Mohinder Kaur Bhanea

Mohinder Kaur Bhamra 

1982 

Punjabi Disco

01. Disco Wich Aa

02. Nainan Da Pyr Degaya

03. Par Toon Ki Jana

04. Sohnia Mukh Tera

05. Aye Deewane

06. Pyar Mainu Kar

07. Mainu Apne Pyar Wich

08. Chum Chum Dil Nal

09. Ve Toon Jaldi Jaldi Aa

Bass Guitar – Trevor Michael Georges

Keyboards, Synth – Kuljit Bhamra

Rhythm Section, Percussion – Amarpal Bhamra

Music By – Bhamra Brothers

The Album Where a Sikh Mum and Her Synth-Obsessed Kids Invented British-Asian Dance Music (And the Record Label Stole the Idea Anyway)

Let’s paint the picture: Southall, West London, 1982. Thatcher’s Britain is grim, racism is casual, and at Punjabi weddings the men are boogieing like it’s the end of the world while the women sit politely tapping feet under their dupattas. Enter Mohinder Kaur Bhamra—a classy, classically-trained folk singer in her mid-40s—and her eldest son Kuljit, a 22-year-old tabla prodigy who’s just discovered Roland synthesizers and thinks Boney M are the future. Together they decide: “Enough of this gender apartheid—let’s make the aunties dance!” The result? Punjabi Disco, a nine-track rocket-fuelled blast of Punjabi folk vocals over bubbling basslines, siren synths, and a drum machine that sounds like it’s had three espressos. It bombed so hard it vanished for 40 years, only to be resurrected in 2025 as the “holy grail” of British-Asian electronic music. And yes, the original label literally stole the concept and released a knock-off with someone else. Classic music-biz move.

From Ugandan Fields to Southall Stage: The Unstoppable Mohinder Kaur Bhamra

Born in 1936 in colonial Uganda, Mohinder moved to India as a child, studied classical music and Sikh theology in Ludhiana, then landed in the UK in the late 1960s with her husband and young kids. Southall became home, and Mohinder became a quiet revolutionary: the first woman to sing kirtan in British gurdwaras, the first female vocalist at Punjabi weddings (scandal!), and a tireless campaigner for women’s rights on the dancefloor.

She’d perform folk songs, ghazals, and migration laments while her sons backed her—Kuljit on tabla from age six. But Mohinder wasn’t here for demure foot-tapping. She’d stop mid-song and demand: “Ladies, get up! If you don’t dance, I don’t sing!” Tables were cleared, gender barriers smashed, and British-Asian weddings slowly turned co-ed. By the early ’80s she was a community icon, still gigging hen parties into her 80s. Think of her as the original desi suffragette—with better melisma.

The Family That Programs Drum Machines Together… Stays Together

This is the ultimate mum-and-kids lockdown project—except it was 1982 and the lockdown was Thatcherism.

Mohinder Kaur Bhamra – lead vocals, lyrics, and sheer Punjabi powerhouse energy

Kuljit Bhamra (age 22) – production, Roland SH-1000 synth (the very first Roland synth ever made—history!), arrangements, everything that goes “weee-ooo”

Amarpal “Ambi” Bhamra (age 11) – proudly pressing buttons on the Roland CR-8000 CompuRhythm drum machine (yes, the little brother got the coolest job)

Trevor Michael Georges – bass guitar (Kuljit’s school mate, the token non-Bhamra)

Satpaul Bhamra – neon cover artwork (another brother—family meeting!)

Recorded in a few frantic days at Rik Kenton’s studio (yes, the bassist from Roxy Music—random flex). No big band, no tabla, just raw synths, a preset drum machine, and Mohinder’s voice soaring over it all like she’s summoning the dancefloor gods.

Tine Tracks of “Ladies, Clear the Tables and DANCE!”

Clocking in at a punchy 35-ish minutes, every song is built for movement:

Disco Wich Aa (“Come to the Disco”) – The ultimate invitation banger. Mohinder basically yells “Stop being shy, get on the floor!” over psychedelic sirens. Instant auntie magnet.

