The track opens with deceptive gentleness, its initial moments suggesting the kind of intimate songcraft that might have emerged from a comfortable London bedsit rather than the ruins of Stepanakert. Yet this is precisely Melkumyan's masterstroke: he understands that the most devastating truths are often delivered in whispers rather than screams. The harmonic complexity—over twenty distinct chords, we're told—unfolds like a conversation between memory and present reality, each progression carrying the weight of displacement without ever becoming overwrought.
The Beatles' influence, particularly "A Day in the Life," is worn lightly but effectively. Like Lennon and McCartney's masterpiece, "Dice" marries two disparate musical ideas—originally conceived as separate songs—into a singular, cinematic whole. Yet where the Fab Four's track captured the surreal disconnect of modern life, Melkumyan's composition speaks to something far more urgent: the severing of ties that bind a people to their ancestral home.
The production, spanning over 100 tracks, could have easily collapsed under its own ambition. Instead, it breathes with remarkable clarity. The decision to replace MIDI instruments with live performances—Romeer Gopee's drums, Sevak Avanesyan's cello—proves inspired, lending the recording an organic warmth that serves as counterpoint to its harrowing subject matter. These aren't mere technical considerations; they're acts of musical citizenship, bringing together artists from different backgrounds to give voice to a story that demands telling.
The inclusion of actual bomb explosion sounds—recorded during the conflict in Artsakh—might seem gratuitously provocative in lesser hands. Here, positioned just before the song's climactic section, it functions as a brutal punctuation mark, a moment where the abstract becomes viscerally real. It's a technique that recalls Pink Floyd's sonic experimentation, but deployed with the precision of a documentarian rather than the grandstanding of prog rock excess.
Melkumyan's vocal delivery navigates between accessibility and complexity with remarkable assurance. His melodies provide an emotional through-line that allows listeners to absorb the harmonic sophistication intuitively rather than intellectually—a crucial distinction that separates genuine artistry from academic exercise. The dynamic arc from whispered intimacy to full-throated catharsis mirrors the emotional journey from personal loss to collective memory.
The comparisons to "Bohemian Rhapsody" and "Paranoid Android" aren't entirely misplaced, though they perhaps undersell what Melkumyan has achieved here. Those songs, for all their ambition, remain rooted in the realm of performance; "Dice" carries the additional burden of testimony. It's less concerned with showcasing virtuosity than with bearing witness—though the former is never sacrificed for the latter.
What elevates "Dice" beyond mere protest song or personal lament is its refusal to provide easy answers or false comfort. The track's unconventional structure reflects the fragmented nature of memory itself, the way trauma reshapes our understanding of time and narrative. It's music that trusts its audience to sit with discomfort, to find beauty in brokenness without minimizing the reality of loss.
As the opening salvo for what promises to be a significant debut album, "Dice" establishes Melkumyan as an artist worthy of serious attention. This is music that matters not because of its political content—though that content is vital—but because of its unflinching artistic integrity. In an era where authenticity is often performed rather than lived, "Dice" arrives with the authority of lived experience transformed into lasting art.
Robert Melkumyan's "Dice" is available now. His debut album is forthcoming.