Meet the DJ and production school reshaping Armenia’s electronic music scene
It’s two hours after midnight and Yerevan’s House of Writers club is in full swing. The intimate main room is dark enough to leave you disoriented, so it doesn’t take much to lose ourselves in the complex rhythms emanating from a finely tuned Funktion-One. It’s DJ Mag’s first taste of the Armenian underground we’ve spent the last three nights hearing so much about, and it couldn’t feel more unique. The space comes with a small tea room where the bedraggled and wide-eyed alike stare into an intricately patterned old carpet. An ornately tiled ceiling presents excerpts from centuries-old poetry, prose referenced again through a mural hand-chiselled into stone walls.
Literature and history are everywhere in the Armenian capital. Our home for the week is one of the oldest continually inhabited cities on the planet, while the national alphabet is amongst the earliest forms of written language in the world. In what is, for most Westerners, a poorly understood corner of the Caucasus, storytelling has always been about cultural preservation.
Its narratives run deep, from its ancient kingdom to its period of soviet dictatorship. It’s a far-reaching story punctuated by trauma, from genocide committed by Turkey in the early 20th century, still not widely recognised as such by the international community, to the longstanding Nagorno-Karabakh territorial conflict with neighbouring Azerbaijan. An Azerbaijani military offensive in September 2023 ultimately led to the mass displacement of over 100,000 ethnic Armenians from the breakaway state, prompting accusations of crimes against humanity and ethnic cleansing.
Amidst all of this, Yerevan’s music culture has remained active, and the people making it radiate resilience and self-determination.
Back in the room, local talent kazmir00’s throbbing, curveball selections descend into a ghostly conclusion before a futurist spoken-word acapella marks Hopdop’s arrival in the booth. A deep, driving, polished techno epic ensues, and the dancefloor response is immediate. Also Also known as Davit Sukiasyan [ա երսյան], he’s central author of a new chapter in the city’s nightlife. Understanding the crowd’s impassioned reaction means leafing back to the start of our trip.
“As a woman in this area, to feel safe on a night out is important. Poligraf was, for me, not just a place I was spending my residency, it was a movement, a resistance, where we truly felt that safety to just be on the dancefloor” – Arpy Hovakimyan [Ար ամյան]
A few days earlier, a few miles from downtown in the industrial suburb of Charbakh, we’re on the fifth floor of a factory turned start-up incubator and indoor skate park. Inside a white-washed room we learn about the 450-capacity techno club Poligraf, an after-dark ground zero for electronic music lovers for Yerevan that lasted five years. Prior to its closure in 2024, it provided a safe space for the city’s artistic community, and centred its nightlife on forward-thinking music.
“Authorities started to throw out these weird laws, and one of these was that karaoke bars, clubs, discotheques and similar places had to shut down if they are in the centre and 100 or 150 metres from parks, educational institutions, cultural buildings, and housing. So basically you can’t find really anything that would work for this,” says co-founder Sukiasyan of his now defunct institution, which occupied an old printing press.
“[In 2023] they put another law into action, which was actually from the previous government but never used. This means if a building is not officially a public space, maybe it was industrial, you can’t do any sort of public business. So we were cut from our nightlife licence, alcohol licence,” he continues. “Maybe we were too political.”
Following a series of raids, at least one of which saw staff and punters violently assaulted by authorities, Poligraf closed in January 2024. The legacy lives on in the studio we’re now in: Cyber Folk HQ. Rising from the ashes of the club’s DJ school, which trained a significant number of Armenia’s current resident selectors, this year-old educational programme already has around 100 graduates and offers courses for DJs and producers of all experience levels. Syllabuses last three months, and cost around £300, showing a commitment to accessibility. That part is important, given the average Armenian monthly wage converts to around £645.
Sitting in front of a high-spec production station in the area used for workshops, Arpy Hovakimyan [Ար ամյան] is a case in point. Releasing tracks and performing under the moniker Is, she’s a softly spoken, academically trained jazz musician with a background in experimental noises. After recounting the first time she felt electronic music pulsating from “a proper sound system” and its emotional power, she explains Sukiasyan booked her to play at Loopdeville Campout, a festival he co-ran from 2018 to 2023 in the picturesque village of Dilijan, which grew from a nomadic party of the same name. Then she moved to Poligraf.
“I really love to be on the dancefloor… As a woman in this area, to feel safe on a night out is important. Poligraf was, for me, not just a place I was spending my residency; it was a movement, a resistance, where we truly felt that safety to just be on the dancefloor,” she tells us. “It was about connection. It’s been a year without it. We have some great venues now as well, but the dynamic has really had an impact on us. And there’s a pressure of closing down. It’s a small town, with many artists and less venues — that slows growth.”
Signs of life in Yerevan’s scene are visible, depending when you arrive. The Øffice is an impressive, labyrinthine venue downtown that’s seen serious investment in design, audio and lighting, yet retains an underground aesthetic. Further afield, Hayfilm Cluster occupies an old movie studio, with multiple floors and a garden for mid-morning roll throughs. We’re lucky to have seen either, given they were closed until a week or so ago, emphasising ongoing tensions with lawmakers.
