The band LATEXFAUNA has long established itself as one of the most distinctive acts on Ukraine’s indie scene. Their music is a blend of laid-back chillwave, irony, an artful mix of Ukrainian and Russian colloquialisms, and cinematic imagery that sticks in your mind after a single listen. They can casually sing about a hairy wind, centaurs, or outer space, and every one of these stories works thanks to their unmistakable vibe.
Yet behind the frontman’s flamboyant, outrageous, and sometimes provocative stage persona is a man who values peace, privacy, and life’s simple pleasures above all else. Instead of Kyiv’s relentless hustle, Dmytro Zeziulin chooses a slower-paced life in the countryside; instead of noisy afterparties following concerts, he heads to a public bathhouse; and instead of trendy hobbies, he plays FIFA on an old PSP and rides around on a vintage scooter.
UA.News spoke with Dmytro Zeziulin about how the band’s signature absurdist lyrics come to life, why he prefers rural living to the hustle and bustle of Kyiv, how his advertising experience helps LATEXFAUNA, and his unforgettable stories about Roma jokes, the fentanyl crisis in North America, and his love for his native Cherkasy region.
You’ve talked about your love of bathhouses many times and even called them your “gentlemen’s club.” How did this passion begin, and what’s the most unusual thing that has ever happened to you in a bathhouse?
I really love bathhouses. So much so that I’m actually building one of my own right now. You don’t always have time to go somewhere, and having a bathhouse at home is just fucking awesome.
My love of bathhouses began when I was four, when my dad first took me to the bathhouse at the sugar factory in Talne. It was a terrifying place: sticky and slippery. There were loads of naked guys coming straight from work, wearing hats and mittens, with their balls hanging almost down to their knees. They were beating each other with bath whisks in a greasy steam room and pouring water over the scorching hot stones.
And, strangely enough, I absolutely loved it!
I remember my dad giving me a tour: “This is where people rest, this is where they plunge after a steam, and this is the steam room.” We sat in the steam room, went out to rest, and then I, a four-year-old, announced to the entire bathhouse: “Dad, I want to go back to the porn room!” All the men burst out laughing.
From then on, my dad and I went to the bathhouse almost every week. We would spend around four hours there each time. And that tradition has stayed with me for the rest of my life.
For me, a bathhouse really is a kind of gentlemen’s club. It’s a place where men get together, tell stories and jokes, and discuss the news. And interestingly, in all my years of going to bathhouses, I’ve hardly ever encountered any aggression. Maybe it’s because everyone is naked and social status somehow automatically disappears. Everyone becomes equal. You can spend five hours there without getting bored for a single minute.
That’s actually why I prefer public bathhouses to private ones. When you get together exclusively with your own group of friends, it’s a completely different experience. A public bathhouse has a special spirit, its own atmosphere, its own characters.
For example, Roma people from the local community often came to our bathhouse in Talne. They had long been settled there and were fully integrated into town life: some ran businesses, while others had their own schemes going on. And they had an absolutely unique sense of humor.
One day, a man said, “Want to hear a Roma joke?” Everyone went, “Go on, then!”
“A Roma man is getting ready to go to the bathhouse and tells his wife to put a bath whisk in his bag. He arrives, opens the bag, and finds the broom she uses to sweep the floor.”
And that’s it!
We’re sitting there waiting for some incredible twist, a punchline, a grand finale. But there isn’t one. That’s the entire joke! And somehow, that makes it even funnier.
They were also very theatrical when they were steaming themselves. I remember one guy whacking himself with a bath whisk and shouting at the top of his lungs, “A-a-a! This isn’t love, it burns!”
These days, the awkward situations I run into at public bathhouses are of a different kind. Like any normal visitor, I walk around completely naked. And sometimes you’re just standing there in your birthday suit when some guy comes up and says, “Oh, you’re that guy from LATEXFAUNA! Can I take a photo with you?”
And there you are, wondering how exactly you’re supposed to accommodate this fan request.
You’ve spent years balancing music and concerts with a fairly ordinary daily life. What’s something about your everyday routine that would most surprise people who know you only as the frontman of LATEXFAUNA?
