The Songs We Made: Remembering My Friend JJ

Next week, JJ and I were supposed to make music again.

I was coming back from Maripipi Island to Tacloban during the first week of October. We had planned to re-record “Alon Mo,” an original rock song I wrote with my band, Sandthorns.

This time, we wanted to give it a reggae-rock feel.

It was supposed to be another recording session with an old friend.

But on September 24, 2026, Jeffrey John “JJ” M. Diaz passed away.

He was 47.

And suddenly, a recording session I thought was still waiting for us became a recording session that would never happen.

I met JJ sometime in 2009 at a gig. A friend introduced him to me.

I did not know then that this easygoing guy would eventually become part of several songs that I would carry with me for the rest of my life.

JJ was simply easy to be with.

Making music with him was never complicated.

We did not have elaborate production plans. We were not the kind of musicians who rehearsed a song repeatedly before going into a recording session.

In fact, most of the time, we didn't rehearse at all.

We figured everything out while recording.

Most of our songs were created in the rented apartment where they were staying in Taguig. My setup was simple: a laptop, my old TonePort, a KB47 MIDI controller, our instruments, and whatever musical ideas we had that day.

No expensive recording studio.

No producer telling us what to do.

No perfect arrangements waiting to be performed.

We would just start.

JJ would pick up the guitar or bass, listen to the song, and find his part. Sometimes he would add backing vocals.

If something didn't work, we'd try something else.

And we had fun doing it.

Looking back now, I realize those were some of the best kinds of recording sessions.

Not because everything was perfect.

But because friendship came before perfection.

Around twelve years ago, we recorded an acoustic song I had written called “Maria Hannah.”

JJ played guitar and bass and also contributed backing vocals.

I originally wrote the song around my thoughts at the time about marijuana and its potential effects and uses, but the song itself eventually became about much more than that.

It became a song about appreciating life, caring for other people, friendship, hope, compassion, and continuing when life becomes difficult.

I wrote:

And later:

When we recorded those words years ago, they were simply part of a song.

Today they sound different to me.

“Sa likod ng kalungkutan, ligaya'y makakamtan.”

Sometimes we write words without knowing that life will eventually make us understand them differently.

Another song we recorded around that period was “Pag-ibig.”

I wrote Pag-ibig because I was thinking about something much bigger than romantic love.

I was thinking about the impact of love on humanity.

Why, despite everything humanity has achieved, do we still struggle to show love to one another?

Why do money, possessions, pride, conflict and differences sometimes become more important than people?

The song begins:

And then asks:

The song talks about broken families, poverty and war.

But underneath all those problems is a very simple idea:

There is another line in Pag-ibig that has stayed with me:

All of us are connected.

Maybe growing older makes that line easier to understand.

People enter our lives, share a part of the journey with us, and leave something behind.

Sometimes we don't realize how much of our own story another person occupies until that person is gone.

Around ten years ago came “Trapolitiko.”

This one had a completely different personality.

It was written in Waray and was our playful, sarcastic take on the familiar traditional politician—or “trapo.”

Election comes.

Promises come with it.

Politicians suddenly have solutions for everything.

Former allies become opponents.

Opponents sometimes become allies.

And ordinary people wait to see whether campaign promises will become actual improvements in their communities.

The song asks:

And later:

Then comes the refrain we had fun singing:

JJ again played guitar and bass and contributed backing vocals.

When I look at the three songs now, I like how different they are.

Maria Hannah looked at life, hope and the human experience.

Pag-ibig looked at love and humanity.

Trapolitiko looked at society and politics with humor and criticism.

There wasn't really a grand plan behind them.

We simply wrote about things that interested us.

Then JJ and I made music out of them.

One of the things I remember most about JJ was how easy the creative process could be with him.

We didn't wait for perfect conditions.

We didn't say:

“We can't record yet because we haven't rehearsed enough.”

We simply started.

If the guitar part wasn't there yet, JJ would find it.

If we weren't sure about the bass, we'd work it out.

If the arrangement changed halfway through the recording, then the arrangement changed.

That was part of the fun.

There is something beautiful about creating music that way.

You stop worrying about whether every note is perfect and begin listening to what the other person brings into the room.

JJ brought that kind of ease.

He was someone I could simply make music with.

Years passed.

Life became busy.

Then recently, there was another plan.

Alon Mo.

It was originally a rock song I wrote with my band, Sandthorns.

JJ and I were going to revisit it after I returned from Maripipi Island during the first week of October.

This time we wanted to turn it into something different.

Reggae-rock.

Knowing us, there probably would not have been much rehearsal.

We probably would have started recording and figured things out along the way—just like before.

JJ would have picked up an instrument.

I would have listened.

He would have tried something.

I would have suggested something else.

Maybe we'd laugh when something sounded wrong.

Maybe we'd accidentally discover something better.

That was supposed to happen.

But JJ passed away on September 24.

Just days before we were supposed to make music again.

For a while, my first thought was simple:

Alon Mo will not happen anymore.

Because the person I was supposed to make it with was gone.

Maybe someday I will think differently.

Maybe someday I will record it.

And if I do, it will no longer simply be another version of an old Sandthorns song.

It will carry a different story.

JJ will not be there playing guitar or bass.

But in another way, he will always be part of that recording.

Because Alon Mo became the song we were supposed to make together.

When somebody we love dies, what remains are memories.

I am fortunate that some of my memories of JJ can actually be heard.

I can press play.

I can listen to Maria Hannah and hear something we created together.

I can listen to Pag-ibig and remember the things I once believed—and still believe—about love and humanity.

I can play Trapolitiko and remember two friends having fun turning observations about society into music.

Those recordings are not perfect.

I don't want them to be.

Because they were never meant to become monuments.

They were simply moments.

Two friends.

A rented apartment in Taguig.

A laptop.

An old TonePort.

A MIDI controller.

A few instruments.

Some ideas.

No rehearsal.

And a lot of fun.

Today, those ordinary moments have become extraordinarily valuable to me.

JJ, we were supposed to make another song.

I thought we still had another recording session waiting for us.

Another guitar part.

Another bass line.

Another afternoon or evening figuring things out along the way.

But life had another plan.

Thank you for every guitar part you played.

Thank you for every bass line.

Thank you for the backing vocals.

Thank you for those simple recording sessions when we didn't care whether everything was perfect.

And thank you for being my friend.

Maria Hannah.

Pag-ibig.

Trapolitiko.

Three songs we managed to finish.

And then there is Alon Mo.

The one we didn't.

Maybe that is why it will always mean something different to me.

Some songs remind us of what happened.

But there are also songs that remind us of what was still supposed to happen.

Rest well, JJ.

The music remains.

Jeffrey John “JJ” M. Diaz

June 6, 1979 – September 24, 2026

Friend. Musician. Part of the songs I will carry with me.