“The line between authentic folk and popularised ‘folk-pop’ has blurred dangerously. What we are witnessing is not thoughtful fusion; it is reckless appropriation.”
By Marjing Mayanglambam
A troubling shift is underway in Manipur’s music scene. Our folk songs, once sacred vessels of collective memory cultivated through centuries of ritual and oral tradition, are being reduced to mere stage props. A new generation of performers, armed with slick production and modern instruments, is eager to “modernise” Manipuri folk. But in their rush to go viral, they are stripping the art of its soul, leaving behind a spectacle that looks and sounds like folk, but is fundamentally hollow.
This is more than a debate over taste; it is a crisis of cultural survival. When sacred songs are remixed with pop beats and thrown into the commercial fray without understanding their origins, it becomes a desecration. These performers may win applause, but they are eroding the very traditions that define our community.
The line between authentic folk and popularised “folk-pop” has blurred beyond recognition. Festival stages now feature Pena, Khongjom Parva, and Lai Haraoba songs performed with keyboards and drum machines—stripped of context and packaged as “fusion.” Fusion is not the enemy; it can be beautiful when done with knowledge and respect. But what we are witnessing is not thoughtful fusion; it is reckless appropriation. Theodor Adorno warned of the “culture industry,” where art becomes standardized and hollow. Manipuri folk is teetering on that precipice.
Equally distressing is the near-death of the guru-shishya parampara, the Oja Khanba. Ojas who spent decades mastering their craft under strict discipline now watch as so-called disciples learn from smartphone tutorials and shortcuts. For these masters, this is not progress; it is a mockery. As one cultural elder lamented, “We had to bow, endure, and suffer to learn. Now they swipe and sing.” A tradition built on patience and humility is being eroded by convenience and haste.
To be fair, contemporary performers have made Manipuri folk visible on YouTube and global stages in ways unimaginable a decade ago. But visibility without integrity is a dangerous bargain. Jean Baudrillard warned that when the imitation overtakes the reality, the copy becomes more real than the original. This is the precise threat: that our children will one day know only the pop-folk remix, mistaking a simulation for the tradition itself.
The deeper tragedy is that many popular performers feel immune to criticism. Their fame shields them; their fanbase justifies them; cultural experts are dismissed as “out of touch.” This arrogance is shortsighted. As Amartya Sen reminds us, identity is tied to historical continuity. To recklessly commodify folk is to weaken not only the art but the identity of Manipur.
The responsibility now rests squarely with our musicians and cultural leaders. Performers must ask: Are we honoring this tradition, or exploiting it? Are we carrying forward the values of our Ojas, or silencing them with auto-tune? Experimentation is welcome, but not at the cost of distortion. For Manipuri folk to survive, young musicians must relearn respect for the art, its masters, and the community it represents. Otherwise, our folk songs will not remain heritage; they will become hollow spectacles, consumed today and forgotten tomorrow.
The question is no longer if Manipur’s folk music can be popularized. It already has been. The real question is: will it be remembered as a proud, living tradition, or as something we allowed to die while we were busy applauding its remixed corpse?
A Note in Continuity: In Conversation with an Earlier Reflection
This article is a counterpoint to a more personal, hopeful piece I wrote previously—one that celebrated the resilience of folk traditions and the promise of fusion as a bridge to younger audiences. That essay explored a revival of interest since 2013.
But every hopeful story casts a shadow. This article is not a contradiction but a necessary darker counterpart. If the first piece showed the possibilities of renewal, this one warns of the dangers of reckless reinvention. Together, they tell a fuller truth: Manipuri folk music stands at a crossroads, with one path leading to revitalization and the other to erosion.
The earlier article welcomed innovation, and rightly so. This one insists on caution: that not all innovation is respectful, and not all fusion is thoughtful. Both perspectives belong to the same author because to love an art form is to celebrate its growth while guarding it from harm. To be observant is not enough; one must also be vigilant. These two essays are complementary voices in the same conversation—one recognizing folk’s adaptability, the other exposing the fragility of its authenticity. Manipur’s musical future depends on whether its musicians can hear both voices and act with both creativity and conscience.