#vaqo

After a heavy shift—where my mother helped 7 or 8 patients and saved yet another life—you begin to understand what it means to be a doctor in an ambulance. It’s not just a job. It’s a kind of heroism. My mother has been that kind of hero for over 30 years. She’s helped thousands.

But the world isn’t always kind to heroes. Sometimes angry people, frustrated with the government, shout at ambulance workers just because they wear a uniform. It’s stupid. It’s cruel. It’s the kind of ignorance that makes you tired.

And my mother was tired. I’ve seen that tiredness since I was a child. The kind that doesn’t go away with sleep. So I told her: let’s go for a walk. I’ll bring my Canon 5D Mark III. We’ll take some photos. Maybe breathe a little.

She barely said yes. But finally, she agreed. “Let’s go check some equipment for the village house,” she said. “Maybe we’ll find something useful.” I grabbed my camera. We stepped into the heat. I bought us some soda. I knew a place—strange, beautiful, forgotten. A kind of museum of American car corpses. More than 15 or 20 old , vintage cars. Huge, heavy, rusted. But the design—oh, the design—still the best in the world.

I often wander and take photos. That day, I started shooting my mother, but she stopped me. “I’m not in good condition,” she said. “I’m retired now. Don’t take my photo.” But I pointed to a nearby building and the cars. “Look,” I said, “just walk over there. I’ll shoot from a distance. It’ll be something different. Something real.” She sighed. Then nodded. “Alright.”

So we did it. I took photos of her walking through the graveyard of American steel, her figure framed by broken windshields and faded chrome. It was a strange, beautiful moment. A quiet collaboration between mother and son.

Now, one of those photos is the cover of my new album: „1 მილიონი მილიონერი ქართველები“ (“1 Million Millionaire Georgians”) It’s not a cynical title. It’s a joke. A dream. In a country of 3 or 4 million people, imagine if one million were millionaires. Maybe then we’d be happy.

But in Georgia, people love money too much. Some are ready to sell their soul, their sister, their vote, their honor—for cash. It’s ugly. It’s absurd. If you can buy a person, then slavery never ended.

The album has 15 songs. It’s built from Georgian folk chaos, garage rock, and American roots—country, blues, and beyond. It’s raw. Urgent. Fuzzy. Destroyed. Sometimes I play everything: drums, bass, guitar, vocals. Sometimes just piano and voice. Sometimes only drums. It’s not a typical album. It’s dry, distorted, overdriven. If you like hairy sounds rooted in Georgian folklore, this might be for you. It’s sung in Georgian and Mingrelian. These languages have sounds English doesn’t. And I believe those sounds can expand the dictionary of rock music. Children’s language, village dialects—they carry new rhythms, new textures. Music needs that. Because repetition is killing it. Music wants to grow. It wants new ideas.

Vakho's Story

I have the honor to present new recordings to the people of Georgia under the name Vaqo / Vakhtang Kantaria. 12 albums, 127 songs, 505 minutes of music—8 hours and 15 minutes. I thank the Creator of the universe for these rare opportunities. I also wish to share the history of these twelve albums in detail. I am glad if you are reading this text—I greet you from here. I am saying goodbye to these songs and wishing them success on their own journey. The future lies ahead...

Almost every musician's biography is similar: obstacles, ups and downs, victory and defeat. Progress. If you subtract music from their lives, they aren't much different from anyone else who struggles. Between 2022 and 2023, after the albums Sarmanishviliskari and Spells, the listeners demanded more "emotional bleeding" to color their own lives. I noticed that I desired a peaceful, noble, and whole life more than I desired music—for the rest of my days. I intended to finish an abandoned, incomplete house in the village. I said goodbye to music, hid my instruments here and there, and freed myself from the traditional, toxic social networks that I still miss today.

