Ukrainian Field Notes LX

This month, we travel to Montreal, where Bogdan Gumenyuk talks about the Carpathian Mountains and jazz, striking a hopeful note. Back in Ukraine, Solimpulse talks about uncertainty in Zhytomyr and the inevitable influence of war on music. Kostya Leontovich in Kyiv reminisces about the incredible fun he had making pop-punk with his first band and discusses his new album WORLDS.

In Sumy, Simple Pimple reveal that being a conscious Ukrainian band today means operating at the intersection of volunteering, diplomacy, blogging and, last but not least, music. In Podillia, Karykatura Penslem feels a tender attachment to François Truffaut, Jean-Pierre Léaud and their alter ego, Antoine Doinel. In Berlin, Yuliia Nidzelska looks at the Ukrainian diaspora and asks how the community negotiates its position between assimilation into the dominant culture and the risk of becoming confined to an isolated cultural bubble.

New releases include fresh output from Alexander Stratonov, Музична Шкатулка, Horizon Resonances, Iklañ, Acid Division, неймовіра × нетрі, Renata Kazhan, 58918012, Lostlojic, Nianio & Księżyc, PROLETARSKYI, Brainhack Musicbox, вже, lebben, domovyk, Sominaryst, Raavel, Vera Logdanidi, Eazyopoluse, and NFNR.

We also have a couple of sets from 20ft Radio, courtesy of Maryana Klochko and Ksena B2B Béllis.

In the viewing room, we feature a behind-the-scenes look at the making of Hidden Element‘s new album Apart (also available with English dubbing), a short film by Mires, new videos by Otoy and Ship Her Son, and a new Suspilne documentary scored by Alexander Stratonov, with English subtitles.

But first, this month’s Resonance FM podcast features Victoria Belim talking about her memoir The Rooster House (Virago), her volunteer work in Kramatorsk – where she helps evacuate civilians and pets – and her rescue cat Sophie. Since the podcast was recorded, Belim’s house in Kramatorsk has been reduced to rubble.

Please consider donating to support Belim’s volunteer efforts. Donations can be made in USD or EUR. Her team leader, Bogdan Zuyakov, also has an active Instagram page, where you can see the work they do.

Tracklist

• PALLAS ATHENA – Story of Bogdan, Kramatorsk
• Kryhitka – Pid Vesnianym Doschem
• DakhaBrakha – Vesna
• Hyphen Dash – Is It Rage

I was also asked to contribute a mix for Lyl Radio as part of their programme for the Lyon Biennale. There are many more qualified than me to produce sleek sets of Ukrainian music, so I went for a conceptual take.

“For this mix, I came up with a simple idea: take the final minute of the closing track from 60 albums released by Ukrainian artists since the invasion, creating a one-hour mix made entirely of endings. The selection covers a wide range of genres and regions, regardless of the artists’ popularity. Many are now serving in the military, and a few composed their albums while stationed on the front lines. Some have continued making music, occasionally becoming more prolific since the invasion, while others have been unable to devote time to their creative work.
I deliberately preserved the original fade-outs and seconds of silence, avoiding the seamless transitions traditionally associated with mixes.

I wanted to explore the idea of an acoustic afterimage, related to echoic memory: the fleeting impression of a sound that lingers in our minds after it has stopped. These pregnant pauses between endings allow the sounds to linger a little longer, offering a moment to absorb what we have just heard before the next piece begins. The choice of one minute also refers to the minute of silence observed across Ukraine every morning at 9 am to remember those killed in the war.

Concentrating on the final moments of these recordings was also a way of giving Ukrainians the last word. Too often, geopolitical commentators and so-called experts discuss Ukraine’s future and what Ukrainians should do without asking Ukrainians themselves. I wanted their voices, however different and sometimes barely heard, to occupy this space.

One ending follows another, then another, and another. As we approach the fifth anniversary of the full-scale invasion, there is still no end to the war in sight, and another difficult winter lies ahead. Debates over military assistance to Ukraine have direct consequences for the country’s ability to defend itself and protect its population. Behind every political argument are people living with the uncertainty of what tomorrow might bring. And behind every ending in this mix is someone whose story continues.”

TRACKLIST

1. støïbrok – квантове безсмертя
2. Volyn Field – Стир
3. mob w/ ногируки – krie more <flip>
4. Hyphen Dash – Groove Day
5. Aspen Grove – Northern Star (Lost Theme)
6. Dirtbag Loris – For A Long Time, City
7. Альфатер – я знаю, вони не згадають мене
8. usurper of Debenham – Cindy, one day
9. Група Б – Прийди
10. Cryptic Chorus – Snow will bury these poor souls
11. ummsbiaus – Kakhovka Hydroelectric Station (Destroyed)
12. Heinali – Coda
13. King Imagine – Perpetum Two
14. Oleksii Podat – my mom sends me photos from relatively safe places (version 2)
15. 58918012 – Minimal Friction
16. Whaler – Спогад
17. Ulværn – postbiology
18. Lu Joyce – Dolphine
19. L’Arc de Langeron – Seul a la maison
20. kyïvite – a bird flew by
21. Михайлове Чудо – с. Морівськ
22. ногируки – розділ 4
23. Гусениця Хтону – Знищення
24. Rescale Musicbox – Saturn Math
25. Vitalii Risen – Gözlerim duman duman
26. Принц Буба – полінація – епілог
27. Parking Spot – Eraser Man (feat. Misha Lyshenko)
28. Potras23 – Kotuky (feat. Sofia Leshyshak)
29. HSPD – Yesnoyes
30. ptastvo – The Witch
31. Revshark – Ghosting
32. Difference Machine – Fracture Point – Ostrakon
33. Ujif_notfound – I’m not interested in politics
34. Clasps – Prudance
35. Human Margareeta – Krysthal (Instrumental)
36. Last Void Quarrel – In Spaceships
37. Hidden Element – Bulo (ft. Sasha Chemerov)
38. Alexey Shmurak & Oleh Shpudeiko – Ode to a Nightingale
39. NFNR – dreams end here
40. Tongi Joi – Undertow
41. kittens on the balcony – walking through old fields with memories
42. Headachee – супернова
43. Vlad Suppish – Two Movements of a sand (drone only)
44. Waveskania – Borderline
45. Буду Думати – Моя капека
46. Музична Шкатулка – Подія 20
47. Emotional Anhedonia – Абсурду
48. екскременти – Понад розпридурість — самота
49. bb948 – august9
50. lebben – безодня (інструментал)
51. dallek – Broken Dream
52. Хвоя будить сов – Переступай межі
53. Birds and people – Bakhmut Song
54. Høstvind – Kaer Morhen
55. Delirium canae equae – Mersio
56. Bohdan Stupak – voice of spite-outro
57. Bayun the Cat – louri Grankin – Birth of Music to the Spirit of Tragedy
58. Polje – Hadjibey
59. Andriana-Yaroslava Saienko – Sonce
60. Adaa Zagorodnya – Машине

 

OCTOBER 28, 2026 – MONTREAL, CANADA

Bogdan Gumenyuk

I was born and raised in Berdychiv, Ukraine, in a musical family. My first instrument was the sopilka, a traditional Ukrainian wooden flute with a long history in Ukrainian folk music. I began playing it when I was around nine or ten years old, before switching to the saxophone at approximately twelve.

