Back in the 2000s, independent music was a lawless world. At any gig, at any point, anything could happen. Imagine fighting sleep inside a college auditorium in Delhi that you’ve snuck into at 4am after dodging the diligent future engineers who have volunteered to man the gates. And then you’re subjected to quite possibly the noisiest extreme metal band of all time playing their own songs with irrepressible enthusiasm. This would be the prelims, held through the night to a small crowd of competing bands and tagalongs, for the prestigious battle-of-the-bands competition that was the highlight of Rendezvous, the annual culture fest at IIT Delhi. A band has travelled halfway across the country on a rickety train compartment, huddled together in their black tees emblazoned with hostile artwork, hoping they make the finals. And they actually do.
Elsewhere, in a smoke-filled underground pub, Pentagram vocalist Vishal Dadlani—well before he became the star Bollywood composer—and his bandmates whip out a laptop and start playing dhik-chik beats on it. “This is not rock ’n’ roll!” screams the outraged audience before eventually realising that it is indeed very much rock ’n’ roll—just more evolved and less limited. Moments later, Dadlani dives into the crowd following a burst of adrenaline. Cops show up routinely at these gigs to extract their pound of flesh from broke promoters, shutting everything down. Mini-brawls and violent moshpits occur side by side. Lifelong bonds are forged—or broken—over minor disagreements on the guitar solo and the vocalist’s range.
India had no real consolidated indie ‘movement’ as such in the early and mid-2000s. It sustained itself almost entirely through sheer force of will. Every now and then, a desi band would hit an obscure European circuit and play a few concerts. The odd international band would pop up here. We’ve all heard the stories of The Beatles, then neck-deep in their hippie consciousness, landing up at an ashram in Rishikesh (before denouncing the controversial Maharishi they’d come to visit). Or Led Zeppelin’s Robert Plant and Jimmy Page, on a recording trip to Mumbai in the early ’70s, joining a spur-of-the-moment jam session at a discotheque with local city musicians. At one point, Sting and his band, The Police, played a charity concert in Mumbai in 1980. Later years would see Chris Martin show up unannounced at a café in Delhi to perform a short acoustic set, leading to a frenzy on social media as people cursed their luck at not being there, or Radiohead guitarist Jonny Greenwood collaborate with local Rajasthani musicians in Jodhpur for a set at a folk festival.
But this kind of stuff, too ‘Western’ for the majority of India’s population, was always restricted to the fringes. Bollywood was—and remains—at the very top of the pyramid, with its chokehold on the pop culture imagination of the country. Then came the mellifluous folk and classical musicians that India has been blessed with. And then, far away in the distance, was everything else—barely a speck on the radar. A smattering of ambitious young individuals committed to the spirit of alternative music and the community it forged kept things going. Small-time record labels popped up and bands pumped in their own money in a futile race against the system, pub owners, festival organisers, gig promoters and management agencies. It was a tiny subculture that existed in parallel to the mainstream. The crowds consisted, mostly, of weirdos, rebels, misfits, oddballs and nonconformists who gravitated to these spaces and each other, seeking both identity and community.
By the mid-2000s, with the earnest advent of the internet in India, the world grew so much smaller. Music became, thanks to the grey-area rise of piracy, accessible to all kinds of audiences. This was when heavy metal icons Iron Maiden came to India for the first time. It was a landmark moment—thousands of obsessive fans from across the country flew to Bengaluru for this gig. More festivals and battle-of-the-bands competitions began to crop up as venues became more open to the idea of live music as entertainment. In the years to come, we got dedicated music venues: the now-shuttered Blue Frog in Mumbai became a kind of incubator for indie music. With impeccable acoustics, top-notch equipment and a commitment to promoting the form—all things previously alien to the scene—Blue Frog became one of those stages that bands young and old aspired to get on to. Bollywood, too, took notice. By 2008, we had Rock On!!, a film based on the story of four musician friends, that gave us, perhaps for the first time, rock anthems in Hindi. Things were looking up.
Music festivals, for one, became more organised. Chief among them was NH7 Weekender, which began in Pune but soon became a national multi-stage performing arts festival that attracted major global figures. Sunburn, held on a beach in Goa each year, would bring down some of the biggest commercial EDM names and thousands of travellers. Writing music became cheaper as artists could bypass expensive studios and simply produce music on their laptops. Social media, too, allowed for a kind of democratisation of the space as artists could reach listeners directly. By the 2010s, we even began to get festivals dedicated to different genres like the Mahindra Blues Festival and Harley Rock Riders.
