Serj Tankian Dissects System Of A Down’s Career, Creative Differences And Fear Of Change

In Serj Tankian’s new memoir, Down With The System (out now), the System of a Down singer unpacks his life, career, and foundational identity as an Armenian-American.

Born in Beirut, Lebanon, but of ethnically Armenian descent, the artist and activist’s family immigrated to Los Angeles, California, when he was only seven years old. From the earliest moments of Tankian’s life, as his family heard the sounds of bombs dropping during the Lebanese Civil War, it was clear that the singer’s soul would be fueled by an amalgamation of adversity. Eventually, his worldview became enmeshed with a refugee’s survival instinct, the oppressed’s yearning for justice, and the voracious hunger of a young growing mind in America.

As his self-proclaimed “memoir (of sorts)” unfolds, it tells a complicated but riveting narrative of heavy metal, global relations, and the intergenerational trauma of a man whose ancestral culture was all but decimated during the Armenian Genocide of 1915.

While the book is filled with historical context—including a painstakingly detailed recounting of his own grandfather’s plight as he narrowly escaped death during the genocide—it also reveals an incredibly thorough look inside the inner-workings of one of the most popular metal bands of the 21st century.

In the 350-page tell-all, Tankian dissects the timeline of the band’s fast track to fame in the early 2000s, all as Americans were rapidly changing tastes, attitudes and political perspectives. The story starts in the days following the terrorist attack on the World Trade Center on September 11, 2001. Tankian is in the hot seat on the The Howard Stern Show, where he’s been asked to explain and defend an essay he wrote and published on the band’s website shortly after the tragedy. It was only a week earlier that System of a Down had released its second full-length album, Toxicity, which would soon blast the group into the spotlight worldwide.

Tankian’s hindsight on the tense radio appearance sets the baseline for his collective musings. The frontman dives deep into the details of his own emotional growth, creative successes, and stresses within the band. He recounts the nuance of the group’s relentless musical tension—they haven’t released a full-length album since 2005—and his failed attempts at building the band a sustainable future. Now, Tankian hopes the pages of Down With The System will help resolve rumors that have long swirled on message boards and comment sections.

“As far as the revelations, a lot of them were public things that needed to be clarified in detail and, as far as I’m concerned, put to bed,” 56-year-old Tankian says. “I wanted to [share this stuff] was as a way of being done with them, revealing them in their truth, but also in a balanced way where I’m also taking responsibility for my own deficiencies having to do with the band and the relationship. […] I want people to understand that bands are complicated emotional groups and beings.”

Today, as Tankian shares his truth, he remains committed to his work as an activist, film composer, painter, and musician. On September 27, he’ll be releasing his next solo EP, Foundations, via Gibson Records, which includes his new song, “Justice Will Shine On.”

In addition to his musical endeavors, Tankian is also busy with newly opened Los Angeles coffee shop, Kavat Coffee, which, you guessed it, serves Armenian coffee. To celebrate the new business and book, he’ll be signing copies of Down With The System at Kavat Coffee this Saturday, August 10.

Below, Tankian breaks down his memoir: reflecting on his interview with Howard Stern, the unusual circumstances surrounding System of a Down’s success, and his attempt to incorporate Egalitarianism into the band’s world. The singer also discusses the band’s life-changing concert debut in Armenia—and the country’s current state after years of intense military conflict with Azerbaijan. To lighten the mood, he even offers an anecdote about a chance opportunity to get stoned with Tom Petty.

You start the book by recalling an appearance on The Howard Stern Show immediately following the 9/11 terrorist attacks. To oversimplify, you had published an essay online called “Understanding Oil,” which pissed off a lot of people. Stern brought you on his show to call you out and/or give you a chance to clarify your perspective. Over 20 years later, you wrote that you wished you had been more vocal about your criticisms of George W. Bush’s foreign policy at the time. This is definitely not a reserved way to start a book. Why was this important to you?

