Home »
Jazz Articles » Interview » Levon Eskenian: Giving Voice to the Sacred Lineage of Ar…

Levon Eskenian: Giving Voice to the Sacred Lineage of Armenian Music

Courtesy Andranik Sahakyan

It is not often you come across a musician whose work feels like a bridge—between cultures, centuries, and inner worlds. Levon Eskenian, the Armenian musician and artistic director behind the Gurdjieff Ensemble, is one of those rare figures. Through his thoughtful arrangements and deep cultural understanding, he has led the Ensemble in reimagining the music of Georges Ivanovitch Gurdjieff and Komitas—not as museum pieces, but as living, breathing works that still resonate today. Over the past decade and a half, Eskenian has devoted himself to returning the music of Gurdjieff to its natural home: the traditional instruments and modal systems of the East. From the haunting tones of the duduk to the delicate poetry of Komitas, Eskenian’s work is both archaeological and visionary, guided as much by intuition as by scholarship.

Drawing on traditional instruments and a profound respect for the roots of Eastern music, Eskenian has built a sound that reaches back through time, yet speaks clearly to the present. In this conversation, we take a closer look at his journey, both personal and musical, and the passion that fuels his tireless work in preserving and reshaping Armenia’s rich musical heritage.

All About Jazz: What initially inspired you to form the Gurdjieff Folk Instruments Ensemble?

Levon Eskenian:It began when I heard an ECM recording by

Anja Lechner


data-original-title=”” title=””>Anja Lechner and


data-original-title=”” title=””>Vassilis Tsabropoulos, then

Keith Jarrett


data-original-title=”” title=””>Keith Jarrett‘s recording of Gurdjieff’s music, then de Hartmann’s—especially the early recordings transcribed by Thomas de Hartmann. I didn’t hear something foreign. I heard echoes of Armenian, Greek, Kurdish, Assyrian, Arabic, and Middle Eastern melodies I’d grown up with in Lebanon, where there was a big Armenian community, where different cultures lived together. I realized that Gurdjieff’s music didn’t need to be interpreted as “Western art music.” These were folk-rooted spiritual transmissions. That’s what inspired me: to return these melodies to their original sonic languages, through traditional instruments and modal traditions, bringing the music back to its natural acoustic environment.

AAJ: How did you approach the task of adapting Gurdjieff’s music from piano to traditional folk instrumentation?

LE:Carefully and intuitively. Each piece was approached like an archaeological site. I would study the original score from de Hartmann’s transcription, identify its modal structure, rhythm, regional identity, and then find the traditional instrument or combination that could carry its spirit. I never try to decorate the melody—I try to uncover it. Many of these melodies were likely heard by Gurdjieff on his travels in Armenia, the Middle East, and Asia, and I’ve worked to reconstruct the arrangements in a way that resonates with those roots, without turning them into stylized world music.

AAJ: The ensemble has now released three albums on ECM. How has your artistic vision evolved over the years?

LE:The initial vision—to serve the spirit of Gurdjieff’s music and his perception of realities, search for truth—remains. But with time, it expanded. After the first album, I realized how strongly this approach resonated with listeners across cultures. Then came Komitas, and later the bardic tradition in Zartir. Each step felt natural, not like a stylistic shift but a deepening of the same current. What changed is perhaps the confidence—to trust intuition even more, and to let the repertoire expand while staying centered in the same essential questions: What is sacred in this music? How do we preserve it?

AAJ:What challenges did you face when working with traditional Armenian and Caucasian instruments to recreate Gurdjieff’s compositions?

LE:The biggest challenge is avoiding romanticization or cliché. Traditional instruments can quickly become exoticized. My goal was to use them in a way that preserved the integrity of the melody and modality—not to add color for its own sake. Another challenge was technical—some pieces required adapting to instruments with different tuning systems or limitations. But traditional musicians are deeply creative; many of them come from lineages where oral transmission and improvisation are natural. So once the direction was clear, the ensemble brought it to life with great sensitivity.

AAJ: Gurdjieff was not a trained musician, yet his melodies have a deep spiritual and folk resonance. What do you think made his music so unique?

