While it has been a decade since the release of Nachom-ia Kumpasar, this year also marks the 80th birthday of the legendary Goan singer Lorna Cordeiro (born August 9, 1944).
In this interview with Bardroy Barretto, director of the Konkani-language Nachom-ia Kumpasar (2014), we discuss its chronicling of the contribution of Goan musicians to the Golden Era of Indian cinema (late 1940s-1960s). Set in Goa and Bombay of the 1960s, Barretto’s film fictionalises the period by portraying the lives of musicians who are, in turn, inspired by real-life Goan entertainers, Lorna Cordeiro, Chris Perry (1928-2002), and others.
Even as the film demonstrates how Goan music with its Portuguese influences created the soundtrack for Bollywood in the second half of the 20th century, Nachom-ia Kumpasar also bears witness to the part played by the Indian film industry and film history in undermining the legacy of Goan musicians.
Additionally, the interview includes Barretto’s perspective on how Bombay became a site of possibility for Goans at the end of Portuguese colonialism, their forays into entertainment giving rise to Goan, Konkani-language theatre (tiatr) and film, as well.
Further, as Nachom-ia Kumpasar and its director evidence, Goan musicians not only brought their Portuguese colonial-era musical training to Bollywood, but also the rhythms of jazz. While such musical histories may be forgotten, and as Barretto’s film and this interview make clear, the mark Goans left on Indian cinema’s soundscape cannot be unheard.
What drew you to make this film and why choose the medium of a fictional feature rather than a documentary to chronicle the history of Goan musicians in Indian cinema?
To start with, I had no idea that Goan musicians populated military/services/railways and circus bands and played the piano scores in sync with the films during the silent era. They entertained the elites in the jazz clubs in Bombay, Calcutta, Delhi, Bangalore, and even far away Burma (now Myanmar). They also played in the princely states’ in-house bands. There were thousands of Goan musicians employed in British India.
Post-Independence, Prohibition was declared in the Bombay State (Bombay Prohibition Act 1949), which dealt a death blow to the jazz clubs, so these musicians gravitated toward the nascent Indian film industry and went on to change its soundscape. I discovered these musicians while doing research for Nachom-ia Kumpasar.
Goa did not have a film culture, save for a few films in the mid-1960s to 1970s. As a result, there was significantly less moving image documentation of Goa. So, when I set out to do Nachom-ia Kumpasar, a fictional feature was a natural choice as it is a popular mass medium versus a documentary. The idea was also to start a Konkani cinema movement and make Konkani cool as the younger population was shying away from it. Looking back, I think we did succeed, as just two films were released in 2014, and the number jumped to multiples of tens in the following years. Seeing the film’s commercial success, many filmmakers joined the bandwagon to make more Konkani films.
Anthony Gonsalves (1927-2012) is one musician who stood out for me. I had the opportunity to talk to him and understand the world he came from. He is the one who orchestrated and harmonised Indian ragas, a form that is otherwise played in monotone. This blend of Western and Indian idioms changed the soundscape of Indian film music. I deliberated for a long time about doing a documentary on him but handed over my research to another filmmaker to do the documentary and to Naresh Fernandes for his book Taj Mahal Foxtrot: The Story of Bombay's Jazz Age (2012).
I had written a blog post on Gonsalves way back in 2010. This is my only written material on the subject in the public domain.
Before getting into the action, Nachom-ia Kumpasar begins with a voiceover that informs viewers of its belief that, for Goa, its story is its music. That music is identified in this opening moment as being a blend of Dravidian and Portuguese rhythms.
Adding to this idea, in Taj Mahal Foxtrot, Naresh Fernandes explains that while the Portuguese, who colonised Goa between 1510-1961, “neglected higher education” in the region, the one thing they did attend to by 1545 was the establishment of ‘parochial schools that put into place a solid system of musical training’. In turn, this allowed Goans to function “as the musicians of the [British Indian] Raj”, because of their education in Western music. As the hold of the feudal agricultural economy in Portuguese India decreased and jobs became scarcer, British India beckoned to Goans, and musical entertainment became a service they could provide there and then elsewhere in the British empire, British Africa included.
Yet, as your film underscores so gracefully, Goans made “Western” music their own. Is it true to say that while Goan music has marked Portuguese influences, Goan musicians always put a local spin on European music (even during the colonial era)? And/or is it also the case, as one sees in Nachom-ia Kumpasar, that Goans incorporated the inspirations they encountered as travellers beyond the shores of their homeland?
