In this year ender, we remember one of the shining lights of Philippine theater Freddie Santos through the words of some of our leading artists whose lives he touched
Veteran theater and live concert director Freddie Santos wrote the song, “Could You Be Messiah,” for the ‘80s stage musical First Name, whose original music was the work of the likes of OPM luminaries Gary Valenciano, Ogie Alcasid, Ray-Ann Fuentes, Butch Alvarez, and Bob Serrano. The song is addressed to God or to an instrument of God and now, as Freddie has gone on, it seems to have been written to tell the story of his role in the life of many of our musical artists and pop culture idols. Freddie died in his sleep in the morning of Dec. 17 from complications due to diabetes. He was 64.
That morning, Gary Valenciano was up early, working on a few tweaks on “Could You Be Messiah” for a musical tribute that was being prepared for the theater giant, which sadly had been postponed again and again on account of the pandemic and Freddie’s hospitalization.
Gary’s wife, Angeli Pangilinan-Valenciano, recalls hearing her husband play the melody after dinner one night in the late ‘80s. Regretfully, he had initially turned down First Name due to prior engagements, but for some reason, his schedule freed up. “One night, Gary was tinkering with the instruments and I heard this beautiful melody,” recounts Angeli. “I asked him what it was, what it was for, and he said he wasn’t sure. Immediately I called Freddie, who readily told me, ‘I’m on my way.’ He was at the house by midnight and by 5 a.m., he and Gary had completed the song—‘Could You Be Messiah?’”
More than friends, Angeli and Freddie had worked together on many projects. “In recent years, I became his spiritual mentor,” she says. “He had people to call, depending on his need at the moment, but when it came to prayer, he would call me. You know, I understood why he didn’t like to listen to pastors, evangelists, or preachers. He was a genius, but he bowed to the will of the Lord. So with him, when he called, I would pray the word of God.”
He was a master. He was a master at his craft. He created masterpieces. He was a master to countless pupils whom he mentored. And above all he knew and served his Master.
—Audie Gemora
Of Freddie, Angeli has much to say. “There was a time I stopped hiring him for my projects. He could be bratty, obnoxious, like many of the directors of his time, but we were always friends,” she says. “As an artist, a genius, as a brother in Christ, as a prayer partner, and as a friend, there was no one quite like him, so unconditional, so caring, so loving. I will miss him so badly.”
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In his teens, Tim Yap saw one of Freddie’s shows, Widows, Orphans, and Wildebeests. When he heard that there was an opening for a boy singing about his absentee father, he auditioned for the role. “I spent the next few days in front of him and Audie Gemora at the Music Museum, but to cut the story short, I didn’t get the part,” he says.
After the run of the show, he ran into Freddie, who said, “Where were you? I was going to cast you to be the alternate.” Tim told him, “Maybe theater is not for me. I wanna be a host!”
In reply, the director invited him to his house. “It immediately became a daily thing. He would put a camera in front of me and teach me how to project, how to face an audience, how to enunciate, how to connect to people while onstage,” says Tim.
Freddie had since become a go-to person in Tim’s life, especially in the earlier years of his career. “I would call him for advice,” he says. “When I was offered to do the lead role for a project, he told me not to do it. ‘What value does it add to you? Life is not dictated by how many times you say yes, but by how many times you say no because your nos will empower your yesses further.’”
A secret mentor, Freddie was also Tim’s stern critic. “He would tell me straight whether I was great or awful in a TV or radio guesting,” he recounts. “He was my reality check and my dream weaver. I once asked him, ‘Freddie, what if your childhood dreams had already come true? What’s next?’ In his booming, theatrical, God-like voice, he said, ‘Well, it’s time. To. Dream. New. Dreams.’”
Freddie was Tim’s go-to person for everything, even when Tim decided to venture into the club scene. “He was my teacher, mentor, and dear, dear friend,” he says. “I don’t know where I would be in my life and career had I not met this man.”
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Menchu Lauchengco Yulo met Freddie in 1978 when she was cast as one of his daughters in Repertory Philippines’ production of A Fiddler on the Roof. He was to her a mentor and a friend. “He taught me all the basics about performing,” she says. “And he was always there for me. I would turn to him if I was frustrated or needed advice.”
