A legacy beyond music
Before gracing the big stages, Nonoy Zuñiga’s musical journey began as an unsuspecting 15-year-old, performing in Quezon City folk bars.
Growing up in the Scout area near Kamuning, he spent his Sundays playing the guitar for a local choir at the Sacred Heart Parish-Church. There, he tagged along with Caloy, a friend a few years older, who—unbeknownst to him—was a choir boy by day and a folk singer by night. It was him who urged Zuñiga to give singing a shot.
He hesitated at first, thinking he was too young and not up to the task. Besides, he figured that his mother might have something to say about it. But at Caloy’s constant urging, Zuñiga relented. Soon enough, he found himself practicing and memorizing close to 30 songs.
“I copied the lyrics and chords from Jingle magazine, writing them down in notebooks,” he tells Lifestyle Inquirer in an interview for his upcoming concert, “Beyond Gold: Songs of a Lifetime,” on Sept. 5, at the Newport Performing Arts Theater.
“But if the magazine didn’t have the songs I wanted, I listened to them on records and cassette tapes, rewinding them again and again to catch the words. Ang sipag ko!”
Luckily, with his talent and eagerness, he managed to land a spot at a nearby bar and quickly won over the regulars. Every week, he played two sets of 30 to 40 songs—each lasting 45 to 60 minutes. “‘Diyan ako nahasa,’” he says.
After each night, he went home with P10 to P15 in his pockets, which was no small amount back in the late 1960s to early 1970s. “I was making around P30 in a week. I didn’t have to ask for an allowance anymore. I was also able to chip in for household expenses,” recalls Zuñiga, who continued as a folk singer for two more years, performing classics like Cat Stevens’ “Wild World” at places like Alfie’s and My Father’s Mustache.
In college, he started performing with musical groups, including the 11-piece Family Birth Control Band, where he served as lead singer from 1975 to 1980. By then, he was earning P25 per show. And although the nights were often sleepless and he didn’t get to save much, he did have “a lot of fun.”
Not all hope is lost
It bears mentioning that his career’s early years were spent during martial law—a time when gigs could be interrupted by the sounds of gunshots outside; and when he could end up courting trouble with drunken, powerful figures, if he dared turn down a song request. And on Oct. 4 1980, the occasional chaos struck terrifyingly close.
Before a show, while changing in the restroom of the Siete Pecados bar at the Westin Philippine Plaza, a bomb in a trash can exploded, injuring his right leg and eventually leading to its amputation. He loved dancing almost as much as he loved singing. He spent the next few weeks in the hospital, devastated and in desperate search for answers.
“I wanted to quit music,” he says.
But with the love and support of his family and friends, Zuñiga eventually realized that all hope was not lost. “Perhaps I have a purpose,” he recalls thinking back then.
The following year, as part of the United Nations’ observance of the International Year of Disabled Persons, he was invited to interpret “Ako ay Ikaw Rin” at the fourth Metro Manila Popular Music Festival. One of the judges that night, renowned composer Willy Cruz of Jem Records, was impressed by Zuñiga’s performance and wasted no time offering him a contract.
The chance encounter turned out to be providential. Cruz went on to write “Never Ever Say Goodbye,” “Doon Lang,” and “Kumusta Ka”—songs that would catapult Zuñiga into stardom as a solo recording artist. Now he was making real money.
“I started with P10,000, then P20,000… P40,000. You also earn dollars from overseas shows. That’s when I finally started saving—until I had enough to buy a house,” says the singer, who juggled his professional career with medical school, which took him eight years to finish, at the University of Santo Tomas.
Laying the groundwork
But more than fame and fortune, Zuñiga’s voice served a greater purpose—lending it not only to music, but to causes dear to him, like the rights and welfare of persons with disabilities (PWD).
His recording of “Ako Ay Ikaw Rin” was embraced as an anthem of inclusion. Beyond music, he gave inspirational talks and co-hosted the public service show “Kapwa Ko Mahal Ko.” He also supported various medical missions and charitable initiatives benefiting orphans, indigents, and the elderly.
But more importantly, he served as executive director of the National Council for the Welfare of Disabled Persons from 1989 to 1994. During his tenure, he acted as a bridge among various government agencies: advocating for better social services, accessibility, and equal rights in the workplace.
And while much of his work involved coordination and oversight—and despite the council’s lack of “teeth” to implement policies, which he admitted was a source of frustration—his efforts helped lay the groundwork for the 1992 enactment of the Magna Carta for Disabled Persons, a landmark Philippine law on disability rights.
Accessibility, in particular, was something he felt strongly about, having experienced firsthand the challenges of navigating public establishments without ramps, railings, and designated parking spaces for persons with limited mobility. And when such facilities did exist, they were few and far between and usually not up to specification.
“Some of the ramps back then were so steep they might as well have been slides,” Zuñiga, who uses an artificial limb and walks with the aid of a cane, says with a laugh.
“It was really difficult back then. If you used a wheelchair and had to enter a building with steps, you had no choice but to be carried. You always had to have someone with you,” he adds. “I remember at UST, our building’s elevators were always broken. So you can only imagine what it was like attending classes on the fourth floor.”
Doing his part
While things aren’t perfect, he believes that much progress has been made since his time with the council. Seeing more buildings equipped with accessible facilities now warms his heart. “Ang saya. And I’m proud because I feel like I did my part” says the 71-year-old singer, who’s just as thrilled to see PWDs actively participating in the workforce.
“They might seem small, but these features are a great help to PWDs,” he adds. “The facilities help them function properly. And when they function properly, they feel more inspired to contribute to our society.”
When people hear his name, it’s natural that his rich baritone and signature hits come to mind first. But he believes that this lesser-discussed part of his career is an equally—if not more—meaningful part of his legacy. That’s why he feels it’s only right to devote a segment of his upcoming concert to his causes.
“I don’t normally sing ‘Ako Ay Ikaw Rin’ these days, but I will include it in my setlist this time around,” he says. “I also have a special number planned with deaf children.”
Looking back to that fateful day he almost gave up on music, the idea of lasting 50 years in showbiz once seemed far-fetched. “But I’m still here,” Zuñiga says. “May purpose pala lahat—tutulong pala ako. To feel one with others like me.”
