The first guest on the new podcast about Ukrainian musicians who are soldiers and have returned from the frontlines was Stanislav Nevmerzhytskyi, a musicologist, founder of the online classical music media The Claquers, co-creator of Radio Iceland, and defender of Ukraine. In the spring of 2024, he joined the army, served in Donetsk Oblast, and returned from the front in October 2025.
The author and initiator of the podcast, Dzvenyslava Safian, spoke with the veteran. We are publishing a text version of the conversation.
Stas, I remember your post about how you often listened to Valentyn Silvestrov’s Bagatelles on the front lines. What else was on your playlist? And in general, what do your comrades listen to?
Stas Nevmerzhytskyi: Yes, I found an album on Spotify that has most of his Bagatelles. It was easier for me to fall asleep and calm down with this music. I also listened to Edward Kravchuk’s piano music — we studied together at the conservatory. It was something slow, not something you want to analyze. Your brain doesn’t work on that: analyzing something, thinking, remembering what you learned at the conservatory. Just to switch off.
Well, and then — when I fell asleep — the guys told me that I had a symphony orchestra playing in my headphones, or something else. I don’t remember that anymore. I just woke up in the morning when they woke me up for duty, and my headphones were somewhere else. Then I found it easier to fall asleep in silence.
My guys listen to a wide variety of music. I discovered what military personnel generally listen to. For example, I was unaware of Nord Division or Timur Mutsuraev, a bard who participated in the war against Russia and sang about it. These are songs inspired by that experience. Yarmak is also a soldier, fighting in the war. There is also a lot of Ukrainian music. I wasn’t really interested in what our artists were releasing about the war before. Or it was something completely unrelated — like Sadsvit or DK Energetyk. But the military really likes this vibe, this sound — it’s very close to them.
You joined the army in early 2024. What motivated that decision?
Stas Nevmerzhytskyi: There is no single reason, they just came together at some point. Perhaps, first of all, it was a postponed decision. At the beginning of the full-scale invasion, I lived in Chabany. The village was cut off from Kyiv: public transport was not running, there were no cars.
On February 24 or 25, I went to the Territorial Defense Forces: “So, what are we going to do, guys?” And they said, “I don’t know. We have one machine gun. We’ll walk the streets with sticks.” Then they said, “Everyone who wants to join the Territorial Defense Forces — you’re being taken to Kyiv now to be issued weapons.” My neighbors, who were also musicians, had cars: “Let’s go, we’ll fight.” They gave us automatic weapons — without ammunition, without magazines. And we stood there with them, no one knowing what to do. A guy who had already been in the Ukraine’s anti-terrorist operation in Donbas, looked at us and said, “God, take those automatic weapons away from them.”
Then we were fired upon, so we hid behind a curb. A soldier saw that I had gotten my rifle dirty in the mud and scolded me. Our senior officer, who had led us there, had already disappeared. We realized that the only sensible thing to do was to hand over the rifles to the police station. That’s when I decided: if you don’t know how to do something, don’t do it.
And then my good friend Ivan Kuzminskyi died. He was my teacher and mentor. He was a researcher of ancient music and editor of the Maliatko TV channel, the first Ukrainian-language children’s channel. It was a huge blow.
Read also: He Was in a Hurry to Live. In memory of Ivan Kuzminskyi
I gradually began to lose sight of the value of what I was doing. I could clearly see that I was becoming ineffective. Even my achievements did not bring me joy.
And I realized: if you are ineffective where you are, go fight.
On April 1, I signed a contract with the National Guard.
You were in the Serebrianskyi Forest, in the Toretsk and Pokrovsk directions, right?
Stas Nevmerzhytskyi: Yes. I wasn’t in the Serebrianskyi Forest for long — I had two missions there. Then we were transferred closer to New York, a village in the Donbas region of Ukraine, and we were also stationed on the outskirts of Toretsk. Then in the Pokrovsk direction.
As for the operation near Pokrovsk, it was our Sixth Battalion. It was the backbone around which the adjacent units worked. We were very successful in holding back the Russian advance at that time. But as often happens, when we left, everything we had held back was lost in literally two weeks.
