Astghik Martirosyan is an Armenian-born jazz vocalist, composer and pianist, now based in New York and Los Angeles. While witnessing the 2020 Artsakh War from afar, she developed her debut album “Distance,” which deals mainly with war and loss. A longing for her homeland led to the reimagining of Armenian folk songs “Kanchum em ari, ari” and “Amran Gisher,” which she infused with a soulful jazz melody.

Now, having experienced unexpected personal joy and hardship, Martirosyan is using the language of music to explore the many facets of life and love in her second album.

The Weekly caught up with Martirosyan to talk about life, love and how devastation birthed inspiration for her new work.

This interview has been edited for length and clarity.

Rosie Nisanyan (R.N.): How did you get started in music? And what drew you to jazz, in particular?

Astghik Martirosyan (A.M.): I come from a musical family. My mom [Susanna Martirosyan] is an opera singer, so I grew up at the theater, and classical music was always around. It was sort of a no-brainer that I study classical piano from a very young age — I did my bachelor’s in classical piano and I was a classical pianist in Armenia.

But jazz was something that I was particularly interested in from a young age. I never really saw myself as a concert pianist, but it was me — a language I learned to express myself in that was closest to my heart. 

In Armenia, I think I was 14, listening to a bunch of jazz records. My mom decided to take me to her friend, Armen Hyusnunts, an amazing saxophonist and, at that time, the artistic director of the Armenian State Jazz Orchestra. He was so kind; I went and played a few songs for him and that’s how things started. I started singing with the Armenian State Jazz Orchestra — one thing led to another and here we are! 

R.N.: What was it like performing with the Armenian State Jazz Orchestra?

A.M.: That first concert I did was at Cafesjian Center for the Arts [in Yerevan] at 14. From that age until I moved to the U.S. at 19 or 20, I performed with them a lot. Armen was one of my mentors — he would send a list of records to listen to at home. But also, Armenia is very rich — there are so many amazing musicians there. It was a wonderful experience. I remember when I moved to the U.S., everybody was surprised at how I knew so much about jazz, coming from a country that is so far away!

R.N.: Who are some of your musical inspirations?

A.M.: It’s really hard to say because so many people have influenced my music and continue to do so. I think that any musician you ask, they will say, depending on the period, it’s a different artist. I can’t really say only jazz musicians. From Bach to Prokofiev and Shostakovich, to jazz giants — from Brad Mehldau and Dave Holland to Keith Jarrett. But also, incredible singers, of course. Obviously, all the classics, like Ella Fitzgerald, but I also love listening to Cuban music. I like to dive into Indian music and Persian and Armenian. 

R.N.: Your song “I’m Calling You” is a beautiful rendition of the Armenian song “Kanchum em ari, ari.” How do you blend jazz melodies with traditional Armenian melodies and lyrics?

A.M.: “Kanchum em ari, ari” was actually arranged by my dear friend Vardan Ovsepian; we sort of did it together. But “Summer Night (Amran Gisher)” I arranged. I have to say, it was my first or second attempt at touching an Armenian folk song. Growing up in Armenia, I always felt like it was a huge responsibility and I was always very careful because they’re so fragile. I do think that you need to dive into that world deeply before doing anything with it. 

It was during the [Artsakh] war in 2020 when I was in Boston and felt this deep desire to sing in Armenian.

In Boston, there’s a huge [Armenian] community, but during COVID, I was also in school, so it was hard to be close to Armenians. On weekends in Watertown, we were collecting donations and sending them to Armenia, so that was one way to be close to the community. 

But day-to-day, in my everyday life, I was the only Armenian at the New England Conservatory of Music. It was like I was in a different world — I’m here at this school that I’ve always dreamed of being at, but it’s COVID and there’s a war happening in Armenia. I’m living in a completely different reality that nobody could really understand. It was almost like putting a mask on; like day-to-day, I need to show up and be positive and not look depressed, but also, these things are happening in my homeland. 

Armenian folk music was my outlet at that time. And I didn’t think deeply, “Oh, this is the way I’m gonna do it.” It just came to me, really. “Amran Gisher” is about a group of women who are working with wool, and the men of the village are looking at them under the beautiful moonlight, at the way they’re working and how beautiful it is — there’s just this peaceful silence around.

Astghik Martirosyan recording

I arranged “Amran Gisher” shortly after November 9 — the day when everybody had to leave [Artsakh] and church bells from Ghazanchetsots Church were calling everybody to wrap it up and leave. It was one evening when the whole picture came to me. I imagined somebody sitting there in the most nostalgic way, acapella, singing “Amran Gisher,” thinking of all those good days and in shock. And then, church bells appear and call them. Within that one arrangement, I heard anger, I heard resistance, I heard resilience, I heard not giving up, but also hope. So, the music and arrangement came to me, and jazz and classical and everything is my language. The way it came out — I don’t know how it happened — but I remember it was just one night and that arrangement came together.

“Kanchum em ari, ari” was during that time when those arrangements were made, and it was a strong urge to sing in Armenian.

R.N.: You just recorded your second album — what can we expect? What are you doing differently from your first album?

