VAQO MUSIC VAKHTANG KANTARIA

May was full of bathroom rain. Not just regular rain — full-on shower mode, water attacking from all sides like an overenthusiastic plumber had lost control. The main question in Tbilisi was simple: Can our city resist this sky water invasion? The enemy came relentlessly, day and night, from both the dark sky and the suspiciously bright one. No mercy. And yes, even in the metro stations it was raining.

Water levels were higher than usual too — it’s a classic Tbilisi tradition. Every May we get more water than we need, like the sky sends extra just for fun. From Didube Bridge I saw several buildings under chaotic construction, looking like they were thrown together in a hurry. Nowadays Tbilisi is full of these new huge intense towers. Of course the small houses with small families are still there. Best way to fight the rain occupation army: build taller! Less ground for the water to conquer.

We lose our blood in small betrayals. All of it important, this fragile commerce between the living and the almost-gone. The Siskhlis Banki is everywhere. Its name means Bank of Blood, but not for vampires — just for the people quietly losing their own blood, drop by drop. We need it after days like these. Next to it stand the supermarkets, bright and full of ordinary life. Both are important, holding us together while the rain keeps falling.

Someone was stuck in a short road because of a Hammer limousine. I hope this is the last problem of humanity.

ZMUKI LIVE SHOW HARAKI AND VAQO VAKHTANG KANTARIA SHOW

I guested the Zmuki Live show. It was pretty much the first music podcast recorded in front of a live audience. I don’t remember anything like it before — or maybe it just slipped my mind. In the first episode, music journalist Niko Nergadze came on. There were tons of jokes, the crowd was laughing, and they loved it. He had some serious topics ready too, but the hosts kept cutting him off and eventually pulled him off stage. In the end, both the hosts and the audience had a blast.

Then they called me up. I had prepared “One Century of Music” and had to squeeze it into twenty minutes. Of course it was brutal. I stood there and felt the silence pressing down like wet ash. What really got me was how the hosts kept painting themselves as the victims — “this new generation doesn’t care about us at all.” But it was the opposite: I was the one bringing the ideas, and they just wouldn’t follow.

They don’t want to be proper hosts, yet they want to be hosts. Two grown men turning themselves into martyrs — I swear, I’ve never seen anything funnier in my life. The absurdity tasted like iron on my tongue. There was this girl right in the front row who kept throwing rude jokes at everything I said. Weirdly, I actually found it hilarious.

By the way, the audience seemed tired by the end. But I was way more exhausted than them — I had a bit of fever and a cold. I think I did everything I could from my side. I’m not a comedian, but a few jokes still landed and people laughed. When I listened back to the audio later, it wasn’t nearly as bad as I feared.

The words drift away like black petals in still water, sinking slowly into a bottomless well. I speak into the void and it answers back with its own quiet rot, a soft funeral bell ringing under thick skin. Maybe one day they’ll land somewhere that matters… or maybe they’ll just keep falling forever through the dark... Or not...

I had never seen Station Square at night—can you imagine that? I spent years in Tbilisi, yet I had never experienced it after dark. Station Square is home to an open market, or bazaar, where you can trade and buy vegetables, fruits, meat, and other goods.

Walking is both a healthy habit and a hobby for me. Station Square is a dirty place, with lots of rubbish around it. But it is also one of the most authentic places in the city. I saw many kind people there—truly beautiful people.

People come here from every region, each bringing their own food. the taste of their land, their work, their habits. You can see it in the vegetables, in the fruit, in the way they present what they have grown. But something has changed in the last decade. More and more fruits and vegetables are imported now, and they don’t taste the same. They look good, almost perfect, but feel distant—like they have lost their connection to the soil.

The place is also full of tension. Voices overlap, small conflicts appear and disappear. People from villages can sometimes be very rude—I have seen it myself. There is a roughness in the way they speak.And sometimes, behind the conversations, there are dirty jokes—half-hidden, not fully spoken, but present.In a strange way, this is not unique. It feels like something you could find anywhere in the world.

The place is full of problems, too. Old buildings stand next to the remains of several fires that have destroyed shopping centers over the years.

Sometimes, when I walk there, I imagine something different. I imagine the district modernized, restored, not erased. The old buildings repaired, their details brought back to life instead of slowly fading away. Because around Station Square, there are beautiful houses. You can still see their character, their history, even through the damage and neglect. They feel like something waiting to be remembered.I often think how this place could look if care replaced indifference—if the beauty that already exists was simply allowed to breathe again

In the last period, I have been walking with my face fully covered by blue or red cloth, what we call a Sharfi in Georgia. I don’t want to be recognized by people, or other vampires.I don’t want to speak. I want to avoid “mokithkhva” that always come without meaning. Behind the fabric, I feel more distant. The world becomes quieter when no one knows who you are.

I walk through Station Square like this, watching everything, but not belonging to directly. But everyone who is living in Georgia, are station Square DNA trains.

What genre is Sadguris Moedani? I’m not sure. Maybe it doesn’t have one. Or sad folklore. Once, I was sitting in a car, waiting for my father. The radio was playing loudly, some Georgian folk song, maybe in Megrelian. It sounded old, full of memory.

In front of the car, an elderly woman was selling vegetables. She looked poor, tired. I couldn’t stop looking at her. Something in that moment touched me deeply. I realized how much I want to see my country and my people happy, full of life, full of opportunities. But the scene felt brutal. The sad folk song on the radio, and that woman standing there, worn down by life, it was all in front of me at once. It felt like I was watching a soul slowly being lost.

On the other hand, Station Square is full of vampires at night. I don’t have problems with the sun, I actually prefer sunny days for walking. But lately, I’ve become a night owl. Is that bad or good? I don’t know. The vampires of Station Square are not good people. They move in shadows, with sharp eyes and hidden intentions. You shouldn’t trust them. And yet, even among them, the city lives. There is movement, there is life. It is dangerous, yes, but it is real.

It’s 2026. Wars are happening around the globe, and I started thinking about how to stop them. There seems to be no limit to injustice and aggression. Yes, no — humanity can’t stop war if… If aliens started a war against the entire planet, humanity would forget its local wars. We would find a new reason to unite together. But it's not true at all. And I don't like aliens. Too much Matkuarebi.

After 2023, being a vampire in Tbilisi became ten times harder than in London, New York, or even Buenos Aires. You probably wouldn’t understand, but every law made for humans somehow traps vampires too. The only answer is movement — endless walking through the city. So I found a new road and walked through Nadzaladevi toward the Tbilisi Sea.

Walking around the city, I started existentially thinking about whether a girl should wear makeup or not. This is a dangerous thought. Like a vampire — I know, it sounds strange — but vampire girls probably use makeup because they are pale like a printer page with no ink. Otherwise, people will asking, “Are you feeling okay?” So why do girls use makeup?

They think they look more attractive with it. And maybe they’re right. Mirrors rarely lie. But being attractive 365 days a year sounds exhausting. Even the moon takes nights off. Even vampires rest in coffins. Maybe it’s better to be attractive two times a week? Like Tuesday and Friday. The rest of the days can be “under construction.” like a me.

Without any makeup, you would save so much time and money. With that money, you could go to Bazroba and buy chicken, apples, pears — real things. Sometimes makeup feels like a small elegant robber. Not aggressive. Just quietly taking your salary and whispering, “Beauty is investment.” And maybe it is. But so is sleep. And sleep is free. Jerjerobit.

But honestly, I mostly don’t care whether a woman wears makeup or not. You live only once. At least, that is the official version. Therefore, it seems reasonable to live as you prefer, even if the mirror occasionally disagrees.

My favorite makeup is eye makeup. When the eyes have additional colors painted around them by her own hand, it feels almost ceremonial — as if the eyes are being framed for an exhibition titled “Still Watching the World.” It always looks beautiful. Eyes with color around them are slightly unreal, slightly dramatic, as if they know a secret but have decided not to report it.

Yes, eyes and makeup together are saotsari — wonderful. Not loud-wonderful. Quiet-wonderful. The kind that stands in the corner and observes. I do not like very, very, very red lips when they look unnatural. This is not a political statement. It is a personal survival strategy.

You see, I am trying to forget everything red. Red is a color with too much confidence. It enters the room before you do. Vampires on a diet would understand me. They attend self-control seminars. And drink tomato juice. Tbilisian buildings are terrible... Even god knows...

But still — makeup or no makeup — it is not my jurisdiction. I am not appointed Minister of Faces. I'm just boy with thoughts about city where I'm going to live.

If someone wishes to decorate their existence with colors, who am I to object? Life is already strange enough. So, Gogov Go!

What about Music? My music still needs 10,000 followers or maybe I’ve already reached my absolute maximum. I don't want to believe it. Georgian listeners are strangers. Sometimes I imagine them wearing tiny monocles, staring at my songs and asking, “Is this… permitted?”. Or maybe my music can't be win the heart of listeners? Who knows? Look around — rap, hip hop, indie pop are everywhere. They are like pigeons in the city square. My music is a confused pigeon that forgot how to coo? Maybe.

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,

მაქვს პატივი, საქართველოს ხალხს წარმოგიდგინოთ ახალი ჩანაწერები Vaqo / Vakhtang Kantaria-ს სახელით. 12 ალბომი, 127 სიმღერა, 505 წუთი მუსიკა, 8 საათი და 15 წუთი. მადლობა ამ იშვიათი შესაძლებლობებისთვის. ასევე მსურს ვრცლად მოვყვე ამ თორმეტი ალბომის ისტორია. მიხარია, თუ ამ ტექსტს კითხულობთ — აქედან მოგიკითხავთ. ვემშვიდობები ამ სიმღერებს და თავის გზაზე წარმატებებს ვუსურვებ...

თითქმის ყველა მუსიკოსის ბიოგრაფია ერთმანეთს ჰგავს: წინააღმდეგობები, აღმასვლა და დაღმასვლა, გამარჯვება და მარცხი. თუ მათ ცხოვრებას მუსიკას გამოაკლებ, დიდად აღარ განსხვავდება იმ ადამიანისგან, ვინც იბრძვის. 2022 დან 2023 წლებში, ალბომები სარმანიშვილისკარისა და შელოცვების შემდეგ,

მსმენელი ითხოვდა მეტ ემოციურ სისხლდენას, რომელიც მათ, საკუთარ ცხოვრებას გაუფერადებდა.

