Civilnet
By Brigitta Davidjants
Some 20 years ago, I briefly studied at the Yerevan Conservatory. As a young musicologist, I had to write a research paper on Armenian music. I suggested rabiz – a genre that, at the time, was everywhere: blaring from cars outside the opera, playing in street cafés, and on early mobile phones.
Rabiz was also a staple at diaspora parties back home in Estonia, where it accompanied dances I, regrettably, never learned. However, my suggestion was immediately dismissed. "You see – this music is of the common people," a professor kindly explained, steering me toward analyzing Komitas' solo songs. My musically sophisticated Armenian friends also didn’t understand my curiosity about rabiz, preferring instead to discuss Stevie Wonder's harmonies.
Rabiz, of course, is a world apart from Stevie Wonder. Musically, anthropologist Rik Adriaans described it as often defined by a 6/8 time signature, featuring vocals accompanied by instruments like the clarinet, synthesizer, dhol drum, or drum machine. Produced in vast quantities and with a touch of South Caucasian folk intonation, rabiz ranges from intricate compositions to relatively simple productions. Historically, it has been associated with Armenian migrants from Baku, Kirovabad, and rural parts of Armenia.
"Rabiz music, while enjoying large popularity among the often transnationally linked and mobile precarious working class – made up of Armenian truck drivers, petty traders, and migrant workers – is viewed with suspicion and disdain by much of Armenia's national intelligentsia, who see in it a degenerated 'low culture' allegedly corrupted by non-Armenian influences from its Muslim neighbors," explains David Leupold, social scientist.
This connection resonates with my own memories. A major criticism of rabiz among music professionals of my youth was its association with Armenia's hostile Muslim neighbours and their musical traditions. So rabiz was never just music – it was also a marker of cultural boundaries.
The changing meaning of rabiz
Several decades later, rabiz is heard far less on the streets of Yerevan. Yet, I began to notice that attitudes toward rabiz had become increasingly varied. This realization struck me one spring evening at a bar in Yerevan. As youth partied, a female DJ began playing rabiz, and the crowd rushed to the dance floor with abandon. Their dancing was also different – reminiscent of how my peers and I moved at rave clubs in our youth.
This led me to ponder how perceptions of rabiz have changed across generations and whether these views differ between Armenians in the diaspora and those living locally. Of course, such inquiry, in turn, opens a broader discussion, as the diaspora encompasses a wide range of experiences, from Yerevan in Armenia to Los Angeles in the United States, or to Tallinn in the Baltic States.
To begin, I created an online questionnaire in English, Armenian, and Russian, asking respondents – along with their age, country of origin, and gender identity – about their first encounter with rabiz, what it reminds them of, how they would describe it, whether they like or dislike it, its role, and what story it would tell. I shared the survey on social media, with the Armenian Volunteers Corps group, and directly with contacts worldwide. I received over 30 responses from people aged 18 to 73, with the majority from Armenia, several from Estonia and Baku, and one each from Turkey and Cyprus. The respondents included musicians, artists, designers, teachers, analysts, IT specialists, marketers, and researchers. Except for those aged 70 and above, the gender distribution was fairly balanced, and most participants had higher education. While the sample size is too small for broad generalizations, the data revealed some patterns.
The generation of 18–30 years old
The youngest participants were mostly from Armenia, with a few from Estonia and one from Turkey. Most recalled first hearing rabiz at parties, through friends, at home, or at school. Their attitudes were generally positive or neutral, often accompanied by a touch of irony. Many viewed rabiz metaphorically as a love story, particularly one of unrequited love or breakups – “Armenians love sad love stories," as one participant put it.
Of course, not everyone in this age group shared the enthusiasm. Two participants, including one trained musician, expressed strong dislike. They associated rabiz with a social class rejecting classical music, often symbolized by noisy, chaotic behavior, such as poor driving habits and unruly crowds. In contrast, other participants acknowledged that rabiz isn’t for everyone but recognized its importance in certain contexts. As one respondent summarized: "I like it for parties, but I wouldn't want people to associate our culture with it.” A member of Turkish Armenian diaspora added: "Rabiz music is a local element of Armenia. Most people will admit they hate rabiz, but they secretly listen to it." This observation highlights the tension between outward rejection and private enjoyment, a dynamic many navigate in their personal relationship with the genre.
