Behind the dazzling spectacle and captivating performances by the brass bandsmen in ceremonial contexts, there is a more complex and layered world. Abhishek Mathur, a musician and member of an ensemble band himself, begins to unpack the colonial histories, contradictions, and social conditions in which the celebratory sounds and artistry of the brass bands are enmeshed.
It is a warm April morning in 2023 as I make my way to the busy Bhogal market in Jangpura, a locality in the southeastern part of Delhi. Bhogal’s historical roots go back centuries as a village on the old Delhi-Mathura road. When the British began work on the new Viceregal Lodge in the early 20th century (as part of the larger project to create «New Delhi»), the residents of the chosen site called Raisina were relocated to areas near Bhogal by a certain Colonel Charles Young. The new village that sprang up here began to be called «Young-pura» (Young Village), eventually becoming «Jangpura». In 1947, during the partition of India, Jangpura was one of the sites for relocation of Sikh and Hindu refugees arriving from West Punjab (areas now in Pakistan). Over time, many communities have settled in this area, including Afghans who have left their war-torn homeland during the past few decades. Jangpura’s landscape is dotted with temples, mosques, and other places of worship belonging to the countless religions followed in India.
The center of activity today is the Mahavir Swami Digambar Jain Temple, where the birth anniversary of Lord Mahavira, the supreme teacher of the Jain religion is, being celebrated with a grand event. The area surrounding the temple and the market beyond have colorful banners hanging from trees and electricity poles. Opposite the temple itself there are large parade floats with statues depicting Lord Mahavira sitting in meditation along with other scenes from his life. An ornate wooden chariot painted gold rests on one side close to a makeshift platform and a public announcement system beside it. Today will not be a day of prayers and hymns however – we are about to witness something entirely different.
In the midst of the preparations and the market slowly coming to life, we see a group of men trickling in – these are the bandsmen, the special musicians who will soon bring the celebrations to life. Donned in uniforms of different styles and colors, they carry shiny brass instruments and drums of varying shapes and sizes. Some of them hold aloft banners that advertise their group – «Jea Band», «Master Band», «Shiv Pawan Band». As the sun climbs higher above the dusty Delhi skies, more and more bandmen arrive on the scene. Members of the same group stake out their own corners where they lay down their instruments and share some light moments with each other. They crack jokes while enjoying a smoke and sweet milky tea from the local stall while soaking in the setting.
These brass bands are the reason I am here today. Found in cities, towns, and villages scattered all across the Indian subcontinent, their size, instruments, and presentation may vary, but they all constitute a musical and cultural phenomenon that is unique to this part of the world. Bands like these are seen most often at weddings as part of a procession known as the baraat, in which the family members of the groom make their way to the venue hosted by the bride’s family, dancing and singing to the music of the band accompanied by glittering lights and fireworks. They are also hired to play at other public occasions like political rallies, sporting events, and religious functions like the one that we are witnessing today.
The History of Brass Music in India
Brass music in India was a colonial import and began with British military bands. In the introductory text to their study of the legacies of colonial brass band cultures across the world, Suzanne Ana Reily and Katherine Brucher cite Rob Boonzajer Flaes’s description of the European military band as a metaphor for European colonialism:
«such ensembles were dispatched to the colonies with the explicit aim of promoting a sense of amazement among the ‹natives›. Their ‹terrible beauty› was able to unite, in a single formula, a clear hierarchy and labor structure, an orderly portrayal of power and military might, and dazzling modern technology in the form of bright, indestructible musical instruments» (Boonzajer Flaes quoted in Reily and Brucher 2013, 11).
In many colonial outposts, local musicians were trained to play European instruments for military parades and maneuvers; in this way a significant number of locals became competent performers in new musical idioms. Frequently, these musicians were called upon to perform their new skills outside military contexts, establishing links between military and non-military performance domains (ibid., 12 ).
The employment of brass bands was taken up by Indian royalty who frequently adopted and imitated colonial displays of power. However, as is importantly pointed out by Gregory Booth: «the growth of the brass band trade cannot be portrayed as a unified response, either to British imperialism or to the adoption of military bands by indigenous royalty» (Booth 2005, 10).
After 1947, with the end of British rule in India, the demand for brass band music increased as it became fashionable amongst common people. These decades also saw the rise in popularity of Hindi film music and songs from Hindi and regional films became the staple repertoire of the wedding bands.
While European-style military bands continue to exist in the armed forces even today, the non-military bands who cater to common people have, over time, acquired their own peculiar characteristics. There is something extraordinarily singular about the sounds of typically film melodies and regional music being played on brass instruments backed by bass drums, snares, cymbals, and other percussion familiar to marching bands. As a musician myself, I have been fascinated by the process through which folk and film songs are transcribed and arranged onto what many regard as alien instruments. There are also some old marches and evergreen tunes like «Come September» and «Tequila», which remain popular to this day.