When the Portuguese colonised the land of Goa and its people, they also inherited a social structure, that is the caste system, which was prevalent at that time. The bamonns (Brahmins) and the chardos (Kshatriyas) owned land and were at the top of this caste hierarchy. At the bottom were the sudirs (Shudras/Dravidians), who practiced traditional occupations and were artisans, and there were also the tribal or indigenous communities.
This lower stratum had its own traditional ritualistic rhyme and rhythm comprising drums, vocals, and sometimes cymbals, music which was passed down the generations orally and in practice. The tribal communities had rhythm in their blood. But it was the formal training in the parochial schools under Portuguese rule that got those at the lower end of society ready when British India beckoned. Now they could read and write music and amalgamate it into any musical composition and movement.
Being from the oppressed class, they also used music as a tool for social change, which gave rise to the popular form of Konkani music, simply called cantaram (songs), which bear Portuguese influence. The Western influence they encountered as music hands in British India was further fused into their own indigenous tribal rhythms. They wrote political protest songs about social evils such as dowry, land rights, alcoholism, and so on, which were prevalent at that time. They also wrote about love and affairs back home. They explored a range of topics and emotions in their music.
At the same time, the elites and the seminary-educated musicians mostly stuck to refined forms of music, namely the mando, dulpod, and devotional songs (usually hymns).
The film’s voiceover articulates all this only as an observation. The visual with the voiceover is of a church with a mestre walking toward it, followed by a child holding a trumpet while his father and two musicians happen to stroll by. This vignette is imagined as occurring during the period of Portuguese India. The voiceover, along with the visual, is open to interpretation.
As another observation, if we superimpose the evolution of Goan music with that of Brazil, another former Portuguese colony, similar patterns will likely be observed. I spent a month in Brazil in 2007. The Afro-Portuguese blend gave rise to forró in Manaus, frevo in Recife, axé in Salvador de Bahia, and the smooth samba down south in Rio de Janeiro. I suppose this, too, is possible because of the Portuguese system of musical training which blended with African rhythms.
Inasmuch as Nachom-ia Kumpasar is a film about music in the Golden Era of the Indian film industry (late 1940s-1960s), it is also a story about post-Portuguese Goa, beginning as the film does in Bombay in 1964. In a sense, this ties together the post-European trajectories of both these regions which were, actually, both under Portuguese rule at some point in their histories. Through scenes set in kudds, the community halls Goans established for themselves in Bombay, and the shows that the characters Donna, Lawry, and their band play in that city, your movie acknowledges the deep links Goans have with Bombay. Furthermore, Nachom-ia Kumpasar considers how Goans contributed to the making of modern Bombay, as have so many communities in that cosmopolitan metropolis.
As your film looks back on the 1960s, how does it acknowledge the difference of that moment and what it made possible in Indian history? What lessons might we still learn from that time? And how different is that period in comparison to the contemporary moment?
The large-scale emigration of Goans (cooks and musicians) to British India-ruled Bombay started after the Anglo-Portuguese Treaty of 1878.
Contrary to the popular notion that Goans mainly worked as cooks, seamen, and musicians, there was an immense contribution by Goans in varied other fields, be it medicine, the arts, literature, administration, education, advertising, journalism, and sports. This influence lasted till the early 1990s and played a large part in the making of modern Bombay. Sadly, their contribution is now reduced to small print or slowly being erased.
I landed in Bombay in 1988, three years before the liberalisation of the Indian economy in 1991. Getting rid of the old to build anew was not so rampant; I could keenly observe the Goan community in Greater Bombay, which helped me re-construct (for the film) the kudds, the community halls, and the one-room-kitchen tenements in which they resided. The jazz clubs had disappeared, making way for Indian Orchestra Bars, and then, soon, Bombay changed to Mumbai in 1995. The Goans are now slowly dispersing to the distant suburbs for more extensive and affordable housing.
In addition to its use of Goan music, Nachom-ia Kumpasar is also mindful of other forms of Goan cultural production, including tiatr (which is scripted in Romi Konkani, is musical in style, and often addresses contemporary social and political issues). Again, this is a Goan art form that owes its history to Bombay, the first tiatr, Lucazinho Ribeiro’s Italian Bhurgo (Italian Boy), having been performed there in 1892.