LE:Because he listened—not as a collector, but as a seeker, a seeker of truths. He wasn’t analyzing the music; he was absorbing it as living knowledge. Gurdjieff believed in what he called “objective art,” art that carried an inner function. His melodies are not composed in the classical sense—they are crystallized experiences from Armenian Church music, Orthodox choral music, dervish ceremonies, monastery chants, and bardic songs. He filtered them through his being, and that’s what gives them this quality of presence. You feel that they’re not entertainment—they’re reminders.

AAJ: In your opinion, how did Gurdjieff’s upbringing and his father’s legacy as an ashugh (troubadour) influence his musical sensibilities?

LE: Very deeply. His father was an ashugh, like Sayat-Nova or Jivani—in oral tradition, poetry, and music. At ashugh gatherings in Armenia, from childhood, Gurdjieff must have understood that music could hold ethical, spiritual, and communal power. The ashugh tradition is not just about melody—it’s about truth-telling through music. That early encounter, combined with his exposure to Eastern liturgical and mystical traditions, gave him an unusually wide and deep musical memory.

AAJ: How do you interpret the connection between Gurdjieff’s teachings, movements—sacred dances—and his music?

LE: They are inseparable. The music for the movements were composed for movements—exercises meant to align body, emotion, and mind. These movements were not performances; they are spiritual work, should be approached as sacred work. The music serves as a means for attention, for self-remembering. The repetition, rhythm, and modal tension are all designed to support inner work. That’s why the music has this paradoxical quality: it’s simple, but it draws you inward. While music of the movements is different from the other part of his musical legacy.

AAJ: What was Thomas de Hartmann’s role in preserving Gurdjieff’s compositions, and how do you see your work in relation to his?

LE: De Hartmann’s work was essential. He had the technique, the musical humility, and the devotion to carry Gurdjieff’s melodies into the language of Western notation without losing their soul. His role was not to elaborate, but to serve. In a way, I feel my work continues that service—but in the other direction. I try to reverse the process, returning these pieces to traditional contexts, modal thinking, and organic instrumentation. We’re on the same path, just in opposite directions on the bridge.

AAJ: Your work with the ensemble has also focused on Komitas. How do you see the relationship between Komitas and Gurdjieff’s musical legacies?

LE: Both were seekers of truth through music. Komitas focused deeply on Armenian sacred and folk music—of course, after deeply researching the music of the entire region of the Middle East and not only. He not only collected rural folk music, but also purified the melodies, removing later ornamentation to reveal their core—what it was in ancient times. And he had the code, as he deciphered the old Armenian notation system—the khaz, which was used in Armenian Church music starting from the 4th century. Armenian church music and modes and Armenian folk music are closely connected, and sacred music is born from its folk music.

Gurdjieff moved across a wider geography—from Armenia to the Middle East and Asia—but his goal was similar. Both understood that music could carry spiritual knowledge, and both saw the danger of its distortion in modern culture. Their music is different in tone, but similar in intention.

AAJ: Komitas is often compared to Bartók in terms of preserving and elevating folk traditions. How do you think his work shaped Armenian national identity through music?

LE: Komitas gave Armenians a mirror—a sacred one. He showed that Armenian rural songs, church hymns, and shepherd tunes were profound. His harmonizations, his understanding of mode and modality, allowed Armenians to hear their own music not only as folklore but as a form of high art rooted in spirituality.

Other than his work as a scholar, collector, and decipherer of the notation system, as a composer, he laid the foundations of Armenian classical music. His compositional language was unique because it was born from Armenian music—not trying to fuse Western harmonies with Armenian melodies, but allowing the language to emerge from its modal system.

Especially after the trauma of the genocide, Komitas became a symbol of continuity—of identity through sound. What Bartók was for Hungarian and Transylvanian music is similar. That’s why both are considered pioneers of ethnomusicology.

AAJ: Were there particular writings or compositions by Komitas that influenced your approach to arranging these works?

LE: Yes, especially his “Seven Dances” and “Msho Shoror,” where he indicates the traditional instruments to be evoked by the pianist while interpreting the piano music, also mentioning the styles of interpretation. His sacred works, and his research on Armenian music, his definitions—his understanding of liturgical rhythm and modal intervals was very refined. Also, his treatment of silence—he knew when not to harmonize, when to leave a line alone. That discipline stayed with me. When arranging Komitas, I try to follow his own example: listen first, keep the essence intact.

AAJ: How do you balance historical accuracy and creative interpretation when arranging music from both Komitas and Gurdjieff?