It was a very scary time. Now you can talk about things having to do with that time period in a less emotional way—because it’s not happening now. And you can see everything more clearly now in retrospect, as we always do. But at the time, it was very emotional. It was very charged. When I wrote “Understanding Oil,” it wasn’t for a reaction. I did that constantly for my own understanding of what’s happening around the world. I did these geopolitical analyses that I would put on the band’s website. I did them all the time. That wasn’t anything new and it never even crossed my mind that there would be a reaction. I mean, this is [just at the release of] Toxicity (September 4, 2001). The band wasn’t even that big.

But that led into the reaction to the essay, which led to the Howard Stern interview, which led to me feeling like I was holding my tongue. I wasn’t completely folding or anything like that. I was just pointing to important issues, but not completely engaging, if you will. And again, it may have been smart of me not to—given the circumstances in retrospect, but you never want to walk away, especially as an activist, even as an artist, feeling like you left something on the table in terms of the truth.

The timing of the essay’s publication is really what made people assume the worst about you. It seems like you recognize that you hadn’t read the room properly in terms of timing. Is that fair to say?

Honestly, yes, the timing was the issue, no question. But in an open democracy like ours, if at the time when you need to speak, you can’t, then what the f***? That’s the whole point! When the whole population agrees with what you’re saying, it’s easy to say s*** for an activist, but when the truth is not necessarily being shared by the majority of the population, it’s hard to talk. Those are the times where you need to talk the most.

For example, once George W. Bush was less popular, all artists were talking against him. I was like, “F*** you guys. Where were you until now!?” When he was doing his shenanigans, there were only a handful of artists talking against him. He got really powerful after 9/11, even though what he was doing wasn’t right: unilaterally attacking the wrong country, Iraq. Coming up with excuses, like weapons of mass destruction that never existed. We all knew it. We all saw it. That’s why there were millions of people protesting before a war even occurred.

It’s easy to speak when public opinion is on your side because no one is going to fault you for it, but it’s hard to speak when it isn’t. And that’s when you need to speak the most. And that’s why I wrote that 9/11 [portion of the book], expressing my regret with The Howard Stern Show [appearance].

Many System of a Down fans would be interested in your memoir’s portion about how you’ve tried to plan what you believe would be a “healthy future” for the band, to very little success with your bandmates. Do you think your bandmates might be surprised by your transparency here?

As far as the “revelations,” a lot of them were public things that needed to be clarified in detail and, as far as I’m concerned, put to bed. So one of the reasons that I wanted to [share this stuff] was as a way of being done with them, revealing them in their truth, but also in a balanced way where I’m also taking responsibility for my own deficiencies having to do with the band and the relationship.

That’s important because that’s also a realization that’s part of the process of digging back and trying to figure out what happened: “Why did I do the things I did? Why did this person do the things they did?” It is all there, but I think it’s done with respect and love and in a way that balances it out. I want people to understand that bands are complicated emotional groups and beings. It’s not just “go up and play” and record together and be done with it. These are intricate human relationships that evolve and devolve.

Your book explains how you approached your bandmates (guitarist Daron Malakian, bassist Shavo Odadjian, and drummer John Dolmayan) with a strategy to happily move the band forward. You referred to it as your “manifesto,” hoping for equality in songwriting and finances, among other guidelines.

You also offered to leave the band and have them replace you, explaining that you didn’t want to hold them back. It’s ironic, the band would never have been as successful had you not been the vocalist. It was the chemistry and the magic that made the band successful.

It seemed that these moments also reflected a common theme in your book: that you wanted to be an artist and activist, whereas the other guys wanted to be rock stars. Those two attitudes constantly appeared to be at battle with each other. Is it strange to look back on how those realities all interacted with each other?

It’s a unique formula, like a chemical compound. You take one thing away and try to replace it with another element, it will not be the same compound, the same beast. I’ve always felt that about my band—whatever you want to consider the most or least significant in terms of songwriting or playing—just one element gone will change everything. I didn’t want to see any elements gone because the reason we’ve succeeded is because of these four people. However, you’re right. I did want to give space because I wanted to be a friend first and to be fair.

I said, “Look, I don’t want to tour. I’m okay with doing a show here and there, whatever, when my back is cool!” And that’s a whole other issue, medical issues and whatnot, but besides that, “If you guys want to do stuff, I see our way forward.”