Soon, the desires for a quiet life collapsed. Things were moving forward in music, but not in life. An impossibly difficult path began. Feelings broke; the future went dim. This state felt foolish to me. I also noticed that the songs I was writing were getting worse. It was a simple conclusion: I could no longer surpass myself. After Sarmanishviliskari and Spells, I had no idea what to do. Listeners traditionally met the albums coldly, dryly, and lifelessly. I tried my best while writing, but once you release it, the results are beyond your control. I felt a serious decline in my compositional skills. Not a single new demo was good—except for the song "Anhedonia," the single didn't do too badly.

Sometimes on the street, people would tell me, "Your work is important for Georgian culture. Don't stop." I still laugh at this and cannot take it seriously. I would silence them. Out of empathy and respect, listeners asked me not to stop so early, to record more songs. I told them I couldn't write well anymore. "Record it, even if it's weak or simple—just as a farewell," they said. These passersby were childishly sincere. Such simplicity was almost dangerous. I no longer felt the desire to interact with people through music. Music demanded attention, while I demanded sleep. We couldn't reach an agreement.

Meanwhile, some politicians turned into two-legged pigs. They ate excessively; some had 25 houses to their names, tens of millions. Politicians became millionaires while the people fled into emigration. This happens where words have no value and those responsible remain silent.

Almost everyone claimed to be traumatized by life and used that trauma as a weapon against you. Trauma became a means to escape responsibility. For example, you could make a decision, then discard it and say, "Sorry, I was depressed—I didn't realize." In short, the trauma came more from "traumatized" people than from the trauma itself. Pain embitters a person. It turns them into a sadist. I don't understand at all why one human hurts another... I believed in kindness, knowledge, and strength.

I was renovating that abandoned house in the village with my own hands—concrete, blocks, painting, and much more. I was lucky that I knew how to build at a time when houses, feelings, and institutions were being demolished all around me. Those who know how to build especially loathe destruction. My parents couldn't finish the house after Russia bombed Georgia, and it stood only as bare blocks. This is the house where my great-grandmother and great-great-grandmother are buried.

I needed to eat for the labor, so I gained weight. My BMI was normal—I needed the weight to lift heavy things. I even amused myself with the extra weight: I’d push my stomach out and say, "Look at me, a healthy man, as if I gained weight for a role." It was strange to others, but fun for me—a healthy man should be like this.

I no longer cared about my music; I let it find its own way. However, I felt that the marketing of the work was neglected. The skepticism of some towards Georgian pop culture even irritated me. Silencing music in my own consciousness was torture at first. I still heard melodies constantly, like unbearable noise from another room. I tried never to pay attention to them again, as if they were formless spirits that could be exorcised. After months, they left, and my body rested. I felt comfort without them. I had forgotten what silence within oneself felt like. It was the first time in eighteen years. Eighteen years of continuous noise, continuous since birth. I wanted to rest, to sleep. I could even feel how pleasantly I would sleep in the future.

Soon, the spirits of New Jersey returned. They wrote to me from radio WFMU. "Did you really die?" they asked—apparently, they had read it in my official "obituary." "Yes, I died, the process continues." They didn't or couldn't realize this simple fact and asked if I had new material recorded after death. In other words, they expected me to provide new music even from the grave. In general, email is my only and favorite way to connect with this digital cemetery. However, I would be happy if paper letters became relevant again. For some reason, the density of nonsense on paper is much lower than in these electronic folders. There, perhaps, some value remains because of the weight of the ink.

At a protest in 2023 or 2024, a listener asked for new recordings. I asked what they were listening to: "The Land of the Kartvelians." I thought, "Well, okay... they want it." Let this at least be one result of these protests. I also used to wish for one or two more albums from good bands. I told myself not to repeat their mistake. That week, I built a wall with about 50 blocks, the house came together, and it was time to record the album... Once again, I slung the object of my hatred over my shoulder—an Eterna Deluxe II bought at the Dry Bridge. Since the guitar no longer attracted me, I started writing songs on the piano.