შევამჩნიე, მუსიკაზე მეტად მშვიდი ცხოვრება მსურდა, კეთილშობილი, მთელი - დარჩენილი ცხოვრება. მარწყვივით. სოფელში მიგდებული, დაუმთავრებელი სახლის დასრულებაც განვიზრახე. ინსტრუმენტები გადავმალე აქა იქ, ტრადიციული, მომწამვლელი სოციალური ქსელებისგანაც განთავისუფლდი. მალევე მშვიდი ცხოვრების სურვილებმა კრახი განიცადა. დაიწყო უსაშველოდ რთული გზა

შევამჩნიე, ვწერდი სიმღერებს, რომლებიც უარესდებოდა. ეს იყო მარტივი დასკვნა, საკუთარ თავს ვეღარ ვჯობდი. "სარმანიშვილისკარის" და "შელოცვების" შემდეგ, წარმოდგენა არ მქონდა რას ვიზამდი

მსმენელი ტრადიციულად ალბომებს ცივად, მშრალად, უსიცოცხლოდ ხვდებოდა

ვცდილობდი საუკეთესო მეცადა მუსიკის წერისას, თუმცა როდესაც მას უშვებ, შედეგები შენს კონტროლს მიღმაა. ამ ორი ალბომის შემდეგ სერიოზულ დაღმასვლას ვგრძნობდი, საკომპოზოციო უნარების. არცერთი ახალი დემო არ ვარგოდა. სიმღერა Anhedonia-ს გარდა, სინგლი ცუდად არ დატრიალდა.

ხანდახან ქუჩაში მეტყოდნენ, შენი შემოქმედება ქართული კულტურისთვის მნიშვნელოვანია. არ გაჩერდე. რაზეც დღემდე მეცინება და სერიოზულად ვერ აღვიქვამ. ვაჩუმებდი. მსმენელებმა,  თანაგრძნობითა, ხათრით მთხოვეს, ასე ნაადრევად არ შევჩერებულიყავი, ჩამეწერა კიდევ სიმღერები. ვუთხარი ვეღარ ვწერდი კარგად – ჩაწერე, თუნდაც სუსტი, უბრალო – გამოსამშვიდობებლად, ესღა მითხრეს. გამვლელები იყვნენ ბავშვურად გულწრფელნი. ასეთი სიმარტივე საშიშიც იყო. ვეღარ ვგრძნობდი სურვილს ადამიანებთან ურთიერთობის - მუსიკის სახით. მუსიკა ითხოვდა ყურადღებას, მე კი ძილს. ვერცერთი ვერ შევთანხმდით.

სოციალური ფონიც დამძიმდა. ნაწილი პოლიტიკოსების, ორ ფეხა ღორებადაც გადაიქცნენ. ჭამდნენ უზომოდ, ზოგს 25 სახლი ქონდა ანგარიშზე, ათეულობით მილიონი. პოლიტიკოსები მილიონერები გახდნენ, ხალხი კი ემიგრაციაში გაიქცა. ასეთი რამ ხდება იქ, სადაც სიტყვას ფასი აღარ აქვს და ამაზე პასუხისმგებელი ხმას არ იღებს.

თითქმის ყველა თავს ცხოვრებისგან ტრავმირებულად აცხადებდა და ამ ტრავმას იარაღად იყენებდა შენს წინააღმდეგ, ტრავმა გახდა საშუალება პასუხიმგებლობიდან გაქცევის. მაგალითად, შეგეძლო მიგეღო გადაწყვეტილება, შემდეგ გადაგეგდო და გეთქვა, ბოდიში მაშინ დეპრესია მქონდა - ვერ ვაცნობიერებდი. მოკლედ

ტრავმა უფრო იყო ტრავიმრებული ადამიანებისგან ვიდრე თავად ადამიანი ტრავმისაგნ

ასეთი ტკივილი აბოროტებს ადამიანს. სადისტად აქცევს. საერთოდაც ვერ ვხვდები, ადამიანი ადამიანს რატომ უშავებს... სიკეთის, ცოდნის და ძალის მჯეორდა. დანარჩენი ყურადღებას არ იმსახურებდნენ

სოფელში მიგდებულ სახლს საკუთარი ხელით ვარემონტებდი — ბეტონი, ბლოკები, ღებვა და კიდევ ბევრი რამ. გამიმართლა, რომ შენება შემომესწავლა, ვინც შენებას იცნობს, დანგრევა განსაკუთრებით ეზიზღება. მშობლებმა სახლის დასრულება ვერ შეძლეს, რუსეთის მიერ საქართველოს დაბომბვის შემდეგ, ის მხოლოდ ბლოკების ამარა იდგა. როგორც ბავშვობაში დაწყებული ზუსტად ისეთი. ეს ის სოფელია სადაც ჩემი დიდი ბებიისა და დიდი-დიდი ბებიის საფლავებია.

შრომისთვის ჭამა მჭირდებოდა და წონაში მოვიმატე. მასის ინდექსი ნორმაში იყო — სიმძიმეების ასაწევად წონა მჭირდებოდა. ზედმეტი წონით ვერთობოდი კიდეც: მუცელს წინ ვწევდი და ვამბობდი — „შემომხედეთ, ჯანმრთელი მამაკაცი, ვითომ როლისთვის მოვიმატე“. სხვებისთვის ეს უცნაური იყო, ჩემთვის კი გართობა — ჯანმრთელი მამაკაცი ასეთიც უნდა იყოს. ჩემი მუსიკა აღარ მანაღვლებდა, თავის გზას მივეცი. თუმცა ვგრძნობდი, ნაკლები ყურადღება ექცეოდა მის მარკეტინგს. ზოგიერთის ურწმუნოება ქართული პოპ კულტურის მიმართ მაღიზიანებდა კიდევაც.

საკუთარ ცნობიერებაში მუსიკის დადუმება, თავიდან წამება იყო. მელოდიები გამუდმებით მაინც მესმოდა, როგორც აუტანელი ხმაური სხვისი ოთახიდან. ვცდილობდი, ყურადღება აღარასოდეს მიმექცია მათთვის, თითქოს ესენი იყვნენ უსახო სულები, რომელთა გაძევებაც შეიძლებოდა. თვეების შემდეგ წავიდნენ და დაისვენა სხეულმა. მათ გარეშე კომფორტს ვგრძნობდი. დამვიწყებია, რა არის სიჩუმე საკუთარ თავში. ეს იყო პირველი შემთხვევა თვრამეტი წლის განმავლობაში. თვრამეტი წელი, უწყვეტი ხმაური, უწყვეტი შობის შემდეგ. მსურდა: დასვენება, დაძინება. ვგრძნობდი კიდევაც, რა სასიამოვნოდ მეძინა მომავალში.

მალევე, ნიუ ჯერსის სულები დაბრუნდნენ, რადიო WFMU-დან, მეილზე მომწერეს. "მართლა მოკვდი?" – ჩანდა, ჩემი ოფიციალური ნეკროლოგი ამოიკითხეს. "დიახ, მოვკვდი, პროცესი გრძელდება“. მივწერე. მათ არ და ვერ გააცნობიერეს ეს უბრალო ფაქტი და კიდევ მკითხეს, ხომ არ მქონდა ახალი მასალა სიკვდილის შემდეგ ჩაწერილი. ანუ, ელოდნენ, საფლავიდანაც შევძლებდი მათთვის ახალი მუსიკის მიწოდებას.

მეილი ჩემი ერთადერთი და ფავორიტი კავშირის საშუალებაა ამ ციფრულ სასაფლაოსთან. თუმცა, გამიხარდებოდა, თუ ფურცლის წერილები კვლავ აქტუალური გახდებოდა. რატომღაც ფურცელზე სისულელეების სიმკვრივე გაცილებით ნაკლებია, ვიდრე ამ ელექტრონულ საქაღალდეში. იქ, შეიძლება, კიდევ დარჩეს მელნის წონის გამო - ფასი.

ერთ-ერთ აქციაზე, 2023 წელს, ან 2024 წელს, მსმენელმა მთხოვა ახალი ჩანაწერები, ვკითხე, რას უსმენდა, "The Land of the Kartvelians". გავიფიქრე, ნუ კაი ხა... უნდათ და უნდათ. ეს შედეგი მაინც ქონდეს ამ აქციების. მეც მსურდა ადრე, ერთი-ორი კარგი ჯგუფის ალბომი კიდევ გამოსულიყო. მათ შეცდომას ნუ გავიმეორებ-მეთქი. იმ კვირაში 50 მდე ბლოკით კედელი ამოვაშენე, სახლი შეიკრა, ალბომის ჩაწერის დროც დადგა... ისევ გადავიკიდე მხარზე მძულვარების ობიექტი — მშრალ ხიდზე ნაყიდი Eterna Deluxe II. რადგან გიტარა დიდად აღარ მიზიდავდა, ფორტეპიანოზე დავიწყე სიმღერების წერა.

დაიწყო: მიკროფონი გაფუჭდა. კაბელები შიშხინებდნენ, როგორც დამწვარი ნერვები. კომპრესორის შესასვლელი და გიტარის ზოგი პოზიციაც გატყდა. ამას დაემატა უაზრო ფრენები რამდენიმე ქვეყანაში… ქაოსს ქაოსი დაემთხვა. წარუმატებლობები თვეებს გადაება, დაუნდობელი ბარტყუნით. ამდენი დანაკარგი, ასე უაზროდ, ჩემგან დამოუკიდებლად. თუმცა თავს ძალიან მშვიდად ვგრძნობდი, უწუწუნოდ. ალბომს ვწერდი. ვიშოვით ყველაფერს, უკეთესს და ორჯერ მეტს. ამას ვეუბნებოდი საკუთარ თავს. ბოლო-ბოლო, 40 მეტრი მიწა გავჭერი - წყლის მილისთვის, სოფელში. ეს დაახლოებით 7 კუბოს გათხრას გავს. ძალა არ ჩერდებოდა.