If we’re talking about hobbies that are unusual for a man my age, amuse me, and sometimes surprise my guests, I’d probably say my PSP. It’s an old portable console, and I still play FIFA on it.
And there’s a paradox here: I don’t like football. Half my mates will probably unfollow me now, but they already know exactly where I stand. Even so, I absolutely love playing football on a console.
The second thing is my Honda Giorno. It’s an old Japanese moped with retro styling. Completely original, pretty battered by now, but still running. I ride it around the village. A little Japanese pensioner, if you like, who still brings me a ton of joy.
And my third favorite toy is an old Mercedes-Benz SLK. It’s a two-seat convertible roadster from the era when Mercedes made incredibly beautiful cars. The kind we used to stare at as kids on the covers of school diaries or on the inserts in Turbo chewing-gum packs.
Mine is in excellent condition: red leather interior, old-school plastic, and a very distinctive design. It’s an incredibly cinematic car, as if it had driven straight out of a movie from the late 1990s or early 2000s.
And I think this car surprises people who come to visit me more than anything else. They might expect the typical lifestyle of a rock musician, but instead they find a grown man playing FIFA on a PSP, riding an old Japanese moped around the village, and cherishing his vintage Mercedes.
LATEXFAUNA’s songs are full of unusual imagery, words, and turns of phrase that have become part of the band’s signature style. How do you know when an idea that seems absurd at first actually works? And have you ever scrapped something because even you thought it went too far?
You can spend ages searching for the right wording and weighing up different options, but if you have a knack for it and the skill to combine words in a cool way, you usually know immediately what works and what doesn’t. You don’t need to sit there wondering, “Oh, is this going to be good? Or maybe it won’t?” That question doesn’t even come up. From the very beginning, you’re trying to write a great line. You write it, look at it, and think, “Oh, that’s good!” That’s pretty much how it happens.
Of course, experience plays a role. Studying Ukrainian poetry, listening to other songwriters whose music you enjoy. All of that shapes your own sense of what’s good and what isn’t.
But of course, there have been things we decided to change. For example, in the song “Surfer,” the line originally featured a “hairy wind” using a word that more literally translates as “hair-covered.” Our first guitarist, Kostia, said, “Listen, we need to change that. ‘Hair-covered’ sounds disgusting.” I thought about it and agreed. And so the original phrase became “hairy wind,” using a more playful Ukrainian word.
Something similar happened with the song “Kentavr.” There was a word that our bassist felt didn’t quite fit the overall poetic feel of the lyrics. He said, “Everything here is so poetic, but this word sounds clunky.” And I agreed with him.
I’ve always been open to criticism, especially when it comes from my bandmates.
How much does Dmytro Zeziulin in everyday life resemble the character in LATEXFAUNA’s songs? Where do the two differ the most?
Back in school, and later at university, our Ukrainian literature teachers would always tell us, “Never confuse the poet as an artist with the lyrical protagonist of their work.” And this is exactly the same situation.
Of course, some of my personal experiences may find their way into the songs. But LATEXFAUNA’s lyrical protagonist might fly into space, become a cowboy, a Native American, or absolutely anyone else. We have lots of different escapist worlds, and I certainly don’t live the lives of those characters.
At the same time, we also have lyrical songs that draw heavily on my own experiences and emotions.
But in general, any LATEXFAUNA song should be viewed as a kind of collage made up of different states of mind, emotions, moments in life, and artifacts of popular culture.
You’ve said that sometimes a LATEXFAUNA song starts with a random phrase or melody, and an entire story grows out of it. What’s the strangest or most random thing in your life that eventually became the basis for a song?
I think the best example of how this works is our song “Lime.”
At first, I wrote the line, “Everything about you works for me, especially July.” And I thought, “God, what a load of nonsense!” Then I ran it through my head again and thought, “Wait, this is actually really good! Especially July, especially July...”
And then everything started falling into place almost by itself. I unpacked that phrase, and the lyrics just flowed, almost unconsciously. In the end, one of the most beautiful songs we’ve written came out of what initially seemed like a completely nonsensical phrase.
