The Ballad of a Superpower Lost
Superpower 2020. Album art: Aditiya Singh
Superpower 2020, the new album by Indian genre-bending artist Lifafa is an instant classic, a creative mishmash of techno and Bollywood classical, all packaged tightly in a musical vision of defiance, a satire of a national superpower gone wrong.
Back in 1998, A.P.J. Abdul Kalam, foremost scientist and administrator of India’s missile/nuclear programmes, wrote his seminal work, an optimistic vision for the country’s future: India 2020: A Vision for the New Millennium. The book—co-authored with Y.S. Rajan—presented an in-depth strategy for the how India could become one of the world’s top four economic powers by 2020. It was a bold stance at the time, but in Kalam’s clear, confident prose, it felt somewhat possible.
The book was wildly beloved, and a few years later, Kalam was appointed India’s 11th president. At the turn of the century, 2020 was seen as a light at the end of the dark tunnel, a year when—nearly 75 years into our existence as an independent nation—India would finally turn its hopes into reality.
Alas. 2020 has come and passed, and that vision has been despoiled; instead of becoming a world superpower, we have witnessed political missteps, nationalist chauvinism, a curbing of individual freedoms, and a particularly unscientific outlook leave Kalam’s dream unfulfilled, and a nation reeling even further behind its potential.
Contemporary electronic artist Lifafa—real name Suryakant Sawhney—had a delay with the release of his third major project, Superpower 2020. Like India’s own vision of 2020, the year came and went, and the much-anticipated follow-up to his acclaimed Jaago (2019) didn’t make it in time. Unlike the country’s vision, however, the album finally saw the light of day in the summer of 2021. Superpower 2020 is a creative mishmash of themes and styles, of production and vocals, protest anthems and love songs, techno and Bollywood classical, all packaged tightly in a musical vision of defiance, a satire of a national superpower gone wrong. An instant classic.
With Jaago and his growing status among fans of the Indian indie scene, Sawhney popularised a new genre in itself, beyond easy definitions and classifications. He continues to ride this wave and push forward in Superpower 2020. The album features much of his trademark baritone Hindi vocals that hark back to Bollywood vocalists from the 60s and 70s, but is also blessed with production that seem borrowed from some future musical utopia. His lyrics are often straightforward, often laden with metaphor and satire, and often playful and thought-provoking.
The introductory track “14-08-1947” does more heavy lifting in its title than its soft, mellow instrumental, a rumbling beat of soft claps, bells, and keys. The date is a spotlight on the dawn of India’s independence, the last day of the Raj, of being second-class citizens in our own country. It was perhaps the most optimistic night in Indian history—and also, laded with the nervous energy of the unknown to follow: the horrors of partition and the self-sufficiency that has both raised and destroyed the country since.
Lifafa. Photo: Django Knoth
Jaago’s opening, its titular track, began as a cry to awaken to revolution. “Jee lo yeh zindagi / ya chhooro yeh jawaani / jaago”. Superpower 2020, however, finds the artist firmly in the midst of this political awakening. The first words, on the second track “Wahin Ka Wahin” could may have well been found in a book of Urdu/Hindustani poetry. “Iss baag mein tu / Kahin phool khila hai / Wahin khoon khula hai / Samjhaoon kya?” In the garden / there grows a flower / there spills some blood / Do I have to explain it?
It is an early standout of Superpower 2020, with synths and a chorus of shrieking singers that provide the humming beat. Sawhney’s vocals here are a subtle rage against the machine, a protest wrapped in sugar. “Wahin Ka Wahin” ends with an uplifting call to be fearless, a reminder that we aren’t alone when facing this onslaught of dictatorship and tragedy.
If his delivery his subtle, his message certainly isn’t. Lifafa’s politics are spelled out with little room for subtext. From the album’s title itself, the cover art, to the title of some of the standout tracks—including “Mann Ki Baat”, “Acche Din”, and “Mandir”—which are all borrowed from the nationalist, political discourse propagated by the prime minster and his party. In the album’s release notes last month, Sawhney even added a special “thanks” to the BJP for the “great song titles”. Sawhney mixes satire with direct confrontation, calling out the nation’s unfulfilled dreams in “Mann Ki Baat” in an address to the speaker, but not leaving without a defiant call to freedom, “Inquilab Zindabad”—Long live the revolution—by its end.