დაუკვრელობისგან საშემსრულებლო ფორმა დავკარგე. დამძიმებული თითები ნოტებს ვეღარ იმორჩილებდნენ; დასარტყამის პედლებს კი ტკივილი მოჰქონდა. ხანგრძლივი ვარჯიშის შეწყვეტის შემდეგ დაბრუნებას ფასი ასეთია. ტკივილი არ მადარდებდა – ის მუსიკის უკდავი ნაწილია. ინტრიგა ის იყო, შევძლებდი თუ არა ჩემი თავისთვის მეჯობნა. ეგოისტები არ მიყვარდა, თუმცა აგრესიულ სივრცეში ცხოვრების გამო, ჯობდა მაქსიმალურად ჩაგეკეტა კარები, საკუთარ თავთან გელაპარაკა და სულელები არ შემოგეშვა ცხოვრებაში. ალბომს ვწერდი. ამიტომ ჩემს თავს დავუმეგობრდი ახლიდან. ძალიან ადვილად გავუგეთ ერთამენთს. მომნატრებია. ის უპრობლემო იყო. არ მანიპულირებდა, თუმცა ხანდახან ზედმეტად კეთილგანწყობილი იყო მომავლის მიმართ, იცოდა მის გარეშე საქმე არ გამოვიდოდა.

დავჯექი პიანინოზე და დავიწყე: ვინ იქნება შემდეგი მსხვერპლი? ოჰ ოჰ ოჰ ოჰ... ომი ომი ომია? შემდეგ გამახსენდა, ინდიელები, ამერიკელები, აფრიკელები და ჩოხიანი ადამიანები... და სიმღერა ომი ომი ომია უკვე წარმოვისახე: ბანჯო, სალამური, დრამი...

ერთ ხანს სწორედ რეპეტიეციების საზარელმა ტკივილმა გამიფუჭა ხასიათი. თან ხალხს ინფექციური უიმედობო სჭირდა. ბევრი ვინმე ავირიდე. ის მოჩვენებები, ქუჩაში მოსიარულე - მხოლოდ აქედან უნდა წავიდე, გავიქცეს რომ გაიძახიან. ნიჰილიზმის თავი არ მქონდა. გადამდები დაავადებაა. არც მე მილხენდა, როგორ შეიძლება, სილამაზე და სიმახინჯე ერთსა და იმავე თავში ცხოვრობდეს. ასე ვფიქრობდი. თანაც ის დანაკარგი , რომელსაც სასაცილოდაც განვიცდიდი, ურჩხულად გაქცევს. თუმცა, წარსულში მიღებული კეთილშობილების "შხამი" ჯერ კიდევ მოქმედებდა – გარშემო ყველას ვანუგეშებდი და ვეხმარებოდი. კეთილშობილებას არ აქვს ალტერნატივა.

გუგუნი ოდას ჩაწერისას, თითქოს სამშობლომ მიხმო... არა იმ სამშობლომ, შვილების მჭამელი როაა, არამედ კეთილმა სამშობლომ, ჩუმად რომ გინახავს თბილ მიწას, ჯერ სახლისთვის, შემდეგ საფლავისთვის. დავიწე ახალ ჩანაწერებზე მუშაობა, საკუთარ წარმოსახვაში მოვისმინე. ურიგო არ უნდა ყოფილიყო. "გუგუნი ოდა" ფსევდო ფოლკია – მსოფლიოს სხვადასხვა კუთხის (ინდიელების, ამერიკელების, აზიელების, კავკასიელების). არ მსურდა ეროვნული პათეტიკა ან ტრადიციული ნაკვთების მექანიკური გაფერადება (როგორც ფოლკ მეტალში ან ეთნო ჯაზში ხდება), რადგან მუსიკა-მექანიკა დიდ განრიდებას იწვევს ჩემში. ვიყიდე ფანდური, ვითხოვე ჩონგური, დავიმატე სალამური, აკორდეონი და ჩაწერის ღილაკი მას შემდეგ 2.5 წელი აღარ გაჩერებულა.

ჩაწერები კი ცივსისხლიანად გაგრძელდა. აწი ეს იყო ერთადერთი ადგილი, რომელსაც ვაკონტროლებდი სრულად. თუმცა კონტროლის ფეტიში არასდროს მქონია. ასე მოიტანა ცხოვრებამ, ტექნოლოგიებმა. სულ უნდა აკონტროლო რომ არ გაკონტროლონ. 

ამასობაში „ვახტანგ ქანთარიას“ დისკოგრაფიის გვერდს გადავხედე. უსახური, ძველი, უსარგებლო ავეჯი. Vaqo-ს ქონდა სიგიჟის მცირე ელფერი. მაგრამ Vakhtang Kantaria იყო სუსტი, მუდამ სუსტი, ფერმკრთალი, ნასიცხარი ბავშვი. ოჯახში ყველას რომ უყვარს, რადგან სუსტია. თუ Vaqo მიდის მუსიკიდან ხმამაღლა, გაბედულად, – რატომ არ უნდა წავიდეს Vakhtang Kantaria? უკეთესად. ასე გაჩნდა ალბომი ბედნიერება. მსუბუქი პოპ-როკ კაბა, რომელსაც გოგონა სხეულზე ისე გაიცვამს, რომ სისხლი არ წამოუვა სივიწროვისგან. 

გავიზარდე იქ სადაც სილამაზე მსხვერპლს მოითხოვდა. ჩემს გარშემო გოგოები შიმშილობდნენ, საჭმელს უკან იღებდნენ, ცდილობდნენ მიმზიდველი ყოფილიყვნენ. მცირედი მესმოდა, ვისაც საკუთარი თავის საუკეთესო ვერსიად სურდათ ყოფილიყვნენ, თუმცა არა იმათი, ვინც იდენტობას, ბუნებრიობას და ავთენტურობას კარგავდა. მომწონდა ჟურნალი ვოუგი, იქ მუდამ ლამაზი სამოსი ეცვათ... ალბომი ბედნიერებაც მსურდა ლამაზი მელოდებით ყოფილიყო სავსე, თუმცა ასევე მომწონდა მანქანების შესახებ გამოსული ჟურნალებიც, ელექტრო დრელები, ბენზო ხერხები, წნევის ტუმბოები, ელექტრო მოტორები, ამიტომ ბედნიერებაში უნდა ყოფილიყო აგრესიაც. სხვათაშორის, სიმღერა შენ შენ შენ პირველი სიმღერა იყო, რომელიც დავწერე დიდი პაუზის შემდეგ. 1 საათში.

ალბომი „ბედნიერება“ ტკბილი, დაშაქრული შხამი იყო

მაგრამ მანაც უღალატა ვახტანგ ქანთარიას და Vaqo-ს ჩრდილში ჩაიკარგა. 2023-ში ბევრი ღალატი გამოვიარე, დისკოგრაფია კი ისევ მეტ მასალას და მეტ სისხლს ითხოვდა. ჩაწერებს დავუბრუნდი იმ იმედით, რომ ხმამაღალი სიმღერით ხმას დავკარგავდი და მუსიკიდან გავიდოდი — მაგრამ ხმა არ გამიფუჭდა: პირიქით, გაპრიალდა და ახალი მანერა შეიძინა. ჯანდაბა. ახლა მომიწევდა ახალ სასიმღერო მანერაზე მემუშავა

ამ ალბომებისთვის სასიმღერო აქცენტი თავიდან ბოლომდე გამოვცვალე, ადრე სიმღერისას, პირველ აქცენტირებულ დარტყმას ვაკეთებდი პირველ ბგერაზე, მაგალითად: ზააააა-ური ზაააააა-ური... ახლა კი ეს აქცენტირება სიტყვის ბოლოში გადავიდა: გადარჩეეეე გადარჩეეეე, შენ ცდილოოოოოოოობ... ამან სიახლის განცდა მომცა. სახელოვნებო სიახლე მიზიდავდა. თანაც ძალიან ძალიან ვცდილობდი, წარსული მიღწევები თუ დისკოგრაფია დამევიწყებინა.

არც ისე მიმზიდველ სამოქალაქო ცხოვრებაში 2021 წელს, ერთმა მინისტრმა პირდაპირ განაცხადა:

„თქვენი პოლიტიკური ხედვები ჩვენსას არ ემთხვევა, გულზე არ გვეხატებით, ამიტომ დატოვეთ სამსახური.“

ყველა წავიდა. მალე ეკლესიაში წყალი ჩამოვიდა... შემდეგი ტიპის სამსახურებში, სადაც სოციალური მკვლევარი უნდა ვყოფილიყავი, არჩევანი უხეში იყო: ან მონაწილეობა მიმეღო გამოკითხვების გაყალბებაში, ან ვყოფილიყავი იმ ადამიანებთან ერთად, ვისაც დღედაღამ ებრძოდნენ. განვერიდე. და ბოლოს, 2025 წელს, ერთ-ერთი ბოლო სამსახური — ადგილი, სადაც სტატიებს ვწერდი — ასევე დაიხურა. რედაქტორმა უარი თქვა დაეწერა ის, რასაც უკვე ახალი მინისტრი ითხოვდა. იმის მიუხედავად, რომ სამი სამსახური დაიხურა, ბას-გიტარაზე რბილი ტონის ძიებამ შედეგი გამოიღო. აღმოჩნდა, რომ ე.წ. „პრეამპის“ დახმარებით და დაბალი სიხშირეების აწევით შესაძლებელია კიდევ უფრო მსუყე ბასის მიღება — ისე, რომ კომბის ქირაობა ან თხოვება აღარ იყო საჭირო. ეს საკმაოდ ბევრ ფულს მიზოგავდა. და სწორედ ეს იყო უკანასკნელი რამ, რაც მინისტრებს განსაკუთრებით აღელვებდათ.

ხანდახან გავდიოდი ქალაქის პარკში, ე.წ. „სუფთა ჰაერზე“, სავსე ავტომობილის კვამლით და ადამიანის წუწუნით. იქ არაფერი იყო სუფთა. ჩემს დანახვაზე, გაჩერდა ერთი გოგონა. მზერა დაუნდობელი, თმა შავი, წაუხეშებდა.

„ვაქო? ცოცხალი ხარ?“ – ისე, როგორც მხოლოდ ქალს შეუძლია – დამიწყო ჩხუბი.

„სამი წელია მკვდარი მგონი ხარო! დაგიტირეო“ - მეჩხუბებოდა, არადა მეგონა გაუხარდებოდა. ხმა არ გამიცია.

