. Familiar faces in a familiar space.

    The night opened with quiet energy. Emerson was in the kitchen with his wife, preparing dinner. Laughter echoed from the garage. Drinks were poured. Instruments were tuned. The vibe was easy. No pressure. Just stories and songs.

    Jani sat on a chair, talking with Emerson about the early days—back when North Studio was just a room downstairs in Boss Ed’s house. That was 2013, maybe 2014. Way before it became North Studio Marilao. Way before these three bands carved out their own names. Back when Emerson and Jani would rehearse early morning every after shifts, the room echoing with dreams.

    Then, the sound of Halik ni Hudas filled the air. EL, Genesis, and Gabs kicked it off. Raw. Loud. Beautiful. You could feel it in your chest. Heads nodded. Smiles crept in.

    After that, Amere took over. They played their original songs. Then a few covers. TY leaned into his guitar like it was telling a story. RJ’s bass grounded everything. Emerson’s voice was gritty and honest. Every line felt lived in.

    Dinner was simple but warm. Plates were filled. Conversations circled around old gigs and new plans. No one was in a hurry.

    Later, Jani and Eys from Continents joined in. A little late, but just in time. More jams followed. Everyone took turns. Guitars shared. Even the silence between songs felt meaningful.

    No stage. No pressure. Just music. Just people who never really lost the spark.

    That night in Emerson’s garage wasn’t just a jam session. It was a reunion. A reminder. That music doesn’t fade—it waits. It waits for Friday nights like this. When the heat clings to your skin, when the drinks are cold, and when the music finds its way back home.

  • “DON’T STOP”: A Song for the Fighters Who Keep Showing Up

    “DON’T STOP”: A Song for the Fighters Who Keep Showing Up

    There’s a moment—maybe at the end of a long day, or in the quiet just before sunrise—when life just weighs. Heavy. Quiet. Unforgiving. You feel like you’ve given everything, and still, the world demands more. It’s in those moments that we need songs like “DON’T STOP.”

    Penned by Dan Garcia and brought to life by Northern Lads, this track is more than just music—it’s a lifeline for anyone who’s ever been knocked down but chose to stand back up. It’s for every father staring at an empty lunchbox after a shift that no longer pays, for every mother watching her child’s birthday through a screen thousands of miles away. It’s for the dreamers, the outcasts, the quiet fighters.

    From the very first verse, “DON’T STOP” paints a picture of real-life struggles—not just the poetic kind, but the kind that leaves you staring at the ceiling, wondering how you’re going to keep going. The father of eight, let go from his job. The mother sacrificing moments for a paycheck. These aren’t caricatures—they’re us. They’re people we know. Maybe they are us.

    And yet, through it all, the song never wallows in sadness. It rises.

    “She’s got no choice, but look up the sky,
    Sayin’: ‘Life is still beautiful.’”

    That single line feels like a gut punch wrapped in hope. It reminds us that even when the odds are stacked and the world feels unfair, there’s still light—still a reason to look up.

    The chorus hits like a rallying cry:

    “Don’t Stop! You know you got the feeling…
    Tomorrow is another day.”

    There’s power in that simplicity. In a world filled with overcomplicated advice and empty motivation, this song cuts straight to the heart. It tells you what you already know deep inside—that the only way out is through. That trying again, waking up again, believing again—it matters.

    The second verse hits a different nerve—the one that speaks to the dreamers. The students who feel unseen. The artists who pour their souls into songs that no one hears. The kids who feel like they don’t fit in.

    “You kept writing songs but nobody’s listenin’
    Dreaming someday to get support…”

    How many of us have felt like that? Like the world only applauds after you’ve succeeded, never while you’re still trying?

    But here’s the thing: this song sees you while you’re still trying. It celebrates you before the applause.

    And maybe that’s what makes “DON’T STOP” so important.

    It doesn’t promise instant miracles or picture-perfect endings. What it offers is more honest, more real: it tells you that it’s okay to fall, but it’s not the end. That no matter what life throws at you, you are not alone in your struggle. You are not forgotten. You are seen.

    “Believe me when I tell you
    It can only get better from here.”

    If you’re reading this and you’re tired, discouraged, wondering if all your effort even makes a dent in the world—let this song be your anthem. Your reminder. Your breath of fresh air.

    Because yes, life is hard. But life is also beautiful.

    So don’t stop.

  • Tambay, Tunog, Tadhana: The Love Story That Began at North Studio

    Tambay, Tunog, Tadhana: The Love Story That Began at North Studio

    Words by someone who believes love songs are written in real life too.

    There are places where music lives—and then there are places where music introduces you to the person you’ll never forget.