I called it a manifesto, but in a tongue-in-cheek way, because it’s not a manifesto. But I made it sound like that because bringing in a constitution to f***ing rock band, it’s f***ing crazy, right? It’s stupid. But I did it. My thing was to try to export egalitarian principles as an activist into my musical and business world—and it hasn’t worked.

Maybe it’ll work one day, who knows? But you have to sit down with yourself and ask, “How do you feel comfortable going forward?” in any relationship or in any situation. If you know yourself well enough, those answers are there, and then you can share those answers. People may or may not vibe or agree with them. That happens. It’s complex.

It’s the same thing as setting boundaries in any interpersonal relationship that you have with, for example, a toxic family member: someone that you need or want to have in your life, but you know that it can’t work the same way anymore. It’s hard trying to tell someone what you need for a healthy relationship, then realizing you’re trying to work with someone who’s unwilling to change.

They don’t want to change. And that’s fair enough. One thing I’ve gleaned is that irrespective of all of our differences—be they personality or way of thinking or envisioning what the band means in the future—our major differences are creative. We have respect for each other, no matter what. After 30 years, that’s amazing.

What’s amazing about System of a Down’s career is that all of your band’s five formally released albums were created from three recording periods. Aside from your recent two tracks in 2020, it’s crazy to think you’ve played for decades and gained all of this notoriety as a result of a handful of trips to the studio. There aren’t too many bands that could say that.

It is crazy. Yeah. I think that’s interesting. When we recorded Toxicity (2001), we recorded all the songs from Steal This Album (2002) at the same time. We had all these songs and we couldn’t fit them on one album, obviously, and imagine a sophomore release being a double record for any band, right? That’s crazy onerous. So we released Steal This Album, even though there was a lot of disagreements about it. I pushed for releasing that record because I really believe that the songs on there are really different than anything System has ever done, even since then.

Same with Mezmerize (May 2005) and Hypnotize (November 2005), yeah… we’ve only sat down and recorded three records, but put out five records, basically just like you said. We have a lot that comes in. Right after the first record (self-titled, 1998) where primarily Daron [Malakian] wrote most of the music and I wrote most of the lyrics, our formula started to change. I started to play and write more instrumental music and he started writing more lyrics. So even by Toxicity and Steal This Album, which is only our second and third records, we’re already like a different band. And we have too much going into that funnel.

That’s the thing that’s really interesting, that even after all of that, I felt like there were things I couldn’t do within the band, which is incredible thinking of the amount of music we actually put in per recording session. We made two records per one sitting. I’m just realizing things myself as I’m talking to you rather than saying something…

It’s okay, process! Some bands that last 30 years put out 12 albums. Often, by the fourth or fifth, the guitar player will acquiesce and say, “Okay, let the singer write some of the guitar riffs.” But you guys didn’t really get to that point because everything was so jam packed in the beginning, before all the personality dynamics changed. You said repeatedly that you were holding resentments, even if, at the time, you thought you were dealing with your feelings in a healthy way.

Are you surprised that you never had a moment where you turned to your guitarist, Daron Malakian, and said, “I’m the face of this band, man. How are you not going to let me write some freaking music?” Respectfully, you are clearly the most recognizable member of the band, from your voice and look. You easily could have pulled the ego move, “I’m the face of this band. I’m going to write half of these songs.”

It’s not my personality to do so. It doesn’t feel like it’s my place. In a world that I envision, in terms of camaraderie within a band, that to me, is stupid. It’s more like I was trying to bring egalitarian principles and not be the one that sticks out and calls the shots. There’s an interesting paraphrase that democracy is impossible within a band. I’ve heard that from many established bands. I don’t know if that’s true or not, but that’s not me. Just the opposite.

When I see someone that’s insecure because they’re not getting enough limelight, I open the door for them to get the limelight. I want them to be happier because they’re my brothers, my friends. But there comes a point where if it’s not obviously reciprocated, you garner these feelings that you bottle up. During that time, I wasn’t even aware that I was bottling them up. I was passive, but I also had many other things going on that were really distressing me in my life, personal relationships, all this other stuff. The timing was such that I was that person at that time. I’m not that person now. We evolve.