„მაიცა? მიგატოვეს სტილში რატომ არ წერ სიმღერებს?“

ეს იყო მათი მუდმივი ბრალდება. გარდა ამისა, ქალები მუდამ მეჩხუბებოდნენ. დედაჩემი, ჩემი და, უბრალო გოგო, ისეთი ასეთი, ნებისმიერი, ვისაც ჩემთან ახლოს მოსვლა სურდა და იყო ქალი. ჩხუბი, ჩხუბი, ჩხუბი. სხვანაირი ქალი არ მინახავს. ან ჩხუბის გამო მამახსოვრდებდნენ. არ ვიცი, ალბათ არც ვარ მართალი. ადრე ერთ გოგოს ვკითხე:

რატომ? რატომ მეჩხუბები ამდენს, რატომ მირტყამ სიტყვებს?

იმ გოგომ მიპასუხა, ეს სიტყვები, ცივი და მწველი, როგორც სპირტი ღია ჭრილობაზე:

„საყვარელი ხარ და მაგიტომ... ეგ მაიძულებს რომ გავაკეთო.“

ესე იგი, ჩემი სისუსტე დიდად არ გავახურო საქმეები – მათი სიყვარულის შლეგი გამოხატულებაა. სადისტური სიყვარულის. ფსიქოლოგიამ ეს უნდა იკვლიოს. რა დემონი აიძულებთ ამის გაკეთებას, მე მაქვს ერთი საიდუმლო და ეს არის ჩემი საიდუმლო.

მონსტრი უნდა შეაშინო მეორე მონსტრით.

რაც შეეხება პარკში შავთმიან გოგოს: დავეთანხმე ყველაფერში — გაბრაზებული იყო, მეჩხუბებოდა. დაჟინებით მკითხა, როდის გამოვაო ალბომიო. მაშინვე, საკუთარ თავში, ჩავწერე სრული ალბომი — პოპ გეიზერ დრიმ პოპში. ვუპასუხე: „პეპლების სასაფლაო“, 2024 წლის ბოლოს გამოვა და ის დაბოღმილ, სიძულვილით სავსე ბიჭზეა. ასე გადაწყდა ალბომის ჩაწერა — უცნობის, გაბრაზებული გოგოს ბიძგით

პირველად ვნახე ვინმე უცხო ასე მეჩხუბებოდეს. არ მსურს პირადი ჯოჯოხეთი საზოგადოებრივი სანახაობად მექცეს.

ალბომი „პეპლების სასაფლაო“ მრავალი მიზეზით დაიწერა, ერთ-ერთი ფილმი „წმინდა ელექტრობა“ იყო. სიმღერა „მიგატოვეს“, თავდაპირველად 2017 წელს ჩაწერილი, გადავწყვიტე თავიდან დამეწერა და მივხვდი, რომ ამ მოტივზე მთლიანი ალბომი გამოვიდოდა. მხოლოდ ორი ელემენტი: MIDI კლავიატურა და ვოკალი. ცივი, სინთეზატორული ხმა. ტექსტები უკიდურესად პირდაპირი, გულწრფელი, ალალი — როგორც დანა სხეულში; თუმცა არის შეფარული, მაგალითად აბორტზე

ჯამში? ეს არის ჩემი თვალწინ გაუფასურებული ოჯახური ფასეულობებზე, სიყვარულის ფასეულობების გაფუჭებაზე, იმაზე, თუ როგორ ხმარობენ ადამიანები ერთმანეთს, უკიდურესად გაფუჭებულ სოციუმზე, ზიზღის გრძნობა მასში დიდია

პეპლების სასაფლაო ჩემთვის აფხაზეთია. როგორც ისინი შეეწირენ ერთიანი საქართველოსთვის ბრძოლას, ისე ეს პეპლები შეეწირენ სიყვარულის ერთიანობისთვის ბრძოლას. მე მახსოვდა რამდენიმე წლის უკან დაწერილი, ჩემი დაკვირვება, ჩემივე დღიურში, ინგლისურად - 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

ერთხელ დედაჩემს ვუთხარი - დეე, ხალხი როკ ენ როლს არ უსმენს საქართველოში, დედაჩემმა მითხრა: გემოვნება არ აქვთო და მაგიტომ. შემდეგ დააყოლა, რასაც ჩემს ბავშვობაში უსმენდნენ დღესაც იმავეს უსმენს ეს ხალხი. დედაჩემი მართალი იყო, როკ ენდ როლი სრულ კრიზისში იყო.

მომივიდა იდეა – ხუთი ახალი ალბომი ერთ დღეში გამომეშვა, წინ ვერავინ ვეღარ დაუდგებოდა 5 ალბომს. დიახ, გამაჩერეთ ქუჩაში! დიახ დიახ, მითხარით რომ კიდევ ჩავწერო, ეს მჭირდებოდა, მე "ქუჩაგაჩერებულობაზე" დამოკიდებული გავხდი. თავად წარმოიდგინეთ, ქუჩაში გაჩერებენ ადამიანები, ბევრი... და გთხოვენ ჩაწერო ახალი ალბომი. ამაზე ბევრი ოცნებობს მგონი... და შენ ამასობაში სრულიად უსინდისოდ, ისე რომ მან არ იცის, უკვე ჩაწერილი გაქვს 5 ალბომი, და უცბად აჯახებ: ახლა ვუშვებ ხუთ ალბომს... და ისინი დუმდებიან, ჩუმდებიან... რცხვენიათ რომ ეს არ იცოდნენ, უხერხულად გრძნობენ თავს, რადგან 1 სიმღერას ითხოვდნენ...

შენ 5 ჩაწერე, და მალავ იმ უმძიმეს ფაქტს რომ საერთოდაც 12 ალბომი ჩაწერე. არ თქვა ეს ხმამაღლა, გააფრენს ყველა და აღარ დაგელაპარაკებიან

ვფიქრობდი იმასაც რომ სწორედ ეს არის ბოლო, უკანასკნელი, ჰიპერაქტიური, თითქმის სასაცილო მცდელობა, დამეწვა ჩემი შემოქმედებითი ენერგია ერთ დიდ, საბოლოო აფეთქებაში. სრულიად ამომეწურა, ამაზრზენი გზით. და რატომ 5? (გამოვიდა 12) ეს იქნებოდა ჩემი "ხმამაღალი წასვლაც".  ორგანიზებულად საკუთარი თავის დაკრძალვა – ხმამაღალი, მნიშვნელოვანი და სასაცილო. ხალხი მიიღებდა "საკმარის მუსიკას" და შემეშვებოდა. ვინმე გაბედავს და გაგაჩერებს ამის შემდეგ - რამე ჩაწერეო?. დავისვენებდი.

რაც შეეხება ალბომების დაფინანსებას, ეს ყველაფერი ჩემი ხარჯებით მოხდა. არ მჯეროდა, რომ ვინმე ამას დააფინანსებდა. ვფიქრობდი კიდევაც, არავინ არ მჭირდება, ჰიპერ დამოუკიდებლობის დროათქო, აქამდე სხვანაირად არც ყოფილა.

მახსოვს ოჯახში მითხრეს, რამეში დახმარება ხომ არ გჭირდებაო? და ეს შეურაცხყოფათ მივიღე

ფულის საშოვნელად დამატებით პროფესიები დავიმატე და ვიმუშავე. სოციალური მკვლევარი, ჟურნალისტიც და ვიდეო გრაფიკოსი გავხდი... ასევე სხვა დარგის კიდევ ერთი მკვლევარი, გავხდი რეკლამის მუსიკის ავტორიც, კიდევ მონტაჟორი, რადიო სპექტაკლების სცენარისტი, ხმის რეჟისორიც... უნამუსოდ ყველაფერზე ვთანხმდებოდი. ჰიპერკომპეტენტურობა დამემართა. ყველაფერს, რასაც მთავაზობდნენ, ვამბობდი, რომ ვიცი. სახლში მივდიოდი და აღმოჩნდებოდა, რომ ნამდვილად ვიცოდი. საიდან? მრცხვენოდა. მსმენელი ელოდებოდა ჩემს უკვე დაანონსებულ 5 ალბომს, (სინამდვილეში 12 გამოვიდა), ჩემს სიტყვას ხომ არ გადავაგდებდი. უკან დასახევი გზა არ იყო

გაგონილი მქონდა, თუ როგორ ჩარაზა დავით აღმაშენებელმა უკან დასახევი გზა, ან ყველაფერი ან არაფერიო, ჩემი ანონსი 2024 წლისა, რომ 5 ალბომი გამოვა, იგივე ჩარაზული გზა აღმოჩნდა. პირობები უნდა შეასრულო. ეს წმინდაა.

ოღონდ თორმეტი ალბომი გადარჩეს ამ დალუქული გზის  ბოლოს და მზად ვიყავი დღეში 25 საათი მემუშავა

უკან დასახევი გზაც იყო, ალკოჰოლი და ნარკოტიკები, ამას ყველა მთავაზობდა და უკვირდათ: „შენ მუსიკას მშრალზე ქმნიო?“. ჩემთვის ნივთიერებებზე დამოკიდებულება დაავადებაა და საკუთარ თავს ვერ ვაპატიებდი სულის წრფელი სიხარულისა თუ სევდის წამლით ჩანაცვლებას. დათრობა მხოლოდ 3-საათიანი ილუზიაა, რომლის დასასრულიც 3 წელიწადში ცეროზი და უფულობაა; მოხმარება მხოლოდ სიმპტომია, პრობლემა კი გაცილებით ადრე იწყება. სწორედ ამიტომ, შრომა დამოუკიდებლობის პირველი ნაბიჯია. სიამოვნება კი კეთილ წვრილმანებშია, რაც ცხოვრებას ნამდვილს ხდის

ქვეყანაში არეულობა, უღირსობა და ავტორიტარიზმი მყარდებოდა. ეს იყო სოციალური სიცხადე, რომელსაც თვალის ჩაკვრა არ სჭირდებოდა. და ორ აზრიანი სიტყვების თამაში. ცხოვრებაში ჩემი სურვილები იმდენად კეთილი იყო, დარწმუნებული ვიყავი, აქ ამისთვის არავის დასცხებოდა. მის მსოფლიო რომ გაიძახის ხოლმე: არა ომს, სიღარიბეს, ჩაგვრას, დაახლოებით ეგეთი. როგორც სოციალურმა მკვლევარმა და ფსიქოლოგმა, ამაზე ბევრი ვიმუშავე, სხვადასხვა კვლევებში.