To Menchu, Freddie was always larger than life and yet he was so giving of himself that he could make the people around him feel very special. “I will always remember his reaction when he liked my performance because he would jump up and down with excitement,” she beams.
Menchu would like the world to remember him as an incomparable artist. “Freddie was an amazing talent, so gifted, one of a kind. He always thought out of the box,” she says. “He wrote songs with the most beautiful lyrics. He could do everything. But he was also a friend. And I am proudest of that.”
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Menchu’s brother, Raymond Lauchengco, was only 12 years old when he met Freddie at rehearsals for Repertory Philippines’ The King and I.
“I’ll never forget the first thing I ever heard him say—or was it shout?— to all of us children on the cast, who were running amok on the 14th floor rehearsal space of what was then the brand new Metrobank Plaza in Makati, which had windows that were open down to the floor,” recalls Raymond. “He said, ‘Unless any of you children are as big as me, you are to stop running around and stay away from the windows, unless you want to fall down 14 storeys and die!’ I was 12 and those words gave me what was perhaps my first epiphany: Being in a musical could cost me my life.”
To Raymond, Freddie was a giant in every possible way. “He was tall and he was big. He had a booming baritone voice with a personality and a passion that was even bigger,” he says. “The only thing bigger than he was was his talent. He could act up a storm, he could write, he could paint, teach, sing, choreograph, design, direct. Name any artistic endeavor, he could most likely do it.”
It wasn’t only in theater that his and Freddie’s paths crossed. “When I started to record and come out in movies, he became my second manager at Viva Films,” says Raymond. “From him I learned how to smoke my first cigarette, how to drink wine, and how to write love letters to girls that would get results.”
But it wasn’t always smooth sailing between them. “Freddie was an all-or-nothing kind of guy. When he gave, he gave until it hurt, and when he took, he sometimes wanted more,” says Raymond. “We didn’t always see eye to eye. We had yelling matches, and tantrums that kept us from speaking to each other for years. But that never changed the fact that he had made a huge impact in my life.”
Now that Raymond is all grown up, Freddie remains a giant in his eyes. “The body of work that Freddie left behind are like giant pieces of him. And they are his legacy. That, along with so many artists he nurtured and taught,” he muses. “I would like Freddie to be remembered for the creative force that he was. He could do it all, and he did, even when he didn’t have to. His vision for any work he was doing was always so clear and strong to him that he couldn’t help not being a part of every single detail. Delegating was not his strong suit. And that is why his works are all so powerful, so personal. You will find Freddie’s soul in every song, or musical, or poem that he wrote. In them, you will hear his questions, his opinions, his joy, his fears and every emotion in between.”
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In Audie Gemora’s own words:
I met Freddie when I joined Repertory Philippines in 1978. Repertory Philippines doyenne Zenaida Amador assigned him to coach me when she gave me my first lead role. It was Freddie who taught me the basics of acting. He would be my mentor for life. Most everything I know about performing I learned from him. We became the dearest of friends, constant collaborators. Artistic and personality clashes notwithstanding, our bond, mutual respect, and love for each other were transcendent.
My best memory of Freddie Santos is not one specific memory but many over the years we did the phenomenal show Joseph the Dreamer. In 1988 he was tapped to direct a cantata for a small choir in Cebu but he adapted the choral piece into a musical and brought a bunch of us Manila-based artists to play the acting parts. He gave me the title role. The show became a massive hit. It ran for 10 years. You can imagine the memories spanning that period. The show changed our lives. Performing is ethereal but we discovered that by using our talents to tell audiences about the saving grace of God, our work would have eternal consequences. We found our purpose and calling. In 1991 we established Trumpets, the country’s first professional Christian theater group. Freddie continued to write groundbreaking musicals.
Freddie’s contributions to the local entertainment industry as director and mentor to generations of artists are incredibly extensive. He was a master. He was a master at his craft. He created masterpieces. He was a master to countless pupils whom he mentored. And above all he knew and served his Master.