Still, for too long, India was considered the refuge of the has-beens; artists with waning relevance coming down for one last hurrah and a paycheque. Most of the international bands that have played here in the last couple of decades were far removed from their best years or the pop culture conversations of the time, having already lived through their peak. This was probably due to a multitude of factors: India not being a major fixture on international touring circuits because of limited sales here, the perception that people wouldn’t pay to show up, organisers and sponsors not being able to afford the bigger names, logistical reasons relating to geography or even just a perceived cultural mismatch.
While we haven’t quite become that essential slot of the calendar just yet, things do seem to be changing with a slew of big-ticket artists dropping anchor here. Last year alone, Backstreet Boys, Westlife, 50 Cent, Deep Purple and Goo Goo Dolls made their way to India and performed at packed venues, doling out generous doses of nostalgia to millennials in the audience who grew up listening to them. The most recent marker of this progress was Lollapalooza becoming an annual fixture on India’s concert calendar in 2023. Never did I imagine that I would hear Julian Casablancas, lead vocalist of The Strokes, famously mumble-singing ‘The Adults Are Talking’ at Mahalaxmi Race Course in Mumbai. Within the next six months, Dua Lipa will perform at Zomato’s Feeding India Concert and punk legends Green Day will allow every ’90s kid in India to refuel on teenage angst when they take the stage at Lollapalooza 2025.
It’s not only international acts leaving their footprints on Indian soil; our artists are now heading to big stages abroad as well. Heavy metal band Bloodywood, with their electric live shows, have been charming audiences in Europe, while artists such as Peter Cat Recording Co. and Prateek Kuhad play regularly to American crowds. More recently, Kerala-born rapper Hanumankind surpassed Kendrick Lamar on Spotify and Billboard charts, a significant achievement that underscores the rising influence of desi rap globally. When Diljit Dosanjh, the incredibly charismatic actor and musician, landed up at Coachella and announced, in Punjabi, that the Punjabi revolution was upon us, the crowd responded to him with a roar. Of course, the rise of Punjabi music globally has been in the works for decades. We’ve had the Asian Underground and bhangra movements in the UK in the ’70s, ’80s and ’90s, courtesy of the Punjabi diaspora reconnecting with their roots and incorporating newer influences into the sound.
In fact, hip-hop—not just Punjabi but the many different regional hip-hop movements and subcultures we have based on language, location and culture—has been a phenomenal breakout story for indie music in India. Its ascent, propelled almost entirely by the artists themselves with little help from the existing live music structures, coincided with the mobile internet boom of the mid-2010s, with affordable net access allowing for a diverse demographic online. Young rappers were discovering their own voice and bringing it to the people—finding beats on the internet, making videos on their phones and iPads, recording their music on laptops, putting it all up on social media. In fact, one of the songs that contributed to this explosion—‘Mere Gully Mein’ by Divine and Naezy—was shot in the same way. From there to international success and the Bollywood movie Gully Boy (2019), the rise of the genre has been incredible. Today, we hear rap verses in Bollywood, in radio jingles, on TV and on international runways.
As heartening as the boom of indie tunes has been, plenty of challenges and roadblocks still remain. Even as the industry clocks its wins and braces for impact, what’s worth highlighting is the level of progress. It has grown from a cluster of miniature counterculture scenes—revolving around disorder, scarcity and rebellion—to an actual industry with a big audience and potential for triumph. Naturally, that comes with its own set of problems: the kind of artists who get primed for success, the nature of disinterested audiences that often allow the most inventive experiments to fall by the wayside, the classic arguments of selling out versus authenticity. These are things that will never quite go away. But what we do have today is a thrilling assortment of artists playing with different sounds, themes, motifs and cultures through their music. The hope, as ever, lies in the glorious new music they produce.
Meba Ofilia
In 2018, Meba Ofilia was still a law student—making it to the fifth semester of the challenging course—while working on her music. That same year, her collaboration with Big Ri, ‘Done Talking’, won the Best Indian Act at the MTV Europe Music Awards (EMA). Galvanised by this achievement, she dropped out of college to focus on music. “It taught me a lot about relying on myself,” says the R&B singer, who grew up in Shillong and wants to create a sound reminiscent of her childhood. Ofilia listened to a lot of hip-hop, and when she found herself mimicking rappers, she realised she could blend all her influences and form something unique. “I first began singing in the school choir. My style is influenced by my church background.”
