Manizha – Raynham Park, 17 February 2026: Review & Photo Gallery

It’s only mid-February, and I’ve been blessed to see too many amazing shows already—Joan Jett, Iggy Pop, Lorde, Wet Leg, Chappell Roan, The Last Dinner Party, Ethel Cain… With all those great shows from the greatest artists and 300-plus days to come, my show of 2026 goes to Manizha.

Born in Tajikistan, Manizha Dalerovna Sangin became a refugee at age two because of the civil war. After a journey of displacement, she eventually settled in Russia. Her childhood experiences laid the foundation for her creative themes: identity, cultural belonging, and anti-war sentiment.

She studied vocals from a young age and joined various Russian musical groups. In 2021, she represented Russia at Eurovision with the song Russian Woman, finishing ninth and becoming the country’s final Eurovision representative to date. It was the peak of her career.

However, after Russia announced the invasion of Ukraine in 2022, she was one of the few Russian artists who not only publicly opposed it but insisted on staying in the country, believing that remaining was its own form of resistance. She was promptly cancelled and marginalized within Russia since then.

By 2023, she was no longer able to perform freely in Russia and shifted her career almost entirely abroad, performing across Europe and Central Asia instead.

Auckland was the final stop of her Australia and New Zealand tour. Before deciding to shoot this show, I hadn’t heard her name and knew almost nothing about her; I only saw her poster. I liked her face—beautiful but tough. I simply made a selfish decision to capture that face, guided by my instinct as a music photographer.

On the first day of the Chinese New Year (Happy New Year to those who celebrate it), I brought my camera, little knowing what was about to unfold.

K Road never lacks a good venue, but Raynham Park might not be one of them. Its entrance is a very hidden metal door with one person standing guard. After a secret exchange, he opens the door for me, leading up a narrow flight of stairs to the space.

The stage felt improvised, it was a cosplay drag party when I was here last time.

There are a few steps leading directly onto the stage — I’m not sure if that was intentional, but the design has its perks, which I’ll reveal later. There were dozens of people in the room, a few tables, and conversations going on. At 7:30pm, Ayar Khomus took the stage as the opening guest.

Founded in 2023, Ayar Khomus is a folk music group formed by the Sakha people, primarily playing the Khomus (Jew’s harp). Five members performed this time.

Odun played their signature, handcrafted wooden drum, which was distinctively trimmed with fur, while the other four — Anna, Zhanna, Yulia, and Tatyana — played the Khomus. Their costumes were gorgeous and ethnic, bursting with colour.

The drummer, Odun, wore leather eye-pieces that looked a lot like the snow goggles arctic people wear to prevent snow blindness. I suspect they serve the same function. The performance was pure: the drummer provided the rhythmic backbone while the four Khomus players layered different melodies. The Khomus looks small and simple, but the effects achieved through breathing and finger-plucking are kaleidoscopic.

Midway through, Zhanna pulled out a leather hand drum; it looked like a Shamanic drum but with a larger-headed mallet, likely handmade as well. I deeply admire musicians who build their own instruments. Making an instrument is just as hard as playing one. Choosing and treating the materials allows them to produce a sound closer to their intent, which is especially precious for musicians promoting traditional culture.

Despite the simple setup, the rhythm was impactful. Combined with Zhanna’s stunning performance on the Shamanic drum, the crowd was already clapping and dancing. It was a perfectly matched opening.

After a brilliant 30-minute set, two musicians did a quick soundcheck on stage. Pavlik Tolstoy stood stage right, Eugene Sukhotin stage left. Each had a synthesizer and a drum pad on their table. A guitar was placed centre stage, used alternately by the two.

Then, Manizha stepped out.

After two songs, she greeted the crowd for the first time — in Russian. Yes, I had no idea what she was saying. She thoughtfully asked who spoke only English. I did not raise my hand because I also speak Chinese, but I would soon realize that wasn’t going to be of much use here.

One lady raised her hand, and thanks to her, Manizha would repeat some of her words in English. However, most of the songs and talking remained in Russian.

