Serhiy Martynyuk: "I Truly Feel the Value of the Path We Took"

Sasha Koltsova: Do you still think that Ukrainian culture is a niche?

Serhiy Martynyuk: From time to time, I do—especially when I read the comments on major Ukrainian news sites, where people react with huge, I’ll use the russian word, bewilderment (недоумєніє), discovering Ukrainian artists who have been active for 15–20 years, and who, to me personally, are already markers of the contemporary Ukrainian culture we’re talking about now. But I think things have been changing in recent years.

S.K.: How many people do you think are actually interested in culture and understand that it’s part of life?

S.M.: Culture is such a broad concept: there’s mass culture, and there’s more elite culture—if we can still call it that—because social media has started to blur all those lines. When Pyrih i Batih with their “Hai Shumliat” set TikTok trends—and this seemed like a very niche thing, because Marian Pyrih and the HYCH Orchestra, who have been working for many years on various projects, have finally broken through with this one—to me, it always felt like something for a fairly narrow circle of Ukrainian culture enthusiasts, especially around ethno-baroque culture. And when stories like that become pop, in the good sense—when teenagers are using these songs, not always even knowing who made them or what they’re about…

Actually, there was a funny story recently: a girl came up to me and said, “Aren’t you the author of that library sound?” She didn’t say “author of the song,” but “author of the TikTok sound about the library.” You see how the distinction has shifted—no longer the author of a song, but of a sound. And I really like that this underground—sometimes a kind of bohemian underground—is becoming mainstream. I like that in the past, the October Palace was filled by full-on pop stars, and now it’s Pyrih i Batih.

S.K.: What do you think today’s youth are looking for in terms of quotes, sounds? What are they searching for now in Ukrainian culture? What can grab their attention now? From the whole range of Ukrainian culture—what resonates with them?

S.M.: I have a teenager growing up at home. She’s not really interested in Ukrainian culture at all. When she was 9, she was into KALUSH during the Eurovision hype. Now she’s completely absorbed in K-pop. She doesn’t find anything comparable in Ukrainian music, so to speak. I don’t know if that’s just her age or if that niche—something analogous to K-pop—really doesn’t exist here. But again, K-pop is an exclusively Korean product. I don’t think I’ve seen an American, British, or Polish version of K-pop.

S.K.: Now I’m trying to imagine what a Ukrainian group like that would look like—if I were the producer of such a band, with girls or boys who dance in sync, have a glossy look, sing in Ukrainian, and have solid production. That’s possible, right? The question is whether our major labels would be willing to invest in something like that, but I think it could really take off.

S.M.: On the other hand, I’m thinking now about my younger brother. There’s almost a 20-year age gap between us. He lives in Dubno now. Studied music, got kicked out of college in Rivne. Full-on punk rock. He already has his own band—his second or third, I think. That’s a lot for someone who’s 18. And maybe thanks to my influence, he grew up entirely within the sphere of Ukrainian music. From the age of two or three, he already knew who Rolliks, Krykhitka, and Tartak were— back in the late 2000s. And now he follows everything closely. But when I talk to him, a lot of his peers are completely out of the loop when it comes to this stuff. Especially there, in Dubno. For them—oddly enough—russian music and shows are still dominant. Man, what’s that russian series that’s trending on TikTok? I go to check my cousin’s Instagram—he lives in Dubno too—and I see quotes from that series.

S.K.: Is that still an inferiority complex? Or is it just the danger of influence from the massive, state-sponsored machine of russian propaganda targeting youth?

S.M.: I’d say the latter, because I don’t think teenagers aged 12 to 15…

S.K.: …want to end up in a russian prison.

S.M.: The thing is, they don’t even link the war to culture. And it’s not just some regional thing. Take my neighbors in Osokorky—I sometimes talk to them about the russian music playing in their cars or about people speaking russian on the playgrounds. Their go-to argument is: “Well, the artists aren’t the ones bombing Ukraine. They’re not fighting in the war.” But when I start talking numbers—how royalties and taxes from russian artists end up funding missiles—they pause for a second, like it clicks. But then... nothing really changes.

