Why Does a Young Opera Soloist Keep His Baton Next to his Harry Potter books?
At 12, he sings Gubaidulina's complex avant-garde with the Russian National Orchestra, wrestles with Alyabyev's classical harmonies, and dreams of taking Mozart on a walk through modern Moscow to show him theater posters. Darius Guseinov's name is increasingly heard on Russia's leading academic stages, from the Bolshoi Theater to Zaryadye. But for ORIENT's audience, this young treble singer is also intrigued by his subtle, almost tangible connection to Turkmenistan, where his father hails from.
In June 2026, Darius was one of the highlights of Days of Turkmenistan Culture in Moscow. His performance at the gala concert, accompanied by a pop ensemble on the stage of the Et Cetera Theater, was hailed as a true revelation. It turned out that the Moscow teenager not only has a genetic sense of oriental flavor, but can also distinguish by ear the European third system from the fourth-fifth modes native to the Turkmen dutar.
ORIENT's editorial team interviewed Darius, and after receiving his responses, we decided to leave his direct speech completely untouched, without journalistic "glossing." What you hear is the profound meaning, astonishing professionalism, and stunning, pure sincerity of a child with special needs who sees the world through the prism of musical scores.
Before we turn the floor over to Darius himself, here are a few important facts about the man admired by today's discerning Moscow audiences.
Darius Guseinov was born in 2014 in Moscow. He currently studies at the prestigious A.V. Sveshnikov Moscow Choral School at the V.S. Popov Academy of Choral Art. His solo singing mentor is Honored Artist of the Russian Federation Professor Lyubov Sharnina. Despite his young age, Darius is already a sought-after guest soloist with the Bolshoi Theatre of Russia, the Kolobov Novaya Opera, and the Helikon Opera. He made his stage debut at the phenomenally early age of four and a half in Verdi's Un Ballo in Maschera. Today, his adult repertoire includes the role of the Shepherd in Puccini's Tosca, the role of the First Boy in Mozart's The Magic Flute on the Bolshoi Theatre Chamber Stage, and a solo in Pyotr Tchaikovsky's Mandrake.
His portfolio includes an impressive collection of awards: from the Grand Prix at the prestigious international festivals Vivat Musica! and the competition commemorating the 135th anniversary of Sergei Prokofiev to first prizes at the New Names and Russian Soul competitions, and the large-scale Grand Art Competition in China. Darius is also a renowned pianist and laureate of the V.K. Merzhanov Young Pianists' Competition. He regularly participates in the Vladimir Spivakov Foundation's landmark "Moscow Meets Friends" programs and Moscow Conservatory festivals. Now let's take a look behind the scenes of this remarkable life and hear from Darius himself.
-A truly memorable event of your June was your performance at Days of Turkmenistan Culture in Moscow. What did you feel when you stepped onto the stage of the Et Cetera Theater?
-That evening was simply incredible! I performed at a gala concert accompanied by a pop ensemble from Turkmenistan. I stood on stage, heard the music, felt the energy of the audience. Everyone around me was speaking Turkmen—both backstage and in the audience. Everything seemed to ring with joy, and it felt like we were all one big team.
I also met new friends from Turkmenistan. This country is special to me—after all, it's my father's homeland. And that evening, for a moment, I even felt like I'd actually been there: there was so much warmth, smiles, sincerity all around... It was as if everyone wanted to say, "You belong!"
The Turkmen artists gave me so many gifts! Each one contained a piece of their culture. Now I have them, and every time I look at them, I will remember that evening and the guys with whom we so quickly became almost family.
And the songs were beautiful! I especially remember the song about the horseman—Atajan Berdyev sang it; I even asked for the sheet music. He has such a voice—you just want to sing along! He's friends with my dad, and we became friends. He even taught me how to properly tie the belt on a Turkmen costume. I tried to remember everything so I could tie it correctly myself later.
