In the grand, rotting theater of human civilization, few things are as exquisitely pathetic as the belief that a field recorder can stop a T-72 tank. Welcome to the Caucasus, a region that has spent centuries being the geopolitical equivalent of a rug that everyone wants to own but nobody wants to clean. Here, we find Ored Recordings, a label practicing what they call “punk ethnography.” It is a charming term, isn’t it? It suggests a rebellion fueled by three-chord rage, when in reality, it involves recording grandmothers in kitchens singing about how much their lives have sucked since the 19th century.

The central figure of this tragicomedy, Bulat Khalilov, recently found himself at a demonstration in Nalchik, presumably protesting the latest Russian endeavor to turn neighbors into memories. In a moment that perfectly encapsulates the hollowed-out absurdity of the 21st century, a policeman approached him. In any era with a modicum of dignity, the officer would have simply applied a baton to the skull in the name of the state. Instead, we got the digital age’s version of a kiss on the cheek: “Are you from Ored Recordings? I follow you on Instagram. You’re doing great.” The officer then proceeded to disperse the crowd anyway. It is the ultimate synthesis of modern life: the man tasked with erasing your presence is a fan of your content. He likes your aesthetic while he suppresses your existence. It’s not just irony; it’s a total collapse of meaning.

Ored Recordings is ostensibly fighting against “Soviet attitudes” that framed local Caucasian culture as backward. The Soviets, in their infinite, gray wisdom, decided that anything that didn’t involve a tractor or a Five-Year Plan was a primitive relic that needed to be paved over with concrete and Russian-language primers. They wanted a monoculture, a flat, featureless plain of “modernity” where everyone hummed the same state-approved tunes. Now, the modern Russian state, which is essentially the Soviet Union but with more oligarchs and fewer ideas, is continuing the project. The Circassian culture is being treated as a historical footnote that hasn’t realized it’s dead yet.

So, Khalilov and his partner Timur Kodzoko wander through villages, capturing religious chants and displacement songs. They call it “punk” because it’s raw and unpolished, unlike the sanitized, glitter-covered folk performances the state usually trots out to prove it isn’t committing cultural genocide. But let’s be honest: calling it punk is also a desperate attempt to make ethnography sound cool to a generation that has the attention span of a concussed fruit fly. It is a desperate act of preservation in a world that only values what it can monetize or weaponize.

Since the invasion of Ukraine, the Western media has suddenly decided that this project is “urgent.” It’s fascinating how a culture’s survival only becomes a headline when it can be used as a stick to poke the Bear in Moscow. For decades, these people were singing into the wind, and nobody cared. But now that their erasure serves a broader geopolitical narrative, their “laments” are suddenly the soundtrack of resistance. It’s performative concern at its finest. The West loves a “dying culture” because it’s safe; it’s a museum piece you can listen to while sipping a latte, feeling a vague sense of superiority over the “backward” imperialists.

Ultimately, Ored Recordings is recording a funeral. They are documenting the final breaths of a culture that is being suffocated by the heavy, clumsy weight of a dying empire. The policeman on Instagram is the perfect symbol for this: he represents a state that has no soul, only a profile. He can appreciate the “art” of the Circassian victims because, to him, it’s just more digital noise. He can follow the label on social media while he clears the streets because, in his mind, there is no contradiction. The culture is already a ghost; why shouldn’t he enjoy the haunting?

We are left with the “punk ethnographers” and their microphones, standing in the foothills of the Caucasus, hoping that a digital file will somehow preserve the essence of a people. It won’t. History isn’t a record player; it’s a steamroller. But in a world where everyone is a grifter and every movement is a brand, I suppose there is something perversely noble about recording the sound of the steamroller as it passes over you. It won’t save the culture, but at least the audio quality will be excellent when the next empire digs up the ruins.