In the 1990s and early 2000s, during the major religious festival of Eid in Bangladesh, a visit to any neighborhood market would reveal a vibrant cultural tradition: loudspeakers blasting newly released songs, children humming along and cassette or CD stalls crowded with eager buyers. Music was not just entertainment; it was a seasonal event, a communal expression of joy and celebration. Eid was the prime occasion for releasing new songs, and in many ways, it mirrored the global phenomenon of timed music drops—whether it was Christmas albums in the West or Diwali releases in India.
Today, that scene is a memory.
The gradual disappearance of Eid-specific music releases in Bangladesh isn’t just about nostalgia—it’s a reflection of how deeply the global music industry’s transformation has affected local markets. The journey of Bangladeshi music—from cassettes to CDs, from radio to YouTube and now, from a domestic ritual to a digital global phenomenon—captures the profound shifts in music distribution and cultural consumption in the 21st century.
The Cassette Boom: Bangladesh Joins the Global Tape Culture
The story of Bangladesh’s music industry as a commercial entity begins in 1982 with the release of the country's first audio cassette by Disco Recording. This mirrored a broader trend across Asia and Africa, where cassettes democratized music. Much like in Egypt, Nigeria and India, the cassette tape in Bangladesh empowered local musicians and regional languages, bringing music out of elite or state-controlled spaces and into people’s homes.
In the ensuing years, artists like Kumar Bishwajit, M.A. Shoaeb, Runa Laila and Andrew Kishore began releasing non-film music, carving out a parallel ecosystem alongside the already vibrant world of film songs. Bands emerged. Labels flourished. An audio economy was born.
By the 1990s, Bangladesh had its own bustling music industry that resembled the pop and rock booms of the UK in the '70s and '80s—only with Bengali lyrics, regional roots and unique melodic signatures.
The Rise of Bands and Mixed Albums: Local Innovation, Global Influence
The 1990s marked the golden age of Bangladeshi pop and rock, with bands like LRB, Miles, Feedback and Warfaze leading a cultural revolution. They were Bangladesh’s answer to Pink Floyd, Guns N’ Roses and Queen—not in imitation, but in impact. LRB’s Ferari Mon (1996) or Miles’s Prottasha (1993) were not just chart-toppers; they were cultural landmarks, shaping youth identity and musical taste.
Meanwhile, the concept of the “mixed album”—a compilation featuring multiple artists and composers—became a Bangladeshi innovation that drove market demand. Producers like Prince Mahmud turned these albums into blockbusters. This format, though similar in spirit to the Western “soundtrack album,” was unique in its structure and local appeal.
CD, Piracy, and the Digital Cliff
As in much of the world, the early 2000s ushered in a rapid shift from analog to digital. CDs replace cassettes, but not for long. The onset of MP3 piracy, mobile phone ringtones, and file-sharing platforms disrupted the market just as it had in North America and Europe—only without the cushion of robust copyright enforcement or diversified revenue streams.
While giants like iTunes and Spotify began consolidating the global digital music economy, Bangladesh's music industry was left vulnerable. By 2010, most local audio labels had either shuttered or pivoted entirely to survive.
Yet, amidst this disruption, creativity flourished. Artists like Habib Wahid and Fuad Al Muqtadir brought in a new sound—infusing traditional melodies with modern electronic beats, a style that resonated with the Bangladeshi diaspora and global listeners alike.
FM Radio and the DIY Generation
From 2007 to 2012, FM radio brought a renaissance, similar to the way college radio and indie stations shaped the alt-rock scene in the U.S. in the ’90s. New voices—Topu, Minar, Hridoy Khan—found audiences, while bands like Artcell, Black, and Shironamhin cultivated loyal fanbases, much like indie rock bands in Seattle or Manchester once did.
By the mid-2010s, Bangladesh’s artists, much like their counterparts across Latin America or Eastern Europe, began bypassing labels altogether—embracing YouTube, Facebook and later, Spotify and Apple Music. Suddenly, the potential audience was no longer confined to Dhaka or Chattogram, but expanded to Bengali-speaking listeners in New York, London, Toronto and Sydney.
A Streaming Story in Two Realities
When Spotify finally launched in Bangladesh in 2021, it was a symbolic moment. Bangladeshi artists could now release their songs directly to the world. But the domestic music economy had already changed. The failure of local music streaming apps like GP Music and Robi Splash highlighted a stark reality: while the global infrastructure was now in place, local monetization remained a challenge.
And yet, paradoxically, Bangladeshi music now travels farther than ever before.
Independent artists and bands—from Pritom Hasan and Masha to Ashes and Bangla Five—are gaining international visibility. Just as K-pop, Afrobeat and Punjabi hip-hop have leapt across linguistic and geographic boundaries, Bangla music too is finding its niche. Songs by Bangladeshi artists are being used in short films, remixes and reels by content creators across the globe.
This is perhaps the most fascinating twist in the tale: even as the local infrastructure collapses, global platforms offer new lifelines.
The New Global-Local Paradigm
In today’s Bangladesh, the business model of music has changed. The big labels now focus more on YouTube dramas and video content, using songs as marketing tools rather than cultural products. But this shift mirrors broader global trends, where music is often a complement to larger digital ecosystems—used to enhance branding, build followers and attract streams.
Meanwhile, artists have turned into entrepreneurs. Much like global counterparts in the indie scenes of India, Nigeria or South Korea, Bangladeshi musicians now manage their own releases, coordinate with digital distributors and cultivate global audiences.
A Festival Without Songs?
It is in this context that Eid’s musical silence becomes poignant. The festival, once synonymous with new music, now passes with only a handful of releases. Not because the artists have stopped creating—but because the infrastructure has changed. The neighborhood record shop is gone. The cassette is extinct. The local CD player was replaced by smartphones that connect to the world.
And yet, there’s hope.
In the quiet, a new kind of music is emerging—borderless, hybrid, and personal. It’s being recorded in bedrooms, produced on laptops, and released on streaming platforms that know no national boundaries.
From Bangladesh to the world, the song goes on.
The writer is a lyricist, analyst and journalist