Bands that have been together for a long time usually develop their own internal language. Are there jokes or phrases in LATEXFAUNA that you’ve been using for years but that would be almost impossible to explain to an outsider?
Well, first of all, we haven’t had the same lineup throughout our entire history. Two members have changed over the years. But yes, of course, we have an entire internal dictionary.
For example, our guitarist Illia Sluchanko has inspired the term “sluchanstvo,” derived from his surname. It describes a state of extreme absent-mindedness: things keep falling out of your hands, you’re caught in an endless cycle of chaos, rushing between charging your IQOS and switching guitar pedals, and then you forget your guitar before going onstage. That’s sluchanstvo.
We also have nicknames. People might call me Zeziulexus or Ziziukin. And for some reason, we call pornography Deutsche Welle.
We also have certain concert traditions. For example, if our guitarist Illia starts playing “Ya Mama” by Fatboy Slim, which people often call “Push the Tempo,” I’m obliged to break into a floorwork breakdance move and hit a freeze.
Or if I “let the rooster out” in the middle of a concert—that’s a musical expression for when your voice cracks—I immediately strike a characteristic pose: I make a rooster’s comb with one hand and a tail with the other.
We also have an expression, “pulling a Bulyuk.” It means making a completely unjustifiable purchase. The term is named after our bassist Oleksandr Bulyuk, who once bought himself another bass guitar that was exactly the same as the one he already owned, without any objective reason. He just wanted the same one, only in red. So whenever you spend money on something you absolutely don’t need, that’s pulling a Bulyuk.
There’s also the “brown note,” which means someone has really screwed up.
And sometimes, while we’re on the road, we come up with verses in the style of blatnoy chanson: the most obnoxious, prison-themed Russian criminal chanson, packed with swear words. We sometimes sing them to our friends afterward. Some people like them, others don’t. But I probably won’t quote the lyrics for you.
You spend a lot of time talking to fans after concerts. Which encounter with a fan has stayed with you the most?
People very often tell us after concerts that they only ever have sex while listening to our music. We’ve heard plenty of stories like that. But one time, a couple approached us with their child, who was about six, and said, “We conceived her while listening to your music.” That’s probably one of the most memorable encounters.
There are so many interesting stories, in fact, that you can’t remember them all.
It’s especially touching to hear from our defenders that they listen to LATEXFAUNA while at their positions or before heading out on a combat mission. They say our music helps them calm down and keep their heads together. That means a lot to us.
Fans also often give us various artifacts: painted portraits, handmade fan merchandise, and other things. We’re always happy to take these gifts with us, and they’re all kept at our studio afterward.
Before joining LATEXFAUNA, you worked in marketing. How much can you separate the band’s creative work from marketing today? Does it ever happen that a spontaneous idea from the band turns out better than a carefully planned advertising campaign?
In fact, I’m still responsible for a significant share of LATEXFAUNA’s marketing communications. Creative concepts, concert invitations, poster design, promotional campaigns—I’m deeply involved in all of it. So you could say I act as the band’s creative director.
My experience in the advertising industry is a huge help here. For example, when a brand approaches us with a collaboration proposal, we don’t see ourselves simply as a media platform where a product can be placed to generate a certain number of impressions among our audience.
We approach it like an advertising agency would. We prepare a full creative presentation, try to understand the brand’s business and communication objectives, identify a relevant consumer insight, formulate the key message, and propose a creative concept that connects the brand organically with our world.
It’s essential to me that any such collaboration is consistent with both the brand’s positioning and LATEXFAUNA’s. If you simply insert a product mechanically into a music video or social media post, the audience will immediately sense that it’s artificial. But if you find common ground between the brand’s character and the artist’s character, you can create something much more interesting than an ordinary advertising integration.
I believe good marketing and good creative work have a lot in common. In both cases, you work with human emotions, cultural codes, and associations, trying to create something that will stay in people’s memories.
But there’s also a fundamental difference. In advertising, you usually start with a specific objective and work toward a creative solution. In music, you can go in the opposite direction: first, a completely irrational idea comes to life, and only afterward do you understand why it works.