The musical idiom of these bands is often considered «un-sophisticated» and crude by many people, including band owners and the clients who hire them. Musical purists point to the clanky and noisy sound produced by these bands as being in stark contrast to the melodious and soothing characteristics of classical and folk music. A majority of the tunes performed by the bands are film songs – the rise in popularity of these bands for weddings coincided with the growth of the Hindi film industry. I spoke to several band owners and musicians who have been in this trade for decades, and many felt the film songs themselves were more melodic and memorable in the 1950s, 1960s, and 1970s, and that the music since is not of the same standard.
A common local word thrown around to describe the spectacle of processions involving brass bands is tamasha. This is a word with Persian roots which originally meant a «performance» or a «celebration with people coming together». In modern times the word seems to conjure a kind of «farce» – a show with glitz and glamor which lacks substance and quality. The brass bandsmen are often looked down upon and not respected as artists. Band owners often regard them more as daily-wage laborers than musicians. Gregory Booth ascribes this to the fact that the «professional and commercial conditions of their trade do not especially encourage or reward high musical quality» (Booth 2005, 5).
I have found the prevalent condescending attitudes towards these musicians quite problematic and distressing. Even though the sound produced by these bands may sound crude to the average listener, there is still a high level of artistry involved here. Brass instruments like trumpets, trombones, and tubas are immensely difficult to play and yet these bandsmen play them quite proficiently. It is notable that the genre of brass music in India has thrived for decades despite the fact that this style of music and these instruments are not part of any folk or local musical traditions.
This tension between the exceptional musicalility of the bandsmen and the prevailing lack of acknowledgement for the form has been a focal point for my investigations. I wish to know more about the bandsman – who is he? Where does he come from? What does being a musician and playing this music in these kinds of processions mean to him? I am also intrigued by the sustained echoes of the colonial origins of this music and the often-unseen ways in which they persist in the present. Lastly, I intend to observe the deeply entrenched attitudes towards socially marginalized groups that play out in the lives of these bandsmen.
An Investigation into Brass Bands of Delhi
A majority of the bandsmen working in Delhi come from a region approximately 200 kilometers outside of the city near the towns of Moradabad and Rampur. This was a flourishing region and a hub for arts and culture until the late 19th century. The Rampur-Sawashwan gharana is a prominent musical heritage of Hindustani (North Indian) classical music. Most of these bandsmen come from poor and marginalized communities, a majority of them being Muslim. Almost all of them are from families who have been in this trade for generations.
Booth emphasizes the historical role played by professional musicians in Indian society and the «margins» they have always occupied. «Bandsmen are socially and musically marginal musicians performing for an event which is only marginally understood as ritual» (Booth 2005, 4). He further elucidates how
«…in the processional music trade specific castes often exercised a considerable degree of hereditary control over performance and over access to instruments, instruction, repertoire, patronage networks. Hereditary low-caste processional musicians could take advantage of their established market niche and patronage networks even as they changed instruments» (ibid., 54).
The musicians are hired by band owners in Delhi on a monthly basis during the wedding season (mostly from September to May). Sometimes there is a contractor involved in the procurement of musicians on behalf of the owners. The salaries are extremely low – between 15,000 and 25,000 Indian Rupees (approximately 300 Euro) a month, varying on the basis of skill and experience. No relationship is formed between the band owner and the musicians in this arrangement. During the term of their «contract» (which is informal and not on paper), they are expected to play whenever the owner can book them, even if it means doing two or more events in a day. Inevitably, there are days where there is no work but the payments are fixed and not dependent on the amount of work done.
I did speak with some owners like Mr. Narinder of the Shiv Pawan Band, who functions otherwise. He keeps a permanent roster of musicians throughout the year. The band members are given lodging near the main office in a locality called Malviya Nagar (another busy market situated in South Delhi). Mr. Narinder has been in the field for over four decades and began his journey as a clarinet player. He tells me that for him the «quality» of the musicians does matter.
A central figure in the set up of the Shiv Pawan band is a man named Satpal, who plays the role of the «record-master». A record-master is a highly skilled instrumentalist entrusted with the job of transcribing tunes, arranging parts, and teaching them to the other musicians. He is also the main soloist who leads the band during a performance. The soloist(s) in most bands nowadays tend to be trumpet players – the clarinet used in earlier times slowly receding in usage, perhaps as it cannot compete in volume with brass instruments. Satpal comes from a family where his father and grandfather also played in bands, and like him, they too were record-masters. This is a matter of pride for him and he feels music is a vehicle for him to make a mark and bring honor and respect to the family name.
After several conversations with bandsmen in different bands, it became apparent that they learned music in much the same way as other «classical» and «folk» musicians do. This is through a time-tested oral tradition in which the master and pupil have a sacred bond. Satpal tells me about a custom for the young apprentice to be sent to a guru (teacher) outside his home. This is to ensure the training is taken seriously and no leniency is shown to the student by his own kin. Satpal learned from a teacher who belongs to the Sheikh community, a clan of Muslims who have played this music for generations.
