Love runs loud

Ayub Bachchu acquired his first guitar in the manner typical of young men in Chittagong during the late 1970s: it was pre-owned, technically flawed, and treated with standard religious reverence. The instrument, a Teisco, was borrowed from his friend Kumar Bishwajit, who subsequently achieved his own musical renown. 

Bachchu was in the fourth grade. He did not relinquish the instrument, in any practical sense, until an October night in 2018 when his heart failed following a performance in Rangpur. He was fifty-six, an age that in most traditional professions marks the middle of a career rather than its end.

The decade preceding his prominence was spent serving as an obscure sideman. There was Ugly Boys, a school outfit largely forgotten, followed briefly by Feelings. Later came a ten-year tenure with Souls, a group whose polished output established his reputation in Chittagong and eventually forced the Dhaka music establishment to pay attention. 

Ten years is an exceptionally long duration to spend executing someone else’s musical vision. He departed in 1990 under circumstances described by contemporaries as a heavy heart—a euphemism denoting private disputes deemed unsuitable for public consumption. His subsequent project was initially named the Yellow River Band, then briefly the Little River Band, before a trademark conflict with an established Australian group necessitated a final revision to Love Runs Blind. 

The acronym, LRB, ultimately outlived the sentence behind it. Bachchu was never overly concerned with preserving his own mythology.

LRB’s inaugural performance at Dhaka University in April 1991 was hardly the monumental success later retrospective accounts suggest. It featured an unheralded provincial act performing before an audience with entrenched local loyalties. The true breakthrough arrived the following year with a double album, LRB I and LRB II, an unprecedented move in the history of Bangladeshi recorded media. 

Releasing a debut double album requires either absolute market confidence or sheer desperation. Bachchu later admitted he was closer to the latter. The gamble succeeded.

In 1993, the group released Shukh, containing the track "Cholo Bodle Jai"—a composition built on three fundamental chords that executed the emotional work of a far more complex piece. It became the defining record of the era. While arguably not his finest technical achievement, it demonstrated that rock music could be rendered in the Bengali language without appearing as a faint translation of Western models. Prior to this release, Bengali rock carried an implicit, self-effacing posture. Afterward, that posture vanished entirely.

The body of work produced over the subsequent quarter-century did not follow a neat linear arc from hard rock to melodic balladry and alternative styles. It was considerably more chaotic. Tracks like "Shahbagh Mor" shared space with the vulnerability of "Cholo Bodle Jai," placing heavy guitar distortion alongside melodies suitable for domestic celebrations. Bachchu raided musical genres based entirely on the immediate requirements of a composition rather than the demands of record label branding.

His lyricism frequently diverged from the expectations established by song titles. "Boro Babu Master" suggests a narrative concerning an authoritative schoolteacher, yet it actually depicts a railway stationmaster—an individual whose operational authority is confined strictly to a rural platform. 

Bachchu identified a quiet tragedy in the figure: a man granted just enough responsibility to remain entirely insignificant to the broader world. Conversely, "Khub Shadharon" discards power dynamics entirely, presenting an unadorned love song that functions without decorative excess.

Other compositions were routinely misinterpreted by the public. "Uraal Debo Akashe," frequently misfiled as a feel-good anthem due to its accessible chorus, functions as a critique of institutional authority and the isolation of unrestrained power. Similarly, "Mon Chaile Mon Pabe" was routinely performed at weddings as a straightforward romantic pledge, despite Bachchu’s intent leaning toward a broader, meditative form of surrender. The public adopted it as a marriage proposal; Bachchu declined to issue corrections.

His portrait of urban existence was equally unvarnished. "Ghum Bhanga Shohore" captured the jarring reality of a Dhaka morning—a sudden convergence of calls to prayer, rickshaw bells, and distant cassette playback. "Gotokal Raate" treated the same environment in reverse, documenting the lingering weight of past events. 

In "Bangladesh," he resisted conventional nationalistic tropes, addressing the country not as a rhetorical symbol, but as an ongoing concern requiring persistent critique and debate.

Certain works ultimately transcended their original context. "Ferari Mon" shifted from a specific narrative into a general cultural asset, utilized at weddings, political demonstrations, and late-night urban commutes alike. "Sabitri Roy" offered a semi-fictional character with enough interior complexity that listeners continued to inquire about her real-world identity. "Kichu Nei Amar" presented a stark assertion of personal sufficiency, coming as close as Bachchu ever got to articulating a coherent personal philosophy.

Bachchu was interred at Chaitanya Goli in Chittagong, beside his mother. Three weeks after his passing, musicians in Kolkata organized a tribute concert across an international border he had largely ignored, performing his catalogue to an audience that recognized its cultural weight.

Across Bangladesh, young musicians continue to attempt the guitar phrasing of "Rupali Guitar" on inexpensive equipment. Bachchu normalized the premise that rock music could be articulated natively—drawing upon the mundane realities of stationmasters, urban mornings, and personal displacement—without offering an apology for its origins.

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Mahmud Newaz Joy is a Dhaka-based writer and political analyst