That’s why I don’t see any point in rigidly separating LATEXFAUNA’s creativity from marketing. To me, they’re two closely related disciplines that can reinforce each other very effectively. The key is for marketing to help the music find its audience, rather than dictate what the music itself should be.
The Cherkasy region keeps appearing in LATEXFAUNA’s songs, from the language to specific places and images. What still connects you so strongly to Talne and the Cherkasy region and makes you return to them in your music?
I genuinely think I was incredibly lucky to be born and raised there. The Cherkasy region is an unbelievably beautiful and, at the same time, deeply underrated part of Ukraine. Many people think it’s nothing but endless fields. But that couldn’t be further from the truth.
The nature is extraordinary, the people are interesting, the local dialect is full of character, and people have their own distinctive way of thinking. The people themselves are incredibly diverse, which makes the region all the more fascinating.
Once, Vova from the “Khshchi” project said in an interview that the Cherkasy region had remained the most authentic part of Ukraine. That it was Ukraine at its most Ukrainian. And I agree with him.
I think the landscapes I grew up among had a major influence on my worldview and my understanding of aesthetics. Places like Makoterchyk and the village of Hordashivka, where majestic cliffs rise above the Hirskyi Tikych River. All of that was part of my childhood.
That’s why I keep returning to these places, including in my creative work. They’re a fantastic source of inspiration for me. Especially since these places and this culture don’t get talked about all that much today. I like that I have this experience to draw on and can bring it into my music.
And why wouldn’t I keep returning to it if it’s beautiful?
At one point, LATEXFAUNA launched an OnlyFans account, which you later used, among other things, to raise money for the Ukrainian Armed Forces. Have any of your experiments or unconventional ideas ever made you wonder whether you’d gone too far?
We used OnlyFans exclusively to raise money for the Ukrainian Armed Forces. Admittedly, we’ve neglected it a little lately because we simply don’t have enough time, energy, or resources to manage OnlyFans as well and create additional exclusive content for it that you can’t find anywhere else.
We definitely plan to return to the project. It’s just that everyone is terribly overloaded right now, and we’re living through an incredibly difficult time, so OnlyFans is on hold for the moment.
But it’s actually a great platform that helped us raise a substantial amount of money for the Armed Forces. The funds went toward purchasing Mavic drones, protective equipment, and generators. So this wasn’t just some extravagant experiment of ours; it was a very concrete way of helping the military that we were able to organize through the platform.
By the way, all our content on OnlyFans was fairly tasteful. There was nothing there that we’d be ashamed of today.
You’ve mentioned more than once that you’re not particularly comfortable with physical attention. At the same time, LATEXFAUNA concerts involve very close contact with the audience. How do you feel when you’re the center of so much attention, and has your attitude toward it changed over the years?
First of all, the stage creates a certain distance between you and the audience. You know that everyone’s attention is focused on you, but at the same time, you’re relatively safe, you’re in control of the situation, and you’re the one directing the whole process.
There’s a certain paradox here. On the one hand, I love the stage because I’ve been performing since childhood. On the other hand, every concert is stressful for me. And, of course, I don’t like the stress itself. But it comes less from the audience’s attention than from the process of performing.
But when people direct their attention toward me personally, at close range, I feel somewhat uncomfortable. For example, when someone recognizes me on the street, comes over to introduce themselves, or asks for a photo. It’s not that I dislike it—I’m always happy to take photos and give autographs, and I never put on airs. I just get a little awkward every time.
The thing is, by nature, I’m quite shy and introverted. For example, when I used to move from one job to another, I always found it difficult to settle into a new team quickly. It took me a long time to get used to people; I didn’t talk much, and my colleagues probably initially thought, “Who’s this guy? He’s as stiff as a handbrake, sitting there all nervous and scared, not talking to anyone.”
Deliberately drawing attention to myself has never come naturally to me. Ever since university, I’ve really disliked show-offs—people who try to put themselves at the center of attention at every opportunity. It’s always irritated me and made me cringe internally. Maybe that’s exactly why I instinctively avoid behaving that way myself.