Despite the mixed reactions, rabiz’s nostalgic appeal emerged as a common theme. For many, it evokes memories of imagined simpler times, such as the "happy evenings of the 2000s" or driving in the car. Rabiz was seen as the story of an ordinary person. One participant succinctly noted: "Rabiz would be a middle-aged man going through an identity crisis, trying to stay relevant and young, but instead becoming a bit of a caricature."
The 30 to 40 and 40 to 60 generations
Among respondents aged 30–40, attitudes toward rabiz showed a clear shift compared to younger participants. This group, mostly composed people from Armenia and some from the diaspora, had the most direct connection to the music which represented the 1990s, a period marked by hardship in Armenia and economic struggles for the Eastern European diaspora.
Rabiz was the soundtrack of their childhood and youth, heard at parties or while playing in the garden – not a distant echo from the past. One participant reflected, "I don't love rabiz music, but I love what it stands for for me: I like it more because of the memories than the music itself."
In this group, rabiz was strongly associated with a particular social class, distinct from high culture, though not viewed with hostility. As one described, "A long nail on the little finger, a gold tooth, ppzats guys, white Niva, black Pajero, leopard print, bright and thick makeup, a lot of gold, people using the word kyank – such a collective image of the 'not the brightest part' of the nation."
Ethnic influences were also noted, with rabiz seen as drawing from Arab and Turkish music, though not always with negative connotations. Compared to other generations, this age group treated rabiz with the most respect, viewing it as "a tribute to the older generation and being part of that time." For them, the story rabiz told was not about love but "a story of life without rose-colored glasses," a sad tale with a bad ending.
In the 40–60 age group, with most participants from the diaspora, attitudes were similar. Respondents expressed positive or neutral views, even if they didn’t enjoy rabiz personally. For them, rabiz evoked memories of visits to Armenia or diaspora gatherings, tied to celebrations, holidays, and resorts. One participant recalled, "It reminds me of my childhood in Armenia. I like it despite having learned early on that rabiz is not 'good' music, according to my relatives who didn't hold it in particularly high regard. I remember asking my aunt: 'What is this music that comes from outside?' We were standing next to the open window, watching two men play nardi in the yard with rabiz blasting from the small radio speakers. That was the moment I became aware of rabiz, and it's one of the few fragments of memory I can still hold on to from my visit as a 6-year-old. How could I not like rabiz?"
Compared to younger respondents, social class antagonism emerged more often as a recurring theme. Rabiz was often viewed as the music of a more conservative part of the nation. Some respondents also acknowledged the influence of Islamic neighbors, with several musicians noting that rabiz was "a huge mixture of Armenian, Turkish, Kurdish, and Azeri music." Others saw its adaptability as a strength. One participant remarked, "Rabiz is the story of the Armenians' ability to blend different styles into a kind of so-called new Armenian music." An Armenian Cypriot musician and musicologist described rabiz as particularly "democratic" because it was loved by the people and had no pretensions of being "Armenian" or "elite".
Nostalgia played a key role across generations. For both local and diaspora communities, rabiz evoked a sense of belonging and simpler times when people overcame hardships together. One participant shared, "For me, rabiz is the non-serious Armenian music that is best reserved for multigenerational social gatherings or car rides with friends, with the window open:). It brings a sense of nostalgia for happy times with relatives. Life in Armenia was never easy, but rabiz reminds me how people overcame adversity together and kept spirits high despite the circumstances. That's how I imagine the height of its popularity – hard life but keeping the spirits high together."
