Where Shame Unravels: A Night in Yerevan’s Techno Scene

2026-03-30 - 12:51

Listen to the AI generated audio article. Your browser does not support the audio element. Who are you when you’re alone? When the noise of the day dissolves, when the practiced smiles and borrowed words fade into stillness, who is it that lingers in the silence? Few people will argue that as a nation, we often grapple with the dogma of internalized shame: amot e becomes carved so fiercely into the very fabric of who we are that we don’t know anything different. To deny this unspoken law of shame is to be made an outcast, set aside like unwanted goods. So let me ask you, my fellow countrypeople, when the script of perfection and performance slips from your hands, when you are no longer playing the role written for you by our society, who rises in its place? On a rain-laden spring night in Yerevan, I sit in the backseat of a Yandex Comfort, clad in clammy gym clothes, dead sober and en route to a nightclub alone. The glare of my phone tells me it’s already half past midnight but the heaviness of my eyelids had already reached that conclusion. My reveries of turning the car around and going home to eat chocolate in my pajamas are cut short when I realize my taxi driver has turned away from the folly of the Ashtarak Highway and is heading down a short passageway dotted with bleak trees. Tucked safely away from the eternal hum of one of Yerevan’s major arteries, is a large, dreary and presumably forlorn estate. The area is a 20-minute drive outside the city’s center, so its surroundings are predictably skeletal—and paired with the inertness of nightfall, it resembles the early scenes of a horror film. We pull up to an iron gate that’s firmly shut, with no sign of life around. Even the trees looked dead. For a split second, I wonder if the driver has brought me to the wrong place, until he kindly says, “Kuyr jan, you need to walk the rest of the way.” I thank him and disembark from the tranquil shelter of his Tesla. Photo by Davit Nersisyan. I pass the gate on foot and as I turn the corner, I hear the faint yet crooning thump of bass. It disables the stillness of night and effortlessly coaxes me closer until I finally see a looming edifice in the distance, lit up like a pine tree on Christmas. In this open stretch of land, bordered by unmanicured grass and bare trees, the brightly lit façade of Hayfilm studio comes into view. I can’t help but appreciate its striking composition, reminiscent of a time that is beyond my comprehension, owed largely to my diasporic omission from Sovietism. The large rectangular building boasts three impressive levels, entirely visible through rows of narrow windows portioned off by panels. Each level is illuminated by red, purple and orange downlights. Against the backdrop of the night sky, the lights are completely spellbinding. Already, without having stepped inside, I feel privy to the secret of what lies within. I want to preface the next part by saying that anytime in the last few months that I have met someone new in Yerevan, especially from the diaspora, they immediately ask, “Have you been to Hayfilm?” Then, I’m forced to stare back at them dumbly and ask the silly question; “Uh, is that like a theater?” I couldn’t help but feel like I was excluded from this secret world, one that everyone in my little globe knew about but I didn’t. I mean, how could I claim to be a techno DJ and not have gone? With forerunning fixtures like The Office and Poligraf shutting their doors, my reluctance to re-enter Yerevan’s techno scene had been silently snowballing. Perhaps the reluctance also stemmed from one drunken night not long ago, when my friend convinced me to try out an alternative techno club. “It’s supposed to be really great,” he huffed, so we all paid 4000 AMD at the door, only to go downstairs and be met with a hazy room that smelled like pheromones and weed. Two blonde women dressed in dominatrix outfits danced erotically to minimal techno on an empty dancefloor and about six men, the entire population of the club, stood idly by to watch with gaping mouths. That was it. I left almost straight away because I hate minimal techno. Despite the last taste in my mouth being that clandestine, erogenous congregation of gawking men, my first impression of Hayfilm is different. The place itself bears the quiet gravity of a bygone age. The building was once used to churn out Soviet films, helping serve the political agenda of Marxist-Leninist ideology. Hayfilm has had a few names since its establishment in the 1920s, until it landed on this one which pays homage to the late Hamo Beknazaryan, a prominent Armenian film director, actor and screenwriter. In recent years, an organization called MOCT has taken to hosting electronic music events there, transforming it now into the cult-club it has become. Describing themselves as a collective “that brings together enthusiasts of electronic music and contemporary art in Armenia,” they are responsible for bringing internationally acclaimed artists to Armenian audiences, including the likes of Nina Kraviz, Jeff Mills, Ricardo Villalobos and other hugely recognized, well-established figures. Some of their artists are Berghain (Germany) veterans, which is arguably the most famous techno club in the world right now. Regarding the refurbishment of the space at Hayfilm to cater for these events, MOCT states that it embarked on the renovations to “rebuild the conceptual history of this historical site, infusing it with renewed purpose...