There was a fidgety energy in Tbilisi on election night. Young voters poured into the city’s bars to stare at their phones in disbelief that, despite predictions, the ruling Georgian Dream party had taken a decisive lead in the polls. The rock song “Yes It’s Fucking Political” by Skunk Anansie thundered at Mutant Radio, where people had gathered in scarf-clad clusters to drink beer in the cold. A poster above them read: “By entering the territory of Mutant Radio, you agree that Putin is a war criminal, Russia is an occupier, and you respect the territorial integrity of Georgia, Ukraine and any other country that fell victim to Russian occupation.”
In the early hours of Sunday, it became increasingly clear that Georgian Dream (GD) was gaining ground. The 26th October election, one of the country’s most significant since its hard-won independence from the Soviet Union in 1991, had been framed as a choice between Russia and Europe. When GD announced it had 54.2 per cent of the vote, it was a bitter blow for Georgians—especially the young—who had hoped and campaigned for closer alignment with Europe.
Reports have since emerged of voter intimidation and coercion at the polls, with the pro-western opposition refusing to concede defeat and Georgia’s president Salome Zourabichvili labelling the country a victim of a “Russian special operation”. On Monday night, the pro-EU president gave a passionate address to thousands of protesters at a rally outside parliament, saying: “They stole your vote and tried to steal your future. But no one has the right to do that, and you will not allow it.”
Just over a week ago, the mood had been full of hope for the future at the March for Europe up the road at Freedom Square. A roster of musicians gave speeches to rally support, including operatic bass and activist Paata Burchuladze, as well as singer Niaz Diasamidze. “Whose country is this?” they demanded. “Ours!” the crowd yelled back. It was a riot of music and colour, the flags of Ukraine, Europe and Georgia flying together.
The sounds of protest can also be heard underground. Since the GD tightened its grip on civil society by passing several “Russian-style” bills, such as the “Family Values Bill” (which curbs LGBTQ+ rights and freedoms) and the “Foreign Agents” law (which imposes significant limitations and potential fines on NGOs and media organisations), the underground scene in Tbilisi has responded in the way they know best: through sound.
Music has long served as a tool of resistance for Georgians. Under Soviet rule, monks worked to preserve polyphonic singing when it was banned from 1921 to 1990. And now, the threatened LGBTQ+ community has found a safe space in the country’s nightclubs.
Since it opened in 2014, Bassiani, the world-famous techno club, has become a politically charged venue. Set up in a disused swimming pool; the club is a refuge for freedom of expression against a backdrop of creeping authoritarianism. “Techno became a countercultural movement through spaces like Bassiani, a place to gather, exchange ideas and protest,” says Tato Rusia, who is part of the Tbilisi-based experimental hip-hop collective MokuMoku. “And then, in the last decade, more and more emerging bands, like the postpunk group SKAZZ and Quemmekh, began to devote their sound to social and political reasons.”
MokuMoku’s lyrics tap into their country’s troubles, They criticise wealthy Russian immigrants who have created bubbles in Tbilisi and have several songs advocating fiercely for full Georgian independence, such as “True North” from their latest album. “Born to revolt, to disobey, to fight the norm, to go astray, to ride the storm, know right and wrong, to live and love, and fight for home.”
According to Sandro Kerauli, the lead vocalist and founder of the popular punk/rock band Quemmekh, the underground scene in Tbilisi has recently had a “fascinating transformation” into an explicitly political genre. Quemmekh’s resistance-focused and genre-blurring songs are now often sung at protests; banners brandished with their lyrics.
“My lyrics had to confront the harsh realities around us—both my individual experience and the collective struggles of our generation,” Sandro tells me. “Quemmekh is more than just a band; we’re part of a movement pushing boundaries.”
Several venues have been established for this new music, following in the footsteps of Bassiani. Venues such as Mutant Radio, Left Bank and Tes are spaces where the youth now unify around creative expression and raise political consciousness—a world away from the prevailing conservativism of the ruling government and the Orthodox Christian values that underscore public discourse.
Mutant Radio, founded by Tata Janashia and Nina Botchorishvili, was created in 2019 to build a bridge between Georgia and the wider world through music. It broadcasts innovative sound—avant-garde improv, hip-hop, experimental electronica—from a caravan wagon in a disused substation, and works with homegrown labels such as AWWWARA, which draws inspiration from Georgian instruments and folklore.
The station’s founders currently feel “deeply impacted” by the current political climate. “The recent elections were far from fair,” claims Tata. “We had hoped for change, but perhaps that was idealistic. Despite the despair we feel now, we must come together to protect our voices and our community.”
In the wake of the result, Nina and Tata are ready to redouble their efforts: “Our mission at Mutant Radio has grown to amplify voices that reflect the challenges we face while also providing a platform for those who dare to question, create and resist. We want our listeners to think critically about the world around them and the changes they want to see.”
For Quemmekh’s Sandro, the future of the Georgian underground scene feels both promising and uncertain. “I still believe artists will play an increasingly vital role in mobilising voices against injustice,” he maintains. “The music we make today will lay the groundwork for future generations, reminding them of the power of expression in the face of adversity. The fight for a better future is far from over.”
In these spaces—on stages and through sets—music in Tbilisi has become a defiant weapon of expression and resistance, a frontier against an increasingly repressive landscape. Whether through techno or postpunk, the sounds from the underground in Tbilisi blare like foghorns, reminding the world that the sounds of Georgia’s resistance are too mighty to be muted, however hard the authorities may try.