ძალიან განვიცდიდი იმას, თუ როგორ იყენებდა ბოროტი ხელისუფლებები სიღარიბეს, საკუთარი ერის წინააღმდეგ. მთელს მსოფლიოში.

ვფიქრობდი და ვარჩევდი, რისთვის მებრძოლა: დამსხვრეული გულისთვის? ავტორიტარიზმის წინააღმდეგ? კვლევის რეგრესიული ანალიზისთვის? დაკარგული სამსახურებისთვის? ახალი სამსახურისთვის? უკეთესი ხმის რეჟისორისთვის? უკეთესი მისამღერისთვის? დაჩაგრული მეგობრებისთვის? დაჭერილი ხალხისთვის? უსამართლობის წინააღმდეგ? ოკუპაციის? თუ სიმღერის ტექსტებისთვის? თავს იმით ვიწყნარებდი, რომ საქართველოს ხიბლი სწორედ მის უბედურებაშია. ჩემთვის პიროვნული ღალატი და გრძნობებით მანიპულაცია ნებისმიერ დიქტატურაზე მძიმე აღმოჩნდა. თურმე დიქტატურაზე უფრო მტკინვეული - დამსხვრეული გულია... ამასობაში

ქუჩებში გამეფებული ჯარიმების ცივი სისასტიკე და ადამიანების სევდიანი, დაჭრილი ცხოველებივით აგრესიული მზერა იმ სოციალურ უიმედობას სრულყოფდა, რომლის გაზომვაც არცერთ ფორმულას არ შეეძლო

ვიცოდი, დაახლოებით ყოველ 5 დღეში ერთი სიმღერა უნდა ჩამეწერა, ისე რომ არ დამეკარგა არცერთი შემოსავლის წყარო, თან აქციებზეც ვმდგარიყავი. სხვათაშორის აქციებზე, წარსულში ნაცოდვილარი იმდენი ნაცნობი შემხვდა, იქ მისვლა აღარ მსურდა. თუმცა ყველა ბარიერი მარტივი აღმოჩნდა, ძალიან დამეხმარა ის რომ მთელი ცხოვრება, დაახლოებით 22 წლამდე, დღეში 6-7 საათს ვუკრავდი. სხეულს ახსოვდა შრომა. მადლობა ჩემს ხორცს ამისთვის. მუშაობის საშუალებას მაძლევდა, მეორეს მხრივ კი ნამდვილ გამოწვევად იქცა –

თითქმის თორმეტი ადამიანის საქმის კეთება. თორმეტი მონა ჩემს თავში, ვაიძულებდი მუშაობას

რუმინეთში, ტიმიშოარაში მომიწია ცოტახანს ცხოვრება, იქ მოვიფიქრე 5 მელოდია, და რამდენიმეც მინი სპექტაკლისთვის. მახსოვს, ძალიან, ძალიან, ძალიან აღფრთოვანებული იყვნენ ჩემი მუსიკით. ეს იყო იაფი აღტაცება. იქ, სადაც კაპიკებად იყიდებოდა ფირფიტები, რომლებიც, ალბათ, მკვდარი მუსიკოსების მოგონებებს ინახავდა. კი, ალბომი მკვდარი მუსიკოსების მოგონებებიცაა. ერთი ყუთი ფირფიტები წამოვიღე – ნაგვის ტომარა სუვენირებთან ერთად. იმავე პერიოდში იმდენი ფრენა მიწევდა, ასე ვიჯექი ხოლმე, და აეროპორტებში, საკუთარ თავში ვიგონებდი მელოდიებს, შემდეგ ტელეფონში ვიწერდი. ასევე სასტუმროს ფოიეში დატოვებულ ფორტეპიანინოებზე. ჩამოთვლაც არ მსურს სად აღარ ვიყავი

იმ პერიოდში რამდენიმე ბავშვი შეეწირა დაუდევრობას. თუ ადრე ამ დაუდევრობას მინიმუმ პოლიტიკური პასუხისმგებლობა მოჰყვებოდა, ახლა ამის ნატამალიც აღარ იყო. თითქოს გაუფასურდა ეს ყველაფერი, როგორც იაფი სათამაშო. მე კი რატომღაც მტკიოდა, ზიზღი მიჩნდებოდა ასეთ სიტუაციაზე. არაბუნებრივად ბევრი ბავშვი დაიღუპა, როგორ არ არსებობს ვინმე ვინც ღირსეულად, კაცურად, თუ ქალურად, გამოვა და იტყვის, ეს ყველაფერი მოხდა ჩემს ოლქში

მივიღე გადაწყვეტილება დავტოვო არსებული თანამდედობა, რადგან ვიზიარებ მაღალ სოციალურ პასუხისმგებლობას, და მხარს ვუჭერ ოჯახის წევრებს, მსურს ყველაფერი გამოძიებული იქნას მალე.

ეს რომ ექნა ვინმეს, ხომ დავიჯერებდი რომ პოლიტიკოსები მხოლოდ ორ ფეხა ღორებად არ ქცეულიყვნენ. არავინ ქნა, პირიქით, უხაროდათ ეს მე არ მეხებაო. შემდეგ სუფრაზე ისხდნენ და ღემრთის და სიყვარულის სადღეგრძელოებს სვავდნენ. უბრალოდ სძულდათ მათ ადამიანები, და ღმერთი ხომ წარმომიდგენია. ჩემი ზიზღი იყო წმინდა, მწველი, როგორც არაბუნებრივად ბევრი გვამი ედო ერთმანეთს. სოციალური სატანა ბოგინობს. სასაცილო სახელი კია.

ეს იყო მენტალური ფასეულობების ლაბირინთიც.

და მივადექი მეხუთე ალბომსაც, ხმამაღალი სათაურით, 1 მილიონი მილიონერი ქართველები. ეს საერთოდ არ იყო ცინიკური დამოკიდებულება, მე ვგულშემატკივრობდი ამ იდეას. ასე ნაკლებად სავარაუდოა ვინმემ საქართველოს მოქალაქის ხმა იყიდოს, ყოველ შემთხვევაში იაფად მაინც.

ერთ დღეს უცნაური სურვილი მომერია — თითქოს ვინმეს უნდა გავეჩერებინე, მხარზე ხელი დაედო და მკაცრად, მაგრამ გულწრფელად ეთქვა: „ვაქო, ასე არ შეიძლება! რატომ არ წერ მძიმე როკ ალბომს — ქართულ ფოლკლორზე დაკოპირებული საგიტარე ჩუქურთმებით, ბლუზის სისხლით და პანკის კბილებით? რატომ არ გადადიხარ გარდამავალ ქანთრიროკში, ხა? ახსენი ახლავე!“ და მე, თითქოს დიდი ხნის წინ გამზადებული პასუხი მქონდა, გავიცინებდი და ვეტყოდი: „იცი რას გეტყვი? შე… შე… მართალო. ვიზამ. მაგასაც ვიზამ. აბა რას ვიზამ.“

იმ წამს ის ადამიანი მიწას მოსწყდებოდა, ფრთებს გამოისხამდა — არა ბუმბულის, არამედ ხმების, აკორდების და დაუწერელი სიმღერებისგან შეკერილს. გამიღიმებდა და იტყოდა: „წავედი ვაქო… ჩემი მისია შევასრულე. “მე კი პირჩამოვარდნილი გავხედავდი, როგორ მიფრინავს და პატარავდება ცაში, სანამ უბრალო წერტილად არ იქცეოდა.

და მერე ყველაფერი ისე მარტივად დაიწყო, თითქოს ალბომი უკვე არსებობდა და მე მხოლოდ „ჩაწერის“ დაჭერა მევალებოდა. არ ყოფილა ეჭვი, არც ფიქრი. ხელი იცნობდა გზას, გიტარა — ხმას. ფოლკლორის ჩუქურთმები რკინის სიმძიმეს ეჯახებოდა, ბლუზი სუნთქავდა, ფოლკი მღეროდა, პანკი წიოდა: „არ გაჩერდე, არ გახეხო, არ დაამუშავო, იყავი პირველწყარო“. ალბომი საშინლად სწრაფად ჩაიწერა — ღამეები დილებში გადადიოდა, და შეცდომები სიმართლედ იქცა, ალბომიც დასრულდა

ალბომს „1 მილიონი მილიონერი ქართველები“ დავარქვი არა იმიტომ, რომ ვინმე მილიონერია — არამედ იმიტომ, რომ აქ ბევრი მილიონზე ლოცულობს. მილიონს უსურვებენ ერთმანეთს, ფულს კიდებენ ნაძვის ხეებზე, მილიონს ჩურჩულებენ სურვილების დროს.

მე სრულიად მხარს ვუჭერ 1 მილიონ, მილიონერი ქართველის არსებობას, ეს ძალიან კარგი იქნება

ჩაწერებისას უამრავი სიმღერა შემორჩა, ეს გახლდათ ალბომებში ვერ მოხვედრილი ნაწარმოებები. ასევე უამრავი მცდელობა სხვადასხვა იდეების. თითქმის თითოეულ ალბომს აქვს დამატებით დისკი, დემოების გამოქვეყნებელი სიმღერების სახით.

ჯამში ხუთი ალბომი. თუმცაღა ალბომი სინთეზატორია, არ არის დემოების გამოქვეყნებელი სიმღერების კრებული, ის გათვლილი იყო თავის დროზე მინი ალბომის სახით და ჯამში ასეთი სახითაც გამოვიდა.

რაც შეეხება ალბომს მშვენიერი, 2 იპისაგან შემდგარი ალბომია ანუ გაერთიანდა 2 ცალი მინი ალბომი და იქცა ერთ დიდ ალბომად რომელსაც ძალიან მარტივად ეწოდა მშვენიერი

ხუთი ალბომი დავაანონსე. გამოვიდა თორმეტი. ეს არ იყო ტყუილი —ეს იყო შემოქმედებითი ინფლაცია. ხუთი ალბომი იყო გეგმა. თორმეტი — შედეგი იმისა, რომ გეგმა არ მუშაობდა. ხუთი ალბომი დავპირდი მსმენელს. დანარჩენი ჩემმა სინდისმა გამოუშვა.