    It was October 20, 2018—just another gig night at North Studio Marilao. Maria’s band, PCFY, was gearing up to take the stage, and as usual, the pre-set chaos buzzed around her. Amid the noise and movement, he arrived. Joshua—quiet, calm, and cool. An old friend of her bandmates , reappearing after years away due to work in Marikina. They introduced him casually, and with barely a word, Maria handed him her phone to film their set. An introvert in a room full of sound—and yet, in that small moment, something sparked.

    Simple, diba? But that moment stuck.
    “Sparks all over me,” Maria recalls.

    And while the music raged on around them, their story played on a different wavelength. There were no cheesy pickup lines, no dramatic love-at-first-sight. Just a camera phone pass, a thank you, and a connection that would keep finding its way back—like a favorite track on repeat.

    Tambay, Tunog, Tadhana

    Maria was always around North. It was her comfort zone, her tambayan. Joshua, meanwhile, would stop by whenever he was back in Bulacan. And somehow, like fate tuning a perfect harmony, they’d always bump into each other—no plans, no texts. Just music, inuman, and shared space with the North Studio crew: Boss Ed, Manoy Jason, Oma, and the rest of the gang.

    Even if Joshua wasn’t in a band at the time, Maria felt that spark. “Pa-mysterious yung dating niya,” she laughs. And for an extrovert like her, that was more than enough reason to be curious.

    The Rooftop That Witnessed It All

    Fast forward to December 22, 2019—Maria’s birthday. The studio was packed, videoke was blasting (yes, in a studio!), and the drinks were flowing. Amid the chaos and laughter, Maria and Joshua found themselves outside, just the two of them, sitting by the familiar spot with the hanging skull. And right there, under the faint glow of the rooftop lights, they shared their first kiss.

    “TMI naman, pero ‘yun talaga ‘yon.”
    Kilig. Raw. Real. Just like every note that’s ever been played in that space.

    My Heart, Paramore, and the Playlist of Us

    While they didn’t share the exact same genre tastes, one song managed to sneak into their unofficial love story soundtrack: “My Heart” by Paramore. It wasn’t planned or symbolic—it was just something they could jam together. And sometimes, that’s all love needs. One shared moment of music.

    North Studio: Not Just a Place, But a Piece of Their Story

    Maria and Joshua aren’t just another couple who met through music—they’re living proof that North Studio is more than a place to plug in your amp. It’s not just a rehearsal space, or a gig venue, or a rooftop hangout. For them, it became the middle ground—literally and emotionally. Maria was from Meycauayan, Joshua from Bocaue, and North Studio sat right in between. Convenient? Yes. Coincidence? Maybe. But destiny? That feels a little more accurate.

    “Dito kame madalas mag-abot,” Maria says, recalling how the studio was the one place where their paths always seemed to cross. Whether it was a planned inuman or a random prod night, somehow, they’d both end up there. Over time, casual greetings turned into deeper conversations, and the shared comfort of North slowly stitched their story together.

    Even Boss Ed saw it coming. One day, he messaged Maria and, out of nowhere, offered something totally unexpected: a wedding gown. Yes, a literal wedding gown—belonging to his wife, Ate May. Like some rock ‘n roll oracle, Boss Ed was already manifesting what the rest of them hadn’t even said out loud yet.

    “Parang na-foresee niya na kami talaga yung magkakatuluyan,” Maria laughs, half-joking, half-crying-inside-from-kilig.

    And that’s the kind of magic North Studio holds. It’s not just a home for musicians—it’s a quiet keeper of beginnings, of friendships that shift into something more. Even when they weren’t renting the studio, even when it was just one of those classic late-night tambays, Boss Ed always let them be. Always supportive. Always present.

    Because at North, it’s never just about the music—it’s about the people, the bonds, and the love stories no one saw coming. Well… except maybe Boss Ed.

    To the Next Generation of North Studio “Peeps”

    Their advice?
    “Be open sa lahat ng genre. Be supportive. Be real.”
    And always—ALWAYS—make sure your feet are clean when you walk into the studio. (Respect the floor, respect the music!)

    Because you’ll never know…
    Your next jam session might just be your meet-cute.
    Your next prod night might turn into your forever.

    One line to sum it all up?

    “Supported. We felt supported by everyone we met sa NxS.”

    And that’s the North Studio magic—more than the music, more than the soundproof walls. It’s the people. The community. The shared spark. And the way it always, always finds a way to bring the right hearts together.

  • More Than Music: The Heartbeat of North Studio Marilao

    More Than Music: The Heartbeat of North Studio Marilao

    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.