There was a time when Pablo Tariman figured in what we called our Malate period, him, Josie Darang, and myself. When there was nothing better to do, we met for dinner at Aristocrat, just across Cultural Center, for native food or, on the corner of Roxas and San Andres, for Chinese food (including duck from Taiwan) at the restaurant owned by MOC (Manuel Chua).

That was the time Tariman gave himself the nickname Doloroso – a private joke with its origins in a modeling school. In an earlier civilization, a more innocent time, I imagined Doloroso as a towncrier who spread the good news by shouting at the top of his voice for the entire neighborhood to hear, or a lamplighter who brought light to the community as soon as the sun had set.

Almost 50 years ago, Pablo Doloroso was just starting out as the p.r.o. of concerts, a line of work that involved so-called long-haired classical music that required the participation of classically trained musicians and their classy audience. P.r.-wise, you could say Pablo pioneered this type of specialization.

Today, looking at his 2025 portrait showing him with his back to the keyboard of a grand piano, one had to wonder if he knew how to play or even read notes! At the memorial in honor of the man and his work during a mass last Tuesday in UP, no one bothered to ask, let alone answer, the question. Father Robert Reyes, who confessed that he did not know Pablo, said the mass, backed by a choir of half a dozen voices.

Beer was Pablo’s main food, maybe his only food. Whenever he was with me and Josie, his only food was beer. I never bothered to count how many bottles he could down in one go. The real food that he played with his fork on the plate was only so much decoration.

The last time I saw Pablo, he opened the door of his gleaming white SUV when he saw me standing on the sidewalk after a concert and asked if I needed a ride. At a mall months before that, I forced him to sit down with us and eat something, such as beer. Which he did, then he was gone.