ღამით, როცა ყველას ეძინა. ხალხი მოვატყუე

ბევრ მუსიკოსს ვიცნობ, ვინც ჩაწერილი ალბომი გამოკეტა თაროზე — უნდა მისცენ ამ ალბომებს საკუთარი ცხოვრების საშუალება, როგორებიც არიან ისეთნი. უკვე დიდები არიან. მსმენელებს კი ვურჩევ: შეაჩერეთ გზაში მიმავალი თქვენი ფავორიტი მუსიკოსები, უთხარით, რომ გულშემატკივრობთ.

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Cover art was created by me, ( I don't have too much money for renting designers, also I wanted to make it, it was new challenges for me) I Added the text and the black frame. The main character, the face, and the beautiful background were captured by photographer Gio Matchavariani with his Sony camera. The background is simply a wall from one of Tbilisi’s markets, located at Station Square, but in Gio’s lens it became something special. It was a wonderful day meeting Gio Matchavariani, and after taking a few creative risks, he captured some truly great photos. What started as an ordinary place turned into a memorable moment, and I’m happy this image became part of the album’s story.

This album cover art resembles the same photo used for the Guguni Oda cover, but with a different approach. The framing is tighter, and the added text speaks about the album’s concept—it is a collection of demos, outtakes, and unreleased songs. I’ve seen special-edition vinyl box sets where designers crop or extend the original cover art to create additional space for titles and text. This feels less like a standard album cover and more like something closely related to the album—an archive-style cover.

Back at Station Square, Gio captured another series of great moments—free, joyful photographs filled with life. He later refined the image in Photoshop. We were standing right on the railroad that splits the city, with electrical cables running nearby. Around us were people from the outskirts of the city and from nearby villages, selling meat, vegetables, and special traditional Georgian foods. In the middle of it all, there was even a small Celtic place. A few months later—four or five, maybe—a large fire destroyed the old part of the market. I’m quite sure it wasn’t an accident. Now new investors are building something new there. A very typical policy: if they want a new building, the old one mysteriously burns down. They think people are foolish. For the cover, I handled all the graphic work, just as I did with Guguni Oda. I added a black frame and very simple typography—Happiness in English. The album itself is joyful, and I believe the colors reflect that feeling as well. You lent me your playful glasses. It was the first—and last—time I ever wore glasses. Not bad at all. I actually liked it.

A student and friend of mine, Lisa, painted a beautiful and expressive artwork for the album Children Afraid of Death. I met Lisa through my friend David Delgma. She completed the cover painting in just one week. I sent her the album and told her: listen freely, and take whatever you feel from the music—use it as inspiration for the cover if you want. It was a real challenge for her, but she embraced it fully and created a truly powerful and striking cover art. Finally, I change main characters of the cover, some roundish shapes of body and add pink style digital linish waves like a new dimension of life, because I think we have some new dimension after death. We can call this heaven or hell, but I'm pretty sure the human says soul or something like this. I'm just believing it.

Also, I created the cover art for the single of the main song from the album. I really liked how "Bloody" was written by Lisa, using Georgian words with the Latin alphabet.

We mentioned David Delgma, Musician, Audio Engineer, so, I asked him to make some photos for upcoming albums, he happily approved it. Next to the former recording studio, I chose a room, used speedlights and LED lights, and we created a "who knows" mood and situation. I'm here like a toy.

The first version of the cover was good as well. But "hand up" was associated with old and bad salutes from the dark side of European history.

I even try to make digital trash visuals, with self-camera

Looks like Jojo. In Georgia, we call ugly things Jojo, mhm... Jojo is a very good idea for the album title.

But finally, I choose neutral cover art, just to my taste. My mother said writing on the art cover is too much big... I said you are right, but I'm tired to change something. So we get this one finally.

All my life I’ve been photographing the streets of Tbilisi — at first just to kill time, to get lost, to discover new places, but not humans... it's dangerously dangerous to meet unknown people in unknown streets and cities. One day I photographed countless garbage containers in front of “Desertirebis Bazroba. ”Album 1000 SHETSDOMA is the most terrifying, ugly, and uncomfortable music I have ever recorded. I didn’t make it to be liked — I made it because I wanted to create the rawest punk blues possible.Nothing is right on this album.Nothing is clean. Nothing is corrected. It’s all mistakes. It’s all noise. It’s all garbage — just like the cover art shows.

Next is my favourite, I'm very lovely here. Haha, yes, it sounds very very selfish and egocentric, but if I were a girl, I would love this guy forever... Mhm... Alright, 50 years is enough. The photo was taken by Tamaz, from the bridge of Maghlivi or Daghlivi at night, while walking around the city.

I made the cover art fully. I wrote MSHVENIERI using Photoshop and some tutorials from the UK. Some man was advising how we can change words and fonts.

It looks like a Promo Card, or even a "Plakati". I think I spent three hours on the final result. Funny, isn't it?

Cover Art History of SINTEZATORIA is not exist. I don’t remember how I made this. That’s already part of it. At some point colors started behaving badly. Green rotted. Red overheated. Shapes appeared, disappeared, and came back wrong. I didn’t guide it — I watched it happen and didn’t interfere. The image looks like a place that never existed but was destroyed anyway. Something organic pretending to be mechanical. Or the other way around.I forgot the process immediately. Probably for safety reasons. This cover art isn’t finished. It simply stopped. It's digital heart system.

For the next cover art, three men were involved. Unfortunately, not a single woman — a tragic statistic. So I asked my brother to take my Canon 5D Mark II, attach a speedlight, and photograph me in the forest, at night. There was no light. No moon. No plan. Just me and not working keyboard. The speedlight was the only artificial sun in the universe. He took great photos. Truly. At one point, from somewhere deep in the forest, a random guy suddenly shouted: “OMG, is that Vaqo?” I answered, “Yes, it’s me.” And then we all stood there —in the darkness —flashing.

Then Nika Kobaidze, a talented graphic designer, joined the process and created the Georgian lettering. the title means “Butterflies’ Grave.” He sent me a few different versions, then refined them, and finally sent the one. The right one.

After that, I had another idea: why not make the back cover literally the back side of the front cover? So I asked an AI to generate a “back view” of the image. It did its part. I adjusted some shapes, added Nika’s lettering, and suddenly everything came together. That’s how the cover for “Peplebis Sasaflao – DEMOS / OUTTAKES / UNRELEASED SONGS” was finished. The whole process took about four months. Well… probably a bit more And honestly, that feels about right.

Mhm and mhm. The next cover’s photo was taken by George — scary cow. We were walking around Gldani. To be honest, I wanted to be very drunk with a girl I once loved. Instead, I was with George and talked about Tbilisi’s urban problems, concrete dreams, broken districts. Gldani was listening. At some point I set my camera settings, handed it to Gio, and he just pressed the button. Click. That’s how the photos happened. Later, I used some app and doubled myself — split the brain, copied the body. Two of me, one head too many. I added simple “writing” on top, nothing fancy. Then I approved it. By myself. And by the inner society living in my head. Cover done. Scary cow approved it too.

These abandoned cars are my favorite. This photo was taken with my mother — actually, it was her idea in a way. I told her, let’s go into the city, let’s take some photos. I think she was feeling a little sad, maybe tired, maybe something heavier. So we went outside instead of staying inside with it. I took many photos of her. Good ones. Quiet ones. But then I saw the cars. Three old American cars, standing free, forgotten, somewhere near Eliava Bazroba. Rusted, proud, still pretending they could move at any moment. And suddenly it made sense. My music at that time was full of American rhythm, blues structures, broken timing — and at the same time deeply Georgian. Folklore leaking through an alternative blues body. So I chose the cars. Free old cars. American ghosts. Georgian hands. A strange but very natural mix. I’m not saying it’s genius — I’m definitely not egocentric. Never. And anyone who says “I’m not egocentric” definitely isn’t egocentric at all. Obviously. I added some special feeling in Photoshop, placed the writing like a billboard, and stopped before I could ruin it. And that’s how it was done.

Feel so calm that I don’t even know why. I’ve recorded 130 songs and now I’m waiting for them to be released. Imagine this — it’s already my tenth concert this year, in Georgia and beyond.

Yesterday was sunny, but then snow. In my village it was minus two degrees, yet somehow I wasn’t cold. Because of my foot. Though overall it was very, very, very cold. Those days the wind was brutal. In the town of Khashuri, the wind tore roofs off houses. At night the wind was screaming. I was alone in the village, but I wasn’t afraid — because fear is something I invented. Since the day I died, there is very little that scares me.

heated the room with a phechi. I’m still waiting for the house to be officially registered at the Public Service Hall, so I can add a gas heating system. But but... Good news: In three days, I recorded the Merry Christmas EP with four songs.

I also made the cover art myself — a self-photo edited in Photoshop. The songs are playful, noisy, and a bit childish, expressing experiences in a simple, unfiltered way.

also played a concert in a great place, in the city of Akhaltsikhe — a spot called Kantora 19. I met amazing owners and friends there. They have a great playlist, maybe even one of the best. Just a really good place.

I played for about an hour. After the show I ate noodles with fish, cooked by Mari, I think — maybe I’m wrong. It was really tasty. Mari is one of the owners of Kantora 19. The place used to be an old builders’ center or something like that. It’s big, full of hundreds of decorations and warm soul.

Akhaltsikhe is full of castles and rocks. But less rock with roll. I support the regions, so I always go and play there. Vampires are always happy to travel. Staying in one place is boring. Super duper boring and sisulelea 100%. Maybe.

But then something dreadful and wholly unforeseen occurred. From the depths of the darkness, a sound began to rise — low at first, then swelling, pressing closer, as if the night itself had found a voice. I could not at once comprehend its nature. Armed only with a small flame from my lighter, I stepped into the garden, compelled by a mixture of curiosity and unnamed terror.What

the light revealed froze my blood. There stood a creature of immense and blasphemous presence — a beast both earthly and unholy. The most dangerous animal known to these lands. A cow.

