The fading notes of our band parties

Once in Dhaka, a groom didn't just arrive at his wedding venue. He marched in, flanked by a dazzling brass band in colourful attire.

Their feathered headgear swayed with every beat of the drum, trumpets blared in triumphant fanfare, and the streets came alive.

From city alleys to village fields, rich or poor, Muslim or Hindu, every celebration – from weddings and circumcisions to ear piercings – called for a live band.

The music wasn't just background noise, it was the celebration.

Bands blended the charm of Hindi melodies with Bangla classics, drumming up a soundtrack that made even the shyest tap their feet.

Today, that sound is fading.

Changing tastes and DJ setups have pushed band parties to the brink. Musicians are leaving, sons and daughters pursuing more stable careers.

Yet a few remain – not for profit, but for pride. For the sound of a trumpet that once made a street erupt in dance.

Royal echoes 

The roots of the band parties run deep. Some trace them back to the Mughal era, when the shehnai became a staple at high-society weddings.

Later, under British rule, migrants from Bihar and Uttar Pradesh brought the culture of wedding bands with them, settling in Kolkata and eventually spreading across the region.

These musicians became fixtures at zamindar estates, performing at royal festivities in exchange for land and patronage.

With the birth of Pakistan, and later Bangladesh, the tradition lived on. Families passed down the craft through generations.

In Dhaka, the Alu Bazar neighbourhood was once the epicentre of the city's brass band culture. At its peak, dozens of bands operated from this tiny district.

Now? Just three remain.

The once-mighty New National Band Party has recently folded, leaving Bangladesh Band Party, Dhaka Band Party, and National Band Party as the last of their kind.

All three trace their lineage to Mohammad Khan, founder of what was once the East Pakistan Band Party – later renamed Melody Band, and eventually Dhaka Band Party.

Today, his sons and grandsons carry the torch, albeit with flickering flames.

"I may be the last," says Ibrahim, Khan's grandson and head of the Bangladesh Band Party. "Nobody wants to do this anymore."

Last of the masters 

At its height, Narayanganj had over a dozen band shops. Now, only a handful remain.

Once buzzing with a dozen band party shops, West Deobhog in Narayanganj now has just six or seven left.

Among the survivors is the Bangladesh Band Party, run by Harun Chandra Das. He joined the trade 40 years ago, following in his father's footsteps. Though he has two sons and a daughter, none have taken up the family business.

"Things are only getting worse," Harun says with a sigh.

Most of his bandmates have moved on – some to factories, others to rickshaws or shoe repair. They're only called back when a gig comes through.

Harun still leads as bandmaster, but his hopes for the future are dim.

In Chattogram's Patharghata, a few bands still cling on. One of them is The Lion Band Party, led by Shahid, a second-generation musician who began his journey with a toy shaker.

Now bandmaster, Shahid holds onto the title more out of love than prestige.

"In a good year, we get 10 to 15 bookings between December and March. The rest of the year, we wait," he says.

His team isn't full-time anymore – most have other jobs. Still, they rehearse the night before, polish their instruments, and show up with the same old spirit.

"We live by the Bangla calendar," Shahid adds. "Agrahayan, Magh, Falgun – that's our season. We also get some work during Durga Puja, election rallies, and religious events. We charge between Tk5,000 and Tk15,000 per event."

In Patharghata, Mohammad Arif runs the Bangladesh Band Party. Between November and December, he landed nine gigs. One Orosh alone brought in Tk40,000.

Muslim weddings rarely pay well, he says. Hindu ceremonies offer better rates.

"A single flute act can earn Tk10,000 to 12,000," Arif adds. Playing the big drum isn't easy either – it's reserved for the veterans.

Some instruments, like the slim black clarionet and the bagpipe-like tholi, have all but vanished. "Most who knew how to play them are no longer around."

Wedding processions 

Once, these bands were part of long wedding processions travelling by train, bus – even boat – to reach faraway celebrations.

They played en route, turning the journey into a travelling carnival.

Now, with weddings shifting to controlled, air-conditioned venues, their role has shrunk to mere moments: a few minutes as the groom steps out of the car, a brief burst as he enters the venue.

"Sometimes we get called to play at Buddhist festivals up in the hills," says Shahid. "We stay for a few days, play music, go exploring. It's tiring, but those are the jobs we look forward to."

And even in the dead of night, returning home from a gig, there's a strange kind of respect. "Police never stop us," he smiles. "They know—we're not trouble. We bring joy."

Of course, there are less romantic moments.

Humayun Kabir (not real name), owner of Al Madina Band Party, recalls being snubbed at an opulent wedding: "They dined on lavish dishes and gave us just plain rice and eggplant. I've seen people at the same table as me get better food."

In the age of Bluetooth speakers and choreographed sangeet nights, the band parties of Bangladesh are fighting for breath.

As Shahid says, "I may not be rich, but I've made thousands of people dance. That's something, isn't it?"