LE: It’s always research and dialogue. I start from history, anthropology—scores, modal theory, ethnographic recordings—but at some point, intuition takes over. These are living traditions, not museum pieces. The key is to stay loyal to the essence.

AAJ: The album Zartir (ECM, 2024) delves into the Armenian troubadour tradition. How does it differ in concept and execution from your previous two albums?

LE: Zartir was a natural continuation, but with a different emotional color. The first Gurdjieff album had an inward, meditative energy. Komitas carried a sacred and archaic tone. With Zartir, we entered the world of the ashugh—the bard. These songs are both lyrical and spiritual, and social. There’s resistance, longing, beauty and sorrow. The execution also shifted—we used freer phrasing, and the voice became central, carrying both poetry and melody.

AAJ: The album references legendary bards like Sayat-Nova. How does their poetry and music resonate with Gurdjieff’s compositions?

LE: Sayat-Nova’s work—whose character is somehow familiar to many through Parajanov’s landmark film The Color of Pomegranates—his poetic ideas and music, like Gurdjieff’s, come from a place beyond ego. His music is devotional—even in love songs, there’s always a sense of elevation. Both are rooted in modal traditions, and both carry coded knowledge. Sayat-Nova used symbolic language and allegory to speak about spiritual truths; Gurdjieff transmitted experiences of temples, rituals, inner struggle. They speak different dialects of the same sacred geography.

AAJ: What role does improvisation play in your arrangements, given that both Gurdjieff’s and Komitas’ works have structured yet deeply expressive elements?

LE: Improvisation is essential, but it’s controlled. It’s never about showing off. In our ensemble, we use free melodic exploration within modal boundaries. That allows the performer to breathe life into the piece without distorting its identity. Both Gurdjieff and Komitas left space in their music—space that invites a personal but disciplined response.

AAJ: Your music captures a spiritual and meditative essence. Do you think it has a role beyond performance, perhaps as a tool for self- discovery, much like Gurdjieff’s teachings?

LE: Yes, I believe so. When we perform this music, it creates a field—not just sound, but a kind of presence. Listeners often say it brings them into stillness, or evokes memories they didn’t know they had. That’s not entertainment—that’s transformation. And that’s very much in line with Gurdjieff’s vision: art as a means of awakening.

AAJ:Armenian folk traditions have survived historical hardships. How does your work with the ensemble contribute to the preservation and global appreciation of this heritage?

LE: By letting these traditions speak in their own voice—but on international stages. Our work is not only about preserving—it’s about presenting this heritage with artistic integrity, in a way the listener doesn’t feel it’s something strange, but feels they are part of it. We present it as it is—sacred, complex, beautiful. And audiences respond. Armenian music has something universal to say, also because it has in it an ancient quality orally preserved till the times of being collected and documented by musicians like Komitas and others.

AAJ: You have studied and performed internationally. How do global audiences react to this music compared to Armenian listeners?

LE: Surprisingly, the reaction is often very similar. Whether in Europe, South and North America, China, or Armenia—people feel something deep when they hear this music. It’s emotional and spiritual. Of course, Armenians may feel a stronger cultural connection, but for non-Armenians too, there’s recognition. I think it’s because this music touches something universal—something that’s forgotten, but not lost.

AAJ: What future directions do you see for the Gurdjieff Ensemble? Are there other figures or traditions you would like to explore?

LE: We have some ideas for future recordings that explore medieval Armenian spiritual repertoire, and possibly new music composed for the ensemble—in all ways keeping the aesthetics of Gurdjieff’s teachings. But without artificially rushing. Each project must grow organically, from deep listening and necessity. As long as the music serves something real, something that moves both performer and listener, we will continue.

AAJ: If Gurdjieff himself could hear your interpretations of his music today, what do you think his reaction would be?

LE: I hope—and feel—he would recognize the effort, not as imitation, but as continuation. I know a fact that he wanted his music to be performed on the 40 authentic instrument he collected from spots during his journeys in Armenia, the Middle East and Asia, and our instruments 16 and more are part, it was announced about the plan in 1923 but was not actualized, somehow we are doing that now. Gurdjieff was not sentimental; he was practical. He wanted music to serve. If our interpretations help someone listen more deeply, or remember something essential in themselves, then I think he would approve—not with praise, but with silence… and a smile on his soul.



Source link

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *

Skip to content