It began: the microphone broke. Cables hissed like burnt nerves. The compressor input and some guitar positions broke. Added to this were pointless flights to several countries... Chaos coincided with chaos. Failures stretched across months with ruthless thuds. So many losses, so meaningless, independent of me. Yet, I felt very calm, without complaining. I was writing an album. "We will find everything, better and twice as much," I told myself. After all, I dug 40 meters of earth for a water pipe in the village. That’s equivalent to digging about 7 graves. The strength did not stop.

Due to not playing, I lost my performance form. Heavy fingers could no longer command the notes; the drum pedals brought pain. That is the price of returning after a long break from practice. The pain didn't bother me—it is an immortal part of music. The intrigue was whether I could surpass myself. I didn't like egoists, but living in an aggressive space, it was better to lock the doors as much as possible, talk to yourself, and not let fools into your life. I was writing an album. So, I befriended myself again. We understood each other very easily. I had missed him. He was problem-free. He didn't manipulate, though sometimes he was overly optimistic about the future; he knew that without him, nothing would work.

I sat at the piano and started: "Who will be the next victim? Oh oh oh oh... Is it war, war, war?" Then I remembered Indians, Americans, and people in Chokha... and I visualized the song "War, War, War": banjo, salamuri, drums...

For a while, the terrible pain of rehearsals spoiled my mood. Meanwhile, people suffered from "infectious hopelessness." I avoided many. Those ghosts walking the streets, constantly crying "I must leave here, I must run." I had no room for nihilism. It is a contagious disease. I wasn't doing great either—how can beauty and ugliness live in the same head? That’s what I thought. Loss turns you into a monster. However, the "poison" of nobility received in the past was still working—I comforted and helped everyone around me.

The "Guguni Oda" recording felt like the motherland was calling... not the motherland that devours its children, but the kind one, which quietly keeps the warm earth for you—first for a house, then for a grave. I began working on new recordings; I heard them in my imagination. They shouldn't be bad. "Guguni Oda" is pseudo-folk—from different corners of the world (Indians, Americans, Asians, Caucasians). I didn't want national patheticism or mechanical coloring of traditional features (as happens in folk metal or ethno-jazz), because music-mechanics causes a great aversion in me. I bought a panduri, borrowed a chonguri, added a salamuri and an accordion, and since then, the record button hasn't stopped for 2.5 years.

The recordings continued in cold blood. From then on, this was the only place I controlled entirely. Yet, I never had a fetish for control. Life and technology simply brought it to this: you must always be in control so that you are not controlled.

In the meantime, I looked over the discography page of Vakhtang Kantaria. Like featureless, old, useless furniture. Vaqo had a slight touch of madness. But Vakhtang Kantaria was weak—always a weak, pale, feverish child. Loved by everyone in the family simply because he was frail. If Vaqo leaves music loudly and boldly, why shouldn't Vakhtang Kantaria leave too? Even better. This is how the album Happiness (Bedniereba) was born. A light pop-rock dress that a girl would slip onto her body without bleeding from the tightness.

I grew up where beauty demanded sacrifice. Around me, girls would starve themselves, purge their food, and struggle to be attractive. I understood those who wanted to be the best version of themselves, but not those who lost their identity, naturalness, and authenticity. I liked Vogue magazine—the clothes were always beautiful—and I wanted the album Happiness to be filled with beautiful melodies. However, I also liked magazines about cars, electric drills, chainsaws, pressure pumps, and electric motors; therefore, there had to be aggression in Happiness too. By the way, the song "You You You" (Shen Shen Shen) was the first I wrote after a long hiatus. It took one hour.

The album Happiness was sweet, sugared poison, but it too betrayed Vakhtang Kantaria and got lost in the shadow of Vaqo. In 2023, I went through many betrayals, and the discography demanded more material and more blood. I returned to recording with the hope that by singing loudly, I would lose my voice and exit music forever—but my voice didn't fail. On the contrary, it became polished and acquired a new manner. Damn it.

For these albums, I completely changed my singing accent. Previously, I used to place the first accented hit on the first syllable, for example: Zaaaaa-uri, Zaaaaa-uri... But now, this accentuation shifted to the end of the word: Gadarcheeee, Gadarcheeee... Shen tsdiloooooob... This gave me a sense of novelty. I was drawn to artistic innovation. Moreover, I tried very, very hard to forget past achievements and my existing discography.