When I was fifteen, I entered the R. Glier Music College in Kyiv to study classical saxophone. That’s where my professional musical journey began. Around the age of twenty, I discovered jazz for myself and gradually shifted my focus toward jazz music.

I began performing in Kyiv and throughout Ukraine, collaborating with various musicians and well-known Ukrainian bands, including Mad Heads XL. I also worked on projects with pop artists such as Tina Karol and Jamala, as well as Vnochi, a project led by the frontman of Okean Elzy.

When I turned twenty-five, I received a Fulbright scholarship and moved to the United States to continue my musical education and get closer to the roots of African American music.

After completing my studies in the United States, I moved to Montreal, where I began my doctoral studies. I spent about two years there before returning to Ukraine, where I continued performing and established my own record label, LabelWhoAble. Through the label, we produced a number of recordings by Ukrainian jazz artists.

On Stream of Hope, you bring instruments such as the sopilka, trembita, tylynka and rih into a contemporary jazz setting, sometimes processing them with electronic effects and delays. What drew you to these particular instruments, and what possibilities did you discover when you began experimenting with them? Do you see this as an attempt to reconnect with your musical heritage, or to take these traditions somewhere entirely new?

About six years ago, at the beginning of the pandemic, I returned to Montreal, and I’ve been living here ever since. Although the sopilka was my first instrument, I only began exploring the broader family of traditional Ukrainian wind instruments much later. A particularly important moment came around 2018, during a trip to the Carpathian Mountains in Western Ukraine.

My wife was working on a project in the region, and when it ended, she invited me to visit Mykhailo Tafiichuk, a traditional Hutsul instrument maker who lived in the mountains. He was a remarkable self-taught craftsman and musician who had spent his life making instruments such as sopilkas, floyaras, tylynkas, trembitas, violins, and other traditional instruments.

The journey itself felt almost like something from a fairy tale. We kept driving higher and higher into the mountains, passing the last small town and continuing along the road until, suddenly, there was a house standing on the mountainside. Mykhailo and his wife welcomed us into their home, and he showed me the instruments he had made.

It was a very beautiful experience. I was fascinated not only by the instruments themselves, but also by the fact that this musical tradition was still being preserved by someone who had devoted his entire life to it. I bought a double sopilka from him, an instrument that would later become an important part of my own musical explorations.

Sadly, Mykhailo Tafiichuk passed away in November 2025. That encounter has become even more meaningful to me, especially because it inspired one of the compositions on Stream of Hope, called “The Old Man and the Mountain.” In a way, the piece is my musical portrayal of that journey, the encounter with the instrument maker, and the atmosphere of the Carpathian Mountains.

Years later, after I had returned to Canada and the full-scale invasion of Ukraine had begun, I found myself, like many other artists, reconsidering my cultural identity and my relationship with Ukrainian musical traditions. I remembered the double sopilka I had brought back from the Carpathians and started wondering how I could use it in a contemporary musical context.

Around that time, I was invited to perform as a guest artist with the McGill University big band under the direction of John Hollenbeck. I brought the double sopilka with me and performed a solo on it. That experience opened up a new direction for me. I began thinking about the possibilities of introducing more traditional Ukrainian instruments into my music.

I started experimenting with them in an electronic duo project called Hopanka, exploring how their acoustic sounds could interact with electronic textures and effects. Later, I began writing music for larger jazz ensembles, incorporating these instruments into different compositional and improvisational settings.

At the same time, I started experimenting with spoken word and poetry, looking for ways to connect different musical ideas through storytelling.

All these experiences gradually came together in Stream of Hope, where traditional Ukrainian wind instruments, contemporary jazz, electronic sounds, and spoken word become part of the same musical narrative.

What fascinates me about these instruments is their unique sound and the fact that most of them are not chromatic. They have certain limitations in terms of notes and tonal possibilities, but at the same time, these limitations open up interesting creative directions.

What’s particularly important to me is that even acoustically, these instruments have an incredibly rich and powerful sound. There is something very organic about their timbres, and I think that’s what makes them so interesting to work with.

By using electronic effects, delays, sampling, and live looping, which are all part of my performance practice, I can expand their sonic possibilities considerably. At the same time, I experiment with different jazz composition and arranging techniques, reharmonization, and adding extra layers of sampled instruments. All of this allows me to create musical textures that go far beyond what these instruments might traditionally be associated with.

What I find especially exciting is the seemingly infinite number of possibilities for integrating these sounds into contemporary jazz. Improvisation plays a particularly important role here, because spontaneity and being in the moment can take the music in directions you might never have anticipated.

For me, it’s about exploring what these instruments can become in a contemporary musical setting, while preserving the richness and individuality of their original acoustic sound.

I think the entire album is deeply personal to me. In many ways, Stream of Hope reflects what I’ve been experiencing over the past several years: living far from Ukraine, watching the war unfold, trying to understand my place in a different society, and, at the same time, discovering new meanings in very ordinary moments of life.

I didn’t want to make simply a collection of compositions. I wanted the album to feel like a story that travels through different emotional landscapes, where the music and spoken word are connected, even when they seem to be talking about completely different things.

For example, in the opening composition, “Earth Song,” there is something very ancient and earthy that remains present throughout the music. Even as the sounds of electronically processed and looped flutes intertwine with the complex harmonies of a modern acoustic piano, that fundamental quality never disappears. And when all those
electronic textures and harmonies gradually fade away, what remains is the simple, organic sound of a flute and a drum.

To me, there is something universal about that combination. You can find flutes and drums in almost every musical tradition around the world. They are among the oldest instruments known to humanity. I like the idea that underneath all the complexity we’ve developed over centuries, there is still something very basic that connects us, regardless of where we come from.

Other compositions, such as “The Church of the Holy Spirit,” reflect my observations of Quebec society, particularly its complicated relationship with the Catholic Church. But the spoken word also brings together images from people I’ve met, people I miss, places I’ve visited, and books I’ve read. These are fragments of experiences that stay with you, sometimes for years, before finding their way into something you create.

Two compositions seem particularly personal: “I Will Get My Life Back”, dedicated to the Ukrainian poet and soldier Maksym Kryvtsov, who was killed in 2024, and “Reflections”, dedicated to your daughter. Could you tell me about the circumstances in which you composed them? More broadly, how has the war affected your relationship with music, and do you feel that artists have a particular responsibility to respond to what is happening in Ukraine?

