Uncovering Bangkok through its forgotten vinyl records

To write about a place as an outsider can veer on the dishonest. Everyday experiences that pass as mundane or simply unnoteworthy get analyzed, recast in our own image, or simply observed with removed amusement.

It’s something we can all be guilty of: the gormless stare at a previously unseen spectacle, the wrinkling of the nose at an anticipated foreign taste or maybe a blithe misreading of a social interaction. It’s what binds all outsiders together, as we attempt to orientate ourselves in a new situation.

But to our advantage we also get to see the everyday and the ordinary with fresh eyes. As a  musician and DJ, music and creativity are always things I’ve been drawn to, not just out of personal interest, but also because of the interactions they’ve led to. 

When I moved to Bangkok in 2008 I knew I’d find new music. As one of the hubs of Southeast Asia, it followed that arts and industry would have combined to produce the objects that have always caught my attention since my early teens -- vinyl records.

'A foreigner looking for old Thai records was out of the ordinary'

Everywhere I’ve been to in Asia, records are generally regarded as, if not antiques, then certainly something antiquated.

Old technology as passe as an eight-track tape cartridge, or a black and white television, can be found in weird side streets, run down markets and awkward corners. The sellers can range from the completely indifferent to the clued up capitalist. Each situation is unique but there is still continuity.

In Bangkok, my first inquiries into Thai vinyl were met with friendly laughter, curiosity and suspicion. Thailand, despite its laid back reputation, can surprise you with its list of unwritten rules and expectations.  

A foreigner looking for old Thai records was out of the ordinary, and didn’t fit into any typecast, be it backpacker, businessman or aging Lothario. Over time, shop owners came to accept my regular visits with my portable turntable, as it became clear that this was a genuine interest, as opposed to a fad, or financial scam.  

Most of what I purchased were the rural styles of "luk thung" and "molam," particularly discs from the experimental era of the early 1970s.

In addition to the sounds, of course, it is the little snippets of information that have surfaced over time that makes me wonder what else we might discover by a closer inspection of what is in front of us.

Molam is a specific northeastern style from Issan, with musical and linguistic links with Laos.

Despite an oft-vocalized Bangkokian snobbery to those who live up country, record labels in the capital chose to put out Issan artists because of the large number of northeasterners who had migrated south for work, due to a lack of employment opportunities back home.

A weight-free look at the country's schisms 

For the last two years DJ Maft Sai and myself have run a club night here, called “Paradise Bangkok,” showcasing this music alongside a mixture of African music, Reggae and Funk, drawing a fairly even blend of Thais and expats.  

We recently played an outdoor event on Khao San Soad, which culminated with some of the stall holders shutting their businesses down for the night, and dancing with the rest of the crowd.
One in particular said how the sounds reminded him of how much he missed home.

It was a nicely poignant moment, and a reminder of the unlikely glue music can provide for a disparate crowd. The experience briefly offered a glimpse into the country’s schisms, but without the weight of social theorizing or political aggrandizement.

Bangkok showcases gleaming wealth buttressed up against economic paucity. The records, these forgotten objects, document the hopes, fears, humor and culture of Thai people past and present, in a way that all good music does.

A little digging and listening, and you can quickly start to feel a bit more at home.