In a not-so-attractive civil life in 2021, a minister directly stated: "Your political views do not match ours; we don't like you, so leave your job." Everyone left. Soon, the church roof began to leak... In the next types of jobs, where I was supposed to be a social researcher, the choice was harsh: either participate in falsifying surveys or stand with the people who were being fought day and night. I stepped away. Finally, in 2025, one of my last jobs—a place where I wrote articles—also closed down. The editor refused to write what the new minister demanded. Despite three jobs closing, my search for a soft tone on the bass guitar yielded results. It turned out that with the help of a preamp and by boosting the low frequencies, it was possible to get an even richer bass—so much so that renting or borrowing a combo amp was no longer necessary. This saved me quite a lot of money. And exactly that was the last thing the ministers were particularly concerned about.

Sometimes I would go to the city park for "fresh air," though it was filled with car exhaust and human complaining. Nothing there was clean. Seeing me, a girl stopped. Her gaze was ruthless, her hair black and unrefined. "Vaqo? Are you alive?" she started a fight with me, as only a woman can. "I thought you’ve been dead for three years! I mourned you!" she scolded me, though I thought she’d be happy. I didn't say a word. "Wait? Why don't you write songs in the style of 'They Abandoned You' (Migatoves) anymore?"

This was their constant accusation. Besides, women were always fighting with me. My mother, my sister, a random girl, this one or that one—anyone who wanted to get close to me and happened to be a woman. Fighting, fighting, fighting. I haven't seen any other kind of woman. Or perhaps they are remembered by me because of the fighting. I don’t know, maybe I’m not right either. Once, I asked a girl: "Why? Why do you fight me so much, why do you hit me with words?" That girl replied with words as cold and stinging as alcohol on an open wound: "Because you are lovely... that's what forces me to do it."

So, my weakness—not making a big deal out of things—is a frantic expression of their love. A sadistic love. Psychology should investigate this. What demon forces them to do this? I have one secret, and it is mine alone. You must scare a monster with another monster.

As for the black-haired girl in the park: I agreed with everything. She was angry, she was scolding me. She insistently asked when the album would be released. Right then, within myself, I recorded an entire album—in pop-gazer dream pop. I replied: "The Cemetery of Butterflies (Pepleris Sasaplao), it will be out at the end of 2024, about a bitter boy full of hatred." Thus, the recording of the album was decided—by the push of a stranger, an angry girl. It was the first time I saw a stranger scolding me like that. I don’t want my private hell to become a public spectacle.

The album The Cemetery of Butterflies was written for many reasons; one was the film Holy Electricity. The song "They Abandoned You," originally recorded in 2017, I decided to rewrite, and I realized I could grow an entire album from this motif. Only two elements: a MIDI keyboard and vocals. A cold, synthesized sound. The lyrics are extremely direct, honest, and raw—like a knife in the body; though some are veiled, like the one about abortion. In total? This is about the devaluation of family values right before my eyes, the decay of the values of love, how people use each other, and about foolish girls and boys. About an extremely corrupted society where the feeling of loathing is immense. For me, the Cemetery of Butterflies is Abkhazia. Just as they were sacrificed in the struggle for a united Georgia, these butterflies were sacrificed in the struggle for the unity of love. I remembered an observation written years ago in my diary: "Around me, 90% of people are talking about identity crises, emptiness, and mental health issues. For me, it's very hard to trust such people. They use their problems to avoid any responsibility for their actions. This is not a positive response to problems - It's called manipulation."

