King of Bhangra Pop- Channi Singh (OBE)

 

 

Alaap Group. Lead singer Channi Singh is on the extreme right

 

History In The Making 

It all started in 1976 after Channi was invited to somebody’s place for an evening party. A musical group was performing ghazals and his sister-in-law requested them to allow Channi to sing, as she thought he could sing a bit. Channi seized the opportunity and sang a Pakistani song composed by Masood Rana. Guests appreciated Channi’s voice and the host who worked as a guitarist with a live band immediately approached Channi. He not only applauded his voice but floated the idea of setting up a band. The ghazal singer, who could play the accordion also, acknowledged Channi’s superior singing and offered to partner. A trio had been created. However a tabla master was still elusive. But till the idea matured, Channi approached Blackmist, a band operated by Kenyan and British born Indians, for a job as a singer. He was to take an audition test, which they kept postponing for a month. The band’s tabla player, who watched Channi get humiliated everyday, sympathised with him and he soon joined the trio. The band was complete, a singer, guitarist, an accordion player and a tabla master. Practising at the homes of different members, Alaap gave some of its earliest performances in gurudwaras and temples where devotees responded well to the introduction of the accordion and electric guitar. Their first performance was at the Ramgarhia gurudwara in Southall and the hymn was ‘Awal Alla Noor Upaya, Kudrat Ke Sab Bande’. Soon the word spread and folks started turning up in huge numbers to listen to the new melody. The band, gypsy like, would travel from one gurudwara to the other, singing hymns. Generation Next, particularly, was enthused by this neo trend. After performing in gurudwaras and temples for a year or so, the group attracted invitations to play for university and polytechnic students and became hot property for a multicultural student crowd. Cashing in on this success, Channi floated the idea of releasing an album. By then another member who played the Punjabi instrument, the tumba, had joined the group. The additional cost of £2,000 was a burden, but eventually all members agreed to pool in resources for the record. Three hundred records were handed to an agent to sell but he returned them with a remark that this hip-hop music was unsaleable. The matter was left to Geeta Bala of London Broadcasting Corporation who, after hearing Channi’s music, decided to broadcast it on radio. The songs created a stir; telephone lines were clogged with listeners, eagerly waiting to give their views on the music. The same agent returned, asking for the records. The tables had turned. Alaap refused and sold 40,000 copies with their own effort, with earnings of approximately £20,000.

Our conversation was interrupted by Mr Paul, who claimed to dabble in small-time singing. ‘Sir,’ he said to Channi, ‘give your loyal fan some time.’ Channi noted down his telephone number and we were ready to move after the total desi meal. Whether Paul and Channi have been able to fix a rendezvous, there is no information.

We sped towards Channi’s house again and after reaching, entered a room in his backyard. It was a music studio which could easily pass as an aeroplane’s cockpit. Sophisticated equipment including synthesisers, computers, guitars, hi-tech mikes and headphones filled up the dark room. Channi pulled out a chair from under a computer desk. ‘I have to complete a song for a client by tomorrow,’ he said, and straight away began recording a ‘hik’ (elongated sound ho…oooo…ooye used in Punjabi music). It had been pre-recorded many times over and Channi was trying to fit the best possible sound in his popular song ‘Jind Mahi’. We heard the ‘Ho…oooooo…oye…’ blaring from the amplifier for at least two days, as Channi kept pushing up and down the levers of the synthesiser. A Pakistani neighbour who met us in the street one day, remarked (perhaps with guarded sarcasm!) ‘Channiji, you seem to be really working hard. Please take care of your throat.’ ‘See how a layman thinks! How hard you musicians work,’I joked. ‘Whereas, all you guys do is compose a tune, write lyrics and work on the computer to create the music through a synthesiser—ready to be packed into a cassette.’ ‘Exactly. That’s why I prefer live band performances,’ replied Channi, as our conversation shifted to how the synthesiser had affected the lives of live musicians. ‘Musicians are not required any more for recording albums,’ said Channi as he pressed keynotes that emitted sounds of various instruments. ‘The only live sound I take is of a tabla or a dhol for my albums.’ Thank god the dhol sound has not been captured in the synthesiser. Imagine Punjab’s dholis hanging synthesisers around their necks singing the Punjabi song ‘Daga De Veh Dholiya’ (beat the drum, drum-beater). ‘Why blame the synthesiser? The disc jockey (DJ) culture has totally ruined the live band scene in the UK, though since 2004 there are glimpses of recovery. Record a few hundred songs, shake them in a mixer and rock your head to and fro. That’s all you need to know, unlike the musician who performs live or undergoes a rigorous routine of recording a song, track by track, before the song is finally out,’ says Channi.

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