“I Will Get My Life Back” came from a much darker place. I wrote it shortly after learning that the Ukrainian poet and soldier Maksym Kryvtsov had been killed in January 2024. I wasn’t very familiar with his poetry before his death, but the news affected me deeply.

At that time, I was in a difficult emotional place, as I think many Ukrainians living abroad were. There is a strange contradiction in being physically safe while knowing that people in your home country are living under the constant threat of missiles, losing their homes, their loved ones, and sometimes their lives.

You feel that you should be grateful for your safety, and of course you are. But that doesn’t mean you stop missing home. You miss Kyiv, you miss the people, you miss the life you had, and even the ordinary things you never thought you would miss. Living in Quebec adds another dimension to this experience. You find yourself navigating between French and English cultures, trying to understand their differences and find your own place within them. Even the names of streets and places become part of that experience. Many are named after Catholic saints, which I find particularly interesting given Quebec society’s complicated relationship with the Church. These small cultural
observations eventually found their way into my writing.

For me, “I Will Get My Life Back” is about that struggle to reclaim a sense of life and belonging. But the title also carries another meaning. Maksym Kryvtsov will never have the opportunity to get his life back. Neither will so many others who have been killed. And I still have that opportunity. I think that’s what makes the piece so personal. It’s not simply about missing Ukraine or feeling displaced. It’s also about recognizing that I have a responsibility to continue living, creating, and finding meaning in what I do — for myself, but also, in some way, for those
who no longer have that chance.

“Reflections,” which I dedicated to my daughter, comes from a very different emotional place, but I think it is connected to the same ideas. I was experimenting with different sounds and came up with this melody that seemed to bounce around, almost like reflections of light. Around that time, I remember my daughter playing and suddenly noticing reflections of sunlight. She was so excited by them, so genuinely happy about something that most adults would probably walk past without even noticing. That moment stayed with me.

Children experience the world so differently. They can discover something extraordinary in the simplest things. Watching her reminded me how much we tend to overlook as adults, especially when our minds are occupied by worries, responsibilities, or events happening far away.

And in a way, that is also what this album means to me. It moves between grief and gratitude, between memories of a place I miss and the life I’m living now. There is sadness in it, certainly, but also a desire to keep discovering beauty, to keep creating, and to appreciate the things that are still here.

Perhaps that’s where the idea of Stream of Hope comes from for me — not the absence of darkness, but the possibility of finding something meaningful and beautiful even while living through it.

You’ve spoken about immigration, displacement and the feeling of living somewhere without necessarily belonging. How long have you been living in Canada, and has that experience changed your understanding of what it means to be Ukrainian? What sort of Ukrainian community have you found in Montreal, and how do you maintain your connections with people and musicians back home?

Immigration, Ukrainian identity, and the Ukrainian community in Montreal I think the Ukrainian community in Montreal is doing an amazing job of raising awareness about what’s happening in Ukraine and helping people understand a situation that isn’t always easy to comprehend from abroad.

And I don’t think we can blame people for not fully understanding. It’s almost impossible to grasp the scale of this tragedy by watching a five-minute news clip on your phone. You might see what’s happening, but that doesn’t necessarily mean you understand what people are actually going through.

One thing I always tell people, especially when they come across conflicting information or disinformation about Ukraine, which russia has been actively spreading, is to talk to their local Ukrainian communities.

There are Ukrainian organizations and communities in cities across Canada and many other Western countries. These are people who have relatives and friends in Ukraine, sometimes family members serving on the front line. They have direct connections to what’s happening, and they can share personal experiences and perspectives that you might never encounter through the news.

I often have these conversations with people who come to my concerts. Sometimes they ask questions about Ukraine or bring up claims they’ve heard that aren’t necessarily true. I’m always happy to talk with them, because I think these personal conversations are incredibly important. They allow people to ask questions, exchange perspectives, and understand things on a more human level.

On a personal level, the Ukrainian community in Montreal has also been incredibly supportive of my artistic projects. I’m very grateful for that support and for the opportunity to be part of such an active and welcoming community.

I’m interested in the Ukrainian jazz scene, which tends to receive relatively little attention internationally compared with other areas of Ukrainian music. How would you describe its development over the years, particularly since the full-scale invasion? Are there musicians or albums from the past five years that you feel have captured something important about the country’s experience? And has the Ukrainian musical community in Canada played any role in supporting artists back home?

I haven’t been in Ukraine for almost seven years, so it’s difficult for me to give a complete picture of what’s happening in the Ukrainian jazz scene today. But I know that despite the war, there are still good things happening, and musicians continue to create and develop new projects.

Unfortunately, many musicians are no longer in Ukraine, and that’s particularly sad because the Ukrainian jazz scene had been growing steadily since the 1990s. Every new generation was becoming stronger, more knowledgeable, and more connected to the international jazz community.

I think it’s important to remember that musicians who grew up in the Soviet Union had very limited access to information. Recordings, educational materials, workshops, and opportunities to study with international musicians were often difficult or impossible to obtain. We were part of the USSR, a system that imposed enormous restrictions on cultural and artistic development.

After Ukraine gained independence, things gradually began to change. Musicians had greater access to recordings, education, and international collaborations. And with the development of the internet, younger generations gained opportunities that previous generations could hardly have imagined.

That’s why it’s especially painful to see how the war has disrupted something that took decades to build. So many talented musicians have had to leave the country, and the conditions for creating and performing music have become incredibly difficult.

But I know that Ukrainian musicians are continuing to work, even under these circumstances. I sincerely hope that Ukraine will soon be able to return to a period of growth and development, because I believe there is enormous potential in the younger generation of Ukrainian jazz musicians. And despite everything that’s happening, I remain hopeful about the future of Ukrainian jazz.

 

NOVEMBER 1, 2026 – ZHYTOMYR

Solimpulse

Before we get into Tidefall, could you tell me a little about yourself? Where did you grow up, how did you first become involved in music, and what eventually led you to start Solimpulse? Were you involved in other projects before this one, and what drew you to post-rock?

I was born and raised in Zhytomyr, Ukraine. I’ve been interested in music for as long as I can remember. As a child, I mostly listened to electronic music, but everything changed when a friend brought me a Rammstein cassette during my teenage years. I really liked what I heard, and that was probably the moment I started getting into rock music. From there, I kept discovering more and more bands.

A little later, the same friend suggested that we start our own band. There were three of us – my brother, my friend, and me. The funny thing was that none of us knew how to play any instruments, so we simply decided who would learn what. I was originally supposed to be the drummer, but finding a drum teacher turned out to be quite difficult, so all three of us ended up taking guitar lessons instead.