This reality is key to why Cyber Folk wants to flip the script on electronic music, taking it into contexts beyond hedonism, helping the community stay together, and — they hope — altering the perception of techno and other night-time genres. Taking an advanced module while she was also teaching at the school, Hovakimyan now focuses on tutoring the next generation.
“There were a lot of DJs and producers locally, and we really experienced the magic of creating together, learning together,” she says of her time as a student. “I still mentor here. I still work on music, adapting knowledge, academic knowledge, bringing that closer to electronic music.
“We really needed this here, and now a year has passed and you can see the results already,” she continues. “New labels, new releases. It makes me really happy. My hope is for Cyber Folk to help more people to connect with music, share values we instil here through education, and make our scene grow more and become unapologetically rooted in who we are. Relentlessly build something determined by ourselves.”
Director of operations, Marina Boyajyan [արնա յայան], and head of classes and co-founder of the Back&forth label, Davit Petrosyan [ա երսյան], are also key figures. Sat around a large table in Cyber Folk’s seminar room, over a punnet of strawberries, they reiterate that this isn’t just a school, it’s a community base.
“Before Cyber Folk, people thought of electronic music as a party tool. In my opinion, this [project] has made people think much more about the music, artists, giving them opportunities to express themselves. There’s a chance for people to consider whether they want to see it in this way without parties, understand how music works, get more in touch with that,” says Boyajyan. “Now we do things almost anyone can try, like pre-recorded YouTube tutorials, so you can watch freely and find some motivation to do something. We have options for people to just come and try before committing to a course. It’s accessible, open to anyone.”
“I’m not sure it’s the right thing to compare, but for example, in Sweden they don’t have a lot of clubs, really, but they have a lot of good music coming out, a huge amount… they still have something that has huge value,” adds Petrosyan. “A club is very visible, and the impact is very visible, the activity there. It’s a direct way of doing something, but there are a lot of other important things you can do and be good at which don’t involve, let’s say, opening a venue or running a party. It’s about contributing in any way you can and doing your best at that.”
“Before Cyber Folk, people thought of electronic music as a party tool. In my opinion, this [project] has made people think much more about the music, artists, giving them opportunities to express themselves.” – Marina Boyajyan [արնա յայան], Director of Operations
Support for Cyber Folk attendees doesn’t stop with the last lesson. Graduation parties let classmates celebrate and showcase what they’ve learnt. The platform’s eponymous record label compiles productions from alumni and members of the collective — there’s no distinction between those in charge and those studying. ‘CFVA01’, for example, includes pieces from course attendees like kazmir00, alongside Hopdop and Is. A second label, Syne, is also running, with Boyajyan managing a growing roster.
“Each student has the opportunity to play a real gig, a real club, and get the feeling of playing for the crowd,” says Boyajyan. She tells us the team has collaborated with “all the clubs here”, holding two graduation parties at The Øffice, and when temporary closure meant that venue was unavailable, House of Writers stepped in to host an event. Another venue, which isn’t named, is also in the running for future instalments.
Cyber Folk’s facilities are first class, and constantly evolving as grant and other funding routes are identified and secured. Armenian arts organisation Artbox, itself backed by the European Union, is one example. Boyajyan laughs that talking about application processes is triggering. We assume she’s only half joking. But the fact the team have been successful at securing finance emphasises their professionalism. And money has been spent wisely, given what’s in the studio and dedicated DJ room, with its enviable backline.
The team’s technological expertise goes well beyond knowing how to use this kit and teaching others to follow suit too. It’s a warm evening at the Cascade Complex — a huge stone staircase lined with statues and crowned with an obelisk-style memorial to the victims of Soviet-era murders, disappearances and deportations — when we meet Aram Andriasyan [Արամ Անդրեասյան]. Over fresh pasta and a beer this IT consultant reveals how Sukiasyan, already a good friend, proposed setting up Cyber Folk together thanks to a shared love of music and Andriasyan’s understanding of systems and programming. This knowledge is now pivotal in the next stage of Cyber Folk’s development.
After hearing about his releases on Syne under the Fluctt moniker, things get technical. “Like Arpy, I was originally both a mentor and a student in the first class — it’s really important to us for this to be a community and not have ranks,” he says, before introducing us to Cyber Folk’s web app. “The idea is you open our platform and see a chat function. Like ChatGPT, you can prompt — ‘I’ve been DJing for three years, I’ve done this, this and this, I understand arranging and can produce drums but I’m lacking experience using, say, Serum to make a synth’. Our AI will search our database and find a course to match your needs. These aren’t all produced by us. It’s an open marketplace.”
