Latest / The Story of Armenia: Survival Through Empires and Genocide — Fexingo History / Armenian Music: The Soul of a People
Transcript
- Lucas: Luna, we've covered the kingdoms, the genocide, the diaspora — but there's one thread that runs through all of it, almost like a soundtrack. Armenian music. It's something that carried the culture when everything else was stripped away. Luna: I've heard about the duduk, but I don't know much beyond that. Lucas: Right, the duduk is iconic, but let's start earlier. When Mesrop Mashtots created the Armenian alphabet in the 5th century, he also helped develop a system of musical notation called khaz. It was used to notate liturgical chants — the Sharakan, which are hymns of the Armenian Apostolic Church. These chants are ancient, some dating back to the 5th century, and they have a haunting, modal quality that's distinct from Byzantine or Gregorian chant. Luna: So the alphabet and musical notation came about at the same time? Lucas: Exactly. Literacy and music were twins. The khaz system is like neumes — symbols that indicate melodic movement — but it's unique to Armenia. For centuries, these chants were passed down orally and in manuscripts. Then in the 19th century, a movement emerged to collect and preserve folk music. And that's where a pivotal figure comes in: Komitas Vardapet. Lucas: Komitas — born Soghomon Soghomonian in 1869 — was a priest, composer, and ethnomusicologist. He traveled across Anatolia, recording thousands of folk songs from Armenian villages. He transcribed them, analyzed their scales, and arranged them for choir. He was trying to show that Armenian folk music was sophisticated, not just peasant tunes. Luna: This was before the genocide? Lucas: Yes. He did most of his collecting in the 1890s and early 1900s. Then in 1915, he was among the intellectuals arrested in Constantinople. He survived the death marches, but the trauma shattered him. He spent his last years in a psychiatric hospital in Paris, and he never composed again. His archives were scattered or lost. But his work survived — and it became the foundation of Armenian classical and folk music. Luna: That's heartbreaking. But his music lived on. Lucas: It did. Komitas' arrangements are still performed today. His song 'Krunk' — 'The Crane' — is a lament about longing for home. It's become a kind of unofficial anthem for the diaspora. And the genocide is a shadow over all of this — entire musical traditions in Western Armenia were erased. But the diaspora kept the music alive. Lucas: Now, the duduk. It's a double-reed woodwind, made of apricot wood. Its sound is warm, mournful, breathy. UNESCO recognized it as a Masterpiece of the Intangible Heritage of Humanity in 2005. The most famous player is Djivan Gasparyan — he played on the soundtrack of 'Gladiator'. Luna: I didn't know that. So it's reached a global audience. Lucas: Absolutely. But the duduk has ancient roots — it's been played for at least 1,500 years. It's often played in pairs: one player holds a drone, the other carries the melody. It's used in weddings, funerals, and folk dances. During Soviet times, the duduk was suppressed in favor of Western instruments, but it survived in the villages. Lucas: Speaking of Soviet times, there's another giant: Aram Khachaturian. He was born in Tbilisi in 1903, studied in Moscow, and became one of the most famous Soviet composers. His works — like the 'Sabre Dance' from the ballet 'Gayane' — are full of Armenian folk melodies and rhythms. But he had to navigate the Stalinist system. His music was sometimes criticized for 'formalism' — that is, being too modern or nationalistic. Luna: How did he survive that? Lucas: He adapted. He wrote more accessible pieces, like film scores. And he was protected by his fame. But his music always retained that Armenian flavor. Listen to the 'Adagio of Spartacus and Phrygia' — it sounds like a duduk melody, even though it's played by a full orchestra. Luna: So music was a way to preserve identity under Soviet rule too. Lucas: Exactly. And not just classical — folk music thrived in the diaspora. In Beirut, in Los Angeles, in Marseille. The 'ashugh' tradition — troubadours who sang epic tales — continued. The most famous ashugh was Sayat Nova, an 18th-century poet and musician who sang in Armenian, Georgian, and Azeri. His songs are still performed. Lucas: What's remarkable is how music became a vessel for memory. After the genocide, survivors composed songs about their lost villages, their families. There's a whole genre called 'gusan' music — bards who kept the oral tradition alive. And today, musicians like Arto Tunçboyacıyan blend folk with jazz and experimental. Luna: So it's not just preservation — it's evolution. Lucas: Right. Armenian music is living. It's not stuck in a museum. Every generation reinterprets it. And that's how the culture survives — not by staying frozen, but by adapting while keeping the core. The duduk still wails, the khaz still guides the liturgy, and Komitas' songs still bring people to tears. Luna: I think I need to listen to some of this after the show. Lucas: You should. Start with Komitas' 'Divine Liturgy' and then Djivan Gasparyan's 'I Will Not Be Sad in This World'. It'll give you a sense of the range — from sacred to folk. And maybe that's the last word: Armenian music is a story of loss, but also of resilience. It's the sound of a people refusing to be silenced.