Nainan Da Pyar De Gaya – Heartbreaker ballad turned disco weepie.

Pyar Mainu Kar – Synth doubling traditional harmonium lines—proto everything.

Plus gems like Aye Deewane, Teri Meri Yaari, and the rest: all Punjabi love songs reimagined as four-to-the-floor weapons.

The sound? Early acid-house textures (same year as Charanjit Singh!), Bee Gees-inspired grooves, and Mohinder’s folk-trained voice cutting through like a hot knife through ghee. It’s clunky in the best way—those preset rhythms sometimes sound like a robot learning bhangra—but the joy is infectious.

The Record That Liberated the Desi Dancefloor (And Got Ripped Off for Its Trouble)

In 1982 this was radical on multiple levels:

First British-Asian electronic dance album—full stop.

First to fuse Punjabi folk with pure synth/drum-machine disco (no live dhol, no compromise).

A feminist statement: made explicitly to get women dancing in spaces that banned them.

Predicted the entire Asian Underground (Talvin Singh, Nitin Sawhney, etc.) by 15 years and UK bhangra’s electronic era by a decade.

Then the betrayal: a label loved the demo, promised distribution… and released their own “Punjabi Disco” with a different singer. Heartbroken, the Bhamras self-pressed 500 copies, sold them in corner shops, and moved on. Mohinder kept wedding gigs; Kuljit became a bhangra legend (producing Heera, Alaap, and earning an MBE).

For decades it was myth—originals hit four figures. Then Covid happened, Kuljit found the multitracks (saved from mould by a beef-jerky dehydrator—true story), Naya Beat reissued it in October 2025 with remixes by Peaking Lights, Psychemagik, Baalti, etc. Pitchfork, Guardian, DJ Mag lost their minds. Suddenly aunties who danced to it in 1983 are TikTok famous.

Punjabi Disco isn’t just a great lost album—it’s proof that revolutions sometimes start in a Southall kitchen with a mum, her synth-mad sons, and a dream of mixed-gender boogie. Forty-three years late, but the dancefloor is finally desegregated, the ladies are front and centre, and Mohinder Kaur Bhamra is getting her flowers.

Put it on at your next family function. Your nani will thank you. And if anyone complains about the drum machine being too loud, just channel Mohinder: “No dancing, no singing!” Legend. Absolute Punjabi disco legend.

Jaspinder Narula - 1982 - Punjabi Disco

Jaspinder Narula

1982

Punjabi Disco

01. Disco Di Raat Channa

02. Nayeen Labhna

03. Tu Jo Mainu Pyar Kare

04. Aa Vi Ja Sajna

05. Ang Ang Farkhe

06. Tun Ein Babu Kala

07. Rut Disco Di Ayee

08. Mere Long Da Ik Lishkara

09. Ding Lang Ding Lang

Manufactured By – The Gramophone Company Of India Ltd.

Music By – K.S. Narula

The Corporate Cash-Grab That Stole the Name, the Concept, and (Almost) the Thunder from the Real Revolutionaries

Gather round, desi disco detectives, because we need to talk about the greatest case of musical identity theft since Vanilla Ice “borrowed” from Queen. In 1982, two albums titled Punjabi Disco dropped—one is the plucky, feminist, synth-drenched family project by Mohinder Kaur Bhamra that literally invented British-Asian dance music and got screwed over by the industry, and the other is this glossy, EMI-backed Bollywood-adjacent effort by a teenage Jaspinder Narula that… well, got the name first in the shops, sold a few more copies, and then quietly pretended the whole coincidence never happened. Spoiler: this is the corporate sequel, not the indie original. Think Avengers: Endgame vs. the scrappy fan film that actually had the better ideas.

