Interview: Side Effect’s Darko C Reflects on Leaving Myanmar and Rebirth in Austin

In 2021, Myanmar indie-rock band Side Effect immigrated to Austin, leaving behind their tyrannical civil war-torn roots. Frontman Darko C is using the most of his newfound liberation to establish a footing in the live music capital of the world and bring awareness to the conditions of his hometown.

Written by Miranda Garza

Photo courtesy of PRS Foundation

Born and raised in poverty-ridden and protest-driven Myanmar, Darko C has insurgence in his blood. Formerly known as Burma, the Southeast Asian region has been caught in a flood of internal conflict dating back to 1948, all of which was met with ferocity by the country’s military. Stemming from an unwavering love for music and an equally powerful disdain for the government, Darko and drummer Tser Htoo founded Side Effect in 2014. The musicians garnered a regional fanbase overtime with politically combative lyrics and guitar-heavy melodies until their song “Under the Influence” was featured in the debut episode of late chef Anthony Bourdain’s travel show “Anthony Bourdain: Parts Unknown” and put them on the radars of listeners overseas.

In 2021, Darko and his family fled their Myanmar home. Late into the night and led by a smuggler, they traveled to Mae Sot on foot, where they headed straight for the United States embassy and applied for refugee status. The musician and his family settled into Austin in August of that same year, and while he’s thankful for their safety, he’s found it difficult to resume his previous life in his new home.

Afterglow: What is the biggest adjustment you’ve made since moving to Austin? 

Darko C: No matter what I did, how much I achieved, sometimes I feel like my achievements and my proven skill set and experiences [have] been neglected [here]. That’s the biggest adjustment, that I had to start from scratch.

I went to your instagram and I saw the huge venues you played in Myanmar, and [at SXSW], I [expected] you to play larger venues. 

[It’s] this kind of thing, [of] like no matter how big you are, — I’m not [only] talking about musical achievement with the band because I was doing incredible work with my organization called Turning Tables in Yangon — being a musician is not easy. It’s a battle. It’s a constant battle for my identity. Just to remain a musician in my country is a battle. It was a fight that I won, but then again, it’s not only about me because I wanted to give opportunity to other new generations of talent. I know what it feels like to be a talent and be ignored and having no platform or support from society — kind of my country’s situation.

From 2015 to 2021, until the military coup happened, I was working with young people for freedom of expression, human rights, and also to heal the nation’s warnings of music and film. These [organizations] shape young people’s minds, and these young people will shape the country’s future. I was doing incredible stuff in my country and it’s hell of a work and I could not even focus on my own personal or musical journey because I was so busy creating spaces and platforms and all the festivals we organized. Regardless of all that achievement, now here in America, no matter how much you say that you have experience, you’re being ignored. [Laughs] They want you to work like you’re the new guys here. I felt a little put down, but maybe that's the process. I don’t know. That’s been the biggest adjustment for me, to dim the light of who I am.

Tell me about the work you did with Turning Tables. 

It’s a nonprofit global enterprise. We bring in young creative individuals from different communities in affected zones, [where] the country has a history of conflict and because of [that], their social norms are dividing people. This is why I joined Turning Tables in Myanmar back in late 2015. I saw the potential of what I could do with them. As a musician, I believe music connects people. It transcends [them past] boundaries like economic divides [and] geographical divides. People connect because when learning new things together, their differences become less important. 

That’s incredible to hear. I remember at SXSW, you said that it felt like people didn’t care about Myanmar because they didn’t know about it. What are the things that you wish everyone knew? 

I wish everyone knew what happened in Myanmar. I mean, I wish everyone knew the truth. We are a part of the war. We are a part of the global community. We are like [a] family member in the war. We live in this war, on the same planet as other nations. Our lives — our house — is burning. We are burning and if you don’t care about us, the fire will spread. I see it this way.