Once I told my mother: "Mom, people don't listen to rock and roll in Georgia." She replied: "It's because they are bad people." Then she added that people are still listening to the same things they listened to during my childhood. My mother was right; rock and roll was in a total crisis. That was when I had an idea—to release five new albums in a single day. No one could stand in the way of five albums. Yes, stop me in the street! Yes, yes, tell me to record more! I needed this; I became addicted to being "stopped in the street." Imagine it: people—many people—stopping you and asking for a new album. I think many dream of this... and meanwhile, quite shamelessly, without them knowing, you have already recorded five albums. Suddenly, you hit them with it: "I’m releasing five albums right now." And they fall silent... they feel ashamed they didn't know; they feel awkward because they were asking for one song, and you recorded five. And you hide the even heavier fact that you actually recorded twelve. Don't say it out loud; everyone will lose their minds and stop talking to you.

I thought that this was the final, hyperactive, almost ridiculous attempt to burn my creative energy in one great, ultimate explosion. To exhaust myself completely in a grotesque way. And why five? (It turned out to be twelve). This would be my "loud exit." An organized burial of myself—loud, significant, and funny. People would receive "enough music" and leave me alone. Who would dare stop me after that and ask me to record something? I would finally rest.

As for the financing of the albums, it was all done at my own expense. I didn't believe anyone would fund this. I thought to myself: I don't need anyone; it's time for hyper-independence. It had never been any other way. I remember my family asking if I needed help, and I took it as an insult. To earn money, I took on additional professions. I became a social researcher, a journalist, and a videographer... a researcher in another field, a composer for commercial music, an editor, a scriptwriter for radio plays, a sound engineer... I shamelessly agreed to everything. I was struck by "hyper-competence." Everything they offered, I said I knew how to do. I’d go home and discover that I actually did know. From where? I felt ashamed. The listeners were waiting for my announced five albums (it actually became twelve); I couldn't go back on my word. There was no turning back.

I had heard how King David the Builder locked the way back—all or nothing. My 2024 announcement that five albums would be released turned out to be that same locked path. Promises must be kept. It is sacred. If only those twelve albums survived at the end of this sealed road, I was ready to work 25 hours a day.

There was another way back—alcohol and drugs. Everyone offered them to me and was surprised: "You create music sober?" For me, substance dependence is a disease, and I could never forgive myself for replacing the soul's pure joy or sorrow with a drug. Getting drunk is only a three-hour illusion that ends in three years with cirrhosis and poverty. Consumption is only a symptom; the problem starts much earlier. That is why work is the first step toward independence. Pleasure, however, is in the kind little things that make life real.

Turmoil, indignity, and authoritarianism were taking hold in the country. It was a social clarity that needed no winks or wordplay. My desires in life were so kind that I was sure no one would fight over them—much like a Miss World contestant shouting: "No to war, poverty, and oppression." As a social researcher and psychologist, I worked on this in various studies. I was deeply pained by how evil governments used poverty against their own people—all over the world.

I wondered what I should fight for: a broken heart? Against authoritarianism? For the regressive analysis of a study? Lost jobs? A new job? A better sound engineer? A better chorus? Oppressed friends? Imprisoned people? Against injustice? Occupation? Or for song lyrics? I comforted myself with the thought that Georgia's charm lies precisely in its misery. For me, personal betrayal and the manipulation of feelings turned out to be heavier than any dictatorship. It turns out a broken heart is more painful than a dictatorship... Meanwhile, the cold cruelty of fines in the streets and the sad, aggressive gazes of people—like wounded animals—perfected the social hopelessness that no formula could measure.

I knew I had to record one song approximately every five days without losing any source of income, while also supporting the protests. It turned out to be simple; the fact that I had played for 6-7 hours a day until I was 21 helped me immensely. My body remembered the labor. I thank my flesh for this. It allowed me to work, but on the other hand, it became a true challenge—doing the work of nearly twelve people. Twelve slaves in my head, whom I forced to work. I had to live in Timișoara, Romania, for a while; there, I came up with five melodies and several for a mini-play. I remember they were very, very, very impressed with my music. It was a cheap thrill. In a place where records were sold for pennies—records that probably kept the memories of dead musicians. Yes, an album is also the memories of dead musicians. I brought back a box of records—a trash bag full of souvenirs. During that same period, I had so many flights; I would sit in airports, inventing melodies in my head and recording them on my phone. Also on pianos left in hotel foyers. I don't even want to list all the places I’ve been.

