SASHA GALIANOV - KOTA DAVUDOVA
music album and happening
music album and happening
This album is not just a release— it is an intimate story of collaboration and relationship between Kota Davudova and Sasha Galianov. Kota Davudova is also the name of the album. We decided to credit Sasha as the author of the album while keeping my name in its title, positioning him as the creator and me as the material—yet, at the same time, leaving nothing but our two names and our two identities.
video clip "PALM"
1/ Orci glitch pop jazz song about dead sparrow, lyrics by Catullus
2/ Delo Tabak muezzins and piano quotes from Bela Bartok, lyrics by non existent poet Fyodor Terentiev
3/ Palm northern guitar and indien academic vocals, lyrics by Heinrich Heine
4/ Mir Brate Mir! 'Jesus Christ superstar' samples mixtape, lyrics by Sasha Galianov
5/ Director's Cut electronic pop dance with Spanish guitar and samples of Lars von Trier, lyrics by Kota Davudova
6/ Shh! rap on violence, lyrics by Sasha Galianov
7/ Svi Pesni a wedding song, audio collage with a Serbien and Russian grandma
8/ Jungle Bells gu zheng & gu tsin merry Xmas song, lyrics by Kota Davudova
I wrote or found some lyrics and created the melodies. Sasha produced and composed the music. The album features songs in multiple languages—German, English, Serbian, Latin, and Russian. It is, in a way, a chronological history of our relationship told through music. However, we separated before the album was completed, making a traditional concert format impossible.
To bring closure not only to the album but also to my personal story— I decided to replace the concert with a happening. A happening-disco, where tracks from the album played alongside those that inspired it, and where every album track existed of course as a slow dance.
Happening-Disco: A Valentine’s Day Experiment
On February 14, 2025, we held a Happening-Disco—a reimagining of the school dance experience. We recalled the nervous anticipation of childhood, walking into a party at summer camp or a school disco, wondering if someone would invite us to dance. These moments were charged with both excitement and fear—the possibility of being chosen or rejected, of stepping closer, making contact, showing interest. This is the space we aimed to create.
The event began with a performative practice, where participants learned to invite and reject, to accept rejection, and to ask questions. But despite this preparation, nothing could save us from the overwhelming awkwardness that took over once the disco actually started. By many accounts, it was the most painfully uncomfortable event they had ever attended.
One unexpected factor added to the unease—there were significantly more men than women, which is rare for such events and only heightened the tension. I was invited to dance a couple of times, but overall, very few people dared to move.
We also removed all the chairs from the space, thinking it would encourage dancing. Instead, we quickly realized how difficult that made things. People pressed themselves against the walls, unsure what to do with their bodies. At one point, a guy found a chair in the storage room and sat down, but once he noticed how isolated he had become, he put it back. The space returned to its chairless discomfort.
All of this—the skewed gender ratio, the hesitation, the tension—created a total throwback to school dances, where all our well-rehearsed adult social strategies collapsed in the face of something so simple, yet so daunting: closeness.
For me, this event wasn’t just about presenting an album; it was about immersing others in the emotions behind it. Rather than simply playing the music, I wanted to build a space where the album could be felt—where intimacy was not a comfort, but a challenge.
On February 14, 2025, we held a Happening-Disco—a reimagining of the school dance experience. We recalled the nervous anticipation of childhood, walking into a party at summer camp or a school disco, wondering if someone would invite us to dance. These moments were charged with both excitement and fear—the possibility of being chosen or rejected, of stepping closer, making contact, showing interest. This is the space we aimed to create.
The event began with a performative practice, where participants learned to invite and reject, to accept rejection, and to ask questions. But despite this preparation, nothing could save us from the overwhelming awkwardness that took over once the disco actually started. By many accounts, it was the most painfully uncomfortable event they had ever attended.
One unexpected factor added to the unease—there were significantly more men than women, which is rare for such events and only heightened the tension. I was invited to dance a couple of times, but overall, very few people dared to move.
We also removed all the chairs from the space, thinking it would encourage dancing. Instead, we quickly realized how difficult that made things. People pressed themselves against the walls, unsure what to do with their bodies. At one point, a guy found a chair in the storage room and sat down, but once he noticed how isolated he had become, he put it back. The space returned to its chairless discomfort.
All of this—the skewed gender ratio, the hesitation, the tension—created a total throwback to school dances, where all our well-rehearsed adult social strategies collapsed in the face of something so simple, yet so daunting: closeness.
For me, this event wasn’t just about presenting an album; it was about immersing others in the emotions behind it. Rather than simply playing the music, I wanted to build a space where the album could be felt—where intimacy was not a comfort, but a challenge.
photo Yaroslav Bulavin