This means my review can’t break down specific tracks as I usually do, but there was a silver lining. When you cannot lean on the meaning of the words, the sound itself takes over. It is rawer that way. As the lyrics lose their definitions, the voice becomes nothing but vibration and pure noise. It is more musical.

All I noticed was the flow of air and the physical friction between her lips. I do not speak Russian, but I speak music. I just listened and I felt. The sound reached me in its purest form.

Rather than being at a concert, I felt like I was in a community formed by Slavs, Russian speakers, and anyone who felt they belonged there. On a hidden second floor above the busiest street in an English-speaking country, they carved out a Russian space. It made the atmosphere warm and tight with intimacy in the air.

It was in that moment, as that one lady raised her hand and the rest of the room continued in Russian, that I realized it was the first time in my life I had been truly submerged in an environment where the language was entirely foreign to me. I was surrounded by a world I could not decode. The only things I could receive were tones, expressions, and body language. When the room went silent, I knew a serious story was being told.

When people laughed, I knew there was just another banter that Imissed. I almost felt lonely, in a soft way. My situation was a miniature model of the identity crisis and the feeling of being a stranger that Manizha’s music constantly explores.

I did not have any negative feelings. I just thought it was a very special experience to be so exposed to this setting. Although my predicament was a fake one because I could just walk down the stairs and return to the English-speaking world. However, English is still my second language. Below those stairs, I am still a stranger.

In a way, I share this state, which made the experience more nuanced. That is not to mention that Manizha and all refugees or those forced into displacement face this identity crisis every single second. It is so real and so hard.

Before I get to certain songs, allow me to deliver the final verdict on her vocals. Manizha is a wonderful singer; her singing is top-notch. She is a master of her craft. Her high notes are soaring and bright while her timbre is clear and distinctive. She can even use technique to control her vocal texture. I could distinguish at least three different textures that she matched to the emotional needs of each song.

She can also do decent rap. She has pure talent and she has trained hard. She sings beautifully, but technical excellence is the least impressive thing you want from Manizha.

The first song I want to talk about is the most meaningful to me, Standing Between Two Walls. I first heard this song just a few hours before the show while I was driving and Spotify played it randomly. I was completely captivated. I must talk about this song in detail. If possible, I suggest you watch the music video.

It uses a hollow darkness to represent the thing between two walls accompanied by very dramatic choreography. Visually, it’s a masterpiece.

The song enters the chorus with a few simple notes. After a brief silence accompanied by drumbeats, Manizha’s narrative unfolds. She lays bare her birth, her experiences, and her confusion.

Born in Tajikistan, she fled to Russia as a refugee due to the civil war. She grew up in Russia, but her mindset remained progressive and boundary pushing. When she represented Russia at Eurovision in 2021, she faced a wave of hostility from politicians and social media users who questioned her Russianness.

They attacked her for not being a real Russian and claimed she was unfit to represent the nation. After the 2022 invasion of Ukraine, she took an even braver stand by publicly opposing the war and releasing protest music.

The fallout was immediate and severe. Her performances were cancelled en masse, and her name began appearing on unofficial blacklists of undesirable artists. Mainstream venues, television stations, and major sponsors no longer dared to work with her, and her career plummeted. In Russia, she is an ethnic minority speaking out against the war.

To the rest of the rest of the world, she is seen as a Russian from the state that started the conflict, which leads to a lingering scepticism. She exists in this difficult space even though she has always been a steadfast pacifist.

Those are the two walls she faces. Even without experiencing it, it is not hard to feel her struggle. She finished this song caught between those two massive walls. Released in mid-2023, the song fuses everything important to her: identity, war, cancellation, expression, freedom, and love. It marks her shift toward using English to tell her story as a refugee, a pacifist and a rebel.

Manizha told me this song was written during her hardest time, but I believe writing it gave her strength and redemption. She wrote: Ordinary people with future and dreams/ Stuck between cancel culture, war and regime/ I don’t need your optics and your pity on me/ My only weapons are love and humanity.

I have to say that I teared up. It has been so long since I have seen such sincere authentic writing. Saying my only weapons are love and humanity is not just a pretty phrase, it comes from a brave and determined warrior. How do you face life between the walls? Love and humanity is her answer. Over-interpreting this song is unnecessary. Everything is in the lyrics. It is an anthem for strangers.