During that time, several children died due to negligence. If before such negligence would at least lead to political responsibility, now there wasn't a trace of it. It was as if everything had lost its value, like a cheap toy. And for some reason, it pained me; I felt loathing for such a situation. Unnaturally many children died. How can there not be someone who will come out with dignity—man or woman—and say: "This happened in my district, I have decided to resign because I share a high social responsibility, I support the families, and I want everything investigated quickly"? If someone had done that, I would have believed that politicians hadn't just turned into two-legged pigs. No one did; on the contrary, they were glad it didn't touch them. Then they sat at feasts and toasted to God and love. They simply hated people, and I can only imagine how they felt about God. My loathing was pure, burning, as if unnaturally many corpses were piled upon one another. A "Social Satan" is on the prowl. It’s a funny name, though. It was also a labyrinth of mental values.

And I reached the fifth album, with the loud title: 1 Million Millionaire Georgians. This was not a cynical attitude at all; I supported this idea. This way, it’s less likely someone will buy a Georgian citizen’s vote—at least not cheaply.

One day, a strange desire overcame me—as if someone should stop me, put a hand on my shoulder, and say sternly but sincerely: "Vaqo, you can't do this! Why don't you write a heavy rock album—with guitar patterns copied from Georgian folklore, with the blood of blues and the teeth of punk? Why don't you cross over into country-rock, huh? Explain yourself!" And I, as if I had an answer prepared long ago, would laugh and say: "You know what? You... you... you're right. I'll do it. I'll do that too. Of course, I will."

In that moment, that person would lift off the ground and grow wings—not made of feathers, but sewn together from sounds, chords, and unwritten songs. They would smile and say: "I’m going, Vaqo... I have fulfilled my mission." And I would watch, jaw-dropped, as they flew and grew smaller in the sky until they became a mere dot.

And then everything started so simply, as if the album already existed and my only job was to press "record." There was no doubt, no thought. The hand knew the way, the guitar knew the sound. Folklore patterns clashed with the weight of iron, the blues breathed, folk sang, and punk screamed: "Don't stop, don't polish, don't process—be the primary source." The album was recorded frighteningly fast—nights turned into mornings, mistakes became truths, and the album was finished.

I called the album 1 Million Millionaire Georgians not because everyone is a millionaire—but because so many here pray for a million. They wish each other a million, they hang money on Christmas trees, they whisper "a million" when making wishes. I completely support the existence of one million millionaire Georgians; that would be very good.

During the recordings, many songs were left over—works that didn't make it into the albums. Also, many attempts at different ideas. Almost every album has an additional disc in the form of demos or unreleased songs. In total, five albums. However, the album Synthesizer is not a collection of unreleased demos; it was intended as a mini-album and was released as such. As for the album Beautiful (Mshvenieri), it is an album consisting of two EPs—meaning two mini-albums were joined to become one large album, simply titled Beautiful.

I announced five albums. Twelve came out. This wasn't a lie—it was creative inflation. Five albums were the plan. Twelve was the result of the plan not working. I promised the listeners five albums. My conscience released the rest at night while everyone was sleeping. I deceived the people...

I know many musicians who have locked their recorded albums on a shelf—they must let these albums live their own lives, as they are. They are grown up now. And I advise the listeners: stop your favorite musicians in the street, tell them you support them. Georgia needs more authentic music.

If tomorrow they ask me again, "Are you writing?", I will say: "I am living." That is a sufficiently mixed genre. I also had the right to "bail" on everyone around me, and I did... Instead of 5, I released 12 albums... That’s how you should do it.

The future is ahead.

Respectfully,

"Latino Serial Tsavkisis Veli" Georgian high voltage ⚡ rock Musician Vaqo (Vakhtang Kantaria) is set to release his next explosive single, "Latino Serial Tsavkisis Veli.

The track is a powerful fusion of high-energy Garage Rock, raw Punk Blues, and melodic Spanish Rock elements. It's sung in two languages the same time. Georgian and Spanish.

