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“It was a no-brainer really,” says Joshi, of
the decision to bring the duo into the Azadi
fold. “They were already creating music that
had the potential to go beyond the hip-hop
scene and appeal to a wider audience. That’s
evident from the number of female fans that
come to their gigs.”
Along with the teens, the ageing rock scene
cynics, celebrities and even a few parents,
Seedhe Maut attract the most diverse
audience you’ll see at a rap gig. Much of that
has to do with the success of Bayaan. While
2 Ka Pahada was essentially a vehicle for
the two rappers to show off their versatility
and skills on the mic, Bayaan is a much
more cohesive document of their lives and
ambitions. Released on December 28 last year,
the record didn’t get nearly as much press as
it deserved because publications were busy
putting out their end-of-year coverage. But it
hit a nerve with kids who’d been primed for it
by the hype being built around Zoya Akhtar’s
Gully Boy.
“There’s a new wave of rap fans who don’t
want to listen to mainstream hip-hop any
more, and I think we tapped into that,” says
Sharma. “I don’t think they’ve ever heard
music that uses the language they do when
they’re just hanging out. In the same way that
Naezy connected with people in Mumbai by
using the slang and language of the streets, I
think we represent the Delhi-wala style.”
Unlike 2 Ka Pahada, which was written
and recorded at a frenetic pace, Seedhe Maut
spent most of 2018 getting Bayaan ready
under the guidance of label mate Sez – who
handled the production on the album
- as well as the Azadi co-founders. Co-founder
Uday Kapur even convinced Sharma to drop
the English and rap in Hindi, a move that
has worked well. But more than anything,
Bayaan is the sound of two friends pushing
each other to outdo themselves lyrically
and vocally, and enjoying it thoroughly.
They remind me of Run The Jewels, the two
American rap alchemists
who found a way to turn their personal
chemistry into musical gold. In the case of
Bayaan, the result is a record that seethes
with barely restrained rage and revels in its
destructive impact.
Lead single “Shaktimaan”, a crowd
favourite, is an ode to the power of the Indian
everyman who oozes a self-assurance that
borders on arrogance. Referencing the 1990s
Indian superhero – along with Salman Khan,
Shah Rukh Khan, Popeye and chole bhature –
the track is propelled by Sez’s grimy flute-
and-bass beat. The flute acts as a motif that
runs throughout the album, as do the dense
and plentiful Indian pop culture references.
“Dehshat” is a sinister dose of North Indian
aggression, the sonic version of a Delhi street
brawl. Braggadocio cut “Meri Baggi Mera
Ghoda” takes the familiar bit of North Indian
doggerel (“meri baggi mera ghoda, jo na
naache bhen ka lauda”) and transforms it into
a down and dirty club banger.
But there are also more introspective
and reflective moments on the album, and
it is these that seem to inspire the most
devotion from their Gen Z and female
fanbase. The poignant “Gehraiyaan” starts
with a recording of a young girl speaking on
the phone with a friend about sneaking out
to catch a Seedhe Maut show – not the sort
of demographic you see represented on the
average Indian rap record. The track itself is
a surprisingly tender portrayal of young love,
and the self-flagellation that follows your
first real break-up. The song is also a subtle
“fuck you” to the idea of fuckboy masculinity,
though it’s delivered from a point of empathy
rather than judgment. And then there’s the
flute-driven “PNP” (Paisa Nasha Pyaar), a
song that blends personal heartbreak, social
ills and political commentary into a ringing
indictment of contemporary India.
These aren’t necessarily the themes that
dominate Indian underground rap, which
has taken the narratives of the “struggle”
and the “gully” to heart. Negi and Sharma
are not shining a light on Delhi’s seamy
underbelly, or speaking for the subaltern and
the marginalised. Though they touch on these
issues frequently, Seedhe Maut are primarily
concerned with the more universal difficulties
of being a young person in contemporary
India. They’re more interested in mining
the one vein in global popular music that
never runs dry: teenage angst. Until now,
India’s never really had a big teenage angst
moment in popular music, aside from the
odd soundtrack cuts from a cult Bollywood
film (Rockford, Udaan). Outside of elite
urban bubbles, Indian teens were thought
of as either overgrown children or adults-in-
waiting. But India today has over 600 million
people under the age of 25 – more than
half the country’s population – and a large
chunk have more access to global culture and
disposable income than ever before. They
know their aspirations and struggles will
define the country’s future.
The album ends with the uplifting and
empowering “Chalta Reh”, all the anger
and sadness of the preceding songs now
transmuted into an ironclad resolve. Your
parents may not let you go out on dates or
choose a creative career, your friends may
stab you in the back the first chance they
get, the music industry and the world at
large may scoff at your ambition to do things
the right way. But, Seedhe Maut seem to be
saying, that’s all background noise. “Jaane
de,” they tell you. “Chalta reh.”
Siddhant
Sharma and
Abhijay Negi
(foreground)