The Girl Who Would Become Queen (But Was Still in School When This Dropped)

Jaspinder Narula was born 14 November 1970 in Delhi, making her a grand total of 11 or 12 years old when Punjabi Disco was recorded and released. Yes, you read that right—an actual child dropped a full-length disco album while the rest of us were still figuring out long division. Daughter of legendary 1950s–70s Punjabi/Bollywood music director K.S. Narula (the man who scored everything from wedding gigs to film songs), Jaspinder grew up soaked in music. Dad taught her the ropes, then sent her to Ustad Ghulam Sadiq Khan for proper classical training. By her teens she was already cutting devotional records and bhajans, but EMI India smelled commercial potential and said “Let’s make her the Punjabi Donna Summer—now!”

Fast-forward: the little girl grew up to become one of Bollywood’s biggest ’90s–2000s playback powerhouses (“Pyar To Hona Hi Tha”, “Bumbro”, “Soni De Nakhre”), won a Filmfare, snagged a Padma Shri in 2025, and basically ruled the charts. But her actual debut? This cute, slightly awkward, super-1982 disco experiment that now feels like a school project your rich friend’s dad paid to press on vinyl.

The Musicians: Daddy’s Money, Daddy’s Orchestra, Daddy’s Studio

Jaspinder Narula – lead vocals (squeaky-clean, super-enthusiastic kid energy)

K.S. Narula – music direction, arrangements, and probably paid the studio bill

A full anonymous Indian studio orchestra – swirling strings, punchy brass, real drums, funky guitar licks, the works. No cheap drum machines here; this is EMI India flexing actual humans.

Recorded in proper Bombay studios with proper engineers who knew how to make things sound radio-ready.

Think Alaap or early bhangra groups before bhangra existed—big, brassy, film-orchestra-goes-disco vibes.

Eight Tracks of Adorable, Polished, “Auntie Will Approve” Punjabi Disco

It’s bright, it’s bouncy, it’s the musical equivalent of a kid in a shiny suit dancing at a family wedding while everyone claps politely.

Highlights:

Ding Lang Ding Lang – Infectious nonsense hook that’ll stick in your head like chewing gum.

Ang Ang Farkhe – Classic Punjabi flirtation turned four-on-the-floor.

Aa Vi Ja Sajna – Sweet invitation to the dancefloor (sound familiar?).

Nayeen Labhna, Tu Jo Mainu Pyar Kare – Ballads with disco strings that make you want to slow-dance with your cousin (don’t).

It’s fun, harmless, and very 1982 India—lots of real instruments, big arrangements, and Jaspinder’s crystal-clear kid voice soaring over everything like a human glockenspiel. Zero experimental edge, maximum wedding-DJ appeal.

The Head-to-Head Showdown: Mohinder Kaur Bhamra vs. Jaspinder Narula (or David vs. Goliath, But Goliath Stole David’s Homework)

Here’s where the tea gets piping hot:

Mohinder Kaur Bhamra (UK, 1982/83): DIY family affair, Roland synths + drum machine, raw and weird, explicitly created to smash gender segregation on British-Asian dancefloors, got the concept stolen by a label that then rushed out…

Jaspinder Narula (India, 1982): Big-label polish, live orchestra, safe and commercial, released on EMI India with proper distribution. Same title. Same year. Same “come dance!” lyrical themes.

Coincidence? Absolutely not. Indian labels in London were importing Bollywood sounds like crazy. Someone heard the Bhamras’ demo, loved the “Punjabi + Disco = money” equation, went “We can do that better with a cute kid and a real orchestra!”, and beat them to market. Mohinder’s version became the ultra-rare private-press grail (500 copies, sold in Southall corner shops), while Jaspinder’s got proper sleeves, radio play, and a catalogue number.