"Latino Serial Tsavkisis Veli" delivers Vaqo's signature storytelling with a sharp, humorous edge, offering a cautionary tale against real-life melodrama. The artist states the central, tongue-in-cheek message: Never take a house that isn't yours, and don't confuse your life with a dramatic Latin American soap opera. The single promises to be a standout piece of authentic, genre-bending rock with a uniquely Georgian perspective.

The story centers on Maria, who is depicted as "Qarafshuta" (flighty, lacking common sense) and easily manipulated. Her husband, Jorge, loses everything on an Adjara bet. In a moment of devastating betrayal, right when Maria offers him her deepest trust and love, Jorge decides to take their house and all of her property.

Maria, in her weakness, signs the damning documents, sealing her fate.The single ignites when Maria’s sister, the wiser Gabriella, discovers the theft. The idyllic life in Tsavkisis Veli shatters into a chaotic war between the furious Gabriella, the foolish Maria, and the ruthlessly opportunistic Jorge.

Vaqo uses this specific family drama to critique a broader, modern problem in Georgia: the relentless and often predatory quest for property. The artist highlights the "Gatakhsirebuli" (morally bankrupt, degraded) individuals who are constantly trying to take property from others through unscrupulous means.

Guess who's back, back again? Vaqo's back! After rocking Germany, Vakhtang Kantaria has returned to Georgia. He just played for the dolphins (okay, maybe not for them, but in their city!) in Batumi, West heart of Georgia and now he's got TWO concerts lined up in Tbilisi!

​First up, on September 21st, Vaqo's doing something a little bit wild! He'll be performing an improvisational show for the fantastic German comic book writer and painter, Mawil. (He is musician too)

Mawil, who hails from Berlin, has a book called "Kinderland" that's been translated by the cool new publisher "Matarebeli" (which, fun fact, means "train" in English!). For this special event, Vaqo will be channeling his inner 60s psychedelic garage rock skills. Get ready for 50 minutes of raw, heavy organ sounds and screaming guitars! It's going to be another trip...

​Then, on September 28th, it's the big one! Vaqo's major concert will be happening at Haraki. No it's not in Japan and Tokyo. Haraki is word from who knows what...

Vaqo is bringing extra musicians to the stage for a whopping 80 minutes of his old and brand-spanking-new songs. It's going to be a heavy concert, be ready for a challenge (and so are you, right?!).

​Don't miss out on the musical madness!

​Tickets are right here...

In times that can feel heavy and disappointing, moments like these remind us of life's positive values. We still believe in the idea that humans, at their core, are striving for a kinder world. Evil isn't truly part of that vision; it's just a fleeting, shameful shadow.

Aaaaaand AI just did my better version... So unnaturally...

Here is raw version of ME... Nothing here... Just me, nothing beats a jet2 holiday and right now you can save 50 pounds per person that's 200 pounds off for a family of four...

People are born to be in a good mood, to love their work, and to have a family with a loved one, not to die somewhere in yellow wheat fields due to irrational evil.

This is a tragedy, simply a great tragedy, that someone desires to take another's home, to take another's life, and to present lies as truth. How many more wars must there be for there to be no more war on Earth? There is no answer to this, because as long as humans exist, they will always have the desire to possess – to possess not joy, but internal wickedness, resentment, and hatred towards others.

Such people are aggressive, and countless others serve them for the purpose of enrichment. Isn't money more than just money in the 21st century? Does it hold more significance than honor, love, or anything similar? As long as money is more important than justice, and as long as justice is just a part of perception, everything will be upside down.

No, sirs! The function of a human being is to have dignity, a beloved job and to work hard, to have a loved one and family by their side, a home and a yard. If you don't want this, you are very far off… War is, first and foremost, a human tragedy. It's the loss of a child, a parent, or a relative, and a life unfulfilled… And the evil that agrees to this, that evil must be defeated.

Georgia knows best what it means to lose a child in war, and I don't want anyone else to experience that again. Goodness will triumph, and so it will be forever.