[and] showcase the history of Armenia’s post-art film incubator... merging music and contemporary art.” Photo by Davit Nersisyan. As I approach the main entrance, I am greeted by two male security guards and a younger man dressed in a stylish black and grey outfit. A quick glance at Hayfilm’s Instagram page will ask you to heed their warning; the club exercises the right to implement strict “face control” policies. I have never heard this term used in Australia, so for anyone else who’s never heard of it either, it’s basically a veneer for venues to subjectively screen people at the entrance based on their appearance, style, observed status or “vibe”. The term traces its origin back to Russia and is still widely used in some post-Soviet countries and across Europe. In Australia, we don’t call it face control, however it definitely exists in some of the bigger, more upscale venues in my city. I once worked the door at one of the largest nightclubs in the country, renowned for its huge LGBTQI parties, and also quickly came to understand the gravity of deciding who may enter vulnerable spaces. While a lot of the time, this policy exists to freely allow venues to refuse entry to undesirable patrons, there’s an unspoken understanding of why it exists in Armenia, especially in spaces like these. I offer the doorman a small smile and he returns it politely, asks if I’m a guest and then ushers me inside. Waiting for me behind the doors is a mature, female security guard standing by a white table. In her hand is a small metal detector. I feel like I’m passing through airport security. She frisks me and runs the metal detector over my body; however, unlike the airport security officers, she manages to do it in a way that’s gentle and oddly nurturing. Once I pass through the second door, the music starts to grow louder. For as long as I can remember, music for me has been a quiet liberator, the brilliant light at the end of a long tunnel. Without turning into a blubbering cliché, it has pulled me out from the pits of hell, propped me up on its imperfect shoulders, carried me through life and given me a chance to express, vent, create, release and more. In my adulthood, I explored this passion until many years ago, I landed on becoming a DJ. It also feels like poetic irony that my mother decided to name me Melodie (Meghety), so maybe it was a prophecy or the catalyst that propelled me into it. Perhaps it was inevitable that I would become a kind of teenage-adult in my thirties, lost in playing the sounds of hard techno/groove, trance, progressive house or anything that carries that filthy, heart-palpitating bass. After I am finished being frisked, the female security guard checks my bag and only when she is satisfied that my bottle of water is in fact water, she points me to a desk to pay. The reception area is almost clinical, with stark-naked walls and an open-air cloakroom. A young girl working behind the counter takes 5000 AMD for my entry. I cloak my jacket for another 500 AMD, then I head inside. Photo by Davit Nersisyan. The first room I enter is the bar. At nearly 1 a.m., it’s virtually empty. The music is a progressive mix of electro-funk, house and EDM. My heart aches for the DJ whose energetic set list is played to an audience of three. The bar is manned by two bartenders who alternate between staring into the abyss or finding something to fiddle with as they wait for more patronage. I immediately notice the crushing amount of Jagermeister lined up behind them. The room itself is so minimalistic and stripped of decor that it feels almost intentional, as if to give way for the people inside to grace it with character. Looking around at the only other people in the room, all with a distinctive and eccentric style, they certainly carried the torch of embellishing the otherwise blank space. I text my friend who comes here every other week. “Dude, when does it get busy here?” He replies unhelpfully, “It depends.” When I mentioned I was planning to go to a nightclub alone, a friend immediately recalled a story she still finds amusing. Like me, she is from the diaspora, though she grew up in Kyrgyzstan, where going to clubs with her friends was considered normal activity. When she moved to Yerevan in 2022, she was out with her new colleagues and the topic of clubs came up. My friend revealed to them that she has been to many nightclubs, which garnered a wave of disbelief from the table. “You can’t be serious?” one of them said. She told me the next part with a wide grin: “Mel, they were genuinely shocked that I went to nightclubs.” It quickly became clear that women who frequent clubs are sometimes seen as less “pure,” less “good” than those who don’t. Apparently, she didn’t fit their idea of what a woman who goes clubbing looks like. Photo by Davit Nersisyan. The DJ playing in Hayfilm’s main bar transitions into his next track, “A Little Bit of Ecstasy” by Jocelyn Enriquez. Few seem to understand how techno began and if they did, they might better appreciate the intention behind the curation. I enjoy his set so much that I sit for close to an hour just to listen. In that time, waves of people come and go and slowly, the venue starts filling up. Behind the DJ, encased by two speakers held up on the wall by chains, the screen changes to a psychedelic loop of a horse propped up by balloons, flying through an ethereal sky. If this was Australia, it would undoubtedly be a reference to ketamine, a prescription medication that’s turned into a popular party narcotic. Here, I’m not so sure. As the next DJ arrives, plugs in his USB and starts the switch over, I figure it’s finally a good time to explore the rest of the venue. I see an entrance to my left and instinctively follow it. A few steps further and I’m in a room with red downlights and Oriental artwork hanging on the walls. In one of them, a man holds a woman in a lustful embrace; I like this one. Then in front of me, I’m given a choice of two doors. I feel a bit like Alice in Wonderland, minus all the hard drugs she was probably on. While I have never been here