In “Acche Din”, he laments the promised “good days” that never came around, the slipped vision of a superpower. “Maanga tha maine / Pyaar lekin kho diya hai dil / Ye lo acche din.” I had asked / for love, but lost my heart / here are your good days. The anger seethes below a calm, controlled, and hauntingly-beautiful singing voice.
And then, a wonderful elevation, the marriage of machine and man, techno and vocals that inject exciting new life into the track. It is the climactic moment of the album, a true spiritual uplift for the eardrums, a musical mandir.
Much of the album confronts love found and love lost, personal love parallel to the love found and lost with the nation. In “Laash”, which was released months before the album, Sawhney is at his playful best, with lyrics that meander and spin around a certain feeling of love, always in its orbit, unable to leave its gravitational pull, but never able to make direct contact. The lo-fi, ambient song is one of the album’s highlight, a track that would be as comfortable on the Spotify party list of a teenager as it would in one of those pre-filled ‘evergreen’ digital music players for the elderly.
The mixture of romance and political angst continues in “Bewafa Hai Ghadi”, where Lifafa’s vocals are at their best, breezy at the surface of the iceberg and thoroughly controlled in their depth, with a soft harmonium accompanying his dreamy poetry.
Before the Lifafa project, Sawhney was perhaps better known as the frontman of the acclaimed Peter Cat Recording Co., popular for much of the past decade in the indie scene for their alternative take on blues and waltz—with a tinge of Indian flavour. As Lifafa, the music borrows from the PCRC umbrella, and then spreads further wide into new dimensions. And yet, despite the various tangents, Superpower 2020 remains cohesive under the motifs of Suryakant’s production: the synths, the backing choruses, and the heartbeat of drums that string it all together.
The umbrella spreads wider into disco with “Irradon”, featuring the producer D80 (Anubhav Sharma). Sawhney’s vocals bring gravitas to this old-fashioned dance track, borrowing from the funky eras of Karz and Disco Dancer and applying it to contemporary sensibilities with hardly a hitch
The album’s closer is “Mandir”, an ambitious progressive fusion of techno and Indian classical. Featuring frequent collaborator and electronic artist Hashback Hashish, “Mandir”—temple—opens with a distorted, almost challenging-to-hear static synthesizer, a sound that is meant to make the listener uncomfortable, an itch inside the head, a reminder that not everything is right with the world. After a long build-up, Sawhney announces his arrival with an “Om”, an opening salvo of prayer, from where the mood suddenly shifts into a sort of bhajan ballad. Lifafa’s continues to mess with genre, progressing from one sound to another, and yet, continuing the album’s cohesive mood.
And then, a wonderful elevation, the marriage of machine and man, techno and vocals that inject exciting new life into the track. It is the climactic moment of the album, a true spiritual uplift for the eardrums, a musical mandir. “Jahan mann mandir,” sings Sawhney. The mind is a temple.
Superpower 2020 is the type of album that would be particularly rewarding in multiple listens; like much of Lifafa’s and PCRC’s music over the years, the sounds and themes have an uncanny ability to seep deep into one’s memory, and slowly, progressively, improve with repeat performances. Lyrically, this album is Sawhney’s attempt to be at his most literal and straightforward—perhaps even a little too unsubtle, an attempt to be more accessible than ever before. It is a heartbreak opera of a nation that one attempts to love, and doesn’t get loved back. It is the lament of a superpower gone powerless.
And yet, there remains enough sonic and lyrical weirdness in the album to keep Lifafa in his unique artistic lane. As the first single from the album “Laash” progresses, Sawhney’s poetry gets stranger, until he is finally rhyming “saans”(breath) with “laash”(corpse). It’s a morbid take on life, or a pleasant take on death, leaving us with an unnerving, enjoyable feeling that stays with the listener for most of the album—and keeps us coming back for more.
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Karan Madhok is a writer, journalist, and editor of The Chakkar, whose creative work has appeared in Gargoyle, The Literary Review, The Bombay Review, The Lantern Review, F(r)iction, and more. He is the founder of the Indian basketball blog Hoopistani and has contributed to NBA India, SLAM Magazine, FirstPost, and more. His debut novel is forthcoming on the Aleph Book Company. You can find him on Twitter: @karanmadhok1 and Instagram: @karanmadhok.