Yet it was no ordinary cow. Its form shimmered with a cold, electric glow, as if ice and lightning had fused beneath its brown skin. The light it emitted was wrong — not of this world — and in that illumination I beheld what I can only describe as a satanic cow. I commanded it to leave. I cried out again and again, “Go away! Go out!” But the creature made no reply.

It only stared, and in that gaze I felt myself penetrated by invisible currents — waves of silent, electrical malice that gnawed at my sanity. In that moment I understood the full horror of my situation. This was not a passive observer. It was acting upon me, invading me

Summoning what little resolve remained, I bent down and grasped a stone. Raising it, I spoke with trembling authority: “Mr. Cow, you are presented with two choices. Remain here and consume my green grass — or suffer the consequences of this stone, and depart.”

The creature responded only with a sound: "Moooo. Moooo.” And then — it was gone. Not fled. Not hidden. Simply erased. As if it had dissolved into some unfathomable dimension beyond pasture and reason — lost forever in the vast and indifferent space of cows.

Once more, I was safe. I returned to my rehearsals, playing the same pieces again and again, as if repetition itself could keep the darkness at bay. I wore two jumpers, a winter hat, and ordinary blue jeans.

Nearby stood a piano — old, dark, and heavy with years. At times it seemed almost to watch me. I played it several times, my fingers numb and frozen, yet compelled to continue, striking the keys as though the sound might anchor me to the world I still knew. Ha ha... Too dramatic.

Then Snow was dancing on my face, and I was playing on the guitar, testing my body for Cold 'n' Rolls.

Returning to Tbilisi meant returning to work, to noise, to the constant pressure of motion. The city felt restless, almost hostile, as if it resented every moment of silence. Tbilisi is angry. But greatest city of Caucasian Region.

My village, by contrast, is calm. Almost unnaturally so. Empty — as if only two people remain, and even they are half-ghosts. The silence there does not demand anything. It simply exists. So magical place... No one knows

At last I saw the car — the one the insurance will not touch, sealed off by their perfect, bureaucratic stupidity.

Twelve albums are about to be released. Twelve. I once thought this number might mean an ending, a clean line drawn under something finished. Instead, it opens outward. More work. More weight. No closure at all.This knowledge is strange, and it frightens me. I want to rest, but rest refuses me. It hovers just beyond reach, like sleep that evaporates the moment you notice it.

It is possible to create a kind of music whose description passes somewhere between the comic and the serious — for example, Salamur Slide, Kartl-Delta, Chiche Blues, Rhythmosophical Blues, Chongurblues, Gandagana Rock, Mravaljamier Rock, Harulalo Rock.

Accordingly, songs should be written where Georgian folklore, American blues, and country are connected together, with their heavy, raw sonorities. I began working on solving this issue — research.

In 2024 I listened to a 1956 recording by the State Song and Dance Ensemble — Chiche Tura. Soon after, I played the main melody on slide guitar and added vocals. It turned out playful, and Sisa Tura was recorded as well.

I recalled forgotten moves on the panduri too; old melodies were inspiring. By the end of the day, seven songs were ready. They needed to be transferred onto electric guitar, with lyrics and percussion invented — recording. I arranged the imaginary band lineup: piano, drums, electric guitar, vocals. Nothing more. Occasionally, bass guitar.

I was approaching a sound that I jokingly called Mravaljamier Rock, Harira Punk, Gandagana Rock, Harulalo Rock, Indie Gandagana. I connected them with genres that once sounded comical — Blues Punk, Honky-Tonky, Folk Punk, Roots Rock, Alt Country, Country Rock, Garage Rock, Proto Punk. I wanted everything mashed together like purée — through polyrhythmics, polytempos, heterogeneous ensemble textures, and the deconstruction/dismantling of traditional harmonic structures.

How do these terms work in practice?

From Georgian polyphony, out of four voices you leave only one, played by electric guitar. Vocals follow it, singing in a blues scale, with mannerisms. The drums change rhythm several times, not following a metronome. The composition contains none of the traditional distribution forms such as: introduction, main theme, chorus, solo, main theme, chorus, ending.

I requested the album Played by Omar Kelaptrishvili. From the salamuri, I shared a few solo guitar moves. The process exhausted me — I had to listen to the same fragment ten times to distinguish the notes, Georgian dance melodies. Omar mastered the instrument so skillfully that it was difficult to repeat him.

I listened to Ramin Mikaberidze’s Sing to the Epoch. On the chonguri, with a very interesting rhythm. Ramin’s album is different from everything I had heard in folklore before — raw, direct, rare.

I remembered a whole series of folkloric moves on guitar that my brother had created while in the duet The W. It would be an exaggeration to say I absorbed only folk musicians’ experience. Quietly, I was inventing so-called Georgian moves myself, as if it were ancient music.

Blues, created under the influence of Mississippi musicians in the 1930s–40s, is an important part of the album. I remembered Woodrow Adams’ Pony Blues — rhythm section, guitar’s unrhythmic rhythm. Boyd Gilmore’s simple slide-playing technique never impressed me with its rhythm, but Tommy McClennan’s New Shake ’Em On Down with its interesting introduction remains exemplary to this day. You could learn a lot from them — even that you may never record a song in the world’s best studio, but still create the best history of world music.

Among them: Tommy Johnson’s Cool Drink of Water Blues, with its astonishing vocals; or Mississippi Fred McDowell with guitar and drums.

Jimmie Rodgers’ Roll Along, Kentucky Moon reminded me of poetic lightness and ease. The Allen Brothers’ Price of Cotton Blues reminded me of sincerity — with lyrics like:

Lyrics:

Early every morning, late at night,Just an honest old farmer, trying make my living right,I don't want to rob, I don't want to steal,They cut my cotton, that's the way I feel...

Been plowing so much, I got dirt here in my shoes,Guess I'll just die, with the price of cotton blues...

For me this text is about Georgia, about illegal trade, though it was recorded on another continent, a century ago...

It was time to think about the sound: on a Fender Champion amp, with enhanced spatial effect, using a 60-year-old guitar — Eterna Deluxe II. This is not the best setup for starting the game. An audio card, laptop, provided additional service. The recording also included a Fender Bass Squier. I had to plan the recording process, spending much time on organization. The album was recorded in three weeks — unfortunately during great injustice in the city.

Zmuki means ზმუკი in Georgian? learned it right before one of the strangest podcast adventures of my afterlife. The show was hosted by Nika Kocharov from Young Georgian Lolitaz, Bakhala, and the legendary STR!ING bass man Mr. Kakulia.

Before the show, I was in the village, I was varnishing wood room. Very sadly, I spent my entire monthly income on it—because. Now vampires need wood rooms, Castles are out of fashion; too many resources, too much dust. These days, vampires prefer cozy, IKEA-sized lairs.

Zmuki messaged me before calling. Of course, my phone was charging far away from my workspace (classic vampire problem). I missed the call but saw the message: “Do you want to go to the Zmuki show?” Normally, vampires avoid public shows—too much light, too many professional spotlights burning our delicate undead skin. But I answered instantly: YES. Why? Because this was important.

I had refused several interviews last year—I simply had no new conceptual views to share with the people of Georgia. But after my death in 2023 (minor inconvenience), this was the most important interview. Talking after death isn’t easy, but it does make you sound more comfortable.

At the village, I wrote down topics I wanted to discuss. I even prepared opposite answers, just to dig deeper. And I decided to bring my guitar for live improvisation—no plan, just pure chaos. A 100% improvisational vampire story. Back in Tbilisi, I told my family—mother, brother, sister, and anyone else who would listen—that I’d be on a very popular podcast. It mattered, wanted to present myself and my upcoming five albums (which are actually twelve, but let’s not terrify people). For a vampire, twelve albums is… enough.

Nika sent me a taxi. I printed my notes, read them carefully, and went downstairs. The driver asked:

— “Are you a musician?”

— “Yes… somehow.”

— “What’s your name?”

— “People know me as Vaqo.

(By people, I mean my mother, siblings, and about 1,000 subscribers plus 200 loyal viewers). The driver thought for a moment and said: “Never heard of you.” So I asked him about his work. Turns out, he managed a music club with cover bands for tourists. I explained: “I don’t play covers. Dead people aren’t allowed to copy songs. In the afterlife, copyright law is strict—they say once you’re gone, you don’t need to play someone else anymore.” Forty minutes later, nearly at Mtskheta, I finally saw the destination—the recording room of the show. It's me before the show - 1 hour...

In the recording room, I saw Bakhala. For me, it was a nostalgic moment—because in my childhood he was the TV presenter of the wildly popular Georgian music guessing show “იმღერე რამე” (“Sing Something”). Then "Born In Tbilisi" and "I saw Anna" movies actor, Imagine my surprise: the man who once made families shout answers at their TV screens was now sitting across from me, ready to record. Then came Nika, and Mr. Kakulia from STR!iNG. The trio looked less like journalists and more like a band of mischievous artists plotting their next adventure.

We started recording, and at first I waited for the usual questions—those serious, hard-talking interview traps. But soon I realized: this wasn’t that kind of show. This was ZMUKI. A free zone. No rigid format, no interrogation lights, no “tell us your darkest secret” pressure. Here, you could talk about whatever you wanted. You could shape the show into anything—an improvised jam session, a philosophical rant, or even a vampire’s diary entry (my specialty). All the members of the ZMUKI team are artists, not journalists. That makes all the difference. Instead of being boxed into answers, I was invited to share my experiences, my 💡 ideas, and my strange afterlife stories. It felt less like an interview and more like a living room conversation—except with microphones, laughter, and the occasional reminder that vampires don’t do well under studio lights.

During the show, I spoke about The W past and about Vaqo. Then I shared examples of how Georgian folk can be translated into rock music. I even played snippets from Harulalo Rock, Tesh Ighbali Rock, and a few other experiments, improvisation and Melodies.

We also wandered through Georgian music history and peeked into its possible future. It felt wonderful to share these thoughts with people who truly support Georgian music

At the end, I just wanted to say a heartfelt thank you to the Zmuki team and to the viewers. Without them, my vampire monologues would just echo in the varnished tree room.

And then came the cherry on top: after the show, Nika gifted me his brilliant album - Young Georgian Lolitaz - Lemonjuice.