Ironically, the friend who got me into music gave it up after about six months, while my brother and I are still involved in music to this day.

Later, my brother and I joined a band called Alice in Wonderland, which eventually became Sad Alice Said. I played bass guitar, while my brother played guitar. Around the same time, I entered music college, where I studied double bass. I also became interested in sound recording and started recording some local bands.

Eventually, I moved to Kyiv, and after some time, Sad Alice Said went on hiatus. I was also briefly a member of Sidus Atrum. But I’d always wanted to create something of my own, a project where I could fully explore my musical ideas without limitations. That’s how SOLIMPULSE came to life.

As for post-rock, I wouldn’t say I deliberately chose this genre. I enjoy post-rock, but I don’t want to limit SOLIMPULSE to any particular style. For me, genre is just a way of expressing musical ideas and emotions, rather than something that defines the music itself. Who knows, maybe the next SOLIMPULSE album won’t even be post-rock.

The sea runs through Tidefall, from the titles to the way the music moves in waves, building gradually before receding again. What drew you to this imagery? In “No Horizon”, the lyrics describe moving forward without any landmarks, with each step erasing what came before. Is this sense of uncertainty connected to your experience of living through the war, or does it come from somewhere more personal?

I didn’t originally intend to make Tidefall an album about the war, at least not directly. But of course, the war has inevitably influenced the overall mood of the music. It has changed the lives of millions of people, and so many now live from day to day, without any real sense of certainty about tomorrow. I think that feeling of uncertainty has found its way into the music, even if I wasn’t consciously trying to express it.

At the same time, I prefer not to give the songs one specific meaning. I’d like listeners to be able to find something personal in them, something that connects with their own experiences and emotions.

Most of Tidefall is instrumental, with Yulia Lykhotvor of Sidus Atrum contributing vocals to two tracks. What made you decide that these particular pieces needed a voice? How did the collaboration come about, and what did Yulia bring to the music?

Originally, I planned to have vocals on just one track, “No Horizon”. I wanted Tidefall to be a mostly instrumental EP. But while working on “Depth”, I started to feel that the composition could also benefit from a voice, so I decided to add vocals to that track as well.

As for Yulia, as I mentioned earlier, I was briefly a member of her project Sidus Atrum, so we already had experience working together. I felt that her voice would be a great fit for the melancholic atmosphere of SOLIMPULSE. And I think her vocals really helped bring out that mood and added another emotional layer to both songs.

Has the war changed your understanding of what it means to be Ukrainian? And what do you think the role of an artist should be during wartime? Is there an obligation to respond to what’s happening, or should artists also be free to create work that has no obvious connection to the war?

Yes, absolutely. I think the war has changed the way many Ukrainians see their own country, and I’m no exception. Like many others, I’ve come to appreciate our language, culture, and identity much more deeply than before.

As for the role of an artist during wartime, I think it’s a very delicate subject. Since the beginning of the full-scale invasion, many Ukrainian musicians have started writing songs about the war, and I think that’s completely natural. Every artist processes emotions and experiences differently, and art is one of the ways we can express what we’re going through.

At the same time, I don’t believe artists should feel obligated to address the war directly in their work. I think it’s equally important to have the freedom to create something that isn’t necessarily connected to current events.
What I personally find uncomfortable is when such a painful subject is used mainly as a way to gain attention or popularity. For me, sincerity is what matters most, regardless of what an artist chooses to write about.

Looking back over the past five years, are there any Ukrainian albums or other musical releases that you feel have captured something essential about what the country has been going through? I’m particularly interested in music that manages to communicate the experience of war without necessarily addressing it directly.

Yes, I think there have been quite a few Ukrainian releases over the past few years that reflect what the country has been going through. Two that come to mind are Sidus Atrum’s Розірване Небо and 1914’s Viribus Unitis.
I think both bands have managed to capture something of the emotions and atmosphere of these times in their music, each in their own way. For me, they’re good examples of how music can communicate powerful feelings without necessarily needing to explain everything in words.

I’d like to finish with something a little different. If you had to choose one film, one book, one artwork, one song, one album, one dish, one building or monument, and one meme that best represent Ukraine as it is today, what would you pick? They don’t have to be patriotic choices, or even Ukrainian creations. I’m interested in what, for you, captures the country’s character, contradictions, humour or present state of mind.

That’s a difficult question, but I’ll give it a try!

• Film: The Earth Is Blue as an Orange by Iryna Tsilyk. A documentary that shows how people try to maintain a sense of normal life and creativity even in the middle of war.
• Book: Voroshylovhrad by Serhiy Zhadan. A story about home, belonging, and the connection to the place you come from.
• Artwork: The Ukrainian postage stamp russian Warship, Go F** Yourself*, I think it perfectly captures the Ukrainian spirit of resistance and dark humour.
• Song: The National Anthem of Ukraine. I think it speaks for itself.
• Album: Розірване Небо by Sidus Atrum. An album that, for me, captures a lot of the emotions of these times.
• Dish: Borscht. Probably the most obvious choice.
• Building / Monument: The Independence Monument in Kyiv. A symbol of Ukraine’s independence and resilience.
• Meme: Ukrainian farmers towing russian tanks with their tractors. I think it says a lot about Ukrainian humour and the ability to find something absurd even in the darkest situations.

 

NOVEMBER 3, 2026 – KYIV

Kostya Leontovich

Could you tell us a little about your musical background? How did you first become interested in composing, and what drew you towards orchestral and cinematic music? Were there particular composers, musicians or films that shaped your musical imagination growing up?

I’ve actually been surrounded by music for as long as I can remember. Even as a child, I was quite musical, and my mother noticed it very early. She made sure I had every opportunity to explore that side of myself, taking me to what felt like every creative club imaginable! One of them was Arts School No. 2, and when I was just nine years old, I even travelled to France on a tour where I performed three Ukrainian songs.

My mother was also my music teacher from kindergarten, so singing at concerts, celebrations, and school events was simply a natural part of growing up for me.

But if I had to name one thing that truly changed the direction of my musical imagination, it would definitely be Back to the Future. I still remember that opening sequence with the guitar. There was something about the energy of that film that completely captured me. And then there was Alan Silvestri’s incredible score. To this day, I honestly consider it one of the greatest film soundtracks ever written.

That film opened two musical worlds for me at once: orchestral music and guitar-driven music. And somehow, both have stayed with me ever since.

My father actually taught me my very first guitar chords. I was about to leave for summer camp, and I had a couple of months to learn enough to surprise everyone by showing up with a guitar and actually knowing how to play it. That was my big plan!

And it worked out pretty well, because about six months later, when I was around fourteen, I put together my very first band. We played pop-punk, and honestly, we had an incredible amount of fun.