I also met the artists Gulshat Kurdova and Aina Seyitkulieva. I was pleasantly surprised that they already knew about me and were interested in my professional achievements.
Now I'm already missing my new friends a little. I really hope that we'll see each other again soon—and this time in Turkmenistan!
-The music of Turkmen classical composers is unique; it's rich in Eastern flavor and soul. Is it difficult for you, a boy from Moscow, to capture these intonations, and what do you think about when you perform works with Turkmen roots?
-Now I can almost immediately distinguish Turkmen music from any other. Even when we were preparing Alexander Alyabyev's 'Turkmen Song' (the one with the subtitle 'Our Khan Said the Warriors' Campaign...'), I immediately said, 'This doesn't sound quite Turkmen.' And I explained that Alyabyev's melody is genuine, Turkmen, but he borrowed European harmonies. And Turkmen music isn't just about melody; it's primarily about its unique harmony, its own unique sound.
I also remember taking part in a theater master class called "Musical Educational Theater" at the V.S. Popov Academy of Choral Art in June 2024. It was led by Ekaterina Berez, a first-prize winner of the Nano Opera competition, and she's so good at explaining everything! I immediately suggested using Chary Nurymov's "Dovran's Song" for the work. The task was challenging: in just 20 minutes, we had to set up a mini-stage that would feature the music, tell the story, and keep the audience engaged—after all, the show was broadcast online to several countries.
We got down to business: I sang, and ten other kids participated in a mini-performance with me. We did everything under the direction of Ekaterina Berez: we figured out how to move, where to pause, where to add emotion. And everyone loved the song so much that the kids even asked me for the notes—they wanted to try singing it themselves! I also really love the folk song "Bibidzhan"—I often sing it at concerts. And, of course, I happily perform my dad's compositions.
And when we explore different modes and harmonies in music theory classes at college, I always think to myself: this is it! Turkmen music is built on quartet-fifth relationships—it's completely different from the familiar European third harmony. For me, they're like two different worlds: one is familiar, from school, from textbooks and programs, and the other is warm, with the scent of the steppe and the sound of the dutar. And I feel so great that I’m starting to understand both!
-Your dad is a famous composer, and your mom is a sought-after vocalist. Is Turkmen music often played at home, and does your dad help you learn the parts?
-Music never stops in our house. I already know many works by Turkmen composers: Mom sings, Dad accompanies, or Dad plays piano pieces by Turkmen composers.
My favorite is "Lullaby" by Nury Khalmamedov. I also really love "Turkmen Rhapsody" based on the poems of Magtymguly. Dad used authentic Turkmen folk melodies and rhythms in it—it makes it seem as if the steppe itself is singing. In these melodies, you can hear everything at once: the wind, distant voices, and the clatter of hooves somewhere in the distance.
Mom performed this rhapsody in Ashgabat with an orchestra, and I often play that recording. She really excites me - every time I feel it all over again.
-Your June 2026 schedule would be the envy of any adult artist: Tchaikovsky Hall, Zaryadye, Novaya Opera. How do you manage to combine such diverse roles—from Mozart's First Magic Boy to Puccini's Shepherd? Which character is closest to yours?
-I simply love playing any role. Not because someone told me to, but simply because it's my passion—whether it's reciting a poem or impersonating someone. And to this day, whenever I go on stage, the first thing I remember is that morning performance in kindergarten...
...My kindergarten class was "Ivan da Marya" at the Bolshoi Theater. And back then, I was always thinking about Buratino: I watched the movie over and over again, I asked my mother to read the book so many times that the pages almost fell apart, and all my toys were from that fairy tale. So, I guess it was clear to everyone who I dreamed of being.
And in the play "The Golden Key," I was given the role of a mushroom. But I wasn't upset, honestly. I thought: what if no one else wants to be the mushroom? Who will play him then? After the performance, my dad asked: "Son, why didn't you play Buratino?" And I proudly told him: "Because I played the Vegetable!"