Lucky Ali
What else is there to say about Lucky Ali? The singer-songwriter has won the hearts of generations of Indians with his trademark searching voice—tender, contemplative words delivered inside magnetic, evergreen melodies you can’t help but hum—and has no plans of stopping anytime soon. The inseparable bond he shares with music was just as evident on his debut album, Sunoh (1996), featuring the timeless ‘O Sanam’, as it is now on Subah Ke Taare, which released this year. “I continue to seek,” says Ali, still in search of who he is as an artist. “People have their own prerogative but, in my opinion, I haven’t made the perfect song yet.”
Arivu
The raging global hit, ‘Enjoy Enjaami’, is perhaps the most recognisable example of Arivu’s gifts, but it’s hardly the only one. Running through the Tamil hip-hop artist’s work—be it as composer, singer, rapper or anti-caste musician—is a carefully nurtured spirit of defiance and invention. “I believe that loving oneself is the first ingredient in helping others and reimagining life beyond hierarchy.” Fearless and forthright, the 30-year-old artist and social justice proponent has the uncanny ability to embrace the hook of a song and sculpt unforgettable melodies that get lodged in the pleasure centre of the brain for weeks on end. His new album, Valliamma Peraandi, is the culmination of three years of intense work that pushes beyond hip-hop and sees him exploring elements of folk, pop, oppari (a mourning song), EDM and Afrobeats—an exciting new step in the journey of this incredible artist.
Lothika Jha
It doesn’t matter if she’s singing at a roadside chai stall, in the back alley of a music store in Ahmedabad or on stage dancing along with the crowd, Lothika Jha always delivers her best. It’s why an adaptation of ‘Frontline’, a song she made with producer-composer OAFF in 2018, was eventually rebirthed as the title track for Gehraiyaan (2022), becoming a major hit. “It’s such an advantage to have an indie sensibility in Bollywood,” says the singer. “The challenge is in bridging the gap so that both zones retain their charm.” Jha has an intuitive approach to her work, drawing from varied influences such as 2000s pop, hip-hop, post-rock and electronica—a versatility that has helped her break into the cutthroat world of Bollywood.
Hari & Sukhmani
When they started their journey over 15 years ago, Hari & Sukhmani’s folk-inspired expressions were unfamiliar, challenging and puzzling. But they stuck to their vision and persevered to “bring folk music to the urban population so that the coming generations would have a connect with their culture and history”. In a world of capitalist consumerism and concrete jungles, their music seeks to serve as a grounding force, a link between the past and present. The duo—Hari Singh Jaaj, a producer, vocalist and audio engineer, and Sukhmani Malik, a classical singer—infuses traditional folk melodies and ditties from Punjab with modern Western influences, bringing the old and the new together, like a modular synth and a sarangi holding hands.
Anuradha Pal
Often cited as the world’s first professional female tabla maestro, Anuradha Pal has been pushing boundaries in a male-dominated discipline since the very beginning. Despite hailing from a family of non-musicians (her father had a pharmaceutical background and her mother was a painter-writer), she began learning to play the tabla at the age of six, honing her craft under the tutelage of revered masters such as Ustad Alla Rakha and Ustad Zakir Hussain. In 1996, Pal also founded the trailblazing Stree Shakti, India’s first all-women Hindustani Carnatic fusion band, which performed at a slew of concerts over 20 years, even being labelled the ‘Indian Spice Girls’ by Sting. In a fascinating confluence, the percussionist lent her talents to Dior for its autumn/ winter show in Mumbai last year, merging Indian music with international fashion against the backdrop of the Gateway of India.
Mansa Jimmy
Growing up, every time Mansa Jimmy sang, she felt invincible. That memory has stayed with her throughout her life. “The ability to communicate my emotions in such an exquisite way was nothing short of magical,” says the Delhi-based singer-songwriter, who has been performing diverse styles of music to audiences for close to a decade and refuses to be tied down by genre purism. One of the most promising voices to come out of season 1 of Coke Studio Bharat last year, she likes to take her time to put out her creations. “I’m still working on compartmentalising my emotions and observations to let them guide the melody and lyrics so that they’re one body all together,” says the 28-year-old.
