By Francis Allan L. Angelo
When Eraserheads: Combo on the Run was first released in cinemas, the draw was obvious: nostalgia.
Here was the biggest Filipino rock band of the ’90s—four boys who changed the sound of Original Pilipino Music (OPM) by accident—sitting together again, revisiting their journey, laughing through old wounds and reanimating the soundtrack of an entire generation.
But this documentary is more than just a sentimental trip down memory lane.
In its raw honesty and emotional whiplash, Combo on the Run turns into something far greater: a mirror of the Philippines itself in transition, reeling from old traumas while daring to imagine better futures.
It is not a coincidence that the band formed and rose to prominence in the early 1990s. The country was trying to do better in the aftermath of dictatorship.
Ferdinand Edralin Marcos (father of the incumbent President Ferdinand Romualdez Marcos) was gone, toppled in a whirlwind of yellow confetti and people power. Cory Aquino’s presidency had restored democratic institutions, but not necessarily faith.
The country, like a waking drunk, was attempting to piece together what had happened, what had been lost, and what remained possible.
The feel-good glow of democratic restoration was slowly being converted into economic policy and social development plans.
There was talk of global competitiveness, of welcoming foreign investments, of reviving a cultural identity muted under martial rule.
But underneath it all lay a persistent anxiety: what if we haven’t really changed?
The Eraserheads came to define that uncertainty. They weren’t politically confrontational, but they didn’t need to be.
Their lyrics, casual and clever, described the absurdities of life in a nation always halfway between memory and promise. They didn’t scream for change; they shrugged through it.
In Ligaya, they channeled youthful pursuit in a world where desires are frustrated by social expectations.
In Pare Ko, they were angry, but in a way that felt lived-in, like ranting with a friend after school.
Spoliarium evoked trauma and loss in cryptic poetry, while Magasin gave voice to longing and the unpredictability of fate.
They were the sound of a country tired of drama, but still aching for meaning. Combo on the Run makes this cultural backdrop explicit, though never preachy.
Through archival footage and personal testimonies, the documentary paints a picture of a band aware of their accidental role as chroniclers of their era.
It shows them awkwardly dealing with fame, record labels, expectations from fans, and their own creative and emotional burnout.
Director Diane Ventura takes an unflinching lens to the band’s history—especially their painful breakup and long estrangement.
The years following their disbandment mirrored the Philippines’ own post-EDSA confusion: no clear direction, conflicting narratives, and the haunting feeling that too much potential had been squandered.
The film doesn’t lionize any of them.
Instead, it shows Ely, Marcus, Raimund, and Buddy as complex individuals who loved their craft, resented each other at times, and grew apart as the pressures of success bore down on them.
Watching them talk—sometimes directly, sometimes through silence—feels like eavesdropping on a national reconciliation.
There is discomfort, awkwardness, unresolved pain. But there is also a shared willingness to acknowledge the past without rewriting it.
This personal reckoning by the Eraserheads has echoes in the larger political and social soul-searching that continues to haunt the Philippines.
What do we do with the narratives of triumph we told ourselves after EDSA?
What about the stories we conveniently ignored: the corruption that crept back in, the poverty that persisted, the institutions that remained weak?
The documentary is powerful because it does not try to resolve these tensions. It lets them sit.
In one of the most poignant scenes, the band members confront their own misgivings—not just about each other, but about their relevance, their motivations, their place in a world that has moved on.
Are they still the voice of a generation, or just a tribute act to their younger selves? That question lingers long after the credits roll.
But then, just when we think the story ends in introspection, Combo on the Run delivers one more surprise.
In the closing credits, the Eraserheads quietly but clearly announce that they are back. Not for a reunion show or a nostalgia tour, but as a band.
This subtle but seismic moment reframes everything that came before it—not as a eulogy, but as a rebirth.
It’s not just reconciliation on display, but renewal. The timing could not be more symbolic.
As the Philippines once again faces uncertainty—rising authoritarianism, economic disparities, environmental threats—the return of the Eraserheads feels like a reminder that we are not done telling our story.
Yet despite the melancholy, Combo on the Run remains ultimately hopeful. Because it shows that healing, while never perfect, is possible.
That reconciliation is not about forgetting, but about learning to sit across from the person who once hurt you, and choosing to keep talking.
This too, is a lesson for the nation.
We may never fully fix what’s broken, but if we can keep the dialogue alive—between generations, across political divides, among old wounds—there is still a path forward.
The Eraserheads were never prophets in the traditional sense.
They didn’t write protest songs or wave banners. They wrote about waiting in line, about heartbreak, about being confused in your twenties.
But in doing so, they captured something deeper than slogans ever could.
They gave voice to a people trying to figure out who they were after the noise of revolution had faded.
And now, thirty years later, they are still doing that.
Yes, the Eraserheads are seers.
Their songs didn’t just mirror the times; they whispered of futures we didn’t yet see.
Witty, raw, and unflinchingly honest, they chronicled our angst and aspirations.
Their music remains both a time capsule and a compass—proof that true vision often hides behind a sneer and a riff.
