Bong Revilla, Budots, and the Fall of Gimmick Politics in the Philippines

In the morning after the election, I scrolled through the Senate results. No confetti. No crowd noise. Just cold numbers on a screen.

And when I saw Bong Revilla outside the Magic 12, I didn’t celebrate.

I just paused.

Because this wasn’t just about one man losing a seat. It was about something shifting in us — the voters.

The same dance that once swept him into power didn’t work this time. Not even with DJ Love backing the beat. Not even with a jeepney and a crowd of extras bouncing to the rhythm.

Maybe we’ve grown tired of gimmicks. Maybe, finally, the Filipino voter is asking harder questions.

Especially the youth.

Gen Z, armed with nothing but smartphones and sincerity, didn’t buy the performance. And that, to me, is the real win.

We’re still far from where we need to be. But for the first time in a long time, it feels like we took a step forward — not by marching, but by voting with our eyes open.

The Day the Music Died — Budots Politics Falls Flat

In 2019, Bong Revilla danced his way back into the Senate. Literally. He released a low-budget campaign ad featuring himself grooving to Budots, an electronic beat from Davao City, complete with awkward arm swings and hip rolls. It was ridiculous. It was mocked. And it worked (Bong Revilla’s 2019 campaign page).

Despite having just been acquitted of plunder, despite public skepticism, he made it into the Magic 12 — a comeback sealed not with policy proposals but with memeable choreography (ABS-CBN).

So in 2025, he brought it all back. This time, with a jeepney, a cheering crowd, and the blessing of DJ Love, the original creator of the Budots sound (Rolling Stone Philippines). Revilla doubled down on the gimmick, convinced lightning could strike twice.

When people criticized him for campaigning with a dance again, he clapped back with a line he probably thought was clever:
“Sinasabi nila nag-budots lang daw ako. Nag-budots ako ng dalawang libong panukalang batas at nakapag-pasa ng 343 na batas na pinapakinabangan ng ating mga teachers.”

In his mind, it wasn’t just a dance — it was a metaphor for productivity. A two-step legislative masterclass.

But the voters didn’t buy it.

He got just 12,027,845 votes — barely 2.8% — not even close to a seat (Inquirer). The same crowd that once found him entertaining had moved on. The same dance that once won hearts now drew silence.

It wasn’t the music that changed. It was the people.

The Rise of a Wiser Youth Vote

Gen Z didn’t just show up in memes and marches — they showed up at the polls.

Out of 68 million registered voters, nearly 20 million were Gen Z. When you add Millennials into the mix, 60% of the entire electorate came from these two generations (PIA, PhilStar). That’s not just influence. That’s power.

But what set this bloc apart wasn’t just the numbers — it was how they voted.

No stars in their eyes. No sentimental loyalty to surnames. Just a quiet hunger for change, and maybe even justice.

Professor Dennis Coronacion called them “highly discerning.” And it showed. They weren’t moved by slogans, dance numbers, or recycled catchphrases. They were looking for plans. Policies. Proof. Candidates who actually understood the world they’re inheriting (PIA).

In the Lingayen-Lucena corridor, home to around 40% of Philippine voters, the shift was unmistakable. This is a vote-rich region that politicians typically court with machinery and name recall. But this year, those old tactics fell flat.

Revilla’s slate — the Alyansa para sa Bagong Pilipinas — couldn’t connect. No message. No direction. Just a dance and a smile. And it wasn’t enough. Political analyst Robin Garcia said it plainly: they lacked “a compelling persuasive narrative” (Inquirer).

This wasn’t apathy. This was awareness.

Gen Z voters — most of whom have never known a Philippines without internet, disinformation, and performative politics — made their stand quietly. Not with noise. Not with drama. Just with a vote.

And in that vote, they told everyone watching: we’re not here to be entertained.

I used to think “vote wisely” didn’t work — that it was just a tired slogan tossed around during election season with no real effect. But I’m glad to say I was wrong. This time, it meant something. And I’ve never been happier to be proven wrong.

Spectacle Fatigue Sets In

There was a time in this country when celebrity was enough.

