Music a language in itself in north-east India

Singers and bands are creating a complex tapestry of melodies that defies easy analysis.

The Prophets, a band from Mizoram, perform at ZFM 2022. | Photo Credit: Mohit Sharma

“Rock as a music genre is being replaced by an inferior form of hip hop in most parts of India, but in the north-east, it is still going strong,” says Niranj Suresh, lead vocalist of Motherjane. “That’s why we have a great fan following in the north-east. Yes, rock is alive and kicking here; we love to perform here.”

Suresh’s explanation probably aligns with the most popular perceptions of the region. This is where rock, grunge, and metal found Indian homes long before the nation’s metropolises were ready for them. The average Indian listening to English music will probably cite second-hand quotes about Shillong being the rock capital of India, or about Mokokchung in Nagaland being a living museum of English music from a bygone era.

Crowds at ZFM 2019. | Photo Credit: Mohit Sharma

Other truisms will come tumbling out. People here, it will be observed, have always wanted an identity contrarian to the mainstream identity, and rock and metal were as far away as one could get from, say, S.D. Burman. But those who are better informed will be aware of the role played by the student agitations in Assam, Mizoram, and Meghalaya in the 1970s and 1980s. When the army was called in and curfews were common. During those interminable evenings, according to legend, the region’s youth began listening to the stereo and strumming on the two guitars that every household here is mandated to own. Music became a pastime as well as protest. This probably explains best why metal and rock fared better than pop and jazz in the region.

New revolution

From some accounts now, it would appear that the sense of rebellion and novelty has worn off. Speaking to a newspaper in 2014, veteran Lou Majaw, the biggest rockstar of the north-east, had said: “At times I feel we still have a colonial hangover. We are obsessed with white skin. Young boys in Shillong blindly follow whatever foreigners have to offer.” Majaw was lamenting the lack of innovation among rock bands in Shillong. A more scathing indictment came from Angaraag Mahanta, popularly known as Papon, earlier this year. Speaking to an online news portal, he said: “Most of the music from the north-east sounds like rock songs sung in Assamese or Khasi or Naga. If you take the language out, there is no sound or instrument of the place.”

As if in defiant response, a new generation of musicians in the north-east is crafting a new revolution. And this time it isn’t mimicking, embracing or adopting. “They’re owning the music,” says David Baker, lead vocalist of Dr Dope. “They are going to change the idea of what the north-east can actually do.” To understand this emerging trend, we must first understand the malleability of language in this part of India.

Language agnosticism

People in the north-east, especially those in States like Arunachal Pradesh, can travel an hour or two in any direction and suddenly find that their mother tongue is not understood any more. The experience can be disorienting but perhaps also liberating. It probably gives them the opportunity to shed their linguistic identity and become not just multilingual, but true polyglots. The typical older Arunachali knows at least Hindi whereas younger generations are proficient in Hindi and English.

Romio Debbarman, the lead vocalist of the Tripura band Koloma, at ZFM 2022. | Photo Credit: Eshwar Sundaresan

Additionally, probably because they belong to cultures that rely heavily on oral traditions, Arunachalis have enormous fondness for music—a medium in which ideas find longevity and appeal. In such cultures, perhaps the medium itself becomes the language. This aligns with the anthropological viewpoint that music not only preceded language, but that language can actually be seen as a special type of music.

Is that why it is possible to find cab drivers in Arunachal Pradesh play, in quick succession, say, Maroon Five, Arijit, Nepali band Gauley Bhai, Arunachali songs, and then Bhupen Hazarika? They will do it without the smallest hint of self-consciousness or awareness that this behaviour is special; everyone they know is as language agnostic.

“Language does not matter, only vibes do,” says Lewis Jeke Tamin, a student hailing from the Tagin tribe, who listens to Original Anime soundtracks in Japanese, rappers like Raftaar, Emiway Bantai and Rajakumari, and a smattering of Spanish and K-Pop songs.

“And if I feel the vibes,” adds his friend Chukhu Durum, hailing from the Nyishi tribe, “I can find the lyrics online and understand what the singer wants to communicate.”

There is anecdotal evidence that this language agnosticism might have had an unfortunate side-effect. Jeke Tamin’s Tagin tribe hails from Arunachal’s Upper Subansiri district where, in the headquarters town of Daporijo, Father Linchu Paul and Father Godson help run a missionary school where they have seen Tagin children being unfamiliar with their own dialect.

Having said that, at the campus of Saint Claret College in Ziro, often cited as one of the best colleges of the State, the language-agnostic approach is palpable. Linggi Wulla, who hails from the Idu-Mishmi tribe, wears a T-shirt that betrays her fondness for K-Pop band BTS. She will breathlessly tell you what their music means to her. In the next bout of breathlessness, she will ask you to listen to a collection of “Nepali aesthetic songs”, then quickly recite her favourite Bollywood numbers. But she reserves her loudest chortle and widest eyes when speaking of Taba Chake—an Arunachali superstar who can be wistful in three languages.

Anula Namshum | Photo Credit: Eshwar Sundaresan

Outside the north-east, a musician seldom carries his audiences across three languages. The versatile S.P. Balasubrahmanyam sang in many languages but few fans followed his work in languages they did not know. In Arunachal Pradesh, however, an Idu-Mishmi girl like Wulla will happily hear Taba Chake sing not just in Hindi and English but also in Nyishi and rely on Google gods to supply her with the lyrics and meaning.