The song "Ukraine" is built on Ukrainian folklore, blending elements of indie rock, pop-rock, art-pop, and pop-punk.

UKRAINA is from an upcoming album with no singles released yet. It will be launched under Vakhtang Kantaria's name and stands apart from his previous work, featuring a significant amount of dance-rock elements.

Toko worked on Art Cover. This image powerfully symbolizes Ukraine's struggle and resilience through several key elements: Sunflower Head: The sunflower is the national flower of Ukraine and a strong symbol of peace and resistance, especially since the 2022 invasion. Its placement as a head suggests the Ukrainian people themselves, or perhaps the spirit of Ukraine. The eye within the sunflower adds a poignant, almost watchful, human element. Ukrainian Flag Drape: The figure is draped in the blue and yellow colors of the Ukrainian flag, directly representing the nation and its identity.

Wheat Field: The setting in a vast wheat field (often associated with Ukraine's nickname as the "breadbasket of Europe") emphasizes the country's agricultural heritage and its fundamental connection to the land. Stormy Sky: The dark, cloudy, and somewhat ominous sky overhead conveys a sense of foreboding, conflict, and the hardship or war that Ukraine is enduring. Sitting Pose/Posture: The figure's posture, possibly kneeling or sitting contemplatively, evokes a sense of burden, grief, but also quiet strength and enduring presence amidst adversity.

Georgian Text: The prominent Georgian text "უკრაინა" (Ukraine) at the bottom clearly states the subject and reinforces the strong solidarity between Georgia and Ukraine, acknowledging shared experiences and support.

Announcement! Regarding the progress of our plan to release 5 albums in one day. We all know that this is extremely difficult, a highly intellectual process, and requires a great command/power of technical resources. And now, let's see where we are together.

The album "GUGUNI ODA" is completely ready. Imagine a harmony where all the cultures of the world immerse themselves in the wonderful world of Georgian folklore. This will be your unforgettable journey across the great Earth, a story told in the language of music.

In addition, you can already get a feel for the album "BEDNIEREBA". The familiar singles - "Shen Shen shen", "Zombebi", and "saqartvelo gakides" - are just the beginning of that cheerful, rock-and-roll sound that will combine elements of rhythm and blues, krautrock, grunge, and gentle pop. Get ready for new things!

Another different world is ready - the album "Peplebis Sasaflao" (Butterfly Cemetery). Built entirely on a synthesizer sound, a primitive yet dark collection, with the song "Migatoves" (They Left Me) presenting an emotional echo. The album will be released under the name Vakhtang Kantria, as it radically differs from Vaqo's familiar musical style. It is about butterflies who perished in the womb for the unity of love...

The fourth, as yet untitled, album is on its way and almost finished, with the working title "Sulis NafleTebi" (Fragments of the Soul). This is a truly interesting blend that promises a musical fabric different from the classic Vaqo sound. Although the album seems finished and full of songs, intensive listening has revealed weak sections, which are currently being corrected by replacing songs. This is an incredibly difficult and highly intellectual process. "Sulis NafleTebi" will reach your ears very soon - an interesting mix of alternative rock, indie rock, punk-pop, punk-folk, and dance-rock, saturated with disco-rock elements.

And finally, an extremely interesting and important album is being created, with the temporary title "TITUUUUUUUU! ARMAGEDONI!!!". This will be a fusion of Georgian folk, garage rock, punk blues, and Gandagana rock. Recorded in mid-fi style, the album attaches particular importance to rethought elements of Georgian folklore, so it might be interesting for listeners of Georgian folk music. This is an attempt to prove that the true Georgian rhythmic section can break free from Eastern primitivism and develop on the rhythmic foundation of blues against the backdrop of global musical discoveries. I am sure ten centuries is enough for the tauri tauri of the same rhythm in the folkloric mainstream of Eastern Orientalism. Let's see how this new bold idea works out.

And finally, all the compositions that were "rejected" for inclusion in the albums will be released as a separate collection.