A-Studio Group, early years/vk.com/astudiomusic
The first-ever, and instantly definitive, encyclopedia of independent Kazakh music, 91–23: The Popular Music of Independent Kazakhstan, has arrived like a masterstroke. Crafted in the meticulous tradition of Ira Robbins and other legendary music archivists, this authoritative guide sets a new standard with its depth and detail.
The encyclopedia captures the essence of a vibrant, evolving music scene and highlights the creativity and resilience of Kazakh artists in the years since independence. It is, in every way, not merely a reference work but the celebration of a rich cultural heritage.
Despite following a visible academic structure, 91–23: The Popular Music of Independent Kazakhstan is a deeply personal project. It’s clear the authors lean toward the indie scene, and yet mainstream pop and variety music are given their rightful place in Kazakhstan’s musical landscape and are treated with the respect they’ve earned. It’s no surprise, though—the best research of this kind invariably springs from the indie crowd. Let’s face it—countercultural writers often have a flair for critiquing pop, but the reverse? That rarely works.
The book flows in chronological order, anchored by exhaustive listings of bands and artists, with interludes on composers and producers. Each era kicks off with comprehensive essays that illuminate topics from Soviet-era vocal-instrumental ensembles to the rise and evolution of Kazakh hip-hop. These essays create a dynamic interplay of perspectives, seeming almost like a duel. On the one hand is Alexander Medvedev, an Almaty insider raised on bootlegged Fugazi tapes from the Arbat Market, declaring his city the epicenter of global music trends. On the other is Adil Aijaryq, a native of Atyrau in western Kazakhstan, which is steeped in traditional Kazakh music, presenting a distinctly different worldview.
Here’s a quirky detail about the text: the encyclopedia is bilingual, but the authors’ essays remain in their original languages—Russian and Kazakh.
Cover of the music encyclopaedia/press archive
This deliberate choice reflects the linguistic and cultural duality of Kazakh music, adding authenticity to the work. However, some might see it as a missed opportunity for the cross-pollination of ideas and to foster deeper cultural understanding.
Medvedev focuses on big-picture issues: the music market, media trends, corruption, and social responsibility. But even though his ideological musings verge on seeming like overkill, he reels you back with vivid anecdotes. Whether he’s describing the flamboyant coats worn by the band Bubliki, the rise of aidanats or fan clubs, or the uniquely progressive metal of Shaman Eshche Buben, his stories bring Kazakh music to life. Aijaryq, in the meanwhile, shines a spotlight on his personal journey, exploring musical genres foreign to his region as a form of ‘research’. His writing reflects the binary structure of Kazakh music—divided by languages, emotions, and cultural associations.
Together, their work captures the thirty-year arc of Kazakh popular music, moving from distinct binary to a seamless synthesis. Today, the landscape is more dynamic than ever before—icons like Kairat Nurtas woo hipster crowds, while Xenia Sukhomazova, a former member of the all-girl pop group Rakhat-Lukum, stuns audiences with her renditions of traditional Kazakh folk songs.
The band profiles are rigorous—sometimes overly so, as details about band members occasionally overshadow their music. Yet, even the existence of a band like Maxim Sergeich tells you more about the era than any cultural studies analysis could. Forgotten groups from Öskemen in Eastern Kazakhstan, the country’s only heavy metal band, to bands like Pilot and Televizor come to life alongside young girls recording in closets for sound insulation. Add to this the eccentric fashion trends like dekko, or the blend of traditional Kazakh instruments with computer-generated sounds—and you get a kaleidoscopic view of Kazakhstan’s musical universe.
Photo: archive of the press service
That universe remains partly veiled, though. Many entries trail off with phrases like ‘More information about this artist is unknown’ or ‘The band disbanded in 2009’. It’s a poignant reminder of how fragile musical legacies can be and how entropy claims even the most promising acts.
What’s missing? The direct voices of the musicians themselves. Built on oral history, the book would be enriched with more first-hand accounts. Imagine the rawness of monologues like those featured in the recent documentary Kazakh New Wave. Still, 91–23: The Popular Music of Independent Kazakhstan is a monumental achievement, a titanic effort that captures the essence of the music of independent Kazakhstan. But if the authors were to come up with a prequel diving into Soviet-era Kazakh pop? We’re here for it!
91—23/Meloman.kz
Though the authors avoid calling their work an encyclopedia, it absolutely is one—sprawling, systematic, and essential for researchers and music fans alike. And like all great encyclopedias, it’s a living document, containing within itself the capacity for updates and reissues. And so here’s to the next edition and the evolving soundscape of independent Kazakhstan.
Meloman.kz