The late 60s and early 70s generation
The most interesting responses came from participants in their late 60s and early 70s who were mostly academics, philologists, artists, and teachers. This group marked a significant shift in attitudes toward rabiz, with opinions turning sharply negative. Rabiz was seen not only as banal, with clichéd lyrics and simplistic melodies, but also as a product of lower-class tastes, sharply contrasting with high culture. One respondent referred to rabiz as "musical fast food" – easy to listen to but lacking intellectual or emotional depth. This perception of rabiz as "low culture" was also tied to a broader view of the young people who embraced rabiz as "poorly aware of modern cultural trends, far from reading books, visiting classical and folk music concerts, art galleries, and exhibitions."
The criticism of rabiz extended beyond music and was deeply connected to issues of class and ethnicity. Respondents argued that rabiz was not truly Armenian music, but rather a mixture of Arab, Turkish, and Azerbaijani harmonies, with poorly written Armenian lyrics and the influence of Mugham music. This ethnicity-related criticism was often intertwined with class and Sovietization, as many saw rabiz as a concession made by the lower class to music from foreign cultures. One participant recounted, "The peak of rabiz's popularity was from 1960–1980 when Azerbaijani singers gathered full stadiums of listeners in Yerevan. During these years, every day at 2 pm, Yerevan taxi drivers came to the car park to listen to Zeynab Khanlarova, Shovkat Alakbarova, and other prominent representatives of this genre."
Another aspect was that many respondents were from Baku but went to university in Yerevan. Being from Baku, they proudly recalled the city's cosmopolitan subculture. They positioned themselves firmly within the Western cultural sphere, mentioning their admiration for The Beatles, Charles Aznavour, The Rolling Stones, and the musical Jesus Christ Superstar. They also saw Yerevan as an intellectual centre for Western pop culture: "Yerevan of the 60s was very enlightened in terms of music, from the USA, France, Syria, Lebanon – relatives who were lucky enough to have them received parcels with jeans and discs."
Thus, many respondents linked rabiz to working-class youth, who were stereotypically depicted driving poor-quality Russian Niva cars with the music blaring. They also dismissed rabiz as inferior in the context of the Soviet system: "I wasn't interested in official Soviet culture... it was blatnoi music." Here, class distinctions also tied rabiz to Soviet pop culture, as one respondent explained: "I disdained Soviet pop music as secondary and of poor quality. I had to listen to rabiz at a pioneer camp, where village children played accordions and sang sweet songs. There was a distinctly social gradation of intelligent – not intelligent."
Interestingly, one respondent expressed anxiety that rabiz indicated a broader shift in Armenian youth culture. He feared that young people were abandoning Western values: "Broadly speaking, rabiz has its value as a grassroots, profane culture that needs to be analyzed and studied. Unfortunately, having moved away from the Russian-Soviet cultural vector and not acquiring a broad European one, young people are becoming more and more orientalized, watching TV serials, with music being their cultural analogue."
At the same time, one respondent, an Armenian from Baku, drew a distinction between himself and the Armenians of Armenia. Rabiz was a product of his own vanished culture, which he did not particularly like but respected to some extent: "The Armenians of Armenia have monopolized the right to interpret the history and phenomena of spiritual and cultural life. Rabiz, it seems to me, is the origin of the bourgeois art of the urban Armenians of Baku, then Kirovabad and other Azerbaijani cities. It is a transformation of the music of the Karabakh Armenians, a mixing of styles that shifted toward Turkish and possibly Iranian music." He further explained that after the pogroms, rabiz spread worldwide with the Armenians, but it was "primitivized" in the process.
Conclusion
When comparing these generations, we see how music can shape our perceptions and constructions of the past. Over time, social boundaries in music seem to diminish. It also looks as if in a freer society, where less is dictated or forced upon us, we can afford more kindness toward different types of music. Music no longer needs to be threatening or represent something aggressive, as rabiz did for the intellectual youth of the 1960s. Perhaps, if we try to translate these meanings — particularly those related to music — into each other's language at the same time and in the same place, we might have more hope of understanding one another across generations and cultural contexts.
Everyone is welcome to contribute to research on Rabiz here by filling in an anonymous questionnaire in Armenian, English or Russian.
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