Looking back, I think those early experiences explain quite a lot about the music I write today. I’ve always loved the emotional power and storytelling of an orchestra, but I’ve also never lost that excitement, energy, and sense of freedom that comes from playing guitar in a band.

What does being Ukrainian mean to you, both personally and as an artist? Has your understanding of your national identity changed since Russia’s full-scale invasion in 2022, and has that experience influenced the way you approach music, even when your compositions don’t explicitly address the war?

Ukraine is an incredibly beautiful country, and so much about it has inspired me throughout my life. Its landscapes, its atmosphere, its people, and especially the memories connected to certain places. Crimea, for example, holds a very special place in my heart. Before 2014, I used to spend almost every summer there, and those memories have stayed with me ever since.

My love for Ukraine hasn’t really changed since the full-scale invasion. It has always been my home, and I think there’s an important distinction between loving your country and identifying with its politics. I’ve never been particularly interested in politics, and for me, Ukraine is much more than its government or political institutions. It’s the land, the people, the culture, the memories, and the feeling of belonging somewhere.

There is also something quite extraordinary that happened with my music shortly before the invasion. At the beginning of 2022, I composed and released a dramatic orchestral piece called Rise. Looking back, it almost feels as though the music was telling a story about something that hadn’t happened yet. Just about a month later, we suddenly woke up in the middle of the night to the sound of missile attacks. Our world changed overnight.

Of course, an experience like that changes you. It’s impossible to live through something so terrifying and remain completely unaffected, both as a person and as an artist.

But interestingly, I don’t necessarily express those experiences by writing music directly about the war. In fact, quite the opposite.

Today, music has become my refuge. It’s a world I can enter where there is no evil, no explosions, no missile attacks, and no constant fear of what might happen next. When I compose, I can escape reality for a little while and create a place where beauty, imagination, and peace still exist.

Perhaps that’s what music means to me more than anything right now. It’s one of the few places where, even if only for a moment, I can feel truly at peace again.

Your new album, WORLDS, took ten months to complete and marks a departure from your work composing for films and trailers. You’ve described it as an exploration of imaginary worlds, with each composition telling its own emotional story. What inspired the album, and how did you approach creating these different worlds without a pre-existing visual narrative to guide you? Did the circumstances of everyday life in Ukraine find their way into the music, consciously or otherwise?

Interestingly, WORLDS was never originally intended to be an album.

At the beginning of the year, I simply wanted to experiment with combining a traditional symphony orchestra with modern electronic sounds. It was supposed to be a one-time experiment, just to see where those two musical worlds might take me.

That’s how Before the World Caves In was born.

In many ways, I would say this particular composition reflects everything we’ve been experiencing throughout these almost five years of this terrible, unjust, and merciless war. There’s a sense of tension, struggle, and overwhelming emotion in the music that perhaps says more than words ever could.

But something happened while I was working on that piece. It inspired me to keep going.

I started coming to the studio without necessarily knowing what I was going to create that day. I would sit down and begin searching, note by note, sound by sound, gradually discovering something new. One composition became another, and eventually I found myself releasing single after single.

And I have to say, none of these pieces came easily.

I’ve always had this personal feeling that if a melody comes to me too quickly and effortlessly, there’s a chance I’ve simply heard something similar somewhere before. So I tend to question those first ideas and keep searching until I find something that feels genuinely my own.

Most of the melodies on WORLDS took a great deal of time, patience, and sometimes even frustration to develop. Some of them lived in my head for weeks before I could finally bring them to life. Continuum, for example, took me almost two months to complete.

Later in the year, I also returned to composing music for trailers, which is actually where I feel most at home creatively. I’ve always found it easier to write music when there’s a visual story in front of me. Images give me something to respond to emotionally, and I love that connection between picture and sound.

But WORLDS was different.

There was no film, no director, no script, and no existing story to follow. Instead, I was discovering these imaginary places through the music itself.

Looking back, I think that’s exactly what gave the album its identity. Each composition became its own little universe, with a different atmosphere, emotion, and story. And every time I entered the studio, it felt as though I was travelling somewhere new.

That’s why I eventually called the album WORLDS. Because, in a way, that’s exactly what it became: a collection of different worlds I had visited through music over those ten months.

There’s an ongoing debate about whether artists have a responsibility to address political and social issues in their work, particularly during times of war. As a Ukrainian composer living and working in Kyiv, do you feel any pressure, whether from yourself or others, to respond directly to current events through your music? Or do you believe that creating something imaginative, beautiful or entirely removed from the immediate reality of war can itself be a meaningful response?

I think people are exhausted by war. Not just physically, but emotionally. And sometimes I feel that one of the most meaningful things a composer can do in circumstances like these is to take people somewhere else, even if only for a few minutes.

Somewhere beyond the reality we are living in. Somewhere they can experience wonder, beauty, hope, or simply a moment of peace.

I don’t necessarily believe that every piece of music written during wartime has to be about the war itself. Art can speak about suffering and injustice, of course, but I also believe it has the power to remind us that there is still something beautiful in this world worth holding on to.

At the same time, music often expresses things that words simply cannot. And I think our experiences inevitably find their way into what we create, whether we intend them to or not. Sometimes it’s hidden in a particular melody, a harmonic progression, or just a few notes. You might not even realise where those emotions came from until much later.

The practical reality of composing in Kyiv has also become increasingly difficult. There are days when we have no electricity for eight or even ten hours. It’s not easy to stay focused or maintain a creative flow when your everyday life is constantly interrupted by circumstances beyond your control.

But somehow, thank God, the music still finds a way through.

And perhaps that’s my answer to the question of artistic responsibility. I don’t feel that I have to force a particular message into every composition. I simply want to keep creating. If my music can help someone escape the darkness for a moment, feel something beautiful, or find a little hope, then I believe it has already served a meaningful purpose.

How has the war affected your everyday life as a composer and producer? I’m thinking not only of the practical difficulties of working in Kyiv, but also of the psychological demands of sustaining a creative practice amid so much uncertainty. Has music become a refuge, a means of processing what is happening around you, or something else entirely? And how do you see the future of Ukraine’s independent music scene?

Of course, life has become much more difficult, especially psychologically. And what makes it even harder is that emotional exhaustion often turns into physical exhaustion.

After a night of missile and drone attacks, when you’ve barely slept, it’s difficult to simply wake up the next morning and carry on as though nothing has happened. The tiredness stays with you, affecting your concentration, your energy, and sometimes even your ability to create.

But music has become something very special to me during these years.

When I arrive at my studio, I feel as though I’m entering a completely different world. For the next few hours, it becomes my personal sanctuary. A place where there are no political arguments, no threats, and no constant sense of danger. Everything around me is familiar, comforting, and beautiful.

It’s a genuine feeling of safety, even if only for a little while.

