The story of Zhadyra Mukhamedinova is a story about the courage to be silent when music stops bringing joy, and about a triumphant return when the inner voice becomes louder than external rules. A representative of a musical dynasty, Zhadyra went through a classical school, but at one point decided on a radical step — a seven-year break. During this time, she not only restored her technique without teachers and mentors but also discovered new horizons: jazz, blues, and neoclassical music. Today, being a laureate of the prestigious Golden Time Talent competition in London, she proves that true mastery is born where an academic foundation meets absolute personal freedom. In this interview, we talked about "rebooting" one's hearing, the struggle with an inner critic, and about how to find your unique sound in a world overflowing with templates.
Please tell us, how did you begin your path in music, and what inspired you to choose the piano?
My connection with music began long before I consciously chose the profession. I grew up in a house where the piano sounded, so this instrument from childhood was something natural, almost native to me. I loved to sing, listen to music, observe how sound is born — and gradually began to reach for the keys myself. At nine years old, I seriously sat down at the instrument for the first time. Dad helped me figure out the notes, supported my first steps. But the most important thing — it was not just training, but an inner attraction. I was fascinated by the depth of the piano: the ability to simultaneously create melody, harmony, mood. This is the feeling of a full space of sound. When the time came to enter music school and I was asked which instrument I wanted to choose, I answered “piano” immediately, without hesitation. It was not a random decision — rather, a conscious acceptance of what had lived inside me for a long time.
You took a seven-year break in your career — a period that scares most musicians. What became the main trigger for this decision: burnout, the search for yourself outside of music, or the need to "reboot" your hearing?
Yes, I really took a big break. It was a difficult decision, but it had deep reasons. The system of musical education I was in was built more on pressure and fear than on support and love for creativity. There was no individual approach, there was no space for searching for one’s own sound. I wanted to play what I feel, to develop my musical thinking, and not just correspond to a template. When you try, show a result, but do not hear support, internal burnout gradually arises. At some moment, I realized that I am losing not only motivation — I am losing the joy of music. The break became not an escape, but a way to save this connection. I needed time to rethink why I need music and what I want to see myself as in it. It was a painful, but important stage — a kind of reboot.
You restored your technique independently, without mentors. What was the most difficult thing in this "dialogue with yourself" and how did your physical perception of the keyboard change during this time?
Despite the long break, the basic technique remained better than I expected. My fingers remembered the movements, coordination gradually returned. But the most difficult thing turned out to be not the technical aspect, but the internal one — the feeling of contact with the keyboard. After the break, I realized that muscle memory and the live feeling of the instrument are different things. At first, I did not immediately feel the depth of the sound, the resistance of the key. This was my main “dialogue with myself” — not to force, not to rush, but to build trust between the body and the sound anew.
How did you, as a representative of a musical dynasty, manage to appease the inner critic and allow yourself to play "not by the canon" after eight years of classical school?
To stop fearing rules and expectations helped me with an internal feeling of honesty with myself. At some moment, I realized that I can technically correspond to requirements, but if I am not living the music for real, it loses its meaning. I always had my own view and taste. I long tried to restrain them, to adapt, to be “correct.” But with time, it became clear that suppressing this means going against myself. And when I allowed myself to trust my sensation of sound, the fear gradually went away. This was not a protest against rules. This was a decision to play consciously — the way I feel and understand music. And, perhaps, exactly at this moment, I felt inner freedom.
How did immersion in jazz and blues during the break help you "untie your hands" and influence your current performance of neoclassical music?
For the first time, I became acquainted with jazz at eleven years old — I listened and tried to play independently. I was immediately attracted by the freedom of this genre: swing, rhythmic plasticity. Despite the fact that I studied in an academic school, I strove to try different styles — jazz, blues, boogie-woogie — to expand my sensations and musical language. I cannot say that I fully mastered these genres, but they gave me an important feeling of freedom at the instrument. This freedom, the ability to “untie your hands,” to experiment with rhythm and dynamics, directly influenced my playing in neoclassical music. Exactly thanks to this, I was able to find a style in which I feel comfortable and can fully express my emotions.
Why did neoclassical music become your main point of support? What is there more of for you: freedom from rules or the possibility to speak in a more modern language?
Neoclassical music became a natural point of support for me because it combines two aspects important for me. On one hand, this is the classical base — structure, harmony, technique — which gives stability. On the other hand, this is freedom — the possibility to interpret music through my sensations, emotions, and modern sound. For me, in neoclassical music, the most valuable thing is the possibility to speak in my own language. Here I can combine academic discipline with a personal voice, experiment with form and atmosphere, create music that sounds close specifically to me. And exactly this harmony between rule and freedom makes it ideal for my expression.
You often mention the search for personal authenticity. In what does "Zhadyra's sound" consist today, which distinguishes you from thousands of other professional pianists?
“Zhadyra’s sound” for me is primarily emotional honesty. I do not strive to just play correctly or beautifully by the notes; I try so that every phrase, every melodic line transmits my sensations and inner world. I am distinguished by attention to details — to nuances of sound, to the breath of music, to how it interacts with space.
I combine academic technique with personal perception, allowing music to be simultaneously precise and live, classical and modern. For me, it is important that the performance was not only virtuosic, but also “speaking” — so that the listener felt the story, the emotion, and my personal voice in every piece.
Victory at Golden Time Talent after a long break is a powerful verdict. What emotions did you experience, having received world-level recognition specifically for your "independent" reading of music?
To be honest, I did not expect this result at all. I participated in the competition not for the sake of competition or comparison with others — I just wanted to share my music and my vision of the pieces. When I learned about the victory, emotions overwhelmed me, I burst into tears. For me, it was more than an award — it is a confirmation that I am on the right path. This moment inspired me to move forward, to develop my sound, and to continue to explore music the way I feel.
The Grand Final in London took place online. How much more difficult is it to transmit sincerity and "inner depth" through a digit, without feeling the physical breath of the hall?
Playing online is always not simple, because there is no live contact with the hall — its breath, energy, instant reaction of listeners. This a little bit changes the feeling of music: one has to rely more on the inner feeling and one’s own control than on feedback. For me, this became an interesting test. I learned to transmit emotions and depth of the piece through the sound and the image that the camera hears and sees, and not live eyes. In fact, this experience helped me better understand myself at the instrument: how to hold the listener’s attention, how to make the sound live, even if the audience is physically not nearby.
How do you find the thin line where impeccable technique stops being an end in itself and becomes only a transparent instrument for transmitting live emotion?
At first, I work on technique — fingers, accuracy, coordination. But this is only the foundation. When technique becomes reliable, it stops being the goal itself and turns into a transparent instrument. And only then do I begin to transmit feelings, emotions, atmosphere of the piece. Technique supports music, but it no longer interferes with live expression — it serves the emotion, and not the other way around.
You say that music is an instrument of dialogue. Were there in your practice reviews from listeners who confirmed that you managed to inspire them to important inner changes?
Yes, people often tell me that my music touches listeners, that they feel its depth and emotionality. Sometimes I hear that my playing inspires them to develop their own performance or to perceive music in a new way. These words of admiration are always important to me — they confirm that music really becomes a dialogue and can affect a person’s inner world.
How have your understanding of the word "success" in music changed over the years of your path — from grades on exams to your current state?