The military created [a] kind of democratic game in this election. They wrote their own constitution in 2008. It’s not fair at all. They made sure they could make the most decisions. They invented a game [and] took advantage of it. Other democratic parties like the National League for Democracy [decided], ‘This is not a fair game, let’s play another one.’ 

They changed the rules of chess and only gave you one [piece] and took everything else. Even after doing that, they lost the game, got so pissed, broke the board, and put everyone who played chess in prison. That’s what happened. Every day, every goddamn day, there are civilians being butchered.

How much creative control did the military have over [the music] you made? 

After 2012 there [was a] diminishing of censorship. They lifted all these restrictions, but it [didn’t] mean that you could say whatever you wanted. 

During those times, censorship was also a mental fight for me because of [the way] your brain gets hard-wired into these kinds of things. That was my main job with Turning Tables because I know we have these mental blocks of ‘We can’t say this. We can’t say that.” When you are writing new songs, you know what words will be censored, so you need to say something more ambiguous or less obvious. After you write the song, you record it. If you have to change [anything], you need to spend money to change it. 

If you are going to release a record or an album, you need to have [everything in] a specific format. After you got approval from the censorship board, you [could] record the songs. After that, you have to submit the CD and all the lyrics to the censor board because [they want to] know if there’s any mismatch. Some people cheated. I cheated because when they wanted me to change some lyrics, I’d change [them] and record [the song] again in my home studio, send it, and they’d be happy with that. Then when I released it, I’d use the original song. 

Songs like “New Outfit” are direct political commentaries, while “Living For Today” and “We’ll Be Alright” are pretty optimistic. How do you manage to find the balance between the angrier songs and the more optimistic ones? 

Those positive songs were written during the transition time [when] there was hope that was real. I was naturally pessimistic. After 2010 or [2012], regardless of all the shit [going on], the door was slightly open. The door of Myanmar was slightly open after being shut for 50 years. I remember I had this attitude of like, “Let’s push it together!” You can’t just rely on all these politicians and leaders to do nothing. 

The freedom you want, the space you want, the dream you want — you have to do it. Believe it or not, to some extent, I was ashamed that I was positive all the time.

Now that you’re in America and you have more creative freedom, what is on your musical agenda for the future? 

Right now, this South By was my reconnection with myself. [It] was also very emotional to be myself again after being disconnected [from] myself for over two years. Something like that is quite heavy to be honest. I just want to go back to [a] deeper part of myself and I want to explore that. 

At some point, I thought I would not play anymore because I was hurt from not being able to say what I wanted to say. I kind of lost myself and I rediscovered myself through music. This is why I’m also counting on the frequencies or vibrations of the city, you know, this creative energy. I need it.

At what point did you decide you needed to leave Myanmar? 

In 2021, we didn’t believe that the military would shoot people out in public. I also had this kind of delusion because I thought, ‘The Internet is everywhere. We are connected. It’s not like those old days where the door was shut.’ Back then, I was pretty bold and really hard-spoken. We [participated in] projects that made [the military] lose, like election campaigns using musicians and telling people to go vote. 

I started going into hiding in February. There were a lot of places that [my family and I] were moving [to] and hiding [at]. We were living in this kind of limbo, and that’s when I knew I had to leave my country. My friends were being arrested, and I knew I had to leave. 

Not to mention, I have a [son]. Now he’s nine years old, but back then he was seven years old. Back in 1988, when the coup happened, I was seven years old. I was revisiting traumas and I could not even imagine [that] my son would be going through the same process as [I did]. No, not this time.

In Myanmar, do you see some kind of revolution in the near future? 

The revolution is happening, and I believe that we will win. I don’t know how long it will take, maybe more than five years, maybe more than ten years, and we do not care. This revolution is different. Myanmar is a poor, poor country, but the people’s commitment to freedom is unexplainable. 

You can follow Side Effect on Instagram and stream their music on Bandcamp and Spotify. 

This interview has been minimally edited for clarity and length.