Band leader grieves girlfriend and three bandmates lost in Bangkok bar fire

Athipat Wichan was backstage, working through song ideas while his indie band Thotsakan played to a full house at Rong Beer Na Lat Phrao in Bangkok, when the stage erupted in flames. The power cut. The crowd panicked. He ran toward what he thought was the exit, only to have fire shoot toward him as he reached the door. He made it out. Thirty-two others did not.

The fire, which broke out on a Monday evening, killed 33 people and left 15 critically injured. For Thotsakan, the loss was concentrated and devastating. Four of the band's eleven members died in the blaze: Nahathai Satjalert, the female vocalist; Thitiwat Kaewkanha, who sang male vocals; Pruttipong Phutmon, the keyboardist; and Nathaphat Thammanitha, the drummer. Nahathai was also Athipat's girlfriend. They had imagined growing old together.

A day after the fire, Athipat sat at Nahathai's funeral, monks chanting in the background, and spoke to BBC Thai about the weight of what he had lost. His voice carried the particular ache of someone who had invited someone he loved into a space that turned lethal. "I shouldn't have let you be here," he said. "I want to apologise and I want to say that I love her very much and will continue to love her every day." He had sustained injuries to his head and arms. The emotional toll was far deeper.

Thitiwat, the vocalist, had been talking about celebrating Athipat's birthday that coming Sunday. Instead, they were arranging a funeral. Nathaphat, the drummer, had only joined the band a month earlier. Pruttipong, the keyboardist, had been preparing to leave. The timing of their deaths felt arbitrary and cruel—lives interrupted mid-trajectory, mid-decision.

Athipat had founded Thotsakan when he was twenty years old, naming it after the primary antagonist in the Ramakien, Thailand's national epic. After five years performing together, he had stepped away and joined another band briefly before deciding to revive Thotsakan with a fresh roster of musicians—what he called the band's "phase two." Most of the eleven members who were at the bar that night had come on board during this second iteration. The band had experienced electrical problems at other venues before, but never anything like this.

Guitarist Chanate Trasing was on stage when the smoke began. He mistook it at first for dry ice, the kind used in stage productions. But then he noticed it moving wrong—swirling rapidly instead of spreading out in the way dry ice would. The smell hit him: plastic burning, sharp enough to sting his nose. He dropped his guitar, jumped off the stage, and ran. He saw Pruttipong looking left and right in the chaos, as if frozen, unsure which way to go. When Chanate reached safety and turned back, Pruttipong was no longer there. He later collected the drummer's body from the mortuary.

Survivors reported locked doors and a lack of signage marking emergency exits—the familiar failures that precede such tragedies. Thai authorities launched an investigation into negligence. But the question that hung over the aftermath was whether the government agencies responsible for enforcing fire safety regulations at entertainment venues had themselves failed to do their job. Athipat voiced what many were thinking: venues needed higher safety standards so that performers and patrons could enjoy themselves without fear. "These days, I believe that if I or anyone from my band goes on stage, they'll think about the fire and feel alarmed and uncomfortable," he said.

Chanate, who had quit a regular job to pursue music full-time, found himself reconsidering. He had a family now, a toddler depending on him. He loved performing—that much was true. But he also had to think about whether the risks were worth it. "I believe everyone has fears," he said. Athipat suggested that Thotsakan would grieve for a season, that they might feel disoriented, but that they would eventually find their balance again and return to the stage. What that return would look like, and whether all of them would be there to make it, remained uncertain. The last thing Chanate remembered before the chaos was the smiles on the faces of people in the bar, enjoying the music. That image, he wanted to hold onto.