And you know, I wasn't sad at all then. On the contrary, I felt like I'd accomplished something important. And I still think the same way: even if I'm only on stage for five minutes, it's not just for nothing. The composer specifically wrote this part for the treble. If it's not there, something is missing from the opera—as if a piece of the picture is missing. I just want to play my part faithfully, so that everything sounds just right.
-You performed Sofia Gubaidulina's highly complex "Alleluia" at the Tchaikovsky Concert Hall with the Russian National Orchestra. What was it like to be at the center of such a cosmic musical spectacle?
-When I was told I'd be singing Sofia Gubaidulina's "Alleluia" at the Tchaikovsky Concert Hall with the Russian National Orchestra, I felt a surge of excitement—both from joy and excitement. It's not just music, but, as you rightly said, a truly cosmic spectacle! Even the lighting was like a separate part, just like in Scriabin's "Prometheus." It seemed as if the stage had a life of its own, breathing, shimmering...
There were a lot of rehearsals—I went to the orchestra's base, the Orchestrion, almost every day. At first, the musicians seemed incredibly serious to me: after all, they play such profound, complex music that requires enormous respect. But during the breaks, we started chatting, and it turned out they weren't strict at all—they were just as funny as I was! We even played table tennis backstage—and it immediately brightened the day, and all the fatigue melted away.
I'm incredibly grateful to my vocal teacher, Professor Lyubov Aleksandrovna Sharnina. She was always there, encouraging and helping. And after rehearsals, even in the Orchestrion cafeteria, she'd explain things to me, saying, "Who said learning ends at the classroom door?"
"Alleluia" itself is a very complex piece. The Kultura channel produced a documentary about it. Watching it helped me understand the concept. I recommend your readers watch it.
The piece is full of contrasts: grinding sounds, dissonances, and tension, as if the world were being squeezed into a tight knot. And in the finale, in the seventh movement, my treble voice is like light after a long period of darkness. This is precisely what Sofia Gubaidulina wanted to convey: that after darkness, light inevitably comes. And when I sang this part, I really felt it inside - as if my voice was that very ray that breaks through the darkness.
The hall was so quiet you could probably hear my heartbeat. And then I saw people in the audience wiping away tears... It gave me a particularly warm and at the same time slightly moving feeling: it meant my performance had truly reached someone, touched their soul.
After the concert, strangers came up to me, took pictures, and even asked for my autograph three times. It was so unusual—I was a little taken aback, but at the same time, I was so happy: it meant they really liked it, it meant it was all worth it.
I'd like to thank conductor Fyodor Beznosikov. This was my first project with him, and I really enjoyed the way he works: calmly, precisely, yet in a way that makes every musician feel important. I'd love to work with him again—there's so much to learn from him!
I'm glad I had the chance to be part of this amazing event, to have helped bring this story to life, even in a small way. Sofia Gubaidulina is a true master: her music doesn't just sound, it tells a whole story, one filled with fear, hope, and a light at the end.
-You perform with huge orchestras and famous conductors. Do you ever get nervous before going on stage, and do you have a secret ritual to cope?
-I don't really think about the fame of the artists and conductors I work with. My parents just say, "It'll be a stellar cast," and for me, that means only one thing: everything will sound perfect.
I remember after my performance at the Helikon Opera, conductor Vladimir Ivanovich Fedoseyev came to congratulate me. I was just a second-grader. I was so happy and eager to tell my parents everything that I didn't even realize who was congratulating me. My parents smiled later: "You're in such a hurry, but you don't realize what kind of people have come up to you!" And now, when we study symphonies in music literature class and they play Fedoseyev's recordings, I'm gradually beginning to understand how important that was.
To calm down before going on stage, I have my own little ritual: I sit down at the piano in my dressing room and play a little. Usually, whatever I'm studying at the time. This June, Rachmaninoff and Chopin calmed and invigorated me.