A.M.: That first album was all about war and loss. One of the songs I wrote was about a friend whom I lost in the war. After that, I really wanted to write about life and love. I knew that I wanted to write about it, and a lot of things were coming to mind and marinating in my head, but it just was not coming. I was writing, composing, singing — all of that — but it was just not ready for a long time. 

After graduation, my composition teacher became one of my closest friends and mentors. I joked with him, “Frank, it’s crazy.

My whole first album was about war and loss. I’m 24 years old; I want to write about love and heartbreak — this is what I need to write about!”

Fast forward — as I’m exploring and searching for that love and life, I met a guy. He’s a French-Armenian who lives in France, and I was living in New York — life brought us together in the most random way. We had opposite views of life, which challenged me. It made me furious, but also curious. I began to see life through his eyes, and it was free, bold and really unapologetically imperfect — like a freedom that I didn’t even know I was searching for. And it was really making me angry sometimes. It was intoxicating, mind-blowing; we would travel the world together from one city to another, from nature to crazy busy cities. 

When he came into my life, I wrote one song, “Lavenders.” Speaking also to the way Armenian folk music inspires me, I was writing about love and about life. But as an Armenian, it’s hard to speak in the most direct way when it comes to lyrics. One thing that I’ve always loved and has inspired me in Armenian folk music and Armenian love songs is that women speak in metaphors, making comparisons to nature. If you think about any Armenian folk song where a woman sings that is a love song, she always compares them with nature. That spoke to me so deeply. “Lavenders” was that first attempt and reflection of France and that landscape. We were far, and the way that any element of nature would remind us of that [was] life, love and healing. 

After “Lavenders,” I applied for the Pathways to Jazz grant because I was like, “Okay, I think it’s coming to me.” And then, life hit me in such a way that I had to pause everything.

Astghik Martirosyan playing piano and singing

R.N.: What happened?

A.M.: My mother got sick, so I had to leave New York and move to LA. We started this interview with my mother, who is an opera singer with an incredible career and has always been my role model. Seeing her not at her greatest strength was quite shocking, and that completely turned my world around. I really couldn’t sing for months. I couldn’t sing, I couldn’t write, I couldn’t even listen to music. It was complete silence. 

Listening to music was painful. It was impossible to write a note. All of a sudden, I got this email — almost like a sign, [saying] “Congratulations, you got the [Pathways] grant! We’re funding your second album.” I was like, “Wow, great. I can’t write a note. I only have one song. I don’t know what to do.”

It’s September 2024. Then, October — not a single note. November — not happening. December — just like no. And if I wanted to release this record in September 2025, I needed to have it by May, meaning I needed to have it recorded in March at the latest, in February I had to rehearse it, so in January I had to have the music.

It’s January 1 and I don’t have a single note. And then, guess what? The fires happen in LA. So, on top of everything, we also had another loss in the family, and now, we have to evacuate at 4 a.m. with my brother’s kids. It’s just crazy.

Finally, a few days later, we came back home, close to Pasadena. Literally, ashes are flying around, it’s sunset and I’m standing in our backyard, looking out. And it was just this insane scene — LA sunsets are always beautiful, but in that disruption, the air was so bad and, somehow, I felt like there was so much life in this rebirth. Like, when life really humbles you in the most impossible way; when you feel like you’re on the floor, and you think, “How can it even be worse?” There’s still life and it’s so exciting how beautiful that can be. And then, all of a sudden, music came to me. That day we came back, I hummed a melody and started writing lyrics and just sketched a few notes, but then, I left it.

My French-Armenian called me that day and said, “We haven’t been in touch for so long, but I was worried about you. How are you doing?” I said that this happened, that happened. And he said, “Do you want to go to London tomorrow?” And I said, “Yes, I do.” So, the next day we met in London, and it was like all of this never happened. There was life, and I was alive — we continued to travel here and there. 

On the last train I took back to Paris to fly to LA, I wrote the first song fully, which became the last song of the album. The whole album came to me at that moment. It was almost like I didn’t have a pulse until all of a sudden, I felt it. And it was in such a massively different way — I felt even more alive than before my mom got sick, before any of that. It was kind of something that I was searching for for a while, and it came to me only after life humbled me in the craziest possible way. 

This album is really like a story of surrendering to love, to nature, to change.

It’s crossing inner/outer borders. It’s really coming home to yourself and becoming one with nature. It’s like when silence can be the loudest call back to life.

It was January and I called all my musicians in New York and said, “Hey, guys, we’re recording in March. It’s my second album. Are you all available?” “Yeah, let’s do it! Can you send us the music?” I was like, “Uh, no, because I have only two songs, but trust me, I will.” And I finished the lyrics at the studio where we were recording it.

R.N.: That’s such a beautiful story of how all these things, the highs and the lows, impact your writing and your musicality.

A.M.: Thank you. I’m planning an album release tour for Spring 2026, and hopefully, I’ll go to Armenia with it, as well. 

You can listen to Astghik Martirosyan’s debut album “Distance” online. Check out her website and follow her on Instagram to learn about upcoming performances and when new music is available.