Why do you think when you tried to present your “manifesto” that it was met with such pushback? You explained that your drummer, John Dolmayan, who is also your brother-in-law, would be making more money under the new scenario you proposed. You recalled him getting angry because he didn’t like feeling like he was being given an ultimatum. It seemed like you were trying to literally put more money in his bank account and make things equal, but you were still being fought over it…

I wasn’t trying to do an ultimatum. And it wasn’t about money. John, at the time, as you’re describing it, took it as a dictation. And I was presenting it as, “This is not a dictation. We haven’t been able to do anything. I’ve sat down and had a very in-tune discussion with myself, and these are the ways that I can be a part of this unit going forward. If that is something that you’re interested in.”

That’s a whole different thing than saying, “F*** you guys, it’s my way or the highway.” But he didn’t take it that way. Part of it, and I’ll answer your question simply by saying, “fear.” When you’ve been successful with what you consider a certain formula, you don’t want to change that. You think that if you do something else, then that won’t be successful after already attaining success. That is called fear.

In my case, I’ve never had fear with music. I’m not a surgeon. No one’s dying at my table. I have doctor friends. Their life is f***ing really stressful, but somehow they play it off. I would be f***ing stressed as hell having their job. For me, music is, “What? Someone’s going to say that they don’t like a song? Oh big f***ing deal, who cares? I didn’t write the song for them. I wrote it for myself.” That never has bothered me, but it does bother other people. I would say that is the largest detriment to what happened there.

You made it clear that Daron did not take kindly to your proposal either, which included equal contribution of songwriting for future projects. Do you think it was just about ego and control, that he wanted to do things his way and write all the songs? Is it possible that he didn’t like the music you wrote but didn’t want to say that outright?

Within the “manifesto,” if that’s what we’re calling it, there was room for [the response], “I don’t like this song, so go write another.” There was room for that. Everyone had a veto on any and every song. So it wasn’t that. I think, look, certain people in music, Daron being one of them—I’m saying this respectfully and with love—identified with the role that he ensconced himself in within the band. It’s not just a control issue or ego issue. You can call it anything you want, but it’s more of an identity issue. When you’ve been ensconced in that and that’s all you’ve done, and that’s all that you know in life, then it feels like someone is taking something away from you where they’re not. They’re just trying to get you to share your toys.

The other side of the coin—and you were self-aware about this in the book—is that there may have been the perception that you as the singer have been able to run off and do your own projects and only come back when it felt like it suited your activism or finances.

From that perspective, it’s understandable that your bandmates might want to say, “Who does this guy think he is!?” That must be hard for them to navigate. This is another moment where it seems to come back to the idea that the other members of the band wanted to be rock stars, and that was never purely your intention…

It’s not just rock stars. I think the band, in their minds—they all started playing music when they were seven or eight years old. They thought of that as their only trajectory, and they don’t understand why it stopped—and it wasn’t just for financial reasons or egotistical reasons. It’s what they do. It’s what they thrive on. They love to tour. Not all of them, maybe now, but at the time it’s like, “Why do we have to stop here? Why can’t we be bigger? Why are you stopping us? This is our dream. This is everything we’ve worked for our whole life.”

That is really the argument, and it’s very true. However, you can’t change your [own] trajectory and your [own] vision because of your partners’. That’s not something you can force yourself to do forever.

I want to talk about a special moment for System of a Down that I think you can all agree was meaningful. Despite the arguments and estrangements, you came together and toured in 2015. You made a stop in Armenia’s Capital of Yerevan and played in Republic Square to commemorate the 100 year anniversary of the Armenian Genocide.

That was a powerful event. Does a moment like that make this whole journey very mystical, spiritual, cosmic, however you might phrase it?

It does. I mean, that show to me was the top of the mountain for System of a Down. It was like we were almost created to play that show 20-something years later. And I can’t explain it in any other way, but if there was one show that basically describes why this band was ever formed, it was that one.

You wrote about performing in the rain that night, saying, “I felt empowered, I felt whole.” You said it felt like your “shared destiny.” There’s this dichotomy between your activist life and music life. You said that you felt like you were always backing down on things, but that’s kind of the antithesis of what an activist is. It’s like you were always the most outspoken in some ways, but submitting in other ways. Then there’s this full circle moment where it all came together in the pouring rain in Armenia. All the moments in rock and protest brought you to that stage. Did it always feel like your life was filled with these weird contradictions that somehow kept getting more intertwined?