-The kids in Turkmenistan, looking at you, also strive for big goals. How do you find a balance between demanding rehearsals and the simple joys of childhood? Do you have time for walks and games with friends?
-During school hours, there's practically no time for walks: there are so many subjects at school, so many performances with the school choir, or my solo projects in theaters and concert halls—often in different cities. Then I have to catch up on the lessons I missed, so even on weekends, I'm sitting at home studying.
That's why I love summer! It's when I have time to rehearse in the morning, practice vocals and piano, and read literature. As always, I have to finish the reading list recommended by my literature teacher over the summer. And then I'm free: I go for walks and play football. I love football, basketball, and ping pong."
I also begged my dad so much to go see Wagner's tetralogy! It's only performed at the Mariinsky Theatre every two years, and Valery Gergiev himself conducts it—can you imagine?! It's quite an adventure: four days in a row—one opera from "The Ring of the Nibelung" each. All together—a whopping sixteen hours of music! And even though it's the longest opera in the world, it doesn't feel boring at all: there's so much going on, so many characters, such powerful music... We're going to St. Petersburg at the end of July to see all four parts. I'm so looking forward to it!
I fell in love with Wagner after "The Flying Dutchman"—my parents and I saw it at the Mariinsky. I've never forgotten that music: it seems to lift you off the ground and carry you somewhere far away. And when my parents told me how they went to see the entire tetralogy as students, I immediately said, "I want to too!" Now, my dream is coming true.
-What advice would you give to boys and girls who also dream of singing on the big stage, but perhaps are afraid to take the first step or doubt their abilities?
-All my friends are musicians, and everyone in my family talks about music. So, I was really surprised when some kids in the yard couldn't name a single composer. I was even a little confused. And I told them, "Go to music school! It won't be easy, of course: you have to study, try hard, work hard every day. But it's worth it!"
I think music changes a person in general—character, habits, even the way you see the world. And even if you don't have some super talent and don't become a professional musician, you'll still learn to understand music.
-Imagine, Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart suddenly appeared in our era and came to visit you. What do you think you'd play—video game, soccer, or start composing?
-Oh, I've imagined that so many times! Mozart is my favorite composer. When I passed my first piano exam in first grade, my dad gave me a book about him. I read it voraciously. And I felt so sad: such a fate for Mozart... After all, in his lifetime, he never saw the success his music later achieved.
My mother also performed in Vienna, at the Theater an der Wien—that's the "Theater on the Vienna River." The theater is associated with The Magic Flute: it was built partly with money from productions of that opera. The librettist Schikaneder, who also sang Papageno for the first time, was the one who started it all. My mother brought me a Mozart doll from there. I was so happy! And then I always took her with me to the theater when we saw Mozart's operas. I thought: here, Mozart is with us, he sees how much his music is loved, and he doesn't feel so sad anymore.
And if Mozart were to come to me today... I wouldn't even play any games with him. I'd probably just say, "Wolfgang Leopoldovich, let's go for a walk! Look at all the posters—your name is on them all!" I think he'd be thrilled. Imagine how wonderful it would be for him to see with his own eyes how many people listen to him, how many theaters stage his operas... That would be the best gift for him.
-In the opera Tosca, your role is called "The Shepherd." If you were given a flock of real curly sheep for a day, do you think you could handle them?
-On June 20th, I sang the role of the Shepherd at the Zaryadye Concert Hall. I performed alongside amazing artists: Floria Tosca -Elena Stikhina (soprano), Mario Cavaradossi - Sergey Skorokhodov (tenor), and others. The participation of the choral ensembles was especially memorable—the voices merged into a powerful flow, and the sound of the organ in the hall added a special depth to the performance. A huge thanks to the Moscow State Symphony Orchestra under the direction of Ivan Rudin! It was a pleasure to sing with them: they play so sensitively!