Not only does Prince Jacob, a legendary actor of the Konkani stage, make an appearance in the film (and I will return to Pisso Santan, the character he plays shortly), but the film’s closing credits also feature a scene that is straight out of a tiatr. This musical scene includes a comedic performance by, among others, Pisso Santan and Donna, now playing roles as tiatrists as the film ends. In this interplay between stage and screen, music is the most obvious intermedial connection. How did tiatr, an often undervalued Konkani theatrical and literary art form, influence your making of this film?
All the tiatr productions were based in Bombay till the late-1970s. They had their first few shows in Bombay and then travelled to Goa. Goa had khells, which are usually plays in three acts, that were staged during Carnival time and were performed in the open. In the 1970s, Rosario Rodrigues and, later, Rose Ferns were the pioneers to take these khells onto a stage, thus giving birth to khell-tiatr. Both these forms (tiatr and khell-tiatr) evolved and merged and are now simply called tiatrs.
Similarly, all the earlier Konkani films were helmed and produced by these same Bombaimcars (Bombay Goans). Their exposure to working in the growing Indian film Industry as musicians, film studio hands, and in film production gave them a head-start in cinema. Al Jerry Braganza (Antonio Lawrence Jerry Braganza) produced the first film in Konkani, Mogacho Anvddo (Love’s Craving) in 1950 during Portuguese rule. For the second Konkani film, Goa had to wait for 13 years Amchem Noxib (Our Luck) was released in 1963, two years after Portuguese rule ended, and was produced by Frank Fernand, a noted film arranger then. He followed it up with Nirmon (Destiny) in 1966. Chris Perry joined in producing Bhuierantlo Munis (Man from The Cave) in 1977.
Save for a few Konkani films, most of the Konkani music was written for tiatrs. Both these forms, tiatr and Konkani films, owe their history to Bombay as the Bombay Goans (who played in the jazz clubs and film studios) are the pioneers of these art forms. If not for tiatrs, just producing Konkani music would not be commercially viable. These tiatrists and filmmakers had the wisdom to record these songs for posterity; I don’t think they were paid any royalties.
All this changed with the advent of audio cassettes in the early-1980s; the production and marketing costs were not so prohibitive. Now, they could produce and monetise their music by selling cassettes. Local music labels, too, sprouted up in Goa.
All the songs that appear in my film were originally written by Chris Perry for his two musical shows Nouro Mhozo Deunchar (My Husband, the Devil) and Tum ani Hanv (You and Me). Chris Perry put Lorna through her paces for over six months in Bombay, rehearsing with his band; finally, she made her debut at Trincas in Calcutta and then played at Astoria in Bombay. A few years later, Nouro Mhozo Deunchar was Goa’s introduction to Lorna. For the first time in the history of tiatrs, the band, which usually played from the pit, took centre stage. For the film, it was apt to migrate some songs to a tiatr setting as that is the medium the songs were written for.
When Donna first meets Lawry and his band in Bombay, he asks her to sing the song Pisso (Madman) during a rehearsal. She suggests that despite its despondent theme, the song could be performed in a more upbeat fashion. Lawry finally relents and Donna’s cheery spin on the song makes it a hit. Later in the film, when Lawry and Donna’s relationship becomes irreparable, Donna declares that the only thing she will ever be married to is music.
What is compellingly portrayed here is her agency as a woman who not only has an impact on the band’s sound but also expresses her creative ambition and self-belief apart from her professional and romantic relationships.
Could I ask you to comment on how much this drew from the history of that moment? I ask this especially given that the music in the film, much of it by Chris Perry and Lorna Cordeiro, including Nachom-ia Kumpasar (‘Let’s Dance to the Rhythm’) from which the movie derives its title, is actually from the period of its setting.
There was a story in the songs. The songs were set to a playlist to tell a story; later, the scenes were written to take the songs forward.
The main events in the film start in Bombay in 1964, just when Prohibition was lifted, and end in 1975 when the entertainment tax was raised for hotels and clubs playing western music, forcing these jazz and big band musicians towards making music for the Hindi film industry. The love story of Donna and Lawry is set within this timeline. Then, 20 later, in 1995, when Bombay changed to Mumbai, Donna makes her comeback.
The song Nachom-ia Kumpasar represents the spirit of a young Donna who just wants to sing and have a good time. The upbeat version of the theme keeps recurring whenever Donna wants to break free and turns blue when she’s down.
For Pisso, the lyrics and music are diametrically opposed in terms of emotions. It is the sheer genius of Chris Perry to have set such an upbeat rhythm to a despondent theme. So, we started with a slightly morose version and used the original as Donna’s take, thereby transforming how the band played the song.