You didn’t need to explain your platform — just smile, shake hands, throw a punchline, or break into dance. If your name rang a bell from TV or cinema, that was your campaign.

But something changed in 2025.

Willie Revillame ran. So did Manny Pacquiao and Philip Salvador. All household names. All expected to glide into power like it was just another rerun of their Sunday shows or action films.

None of them made it into the Magic 12 (Inquirer, GMA).

And this time, it wasn’t even close.

One columnist described it as a “Road to Damascus” moment — not for the candidates, but for the voters. People began to ask: What exactly do these entertainers plan to do if they win? (Manila Times).

Because the job isn't to make people laugh or dance or cry. It’s to write laws. Fix problems. Represent. And no amount of name recall can cover up a blank resume.

On social media, the vibe shifted too.

The videos weren’t getting admiration — they were getting laughed at. On Threads and Reddit, users began reposting campaign dance clips with captions that oozed sarcasm. One post said it best:
“During campaign period they dance. For other times, they sing — sa Senate hearing” (Threads, Reddit).

Even fiesta-style campaigning — with lewd dance gimmicks, stage contests, and free karaoke — started to backfire. Instead of excitement, it sparked criticism and mockery. What used to feel festive now felt tone-deaf (Manila Bulletin).

Maybe it’s not that people suddenly became policy experts. Maybe it’s just that they’ve seen the show one too many times — and this time, they walked out before the punchline.

When Competence Replaces Charisma

Not everyone lost in 2025. Some quietly, steadily, convincingly won.

Bam Aquino didn’t dance. He didn’t belt out campaign jingles. He didn’t go viral on TikTok. What he did instead was run what analysts described as the “most scientific campaign” of the season — targeted, strategic, and rooted in substance. No fanfare. Just focused outreach in key voting regions where it mattered (Inquirer).

And it worked.

Kiko Pangilinan, another familiar name, returned to the Senate not because of celebrity nostalgia, but because people remembered his work. Quiet, consistent, and without drama. His platform was rooted in agricultural reform, livelihood programs, and human rights — not Instagram reels or personality politics.

Both of them ran campaigns that would’ve been called boring in another election cycle. But this year, boring looked a lot like credible.

The lesson? You don’t need the biggest stage if your message is strong enough.

As WR Numero’s Robin Garcia put it, it wasn’t about machinery — it was about message. About clarity. About earning trust instead of performing for it (Inquirer).

And maybe that’s the real shift we’re seeing: voters aren’t just saying no to the bad ones. They’re starting to say yes to the right ones.

Competence didn’t have to compete with charisma this time.

It simply showed up — and finally, people noticed.

The Collapse of the Marcos-Alyansa Slate

It wasn’t just individual candidates who lost in 2025. An entire slate crumbled.

Alyansa para sa Bagong Pilipinas, the senatorial lineup backed by the Marcos administration, came into the race with all the confidence that power tends to bring. It had machinery. It had visibility. It had the weight of incumbency.

And yet, it underperformed — badly.

The defeat wasn’t subtle either. In Leyte, home province of Speaker Martin Romualdez, the slate faltered. Worse, even Ilocos Norte — the Marcos family’s own backyard — didn’t deliver the numbers they expected (Inquirer).

These were supposed to be their strongholds. The so-called solid north. But it turns out even loyal provinces have their limits.

Political analyst Malou Tiquia didn’t mince words. She called it a case of “self-inflicted wounds.” The slate failed to read the mood of the electorate. While voters were growing hungry for answers, they offered applause lines. While people wanted plans, they brought party tricks.

They believed power was enough. It wasn’t.

For the longest time, we were told that political machinery wins elections. That with enough resources, branding, and air time, any candidate could be sold to the public like detergent.

But not this year.

Revilla had machinery. He had name recall. He had airtime and an entire campaign built on nostalgia. Still, he lost. The same went for the other names aligned with the administration’s ticket.

And that’s what made this loss different. It wasn’t random. It was connected.

The gimmicks flopped. The youth voted. The public got tired of being played. And even the most well-oiled machine couldn’t run over a road that was already cracking beneath it.

