Mohinder Kaur Bhamra - 1982 - Punjabi Disco

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.