All the songs are interpreted to tell a story; sometimes, the lines between their professional and real lives blur, but the characters’ emotions ride on from one song to the next.
I would also like to ask you to reflect on Nachom-ia Kumpasar’s treatment of gender more generally. Two examples come to mind. Firstly, although Lorna Cordeiro is often described as “The Nightingale of Goa”, it is notable that her crooning style is not typically feminine; similarly, Donna sings in a manner that veers between being demure and, then, far from it. This is especially stark in the context of the rest of the bandmembers being men. What does this say about how women may have used the space of performance to craft their identities at this mid-century moment?
Then, in several scenes, news of goings-on in Bombay are made known in Goa through the appearance of a “chorus” of three men who hang out by the village gathering spot, a large cross. Interestingly, these village gossips are men, their commentary on the characters’ lives in Bombay and Goa ranging from such topics as the musicians’ love affairs and failures and successes. As women are so often characterised as being gossips, was it a deliberate choice to have these characters be men? In your film (and elsewhere), what is the role of gossip itself as a form of community storytelling and information-sharing?
Though the audiences in these clubs were the elites of South Bombay, the prodigious musicians who entertained them came from humble and strict Catholic upbringings. I imagine their training under the mestres made them dignified and disciplined musicians, not necessarily entertainers. A few among them stepped out and became brass band leaders (such as Lawry and Chic Chocolate in the film). Donna comes from this background with a pious and anxious mother always keeping her in check.
Matriculation, followed by shorthand and typing, is what many girls did at that time to get into private companies as secretaries and telephone operators. But a spirited Donna cannot be contained. She has her way and joins the band, a not-so-dignified career in those times. For a young and carefree Donna, the line between her and the upper-crust audience doesn’t exist. She made the stage her own and mingled with the audience against the wishes of her mentor Lawry.
The three men are the “three loafers”, with Romeo (the conventional village hero) being the leader of the pack. They gather at the local meeting point and exchange the juiciest gossip from the recently arrived seaman who came home after a brief pit stop at the kudds in Bombay. The kudd residents, too, were all men. So pretty much, it was the men who spread these canards with a little bit of spice.
I used the three loafers as a device, they were the voice of the people, to say things that are difficult to digest. The audience consumes this gossip yet doesn’t take the loafers seriously.
Like a refrain, the theme of drunkenness appears recurrently in your film. The band sings the song Bebdo (‘Drunkard’), which continues to be popular in Goa today and, also, Santan, the washed-up alcoholic played by Prince Jacob, continually reappears at various junctures as comic relief and as the drunken voice of conscience.
Clearly drawing from Bollywood’s consistent portrayal of Goans as drunkards, Nachom-ia Kumpasar plays against the grain in creating a Goan drunk who has self-awareness of why he is an alcoholic and who sees alcoholism as a symptom of other bigger issues. Santan communicates as much to Donna who slowly descends into alcoholism as the film progresses. Her increasing desire to drown her sorrow in drink is in tandem with the failure of her romantic relationship and the diminishing fortunes of Goan musicians as they are sidelined by Bollywood over time. A touchy subject, especially given how Goans and Goan culture are represented by Indian cinema, why was it important for you to use drunkenness as a metaphor?
Alcohol is not portrayed as a taboo in Nachom-ia Kumpasar; everyone has a drink at the end of a hard day, yet not everyone shown is an alcoholic, unlike in the Bollywood films, which portray all Goans as drunkards and Goan women in frocks as women of loose character. Alcohol is synonymous with Goan culture, be it a wedding or funeral. Also, the famous feni is a cure for everything, be it a headache, toothache, high fever, and even a panacea for love gone wrong.
Pisso Santan (Mad Santan) – is he a drunkard, or is he a madman? He is a jilted lover; alcohol is his solace, and insanity is his escape from reality. He is a voice of conscience. Everyone hears him, yet no one listens. Always ignored by Lawry and the band throughout the film, he eventually succeeds in drawing Donna into a conversation towards the end of the film. Are they alcoholics, or are they victims of love gone wrong? Is Donna, too, heading toward insanity? Their track stops there in the film, leaving the audience to interpret and draw conclusions themselves.
Returning to the first rehearsal scene, in the background of the set, one notices a few posters. These include images of Billie Holiday and Louis Armstrong. While the influence of Black American performers of the jazz era, and even after, is apparent in the history of Bombay’s music scene, it seems that Goans were particularly attuned to this inspiration.