Usha Uthup
By choice as much as serendipity, Usha Uthup has taken the scenic route to the top. She first began dazzling audiences with her inimitable charm, grace and confidence by performing at nightclubs like Nine Gems in Chennai and Trincas in Kolkata half a century ago. After being discovered at a show in Delhi, Uthup was approached by Dev Anand to sing for a film. “At that time, everybody believed that a voice like mine would never fit anyone except the ‘bad girl’,” she says, laughing. At 76, she has carved out a remarkable legacy in Indian pop and film music, and those who love her can recognise her booming voice, saris, bindis, jewellery and charisma anywhere. “I’ve always said it’s not how good or bad but how original you are in whatever you do. And thank God for that originality; it’s why I’m still here.”
Alif
“Being an artist sometimes feels like carrying a burning coal in your chest and under your feet,” says Mohammad Muneem Nazir, or Alif, as he is mononymously known. Through his band and his solo work, the Srinagar-born singer and poet has crafted a unique sound and identity, with his homeland playing a central role in everything that comes forth from him. He switches between Kashmiri, Urdu and Hindi, experimenting with evocative lyricality, satire and heavy emotion. “The language that you think and feel in is your safe space and your vulnerable place. When I feel weak, the use of satire helps me; when I feel strong, it’s the melancholic expression of vulnerability. Or even silence,” says the singer-songwriter. Art and self-expression are an essential part of who he is—the very lifeblood that sustains him. “Doing what I do has saved me many times, so I keep going back to it.”
Tetseo Sisters
“Documenting and sharing our culture, our way of life and who we are as a people and community through our musical journey—that’s what Tetseo Sisters is all about.” In their songs, the four sisters from Kohima practise the orally passed folk traditions of Li, the traditional music of the Chakhesang Naga people sung in the Chokri Naga language. “These folk songs are a window to life as our ancestors knew it. It has made us realise that throughout time, some things remain true and beautiful.” Mercy, Azi, Kuvelu and Lulu—along with their brother, Mhaseve, who is their guitarist and producer—have created their own experimental identity: a fascinating fusion that elevates the traditional sounds of Nagaland using modern pop, rock and electronic elements.
Paal Dabba
“Who doesn’t like dancing to their own songs?” asks Paal Dabba, with a chuckle. The young hip-hop artist from Chennai, who’s been making waves in the indie space as well as in films like Let’s Get Married (2023) and Aavesham (2024), began his creative journey with breakdancing, before moving on to other dance forms and, eventually, rap. Dabba seeks movement, bars and ideas everywhere, collecting them through experiences that occur around and within him. “I’ve recorded bars while riding my bike, travelling, even eating.” A restless spirit of creativity underpins the 23-year-old’s every move, and move he does with infectious enthusiasm.
Anoushka Maskey
During the lockdown in 2020, Anoushka Maskey was gripped by an undeniable ache to express herself through music, armed with her affective voice and an upside-down righty guitar that she, quite uniquely, plays left-handed. “There was an itch to present something from my heart to the world ASAP. The itch won,” says the singer-songwriter who recorded her debut album, Things I Saw In A Dream, using a USB mic plugged into her laptop with support from her creative partner, Pranay Bakshi (Cosmic Grooves). Today, Maskey is on her way to becoming a household name—she has played in Berlin, opened for Ben Howard in Bengaluru and had a song feature on season two of Netflix’s Mismatched.
Photographed by Farhan Hussain
Styled by Surbhi Shukla
Hair & makeup: Abhishek Indu (Mansa Jimmy, Meba Ofilia), Namita Sapkota (Arivu, Paal Dabba), Angela Attavar (Lucky Ali), Daniel Bauer Academy (Anoushka Maskey, Lothika Jha, Alif, Tetseo Sisters, Hari & Sukhmani, Anuradha Pal)
Art Direction: Aishwaryashree
Bookings Editor: Aliza Fatma
Production: Imran Khatri Productions
Assisted by: Ali Monis Naqvi (photography), Lehan Devadhia (styling), Anugraha Natarajan (production)
This story appears in Vogue India’s September-October 2024 issue, now on stands. Subscribe here
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12 Indian musicians who led the way in indie music in 2020
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