before, my body knows where to go. Dingy, strange and unorthodox places have never felt foreign to me. In fact, it’s the pristine, picket-fence spaces that make me want to run and hide. I feel safer amid the turmoil, concealed in rooms that are thick with smoke, don sticky floors and are heavy with the smell of sweat and vodka. Photo by Davit Nersisyan. I choose the first door and immediately as I enter, I feel an atmospheric quantum leap. While the bar felt more middle-of-the-road, this room embodied hedonistic techno as we know it today. In the gathering dark, all you can see are the silhouettes of vacillating bodies, hypnotically facing the DJ. Lit by a towering projection on the wall, we all meet before her throne, drawn in like moths to the light. The visuals on the screen remind me of old school VCR end frames, a catastrophic seizure of grey lines that should come with an epilepsy warning. While it’s not dark enough for me to feel unseen, it’s dark enough that I go by unnoticed. I beeline for an unoccupied back corner. I can’t help but be reminded of the “dark rooms” in some European techno clubs, which are purposefully blacked out to allow for sensory-deprived dancing and, depending on the venue, the quiet possibility of discreet sexual activity. It’s often tied with gritty, industrial techno music and merges anonymity with pushing the socially built boundaries of oneself. This whole sensation of feeling invisible is intriguing. Photo by Davit Nersisyan. American evangelist Dwight L. Moody once said, “Character is what you are in the dark.” Here, in the absence of light, you can be anybody you want. You can move however you want, say whatever you think, play any character that your heart desires. In the obscurity of a dark room, enlivened by the energetic thump of techno, people are given the space to become who they truly are, or who they quietly long to be. Since moving to Armenia, I have often found myself feeling forced to wear a different kind of mask than I’m used to. I am more reserved, more contained, more “proper”. It’s the way I have always felt when running in cultural circles, even back home. There isn’t much room to be more than what is expected of a young woman and if you don’t fit that mold, you’re hurled into a pile with all the other rebellious harlots. In this darkness, I can drop that mask—I am whoever I think I am. It’s so liberating and cathartic that I almost forget I’m sober. In more recent years, I have toyed relentlessly with sobriety. As a DJ, you are constantly surrounded by the enticement of a “good time” and more often than not, it just comes naturally with the job. Many of my peers can’t perform without a drink in hand. Since practicing periods of sobriety, I have been cast out of certain circles. Many of my DJ acquaintances start off being understanding and even supportive—”Go you! I could never!” but gradually over time, I stopped receiving invites to events. In the world of raves and electronic music, substance use is widely regarded as a bastion of the scene. I exist within this world, yet somehow I’m also outside it. Sometimes, it’s hard for me to enjoy the scene while simultaneously flirting with sobriety. However, while I stand in the dark corner of this room, wearing my gym clothes because “pre-gaming” looks a little different these days, I feel at ease. No one knows I’m sober, no one cares that I’m here alone. In fact, no one even cares that I’m here. Techno relies on the listener being able to go against the grain, to face their inner shadows and embrace them, to challenge what is considered normal and socially acceptable and “good”. To my right, a couple makes out aggressively and just in front of me, four men stand a foot apart from each other and dance. It warms my heart to see them feeling comfortable enough to move their hips to the music, and even though the movement is small, its meaning is huge. The ability to express oneself, without restraint in a public space, is not something readily afforded to many. For a minute, in this ill-lit room, I have no mask on. I don’t have to cosplay as a picture-perfect woman, or embody some vision of idyllic passivity that’s built to yield food and children. Tucked safely into this back corner, I stand as both witness and spectacle, an observer of self-expression through music and of the spaces that make it possible. Photo by Davit Nersisyan. I check the time on my phone and realize it’s almost 3 a.m., way longer than I anticipated I’d survive here alone. In Sydney, most clubs are closing their doors by now, or preparing to. Outside, I walk back to the gate where it all began. On my way out, a man swaying drunkenly near the bushes peers at me over his shoulders. “Is it that boring that you are leaving already?’ he calls out. I see that my Yandex has arrived, so I hurry down the walkway. A white Tesla awaits me. Looking back, the past three hours blur at the edges, as if they never happened at all. As soon as I forget the night, it will forget me too. However, I must confess something to you, dear reader: whatever else remains of that night, I keep for myself. The beauty of electronic music, especially the likes of techno, is that those in attendance of these events must feel free enough to be who they are, without fear of judgment, exhibition or exposure. It is not my place to air their stories or experiences. Some things are just better lived, not told. Comment Cover photo by Roubina Margossian. LIFESTYLE Contemplation March’s SALT issue, “Contemplation”, takes a reflective look at how we live, unwind and make sense of the world around us. From rethinking what fun means for a new generation and the quiet lessons of turning 25, to the liberating pull of rave culture as a space for self-expression, and the enduring realities of water scarcity in