In the live performance, the lights were dimmed to a murky red. Eugene alternated between guitar and keys. She told the story, emotions layering one by one, moving from “I’m standing” to “we’re standing” and then “millions of us standing”. At the end, she sang I’m standing between two walls, but I can see the light, we will be the light, I’ll be the light. These lyrics aren’t in the original version, but I loved the change. She gave us a bright ending. I’m sure she is the light. She lights up that bottomless darkness between the walls for us.

Regarding the war, her two anti-war songs are worth mentioning. Soldier, released shortly after the invasion, questions the role of a soldier to awaken their humanity as a person, a brother, a father, and a son. In the MV description, she wrote: Today, each one of us is a soldier. Each has their own fight — for life, for truth, for freedom, for safety. While writing this song at 19, I was naive asking: “What should people do to stop fighting against each other?” I am 30 now. And it seems that we not only failed this mission but keep destroying something that could stop the conflicts: seeing humanity in each other. I will be a soldier of my own music. I will serve for humanity. And I don’t want to be afraid.

There are no more words for me to say.

Gun, released in 2024, describes a lucid pain. She sees the tragedy of losing loved ones and the absurdity of weapons. As she sang, her voice held both a lethal fury and a redemptive grace. The MV uses a moving wall inside a house to represent conflict, like a border line countries die to defend.

This imagery of the wall appears repeatedly in her writing as a metaphor for the predicaments, including her most famous song, Russian Woman. Gun was recorded in the mountains of Tajikistan; they hauled all their gear there, and Manizha sang to the peaks.

The story on YouTube is well worth a watch. I love the stories behind songs; I wish every song had one.

I mention the MVs because they are good enough to be part of her overall expression. The production value is high and perfectly unified with the themes.

Now or Never is a standout — a declaration of breaking chains and charging toward freedom. The MV presents the true story of the only women’s hockey team in Kyrgyzstan: how they practice in harsh conditions, how they refine their puck control on a single board, how they sharpen their own skates, and how they finally board a bus to compete against men because Kyrgyzstan doesn’t have another women’s hockey team.

This inspiring song perfectly matches the story. Seeing those faces behind helmets in the final frames, it’s hard not to feel a surge of respect. Thanks to her MVs, we get a richer experience; these real people and stories touch the heart. Also, if you want to help those girls, you can contact the email she provided.

If I haven’t mentioned it, Manizha supports the LGBT community, cares for women’s rights, and opposes domestic violence.

In 2019, she launched Silsila (Persian for thread), a free app to help domestic violence victims use a panic button in emergencies. She followed this with the MV Mama to call for an end to silence.

The project was created without state or corporate funding, to pay for the app, Manizha’s mother sold her own apartment. Since being appointed a UNHCR Goodwill Ambassador in 2020 — the first Russian to hold the title — she visited Almaty, Kazakhstan, for the 16 Days of Activism Against Gender-Based Violence campaign. She isn’t just posting fancy words or sitting in a luxury mansion talking about stolen land, she does the real things.

Back to the stage: after a moving slow song, she said no more tears, let’s dance. The vibe shifted instantly. If you thought she only sang protest songs, you’d be so wrong.

Her music blends hip-hop, soul, gospel (she used to study gospel music in both London and New York City), brassy funk, world music, and Russian folk. She performed some upbeat electronic tracks, and the crowd danced.

We were pulled from the sadness into a community party she built. She sang Tummy, a joyous carnival about pregnancy, body confidence, and maternal power. In the MV, she dances wildly while pregnant in bright clothes. At the show, there was a pregnant woman. Manizha was surprised, took her hand, and invited her up — remember those steps centre stage? — letting her dance wildly on stage! It was as natural as it was crazy.

I’ve never seen such a thing at live shows before!

Those steps did more. A little girl held up a sign saying Я люблю тебя, Манижа (I love you, Manizha). Manizha was delighted and led her onto the stage for a big hug. I must say that although the design of those steps was odd, it truly bridged the gap between the stage and the floor. It made moving between the two feel easy and elegant, whereas climbing a high stage is usually an awkward act that most singers try to avoid.

