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.