Well, that’s what I was trying to say. As an activist, I was very assertive. I was going for it, but as a band member, I was passive. So that’s why I think years later when I tried to introduce the “manifesto,” it was trying to bring that activist, I don’t want to say assertiveness, but yeah, somewhat assertiveness and understanding of egalitarian principles into a band environment.

In your book, you discuss the Armenian Genocide in great detail and Armenia’s continued conflict with Azerbaijan. This isn’t new for you. This activism has been a foundational part of your life and identity. What’s your opinion on the state of things in 2024?

Right now, Armenia’s situation is really horrible and vulnerable. Azerbaijan is at the border always making threats, shooting across the border, they’ve taken a swath of Armenian territory after depopulating Nagorno-Karabakh, doing ethnic cleansing all after nine months of starvation due to an illegal border that the International Court of Justice told them to open. This is after such a high of having this beautiful democratic revolution to where Armenia is now. It’s really depressing. Geopolitics are a motherf***er. That’s why I’ve always studied it, because I want to see who’s behind something, follow the money.

During Covid, the dictatorial regime of Azerbaijan attacked Armenia along with the help of Turkey. 105 years later, instead of recognizing the genocide and making amends, they did the opposite. They tried to finish the job during [the pandemic]. And no one came to the aid of this small Christian country. No one even knew about what was going on, which is why System of a Down put out those two songs, “Protect the Land” and “Genocidal Humanoids.” And it was our way of telling people, “Hey, there’s a f***ing genocide going on right now and nobody knows about it.” 120,000 people were ethnically cleansed from Nagorno-Karabakh two weeks before Hamas attacked Israel. (Azerbaijan disputes Armenia’s claims to the United Nations’ International Court of Justice.)

Nobody knows about [the Republic of] Artsakh. And unfortunately, Israel supplied weapons to Azerbaijan to do those attacks. All of it is really heartbreaking. It’s a, “I’ll help my enemy’s enemy and kill whoever I need to make a buck,” kind of world. It’s f***ed up.

I know you’ve expressed frustration that while it’s great that President Biden formally acknowledged the Armenian Genocide in 2021, that you feel he only did that over a feud with Turkey’s leader, Recep Tayyip Erdogan. I know you’re also angry about any financial aid sent from America to Azerbaijan.

Exactly. Also, a geopolitical move. The United States gives Azerbaijan millions of dollars a year. This is a country that has an incredible amount of oil. It is not a democracy. They mistreat their own people. There are journalists in jail, they have conducted ethnic cleansing, they’ve beheaded people “ISIS style.” They’ve shot soldiers that had basically raised the white flag. They took their weapons, they shot them. A Geneva Convention infraction! War crimes. Genocide. My f***ing tax dollars are going to these f***ers. How do you explain that?

It is messed up. And this is the US administration fully knowing that they are doing these things and saying, “Oh, they shouldn’t be doing it.” But nothing is happening.

Take this conflict, add in the pandemic, the US elections, a war between Israel and Palestine…

… and you don’t want to get out of bed.

You’re very vocal about these issues, but it must exhaust and deplete you, right? If you’re not disconnecting and doing self-care, it’s got to be hard to try to help the world. Is it hard on you?

It is. You have to find a positive space, whether it’s your work or your hobbies or whatever. In my case, it’s what I love to do. It’s creating things, music and scoring films, painting, writing a book. I’m so grateful to have all these outputs. They’ve saved my life many times.

Here’s a light-hearted question to wrap this up. In your memoir, you told an incredible weed story. What was it like smoking a joint with Tom Petty?

It was awesome! [imitates Tom Petty and laughs] I love the way he talks! Daron and I, just having him listen to our song, it was such an honor. He was such a master at his trade as a songwriter and singer and band leader and everything that he meant to us. He was the coolest, nicest guy. He just smoked a joint with us and listened to the music!

Who pulled out the weed?

Oh, Daron, actually! Daron had rolled up a joint. [laughs]