S.K.: Don’t you think we need a whole new, stronger set of arguments to explain why culture is politics?

S.M.: Yeah, I feel that myself. I’m running out of things to say. It’s like—I know I’m not speaking to people who are on the same page. Not to sound arrogant, but I grew up fully immersed in Ukrainian culture. And some of these people are only just now beginning to discover it. So it’s not an equal conversation. I try to find things that will resonate with them—simple, convincing ideas—but I’m coming up short. I think we need to bring together Ukrainian thinkers, culture workers… maybe not even the highbrow intellectuals, because sometimes they’re too smart. We need a more down-to-earth set of tools to explain this stuff.

S.K.: What are you reading right now?

S.M.: I just finished Eugenia Kuznetsova’s new novel The Sheep Are Safe two days ago. The entire story is basically built around the holiday season: from St. Andrew’s Day to St. Nicholas, New Year, Christmas, Malanka. And the characters are living through all of this in the context of war. When I first started reading Ask Miiechka, I somehow immediately thought of Sally Rooney—who’s probably my favorite among contemporary Western authors. But here, what’s really well done is the portrayal of Ukrainian everyday life, our not-so-obvious traditions, the mix of Ukraine, the remnants of the Soviet system, our complexes, our layered identities. It’s all woven into the fabric of war: characters hiding from the war, characters making choices, children thinking about the war, teenagers standing at the edge of that moment when they’ll have to make their own choice, parents trying to get their kids disability exemptions so they’ll never have to go to the front. And Zhenia writes about all this in her new novel. One of the main characters arrives in a backwater place—it’s not exactly clear where, but it’s near the Dnipro River, with Kyiv relatively close by, somewhere around here, roughly speaking. And she’s an ethnographer who lives abroad, coming back to study this slice of rural Ukraine—whether traditions are still preserved, how village life looks. And alongside those traditions, personal dramas unfold against the backdrop of war.

S.K.: What do you think—what kind of big Ukrainian literary story could break through internationally right now?

S.M.: Well, I think it would definitely be something related to the war. It would have to be fiction, for sure.

S.K.: Will the Ukrainian Booker Prize be awarded to a work of fiction?

S.M.: Yes, fiction — on the subject of war, a kind of reflection. Ideally, of course, written by someone who’s served.

S.K.: I’m really interested in how to explain to the global cultural community that right now we’re not on equal footing—Ukrainian authors, musicians, and creators versus russian ones. What arguments can we make to Europeans, to Americans, to the world, so that they understand our culture is on the verge of physical destruction? 

S.M.: For me, this is a really difficult but very timely question. I think about it constantly, because many of my friends abroad have gotten themselves into new bubbles—some professional, some not so much. And in those circles, russian culture still absolutely doesn’t equal Putin’s aggression. What’s more, the russian people themselves are not seen as being responsible for the war, for Putin’s decisions, for the bombings, and so on. And there’s also the very real fact that even several years of this kind of bloody, openly terrorist russian activity isn’t enough to undo the massive investments made by russia’s propaganda machine into promoting the image of russian culture abroad. All those ballets, all the dostoevskys and chekhovs. Like, you read some average Hollywood interview, and there’s always a Dostoevsky reference. It’s automatic. A top book, a film—he pops up there. They’re still romanticizing all of that. It’s exotic to them, some kind of “European curiosity,” you know? And in that whole context—we’re simply not there. We have no voice. There’s no identity that jumps out at them. And honestly, I don’t yet know what to do about it — even as a musician. Because up to now, all we’ve managed in terms of representing ourselves abroad is ethnic music. Only ethnic Ukrainian music has any kind of presence—whether niche or not. Take DakhaBrakha at Glastonbury, for example. 

S.K.: And heavy music.

S.M.: Yeah, but that’s not for a wide audience.

