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Triumph
of will
Amitabh
Bachchan loved him. VS Naipaul loved him. Everybody
who heard him, loved him. But it has still taken Rabbi Shergill
four long frustrating years to get a hearing in the world. Now,
on September 26, he will finally make his debut. Minty Tejpal tracks the
poignant tale of how a remarkable talent became a victim of the Tehelka
story
 There
are many things tehelka did that every spook agency in Delhi, Britain and
god knows where else would love to know about. Let me be the first to tell
you about Rabbi Shergill. An artist we signed on at tehelka in April 2000.
A poet and a singer. Who you still haven’t heard of.
I first heard about Rabbi in 1998 during my stint in Mumbai as Executive
Producer, Channel [V]. As head of programming I was meeting all kinds of
people associated with the music industry. One day, a bandanna tying KJ
Singh, producer and sound engineer, told me about this sardar singer based
in Delhi. “He plays Sufi Punjabi music – rock style! You have
to hear him.” KJ had recorded a demo track but wasn’t carrying
it. So what’s he doing, I asked? Doing the rounds ...a bit unsuccessfully,
I was told. Keenly aware of the inability of stunted heads at the music
companies to spot the real McCoys, I stored the information for further
use. All the greats in Indian pop music are those first kicked out by these
guys. I knew that much. So Rabbi was off to a flyer.
The millennium turned. Y2K never happened. And I never met Rabbi. I did
however leave Channel [V], get divorced, increase smoking and move back
to Delhi to take up the first job with the only man willing to employ me
– my brother! I joined Tarun and Aniruddha Bahal as a founder in the
heady journey of tehelka. Rabbi was still on my mind – I traced his
number and called him. Sometime in May 2000, in the midst of putting together
the match-fixing expose, Rabbi Shergill walked into the tehelka office.
He was wearing a calm, gentle demeanor over his trademark kurta pyjama.
Smart sardar, looks like a bard, I thought. He spoke fluently in Punjabi
and English, narrating a familiar tale of music companies hustling him,
not recognising his talent. Yeah, sure. “You got a tape,” I
asked?
Rabbi fished out a tape with just two two songs – Bulla ki Jaana and
Aj Nachna. I heard Rabbi’s music for the first time sitting in my
car. It was stunning – great voice, haunting lyrics and some real
melody — unlike any other Punjabi music I had heard. It was music
that touched you, made you ache inside and yet lifted you. We went for a
drive, as I listened some more, getting to know him. Tarun and Aniruddha
heard the music and liked it. I pitched it to them – we have to do
his album, I urged. He is the real thing. For a man ready to take decisions
that would soon rattle governments, it was a no-brainer. Go ahead, said
Tarun. Rabbi, being a true artist, was of course ready to go with a company
that had nothing to do with music, and was still buying computers!
Rabbi’s faith was well placed. In a mercenary industry where new artists
are not even advanced Rs 500, we gave Rabbi a lakh plus to go abroad and
buy some music equipment he needed. Being creative owners we took the decision
in five minutes. When I mentioned this a year later to Sridhar Subramanium,
ceo Sony Music, he was stunned. “We can’t even buy a flute in
a corporate set-up”, he remarked. kj was contracted to identify studio,
draw up a budget and get recording dates. Our message to Rabbi and kj was,
just go do your music — we are behind you. Over the next year, the
two sardars started recording Rabbi’s debut album in Studio Satya,
Mumbai. I would keep ducking in and out of Bombay, adding fizz to the mix.
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September 25, 2004
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