Duterte’s bloody “war on drugs” has ravaged the country, and although his popularity has waned recently, the Philippine security forces still routinely carry out often fatal anti-drug operations. Some observers estimate Duterte’s anti-drugs crusade has resulted in more than 30,000 casualties.

Ordinary civilian life has taken a hit, especially for the poorest in the country. Smoking in public has been banned, with sometimes severe penalties, including weeks-long jail terms.

It is now illegal for people to hang out on the streets as “bystanders” in a congested tropical country with a large homeless population.

The Exsenadors are one of the most vocally anti-fascist and anti-Duterte punk bands in the country. With a message of struggle and hope, and a firebrand sound, the musicians seek to arouse anger against a common enemy.

In an effort to avoid official retaliation, the band members prefer not to have their surnames published. With Kit on bass, Roman on drums, Julie and Pitz on guitar, and Tomas on lead vocals, the band are known in the local Manila punk scene as “red-skins”, performers who promote militant leftist politics through their music.

Influenced by politically charged 1970s British “Oi” bands such as Peter and the Test Tube Babies, and the 4-Skins, The Exsenadors have been making music since 2003, latterly aimed at the human rights abuses of both Duterte and his predecessor, “Noynoy” Aquino.

The band’s 2015 EP, Kamatayan o Kalayaan (Death or Freedom), railed against a rise in such abuses in the country. One of the songs on the recording, Panginoong May Lupa (Landlord), throws its support behind oppressed peasants in the predominantly agricultural nation, and asks: “Ano pang hinihintay mo? Kumilos na!” (What are we waiting for? Act now!)

“We became more direct in our anti-fascist messages lyrically, short of saying we need a revolution,” says Pitz.

The band appear regularly at protests and underground gigs around the country and is politically active, with messages supporting the struggles of landless peasants, toiling workers and an impoverished Filipino majority reeling from persistent state violence.

The atmosphere at The Exsenadors gigs has become increasingly tense as Duterte’s rule has wound on and atrocities have multiplied, Tomas says.

“Filipino punks are generally anti-fascist,” he adds. “The killings are too flagrant. Filipino punks are becoming more aggressive, more vocal and more open to direct action in protests, for example, especially to oppose the president’s drug war.”

One of the band’s more recent songs, titled The Executioner, denounces Duterte and blames him for the unrelenting spate of killings in the Philippines, not only in the drug war, but also targeting critics of the government from working-class and peasant backgrounds.

The lyrics are direct and incendiary: “Anyone stands against you, will surely have their place. Putting innocent lives, in f****** mass graves.”

Tomas says the band’s music moved towards more progressive messaging as time went on.

While it began as a group of friends, the current line-up is the most politically astute. Members are bound not just by a common interest in punk music, but by their opposition to an increasingly difficult political reality.

Towards the end of 2018, police and soldiers started targeting activists, journalists and anyone remotely critical of the administration, all routinely labelled terrorists or communists; a process dubbed “red-tagging”.

At the end of February, this push was enshrined in proposed anti-terrorism legislation which would permit warrantless arrests for anyone arbitrarily pegged by the authorities as a communist or terrorist.

In such suffocating times, punk rock is an outlet for voicing dissidence and outrage. Punk emerged in the Western world as an expression of working-class discontent and frustration at widening economic inequality and bourgeois hypocrisy.

A middle finger held up in the face of an older generation’s expectations, punk took the world by storm. God Save the Queen, a single released by renegade British punk band the Sex Pistols in 1977, shot to number two in the charts despite being banned from radio.

Punk first took off in the Philippines in the early 1980s, during an earlier period of blatant human rights atrocities. British band The Clash was at its peak, and in 1982 released the album “Combat Rock”; American punk band The Dead Kennedys’ debut studio album, “Fresh Fruit for Rotting Vegetables”, shot some much-needed adrenaline into the movement, with songs such as Kill the Poor, Chemical Warfare and California Uber Alles.

Martial law was formally brought to an end in January 1981, although “subversion”, or any act that the authorities could construe as opposing the status quo, continued to be a crime against national security and often resulted in harsh punishments, including torture and life imprisonment. Dictatorial rule remained until Marcos was deposed in an uprising in 1986.

Against this backdrop, punk rock boomed in the Philippines. Radio stations such as DZRJ-AM played raucous music from abroad, and Metro Manila’s gig scene began to feature a number of local punk groups.

A long-time favourite of the ska-punk crowd is Pinkcow. The band’s range of rebellious yet danceable modern ska music has found a new audience in a generation reaching adulthood during a time of draconian political overreach.

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Pinkcow gigs these days often include O Kung Pasyon (If Only Payson), music set to a poem written by former political detainee Axel Pinpin invoking the suffering of Christ and the marches of peasant activists. With a bright ska sound, the song is an invitation to support peasant uprisings and land occupations amid the killings.

“During these times, it’s stupid not to question yourself and especially this regime,” say the band, none of whose members are willing to be individually quoted. “Songs about humanity, which seems to be missing these days, everything else should follow from that.”

Veteran musician Bobby Balingit has been on the road since his band The Wuds, one of the most influential punk acts in the country, came to life in the ’80s. The Wuds were part of the earliest roster of home-grown punk that breathed life into the underground.

Like many artists, he hates the squalor and violence that many Filipinos have to grapple with every day. He stresses that the drug war primarily affects poor and defenceless people, and its excesses have been made clear to the public many times over.

“Filipinos shouldn’t be made to live in fear,” he says. “A culture of fear is a hellish one. Death is the mistress of fear and hell is their offspring.”

He challenges the artists and young punks of today to be more political. “I hope we hear more songs demonstrating the grievances of people,” he says. “Our aggression can be used as a weapon to help ordinary people.”