I think that’s why music has become much more than just my profession. It’s a place where I can reconnect with myself, where imagination takes over from reality, and where I can simply enjoy the process of creating something beautiful.

As for the future of Ukraine’s independent music scene, I genuinely believe it will continue to grow and develop.

I know many talented musicians personally. Some of them have become less active or have stepped away from music for a while, which is completely understandable given everything we’re going through. But there are also those who, like me, feel an even stronger need to create, not only for themselves but for others.

At the same time, the reality is that it has become increasingly difficult for independent Ukrainian musicians to present their work to the wider world and reach an international audience. Creating music is one challenge, but finding opportunities for that music to be heard beyond our borders is another.

That’s why I’m genuinely grateful that publications like A Closer Listen exist. The fact that you continue to give Ukrainian artists a voice, share their stories, and show that Ukraine and its people have not been forgotten means a great deal to me.

As long as there are people who feel the need to create, and people who are willing to listen, I believe Ukrainian music will continue to find its way into the world.

I’d like to finish with a question I often ask Ukrainian artists. If you were to choose a few things that, for you, capture something essential about Ukraine under the present circumstances, what would they be? They could be a book, a film, a song or album, a painting, a building or monument, a traditional dish, or even a particular place or everyday sound. What would you choose, and why?

The first thing that comes to mind is, of course, Carol of the Bells, originally known as Shchedryk, by Ukrainian composer Mykola Leontovych.

It’s such a beautiful example of how Ukrainian music can travel around the world and become part of people’s lives, sometimes without them even realising where it originally came from. I would love to see more Ukrainian music achieve that kind of recognition, music that carries something unmistakably Ukrainian within it. Whenever I hear Shchedryk, I feel a special connection to my country and its musical heritage.

But beyond music, I would definitely choose Kyiv itself.

I was born and raised here, and there are so many places in this city that feel like a part of who I am. The parks, the streets, the little cafés, the buildings. Places that might seem completely ordinary to someone else, but to me, they hold an entire lifetime of memories.

What’s particularly beautiful is how these same places become part of different chapters of your life.

When you’re a little boy, you walk through those parks holding your mother’s hand. Years later, you find yourself walking along those same paths with a girl you’ve fallen in love with. And then, almost before you realise how much time has passed, you’re walking there again, but this time with your own children.

The city remains the same in your memories, but the people beside you change, and each generation adds another layer to its story.

And I think this is something especially important to remember during the war.

These are the things they are trying to take away from us. Not just buildings, streets, or places on a map, but the sense of home, the ordinary moments of happiness, and the connection between our past and our future.

But there is something they can never take away.

Because even if the physical world around us changes, those moments remain forever. They are preserved in our memories, beyond destruction, beyond time.

And perhaps, for me, that is what Ukraine truly means. Not simply a place where I live, but a lifetime of memories, love, and belonging that no one can ever erase.

 

NOVEMBER 5, 2026 – SUMY

Simple Pimple

Simple Pimple has existed for almost thirty years, which means the band has lived through several very different periods of independent music in Ukraine. Could you take us back to how you first came together, what music shaped you at the time, and how your relationship with punk and hardcore has changed over those three decades?

To be honest, there’s no point in talking about how it all began anymore, because both the times and we ourselves are completely different now. Maybe one of us will write a memoir someday and tell the whole story in detail, but we’ll have to wait until at least the end of the war for that. There are many things we can’t talk about right now, for various reasons, including security concerns.

But yes, a long time ago, we got together at our university in Sumy. Back then, our guitarist was Andrii “Santiago” Sachava, and Andrii “El” Kyrychenko was on drums. We started playing the music we liked — punk, funk, and all kinds of alternative stuff.

Over the years, we experimented with different line-ups and styles. At certain points, our music even featured a trumpet or a bayan accordion, for example. Eventually, though, we reduced the line-up to the bare minimum and returned to our roots, playing straight-up punk. But when Vaven joined Nonta at the microphone, our sound naturally started getting heavier and moving towards hardcore. With his powerful screams, there was really no other way it could go. Although Hrynia is just as responsible for that, because he loves pounding out that kind of music on the drums. He’s actually the biggest fan of heavy and weird stuff among us.

We’ve played on countless stages alongside all kinds of musicians, recorded our material in several studios, and witnessed Ukrainian music being born, sometimes coming to an end, and then being born again. Sure, we could look back, analyse it all, and come up with some incredibly convoluted piece of wisdom, trading on our status as “dinosaurs”. But there won’t be any of that, because our attitude has actually remained simple and unchanged since our first rehearsals in October 1996: you have to play what you genuinely love and give it everything you’ve got on stage.

Sumy has been living extraordinarily close to the war since the beginning of the full-scale invasion, and more than four years have now passed since February 2022. How has everyday life in the city changed over that period, and what are the most pressing difficulties people face today? At the same time, a music scene has somehow continued to exist, with musicians recording, performing and supporting one another through communities such as Bondeni. What does that scene look like now, and has the war strengthened the sense of community among musicians, or have displacement, mobilisation and the pressures of everyday life made it increasingly difficult to sustain?

The fact that the Sumy scene still exists and is even developing in some ways is nothing short of a miracle. New labels and bands are emerging, there are even some people acting as music critics, and concerts, jam sessions and other events are taking place. All this despite the chronic exhaustion experienced by everyone from Sumy and those visiting the city, caused by the russian terror that practically never lets up. And during those rare moments of relative calm, most of us start having anxious thoughts that those bastards are preparing something even worse than what came before.

Perhaps one of the defining characteristics of the Sumy scene throughout its existence has been its fragmentation. Musicians tend to form small communities based on shared musical tastes and lifestyles. In most cases, these groups have little or no contact with one another and may not even know each other exists. That’s a bad thing, because there’s no shared understanding or overall sense of what the Sumy scene actually is, unlike, say, the scenes in Ternopil or Dnipro.

The guys at Bondeni Label told us they’re planning to expand into BCU Music (Bondeni Creative Union). Alongside the label, whose main role will be limited to distribution and PR, it will include a recording studio and a video production unit as separate entities. But most importantly, they plan to create a new community of Sumy musicians making interesting, fresh and daring music, bringing together the best representatives of those different groups. We once planned to build something similar around Simple Pimple Club, but for various reasons it never happened. We hope Bondeni will do a better job of it than we did.

You’ve spoken about plans to tour the Sumy, Chernihiv and Kharkiv regions, security conditions permitting, and about wanting to bring energy and enjoyment to people who need it most. What does organising a tour through regions so exposed to Russian attacks actually involve today? Who are you hoping to play for, and has the purpose of performing live changed for you during the war—does a punk show acquire a different meaning when both the musicians and the audience return immediately afterwards to the realities of life so close to the front?