The members of the Shiv Pawan band also work in an environment where they have developed a camaraderie with each other. I was intrigued by this «band dynamic» and having played in a band for almost 20 years with the same musicians, I am keenly aware that interpersonal relations are deeply connected with the functioning of a group of performing musicians. Satpal echoes this sentiment and talks about the element of trust required for him to train the band and to be able to be firm when required. He also describes the bond which develops from the shared experiences that the band goes through.
The Transformation of Place into Space
As the start of the event comes closer, preparations are underway. The musicians do their warm-ups as instruments are cleaned and some even washed. The anticipation builds while cars, motorbikes, rickshaws, bicycles, bullock carts, and people continue to pass through the congested road forcing the bandsmen to swerve out of harm’s way, time and time again. Through the waves of car horns and other noises, one hears the occasional sound of a musical note being played on a trumpet or a percussionist hitting his drum while stretching his instrument’s skin to the right tension and pitch.
Processions at religious events like the one taking place today are special events for these bands. Only certain bands are invited – those who have acquired a reputation of skill and professionalism with well-trained musicians. For the band owners like Mr. Narinder, these kinds of occasions are opportunities to showcase their bands in front of a large gathering and advertise their business. No money is exchanged here – the band owners consider it important to be a part of these ceremonies and are honored to be invited. Furthermore, the performance is also an offering to the temple committee and the community whose festival is being celebrated. A few bhajans or religious songs will be added to the repertoire today along with the staple diet of film songs.
The size of the band and instruments used are expanded as well. In a regular baraat (wedding ceremony), it is usually a team of eleven that is sent out – a combination of novices and experienced hands. For these special events, however, the owner sends out his entire set of musicians, which could range from fifteen all the way to fifty musicians and could consist of up to five «band masters». Certain instruments like the tuba (called bass by these bandsmen) are not present in regular processions and are only brought out for these ceremonious occasions. It is quite a sight to see this massive instrument being ferried to the venue in a small auto rickshaw.
It is close to noon by the time the priests in charge of proceedings gather on stage and start making their announcements.The procession is to begin on the road facing the temple and then proceed on a two kilometer route around the market, finally returning to the point of origin. The Shiv Shakti band, designated to start things off, lines up on the road with the musicians somehow holding their ground even as the traffic refuses to pause. Their record-master gives the cue and off we go.
In a split second the space is transformed. The loud and boisterous sounds of the band envelop the surroundings. After they have all played one tune facing the temple (as a kind of offering), the procession begins to move onto the surrounding streets in the form of a parade. The sounds of each band blend in with the others creating a sonic explosion that completely captures the space. Residents in the surrounding houses come out to their balconies looking puzzled and amused. It is as if they have become «captives» in this grand celebration. They may not be active participants, but they cannot look away or escape the force of the sound resounding through the neighborhood. The bands maneuver their way through the streets surrounded by shops and stores, vegetable sellers, homes, offices, and crowds of people walking about their daily business. Traffic continues to weave through the procession.
In their book about brass bands, Reily and Brucher cite Michel de Certeau, who makes a distinction between a place and space. For Certeau,
«place is constituted by the ordering of elements in a particular location; it is, therefore, a static entity, a reification. Space, on the other hand, comes into being, he claims, through the ways in which it is used and transformed by these uses. It is composed of the ‹intersection of mobile elements› and produced through the actions, movements and practices that take place within it. If place is identified by what is located in it, space takes shape through what is done in it» (quoted in Reily and Brucher 2013, 18; italics by the author).
Brass bands in different cultures and settings perform this role of transforming a place into a space. From the big bands of New Orleans to carnival processions in Brazil – the acoustic range and sonic force of this style of music makes them the perfect conduits for controlling the soundscape on behalf of whoever is sponsoring them. It is a very deliberate choice on the part of the temple committee to employ brass bands here today instead of solemn hymns, which might seem more suitable for the occasion. The extravagant spectacle infused with the brazen sonority of the music stands in stark contrast to the depictions of Lord Mahavira sitting in quiet meditation. Inward-looking spiritual contemplation is replaced with an outward propulsion of sound and color.
The musicians play on tirelessly for almost two hours, carrying their heavy instruments as the hot sun blazes on. They put everything into their performance, playing each note with meaning and conviction. It does not matter to them if people notice their tireless dedication, or the level of their skill. Their commitment and musicianship shines and cuts through the many contradictions that mark this event.
There is a palpable yearning to be respected and acknowledged that I can sense emanating from these musicians. I think about the politics of listening and the notions of sophistication which are ingrained in my mind. I return to the central question that I have been grappling with – what does playing this music mean to them? The conversations that I have had the privilege of having with these bandsmen reveal a world hidden from common view. Fundan, an aging euphonium player in the Master Band has been playing in bands for more than forty years and his description of music really stuck with me: «It is an ocean, too deep to fathom in one lifetime». The strangely beautiful world of these bandsmen feels much the same to me – a deep and layered reality existing in multiple dimensions.