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.

"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.

There were two people. One believed that the Earth’s core was under the ground; the other believed in nothing but himself, so he started digging. You can ask yourself what is in the Earth’s core and start digging, going 200 meters deeper every year, digging for 10 years, getting dirty, and suffering, while the other person simply trusts those who know that it’s simply hot and there’s a core.

They will see so much in those 10 years of their life... You, however, will only see the dirt you were digging... And you won't even want to come out, because your world will no longer be the same; you’ll forget the sun's rays and develop a fear of them.

The more energy and time you invest in digging, the harder it will be to abandon it, because you think you are "almost at the goal" or that "everything will be for nothing"... A person becomes so accustomed to the darkness and the smell of the tunnel that the sunny world becomes dangerous and foreign to them.

While the second person used knowledge and faith to spend their energy and time on living... the first person believed in nothing but himself and inadvertently moved into the tunnel to live...The first person believed in general, proven values; the second person believed only in himself...Today, a great many people are digging into the ground within themselves and getting lost in their own tunnels, hiding there out of fear of coming out.Now, more than ever, it makes sense to believe in thousand-year-old, proven values... and stop digging.

A society obsessed with money will lose both money and happiness

This applies to our Georgia. Inner peace, a beloved person, cultural values, family, beloved activity—ultimately, this is happiness.

Happiness does not need to be reinvented. Stop digging the ground, getting lost in your own tunnels, and giving yourself headaches with questions.

Starting from the entire nineteenth century, modern writers have written only about themselves and their ego, ruining the lives of young readers with their ego-centric experiences, their disdain for values, their contempt for kindness, and soulless bodies that hunger for the energy of others. No, a human being is a unique creation.

​The Goethe-Institut of Georgia contacted me about the Goethe-Talent program, Sonic Crossings, and the Berlin Pop-Kultur Festival, offering me a "test" concert in Berlin.

​I wrestled with the question of whether I needed this new challenge in my life. I was mentally exhausted and tired of music. I had been recording five albums simultaneously, had several concerts and was trying to recover from a heavy stress experience from 2023...

​Finally, the Austrian label Studio Hundert Records sent me a letter confirming my invitation to Berlin, stating that it was time to go and perform the concert. After talking it over with my family, they persuaded me to go to Deutschland (Germany). ​I immediately started thinking about the setlist. What could I play for a German audience? I opted for more guitar-powerful music rather than vocal-lyrics-based ones, and I settled on a total of seven songs.

​A Smooth Crossing and Confusion in the Capital ​Before the flight, I met Manana at the Goethe-Institut, and we spoke about the opportunities ahead. She was very kind. I mentioned that I really dislike flying due to my anxiety and PTSD. However, the flight itself was incredibly smooth and pleasant—thank you, Lufthansa, for that. The sky was a stadium of clouds where you could sleep over the white, massive ice creams.

​I arrived in Berlin on September 21st with the young band Tape Visitors. After about forty minutes, we met our friends and organizers there, including Jannat. We took the train to the Sonic Crossings office (or the Pop-Kultur Festival office—I don't recall the exact name). I met some wonderful people there: Eric, Karl, Kathy, Ghazaleh, and Yeşim.

​From that moment, I started exploring Berlin. The S-Bahn, U-Bahn, trains, trams, buses—transport was everywhere! I was so confused during the first few days. Fortunately, I had free Wi-Fi from the bus, which was enough to navigate and see half of Berlin.

​Rehearsals, a Concert, and a Warm Reception ​After several days, I started rehearsing in a studio where I had a very good guitar. Its sound, with its high tones, was something I really liked. I used my phone and Bluetooth speakers to play along with backing tracks. I spent three or four hours just rehearsing in the studio.

​After that, I had the concert in a cinema called SINEMA TRANSTOPIA. There was a bar with a mix of people, and the concert space was huge. The place was packed. I even saw several Georgians in the crowd – some from Hamburg, some from Munich, and some from Leipzig. And there were also a lot of German people there.

I started playing music, but I was singing in Georgian, which is a huge difference. When I'm in my country and singing in Georgian, everyone can understand the lyrics. But when I'm abroad, I can only give them melodies, the guitar solos, and the drum section, which is very important. To be honest, the German people loved my songs.

After the concert, some German people came up to me, telling me the show was great. They started talking about my music, saying it sounded very, very different and that it was 'fucking awesome.'" Mr Udo made great photos of mine and other...

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...

I’ve always felt the sadness of being a one-man band. Working alone in my studio, I’m chronically tired from doing everything myself: composing, recording, mixing, mastering, and producing. It’s the work of 20 people, and mentally and physically, it seems impossible. And that's not all—I'm also writing articles for scientific journals and pop culture magazines, and taking on thousands of small jobs to get by.

As I get older, it's getting harder and harder to manage so many things at once, yet somehow, I still do. Then I went to the Gemäldegalerie, a museum of Old Masters, and saw paintings by Christian artists from Italy, Germany, Holland, Belgium, and beyond. I was struck by how one single person could create something so beautiful, so detailed, and so colorful. The museum is called "Old Masters," but to me, they are "Forever Masters.

"Seeing their work, I started to grumble to myself, "Why am I so alone in my work? Where is my band? My label? My production manager or my touring manager? My audio engineer?" The list goes on and on. But then I realized that being alone in this business is both the easiest way to lose and the best way to win. The world you create is only yours. In a time when people are so manipulative and dirty, being alone in music is a powerful advantage.

When you're with a group of people, like a label, they give you a thousand pieces of advice on what you should do to sell more music or make your concert more of a dramatic show. In the process, you lose your most authentic self. Someone else is telling you about you, all for the sake of a sale. Metal concerts now feel like circus shows. People are just playing characters—the "Rocker," the "Country man," or the "Pop star." Some artists try to be a Pop Star, Rock Star, Country Star, and movie star all at once. Are these people truly human? Or are they just marketing products with a human body?

Being alone means you get to be exactly who you are, without being shaped by others. Many of those painters were alone, too. They had only their colors and their hands, and they created worlds upon worlds. I deeply respect the knowledge, principles, and work ethic they had.I am preparing to publish five albums, just as a painter would show five series of paintings in five different galleries across the city of Tbilisi—a truly important art city in Europe.

A new message has emerged from the heart of Tbilisi! Vaqo's (Vakhtang Kantaria's) latest single, "An kvelaferi an araferi" (All or Nothing), is a powerful statement released on August 8.

This song is a raw, introspective journey into the mind's all-or-nothing moments—that singular point where you either rise to the occasion or you don't. It’s a powerful reflection on mental states where there's no compromise, no middle ground; you are either well or you're not.This project is a true testament to the artist's dedication.

Vakhtang Kantaria himself wrote the lyrics, composed the music, and played every single instrument on the track—bass, drums, guitars, and even bells—in addition to providing the vocals. The song was meticulously recorded in Tbilisi, Georgia, showcasing a talent deeply rooted in European music.

For those who followed Vaqo's live performances, this studio version is the culmination of a journey. The song has been a highlight of several shows, and now, listeners can finally experience it in its finalized form.

The single is available in two distinct versions: A concise 4-minute radio version for a quick and impactful listen. An expansive 8-minute version for those who want to fully immerse themselves in the rich, layered soundscape

You can stream "An kvelaferi an araferi" now on all major platforms. This release is just the beginning, with more albums on the way.

My tour would be called "Garshemo 2026." With a three-person band, a stage crew, a sound engineer, and other staff, the tour would start in Tbilisi with two shows over two days. You know, to get the party started right.

Then, everything would begin in Tsalenjikha and continue to Zugdidi, Poti, Kobuleti, Grigoleti, Batumi. We'd be hitting all the coastal towns—I guess you could say we'd be making some waves. After that, we'd go to Senaki, Khobi, Martvili, Ozurgeti, Samtredia, Kutaisi, Zestaponi, Sachkhere, Khashuri, Borjomi, Tsalka, Akhaltsikhe, Bakuriani, Telavi, Sighnaghi, Gurjaani, Dedoplistskaro, Bolnisi... then Gomi, Gori, Kaspi, Mtskheta, and finally a concluding concert back in Tbilisi. We’d be so tired by the end we’d need a tour-de-force-nap.

Of course, there would be two concerts in each city. Every concert would be recorded on audio lines, and a live album commemorating the tour would be released under the name "Garshemo 2026." These would be significant musical performances in the cities of Georgia, where music would be heard.In each venue, whether a hall or a small stage, between 200 and 500 people would attend by purchasing tickets. That's a good number—enough to make noise, but not so many that we run out of backstage snacks.

However, no company has the capacity, readiness, or desire to do this. Just look at the situation... I guess they're just not in-tour-ested.In a normal world, a tour around the country should follow every new album. And I feel sad that this doesn't happen, although the current situation has never particularly bothered me. All of Georgia is in Tbilisi, and the rest of Georgia is neglected.

The rest of Georgia is made up of immigrants, and the cultural significance of playing for them abroad to remind them of the taste of Georgia is yet to be determined.Because this is our national art, without pathetic meaning, it must physically go to the people, even where it's not popular. You know, like taking your cat to the vet—they don't want to go, but it's for their own good.

Are our listeners mentally ready for such intensive pop-cultural events? Mentally? Financially? With their support?Countless other countries have managed to do all of this... Someday, something similar will happen here too, and it won't involve city halls or political satire. It'll be pure music.Imagine if 10 bands were doing tours in Georgia every year with original music in every city... Could the audience handle such an intensive pop-cultural flow? They might need to hire a full-time listener. The audience is concentrated in Tbilisi... The audience in a narrow sense, of course; a listener is a person who listens but does little beyond that... I'm a musician—I get it.What kind of infrastructure do we have in different cities? In cities emptied of young people.

I don't understand why people demand concerts. I guess they're just hoping someone will conduct a miracle.The "Garshemo 2026" tour... if life were in order, it would be the norm for every brand. But now it's abnormal... abnormal even in fantasy.The audience will find a reason not to come, and the musician will find a reason not to go... I suppose you could say we're all playing a game of musical chairs.

That's precisely why I'm not that interested in concerts and bands and challenges. I can't deal with all this for just a very few people, here and there...

Good luck.