Chic Chocolate, who appears in your film as a character, is actually fashioned after a real-life person of the same name. The Aldona-born trumpeter António Xavier Vaz (1916-1967) christened himself Chic Chocolate and famously modelled his performance style after Louis Armstrong; the two met in Bombay during Armstrong’s visit in 1964.
Because of Portuguese colonialism, European classical music training was part of Goan life, but at what point did popular Black American music also become significant in the (Goan and diasporic) zeitgeist?
The trained Goan musicians were introduced to jazz by the early African American jazz bands helmed by Leon Abbey, Crickett Smith, and Teddy Weatherford during the 1930s. The Goan musicians at once took an affinity to this music. With swing music, they could express themselves, breaking into improvised solos. This expression found its way into Indian cinema too.
It was interesting to re-imagine this world. There were clues in the stage names Goan musicians adopted. Cristovam Perreira became Chris Perry, Franklin Fernandes became Frank Fernand, and António Xavier Vaz became Chic Chocolate, to name a few who ditched their Latin names for English ones. Chic styled himself after his hero Louis Armstrong.
Now, for the prized merchandise of jazz posters seen in the film. Did the musicians get them from the affluent patrons at the jazz clubs as a matter of gratitude? Or did their fellow-Goan seamen get them during their trips overseas?
So those posters are rather evocative as props! The appearance of Chic Chocolate in your film as a fictionalised person who also was a real musician reminds the audience that the performers you portray were part of Bombay’s music history. They brought American Jazz and European classical influences with them and created the sound that would become synonymous with Bollywood. Performers like Anthony Gonsalves, who worked with fabled Goan-origin, Indian film playback singer Lata Mangeshkar (1929-2022), even attempted to synthesise Eastern and Western rhythms.
Yet, as your film notes, Chic Chocolate was not even recognised for his musical contribution to the film Albela (1951), a familiar tale true of the legacy created by many Goan musicians. Why were Goans given short shrift in this regard and, apart from your film and the work done by Naresh Fernandes in Taj Mahal Foxtrot, are other efforts underway to address this erasure?
It is widely known that mostly the Hindus were the music directors and the Muslims were the lyricists. The Christian Goan composers and arrangers who played an important role were reduced to the small print or not credited. These three communities used to do the baithaks (sittings) and created cult melodies for Indian cinema. The likes of Frank Fernand, Sebastian D’Souza, Chic Chocolate, and Anthony Gonsalves, to name a few, changed the soundscape of Indian film music. They introduced harmonies, fado bridges, jazz interludes, and Goan folk rhythms during the Golden Era of Indian cinema. Sebastian D’Souza helmed the western orchestra for many decades, Anthony Gonsalves contributed by orchestrating the ragas, and Chic Chocolate first introduced swing to Indian films in Albela. Sadly, these contributions were not celebrated or recognised.
Taj Mahal Foxtrot and Nachom-ia Kumpasar put a spotlight on these unsung musicians. Wind of Fire: The Music & Musicians of Goa (1997) by Mario Cabral e Sá is a well-researched book on Goan musicians, both western and Hindustani. Songit, Doulot Goenkaranchi (Music, The Wealth of Goans) (2004) by Bonaventure D’Pietro is another effort that highlights these musicians. The title of Bonaventure D’Pietro’s book is actually the name of a song by M Boyer, who composed it in either the late 1970s or early 1980s. The song names Goan musicians and the person who actually took credit for their work. The song ends by saying that Goans gave their music to the films but were not credited and were only portrayed as drunkards on screen. These lyrics are what Lawry verbalises towards the film’s end in Nachom-ia Kumpasar.
Symphony of Passion (2022) by Melvyn Savio Misquita is one more piece in the jigsaw puzzle which gives Goan musicians the recognition they rightly deserve.
All these glorious musicians deserve at least a Wall of Fame, if not a Hall of Fame. I hope that more and more efforts are put into shining a light on these musicians.
In closing, what do you see in the future of Goan cinema? What would you like to have it do and what might audiences expect from you next?
The future of Goan cinema is in good hands as many more films are being produced. Out of quantity, we will get quality.
As for me, I will continue to document the Goa of the past in cinema. A film centered around football as a religion set between 1975 and 1985 will be my next film, fingers crossed.
Adapted, with permission, from the journal Portuguese Studies 40.2 (2024). Additional thanks to the staff at the Louis Armstrong House Museum.
R Benedito Ferrão is an Assistant Professor of English and Asian & Pacific Islander American Studies at William & Mary, Virginia, USA, and is the recipient of the Jinlan Liu Prize for Faculty Research.