The boundary between the performer and the crowd simply blurred. It made that sense of community I mentioned earlier feel even more intense and intimate.

Bringing people closer together through music like this is exactly what her work is meant to do.

Another moving moment was when the trio finished a song and hugged tightly for a long time. These two men are versatile musicians, they play keys, guitar, pads, and controlling MIDI all at once. I saw them in her 2022 concert videos while Pavlik on bass and Eugene on guitar. They’ve clearly worked together for a long time, and their profound skill allowed the trio to deliver the songs perfectly.

Before I wrap up these scattered thoughts on the show, let me mention one more song: Держи Меня Земля (Hold Me Mother Earth).

This song reminded me entirely of Eivør. I said earlier that Manizha’s show is my show of 2026; my show of 2024 was Eivør. She was opening for Heilung that night. Without knowing anything about her, I watched her entire set in total shock and was left stunned into silence. She has since become one of the most vital musicians in my life, and in many ways, she reshaped my entire perspective on music.

Manizha’s song brought her to mind repeatedly.

Setting aside for a moment their shared passion for Folktronica and their distinct understanding of electronic drum textures, and even the incredible parallel between Eivør dancing in a black veil before snow mountains in Í Tokuni MV and Manizha singing in a white dress before a volcano in this video, let us just focus on the sheer atmosphere.

This song shares a striking sonic DNA with the music of Eivør. Both artists possess a deep sense of rootedness and a profound connection to the land. They love nature and life so fiercely that they must be grounded to sing like this. With a song this powerful, language is no barrier. Eivør sings mostly in Faroese, but it has never stopped me from being touched. At this level of artistry, any description feels pale. You only need to close your eyes and feel. Feel the vibration in your chest. It is the raw sound of life.

After the last song, the three stood at the front and bowed. Each bow was so long it was almost awkward. They bowed three times. I could feel their sincerity. It was a 120-minute show, almost entirely singing with very little talk. Manizha’s powerful voice didn’t lose any strength or tone. I believe she sang almost every song she has; she literally gave us everything. Amid cheers, she returned for an encore, and the show finally came to a perfect conclusion.

But that wasn’t the end. People lingered in groups. I knew Manizha would come out. She recorded with her phone, talked kindly to everyone, and documented every face. I noticed that while people weren’t in a strict line, a white-haired elderly man was ushered forward to be the second to speak with her.

It was such a warm, spontaneous community. It was a moment of pure happiness to witness.

After she had talked to everyone, it was my turn to exchange a few words. I was too overwhelmed and stunned to know what to say, but my tears couldn’t lie. I searched for words, but all I could say was special. It was unlike anything else. This is sublime.

We shared two long, tight hugs, and the dreamlike night slipped away. By the next morning, she was on a flight back to Moscow. After four stops, she was finally heading toward the place “where she can call home”. It is a long journey, and I hope she rests well.

As I finish this, I check her Instagram. She posted ten minutes ago with a video from Muriwai, a place famous for the massive colonies of tākapu (Australasian gannet) that gather there in the summer. At sunset, with the waves crashing against the rocks and the wind catching the long, sword-like leaves of the flax, she filmed the gannets huddling together on the cliffs.

She called the place unbelievable and beautiful. She said she was sentimental, with tears shimmering in her eyes, describing it as one of the most unforgettable moments of her life. Her love for nature is so deep that she connects with it on a spiritual level. I know she’ll return to New Zealand someday to feel the waves, the wind, and the light with us once again.

While writing this review, Standing Between Two Walls has been circling my mind.

Throughout the song, she repeatedly sings nobody knows my name. It is a heavy truth. From the very beginning, she was told her name was too Muslim to work in a Russian market. After enduring the weight of being cancelled and all that came with it, she spent far too long just trying to speak her name out loud. Today, after witnessing her incomparable performance and building a deeper understanding of her journey through endless research, I bring this writing to a close.

I hope everyone remembers this name. Remember this unique artist: a Tajik, a Russian, a mother, and a human soul rooted in love and humanity –Manizha.

Ming Lyu

Photos by Ming Lyu

Manizha

Ayar Khomus