Budots Is Still a Vibe, But It’s Not a Vote

Budots isn’t dead.

You’ll still hear it at fiestas, barangay basketball games, and birthday parties where someone’s always yelling “Sound check!” into the mic. It’s still on TikTok. Still blasting from sari-sari store speakers. Still undeniably, unapologetically Filipino.

Because Budots is more than just a beat — it’s a vibe. A rhythm that grew from Davao’s underground street corners into something nationally recognizable. Say what you want about it, but it’s ours (CNN).

But that doesn’t mean it belongs in the Senate.

When Bong Revilla first danced to Budots in 2019, it felt new. Absurd, yes. But new. It cut through the noise and made headlines. Voters laughed — and then voted. The dance was a symbol of accessibility, charm, maybe even humility.

But by 2025, that symbol cracked.

The same dance felt recycled. The same beat felt forced. The charm turned hollow. And the voters? They’d moved on.

It’s not that we stopped dancing. We just stopped mistaking it for a qualification.

Budots politics — the kind that banks on rhythm instead of reason — turned into a joke this election. It became a punchline in group chats, a meme in comment sections. What was once clever now felt cheap.

This isn’t about shaming the music. It’s about context.

Because in the Senate, we don’t need DJs. We need laws. And while there’s nothing wrong with dancing, maybe we’re finally learning that the dance floor and the Senate floor are two very different places.

Revilla’s Graceful Exit

On May 13, 2025, the morning after the votes were tallied, Bong Revilla conceded.

No drama. No denial. No long-winded press conference trying to spin the numbers. Just a statement.

“Ang paglilingkod ay isang pribilehiyo mula sa inyo at sa Panginoon, at atin laging pinapa-sa-Diyos ang ating tinatahak.”
(Manila Bulletin)

For someone who has yet to return the ₱124.5 million as ordered by the Sandiganbayan in connection with the pork barrel scam, invoking the name of God so freely in his farewell feels... convenient. But I digress.

It wasn’t bitter. It wasn’t desperate. It sounded like acceptance. Maybe even relief.

There was no blaming the youth vote. No shade toward fellow candidates. No complaints about surveys, machinery, or social media. Just a quiet step back and a promise to spend more time with family.

And in an election season filled with noise, that silence felt loud.

Because for once, a losing candidate didn’t try to rewrite the ending. He just read the final line, then closed the book.

He may not have said it outright. But the message was clear: the dance was over.

And this time, there was no encore.

A New Beat, A New Beginning

Budots didn’t fail because the music changed. It failed because the voters did.

The formula that once worked — dance a little, smile a lot, say nothing — finally broke down. And not just because people rejected it. But because many of them chose better.

That’s the part we don’t talk about enough. We always say “don’t vote for clowns,” but we rarely take time to honor those who voted for competence. For substance. For the kind of public servants who don’t rely on rhythm to win respect.

It’s not a revolution. Not yet. The dynasties are still here. The machinery is still humming. And the gullible bloc — the easily swayed, the entertained into submission — hasn’t disappeared. But something is happening.

They’re being replaced.

Jose Rizal once said, “Ang kabataan ang pag-asa ng bayan.” For the longest time, it sounded like wishful thinking. A ceremonial line we parroted every August. But in 2025, it felt true. Finally.

The youth didn’t just vote — they voted with clarity.

And it gives me hope. Because I’ve always dreamed of seeing the halls of the Senate return to what they once were — a bulwark of democracy, filled not with performers but with patriots.

Where people like Joker Arroyo, Jose W. Diokno, Lorenzo Tañada, Ninoy Aquino, Sergio Osmeña Sr., Claro M. Recto, and Teofisto Guingona Jr. once walked — defenders of the Constitution, voices of conscience, men and women who saw public office not as a stage, but as a sacred trust.

We’re not there yet. But we’re closer.

Budots still plays in the streets. At birthdays. In barangays. That beat isn’t going away.

But in 2025, for the first time in years, it didn’t play at the ballot box.

And that, I think, is something worth dancing about.