S.K.: True, it’s not for everyone—but it’s a way to reach entirely new audiences. Jinjer only recently began identifying as Ukrainian, but now they’re the ones TikTokers mention when doing rundowns of metal bands from around the world. They’ll say, “Sepultura is from Brazil, Jinjer is from Ukraine,” Let’s say White World, or Stoned Jesus, or 1914 — they were supposed to go on world tours but didn’t. And that’s about it. I feel like the Ukrainian cultural voice still isn’t loud enough abroad. And that’s partly due to the failure of our state’s information policy—because it was never made a priority.

S.M.: Do you think this is solely due to a lack of our own strength—how should I put it? Or is it about the quality of the product?

S.K.: Honestly, I don’t need the state — as long as I have an economic infrastructure. Like, if I want to shoot a great music video and hire a top-notch Ukrainian team to make something that hits—it’s just a matter of money. I don’t need government communication channels. But the reality is that the market alone could never support 1,200 artists with that kind of economic capacity. That’s why we’ve always had only about 20 artists at the top who could produce work at the competitive level that russia churns out every week. But the fact that now we’re getting 300 releases every Friday—that was a really pleasant surprise for me.

S.M.: I remember the days when just a few albums came out each month. Actually, even that’s generous.  I dug a bit into my pirate past—it was around 2005–2006. I was still living in Lutsk, before the launch of the BANDERSTAD festival, and I was part of the youth organization National Alliance. At our office, we had one of maybe three or four computers, and I used it to collect Ukrainian music. About 80% of that music was never released on any licensed CDs. It was all local recordings—some demo albums, some full ones. At best, maybe some of it was released somewhere, but nobody actually had the CDs. Our organization had branches across almost all of Ukraine. When we gathered for camps, I would ask colleagues from other chapters to burn underground music from their regions onto CDs—stuff from Ivano-Frankivsk, Rivne, and so on. They’d bring 30–40 releases each time. I collected everything into one huge archive. The office on Molodi Avenue 13 in Lutsk became kind of famous—people who had no idea what National Alliance was or what we did would show up with their CDs just so I or my colleagues could burn them some music. 

S.K.: Do you think those bands still exist?

S.M.: No, none of them exist anymore. 99% of the bands that Fiolét started out with back in 2010 in Lutsk are gone. Most of those people don’t even do music anymore. They never even made it to the market. Some never even got around to recording a studio track. I remember that hunger. I remember putting together the BANDERSTAD lineup in 2007—pulling together some kind of underground from all over the country.

S.K.: Were you already short on bands back in 2007?

Well—yeah, to be honest, I was short on bands I could book under fair conditions. I did put something together. But for most people, those bands were total no-names. I wasn’t aiming to—and didn’t have the resources to—bring in already well-known acts. So it was mostly the local underground from western Ukraine. But I could still bring in bands like Dnipro and Roliks from Kherson—they were based in Kherson at the time. But I remember clearly—those were different times. Completely different in terms of how Ukrainian music was perceived. We were outsiders 

S.K.: I remember those days too—when you had to justify yourself.

S.M.: But that’s the road we’ve taken. And I’m actually glad things happened the way they did, because it gives you a sense of value for the process—for the path itself. A path today’s musicians might not fully understand—or maybe they do.

S.K.: They haven’t faced the same resistance we did—let’s put it that way.

S.M.: You know, I’d like to go back to the first part of what you said. What do you think about the idea of potentially exempting cultural workers from military service?

S.K.: Let’s talk about it. Because on one hand, I understand—we all have a duty to defend the country. Everyone’s a good citizen when they protect what they can, however they can. But on the other hand, it’s dangerous territory. Because the moment you take a Ukrainian artist off the stage, four russians with balalaikas jump in to take their place.

S.M.: I think about this a lot, especially during all these rows over strategic enterprises—Boombox, Bez Obmezhen. There are fewer questions about some, more about others. A number of publishing houses received strategic status. Their employees got military deferrals. Maybe that’s how it should be ideally. But where do you draw the line that cultural figures are more important than other types of workers?

