I was in a cell phone commercial.

Sub-urban New Delhi, 4 November 2006


An imported popular, affordable Vodka brand sponsored the special guest foreign DJ-event the only other time I had visited this discothèque. The bar only served that particular brand, in addition to the massive branded-posters all around the hallways, stage, and seemed to float above the dance floor like its halo; this was a crafted marketing event. The Rs. 1500 cover charge included 500 rupees worth of drinks that sold for Rs. 150 and included Rs. 20 worth of liquor and Rs. 7 worth of juice. I suppose they charged for ice as well.


The crowd’s hands shot into the air the moment the group finally appeared on stage after several announced delays and stalling by an annoying squirt to whom I shall return to later. The crowd thrust their cellular phones high to capture the action live. Many mobiles had flashes. I could see that others took video recordings that they reviewed, at times ignoring the live performance. This went on throughout the first three acts.


The cell phone company found the biggest, blackest group of loud bling-wearing, thug looking men in American Hip-Hop to rock the crowd in order to promote their brand. The largest man of the bunch both in terms of height and in terms of width, stood in back wearing dark sunglasses and a heavy hooded sweatshirt. He was the only one on stage without a microphone and had, what one of my favorite comedians calls, “the kind of muscle that you get from trying to keep a brutha off you!” (Prison style) Everyone else on stage showed-off muscular torsos and sagging jeans.


The first two songs that the group performed abruptly ended with the DJ spinning the sounds of crashing glass- a broken window or perhaps shattered goods. The end of the third song ended with the sounds of a machine guns- I dare not imagine the target.


The cameramen on stage competed with the local announcer and his tiny digicam for the best shots of the group of men as they rapped and criss-crossed the stage. They must have managed to get a plethora of angles of the crowd cheering. There were several redundant networks to capture each bit of the action.

The crowd cheered quite a bit that night. Certainly, there were those who welcomed the beats with a response when any new, good beat came through the speakers. Besides, the hype-man* made sure that the crowd cheered after each song spun by the DJ as the crowd initially awaited the group to arrive. The crowd began to show agitation towards the hype-man cum squirt after he announced for the third time that the group would arrive in 15 minutes.


After each song the hype-man would come on stage and ask the crowd to, “give it up for the DJ,” or “give it up for that dope beat,” and then, “give it up for the sponsors.” Finally, the hype-man announced: “There are too many white people in here!” I suppose that he bonded with Hip-Hop culture through a mutual dispassion for ‘the man’. Thanks to this cell-phone company the hype-man has taken full root in India. I caution you to consider what it is that they are selling. I caution us all to (re)consider what it is that we choose to buy- and why.



* A hype man is a hip-hop performer responsible for backup rapping and singing, and increasing an audience's excitement with call-and-response chants. A notable hype man is Flavor Flav from Public Enemy.