Says Takar Nabam, another superstar of the State known nationwide for his crazy guitaring skills: “It doesn’t really matter much which language I use. As long as you’re getting your message across as a songwriter, if you can share your story and people can connect to it, that’s about it, you know?”

Perhaps no musician takes the concept of language agnosticism further than Rito Riba who recently wowed the nation in Indian Idol and whose ouster created a regional outrage. Search YouTube and you will find the gifted youngster croon in Nepali, Galo, Assamese, Bangla, Himachali, Punjabi plus English and Hindi.

Other States are also inching towards language agnosticism. Like most Nagas, singer-songwriter Abdon Mech grew up singing gospel hymns in church. “Growing up, we didn’t have many venues,” he says. “The only place where we could play live music was church. That upbringing has contributed to the proliferation of English music in the State.”

Thus, the church indirectly gave birth to, and then sustained, Nagaland’s (and by extension, Mizoram’s and Meghalaya’s) foray into rock. But even in this bastion of English music, there is a surge in Nagamese music. A case in point is Sunep Lemtur whose Nagamese pop rakes in millions of views on his YouTube channel.

Meanwhile, Tripura, known for its compositions in Kokborok and Bangla, is tentatively exploring English, according to Romio Debbarman, the lead vocalist of Koloma. And that takes care of one of Papon’s allegations: the music’s fixation with English.

Let us now explore the second: the music’s rock-centricity.

Versatile flock

Until a few months ago, Anula Namshum was yet another government employee in the historic town of Chongkham in Namsai district of eastern Arunachal Pradesh. But following the success of her sensuous and nostalgic pop single ‘Dream’, a disbelieving Namshum found herself debuting at ZFM. She says she is the first from her Tai Khamti tribe to record a song in any language other than their own dialect.

Her senior in the industry is Pungmin Dolo, whose R&B songs like ‘Alone’ and ‘December’ won’t be out of place in Manhattan. Dolo partners with Don Kam whose attire and rap won’t be out of place in Harlem.

Baba Sehgal performs on Pwlo stage at ZFM 2022. | Photo Credit: Mohit Sharma

“There are lots of young rappers coming up in the north-east. In places like Tripura and, especially, Arunachal,” says Anup Kutty, one of the co-founders of ZFM. Anup also answers another question often posed by outsiders: is inventiveness confined only to the use of exotic languages? What about local instruments? Says Kutty: “In places like Arunachal Pradesh, there aren’t many well-developed folk music forms. And not many folk instruments. Which is why the emerging scene is rooted in very different ground.”

What Kutty is subtly pointing to is that the instrumental infrastructure required to create a vibrant history and culture of folk music is almost non-existent here. This needs to be kept in mind when one hears David Angu—a young singer-songwriter who sings in Galo, Nyishi, Apatani and English—say: “Earlier, we played only rock stubs, but now we are experimenting with folk fusion. I myself infuse folk with rock.” The recording of the north-east’s folk sounds is a complex project that is now slowly being taken up. (Read ‘Their stories keep the Wancho together’ on pages 15-17.)

Arunachali musicians are attempting to bring folk, or at the very least, the spirit of innovation to genres like pop (a la Rito Riba, Chorun Mugli), indie pop (Taba Chake), and alternative rock (Taba Chake, Takar Nabam), among others. Says Sharad Rao, guitarist and lead vocalist of Pune-based Easy Wanderlings, “I feel they have a lot of heart and diversity. There’s so much more exploration, you know… it’s just refreshingly different.”

In Nagaland, the bastion of rock is being propped up with gifted metal and hip hop musicians. In fact, Kohima hosted the State’s first hip hop festival in 2019.

At last count, there were 72 music festivals in the north-east, and even the most prominent of them could not raise the kind of sponsorship an ordinary festival in metropolitan India can. “Unless you are playing in those places, it is very difficult to get heard, you know?” says Takar Nabam. “So I feel there is a long way to go. In terms of marketing, branding. Also, musicians need to put more effort into their craft and take it to another level, go international someday.”

One day soon, maybe the roads to the north-east will get better, maybe the region will become more fused with the mainland, maybe somebody from the current crop of musicians or a yet-undiscovered talent will race down the hills and plunge us into their talent in a manner that cannot be ignored.

For now, there is reason to rejoice. Musicians in the region are no longer stuck to a language or genre. They are following their hearts, going in unexpected directions. Together, they are creating a complex tapestry of music that defies easy analysis. That is how you know you are witnessing something special.

Eshwar Sundaresan is an author, freelance journalist, counsellor, life skills trainer and bestselling ghostwriter.

The Crux

• A new generation of musicians in the north-east is crafting a new revolution.
• Arunachalis have enormous fondness for music—a medium in which ideas find longevity and appeal. In such cultures, perhaps the medium itself becomes the language.
• No musician takes the concept of language agnosticism further than Rito Riba who recently wowed the nation in Indian Idol .
• The instrumental infrastructure required to create a vibrant history and culture of folk music is almost non-existent in Arunachal.
• Arunachali musicians are attempting to bring folk, or at the very least, the spirit of innovation to genres like pop (a la Rito Riba, Chorun Mugli), indie pop (Taba Chake), and alternative rock (Taba Chake, Takar Nabam), among others.
• Musicians in the north-east are following their hearts, going in unexpected directions.