The Bangladeshi music industry is, quite literally, dead. There are no new blockbuster albums, no grand concert spectacles, and as far as I can tell, the entire scene has ground to a halt.
Last week, whilst wandering around Bashundhara City, it suddenly dawned on me that I had never bought the last Warfaze album. I rushed up to Level 6, fondly remembering the days when it was home to several fantastic music shops boasting rich collections of both local and international releases. To my utter astonishment, every single one of those music shops had vanished, replaced by an endless sea of mobile phone and accessory stalls. Hoping for better luck closer to home, I visited Rajlaxmi Complex and Syed Grand Centre in Uttara, where a few prominent music shops used to thrive. They, too, were completely gone. I eventually tracked down one solitary shop that had survived the purge, but the CD I was looking for was nowhere to be found.
How on earth is an audiophile supposed to find physical music these days?
When I posed this question to a friend, he nonchalantly suggested I log onto my ISP’s FTP server to find it there. As my readers well know, I absolutely refuse to listen to pirated music—especially when it comes to supporting Bangladeshi artists—and I do not condone piracy in any form. Naturally, I did not look for the album there. Yet, this has become the biggest talk of the town. Everyone openly admits that their ISP maintains a colossal repository of films, music, software, and video games. It is no longer just the small-scale, neighbourhood ISPs doing this; even major corporate ISPs are hosting these vast collections to keep their customers happy. While many users might find this convenient, I strongly believe this is a dangerous path to tread.
The roots of this collapse run deep. Historically, the industry relied on a heavily transactional model. Major record labels like Sargam, Soundtek, Sangeeta, and G-Series operated purely on a contractual basis with artists. Because Bangladesh’s copyright laws have always been notoriously weak and poorly enforced, these partnerships never evolved into sustainable, long-term careers for musicians. This lack of legal infrastructure triggered a chaotic gold rush in the 90s. Music companies mushroomed like toadstools overnight, riding the wave of the audio cassette boom. These fly-by-night labels would produce one or two hit tracks, cash in on a couple of trendy mix-albums, and vanish into thin air just as quickly as they had appeared, leaving the industry fragmented and artists exploited.
Almost a decade ago, I watched a documentary film called “Who Killed the Electric Car?”, which exposed how a capitalist fuel industry suppressed electric vehicles to keep them from ever seeing the light of day. But look at the world today: the UK government has since pioneered dedicated highway lanes fitted with induction charging technology for electric cars. Progress is inevitable, and it gives me reason to believe that someday, our media industry might also stage a comeback.
However, for that to happen, we must undergo a cultural shift. We desperately need to respect foreign copyrights too. Bangladesh is a developing nation with a massive population to sustain. If we do not learn to respect the intellectual property of others, the global community can easily retaliate by disrespecting the things we rely on and care about the most—a consequence that could utterly ruin us. Until we value the art we consume, the music shops will remain empty, and the silence in our industry will only grow louder.