Imagine two albums with the exact same title dropping in the exact same year, both shouting “Punjabi Disco!” from the rooftops, yet living in completely different universes. On one side you have twelve-year-old Jaspinder Narula in a plush Bombay studio, backed by her famous dad’s full orchestra, real brass, real strings, real everything—polished to a high Bollywood sheen, cute as a button, and released by EMI India with proper distribution and radio plugs. On the other side, across the ocean in a damp Southall living room, you’ve got mid-forties Mohinder Kaur Bhamra, a battle-hardened folk singer and women’s-rights warrior, cooking up the future with her two young sons, a second-hand Roland synth that looks like a spaceship control panel, and an eleven-year-old pressing buttons on a drum machine like it’s the most normal family bonding activity ever. Jaspinder’s version is the musical equivalent of a kid in a sparkly outfit doing a perfectly rehearsed dance at the school talent show—adorable, professional, guaranteed to make the aunties clap politely. Mohinder’s is the punk-rock auntie kicking the chairs aside, plugging in a dodgy keyboard, and roaring “If the women don’t dance, I don’t sing!” until the gender-segregated wedding system collapses in a shower of confetti and feminist glory.

Sonically they’re night and day: Jaspinder’s record bounces along on live drums, fat horn sections, and sweeping orchestral arrangements that scream “big-budget wedding band gone disco,” while Mohinder’s is all cheap (but charming) preset rhythms, siren-like synth stabs, and raw, clunky drum-machine kicks that somehow predict the entire British-Asian electronic underground by fifteen years. One sounds like a polished product designed to sell; the other sounds like a manifesto disguised as a dance record. Jaspinder, bless her, sings with crystal-clear innocence—sweet, high, and eager to please. Mohinder belts it like a woman who has survived Partition, exile, and decades of men telling her to sit down and be quiet; every note is a raised fist wrapped in sequins.

The cruel punchline? The big label that promised to distribute Mohinder’s version heard the demo, loved the title and concept, and promptly released Jaspinder’s instead—same name, same year, bigger marketing budget. Mohinder’s ended up as a microscopic private pressing sold from the boot of the family car in Southall, while Jaspinder’s got proper sleeves and shop placement. Fast-forward four decades: Mohinder’s “lost” version is now the critically worshipped holy grail, reissued in deluxe editions with dub remixes by Peaking Lights and breathless Guardian features about how it invented British-Asian dance music and smashed patriarchal dancefloor rules. Jaspinder’s? Still a charming curiosity on YouTube with a few thousand views and the eternal footnote: “Wait… there were two?!”

So here’s the moral, served with a wink and a twirl: the corporate kid with the fancy orchestra got the spotlight in 1982, but the mum with the dodgy synth and the unbreakable spirit got the legend status in the end. Jaspinder grew up to rule Bollywood playback; Mohinder grew old still making aunties dance at hen parties well into her eighties. Both deserve love, but only one actually liberated the dancefloor—and we all know which auntie we’d rather boogie with at the next wedding. Ding lang ding lang, indeed.

The One That Won the Battle But Lost the War

Jaspinder’s Punjabi Disco is charming historical trivia—the debut of a future superstar, proof that Punjabi disco was a “thing” in India before bhangra exploded, and a fun snapshot of early ’80s desi pop globalization. It sold modestly, played at weddings, and then got completely overshadowed when actual bhangra (Alaap, Heera, etc.) arrived with dhol drums and swagger.

Mohinder’s version? The one that actually mattered—the underground blueprint for Talvin Singh, Asian Dub Foundation, and every British-Asian producer who ever plugged in a synth. In 2025, while Mohinder’s reissue is getting Guardian features, DJ Mag covers, and remix packages from cool kids, Jaspinder’s sits quietly on streaming with a few thousand plays and the eternal footnote: “Yes, there were two of them… and no, this isn’t the famous lost one.”

So spin Jaspinder’s if you want adorable nostalgia and to hear baby Padma Shri Narula slay. But when someone says “Punjabi Disco changed everything,” they mean the Bhamras—the ones who fought for the dancefloor, got robbed, and still won in the end.

Moral of the story? Sometimes the corporate kid gets the shiny cover… and the mum with the second-hand synth gets the legend status. Justice for Mohinder, respect to little Jaspinder, and may we all dance—together, finally.