Due to launch this year, it’s an ambitious extension of what’s already an impressive endeavour, and takes some getting your head around to appreciate the scale. The AI will curate completely unique courses tailored to the specific needs of an individual — utilising both Cyber Folk’s own walk-throughs and those the team have audited for quality. At the time of writing, this amounts to around 1,000 videos, many of which can be divided into smaller segments to maximise relevancy. The result is countless possible combinations, and with the archive constantly evolving, there could be almost infinite ways of engaging with the platform and an endless list of things to learn and master.
There’s also a more hands-on production aspect to the application, aimed at two demographics. On the one side are “creators”, institutions like Cyber Folk and working professionals who share things they’ve made, whether that’s a loop, preset, sample, or any other element of an electronic music track. On the other are “users”, referring to anyone utilising these resources and engaging with online courses. Much like in real life, there will be crossovers between the two, and both will grow organically in tandem through word of mouth.
Everyone has access to automated studio functions within the software. Input prompts and the program responds by producing specific sounds, like a techno kick, trance bassline, or Amen break. Whatever it is, the technology can generate endlessly, and output can then be used as is, or developed further by whoever requested it, providing a fully formed building block to add to a tune, or a jumping off point for an idea still in germination. Most importantly though, all code involved is owned and patented by Cyber Folk. And we’re told that, for the time being, there are no direct competitors combining all these elements into one platform.
After witnessing one of Sukiasyan’s classes first hand, we know that sharing practical knowledge of complete processes is fundamental. However, technicalities are subverted by an approach that encourages people to think within the context of transferring feelings into sound, rather than conforming to specificities of style.
“It’s just democratising production,” he tells us when we ask if they are concerned about pushback against AI production software. “It doesn’t matter how easy the tool makes it, what you need to learn is how to convert emotion. It’s super hard. AI does not understand emotions and our emotional intelligence is so much more complicated than 1010101. Is it raining? Did your mother call you? Was your sister smiling at you? AI doesn’t get these things and how they trigger human emotions.”
“DJs who are not big players are struggling to monetise,” Andriasyan interjects, explaining he has been lucky to have a successful IT career giving him a degree of financial stability. But he’s also quick to point out that, like so many aspiring and semi- pro producers and DJs, if the financials of music were different — and fairer — he’d be doing it full time. It’s a familiar story, and Cyber Folk’s innovation isn’t the only tech that has tried to level the playing field.
“It’s really important to us for this to be a community and not have ranks. The idea is you open our platform and see a chat function… Our AI will search our database and find a course to match your needs. These aren’t all produced by us. It’s an open marketplace.” – Aram Andriasyan [Արամ Անդրեասյան]
The conversation moves to DVS1, an ally of the crew since they brought him to Poligraf. The techno heavyweight’s sadly abandoned Aslice, which shut down last September, was an attempt to inject equity into dance music. DJs were invited to tag tracklists from their club sets to identify where royalties were owed, and share a percentage of their fee to pay the producers. In theory, it would have supported acts at all levels. Its closure has been widely attributed to the fact many of the highest-paid touring names did not get involved. Cyber Folk’s hope is that through the app it can offer a new revenue stream for creators, and lift the lid on basic, intermediate and advanced techniques.
Beyond cash and skills, recognition of work boosts confidence and encourages users to keep producing as they establish and extend their networks worldwide with other account holders. The jury is out on whether this will be a subscription-only or one-time-purchase model, or a combination of the two. Either way, getting people to commit to the community long-term is fundamental. “We live in a world where the noise is too much, especially in music, [and where] quality is defined by how you promote. That’s not quality, how many followers you gain — are these bought or real people? We want to emphasise real quality,” says Andriasyan. “I understand any business in music, or any business, has to make people aware. But right now there’s too much energy in the wrong place.”
In a highrise apartment off Nairi Zaryan Street, in the north of Central Yerevan, this kind of thinking becomes even more pronounced. Kamarama is a live project set up by Sukiasyan and Arto Tunçboyaciyan. This legendary Armenian-American avant-garde folk and jazz multi-instrumentalist, World Music Award and Grammy winner’s career stretches decades and is musically broad. But it was after his first night at Poligraf that he began really thinking about organic electronic explorations. The duo’s extended improvised jam sessions at the club are now committed to lore, they’ve released two albums — one about the trauma of the Second Nagorno-Karabakh War — and their efforts define open-ended collaboration.
“It doesn’t matter about big names, all this lunatic competition, yah yah yah,” says Tunçboyaciyan in the midst of a chat running from his father, a Turkish shoemaker, to Premier League football, his old group, The Armenian Navy Band — an ironic name for a landlocked country — and nationhood. Ultimately, the existential hour or so is about the need to unite and break down borders.
“I’m not here to teach you fucking Armenian or a language, or anything,” he continues. “I’m here to share my thoughts. Who knows, maybe it benefits you or your kids. You are here to do the same. We are humans. When we’re sharing, you don’t know who you affect or whose life it might be changing. That’s why we all have to set up and start announcing to the world — who wants to join us?
