What challenges have you faced in the music industry in Russia, and how did you overcome them?

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Well, the main challenge for me was never directly related to Russia. Even though I was raised on modern Western music, I also listened to a lot of Russian music. As I grew up, my tastes evolved, and I kept diving deeper and deeper into my research of sound and music as absolute concepts. Even though I always strived for a unique and authentic perspective, I felt that young Russians were developing in a wide, deep, and multifaceted way.

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I was born after the fall of the Iron Curtain, and I think that’s why our music culture went through such an interesting transformation. A new generation emerged—hungry for something fresh, rejecting (as all youth do) their parents’ dull music, and absorbing all the latest Western ideas in music, sound, and art. In many ways, Russian millennials were raised by MTV and other loud, dominant phenomena of Western pop culture. The internet boom gave us access to everything, from everywhere, and in our minds, we became part of a global musical movement. (And now, we’re cut off from it again—but that’s another story.)

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I don’t want to discuss mainstream mass-market music or the Russian TV idols of the Soviet-legacy era. I never ignored them, and I understand that even Soviet and post-Soviet pop music played a role in shaping my perspective. But I was always drawn to something more niche and alternative.

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I think I was fortunate to avoid most of the common struggles of being a music producer and artist in modern Russia—except for one. It’s incredibly hard to be heard when you go experimental here. Finding an audience for unconventional music is a real challenge. I believe this is because people here are in a constant race for a better, more stable life. They are exhausted by the never-ending hard times—there are never any breaks. That’s why, in my opinion, they crave simple, effortless entertainment, without complex soundscapes or challenging vibrations.

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It pains me to say this, but I witnessed the beginning of a new era—a time of artistic freedom and experimentation—collapse within just a few years due to war. The bird was shot down right after takeoff. Now, the next generation of artists will likely face an even tougher reality: they won’t be welcome in Russia with their ideas and their sound. They’ll have to make a choice—either conform to something more traditional and accessible or find a “normal” job.

As for me, I’ve already made my choice. It doesn’t matter what’s outside my window—I will always choose art and experimentation, even if it means starving.

 

 

Can you share a moment where music significantly impacted your personal life or artistic journey?

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There have been many such situations in my life as a sensitive person. I will describe only the latest one.

I have always considered flying on a plane a mystical experience of teleportation. Because of this attitude, I always download special music for the flight—something to dive deep into. That time, I decided to dive deeper into Alfred Schnittke, my favorite Soviet composer—the chosen one, the Genius.

 

​I found Schnittke’s Psalms of Repentance, performed by Cappella Amsterdam, conducted by Daniel Reuss, with Martin Lógar. This album had always been a challenge for me—I had made several attempts to "swallow" it before but always failed. The environment was never right, and my personal state was far from exaltation. So, when I bought my plane ticket, I already knew I would give it one more try.

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Right after takeoff, enjoying the view through the window, I pressed play and dissolved into the music. When I reached the crescendo of the second part, I got goosebumps, and my pulse soared through the clouds, beyond the plane itself. It was absolutely insane. The power of this choir was both devastating and resurrecting at the same time. I felt a tear roll down my cheek—crazy, considering I hadn't cried for three years in a row. This was my first musical catharsis in a very long time.

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And still, I can relive this experience anytime, anywhere—I have found a pearl. This timeless masterpiece is flawless and incredibly powerful. Of course, I shared it with all my friends, and the most sensitive among them cried, just as I had.I even sampled this composition for our physical theatre performance OSTANOVKA ("STOP") at Arma last autumn. I used this heart-wrenching choir to enhance the power of the climax. And trust me, even now, while writing these lines, I can hear its echo in my head, and I feel a shiver.

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What role does collaboration with other artists play in your work?

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I’m a loner. But that doesn’t mean I can’t play in a team. I can, and I can even be the number two if needed. But not for long. Through experimentation, I’ve found that I play better when I do it alone.

​However, since in the phrase “playing music” the word “playing” comes first, you always have to find a balance between invention and entertainment. Sometimes, I start to feel so lonely that I really need to share my music with someone.

 

As an explorer, I’m aware that the artist needs solitude—the lonely road of revelations, the shadow hunt for new meanings can only be walked alone, at least for me. But from time to time, a stranger meets other stalkers on that road, and they can walk some distance together. To exchange data, make deals, craft new matter or tools. To tell or hear new fairytales. To warn each other of danger or reveal a hidden source of power in the mountains. And then, eventually, to vanish into the fog again.

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According to this metaphor, sometimes, when I work on a track, I feel that it needs a fresh breath or a special timbre. Then I ask one of my colleagues to provide it—whether it’s a tuba, a duduk, or maybe some backing vocals. I try to be the kind of music producer who observes his work from a slight distance, as much as possible. This method prevents me from getting stuck in small details. In order to create something more than just a single track, I switch my perspective from micro to macro whenever necessary.

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