Kids interview Abra
by Charactorium · Abra (1988 — ?) · Music · Culture · 5 min read
Two 12-year-old students, on a field trip, pushed open the door of a small recording studio in Metro Manila. Sitting on an old sofa, headphones around his neck, a smiling rapper was waiting for them. His name is Abra, and he has plenty of stories to tell.
—What was your neighborhood like when you were a kid?
You know, my child, I grew up in a working-class neighborhood in Metro Manila, where the street never sleeps. Imagine alleys full of noise, the smell of fried rice in the morning, and those colorful jeepneys honking everywhere. A jeepney is our public transport, born from old army jeeps repainted. I was a curious kid. It was in the neighborhood cybercafés, those small rooms full of screens, that I discovered American hip-hop. I would stay for hours listening, fascinated. I didn't know it yet, but that hot and noisy street was already my first music school.
The hot and noisy street was already my music school.
—What did you eat in the morning before making music?
Ah, that's a good question! I wake up late, you know, because the night is my real work time. So my breakfast is sinangag, garlic fried rice, with an egg and some dried meat. A real Filipino meal. After that, I spend the afternoon writing, in the humid heat of Manila. I often move around by jeepney, squeezed between ten people, and I listen to people talk. Their words, their arguments, their jokes — it feeds my lyrics. A rapper, my child, eats, walks, listens — and everything ends up in his songs.
—Why are you called Abra? That's a weird name!
Ha! You're right, it's a funny name. But listen carefully. My real name is Abraham. And Abra is a piece of the magic word you might know: “abracadabra”. You know, the one you say to make something appear. To me, a rapper is a little magician. He takes ordinary words, everyday words, and poof, he transforms them into something beautiful and powerful. That's my magic. No hat or rabbit. Just words. By the way, my 2014 album is called Abra Cadabra — a nod to that idea.
A rapper is a magician: he turns ordinary words into treasures.
—Is it true that one of your songs suddenly became super famous?
Yes! And I didn't expect it at all, you know. In 2013, I released a track called Gayuma. I thought it was just another song. And then, imagine my surprise: people started sharing it everywhere, over and over, until the whole country knew it. It became my most famous title. Overnight, strangers on the street were singing my lyrics. I was a bit dizzy, honestly. A boy from a working-class neighborhood becoming famous thanks to a song in Tagalog — no one saw that coming.
—What does “Gayuma” mean? It's a pretty word!
Isn't it? Gayuma is a Tagalog word that means “love potion”. You know, a charm, a magic potion that would make someone fall in love. It's an old idea from our Philippine folk tradition. I liked that word because it speaks of feeling and mystery. And in the song, I did something I love: I mixed my rap with soft melodies, a bit like our old folk songs. That way, even my grandmother could enjoy a rap track! That's what touched people, I think: hip-hop that truly smelled of the Philippines.
I made hip-hop that truly smelled of the Philippines.
—Why do you rap in Tagalog and not in English?
Ah, that was an important decision in my life, my child. Many rappers around me chose English. They thought it was “cooler”, that it would reach the whole world. I said no. Tagalog is my mother tongue, the language of my mother, my street, my neighbors. Why would I hide it? Rapping in Tagalog was saying proudly: “This is who I am, this is where I come from.” I wanted young people from working-class neighborhoods to hear themselves, to recognize themselves in my songs. A language is not a coat you take off. It's your skin. And I keep mine.
A language is not a coat you take off. It's your skin.
—How do you write your songs?
With very simple things, you'd be surprised! A notebook and a pen, those are my real tools. I write my lyrics by hand, line after line, often late at night. Then I say them out loud, over and over, to feel if the rhythm is right. I write in Tagalog, with the slang of Manila, the words you really hear on the street. Sometimes a punchline comes to me suddenly — it's a striking line, the one that hits hard in a verse. So I jot it down quickly before I forget. Music, my child, always starts with paper, a pen, and a lot of patience.
—What is a rap “battle”? Have you done any?
Oh yes, plenty! A battle is a duel of words, my child. Two rappers face to face, and each tries to be smarter, funnier, stronger than the other. No punches, just lines! Imagine a small packed room in Metro Manila, in the underground world — that means the hidden scene, far from big commercial concerts. People shout, judge, applaud. It was intimidating at first. The audience was demanding, they forgave nothing. But that's where I learned not to tremble, to find the right word at the right moment. Those battles were my real school of courage.
A battle is a duel without punches: just words that hit.
—Is it hard to invent lyrics on the spot, without preparing them?
Very hard, and that's exactly what's exciting! It's called freestyle: you improvise, you invent your rhymes on the spot, without a prepared text. Imagine having to tell a funny story right now, without thinking, in front of a crowd staring at you. Your heart beats fast, believe me! At first I made mistakes, I froze. Then, over time, the words came by themselves, like a river. The secret is to listen to the rhythm and trust yourself. In the underground scenes of Manila, freestyle was the ultimate test. Whoever could improvise was respected by all.
—Today, what would you like people to remember about you?
What a beautiful question to end with. You know, I'd like to be remembered as a boy from the working-class neighborhoods who wasn't ashamed of his language. With my album Abra Cadabra and my songs in Tagalog, I wanted to show one thing: rap in our language is art, real art. As great as rap from elsewhere. I helped open a door for all the young Filipino rappers who come after me. If you remember one thing from me, keep this: don't wait for anyone's permission to turn your ordinary life into something beautiful. That's the real magic.
Don't wait for anyone's permission to make your ordinary life extraordinary.
Sources
This imaginary interview was generated by artificial intelligence from sources documented in Abra's profile. It dramatises what the figure might have said based on what we know about them, but does not constitute attested historical testimony. For primary sources and factual documentation, refer to the full profile.