Yes, those plans were real, and we announced them far too loudly and far too soon. We genuinely wanted to support our people, the residents of frontline regions, because we understand better than most how difficult it is to cope with this surreal and absurd life that a few old men with dementia and an obsession with writing their names in the blood-soaked pages of human history in their final moments have imposed on us without our consent. A punk show is a powerful form of psychological release, and something everyone needs right now.

Unfortunately, right from the early stages of planning, it became clear that most of the cities we wanted to visit simply didn’t have suitable venues capable of accommodating the number of people we needed, with an acceptable technical rider. On top of that, we had to rule out several venues because they couldn’t meet the safety requirements we had specified in our rider. A concert is a concert, but the lives and health of our people come first.

So we made a conscious decision to call off the tour. Instead, we planned to hold our traditional gathering at Simple Pimple Club, where we bring together friends and fans every year to celebrate the band’s anniversary. Unfortunately, those plans also fell through due to unforeseen conflicts within the band.

You’ve spent most of Simple Pimple’s history as a Ukrainian underground band, but you’re now recording original material in English and talking about reaching audiences outside Ukraine. After everything that has happened since 2022, what does being a Ukrainian band mean to you today? When you address listeners in the West, do you feel any responsibility to communicate something about contemporary Ukraine and life in Sumy, or is the very act of continuing to make loud, irreverent punk music under these conditions already enough of a statement?

Being a conscious Ukrainian band today means doing something at the intersection of volunteering, diplomacy, blogging and, last but not least, music. Under these new circumstances, there’s often no time, energy or mental capacity left to create new art. Throughout the full-scale war, our huge back catalogue, accumulated over almost 30 years, kept us going for a long time. But at some point, it became clear that we had to make something new and move forward.

We chose the song “Bitch” as our reference point. It was written before 2022 but acquired entirely new meanings afterwards. In literally one rehearsal, we wrote “Nordic Dick” and “Out East” in the same vein — short, aggressive and to the point. Exactly what a world oversaturated with information needs right now. At the very next rehearsal, we had already recorded demos of these new bangers.

Unfortunately, several conflicts between band members arose during the studio sessions, and at this point they seem impossible to resolve. So what we wanted to share with the world will have to remain on the shelves of Bondeni Studio for now, almost finished. The overarching message of that maxi-single, though, was very simple: we’re here, we’re alive, and we’re angry. Who knows, maybe we’ll get back together for the band’s 40th anniversary and finally finish everything we had planned.

 

NOVEMBER 5, 2026 – PODILLIA

Karykatura Penslem

Could you tell me a little about yourself? Where in Ukraine are you from, where are you based now, and how did you first become involved in music? The album sounds remarkably accomplished for a debut, which made me wonder whether Karykatura Penslem is a new moniker for an existing project, or whether you’ve previously released music under another name. And where does the name Karykatura Penslem come from?

Hi, my name is Andrii. For the project Karykatura Penslem, I use the location tag “Podillian”. Life turned out in a way that over the past 15 years or so I’ve lived in various towns and cities, which left me without that feeling of a single “true home”, a place I fully identify with. However, all these places were within my native Podillia, a historical region in central Ukraine. That’s why I decided to link the project to it. I’ve noticed that in the Ukrainian music community leaning into geographic roots like this is mostly embraced by Galician musicians, who have a very distinct local identity. Given my somewhat chaotic life across different parts of Podillia as well as my interest in history and linguistics both in general and regarding my home region, Karykatura Penslem is a purely Podillian project.

My musical journey originally started on the guitar about 10 years ago, and in 2020 at the height of the pandemic, I began trying my hand at producing in electronic genres. I remember those first few years were mostly heavily inspired by Franco-Belgian minimal wave. However, none of that was serious, just a way to understand how the songs I listened to were actually made. Everything changed in 2022 after russia’s full-scale invasion of Ukraine. I still can’t fully wrap my head around what happened to me. Maybe it was the realization that I could die at any moment and had to pursue the deep internal callings I wasn’t even fully aware of. Creating music was probably the main one, as it completely consumed me, becoming a solace and salvation during these crazy times. So for these four years I was writing for myself, treating it much more seriously than before. Now in 2026, I finally decided to put something out publicly. So yes, this is my absolute debut release, and I’m really glad you liked it. It’s incredibly motivating.

The name Karykatura Penslem is actually a bit of wordplay. I really love the original, absurd names Ukrainian projects had back in the 90s: Ivanov Down, Жаба в дирижаблі, Верба Хльос, Ivan Samshit (which sounds like something else in English, though in Ukrainian it just means boxwood). So Karykatura Penslem is a direct continuation of that tradition. In Ukrainian Cyrillic it’s Карикатура пензлем (caricature with a brush), which happens to be the title of the first track on the EP, kind of like an Easter egg. However, when written in Latin script with the ‘z’ stylistically replaced by ‘s’, the phrase starts losing its meaning and becomes somewhat nonsensical, which is exactly what I like about it.

Listening to the album, I was struck by the contrast between the abrasive, heavily distorted passages and some surprisingly beautiful melodies. There’s also something quite playful, occasionally even grotesque, about the music, particularly on “Солодощі для ката” (Sweets for the Executioner). What instruments and equipment did you use, and how did the album come together? How much of it was planned and how much emerged through experimentation?

This contrast between the raw and the melodic is a lot like modern Ukrainian life: incredibly heavy, dense and compressed, yet every now and then melodic moments of joy appear out of nowhere for just a split second. Such moments are brief and rare, which is precisely why they’re so valued. For countries not at war such episodes might seem ordinary or unremarkable, but for us these flashes of something beautiful are a treasure everyone clings to, knowing it will inevitably disappear at any second while missiles and other filth fly overhead.

Since this is my debut work, I obviously used a pretty modest setup: an ancient laptop, a MIDI keyboard with knobs for sound automation and a smartphone as a portable audio recorder to capture environmental sounds. At the start of creating each track I have certain core ideas in my head for the piece to hold onto, but eventually it starts writing itself, and I’m just the one who has to bring it to life in audio form. So part of the tracks exists in my head before I even begin writing, while the other is pure spontaneity that always catches me off guard.

Some of the track titles are rather intriguing, particularly “Солодощі для ката” and “Прощання з манірністю” (Farewell to Mannerism). Is there a particular story or idea behind the album? And to what extent, if at all, has the experience of living through the war influenced your music?

Such titles come easily to me since I love poetry and have a journalism degree. Plus, because abstract music lacks words with a specific message, it naturally demands more detailed and reflective titles. “Прощання з манірністю” (Farewell to Mannerism) is a direct reaction to the start of any war: the track begins with a triumphant melody, a military march, spirited martial singing and the sound of moving trains (to somewhere unknown, perhaps to a safe place far from the horrors or right toward the epicenter). Its grand climax featuring brass instruments is nothing more than a sarcastic glorification of the senseless nature of war which leads to nothing except death and destruction. Everyday life is over, foolishness and mannerism are left behind. Ahead lies only blood that will only breed more blood.