Zaryadye is one of the most impressive classical music halls in Moscow. I am very glad to have been part of this musical celebration. I've been singing the part of the Shepherd at Helikon Opera for several seasons now, but every time I experience the same emotions—as if I were performing for the first time. The music is simply breathtaking!
Backstage that evening, I thought again about Tosca's fate: could she have acted differently, could she have kept Mario's secret about Angelotti's hiding place? I was so worried, as if it were really happening, and I could barely restrain myself from shouting, "Don't! Don't tell!" But in opera, everything is already decided...
I dream that after my voice breaks, I'll be a tenor—then I want to sing the part of Mario Cavaradossi. I imagine myself walking onto the stage, the orchestra begins, and I'm singing this music... That must be the happiest feeling in the world.
...But unfortunately, I never saw sheep in real life as an adult. My parents say that when we were traveling from Ashgabat to the sea, they made a special stop in the desert to show me the camels and sheep. But I honestly don't remember it at all.
But I know exactly how to handle sheep—my dad told me. As a child, he was sent to a Turkmen village to visit relatives. He was a city boy, used to streets and cars, and then suddenly—a flock, a pen, everything so unfamiliar. One day, he was asked to round up the sheep, and dad ran back and forth, trying his best, but they seemed to run off in different directions, as if on purpose. The kids laughed, but dad was both offended and amused. Then Grandpa came up, looked calmly, smiled slightly, and said, "First, round up the goat. The sheep will follow him." Dad was surprised, but then did as Grandpa said—and indeed, it worked! The sheep followed the goat, smoothly, as if they were supposed to. That's how he learned this craft, which only looks simple, but actually requires ingenuity.
So, you could say I already know everything in theory. All that's left is to try it out in practice. Maybe someday I'll get to do it—then I'll remember Dad's story and do everything right. For now, let this story be my little secret knowledge.
— Have you ever had any funny, amusing situations when going on stage or while on stage, and how did you handle them?
— All the time. I remember being only four and a half years old, playing Amelia and Renato's son in Verdi's "Un Ballo in Maschera." I had a really big stage—about ten minutes long, with lots of stage directions... And everyone was praising me so much! And the director, Dmitry Bertman, even gave me a toy train. But something much more important happened at the opera's finale: a violinist was playing a solo at the ball, and the sound just captivated me! And I suddenly thought, "What train... I need a violin!" And you know what? After four performances, they actually gave me one! I was the happiest I'd ever been and immediately started begging to be taught to play. It was still too early for music school, so they hired a teacher for me. But it so happened that now I no longer play the violin, but we are best friends with the piano.
When I was performing at the Helikon Opera, I kept glancing at the conductor, Valery Alexandrovich Kiryanov, and thinking, "He definitely has a magic wand! How else does he control such a huge orchestra?" It seemed to me that all the magic on stage lay in it: wave it, and the music flows; turn it slightly, and every instrument sounds different.
After each performance, I would quietly approach him and ask, "Can I borrow your wand for just a minute? I'll just try one spell—honestly, honestly!" Valery Alexandrovich laughed, but never got angry. He would just smile and say, "First we'll learn the notes, then the spells."
And then, on my birthday, he suddenly gave me his baton! I nearly jumped to my feet. He even told me how many performances he'd conducted with it: Shostakovich's Lady Macbeth, Tchaikovsky's Eugene Onegin, and some symphonies... I didn't remember half the names back then—all I could think of was, "I got a real baton!" But the main thing I remembered was that it wasn't a toy; it actually worked, it led the orchestra.
Now it's in my room, on my bookcase, next to my Harry Potter books. I cherish it dearly—it's as if a piece of all those performances lives on in it. I can't wait for conducting classes to start at the Sveshnikov School. They usually teach them in high school, but I can already slowly imagine it: here I am, standing on the podium, baton in hand, the orchestra looking at me... I want to learn to wave it as confidently as Valery Alexandrovich, so that the music listens to me!
