About SISENIN
SISENIN is a Russian pop project with a Latin name in all caps that, since February 2026, has kept a card with no given name, city or birth date. The alias is the twist: to the ear it is “Yesenin,” only written in Latin letters and crushed into one tag, as if a yard song had dressed up as a brand. It has nothing to do with the poet Sergei Yesenin, with Pavel Esenin of Hi-Fi, or with the separate iSenin catalogue of settings of the classic’s verse: those shelves are museum and iamb; this one is a bar, a vegetable patch and a two-minute explicit hook. The official card gives no passport, interview or family legend — other people’s lives must not be glued on. The project lives on a conveyor of singles and short collections: first Prosnemsya, by April the mini-album Krasnye, by autumn Storona B and the fresh Storona B. Ch2.
The voice on the shelf is not one: in some tracks a man drinks and shouts, in others women in heels. Krasnye opens on a garden and tomatoes, “us and a girlfriend,” a dress meant to make the wrong men melt; a separate single is Vyydu v pole (Male version) — as if the same ditty had been recast. Razvedyonnaya and Nagulyalas keep a woman’s everyday, while Lyublyu zhit is already a first-person man with bourbon: he did not start drinking from boredom, there is no jacket, manners are “utter gloom,” the house comes down tonight. The hit Sdelay more asks the bartender to pour two shots of a hundred, hide him from the world and switch off the radars — longing should drown like the sun in a puddle. Beside it sit Rechushku, Ne napitsya, Pust karman, Ya raboty ne boyus, Polkilo reziny, Zaberite telefon — kitchen, till, rubber and someone else’s screen instead of a romance.
Stranger still is the sea layer that makes the name sound like a dockside nickname. Golubye yakori sings of a sailor with tattoos on his chest and why “the girls quacked under him” — yard sailor mockery, not literary Yesenin. Then Yakori, More, Meduza, Rybalka, Poezd, V dorozhku, Polnyy bak: road, water and an empty tank in place of a biography. Folk cuts (Lyublyu Lyubykh folk) sit beside phonk and B Mix; Na eksport repacks the same hooks for another shelf. That is not one person’s confession and not a reason to invent a studio: the mask changes gender, mix and length, leaving one tone — a short Russian song that does not care who yells it, so long as the room gets it half a word in.
By September 2026 the shelf no longer looks like a stray single: Matilda, Kollektiv, Dynka, Shapochka, Siluet, Edinorog, Blud, Eto ochen plokho, the EP Poydyot. There is no confession album, no tour, no kitchen show — only a stream that in half a year learned to sound like a garden chant one minute and a drunk toast at the bar the next. It is for listeners who want a new Russian yard without a passport: a bartender, tomatoes, anchors on a chest, and a name that teases a classic without taking a line from him.
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