So, to me, there’s a big difference between the attention you receive as a performer onstage and the attention you receive as a person in everyday life. Onstage, I’m doing a job I’ve been accustomed to since childhood. Offstage, I’m still the same shy introvert who feels a little awkward when strangers come up to him.
You’ve said more than once that you enjoy living in the countryside. What does rural life give you that you can’t find in Kyiv? And how much has your own daily routine changed over the years?
What I hate most about city life is Monday mornings. After the weekend, by six or seven in the morning, you’re already surrounded by all the hustle and bustle: trolleybuses, buses, people rushing around, everyone in a hurry, this endless grind and rush. It really gets on my nerves.
In the countryside, you wake up, look out the window, and see snowflakes quietly falling into your yard. You start your day in a completely different way. You ease into your working routine much more calmly.
You can head straight out for a run, work out at a sports ground that’s not stuck in the middle of some residential complex but sits at a stadium near the forest, or go mushroom picking and fry what you find right afterward.
There’s so much space around you. You can head to a pond, go to the river, or walk through forests and meadows. Where would you go in Obolon? Sure, you can go for a walk in the park, but it’s still a completely different experience.
Another huge advantage is the lack of noise. And now, with the constant shelling, I also feel much safer in the countryside.
And, returning to the previous question, there’s much less contact with other people here. That’s very important to me. All those everyday interactions—in the elevator, at the store, on public transport—are actually exhausting. There’s much less of that in the village.
Time moves more slowly here, life feels more measured, and even breathing seems easier.
I’m just not an urbanist at all. I don’t like cities. Not one bit.
What unusual gifts have you received at concerts, and what happens to those things afterward?
As I mentioned earlier, people constantly give us portraits and handmade items, and sometimes they throw bras onto the stage. On the one hand, none of this is particularly extraordinary; on the other, every item is a unique artifact in its own way.
It might be a little plate decorated with acrylic paintings of our faces, fan-drawn portraits, or handmade souvenirs. We take all of it with us and keep it at the studio.
As for anything so outrageous that it completely blew our minds, I can’t think of anything in particular. It’s hard to single out one gift. People also constantly invite us to parties after concerts. But of course, we never go anywhere, because that wouldn’t suit us.
What remains unsaid will remain unsaid. Let’s leave it at that.
During your American tour, you visited many cities. What turned out to be completely different in the United States from what you had imagined before the trip?
Our American tour was about three years ago. And the first thing that surprised me was Los Angeles. The city we’re used to seeing in movies is nothing like it is in real life. It’s kind of run-down and grimy.
Overall, the United States didn’t particularly impress me. Maybe because I’d been there before, so there was no real wow factor. The States are the States, and Canada is Canada.
Seattle was my favorite. Nature is integrated into the urban environment really well there. The weather is fairly harsh, the trees are enormous and powerful, and the city has a distinctive atmosphere. For some reason, that’s the place I remember most fondly.
But what really shocked us was Vancouver. We ended up in an area where there were huge numbers of people struggling with severe drug addiction right in the middle of the city. People were lying on the streets, frozen in unnatural positions, heavily intoxicated. It was all part of the fentanyl crisis, whose scale, I think, is still largely unknown to us in Ukraine.
We were all horrified by what we saw. You’re literally witnessing a drug epidemic with your own eyes, right in the middle of a major city. I’ve never seen anything on that scale back home. It makes you realize that things over there are far from as fucking great as they might look from the outside. Although, in the end, nowhere is perfect.
But I wouldn’t want to live in the United States at all. The rules are different, the people are different, and the culture of social interaction is different. I don’t really connect with it, and I wouldn’t want to spend my life learning to adapt to those rules and adjusting to that way of living.
Europe feels much closer to me. We travel there more often, and I like many of its cities much more. Spain, for example, and Prague, where our concerts always go really well. Everyone absolutely loves Amsterdam, although for some reason it doesn’t really do it for me personally.
But overall, the more countries you visit, the more you realize one thing. It may sound overly grand, but there’s nowhere I want to live except Ukraine.
Because when you see the world, you start noticing how many things back home are actually done better and how much more effectively things work here. For me, Ukraine is a dream country, full stop. We just need certain fucking idiots to stop getting in our way.
