Once the Rock Capital of India, it is today India's Silicon Valley. Bengaluru has lost its pulsing rhythm in the process.
Representational image of a rock concert. (Creative Commons)
We grew up together. She was always there, listening.
Bengaluru never cared for good posturing; her tone was her fingerprint, a pulse the whole country moved their heads to.
Her overindulgence earned her the unwilling obedience of a generation that wrote harmonies and the best riffs in her name.
As internal migrations turbocharge a city’s diversity, she goes through a new phase every few years.
Like a teenager, she has moved on from pop to rock, and from blues to hip-hop, leaving a whole generation reeling in nostalgia.
The city and I are still together. She hums, and I linger soundlessly.
Bengaluru, a cosmopolitan city in the South of India, has always been a melting pot, a good number being students (from across the country) and those in their early 20s.
Today, she hosts young and middle-aged folks in large windowless cemented blocks in thousands of IT companies.
Under the cloak of the “Silicon Valley of India”, we move at a snail’s pace, listening to ‘Moving Pictures’ (by Rush) move to B-Side in the time we take to cross a mere 10 km on roads choked and smoggy.
But, not so long ago, you would catch us cruising these very streets — quiet and moderately empty — to make it to yet another gig headlined by local rock bands, gloriously basking under the moniker “Rock Capital of India”.
Growing up in Bengaluru, soaked in its active music culture, meant requisitioning befitting college attire.
A year’s worth of wardrobe equalled Chuck Schuldiner’s ‘Death’ in black and white, another tee with hand-scribbled lyrics on the back, and an extra pair of jeans.
Band tees with exenterated figures and artiste affiliations were a common sight on streets.
Another salient feature the city indulged in was long-haired men. It felt like a giant home.
In the early 2000s, Bengaluru echoed comfort in her slow pace — brimming with awareness of the prevailing counter-culture — as her spirit riffed about in every corner.
Thousands of trees, enchanting pockets of woodlands and chatty, loud birds were here: She was one giant venue for anyone seeking inspiration.
Rock as a genre endured well for her, and built a personality that earned her the aforementioned title.
She was petite then, hosting most of the prominent hubs around the Central District.
All it took was a visit to a café or pub to plan a meet at an upcoming gig. Weekend plans always started and ended with listening to live music.
Rock as a genre was always first-lined to open many significant events in the city — big fund-raisers, most college festivals, flea markets, protest days, and even Independence Day!
She was always generous and never territorial: Bengaluru had vast pockets of empty land on which, over the years, several artists performed, and seas of black tees paid rapt attention.
The genre time-honoured the best real estate in the city, especially from 2011 to 2014, when international bands like Iron Maiden, Metallica, Roger Waters, Lamb of God, Dire Straits, Deep Purple, Aerosmith, Kreator, and Opeth performed.
The local scene was also improving — with over 500 bands experimenting with original compositions across India, over 200 were from Bengaluru alone.
I remember speaking with Metallica fans in 2011 for an article. Hundreds from different cities — including Delhi, where Metallica was also set to perform, travelled to Bengaluru to catch the band live.
“It’s the draw of the personality,” they said, “Something only Bengaluru owned: The spirit of rock.”
Sometime in the summer of 2008, live acts in the city pubs started facing opposition from the local governing bodies — moral policing unsullied by the loss faced by artistes who depended on shows for their livelihood.
What started as opposition towards live music soon coupled with Cinderella deadlines and pub-licensing issues, finally leading to the gradual death of the city’s live music scene.
Under her recently acquired nickname “IT Capital of India”, Bengaluru is being forced to swell like an overgrown, greedy Golem.
Thousands of ancient trees are getting swallowed up to make place for the hundredth flyover.
Bengaluru now hosts people from all parts of the country, up from 5,779,000 in 2001 to 13,193,000 in 2022.
Her new residents speak different dialects, relish a wide variety of food, and have diverse tastes in music.
Nevertheless, she remains high-spirited, not from the tone that defined her past, but from being drunk as a lord.
All of only 741 sq km, she is bursting at the seams with over 600 pubs and clubs. Not so shockingly, no more than a handful of venues entertain live gigs, and even fewer play rock today.
Those open vistas and grounds are now solely reserved for large pompous weddings and political rallies propagating ways to collar her free will.
Today, a handful of pubs remain individualistic with their vibe and exude polite familiarity, allowing us buffs to spend a few good hours wordlessly consenting to Freddie Mercury, Roger Waters, Billy Joel, Stevie Nicks, and Dio, undisturbed by the short-lived bluff.
A place is no different from a person. The metamorphosis but only constant, her personality but a reflection of her mood perpetuated by her current lovers/roomies.
I love this city. We are long-lost friends and total strangers, all simultaneously offering no bargaining chips.
We are strangers, each resonating with a different tone. We are dear old friends, grumbling about the present and sharing only good memories of the past.
As she and I soak into her current sonic diversity, I often remind her:
The one that played mother to thousands of screamers,
The perfect host, always singing along,
The upholder of renegades and believers,
The beneficiary of stories and art written and made in hundreds of tiny garages and shoddily
soundproofed studios,
The protagonist of the counterculture,
The journal keeper of rock n roll confessions.
Where did she go, the one that offered more than a home, with a life-size make-believe horn
masquerading the perfect forever?
(The opinions expressed are personal.)
Apr 27, 2024
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