Has the war changed what being Ukrainian means to you? Do you think Ukrainian artists have a particular responsibility to respond to what’s happening, or should they be free to make music without necessarily addressing the war? And looking back over the past five years, is there a Ukrainian album or other musical release that has helped you make sense of current events?

It’s important to understand that before the full-scale russian invasion, the life of an average Ukrainian was pretty contained within their narrow circle. You can look at this through different dimensions. Local: people mostly lived in small communities, rarely traveling outside their home areas. A typical Podillian from the central region had minimal idea of what a Slobozhanian from the east was like. Globally: before 2022, Ukraine was fairly closed-off by European standards. Pretty much only young people had contact with representatives from Europe and beyond, because the international connections of the middle and older generations ended at other post-Soviet countries. Not because they necessarily sympathized with them, but simply due to the Soviet regime’s practice of mixing the peoples of the republics to dissolve their identity and make them easier to Sovietize (read: russify). And then suddenly new, unfamiliar people appeared – volunteers from other parts of Europe and the world in general. These new connections really broadened the perspective of older Ukrainians. Personally I’m very glad to see them coming out of this former vacuum, because better late than never.

The full-scale war turned people into a single living organism regardless of the region. Forced out of their cozy little shell by tragedy, people finally met and realized they were one and the same. So after 2022, being Ukrainian means being united. That’s how it should be written down in the Oxford Dictionary.

When it comes to the responsibility of Ukrainian artists, there’s really nothing to discuss, because art has always been and always will be political. Only an ignorant person would argue with that. Naturally this doesn’t require every piece of art to carry an anti-war message, but the author’s very origin linked to a specific historical period is already a political statement, even if it wasn’t done intentionally.

Finding meaning in what is happening right now is basically impossible. russia has a terminal social disease that’s eating the country away faster than a plague. And it’s not just the fault of the putin regime, nor did it appear over the last twenty years. It has been part of their mentality for the longest time. There’s something inherently self-destructive there, and the worst part is that russians are actually fascinated by it. It’s a deeply sick society. I don’t know what it would take to cure this illness. Meanwhile Ukrainians were simply “lucky” enough to have them as neighbors. The main thing is to remember that Ukraine isn’t just fighting for itself, but for the rest of the democratic world too. So as far as I’m concerned, no music created up to this point can explain all this absurdity.

I noticed that you’ve chosen an image of Jean-Pierre Léaud from François Truffaut’s The 400 Blows as your avatar. I’m curious about that choice. Is it simply a film or character you’re particularly fond of, or do you identify in some way with Antoine Doinel, his rebelliousness and his uneasy relationship with the world around him?

I can look at this choice on two levels. On a simple level, I just don’t like taking photos and especially posting them on social media. On a deeper level, I’m a huge film nerd. Cinema, music and literature are what shaped half of my personality, and I have so much reverence for these art forms as a result. The series about Antoine Doinel was the key that once unlocked a treasure chest called cinema for me. So I feel a very tender attachment to François Truffaut, Jean-Pierre Léaud and their Antoine Doinel. It hurts so much to watch all these icons pass away one by one – Anna Karina, Alain Delon, Monica Vitti, Jean-Louis Trintignant, Bruno Ganz and so many other actors and directors. Jean-Pierre Léaud is the bridge connecting that golden era to our present day. I wish him the best of health. So if I had to keep it brief, that’s probably why I chose this legendary still from The 400 Blows as the visual identity for Karykatura Penslem.

Finally, I’d like to ask you to choose one book, one film, one artwork, one song, one album, one dish, one building or monument, and one meme that, for you, best represent Ukraine at this particular moment in time. They don’t necessarily have to be Ukrainian creations or patriotic choices. I’m interested in what captures the country’s character, contradictions, humour and current state of mind.

• Book: “The Reconstruction of Nations: Poland, Ukraine, Lithuania, Belarus, 1569-1999” by Timothy Snyder. To understand Ukraine’s historical ties with its neighbors and permanently debunk the russian narrative of “brotherly nations”.
• Film: I could choose Ukrainian cinema, both modern and classic. However, it feels like that locks Ukraine inside itself. It’s incredibly important for us to know how this war feels outside. It can be background noise on the radio or TV, constant and persistent like a mosquito, just as in Aki Kaurismäki’s Fallen Leaves (2023). Or it can surface out of nowhere in casual, everyday small talk, seen in Radu Jude’s Kontinental ’25 (2025).
• Artwork: Flower Radish (1912) by Hanna Sobachko-Shostak. Her work introduced bold elements of surrealism into traditional Ukrainian decorative painting, showing that our art was never primitive, even in rural villages.
• Song: Yuvi – Градом. Because it’s my favorite Ukrainian song of the 2020s. Just check out this production level.
• Album: Kyiv Eternal by Heinali. Because it’s a sound diary of a city that lives on no matter what.
• Dish: Vereshchaka. Because it’s the definition of Ukrainian comfort food.
• Building: The Hryhorii Skovoroda National Museum in the village of Skovorodynivka, Kharkiv region, which was intentionally destroyed by russians.
• Meme: I honestly don’t even know what’s right anymore.

NEW RELEASES

Alexander Stratonov ~ Don’t Cry, She Loves It

A dark and tense electronic score accompanying the newest Suspilne investigative documentary. Journalists reopen a 20-year-old cold case involving the fate of a 10-year-old girl, bringing forgotten facts and institutional failures back into the light.

 

Музична Шкатулка ~ Кути

Kuty (Angles) is a collection of microtonal improvisations, consisting of two parts that move in different directions.
Feeling the “Mismatch” in my life, I decided to record the music for it. Endlessly big-small notes exist in abstract space, unable to escape from it.

 

Horizon Resonances ~ Field

In the delicate space where sound dissolves into pure consciousness, Field unfolds as an introspective meditation on existence, space, and the subtle frequencies of being. This release explores the fragile intersection between experimental sound design and deep ambient immersion, treating every frequency as a living breath.

Lush, evolving textures and granular echoes gently blur the boundaries of time, creating an expansive sonic landscape that invites deep introspection. There are no rigid structures here—only shifting horizons, organic resonance, and the quiet stillness of self-awareness translated into sound.

Designed for moments of profound solitude, deep listening, and quiet introspection, Field is an invitation to listen not just with the ears, but from within.

 

Iklañ ~ Härg

As no shadow clings to the black bull, a pack of jackals startled by the noise
The pain mattered – ask the molfar
Stand still and watch, the birds pass down the throat

 

(Gianmarco Del Re)