The hardest thing for me in the army was adapting. Everything was new, and my brain told me that it was a complete downsizing. Your brain lies to you that you have “achieved something,” but now you are sitting in the forest, being chased around, eating dirt because you are tired of doing push-ups. But if you accept these new rules of the game, everything becomes okay.
I never shied away from tasks. They weren’t impossible, but they were dangerous. I didn’t back down. My conscience is clear. You won’t be haunted by memories of doing something wrong and causing someone’s death.
Before mobilization, you reacted sharply to the “cultural front” and Russian music in Ukrainian programs. How about now?
Stas Nevmerzhytskyi: Back then, I had to react. All those words about principles and patriotism would have been hypocritical if I hadn’t gone to war. I was tired of seeing our people hugging Russians in Europe for three kopecks.
Being a famous conductor or violinist doesn’t mean you’re a smart or moral person. You can mold and train people: in school, in tenth grade, in college — there are still trainers there. And in conservatory, it’s just polishing.
It is impossible to train thinking. And this is where our musicians fail. Their logic is: “I am a good musician, therefore I am a good person.” This is not true.
When I went to war, why should I pay attention to fools? We’ll talk to them later.
And the thesis “the military will come and restore order”?
Stas Nevmerzhytskyi: No. I quit two months ago, and my body is only now starting to break down physically. All the injuries and concussions that I didn’t pay attention to before because of cortisol are coming out. How am I going to get my life back on track? I’m just glad I can get out of bed. This thesis is false. That’s what civil society is for, to deal with this “sanitation.”
Ukrainian musicians abroad often say that programs are “unprofitable” without Russians…
Stas Nevmerzhytskyi: That’s a lie. Classical music around the world operates on a subsidy model. Guys, you live in Europe on subsidies simply because you are poor refugees. Europe is full of grants, but you have to have the conscience to say “no” to people you don’t want to share the stage with. If you don’t like it, come to Ukraine. There is a lot of freedom here: play cheap gigs, give concerts on rooftops, underground. You can even go to war.
Athletes are now showing much more integrity; they knock them out. And our “I didn’t shake his hand”… Break his hand! Our people go to competitions to earn 2,000 euros so they can afford coffee at fancy streets. In Zhytomyr, at the school, they told us: “Why are they stupid? Because they’re poor. Why are they poor? Because they’re stupid.” This applies to every third musician abroad. I don’t feel sorry that good musicians have become hacks there. They were nothing here too, nobodies on the inside.
It’s high time law enforcement agencies got involved with the Ministry of Culture. They should check these travel permits, which were written as if on a machine, and those who did not return. Shuffling papers is hard work, it burns you out. My example from the Ukrainian Cultural Foundation: I won a grant when I was already in the army. There, you work for six days without a phone; they give them out once a week. They write to me: “Congratulations!” I say: “I’m in the army, it’s not relevant.” And the woman on the other end says: “You have to sign a waiver.” I can’t physically do it! But without the paper, nothing will work in a state organization. It’s idiotic.
Do you not see yourself entirely in the music profession now?
Stas Nevmerzhytskyi: When I was discharged, I started looking for a job. Employers are afraid of the word “veteran.” They believe that we are all mentally scarred and will lash out at people. Now I work at an SMM agency that is not related to music, that’s my main income. I work more as a copywriter in music organizations. I help those who need it, but I became freer.
There is more freedom in Ukraine now than when I was studying. But the generational change is happening like this: those who came to slay the dragon are turning into the dragon themselves.
I am glad that a book about Liatoshynskyi has been published. For me, the authors — Iryna Tukova and Olena Korchova — are even more important than Liatoshynskyi himself. This is the work of enthusiasts and the private publishing house Laboratoria, which is now owned by a military man. The state did not take on this task; professionals did.
Has your military experience changed you?
Stas Nevmerzhytskyi: Not much has changed. My values are the same. I’ve become calmer and more confident. I’ve lost weight, which makes it more pleasant to look in the mirror. But fundamentally, no.
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The podcast is released with the support of the Polish-German Cooperation Foundation.
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