S.K.: I don’t know. I have zero issues with Boombox, who serve themselves, give examples for others, and at the same time manage to create uplifting songs and donate and fundraise. No complaints about them. But I do have questions about the more "court-like" musicians who had a different stance, presented themselves differently—their fundraising efforts don’t add up. Kurgan & Agregat put it best. They’re actually really effective at raising funds. And they’re quite an unexpected cultural phenomenon, in my opinion. Same goes for Ukrainian stand-up comedians.

S.M.: I remember clearly—we went to a festival in Lublin with Fiolet, and a friend of ours there played them for us. It was the first time I heard them. He said, "Let me show you the coolest Ukrainian musicians right now," and then it was these guys throwing cow dung at each other.

S.K.: At first I thought it was just a quirky social phenomenon. But then I saw their performance at a festival and thought, “Oh, there’s actually music here too!” And it’s really cool, actually.

It’s always surprising who ends up being a top artist in Ukraine. I remember when Andriy Danylko, in the image of Verka Serduchka, was the top artist. No one was cooler than a Ukrainian drag performer. And when you think about the traditional environment, how religious holidays are celebrated in Ukraine, and realize that the top artist is a drag guy with drinking songs—you’re like, huh, an interesting slice of society. And now, looking at who the top artists are, sure, there’s always rock culture and lyrical hits, but it’s still unexpected that two dudes with that kind of vibe could fill, and I’m sure they will fill Kyiv Palace of Sports.

And musically, socially, even just in terms of hype—it’s a strong counter to the russian cultural invasion. They don’t have anything that cool, because there’s no freedom. Nothing truly rebellious.

S.M.: And what I like about Kurgan is that they started with pure trash, but if you listen to their last two albums—like ZEMBONDZHU, which I’ve already worn out listening to—it’s actually a solid vintage-style funk groove, really high quality. It’s not just a parody. The lyrics are actually pretty deep, I think.

S.K.: Why are you thinking about attention? How can we teach children who experience music through sound?

S.M.: Every time I want to mock Zlata’s supposedly bad taste in music, I stop myself. Or when I want to say something to my Gen Z brother he’s on his third band in two years—like “What are you doing?” Every time, I stop myself. I wouldn’t have wanted people to lecture me either. It’s their path. What’s the point of Don Quixote-ing around, fighting windmills? It’s their generation. We do have some experience we’d like to pass on so they don’t step on the same rakes. But that’s not how it works.

S.K.: They’re going to fast-forward past us, I think. Their imagination is so fragmented. Expecting them to carry on resistance against 400 years of russian aggression is asking the impossible. They might not even remember what they liked yesterday. And we expect them to remember that russia has been killing Ukrainians for 400 years—and has no plans to stop. Fine, our generation will fight to the end—that’s already clear. Those who don’t assimilate, those who don’t flee, those who don’t die, those who want to preserve their Ukrainian identity and belief in our social system, our values, our freedom.

S.M.: It seems to me that Gen Z is more focused on today and tomorrow than on reflecting on the past.

S.K.: But we want the future of Ukraine to rest on their shoulders.

S.M.: Yeah, we want that—but they probably have a different path. I wouldn’t want to measure their vision through our lens.

S.K.: Because maybe we just don’t see the present the way they do. We don’t see the world through their eyes.

S.M.: But what did we see at 17 or 18? What did you see at that age?

S.K.: I didn’t even have the internet back then. We used to go to America House for internet access, by the way. And we’d pick up magazines like Wired, Rolling Stone, and Spin. We translated articles. But now I realize — at 17, you’re pure rebellion. You’re standing at the edge of the platform. You’re so dumb, everything feels like a challenge. You blast your music. How do you ride that vibe and channel it into something constructive? I don’t know. Because at 17, you’re destructive. You want to try drugs, listen to music, and flip the bird.

S.M.: Still, with access to so much information and so many opportunities, it makes you want to expect a bit more from this generation.

S.K.: You want to expect more, yeah. But I don’t know what kind of community it would take for them to want to be part of it — for it to be a Ukrainian community.

S.M.: And are Ukrainian Zoomers really that different from British or American ones?

S.K.: We’ll see who shows up in the comments after this conversation.

Translated by Anna Petelina